MILWAUKEE. A crowd of angry male fans descended on Major League Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig's car dealership here yesterday to protest the so-called "Francona Rule", named after Boston Red Sox manager Terry Francona, which will prohibit managers from wearing pullover tops during games beginning with the 2008 season.

"Thanks, my wife likes my pajamas too."

"It's a slippery slope," said Milwaukee Brewers fan Rod Larkin. "Next time they'll come after fans in the park, then guys watching at home. Is this America or Iran?"

It could happen.

The rule was announced by Bob Watson, vice president of rules and on-field operations for Major League Baseball. "You can only wear your uniform top or jacket," Watson explained. "You can’t wear your nightshirt, or whatever it is. If we let guys get away with this, pretty soon Tony LaRussa will start showing up in Cardinal Slip-On Sneaker Slippers."

Selig: "Hey, I get dressed up to come to work every day--why can't Francona?"

A 2004 survey revealed that a majority of American males watch baseball in t-shirts and undershorts until the post-season, at which point they switch to sweatshirts and undershorts.  Most major league ball parks do not impose a dress code on male fans unless they enter the playing field, in which case they are required to wear undershorts.

A violation of the small print on the back of your ticket.

Protestors called the new rule a breach of baseball's covenant with American males. "If I wanted to get dressed up when there's a game on," said Lon Turkel, a Chicago White Sox fan, "I'd take my wife out to dinner, and that sure as hell ain't gonna happen."

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Sometimes, it takes a tragedy to change the way we view the world.  For me, it was the story of David Sharp.

Sharp was a climber in distress who died 300 feet from the summit of Mt. Everest.  A number of parties, including that of double-amputee Mark Inglis, passed him by, oblivious to his plight as they sought the small beer glory that comes to those who scale the world's highest mountain long after the feat has become commonplace.

When I learned of Sharp's death, I could only sigh in disgust at my fellow man (and the overwhelming majority of the world's premier climbers are men). 

And then it struck me--this never would have happened if the many highly-competitive egotists who passed Sharp by had only stopped to partake in the camaraderie of karaoke as they made their way up and down the mountain.

Since it was first developed in the 1970's, karaoke has become a staple of after-work get-togethers around the world.  The term is derived from two Japanese words, kara and okestura, and can roughly be translated as "bad singing". 

Karaoke first became popular among Japanese "salary men", who are expected to go out after long work days and socialize into the night.  Their bosses hope that bonding through singing will improve team spirit, leading to greater corporate profits.  Simply put, it is impossible not to feel a sense of common purpose with someone who has heard you sing Donna Summer's "I Will Survive" after you've had too much to drink.

My goal:  To bring the bonhomie that karaoke engenders to the mountain known to sherpas, the Nepalese natives who guide foreigners to its peak, as "Chomolungma" or "Graveyard of Lousy Tippers".

My sherpa's name is Pemba Dorjie, and he recommends the VocoPro Karaoke King, a 7 Watt, 120 volt beauty with a Signal-to-Noise Ratio of 65 db and Wow and Flutter of 0.35% WRMS (whatever that means).  "This bad boy has two microphone inputs with individual volume controls," Pemba notes in his native Tibetan tongue.  "Duets can thus be performed with ease," he points out, "cranking the fun up another notch."

We choose the southwest ridge for our ascent, and make base camp at 17,600 feet above sea level.  Pemba asks if he can be the first to try out the VocoPro, and I gladly agree.  I know him to be a big Barry Manilow fan and--wouldn't you know it--his first selection is "Copacabana", the 1978 disco hit that combined Latin rhythm and Borscht Belt nightclub shtick to produce what Rolling Stone magazine called the worst song of the decade.

Pemba's voice is strong and soulful as it echoes across the mountain face, triggering an avalanche that wipes out a party of five below us who were trying to become the first set of quintuplets of Lithuanian descent to reach the summit.  "Tough luck," says Pemba.  "Avalanches are the leading cause of death here."

After a few weeks to acclimatize ourselves to the altitude, we move up the Western Cwm to the base of the Lhotse face.  Before we turn in for the night, we stare into our campfire and think the thoughts that come to men as they reach into the heavens.

"Pemba," I say.  "This Cwm--why does it have no vowel?"

Pemba is uneasy at first.  "We are a poor nation," he says after a while.  "We cannot afford all the vowels that you rich Americans toss around so freely."  I nod my head in sympathy, then show him how a "y" is the Swiss Army knife of the alphabet and can be used as either a consonant or a vowel!

"Thanks," Pemba says with a smile.  "This will bring many hours of happiness to my children."

Over the next two days we pass through the South Col, the Geneva Spur and the Yellow Band.  At 26,000 feet, we hit the "Death Zone", so named because it is estimated that over 100 corpses of climbers who died without realizing their goal can be found there.

I begin to have trouble breathing, and Pemba urges caution.  "Here," he says as he hands me an aerosol canister of Cheez Whiz, the processed cheese spread.  "Stick this up a nostril and squirt."  I do as he instructs me, and after an initial blast of the orange, viscous liquid hits my soft palate, my nostrils clear from the gases that propel this delicious treat onto corn chips, hot dogs and cheesesteaks across America.  "Wow," I say as the flurocarbons jolt me into a heightened state of consciousness.  "What a rush!  Hope it doesn't poke a hole in the ozone layer."

"You some kind of tree hugger?"  Pemba asks scornfully.  "Nature is your enemy, man."  And indeed, my concerns about global warming evaporate in the -100 degree Fahrenheit cold.

"That should last you a few hours," Pemba says.  "Just enough time to get set up."

We hurry to hook a solar-powered generator up to the karaoke machine, then wait for teams of climbers to pass by.  We notice one straggler, apparently confused from lack of oxygen to the brain, making his way up the slope.  "Excuse me," he shouts out as he draws nearer.  "I'm looking for the Northeast Bancshares Summer Outing."

Pemba and I exchange looks of concern.  The man has been separated from his party, and is unlikely to survive a night alone.  "You like Kool and the Gang?" Pemba asks tentatively.

"Who doesn't?" the man replies, and before you can say "Jungle Boogie", our new friend is laying down a loose groove of funky stuff to "Celebration".

"Cel-e-brate good times--c'mon on!" he sings, not too well, but with more than enough gusto. The words ring out across the Kangshung Face and--out of nowhere--who should appear but Beth Lindsay, Director of Human Resources for the fourth-largest bank holding company in America.

"Ed Ferguson--we need you over on the northeast ridge for volleyball," she says with concern as she checks her clipboard.  "You two don't mind if I steal Ed for awhile, do you?" she asks Pemba and I.  "Karaoke doesn't start until after dinner tonight."

"Not a problem," I reply with more than a little satisfaction at a mission accomplished.  Pemba puts Ed's microphone back into the VocoPro's hard shell protective case, and we head back down the mountain.

"Pemba," I say, "Have I ever told you who my favorite teams are?"

"No," he says with indifference, but I continue.

"In baseball, for the National League it is the St. Louis Cardinals.  For the American League, it is the Boston Red Sox, although I lived on the South Side of Chicago for four years, and so am also partial to the White Sox."

"Go on," he says.  "How about football?"

"In the NFL, the New England Patriots.  I grew up a fan of the St. Louis Cardinals, but since they moved to Arizona, I don't care about them."

"And college?"

"The Tigers of Missouri, and the Eagles of Boston College."

"How about the NBA?"

"I grew up a St. Louis Hawks fan.  You know why they are important, do you not?"

"Sure.  The only team other than the Lakers to beat the Celtics in an NBA finals."

"That is correct," I say, passing him a baggie full of trail mix.  "With the onset of the Jo Jo White era, I became a Celtics fan."

"Just in time for the triple overtime game against Phoenix, right chief?"

"That is correct.  Jo Jo was from St. Louis, but he chose to play college ball at Kansas, the archrival of the University of Missouri."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Pemba asks me after a while.

"I am posting this to FoxSports.com, and there is no 'tag' for mountain climbing."

"Ah--I see," he says with the inscrutable wisdom of the Orient.  "You blog for the glory of it."

"I suppose," I reply with a sheepish grin, now that he has uncovered my vanity.

As we pass the body of a climber who died when he fell forty feet from a ledge above us, Pemba again turns philosophical.  "You know," he says,  "music can really bring people together."

Copyright 2006, Con Chapman

CHICAGO.  In an effort to capitalize on their 2005 World Series victory, the Chicago White Sox today announced a series of promotional events for the 2006 season that they hope will finally boost their attendance to levels enjoyed by their North Side counterparts, the Chicago Cubs.

"We've always been the bridesmaid in this town," said Sox official Oliver Gewertz.  The Cubs outdrew the White Sox in 2005, averaging 38,751 fans per game to the Sox' 28,924, even as the AL franchise on the South Side was making a historic wire-to-wire run to its first world championship in 88 years.

Team officials plan a "Whack a Royal Night" on Monday, April 17th, when Kansas City comes to the Windy City for the opening match of a three-game series, to commemorate the 2002 incident in which a father and his teenage son climbed out of the stands at U.S. Cellular Field and attacked Royals' first-base coach Tom Gamboa.

"These yokels come up from Missouri, all corn-fed and happy--they're just asking for it," said Gewertz with a gleam in his eye.

White Sox fans have historically been considered more abrasive than Cubs followers, and their surroundings may have something to do with it.  U.S. Cellular Field is bounded by a high-speed expressway on one side and housing projects on the other three, while Wrigley Field is located in a quaint residential neighborhood that includes restaurants, theatres and bars frequented by young professionals.

"You see people walking around Wrigleyville, big grins on their faces.  You walk out of the 'Cell' with a smile on your face and the cops will stop you for questioning," said long-time Chicago resident Adam Kopik, "maybe even a beating if they're looking for a promotion."

Sox officials also plan a "Death to Rap" event that will recall another embarassing moment in team history, the "Disco Demolition Night" in 1979 when disco records were destroyed by a bomb at the club's former home field, Comiskey Park, touching off a riot that forced the cancellation of a game with the Detroit Tigers.

"We want to bring the excitement of South Side gunfire into the park where fans can enjoy it in comfort," said Gewertz.  "Chicago rappers will make the potheads of the '70's look like a Yanni concert."

Copyright 2006, Con Chapman