Movie Hawk

Listen, I know you’re important. Clearly, the fact that you arrive at work after all the good spots are gone in your oversized SUV signifies that you’re far more important than the rest of us. But that doesn’t give you the right to park on the sidewalk four days in a row. Drive around until you find a spot. Don’t inconvenience everyone – pedestrians, other drivers in the lot – by blocking half of the sidewalk. And don’t leave a message for security to not ticket you because there’s no available parking. If you’re so important that you can’t look harder for a spot, you’re important enough to pay the ticket when you can’t find one.

Dear Major League Baseball,

On the night that you so aggressively market as one of the most important in your sport – the All-Star Game – I encourage you to choose a singer who can properly pay tribute to our nation. Tonight’s version of “The Star Spangled Banner,” sung by San Francisco native Chris Isaak, was a disgrace. It is shameful that a grown man does not know the words to his national anthem, and reprehensible that executives would put someone on the field unless they were certain he knew the words. Mr. Isaak’s version follows:

(more…)

As I sat here at my desk…blogging…on my MacBook…listening to Rilo Kiley on my iPod…drinking a black and white hot chocolate from the new Starbucks location right next to my office, it came to me: I’m becoming everything I’ve always hated.

All I need to complete this picture is to be wearing Abercrombie and surfing in the early-adopter Firefox 3.0 for a hybrid. If that ever happens, please kill me.

It was a pitcher’s duel in Houston Saturday night, and looked like it would remain that way until number six stepped to the plate. The behemoth with biceps as big as the trees from which his massive bats were carved was sitting on 56 home runs, six short of the steroid-free single season record. Howard took a massive cut at an offering from Astros pitcher Jason Hirsch and sent it deep to left field, where it was caught, and subsequently dropped, by a 10-year-old.

The kid doing his best Jeffrey Maier (right) impression was Brandon Hilgedick, a young Houston fan who wanted the meatball as a souvenir of his time at Minute Maid Park. And who could blame him? It was hit by baseball’s most scintillating swinger at the moment, and could become a piece of baseball history. Instead, it was incorrectly ruled a ground rule double because Hilgedick couldn’t wait for the ball to land in his lap and tried to catch it.

Brandon Hilgedick, you are on temporary notice. If Howard manages to break the home-run record, and if the Phillies manage to make the playoffs (your indiscretion wasn’t enough to stop the Phils from losing the game), you might find yourself back in my good graces. But tread carefully, young man. The On Notice Board is a slippery slope to infamy.

Every morning, as I approach a certain intersection on my way to work, I face a dead end and try to turn left. Unfortunately, there’s always a steady stream of cars coming from the left, most of which end up turning right, leaving me room to turn. But how am I to know this if they don’t use their nice, convenient turn signals? Without them activated, I wind up sitting in non-existent traffic, angering the motorists behind me.

This is not a problem localized to that confusing corner. Everywhere you look, people are making turns without signaling. How hard can it be? Your car is built with more signal lights than ever, the act of signaling is as simple as reaching your hand from its rested position on the window’s ledge to the lever something like 7 inches away. You’re not supposed to be holding your cell phone in your hand, your coffee is nestled in a cup holder near the other hand…how difficult is it? A non-blinker is as annoying as the over-blinking grandma who turned on her signal three miles back for a lane change and hasn’t turned it off yet.

Motorists of the world, please use your turn signal. It’s there for a reason. Until you agree to make use of the shiny, attractive lights on the sides of your car, I’m afraid I’m forced to put you on notice.

At an otherwise enjoyable concert at the beautiful Mann Center in West Philadelphia this past Thursday, I was disturbed by a continually growing trend: concert clappers. Concert clappers are the people who feel it necessary to put their hands together in rhythm with whatever the band onstage is playing. In the comfort of your own home, this is fine, but people paid good money to hear the professionals do their thing. Do you jump onto the field at a ballgame and give Chase Utley batting tips? Besides, the concert was the Boston Pops and Rockapella. I don’t think they need help keeping the tempo. If encouraged, as the crowd was once by Pops conductor Keith Lockhart, please feel free to clap. Crowd participation is important sometimes. Otherwise, try not to let your fellow audience members know exactly how white you are by clapping in your strange syncopated pattern. We need to save that beat so we can tell if someone is having a seizure.

Concert clappers, you are officially on notice. Reverse this trend – it’s already spreading into theatre – and you might save yourself from the board if I ever get a long enough list to warrant one.