I'd say Vienna's lovely, but it isn't really. Its great architecture is cheek by jowl with a lot of Soviet-style apartment blockery (this is pretty much Eastern Europe) and when you look closely you realize a lot of the city is chipped and flaked and graffiti'ed and grotty.

But it does have a lot of bridges. The Donaukanal is thick with them. Should I jump from Friedensbrucke? Rossauerbrucke? They're far from my hotel -- how about Schwedenbrucke or Aspernbrucke? My body can wash up in Romania or some godforsaken place. I'll be fished out by some gypsy who'll look at the retired numbers on the forlorn t-shirt that encases my bloated, fish-eaten corpse and gasp, "A Mets fan?!" She'll make the sign of the evil eye and exclaim, "I'm surprised he pulled off killing himself!"

Sigmund Freud plied his trade here. I imagine if I visited some bearded successor of his, before I could rattle on about mother issues or toilet training he'd squint at me over his glasses and say, "You root for ze New York Mets. No vunder you are unhappy. You should try ze Yankees."

Ah ha ha ha. I hope I'm still laughing Thursday, when we fall out of first place. And I'm not even trying to maneuver the baseball gods into a reverse jinx -- I'm as certain the Mets will fall into second place two games from now as I am that the sun will rise.

Two of my colleagues on this trip are hardcore Phillies fans. At first their tentative optimism was balanced by their own freightload of bad karma -- this was obviously just one more way for the Phils to torture their faithful. Since the Mets went to D.C. things have changed. This morning we had to be downstairs at 4:30 a.m. for taxis to Heathrow. I had woken up and stared in glum dis-disbelief at the 9-8 score, then watched Philadelphia and St. Louis stay tied until it was time to get a cab. The Phillies fans, Blackberrys in hand, would update me and the other Met fan on this trip as we trudged through the endless corridors of Heathrow, with our trip's lone San Francisco Giants fan providing Greek chorus.

It went something like this:

PHILLIES FAN #1: Still 4-4.
PHILLIES FAN #2: Man, it could be one and a half. Incredible.
[trudging, listening to polite, baffling British announcements]
ME: Who's in for St. Louis?
PHILLIES FAN #1: Isringhausen.
ME: Fuck me. Forget it.
[trudging, swearing quietly]
PHILLIES FAN #2: One and a half.
GIANTS FAN: That really sucks.
[trudging and brooding]
PHILLIES FAN #1: 7-4 Phils!
PHILLIES FAN #2: Amazing. Simply amazing.
ME: Where the fuck is our gate? Fucking Mets! FUCK!
METS FAN #2: Fuck.
GIANTS FAN: That really sucks.
PHILLIES FAN #2: One and a half. Amazing.

It was every bit as fun as it sounds. Jesus Christ I hate baseball. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find Vienna's highest bridge.

It has come to this: A person can't take a nap without the Mets giving up six runs.

No kidding. It was a scooch past 8:30 when I curled up and closed my eyes on the couch, feeling relieved that John Maine hadn't given up the big hit in the fourth; secure he was positively reinforced after Lo Duca and Endy each drove home a run to extend our advantage to 7-3; and suddenly drowsy. It wasn't my intention to nod off, but at least I could snooze peacefully.

I woke up around 9:30 and the TV said it was Nationals 9 Mets 7 in the seventh. Then I just stared at the score strip at the top of the screen.

How on...

What the...

9-7?...

Wasn't it 7-3?...

And now it's...

We're LOSING?...

Huh?...

What?

Great meeting, guys.

Thankfully those few winks have come in handy because it allowed me the energy to stay glued to the Phillies-Cardinals marathon in St. Louis and, after hearing Philadelphia win it in the fourteenth (why couldn't the Cardinals have kept Ronnie Belliard?), I'm fully revived so I can stay up all night and panic. But panicking is such a short-term solution. Why panic when you can plan?

My plan is we might as well get this thing over with.

I know it would be more convenient if we all went to the respective bridges nearest us, but we should really jump as a group. More impactful that way — makes a bigger SPLASH!, if you will.

Jason predictably let me know he'd prefer the Brooklyn Bridge, but c'mon, that's a cliché, and besides, he left the country rather than observe first-hand our erstwhile seven-game lead melt to 1-1/2 (coward).

I was thinking the Whitestone because it's closest to Shea, or even the Triborough for its Metropolitan-connectivity symbolism — think about how the Mets have historically been about building bridges — but I say we all meet at Riis Park in the Rockaways and hike to the middle of the Marine Parkway-Gil Hodges Bridge. Shouldn't our last act as Mets fans at least bring a little attention to our sainted manager? Maybe veterans committee members read the wire service stories about how the Mets' ineptitude literally killed us and think "shame that people take baseball so seriously...hey, that's right...Hodges was a really great player and manager...let's finally put him in the Hall."

Unlike the 2007 season, our action will not have been for naught.

So do we leap right away? Or do we wait until we're technically in second place? Maybe hold off until we're eliminated from Wild Card contention, too? Oh, that's coming. I hadn't really paid much attention to how our record stacked up versus the consolation contenders, but it turns out we're tied with San Diego. Thus, if...HA!...when the Phillies race by us, we have no cushion. Except for the beckoning waters of Rockaway Inlet.

Oh crap. I just remembered that I have tickets for a bunch of games next week and I'd hate for them to go to waste. I'm gonna have to wait out the remainder of the regular season now. Well, it won't take long. Only twelve left. And on the off chance the Mets right themselves and win another game, maybe they'll win yet another and somehow remain atop the division. Or perhaps the Phillies will lose again. Doesn't seem likely; they're 6-0 since Thursday and we're 0-5 since Friday. But you never know. Besides, I'd hate to waste those tickets.

All right, we won't jump yet. But I'll start counting out quarters for any tolls we might encounter on our road to doom. I don't have EZPass.

Neither, as it turns out, do the Mets.