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It's been a strange weekend for me, and it hit home while compiling news items for All Access. The dominant news story has, of course, been the Pope's passing, and it was all over TV Saturday- even on the Final Four telecasts, every pause seemed filled by Thalia Assuras with more on the Pope, his life, his death, his impact. And a lot of people I respect are brimming over with their thoughts on how important the Pope was to the world, his impact on each and every one of us incalcuable.

I'll take their word for it, and I do respect the Pope and what he accomplished, but as far as my own commentary's concerned, I got nothin'. I actually SAW this Pope live in Philadelphia, and I STILL have nothin'. I'm not trying to be irreverent, I do understand his importance, I'm sorry he's gone, and my condolences are genuine. But I feel like I'm on the sidelines for an event that's profound for everyone but me.

And then I read other blogs and columnists, and there's a level of emotion and respect and sorrow that rarely surfaces these days. So I'm going to let them communicate the meaning of the Pope's life and passing, and I'll step aside for it. It's just like me to encounter what appears to be a defining event of life for millions of people and come up empty.

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Small changes in routine seem to throw people beyond comprehension. Today at the Y, they changed to a requirement that members bring their own locks to the locker room. Before this, you'd hand them your membership card and they'd give you a key to a specific locker; now, you use any locker and lock it with your own lock.

Needless to say, it was slightly chaotic in the locker room.

Some people forgot locks; the Y sold them cheapo combination locks for three bucks. Some people brought locks that didn't fit. There was a lot of puzzlement, a lot of "hey, how do you open this one?," general confusion. I wasn't confused- naturally suspicious, I always used a combination lock on top of the regular key lock, assuming that the regular lock was way too pickable- but I understood. I get- everybody gets- thrown when routine is disrupted. At the gym, it's when I have to go out of order- it should be lifting, free weights, cable pull, sit-ups, chin-ups, rowing machine, chest press machine, lat pull machine, leg press, two more leg machines, shower, done. If I walk in and someone's using the Smith machine, or someone's using a machine that's next on my schedule, I go into a deep sour mood. How dare anyone else want to work out when I want to work out? It's just wrong.

Of course, it isn't, but it FEELS wrong, because the world revolves around me. Dry cleaning's not ready? Bad mood. Traffic delays me for 30 seconds? Bad mood. Ralphs is out of the brand of tortilla I like, or the particular tuna I favor? Bad mood. There's a different brand of bottled water in the fridge, or, worse, there's no bottled water in the fridge and I have to go to the garage and get a warm bottle? That'll throw me for hours. I have a schedule in my mind; it starts at about 4:30 am when I glare at the clock radio before it clicks on, and it lasts through work and running and eating and gym workouts and more eating and more work and all the way until around 9 at night, when I might be able to join Fran for some random TV watching before losing consciousness. Along the way, there are things I have to do and eat and see at specific times, some for a reason (there's a deadline for columns, a deadline for sending out a daily e-mail for All Access), some for practical purposes (I don't like to eat after 7 pm because that's not good for weight watching), and some for no good reason at all (this thing gets done by a certain time because... well, because I say so). But I like having the routine. I hate when it's disrupted. It's not rational, but it's how I am.

And I suspect it's how most people are, which is why you get road rage incidents, why people can't see their way through adjusting their timing for their own good (like going to the gym, or to the grocery, or anywhere, at a time when the crowds aren't at their peak), why you get naked older guys wandering around a locker room hoping they can somehow recall the numbers that will magically grant them access to their clothes. It's completely understandable. Life gives you a lot to process, and routine reduces the number of things with which you need to deal. And when there's disruption, there's additional information, there's less time to handle other things. Hey, I'm old enough, I've earned the right not to have to change my ways. And now I understand how those guys with their waistbands up under their armpits in Florida feel. When my Dad was still alive, in his later years, he wanted certain things certain ways, and he became more inflexible and more set in routine. But in routine and inflexibility, there was certainty and comfort. I think I get what Dad was thinking now.

I'd feel old, but that's not next on my schedule.

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I was gonna write something else tonight, but I got caught up in this.

Yes, it's Google Maps. But enter your address, click the satellite link in the upper right, and zoom in. MapQuest has had this for a while, but Google has it beat on detail. It's scary- I found our house, and could even see the pool in the backyard. I found our old house in Pennsylvania, our apartments in New Jersey, the house in which I grew up, all easy to make out. It's addictive.

Well, yeah, it's a time waster, but a cool one.

Here's a CNN article about the thing, in case you care.

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Eric Slater of the L.A. Times is apologizing to friends and colleagues for writing that error-filled story about the frat trouble at Chico State. L.A. Observed has the e-mail mea culpa.

This is the problem with the news media: he's not apologizing to the readers.

It's typical behavior from the news media- Slater, and the Times, are far more concerned with their reputation within the news industry than whether the readers get served. Screw the subscribers- there's a career at stake here!

I keep renewing that Times subscription. Every month, I seem to have fewer reasons to do so.

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I discovered that some radio guy's website is "borrowing" my All Access column.

More specifically, he's just copying and pasting the Talk Topics column. Verbatim. My writing, my jokes, my commentary, everything.

Theft.

What would you do?

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So the great column thief admitted to stealing my writing and took the stuff off his website. He did not apologize, though, which means I will not let the guy off the hook. He knows who he is. Maybe you should know, too. Haven't decided yet.

This was a weird one. The stuff I write for All Access is like my personality in small doses, and seeing it on someone else's site, with him taking credit for it, was like identity theft, or, more to the point, personality theft. My words out of the mouth of someone else, a white-haired, grizzled conservative talk show host halfway across the country. You know those credit card commercials where someone's speaking in an entirely different, inappropriate voice to illustrate how identity theft can affect you, the ones where a middle-aged suburbanite male has the voice of a young Valley girl who stole his card? Like that. Creepy.

So the stealing's over. I'm not sure, however, that I'm through with this. I know I'm owed an abject apology. I haven't gotten one yet. I know, I know, I should let it go, but this just pissed me off. Dude, if you're out there, don't think I'm through with this. Not yet.

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After several late, late nights finishing taxes and stuff, I'm finally free. But I need to wind down, so forgive me for taking a break. I'll be back tomorrow. Probably.

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Sometimes, you want to wait until you've had a good look at a team before declaring them winners or cooked. And sometimes, you just know, right away. I don't want to jump to conclusions, and, believe me, I'm not, not yet, but after four games (yeah. I know), yuck.

Today, the Phillies blew a lead in that most painful of ways- the bases-loaded walk. They were up 5-1 at one point, but then the bullpen couldn't get anyone out in the 8th inning. They can hit, but Madson and Fultz looked embarrassing out there and that's three straight.

I'd hate to think this Phillies team's best shot is past, but, man, they do not look good right now. If Bowa was still there, you'd be able to hear the screaming everywhere after this one.

(No, I'm not giving up- it's April 8th. But... yuck.)

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The Postal Service wants a two cent increase for first class letters and hikes across the board for other services. They can ask for all they want, but, judging by my continued experiences with the USPS, it's academic, because I'm doing everything I can to avoid using them if at all possible. Take my Express Mail situation- this week, I had to send an important package of paperwork to New York overnight. I used the USPS. Mistake. It was supposed to be delivered by noon- nope. 3 pm- nope. I called and got hung up upon once, then I got a contract worker named Eloise who kept repeating the stock phrase "I understand, but..." before everything she said. Where was the package? She understood, but she didn't know. Why wasn't it delivered? She understood, but she didn't know. What can I do to track it? She understood, but I couldn't. What can I do, period? She understood, and I could wait 24 hours, then call again. And what happens when I call? She understood, but I could call in 24 hours and they'd research it. Research? What does that mean? She understood, but I could call in 24 hours and they'd research it. I don't understand- if they can't find it, what recourse do I have? She understood, but... sorry, what do you mean by recourse, sir? Recourse- if your carriers screwed up, wha...

And this is where she departed from the script book, or at least she resorted to a trick I've heard bad customer service reps use when there's nothing left in the script book to say and they don't want to send you to a supervisor: "Sir, stop yelling at me."

But I wasn't yelling.

"I'm going to have to ask you to stop yelling at me."

I'm sorry, but I'm not... what did you say your name was?

"You're yelling at me."

No, actually, I'm not. Name, please.

"Eloise."

Do you have an ID number?

She gave it and hung up.

Yes, this is worth the extra money.

As it happens, an actual Postal Service employee in the L.A. Express Mail office named Maudie came through big time after I tried yet again and called local post office numbers to find someone who could answer me without a script. Maudie was extremely helpful, called the New York facility with me on the line, determined that the package was on a truck and inexplicably was running late, and helped me until the thing was finally delivered late in the afternoon. And here's something the Postal Service should understand- when you have people like Maudie directly dealing with the public, you will keep customers happy and you'll get a more sympathetic ear when costs go up and you have to raise rates. Had I talked to Maudie first, I wouldn't be as dissatisfied, because I'd know that the USPS at least cares about making things right. Instead, I got Eloise the call center worker, who couldn't care less whether that package got there or not.

That's a lesson for business in general (Dell? Are you listening?)- it's not just outsourcing out of the country, it's hiring independents to "represent" your company, period. If the person taking a complaint call for a company doesn't even WORK for the company, he or she sees no benefit in doing a good job. They don't care. And you lose a customer. Whatever additional cost there is in hiring and keeping CSRs rather than contracting the work out is worth it. If companies weren't so panicked about this quarter's earnings and Wall Street's reaction, they'd understand this. (If Wall Street hadn't turned from analyzing companies based on past and current performance into a pack of would-be Criswells trying to predict the future and setting stock and commodities prices based on wishful thinking and a desire to bet on a winner, we wouldn't have this problem. We also wouldn't have $2.79/gallon gas, either.

All right, enough economics, it's Saturday. At least the Phillies looked a lot better, blasting St. Louis and featuring an impressive performance by Gavin "Uncle" Floyd. ("Pink" would be too obvious, "Raymond" too obscure, "Flat Foot Floogie With a Floy" too stupid. Please don't breathe a word of this to Chris Berman.)

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