Some say that baseball is the national pastime, while others believe it is watching celebrities have nervous breakdowns. As that debate rages on, we will focus on baseball.

Baseball dates back to 1845, when Alexander Cartwright created a rulebook with page numbers and everything. He convinced players to stop throwing the ball at the runners, and he replaced the upright poles with soft, harmless bases (the kind of forward thinking inspired by impalement).

Not everyone agreed with his rules, but Cartwright had the upper hand: He could write.

Soon there were "umpires" and, shortly thereafter, chants to "kill the umpire!" I can be watching baseball on a TV 2,000 miles from the stadium and still be heard by the umpires.

"Are you blind?! Clearly he was safe. Kill the umpire!"

Helpful tip: When you're watching a recorded game, you have to shout extra loud to go back in time.

And though baseball makes more sense than, say, politics or religion, there are still some basic flaws. Why, for instance, do we call it a walk when the player jogs to first base and becomes a runner? And how come a "strike" when a player misses the ball?

And why, help me, why, must each game take longer than childbirth? Really. Games are so long that in the seventh inning, we have to stretch and sing just to stay awake. That may have been fine for Alexander Cartwright, but you and I get 300 channels.

But I digress. The real problem with baseball is Joe Morgan.

During his career, Joe broke all sorts of records, but what made him truly great was that, on the field, he didn't have a microphone. Now he announces baseball with a mission to not once ever under any circumstance change his inflection until we are completely spellbound and become his minions.

He's also in charge of the Department of Redundancy Department.


"The two-seamer fastball moves different because of how you hold it, see. Holding it makes it move different. Jeter just hit a home run, but listen to my voice..."

So it goes.

When I hear about the size of the universe, I'm embarrassed by how much time I spend on baseball. During the playoffs, I schedule entire weeks around it.

"The funeral's at three?! Shoot, that doesn't work for me. Yankees-Indians."

But baseball is a part of life, as evidenced by "The Natural," "For Love of the Game," "Eight Men Out," and of course "Ed," the blockbuster hit starring Matt LeBlanc and his monkey Ed, who not only plays baseball but also wrote the script. These films give new meaning to our pastime and, yea, our journeys on earth.

[Enter movie trailer voice] "For those who marveled at the story of Shoeless Joe comes an even more remarkable tale of hope and glory ... that of Legless Bob."

Baseball has even shaped our language. Before 1845, for instance, you couldn't say "right off the bat." Things just happened as they happened, in total chaos. You couldn't "cover your bases" or give a "ballpark figure" or -- and this was especially frustrating -- make it to first base with your date.

If you're still not convinced of baseball's value to society, I will have you remember the woman in Texas who knocked out a burglar with her 30-ounce Louisville Slugger. If it weren't for baseball, that scene could have played out much differently.

So you non-fans must forgive us our passion for baseball. It takes our mind off nuclear war and places it on something that is, if not more entertaining, certainly more safe. That's right. SAFE. Are you kidding? Clearly he was safe. Kill the umpire!

A few years back, I moved to a farming town called Oxnard; and while I love the people, there is something I have really come to miss: English.

I was married to a Dominican woman, so it's OK for her. Yahaira is like Blackspanicasian. She speaks both Spanish and English ... at the same fricken time. They all do. It's like listening to a song on the radio when you keep getting that interference from the Spanish station...

"Hey, Jude, don't be a -- "

"Yo quiero sentir sus labios -- "

"And any time you feel the -- "

"Numero uno en exitos, cien y siete PUNTO UNOOOO!"

Here is actual dialogue from a nearby B of A: "You know Maria? Ella es la persona who went to the wedding con nosotros el julio pasado. Remember?"

It's only a matter of time before the locals secede altogether and become Spangland.

People ask why I never learned Spanish, and I say, "Are you kidding?! Can you imagine how hard it would be to tune people out if I understood everything they were saying?"

When Yahaira broke into Spanish, I considered that free time. I heard her the way a dog hears its master: "Blah blah blah Jason. Blah blah blah Jason."

Sometimes it backfired. Like the night Yahaira called from Vons to say, "Do you want some ... como se dice ... patita de pollo ... you know, patita."

"Um. Sure. Gimme two. And a Pepsi."

That night I ate chicken's feet. Two. With tortilla flatware.

Yahaira started learning English when her Spanish was only half-installed, so she gets "down from," not out of, the car; she dreams with, not of, other people; and while most couples spooned in bed, we would only scoop. So it goes.



In Spanglish, all the plurals end in s. They don't do the singular plural thing. I'm wearing underwears, the lottery is at 32 millions ... white people eat a lot of spaghettis.

"No, honey. It's just spaghetti. There's no s at the end."

"But there are so many of them."

"We'll touch bases later."

Idioms are tricky to begin with, but mixed with Spanglish ... Let's just say that a little slang can be a dangerous thang.

"The toilet is overfloating. You said we'd nip this problem in the butt. Do I need to get the Jellow Pages?"

Yahaira always had reasons for her goof-ups and spent a good part of the day trying to explain them...

"I thought it was a peek preview because you're peeking at something."

"It isn't Old-Timers Disease because they forget things?"

At one point she gave up on words altogether and took to making noises. Every item in our house had a sound. Many of them whistled.

"Papi, have you seen my woohoo-woohoo?"

"Your what?"

"My pinza, you know, the jigamathing."

Yes, gentle reader, I know that it's "thingamajig," but I don't have the galls to tell her. She might go bazooka.

I fear that my own English has spoiled by osmosis. I find myself looking up terms I knew in third grade. Was bob wire really invented by a man named Bob?

During our recent lunch together (Yahaira and I are just friends and no longer an "anti-racial couple"), she ordered smashed potatoes and cold slaw, and I a Caesar salad with extra crunchies.

"Do you mean croutons?" asked the server.

"I could mean just about anything." I said. "I'm from Spangland."

What is the shelf life of a shelf? Why is there boxing at the Goodwill Games? Does the remote control go inside the dinner knife or outside the soup spoon?

You will learn the answer to these and other pressing questions at Keith Dion's comedy club. We found Keith covered in dry wall, nails between his teeth, renovating without help. Keith works 12 hours a day and has totally given up on Disney World.

Shaking hands, Keith tickled my palm the way you do in third grade.

"Come. Sit. But don't touch anything, or I'll kill ya."

Keith handles booking, bouncing, accounting, carpentry, and oh yes, performing. He says it's like a marathon, only instead of being handed Gatorade, you occasionally get hit by a two-by-four. So it goes.

To a sane onlooker, the club's revenues don't stand a chance against expenses. Fortunately, Keith is not sane.

"All in a day's work," he said, lighting his cigarette with a clown-like trembling hand.

Recently Pauly Shore pulled out of his dates, the city called with bad news, and Keith had a computer crash (threw his monitor to the ground).

"I'm an even-tempered guy," he said, "but once every four or five years, something snaps."

So what do you do when your happy place drives you to drink? You warm up the show!

"Today I put five dollars of gas in my car-just enough to get me to the next station."

You'd think that Keith would be stuffed with humor, as in "if I hear one more witty remark, I'm going to puke." Not so.

"Humor keeps me healthy," says Keith. "That's why I smoke-to balance it out."


Keith was the first to give me stage time all those moons ago. I did five minutes on how I'm not gay but do carry a purse ... well, not a purse but a messenger bag-I need a place for my Purell! The audience didn't throw things, but they should have.

Before curtain, I had confessed to Keith my stage fright.

"The stage won't hurt you," he said. "What you should really be afraid of is all those people judging you."

"Blue humor" goofs on race, religion, drugs, and parts of the body where your bathing suit covers. Keith's club, then, is light blue: The F-word is used artistically. And if you don't like it, you can BLEEPedy BLEEP the BLEEPing BLEEP ... BLEEPer.

Keith is always caught between boring the 20-year-olds and offending the 50-year-olds. So he mixes it up-one Latino act, one female act, some guy who thinks Purell is funny.

"Comedy is like music," says Keith. "Not everyone likes rap or country or techno, but if you play a variety, people don't hit you with two-by-fours."

By the time you and I get to the club, the candles are lit, music is playing, and our biggest concern is Michelob vs. Corona. We don't see Keith cursing at the sound board, briefing comedians, or rewriting jokes between sets.

"One of these days I'll have enough money to finish my stage. Then I'll move on to my lifelong dream: getting a toupee."

So why does Keith carry on?

"Because life's too funny to work in a cubicle."

No matter how many Pay-Rents-or-Quits, overtime Sundays, or two-by-fours to the gut, Keith will be here cracking jokes, tickling palms, and reminding others to lighten the BLEEP up.

And it's always enough to get him to the next station.

I always thought that speed dating was something you did with the colorful girls on Sunset Boulevard. Turns out that there is another, more organized system right here in town: No Waiting Dating, "upscale speed dating with class and style."

I know, it sounds like a crock of Fiber-One, but owner Karalee Austin runs the show like a southern belle, classy smashy all the way down to champagne by the spitting lions.

Dress was upscale, but I think men should be left to their own devices. That way women can see what they're getting.

"Hmm. Sandals with tube socks ... NEXT!"

As it stands, women begin each date with a standard security question: "Did anyone help you get dressed for tonight's event?"

I went on Single Parents Night, which is nice because you can be reasonably sure that these women go all the way. Some of the women were familiar with my work and wanted to know me on a first-name basis. That is, they refused to give their last names. So it goes.

Dating was way easier in grade school, when, if you liked a girl, all you had to do was stick gum in her hair.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling.

That's Karalee's bell. When she rings, you move, mid-sentence if necessary. You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger and you don't mess around with Karalee's bell.

Cynthia was my first date. She thought I was gay.

"No," I said. "It's not a purse; it's a messenger bag. I bought it in a men's store."

Cynthia made a note on her sheet. My first demerit.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling.

If dating is like a job interview, then speed-dating is a job fair. You get five minutes to explain your résumé.

"Yes, I was with Tanya from May to August ... Why did we break up? ... I'm afraid she was downsizing ... Since then I've mainly been temping."


Next came Sarah, who may have misunderstood the concept of "speed-dating" and showed up high on speed. I didn't understand everything she said, but she seemed to be working on product placement.

"I work out at the gym, and these 28-year-olds think they're ready for me while they're still driving Saturns."

If you want the full experience, you'll have to omit the spaces between her words.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling.

Enter Sharon with her sexy Siren laugh. Alas, Sharon and her son "come as a package," and Sharon felt that I, childless freak, could not relate. She wasn't after Mr. Right but Mr. Brady.

So the lovely Ms. Sharon and I argued pens versus pencils, and would you believe that she promotes the latter? To me -- a professional! Sharon asked to borrow my pen "just to see," and I told her not on the first date.

So, yes -- lots of women, little fireworks. But then what could you expect after speed-dating? Fast-food dinner? A lifetime of quickies?

"You knew I was in a hurry from the beginning!"

Ding-a-ling-a-ling.

Paula sat down in a cloud of sandalwood. She had tried eharmony.com and match.com, but speed-dating allows her to "see if a man is psycho."

I rebutted with the example of Ted Bundy, a charming and articulate serial killer.

"For all we know," I said, "you could be a serial killer. I would be surprised, but only for one horrifying second."

Paula's daughter was herself a surprise. Neither Paula nor the daddy thought they could have children until one crazy night in Las Vegas. The moral: Not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling.

All these callers made me feel like Puff Daddy or Donald Trump or that guy who sings Mambo # 5: "a little bit of Monica in my life, a little bit of Erica by my side..."

Then, on my tenth and final date, She walked in: Andrea. Shiver me timbers. Andrea had the posture of a gymnast and wispy, professional-woman hair. She extended a manicured hand and introduced herself as Special Agent #10. She had a sense of humor!

Karalee peeked over to make sure that both feet were on the ground.

Andrea wore glasses but only to ward off men who can't spell savoir fare ... savoire fair ... er, savwah...

"You'd be surprised at the overall intelligence level," she said.

At the end of our meeting, Andrea pointed to my chart and said, "You'll check me on your sheet." A statement, not a question.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling.

When you're young and hot to trot, you know what you're after. Your mate needs to be skinny, rich, Capricorn. As you get older, standards start to sag. Your partner doesn't have to be rich so much as employed, skinny so much as upright. Finally all you notice is the ring finger.

Funny how rings tell the world where we stand: A ring on your finger means you're married; rings beneath your eyes mean that you have children.

I decided to ask Andrea on a date before she got to know me better. She agreed and said that we'd go Dutch. I assume that means that she'll wear a pointy hat and I my wooden clogs. I just hope she can get the gum out of her hair.

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