Nationals Park Review

With my hometown Phillies playing in DC for the first time this year, I took the opportunity to visit the brand new Nationals Park. Before I share my experience of the new stadium, I present these two caveats: 1) The Phillies went 0-12 with runners in scoring position and got blanked 4-0, so that severely dampened my enjoyment of the game. This may have biased my opinions of the ballpark experience somewhat. 2) The bar has been set progressively higher over the last 15 years for new stadiums, starting with Oriole Park at Camden Yards just up the street in Baltimore.

Parking: F
Don't even get me started with this. Forget about paying $40 to park in the garages next to the stadium. Or even $15 to park in a ghetto half a mile away. You can purchase advance parking passes online for these tiny lots because they often sell out. But be prepared to pay additional convenience fees, processing fees and ridiculous charge of $2.25 for the ability to print out your parking pass online. All of this will add up to more than $7 in additional larceny on top of the parking cost you'd pay on site. (By the way, the Nationals box office wasn't even aware that they offered this online service when I called them to inquire about the morality of said fees.)

Hidden in the depths of the Nationals web site is information about something called the "Nats Express." It would be helpful if the service was called something like "Free RFK Shuttle," because that's what it is. The Nationals have thoughtfully arranged for free shuttle service from the abundant parking lots at RFK Stadium, where the parking is also free. (And did I mention abundant?) Comfortable motor coaches conveniently await you upon your arrival and take you on a 7-minute ride toward the new Nationals Park. But I emphasize the word toward the stadium. The shuttle stops and drops you off over a half mile away from the ballpark. This is inconceivable that they would drop off passengers so far from the gate. Why isn't there a dedicated lane reserved for the shuttles to drop off fans next to the box office the way that say, the dozen chartered motor coaches were seemingly allowed to do that night? It's clear that they don't want the service to be too convenient, lest it siphon off potential parking revenue and the associated convenience, processing and internet printing charges.

Location: D
Sure, there is convenient access to the park from all the major highways, but without anywhere to park your car, what's the difference? This isn't what anyone would call a "downtown ballpark." It is nestled between abandoned warehouses, an office park and a sewage treatment plant. Talk about a low rent district. The neighborhood is truly unsightly and I don't think there's much hope, even with some investment in an "entertainment district." As you walk up to the park, there isn't that goose-bumps moment when the stadium first comes into view. Instead you see two concrete parking garages and service entrances. And did I mention the sewage treatment plant?

Seating and Sightlines: C
I purchased seats in the lower bowl, right behind third base and about 3/4 of the way up. The tickets had a face value of $63 ($50 if purchased as part of a full season plan) even though I got them for $25 a piece off StubHub.com. So these were pricy seats by any standards, yet I was staggered by the narrow width of the chairs, and the complete lack of legroom. And these are seats in a pretty prime location.

Sitting down into the seat for the first time, I felt my hips graze both armrests -- and I'm a slender guy. It made me wonder how many french fries I had just eaten. The width and depth of these seats was reminiscent of older parks like Fenway or Yankee Stadium, which were built before Americans got fat and the average male was five feet two inches tall. You can't sit comfortably in these seats without your legs and elbows bumping into your neighbors. And the rows are so narrow that it's impossible for people to pass by you to get to the aisle. Even if you stand up to let people out, you can suddenly find yourself participating in a ballroom dancing lesson with a 300 pound drunk. Oh, and my seat, in addition to being cramped, was really uncomfortable. My butt was numb by the sixth inning and my back was still sore the next morning. If you go to a game here, bring a seat pad. Or better yet, wear a bulky diaper since you won't be able to exit your row and get to a bathroom.

The sightlines to the field are not great, but they aren't awful either. They were better at RFK. Say what you will about the aesthetics of the cookie-cutter stadiums of the 1970s, but those ballparks had amazing sightlines from almost everywhere. The seats down the lines in this new park just aren't angled enough toward the field to avoid giving you a stiff neck. And the stratospheric upperdeck is not only really, really tall, it is also set very far back from the field giving you the sensation of watching the game on Google Earth. But I'm sure those hundreds of empty seats right behind the plate have a great view that no one can afford to appreciate.

Value: F
The tickets range from $5 in the grandstands to $325 behind the plate. Yes, $325 dollars, each! I wonder if that includes "convenience" fees. This ticket price is the epitome of major league greed. For that much money, I could literally buy a roundtrip flight to Los Angeles, purchase a ticket for a box seat at Dodger Stadium, and still have enough money left over for a couple of Dodger Dogs and a beer. And that is a much nicer stadium with a beautiful view of mountains and palm trees.

The $325 seats behind the plate weren't the only ones conspicuously empty during the game. There were large patches of seats in the lower bowl and the first deck that were completely empty. Meanwhile, the upper deck was quite full. To me this says that there is clearly price resistance for many areas of the stadium that are simply over-priced.

Plus, I feel compelled to point out in a curmudgeonly way that the Nationals are charging these outlandish prices to see a last place team play next to a sewage treatment plant.

Scenic Views: C
From the upper deck in right field, you can get a peak of the Capitol dome. From the left field upperdeck concourse next to the bathrooms, you can see the Washington Monument in the distance. But aside from the Washington Monument and the Capitol dome, Washington, DC has a purposefully insignificant skyline. So there really isn't much to look at anyway -- not like the bay vista of AT&T Park in San Francisco, the seven bridges of PNC Park in Pittsburgh or the snow-capped Rocky Mountains of Coors Field in Denver. Did I mention the sewage treatment plant located behind home plate?

Food: B-
There seemed to be a really wide selection of food representing all corners of the USofA. I had a chicken fingers which were quite good. The chili dogs looked very appetizing. I just didn't want to end up wearing one on my shirt. The biggest issue I had with the food was the confusing service. The concession stands at Nationals Park need to do what most other stadiums now do, which is to let you pick up your food and then move out of the way to pay at a separate register.

If you don't want to get up to weave through those confusing food lines (or can't because you are wedged into your seat), you can buy your food from the dozens of food vendors constantly plying their wares. I'd never seen so many roaming food vendors in my life. If one more loud-mouthed beer or ice-cream salesman stopped to block my view of the game, I was going to stab him with a cotton candy stick.

Overall: D
As disgusting and dilapidated as RFK was, I have to say that the overall experience was better there than in the new park. In fact, I have to say that attending this game was probably the most unpleasant experience I have had in any of the dozen major league parks I have visited. There is simply nothing redeming or charming about the place that gives you cause to tolerate the lack of convenient access or to justify the prices.

The design of the stadium incorporates all of the familiar features now prominent in these new ballparks. There is a huge high-definition scoreboard in the outfield. A fancy out-of-town scoreboard. Quirky angles to the outfield fence. A glass-enclosed restaurant in the outfield. Open concourses. Luxury boxes galore. And a massive team store. But this ballpark offers nothing unique. If anything it has a very sterile and white-washed feel. It is a new cookie-cutter ballpark of the 21st Century.

Unfortunately, Nationals Park is situated just 40 miles from Camden Yards in Baltimore. It's not fair to compare the two parks, because they simply don't compare. Everything that Camden Yards has to offer in fan experience and urban aesthetics, Nationals Park lacks.

I can only smolder over the thought that so much taxpayer money was spent to build the Nationals' ballpark in such a weird part of DC and that fans are charged truly astronomical prices for an incredibly unsatisfying and uncomfortable experience.

Little Miss Car Crash

Tonight, TLC aired the annual the Miss America Pageant. How exactly did the Miss America Pageant end up on "The Learning Channel" anyway? I guess it's every bit as educational as "American Chopper."

Anyway, my favorite part of the competition, hands down, is the multi-car pileup known as the "talent" competition. This year's bill of sequined-clad singers, violinists and ballerinas was every bit as terrible as I'd hoped. And you thought walking around in high heels on a slippery floor, wearing a bikini was humiliating. Try singing an aria along to a pre-recorded track of synthesizers when you're completely tone deaf and don't even know it. Now that's humiliating.

Watching those primped beauty queens humble themselves this evening on basic cable television reminded me of these classic pageant show highlights. I share them with you now.

CAUTION: By clicking the links below, you are voluntarily relinquishing 6 minutes of your life that you will never have back. But I promise you a couple of really good laughs.

I've Got Plans Then Too

When someone says, "I'll see you next Saturday," do they mean...
	This Saturday. The next one coming up in this same week.
	The Saturday after next. A week from this coming Saturday.
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Batting Crown

Philadelphia Phillies second baseman Chase Utley is currently leading the National League in batting average with 18 games to play. (He'd wouldn't crack the top three in the American League.) If he wins the NL batting title, he'd be the first Phillies player to claim the title since...

Richie Ashburn in 1958!

Wow, that's a really long time. But to put that in a bit of perspective, the Phillies aren't the only club to claim such a drought.

For example, that's almost as long a stretch as the LA Dodgers who last had a batting champion in Tommy Davis 1962 and 1963. And it's only slightly better than the Cleveland Indians who last won bragging rights with Bobby Avila in 1954. Meanwhile, the Oakland Athletics haven't fielded batting champ since they moved out of Philadelphia in 1954. Their last title-holder was a first baseman Ferris Fain who won it in consecutive seasons in 1951 and 1952.

And with all the great hitters on the New York Mets and Houston Astros over the years, neither team have ever had a player claim the title while the Expos had two (Al Oliver and Tim Raines).

Richie Ashburn turned out to be a Philadelphia icon and had a statue erected in his memory outside the new ballpark. Will Chase Utley claim a similar legacy?

Shhhhh...

Two observations while watching tennis this week:

Why is that in tennis, spectators must remain so quiet during play? No one may shout or talk while a player hits a soft fuzzy ball with a big racquet. Someone could get hurt. Yet in baseball, with a small hard orb flying at 100 mph inches from your face, fans may yell as loud as they want, whenever they want. Ditto for football with 300 hundred pounds of lineman flying toward you. So why the need for such silence during the intense concentation required during tennis?

When did women's on-court attire start looking like figure-skating costumes? Is it really comfortable playing tennis in lace and toille?

Uma, Oprah, Oprah, Uma

Major gratitudes to my bro, Jammer Jive for an awesome birthday present. VIP seats for a taping of the David Letterman Show at the Ed Sullivan Theater in New York are definitely a significant gift, and one that will be moderately difficult to reciprocate in the near future. VIP access means getting the best seats in the house without standing in line all day.

Those that did stand in line all day, sweating in the July humidity, had to keep up their energy and cheery personality to be selected by one of the CBS pages as a "dot." The "dots" were brought into the cool, air-conditioned lobby with us VIPs where they were informed that they would be seated in the front rows of the theater for the taping. Their gleaming smiles and effervecent charm would be required "front and center" to give Dave maximum energy -- even though their view of the production would be entirely obstructed by cameras, monitors, cue cards, stagehands, gaffers, grips and Eddie Brill.

After a speech from a former-cheerleader-turned-pharmaceutical-sales-rep-turned-CBS-page standing on a folding chair in the lobby about how we're not allowed to "whoop," "awww" or cheer when we hear our hometown mentioned, we were informed that there would be no access to restrooms for the duration of the taping. Such information caused immediate spasms of my ordinarily capacious bladder. Thankfully, we were granted access to one small, single-head bathroom in the already claustrophobic and mostly dingy lobby of the theater.

After relieving our bladders, we waited for a few more minutes before being ushered to our seats. The "dots' were taken to their seats close to the stage. The "non-dots" were shown their seats in the rear of the auditorium, out of sight of cameras and Dave.

Meanwhile, us VIPs were taken to our seats in the front of the balcony with a beautiful (mostly) unobstructed view of the entire set. The balcony is small, just a few rows deep, and probably seats barely 100 people. The lower level of the theater isn't that big either, and probably holds about 400 bodies in all.

The front edge of the balcony hangs low over the stage. During Dave's monologue, you felt as though you could reach over and check his hairpiece. Naturally, the whole set looks way smaller than it does on my TV -- and I own a 19-inch television. The legendary temperature of the theater is truly chilly. Looking at the empty stage prior to the show, one can't help but envisage the ghosts of John, George, Ringo and Paul (before his second marriage) taking the stage to a chours of 500 hundred screaming teenage girls. But there wasn't much time to admire the surroundings.

The warm-up act, Eddie Brill took the stage to get the crowd in a good mood. He was a funny guy, but you could tell he was giving his schtick for the 2,043rd time of his life and the second time that day. (We attended the evening taping.) They showed a short video on the monitors of some of Dave's best material: Dave as the drive-through attendant at a Taco Bell.

Eddie then introduced the band members one-by-one, culminating with the entrance of Paul Schaefer. The CBS Orchestra kicked up the energy with their take on Green Day's "Basket Case." The band sounded really tight, although it's clear a few of the guys are well beyond their prime. Do these guys get tenure or something?

Eddie then explained that David Letterman would come out for two minutes to say hello prior to the top of the show. And just then, Dave came sprinting onto stage without his jacket, ran across the set and grabbed the microphone. He swung it around by the cord several times, causing me to wonder when the last time was I'd seen a hard-wired mike. Holding the microphone like a harmonica up to his moth, Dave shouted a few untillegible comments about the weather and then asked for a single question from the audience. A nice woman from decided to use that precious moment to stand up and kiss Dave's ass and tell him what a genius he is. Dave nodded kindly and seemed gracious.

An assistant on set then motioned to Dave that he had 10 seconds until tape. And with a final joke, a quick wave and toss of the mike, he vanished into the background like clockwork. As the top of the hour hit, Paul gave the downbeat and the familiar strains of the theme song began.

Dave sprinted through the background, then walked onto stage for his monologue. The opening jokes were full of the usual late-night jabs at former presidents and B-level celebrities. On this Monday evening, we were actually seeing the taping for the Friday show. I had asked Jammer prior to the show how one could write timely jokes for a show that doesn't air for four days. His response was, "You can tell an adulterous Bill Clinton joke any day of the week." And of course, halfway through the monologue, when Dave cracked his first Bill Clinton womanizing joke, we both laughed that much harder.

The guests that night were Julia Stiles, some dishwasher guy who wrote a book about dishwashing and comedian Nick Griffin. The hour-long taping felt like it was over in mere minutes. Each segment felt brief and fast-paced -- and way funnier than it ever is when watching from home on the couch. During the "commercial breaks" a team of writers, assistants and make-up people surround the desk, only to scatter during the 5-second count down to "air." I don't really understand why a show that's being taped needs to run with such military serviture to the clock, especially when there was a re-take in the show. You see, after the second "commercial break," Dave and Paul messed up their little banter. Dave abruptly stopped the bit and asked to start over. In a flash, Paul gave a downbeat, the band played the intro again, and the whole segment started over like nothing ever happened.

At the end of the show, we were taken downstairs and sent out the side door onto 53rd Street. Jammer and I headed over to a Starbucks to relieve our now full bladders. Standing in line for the restroom we bumped into Nick Griffin, who we had just seen finish his very funny set during the taping. (He wsa buying coffee, not waiting for the bathroom. Something tells me they don't subject the guests to the same toilet provisos that they do the audience members.) It was definitely of a cool treat to meet one of the guests from the show.

The other great highlight of the day was getting to see Michael Lauziere, Master of the Unusual, do his thing on in-line skates. For readers of this blog, you might remember how I sang his praises a year ago. Michael was a featued guest during the first taping of the day. As he skated down the street, sticks on his skates hit tuned bottles in a sequence to play a complete song. So as Jammer and I walked by to get in line, we got to watch him do his thing. This time, Michael skated down 53rd Street playing a selection from "Carmen." Just what Bizet had in mind. Apparently, the top of my head could be seen bobbing up and down behind Michael during this segment. Probably not my greatest moment, being a boob on the street.

The other major highlight of the day was getting to stroll the MoMA, which I hadn't been to since it's re-opening. My main interest was in seeing the 50-year retrospective of the Helvetica typeface. The small exhibit included one of the original metal font sets and examples of Helvetica's ubiquitous usage. It gave me the opportunity to explain to Jammer the exact difference between a typeface and a font. Talk about a good time.

Yes, it was a great day. Thanks again, Jammer.

Nothing Interesting Here

Since I'm moving in a few weeks, I've been saving boxes, newspaper and bubble wrap. Boxes and newspaper are easy to come by, but bubble wrap is a fairly precious commodity. Bubble wrap, as everyone knows, is no good if all the little bubbles are popped. But the urge to pop the little suckers is just too great. Thank goodness for this nifty web site to help satiate the desire.

Meanwhile, among the newspapers I'm hoarding for packing/kindling, I came across an article about a solar-powered flashlight. Wasn't this the punchline to a joke I heard in fourth grade?

Uniform Uniformity

Men are more fashion conscious than they let on. Clothing is not something to be fussed with or talked about in the company of other men. But in the privacy of one's home -– or perhaps a locker room -– even the most chiseled men can become seamstresses and fashionistas.

Professional athletes are quite experimental when it comes to their threads, as demonstrated by the bizarre get-ups often on display during post-game press conferences or pre-game specials. For example, lime-green sharkskin suits with backwards lapels are not uncommon for some of these guys. But athletes don't just get bold with their street clothes. They can also get quite creative with their uniforms on the field, too –- sometimes too creative.

The Official Rules of Major League Baseball have an entire section dedicated to the appearance of players' uniforms. Most of the rules pertaining to on-field habiliments are routine guidelines pertaining to home uniform color (white*) or the minimum size of numbers included on the backs of jerseys (six inches). There are a couple slightly more surprising restrictions such as the limitation on glass or metal buttons on jerseys. Wouldn't those hurt to slide on? Or the ban on any "pattern that imitates or suggests the shape of a baseball." One might assume that this is mainly directed at pitchers who could use such ball-shaped embroidery as a distraction to hitters. But this seems like a double standard since every member of the St. Louis Cardinals is allowed to step into the batter's box with the likeness of a bat splayed across his chest. This doesn't seem fair to pitchers.

The collective bargaining agreement between the Major League Baseball Players' Association and MLB gets even more specific when it comes to "uniform regulations." (Regulations, in this author's opinion, are always best when uniform.) These provisions are a "supplement" to the MLB official rules and are an interesting insight into the peculiar behavior of professional athletes when it comes to hemming and stitching.

The first such regulation that caught my attention was a restriction on the practice of lacing one's shoes through one's pants. Kids these days. Additionally "pants pockets may not intentionally be untucked." I thought the tuck rule only existed in the NFL. Speaking of tucking, jerseys also may not be "ordered or altered to a length where it cannot be properly tucked in." I didn't realize baseball was so anti-midriff.

Shoe endorsements are big in basketball, but baseball players are clearly limited by a pesky ban on a runner's ability to "change shoes while running bases." The practicality of changing your shoes while running simply baffles me.

And these uniform rules don't apply solely to baseball equipment. Apparently "any player wearing a golf glove underneath a playing glove may not rub up balls for use by the pitcher." Well, one certainly shouldn't waste time rubbing up a baseball while in the middle of a round of 18. This just holds up the whole foursome.

What I find absent from all these rules is any mention of stirrups. Ordinarily found only on women's stretch pants, stirrups also used to be essential baseball attire. For many of us, stirrups were the most fascinating part of the little league baseball uniform. Once one figured out the front from the back, and how to wear them without them bunching up inside your cleats, stirrups were the best part of dressing for a game. Back then all the big leaguers wore stirrups, too, stretched high up on the calf creating the illusion of a crisp, broad stripe that ran from the waist, down into the shoe. Alas, it appears the stirrup has gone the way of the helmet-without-earflaps and powder-blue jerseys. Maybe they'll come back some day along with those whacky pillbox hats.

Note:
* The Sand Francisco Giants' home uniforms are not white. They are a light cream color.

Werthless

Somebody please tell me. What business does Jayson Werth have being on a major league ballclub? Oh, wait. He's on the Phillies. Nevermind.

Apparently this guy is, too.

Take a Number

I've never bought a lottery ticket before. Until tonight. I bought three.

The urge was brought on by the confluence of two events: tomorrow's drawing is the biggest Mega Millions jackpot in history and I just put an offer in on a house yesterday. The estimated lottery jackpot is $355 million. After taxes, that's approximately one shitload of money. Roughly speaking, it should be just about enough money to cover the outrageous taxes and closing costs on our potential new home.

I'm aware that I'm about as likely to hold the winning ticket as I am to be the father to Anna Nicole's child. (Acutally, statistically speaking, the latter odds may be better.) I've always said that the lottery is a tax on people who are bad at math. So I don't feel bad buying a few lottery tickets since I know the proceeds benefit convalescents and orphans -- oh, and the one lucky bastard who wins.

I spent three dollars and got three different combinations to play. I let the machine pick the numbers for me. I did this at my brother's advice. I remember him wondering why people use their birthdays and anniversaries to pick their lottery numbers. What are the odds that you'd win the lottery and the number you picked also happened to be the same as the anniversary of your mother-in-law's gallstone surgery?

Of course, what you're really playing for is the momentary rush. For a buck, you can experience the waking dream of just exactly what you'd do with so much crazy money. Since I bought my tickets a couple hours ago, I've spent a little time devising a plan. Here's what I've come up with:

Upon discovering that I posses the winning numbers, I will take the winning ticket, fold it up tightly and place it in a secure location on or in my person. Then, you will not see me or hear from me for days, maybe weeks. I will take my wife and child out of state and check into a hotel under an assumed name. This will become my homebase for contacting immediate family only as well as some financial advisors. I might take a moment to call my employer to offer a few supportive words about my experience working for them. And how much I will truly miss them all since I won't be coming back -- ever.

At some point, one must claim the prize, which I will do in privacy and without the glitzy press conference. I've always wanted to get one of those big cardboard checks, but I do all my banking by mail and I could see that being a bit cumbersome. I will then work with my advisors to calculate just how much money one really needs for their family to live a reasonable lifestyle. Realistically, a few million dollars should do the trick unless you're a total idiot. Familiy and friends will then see a nice windfall, too. (This will be doled out based on how many years you've known me and how often you've left comments on this blog.) The rest of the money will be donated anonymously to deserving charities. Why should I ask buildings and monuments be named for me when I didn't earn a single dime of this money?

I imagine there would be a great deal of guilt in retaining so much false wealth. Which is why most of it would just have to go. Well, maybe not too much. Alright, none of it.

The drawing is Tuesday night. So if this blog isn't updated for a while, you can make your own assumptions.

Hello, Huxtable Residence

Playing in an adult softball league is one of the few youthful pursuits I have left. As I approach a milestone birthday, I feel like I'm showing my age more than I should. I'm married. I'm a father. I own a minivan. I have a mortgage. And now the wife and I are shopping for a bigger home for our growing family.

We've been reading lots of real estate listings and going to open houses. In shopping for homes, I've been in several different styles of abodes, from different eras and with varying floor plans. They include townhouses, ranchers, split-levels, colonials, dog houses and outhouses. They all have "master suites," "beautiful hw floors" and "custom wdw treatments." They also all have kitchens and they all have doors. But none of the kitchens have doors.

I have never lived in a house, apartment or condominium that has a door between the kitchen and the living room. Come to think of it, I've never even been in a house that has a door between the kitchen and the living room -- let alone a house with a double-hinged door.

Of course, in every single sitcom, there is a double-hinged door between the kitchen and the living room (never the dining room, which would make more sense.)

Where did this cliche originate? Is it just Hollywood imitating itself? Why not a pocket door? Or a beaded curtain? Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned pass through?

Maybe someday, I will install a double hinged door to my kitchen. Then, while guests are sitting in the living room, I can go in the kitchen and argue with my wife without having to worry that anyone can hear me. Except for the live studio audience, of course.

Mercy Rule

Today I continued to be annoyed by having to traverse icy glaciers just to cross the street. I saw a man across from my office trying to "shovel" the ice off the sidewalk in front of his restaurant this afternoon. He grew increasingly frustrated as the thick chunks of ice that nearly claimed eight lives in 48 hours simply refused to budge. I watched as he broke not one, but two snow shovels. Maybe it's because they were "snow shovels" and not "three-day-old-packed-ice shovels." I surmise that if he had attempted to shovel his walk on Wednesday before the 3 inches of snow turned into two inches of solid teflon-coated-concrete, he wouldn't have had such a problem.

But then my day was brightened by a little e-mail I received just moments later. It was the notice that my spring softball league was now open for registration. The first game is April 29. That's practically just around the corner. Spring is almost here. I can just feel the warm rays on the back of my neck.

Now that's an e-mail I liked receiving. Maybe I won't close my inbox after all. Funny how it all comes full circle.

Willing to Sacrifice

On the subject of manners, people aren't just weasels online -- they're jerks after a snow/ice/sleet storm, too. There are some standards of human decency in times of wintry weather that seem not to apply south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Namely:

1) A few handfuls of rock salt sprinkled on the ground are not a substitute for actually shoveling your sidewalk.
1a) Shovel your g.d. sidewalk.
2) When driving on a road covered with a light dusting of snow, it is not necessary to drive at 5 mph...while riding your brakes...uphill. Please get the hell over.
3) Clean off the roof of your car. The huge, jagged slabs of ice that fly off the roof of your car can actually be slightly dangerous.
4) If there is a snowbank plowed against the curb, this does not give you permission to park perpendicular to the flow of traffic so that everyone has to merge into a half lane to get around your crap-ass car.
5) To the snowplow drivers: Try plowing all the way up to the edge of the curb. Just clearing a single curvy lane down the middle of a street is not terribly helpful. It makes for a fun driver's ed course, but is not efficient for assisting in the flow of two-way traffic.
6) SHOVEL YOUR SIDEWALK!

Perhaps these various wintry hazards are what have caused all the schools in the area to remain closed for two days. Yes, the weather on the first day of the storm was a little squirrelly. There had only been one snow-day all year, so I guess the kids (read: the teachers) were deserving of one. But today, Baltimore County Schools were "closed all day due to inclement weather."

I'm wondering just what about today's February weather was so "inclement." Was it the low humidity? The moderate easterly breeze? What is the sub 29-degree temperature? Maybe it was the bright, shining sun that beamed most of the day. Or maybe they were waiting for the rock salt to melt all the ice in front of the schools, rather than just shoveling the sidewalks.

Don't Be a Human Paraquat

Speaking of mustaches, you never see politicians wearing facial hair. William Howard Taft was the last US President to have any. He was also the last President to weigh more than 300 pounds. I guess times have changed just a little.

Back then, people still knew what a buggy whip was. They read books. And when they were angry with someone, they'd call them a scalawag or rapscallion. Such abasements could be followed by a strongly worded letter or the challenge of a duel. But certainly, there was no e-mail flame copied to eighteen other people in your company.

I am exactly one e-mail away from closing my inbox. It never fails to shock me at how the immediacy and perceived anonymity of e-mail empowers individuals to be complete and utter @ssholes.

At my job, I receive hundreds of e-mails per day. These range from nettlesome business solicitations to inocuous messages about empty tupperware in the staff lunchroom. But mixed among the meeting requests and deal confirmations are always several abusive messages per day. Some of them are directed toward me (deservedly or not). Others are messages I have been copied on for the purpose of embarassing the target. Worse yet, some of them I have been blind copied on.

I can appreciate how easy it is to be a complete and utter schmuck over e-mail. When you're angry, upset or just being an irrational douchebag, it's easy to sit in your filthy hole and fire off an obnoxious and hate-filled e-mail. And with a couple extra clicks, you can enjoy the cheap rush of copying the recipient's boss, secretary, janitors, ex-officemates and former-employees.

But I've learned that if you just stop for one second, take a breath and look at what you've written, it's quite easy not to be a total shithead. Don't call ex-girlfirends when you're drunk and don't write e-mails when you're angry. And certainly do not copy your insulting rants to others. It only broadcasts what a complete and total jerk you are.

There's a saying that you should never put anything in an e-mail that you wouldn't say to someone's face. Unfortunately, this is not a good rule of thumb. Because when you're sitting behind your vintage 1997 Gateway with 64MB of RAM, it's easy to feel eight feet tall. It's quite possible to picture yourself actually having the spine to say each and every word you're typing to someone's face.

As is the case with so much new technology, there are still few societal mores that keep bad behavior in check -- think cell phones that ring to the tune of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" or oblivious morons wearing iPods and blocking your way in a store.

I am serioulsy considering an e-mail boycott of one whole week. Messages sent to my inbox would receive an automated response instructing the sender to either call telephonically or correspond via US Postal Service. I kind of want to see what life was like before e-mail. If you wanted to "carbon copy" multiple people, it required multiple envelopes, multiple stamps and multiple paper cuts.

Or maybe instead of closing my inbox, I'll contruct a form e-mail that I bounce back to e-morons. If an incoming message contains criticism, editorializing, bullying, sarcasm, venting, foul language, needless "cc'ing," "bcc'ing" or general shitiness, a boiler-plate response will indicate that such messages will not be returned. A telephone number will be provided should additional communication be desired. Otherwise, please go to hell. Simultaneously, your message will be filed under "@."

Michaels, Cosell and Weaver

Speaking of hiatuses, baseball is about to come out of it's annual hibernation. To get us all in the mood, all this week the Mid-Atlantic Sports Network has been replaying a game of the 1983 World Series each night. I guess it's one (dis)advantage of living in Baltimore. Hey, it could be worse. I could live in Toronto.

Even though I know the Orioles will eventually beat the Phillies in five games, I've found myself watching pretty regularly. Maybe it's the lousy mid-season replacements on the networks. Or it could be a touch of "spring phever." Whatever the reason for watching, I sure am enjoying the trip down memory lane.

Oh, the wasting confines of Memorial Stadium. The bright green carpet of the Vet. The powder-blue road uniforms. The cartoon Oriole bird logo. And check out those stirrups and zippered jerseys.

But what's up with the facial hair? I can't believe how many of these guys had mustaches! I think each team was allowed only two clean upper lips. Pete Rose and Von Hayes for the Phillies, Cal Ripken, Jr and Jim Palmer for the Orioles. Every other guy on the field was sporting their own style of soup-strainer. Of course Schmitty's 'stache was way manlier than anything Dempsey or Flannigan could muster. And it's definitely not something A-Rod or Jeter could ever pull off.

So what of the mustache? What killed it? Where did it go? Is it poised for a comeback? Why is it that relief pitchers seem to be the only players these days than can wear a hairy lip?

One Hiatus Begins...

...and another ends.

These are some big shoes to fill. Can I possibly help to bridge this gap in the blogosphere? I can't promise to try. But I'll try to try.

Who's Next, Pauly Shore?

Tonight another new prime time TV game show premiered called Show Me the Money. The show is modeled on the recent success of Deal or No Deal and 1 vs 100. All three shows are based on escalating amounts of money being awarded to or taken away from desparate contestants. William Shatner has taken time off from his Priceline.com commercials and Star Trek conventions to host this new show on ABC. But Shatner's presence on the show highlights a disturbing trend.

The hosts of all these money dealing games shows, Howie Mandel (Deal or No Deal), Bob Saget (1 vs 100) and Shatner, are all Jewish. I guess if you're a washed up Jewish actor in Hollywood, there's a game show being focus-grouped just for you.

I hear Richard Lewis has already been lined up for FOX's "Shyster!"

Real Scary Movie

For some reason, typical horror films, with their formulaic plots and predictable shockers, just don't scare me. I'm more creeped out by psychological thrillers like "The Shining" or one of the more eerie Rod Serling "Twilight Zone" episodes.

But this movie, sends chills down my spines and brings chuckles up from my belly.

Enjoy and be nice to pumpkins.

The Life and Death of a Pumpkin

White Ashes to Ashes

You may have seen the story about Major League Baseball licensing logos to mortuaries. If not, the picture here speaks for itself. In case it doesn't, I submit the following captions for this image, and invite you do the same in the comments area:

- Here lie the hopes of a Phillies' Championship.

- That Phanitic suit is hot inside...really hot.

- In loving memory of Tommy Green's arm.

- Look, I finally caught a foul ball!

- I just couldn't stand to watch Mitch Williams in Game 6 of '93 series. Can someone tell me what happened?

- Kiteman, may he rest in peace.

- Never wear an Emmitt Smith jersey to any Philadelphia sporting event. Ever.

- You shouldn't have booed me.

- "I'm a very safe pilot."

- Wait 'til next life.

FW: FW: Re: RE: FW:

>>>>The greatest thing about the rapid expansion of the blogosphere, is that
>>>>my inbox no longer gets bogged down with annoying group e-mails. People
>>>>with blogs no longer feel compelled to forward along every article or funny
>>>>e-mail they come across. They just simply post their interesting tidbits online
>>>>for perusal at my leisure. I love it. Thank you blog people.

...until it killed him.

When I meet my final end (hopefully many, many decades from now), let no one say: "He died doing what he loved." If I'm killed participating in an activity that I loved, I'll bet I wasn't enjoying it right up until the end. And if I knew that this activity would eventually kill me, I probably never would have done it in the first place, let alone grow to love it.

They're "Trained by Professionals"

With the tragic passing of Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin, let us all be reminded of the brave TV hosts that put themselves in harm's way every day for our entertainment. For instance, watch these valiant daytime news anchors as they participate in science-man Steve Spangler's daring experiments. Man, I love local news. I could watch this stuff all day. Oh, and remember, don't try this at home:

• Helium Hits: Sulfur Hexaflouride + Television Cameras = Instant Comedy!
  
• Mentos and Exploding Soda: The original Mentos video
  
• He's Got Fire!: This anchor is a real scaredy-cat.
  

Swing and a Long-Held Grudge

Tonight Ryan Howard hit his 49th home run of the season. In doing so, Howard set a new single-season home run record for the Philadelphia Phillies, surpassing Mike Schmidt's 48 home runs in 1980.

Michael Jack Schmidt was the Phillies' starting third baseman for more than 16 seasons. He was a 3-time MVP, 12-time All-Star and was the World Series MVP for the Phillies one-and-only championship in 1980. He won 10 Gold Gloves and 8 home run titles. When he retired in 1989, he was seventh on the all-time home run list with 548.

As a young boy growing up in suburban Philadelphia, Schmitty was my childhood hero. I collected Mike Schmidt's baseball cards. My favorite number was 20 (his jersey number). I wished I could grow as moustache. I watched Phillies games just so I could wait for him to come to bat. Every kid on my little league team imitated Schmidt's batting stance (and trademark butt-wiggle). And we argued about who would win in a fist fight: Mike Schmidt or Superman (Answer: Mike Schmidt).

In April 1987, Michael Jack hit his 500th home run at Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh. It was a huge milestone in Philadelphia sports history. The day he hit it, my brother Jason and I were at home watching the game on TV. In the 6th inning, the Phillies were losing and our mother dragged us out of the house to go buy shoes. My brother's Bar Mitzvah was coming up and I guess shoes were a higher priority. After picking out just the right pair of junior wingtips, we returned to the car and tuned in the game on the radio. Andy Musser and Chris Wheeler, the Phils' radio broadcasters, were talking excitedly describing the big moment that had just happened. Schmitty had hit number 500. Not only that, it was a game winning shot. It was one of the biggest moments in my hero's career and I was in a shoe store.

To celebrate Schmidt's accomplishment, a commemorative video was released fittingly called "That Ball's Outta Here: The Mike Schmidt Story." It followed Schmidt through the first part of the season as he chased the 500 mark. It showed him on the phone with his wife, fielding questions from the press at his locker and taking extra BP before games. The first time I watched the video, at the moment when they show Schmidt silently swinging in slow motion, connecting for the historic blast, I started to cry. I still get choked up just thinking about that scene. Watching the video was the closest I would come to reliving that moment. Did I mention I was in a shoe store at the time?

When the video went on sale, Schmitty was scheduled to make an appearance at our local video store to autograph copies. I begged my mother to take me along. I had never gotten a chance to meet my hero in person. Here was her chance to make-up for the shoe fiasco. After much pleading, my mother decided I would stay in school that day. I wouldn't be meeting my idol.

My mother still went on her own to the video store. When I got home from school that day, she talked about what it was like to meet him -- how broad his shoulders were and how he seemed so tall even while sitting down. From a bag she pulled out the commemorative video she'd gotten him to sign. In dark, bold writing, it read "To Jason, Happy Birthday. Mike Schmidt." My brother's birthday was coming up soon and my mother had thoughtfully gotten him a personalized autograph. I thought it was so cool that Mike Schmidt knew it was my brother's birthday. I couldn't wait to see my personalized copy of the video, too.

This may come as a surprise, but there was no personalized autograph for me. There was only one copy of the video and it had my brother's stupid name scribbled all over it. My mom said not to worry. She had also managed to get him to autograph a small 4x6 photograph she'd taken of him at a Fuji Film Photo Night at Veterans Stadium a couple years earlier. Wow. I couldn't wait to put it on display in my room.

It was then explained to me that the small autographed photo was to remain inside the video's box, which conveniently lived in a cupboard in my brother's room. I was not allowed to have it.

From time to time, I would go into my brother's room, take out the video and peek at the small autographed photo inside. It reminded me of my mother's own story about her father's Babe Ruth autograph. As a young girl, she would go into her father's desk and pull out an old program with the Babe's signature on the cover. But someone else in the family had made off with it. To this day, she doesn't know where it is.

A few years ago, when I was visiting my parent's house, I went into my brother's old room and for old times sake took out the video. The autographed photo slipped out of the box and fell into my lap. I looked at it for a moment, placed it on the bed and put the video away. I carefully slid the photo into an envelope and put it in my suitcase. The next day, I left with the autograph quietly tucked away. No one in my family would realize it was gone until they came to my home years later and saw it on display, in a frame, being enjoyed.

I've met and had meaningful encounters with a fair share of famous people in my life -- from Bill Cosby to Cal Ripken, Jr. But I don't ask for autographs. Autographs are for kids. Rather than asking people to scribble their name on a piece of paper, I prefer to strike up a dialogue. In my opinion, it makes for a far more memorable connection. How can someone have any respect for you if the first thing you do is ask them to write their name down? But because I've never had personal contact with my boyhood hero, Schmidt's autograph is the only thing I have.

So to my family members that would like the autograph back, I'd like to remind you of the 10-year old boy wiggling his butt and swinging a wiffleball bat in the middle of the living room. If you really want the autograph back, I suggest you schedule a personal audience for me and Michael Jack. Then I will gladly give up the photo. Until then, happy shoe shopping.

Yonder Piggly Wiggly

This weekend I drove myself to the grocery store to buy a few things. First I stopped and picked up a sandwich for lunch. The bill was $4.11. I paid for it with a five dollar bill. The cashier handed me my receipt and a bulky handful of change which I stuffed in my pocket. After quickly gulping down my lunch, I ran into the market. Grabbing just an armful of items from the shelves, I made my way to the checkout.

I usually avoid the express lanes because I often find them slower than the regular ones. What happens is that a dozen people, all with "10 items or less [sic]," swarm the express lane. Meanwhile the regular lanes always have shorter lines and I believe they move faster. Scanning and bagging the groceries is quite fast. It doesn't take that much longer to ring up 20 or 30 items than it does 10. It's the transactions, with people writing checks, fumbling with the credit card machine or sifting through purses for exact change that really drag things down. I'd rather take my chances behind one person with a huge cart full of food, than 8 people who might be writing checks.

But this weekend, I saw the express lane had only a very short line and I thought I would give it a shot. To my surprise, I was quickly at the front having my few items scanned. The total was $13.35.

In addition to avoiding express lanes, I almost always pay for groceries by credit card. But because I was in an express lane, I thought I would be considerate and pay by cash. That's always the fastest way, right? Especially if I have exact change.

So I reached down into my pocket knowing that I had a sizeable amount of change. But the coinage had become intermingled with my car keys, the paper receipt from lunch and an alarming amount of pocket lint. I was able to fish out a few coins: a quarter and a penny. Nervously, I reached in again, pulled out my keys and the receipt and set them on the counter. With the obstacles clear, I was able to get out the full collection of change. Sorting out a quarter, nickel and dime, I handed them to the cashier. I then reached into my bill fold to hand over the correct amount of cash. This is when I realized I didn't have as much money with me as I'd thought. After buying lunch, I now only had a five and three ones. I was five dollars short.

I felt mortified. I apologized to the cashier and asked for the change back so that I could pay by credit card. I was now one of those people holding up the express line. As I reached in for my credit card, I turned around to express my contrition to my fellow customers waiting behind me. That's when I noticed her. It was Betty.

Betty was my friend from the local post office. Betty was the line nazi who was mean to her customers. I recognized her immediately. She was wearing a blue USPS shirt and a name tag that read, "Betty."

I nodded at Betty. She gave me a sharp stare and flicked her tongue.

"Sorry about this," I said to her.

"Uh huh. Just keep it moving," she barked.

"I'm just going to..."

"Stop talking and start paying," she interrupted.

Turning back to the cashier, I put away my credit card. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a slip of paper I've had folded up in my wallet for emergencies just like this. I knew I had to do it for all the people in my ZIP code who have had a run in with Betty. I unfolded the paper, picked up a pen and said to the cashier:

"I'll just pay by check."

Remember Cop Rock?

In 1990, the Berlin Wall came down. The first President Bush was in the White House starting the first Iraqi war. Yours truly was in seventh grade. A postage stamp cost 25 cents. Julio Franco was a spry 33 years of age. Brian McCann was 7. And the Atlanta Braves finished the season with a record of 65-97, in last place, 26 games behind the NL West Champion Cincinnati Reds. (Remember when the Braves were in the NL West?) And the NL East was won by the Pittsburgh Pirates. (Yes, those Pittsburgh Pirates.) The Florida Marlins, Colorado Rockies, Arizona Diamondbacks and Tampa Bay Devil Rays didn't even exist yet.

In the fifteen seasons following, the Braves tallied up a record of 1431-931 -- a .606 winning percentage -- and won fourteen division titles by a total of 116 1/2 games. Only the strike-shortened 1994 season left them without a banner that year, even though they were trailing the Montreal Expos by six games at the time.

(Here's where I feel obligated to disclose that from 1991 through 2005, my hometown Philadelphia Phillies racked up a combined record of 1144-1218 -- a .516 losing percentage -- and only made it to the post-season once losing to the Toronto Blue Jays in the 1993 World Series. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming.)

Here we are today at the end of August 2006. The Braves are 60-68, in fourth place and 19 games behind the division leading New York Mets. The Mets have a "Magic Number" of 20 to clinch the NL East. It will be the first time in 15 years that the Braves will watch someone else hoist their division's pennant. Even better yet, the Braves are only five games ahead of the last-place Washington Nationals. Any combination of Nationals wins and Braves losses, totaling 39, will mean the Braves finish in last place. Let's call this the "Black Magic Number." We'll track it throughout the next five weeks.

Braves fans old enough to remember powder-blue uniforms aren't unfamiliar with last place. Before their historic run, the Braves were pretty bad. Okay, really bad. They finished dead last four times between 1986 and 1990. Before 1991, the Braves only moved on to the post-season twice, in 1982 and 1969, since moving to Atlanta in 1966.

The Braves more than made up for those losing seasons with their unprecedented streak of domination since 1991. In that time, they've won fourteen consecutive division pennants. Fourteen. That's fourteen trips to the playoffs. But this is where their legacy will be a bit more hazy. Because baseball, ultimately, is about winning a trophy, getting a ring and staking claim as champions of the "world."

Of those 14-straight division championships the Braves won, only one yielded a World Series title. Yes, they made it to the world series on five occasions. But that's only five out of fourteen -- 36 percent. And of those five, only one ring. One. Even with a post-season record of 81-62 since 1991, the Braves pursuit of championships has been mired in futility. Especially in recent seasons where they have been eliminated in the first round five of the last six years. It got so bad, the Braves had trouble selling seats to playoff games in the last few years. Where else do you see empty seats during playoff games? (I'm looking at you, NHL.)

The phrase "high school hero, real life zero" comes to mind. The Braves are regular season bruisers, post-season losers. That empty mantle will be their legacy. Many will disagree. In a few weeks, or even days, the debate can begin. The Braves will not win the Wild Card. On October 1, at the conclusion of the 2006 regular season, the Braves will find themselves on the sidelines. Then history can decide if they belong in the company of the New York Yankees or the Buffalo Bills. One thing they won't have to worry about: being compared to the Philadelphia Phillies.

Brother, Can You Spare a Vote?

Baltimore has the longest red lights of any city in the country. It makes driving in this city really annoying. These red lights can lengthen your commute by over twenty percent and needlessly increases the waste of fossil fuels.

The extended red lights also create a very dangerous situation as people race between signals at breakneck speeds. Some drivers just run the lights all together. To combat this, the city has installed red light cameras at 50 intersections. So now, in addition to having the longest red lights in the land, Baltimore is also the red-light camera capital of the world. Receiving a commemorative photo of your license plate in the mail makes for a nice keepsake, but will also set you back a few bucks.

But the oil companies and the City of Baltimore aren't the only ones who benefit from the long red lights. The traffic back-ups caused by mistimed, lengthy traffic lights also make panhandling at intersections a big business in this town. Major intersections swarm with itinerants and vagrants, each with their own unique and gruesome disfigurement on display.

One of these major intersections is part of my daily commute. It's populated by these licentious degenerates morning, noon and night. They wander up and down the median begging for change. They seem to work in shifts. Every morning there is the same toothless hippie with long grey hair, an acutely swollen hand and a limp that would do Hugh Laurie proud. In my head I call him "Stinky." During the evening rush hour a gaunt woman with one leg wobbles on crutches. I think of her as "Hoppy." And late at night, an older gentleman with no apparent disability (unless you count poor penmanship as a handicap) paces with a crudely constructed cardboard sign in hand. I call him "Old Guy."

I never give money to any of them. And I can't believe anyone would. But the amazing part is that people actually do. I watch each day as people roll down their windows, toss out change or offer a cigarette. Obviously the panhandling pays off or they wouldn't be there every day -- rain, sleet or snow. I often wonder just how much it pays off. Luckily the traffic light is long enough to do some rough calculations.

This traffic light cycles approximately every two-and-a-half minutes. That's 25 times per hour. When I see people handing out money, it's often change, but there's paper money too. I don't think it's unreasonable to think that these guys can average fifty cents to a dollar per cycle. That's almost $20 an hour. And no taxes. Beats working for minimum wage.

I remember seeing a local TV news story once where they followed panhandlers after they finished working their corner. They walked a few blocks, got into their car and drove away. Some of them had pretty nice cars and were followed to their homes in nice neighborhoods. I try not to be that cynical. Some of these individuals do need help. And they really aren't harming anyone. It's just an annoyance. But, again, they're not the last ones benefiting from the Baltimore's traffic patterns.

This morning I was surprised to see this same corner occupied by a new kind of recalcitrant: a politician.

During the morning rush hour, a middle-aged guy in a dress shirt and a tie stood on the corner and waved to commuters. He was campaigning for District Attorney. His shirt sleeves were casually rolled up and he was holding a large sign bearing his name. The sign was very large. He may as well have been wearing a sandwich board.

People paid him no attention. No honks of support. No friendly cheers. No one rolling down their windows to ask about his plan to stop panhandlers or catch the light pole thieves.

Meanwhile, I can't help but wonder what happened to "Stinky." How did Mr. Polyester get to take over the corner? Did he show up really early? Did he submit an application for a city permit to reserve that corner a week in advance? Or did he simply pay "Stinky" twenty bucks to go away?

It was a nice change to see someone a bit less scary standing next to my car this morning as I waited for the light to change. I was, however, just as reticent to make any eye contact with the guy. I wonder how much of an impact that campaign stunt actually had. It probably would have been more productive as a campaign fundraiser. Heck, he already had the cardboard sign. All he's missing is a good limp.

Don't Play with Your Art

Have you been to the Smithsonian and seen some of your old toys behind glass? There's even a National Toy Hall of Fame in Rochester, New York where you can vote for your favorites.

Well, here are some guys that really do get their toys put on exhibit. I guess my parents spent too much time encouraging me to get a real job. Meanwhile, look what these artists can do.

Check it out, Mom, I'm making a living with:

• Legos


• Dominos


• Etch-a-Sketch

Fly West, Young Man

I recently flew Midwest Connect (operated by Sky West Airlines). Looking at the airline listings in the terminal, I realized it would be very easy to get mixed up as to which "western" airline you're on. I mean, look at all these airlines with similar names:

America West
Midwest
Northwest
Sky West
Southwest
Transwest

It's really confusing. Is the west really that appealing? Doesn't anyone travel east? I mean, you have to travel east eventually, right?

In fact, there is not a single airline servicing North America that uses the word "east" in its name. There used to be Eastern Airlines, but they went defunct around the time Punky Brewster got cancelled.

Imagine what would happen if some of these airlines merge and become something like "North-Southwest Airlines" or "Midsky West Airways." I'm waiting for North by Northwest Airlines: each flight would cruise approximately 50 feet above Cary Grant's head.

Drew Barry-no-more

We have a subscription to Netflix. And it is the greatest thing ever. If you're not familiar with Netflix, perhaps I could interest you in a flight on a hydrogen-filled dirigible.

As I was saying, Netflix is awesome. But managing that queue of movies takes some skill. For example, I try to be sure that at all times we have at least one film both my wife and I can enjoy, plus one so-called "chick flick." This means a movie starring Drew Barrymore and one of the Wilson brothers. For every "Crash" we need a "Home Fries."

Given the way Netflix works, these fluff movies eat up valuable real estate on the queue. Real estate that's so valuable, I'd even consider having a separate DVD subscription service just for my wife's movies. I'd call it: Chickflix, of course.

A service like Chickflix would hopefully offer more than just your traditional mail-order DVD rental service. I'm thinking I could go online and schedule delivery of my wife's movies for the nights that I'm working late. Perhaps the movie could come delivered in a decorative envelope including chocolates and recipes for quick, quality home-cooked meals. Maybe even a personalized card from me could be included saying "Thank you for being so wonderful." Now that would be worth $19.95/month.

Just What Wolfgang had in Mind

In 1788, when Mozart composed his Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, he wrote for the orchestral instruments he knew: violins, violas, celli, double basses, flutes, oboes, bassoons and horns.

Discussion continues about whether or not the additonal clarinet parts should be included in contemporary performances of the work. Clarinet parts do exist for this symphony, but their origins are somewhat suspect. You see, Mozart didn't have access to modern clarinets. He wrote for either the basset horn or early other ancestors of the "licorice stick" we know today. And he wasn't particularly fond of the way they sounded.

One thing Mozart certainly didn't have in his musical arsenal was a pair of rollerblades. If he had, Wolfie surely would have thought to utilize his empty wine bottles (of which there would have been many) and create the perfect instrumentation for his music. This combination of roller blades, wine bottles and asphalt is undoubtedly the truest realization of Mozart's music. However, 53rd Street in New York aint exactly Kartnerstrasse in Vienna, if you know what I mean.