I ate at an upscale, white-tablecloth restaurant last night that had words on its menu like velouté and emincé. In other words, at a place with some pretension. I ordered the Grilled Tasmanian Ocean Trout with avocado relish, balsamic onions, and citrus-cumin reduction. In other words, the pretentious trout. And yet, even at this place in one of the city's higher-dollar neighborhoods, the cost of this dish was only $19.

We're talking about getting a whole bunch of stuff I don't even understand for less than a hot dog costs.

Has the world gone mad? Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

I'll tell you where you haven't gone: the ballpark.

At baseball stadiums these days, you're as likely to find sushi as you are to find a hot dog. The good old-fashioned wiener? It's going to wherever "Joltin' Joe" is.

It had to happen, I guess.

Things evolve.

That's what they call it, anyway, when something recognizable becomes something unrecognizable.

I NEVER WISHED I were an Oscar Mayer wiener - not even when doing so was in style years ago, when the Wienermobile, the car that looks like a hot dog, was driving through towns, with a little kid's voice belting out the lyrics to the maddeningly stick-in-your-head (even these many years later) melody:

Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
That is what I truly want to beeeeeeee
'Cause if I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
Everyone would be in love with me

EVEN THEN I didn't wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener.

I did wish that I could get Wendy Whatshername to laugh at my jokes. But I don't think she would have laughed, even if I had been an Oscar Mayer wiener.