My View on The L.A. Times Book Festival

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We got back late Sunday afternoon and I’ve had time to reflect on my two days at the L.A. Times Book Festival.

First, the pluses. It’s mind-boggling. So many people all in one place, and so. The UCLA campus is beautiful, the buildings are old and wonderful. If you love books, there were millions of them. The white tent booths are packed in a large area–book stores, authors, special interest groups, religions of all varieties, ethnic groups, college bookstores (not just UCLA’s), radio stations, food–people selling all sorts of things had booths. There are also many interviews of famous writers and celebrities who have written books, and performances going on in auditoriums and in large tents.

I met so many people and even ran into old friends. I handed out lots of cards and even managed to sell a few books–mainly in the L.A. Chapter of Sisters in Crime booth.

This is my third time attending and I realized that it takes a toll physically. It’s a long, long walk from the parking garage to the area on campus where the festival is held. And it seems even longer if you’re hauling books, even if they are in a rolling conveyance. There are lots of stairs. Lines for the bathrooms were long. There is lots of competition because there are so many authors signing books–many much more well-known than I am. You must work to sell your books–by working I mean really connect with people and be able to describe your book in a quick and succinct manner.

And of course, if you’re from out-of-town you must drive and stay in a hotel. Less expensive ones aren’t in the best parts of town. Also driving in L.A. can be scary and confusing. (I learned to drive in L.A., but so long ago and things have changed so much.)

All in all, though, I had a great time.

Marilyn a.k.a. F.M. Meredith

On the Road and Loving It

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This is a busy week. On Thursday night I’ve been invited to the Burlington County Literacy Volunteers Dinner with an Author , at Braddocks Tavern in Medford, NJ. As a writer, I celebrate those wonderful volunteers who “change lives word by word.” There will be an author at each table, and we’ll have the opportunity to sell our books after the dinner. It’s such a noble cause and if you’re at the dinner, please stop by and say hello.

Immediately after the event, my husband and I will hit the road heading South, stopping somewhere for the night when he gets too tired of driving. I’ve got to be in Arlington, Virginia by 11 am the next morning for the kickoff of Malice Domestic . Along with fellow Stiletto Gang blogger Maggie Barbieri, I’ll be part of Malice-Go-Round, a sort of speed dating for mystery writers and fans. The authors move from table to table, with two minutes to give a short spiel about their book(s). You’ve got to grab the fans’ attention, while summarizing your book without giving away too much of the plot. What I do give away is candy (what goes better with murder and mayhem than chocolate?).

Once Malice-Go-Round is finished, I’ll have plenty of time to schmooze with other Malice-ites, as well as attend the fabulous panels and fun banquet. I’ve created two bountiful baskets for the charity auction, one for Evelyn David and the other for The Stiletto Gang. There’s chocolate, alcohol, and mysteries involved in both – sounds good to me!

Finally on Sunday, at 12:30, I’m on the panel, “I Hear Voices,” moderated by Patti Ruocco (mystery fan and librarian), with authors J.B. Stanley, Kate Carlisle, and Clyde Linsley. I’ll be talking about character development – and learning a lot too! Can’t wait.

If you’re going to be at Malice, please let me know. It would be great to meet and greet!

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Late Bloomers

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Of course, it’s all relative as to what constitutes a late bloomer. In the garden it can mean late spring, late in the season, or late in the year. Last week millions of people were introduced to the world’s most famous (at least right now) late bloomer – Susan Boyle, she of the viewed 35 million times Youtube/Britain’s Got Talent video. I accounted for four of those views myself, each time blubbering like a baby.

There were lots of reasons the video was such a phenomenon. Yes, she has angelic voice and yes, her appearance might suggest otherwise (although all she really needed was a Tweezerman and a little makeup.) And the television program she appeared on delights in embarrassing people and – for some reason I cannot fathom – people don’t mind making idiots of themselves on a global stage.

I prefer to think the reason for Susan’s success was at that the ripe old age of 47, she clung to her dream long enough to make it come true. And we got to watch. And maybe believe that some of our dreams might still come true. I don’t know anyone so cool (or so cold, really) who didn’t share in her triumph. Why should the precocious get all the attention – those scary little tykes with the oversized lungs who shriek into microphones and hope to be the next (lord help them) Miley Cyrus?

Or maybe I loved the video because I too am a late bloomer. I didn’t even start writing until I was past forty. By that time most successful writers have a few books under their belts, even if they’ve been toiling away in anonymity waiting for their breakout book to happen.

But that does not seem to be the case for mysteries. Hallelujah! Looking over the list of Agatha nominees for Best First Novel, none of us is anyone’s idea of a spring chicken. (I know all of those gals and think I can write that without getting clobbered in Arlington!) When I wrote Pushing Up Daisies, I wasn’t even thinking about publication, I just wanted to finish the darn thing. Then the other stuff came..agent, book deal.. second book deal. And now an Agatha nomination. And it’s all mighty fine. Maybe even sweeter since it’s a second act and there aren’t supposed to be any of those.

The point is, why let the Simon whatever-his-name-is type of person convince you it’s too late to live your dream. Unless, of course, your dream is to play shortstop for the Yankees, swim the English Channel or play guitar like Eric Clapton, in which case, it probably is too late if you’re past forty. But other than that, why not go for it?

Cheers,
Rosemary
http://www.rosemaryharris.com/

Rosemary Harris is the author of the Dirty Business Mystery series from St. Martin’s Minotaur, Pushing Up Daisies, The Big Dirt Nap, and Deadhead (2010.) She’s the president of Sisters in Crime New England, a board member of MWA-NY Chapter, a member of the Garden Writers of America, and a Master Gardener in the state of CT. She’s still over forty.

Plotting in Your Sleep

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The great American author, Edna St. Vincent Millay, once wrote that she couldn’t get the woman onto the porch. What she meant, of course, was that she couldn’t figure out an organically sound reason for the character to do as the plot demanded.

I struggle with this situation all the time. Plotting a mystery is, for me, a combination of architecture and sleight of hand. I lay the foundation, plan the structure, and use language to entice my readers to pay attention to something over here while something else is happening over there, unnoticed. In order for this complex process to flow seamlessly, I need to create characters whose actions mesh with the plot’s development.

It’s hard. If I have a boorish man, for instance, who blusters and creates awkward moments, certainly my readers will focus on him. But if, later, the plot demands that the character finesse something, I’m sunk. A boorish man who blusters would never finesse anything. Reconciling these two needs—a solid, architecturally sound plot and actions driven not by the plot’s needs but by the characters’ personalities is, for me, the most challenging part of writing.

How do I do it? I don’t know. I don’t know why, when I’m mentally outlining the plot, I know that a certain female character is well-dressed and socially savvy. The fact that she is, however, becomes important later in the plot—she hosts a ladies’ luncheon. It’s a good thing she’s that sort of woman because I needed her to host that event—but I didn’t know that the luncheon would occur when I started to write the book—at least not consciously.

I’ve concluded that much of the intricacy of plotting occurs on some unconscious level. For instance, I know that when I need to resolve something, I get the problem clear in my head just before I go to sleep, and when I awaken—I have the answer. Sleeping on it, for me, actually works when I need to figure out how to get the woman onto the porch.

Maybe it’s that my cats sleep on my pillow—sometimes on my head. Here’s Angela, my love bunny, at the foot of the bed.

Jane Cleland

Jane K. Cleland writes the multiple-award nominated and Independent Mystery Booksellers Association best-selling Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery series, set on the rugged New Hampshire coast, [St. Martin’s Minotaur], an Antiques Roadshow for mystery fans. Killer Keepsakes is the fourth in the series. Ms. Cleland chairs the Wolfe Pack’s literary awards and is on the board of the Mystery Writers of America/New York Chapter. “Josie” stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Her apartment (along with her husband and cats) was featured in a recent New York Times Habitat article. www.janecleland.net

Dear Mr. President

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I just read an article in the New York Times that described how, in the White House, it is one person’s job to cull ten letters from the tens of thousands that are received weekly for the President to read. The President reads them, and responds with a handwritten letter of his own to the ten that are chosen. In one, he asked the mother, who had written the letter about her son who was about to be deployed to the Middle East, to thank her son for his service. She was touched that President Obama used her son’s first name in the letter and took time to respond in writing.

According to the article, the President tears up when reading some of these letters. The letters that are chosen are designed to make the President “uncomfortable” with their messages, to show him how hard it is out there to be an American in these daunting economic times. It got me thinking, though: what would I write to the President? What message would I want to send him, if I had the inclination to write him? I feel like he’s on the right track so far, just shy of his first hundred days, and I’m willing to give him a little more time to make all of this work out. But if I were going to write him today—right now—what would I say? Just a little sampling:

1. Dear Mr. President: Could you please make the Department of Motor Vehicles a nicer place to visit and work? Could you please make it so the people that work there aren’t as miserable as human beings can be and happy to assist you with your learner’s permit, your license renewal, or even your picture? Could you please make it so that the camera at the DMV doesn’t make you look like you’ve just spent twenty-five years in the Gulag for a crime you didn’t commit?

2. Dear Mr. President: I’ve noticed that even though the price of gas has dropped considerably since last summer, our groceries, clothing, sundries, and other consumer-based items are still sky high. As a matter of fact, I spent nearly $200.00 on groceries yesterday at the store, and I’m a pretty savvy shopper. Why has gas come down, yet everything else stayed so high? Weren’t we told that the reason we were paying more for everything was due to the price of gas? What gives?

3. Dear Mr. President: Please get our troops out of Iraq. Toute de suite.

4. Dear Mr. President: Please make our waterways safer for Merchant Marines. Pirates? What the heck is up with that? I’ve been warning my kids for years that if they didn’t eat citrus, they would get scurvy, like pirates. They would always remind me that pirates didn’t exist. Suffice it to say that we’ve got a bunch of orange-eaters around here now so I guess something positive has come out of the recent headlines.

5. Dear Mr. President: Please thank your wife for planting that vegetable garden on the grounds of the White House and for making healthy eating an initiative. We’ve got too many overweight children, too many fast-food alternatives for people who don’t know the joys of fresh food, and too many children with food and weight-related illnesses in this country that could be managed by diet. Thank her for thinking of our children and making them a priority.

6. Dear Mr. President: Please make our environment a priority. Please find alternative fuel sources for our gas-guzzling society to use instead of fossil fuels. Please find someone for your staff—anyone—who can make clean air, clean water, and conservation a top priority and make Americans believe that that’s the only way to go if we’re going to live long, healthy lives.

7. And last but not least…Dear Mr. President: Can you please find out why my tax return has been delayed?

P.S. And, of course, “Why didn’t you get a Westie?”

Maggie Barbieri

One of My Favorite Jobs

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Over the years I’ve had lots of jobs, some of them great, some not so great.

I started babysitting when I was 10 and continued on through high school, I did housework for neighbors, cared for the bedridden, worked in an auto parts store, took inventory in a department store all before I was 18.

After I was married, hubby was in the Navy and I went home to live with my parents while he had tours of duty out of the country. During this time I worked in the office for the telephone company and then became an information operator. This was in L.A. That office was fairly modern since the Information calls came in through a headset and all you had to do was look up the number in several phone books, or on charts with the most frequent called numbers. (Remember, this was a long, long time ago.)

When hubby and I moved to Oxnard, I went to work for General Telephone. That office was a bit more backward as you had to use a switch board to get the calls. I also had to learn how to be a long-distance operator, a bit more complicated than finding phone numbers for people. At this office we were told if we knew the answer to any question, we could give it. People called and asked what the weather was like, and I’d look out the window and tell them what I saw. If they asked how to cook Chili I told them.

Long distance was more fun. We sat at a long switchboard and took the calls as they came in. There were a lot of movie stars living in nearby Thousand Oaks and we took care of all their long distance calls. I must confess that we listened in to a lot of them. Guess what, their conversations were about as exciting as any of ours.

I worked at that telephone office between babies. Hubby would come home from war–or wherever he happened to be–I’d get pregnant, work until they wouldn’t let me anymore, have the baby, stay home with the kids. I’d go back to work, Hubby would leave for a tour of duty, come back home, I’d get pregnant and so on.

Fifth baby, we broke the cycle. Hubby retired from the Seabees and I got a different job.

I was reminded of all this when I visited our little museum. One of the women who helps with the museum and has lived in Springville her entire life, used to work on the first switchboard when she was a kid–because it was in her house. She and her mother were the operators. That switchboard is now one of the exhibits in the museum.

Marilyn
a.k.a. F. M. Meredith

A Teacher Affects Eternity*

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Carolyn Rosenberg was my first grade teacher. What do I remember? She was pleasingly plump, white haired, and at least 120 years old. Of course, in retrospect, she was probably still in her 50s, if that.

The rest is a pleasant blur. While I don’t remember any specific lessons, I’m fairly certain that she taught me to read. But what I recall with vivid clarity is that I felt safe. Mrs. Rosenberg made school a haven. In her classroom, nobody’s feelings ever got hurt; you never felt foolish, stupid, or silly. I loved being in her class. By the time I became a mother, I hoped that each of my kids would find a Mrs. Rosenberg in their school careers.

Our local school board just announced teacher layoffs – including several who have tenure. It’s yet another reflection that times are still tough (despite the glimmers of hope that are being touted). I shouldn’t be surprised, but of course, I am. Good teachers are the key to society’s future. They can be transformative. I still remember Miss Thompson, my eighth grade English teacher. She made me believe that I could be a writer. Her encouragement set me on a career path that may not always have been lucrative, but has always been fulfilling.

John F. Kennedy once said: Modern cynics and skeptics… see no harm in paying those to whom they entrust the minds of their children a smaller wage than is paid to those to whom they entrust the care of their plumbing.

Ain’t it the truth.

I’m the daughter of one of those great teachers. My mother taught high school business classes, and then switched to teaching adult education. Her work continued outside the classroom. She taught more than technical skills. She worked tirelessly to place each of her students and the rewards were more than a paycheck – for them and for her. She was building character and confidence. As Mastercard would tell you: Priceless.

I know that layoffs of teachers is probably inevitable. It’s heartbreaking when they are good teachers. On the other hand, I can name a few teachers who should have been laid off years ago — even if the economy were booming.

Please share your memories of teachers who made a difference in your life.

Evelyn David

*This quote is from educator Henry Brooks Adams, who was also a member of the political Adams family

The Surest Poison’s Jaz LeMieux Talks

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We welcome guest blogger Chester Campbell, who has a mystery novel just out titled The Surest Poison, first book in his Sid Chance PI series. The plot involves Sid’s efforts to locate the man responsible for a toxic chemical dump behind a plant near a small town west of Nashville. The current owner faces the costly cleanup of the mess caused by a previous occupant years ago. Three seemingly unrelated murders occur as Sid is tailed and threatened. When his part-time associate, Jaz LeMieux, offers her help, she is awakened by an explosion behind her mansion. Chester has interviewed this remarkable woman for The Stiletto Gang.
Chester: Would you state your full name and occupation?
Jaz: What is this? Are you trying to play detective?

Chester: Just answer the question, please.
Jaz: Oh, all right. I’ll play along. My name is Jasmine LeMieux, a.k.a. Jaz, and I’m chairman of the board for Welcome Home Stores, a chain of truck stops headquartered in Nashville. I’m also a newly-minted–licensed, that is–private investigator.

Chester: And a very attractive one at age forty-five.
Jaz: Thanks, I guess, but you didn’t have to go into that age business. A lady needs to keep a few secrets.

Chester: Sorry about that. I hear you’re working with another local PI named Sid Chance. Is that correct?
Jaz: I wouldn’t call it working, exactly. It’s more like a lark to me. It’s a chance to play cop.

Chester: Weren’t you a Metro Nashville policewoman at one point?
Jaz: Until my mother died and my father was nearly killed in a car wreck. I quit the force to help nurse him back to health.

Chester: Your career choices up to that point caused a bit of consternation with your family, didn’t they?
Jaz: You’re being kind. Actually, I was kicked out of the family. My mother was a snobbish Southern Belle. She went ballistic when I dropped out of college and joined the Air Force. I was young at the time and quite determined. I had been a star point guard on the basketball team. When they brought in a new coach who berated my style of play, I got mad and quit. In the Air Force I was assigned to the Security Police under a sergeant who was a former Golden Gloves champion. He worked out regularly with me in the gym. When I left the service, he offered to train me as a boxer. I went professional, and my mother erased my name from the family ledger.

Chester: Didn’t you become a lightweight champion?
Jaz: I did, but it didn’t pay enough to live on. That’s why I became a cop.

Chester: From the looks of this French Colonial mansion you live in, I’d say you weren’t hurting for money now.
Jaz: I’m doing okay. My dad came to Nashville as an ambitious young French Canadian. He built Welcome Home Stores into a lucrative business. When he regained his health after the accident, he asked me to come to work for him. I went back to school and got a computer science degree, plus an MBA. He left me controlling interest in the business when he died.

Chester: How do you find time to play cop, as you call it?
Jaz: I keep close tabs on the company, but I’m not involved in day-to-day operations.

Chester: Weren’t you responsible for getting Sid Chance in the PI business?
Jaz: I was looking for somebody to run an investigation for Welcome Home Stores, and a mutual friend told me about Sid. He had a wealth of experience in law enforcement but got shafted by small town politics. He’d run off to a cabin the woods and was playing hermit. I looked him up, talked him into coming back to take my company’s case. He did such a great job with it that I offered to help him get into the PI business.

Chester: Did you have anything to do with Sid’s taking on this toxic chemical pollution case?
Jaz: I recommended him to a lawyer who does work for my company.

Chester: It sounds like you think pretty highly of Mr. Sidney Chance. True?
Jaz: If you mean do I think he’s one very sharp detective, quite true. He’s also one gorgeous hunk of a man, a little rough around the edges, but honest as the day is long. He’s totally devoid of pretense, someone you can always count on to come through for you.

Chester: In addition to your helping with Sid’s case, he got pretty heavily involved with your problem at home, didn’t he?
Jaz: Yes, there’s a dear couple who lives with me. They’ve been family employees since I was a kid. When their grandson got into trouble, Sid came to the rescue.

Chester: Do I detect something a little more than a purely business relationship?
Jaz: We’ve become very close friends. And this part is off the record. I wouldn’t object to pushing the relationship to a new level, but I think Sid needs to find some inner peace before he’s ready to break out of his shell. He needs to come to terms with his past.

Chester: Didn’t you introduce him to some good law enforcement contacts?
Jaz: You refer to the Miss Demeanor and Five Felons Poker Club. We meet irregularly with a Metro homicide detective, a patrol sergeant, a retired newspaper police reporter, and a former Criminal Court Judge. They’re great friends, and Sid has found they can be quite helpful.

Chester: And what’s in store for Jasmine LeMieux as a private investigator?
Jaz: That depends on Sid. I’m only interested in working cases where he needs my help. I have resources he doesn’t possess, including computer savvy to dig out information not easily accessible.

Chester: I’m sure he’ll find ample opportunity to use your services in the future. Thanks for talking with us, Miss LeMieux. I wish you much success.
Jaz: Hey, speaking of which, you won’t mind if I succeeded in selling a few books, would you?

Chester Campbell

_________________

Chester will hold two drawings to give away books during his blog tour. If you post a comment on today’s interview, you’ll get your name in the hat for the drawings. To see other places he will visit, go to http://bit.ly/KJnO .

Pirates & Cell Phones

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Two things have been on my mind this week – okay more than that – but I’m going to blog about two – pirates and cell phones.

The summer before 9/11 my brother and I visited the Outer Banks of North Carolina. We had a great trip. One day was spent on Ocracoke Island – one of Blackbeard’s main ports. One man’s thief is another man’s folk hero. Depending on whose ships he was robbing, he was either praised or decried.

Pirate legends – as depicted in books and movies are romantic. As a child I saw the movie – A High Wind in Jamaica. The plot involves children captives on a pirate ship – a great sailing adventure for all involved.

Johnny Depp has the pirate persona down – or at least Hollywood’s latest version of a pirate. I wonder if that will change now that real pirates are in the news.

On Easter Sunday, the nation received the news of U.S. Navy’s rescue of ship captain Richard Phillips. Three Somali pirates were killed in the effort. One pirate was captured – reports have him as too young to be prosecuted as an adult in the U.S. I don’t fault the Navy for their heroic actions – the pirates left them no reasonable choice.

Pirates are holding about a dozen other ships with more than 200 crew members, according to the Malaysia-based piracy watchdog International Maritime Bureau. Hostages are from Bulgaria, China, Germany, Indonesia, Italy, the Philippines, Russia, Taiwan, Tuvalu and Ukraine, among other countries.

I don’t understand how the situation has been allowed to get to this point – unarmed commercial cargo ships being hijacked by pirates in speedboats with armed with rockets and AK-47s. Why in the world would cargo ships carrying millions of dollars of supplies be unarmed?

The U.S. Navy won’t be able to be in right spot at the right time to protect all American cargo ships. The ship companies are going to have to step up and defend themselves. Today’s pirates are young, poor, and fearless. They have nothing to lose, which means they are too dangerous for us to ignore them – or Somalia – anymore.

Now for the cell phone part of this blog – I had to upgrade from my beloved Blackberry Pearl to a Blackberry Curve. I say “had to” because I wore the trackball out on my Blackberry Pearl and when I went to T-Mobile to replace it, I found “my” phone was out-of-stock. I don’t know how long it would take to find another Blackberry Pearl like my old one. Apparently the world of cell phones has moved on. I didn’t want a flip phone version. And I’m not ready for a 3G phone. But I did need a new phone – and quickly. I carry my phone everywhere. If I forget and leave it at home, I have to drive back and pick it up. I admit it – I’m a Blackberry addict.

So getting the new phone was traumatic. As I moved my memory card from my old Blackberry Pearl to the strange phone that arrived by Federal Express, I had a lot of regrets at retiring my old friend.

The new phone doesn’t feel the same. Sure, it’s easier to type on and the screen is bigger, but … it’s not my Blackberry yet.

Evelyn David

Get Out Your Wallets–It’s Baseball Season

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I don’t know if you’ve heard, but here in New York, we’ve got two new sports stadiums: a new Yankee Stadium and a new Shea Stadium for the Mets, called Citi Field. Both are brand, spanking-new, boasting food that one normally wouldn’t see at a ball park (pulled-pork sandwiches from the gourmet barbecue restaurant Blue Smoke as well as sushi, and host of other culinary delights), shopping, arcades, and hot tubs, to name a few. And let’s not forget the new, “green” urinals. They don’t use water! They use something else that I don’t understand to get rid of beer-infused urine! It’s all very exciting.

I love watching baseball—namely my New York Metropolitans—at home. Why? Because here in the New York metropolitan area, it’s hard to get anywhere by car, subway, or bus. It takes a long time to do anything. To go to a 1:00 p.m. Met game, we would have to leave here at around 10:30 or 11:00 a.m. if we were to drive. Same if we took public transportation. So, it’s been years since we have been to Queens to see a game. We usually huddle up in the living room, eating the foods that one would normally find at a game—chips and guacamole, hot dogs, beer, hamburgers—and watch our team blow a big lead in the bottom of the ninth. We’re fans. That’s what we do.

But all of this talk of Citi Field and its amazing amenities got me thinking that just once this year, we should go to a game. I thought the best thing to do would be to find a game that we could present to Jim as a Father’s Day present. I went on the web site, amazed at all of the wonders of this beautiful new ball park—because let’s face it, Shea Stadium wasn’t exactly a baseball Shangri La—and instructed the web site that I wanted four tickets for a Saturday afternoon game, for something called “best available.”

Well, it certainly wasn’t referring to the “best” price. Well, maybe if you own stock in Citi.

The computer clicked away and came back with four seats in one of the upper mezzanines for a grand total of $1560.00. I quickly pushed away from the keyboard, afraid that if I touched anything, a credit card that once had been stored in the computer after buying a pair of shoes would be charged for the tickets. After my heart stopped racing, I went back to the computer and tried to buy a cheaper set of tickets. Basically, I came up with four tickets at about $300.00 (if we wanted to actually see the game and not be sitting in the stratosophere) and started calculating our time at the ball field. With parking, food, a souvenir or two, we would be looking at a day that costs the family over four hundred dollars.

I’m sorry. That’s just criminal.

Isn’t baseball America’s pastime? Isn’t it the thing you did as a kid with your family that didn’t cost all that much, that took up an afternoon or evening, that was loads of fun and not a sock to the pocketbook? I know that sports has been like this for a long time—don’t even talk to me about what it costs to go to Madison Square Garden to see a Ranger game—but the fact that our under-achieving Mets have a new ball field sponsored by a company that is going bankrupt and still has the audacity to charge what they do for tickets and food just galls me.

We will probably go to a game over the summer. I’d like to see the new ballpark, see my team play, and sample some of the new food that’s being offered. (Because let’s face it, if they have food and it’s good, I’ll go anywhere.) But the fact that the cheapest seat at the stadium is $36.00 is just sad. How does a family of four or more go to a game without taking out a home equity loan? Particularly in this economy? I feel bad for all of the kids who won’t get to see a game at the ballpark, who won’t get to see David Wright take batting practice, or Johan Santana throw his warm-up pitches, or Carlos Delgado in the on-deck circle. Or, like my son, bring his glove because maybe—just maybe—he’ll catch a fly ball off of Carlos Beltran’s bat. Or have a hot dog loaded with yellow mustard and maybe some sauerkraut washed down with a watered-down soda. Heck, I feel bad for the adults who won’t be able to do all of these things.

So, how about it Major League Baseball? How about we forget about the fancy stadiums and fields and pulled-pork sandwiches and bring back $5 bleacher seats and $2 hot dogs?

Oh, that’s right. Because we have to pay some steroid-user sixteen million dollars a year to strike out in the playoffs. I forgot.

Maggie Barbieri