Shallow | Center

Why Ask Y?

Philadelphia's best morning radio show -- I know what you're thinking, and believe me, in this case I'm not damning with faint praise; these guys are good -- is on the move. Preston Elliot and Steve Morrison were to have aired their final show on Y-100 tomorrow, then take six months off, as mandated by their contract, before resurfacing on WMMR later this summer. The Inquirer's Michael Klein reports today, though, that Y-100 dumped its DJs at noon today in anticipation of a format change. Preston and Steve apparently won't get to do that last show, and Y-100 soon will switch from its usually tiresome modern rock format to that of sister station 103.9, whose urban sound is equally unappealing to me. I can't say I'll miss nonstop Good Charlotte and Limp Bizkit, but replacing them with Snoop Dogg, Usher, and P. Diddy is hardly my idea of a good listen.

No matter. The bigger loss is that of Preston and Steve for half a year. They say they'll keep us up to date during their hiatus, but that's not going to help my morning commute between now and September. Steve's Michael Jackson riffing brings tears to the eyes, and with Jacko's kiddie molestation trial about to start, that's an awful lot of radio gold that, sadly, isn't going to happen. Hurry back soon, guys.

Repeat After Me

Anonymous, uncaring ownership? Check. An inept, overly cautious general manager? Check. The farcical managerial hiring process? Check. An aging catcher, an overpaid left fielder, the mess in center, and the unimpressive rotation? Check. The organization's dysfunctional reliance on loyalty? Check. An embarrassingly biased Web site? Check. The disastrous 2004 season and insipid '04-'05 off-season? Check.

These complaints have been lodged by any number of well written and provocative Phillies blogs over the last year, but to read Bill Conlin today, you'd think that only a cranky former season-ticket holder with a word processor and AOL was capable of such thoughts. Conlin cedes his column to one Francis S. McGuigan of Williamstown, N.J., and while his bitching is generally accurate, it's hardly newsworthy.

For more, here's Brian Peoples writing at the Philling Station:

People are going to disagree with me, but I think Bill Conlin pretty much mailed in his column today. There's nothing at all new about the "please feel sorry for me" tirade of his chosen season ticket holder. He certainly could've found better anti-Montgomery/Wade arguments somewhere in the blogosphere.

Outside of the Inquirer's occasional op-ed page roundups, Philadelphia's MSM acts as if the blogosphere doesn't exist. I don't know whether it's because they're too old or too haughty, or just that they can't figure out this damn Internet thing yet, but for some reason the Inky and DN haven't caught on. Sure, a couple of the papers' staffers have their own blogs, but the way they ignore the rest of us isn't encouraging. If only I knew a good PR guy who might be able to get the blogs some local love ... .

Spies Like Us

Pity the British spy novelist. With the Cold War more than 15 years in the past, storylines aren't readily at the fingertips, as they once were. And anyone who tries delving into the world of London-based spooks and their handlers runs the risk of being compared to the master, John le Carre, whose perceptive explorations of the human condition have transcended the espionage genre for decades.

David Wolstencroft gives it a hell of a go in his hugely entertaining Good News, Bad News. The creator and writer of the BBC drama Spooks, airing in the States on A&E as MI-5, Wolstencroft offers us Charlie and George, a pair of emotionally damaged spies mistakenly assigned to the same covert post for their respective last missions. When each receives an order to kill the other, they warily decide to join forces and take to the road until they can figure out what's going on.

Wolstencroft has penned a trim, swiftly moving book with protagonists you root for and twists that keep you guessing. Good News, Bad News lacks le Carre's emotional resonance, and Wolstencroft's writing is merely sturdy and serviceable. But the plot is crisp, the characters well drawn, and the effort honest. Wolstencroft never mails it in, and with this, his first novel, he invites readers to leave the cartoon world of so much spy fiction in favor of an honest, heartfelt, and mostly believable narrative of moral ambiguity and consequences.

Rating: *** (of 5)

They're Not Booing, They're Saying, "Pooh"

There were times, many of them, in fact, when I was among the ticket buyers for a film's opening weekend. Early on, it was popcorn movies, often in the summer or around holidays; later, as my tastes grew more refined (read: after met my wife), it was art-house fare and intelligent, grown-up thrillers.

Those days, needless to say, are long-gone. With a three-year-old who can't get enough of Finding Nemo, my only opening-weekend action has come to this: Me and the girl, brother-in-law and nephew, all gathered for Pooh's Heffalump Movie last Sunday.

Clocking in at a thankfully brisk 68 minutes, Heffalump offers up an easily digestible lesson of tolerance. Unless you're a member of the Klan, or are a person who really does judge a book by its cover, there's virtually nothing in the movie with which to disagree. There are a couple of harmless songs, a passing attempt to tug at the grown-ups' heartstrings by referring to kids' desire to grow up too fast, and enough slapstick to keep older toddlers giggling.

The producers got most of the voices right -- Eeyore and Rabbit are the only characters who sound nothing at all like their original versions -- and, well, there's always popcorn. Oh, did I mention the movie is short?

Rating: ** (of 5)

Probst Valuable Player

Damn you, Mark Burnett. Just when I'm ready to give up, finally, on Survivor and reclaim an hour of my life per week, he delivers a crisply edited and highly entertaining premiere episode that hooked me pretty quickly last night.

The show opened with 20 contestants rowing in a single boat toward their home in the Palau Islands, in the South Pacific. Jeff Probst cruised up in a speedboat and rattled off his usual opening-day spiel, but throwing in this little twist: The first man and the first woman to reach the beach and snare necklaces hooked to a banner would be granted immunity.

As the boat drew closer to shore, you could see the contestants nervously looking around to see who would be the first over the side. Finally two players, a man and a woman, took the dive, but they were so far from the beach they soon fell behind the boat. Finally the craft was close enough to warrant splashdown, and soon the remaining 18 were lunging toward the banner.

Immunity necklaces were claimed, and the entire complement began building their campground. Uncertainty abounded: Were they not being divided into tribes? What were the necklaces for? Was everyone going to live together? On Day 2, the impossibly dimpled Probst returned and told the 20 that the two necklace holders would be picking teams -- and that the last man and woman not to be picked would be dispatched immediately to a ship waiting offshore for the long ride home. The unlucky pair were an English teacher who in the space of 15 minutes proved herself one of the most insufferable contestants ever by warbling off-key Survivor songs she had written just for the show (no, really); and a hunky blond dude who probably had never been chosen last for anything in his life. As a guy who's neither hunky nor blond, I can't say I was sorry for him to go. A little humility will do him well.

Tribes chosen, the 18 hung out in the same camp until the first challenge, a fairly typical obstacle course with a slight variation: The teams could carry weighted crates loaded with flint, food, water cans, and such, and the winning team would be able to keep all it carried across the finish line. The winner -- don't ask me about tribe names just yet -- wisely chose to grab just the flint and haul ass; alas, they capsized their boat during the ride to their new camp, sending the crate plunging to the Pacific floor.

At tribal council, the losing team's choice was between a pair of women who ended up positioned as outsiders -- one a headstrong, self-annointed leader, the other a heavily tattoed and pierced chick who wondered why everyone considered her different. This being Survivor, naturally the one who stuck her neck out -- the "follow me!" leader -- got the boot. And now I'm looking forward to next week's episode.

Damn you, Mark Burnett.

Negative Indicators

One year ago, when Phillies pitchers and catchers reported to Clearwater, I noted that expectations meant nothing. Regardless of whether the team was perceived as a contender or a bum, the first day of spring training, I enthused,

is about having a tangible sign that longer days and warmer nights are on the way. That the bourbon-smooth voice of Harry Kalas soon will come drifting comfortably out of my car speakers. That daily boxscores are on the verge of being at my fingertips once again. That very shortly, I'll be sitting outside on a beautiful summer afternoon, talking about my favorite sport with complete strangers while sipping a beer or two while Jim Thome blasts rockets into the rightfield stands.

Uh, I think I've changed my mind a bit. Don't get me wrong -- I still love baseball (and nice weather Harry Kalas and boxscores and Jim Thome beer), and I'm happy that the season is less than two months off. But after two straight years of numbing underachievement, I'm also tired and cranky and impatient. Apart from my emotional attachment to the Phillies, I have a fiscal investment as well. My season-ticket dollars have helped to fund the 2003 and 2004 phlops; my taxpayer dollars helped to pay for Citizens Bank Park. And so far this feels more like a junk bond than a blue chip.

Hang up the sports section of every paper in the tri-state area, throw a dart, and you'll hit a story mentioning one of a handful of things: the optimism of Charlie Manuel; the team's health, especially Pat Burrell's; the uninspiring starting rotation; and the drastically lowered expectations. These will be the storylines that will carry through until there are real games for reporters to write about. I'm tired of reading about them already. I wish I could be as enthusiastic as some others, but jittery investors tend to see the glass as half-empty.

Cuckoo for Coco?

A couple of Phillies and an interesting rumor pop up in the spring training preview posted by ESPN's Peter Gammons yesterday. Gammons tabs Brett Myers as one of the "players who have to have big seasons" and writes:

When they pursued Coco Crisp from the Indians, the Phillies would have traded Vicente Padilla, but not Myers when the Indians asked for him. With 75 starts and a 4.84 ERA, it's time.

Did I miss the Coco Crisp rumor? I'd have taken him over Kenny Lofton any day of the week and twice on Sunday -- he's younger and has a bigger upside. As for Myers, he appears poised to be either the next Curt Schilling or the next Tommy Greene. It depends on whether he's willing to grow up.

Gammons also identifies Chase Utley as one of "eight players who could have breakout seasons," writing, "Just leave him alone and let him hit 25 homers." Amen.

A Burrell of Monkeys

As if to supplement the Clearwater preview in yesterday's Inquirer, today's Daily News picks up two of Todd Zolecki's themes -- health and Pat Burrell -- and repackages them in a pair of stories today. Paul Hagen talks with new hitting coach Milt Thompson on how to turn Pat the Cat back into Pat the Bat. Burrell, of course, has an unnecessarily large, swooping swing whose deficiencies are obvious to the average Little League coach. He also has 43.5 million reasons over the next four years to listen to Thompson, though, as Hagen notes, an ample contract didn't exactly have Burrell locked in to Greg Gross's counsel for the last couple of seasons.

Picking up the health beat, Bill Conlin writes from the point of view of Burrell's troubled left wrist. It's a contrived devise, but Conlin manages to get his point across -- that Burrell seems on the cusp of the country's most costly case ever of carpal-tunnel syndrome workers' comp:

The Phillies' line is that a condition at least two pretty good orthopedic surgeons were certain last August could be corrected only by surgery is no longer a matter of concern. I wish I shared their optimism.

Don't we all ... .

The Boys Are (Almost) Back in Town

Pitchers and catchers report this week -- let those sweet words sink in for a minute or so -- and the Phillies, after two seasons of tripping over their shoelaces, enter spring training the picture of uncertainty. Are they an aging, pitching-starved team incapable of closing the deal? Or a talented club that just needs a change in leadership and some good health finally to meet high expectations? The Inquirer's Todd Zolecki breaks down the storylines to watch in Clearwater:

Charlie Manuel: Ed Wade had better hope that a brighter clubhouse atmosphere kick-starts his underachieving players. The Phils made no big-splash acquisitions this off-season, instead believing that a new manager who's not a complete ass would foster a more relaxed, looser, and more successful playing style. Cashiering Larry Bowa in favor of a sunnier soul was a move long overdue, but I'd also have welcomed a top-of-the-line starter.

Health: The Phillies would have you believe that they were the only team last year to suffer injuries. Yes, it will help to have Jim Thome and Billy Wagner in playing shape for the entire season, but they used aches and pains as way too convenient a crutch in 2004.

Pat Burrell: I'm troubled by the Phils' reliance on their left fielder. Reports are that Burrell, who did not have surgery on his troubled wrist last year, was sore after hitting in the off-season. This has all the hallmarks of a lingering injury that should have been taken care of when it first popped up. If the Phillies can get a line of .260, 30, 90 out of their once-promising prospect, they should consider themselves fortunate.

The rotation: Jon Leiber replaces Kevin Millwood, and and Cory Lidle is in for Eric Milton. These guys can eat innings and don't walk a lot, which should help. The Phils' bullpen has the potential to be outstanding, and it will need to be, with no ace on the staff at all.

The roster: You'd think that a team that hasn't made the playoffs since early in Bill Clinton's first term might want to encourage some competition, but the Phils appear comfortable with their squad. Chase Utley has been anointed, properly, as the second-base starter, but because Wade has less roster-management smarts than the average Rotisserie league owner, Placido Polanco will be baseball's most overpaid and overqualified bench player. Somehow the Phillies have to find a way to move him for something worthwhile.

I can't say I'm optimistic. At the same time, I can't deny I'm excited. The return of baseball is always something to get jacked over.

For Love of the Game

In the aftermath of Freddy and Kendra's underwhelming Amazing Race victory, the always-sensible Ellen Gray delivers some great suggestions to return the show's early sharpness to future seasons. I especially liked this one:

• Fewer models. Freddy and Kendra may have been the only contestants identified onscreen as models, but six of this edition's 22 contestants listed modeling as at least one of their occupations. Maybe there'll come a time when pretty people require affirmative action to make it on TV, but we're not there yet.

Amen to that. Whenever I see the "Dating Models" or "Dating Actors" line appear under the players as they're skidding through airports and hauling bricks across Asian cities, I can't help but feel that these guys aren't doing it for the game. They're doing it to get their pretty mugs in front of casting directors and modeling agencies. I can't blame the players, really -- it's the producers who should be safeguarding their show's integrity by booking teams that are there because they really dig playing the game.