9 More Badly Needed Changes
to Speed Up Baseball

Major League Baseball just killed the “manual intentional walk” in the spirit of speeding up games. Managers can now trigger an intentional walk by signally the umpire rather than forcing the pitcher to waste a dozen lifetimes across all viewers by going through the usually pointless exercise of tossing in four wide balls.

This not only moves things along, but also spares us from seeing the humiliated catcher stand with his arm stretched out in a stance that looks vaguely French, announcing that ten grown men are scared pissless of the guy with the bat. (Yeah, strategy, whatever. Watching it has always made me momentarily sorry to be alive.)

The rule change is calculated to shave approximately 14 seconds off the average major league games, which now clocks in at 3:26, up from 2.27 in 1947.

It’s a good start. But the fans deserve better.

Here are nine more badly needed upgrades to America’s pastime.

1. All stadium music must be a variation of “Flight of The Bumblebee.”

2. No more strolling on and off the field after every three outs. Each team gets 27 consecutive outs and a max of 39 at-bats per game. Any base runner who doesn’t score by the time he’s up again forfeits his base.

This will mean high-scoring games that are stunningly short, mostly because the game ends when it’s impossible for a team to win (i.e., the home team trails by six runs and has used 34 at-bats). For an extreme example, if the visiting team scores no runs after spending their 27 outs or 39 at-bats during the “top half” of the game, the first run scored by the home team in the “bottom half” wins:

Tied game after 54 outs? The visitors bat again. If they score a run, the home team immediately begins batting and must score a run within the same number of at-bats it took the visitors to score. This repeats until one team fails to score within the needed at-bats. If there’s no winner after each team has had 39 at-bats, both teams lose. Nobody deserves to win.

3. No more wasting time by having the catcher throw the ball back to the pitcher. The pitcher will have a bucket filled with 60 baseballs and will retrieve a ball for every pitch. The catcher will hand the pitched ball to the umpire, who will drop it in a second bucket. The buckets are swapped as necessary. During plays at the plate, if a runner overturns the umpire’s bucket the catcher can use any of the scattered balls to tag him out.

4. Any pitch under 90 miles per hour is a ball. Knuckleballers won’t be grandfathered so they shouldn’t expect to be on the hill at age 52.

5. The strike zone is expanded in applied practice (no bullshit this time) to follow the actual rule: it spans the area above the plate from the batter’s kneecaps to his shoulders. Umpires not enforcing this will be fined or fired. Overnight, this will increase the pitcher’s target from the size of a Whitman’s sampler box to something far more accommodating:

As the average nine-year old child could easily hit the enlarged strike zone in three out of three tries, it hardly needs to be stated that…

6. Batters only need three balls to earn a walk. This will be the sixth and last time this rule is revised (it was reduced to an unsettling eight balls in 1880 and dickered down to its current disturbing four balls in 1889). Naturally, three foul balls will now count as one strike, since endless do-overs should have been killed back when using a glove was for nancy-boys.

I’m sure you’ve noticed, but all changes should make baseball observe the “Rule of Threes.”

Namely, every rule or custom with a numerical expression will be in threes or multiples of threes. This includes putting the hyphen back in base-ball, restoring the nine printed characters originally intended to represent the game on paper.

7. Players or coaches may make no restroom trips after the game starts. Anyone breaking the seal forfeits three outs for his team. Bowls of salty pretzels shall be kept in both dugouts.

8. Players must run at full speed between the bases at all times, including after hitting a home run. Jogging will cost your team three outs. (All penalties further shorten the game;  a bench-clearing brawl gives everyone an early night.) To encourage hustle, bat boys and foul-line girls will follow rules applied to Wimbledon ball runners, including assuming a racing crouch between duties.

9. Pop-ups and flies caught in the cap behind the back count as three outs. More unassisted triple plays, more razzmatazz. Everybody wins.


Top image: Wikimedia Commons

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Sling and the Overdue Death of Network TV

I gave away my last television in 2005. It wasn’t a financial decision or some act of principle. Nor was I trying to spare kids from a prime-time diet of violence and sex (I’ve clawed a tenuous beachhead into bachelorhood thus far).

It was a junkie going cold turkey. I just loved TV too damned much.

I spent the seventies and eighties captive to television, logging more hours peeled to a CRT than most air traffic controllers with an alcohol problem. By age nine I had seen every late movie broadcast on Philadelphia stations between 1975 and 1978, mainly due to my mother working until 2am as a waitress and my aging father being an early-to-bed type.

This warps a little dude. I knew Darren McGavin better than my third-grade teacher. I would’ve recognized Warren Oates in a parking lot at 400 feet. I wasn’t a wanderer in the wasteland; I was a native. Had we been one of the “80-channel” houses, I’d probably be in an asylum now babbling to myself while scribbling letters to Ann Jillian’s character on It’s a Living.

High school and college forced a reluctant semi-weening, when other obligations made 11 daily viewing hours impractical. But the drug never disappeared; a house without a blaring television always made me wonder if a wake was going on in the next room.

When my work-a-day routine solidified into the familiar home-at-seven-frozen-dinner-by-eight existence by my mid twenties, I resumed my habit, spending large blocks of time in front of the RCA or Magnavox or Sanyo, watching anything it displayed without particular care, monitoring the colors and human puppetry that kept worries from germinating.

By my mid thirties, in 2005, I was freelancing full-time in Manhattan and realized that I had a problem. Namely, I couldn’t watch enough television to render myself sufficiently catatonic while still managing to feed myself. Without the constraints of an office—where keeping one eye on The Courtship of Eddie’s Father during a conversation with my boss could be a liability—working at home meant no consumption limit. I could use from morning til night like a meth addict with unusually dull stories (unless the topic of Bob Crane came up). An intervention was needed.

I cancelled cable as a first measure.

It didn’t work.


I missed South Park, but loving television means having no standards, so I was almost equally gripped by The New Munsters, infomercials on Tupperware-like containers with incredible nesting capabilities and content of significantly lesser quality. Moving to a new apartment during the summer-replacement season gave me the impetus to finally kill the three-networked monkey; I gifted away the big TV and didn’t buy a new one after I moved. It was like a transporter accident on Star Trek.

To my astonishment, I only briefly missed television.

Radio, theater movies and bar-stool time quickly replaced the tube god. What was out of sight remained out of life for twelve years. A dozen years in which words like “Olympic simulcast,” Walter White and Peter Dinklage might as well have been Chaucer Englyshe, because I was no longer privy to any of the goings-on at the digital campfire.

Overall, I was better for it. I got more work done, probably had a bit more sex, and at least occasionally made conversation while killing liver cells with tap beer rather than isolating on a couch with ecologically harmful cans.

Recently, though, in my mid forties, I began missing my addiction anew. Not for the sleep-destroying watch-a-thons. Not for sports, which I long ago let slide from my life (I’m a born Philadelphia fan). But for news.

Feeling unplugged no longer felt liberated. It felt alienated. Since 2005 I had rationalized that anything of importance would quickly bubble up to me, and I could see presidential speeches and debates and other things a responsible person should digest at my leisure. Of course, commentary got to me ahead of these viewings, tainting what I saw.

I didn’t really care about that until 2016.


After last year’s national cavalcade of horrors, abstaining from TV no longer seemed tenable. I needed to amble back to the digital campfire regularly if I wanted to make a clear-headed judgment on anything of consequence that had its origin there. And, hell, maybe getting sucked into a decent show occasionally wouldn’t kill me, if I rationed my viewing like a sensible middle-aged creature.

So when I moved from New York to San Diego in January 2017, I decided to ease back into TV like an AA veteran sipping a thimble of Thunderbird. I wouldn’t purchase a proper television or, God forbid, get cable again. The first just isn’t necessary for TV viewing in 2017, and the second, for Christ’s sakes, should not be.

I would simply watch live television on my laptop.

Meaning, I’d simply tap one of the many, many streaming services that must surely exist now to make watching TV via Wi-Fi on any computer easy and affordable.

Because in this day of miracle and blunder, 25 years into a cyber-connected world, surely a man with an unmaxed credit card can pay something to NBC, PBS, CNN, SyFy or whatever the frig to stream a live signal directly to his laptop, like just about every radio station on the planet.


Except he can’t.

Not without it being a more convoluted pain in the ass than that man would possibly expect.

As you may know, streaming live television is still a bridge too far for most TV networks. They remain tangled in complicated agreements with frightfully large cable providers like Comcast and Time Warner, and protected—or hamstrung, depending on your point of view—by dusty laws from the medium’s infancy meant to stop interlopers from catapulting Lucy and Ricky to TVs in the west before local stations could air the show. Cagey challenges have been defeated as recently as 2014, when Barry Diller’s ill-fated Aereo was shot down by the Supreme Court. As of now, truly independent, pay-the-network-directly streaming is still limited to a few traditional cable players, like HBO.

Most workarounds to get TV on your laptop still suck. Free stations can still be free-ish on a computer—if you insert that asinine tuner doohickey into your USB port and happen to be in one of the eight U.S. towns where an antenna works.

For $6 a month, you can stream CBS live to your laptop—if you’re one of the 150 markets they currently service. Otherwise, click the “Stream Live” button on most other network sites, like CNN, and you’ll be asked to enter your cable subscription number.

Services that require devices like Roku, Apple TV, Amazon Fire and Playstation Vue can all kiss my ass because I have two Mac laptops that stream live video perfectly well, so I know I don’t need another piece of equipment. (This is indeed an obstinate point of principle with me.) I travel frequently and want to watch TV on both of my laptops using nothing more than Wi-Fi.

This irrational ask leaves just two choices: Sling TV or AT&T’s DirecTV Now.

I tried both.

They’re similar in function and design, but I found AT&T’s product far buggier and more cumbersome than Sling TV. And at $35 versus $20 a month for the entry-level plans, DirecTV Now costs $180 more a year. Finally, it made my Mac’s fan race like the processor was crunching on a Higgs boson experiment.

The choice wasn’t hard.


If you’re the odd sort of duck who doesn’t own a television, you could call Sling “cable lite for laptops,” which is exactly what I was looking for. Most people are familiar with the service by now; it lets you stream 30 to about 45 channels for $20 to $40 a month. Conceptually, it’s like Netflix except the little squares cough up live TV. As mentioned, there’s no equipment to buy if you only want to watch it on a computer or Internet connected device, like a tablet. (If you want to beam it to a real television, you’ll need a streaming device like an Amazon Fire, Roku or others mentioned above.)

If your Internet signal is powerful, Sling TV works passably well—at least if you’re grading on the ridiculously generous curve we give laptops and cell phones. I get a few unexpected quits or perplexed black screens every hour or two, so it’s far balkier than a conventional TV with cable.

For people accustomed to Netflix, one fundamental limitation of Sling immediately feels jarring and archaic: it’ll let you scroll through a network’s entire weekly schedule, but when you inevitably click on a show that’s airing in the future—in five minutes or next week—you’re reminded that it’s “upcoming” and unavailable to view.

I found myself getting weirdly indignant at this, especially when I was clicking on an old rerun of The Twilight Zone or another show that was equally not new. Why are you keeping Andy Griffith from me? I’m clicking on this ancient show—just make it play! It continually took a few nanoseconds for me to realize that I was bringing 2017 expectations to the 1950s reality Sling was operating under; the ancient rerun I wanted wasn’t “on” yet.

I felt like a three-year old pushing a finger across a People magazine as if it was an iPad, trying to make the stupid thing work. Knowing I could probably keep clicking around to find this 50-year old program On Demand didn’t help at all; tapping dead center on the desired square to no effect was like Jeeves giving me the finger.


Similar to Netflix, Sling TV lays its entire watchable offerings in horizontal bars, including both what’s “on now” and each network’s upcoming lineup, allowing you to scan all program options fairly quickly. As “changing channels” takes more effort on Sling than it does when you’re simply clicking a TV remote, each click begs for wee bit more scrutiny. As a result, I do no passive channel surfing when using the service; there’s almost nil chance I’ll serendipitously land on something interesting in a program I’d otherwise pass over.

In use, this means each network’s major helping of low-quality, repetitive content is laid naked at once to would-be surfers who are more engaged than they would be if lazily eyeballing a program schedule elsewhere. So scrolling on Sling significantly speeds the familiar journey to disappointment ending in “there’s nothing good on” (or “I’ve seen all this,” which Netflixers know well).

Further, unlike Netflix, Sling doesn’t spare you from commercials—which feel endlessly long to me after watching commercial-free shows and movies for a decade.


In sum, Sling’s functionality and design ironically highlight network television’s three legacy weaknesses: it’s still largely bound to artificial schedules that can only be partially offset with workarounds (like DVRing, which Sling may offer soon), it still serves up 20 parts crap for every occasional gem, and it still needs you to buy Tide to keep the shows on. Seeing television’s oldest shortcomings baked into a digital product makes them feel more flagrant, more insultingly last-century.

It’s the result of a May-December mix. I have certain expectations when I’m in front of a television with a remote control, and quite different expectations when I’m clicking on a laptop. Sling attempts to meld these two realms, and most small frustrations with its user experience stem to this wonky marriage. The core failure, however, is network television’s inability to break away from creaky paradigms installed when six channels felt gluttonous.


After twelve years away from television, it’s an understatement to say I expected TV networks and Internet streaming services to be further along in cooperation. The few options available feel primitive and devoid of capabilities that seem like layups in the post “there’s an app for that” universe. Lineups tailored to your preferences, a la carte channel purchasing that gets rid of forced bundling from the 1970s, fee structures that eliminate commercials…a long list of such features should be commonplace now among device-free streaming options for live television. None are. Which bites.

That’s mostly why Sling feels anticlimactic, as if it should have launched during Obama’s first term. Like me, most Americans who’ve Googled “How can I stream live TV?” in the last several years were probably surprised to find that capitalism hasn’t yielded multiple competing options yet. Several scam sites that claim to offer live TV streams still ride on that disbelief.

Consequently, Sling seems like it’s late to a party that never got started. Paying for it feels like shelling out dough for a neat flip phone of sorts; it performs its task, but you can’t shake the feeling that something much better ought to be in its place by now.

A few friends who’ve tried Sling cancelled it within weeks due to its persistent hiccups and buffering. After a month, I’ve thought of cancelling for a reason that’s harder to fix. In whole, live-broadcast TV is just as time wasting as it was when I left it back in 2005, and just as loaded with mediocrity—despite all the “golden age” hooey thrown around about series that are much better binge-watched.

But I’m stuck with Sling for now. I want live news, and it’s currently the only reasonable option to get the local NBC affiliate and CNN on my Mac, for two measly examples. I’m not a happy Sling customer; I’m resentful that this is the only answer to a problem that should’ve been solved and dead by 2010. I’ll jump ship as soon as an option emerges that’s 1) even slightly less glitchy and 2) offers some of the features I’ve mentioned above.

It’s a chicken-and-egg debate as to whether consumers truly drive evolution in technology, but we’ve given television some queer free pass to remain in the clunky past. God knows why. Speaking as a child of the 80s, if Atari didn’t deserve that odd gift, the TV industry sure as hell doesn’t.


Top image: Wikimedia Commons

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A Conversation at Altitude


I had 97 percent of this conversation shortly after the 2016 U.S. presidential election, which Donald Trump won. That last three percent make it a parable. The actual exchange occurred at sea level, though it didn’t seem that way.



Last known photograph of flight AA270.










83J: We elected a new pilot. We went with the orangutan.


83K: I heard.


83J: It was a fair and square election.


83K: I know.   Read More »

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This Is Facebook


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Post-Election Ode to Premature Suicide


“I protest being used in this manner.”

When I was a kid, I had a book filled with little biography blurbs. I remember reading an especially short one about Walter Benjamin, a German-Jewish philosopher and writer I had never heard of and didn’t care to learn anything about. The last sentence caught my eye. It went something like, “Distraught by the rise of Nazism, he committed suicide in 1940.”

I immediately envisioned that he looked out of his window, saw the jack boots and swastikas and said, “welp, I’m out” and grabbed a gun or poison and was later found slumped on the desk where he wrote all the impenetrably boring, smart things that got him in the book. (Years later, I would learn that his offing himself was considerably more involved than that, but no matter.)  Read More »

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Offensive Chart



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You, For One, Will Welcome Your New Serpent Overlord

Gaboon6The nation is in a struggle to choose its next animal.

Many couples can relate. Let’s say you’re moving and debating which furry quadruped will bedevil your family for the next decade.

“I’d like a dog,” you say. “They’re not perfect, but they’re fiercely protective and they force you to get off your ass, if only to clean up excrement.”

“I want a cat,” your wife says. “They don’t go bat-crap berserk on visitors.”

“I hate cats,” you say. “Don’t you know they secretly despise you? A dog will keep us safer.”

“I want a sub-Saharan Gaboon viper,” says Uncle Joe. Read More »

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1905 Reporter: Election To Wreak Salvation of Journal-ism


News-Papers Must Support
Wealthy G.O.P. Gentle-Man
Ridiculed For His Comb Of Hair

News-paper men, and ladies in the Trade, reporting on the ongoing in-state contests to choose the candidates for the U.S. Presidency, are displaying hostile aversion to one of the gentle-men of the Republican Party. They strongly fear this gentle-man, known for the constructing of conglomerate dwellings and appearances on the tele-vision, will now irrevocably win the nomination and lay destruction to Lincoln’s Party, and—should he prevail in the Presidential election—destroy any well-being of the United States.

While this gentle-man’s name is written daily in this broadsheet, my reckoning of the shoe leather sentiment held by the finger pecking ranks in this foul smelling office, usually cloaked well under-neath their inked stories, was deemed invective and I was requested to “not go there,” which our night broom man informed does not reference any existing place a man could go.
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With Great Sadness

momMy dear, beautiful mother, Joan, passed away this past Sunday afternoon, August 16, after fighting lung cancer. She was 81. She was my best friend, my best editor, and my reason for living. I miss her more than words can express.

Everyone who knew and loved my mom knew she was an incredible human being. I’m heartbroken that she’s left me, and I’m trying to just get through each new hour without her gentle eyes and warm smile. She was the life and light of our family and her leaving has left a void that hurts unbearably. Read More »

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Brian Williams Still Can’t Say the “L” Word

Brian_Williams_color7Brian Williams still won’t say he lied.

After four months.

In his first post-suspension interview on June 19, safely on the home NBC turf of the Today show, he persistently dodged a pivotal question Matt Lauer asked but didn’t press forcefully enough: Did he actively know that he was lying when he was telling his many exaggerated tales?

He wouldn’t go there. He just repeated that he got things wrong. Said things “that weren’t true.” His ego made him pump up his stories, but he never intended to mislead anyone.


As genuinely ham-fisted as he’s trying to appear in his sorry-soaked reemergence, Williams is still far from genuine. He’s still putting forward a persona, still trying to sell a man sitting across from him on buying the product he’s creating. Those long-breathed mea culpa sentences are meant to seem clear and naked enough to distract you from noticing they are still equivocations, still conspicuously never add up to I knew I was lying and I kept doing it. Read More »

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