Monday, April 25, 2016

Welcome to the Dog Days of Spring

It’s all in their eyes. They know when Spring has arrived, that the gray days of snow and ice and slippery slopes are past. I can tell they know, because of the way they look at me. This is non-verbal communication at its most advanced. 

Sadie and Lexi, my golden retrievers, have this way of talking to me. They silently compel me to think in terms of “walk” and “ride” and “hike” and “get the tennis balls and let’s go outside.” Dogs, I’m convinced, have some sort of sixth sense, a cosmic canine calendar.

As a side note, they also have an internal clock, which tells them when it’s 10 p.m. and time for their walk. I can be watching TV, “live” or recorded or DVD - doesn’t matter - and they will stroll over, sit in front of me and stare. I try to explain, “There’s only ten minutes left in ‘Game of Thrones’; I can’t stop now.” They don’t care. They always get their way.

When you have a dog, any kind of dog, Spring takes on an added dimension. It’s physical, it’s mental, it’s extremely social. Dogs have a way of urging you to make friends with other dog owners. It never fails. I like to take Sadie and Lexi for walks in Queeny Park or Weldon Spring State Park. Invariably I’ll meet people also enjoying the fine weather, leash in one hand, poop bag in the other. We’ll stop and talk. “How old is he?” “Where did you get her?” “Does that kind of dog shed?” “Does he always drool like that?” And so it goes.Yes, these meetings also happen in winter, but the exchanges then are brief and to the point: “Pretty dog,” “Enjoy your walk,” and you’re gone.

I tend to evaluate people on two basic attributes: if they have a sense of humor, and whether they have a dog. Either one works for me, with the dog thing taking preference. Well, mostly. If it’s a little dog that yaps the entire time we’re talking, I tend to be in a hurry to move on. Don’t be offended if you own a vocally demonstrative dog. “Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.” I think Plato said that. He probably owned a quiet, philosophical dog.

But I’ll tell you who my real heroes are. It’s those men and women who own rescue dogs. These are dedicated people who not only understand how special dogs are, they take the next step. They save these dogs, to hike and play another day. As I stand there talking to them, my two breeder-bought goldens next to me, and they tell me “This is a rescue dog,” they suddenly take on an elevated status in my eyes. They took the risk of adopting a dog often with unknown origins, sketchy background, questionable treatment and health, and committed their time and energy - and, often, expenses - for an indeterminate number of years. Somewhere, in a dog park or at the Dog Museum in Queeny, there should be a statue in honor of The Rescue Dog Owner. 

True story. On a mild day in late March, I took Sadie and Lexi for a hike in Weldon Spring State Park. Afterwards I felt like having a cold beer. So we headed for Defiance - to the biker bar where 94 makes a hard cut left and right. 

As I stood outside with a bottle of Busch in hand, surrounded by manly men and cool chicks, feeling a little out of place, a rather large fellow and his good-looking babe approached me. He was probably in his mid-forties, muscular, short beard, tattooed arms, owner of a Harley. Oh-oh, I thought. He knows I’m not a biker and don’t belong here, even though I was striking my most manly pose, leaning against the railing like Brando did in “The Wild One”, steely glint in my eyes which, unfortunately, were hidden behind my RayBans. I nodded at the two of them. “Good lookin’ dogs,” he said. “So sweet,” she said. My dogs’ tails wagged furiously. Twenty minutes later we were still talking. He and his girlfriend told me about their dogs, five of them, all rescued from a variety of situations. All of them loved. Lesson learned: You can’t judge a book etc. 

There’s a lot more I could say on the subject, but it’s a pretty day, the dogs are looking at me, and you know what that means. Happy Spring.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Pay Attention

The ancient Roman poet Ovid listed Four Ages of Man: Golden, Silver, Bronze, and Iron. From where I sit, it looks like we are now living in the Age of Distraction. Admittedly not a metal but an important component of our society. We have available to us an endless array of devices that feed us information, entertainment, and the only means of keeping in touch with our kids.

No, I’m not going to bore you with my views on social media. Even though much of it isn’t social. What’s on my mind today is Conversation. The old-fashioned kind, face-to-face, eye-to-eye. With no distractions. 

Here’s what brought this to mind. Recently my wife and I had Sunday brunch with another couple at a local restaurant. I emphasize “restaurant” because it was not a “sports bar.” However, this restaurant was festooned with TV screens. On the walls, hanging from the ceiling. The other couple are long-time friends. They’re trying to sell their house after 35 years accumulation of stuff. (He has over a thousand movies on videotape, which he wants to keep.) She, on the other hand, is not a pack-rat. So there was much to discuss and resolve.

As we sat there, I found my eyes drifting over to one of the many Hi-Def monitors. A football game was on. I didn’t know who was playing. I really didn’t care. But there were large, helmeted men in colorful outfits knocking each other to the ground and stomping on them. How can you not watch that? I bounced in and out of the conversation. I struggled to maintain eye contact. My attention kept shifting back to one of the screens, hoping to catch a long pass or a remarkable run or even the cheerleaders cheering.   Before I knew it, brunch was over, and we never did resolve what to do with his videotapes. 

There  must be a new category of Interior Designer for restaurants. Call it Strategic Screen Placement Director. First prerequisite: Put a screen in every line of sight. So wherever the customer sits, they can still catch all the action. The “Post-Installation” phase of this service is also critical. Selecting which screens carry baseball, hockey, figure skating, the Final Four, the Triple Crown, the Masters, Wimbledon. And how about that delightful sport called Extreme Boxing? The “no rules” version, where guys use their feet, their fists, their heads, even their teeth and bad breath as weapons of pain. It reminds me of the “Mad Max” movies.

I understand the concept of a Sports Bar. You need lots of screens for that. But why does a restaurant think we need continuous entertainment? My favorite Chinese restaurant installed a really huge screen last year. It rivals the Galaxy IMAX. You can see it from everywhere, even the parking lot. What little atmosphere they had is gone. As I enjoy my egg foo young or curry shrimp, I find myself hanging on “the next play,” hoping they sink the putt or slash a single to right. You’d think they could at least show scenes of a Yangtze River Cruise, a hike along The Great Wall, even Ching-He Huang on the Cooking Channel.

I miss the fine art of uninterrupted conversation, of minimum distraction from your food and your partner. If not a lost art, then one that is quickly disappearing. Of course I’m talking about most mid-level and below restaurants, the kind I usually patronize. Your upscale joints may have one screen in the bar. Probably not, if they’re really upscale (aka expensive). The only distraction may be the bill.

Next time you go out, take this test. No pencil or paper required. Simply focus on the menu, the waiter, the food, the beverage of choice, and - most importantly - the person seated across from you. Whether you’re talking or listening, make every effort to maintain eye contact. You can do it, but it won’t be easy. Especially if the bases are loaded in the bottom of the ninth. 

(Originally published in County Living Magazine, Winter/Early Spring, 2016)

Thursday, December 24, 2015

That Night, Again...Again

     Jesse shoved his dead beagle out of the way with his bare foot and set another log on the fire, watched the smoke curl around it for a second, then leaned back in his cracked red leather easy chair.  “Okey-dokey,” he said.  His favorite word.  He reached for the cup of hot cocoa on the tv tray, let the sweet steam waft up into his nostrils, and smiled.  He took a small sip.  A bit of melted marshmallow clung to his upper lip.  He felt it sitting there, wiped it off with the back of his hand.

“Bet you would’ve liked some hot cocoa, Samson,” he said to the immobile dog.  Samson had been dead four days now, but he was the only company Jesse had.  Better a dead dog than no one.  Even if Samson had still been breathing, Jesse wouldn’t have given him any cocoa.  He knew that chocolate was bad for a dog, something about their digestive system not being able to handle it.  And he sure wouldn’t have done it with just one more day til Christmas.  Ain’t no way to find a decent vet on Christmas day, he knew.  All the good ones are at home with family or on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, he figured.  

Outside, a soft snow began spreading its stark winter blanket across the neighborhood.  The first snow of the year, and what better time than on the night before Christmas.  He looked out the window.  “Okey-dokey.” 

Jesse thought about the dogs of his life.  His best friends.  Dogs that died before they left puppyhood, dogs that trembled and slept into old-age.  Samson was one of his favorite dogs, probably the last one he’d ever have.  “Got you the year after Emma passed,” said Jesse.  He remembered other Christmas eves, when Emma would hang the stockings on the mantle, wrap last minute presents, slide chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.  Forty-six years of chocolate chip cookies must be some kind of record, both for baking and eating, he thought.  He wondered how many chips of chocolate had melted down on their behalf.

Emma had gone off her meds before she passed, twelve years ago.  Except she didn’t know she had.  She had become impossible to live with, drove Jesse up one wall and down another with her incessant complaining and whining, her mind melting down like those chocolate chips.  So he dumped her meds, all seven bottles of them, down the toilet, replaced them with placeboes.  He liked that word “placebo.”   It took a couple of weeks, but eventually Emma passed in her sleep.  “A peaceful placebo departure,” said Jesse at his most poetic. 

He lifted Samson by his tail, half off the floor, to reveal the tattered book under his rump.  He picked it up and turned to the first page.  He always felt a thrill when he read aloud the very first line.  “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house...”  What magic, what power, what craftsmanship.  Not “It was the night before,” but “Twas.”  Not “Christmas Eve,” but “the night before Christmas.”  Jesse stretched his legs out to let the fire warm his bare toes.  Samson slid across the hearth to the edge of the fire.  Outside the snow thickened, swirled, piled along the curbs and bushes.  The street lay silent, no headlights, no crunch of tires. 

Jesse continued his annual ritual aloud, to deaf, floppy ears.  “Not a creature was stirring...” He stopped on that line and laughed.  “You can say that again” and looked at Samson.  “...not even a mouse,  The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.”  Jesse looked at the mantle.  Yep, the stockings were still there.  He had never gotten around to taking them down from last  year, although Emma had complained about that until midsummer. 

Jesse got as far as “... had just settled down for a long winter’s nap” when he smelled the burning, an acrid smell that was neither oak nor hickory.  He looked down at the fireplace.  Samson was smoking.  Or at least the fur on his backside was, turning the dull brown fur into stringy black ash.   “Move away, dog,” he said, and reached over and scooted Samson to the side.  Luckily the dog had not burst into flame yet, and as the smoke subsided, Jesse approached the conclusion of the poem.  He stopped before the last page.  “Not so fast, not so fast,” he thought.  “Gotta let the magic last a little longer.”  He drained the cup, scooped the remaining marshmallow with his finger and licked it clean.  “Okey......”  He felt his eyes getting heavy.  The fire, the cocoa, the snow, his dog.  “How lucky I am,” he said aloud.  His eyes started to close.  But he had to get to the part about “But he heard him exclaim as he rose out of sight ...” and the rest of it.  His head nodded and his chin dropped to his chest.

The peace was shattered by a loud rap-rapping at his door.  Jesse lifted his head.  “Who could that be, Samson?”  He struggled out of his chair, shuffled to the door.  Another series of rap-rap-rapping, this time louder.  “Keep your shirt on, I’m coming, fast as I can,” said Jesse.  He opened the door.  And what to his wondering eyes should appear, but Santa Claus standing there, with no shirt on. 

“Sorry  couldn’t keep my shirt on,” said Santa.  “Are you named Jesse?”

Jesse nodded.  This was wonderful beyond belief. 

“Then let’s go for a ride,” said Santa with a hearty laugh, making his stomach shake like a bowl full of jelly.  He slipped on his red coat.

“I’ll get my coat,” said Jesse.

“No need to.  I’ve got a propane heater in my sleigh.  I just wear this because it’s expected.”  He laughed again.   “Here we go.”

Jesse and Santa walked out to the sleigh and climbed in behind the eight reindeer.  “Good looking reindeer,” said Jesse.

“I take good care of ‘em.  Thanks for noticing.”

“Bet you never give ‘em any chocolate.”

Santa smiled.  “You sure know your reindeer.”  He grabbed the reins and gave them a shake.  “Hold on, Jesse.”

As they rose above the house, the neighborhood, the town, Jesse heard Santa shout, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

“Okey-dokey,” shouted Jesse.

Friday, November 27, 2015

You Can Run but You Can't Hide

It's been headed this way for a couple of weeks now. Like a Tsunami that builds in strength as it nears. And nothing can stop it. So here we are, the day after Thanksgiving, and Black Friday has rolled ashore with what seems to be more power than ever.

It didn't even wait for Friday. Thursday night, after most people had cleaned up the dishes from turkey dinner and should have been watching a football game or a movie...THEY WERE SHOPPING! Really. Many stores and malls had opened their doors at 8:00 PM, and the parking lots were filling up. Black Friday had staged a strategic attack.

Every conceivable type of media has been used to drive the message home. Emails, websites, messaging, TV (network & cable), stacks of mail and newspaper inserts, posters and signs, and more. So I'm not telling you anything you don't know. Here's what you don't know, though. I thought I was impervious to all the deals. But I'm not so sure now. I opened ten pounds of newspaper today and found nine pounds of it was Black Friday specials. 

"Pitch it," I thought. Too late. I had already started looking through the inserts.

At Kohl's I could get a "Foldable gaming chair with onboard speakers" for only $40. Regular price: $100. I don't even play games but that chair looks pretty cool. One of the Door Buster specials was a pair of Dearfoams for only $13. Originally $36!!!! That's more than 50% off. Gotta get a pair for Mary Lee. Even though she already has a pair.

Gordmans has a "single cat tunnel" for 8 bucks. After 1 PM the price goes up to $25. I don't even like cats but how can I pass up a deal like that? Here's one of the best deals I've ever seen. It's at Menards: A 30 Ton Log Splitter with a "Powerful electric start LCT 208cc OHV engine." The price? $799. Sounds like a lot, but that's a SAVINGS OF $800. Maybe I'll get two, give one to a neighbor or friend who has some big logs.

Even though I haven't been to a Sears store in a couple of decades, I've gotta go now. They are offering Wolverine 6" Workboots at 50% off. I know I'm basically retired, but still, a guy's gotta have some Wolverine Workboots, right? For those long, hard days at my iMac.

The list - and the needs and wants - go on and on. Macy's almost giving away coats and shirts and sweaters for next to nothing. JC Penney with a tempting 13-piece set of Cooks Aluminum Nonstick Cookware for a mere $30. Regular price: $100. How can they do that and stay in business? 

And so it goes. From Kmart, Target, Sports Authority, Dick's Sporting Goods. Many I pitched but there are two more I'm headed out to get as soon as I finish writing this. One is a 90" sofa for only $129 at Ashley Furniture Homestore. I have no idea where the store is but I'll find it. And finally, a visit to GanderMTN.
That's where I'll pick up a Glock 42 pistol for $400. The savings is only $30 but still, I've never owned a Glock. This is the year to carry. I'll check out holsters while I'm there.

Don't bother responding to this post. Do yourself a favor. Jump in the car and head to the store - any store - and get a great deal on almost anything you need. Go ahead. Now. Black Friday won't last forever.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Where Have All the Pumpkins Gone?

Peter, Paul and Mary didn't sing about where the pumpkins have gone, but they should have. There's something inherently sad about a population of these familiar objects that invade markets and non-profit lots in mid-October, only to totally disappear on Nov. 1. It's almost a religious thing, like the Rapture, when all these ribbed globes are called home.They are not among the chosen gourds.

Granted, it's not a total disappearance. Many of them stick around to have their innards scooped out, stirred and beaten and whipped and baked, eventually to re-appear as a pie or cupcake or mini-loaf of bread. Of course some pumpkins stick around for quite awhile, making their way through Thanksgiving and, frequently. as far as Christmas. As pies or decorations. What a way to go.

But wait! There's more. Wandering the aisles of Trader Joe's one Saturday in mid-October, I found an array of pumpkin-connected items. Such as a spiced pumpkin-mango-apple juice blend (I didn't buy it); Joe's O's (their version of Cheerios) with pumpkin enhancements; pumpkin flavored cookies, candy bars, ice cream and soup. I passed through the wine and beer section and spotted several versions of pumpkin ale. I draw the line at raspberry flavored beer. Pumpkin is a step too far. I didn't check out the wine, though I'm sure some winery has seen fit to try that concoction. 

Back to The Disappearance. Where do they go?                                                    

Here are two photos of Kirkwood Market, shortly before Oct. 31. A festive scene, you must agree. The market is filled with these jolly round characters basking in the autumn sun, waiting to be chosen by some exuberant  child or adoring mother. 

Now here's the market two days 
after Halloween.

Kind of scary, right? It's as though they were kidnapped in the middle of the night, after the costumed trick-or-treaters had their bags full of Snickers, KitKats, and candy apples. So, again I wonder: Where do they go? Is it possible that there really is a "calling them home" for pumpkins, much like the Rapture? 

Yesterday, having voted with Mary Lee, I was driving through downtown Kirkwood and felt the urge for some ice cream. So I headed over to Andy's Frozen Custard place, intending to get a vanilla soft-serve cone. Here's a special they were offering. A vanilla concrete blended with a slice of pumpkin pie. It has enough calories, cholesterol and sugar to last through Thanksgiving. At least for me. I admit, it was good, but I think once a year is enough.

So what's the answer to "where have all the pumpkins gone?" 
Consider these possibilities. They may go to the same place where the Mayan civilization went. Maybe they go to where the folks on Easter Island or Cahokia went. Some other dimension in time, perhaps, or to That Great Pumpkin Patch in the Sky (shades of Charlie Brown). Wherever they go, I hope they're treated gently, with dignity and appreciation. After all, they bring so much color and joy to us on that special holiday. It's the least we can do for them.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015


There are weeks that pass without leaving a trace of themselves. Silent strangers that pass without a whisper or a footprint. We ask ourselves, “Where did the week go?” Occasionally, however, a week will pause, declare itself with emphasis, mark its passage in neon. Recently, it was more than one week. Almost two.

The days and nights contained fulfilling highs and, sadly, a painful low. Such is time. Such is life.

At the risk of seeming indulgent or boring, here’s how the past twelve days went down. If you have something better to do, like rake leaves or bake chocolate chip cookies, go to it. Just click “like” or whatever you click on the blog so I know someone’s reading these things.

The events began on a Wednesday night, Oct. 14, with a play at New Jewish Theater. A friend and fine actor, Peter Mayer, was hilarious in “The Sunshine Boys,” one of Neil Simon’s funniest in my opinion. John Contini  was his able partner in comedy. I covered it for a new theatrical online service called “” 

Thursday I attended a dinner at Acero, in Maplewood, in honor of a guy I used to work with at D’Arcy Advertising. I thought he had died years ago, but turns out he died earlier this year. Stan Moon always wore a bowtie and had a vocabulary that made me feel like a high school dropout. He had been living in Asheville, NC, where he had retired to. Delicious dinner, though (scallops for me), sat between two former D’Arcy guys - Wes Custer and Ed Smith. It was a fine tribute put together by his son Nik.

Friday morning I was at Powell Hall for a “donuts and coffee” concert. One of my favorite events. Kind of a senior Woodstock. The SLSO performed music by Bernstein (“On the Waterfront” suite), a piano concerto by Schumann, and a dynamic rendering of Gershwin’s “An American in Paris.” The bad news was they ran out of donuts. I only got one. The hall was packed, lots of young people from high schools. I’m sure they ate most of the donuts. To be young and unafraid of sugar and fat.

Saturday night and Sunday brunch was “best friends forever” time. 
Five of us guys who stretch back to grade school. One of them was in town from Aspen, where he lives in something between an estate and a castle, on a mountain of course. He was the smart one. Dinner with our wives at the house of one of the couples, Steve and Julie Plax. Then brunch on Sunday at Brasserie by Niche in the Central West End. Guys only. 

Leisurely, laughter, stimulating conversation, perfect Eggs Benedict. followed by a leisurely walk around the Grand Basin in Forest Park on a stunning autumn day.

Last Monday night Mary Lee and I saw Josh Groban in concert at the Peabody Opera House. That guy has some pipes, as they used to say. A beautiful show in a classy venue, although I don’t think it’s changed much since I went there when it was Kiel Opera House. Best memories of it: Jazz at the Phil, and the St. Louis Symphony with Vladimir Golschman conducting. Probably when I was in grade school. I can’t believe I remember his name. I’ll remember Josh Groban’s name too. The place was sold out.

Tuesday around noon I got the call from Jerry Sexton. As soon as I saw his name on my iPhone, I knew. His wife Maryann had passed away during the night. Jerry and Maryann - names forever linked - were two of our dearest friends. The four of us shared so much, enjoyed each other’s sense of humor, appreciation for good food and movies and theater. I have photo albums filled with pictures of us - in Brazil, in China, in Louisville for the annual Festival of New American Plays, and on and on. We all knew time was running out for her. Still……

Skip to this past Thursday. A gentle day, fall weather holding nicely. Mary Lee and I, along with Sadie and Lexi, took a day trip to Ste. Genevieve (an 
hour away), for fried chicken and onion rings at The Anvil on the town square. Then a short stop in Hawn State Park. Bad idea. The Conversation Dept. was doing a once-every-3-year burn. We drove down the road, around the curve, and ran into thick smoke and approaching flames. You’d think they’d put up a warning sign. We got out of there, watery eyes and all, went for a short hike at Pickel Creek, then ended up having coffee at ColJac Cafe in beautiful, downtown Farmington. They make a mean iced frappuccino and the best biscotti I’ve had in years. By the way, there’s a very old state mental hospital in Farmington. Why is this meaningful? Because that’s where the sister of Tennessee Williams spent the rest of her life after a less than successful prefrontal lobotomy many decades ago. We didn’t go there.

I was reminded of how precious life is on Friday evening. Visitation, or a gathering of friends, for Maryann. The line was out the door and stayed that way for two hours or more. I always have trouble making any meaningful conversation at times like this. I basically sit and stare, which some people write off as “he’s unfriendly.” No, just quiet. At times like these, the strength of family and friends makes itself felt. Afterwards, Mary Lee and I needed a bit of an uplift, so we used our two tickets to the Symphony at Powell, my mind bouncing between the music and Maryann and Jerry. Then a quiet trip home to our waiting golden retrievers, who were unusually attentive. They understood.

Saturday morning I went to Mass. Not one of my favorite things to do. But this was for Maryann at Holy Redeemer in Webster. In front of us, on stage, five priests in white, an urn, and a smiling photo of Maryann. Highlight of the morning, for me, was the eulogy delivered by Tim, their son. Maybe the most meaningful eulogy I’ve ever heard. He writes for a living - a screenwriter in LA - and he showed just how beautifully he can write, how deeply he can reach. 

Final installment: last night, Sunday, Oct.25. Stevie Wonder at Scottrade Center with his “Songs in the Key of Life” tour. I can't believe how many great songs he's written. At age 65 he doesn't slow down, putting all his energy into a 3 1/2 hour concert. It doesn’t get any better than that. 

So, if you're still with me - and I hope you are - take heart in the fact that occasionally time will slow down to make an imprint on your life, even as it refuses to completely stop. But you know that wouldn't be any fun. It's in the passing that makes the pauses so meaningful. 

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

And now a sign from our sponsors

Sitting at Busch Stadium last night, watching the Red Birds eek out a victory over the Reds, my eyes were frequently attracted to the huge Budweiser neon in right-center. During one of the many lulls in the game during the first seven innings... and there were many (batter tightens and re-tightens his batting glove; pitcher steps off the mound and scratches his crotch; catcher jogs out to whisper a few words to the pitcher; etc etc)... I decided to count the number of sponsors visible in the ballpark. Believe me, there are signs all over the place.

My final tally was 40. I'm sure I missed a few. And some of them change during the game. In a slow game, you can try to pick the next sign to change. It seems every square inch of space has been sold to some advertiser. And that's just inside the stadium. Outside, Busch Stadium makes you feel as though you're standing in the middle of Times Square at night.

Here's the point. The Cardinal management has found a way to cash in on every aspect of the game, even to the distraction from the sport. The cost of tickets, hot dogs, beer, soda, popcorn, clothing, parking, big screen promotions (they were promoting Blues hockey last night, believe it or not) and all the rest bring in a lot of dough. (2 hot dogs and 2 beers cost me $33 last night. At least I got sauerkraut on my dog....and on my lap.) The name of the game is obviously money.

Here's a partial list of the companies fighting for your attention with their signs (besides Bud):
Big Mac...Fox Sports...CocaCola...the Post Dispatch...Hardee's...Dierberg's... Dobbs...National Car Rental...Scottrade.. Gulf...State Farm...Bank of America...Weber Seasoning...Fabick...Mercy Medical...BJC (a hospital group)..Jimmy Johns...Stifel...Office Essentials....Boeing. And I'm only halfway through the list.

No wonder I'd rather watch a game on TV. At least I can hit the mute button when the commercials come on. And while I'm in a complaining mode, I think Major League Baseball should strictly prohibit organs and organ players at any and all baseball games. These people can't stand a moment of silence; they fill every pause with their musical enthusiasm. Maybe they're paid by the note. I'm sure there's a nice little village in the Ozarks where they could gather.

I was going to end this diatribe with a word from my sponsor, but enough's enough. In the meantime, I'll be rooting for the Cards to take it all this fall.