Mr. 3000

No, this isn't a post about Raffy, although I did see him get hit number 2,998 as the O's beat down the Red Sox yet again this season. Too bad we don't play them everyday. I digress. I'm obsessed with the Site Meter Counter on my blog. There I said it. It interests me possibly more than your comments. Sure your comments are great, I mean who could forget "This is a new low. Neither funny nor interesting." or "More words" or the recent "...which saves your otherwise disappointing story" or "This is total B.S. Where are the posts? It's been 5 days." Yeah, that was a classic.

Yes, the site meter definitely interests me more than your comments. The 3000 hits mark is coming up, but lets look at the story behind the story (you know, the investigative journalism you've come to expect at WB). Hits and page views are headed for their 4th straight month of declining numbers. Sure, I could try to churn out some more poop-stories to pump up the numbers, but I'm saving that for sweeps weak next fall. I've got some thoughts on why the stairwell in the parking garage smells like a urinal, which I could tell you about. Which reminds me, when we were coming home from the fourth of July in DC, my car's engine misfired. This was not a good thing. Symptoms: Immediate lack of power, jerkiness, incorrect idle speed and stalling. Here's two things you should know about Baltimore: 1. If you are driving up from DC to Northern Baltimore, you have to get off 95 or 295 and go through downtown to pick up 83. 2. The freaks come out at night. So before you get on 83, between City Hall and Police Headquarters lies the Block. Trust me, it's much more frightening today. Approaching the block, I am suffering serious mechanical difficulties. Erica suggested stopping the car and call Tim. Not on your life, I'm not sure what's wrong with my car, but I'm not stopping of my own volition. I move into the left lane so that I can move easily on to the highway ramp approaching in about two blocks. The car in front of me stops and a menacing man from the street approaches the stopped car. They appear to be conducting some sort of business. Traffic is swift in the other lane, and I'm in no condition to make a quick lane change. I see at least one police officer among the 20+ criminals roaming the street. Check that, one traffic cop. Let the horn do the talking. I tap the horn. Nothing. Stress level in car rises rapidly. Erica's panic is understandable, but, quite simply, not helping. Business transaction progressing slowly. Really let the horn do the talking. Oops. That got his attention. Very angry, looking at me, gesturing and he's got some words for me too, which I can't hear. That's probably for the best. Time to change lanes. Bad time for the car to stall. Like a panicked teenage girl in horror movie, I clumsily restart the car. Move around the other vehicle, wait patiently at the light and limp home at 40 mph. Everyday since the fourth has been a blessing. Not two days later, in broad daylight, I saw a man with no shirt, jacked up scary big, stumble diagonally across the same intersection, not drunk stumble, but what I imagine a crack or heroin stumble to be. Unstable, yet extremely menacing.

So anyway, there's a little substance for you. Comments are always encouraged, but I really need you checking the site five times a day. Like back in March when you needed the password for the NCAA pool. Oh, those were the days.