Suggested discussion topics:

• The systematic art of running onto the field naked
• Books to the face
• Unwritten rules of fandom
• Books to the face
• Roger Goodell's upper body strength
• Books to the face
• Laura Ling

But seriously, Ape's one of the most talented and funniest writers to bubble-up from the blog sludge. He's infinitely worthy of your time and money. Show your support.

And now...an excerpt. Enjoy.

V.2 Personal Seat Licenses Are a Bigger Rip-off than Buying a Home

Now that the housing market is dicked and the nation's economy is in the crapper, at what other moment could fans be more receptive to forking over more cash for the right to purchase tickets? I write in reference to the ever-infuriating phenomenon of the personal seat license, a one-time cost, usually in the thousands, which entitles the owner to the right to continue paying for season tickets each year until another stadium is opened and the cost is charged again.

PSLs aren't a new phenomenon, as they're believed to have been around for about twenty years, but they've been brought to the fore with their ever escalating costs. The reason cited by sports organizations as to why they impose these outrageous fees on consumers is that PSLs supposedly offset the expense of constructing stadia, many of which are already paid for in large part by taxpayer dollars. Are fans demanding venues that cost squillions of dollars? Not really, but that doesn't stop owners from launching into a space race against each other for bigger and higher capacity venues. The owners opt for these leviathans then pass the cost on to the fans. The gall is as astounding as it is predictable.

When the Giants and the Jets move into their new $1.3 billion shared stadium in the Meadowlands in 2010, every seat will require a PSL for the Giants and nearly every one for the Jets, with the PSL fee for a few thousand spots in the lower bowl of the stadium reaching as much as $25,000 per seat. The Jets auctioned off 620 PSLs of choice seats in the new stadium and drew more than $16 million for the winning bids. Of course, a fair percentage of those bidding for seats are companies in the business of reselling tickets, which only extends the daily chain of corporate fleecing of the average fan.

About half the teams in the league have policies that require PSLs. That's half a league ready to dry-hump their fans for the sweet release of the green. Why anyone would allow themselves to be fleeced by these organizations, no matter how much you may love their product on the field, is beyond the bounds of reason. Fandom knows no quit, but it does know a shit deal when it sees one.

Imagine the hubris that gives rise to these policies. In what other business can companies force a membership fee on customers only for the right to purchase their product? Demand for the NFL product being what it is, the owners think they're insulated from the cost of alienating a wide swath of their fans, but there's only so long, especially with the looming threat of uncapped player salaries, that these practices can continue without it starting to chip into the all-important bottom line.

The fan experience in the live event is increasingly becoming the providence of the superwealthy and the super-profligate. The new generation of stadia that's been built in the past decade crams more seats in and, with prohibitive prices, marshals loud die-hard fans further from the field. Watching the game on TV is not without its flaws (e.g., Phil Simms, Chris Berman, Tony Kornheiser), but it is certainly a much better value than paying through the nose for attending a game where fans are fleeced on concessions, limited by infantilizing fan conduct policies, and generally treated like unwelcome houseguests in overbuilt plutocrat strongholds.

The practice is an insidious money grab devised by billionaires looking for bailouts on their own risky business endeavors. If some fans are economically secure enough that it isn't a bother for them, great for them. But the owners may find that, in tougher economic straits, there will not be as many people comfortable doling out tens of thousands of dollars for the privilege of being bilked on an annual basis. We may love our teams, but that doesn't mean we need to love their scams.

Now, talk to Mr. Tunison down below. He's here to illuminate.

I'm sitting in the VIP green room next to the visitor's locker room in the Rose Bowl listening to Deion Sanders, Marcus Allen and Ronnie Lott casually chat about world travel. I'm not supposed to be in here, but I'm not doing anything to draw attention to myself and it seems to be working. Or they don't care. Either way, I'm doing this in hopes of pulling some sort of interesting bloggy tidbit because, even though it's early in the day, Maddenpalooza is already shaping up to be a pretty dull, overly orchestrated, sparsely attended clunker.

"Every time I see this guy, I gotta ask what country he's coming from," Deion tells Ronnie of Marcus.

Apparently Marcus Allen has something of a penchant for international travel, and has recently returned from China. He explains how much easier it is traveling as a single guy without the encumbrances of significant others who you must coordinate plans with and wait while they trowel on their clown makeup. This segues into a story about Marcus and Ronnie visiting Russia that somehow humorously ends with Lott being passed out in a limo.

Hahahaha! We're all impossibly rich!

I quickly include that this is getting me nowhere and head back onto the field where the opening band From First To Last isn't doing much to whip up the thin crowd of gamers. "Let's make some noise for Favre!" the lead singer exhorts between songs. For the first time in a while, no noise is made for Favre. By now, fellow blogger TheStarterWife has joined me at the event and her misgivings about the turnout, spurred when EA tried to offer free tickets to her entire office the week before, are confirmed.

"It's overbadged," she tells me, meaning half of the people in attendance are wearing badges signifying that they're media, athletes, VIPs or PR staff. The people in the other half are wearing an NFL jersey of some sort.

There's not a whole lot of energy in the venue, even under the large tent where the game is open for playing at any number of flatscreen TVs. About 75 percent of the TVs are hooked up to the Xbox version of the game. The majority of these are being used, but there are still plenty of empty screens. Maybe 20 percent of the stations contain the Playstation 3 version of the game. These consoles are packed throughout the day. About two short rows are dedicated to the Wii version of Madden. They're rarely touched and even when they are it's by obviously neophyte girl gamers and old people. That's because Madden on the Wii is goddamn impossible to play.

Outside the gaming tent, there are a few carnival-type distractions, scantily clad women hawking Slurpees and a main stage where some bad pop-punk music is being performed. The long snaking line for autographs with retired NFL players (Tim Brown, Andre Reed, Roger Craig, Eddie George, Eric Dickerson, etc.) is where you'll find most of the attendees. It has all the expected atmosphere of a sports collectibles show held outside with Good Charlotte headlining. The athletes are mostly surly and depart as quickly as they can. Marshall Faulk tapes some stuff on the field for NFL Network and brushes off any of the commoners trying to converse with him. TheStarterWife tells me she observed Deion leaving in the parking lot with seven copies of the game.

There are some exceptions among the athletes. Jamal Anderson (The Thursday night party did not slake his Madden thirst!) makes friendly with people and brings his kid to the tent to play the game with the crowd. In an event that features appearances from Steve Young, Roger Craig and Ronnie Lott, I purchase a football from the tightly secured Wal-Mart tent so one of the former 49ers can sign it for my father, who's a huge fan. Lott refuses to sign anything but Young graciously complies in the media area. (That's right! I broke a cardinal rule of teh journalisms!)

I continue to wander for a bit, making my way back to the VIP green room area where I start to record Warren Sapp and his kid practicing on Madden training mode. He chats with me a little while he's doing it until he notices the Flip Video camera in my hand. This will not do, it seems. Sapp gets in my face, irate that I filmed him without his permission and demands I immediately delete the video. I do it (because, y'know, he's a very large black man who's amassed his fortune by pummeling people), and he holds the glare for a few seconds after I comply. Turning to the others in the room, he bellows, "You believe this? It's like the paparazzi, man." I know, right? First they kill Princess Diana. Now they film you playing Madden with your kid in a public setting. Monsters! Later on I find out he had a similar freakout with some guys from The Sporting News when they tried to snap his picture (again without permission!) a little earlier. Warren's having a bad day.

The other media people are stationed in the visitor's locker room, where an old guy in an Arizona Cardinals shirt marshals the retired athletes around the various media encampments throughout the room. I miss out on Deion during his brief stay at the event, blowing my chance to ask him about his experience doing a car commercial with (the former!) Pacman Jones and what advice he gleaned from his disappointing 2004 comeback with the Ravens that could be applied to Favre's inevitably sorry one this year. For the most part, I don't have much to ask of many of the players and they don't have anything to say about the game beyond "I don't play it but my kid does." I force a sitdown out of Rod Woodson, knowing he'll give the exact same answers, only because I'm a hopeless Steelers homer.

Busta Rhymes injects some rare energy into the Palooza with an early evening set that goes long by 20 minutes. The audience cares little, finally getting some excitement and charisma from an event that was theretofore largely overproduced and rote. Like the NFL players that were there, it's been years since Busta has been considered anything approaching relevant. He at least gave some effort to those who made him what he is.