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Ladies and gentlemen, I give you... the newest Eagle! No, not Asante Samuel. This guy:

Yes, they had a bald eagle at the Whale of a Day festival here in Palos Verdes.

Joe Banner immediately lowballed him on a contract offer.

Here I am modeling the latest in Lakewood Blue Claws headgear:

I could have at least smiled.

Nice event, though, despite the overcast and persistent mist. Didn't see any whales, though -- my 13 year losing streak continues. But there was kettle corn. I'll make that trade any day. Lito Sheppard for Larry Fitzgerald would work, too.

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Oxydol? Yes.
Serutan? No.
Sal Hepatica? Doesn't look like it.
Doan's Pills? Apparently.
Carter's Little Liver Pills? Yes, but "Liver" isn't in the name anymore.
Boraxo? Uh huh. Worst hand soap imaginable, but still available.
Bromo-Seltzer? Still fizzing.
Hai Karate? Nope.
Geritol? Yes.
Williams Llllllectric Shave!!!? Still around.
Lifebuoy? Sort of -- made overseas, imported to the U.S. and U.K.
Barbasol, my father's preferred cheap shaving cream? Indeed.
AYDS? Lord, no.
Burry's FudgeTown cookies? Not anymore.
Brylcreem? Yep. Amazingly, yep.
Dippity Do? Shockingly, yes, it is.
Psssssst? The "dry shampoo"? I can't believe it, but yes.
Bonomo Turkish Taffy? Sadly, no.
Carnation Instant Breakfast? Yeah.
Lavoris? Yes.

More information on dead brands can be found on the Internets. Like here.

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I'm too busy to write tonight, so allow me to just point you to what might be one of the best blogs ever. Kliph Nesteroff's Classic Television Showbiz, which beings you the best in YouTubery: clips from classic shows of the 50's, 60's, and 70's. Do not miss "Kiddie A Go-Go" under any circumstances. Seriously, if you're looking for classic Paar and Carson and "What's My Line" and "Password" -- in other words, if you're me -- .you must go to that site posthaste.

Just click here. Now.

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What will 30 years of coaching do to a guy? Let's see:

1974:

2008:

Some do better than others. Bob Weiss turned into Bill Handel, Riley lost the porn 'stache and found Brylcreem, Rick Adelman always kinda looked like a cross between Eric Idle and Mike Riordan, and Sloan looks like what you get when you put your picture in one of those programs that automatically "age" you 30 years.

That's not to make fun of them, really. Actually, they all survived pretty well, considering the stress that coaching in the NBA will do to you. Besides, 30 years ago, I was still a teenager with long blond hair and whatever teens wore in the seventies. I don't look like that anymore. I am thankful that no pictures of that era survived.

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Still too busy. I told you this week might be a little sparse, didn't I? Actually, I don't remember whether I told you that or not, but it's not the best day for posting anything of value.

There'll be a "Letter" tomorrow if I have the time. And if I can come up with a topic. It's a dry week. Suggestions welcome.

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On second thought, no "Letter" this week. I have to learn to stick to my guns. When I say I'm taking days off, I need to take them off. Instead, I asked for the days and ended up working normal hours anyway. But I'm so frazzled that a "Letter" isn't going to be any good if I write it now. So... no.

I might write something for here a little later. But maybe I'll just... take off. We'll see.

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This is what I was about to say to the waitress at the Whisper Lounge this afternoon:

"Okay, I get it. We're not fashionable enough, so you're ignoring us. You're checking on everyone else in the room, but we're clearly not cool enough. Not cool enough for a bar in a shopping mall? Okay, okay, I get it. You want us to leave. We'll leave. Sorry for bringing the trendiness factor down so low."

But before I could deliver that diatribe, the waitress came over and cheerily and pleasantly took our order, brought it out promptly, and checked on us regularly. So my whole speech was rendered moot. In fact, it would have been totally wrong. That is to say, the Whisper Lounge at the Grove is back on the Like list. Plus: cold Pyramid Hefe Weizen, three bucks, which for a place like that isn't bad. And even if she hadn't come around and taken care of us, a cold Pyramid Hefe Weizen with a lemon wedge goes a long way towards contentment.

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What? You want me to get off the sofa and write?

Nah. This is family time. Plus. I'm tired and lazy. 'Scuse me.

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Another no-time day, but I did scan in some family pictures.

Who's this five-year-old with the smirk? Me in 1965:

Now, how can you be angry at me for being lazy when I'm so adorable?

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Down memory lane again, an undated picture of your proprietor in the backyard of his childhood home, probably in about 1964:

What's interesting is that I dress pretty much the same way today. The shorts are a little longer and the shirts fit a little better, but the man and the boy are otherwise remarkably the same. Both of us love baseball, wear t-shirts and shorts, like running around aimlessly, and would probably rather have a roomful of Legos than a Rolls-Royce.

What's interesting for me about looking at these pictures is how many tiny, insignificant details come back to me. That was the house behind ours, and there was precious little separating the yards until several years later when they put in a hedge. Our yard was expansive, and perfect for playing catch with dad, who would occasionally yell "major league pop-up!" and throw the ball way, way in the air for me to chase down. The yard was at the bottom of the hill and it was a constant battle to try to drain the water off the property, and it left the surface a mix of grass, weeds, and dirt, which we dutifully cut evenly so that it looked from a distance like a lush lawn, much as some football teams will paint the dirt green so that it looks like grass on TV.

I even remember the chair -- we had a bunch of wooden folding chairs that would hang on the wall of the garage until needed. We probably had guests over, which was when the chairs would come off the pegs and get arranged on the patio in a semi-circle or around a wobbly folding table with a paper tablecloth taped to it, burgers and hot dogs sizzling on the hibachi. The patio was a bunch of slabs of slate mortared together and forever coming loose.

And when I got bored with running around or playing catch or playing badminton with Joan, I'd go through the sliding doors and watch TV on the big black-and-white console Capehart with the hi-fi on top. Looking at this photo, I flashed on a day about that time when I decided to go inside and watch "The Mickey Mouse Club." That's the whole story. There was nothing interesting or relevant about it. I just remember going inside through the sliding doors and watching "The Mickey Mouse Club." I have a far more interesting -- okay, just weird -- story about how I ate a Mickey Mouse puppet, but I'll save that for another time.

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Another convention looms, meaning another trip, another hotel, another few days of awkwardness and unfamiliarity. I did this last month. I'll do it again in April, and twice in June, and September, too. I'm in an endless loop.

This time, it's Washington, which isn't bad, although it's scary to leave the hotel at night. The agenda is peopled by the same folks who are always on these panels, meaning I'll be hearing the same old things. I probably should have done SXSW this year, but I'm Mr. Talk Radio, so I have to do the Talk Radio Seminar. Lucky me. Not that SXSW is any better -- it's the new guard fooling themselves into thinking that they're anything more than the same cliquish, self-important gathering that they deride the old guard for being. But that describes any convention in any city.

I gotta go pack now. I'll bring my cynicism and my total exhaustion. I hope there's room in my carry-on.

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So you arrive at your hotel and the type of room you reserved months ago is "unavailable." No explanation; they just gave all of them away. You get stuck in the deep recesses of the hotel with two double beds.

Then you unpack, change, get to work, and the room fills with sweet smoke. Someone next door's lighting up. You call the front desk and they suggest that they can have a security guard come up to the room. Okay, you say.

Five minutes later, no guard. The same operator calls back and asks if the last call was about sending up a security guard. You tell them yes, and IT WAS YOUR IDEA.

Ten minutes later, the smoke's begun to dissipate. You call down again and ask for the manager. The opeartor sends your call to the security manager, and you get put on hold for a long time. You hang up, redial, ask for the hotel manager, and the operator tells you that the hotel doesn't have one. What? Well, there is one, but he went home at 5 pm. There's nobody on duty? Okay, there's a front desk manager, she says. Then give me that line, you ask. It goes to generic voice mail.

A security guard comes up, doesn't knock on your door, just strolls, checks, no smoke anymore, leaves. You catch him before he leaves and he shrugs it off. The phone rings and it's the security manager, telling you that, geez, it's hard to catch these guys, you know, and we fine them $250 but they're sneaky, they'll walk down the hall and smoke, then duck into a stairwell, these crafty guys. Yeah, but if you'd sent someone up right away instead of waiting ten minutes, you note, they'd have caught someone. The response: a verbal shrug. You hang up and fantasize about staying at a hotel where managers care and "non-smoking" is taken seriously. And you stuff a towel under the adjoining room door just in case.

That's my evening thus far at a hotel in Washington. No, I'm not happy.

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So I have to be at convention activities. I also have to write "Talk Topics" for All Access. I also have to write "The Letter" for All Access. I also have to write this thing. And I have to, oh, I don't know, eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom.

Turns out I can't do all of that at the same time. I'd like to, really, I would (except for maybe the bathroom thing), but the convention is being held in the deepest basement of this hotel, so deep that cell phone reception is awful and there's no Wi-Fi (well, there is, but it's not accessible to us). That means that if I'm in a session, I can't multitask -- I can't do Talk Topics while listening to people say the same stuff they always say at these things. I want to, but I can't. So I end up working very late, which is what I'm doing right now -- just updated Talk Topics, but the Letter's going to have to wait until tomorrow. Can't blow it off two weeks in a row, and won't.

So you'll have to wait to find out what's annoying me today. Not that it was a bad day -- visited XM Satellite Radio and sat in watching Joe Mathieu do his show on the P.O.T.U.S. 08 channel and trying to esist the impulse to try to crack him up right in the middle of an interview (thanks. Joe and David Butler, for the hospitality), and had a good time with the Money Pit crew and Skip Joeckel this evening, plus I got to talk to a lot of great folks at the convention. But there were things said in the session that got under my skin. The next Letter will deal with those. Right now, I have to monotask: sleep.

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This week's All Access newsletter, live from Washington:

I'm at another convention. I'm always at conventions. They could charter a plane, put the same hundred and fifty or so folks on it, and fly from convention to convention like the Seminar of the Damned and we'd all save time and money. Not that I mind seeing everybody -- sometimes, it seems that it's the only way to actually see most of the people I know in the business -- but it doesn't take long for the deja vu to set in.

Today's controversy: Do I stay for the rubber chicken luncheon or sneak out for another Five Guys burger? We'll see what the industry leaders have to say....

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Incase you were wondering, the convention's over and I'm back, despite more hotel troubles. I'll tell you more later. Yes, I know I missed Saturday here. Sue me.

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So, what did we learn at the convention in Washington?

1. If you're an aspiring radio talk show host standing on an elevator and you see a prominent and influential (blush) trade columnist racing to catch the elevator before the door closes, hold the door. Do not just stare at him and let the door close. He will not forget you.

2. Not a huge crowd. I can remember just a year or two ago when they'd have two sessions going on at once and would fill the rooms. Now, there's only one room used and it wasn't filled. Bad sign. And the coctail parties were smaller than ever, plus no evening acticities at all. That's nothing like the past conventions.

3. These are increasingly schmoozefests mostly populated by syndicators and network folks. Most of the programmers and talent in attendance seemed to be there because they were on panels or nominated for awards. And because of that...

4. I wonder what the utility of this kind of convention really is. The panels were mostly nothing you didn't already know, with the exception of the PPM analysis. Much of it was just listening to hosts say what they say on the radio. Nobody needs to go to Washington for that.

5. Mice in the hotel. Bad service in the hotel. Not happy with the hotel.

6. A lot of folks seem to know who I am. Great for the ego. Keep it coming.

7. I did opt for the Five Guys burger instead of the official luncheon. I believe that it was the wise choice. Five Guys rules.

There's more, but the Benadryls are kicking in. Hello to everyone I saw at the show. Time to drowse off.

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What should I do?

I was talking to a friend and he said, you know, you could pick one topic, one area of expertise and concentrate on that in a website. He said that what I do here covers too much territory, that it's about me and not about any one thing in particular.

He's right. And that was by design. I started this site five years ago this coming Monday with no other mandate than to see if I could come up with original material -- of any kind, on any topic -- every day, and, give or take a day here and there or a short item now and then, that's what I've done. And the content reflects my personality and attention deficit disorder, with some radio here, some baseball there, some old TV sprinkled in, and a lot of irrelevant nonsense. It's how I think, how I work, how I write.

But after five years, I'm thinking about what I'm doing here, and I'm not sure where to take it. My friend's advice was to pick a subject, create a site that covers the topic, and build it into a commercial venture. He's right, of course, but I'm a little at a loss as to which topic would be the right one, and which topic is not oversaturated with other writers doing the same thing.

And then there's the depth thing. See, I know a lot about a lot of topics, but in any one of them, there's probably a dozen bloggers whose depth of interest and knowledge about the subject is well beyond normal. I'm weird, but not THAT weird. Can I compete if I don't know or care about the truly minute arcana of a topic?

So that's where my head is at this five year stage. The likelihood is that I'll continue doing this and maybe launch other, more commercial, more focused sites in parallel. And then I'll try to find a spare half hour to take a nap. But any advice or suggestions from the Peanut Gallery is welcome.

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How cool is it when two of your lomgtime interests collide in unexpected ways? I was running this morning listening to an old Jean Shepherd show from 1972 on my iPod (courtesy of the amazing podcast of The Brass Figlagee) when Shep launched into a live spot... for the New York Nets in the ABA playoffs:

Click for audio

Cheap tickets, the Virginia Squires, the brand-new Nassau Coliseum, and a lame crack about the red, white, and blue basketball. Awesome. (The Nets won that series 4-3, then got beaten in the finals by Indiana 4-2, in case you were wondering....)

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This week's All Access newsletter manages to incorporate lame-ass interviews of candidates ("Oh, Mr. Obama! You're so dreamy!") and Topo Gigio. And, for the record, that "Ed Sullivan Show" was on the evening of September 24, 1967, and my whole family was there -- my sister and I still remember seeing the Mamas and the Papas emerging from the fruit store next door to the theater carrying fruit baskets):

I am not a big fan of interviews. I'm usually bored by the typical radio interview. It's not just that too many hosts forget to remind the audience who the interview subject is and why they're talking, but it's also a departure from the host-audience interactive bond you get from phone calls. But that may be just me. Everyone does interviews, so clearly I'm in the minority. Fine. I can deal with that.

So, to recap: If you gotta interview candidates, ask tough, substantive questions. Stop saying you have a "great show" for us. Topo Gigio sucked. I think that covers everything.

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What's in a name?

Here's the 1972 Topps card of one Jim Grant:

Okay, what comes to mind when we're talking about veteran pitcher Jim Grant?

Would you believe that the word "Mudcat" does not appear anywhere on this card? I mean, he was practically ONLY known as Mudcat Grant, so much so that later arrival Mark Grant, now a Padres color commentator, immediately picked up the nickname "Mud." And the card ignores the one thing everybody remembers about Jim Grant.

What's Mudcat up to now? Plenty.

Some names just don't sound like they belong on a ballplayer:

Solid player, three-time All-Star, briefly a Rangers manager, presently a Tigers coach. Has all the credentials you need to establish that he was a real major leaguer. But "Toby"? Not a ballplayer name.

THIS is a ballplayer name:

Short, one-syllable names, right to the point. "Ron Hunt." THAT'S a ballplayer. And he played like a Ron Hunt, too, famous for getting hit by pitches a lot. He'd try to get on base any way he could. That was his specialty.

Where is he now? Teaching others his specialty. Bring a helmet.

And speaking of names...

No-hit catcher, played parts of five seasons, ended up with the Phillies (of course) in 1969. That's some name, "Vic Roznovsky." Spectacular name. You don't see too many names like that in the majors anymore. "Vic Roznovsky" is the kind of name you'd see in a World War II movie, the wisecracking private from the Bronx. This Vic Roznovsky was from Shiner, TX, and his claim to fame, besides that name, was that he and Boog Powell hit the first back-to-back pinch-hit home runs in AL history, on August 26, 1966. He missed 1968 due to a pre-season injury and was done by the end of 1969. Now, he's a homebuilder in Fresno.

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Oh, yeah, I'm gonna be on this show today at 3p PT/6p ET. Also scheduled: Ann Coulter and Greg Proops. For once, I'm the moderate, the centrist, the guy caught in the crossfire.

Should be... interesting.

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It was hot today. Drainingly hot. I had to work, and it was warm in the house, which left me right here on the couch in front of the TV unable to move.

Good weekend, though. Villanova's in the Sweet 16 and Georgetown isn't. The radio show was fun- I got to defend my political moderation to Ann Coulter and discuss burgers with Robert Hays and baseball with Greg Proops and got repeatedly called "great" by Matt Alan. And now I'm too wiped to even walk to the kitchen for a beer.

Spectacular.

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So it's been five years to the day since I started this site. I started without a mission statement, because, frankly, I didn't know what I was going to do with it. I had one general idea that I would just try to post writing of some sort every day, more or less, and that's what I ended up doing, starting with an item about a radio station that, while running some local temporary oldies programming while waiting to be leased, reminded me of a long-ago station that inspired me to go into radio. In the course of five years, I've pretty much established some obvious themes: I'm in radio, I love my wife and cat, I like and get frustrated by Philadelphia sports teams, I like to wax nostalgic, sort of, about TV and sports, using old ads and trading cards. I've dabbled in political commentary, too, because it wasn't possible to avoid it -- it's been five years of the war, too -- but I didn't really want to go there much, because others can do it far better than I, and there are only so many ways to communicate the thought "I disagree with everybody." That's why I went with pop culture and sports and the personal, and that's what I think I do better. At least, that's what I prefer to read, and, in a way, I got into this intending to write for myself.

At any rate, I suppose I've proven to myself that I can write a lot of material about a lot of things. Congratulations to me. Rather astonishingly, I've discovered, there are people who read this stuff, too. (That would be you) I'm grateful for the support and input and reaction. It's also intimidating, because it makes me feel like I need to, you know, write something GOOD here. That's a tough assignment. You want good, huh? I'll look into it.

Finding the time to write for this site has gotten more difficult over the years, because my duties at AllAccess.com have expanded somewhat and I'm still pursuing freelance work as well. But I'm not ready to give this up yet, so I'm going to keep it coming. What can you expect to find here over the next five years? Probably more of the same. I'm also in the planning stages of expansion, likely to involve the launch of other sites at some point. Or maybe I'll do something else. I don't know.

What I do know is that over these five years, I've gone through a lot of major events, including the loss of my father and Fran's illness, and writing for this site has been valuable as therapy of a sort. And the support and encouragement and, yes, love that I've felt and received from you out there has often left me searching for words to describe my gratitude. I'm still searching, If I ever find the words, I'll put them right here. Oh, wait, maybe I have them now:

Thank you.

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The shorthand: The Boston Red Sox held on to defeat the Oakland Athletics 6-5 in 10 innings at the Tokyo Dome in Major League Baseball's season opener.

The longhand: Okay, let's agree on this: March 25 is a week or so too early for the major league regular season to be starting. And it should not be starting on another continent. It's especially egregious when it not only comes while most other teams are still paying exhibition games in Florida and Arizona but comes BEFORE the Red Sox play an exhibition series in L.A. Yes, the Sox are playing games that count, followed by games that don't count, followed in turn by games that count. Plus, they had to fly halfway around the world to do it. Yeah, that shouldn't cause any problems with the team's mental state.

Not that I'm worried about the Sox, who remain almost as despicable as the Yankees in their free-spending, winning-entitled attitude. The Red Sox are only marginally more acceptable than their Bronx near-doppelgangers, the characters -- Papi, ManRam, Youk -- almost-but-not-quite redeeming the attitude of Red Sox Nation. Today was a good day for the Nation, but it almost wasn't. The A's had a 4-3 lead before Brandon Moss hit a game-tying homer with one out in the top of the ninth (ESPN overenthusiastically initially posted it as a two run homer before rectifying the error), and after Ramirez doubled home two in the top of the tenth, the Sox still needed a mind-blowingly stupid baserunning blunder by Emil Brown, who doubled home a run off Papelbon but inexplicably kept running and got caught in a rundown between second and third. The next two batters singled, but they never got that tying run home. And so, the season starts with a little bit of Red Sox luck.

(By the way, did Papelbon eat Boston in the off season? Dude looks wider than ever. We don't need another Mickey Lolich)

So we're underway, except that we're not. Frankly, I refuse to accept that the season's started until the first official Ryan Howard strikeout of the new season goes into the books. Wait 'till next Monday!

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How ludicrous was the opening Tokyo series for baseball this season? I completely forgot the game was on this morning. I'll bet a lot of people did.

Not that anyone would have noticed. The A's won 5-1 behind Rich Harden, the Sox managed only five hits, and I'll bet both teams couldn't wait to get on planes and head back to the States. That's not a slap at Tokyo, it's just a recognition that this opening series is just wearing and awkward, and downright weird with both teams back to exhibition games for the weekend before starting again for real. The A's go home to play the Giants, the Sox come here to play the Dodgers (including the Coliseum game Saturday, another surreality-in-the-making, but probably a lot more fun). Did this series even happen?

(This was the third time MLB opened in Japan, the other times being in 2000 and 2004. Pray that they forget to do it again in 2012)

So we're two games in and I feel like the season hasn't started... because it hasn't, not even really for the teams involved. They split, so, really, we COULD just ignore these two games and all agree that they didn't happen. So it's a lot like Pam Ewing waking up and finding Bobby in the shower in "Dallas." If it means we can get back to games that start after 3 am, I'm all for it.

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It's that time of year again: I am going to be doing the Revlon Run/Walk for Women in Los Angeles on May 10. The walk around the USC/Coliseum neighborhood is to raise money for research and support organizations for women's cancers. Those of you who know me and Fran will understand how close to our hearts this is; if not, the shorthand is that Fran is a survivor of breast cancer and we are committed to help raise funds for further cancer research to help more women survive the disease.

Many of you donated last year, and we appreciate your support. If you're able to give, no matter how small or large the donation, please go to https://www.revlonrunwalk.com/la/secure/mywebpage.cfm?pID=421081 and enter your donation. We did very well last year, and we'd love to increase the collection this year, so please give what you can... and thank you.

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This week's All Access newsletter sort of addresses the Clear Channel thing, but it's more about keeping your head while the world falls apart around you:

Warning: I'm going to try and hit you up for donations again before this letter's done. It's that time of year.

Coming Soon: More general snarking about the industry's woes. More baseball. More begging for donations. More distracting pop culture references. It's what I do.

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Well, yes, I'm in a bad mood now.

I WAS in a good mood earlier. Good medical news, Davidson upset Wisconsin, a beautiful day... but that was a few hours ago. Now, I'm annoyed that a UPS package never showed up- it's scheduled for delivery, it was scanned on the truck before 3 am today, but it's late and still out there and a call to UPS returned a "we can't help you" response. Does this remind you of anything? Why, yes, this HAS happened to me before. Funny how DHL, FedEx, and, yes, the USPS seem never to have a problem delivering here, but UPS tends not to show up. We live in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, near nothing but the ocean, a long way from the freeway. I think the drivers just look at the address, decide, hell, I'M not going out THERE, and so, don't.

And on top of that, it's halftime and I'm sitting here watching Villanova get run out of Ford Field. Funny how the dark clouds roll in so fast from such little things. The good thing is that it can all turn around in a few seconds. All I need is a package to show up, or a miracle second-half comeback, or a "Buy Me" marathon on HGTV. I'm easy that way.

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"I can do that."

That was the first thing I thought when I walked through the tunnel and saw the baseball configuration at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum in person for the first time. From halfway up the stands at about the 50 yard line, it didn't look all that difficult.

From the field, it didn't look hard, either. Standing by the backstop (placed in an odd position leaving plenty of grass behind it), it looked like there WAS no left field. A group of Dodgers came out of the tunnel, stopped, and laughed, shaking their heads in disbelief. All you had to do was pop the ball to left and it would be gone. Too easy.

Of course, it isn't easy. And if major leaguers get warned not to try too hard to pull the ball or over-swing, and if, as we were reminded incessantly before the game, Dodgers manager Joe Torre himself went 1-for-11 in his only series here as a Milwaukee Brave in 1961, what chance, really, do the rest of us have?

None, and we know that. But sports is nothing without fantasy, and not the kind where you draft players and play general manager, either. It's the feeling, when you're a kid, that someday you'll make it to the big leagues. It's the fantasy that somehow someone will see you playing in a pickup game or at the batting cages and sign you up. And, once you get to an age when you know for sure that you won't be signed up, it's the certainty that, even though you didn't make it, at least you could hit a three-pointer under pressure or catch a touchdown pass or, yes, hit a home run, if only you got a chance.

The chance never comes. The dream never goes away. And under no circumstances can 99 percent of the people in the Coliseum for this game hit one over the left field screen.

============

In the clubhouse-adjacent interview room, Russell Martin was already seated at a blue-plastic-clad folding table when a handful of media types drifted in. All of the questions were about the Coliseum, the history, the weirdness of the game. Martin was affable but not terribly illuminating. "I think Boston would be used to it because of the Green Monster," he offered to one of an interminable parade of nearly identical "what do you think about the left field wall" questions. Another time, he just said "We haven't talked about that much," then changed the subject. "Just walking out and looking at it," he responed another time, "that's really close." Really? He joked about it being the only chance Juan Pierre will have to hit one out, avoided questions about Dodger history, and said that Torre warned him not to swing for left-field before making the 547th reference to Torre's 1-for-11 of the afternoon.

Torre said that the place looked bigger when he first showed up in 1961, comparing it to his boyhood house in Brooklyn. "You go back," he said, "and it looks a lot smaller." His thought as a player was that the Coliseum was "really great for a right-handed hitter, but I'm not that right-handed hitter." But he didn't go so far as to criticize the place, careful to say that it was just one game and the same for both teams and like the Polo Grounds and more stuff but nothing all that illuminating, at which point he finished up and the reporters all bolted from the room as the staff called out in vain that a Dodger great would be taking questions right away.

It was time to join about 37,000 members of the media on the field, where everyone was doing the same thing, calling friends and family on their cell phones to say "guess where I am? Yeah, on the field!" or swarm after Papi and ManRam. Seriously, there were a LOT of media folks on the field, including noted sportscaster Steven Spielberg. Old Dodgers roamed the turf -- Don Demeter! Royce Clayton! -- and the crowd filed in. The atmosphere was as surreal as it gets.

============

The game? Anti-climactic. Record announced crowd of 115,300, largest ever. Cash hit one to the right of the screen, a deep but playable ball at Chavez Ravine. Youklis popped one over the net. No warning track, a 2-8 double play (due to the Dodgers' innovative five-infielder defense), a shared bullpen... what kind of baseball game is that? The crowd was eerily quiet, as if once the game started they realized that it's an exhibition and it doesn't count. They came alive with a wave in the fourth -- it's Los Angeles, and the wave always gets the inattentive folks' attention -- but the game itself wasn't much. By the bottom of the fourth inning, the Red Sox had a first baseman named Lars.

Things start for real on Monday. 202 feet won't buy you as much then. By Tuesday night, the press box will be a lot less crowded. And nobody in the ballpark will be named Lars.

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The layout:

Note the absence of left field:

Me doing the tourist thing:

Look! It's a famous movie director!:

Hello, Manny:

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I would tell you a lot more about my encounter with several whales and a pod of dolphins today, but I'm still seasick. Here's most of what I can recall:

Fran won a couple of tickets for a whale-watching cruise in a raffle, and she really really really really really really really really really really REALLY wanted to go, being a docent at a nature center that's all about whales and stuff. So I said yes, took some motion sickness pills, swallowed hard, and headed to Long Beach.

A few things:

1. The pills don't work. Brand name Bonine. I was queasy as hell.

2. 2/3 of the trip was like being trapped on a particularly unpleasant rollercoaster.

3. We saw only one whale for most of the trip. Just the blow, actually. And by "we," I mean everyone else on the boat except Fran and me. The boat spent some time chasing the whale around without luck.

4. On the way back to Long Beach, suddenly... WHALES! Two of them, frolicing in the water not far off-shore! Great! But the boat chased the whales back out to sea a little, which was bad for the stomach but great because the whales began to breach -- soar in the air -- which is a rarity around here. That was amazing to see. But I was just as happy to hear that, after a rough patch, we were heading back to port. Unfotrunately....

5. ...when we were mere yards away from the breakwater and calmer water, a pod of dolphins jumped in front of the boat and then started to take off away from shore... and the boat began to chase them. In my mind, panic: we were SO close to safety and we're back on the rollercoaster. This was one of the worst moments in recent memory until...

6. WHALES! MORE WHALES! And these were dipping and diving and soaring and flashing their tails and everything, a few yards in front of the boat! They just popped out of the ocean and began to perform. The captain, on the P.A., said that it sealed the deal: he'd never had a better whale-watching cruise around here. He said you don't get this kind of show north of Baja. And it WAS amazing. But I was already feeling awful, and the news that two of the three bathrooms on the boat were already "out of commission" (do you really want to know why?) gave me no confidence that I wouldn't decorate the boat with my lunch.

But I didn't. And we did make it back to port. Fran said it was one of the greatest experiences in her life, and that made me much more relieved that I didn't add an accent of vomit to her special day. It WAS amazing. But I realized then that I am not a seafaring man. I have been on boats before, large and small, and it took this one to remind me that I belong on land. Seeing the whales was incredible. But that's what HDTV is for.

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I would have something to report on the Braves-Nationals opener at the new park, except that the people at the restaurant we ate at after the cruise (yes, I was able to eat!) changed the channel in the top of the ninth to the Lakers game, which was in the first quarter. The ninth, naturally, featured the Braves tying it up and the Nationals coming back to win on a two-out walk-off blast by Ryan Zimmerman. Sounds like it was dramatic. I wouldn't know. I was watching Kobe scratch himself and Gilbert Arenas sitting on the bench.

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By the time Jeff Kent hit a two run homer in the first inning, I was already on the 110 freeway zipping past Naziland USA -- the Alpine Village in Torrance -- back to the office. Why was I there instead of Dodger Stadium? Ah, well, there's a story behind that.

I got to the Dodger Stadium exit on the 110 at about 10:45 this morning, and the line of cars stretched off the ramp and onto the freeway. Well, okay, I thought, it IS Opening Day. I'll be patient. And after a moderately long wait, I inched up to Stadium Way, peeled off to go around to the Sunset entrance, and promptly hit a wall of traffic. Well, okay, I thought again, it IS Opening Day. So I waited. And waited. And finally, I made the right turn on Elysian Park, got to the gate, flashed my card and credential, and headed straight into parking hell.

Here's the thing: for this game, the Dodgers restricted parking in the media lot to a short list of folks among whom I was not. But since nobody told me, or, it appears, several other media types that fact before we all showed up, I ended up waiting for at least 20 minutes in an interminable queue for the lot, then got told the bad news. "You have to go to Lot 10," they said. "Just make a right out of here, then a left and a left." Okay, fine. I made the right, and the left... and there was lot 12. Where's lot 10? Um, nobody knew. One guard sent me down a road into lot 1. When I asked how to get OUT of Lot 1, the guard said I couldn't. "There's no way, you're out of luck," he said. I decided not to listen to him and drove around the throng until I found an exit, forced my way across traffic, and drove around the stadium. Again. Lot 10? Nobody knew how to get there. Finally, a weary attendant just opened a gate, let me into lot K, or 8, or whatever lot it was, and said "just park here." I stuck an old credential in the window ("please don't tow me"), grabbed my computer bag, and trod up the hill to the stadium.

I had to wait a little for my credential behind a guy from one of the networks who was trying to pick up a badge for his cameraman, who wasn't there and whose name wasn't on the list, but that finally got straightened out, I got my little tag, and I caught an elevator to the press box, which was by this time jammed. I expected that every seat would be taken, but hoped that by getting there early, I could stake out someplace to work. The parking nightmare made that impossible. I finally commandeered part of a table in the cafeteria and turned the computer on and started writing, but, no more than five minutes in, the icon popped up: "Under 10% battery life remaining." Under 10%?!? I just charged it up!

That was a pretty strong sign.

On the field below, Dodger greats were being trotted out in reverse order of greatitude -- they saved Koufax for last -- while I tried to work on my iPod Touch. The fact that my glasses were on my office desk and I was looking at blurs didn't help. I gave up and headed out to find a spot where I could at least watch the game, but all the prime behind-the-press-rows spaces were occupied -- I heard them introduce Duke and Newk and Fernando, and I saw it on the TV screens overhead, but it was hard to catch a glimpse in real life. I headed out the door to see if any seats in the stands were available, but it was at that point I thought: what the hell am I doing? If I can't work and I can't see the damn game except on the TV screens in the cafeteria and I was late for any pre-game stuff and couldn't stay for post-game material, why not just... go now?

I kept walking, walked out the gate, across the parking lot, got in my car, managed to get back into the flow of traffic, found the Sunset exit, found the 110 entrance, waited while ballpark traffic merged onto the 110 north, and, finally, got moving south towards home.

It's amazing, really, that for a second consecutive season, the parking situation at Dodger Stadium for big crowds is a nightmare. The trouble is that even if you know where you're going, all it takes is one change and you're in a vortex from which you may never recover. The parking lot attendants didn't really know where people should go, the drivers certainly didn't, and it was just terrible. If there was a train from downtown, I'd take it, but there isn't. There's no mass transit to Dodger Stadium. There's no option other than to drive. It's... not ideal.

Oh, and I did find lot 10 on a map after I returned home. Turns out the attendant was wrong -- it's NOT a "right, a left, and a left." It's accessible from the paid entrance off the 110 freeway. The only way to get there from where I was would have been a daredevil crossover into oncoming traffic. I pretty much couldn't get there from here. At least I talked my way into a parking space, but how they came up with a traffic pattern where you simply can't go from point A to point B without major trouble is beyond my comprehension, as is having no signage and a staff that doesn't know where anything is. I'll try again tomorrow, when there should be a big crowd -- the Giants, no matter how bad they figure to be, are still the Dodgers' Hated Rivals -- but less urgency. And less media.

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So Kent did hit one, Brad Penny and three relievers shut out the Giants, and that was it. The game told less about the Dodgers than it did about the Giants, who, absent some major roster surgery, seem a lock for the bottom of the league. The Giants are shaping up to be as woeful as expected: Zito didn't have anything, although his defense didn't help. Worse, the Giants can't hit, and the lineup is filled with castoffs and past-prime players (Dave Roberts? Rich Aurilia? Ray Durham?) and Aaron Rowand, who insisted on a five-year deal and got one for the price of having to play with these guys. Most of the lineup is comfortably over 30. You can't tell a lot from one game, but, man, absent Barry, the Giants aren't worth hating anymore. They're more the pitiful type.

But the Dodgers are an interesting case. The number of homegrown players is surprising for a big-bucks team. Kemp, Martin, Loney, and Dewitt, all in the starting lineup today, are all Dodger draftees, and Ethier never played for Oakland before the Dodgers got him in the Milton Bradley trade. Kent, Jones, and Furcal were free agent pickups, and Penny came via the LoDuca trade, which looks a lot better in hindsight than it did at the time. That's a nice mix of guys they developed and guys who came to the team already established. This team is, and it's hard to say if you're not a Dodger fan, likeable. There's some potent offense, some excitement, some decent pitching... maybe it'll be enough to keep up with the Rockies and DBacks. Maybe.

Meanwhile, as the Giants are soaking in the fetid liquid at the bottom of the barrel, they might want to make room for Phillies reliever Tom "Flush" Gordon, who turned a tie game into an 11-6 Nationals rout in the top of the ninth in the home opener in Philadelphia. Let's see... they score six runs and that's not enough, and the closer can't close, and the season gets off to a bad start. When have I heard that before?

The latest issue of Philadelphia magazine showed up in my mailbox today. There's an article half-jokingly calling Charlie Manuel a "genius." Maybe he is, but if the front office doesn't get him a bullpen (or magically "fix" Brad Lidge), he could be freakin' Einstein and it's still going to be a long season.

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