The Right Call

Vincent Edward Scully has been the voice of the Dodgers for 64 years, 55 of them in Los Angeles. During that time, he has been recognized time and again as the greatest sportscaster of all time.

He is the man who brought joy to Mudville, the icon whose popularity has crossed generational, economic and racial lines.

Hyperbole? Hardly. He received the Ford Frick Award from the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 1982 and was honored with a Life Achievement Emmy Award for sportscasting and induction into the National Radio Hall of Fame in 1995.

The National Sportscasters and Sportswriters Association has named Scully as National Sportscaster of the Year three times (1965, 1978, 1982) and California Sportscaster of the Year 29 times, and inducted him into its Hall of Fame in 1991. He was the 1992 Hall of Fame inductee of the American Sportscasters Association, which also named him Sportscaster of the Century (2000) and top sportscaster of all time on its Top 50 list (2009).

And by the way, he has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

But there’s been one significant honor that eluded him. Grand Marshal of the Rose Parade.

It was, in the parlance of baseball, a bad call.

That glaring mistake was corrected Thursday with the announcement that Scully will serve as Grand Marshal on New Year’s Day.

Now, a wrong has been righted. The sun shines brightly on the new mown field. And we celebrate. Here’s why:

When I think of a half-century of Dodger baseball, there is one constant that remains as all the seasons and players begin to blend together in memory.

That is Vin Scully.

Back in the days before every game was televised, Scully was the Dodgers.

His voice on the radio meant spring was here. When Scully called the Dodgers, it was time to get the lawn furniture out, fix a cool drink and listen to the drama unfold as only a master storyteller could describe it.

It is Scully who said, “He (Bob Gibson) pitches as though he’s double-parked.”

It is Scully who described pitcher Tom Glavine as being “like a tailor; a little off here, a little off there and you’re done, take a seat.”

It is Scully who called Stan Musial “good enough to take your breath away.”

It is Scully who said, “It’s a mere moment in a man’s life between the All-Star Game and an old-timer’s game.”

It is Scully, who, in an eloquent Irish tenor, can call a baseball game and make it sound like a reading of Emerson or Whitman.

Years ago, when I did get to a game at the Coliseum or Dodger Stadium, it was Scully’s voice that dominated the scene, broadcast over a thousand portable radios clutched by fans throughout the park.

It was as though, even if you saw the action with your own eyes, you needed Scully to validate it before you believed it.

Vin once described his love with broadcasting this way: “I would come home to listen to a football game — there weren’t other sports on — and I would get a pillow and I would crawl under the radio, so that the loudspeaker and the roar of the crowd would wash all over me, and I would just get goose bumps like you can’t believe. And I knew that of all the things in this world that I wanted, I wanted to be that fella saying, whatever, home run, or touchdown. It just really got to me.”

Vin is 85 now, still getting and giving goose bumps. Maybe he should announce the football game at the conclusion of the Rose Parade. After all, as the Irish like to say, “the older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune.”

Instead, let’s give him the day off and let him enjoy the accolades.

And get busy on erecting his statue at the entrance to Dodger Stadium.

The View From the Not-So Cheap Seats

Ah, college football season.

There’s a hint of fall in the air, just a touch of crispness that nudges the leaves into riotous bursts of red and gold. Scarves emerge from drawers, hot cider is served, Christmas lists are started.

Not in Southern California, however.

Fall here is usually heralded by Santa Ana winds that howl down through mountain passes raising the temperatures to blast furnace levels. Humidity falls, tempers flare and fire storms of Old Testament proportions break out.

Perhaps not as romantic or poetic as a college game in a quaint New England setting but we like it just fine, secure in the knowledge that white-outs and ice storms won’t soon follow. So we flock to our playing fields, sun screened and well hydrated, to watch the grand old game unfold.

Which brings us to the Arroyo Seco, where the Rose Bowl is getting ready for its close-up. The stadium appears spotless, the field looks like a fairway at Augusta National.

Just in time for an orgy of football. UCLA will play its home games here, starting next week. Then, the New Year’s Tournament of Roses game will celebrate its 100th anniversary on Jan. 1. The BCS championship game will follow less than a week later, on Jan. 6.

It’s a heady schedule that will be played in a stadium that will be showing off a $180 million face-lift, the ultimate nip-and-tuck job. The Granddaddy of Them All is not your granddaddy’s stadium any more.

Rising atop the west rim of the stadium is a new 185,000-square-foot, tri-level pavilion featuring luxury suites and premium seating areas interspersed with cocktail lounges and catered dining areas. We’re talking first class: plush carpets, wood paneling, chrome accents and other fine accouterments not usually found in a football stadium.

It is decorated with remarkable photographic murals depicting famous moments in Rose Bowl history and features enough flat screen TVs to staff Mission Control.

It looks and feels a lot like an exclusive private club with a football field attached.

So what does it take to join this club? A considerable chunk of change.

Want a suite? Plan on spending in the neighborhood of $50,000 to more than $100,000. Loge boxes go for $24,000 to $30,000. Club seats run from $2,000 to $4,000. For $300, you can join something called the Horizon Club, accessible from the stadium seats, which provides food and drink but no view of the field.

Any of this would put a dent in the wallet of Joe Average Football Fan, which leads to a logical question: Has the Rose Bowl built a playground for the wealthy while ignoring the rest of its fan base? Will the wealthy few literally and figuratively look down their noses from their premium seats on the huddled masses below?

There may be some of that but very little I suspect. After all, you can’t legislate arrogance. But the motives of the Rose Bowl and its clients are a lot more pure than pompous.

The Rose Bowl for years has operated at a loss, hindered by restrictions on the number of events it can host each year, and forced to rely on the revenue from the two Brookside Golf Courses for money.

That’s not enough for adequate maintenance of a 90-year-old facility or to provide funds needed for modernization in order to remain competitive.

So you put in premium seating, the sale of which adds to the stadium’s revenue stream. Ask any NFL owner. The first step he takes when building a new stadium is to plan for lots of luxury seating.

If the Rose Bowl sold all of its suites and premium seating, it would raise an estimated $7 million annually in revenues. And that money would be spent for maintenance and improvements that would benefit the entire fan base.

Some improvements aside from premium seating have already been made. New scoreboards and state-of-the-art video screens have been installed. Access and egress in some areas have been improved.

There is more to do. More restrooms and better concession stands are needed. Leg room in the stadium seats is poor at best. There really ought to be a museum on the premises to showcase the history of the place. It would be a year-round attraction and thus provide revenue.

The premium seating area is a bit of gamble, of course. UCLA football has only recently emerged from a decade of mediocrity and it would be tough to sell a $100,000 suite if it’s a $100 product. For this all to work, it has to be a winning team.

Financial problems remain. Cost of the improvements, originally budgeted at $152 million, were pushed to $180 million due to overruns. Fingers were pointed. Suits were filed.

But despite the setbacks, this was a project that needed to get done. Nothing less than the future of the stadium is at stake. Without the Rose Bowl, Pasadena would be just another nondescript suburb. And the loss of millions of dollars in revenues it generates for local businesses would be catastrophic.

Think that’s far-fetched? Of the original four stadiums that hosted major bowl games, only the Rose Bowl remains. The Orange and Sugar Bowls were bulldozed and the Cotton Bowl remains largely vacant. 

Nobody could imagine it happening but it did.

Father Time

George Lucas, who has spent much of his professional career in a galaxy far, far away, and his wife Mellody Hobson recently welcomed a new baby daughter to planet Earth.

Lucas, 69, is the famed film producer, screenwriter and director who brought us the “Star Wars” franchise.

He is also well known for….

Wait just a minute, stop the presses.  Lucas is how old?   69?   Who becomes a father at that age?

Well, quite a few people as it turns out.  Actor Steve Martin became a father at 67.  Charlie Chaplin  had a son at age 73.  Robert DeNiro was 68, Clint Eastwood 66, as were Larry King and Nick Nolte when they became dads.  Rupert Murdoch’s youngest was born when he was 72.  Saul Bellow joined the club when he was 84.

According to the Guinness Book of Records, an Aussie named Les Colley had his ninth child, a son named Oswald, with his third wife at the age of 92 years. 

Colley met his child’s mother through a dating agency at the age of 90. "I never thought she would get pregnant so easy, but she bloody well did," he told newspaper reporters.

Not on that list:   Me.

Look, I love kids.  I spent a great portion of my life engaged as a dad and the myriad chores that come with the job:  coach, teacher, assembler and repairer of toys, disposer of creepy insects, dispenser of advice, chauffeur, automatic teller machine.

It was a great experience.   But it was also one that required a great deal of energy, which is fading a bit as I push on through the years.  At this stage of my life, my real concern would be that if I can’t remember where I put my keys, how am I going to remember where I put the kids?

Nowadays, I get tired just watching young parents packing 50 pounds of gear to take a child a couple of miles across town.   Or endlessly chasing after toddlers while in a perpetual stooped position.   Or trying to maintain order when taking a gaggle of kids to a park or a ballgame or a restaurant.

I did all those things.   But would I want to do it again now?  Nope, I’ve got those “Diaper Changing,  Sleep Depriving, T-ball Coaching,  Piano Recital Attending, Don’t Make Me Come Back There” Blues.

George Lucas apparently sees thing differently.  He’s no rookie.  He’s already got three kids so he should know what he’s getting into.  But next time Father’s Day rolls around, he’ll be 70.  

Of course, there is a difference between Mr. Lucas and me.  He has a net worth of some $7 billion, for instance.

That means he can have an entire wing of pediatric nurses and doctors to tend his child.   And as my youngest daughter pointed out, “if we wants her to learn how to play baseball, he can hire A-Rod.” 

Music lessons?   Bring in Yo Yo Ma.   Baking chocolate chip cookies?  Have Martha Stewart on speed dial.  Tutoring?  Hire a Nobel Laureate.  Need a baby sitter?  Order up a child psychologist.

There are drawbacks in being an aged dad.   You might have to take a Celebrex before pushing your kid on a swing.   You and your child might end up drooling on one another.  It’s hard to play kick the can when you’re in danger of kicking the bucket.

Which bring us to this uncomfortable point:

Life expectancy for an American male currently stands at 76.   You might live longer.  You might not.   Any way you look at it, by fathering a child at this late age you run the risk of traumatizing your young offspring if you should pass.

You’d be very lucky to seem them graduate from high school.   It would be miraculous if you saw them complete college. Grandchildren?   Forget it.

Worse, scientists have pinpointed a likely source for many cases of autism and schizophrenia: Men who become fathers later in life pass on more brand-new genetic mutations to their offspring, according to a story in the Los Angeles Times.

The finding buttresses observations from population studies that rates of these disorders are more prevalent in children born to older fathers, sometimes by a factor of two or more, experts said.

I wish Mr. Lucas well.  The task ahead is not for the frail or fainthearted.  I hope he is around long enough to imbue in his daughter the creative genius, energy and world view that he possesses.  We need more people like that.

As for me, I love my wife and kids and I’m glad they’re in my life.  But if I want someone new to fuss over, I’ll get a Golden Retriever.  

The FREAKS Show

There's a beauty pageant of sorts taking place in our fair land these days.

Perhaps "beauty" is a poor choice of words.It's more like a rogue's gallery of miscreants.

We speak , of course, of the seemingly endless parade of political figures whose appetite for scandalous sexual behavior would make the Marquis de Sade blush.

It has become a game of can-you-top-this in which the biggest winner is a loser.

Lest they get left behind in the dust bin of history, we have devised special recognition for the most outlandish behavior displayed by an office holder. To him we will present the coveted FREAKS (Famous Reprobates Eagerly Advocating Kinky Sex) Award which we just now invented.

The winner gets a stay at a compulsive behavior clinic. He will also receive a statuette of a robust male whose brains have slipped below his belt.

We had thought at one point that the clear front runner was former South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, who disappeared after telling his staffers he was off "to hike the Appalachian Trail." Instead, we was flying down to Rio to spend some face time with his Argentinian "soul mate," much to the surprise of his wife, children, staff, constituents and the entire Republican Party.

But they are a forgiving lot down in the Brimstone and Bourbon Belt so Sanford is now a member of Congress, just recently elected. If he doesn't behave himself, he just might give the House of Representatives a bad name.


Eliot Spitzer was certainly in the mix. The former governor of New York, frequently mentioned as a possible Democratic presidential candidate, was discovered to have patronized a high-priced prostitution service. According to published reports, investigators believe Spitzer paid up to $80,000 for prostitutes over a period of several years while he was attorney general, and later as governor.

He has somehow managed to keep his family together, repair his image and is currently a candidate for New York City comptroller. Ironically enough, his opponent is a former madam. Honest.

It was almost a sure thing that Anthony Weiner was not only going to win the award but permanently retire it as well. Your remember Mr. Weiner: He was a Congressman and world-class sexter, one who sends explicit photos of himself to women throughout the country.

When his habit was disclosed, he resigned his office and threw himself on the mercy of the public, saying he was "deeply ashamed" of his "terrible judgment and actions, "which he called "very dumb."

Thus unburdened, he decided to run for mayor of New York City and amazingly enough became the frontrunner. Now, more explicit pix reportedly sent to women by Weiner after his humiliating exit from Congress were recently released by a website called "The Dirty." A poll taken a day after the newest revelations showed his favorability rating had dropped more than 20 points.

Despite a Fox News report that "a very significant percentage of young women today are not offended by being sent overt, intensely erotic material and respond in kind," Weiner is now officially toast.

Alas, in the race to be the most disreputable politician, he finished in second place.

The winner is clearly San Diego Mayor Bob Filner.

Based on the allegations of sexual harassment from women who were within his reach, he makes a drunken frat boy look like the ambassador to the Court of St. James.

Let me state right here that there's nothing funny about sexual harassment. And I salute the courage of the women who went public with their allegations. So far, there have been 13 of them. I suspect there are more waiting in the wings.

But any guy who can make Mr. Weiner look like a choir boy is worthy of special attention.

Irene McCormick Jackson, the mayor's former communications director, reportedly said that Filner had a penchant for putting her into a headlock and pulling her about, while whispering sexually explicit comments in her ear. She said the mayor often told her he wanted to kiss her, told her he wanted to see her naked and that she should work without panties at City Hall.

Michelle Tyler, a nurse, alleged that Filner asked her to engage in a personal and sexual relationship in exchange for his help in the case of U.S. Marine Katherine Ragazzino, who was wounded in Iraq.

The president of the National Women's Veterans Association of America, which supports survivors of military sexual assault, says he made a play with seven or eight women who were part of her group while they were trying to get him to take their issue seriously. "He went to dinners, asked women out to dinners, grabbed breasts, buttocks. The full gamut. Everything that is complete violation of what we stand for," Tara Jones told CNN. "He's a sexual predator. And he used this organization for his own personal agenda."

For his part, Filner has checked himself into a clinic "for two weeks of intensive therapy" but has refused to resign.  Indeed, his stay in the clinic ended about a week and a half earlyr.   It's hard to say who got disgusted with who.

But in a move that defines the word "chutzpah," he and his attorney said the City of San Diego is liable for damages in a sexual harassment lawsuit due to the fact that Filner didn't receive his sexual harassment training within six months after taking office.

Congratulations, Mr. Filner. You are FREAK of the year. So far.

Bite On This

Nobody grows up wanting to be burger flipper at a fast food joint.

It is difficult and thankless work performed by those desperate for a paycheck, any paycheck, even one that pays minimum wage and paltry benefits.

At best, it is a sort of Ellis Island Employment Service for newcomers to our country who are looking for a foothold in a new land and a few bucks in their pockets.

At worst, it is an industry that pays poverty wages while collecting billions in revenues each year.

According to one published report, chief executives at the nation's top restaurant companies earn more in one morning than the average minimum-wage worker in their eateries makes all year.

But now, workers from McDonalds, KFC and other fast food outlets are starting to organize and make demands. They staged a walkout this past week in the Midwest and on the East Coast, seeking a 100 percent increase in their salaries. That would up their pay to $15 an hour, $16 an hour in California.
Or a little more than $30,000 a year, less deductions.

Labor unions gain a foothold when employers mistreat their workers. And if it happens in the fast food industry, it should come as no surprise.

The popular perception is that fast food employees are primarily teenagers, picking up a little spending money working after school and on weekends.

But a University of Massachusetts study found that the average age of today's fast food worker is 32. It is also found that "if a worker today is employed full time for a full 52-week year at a minimum wage job today, she or he is making $15,080. This is 19 percent below the official poverty line for a family of three."


McDonald's, which has contributed millions to charity over the years, apparently doesn't see a need to extend charity to its own employees. In fact, the company, which employs 1.8 million workers, has raised insensitivity to a new level.

Several months ago, McDonald's decided to emphasize providing service with a smile, according to a story in the Wall Street Journal.

In a webcast McDonald's executives held with franchise owners, the company said 1 in 5 customer complaints are related to friendliness issues "and it's increasing," according to a slide from the presentation reviewed by the Journal. The webcast identified the top complaint as "rude or unprofessional employees."
"Service is broken," said a slide used at the meeting.

It has apparently never occurred to the company that a happy employee is an efficient employee. Want warmth, professionalism and that can-do spirit from an overworked employee who smells like French fries and can barely afford the price of a Big Mac? Try paying a living wage and offering a realistic chance for a raise or advancement.

Shortly after scratching their collective heads over their surly employee problem, benevolent McDonald's executives launched a website devoted to financial advice for its employees.

Called Practical Money Skills for Life, it includes a tool called a budget journal. In a sample monthly budget, it lists $1,105 income from a first job and $955 from a second job.

The message is clear: If you're working for McDonald's and you don't want to live in a cardboard condo, you had better find a second job.

Add to the list of corporate transgressions: A former employee in Pennsylvania filed suit because she said she had to access her wages from a debit card laden with fees. In her lawsuit, Natalie Gunshannon said she was charged $1.50 fee for ATM withdrawals, a $10 inactivity fee after 90 days, and a 75-cent online payment fee per transaction and other fees. All told, it reduced her pay to below minimum wage.

It's probably unrealistic to think the fast food industry would experience some sort of epiphany and double the salaries of its employees. This is, after all, a business with a lot of ethical shortcomings, including the fact that their product if used frequently enough can kill you.

The best hope for employees is to organize or hope for a raise in the federal minimum wage. President Obama has called for an increase to $9 an hour but the way Congress operates these days, it could be a long time coming.

If it does get passed, you can bet that the increase will be passed on to the consumer. That triple cheeseburger with five strips of bacon will cost you more.

But if that limits the amount of fast food you consume, it's not necessarily a bad thing.

Farewell to a Friend

“Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?  I guess that wouldn't work.  Someone would leave.  Someone always leaves.  Then we would have to say good-bye.  I hate good-byes…” --- Charles M. Schulz

I too hate good-byes.   I hate them so much that I have rarely written a column or an article about the passing of a colleague, a family member, a friend, in nearly 50 years in journalism.

But a person of exceptional wit, grace, intelligence and talent has left us.  Her passing leaves a void not only in our profession but in our hearts.  And I can’t let her go without saying good-bye.

Janette Williams was a familiar byline to readers of this paper and to the newsmakers of the community but for those of us who worked with her, she was so much more.   She was a teacher, a confidant, an invaluable resource, a popular leader, a joy to work with.

Most important, she was a friend.   But it could have been otherwise.

I first met Janette when I was hired as city editor of the Pasadena Star-News in 2001.   I had just finished a 33-year stint with the Los Angeles Times and was entering a new and different operation not knowing what to expect.

I learned that Janette, an assistant city editor, had also applied for the job.  It didn’t take me very long to see that she was a formidable presence and that I had better put things right with her if I was going to survive.

We had lunch.  I was apprehensive.  She was warm, gracious and supportive.  Was it a facade?   No, she was too classy for that.  She was clearly more interested in producing a good newspaper than indulging in the palace intrigue that is office politics.

Early on, I relied on her utterly and completely.  We quickly became a team, a couple of veterans trying to manage a staff that was eager and talented but young and inexperienced.

We laughed that we were the oldest editing team on earth but it was good that we had a few years on us because it was sometimes like raising children, equal parts sheer joy and scraped knees.

She eventually became city editor of the Star-News when I was made associate editor. There were no other candidates considered. It was a job she rightly deserved and wore with pride.

Young reporters were attracted to Janette because of her devotion to the craft of journalism and her incredible work ethic. 

This was a woman who lost her husband to cancer, then survived breast cancer while raising two children.   No challenge was too difficult for her to overcome.

She was literate and sophisticated, an expert on all things British having been born and raised in Scotland.  She had half the staff, including me, reading British literature in our spare time.

Indeed, she never abandoned her sense of British propriety.   I once referred to her in a staff meeting as a “work horse.”  Later, in no uncertain terms, she upbraided me, saying that it was no way to talk about a lady.  She said it with a laugh.  But I never did it again.

She was, of course, endearingly human.   She had a habit of losing things:  her keys, her purse, her glasses which more often than not were held together with a paper clip.   Her desk was a repository of discarded press releases and other odds and ends, many of indeterminate age.   She lived most of her life without a cell phone or a home computer which she perceived as nuisances.

Aside from her grandchildren, Janette had three loves:   The British Broadcasting System, which she watched religiously; the New York Times crossword puzzle which she completed on her lunch hour; and the Rose Parade.

The latter was sorely tested some years back when she was assigned to do an interview with the parade’s grand marshal.  It turned out to be Kermit the Frog.

Unfortunately, there is no record of that story.   But knowing Janette, I’m betting that she produced the most compelling and well crafted interview with a hand puppet in the history of print.

I retired from editing about six years ago.   Since then, I have gone to the Pasadena Star-News offices every week to write this column.   I tell people I do it because I like to feed off the energy of the newsroom.

That is only partially true.  I also did it so I could visit with Janette, to get her feedback on my work, to talk about our families, our lives past, present and future.

The last time I saw her I was about to leave for a week to visit friends out of state.   She uncharacteristically gave me a long hug before I left.   It was to be our final farewell.

I’m not sure how I will react at the sight of her empty desk next to mine.   Misty eyed might be a good bet.

So I will seek solace in words, the stuff our profession, in this case the wisdom of Thornton Wilder: 

“The greatest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude.”  

A Game of Thrones

When I was in elementary school, we were marched into the school auditorium one fine June day where we watched the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II on a 12-inch, black-and-white TV mounted on the stage.

It held our rapt attention for about 10 minutes before we began to wish that we were outside playing baseball. But no such luck. Final score: Queen 1, Baseball 0.

It should have cured me of all things royal for the rest of my life.

But lately I've been thinking that maybe we Americans should have a King or Queen of or own.
I'm not talking Burger King or Dairy Queen. We're talking about a bejeweled, ermine-robed personage who would sit on a magnificent throne and gaze benevolently down on all of us from a fine palace in Washington, D.C.

Or better yet, in Lebanon, Kansas, which is the geographic center of the contiguous United States. The property is a lot cheaper there and, besides, there is an abundance of self-anointed nobility running around Washington these days.

Smiling warmly or speaking in ceremonial sound bites would be the extent of the duties for his or her majesty. After all, we don't really want a full-blown monarchy here. Our founding fathers fled the excesses of royal rule and with good reason.

No, we're talking about figureheads, sort of like Great Britain but without all the crazy relatives and make-believe authority. We're talking about ribbon cutters, official greeters, visitors to the territories, subjects of a thousand souvenirs.


We could certainly afford it. After all, this is a federal government that recently appropriated $465 million for continued development of an obsolete fighter jet engine. Building a castle would be a drop in the bucket.

I don't have any candidates off the top of my head. I would volunteer my services but I think we would have to come up with something more elegant than King Bob I.

This all came to mind as the good residents of the British Isles wait breathlessly for the arrival of a royal bundle of joy, courtesy of Prince William and his bride, Kate Middleton, or the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to you.

The child will be third in line to the Crown and will be formally known as His or Her Highness, the Prince or Princess of Cambridge. Just in case you want to send a card.

The Brits are in a frenzy anticipating the blessed event. As the royal contractions increase in frequency, any and all news that is not baby related will be relegated to the back pages of the nation's press. Civil war in Egypt? Jumbo jet crashes? Give me three graphs and run it on page 20.

Jewel-encrusted baby gifts, betting on names, royal baby-themed crackers are much in evidence these days. The media has been camped out in front of St. Mary's Hospital in London for a month now, presumably interviewing each other since there is no actual news.

Perhaps an award for the height of madness goes to Sudocrem, which makes skin care creams. The company has commissioned British jewelry designer Theo Fennell to design a jewel-studded charm bracelet that also serves as a diaper-rash-cream holder for Kate, reports Headlines and Global News. The bracelet costs a reported $15,000.

In the meantime, the then-prime minister of Australia was photographed knitting a toy kangaroo for the baby. Finland sent the royal couple a traditional Finnish "baby box" of gifts such as diapers, bibs and even condoms.

I supposed if you lived in England you might be getting sick of all this

But what a wonderful distraction it is, unlike anything we have. What an outpouring of national pride. What great role models they have in William and Kate. What a great reason for a party.

Contrast that with the cynicism and contempt we too often display. On national holidays and other important occasions we have the President. If you don't like him -- and historically at least a half of us don't no matter who he might be -- such appearances frequently become an opportunity for derisive comments and displays of disrespect. We have traded patriotism for potshots.

By all means, let's build that castle and fill it with folks who can help unite us, celebrate a love of country and its institutions, even if they're just pretenders to the throne.

Once Around the Internet

The Eyes Have It: Ladies, you say your man doesn't understand you? Gents, you say you often don't know what she is thinking?

It's all very simple, according to a group of German researchers. They have conducted a study which shows that men do a much better job of interpreting one vital set of signals -- the emotions conveyed by the eyes -- when they're communicating with another man, compared to another woman.

Which explains why the sexes don't always see eye to eye.

The study involved 22 single men between the ages of 21 and 52. Participants took a test in which they looked at 36 pairs of eyes and chose between two terms (such as "distrustful" or "terrified") to best describe the mental/emotional state of the person pictured. Half the pairs belonged to men, half to women.

"We found that men actually had twice as many problems in recognizing emotions from female as compared to male eyes," the researchers report.

Before you dismiss the male gender as a bunch of insensitive and unfeeling clods, it's only fair to point out that it's not our fault.

From an evolutionary point of view, the study points out, accurate interpretations of other men's, rather than women's, thoughts and intentions -- especially threatening cues -- may have been a factor contributing to survival in ancient times. As men were more involved in hunting and territory fights, it would have been important to them to be able to predict and foresee the intentions and actions of their male rivals.


Actually, I'm not sure how much of this I believe.

You don't need to gaze into a woman's eyes to gauge her mood. For example, long periods of stony silence and banishment to a night on the couch will often indicate that she is upset. This is no time for eye gazing. This is a time for peace overtures.

Besides, I would rather engage in an axe fight with an ancient male rival then appear insensitive to the women in my life. An axe wound heals faster.

Air Sick: Passengers have rated their satisfaction with airlines three percentage points higher than last year on a new survey from the American Customer Satisfaction Index.

But before you assume that the Golden Age of Travel has returned, know this: Airlines just avoided last place, thanks to the ineptitude and callousness of the cable TV and Internet service provider industries.

Airlines received an average score of just 69 points on the Index's 100-point scale, although JetBlue (83 points) and Southwest (81 points) helped an otherwise lousy performance.

This, of course, comes as stunning news for those of us who have had our wallets and purses emptied by extra fees before we even set foot in a plane that is not only packed like a Tokyo subway but falls just short of Third World standards for cleanliness.

As one traveler remarked, "(The airlines) really would prefer we were all comatose so they could stack us like cord-wood in the hold and transport us as freight."

And if you think things might get better some day, be advised that some airlines are adding more seats to the majority of their planes, which could result in less legroom for passengers. Soon, before you can board, you will be required to demonstrate that you can sit for long periods of time in the pre-natal position or squeeze yourself into an overhead bin.

We can only hope there's a special place in hell where airline executives will have to ride for eternity in coach.

Mustn't See TV: I thought the worst reality show of all time was one called "Bridalplasty," in which brides compete for plastic surgery so they will look stunning for their wedding. Or, like a hockey goalie if things don't go well.

 But, alas, the Discovery Channel has achieved a new low with a little number called "Naked and Afraid."
In this burst of creative genius, two strangers, a man and a woman, are dropped buck naked into some God-forsaken patch of jungle for 21 days with nothing but a machete and a fire-starter. And followed as they struggle to survive.

 They are on their own except for a production crew who is sworn not to offer aid but probably slips them a sandwich and a cold beer from time to time.

The episode I watched featured a woman with food poisoning and a guy who constantly whined about how hard he had to work. As one critic remarked, it played out " like one long, bad first date, or a terrible vacation in a sour marriage."

Not to be outdone, the Syfy channel has cooked up a bit of edge-of-the-seat drama in "Sharknado," in which a supersized storm sucks sharks from the ocean and hurls them onto land. Thus, we have Los Angeles with sharks swimming through the streets and falling from the skies.  People get paid to write this stuff?.

Every Dog Has Its Day

"Laws are like sausages, it is better not to see them being made." -- Otto von Bismark.


To hear tell, our elected representatives in Sacramento, always a nimble bunch, moved swiftly and heroically this past week to confront a crisis.

Budgetary issues? Bullet trains? Prison reform? Immigration?

Well, no. Actually, our lawmakers united as one in an attempt to save hot dog vendors from Crescent City to Calexico.

Apparently, your friendly neighborhood wiener wagon was about to be crushed under the heel of jack-booted health inspectors who were, ahem, dogged in their pursuit of these street corner entrepreneurs.

Who wants to see the hot dog disappear? There's nothing like biting into a sizzling mixture of mechanically separated edible turkey tissue, mechanically separated chicken and pork, water, salt, ground mustard seed, sodium lactate, corn syrup, dextrose, sodium phosphates, sodium diacetate, sodium acorbate, sodium nitrate and flavor. All on a freshly baked bun.

Certainly not the state Assembly. According to the Los Angeles Times, that body's Health Committee took on the Herculean task of coming up with a legal definition for "hot dog."

Battered but unbowed after deliberations, they emerged with a change to state health law that states: "'Hot dog means a whole, cured, cooked sausage that is skinless or stuffed in a casing that may be known as a frankfurter, frank, furter, wiener, red hot, Vienna, bologna, garlic bologna or knockwurst and that may be served in a bun or roll."


Thus defined, health departments can hold hot-dog vendors, who boil already cooked wieners, to a less-stringent sanitation standard than food stands that cook raw foods, Justin Malan of the California Association of Environmental Health Administrators, told the Times.

If this bit of legislative genius is passed into law, cart jockeys will be able to freely peddle what an old vendor on Market Street in San Francisco used to call "Turkey in Tights."

It's responsive and responsible government, a concept we can all relish.

Except I don't believe it. That's not the way things get done in Sacramento.

A more likely scenario is that some lobbyist, possibly from the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council or the American Meat Institute, was involved in cooking up this particular legislation.

After all, these are hard times in the hot dog biz.

Just a couple of years ago, researchers from the Harvard School of Public Health found that eating processed meat, such as hot dogs, bacon, sausage or processed deli meats, is associated with a 42 percent higher risk of heart disease and a 19 percent higher risk of type 2 diabetes.

A report from the American Institute for Cancer Research and the World Cancer Research Fund showed that people who ate 3.5 ounces of processed meat a day had a 36 percent greater chance of suffering from colon cancer. A 2010 study from the National Institutes of Health and AARP that found eating processed meat raises the chance of developing prostate cancer.

About the same time, the nonprofit Cancer Project filed a lawsuit on behalf of three New Jersey plaintiffs asking the court to compel the companies to place cancer-risk warning labels on hot dog packages sold in New Jersey.

Of course, the Cancer Project is a vegan advocacy group so you can draw your own conclusions about their motives. As one wag noted, "Vegans complaining about hot dogs is like the Amish complaining about gas prices."

Let's face it, the hot dog industry is not going to disappear anytime soon. In 2012, consumers spent more than $1.7 billion on hot dogs in U.S. supermarkets.

But a cancer scare here, a heart attack there, and before you know it, the hot dog has gone the way of the cigarette. You can't expect the industry to sit back while its product is being replaced by broccoli on a stick.

So the hot dog industry teamed up with state lawmakers for the perfect solution: Don't improve the product, lower the standards.

Problem solving, Sacramento style.

Naming Rights and Wrongs

The city of Tacoma, Washington, is famous for a lot of things.

There’s ….uh, but of course there’s also….hmmm, wait a minute.

Now I remember. Tacoma, (a Native American phrase meaning “that other city in Washington”), is the birthplace of Father’s Day, an occasion, as one child observed, “that’s just like Mother’s Day only you don’t spend as much.”

Thanks to a nice lady named Sonora Smart Dodd, who conceived the idea in 1910, we dads can spend a long afternoon today slaving over a hot barbecue to feed family and friends.

As for me, I’m a bit puzzled why Ms. Dodd spent a lot of time and effort to honor a man who participated in naming her Sonora. I may be a little sensitive to this since I’m a guy known to most folks as Bob, a name that conjurers up visions of the manager of a lube and oil change joint.

But it underscores an important fact. The number one responsibility of parents is to give your child a proper name.

A lot of people fumble the ball here. Consider the cases of Merle Lester, Tyrannosaurus Rex Mullens, Tokyo Sexwhale, Deja Viau, Jed I. Knight, Hans Ohff and Genuine Ho, all actual names given to kids who are spending their lives trying to overcome it.

Some succeed. Mr. Sexwhale, for example, is a minister in the government of or South Africa. Others don’t. Mr. Mullens is a convicted sex offender.

Other names aren’t just mistakes in judgment. They are a full-blown assault on one’s dignity. Brazilian footballer Creedence Clearwater Couto was named after a rock band. He’s lucky his parents didn’t follow Hootie and the Blowfish.

A kid in New Zealand had to carry the name Number 16 Bus Shelter around for life. Model Peaches Geldof’s full name is Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof. Her sisters are named Fifi Trixibelle and Little Pixie.

Some folks just want to make a statement. According the British newspaper The Sun, Michael Howard of Leeds had his name legally changed to Yorkshire Bank PLC Are Fascist B*stards after being charged 20 pounds for a 10 pound overdraft. He closed his account and asked for a check with the balance to be made out in his new name.

Well played, Mr. B*stards.

Others want to commemorate a historic event. A woman in Kenya last year had twin boys who she named Barack Obama and Mitt Romney. For the record, Barack came out first.

Show Biz has stepped to the plate and made a major contribution to the field of weird handles.

Actor Jason Lee has a son named Pilot Inspektor while Sylvester Stallone hung the moniker Sage Moonblood on his boy. Bono of U2 fame has a child named Memphis Eve . Not to be outdone, U2 sideman Edge has a kid called Blue Angel. Jermaine Jackson contributes with his child Jermajestry.

All of this has resulted in the iron hand of government intervention in some corners of the world.

Several years ago, a New Zealand court ordered the parents of a young girl, "Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii," to legally change her name. Justice Robert Murfitt explained that unusual name "makes a fool of the child and sets her up with a social disability and handicap," according to published accounts.

Not satisfied with that ruling, the government has banned the names Lucifer and Messiah, Mafia No Fear, 4Real and Queen Victoria.

Sweden also has a naming law and has nixed attempts to name children "Superman," "Metallica," and Brfxxccxxmnpcccclllmmnprxvclmnckssqlbb11116." That child's parents settled on the name "A" instead.

According to CNN, in Germany, rejected baby names depend on gender -- if you can't tell the gender of the child by the first name , it's a no go. Presumably, that means you can name your kid Adolf Hitler as long as he’s a boy.

As for me, I had wished I could have been named Wordsmith. But considering what might t have been, Robert works just fine. But you can call me Bob.

Apocalypse Unending

I am not what you would call a movie buff.

Oh, sure, I attend a handful of flicks each year, usually after assuring myself that my entertainment dollar will be well spent based on critical reception and subject material.

And let’s face it, my attendance is limited by the fact that I’m just outside the 14-34 demographic, the Mother Lode for movie producers.

Nonetheless, I found myself in a theater in Washington, D.C., on a recent afternoon with my daughter taking in “Star Trek: Into Darkness,” a movie that ranked just behind “The Hangover: Part 10” on my “must see” list.

I'm there because my daughter is a bit of a Trekkie, one of those devoted to the “Star Trek” franchise in all of its myriad manifestations. For the record, she does not run around wearing tunics or speaking Klingon. She is in fact a corporate lawyer in Washington, D.C. who prefers fashionable shoes and smart handbags to phasers set on stun. But we all have our peccadilloes.

The movie is a particularly noisy rendition of good guys vs. bad guys in outer space. Dialogue and plot are secondary to special affects. This critic’s opinion: entertaining but not life altering.

That’s not the main thing I took away from the experience, however.

When I was young, the featured film was preceded by cartoons. Now, the opening fare is a seemingly endless series of previews each crafted to make the subject movie, no matter how lame it may be, look like a cross between “The Godfather” and “Citizen Kane.”

What was astounding on this particular afternoon is that 90 per cent of the films previewed featured individuals, families, cities, countries, indeed an entire world caught up in an apocalyptic nightmare.

Zombies running amok. Evil space creatures. Soulless paramilitary terrorists. Overlords. Demons. Enough bleak landscapes and despair to cheer End Times and/or Rapture true believers everywhere.

Call them Apocaflix.

The question before the house is this: does the American public have an insatiable lust for movies that portray civilization on the precipice of doom?

Or are we merely being bombarded by the kind of pap that Hollywood is so capable of producing by the bucketful?

Or are the Mayans still messing with us?

The answer: probably all of the above.

There’s nothing new about apocalyptic tales. Mary Shelley wrote “The Last Man,” a tale of a world ravaged by plague, in 1826. H.G. Wells penned “The War of the Worlds” in 1898. Edgar Rice Burroughs brought us “The Moon Maid” in 1926 in which evil Communists take over the Moon before turning their sights on the Earth only to be overthrown by free market capitalists.

Clearly, there is an appetite for this sort of stuff. But we seem to be gobbling it up like so much movie house popcorn.

Since movies often reflect of the hopes and fears of the era in which they are made, I can only assume we are horrified/fascinated by the prospect of nuclear war, terrorism, global warming, economic collapse and deadly viruses. Throw in the Dodgers and Angels playing like the Undead and it’s a bleak world out there.

Bob Thompson, professor of pop culture at Syracuse University, said in an interview with Reuters that "Americans do have an 'end-of-days' feel to them ... Our civilization is in decline, Congress can't get anything done ...The metaphor for the end of the world is simply an exaggerated story that deals with the same feelings."

So we flock to the movies to see how it’s all going to turn out.

Not satisfied with mere Armageddon, however, Hollywood often enlivens the proceedings with a ham-fisted political message.

In “Elysium,” due out this summer, it’s the year 2154 and the very wealthy live on Elysium – a space habitat in Earth orbit – while the rest of us live on an overpopulated, ruined Earth. The people of Earth are desperate to escape the planet’s crime and poverty, and they critically need the state-of-the-art medical care available on Elysium – but some in Elysium will stop at nothing to enforce anti-immigration laws and preserve their citizens’ luxurious and carefree lifestyle.

Let me guess which political party rules Elysium.

As for me, I’m sticking with watching sports until this whole fad blows over. Even if your team loses, it doesn’t take the entire planet down with it.

Tourist Traps

We were in Paris a few years ago and decided to take a side trip to see the palace of Versailles, the spectacular 17th century royal chateau built by Louis XIV and his band of merry excellencies.

It was early spring — the crush of humanity that descends on the place in the summer had yet to arrive — so we were enjoying an unhurried stroll through 721,000 square feet of opulence set amid sprawling grounds and gardens.

As we entered the queen's bedchamber, the door at one end of the room flew open and in charged a tour guide followed by her minions.

They stopped just short of elbowing us out of the way and seemed perturbed when someone suggested they were rude.

When they flew off down the hallway to terrorize other visitors, one of the survivors of the encounter muttered "Italians!" Others nodded knowingly.

I made a mental note to myself: Italians. Enjoy their food, culture and music but avoid them if they travel in packs.

The irony is, of course, when it comes to lousy tourists, Americans often win top prize. And who says so? Why, the Americans themselves, according to findings published in USA Today.

Maybe it's because we wear socks with sandals and gave birth to the fanny pack.

Australians and Canadians also don't like us much but who cares? They're just Americans who talk funny.

The research further disclosed that the Irish hate the Brits and the Brits loathe the Germans although I suspect there's something much deeper than tourism at work here.

Throw in the French and the Russians and just about anyone who travels seems to make it on a "worst" list.

All of this may be a moot point since the Chinese have suddenly emerged from the back of the pack in just one week to contend for the Ugly Tourist Award.

For that, we can thank one Ding Jinhao, a young lad from Nanjing, who was visiting Egypt with his parents. While mom and dad were otherwise occupied, he decided it would be fun to deface a panel of hieroglyphics in a 3,500-year-old Egyptian temple by scrawling "Ding Jinhao Was Here."

On a vandalism scale of 1-10, 10 being the worst, he scored about 100.

When the whole thing hit the Internet, it caused a mass outbreak of self-flagellation on the part of the Chinese citizenry, an outcry so loud that it moved the ruling Communist Party to issue guidelines advising Chinese going abroad on etiquette, from waiting in line to refraining from spitting and littering.

"They speak loudly in public, carve characters on tourist attractions, cross the road when the traffic lights are still red, spit anywhere and (carry out) some other uncivilized behavior. It damages the image of the Chinese people and has a very bad impact," Chinese Vice Premier Wang Yang complained.

In the meantime, Ding's parents publicly apologized. In an interview with a Nanjing newspaper, Ding's father said "the child has committed a mistake and the main responsibility falls on the adults. It was because we did not supervise him well, and have not taught him well."

The boy's father then begged Internet users to stop hounding the teenager. "This is too much pressure for him to take," he told the paper.

Too much pressure? If it was my kid, he would have been required to memorize the names of all the pharaohs of Egypt and would be required on demand to recite them backwards and forwards. While doing push-ups. He would required to get a job and donate his earnings to the Egyptian Antiquities Museum. He would be required to write and publish a 2,000-word paper on "Respect for Other People and Their Institutions" after completing a 10K run. Just for openers.

But I digress.

Look, tourists are tough to love. Sure, they throw a lot of money around. They also speak a foreign tongue, move around in swarms, act differently from the natives and clog the streets, restaurants and bars.

It's culture shock that works both ways. If you don't believe it, wander down to Hollywood Boulevard some evening and watch the people of the world encounter our local goofballs.

After doing a highly unscientific study on the Internet, I found that most people dislike tourists because they get in the way of their busy lives. Which I interpret as resentment based on the fact that these people are on vacation and you're not.

We could solve a lot of this discord if we took a lesson from the Hawaiians and made people feel truly welcomed. It would work wonders for both sides.

Just don't expect me to give Ding Jinhao a big hug.

Close Encounters With Stupidity

"It's not going to do any good to land on Mars if we're stupid. "- Ray Bradbury


When I was a kid, I was a voracious reader of science fiction. So much so I read nearly every sci-fi book on the shelves of the local library.

While I was fascinated by these flights of fantasy, it wasn't until a neighbor invited me over one night to view the rings of Saturn through his telescope that I developed an appetite for all things astronomic. I was beyond enthralled.

Nowadays, of course, an adult who invited a young boy over at night to stargaze would be run out of town as a suspected pedophile. But, thankfully, it was a simpler time.

I quickly joined some interplanetary travel society where I eagerly signed up for a future trip. Venus was my destination of choice because it seemed shrouded in mystery.

Of course, as I learned a little bit more about our solar system, I discovered that the planet named after the Goddess of Love was anything but enticing. Surface temperatures average about 842 degrees, higher than the melting point of lead. The atmosphere is primarily carbon dioxide and the clouds that cloak the planet are composed of sulfuric acid and sulfur dioxide vapor.

Think Bakersfield in August.

It all seems a bit silly now, this notion that someone could sign up for a journey into the solar system simply because they fantasized about space travel.

Or so I thought.

Then came the recent news that 78,000 people have signed up to form a human colony on Mars, responding to a Dutch nonprofit organization called Mars One, which wants to have boots on the desolate ground by 2022.

I wonder how many of these volunteers read the fine print: Due to the physiological changes in the human body due to low gravity, there will be no coming back. It's the ultimate one-way ticket.

Yet the company is expecting 500,000 applicants by the time applications close on Aug. 31. "This is turning out to be the most desired job in history," says Bas Lansdorp, co-founder of Mars One.

It also may turn out to be the worst job in history. And maybe the worst idea.

For one thing, the Mars One gang will need billions of dollars and as-yet undeveloped technology just to land on the planet.

They've got the money part all figured out. The project will be financed through a global reality-TV media event that would begin with the astronaut selection process (with some public participation) and continue on through the first years of living on the Red Planet. Call it "Martian Idol. "

They figure the cost at about $6 billion. By comparison, a NASA mission to Mars formulated in 2009 had a projected cost of $100 billion and 18 years of planning. Of course, those warm-hearted NASA folks planned to return the astronauts alive to Earth. Not very cost effective.

Mars One officials say they will supplement their budget with donations. So far, a generous public has coughed up $84,121.

According to their schedule, the first crew of four astronauts would arrive on Mars in 2023, after a seven-month journey from Earth. Further teams would join their settlement every two years, with the intention that by 2033 there would be over 20 people living and working on Mars.

What would life on Mars be like?

In a word, brutal. The atmosphere is essentially equivalent to a vacuum on Earth. Temperatures on Mars roughly approximate those of Antarctica.

Mars has dust storms that can cover much of the planet and quite commonly last for months. Additionally, Mars has no global magnetic field. Combined with a thin atmosphere, this permits a significant amount of ionizing radiation to reach the Martian surface.

Are we having fun yet?

Then, of course, there is the whole deal about second thoughts. There are none. You'll live the rest of you life on a patch of ground that makes the Mojave Desert look like Yosemite.

At best, you'll be on the cutting edge of space exploration. At worst, you'll be a tragic footnote to a half-baked experiment.

The Mars One plan, as Ray Bradbury feared, is stupid. It is an ill-conceived, underfunded fantasy cooked up by a bunch of would-be Captain Kirks. It is even more astounding that there are tens of thousands of people on this planet who would follow these Pied Pipers into the vacuum of space.

But Mr. Bradbury can rest in peace because this is one launch that will never get off the ground.

The Rocky Road to Equality

When professional basketball player Jason Collins announced recently that he is gay, it seemed the whole world took notice.

And with some justification. He is, after all, the first active athlete from one of the four major North American professional sports to publicly and proudly do so.

Collins' decision drew praise from President and Mrs. Obama, former President Bill Clinton, NBA Commissioner David Stern, Lakers star Kobe Bryant and numerous other athletes from basketball, football, hockey and baseball.

It was more celebratory than confessional, seen by some as a game changer in professional sports which has long been considered a bastion of testosterone-fueled homophobia.

We may not be living in the Age of Aquarius but are we entering the Age of Acceptance? Will professional sports lead us on the path to greater understanding?

Maybe. But right now, significant roadblocks remain on that path.

Consider: While everyone was focused on Collins, there were a couple of other notable sports stories taking place.

Punter Chris Kluwe of the Minnesota Vikings and linebacker Brendon Ayanbadejo of the Baltimore Ravens were released from their professional football teams.

Both had enjoyed long and successful careers, And both were outspoken advocates for gay rights, specifically marriage equality.

Both filed amicus briefs when the Supreme Court took up the case of Hollingsworth v. Perry, which challenges the California law against gay marriage as defined in Proposition 8.

"When we advance the idea that some people should be treated differently because of who they are," they wrote, "demeaned in public as lesser beings, not worthy of the same rights and benefits as others despite their actions as good citizens and neighbors, then we deny them equal protection under the laws. America has walked this path before, and courageous people and the Court brought us to the right result. We urge the Court to repeat those actions here. "

Strong words spoken by strong men which carried additional weight because neither are gay. And notable, too, because it's not the kind of talk you generally hear coming from a football locker room.

But as refreshing and insightful as it may be, you can bet it didn't represent the current thinking in the NFL.

Let's face it, the league is hardly a bastion of forward thinking. Most of the billionaire owners don't tolerate anyone to the left of Rush Limbaugh and make generous contributions to conservative causes. Marriage equality ain't one of them.

After all, this is a league that asked a college player at a scouting combine this year if he liked girls.

This is a league that heard one of its players say prior to this year's Super Bowl, " " Ain't got no gay people on the team. They gotta get up outta here if they do. Can't be with that sweet stuff. "

This is a league that embraces equality but has yet to condemn intolerance.

But most of all, this is a league that hates controversy. And the best way to deal with boat rockers is to sink the boat.

So goodbye to Brendon. Ciao, Chris. And while were at it, so long to Tim Tebow, an evangelical Christian quarterback who won't be marching in any gay pride parades any time soon but whose religious beliefs have become an issue. Or a "distraction" as coaches like to say.

We'll never know for sure if the dumping of a couple of outspoken jocks was a result of their views or if they had simply outlived their usefulness as football players.

But it is a more than suspicious turn of events. And it sent a clear message: get arrested, fail a drug test but keep your beliefs, whatever they may be, to yourself.

What an irony it is that the NFL whose rosters are nearly 60 percent minority, an organization that historically has advanced the cause of racial equality, should now lose its voice.

Maybe the NFL, the NBA and Major League Baseball would be wise to follow the lead of the National Hockey League, which announced its support of gay rights and its intent to fight homophobia.

That stance led to this scene, as reported in the Canadian media: At a hockey game between a pair of bitter rivals, the Ottawa Senators and the Toronto Maple Leafs, two gay women stood on the ice before the game. Christina, a Senators fan, asked Alicia, a Maple Leafs fan, to marry her in front of a packed arena in Ottawa. The Ottawa Senators mascot then held up a sign that said, "She said yes. "

The place erupted in cheers.

On the Bottom LookingUp

Three guys get killed in a boat accident and they go before St. Peter. The first man says he was a surgeon. "How much did you make a year?" Peter asks. The man replies, "I made $375,000." "Enter," says Peter, who now turns to the second man with the same question. "I made $153,000 - I was an architect." "Interesting," says Peter, "enter." Now he turns to the last man. "How much did you make per year?" The man responds, "I made $16,500." Peter turns to him and says, "$16,500, eh? What paper did you work for?" - A fable based on fact


My first job in journalism paid $45 a week. I was a wire room attendant at a San Francisco newspaper and it was my job to keep a dozen clattering teletype machines running smoothly.

That entailed changing the paper rolls on the fly, clipping myriad stories and distributing them to the correct desk and listening to the tell-tale bells that would indicate a news bulletin. And, oh yeah, the hours were to 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.

I lived in a dump with a couple of other guys and we scrimped and saved to make sure we had enough beer money, even if it meant living on Corn Flakes.

When I moved up a notch to be a real life news hound, I got to spend my time at mind-numbing city council meetings or, as I did at one paper, interview the loved ones of soldiers killed in Vietnam.

Things slowly got better as my career progressed. I finally earned enough to buy a house, send the kids to college and keep my wife reasonably well dressed. But if wealth is what I sought, I was in the wrong profession.

We ink-stained wretches justify this by claiming we are motivated by compassion and concern, not cash, although each and every one of us would prefer our paycheck to match our passion. After all, even a seeker after truth has got to eat.

Then there is the fact that nobody likes us very much. While there are two sides to every story, most newsmakers want us to print only their views or at the very least disparage the other side. As a result, we are roundly criticized by liberals and conservatives, Arabs and Jews, Catholics and Protestants, Bruins and Trojans, you name it.

To sum it up: If you're seeking love or money, apply elsewhere.

Sound like a lousy job? I never thought so but apparently I was mistaken.

According to the website CareerCast.com, a newspaper reporter is considered the worst job of 2013. The website ranked the top 200 best and worst jobs in the United States, taking into consideration factors including physical demands, work environment, income, stress and hiring outlook.

Reporters were on the bottom of the heap looking up at lumberjacks, soldiers, actors, oil rig workers, dairy farmers, meter readers, roofers and flight attendants, all of which were found to be in preferable professions.

Based on this, I would have been better off chopping down trees or compiling someone's gas bill. But with all due respect to these fine professions, I never had the urge to live in the woods with a bunch of guys in Pendleton shirts while sleeping with my axe. Meter reading may require math, so that's out.

I did the soldier bit. It required complete allegiance to authority and a willingness to die. Cows? I prefer the final product, two scoops of vanilla topped with hot fudge sauce.

But let's get serious. What is missing in this equation is fulfillment. How else can you explain that in the CareerCast survey a podiatrist is listed ahead of a psychiatrist, a skin care specialist is ranked ahead of a surgeon, a bricklayer beats out a judge, a sewage plant operator tops a principal.

Milking a cow or patching a roof may hold untold intellectual pleasures. But I'm not sure it matches the satisfaction of exposing corruption in government, advocating for the downtrodden or exposing rip-offs, cons and frauds.

I suspect the reporting profession was thrown under the bus because the newspaper business is considered a buggy whip industry.

To some extent that's true. Total employment in newspaper publishing has dropped by more than 40 percent in the last decade . In 2001, the industry employed 414,000 people, but that number fell to 246,020 people by 2011.

But last year, revenues declined just 2 percent, according to the Newspaper Association of America. That may not be a reason to pop the champagne corks, but it suggests that the hemorrhaging has slowed and there's life in the old girl yet.

Which is good news for reporters who were thinking of making a career move to an oil rig.

Isolation Is Not the Answer

When I was a kid growing up in a Los Angeles suburb, I rode my bike everywhere. To school. Downtown to go to the movies. To music lessons. To parks. To the homes of friends who lived to the north, south, east and west of me.

It wasn't an act of daring. Most of my friends did the same thing.

It was a time when we could explore and learn about our little corner of the world without restrictions, without fear. If my parents told me to be careful, they meant crossing the street.

There was a cool little hobby shop about a mile away where I spent my allowance on model airplane and car kits. The local community college nearby had a couple of World War II fighters out back, part of an aviation repair curriculum. If you had the fortitude to scale a 12-foot fence, you could climb into the cockpits and shoot down imaginary bad guys.

You could make your way to the local drug story that had a newsstand full of comic books and a soda fountain that served cherry Cokes.

All in a day's travels by bike.

Muggers, pedophiles, felons, scam artists, domestic abusers, terrorists were never part of the conversation. They undoubtedly lurked in the shadows somewhere but they remained out of sight and out of mind.

My greatest fears were bloodthirsty space aliens in flying saucers and ballroom dance classes with the opposite sex.

I thought about all this when the news of the bombings at the Boston Marathon filled our TV screens on Monday.
There is no out of sight, out of mind anymore. Each time there is an act of cowardice, of madness, it blankets us like a bank of fog so thick that we can't see anything else for days.

Worse, it's the children who are hurt the most, sometimes without suffering so much as a scratch.

It is unlikely that any child living now or as yet unborn will experience the sheer exhilaration of exploring the world on his or her own terms as we did many generations ago. Few kids ride their bikes or even walk to school anymore. Drive by any school these days and the streets are choked with the vehicles of moms and dads who ferry their kids everywhere.

Paranoia about crime and terrorism has created a world in which we are restricted and regimented.

We keep our children close by lest they be exposed too soon to a world of mistrust, cynicism and violence.

Perhaps there is some justification for that. As Cormac McCarthy once wrote, "it was good that God kept the truths of life from the young as they were starting out or else they'd have no heart to start at all."

So now our kids interact with their fellow human beings and travel the world via a chair in front of a computer screen. They go places we could have never visited on a bike but they never breath the air, smell the roses. And what is lost? Human contact. Face-to-face interaction. An appreciation of cultures other than our own. All pieces of a puzzle that, when assembled, lead to greater understanding.

As a result, we run the danger of confusing isolation with safety.

We need to make sure that our children learn that the world is mostly a warm and wonderful place and that terrorism or mass killings or war may occupy the TV news cycle but don't exist around every corner. After all, the chances of being killed by a terrorist is about 1 in 10 million.

They need to know that the people of Boston, confronted by a disaster, reaffirmed our faith in humanity by reacting with heroism and compassion.

They need to know, as Patton Oswalt observed, "We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago. "

They need to know that those responsible for the attacks in Boston are not winning converts to whatever twisted cause they may embrace by killing an 8-year-old boy and maiming his family members.

Most importantly, our kids need to get out from behind their computer screens and out into the sunshine, to embark on voyages of discovery led by parents who remember the way.

The world is too small a place and the stakes are too high for us to raise a generation of isolationists.

Taking a Stab at Airport Security

As part of its ongoing efforts "to enhance security screening measures and improve the passenger experience," the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) will now give expedited security checkpoint privileges to passengers willing to sing, dance, juggle or tell jokes to others waiting in line.

OK, so that's a bit of humor, courtesy of a satirical website. But for a moment, you probably thought it was legitimate. Because when it comes to the TSA, nothing seems too bizarre to be true.

These are the same folks who brought us a security pat-down which resembles an awkward romantic encounter in the back seat of a Chevy. Without the heavy breathing.

These are the same folks who produced a list of prohibited items that included such common household items as ice axes, cattle prods and blasting caps.

These are the same folks who decided military personnel are exempt from removing their footwear despite the fact that there have been terrorist acts involving members of the military.

These are the same folks who have decided that it is now OK for passengers to board carrying small knives (2.36 inches or less) or a pool cue, hockey or lacrosse stick, two golf clubs, or a souvenir baseball bat weighing up to a pound and a half.

It's a rollback of regulations that has not played well with politicians, airline employees or the traveling public.

Holding up a bottle of shampoo at a recent hearing, New York Sen.Chuck Schumer said, "I hear outcries from passengers about this ... but almost no one has called my office and said, 'Why can't I bring a sharp knife on an airplane?'"

"While we agree that a passenger wielding a small knife or swinging a golf club... poses less of a threat to the pilot locked in the cockpit, these are real threats to passengers and flight attendants in the passenger cabin," Stacy K. Martin, president of Southwest Airlines' flight attendants union, told the Los Angeles Times.

A spokesman for the Allied Pilots Assn., the union that represents pilots from American Airlines, said the announcement caught him by surprise. "It represents a significant step backward in security," said Gregg Overm.

That goes without saying. Someone has failed to remember that the most shocking thing abut 9/11 is how a handful of terrorists armed with simple box cutters - not automatic weapons, not grenades, not swords- killed nearly 3,000 people and changed the geo-political climate throughout the world forever more.

Now, the TSA is changing policy because it would allow airport screeners to focus on "catastrophic" threats to an entire aircraft, including explosives or detonators.

Does that mean agents aren't focusing on such threats now? Or is the act of confiscating knives somehow diminishing the effectiveness of that task?

What will happen when agents are forced to use their time measuring the lengths of knives or the weights of baseball bats?

And if you want to consider a catastrophic scenario, what if a group of terrorists armed with knives started slicing the throats of passengers one by one until the pilots agreed to their demands? Far fetched? So was 9/11.

Locked cockpits might save the pilots but there is little to protect the passenger. If you think there are air marshals on your flight, guess again. According to some estimates, they fly on only about five percent of aircraft although the exact number is secret for obvious reasons.

On a more mundane level, if people start showing up with hockey and lacrosse sticks and golf clubs, where are they going to get stowed? Many won't fit in overhead compartments which are already stuffed to overflowing. And they aren't going to slide easily under a seat.

I can hear the announcement now: "Ladies and gentlemen, is there anyone willing to give up their seat and take a later flight so we can accommodate some lacrosse gear?"

(As an aside, if you don't think golf clubs are dangerous consider the former Mrs. Tiger Woods. She took one swing with a 9-iron and inflicted millions dollars in damage.)

Nobody expected the TSA to be a public relations triumph. Post 9/11, it was put in charge of a security program which made a normally tedious airport experience downright dreadful. The trade-off: you got to your destination in one piece.

Eventually, travelers faced with the frustration and humiliation of a TSA security screening decided that the aforementioned trade-off was worth it.

It still is. I will happily take off my shoes and belt and submit to a frisking to assure the safety of my family and fellow travelers. And I'll be happier still to leave my knife at home.