Here’s the local newspaper’s idea of a fun flash-animated baseball game:

No, this isn’t an April Fool’s joke.

This is really what April is like for Cleveland baseball fans.

I wish they’d win the World Series one of these years.  The fans deserve it.  They really do.

I was a loyal Sprint customer starting in 1986, when "U.S. Sprint" had the cheapest rates I could find. I traveled constantly even then, so long distance was a necessity, and saving a few cents per minute could really add up.

For more than 15 years, I accumulated points in the Sprint Rewards program, eventually racking up enough for several round-trip flights to Europe. I never took those, however, because in July 2002, Sprint suddenly changed the rules, politely telling screwing hundreds of thousands of customers to go screw themselves. The company is now subject to a class action complaint.

Obviously, I stopped being a Sprint customer, but I would have left anyway. T-Mobile had a much better deal for international travellers at the time, although now Skype is the way to go.

Nonetheless, two years ago, in January 2006, I got an unsolicited email from Sprint, totally out of the blue, asking me to be a part of the Sprint Ambassador program. Google around, and you’ll find that this was a klutzy attempt at guerrilla marketing, where Sprint shoved free phones at hundreds of bloggers, almost randomly, promising to engage our feedback while really just hoping we’d all be so blown away by a free phone — yippee! — that we’d froth pure joy to a cumulative hundreds of thousands of readers.

Thing is, the phone was OK, nothing more. Sprint hardly has a reputation for genius innovation. I put the phone on a shelf, figuring I’d give it to somebody who needed it someday. Meanwhile, the program didn’t quite get the desired results, and they shut it down about ten weeks ago with one last email farewell, including a phone number for anyone with Ambassador-related questions.

Still, I have a friend who still has Sprint service (I don’t let this come between us, though) and needs a new phone, so I figure maybe I can give her my old unused Sprint Ambassador handset.

So I contact Sprint today, hoping to get a few simple obvious questions answered. Or I try to. The Sprint Ambassador web presence? Gone; it now auto-forwards weirdly to some tech forum. The Sprint Ambassador customer service number, sent out just last January? Already dead.

OK, try Sprint’s regular customer service… and not only had the guy not ever heard of the program, he all but accused me, basically, of making it up. And no, he wouldn’t let me speak to a supervisor, not at first. When the supervisor finally came on the line, she hadn’t heard of the program, either, questioning the program’s existence even after I begged her to use that obscure research tool called Google.

Her actual suggestion: I should print out the emails from Sprint and take them to a Sprint retail store, and hope I could convince somebody there that the program actually existed.

Let’s review: Sprint shuts down the contact mechanism for one of its programs so thoroughly that now I’m supposed to bring Sprint its own emails in order to prove to Sprint its own programs existed?

Wow. I don’t want to call the Better Business Bureau. I want to call Franz Kafka.

This hereby completes my lifetime interactions with Sprint. I hope.

When I was 22, I tossed my engineering degree away, moved to Chicago, slept in the YMCA (and worse), and took telemarketing jobs in order to study acting and improv comedy.

By far the most interesting, inventive, terrifying, brilliant, disturbing, and ultimately effective teacher I ever had was Del Close.

Del, who died in 1999, is a legend in comedy. Look into cutting-edge comedy almost anywhere in America in the second half of the 20th century — from the Compass Players to Second City to the Committee to Saturday Night Live to the Upright Citizens Brigade — Del was there.

Ever laugh at John Belushi, Bill Murray, Mike Myers, Tina Fey, or Stephen Colbert? Del influenced them all.

But for a period in the late 1980s, when his personal struggles had briefly brought him to ground (again), Del was teaching night classes in the back of a poorly lit bar called CrossCurrents just off Belmont Avenue, practically under the thundering elevated train tracks. All you had to be to study with Del at that time was financially solvent, somewhat punctual, and coherent enough onstage to pass a preliminary class taught by his partner, Charna Halpern.

Suddenly a fidgety doofus like me, fresh from Dilbertland and with no legitimate training, could receive personal instruction from a guy who’d directed some of Second City’s greatest revues and played sold-out shows with Nichols and May. I mean, holy crap.

So for about two years starting in 1985, my crappy disposable day jobs were just enough to pay for the YMCA, nightly chow at a horrid greasy dump called the Fleets Inn — super taco (chili slopped into a pita bread), just $1 — and my one big main expense, Del’s classes.

Del was no hero to me, mind you — aw, hell, no. He may have had a longer list of personal shortcomings than any ten ordinary people, and his teaching skill seemed to vary nightly with his chemical makeup. There were times I despised the man. But he also had the inspiration, adventurousness, and joy in high weirdness of any ten people, too, and when Del was tuned in, you’d suddenly find yourself doing better work than you ever dared imagine. He was like a brilliant and deranged uncle you knew could tell truths about things that nobody else would even discuss.

Eventually, in one of my first creative baby steps, I tried a one-man show at the old Roxy on Fullerton. Looking back, it was too long, not fully thought out, and mounted on a budget that would barely buy lunch. I’d been studying with Del for about a year at that point, and one night, to my surprise, joy, and horror, Del showed up unexpectedly. It was the first and last time I ever felt genuine peril onstage. Fortunately, he laughed heartily — that big, bellowing, voice-of-doom-in-a-funhouse laugh — in the exact places where I was secretly praying he might. And somewhere around that time I started to think maybe I might just have a career doing fun stuff after all. Two decades later, the memory is fresh, and I am still grateful.

It was at CrossCurrents that I met my old friend Kim "Howard" Johnson, the same guy I helped out on Millionaire. Howard just wrote the definitive biography of Del — the Funniest One in the Room: the Lives and Legends of Del Close. Here’s today’s Chicago Sun-Times piece on the book.

If anybody reading this enjoyed Prisoner of Trebekistan, I never would have considered something as absurd as studying for Jeopardy! if Del hadn’t taught that we’re all capable of more than we imagine.

If you have laughed at anything in the last 50 years, and you’d like to know more about one of the truly tortured asshole genius humanitarian comic minds ever, I heartily recommend the read.

PS — Del always considered improv as more than just an exercise — done properly, it was an art form that could be extended into full 90-minute shows that audiences would willingly pay to see. Sound unlikely? Lots of his contemporaries, including bigshots at Second City, thought so.

But next time you’re in New York, Chicago, or L.A., Baby Wants Candy does a full-length musical, accompanied by a live band, spontaneously and wonderfully, every single week — all based on some random blurt from the crowd. Go. See. Laugh.

When I was 22, I tossed my engineering degree away, moved to Chicago, slept in the YMCA (and worse), and took telemarketing jobs in order to study acting and improv comedy.

By far the most interesting, inventive, terrifying, brilliant, disturbing, and ultimately effective teacher I ever had was Del Close.

Del, who died in 1999, is a legend in comedy. Look into cutting-edge comedy almost anywhere in America in the second half of the 20th century — from the Compass Players to Second City to the Committee to Saturday Night Live to the Upright Citizens Brigade — Del was there.

Ever laugh at John Belushi, Bill Murray, Mike Myers, Tina Fey, or Stephen Colbert? Del influenced them all.

But for a period in the late 1980s, when his personal struggles had briefly brought him to ground (again), Del was teaching night classes in the back of a poorly lit bar called CrossCurrents just off Belmont Avenue, practically under the thundering elevated train tracks. All you had to be to study with Del at that time was financially solvent, somewhat punctual, and coherent enough onstage to pass a preliminary class taught by his partner, Charna Halpern.

Suddenly a fidgety doofus like me, fresh from Dilbertland and with no legitimate training, could receive personal instruction from a guy who’d directed some of Second City’s greatest revues and played sold-out shows with Nichols and May. I mean, holy crap.

So for about two years starting in 1985, my crappy disposable day jobs were just enough to pay for the YMCA, nightly chow at a horrid greasy dump called the Fleets Inn — super taco (chili slopped into a pita bread), just $1 — and my one big main expense, Del’s classes.

Del was no hero to me, mind you — aw, hell, no. He may have had a longer list of personal shortcomings than any ten ordinary people, and his teaching skill seemed to vary nightly with his chemical makeup. There were times I despised the man. But he also had the inspiration, adventurousness, and joy in high weirdness of any ten people, too, and when Del was tuned in, you’d suddenly find yourself doing better work than you ever dared imagine. He was like a brilliant and deranged uncle you knew could tell truths about things that nobody else would even discuss.

Eventually, in one of my first creative baby steps, I tried a one-man show at the old Roxy on Fullerton. Looking back, it was too long, not fully thought out, and mounted on a budget that would barely buy lunch. I’d been studying with Del for about a year at that point, and one night, to my surprise, joy, and horror, Del showed up unexpectedly. It was the first and last time I ever felt genuine peril onstage. Fortunately, he laughed heartily — that big, bellowing, voice-of-doom-in-a-funhouse laugh — in the exact places where I was secretly praying he might. And somewhere around that time I started to think maybe I might just have a career doing fun stuff after all. Two decades later, the memory is fresh, and I am still grateful.

It was at CrossCurrents that I met my old friend Kim "Howard" Johnson, the same guy I helped out on Millionaire. Howard just wrote the definitive biography of Del — the Funniest One in the Room: the Lives and Legends of Del Close. Here’s today’s Chicago Sun-Times piece on the book.

If anybody reading this enjoyed Prisoner of Trebekistan, I never would have considered something as absurd as studying for Jeopardy! if Del hadn’t taught that we’re all capable of more than we imagine.

If you have laughed at anything in the last 50 years, and you’d like to know more about one of the truly tortured asshole genius humanitarian comic minds ever, I heartily recommend the read.

PS — Del always considered improv as more than just an exercise — done properly, it was an art form that could be extended into full 90-minute shows that audiences would willingly pay to see. Sound unlikely? Lots of his contemporaries, including bigshots at Second City, thought so.

But next time you’re in New York, Chicago, or L.A., Baby Wants Candy does a full-length musical, accompanied by a live band, spontaneously and wonderfully, every single week — all based on some random blurt from the crowd. Go. See. Laugh.

As baseball season descends upon us, time for my annual pointless predictions and carping, 2008 edition.

Short version: good team, just like last year. But it’s a big ask for the team to win the division, much less the rest.

C. C. Sabathia, last year’s Cy Young pitcher, is hardly a lock to put up the same numbers this year. Few players are ever consistently that excellent, and while C.C.’s numbers have been improving for a long time, his workload has also been enormous, and that can catch up to a young pitcher (27 this year) in a hurry sometimes. Both he and Fausto Carmona lost their stuff badly at the end of last season, for obvious reasons – their 456 innings pitched was the highest total between 1-2 starting pitchers in the majors.

Which leads us to Carmona, the best surprise of last year. Again, hardly a lock to repeat after a year whose workload came close to endangering his arm. Meanwhile, aging veteran and #3 starter Paul Byrd has struggled badly this spring, although #4 starter Jake Westbrook has recovered his lights-out form of a few years ago. All of the #5 starter options have sucked all spring. On balance, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that the starting staff is probably a notch below last year’s level.

In the bullpen, there’s no way a guy with an ERA over 5.00 belongs as the closer on an alleged World Series team. Joe Borowski is mentally tough and in terrific physical shape, but statistics don’t lie. Unless that ERA comes down sharply, look for lots more blown saves this year, and for Rafael Betancourt or one of the Indians’ other relievers to take over the closer role. Meantime, look for a few extra blown saves.

At the plate, expect continued excellence from Victor Martinez at catcher and Grady Sizemore in centerfield – Sizemore is a good dark horse MVP candidate, in fact – while rightfielder Franklin Gutierrez is growing into an above-average hitter. Elsewhere, however, there are clouds on the horizon.

First baseman Ryan Garko is solid, but at second base, there’s nothing in Asdrubal Cabrera’s minor league stats to indicate he’s more than an average major league hitter, and Josh Barfield barely belongs on a major league bench. At shortstop, Jhonny Peralta still has some upside to his above-average numbers, but Casey Blake continues to have no upside whatsoever at third. He’ll steal five bases, hit 18 home runs, and bat .270, but he’ll also hit his career .219 with runners in scoring position (and just .195 with two outs — making him one of the great statistically consistent choke artists in baseball history). Since he’s still a starter, Blake must have naked blackmail pictures of Chief Wahoo.

At DH, Travis Hafner is coming off a year-long slump, and he’s still waving at spring training pitches, ringing up more strikeouts than hits. Against lefties, he’s pulling off breaking pitches and missing them by two feet. Something’s wrong, and I have no idea what. He’ll probably still bang 25 homers and 100 RBIs, but he’s not the monster he seemed just two years ago.

Left field remains a dead zone. The Indians wisely let go of the declining Kenny Lofton go at the end of the year, but that doesn’t mean they see the obvious solution in their own system.

(btw, some Indians fans seemed bewildered at my insistence that Lofton was on the steep decline, despite clear statistical evidence. Note, however, that as the new season opens, Lofton is already out of baseball entirely after declining a minor-league deal with the Reds and a bargain-bin offer from the Tampa Bay Rays.)

The Indians’ current plan is to replace Lofton with a platoon of two struggling veterans instead of one. Genius. David Dellucci, a 34-year-old .261 hitter with 90 career home runs and 38 career stolen bases, will alternate with Jason Michaels, a 32-year-old career .280 hitter for the Indians over the last two years while racking up the awesome totals of 37 home runs and 18 stolen bases over his entire career.

To make room for Dellucci and Michaels, the Indians sent 26-year-old Ben Francisco to the minors. Never mind that Francisco won the International League batting crown last year, stealing 22 bases on the side, and never mind a spring where he hit .362 with a .617 slugging percentage and a .401 on base average, giving him an all-star-caliber OPS number of 1.021. Never mind that batting skills peak at age 27, so this year Francisco would almost certainly go at least 20-20 and be a strong candidate for Rookie of the Year.

Apparently that’s not enough. Francisco still has something left to prove.

As Indians General Manager Mark Shapiro, as he does every goddam year, prefers to clog up several roster spots with no-upside veterans, leaving the brightest prospect in the organization trapped in the minors.

If only Ben Francisco were only eight years older and had a batting average fifty points lower! He’d be a total lock to start in left field.

All told, the 2008 Indians will be above-average collectively — 93 wins-ish, I’d guess — but no more. Just like last year. Although this time they’ll probably finish second to the Tigers, and possibly miss the wild card this year (to either the Yankees or the Red Sox) by a narrow margin.

Meanwhile, the AL Central is a stronger than last year. The Tigers are loaded this year and should be favorites to win the division, the White Sox and Twins are mildly decent, and the Royals have the potential to surprise people for the first time in many years. The Indians, on the other hand, have added… nothing.

That’s my guess, anyway. Check back in October. Most of what’s here will have been spectacularly wrong, as anybody’s spring predictions tend to be. I only hope the degree of wrongness should be entertaining.

World Series guess: Cubs over Mets in the NL, Tigers over Angels in the AL, Tigers over Cubs in the WS.

(I know that sounds insane right now. Just a guess. But last year, probably by luck, I got the World Series outcome correct before the playoffs began, so this year I’m trying a little earlier.)

UPDATE: In today’s opener, the Indians win 10-8, illustrating the above paragraphs fully with only one real surprise.

Sabathia was indeed human, giving up five runs in 5.1 innings. Not exactly Cy Young stuff. The Indians’ offense, however, managed seven runs before he left, the biggest blow being a three-run homer by Franklin Gutierrez, the team’s second-best young hitter, who nonetheless batted eighth.

Jason Michaels, one of the Indians’ obligatory crappy veterans, for whom the team’s best prospect remains toiling in the minors, batted second and got the same number of hits that you did.

Travis Hafner knocked a homer, but also struck out twice, missing several pitches by a foot or more, pulling off breaking pitches from left-handers like he did when he was a rookie. So more of the same from Travis.

The bullpen couldn’t hold the lead, so the score was tied 7-7 in the eighth. But when the Indians got two men on base with two out, the White Sox pitched around Franklin Gutierrez – walking him on four straight breaking pitches nowhere near the strike zone – specifically to get to world-class choke artist Casey Blake. The Chicago announcers mentioned Blake’s .190 average in these situations, explaining the thinking to the audience. First pitch to Blake: fastball down the middle, showing no respect at all. Blake watched it go by for strike one. So I’m not the only one who understands that Blake usually sucks here.

But something unusual happened next: with two strikes, the White Sox challenged Blake once again, with another fastball straight down the middle – but Blake actually hit this one, driving in the go-ahead runs.

Wow. So you never know.

But back to reality: the White Sox then walked hotshot Grady Sizemore to get to hitless Jason Michaels, who proceeded to strike out, ending the rally. And here’s the thing: he was still batting when I wrote that last sentence. The count was 2-0, in fact. (I swear.) Michaels then swung and missed at three straight pitches, my hand to your god, and I left that sentence intact.

Top of the ninth, World’s Most Overrated Closer™ Joe Borowski comes in with a three-run lead, gives up a solo home run, then with two out, walks a guy to bring a power hitter and the tying run to the plate. Borowski then falls behind 2-0, tempting fate as always. But this time the Indians escaped with a win.

Barely. Again.

UPDATE part duh: Next day, the Indians team website even features this article on how much Blake sucks in the clutch.  You don’t see that every day.