Looking at the bright side

I suppose this reflects a somewhat completely skewed view of the world, but when I saw this headline on CNN.com tonight, my first thought was: Well, at least there's a chance they'll be alive the next time my Baltimore Orioles win a World Series. A chance.

Why I'm waiting until (at least) tomorrow for those tattoos and piercings

I'm just about an hour away from my first-ever visit to the inside of an MRI.

I understand that metal objects and recently inked tattoos don't really get along very well with MRI machines, so I'm thankful that I recently made the decision to not get my nose pierced, and that I managed to go another year without a tattoo. (I had been thinking about getting one that replicated the design of the snazziest t-shirt I've ever designed, which you can find here.)

Anyway, I'm going in to get my brain scanned, which makes me think that tomorrow, I'll be quoting Dizzy Dean a lot. In 1934, the pitcher, then with the St. Louis Cardinals, was hit in the head by a baseball while trying to break up a double play, and suffered a concussion. After his trip to the hospital, he reportedly said, "They x-rayed my head and found nothing."

In which I talk trash (mildly) with Jack Welch

How bad are my beloved Baltimore Orioles this year?

I know we're only 25 games into the Major League Baseball season, but the O's have a .280 winning percentage, which is the worst record in the American League, and bad enough that it probably can't reasonably be called a "winning" percentage.

To help put that in perspective, the team with the worst record in the National League, the Houston Astros, began the season by losing eight consecutive games (which is a winning percentage of roughly .000) and have now lost their last six games... and they are still doing better than the Orioles.

This has made me a little defensive about my Birds.

So on Friday, I took umbrage when I saw that Jack Welch, the former CEO of General Electric and (as his website notes) the man Fortune magazine called "Manager of the Century," was using his Twitter account to talk smack about his favorite team's upcoming games:

Unfortunately, I was pretty sure he was right: The Red Sox probably would do what they usually do when they come to Baltimore, and beat the tar out of the Orioles. But still, I made a mental note

And then, something magical, nay, miraculous happened.

Friday, the Orioles won, 5-4.

Saturday, they won again, 12-9, for their third win of the season against the Sox and sixth win overall. (Sort of a good news-bad news situation when you're a month into the baseball season and half of your wins have come against the Red Sox.)

And then, Sunday, the Birds completed the sweep, winning a 3-2 extra-inning thriller.

Which immediately reminded me of Jack Welch's tweet. So just for fun, I got on my BlackBerry and wrote:

I normally don't engage in trash-talk with corporate titans, but how often would I get a chance like this? (The last time the Orioles swept the Sox in Baltimore was 1998.) And, to my credit, I thought I showed great restraint in not pointing out that he spelled the word hapless with an extra s. Besides, what are the odds the great Jack Welch would even see my tweet?

Pretty good, as it turns out:

Thank you, Mr. Welch. And, may I just say, Orioles Magic! Feel it happen.

Running for my life

Diane: Our relationship was a two-way street.
Frasier: Yes, and I was run over in both directions.
- Cheers, "Dinner at Eight-ish" (1987)

While back on the East Coast for Thanksgiving, I thought I'd go out for a pre-turkey jog around the neighborhood - you know, to preemptively work off some of the holiday calories. That's just my typical holiday m.o.*

So it's Thursday morning and I'm all geared up, complete with black Brooks running tights (subtle product plug and possibly disturbing visual image), ready to run. But my dad catches my attention. How nice, I think, he's going to give me a pre-Thanksgiving-pre-run pep talk.

Well, almost.

"This former colleague of mine - someone who was really respected in his field - was at a conference in Florida** a few years ago," he tells me. "One morning, he went out jogging, a few hours before he was supposed to give a presentation."

What are the chances this story doesn't end well?

"Several hours went by and he didn't show up, so his wife called the police. Turns out that he was jogging along a narrow road. One car pulled over to let him by, but the next driver sped up to pass, and the car hit him. Killed him instantly."

How's that for a pep talk?

"Awesome, Dad. Thanks for the inspiration."

And with that, I set out on the winding, rain-slicked roads near my parents' house, hoping mainly to avoid becoming the future subject of another of my father's similarly uplifting stories.

--

The previous day, I had received a cell phone message from Greg, a long-lost friend who was, without question, the funniest person I met during four years of college. Hearing his voicemail reminded me of one of his most memorable - if not most tasteful - quotes from back then.

Fittingly for today's post, it also had something to do with a run.

Greg and I were with a handful of friends, watching our college basketball team play against an overmatched opponent. During one stretch, our team was outscoring the opposition pretty handily. One of the guys in our group shouted, "I smell a run!"

Without skipping a beat, Greg yelled back, "Get your head out of your pants!"



* That, sleeping 10 hours a night, and spending most of my other waking hours sitting on a couch.
** The conference might have been in a less-crappy location than Florida, but I really wasn't paying too close attention.

Runner's high

Just so I'm clear: Is CNN recommending that I take up recreational drugs?

I've always wanted to do a triathlon, but all of the running and swimming seemed a bit over the top. (Let's be honest: How bad can the biking be?)

Anyway, reading a story on CNN.com today, I realized maybe I'd have an easier time if I followed this guy's example - go on a three-day pharmaceutical binge and then kick my newly adopted bad habits by getting all Mark Allen on ya'.

That should work, right?

Subpar for the course

Looking for more negative economic indicators? OK, good.

Today's announcement that they're canceling* this year's Skins Game - an annual televised event in which four already-rich professional golfers win tens of thousands of dollars for each hole they win - seems like a particularly bad sign.

Nobody I know is going to lose any sleep over one less golf event on TV. But whether it's because sponsors are too broke to cough up the prize money or the golf people feel it would be in bad taste to make a spectacle of people winning an amount roughly equal to a bazillion times the average annual U.S. salary for hitting a ball in a hole - or both - it feels like a very Depression-era kind of move.

So, uh, enjoy your weekend!

Oh, just one other thing. Have you read about The Oprah "giving away" KFC chicken or some such craziness? (I'm not adding to the hype by posting a link.) This is probably going to be really lame, but I'm high on Tabasco sauce so I'm just going to say it...

It strikes me that it's too bad she didn't time her KFC endorsement to coincide with that Oprah Book Club recommendation a few years ago. They could have had a promotion called A Million Little Pieces of James Frey Chicken.

Thank you, thank you. Don't forget to tip your servers.

* Note to PGA: "Postponed" plus "no makeup date" equals "canceled."

Three strikes

1. Damn it.

2. Damn it.

And, just to drive home the point:

3. Damn it.

Although, on the plus side, my beautiful wife should be happy because this could mean that one of her two favorite Dodgers, the speedy Juan Pierre, will get some more playing time. So that's good.

To cheer myself up, I'm just going to think about one of my favorite baseball-related quotes from Cheers. It's from the first episode of Kirstie Alley's first season. Rebecca has just taken over the bar and is upset about something Sam has done to try to get his job back. She decides she'll give him one more chance.

Or, as she puts it: "It's the bottom of the ninth. There are two outs. You have two strikes. And no balls."

Canceled? Check.

Apparently, I'm the last person with Internet access to find this out, but nobody at TNT thought to email me personally to let me know. (I thought we had an arrangement.) Turns out they announced more than a week ago that despite not one but two positive mentions on SFTC, the bastards are canceling Trust Me. Not cool, TNT. Not cool.

In other TV-related news: If ever someone needed to consult with a p.r. person before going on camera, this guy is that someone. As part of an expose on dangerous air quality inside ice rinks - yet another reason I probably will not take up ice hockey this year - ESPN went to interview the owner of a Tampa facility about the sudden illness of several hockey players and a coach, apparently from the fumes from the rink's Zamboni.

Ice rink owner dude started out fine - handing the reporter hard copy of a prepared statement and insisting that would be his only comment. (You probably don't want to watch the whole video, so just click here and skip ahead to the 4:00 mark.) But he couldn't let it go. And he started getting very defensive. And basically the only way he could have come across worse is if he had thrown one of the sick kids under the Zamboni. Or said this.

Remembering Harry

Hall of Fame sports announcer Harry Kalas died yesterday. I was fortunate enough to meet him once, a few years ago, when I was working as the spotter for a national radio broadcast of a Chicago Bears game that Mr. Kalas was announcing.

I was probably a bit awestruck - he really was a legend - so I don't think I talked to him other than to introduce myself a few minutes before the game started. But it was such a treat to hear that iconic baritone in person. Hard to explain, but I guess it was the sports fan's equivalent of sitting on stage while Yo Yo Ma played a cello concerto. He was completely prepared, completely in control, and - unlike some other big-name announcers I met in the booth - completely unassuming. Other than that, I only have two memories of that experience.

One is that this man who made a living off of his voice regularly snuck cigarettes during timeouts. Of course, smoking wasn't allowed in the radio booth, but who was going to stop Mr. Kalas? (Apparently the cigarettes were an open secret - a few Philadelphia Phillies players lit up yesterday in what I thought was a fairly odd tribute.)

The other is that Campbell's Chunky soup ads played during a few of the commercial breaks. At the time, the ads were narrated by Mr. Kalas because of his close association with NFL football. And each time they came on, the radio producer would call out to those of us in the booth, "Ka-Ching!" - the sound of another Campbell's royalty check for the announcer - which got a chuckle out of Mr. Kalas.

Unfortunately, that was about the extent of my interaction with the master, but thinking about the time I sepnt in the radio booth at Soldier Field reminds me of one funny story.

A year or two earlier, I was in the booth for a Sunday night game and the temperature was probably about 10 F, with a wind chill below zero. And for some reason, the window to our booth had to stay open, which was... awesome. I think I was wearing about three pairs of pants and six shirts and sweaters under some kind of arctic parka, none of which seemed to make a difference.

I forget who the play-by-play announcer was that day, but former NFL running back John Riggins was handling color commentary. Every few minutes during the broadcast, the announcers would remind listeners how freaking cold it was, which must have made for great radio. Anyway, during a commercial break, someone from the radio crew mentioned to John that, despite the frigid conditions, the guy sitting behind us who was working the controls was not - I repeat, not - wearing socks.

As soon as he got back on the air, John shared this with the national radio audience: "They just told me that Mike, our sound guy, isn't wearing socks. That reminds me of something John Wayne once said in a movie. 'Life is hard. But it's especially hard when you're stupid.'"

An SFTC public* service announcement

This might be too morbid, I don't know, but in the interest of the safety and security of SFTC readers - my favorite people in the world - I wanted to write a short post advising that you stay away from anything having to do with the Los Angeles Angels** this season.

It's just that they've had a bad run this week, with the death early this morning of a pitcher who had played in last night's game against the Oakland A's, and the death earlier this week of a fan who was beaten up while at the stadium. They're both tragic. But fans getting beaten to death inside stadiums seems like a big marketing problem for Major League Baseball. It's almost sure to erase some of the family-friendly appeal they like to promote.

Sadly, the news about the spectator's death is not hard to believe: As I've written before, I've seen plenty of fights and near fights at Dodger Stadium, including some that got very ugly. When I lived in Chicago, fights at Wrigley Field seemed pretty rare, but they were an occasional problem at U.S. Cellular Field, where the White Sox play.

Even if it means hiring security guards to stand in every seating section of every stadium in the country, MLB and the teams had better do something about fan violence, and quick. Let's keep the violence on the hockey rink where it belongs.


* To the extent that the dozen people who read this can be considered the "public."
** Loree: That's a Major League Baseball team.

Mad props

Things and/or people and/or dieties I'm mad at today:

The Michigan State Spartans. Not because I had money on the game, and not because I was particularly pulling for them to win the NCAA men's basketball championship last night - although, clearly, an MSU victory would have solved all of Michigan's problems - but because Sparty was so overmatched that I was bored silly watching the game. Like, fell-asleep-in-the-middle-of-the-first-half bored. That should not happen during March Madness.

(Aside: Whoever came up with all of the college basketball catchphrases - March Madness, Final Four, Elite Eight, Sweet Sixteen, Clark Kellogg - that person sure liked alliteration.)

Anyway, the game was such a disappointment that I was starved for entertainment, which meant I had to keep the TV on afterward to watch...

The ER series finale. Waiting for me on DVR from last Thursday was two hours of excellent entertainment. A perfectly fitting finale, I thought. I haven't watched ER regularly in about six years, but I thought the writers did a great job of bringing back some of the original characters in ways that actually made sense. Not to mention incorporating the enchanting Alexis Bledel as a young doctor. (One, Had she been a regular for a while? Two, Did I just write enchanting?) Nice also how the story and the action just kept going, right until the end, with little pause for sentiment and mush, a strong bookend to the series premiere.

(Aside 2: As you might remember, ER and Chicago Hope premiered the same week in September 1994. Those really were the salad days for Chicago-based medical ensemble dramas, weren't they? I was pretty sure at the time that Chicago Hope was the one that would be around longer. Oops.)

So why am I mad at ER? Because I was tired before watching ER and I really should have gone to sleep. But after two hours of unusually great TV, I was pretty geared up - I was craving more televised entertainment. Which meant staying up even later to watch me some rerun Letterman. (Which was a great move, because there were Stupid Pet Tricks, including this one, which cracked me way up.) Which means that I'm really freaking tired right now.

The baseball gods. Because on the strength of their Opening Day performances yesterday, I have hope that the Orioles (especially), Cubs and Dodgers all are on their way to the playoffs this year.

Which, because of pitching (Orioles), being the Cubs (Cubs) and pitching (Dodgers), they're probably not. So why did they have to get my hopes up?

Californians. Because now it looks like Iowans get it. And Vermonters (?) get it. And Golden Staters, who always seems to make a racket about being the people who set trends on these kinds of things, still do not get the idea that adults who want to get married should just be able to get married. Period.

That's a lot of mad so far, I know. But the day is young.

VIP treatment

From what I can tell, most of the savvy people who read this blog couldn't care less about professional sports. But "writing to my audience" isn't one of my great strengths, so I'm still going to tell you that I am very excited that baseball opening day is this weekend.

(Caveat: No sports knowledge needed to enjoy the rest of this post, I promise.)

Actually, maybe I'm more excited about the idea of opening day than about opening day itself.* Because the one team I really root for, the Orioles, has almost no hope. And although I enjoy the occasional trip to Dodger Stadium, I spent most of my time at Dodgers games last year watching drunken assholes threaten to beat each other up (last half of this post, for example), which is sort of a waste of time.

So to celebrate the beginning of another baseball season, I was trying to come up with an inspiring baseball story for you, and the closest I could get was this fond football-related memory. It'll have to do:

In the early 1980s, my grandfather had a work-related connection that enabled him to become friendly with several New York Jets players and the Jets' head coach, Walt Michaels. Once, as a present, he got Coach Michaels to sign a green-and-white business card that proclaimed me an honorary assistant coach.

I probably still have that card somewhere - because I still have approximately everything I ever owned during the 80s - but at the time, I carried it with me everywhere. You know, just in case I needed to impress the ladies.**

This was back when the Colts were where they belonged - in Baltimore - and for a few years in a row, my grandfather would come visit us when the New York Jets were in town to treat my family to a game. One time, we were running kind of late, and we arrived at Memorial Stadium seconds before kickoff. Every parking spot within a mile of the stadium would be filled. We were facing a long walk and the prospect of missing critical Jets-Colts action.

Driving the family Buick, my grandfather ignored all of the LOT FULL signs and brazenly pulled into the stadium's VIP lot, which seemed odd because not only was it reserved for VIPs, but, as you know, it was full.

His left hand on the steering wheel, he stuck his right toward me in the back seat. "Do you still have your assistant coach card?" he asked. I reached into my wallet and pressed the card into his palm, just as we pulled up to a confused parking attendant.

"Here," my grandfather said, shoving my very unofficial credential into the guy's face. "I'm a Jets assistant coach. Need to get in right away!" My grandfather looked back at me and winked.

The attendant quickly handed the card back and pointed us to a vacant spot just yards away from the stadium entrance. We were in our seats for the opening kickoff.

I don't remember anything else about the game, but it's hard to forget that kick-ass parking spot.

SFTC Shoutout: A quick thanks to SFTC's newest "Followers" (sounds cultish, but really isn't). Thrilled to have you aboard the SFTC train this week. When we have our almost-inevitable IPO, you'll obviously cash in big time.*** If you haven't signed up yet, please do. I think you just have to click the "follow" button in the box near the top of the right column over there >>>

It's free, it's fun and it tastes great!

* I think I'm bastardizing a phrase from When Harry Met Sally here. If you can confirm, please do.

** This didn't work.

*** Technically, I don't think that really makes sense, and the IPO is probably not so much "inevitable" as it is "not even a remote possibility," but the point is that I'm glad you're among the first to show your faces (or joysticks, as the case may be) on the site.

Sharp observation

I don't really care that A-Rod took steroids for "three years" because now it sort of seems like every baseball player who hit more than 40 home runs in a year during the 90s was taking steroids.

It also doesn't bother me that A-Rod has come across like a moron for the last few weeks because he doesn't get paid to be a genius. He gets paid to hit the crap out of baseballs, which he's very good at.

I did, however, like one thing in particular that he said during yesterday's news conference in Tampa: "I knew we weren't taking Tic Tacs." Sure, that makes sense. I don't think they even make Tic Tacs that you can inject in your ass.

Why I'm glad my last name isn't Dolphiner or Patrioter

Because, for one thing, both of those are pretty wacked-out* last names.

For another, if one of those were my last name - and then I became mayor of a city with a team in the NFL's American Football Conference, which, let's face it, is a very real possibility - then I might have to pull a stunt like this.

Which is pretty stupid. But on the other hand, how could any self-respecting politician pass up an opportunity like that?

* One of my Aunt Karen's favorite expressions. It's her birthday today. So I mentioned her on SFTC instead of sending a present. I know, I'm all heart.

Shockingly predictable

Two news items I saw today just knocked my socks off. I mean I was just shocked that those once-in-a-generation geniuses in charge of our awesome pickup-truck-and-SUV manufacturers would do this and not realize it might be incredibly bad p.r.

I was equally blown away that Don't-Call-Me-Pacman Jones, the NFL's version of Steve Howe - that might be a bad and/or morbid analogy, but I'm referring to Howe's repeated reinstatements, not his prodigious and ultimately fatal drug use - would be given yet another chance to suit up and play pro football.

But life is filled with surprises, ain't it?

Not quite a flying start

If you're in marketing at JetBlue Airways, the following probably isn't what you had in mind when you paid the Los Angeles Clippers a whole bunch of money to sponsor an in-game promotion.

In this contest, a fan is given the chance to make baskets from various spots on the court, for the chance to win flights to various JetBlue destinations. The harder the shot, the better the destination. So far so good.

(Although the prize for the easiest shot - a layup from right under the basket - is a trip to Oakland. Which made me think of the W.C. Fields line about Oakland's East Coast counterpart: "First prize was a week in Philadelphia. Second prize was two weeks.")

At last night's Clippers season opener, the contestant made a basket to win that Oakland trip, but then proceeded to miss every other shot attempt. Which prompted the Clippers' emcee - and, again, this is a contest sponsored by an airline - to announce over the Staples Center public address: "Oh, man. You're gonna crash and burn."

Maybe not exactly the best word choice.

Why you should like Jason Bartlett

You might not care about the World Series. Or baseball. Or sports. Or anything that's good about America, for that matter.

But you should care about Tampa Bay Rays shortstop Jason Bartlett. Because during the fifth inning of last night's World Series game, he stole second base. Why does that matter to you?

Well, as a result of that stolen base, you are entitled to a free taco at Taco Bell.* (And, no, I'm not admitting that I made a lunchtime run for the border yesterday. For three crunchy tacos.**) How great must Bartlett feel? At a time when Americans could really use a pick-me-up, the guy treats the whole country to approximately 1/4 of a meal of questionable nutritional value. Awesome.


* Can someone tell TB copywriters that "90ft." should have a space in there somewhere? Or else, maybe mistakes like that are just soooo out-of-the-bun.

** This is partly why I'm eating strawberries with a little granola - barely a light dusting of granola, really - as I write this post.

Anyone need two?

My entrepreneurial career is off to a flying start: I sold one of my t-shirts! (Thank you, GG, thank you.)

The problem is that, by selling them through Zazzle, I don't get any of my commission money until I amass $25 in commissions. To reach that lofty figure, we're talking about another 10 or 11 shirts. By the time that happens, the Cubs might very well have won a playoff game.

Speaking of postseason baseball: If I've learned anything from the last couple of days, it's that I'm not really cut out to be a ticket broker. Yesterday, I got a marketing email from the Dodgers explaining that they were releasing a bunch of tickets for sale for game 5 of the National League Championship Series. Figuring any game of an NLCS is a surefire sell-out, I thought I'd get two tickets and then turn around and sell them for an easy profit.

So I clicked over to the Evil Empire's web site (which you probably know as Ticketmaster.com) and picked up two half-decent seats for tomorrow's game. I got a post up on Craigslist right away and on StubHub as quickly as I could, which wasn't very quickly, for reasons that I won't go into.

And then the Dodgers go and lose game 4, which means that now L.A.'s interest in game 5 - which could end up being the death knell to the Dodgers' season - is slightly less than L.A.'s interest in what transpired during the January 7, 2008, Concord, New Hampshire, city council meeting. (The meeting minutes are here, by the way, in case you're curious.)

So now it's 29 hours until the game starts and no bites yet. And I've got about $200 worth of Dodgers tickets that I'm probably not going to use.

And just as I wrote that paragraph: An e-mail appeared from a Phillies fan in San Diego. Go figure. We may have a taker. I may yet make a few bucks (emphasis on few) on this deal.

While I wait for my new best friend to get back to me about the tickets...

After attending two of the latest playoff games at Dodger Stadium, I have an observation for you. Many say our current economic meltdown, and the unconscionable greed, avarice, stupidity and criminal behavior it exposed, is a sure sign of the end, or at least the accelerating decline, of U.S. society, capitalism and/or America's once-lofty world standing. Until last night, I thought that was probably overstating the depth of our decline.

But if you want living, (mouth-)breathing evidence of the decline of civil America, all you'd have to do is sit in the lower- and medium-priced seats at the ballpark for a few hours and take in the unrelenting gluttony and bad behavior.

I realize I sound like I've never been to a sporting event before (definitely not the case) and like I'm about 80 years old (still a few years away). And Amish. But I swear it just keeps getting worse.

A couple was sitting in front of us with their son, who must have been about four, and I kept wanting them to get him out of there. Let him watch at home on TV, so every time the Phillies got a hit, he didn't have to hear 18 people yell "Fuck!" at the top of their lungs. Or so he wouldn't have to see wasted assholes harrassing the concession workers when they announced last call for beer sales at the end of the seventh inning.

It's gotten to the point that we count it as a pleasant evening at the stadium when we escape without seeing any fistfights in our seating section. At a playoff game two years ago, there were too many to count, and we finally gave up and left when one guy in our section was so bloodied he had to be taken away in an ambulance. Last night wasn't nearly that bad, but we did get close: At one point, a couple of beligerent twentysomething women almost got into it for no reason other than one of them was drunk and stupid, and as the argument died down, one of them yelled something like, "You're lucky I'm pregnant or I'd kick your ass." Her kid is going to have one awesome mom.

Maybe the guy who's going to buy my tickets for tomorrow (I hope I hope) will get to sit next to her.

Yes, I am a municipal good-luck charm

Ahh, the baseball playoffs begin today. Maybe the NCAA basketball tournament is the one televised sports event I'd rather watch if I were stranded on a desert island (with a TV and a satellite dish), but otherwise, it's hard to top playoff baseball for pressure-packed TV viewing goodness.

Can it be a coincidence that my current and most recent hometowns (and I guess I can count Anaheim as part of Los Angeles, since the Angels do) each has two teams in the postseason? OK, it's probably a coincidence. Still, the only thing better than that is that New York has no teams in the mix. Life is good.

Life is also good because we'll get to see at least one playoff game live and in person - Cubs/Dodgers game 3. If the game fails to excite, I'll pursue my dream of eating one Dodger Dog per inning.*

Speaking of sports, huge shocker that the Olympic folks would find everything was OK with the 10-year-old Chinese gymnasts competing in the Summer Games, wasn't it?

CHAI TEA UPDATE: Yes, folks, I've made it to Day 3 without a Starbucks visit. Thanks for your support during this difficult time.


* I say this before almost every game I attend, and the quest usually dies after the first inning. Turns out they have a nice hummus and veggie plate at Dodger Stadium.

The point is probably mute

First, his mom blabs to the paper about his state of mind. Now, it turns out that police initiated their search for Vince Young - who's either totally committed to football or soon to be committed to something else - because his therapist blabbed to his coach about the QB mentioning suicide during a session.

Yeah, that must be standard operating procedure in clinical psych any time your patient talks about checking out. If I'm Vince, I'm going to start hanging out with more people who are mute.