Chapter 77.1: Summertime, and the Living Is ...

We are closing in on the summer solstice. Last one to Stonehenge is a smelly druid!

I was a little surprised to discover that the moment of solstice -- that is, the exact minute at which the earth's axis is most oriented toward the sun (yet, ironically, the earth is farther away from the sun than it is during our winter, at least for those of us in the northern hemisphere) -- is at 11:59 GMT tonight. Seems like an odd time for it to occur, but I'm no solar scientist.

These days, summer isn't nearly as much fun as when I was a kid. Sure, the beers that I drink are legal, but that's not as much fun as when I was 17. And I haven't worked as a camp counselor for a loooong time now, so working outside with a couple built-in trips to a beach that I don't have to pay for is a thing of the past.

But it's still summer time, the best season of the year. Enjoy, everyone! And crack open a cold one for me.

Chapter 77: See Ya Later, Willie

To me, the Willie Randolph situation had become so unimportant that I'd stopped watching the Mets. Yes, that may sound like a contradiction, but my point is this: The Mets are terrible, and unless I hear that things are actually turning around, I probably won't watch much.

I thought about turning the game on late last night, but before I turned the channel from Colbert, I fell asleep. The next thing I know, REM is playing on the Ferguson show. Time for bed.

I wasn't aware of Willie being fired till I heard it on the train platform. I'm not quite sure Omar Minaya flew them all out to California only to fire them. It seems like a pathetic way to avoid the heat in New York. At this point, I don't much care. The team is playing miserably, and I can't bear to watch.

It's not so much that they fired Willie. I can certainly accept that. But to do it in such a callous, cowardly way is simply despicable. The way the firing was handled suggests that the problem wasn't so much with the manager -- or even the players -- but with ownership. It's not enough to sign the checks and pave the way for a new stadium. You need some class, too. From the sound of it, they don't have any.

Jerry Manuel, I wish you luck. I'm sure I'll tune in eventually, but I need a moment.

Chapter 76.9: Tim Russert -30-

No, that's not a typo. It's a journalistic symbol that denotes the end of a wire service story.

But Tim Russert, who died today at the all too young age of 58, was no wire service reporter, though if he had been one he would have excelled. Russert was perhaps the premier American TV journalist of his generation. How fitting, then, that Tom Brokaw, who will forever be associated with The Greatest Generation, shoud announce Russert's unexpected death. Indeed, how appropriate for Russert to die on a Friday afternoon, the slowest time in traditional news, when the Saturday edition has basically been put to bed and the editors are starting on their desk stash of scotch in the office before hitting the bar.

Russert wouldn't want to have become the story, but by the same token, he'd want the story out -- and accurate -- as soon as possible.

From what I've heard, Russert was passionate about politics and public policy. He was perfect for Meet the Press. I had hoped to meet him one day.

I can't help but wonder who will succeed him. I wonder if Brokaw might serve as the moderator for Meet the Press on Sunday, though he retired a few years ago. Whoever is the next host of that show will have much to aspire to.

-30-

Chapter 76.8: Buy Me Some Peanuts and Crackerjack

This is the type of helpful travel tip that even non-baseball fans can sink their teeth into. The New York Times has posted an interactive map of the culinary delights available at all the major league baseball stadiums throughout the United States (and Toronto).

While I feel bad for my friends who are fans of the White Sox (not one item on their menu is recommended; the Times says bring a six pack and barter for a dog outside), I can agree with the assessment that the dogs at Shea are edible but way too expensive. (I think everyone can buy a full pack of hot dogs and possibly also the buns for less than the price of one dog at the game.)

I've gone to enough games and eaten enough expensive hot dogs to have decided that I don't need to have a dog and a beer at every game I attend any more. At the prices these days, I'm hard-pressed to attend more than one or two games anyway. But it's nice to fantasize, and if you do go to a game, why not have a game plan about the stadium menu!