Cable's Out, Kill Me Now

The danger of having both cable TV and a cable modem is obvious. When the cable goes out, the information deprivation is downright dangerous.

After several hours of intense boredom last night (arranging all my pocket change to be heads up, alphabetizing those little cards that fall out of magazines and playing with the baby) I realized that I could watch TV if I really wanted to. I had a Netflix DVD sitting on the shelf that had been there for months. I'd put off watching Million Dollar Baby because of a friend's warning that she couldn't eat or sleep for a week after seeing the movie. But last night, in an act of true desperation, I finally gave in.

Now that I've seen it, I understand why it won all those Academy Awards. That being said, Million Dollar Baby is the worst, the worst, movie I have ever seen. What kind of sick bastard would make a movie like that? I remember watching Born on the Fourth of July, and feeling physically ill. That is story of pain and anguish. And it's a true story! What I can't believe is that someone would dream up a story like the one told in Million Dollar Baby. It's just sick. Get out the Prozac.

Like I said. I had been warned. But as I'm watching the movie, I'm thinking, "OK, there's obviously a twist coming, but how bad could it be?" I've seen Rocky IV like 17 times and I never got upset when Apollo Creed went down. (However, I'll admit to being mildly upset with Mr. T for years after watching him beat down Burgess Meredith in Rocky III.) But none of that prepared me for the shocker in Million Dollar Baby. Maybe it's because I'd been television and Internet deprived for several hours so the moving pictures had that much more impact. But as the credits rolled, I just wanted to kill myself. Or better yet, have someone sneak into my room and do it for me.

I Still Hate Cell Phones

I've ranted before on why I hate cell phones. But I failed to mention the most odius aspect of cellphone use: cellphones with musical ringtones.

I attended a very solemn and beautiful funeral service today for a musician who passed away after a long and courageous battle with cancer. After a moving and well-delivered eulogy, it was announced that the assembled would hear a special musical selection -- one with particular meaning to the deceased and his family. But in the moment immediately before the piano sonata could be begin, a cell phone rang out in what sounded like the opening strands of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." It would have been shameful enough for someone's cellphone to ring, beep or buzz at that moment. But to have such an infelicitous song blare throughout a memorial service was just deplorable.

I can understand in a roomful of over a hundred people, that one person can be moronic enough not to turn off their ringer altogether. I'll admit to being that moron at least once -- thankfully not during a funeral! This is why I almost always leave my own cell phone on vibrate. Even if it's in my jacket pocket, or across the room on a table, I can usually hear the vibration without anyone else even noticing. When my phone isn't on vibrate, the ring is set to a single beep. This is enough of an alert for me to either answer or silence my phone.

So why do people insist on using such irritating songs on their cell phones? You'd think the potential humiliation of a circumstance like what happened at today's funeral would be enough of a deterrent as people selected their ringtones. Do you think that this particular perpetrator went home and changed his or her cellphone ring to the "standard ring" or even something like "Just a Closer Walk with Thee?" I doubt it.

Any time a companion of mine has a cell phone that starts ringing out some ridiculous melody, I ask, "What's the point?" The answer is usually something lame like, "So I can tell my cell phone ring apart from everyone else's." I don't buy this one for a second. Like you can't tell if the ring is coming from your pocket or across the room? Please.

What I do know is that people, even though they may not admit it, very carefully select their cellphone ringtone as a personal statement of who they are. "I listened to Mozart once in college -- or maybe it was Vivaldi." "The seventh inning stretch is my favorite part of going to a hockey game." Or, "I'm a girl who just wants to have fun and I know how to program my ringtone." Hey, guess what. No one cares.

Baseball: The Ultimate Equalizer

FROM SATURDAY'S WALL STREET JOURNAL

The Replacements
With a crop of top conductors out sick, lesser-known young maestros are getting a chance at the spotlight

By JACOB HALE RUSSELL
March 25, 2006; Page P3

It's happening in Pittsburgh. It's been a problem in Boston, too. And now it's hit Baltimore: Conductors at some of the nation's top orchestras are out sick.

The orchestra world is struggling with some big headaches lately, from declining attendance to mounting deficits. But headed into the season's home stretch, there's another problem: out-of-commission conductors. Among the no-shows are James Levine at the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Metropolitan Opera (torn rotator cuff), Seiji Ozawa of the Vienna State Opera (shingles) and the London Philharmonic Orchestra star Kurt Masur, who bowed out of this spring's major U.S. tour (heart palpitations, suspected viral infection).

"This has been fairly unusual to have this many conductors all at once having to cancel their dates," says Jeremy Rothman, artistic administrator of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, which recently had to find a month's worth of replacements when its star conductor went on bereavement leave. "It's like the disabled list for a baseball team."

The absences have been disappointing for fans, who've paid up to $100 to see stars like Mr. Masur and Mr. Levine. They've also been inconvenient for orchestra managers, who've been scrambling to fill the empty conductor slots on their schedules.

But this spate of sick conductors is also shaking up the classical music world in a surprising way. A group of lesser-known conductors -- many in their 20s or early 30s -- are being tapped as substitutes. That's giving these young maestros an unexpected moment in the spotlight -- and could end up reshaping orchestras in years to come.

Many orchestras are in a time of transition now, with conducting spots opening up at about 20 symphonies around the country, according to the American Symphony Orchestra League. These include some of the most-watched posts in the classical music world, including conductors at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, the National Symphony Orchestra in Washington D.C. and soon the New York Philharmonic. Other top-tier orchestras in cities like Nashville, Dallas and Detroit are also seeking new maestros.

These searches come at a time that some in the orchestra world say is ripe for a new model of conductor; in the past few years, younger conductors -- and often Americans -- have increasingly risen to prominence in a European-dominated field. As they seek to attract a wider and younger audience base, orchestras value conductors who can connect with concertgoers, rather than remaining aloof.

Some of the biggest names in classical music history, such as Arturo Toscanini and Leonard Bernstein, were discovered when they subbed in for ailing conductors. Now a new generation of conductors is benefiting from crucial exposure at a key moment for orchestras. One of them is 26-year-old American James Gaffigan, an assistant conductor at the Cleveland Orchestra. Usually, his job responsibilities include conducting youth concerts and sitting in the wings during performances in case anything happens to the conductor.

But in January, when Franz Welser-Möst, the orchestra's music director, was bedridden with an ear infection, Mr. Gaffigan ended up leading what many consider the country's best orchestra in one of the biggest symphonic works, Beethoven's Fifth, and the world premiere of a major living composer, Marc-André Dalbavie.

"It's a weird job in that respect," Mr. Gaffigan says, "We're waiting for people to go down. You don't wish any harm on people, but some good things come out of bad things." Though Mr. Gaffigan has occasionally conducted subscription concerts for Cleveland, the Beethoven symphony is normally reserved for well-established music directors. Positive reviews paid off with other gigs, like subbing on Mozart's 250th birthday for a special concert at the Kansas City Symphony.

Mr. Gaffigan will also conduct La Bohème at the Zurich Opera in May. He became known at that opera house last summer, when he filled in for Mr. Welser-Möst, who was himself called in after the scheduled conductor, Marcello Viotti, suddenly died.

Even for somewhat more established young conductors, guest conducting can send a career forward several years, providing the chance to work with the best musicians -- and be heard by the best reviewers. When Bernard Haitink cancelled at the Berlin Philharmonic last month due to injury, the American conductor Alan Gilbert, who leads the Royal Stockholm Philharmonic Orchestra and the Santa Fe Opera, got his debut at what many consider the world's most prestigious orchestra. This led to top reviews, and some music world observers say that Mr. Gilbert, already rumored to be in the running for the top spot at the New York Philharmonic, got a big boost from his Berlin performance.

This month's big discovery might be Ludovic Morlot, a French assistant conductor in Boston. He substituted for Christoph von Dohnányi at the New York Philharmonic, earning accolades from important critics. As a result of his success there, Mr. Rothman called Mr. Morlot to Baltimore, where he again received rave reviews in a concert that included pianist Emanuel Ax.

Joseph Kluger, former president of the Philadelphia Orchestra and now a consultant on the arts at AEA Consulting, says audiences, critics and musicians often give the "benefit of the doubt" to replacements. "There's a hero-worship aspect of it," he says. "It adds an element of drama to something that could otherwise be routine."

To be sure, with orchestra seasons lasting from fall to spring -- and spanning flu season -- it's not unusual for conductors to call in sick and managers to scramble for replacements. Top conductors have packed schedules that involve jetting back and forth internationally, either with their own orchestra on tour or guest conducting, which makes the job exhausting.

But what has made March unusual is the large number of simultaneous high-profile absences at major symphonies, as well as the several-month-long absence for Mr. Levine, who is one of the world's most famous (and highly paid) conductors and heads both Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Metropolitan Opera, two of the most prominent classical-music organizations.

Artistic administrators aren't always able to find someone like Mr. Morlot waiting in the wings. When Robert Spano had to cancel a guest appearance at the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra this month, the orchestra had to call off its premiere of a composition by contemporary classical composer John Adams -- because they couldn't find someone else familiar with the complex piece. Baltimore had to nix a piece by Armenian composer Richard Yardumian for the same reason.

Conductor cancellations can cause serious problems for symphonies, as artistic directors are forced to scramble to find replacements in a game of musical chairs. "You find yourself sitting at your desk making phone calls to Europe, catching people on their cellphones, finding people in all kinds of unusual locations," says Baltimore's Mr. Rothman. "There's lots of work that you normally have 18 months lead time to figure out."

Pittsburgh and Baltimore have taken the unusual step of turning to concertmasters (the orchestra's lead violinist) to conduct some concerts -- in one case while still playing the violin. And Anne-Sophie Mutter, a top violin soloist, conducted Mozart pieces she herself was playing at Lincoln Center.

For orchestras, the stress of last-minute replacements could actually result in a modest financial gain. Conductors are paid on a per-concert basis and lose that fee when they cancel, and the replacements are usually cheaper than the stars who call in sick.

Audiences aren't usually allowed refunds for cancellations, though at most orchestras it's as much the repertoire and musicians who are the draw, and the chance to see the debut of a younger conductor can be exciting for some. But it's uncertain what impact a longer absence -- like Mr. Levine's -- could have on organizations like the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Metropolitan Opera, which heavily depend on Mr. Levine's high profile for their financial well-being.

Nice Haircut!

My three-month-old son's newborn hair continues to fall out a few fine strands at a time. A soft downy fuzz is all that's left underneath. Hopefully, within a few months, that short fuzz will sprout into thick a head of baby hair. That will mean only one thing: baby's first haircut. He won't like it. Not one bit. I don't think any babies like getting their haircut. Which means we have something in common. I don't like getting my haircut either.

I've probably had my haircut nearly 300 times in my life. Wow, that's a lot of time sitting still in one of those vinyl chairs. I've probably had my seat cranked like seventeen miles up in the air. Despite all that experience and added height, haircuts still stress me out.

First of all, finding a barber who understands the shape of my head and is brave enough to tackle my wiry hair is the hardest part. Once I've found someone worthy of that trust, I stay pretty loyal. In fact, I've only ever had three people in my life that I've trusted with my hair. Okay, maybe it's not loyalty so much as avoidance of hassle. You see, the first time I sit in any barber's chair I have to put up with all the obnoxious comments and questions about my hair. You'd think barbers that want my business -- or at least a decent tip -- would be a bit more diplomatic. But I know that once they get it out of their system, I won't ever have to hear it again. This is why if they do a half-decent job I'll go back to them again and again.

This isn't to say that only three people have ever cut my hair. I've experimented with a few others over time. This was usually a circumstance of being away from home and in desperate need of a trim. My most unusual experience was getting my hair cut by a guy covered in tattoos and poked full of holes. This made really me nervous. I know it shouldn't have. I wasn't afraid he'd do a bad job. But if he had so few qualms about mutilating his own body, should I have trusted him with scissors?

The other thing that gets me worked up is that big silly bib. Do they have to put it on so tightly around my neck? And how many other people's hair and dandruff is all over those things? And once it's on, where am I supposed to put my hands? Do I have to leave them on the armrests and keep them visible? If I fold my hands in my lap under the bib, will people assume I'm playing with myself under there?

I hate watching my hair as it gets cut. As the barber shortens up the one side of my head first, I always wonder what would happen is the fire alarm went off at that very moment. Would I have to run out onto the street wearing that bib with my hair short on one side and long on the other? What if it's a real fire and the place is burning to the ground? (That jar full of combs soaking in alcohol would surely be an accelerant in such a blaze.) Then, would my barber finish my haircut on the street, or would I be left for days with an uneven coif?

If I'm lucky enough to make it all the way through without a fire alarm, why is it that when the barber finishes, it looks like nothing changed? Then when I get home and look in the mirror, I'm shocked by the dramatic alteration to my looks. I guess it's like watching yourself gain weight. It happens gradually enough that you don't notice it until you look at a picture of yourself from college when you were thinner (and had a better haircut).

Once I'm home from my haircut, the first thing I have to do is get in the shower. I just can't stand that itchy feeling around my neck, down my back and in my nevermind. Whoever thought that tiny little brush with a wooden handle would sweep away all the excess hair? I once went to a barber where they vacuumed the hair off! That hickey left me with some awkward explaining to do.

Of course, in that first post-haircut shower I always use way too much shampoo. Over the past month, as my hair had been growing longer and longer, I would have been gradually amplifying the amount of shampoo per shower. Now, with a shorter do, I'm left with handfuls of wasteful lather! It usually takes me a week to get back to an acceptable shampoo-hair equilibrium.

Getting out of the shower, I can never get my hair back the way I want it. I'm never totally satisfied with my haircuts. For me, the sign of a really good haircut, is one that draws the fewest comments. Because what I hate most about getting my ears lowered are the comments I must endure the next day.

"Oh, you got your haircut!"
"Hey, look, a haircut!"
"Gee, did you get your haircut?"

As if I hadn't noticed that I got my hair cut. Like I didn't sit there for 30 minutes making mindless small talk while watching the guy do it. Yes, I paid for it and everything. I even left a tip, albeit not a very good one. Hey, I was out of singles and no way I'm leaving a five spot.

But then again, if people aren't making any comments, is that because it looks terrible and they're just being polite by not saying anything?

So when my son gets into the barber's chair for the very first time and starts crying, I'll understand why.

New Classic Tradition Breakout

Does it bother anyone else that the international baseball tournament that started this year is called the World Baseball Classic? How can it be "classic" when it is brand new? It's like when I flipped by ESPN Classic the other day and they were showing a live college basketball game. The station logo on the top corner of the screen actually said "ESPN Classic Live." Talk about a disruption in the space-time continuum. It was like watching the end of Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey -- only with more dialogue. Ironically, the game wasn't very good.

Short Circuit

There has been an electrical outlet on the fritz in my kitchen. So today, being the expert electrician I am, I decided I would pull it out of the wall to see if anything terribly obvious presented itself -- you know, loose connections, burnt wires, rodent teeth marks, etc. With the cost just to get an electrician in the door, I figured it was worth risking electrocution to save $60.

Before pulling the socket out of the wall, I remembered I needed to head to the circuit box. The circuit breakers in our house were painstaking labeled by an alcoholic dyslexic over 20 years ago. The penciled lettering has faded substantially over the years, making the illegible handwriting even more cryptic. I had started to remap the switches a few years ago so that when I flipped the switch marked "master bdrm" I would know the lights in the kitchen would go off. Of course, I subsequently lost my magic decoder leaving me to throw random switches any time I needed to turn the power off somewhere in the house.

Trying to turn the power off to a specific area is not a one-person job. You really need two people -- one to throw the switches and another to stand watch in another room and yell "wrong one!" Alas, I was on my own today, flipping switches, wandering through the house, trying to figure out what had just gone off.

After ten minutes of this futility, I finally got the right switch thrown. But not before I had managed to turn off every other circuit in the house. Every clock in the house now flashed 12:00 am. With a bit of forethought, I should have done this exercise at exactly midnight. That would have saved me so much effort. Better yet, maybe I'll wait until daylight savings starts next time . I figure I'll have to change the time on all the clocks anyway.

In case you were wondering, when I finally did pull the outlet from the wall, I found what appeared to be a perfectly normal looking outlet. But what do I know about it? At least it's easier to turn all the power back on, than it is to turn it off.

Yeah, Whatever Pittsburgh

OK, so now that the commercials are over...

...it's eight days until pitchers and catchers report. Oddly for the Orioles, only the catchers have to show up since they don't have any pitching.

[rim shot]

A Forking Miracle!

Thomas' English Muffins reads Instant*Ethos!

The package of Thomas' English Muffins my wife brought home from the store today was emblazoned with the phrase:

"Improved Fork-Split!"

Can you believe it? They actually responding to my blog!

The instructions on the reverse of the packaging was the same (except for one corrected punctuation error). And after attempting to enjoy my first "improved fork-split" muffin, I must say the firemen needn't worry about their job security.

Hey, at least they're trying.

Fork Split My Ass

The carton of English Muffins reads:

1. Thomas' Original English Muffins are fork split. Gently pull apart.
2. Toast or brown until golden brown.
3. Serve warm with favorite topping.

Translation:

1. Thomas' Original English Muffins have been slightly punctured somewhere off-center along the edge. Good luck finding the holes. If you run your finger along the side, you should find something to grab onto. Gently pull halves apart, rending your muffin into little crumbly pieces. Good luck picking those little seeds from under your nail.
2. Place cumbled remnants into toaster oven. Small pieces will fall through the grate, settle directly on the heating element and catch on fire, setting off your smoke alarm. Wait until neighbors call fire or police departments.
3. When fire or police arrive, serve charred smoking muffin with favorite topping.

I Hate Cell Phones

I know it's a very Andy Rooney-type sentiment. But I really do hate cell phones.

It is amazing how cell phones can deliver instant, on-the-spot communication at any time to anyone anywhere. But then some people take this way too far. For example, here's a cell phone conversation I overheard from the person in front of me in line for a sandwich at Subway this afternoon:

Customer answers phone: Hello? Oh, hi, Cici. Yeah, did you hear about daddy? No? Didn't Aunt Tessa call you? News like this she would have called. Can I have a 12-inch Italian on white? They think it was a heart attack. No, I wanted that on white, please. Can you believe it? He was only 45. Provolone, please. So now I have to go to Virginia tonight. Yeah, he just dropped dead. Just like that. Can I get extra cheese? I meant to call him last night, but I fell asleep. Isn't that just weird? I wish he'd taken better care of himself. Lettuce, tomato, hot peppers, sweet peppers and olives. He was just too fat. He'd been having heart trouble for years. He never listened to nobody. Just mayo and oil please. So the funeral is on Friday and I'll be back for Tara's party on Saturday. Yes, the meal please. No, I'll be fine. Thanks for offering. Can I get a stamp? Okay, bye. Bye!

Of course the sandwich maker took no notice this sad conversation. Because she, too, was on a cell phone.

Papa's So Proud

Papa is so proud of his little boy. He's a little blogger already! Check him out regularly at:

Diaperlogue.BlogSpot.com

Welcome, Son

Welcome to the world, son.

If you thought today was rough, just wait until junior high school.

Religious Observance Gone Totally Wrong

From The New York Times
Megachurches Closed for Christmas

This is unbelievable. Churches closing in observance of Christmas! The hypocrisy is positively mind bending. I guess they figure everyone just spent all their money on presents, so passing the plate won't make it profitable to stay open Christmas day.

I can only imagine a sign hanging on a synagogue door readying, "Sorry, closed in observance of Yom Kippur."

'Going Postal'

When I arrived at my local post office this morning, there was quite a long line. I was in a hurry and was dreading the long wait to mail my package. There were at least a dozen people in line in front of me. After about ten minutes, I had moved near the front of the line. There were only three people ahead of me now. They included

• A short Asian woman with two kids tugging at her pant-legs and a third napping in a stroller. She was there to mail a birthday present to her niece.
  
• A young blonde woman in a long, fitted cashmere coat and lambskin gloves who was there to purchase stamps for her wedding invitations.
  
• And a frazzled old woman in a velvet running suit and Velcro sneakers hoping to buy sheets of stamps for her grandson.
  

None of them would be a match for the woman working the postal desk this day.

Betty had a bad hair weave and a gold tooth. A blue USPS cardigan hung over her gaunt shoulders. She was curt, mean and efficient. With a line stretching out the door, she was hell bent on keeping that line moving.

“Next in line!”

The short Asian women with kids approached the counter in hopes of mailing her niece’s birthday gift. She shows Betty a 16” commemorative Anastasia princess doll. It’s in its original packaging, unwrapped and in no way ready to be mailed.

“Can you help me mail this?”

Betty glances at the line now stretching into the next ZIP code.

“No.”

“It’s for my niece. Can you put this in a box and mail it for me?”

“No.”

“How do I send this?”

“You can’t mail it like that and I ain’t not Mailboxes, etc. Please step aside so I can help the next person.” Betty pushes the woman to the side with her arm and waves to the next person in line.

“Next!”

The Asian woman persists. “How can I box this and send it?”

Betty gives her a look that only a disgruntled postal employee can give. “There are boxes over on that rack. I recommend you find the right size and package it up yourself before I get ugly with you. Please step aside.”

The young blonde woman steps up to the counter and asks for a sheet of flower stamps for her wedding invitations. Betty presents the two sheets of stamps requested. The blonde woman takes several moments to examine the stamps. Betty stares her down, licking her chops.

“Do you have anything more spring-like?” Betty pulls out two more sheets of stamps and slaps them on the counter.

“Look at these you just tell me when you’ve made up your pretty little mind. Now please step aside. Next!”

The blonde woman looks up in dismay and is quickly bumped aside by the older woman in front of me in line. I can only smirk. I’m in a rush and Betty is making quick work of these morons. This is making my day.

The older woman faces the counter and asks for three sheets of stamps. Betty grabs them from the drawer and tosses them on the counter.

The woman looks at the stamps and tries to flatten them on the counter with her hands.

“Ma’am, can I have fresh sheets that aren’t wrinkled?”

Betty reaches into the drawer, grabs three more sheets of stamps and throws them on the counter.

“Ma’am, can you please not wrinkle the sheets of stamps? They’re for my grandson and they can’t be folded.”

“There’s nothing wrong with those. That will be $22.20.”

Continuing to flatten the sheets on the counter, the older woman hands Betty the money and says, “You know you don’t have to be so rude about it.”

“What?!” Betty says.

“You’re really being mean to everyone here, and I’m telling you I don’t like it.” Oh, no she did not… She did not just talk to Betty that way.

Betty rears back. “Sometimes it’s the people that come in here that do it.” (She has a legitimate point). Betty continues, “And I’ve been here since five in the morning so don’t start with me.”

Unfazed, the woman responds, “Well now I know not to come back to this post office again.”

“Lady, we all make choices in life.”

The yelling escalates and the insults begin to fly. Amid the flurry of expletives the woman exclaims, “Can I just have my change?”

Betty slaps the change on the counter. The woman looks at the change it’s clearly not enough. She glances quickly at Betty, avoids eye contact and turns to leave.

“Have a blessed day and may God bless you!” the woman sarcastically calls out as she walks away from the counter.

“Yeah, you bless this,” Betty mutters to herself. “Next in line!”

It’s finally my turn. I step toward the counter and place my package in front of Betty.

She looks at the box to make sure it is sealed and properly addressed. It’s like your teacher examining your homework in front of the entire class.

“How would you like to send this?”

It passed the test. Phew.

“Um, it just needs to be there by Friday,” my voices crackles out.

Betty flips the package onto the scale, slaps a sticker on it and throws it onto a conveyer belt behind her. The box teeters on the edge of the belt, spins and falls hard onto the floor with a crunch.

My voice quivers. “Um, a sheet of flag stamps please.”

Betty slaps a wadded sheet of stamps on the counter. I pay for the stamps, step to my left and leave.

Despite the long line still reaching out the door, I’m in and out in less than fifteen minutes.

Thank you, Betty. God Bless you and keep up the good work.

Eschatology Shmeschatology, Oy!

mood: Penitent
music: Jars of Clay

BOYCOTT SONY PICTURES
SONY Pictures Entertainment has put up big bucks to produce films of the "Left Behind" series of books. If you're not familiar with these xenophobic, anti-semitic, radical right-wing pulps, Michelle Goldberg of Salon.com provides a critical and thoughtful examination of this hatred-filled shit.

In short, the "Left Behind" anthology is a collection of best-selling titles geared toward kind, decent, god-fearing, Jew-Catholic-Arab-haters. The books are your run of the mill Antichrist, end-of-the-world thrillers filled with predictable plot twists -- you know, like when all the Jews realize their error and convert to Christianity before being tossed into Hell. Like we didn't see that coming...

Now you can see it all depicted in widescreen technicolor in feature films starring Kirk Cameron, Lou Gossett, Jr. and million-dollar CGI effects. Coming to a church near you! There's even a children's series of books. Nothing gets kids more inspired than a few stories about rapture. I can't wait for the animated series.

Some leaders in the Jewish community had issues with Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ for it's portrayal of Jews as the gang-bangers of the Notorious J.H.C. But the "Left Behind" series doesn't just damn the Jews. The Antichrist bares striking similarity to the Pope and Arab nations get their asses kicked by Jews who eventually convert to Christianity to save their souls. Did I mention a Democratic American president is also in cahoots with the Antichrist? Let's not forget about those hedonistic liberals. They can go to Hell, too.

Many readers of the "Left Behind" series believe that the end really is near. Violent weather, floods and terrorism are just a few of the signs pointing to the impending Tribulation. Forget about deregulation of environmental protections, destruction of wetlands and conflagratory foreign policy. It's definitely the gays and family planning centers causing record numbers of hurricanes. I'm a believer in chaos theory and all, but that seems a bit far-fetched. If a drag queen flaps his wings in Miami Beach, will it rain in Salt Lake City?

SONY is clearly exploiting the Evangelical market in producing these films. Let's face it, there's big money here. Just think of the merchandising opportunities. Antichrist Christmas ornaments and Fire-and-Brimstone Yulelogs are already available for pre-order at the online store. For the time being these films will only be played in churches, but I can only assume that these pictures are soon destined for mainstream theaters.

I thought I would funnel my rage by encouraging a boycott of SONY. So I did a quick Google for "SONY boycott" in hopes of finding others already united in my cause. Turns out a lot of people are already pissed at SONY.

Like this guy who's ticked because his SONY playstation never worked right. Or this guy who just wanted to post a blog about Ken Jennings. This activist is upset about emulation suppression, whatever the hell that is. And these homeys are furious that SONY stole Rolando's track. Those bastards.

OK, maybe it's a weak coalition for now. But I think it's a start. Meanwhile, the next time Growing Pains or Iron Eagle is on, I beg you to please change the channel.

Dial "L" for Life Sucks

I’m lucky to have a relatively comfortable office at work with a few windows and enough sunlight to grow a couple neglected plants. Whenever possible, I leave my door open so that co-workers can drift in with a friendly “hello,” a “quick question” or the occasional “did you jam the printer and walk away, again?”

The only real downside to my office – besides the daily deposits of mouse droppings on my keyboard – is its location. Just feet from my chair, the building’s reception desk rests directly outside my door. A constant din of ringing phones, buzzing doors and colliding delivery carts punctuates my workday. Add to that a steady flow of conversation and gossiping and it often feels like I’m working in the downtown bus terminal. Despite all this ruckus, our veteran receptionist has kept everything in the building running smoothly for nearly 32 years.

Our receptionist is a round, friendly woman in her 60s. She has a kind, patient demeanor and a subtle authority in her voice that politely alerts you she aint gonna take shit from nobody. For over three decades, she has been the first person everyone met when they came into the building and the last person they said goodbye to when they left. Because she was the company’s receptionist before the current offices were built, I’m convinced the masonry was erected around her. If people could be load-bearing walls, she’d be 12-inch cement block.

She has been a matriarch to many of us – inviting us to her home for holiday dinners, sharing advice on career and family and bringing in freshly baked cookies every Monday morning. She has always remembered everyone's birthday, selecting the perfect card and getting it signed by everyone in the office. And when you weren't looking, she has been there at her desk taking care of the little things that no one else bothered to notice.

She’s always been fully aware of everything and everyone in the building – seeing who came in late and who left early or intercepting calls from flirtatious interns trying to reach married executives. Watching the outside video monitor she has observed the kind of behavior that people only exhibit when they think they’re out of sight. In short, she has seen where all the bodies are buried. Her presence has been omniscient. That is until this past Friday.

At 4:30 on Friday afternoon, our loyal receptionist was called into the executive offices. She sat down and they informed her that layoffs were being implemented. As had been standard procedure in the past, she assumed they were about to inform her of the individuals that were being laid-off and that she should no longer buzz them in or transfer their calls.

Instead, they told her that in addition to the several positions being eliminated, she was also being let go. The company would go without a receptionist. (Ironically, without a receptionist absolutely no one can get buzzed in or have their calls transferred – not even the people that supposedly still work there.)

I can only imagine her shock. In 30-plus years she had undoubtedly seen countless rounds of layoffs. But she had dodged them all. Now, mere months from her retirement, she had become expendable.

She was asked to turn in her key and handset and told to leave the building immediately. A folding cardboard banker’s box was conveniently waiting at her desk when she returned. (Some folding and assembly was required. Those boxes are hard enough to put together as it is. Imagine trying to figure it out as your mind races, moments after losing your job.)

None of us saw this one coming. Before we could react to the news, she was gone.

The next day I came into work to see her cubicle was dark and her chair was empty. The phone rang unanswered. Taped to her window was a paper sign that read: “Welcome! Please use the phone to your right to call the party you are visiting.” There was a clipart graphic of a ringing phone and everything. It took someone at least two minutes to make it – ten if you count the time it took them to clear the paper jam I left in the printer.

Just one sheet of letter-size paper is all that was needed to replace an entire person – her self-worth and sense of purpose. It was a Hammermill tombstone to human dignity.

I can only assume that someday my career and personal dedication to the company will be conveniently replaced by a slip of paper taped to my door. Hopefully that’s a little further into the future. Maybe by then, we’ll be able to reduce people to just an index card. In the meantime, I can’t help but wonder what clipart they’d use for me.

Drive Safe!

It poured all weekend. The rain was relentless and driving was a nightmare. There was torrential rain, blinding road spray, localized flooding and the occasional biblical deluge. But I drove back and forth to both DC and Philadelphia this weekend without incident -- thank God. There is no doubt I owe great thanks not only to my Maker, but also to all my well wishers: "Drive safe!"

I must have heard it a hundred times this weekend from friends, my parents, co-workers and even my parole officer. "Drive safe!" they'd say. I even caught myself saying it to other departing drivers.

"I was just out there and the roads are pretty bad. So drive safe!" I'd caution.

Does such a warning really have an impact on other drivers? Does a concerned "drive safe" really impact my driving? As I'm weaving down I-95 at 80 mph on the shoulder does my co-worker Jerry's voice resonate in my head? "Jerry said to 'drive safe.' Maybe I should slow down now and take it easy. I wouldn't want to disappoint Jerry."

Why do we do this? Why do we say "drive safe"? If I got into an accident, would Jerry stand by the water cooler Monday morning shake his head and say, "I told him to drive safe. I really wish he'd have listened."

Well get this Jerry. No one cares more about my safe driving than me. No one could possibly care about the well-being of my body and my car than me. So zip it granny and worry about your own safe driving so you don't crash into me!

And to Mom and Dad: We made it home safe, so stop worrying already!

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da

PHOOEY

In May, when my hometown Philadelphia Phillies came to Baltimore, I tried rooting for the Orioles. It didn't come naturally, but I wanted to give it a shot. The Orioles were currently in first place while the Phillies already floundered below .500 in the young season. I wasn't shifting my loyalties. I just knew as a lifelong Phillies fan that they weren't going anywhere this year. I thought my energies could be better focused on a first-place team with a shot at the post-season.

Now I know, of course, that my instincts about the Phillies were exactly right. They would be destined for yet another dead-end season. (So would the Orioles. Oops!) But this year was a little different, in that the Phillies were able to hang on and tease their fans for another few months. By August they were back in the race. And until the last day of the season, they were flirting with a late-season miracle.

That miracle never came. Had the season ended at 3:45pm this afternoon, with the Phils leading the Nationals and the Cubs leading the Astros, that miracle might still have happened. But the season ended about an hour later in the usual disappointment.

The Phillies missed a National League Wild Card berth by one game and the Eastern Division by two. That's a pretty narrow margin. So narrow, you could probably identify the single factor that separated this team from it's post-season fate. Which leads me to the question of who to blame? (Or in Philadelphia terms, who to boo the loudest when starting lineups are announced at Opening Day 2006.)

One could easily blame beleaguered reliever Tim Worrell, who blew several games early in the season before taking leave for "personal issues." I have to wonder if his "personal issues" was his own difficulty in confronting his own suckiness.

One could surely blame manager Charlie Manuel. It's always the manager's fault.

One could blame without question thirdbasemen David Bell. On September 7, in the heat of the Wild Card race, with 2 outs in the ninth inning, he booted a routine grounder that would have ended the game. Instead, his error led to the go-ahead run that gave the Houston Astros the win. That one play represented a two-game swing in the standings with the team that would eventually keep them out of the post-season.

But I'm going to blame Bill Dancy. Bill Dancy is the Phils' thirdbase coach. My brother doesn't like him and I don't blame him. First of all, Dancy doesn't wear the uniform well. The pinstripes accentuate the sag in his pants. Secondly, he sucks as a thirdbase coach. He got more runners thrown out at home than any coach since Brady "Shakes" Calhoun for the 1887 New York Metropolitans. Thirdly, he's a good a target as anyone else, I guess. And I'll proudly be the one guy in fans booing him mercilessly next season during the pre-game announcements.

But I guess the only person I should really blame for the disappointment is myself. I should have known better. But come next April, I'll be the same idiot rooting for the Phils. No doubt.

IT'S NOT JUST A GROCERY STORE
On a brighter note, the Hunt Valley Wegmans opened today north of Baltimore. If you're not familiar with Wegmans grocery stores, I have no need for you here. Please leave.

This afternoon, I donned my University of Rochester t-shirt and dug out the Wegmans shoppers card I signed up for as a freshman in college 10 years ago. It hadn't been used since the last millennium. My wife and I hopped in the car and drove to Wegmans for the first time as a married couple (we've been married over four years).

The place was mobbed. And I mean mobbed. You'd think there was a snow storm coming and they were giving away free toilet paper. The store was a gridlock of shopping carts and screaming children. It was heaven. In preparation for the big opening, Wegmans had added hundreds of employees and for the day became one of the largest employers in Maryland.

While walking the oddly-decorated aisles, I overheard one man saying to his wife, "It's not Disney World, it's just a grocery store." Just a grocery store? I quickly spun around and responded, "Go the hell back to Shopper's Food Warehouse, you troglodyte!" Danny Wegman would have been proud

The store was everything we hoped it would be. Great selection. Friendly help. And despite the 14,000 eager shoppers, there was no wait at the checkout. All that, and it's only 15 minutes from home. Welcome to the neighborhood Wegmans. I'm glad you're back in my life.

Relive and Relieve 3

Once again, I'm hoping that by exposing my most painful life experiences here in this blog, they will become a lesser part of my daily burden of stress, anxiety and self-doubt. Complex emotional issues aside, I'm grateful to at least have my health. But it came at a cost several years ago, when I found myself hospitalized following a car accident.

When I tell people that I spent the better part of two weeks hospitalized following an automobile accident, images of overturned cars, bloody asphalt, a medical helicopter transport and a full body cast come to mind. I was neither that lucky nor unlucky. The accident appeared to be a minor fender-bender on the Capital Beltway but unfortunately left me with a mysterious medical condition.

Gory details aside, I essentially had a kinked vein in my shoulder which led to bizarre swelling, deep pain and an unnatural skin hue in my arm. Doctors didn't really know what to do with me other than stick me with lots of needles. A crack team of doctors at a county hospital were split on whether or not I'd be "up and about in no time" or if my arm was to soon "shrivel up and rot like fresh fruit on a hot day."

I eventually wound up at Johns Hopkins Hospital. They're consistently rated one of the top medical campuses in the world and they're not shy about reminding you constantly. In fact, the sense from the doctors there is, "you're lucky that you're sick, because you got to come to our great hospital." The sense one gets from the nurses is more like, "we're understaffed, underpaid and the doctors treat us like crap. If you squeeze that call button, you better be dead."

The Hopkins doctors determined the only way to fix this problem with my arm was to strap it to a board (which in turn was strapped to the side of my body) and feed catheters into my arm until they came out my ass -- and subsequently fed back into my arm again. If this wasn't successful, they'd try cutting me open even further.

I was rolled into the Intensive Care Unit of Johns Hopkins Hospital following a lengthy catheterization procedure during which I had been only mildly sedated. A bed in the ICU at Hopkins Hospital is, needless to say, a step down from a suite at the Ritz Carlton. In fact, it's even a few steps further down from a cot in that little room at the end of the hall that has the trash chute and dirty mops in it.

A bed at the ICU is exactly that: a hospital bed surrounded by a shower curtain enclosure just big enough to fit the exact dimensions of your bed. And the curtain is just opaque enough as to only allow the passing silouehettes of nurses and doctors. The room is filled with a constant din of beeping, buzzing, groaning and the occasional "code." My neighbor, just a few inches to my right, had just had a triple hip replacement. He screamed in constant agony. "Kill me, please," came bellowing from his distressed voice 73 times per hour for 18 hours straight. He was sobbing only about half the time, though. Knowing that surgery was likely in my near future, this was not a comforting experience. I had tried to convince myself that surgery really can't be that bad and that pain medications will take care of everything. My bed-neighbor but those delusions quickly to rest.

I meanwhile lie in my hospital bed, arm strapped to a board, strapped to my side, unable to move. The ICU does not allow visitors. The nurses for some reason took kindly to me and allowed my fiancee to come visit for a little while. She convinced them to roll a TV into my curtained area. The TV made the curtain bulge out and it was struck throughout the night by passing "crash carts" and gurneys. The TV was eventually taken away and I was left to watch the shadows pass along the curtain.

I think was there for the better part of two days before I was finally taken to an intermediate care unit. Here I at least had a large room to share with only one other dieing person. This was an 87-year-old man without a lower jaw. I couldn't imagine what had just happened to him. I couldn't even bare to look at him. He probably thought the same things about me.

Since my condition was not improving, I was scheduled for surgery. In preparation for surgery, the doctors ordered a chest X-ray -- because nothing cures you faster than a dose of radiation delivered directly to your vital organs. A few moments later, in rolls the portable chest X-ray machine. But they go straight to my roommate. He's completely out of it as they prepare to "take some pictures." Only, I notice the technician is referring to him by my name after each shot. I finally call across the room and ask the tech to make sure he's got the right patient. Recognizing his mistake, he gets the pictures of me they need. I can only wonder what the doctors would have done to me had they seen the X-rays of my 87-year-old roommate, thinking they were mine.

Early the next morning, I'm awakened at some ungodly hour to be prepped for surgery. I'm rolled into the OR and surrounded by nurses. As they begin to administer the anesthesia, I'm told to count backwards from 10. I remember getting to 9.

I woke up from surgery with my father at my bedside. It was eerily reminiscent of all those mornings in high school he'd come to my room to drag me out of bed. Only this time he wasn't screaming at me and I was quite thrilled to be awake. He had a look of serious concern, since the doctors had said the surgery was not successful. I was soon taken away for another short procedure, after which the doctors were now more confident in saying I'd be "up and around in no time."

I was now due for another stint in the ICU. This time, my neighboring bedfellow was an elderly woman named Mrs. Norris. Mrs. Norris had just had her gall bladder, two kidney stones and Adam's apple removed. She was much quieter (or more nearly dead?) than my previous neighbor. The nurses seemed to be having difficulty waking her up.

"Mrs. Norris, can you hear me?" the nurses would shout at her.

"Muhh..." replied Mrs. Norris.

"Mrs. Norris, do you know where you are?"

"Muhh..."

"Do you know where you are, Mrs. Norris?" the nurses persisted in louder and louder tones.

"Mrs. Norris, are you awake? Mrs. Norris, who's the president? Do you know where you are, Mrs. Norris?"

This series of questions were repeated every five minutes until she started to come around.

She finally answered their questions: "Yes," "Taft," and "Cupcake," respectively.

I soon was transferred from the ICU to a semi-private room. Let me just say this. A semi-private room is the furthest thing from private. It is the most un-private place imaginable. So un-private that you get to hear every single bit of medical history about your roommate -- and vice versa.

My first roommate was a middle-aged African-American man. He looked pretty normal, but had just received news of his terminal condition. The doctors came in to talk to him about his situation. They drew the soundproof sheer curtain between our beds when they came in to ask him some additional questions about his bowels and sexual history. The questions consisted of various combinations of the words, "bleeding," "rectum" and "intercourse." His answers to these questions were positively astounding. No matter how much I turned up the volume on my TV, nothing could drown out this line of questioning.

The worst moment came a couple nights after my surgery when I was woken up by what was nothing short of an explosion. My roommate had soiled his bed. And by soiled, I literally mean some ungodly foul shit. The nurses rushed in, followed by a team of orderlies and the 3rd Armed Infantry. The orderlies donned their hazmat suits and made quick work of removing my roommate's sheets and gown and incinerating them.

I wasn't in great shape myself. In order to prevent blood clots in my legs after being in bed for so long, I was fitted with a pair of inflatable pants. These weren't like MC Hammer pants. These were essentially plastic bags attached to a leaf blower. Every two minutes the blower would kick on for a few seconds and the bags would inflate, squeezing my legs. At night, I woke up every two minutes thinking someone was sitting on me.

I'd now like to take this opportunity to point out that morphine doesn't do crap. The excruciating pain of post-surgery was no match for narcotics. You get a little button to press whenever you feel pain. Pressing the button releases a specified dose of morphine. I pushed that button so many times, you'd think I was playing Space Invaders. None the less, I was really pissed when they took it away and made me get out of bed.

Walking sucked at first. I had all kinds of things hooked up to me and hanging off my body. But being young and quick to heal, I was moving little by little after a couple days. Since I was receiving medication that required constant monitoring, I spent an additional week in the hospital after my surgery. By the end of that week, I was walking pretty well. At no point during this ordeal, did I ever really lose my faculties. I had been fully aware of everything that had been going on. And I was now completely aware of the fact that I was stuck in that goddam hospital with no where to go. I'd take my little IV pole, make sure my gown was tied securely behind my rear, and go for walks around the ward. I'd do laps. Nurses would give me strange looks after passing their station for the 35th time. Eventually they'd ask me to make runs to the vending machine, deliver mail and take vital signs from another patient.

During the course of those several days walking the wards, I'd peek into rooms and see truly tragic cases. Johns Hopkins Hospital gets some of the sickest and most desperate patients. I now realize that Mr. Triple-Hip-Replacement, Mr. No-Jaw and Mr. Explosive-Defecator are probably no longer with us. (I hear Mrs. Norris is doing great, however.) While this ordeal really sucked for me, I was able to walk out on my own power. No matter how bad you think you've got it, a place like Johns Hopkins Hospital will remind you that there's always someone else that has it worse. And that all the other stresses of life are minor in comparisson.

Relive and Relieve 2

Again, I return to reliving some of the more stressful moments of my life here in this blog in the hopes I can return to a more normal-functioning lifestyle. With a child on the way, I'm confronted with new concerns about how I will protect and provide for my growing family. Luckily I've rarely found myself or loved-ones in harm's way. But I always thought I would be able to act bravely and calmly in the face of adversity. That belief would be tested in one particular instance about a year ago.

Heading North on I-95 through New Jersey, with my wife in the car, I decided to stop and grab a coke to keep me alert for the rest of the drive. It was about 12:30 am, so I thought caffeine would be a smart choice. As it turns out, my decision to pull into this particular road-side rest along I-95 would be my first mistake.

The rest area was the kind centered between the northbound and southbound side of the highway. Pulling in, I saw a rare open space right in front of the building, next to a handicapped space and directly facing a shiny, illuminated Coke machine. I scraped $1.50 in change from the coin holder in my car (sparing the state quarters I don't already have in my collection), and quickly hopped out of the car toward the Coke machine. After feeding the machine my less-desirable specie and retrieving my 16-ounce beverage from the dispenser, I jumped back into my car. Without thinking, I quickly twisted the cap off the bottle. That was my second mistake. The rapid hissing and bubbling from the bottle immediately reminded me of some simple laws of physics. Seconds later, my steering wheel, dashboard and imitation wood paneling are drenched in syrupy high-fructose corn syrup.

My wife valiantly jumps out of the car and ran inside to get some wet paper towels. I, in the meantime, grabbed some extra napkins I have in the car and started tidying up. With the driver’s door open, one leg dangling out of the car, I attempted to reach the deep recesses of the dashboard that only an exploding carbonated beverage could reach. As I busily wiped away, I was approached by the kind of character you’d only expect to see roaming a highway rest stop at 12:30 am.

“Hey, man, can you give me money for gas?” he asked. “I’ve been here for hours and really need money.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I responded curtly. Was I wrong not to give him a dollar? With the price of gas these days, it wouldn’t have gotten him very far. None-the-less, mistake number three.

He came back a minute later.

“Look man, I just want some money for gas to get out of here.” He implored in a slightly more psychotic tone.

“No. Sorry,” I said as I swung my leg back in the car and closed the door. The guy slinked back into the shadows of the parking lot.

A few minutes later, my wife returned to the car with the damp paper towels. Lord knows what took her so long. We spent a few more minutes wiping down the car. Before we left, I quickly ran inside to wash the diluted Coke and Armor-All off my hands. My wife stayed behind to continue cleaning up. Mistake number four.

I rushed into the restroom, toke care of all the necessary business and hustled back out the door to the car. As I stepped outside, I am shocked to see that my parking space, the one next to the handicap spot, in front of the soda machine, is now empty. The car is gone. Only an oily stain remains.

“Okay, she moved the car, right?” I thought rapidly to myself. I looked across the aisle, down the row, but I didn’t see her. I spun 360 degrees. After 15 or 20 seconds, a mild panic began to brew.

“Maybe she moved the car to get away from that creepy guy,” I mulled in my head. “Or worse yet, maybe he forced her into the car and is taking her god knows where.”

Now the worst possible scenarios are racing through my mind as a rush of adrenaline washes my body. “Fuck, why didn’t I warn her about the creepy guy before I left her alone?” (Please refer to mistakes four and five.)

I now realized that my wallet, cell phone and keys were all in the car. I can’t even call her to find out what the hell is going on. Another mistake.

A half minute has passed by now. It’s felt like an hour. My heart was pumping and my vision focused down to a tunnel. I looked around to see who might have witnessed anything. I looked again at the empty parking space, the handicap space and the Coke machine. Complete panic consumed me.

I whirled around and headed inside for help. As I charged back into the rest stop, the first thing I notice is a large sign hanging above the doors across the lobby. The sign reads “SOUTHBOUND.” I spun around and look at the wording above the door I just entered: “NORTHBOUND.” The ultimate blunder!

I ran across the lobby and blasted through the doors to the northbound side of the building. As I stepped outside, I realized I’d been roaming a parallel universe. Here, next to an identical handicapped parking space and Coke machine clone is my car, with my wife sitting inside, still wiping the Coke from every crevasse of the dashboard that only a carbonated beverage could find.

Opening the door, I slinked back into my seat. I grabbed my wife’s hand and breathe a sigh of relief. My wife gave me a confused look. Reaching out to close the door behind me, a voice called out.

“Hey, man, can you help me with some gas money?!”