WHAT I'VE BEEN READING OF LATE: Seems like I've spent most of my writing energy on other people's blogs of late, writing comments and advice and whatnot. I am the king of unsolicited guidance...

I've been especially entertained and engaged by the writing on The Phone Rang and Infidelity Bites. On the first, a whimsical man channels his inner child *and* his wise old man while dealing with the aftermath of his wife's infidelity. On the second, a very grounded-sounding woman alternates between her inner lawyer and her magnanimous lover, sifting through the rubble after her husband's infidelity. I read both regularly, and I can't help myself from weighing in on their complementary plights, perhaps far too often.

I also make regular visits to Do Over, The Least of My Worries, Nobody Knows It, and Just Procrastinating. (They feature, respectively: more post-infidelity blues; child-rearing and self-actualization blues; still more post-infidelity blues; and light musing about most anything.)

Finally, I've enjoyed keeping up on my brother and his wife, on their dual (and every once in a while, dueling) blogs. He writes Mission From Dog; she hammers out Phaneromania.

For whatever reason, I've spent far less time on the political blogs of late, although I do still go for a fairly regular dose of Andrew Sullivan.

When I'm really bored, I dig into Perez Hilton, perhaps my faoorite guilty pleasure of '06.

So what are y'all reading, when you have the chance?

TOP SECRET SKUNK: You gotta love this.

Also, this will be fun: Laurel, Mom...where do you think his nickname comes from? What do you think it means?

MY TWO CENTS ON TOOKIE: I'm against the death penalty. I believe in the sanctity of life, that a society must make laws and endorse practices that celebrate and embrace and protect life, even the life of a murderer. That said, if we're going to have a death penalty (which, again, I'm against), it certainly seems like Tookie Williams is the kind of guy that should receive it.

WHO ASKED ME ABOUT THE OSCARS? Look, I'm usually terrifically shy about expressing my opinions...but the subject of who hosts the Academy Awards is simply too juicy for me to leave alone. I must be heard.

Apparently it won't be Chris Rock. Fine. I think he's overrated, and his stint last year wasn't particularly funny. (I know I'm in the minority when I say that David Letterman was, for me, by far the funniest host since Johnny Carson. Loved him.)

According to this article, the candidates look to be: Steve Martin, Jay Leno, Whoopi Goldberg, and Conan O'Brien.

C'mon. There's only one person in that list who deserves consideration.

Steve Martin's career over the past ten years has been an embarassment. That CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN franchise is actually beyond embarassing. Horrifying. And that thing with Queen Latifah? Steve is out.

Jay Leno? Not funny. Not. Funny. Not even a little bit. Sure, he seems like a nice guy. But. He. Is. Not. Funny. The word 'painful' comes to mind, actually.

Whoopi? The most loathsome possibility of all. Big fat overrated sanctimonious loudmouth who must be the luckiet person alive. Host? Nost.

So...it's Conan. I mean, I'd watch that. (I'd at least Tivo it.) I'm counting the days 'til Conan takes over the Leno debacle. Let's give the carrot-topped nutball a shot at primetime.

Here's hoping he gets the gig and does running gags about Sean Penn and Tim Robbins.

TAKES AFTER HIS GRANDFATHER: We got like a zillion gallons of snow dumped on us last night, as you no doubt know, given the horrible tragedy at one of our airports.

Anyway, after my no-shit three-hour-plus commute home last night, I had a fun exchange with CJ while watching a TV show on Disney World:

"Daddy, where is Disney World?"

"It's in Florida."

"Is it summer in Florida?"

"It's always summer in Florida."

"Can we go to Florida right now?"

"No, we can't. It's far away from Chicago."

"Daddy, I don't like Chicago anymore."

WHO LOVES KANYE? KANYE! It's offical: Kanye West is an arrogant twit. As evidence I give you Kanye's comments about the upcoming Grammy awards, plucked from a recent MTV interview:

"If I don't win Album of the Year, I'm gonna really have a problem with that," said West. "I can never talk myself out of [winning], you know why? Because I put in the work. I don't care if I jumped up and down right now on the couch like Tom Cruise. I don't care what I do, I don't care how much I stunt — you can never take away from the amount of work I put into it. So I don't wanna hear all of that politically correct stuff. You put the camera in front of me, I'm gonna tell you like this. I worked hard to get here. I put my love, I put my heart, I put my money [into Late Registration]. I'm $600,000 in the hole right now on that album and you tell me about being politically incorrect?

He goes on to suggest that the song "Gold Digger" -- the one where Jayme Foxx yells "tell me, mama" using a retarded accent -- is the clear-cut song of the year.

What the fuck is he talking about?

First off, who cares who wins the Grammy, any Grammy? Since when has the Grammy ever been a true measure of merit? Next, can he really believe that his work -- the product and the effort that went into it -- so far exceeds everyone else's that awarding him Album of the Year should be a foregone conclusion?

Is it just me, or is this guy so far up his own shorts that he's hanging from his uvula?

Given all the hype, I've tried repeatedly to find even one Kanye song that appeals to me. No dice. Uck. Sucks. Sucks. He's a lame performer, a mediocre MC, and a boor. Rumor has it he's a good producer, but if that's the case I wish he'd just park his ignorant ass behind the board and shut the fuck up.

THE WORD POTBOILER COMES TO MIND: Just finished BLACK, a none-too-literary but fairly enjoyable debut novel by former FBI Hostage Rescue Team member Christopher Whitcomb. Lots of fun, breezy, etc., but unfortunately stuck with a stupid, tie-up-all-loose-ends-cheaply ending. Was totally planning on reading WHITE, the sequel, until about the last 15 pages or so. We'll see. Will definitely wait for the paperback. In the meantime, to cleanse my literary palate, am contemplating picking up the new Coetzee. (His DISGRACE is one of my fave books of all time.)

SAY HI TO HELMULLET MANIA: Please don't forget to visit my other site. I'm convinced I'm doing some of my best work there.

GLADLY TURNING BITCHES OUT: Sometimes the stuff that gets posted in my COMMENTS section is just too good not to reprint. Here's my brother Eric holding forth on seeing Snoop Dogg on the ELLEN show:

Please don't ask why, but I happened to see Snoop do his new hit "Drop it like it's hot" about a year ago on the "Ellen" show. It was somewhat of a watershed pop culture moment for me.

At one point, Mr. Broadus danced up into the audience, composed mainly of young to middle aged females, many of whom were no doubt soccer moms. They were having a good time dancing to the rap music- some even got to dance solo with the man himself. And Snoop's doing his thing-singing about being a pimp and turning bitches out. They obviously didn't understand that Snoop would gladly turn any of these bitches out as well (explanation for Laurel [here my brother is giving a shout-out to his wife,, Laurel, who never gets anything like this]- this means Snoop would become their pimp and earn money when they prostituted themselves to men on the street).

I have to believe that Snoop's posse must have been watching this back in the green room and having the same type reaction I was having... almost as if they'd entered a parallel universe. Or perhaps they knew their message just needed time and that this was where it was all headed anyways.

(by the way, these types of juxtapositions seem to happen all the time these days- I think one of the first I can remember was when Rage Against the Machine played Saturday Night Live when they were hot- the final goodbye scene on stage showed the lead singer for Rage arm in arm with that night's host, Steve Forbes.)

I'M BAD, I'M NATIONWIDE: I'm in New York...but not for long.

Sitting in the JFK Red Carpet lounge. Flew in here yesterday morning -- up at five, on the way to the airport by six, on a plane at eight, presenting right after lunch, dinner, then out to the Hampton Inn at the airport. Did manage to have really good sushi with an old friend, so that was nice.

Now am awaiting a five-hour-or-so flight out to LAX (so my 5AM wake-up call here had me up at 2AM L.A. time -- oy), where I'll land and drive in to Burbank and chatter some more. Had the good sense not to make dinner plans tonight, so I'll probably just melt into my room in West Hollywood. More chattering tomorrow morning, then a bird back to Chicago in the late afternoon, arriving home around 8PM.

This kind of travel dulls the senses, the emotions, everything. It's not a big deal, not as if I'm doing anything so terribly hard. But it just kind of kicks your butt, little by little by little. I am amazed at how easily and vacantly I can wake up in a strange bed, get myself dressed and packed up, and stagger through security and onto a plane.

Nice thing on my upcoming flight is that it's a three-class flight -- United's "Premium Service" -- and I've got a cushy business class seat with my own power outlet. Several times ago I had the good fortune to watch NAPOLEON DYNAMITE on my complimentary personal DVD player. Alas, this flight will be filled with editing, e-mail triage and, hopefully, a cat nap or two.

It's a living!

STRANGER THAN FICTION: Good gracious do we live in ridiculous times.

THE NEXT BIG THING IN PARENTING: A little more than a year ago I stumbled upon a parenting philosophy that was so effective I considered writing a book so I could share it with the world. This morning, while my youngest son was objecting loudly to my dual diaper-changing and nose-wiping activities, it came back to me:

"Who cares what you think?"

I really think it's a franchise. I'm tellin' ya, just saying those words I felt a sense of empowerment.

HELMULLET MANIA: One day the sun will never set on the expanding Blind Camel empire.

LIVIN' LA VIDA LOCA: As much as I bitch about my travel, it can be cool sometimes. Just back from dinner on South Beach at Nobu. Pretty much one of the finest sushi restaurants in the world, in one of the coolest locales. Great company at my table, and NASCAR drivers Jeff Gordon (draped by hot babe) and Casey Mears (sans babe, possibly sitting with Brian Vickers, but not sure given his ballcap) one table over. Not bad.

WHICH DO YOU WANT FIRST? The good news: Kurt Busch wasn't drunk. The bad news: He's that big an asshole when's he's sober!

DUMB & DUMBER: I posted something loosely about "intelligent design" and science inside a comment a few posts ago, and I thought it was not bad...so I'm reposting it here, on accounta I think it might inspire some fun back-and-forth. Here goes:

The whole "intelligent design" debate is kind of funny to me. I have no problem if intelligent design is presented in the classroom for what it is: a non-scientific explanation invented after the fact by religious people who want to merge biblical prose with scientific knowledge. Something like that. I mean, evolution is only a theory, too. It works better than intelligent design, if you play by the rules of science. But the thing I always hated 'bout science class was that scientists thought that creating some kind of language and classification system and memorizing it somehow represented knowledge. Science and Mathematics are amazing and useful tools, but they're just a lot of hand-waving at the end of the day. They can be used to produce tremendous good, just like the Humanities. But there's nothing absolute about the blueness of blue or the hydrogenness of water. It's just semantic hand-waving, useful for communication and even exploration, but a million miles short of any kind of absolute explanation of the intrinsic nature/meaning of life.

Discuss...

UNHOLY ALLIANCE: When Terrell Owens and Jesse Jackson get together, which one looks worse by association? I call it a toss-up.

I also enjoyed Ralph Nader's insane two cents. Wow, I was totally wondering about his take on this. So good of him to weigh in.

Still waiting to hear from Janeane Garofalo...

PLEASE JUDGE ME: I often enjoy identifying my own character flaws, and I just stumbled on a major one. Here it is: As much as I'm into the NASCAR these days, as much as I don't mind wearing a NASCAR ballcap here and there, sporting my AC/DC-looking NASCAR t-shirt, and playing NASCAR Hot Wheels with my son in public areas...I still don't want to be pigeonholed. I want points for my eclecticism. Like Whitman, my ralling cry is something along the lines of "I contain multitudes," or whatever whoever said.

Back in the day, in high school and college, one of the ways I was able to advertise my catholic tastes was via my "wall stuff." My friggin' walls in my room were a testament to my good taste, to my wide-ranging interests and enthusiasms. Walk in my room and you were treated to a page ripped from INTERVIEW (some fashion photograph of the latest Edie Sedgwick-looking model), one of my poems writ large via photocopier, a ticket stub or backstage pass from some obscure rock show or another, a signed 8X10 glossy of Don Knotts or John Ritter, an old Polaroid of me in a high-school band, etc. It was all there, all of me, all my many moods and attitudes, etc. I remember distinctly an episode where I was trying to woo a girl -- this is way back in my Cincy days, when I had no money and no game but a ton of energy -- and she walked into my room and was like, "Wow, that's really incredible, all that stuff up on your walls." And my roommate, one of my oldest pals, just sort of rolled his eyes and chimed in with, "Yeah, you could call it that."

My younger brother Casey has, at times, isolated one of his own character challenges as not liking to be judged. I'm sorta the opposite: I'm dying to be judged, so long as I can kibbitz with the judges, glad-handle 'em, have some one-on-one interview time, turn on the old charm, etc. My worry is not that I'll be judged -- c'mon, lookie-lookie, I love it! -- but that I'll be misjudged. As the song says, "Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood."

And I was reminded that this is an issue of mine just recently, when a new Blind Camel commenter (and the author of a captivating blog about marriage woes) opened her post here with the remark that she didn't care much for NASCAR (or something like that). She went on to say some hugely nice things about your humble blogger, supernice, but for the life of me I haven't been able to get over the fact that, for her, I may have been pigeonholed as "that NASCAR guy."

Funny, it just occurs to me that this blog...have I written this before...I'd swear I have...that this blog is just another example of my "wall stuff," tacked up on the ethers for all to behold.

No wonder my old pal never reads this. He's seen it all before.

SULLY GOES BIGTIME: As you no doubt know by now, I'm a huge fan of Andrew Sullivan's blog, and so it was with great interest that I read about its impending move to the TIME corporate servers. In a nutshell, TIME will host Andrew's blog and provide the kind of back-office support that an entity of its great size is made to provide. According to Andrew, he'll maintain full editorial control and ownership. This sounds like a win/win to me and only serves to intensify my sense of brand loyalty toward TIME, an entity which I've long considered one of the best of its kind.

NO MORE SCIENCE HATERS NEED APPLY: Let me go on record early: In '08 I'm looking for a candidate that's unabashedly pro-stem cell research. In fact, I'm looking for someone who can reconcile his or her spiritual wishes (faith, whatever) with scientific reality. Do I think science is the be-all and the end-all? Nope. Do I think there's a place for religion in one's governing temperament? Indeed. But do articles like this make me pissed off that Bush 43 has been a foot-dragger? You bet.

If the Dalai Lama were more of a hawk on defense, he might be my guy...

BUSCH TO THE BENCH: Dumbass gets what he deserves. I'd love to see the video of him lipping off to the cops. You just know he was giving it the "do you know who I am" treatment.

IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS: One of the reasons I'm loathe to consider leaving Chicago (for better weather and/or career options) is this: I get to watch the Bears/Cubs on TV pretty much all the time. Sometimes I wonder how my brother in Ann Arbor and my dad in St. Clair Shores can stand missing the Bears game. I'm sitting HERE watching, feeling totally excited and immersed, and I can't believe they're not sitting THERE wondering, wishing, missing.

Such is the grip of sports.

WHAT A STROKE: Further evidence that defending NASCAR Nextel Cup champ Kurt Busch is a total doof.

SAY IT AIN'T SO, GOB: I may have turned half-Republican of late, but I can still dust off my elitist bonafides from time to time. And this story reminds me of one of the bedrock theses of my young-adult life: The mass of Americans have no friggin' taste.

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT is like the one good situation comedy on network televison in the past decade, and nobody's watching. You can't blame the network for cancelling it. I just marvel that Leno and EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND are what passes for many for the mass of Americans. Maybe my Inner Snob will reintroduce me to my Inner Democrat.

CUE BEAVIS-LAUGH: Whoa! Check out the name on this guy who's the third-string center for the Clippers. (Heh heh, heh heh heh.)

ROADBLOGGING: I've been a lazy blogger of late, but it's not because I don't love you.

Last week I was in Seattle. It was foggy and raining, believe it or not. And yet there's something about foggy and rainy in Seattle that feels just right. Seattle is a Fall or a Winter, if she had her colors done. Had a great dinner at a place called Wild Ginger, an Asian-Fusion hotspot downtown.

Started this week in Laguna Niguel, at a conference at the Ritz there. Hertz slapped me into a Jaguar, which was nice. Spoke at a conference, then rolled up to LAX to fly to where I am now, Sacramento. Turns out I'm here on the day the state votes up or down on their Governator, more or less.

What else? My son turned one, developed another double ear infection, decided he hated cupcakes. (Good for him. Me too!)

My wife threw a fantastic little shindig at our overstuffed, undersized urban hipster casa, a fiesta rife with sushi and rice crackers and old friends.

I finished another Hard Case Crime book, finished THE GAME. I fell in love with The Postal Service.

Anyway, the lid is back off my posting again. This was one of those "break-the-seal" missives, aimed at getting me back off the schneid. More from a Red Carpet Club near you soon.

TO PRAISE THEO, NOT TO BURY HIM: I love the Theo Epstein story: Boy-wonder gets promoted to GM of his hometown ballclub, takes 'em to their long-awaited World Series championship.

From everything I've heard and read, he sounds like a heck of a guy. I think I'd like him. And yet...I've had about enough of this drama, the idea that this story is anything more than a new general manager for a baseball team.

C'mon, guys. "This will make me stronger," says Epstein. The principal owner Henry near tears. (It's all in the story, in hand-wringing commentaries across every medium.)

Thing is, all the talk about having to put body and soul into the job, the sacrifices...this ridiculous world of professional sports where the coaches and execs give up a normal family life for some kind of manufactured glory...it's, well, silly.

I'm a sports fan. I get what it is to be carried away by the uberstory, the metastory of your favorite athlete or team. But this thing, this fandom, is a kind of willful suspension of disbelief. It's not real. Somehow I'm not so sure Epstein, who's been doing this since he was 18, remembers that this whole mess is over a dumb job that pays him a fortune. The kid was blessed. Here's hoping he's blessed again. And even more, here's hoping he learns how to lighten up a bit. (Granted, the whole Red Sox Nation needs a chill pill, which is one of the reasons Manny's going to be Manny somewhere other than Boston next year.)

PUSH-UPDATE: Although it's been a while since I last mentioned my ongoing push-up campaign, rest assured I'm still on the job. Just knocked out 62 pretty good ones on the floor of my Hilton Seattle hotel room. Going down for another set, minimal rest...

(pause)

Okay, only 25 more, which means that 62 effort wasn't half bad. One more try...

(pause)

25 more, and I'm wiped. Not bad.

Pity I can't muster enough willpower to go for a run. I have a cold. Sniffle.

SI, TIMEX: Look, it's a bit of an understatement to say that Bush 43 is something of a polarizing figure. (And I know, he's a bumbler, a stooge, in bed with crazy Christians, etc. Let's not go there.)

Nonetheless, my brother Casey forwarded me an article this morning that reminds me what an immensely, intrinsically likable figure he can be. I love this:

When the reporter from La Nacion asked Bush to show him what he carries, the president stood up, fished in his pockets, then dramatically pulled his hands out holding nothing but a white handkerchief that he waved playfully in the air.

"Es todo," Bush told the Spanish-speaking reporter, meaning the handkerchief was all. "No dinero, no mas. No wallet."

I'll save you the effort, my friendly commenters. Here's your joke:

"His pockets are just like his head -- empty."

There you go. No charge.

GET YOUR MOUTH SHUT: In an article about ongoing teen riots in Paris, French "Equal Opportunities Minister" Azouz Begag has this to say:

"It is by fighting the discriminations of which young people are victims that we will re-establish order, the order of equality. Not by bringing out more CRS (riot police)," Begag told the newspaper Liberation in an interview.

My reaction, in reading that quote, says everything about where my politics are today, versus where they were even five years ago.

Five years ago I would have been right with him, I bet. Root causes. Oppression. Che Guevara! Billy Bragg!

Now I just look at that quote and think, Bulllllll-shit. There are always some idiots looking for a reason to flip over cars and light shit on fire. NBA Championship. Social ills. Mad at the president. You name it. Bottom line is that idiots who are lighting cars on fire are idiots. Put me in the Zero Tolerance camp. Bring on the riot cops!

BTW, the title of this post is a direct quote once uttered by Mike Ditka to a reporter. I love it.

CUE THE STEVE MILLER: Throwing stuff in a suitcase this morning for a quick run (if there is such a thing) to Seattle. Dinner downtown tonight, then running out to Redmond for a meeting tomorrow. Then dinner back in the city Wednesday night, followed by an early AM flight back to Middle America.

My new standard work ensemble includes some stylish black trousers, a sleek black t-shirt, and a mini-V-neck black sweater with subtle black piping running vertically. Yes, ich bin ein Sprocket, or something like that. Black seems to go nicely with black. Plus it makes your average teen luminary seem that much more luminous, or so I hear.

More from the Red Carpet Lounge later today.

WHO KNEW? I post a lot for a couple months, my traffic numbers go way up. Then I lay back and don't post for a week and my numbers dip. Then I get back down to biz this morning, throw some writing out into the ethers and bing-bing-bing, y'all are back and lookin' at it. Nice.

THAT BOBBY MCFERRIN WAS ONTO SOMETHING: Check out this great article on happiness. Essential reading! An excerpt:

Stay in your Eeyore-ish bubble of existentialist angst and have a life that's short, sickly, friendless and self-obsessed. Or find a way to get happy, and long life, good health, job satisfaction and social success will be yours.

PAGING WILL FERRELL: I don't know anything about this new Supreme Court nominee, but I do look forward to hearing Bush overpronounce his name, "Ah-lee-toe!", and then look around all pleased with himself for having gotten through it.

BRICK MEET HEAD: It just hit me as I typed that last post about my brother and his poker: I'm the writer, Eric's the competitor, Casey's the musician. We're all so clearly who we are. Anything else we do is just window-dressing. Some people have to wander the deserts of their identity in search of the oasis of their soul. Us Hess boys, it's friggin' stamped on our foreheads what we're supposed to be doing with our lives.

PROUD: My kid brother Eric was always the athlete of the family. He thrilled us with his league records in swimming, his tournament success in juniors tennis, and his late-life golf prowess that enabled him to card a hole-in-one like it was nothing.

About six months or so ago his competitive drive and his love of gambling inspired him to seek his fortune playing, you guessed it, Texas Hold 'Em. After 18 months or so practicing online, he deemed his game ready-for-prime-time and took it into the casinos of Detroit. Before long he figured out he was making more money playing poker than doing his day job. Long story short, he decided to apply more time to poker, less time to not-poker. Now he sits down three or four times a week and leaves with more than he came with.

Last night the kid hit the big time: Playing an online tourney, he won a seat in the famous World Series of Poker! All expenses paid, hotel, airfare, etc. Not bad. Somehow I feel like he's going to do very well. Here's a kid who's never doubted himself, even when he should have. (A big brother can get away with a crack like that, I hope.) Somehow I think that's gonna serve him well when he gets on the big stage.

JEALOUS? I got a totally sweet new t-shirt in New York last week. Check it out, below.

APPLE UPDATE: It's cold, rainy, and windy here in New York. Pretty much a perfect convergence of unpleasant climate conditions. Add that on top of the traffic, the zillions of people, and the general brusqueness of the East Coast, and it's not quite a recipe for fun. Nonetheless my presentations are going great, my kids are safe and well taken care of back in Chicago, and I had a blockbuster dinner last night at Gotham Bar & Grill. So I'm not grumping. And tonight I get to hook up with my best friend since seventh grade, so all in all I'm pretty chipper.

Time to order some room service and work the phones.

APPLECASTING: On the ground in NY all week. Hope to be able to post some. Back soon.

HOME ALONE: So Eileen is off to Paris for eight days. Wow! Good for her. She and her high school girlfriends are celebrating their 40th birthdays and their long-running friendship.

Meanwhile I've got both of the boys fed, clean, and sleeping. I've got a glass of good Zinfandel. And I'm about to watch my love/hate show, REAL TIME WITH BILL MAHER.

Leading up to the Maher show, there was some horrific ad for an upcoming George Carlin special. Great. Like I need to see a grumpy, insane old coot talking down to me for an hour. If I wanted that I'd just tune in to CHARLIE ROSE.

Here's Maher now, waltzing out to greet his adoring crowd. Good lord. Bush may be dumb, Cheney may be a liar, but somehow I can't muster the same dislike for them as I can for snotty liberals like Maher. Prolly 'cause I used to be like Maher. It's like an ex-smoker thing. Just can't stand the smell of it anymore.

Uh oh. Mikey is mumbling and such in the next room. For the love of God, stay down boy. Daddy is off duty for the night.

SHOOTER! Went out running around with some college pals last night. Had a few tequilas and a few Budweisers and checked out the Shooter (son of Waylon) Jennings show at a local establishment. I almost forgot how fun it is to be out in a music club, seeing live music. And apparently I also almost forgot how crappy I feel after even a few drinks these days. This morning I was reminded.

By the way, this Shooter Jennings was pretty darn good. I picked up his latest album on iTunes when I got home last night. Check him out.

DOPP KIT SUPERSTAR: Are there any words or phrases you've been saying your whole life but you never really knew how to spell 'em or what they meant?

Dopp kit. What the hell is a dopp kit? I never really knew. My dad always called the man-purse he traveled with a dopp kit. Actually, before I decided to write this blog entry, before I did some Googling, I wasn't sure if he had been saying "dob kit" or "dab kit" or "dop kit" or even "dopkit." I really had no idea.

Turns out, thanks to Google (hmmm...capital G, I'm always giving thanks to Him or Her...maybe I have found religion) I discovered it is indeed "dopp kit," and that the etymology is readily available for the curious.

Anyway, what I really wanted to write about: I've finally found a great dopp kit. After years of traveling with a cavernous, one-compartment monster -- one that basically looked exactly like the one my dad had, a common theme across many of my wardrobe and toiletry items -- it finally started coming apart at the seams, literally, and I ventured out to replace it.

What I found was an intricately zippered, highly compartmentalized, over-priced superstar of a toiletry kit, handsomely adorned with that reassuring little Swiss Army logo. It's inelegantly named "The Victorinox Hanging Toiletry Kit," and you can check it out here. As any ardent lover says of his new paramour, the photo simply doesn't do her justice.

I've been using this UberDopp, as I call it, for about a month now, and not only does it hold more stuff more effectively than my old one, it also packs down smaller. I was originally pretty leery of the price -- I mean, c'mon, for the $55 I spent on this thing I could have had another sushi dinner -- but after a month of blissful use, I have to say it's been well worth the money. (Photo credit: Casey. Art direction: Me.)

THINKING ABOUT THE ULTIMATE WEDGE ISSUE: This is one of the most powerful commentaries on abortion I've ever read. It aligns closely with my own feelings. Make sure to check it out.

Andrew Sullivan suggests it aligns with his feelings, too, although says he'd favor legal abortions in the first trimester to "protect a woman's ownership of her own body." I tend to agree with him.

REFLECTED: The kid you know at three is very similar to the adult you'll know at 30. At least that's what my mom thinks.

We were talking on the phone this weekend after Eileen and I got back from our parent/teacher conference at C.J.'s school. My mom called just as we were arriving home, and I was telling her some of the things the teacher said, and telling her how much they aligned with the things we see at home.

He's masculine, said his teacher, but very kind and thoughtful. Sensitive, even. (That she would call a three-year-old masculine struck me as a bit funny, but a) I was happy to hear it, and b) I know what she means.) He's very into routine and order; he seems to thrive within a tight structure, to crave it. He's very social and has a lot of friends of both sexes. He has one posse of boys in particular that are his constant playmates. He's motivated to do his "work" (it's a Montessori program, so that's what they call their structured stuff), and he's particularly taken with water-based activities. He's polite. ("When he runs into the other kids when he's racing around on the playground, he always stops and says, 'Oh, Katy, I'm so sorry. Excuse me.'")

My mom then commented that so many of these emerging personality traits will continue well into adulthood, that she's seen it in her boys, in me. She told me that I was always a good student, didn't have any trouble with the coursework, had plenty of friends...but had a big problem with authority. At home and at school. You couldn't tell me anything. I always knew better, or so I thought.

I had to laugh. That basically describes my ongoing work life, from my first job to my latest. I can do the work. I love my colleagues and clients. But boy do I hate having a boss. Even a great boss! I had wonderful parents and teachers growing up, with the exception of a few odd teachers, and yet I still didn't want them to dictate anything to me.

I remember one teacher in particular who had me wait after school one day. I think it was in the fifth grade. "You cannot correct my spelling when I'm writing on the board. That's disrespectful," she told me. "Yeah, but what if your spelling is wrong? Aren't we here to learn?" I replied.

Thankfully, I don't think, at 39, that I'm exactly who I was at three, at 13, and so on. I remember I used to have a major temper, to feel almost possessed by my anger. That doesn't seem true of me anymore. I remember I used to be incredibly fixated on my social standing at school, about how I was perceived by the cool kids, about whether or not I was an "insider," and if so, how inside was I, relative to my peers. I remember always wanting the girl I didn't have, that didn't like me "that way," rather than the one that did. I remember feeling pretty cynical. And I remember being incredibly insensitive to other people's feelings, in the way that only adolescent boys can be. (Okay, so there are some adolescent men who still have this failing. I'm pretty darn sure I'm not one of 'em.)

No, I'm not entirely the same guy now as I was growing up. I'm really not angry very often, and when I am it's incredibly short-lived, more like a sneeze than a boiling pot, to mix metaphors. I have almost no concern for my social standing or insider status. Who has time? I'm delighted with the girl I have, although truth be told she's very good at making me feel like I need to chase her from time to time. I'm a Pollyanna optimist on most things. And I seem to have discovered a capacity for compassion, equal parts empathy (on accounta I've actually been through a few things) and sympathy (because I realize I'm gonna go through a lot more).

Over the years I remember my mom saying more than once that she's loved being a kid, a teenager, a young adult, etc., but she wouldn't want to do it again. She's always been very happy to be the age she is, or so she's said. I was never sure whether I believed her.

Watching C.J. sit on the front steps and eat his rainbow push-up last night, the colors melting down on his hand and all over his soft face, him pausing only to smile in between licks, it was hard not to feel a little jealous of his youth and his joy. Why wouldn't I want to be a kid again?

And yet it became instantly clear to me: God and/or the Universe willing, C.J.'s uncomplicated joy in that moment is the same joy he will feel when he's 39, watching his son or daughter. And although he'll feel a tinge of jealousy watching his child, he won't want to trade the experience of being a parent, basking in the reflected joy across generations, for anything.

My mom is right sometimes, as much as it still pains me to admit it.

TRACK SMACK: As faithful Camel readers know, I've become a NASCAR fan in the past three or so years. I've recently noticed how deeply the lingo has infiltrated my day-to-day driving vocabulary. The other day I was making a turn in a rain-soaked blacktop parking lot, and I felt my tires start to give way. "Wow, got loose," I thought, using the term the NASCAR commentators use when a car doesn't handle smoothly in the turns. Then this morning I hurtled past a piece of metal on the highway, narrowly avoiding it and certain tire trouble. "Debris!" my internal voice shrieked, mimicking the call that's made when a piece of somebody's car breaks off and a yellow flag is imminent.

A READER REPLIES: I forwarded my recent Miers post to a Liberal friend via e-mail, and his reply was so well-written and interesting that I got his permission to re-post it here. He writes:

...It's tough not to agree with your main points. George Bush is an approachable average Joe, but none too bright. Check. And Bill Clinton was charismatic but horny.

The statements I'd take issue with are as follows:

a). I doubt Al Gore will run, even if many on my side have started to forgive him for his miserable campaign in 2000. I think my little cabal of trial lawyers, teachers, gays, and Hollywood elites is currently casting about for a credible Hillary alternative because, as much animosity as the Left harbors for Bush, there's a level of fury on the Right toward that... that... woman that's simply irrational.

b). There's a misperception out there about how much of the Left feels about GWB. It's an oversimplification of the same sort as the president is so fond. He's either a drooling mental invalid or a criminal mastermind. Let me introduce you to a bit of nuanced background you may find useful for future conversations with our type of folk.

For my part, I certainly don't believe Bush is a supergenius, unless we're talking about the Wile E. Coyote sort. Rather, I've always felt he was an irretrievable dolt capitalizing on the populist notion that good leaders shouldn't be all fancy-pants book-smart. My father (who tends to dislike authority and perceived elitism in equal measure), loves Bush. He seems to find comfort in the fact that the president relies on gut feelings, professional acquaintances, and stubbornness -- all attributes that average men can tap to become successful in the business world. Unfortunately, Mr. Bush seems every bit as untalented in being the CEO-president as he was being a CEO. The smart people he promised he'd surround himself with have set about working toward their own ends with little evidence they're looking out for the good of the larger organization (in this case, the country). Bush himself is certainly no evil genius. His handlers, however, have a much greater capacity for critical thinking and a much more meager capacity for moral contemplation. Plentiful documentation already exists to prove this point, but more is certainly on the way in coming weeks and months, lest any doubters remain unpersuaded.

Really, Bush is everything he promised he'd be in 2000: a CEO-president in the mold of Ken Lay. At best, he's unwilling to brook dissent, inattentive and incurious about the doings of his underlings, and absolutely unshakeable in his belief that he's at the top, so he must be right. At worst, he's corrupt.

SOPHISTIKIDS: One of the things we've noticed where I work (I do market research focused on teens) is how grown-up and seemingly sophisticated today's crop of young folks are. Granted, they're still teenagers, but sometimes they sure do look and act like young adults.

In a similar vein, when I looked at this recent Treo snapshot of my son C.J., in advance of his Saturday morning three-year-old soccer practice, I couldn't help but think, "This is a three-year-old?" I'm pretty sure I was bald, drooling, and playing with pots and pans when I was three. Heck, that might still describe me on the weekends.

 

MIERS? HELL TO THE NO: BTW, no, I can find no defense, excuse, or justification for the Miers nomination. This just seems like a big blunder, and it seems -- better than anything that preceded it, in my humble opinion -- to verify the best and most long-running refrain of the Bush opposition: He's simply not a competent leader. Nice enough guy? Sure. Good basic values? I think so. Healthy? You bet your ass! Smart?

Not so much, and not really a judgement call anymore, thanks to this nomination. Bush seems to have pulled back the curtain on himself.

Put politics aside, whether or not you're for the war or against it, whether or not you want to overturn Roe Vs. Wade or protect it...this Miers nomination simply doesn't seem like something a responsible leader would do. Granted, all leaders blunder at one time or another, but this one is just so darn big and comes in the face of so many other miscalculations...

Peggy Noonan offers some ideas for an exit strategy for Bush & Co. Regardless, there is no do-over button in the White House. This latest blunder seems particularly sticky, simply because it's so easy to set aside politics and see it for what it is: a dumb, unserious, arrogant, and irresponsible choice. Nothing against Miers -- she sounds like a nice, driven, and accomplished person -- but there's no way she's the appropriate choice, regardless of her views. I remember the hubbub over Thomas, whether or not he had the intellectual chutzpah and the resume for the gig -- and he seems like a giant compared to Miers.

Meanwhile, I'm really starting to look forward to '08. Here's the mantra that will win it for one side or the other: Competent Management. We're going to elect a CEO-in-Chief this next time around, someone who is longer on management and responsibility than on vision and charisma. To me, this suggests the Dems might rally around Clinton or Gore, and the Republicans might coalesce around Giuliani or...dare I say it...Haley Barbour. If that's the case, Giuliani will run on his crime reduction and crisis management; Clinton will run on her Spock-like coldness and efficiency; Gore will play up his private sector work and his behind-the-scenes efficiency work in the Clinton administration; and Haley Barbour will occupy the Southern X-factor role, buoyed by the fact that he seems to have been the only statesman of Giuliani-esque proportion during the Katrina crisis.

I handicap it down to Gore versus Giuliani, with Gore verbally anesthetizing us all the way to the White House.

I keep hearing that McCain can't win the Republican nomination, but if I had my druthers today -- if I could personally pick the next president -- I think he'd be my guy.

GOOD ADVICE: Since he was old enough to make a sentence, my oldest son C.J. has been signing off each night with a signature line: "Have a party in your dreams."

"Who says that?" I asked him the first time he said it.

"I do," he said innocently, rolling over towards sleep.

This morning I finally Googled the phrase and discovered he swiped it from the board book PAJAMA TIME. Despite the thievery, I'm still pretty impressed that's what he's chosen as his catchphrase.

GORE TIME? USNews.com's Washington Whispers suggests there are those pushing for a a Gore/Obama ticket in '08. This is the first real alternative I've seen posited to Clinton/Anyone. (Of course the whole issue of running mate(s) doesn't come into play right away.)

Will Obama launch his own campaign, as some of my Dem-insider friends have suggested to me? I'm not particularly well-informed, but on the Dem side of the fence I've heard Bayh, Clinton, Gore, and Obama thrown around. On the Republican side, I hear Cheney, Frist, Giuliani, and McCain. Anybody know anything different?

Pointers to any good sites handicapping/analyzing the '08 election would be much appreciated.

ODD COUPLING: I would say I was lucky enough to see Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick when they previewed their Broadway blockbuster THE PRODUCERS here in Chicago several years ago...except I didn't feel lucky. Mostly I felt bored.

I loved Broderick in Ferris Bueller, and I loved him even more in THE FRESHMAN. I'm not a Broderick-hater. Still, in THE PRODUCERS I found him to be an average singer and dancer, and a rather small presence onstage. He seemed maybe a little bit dazed, as if he'd had a Vicodin before the show.

Lane is a different story. I find his bluster too blustery, his drama too dramatic, etc. I loathed him in THE BIRD CAGE, which I desperately wanted to like given that Elaine May (yes, she of ISHTAR fame) teamed with her old pal Mike Nichols on it. I don't like him as a talk-show guest, either. In short, he annoys me. And in THE PRODUCERS, I just didn't buy him as the oversized Bialystock. Come to think of it, I think that would've been a perfect role for Ricky Gervais.

So when I saw this article about Lane and Broderick teaming up again for THE ODD COUPLE, saw that the show is already sold out from now until next millennium, I was a bit surprised. First, am I that far off the mainstream in not liking the two of 'em together? Second, is it just me, or would you rather see Broderick as the slob and Lane as the neatnik? C'mon, Lane is lifetime stage actor and he's gay. I don't buy him as Oscar, and neither should you.

And beyond that...aren't there any number of other stage combos that, although maybe not as bankable as Lane and Broderick, would make a better Felix/Oscar pairing?

From the mainstream: Bruce Willis as Oscar; that Chandler guy from friends as Felix.

From the fringe: Artie Lang as Oscar; Andy Dick as Felix.

From the Chicago news world: Mark Giangreco as Oscar; Antonio Mora as Felix.

From politics: Bill Clinton as Oscar; Al Gore as Felix.

The female version: Rosie O'Donnell as Oscar; Madonna as Felix.

The baseball pitcher version: David Wells as Oscar; Greg Maddux or John Smoltz as Felix.

From ESPN Radio: Mike Golic as Oscar; Mike Greenberg as Felix.

From the Rolling Stones: Keith Richards as Oscar; Mick Jagger as Felix.

From 'N Sync: That giant Greek guy as Oscar; Lance Bass as Felix.

From the Grateful Dead: Jerry Garcia as Oscar; Bob Weir as Felix.

From old TV: Roseanne as Oscar; Tom Arnold as Felix.

From this post: Elaine May as Oscar; Mike Nichols as Felix.

From the blogosphere: Andrew Sullivan as Oscar; Ariana Huffington as Felix.

Geez. I could do this for days!

OR MAYBE I AM BLESSED WITH SELF-KNOWLEDGE: I was at a grammar meeting at work a week or so ago (yep, we care 'bout that stuff), and I happened to do pretty well at an impromptu quiz. I renounced the prize, saying "I don't need to win anything. I just want you all to think I'm smart." People chuckled, but I think some of 'em knew I wasn't kidding.

WHICH CAME FIRST, THE WRITING OR THE CRAZY: It occurs to me that, for a guy who revels so much in his contradictions, inconsistencies, and quirks...the fact that I split my high school years between blue-collar Hamilton, OH and blue-blood Grosse Pointe, MI was manna from heaven.

On a related note, I was engaging in a friendly argument with one of my favorite guys in my office. He was lambasting my vote for Bush 43, telling me that I'm in bed with racists and homophobes and all manner of bad things. Meanwhile, Mr. Liberal and his wife and kids recently moved up to Wilmette, on Chicago's tony north shore. (Me and mine still live downtown in the Bucktown neighborhood, still a very diverse zip code.)

I shut him down with something like this:

"How many minorities live on your block? How many gay people do you count among your close friends? What kind of socioeconomic diversity will your kids grow up with?"

Granted, I've got a hardcore bully pulpit on all these issues. Our block mixes white, brown, yellow, and black, in many shades and combinations. Our closest friends on the block are a gay couple. And mixed in between million-dollar homes are inexpensive rentals and long-standing homesteaders who have no mortage, not to mention next to no income. Diverse.

I did not mention the fact that I've gazed longingly at North Shore real estate on more than one occasion. Of course I also left out the fact that I think I could move back to Hamilton, OH, buy a simple house, and rejoin the swim club I grew up at.

I think of myself as a very private person, someone who likes to be alone. I said that to a neighbor at the park the other night and she said, "I think you're the most social person I know."

No wonder I can't figure out what I want to do. Neither my heart nor my head fit through any available pigeonholes. No template can hold me! Ah, mess that is my psyche, canst thou find no purchase in this worldly firmament? Why dost thou torment me? Etc.

WAIT FOR THE KICKER: I read literary novels. I voted for Dukakis. I contribute to PETA. I drive a luxury sedan. I eat sushi. I cry watching OPRAH. I write poetry. I don't eat chicken, pork, or red meat. I live in a major urban center. I collect South Australian Shiraz. I buy Buddhist magazines. I dress my three-year-old like Tony Stewart.

I am a NASCAR dad. 

IT'S LICKY!

Every time C.J. bursts into Licky's room in the morning, he shouts out, "It's Licky," at the top of his lungs. Licky usually responds with a big smile and sometimes he even raises an arm triumphantly, ala "Steve Holt" on ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT. Anyway, I snapped this Licky shot on my Treo 650, and I wanted to share it. The kid is a Billy Idol fan, what can I say?

THE SEND-OFF COMMITTEE:  

Quite often in the mornings my family stands on the front step and waves as I drive off. Here's what it looked like this morning. No, that's not really Thomas the Tank Engine. It's C.J., wearing one of his many morning costumes. (There was talk of transforming into a lion as I was pulling away.)

GOOD MORNING: I'm down in the basement with my boys, watching Baby Einstein videos and playing with every toy they own. To facilitate said playing, they've dumped out every bin and drawer and spread the toys all across the floor. I'm sitting on the pull-out couch with my laptop, working wirelessly.

C.J. burst into our room at 5:30AM, and Michael (who C.J. and the rest of the world calls "Licky") woke up soon after. What's most amazing to me is how they wake up: It's zero to sixty in in under a second! Their eyes open, and then they're in gear. Let's play! Meanwhile my wife and I roll around in the bed, marvel at the hour, and sluggishly begin pulling on the vestiges of our day.

Now Eileen's left for Starbucks and McD's. (Licky must have sausage every morning, and we don't have any in the house; Licky is a full-fledged carnivore, eating only animal flesh, while C.J. enjoys salads and steamed vegetables.),I'm on monitoring duty in the basement, the main goal of which is to make sure C.J. doesn't strangle, spindle, or otherwise mutilate Sir Licky. For example, C.J. just grabbed both of Licky's arms and began to wave them in time to the music. Violently, of course. Licky laughed until he decided to cry. Soave, I told him. Soavecito!

Now C.J.'s randomly throwing toys in an attempt to get my attention. It's working. I better post this and intervene...

OLD AND LAZY, WITH GRUMPY NOT FAR AWAY: I noticed this morning that the remote-control key for my car has made me lazy. I left it on the roof and went around back to fetch stuff out of the trunk...and it took me several seconds to remember how to open the trunk without the key. (Push the button. Duh.) Even when I figured it out it just seemed kind of tough to have to bend down and push like that. I considered going back around the car to get my remote-control key, actually. Finally I bent down and opened the trunk with my finger...and I admit I felt a sense of pride that I had done it for myself...followed shortly thereafter by a sense of shame that I had felt the sense of pride to begin with.

I've also noticed of late that my body is not what it used to be in many ways. At the end of my hour-long morning commute I have to exit the car slowly, since my body has stiffened up significantly during the ride. Sad.

BUT I STILL HATE BOW TIES: And now the day has come -- again -- where I find myself in intellectual lockstep with George Will.

TOUGH DADS: For those keeping score at home, this morning I completed a brisk set of 60 push-ups, followed by two additional sets of 20, for a grand total of 100. I subsequently showered.

Last night at the park a group of dads did a quick pull-up showdown on the playground equipment, alternating wide-grip and close-grip variations of same. We all basically tied at around six reps or so of each, which is not particularly impressive for any of us, although we all seemed relieved by the tie.

My favorite part of the contest was, I'm ashamed to admit, my own attempt at humor: After the group of us had knocked out a couple sets on the equipment, I said, "Where's Mr. NFL now?" It got a laugh.

After we finished, we noticed a nice little railing that would be perfect for a dips showdown. It's on tap for later in the week.

NICE PROMOTION, SECRETARY TO SCOTUS: I have a feeling this Miers nomination will be interesting to watch. Early returns suggest a typical Bush blunder, misunderestimating the bad reactions from all corners. If Roberts was a home run, Miers seems at best a bunt single with a questionable "hit" call from the offical scorer on bobbled ball by the third baseman.

THE ACCIDENTAL HUMORIST: I've noticed that people seem to think I'm joking these days when I'm not. I wore my snazzy new NASCAR t-shirt to an indie-rock street fair not too long ago, and several different people smiled at me and said, "That's great," as if I was wearing it tongue-in-cheek. And then a little while back a neighbor garbage-picked a giant statue of Hotei, also known as the Laughing Buddha, and placed it front of our house in our little Asian-styled garden area. Again, neighbors are nudging me at the park saying "love your Buddha." "I know," I say. "I love it too!" They smile even bigger, as if I'm just too much.

I WISH THIS DIDN'T SOUND SANCTIMONIOUS: My wife and I celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary this weekend. We've learned a ton about marriage and each other during that time, and I feel very lucky that somehow our unique marriage equation has endured. We've certainly worked at it, so I guess I feel a little bit more than lucky -- I feel proud.

I was thinking about the institution of marriage a bit over the weekend, and I was struck by how complete the basic vows are. Think of phrases like...

...for richer or for poorer...
...in sickness and in health...
...for better or for worse...
...forsaking all others...
...'til death do us part...

It's all in there. It really is. Nowhere does it say, "We promise to live a path of unbridled bliss, detached from reality, immune to suffering or heartache." It says no matter what, we will endure. We promise to endure. It's sort of like the Constutional language that guarantees not happiness, but simply the pursuit of it. Marriage says we'll pursue happiness together, not that we'll ever catch it.

It's a crazy, crazy thing, this institution of marriage. It's a profound leap of faith, an act of selflessness more than selfishness. It's not something you do just for yourself. It's something that involves friends and family and your larger community. In many ceremonies, ours included, the entire congregation joins together to make a commitment to the preservation of the union, to supporting it. And yet when marriages unravel how often do we see the broader community rise up to support the marriage, to help the couple down a path to reconciliation and growth? Not enough.

So much of what we see on television and in magazines is about marriage, the fairy-tale. The blushing bride as princess. The revelry at the reception. The exotic honeymoon. The walks on the beach, hands and souls clasped...

Oddly enough, after thirteen years I'd say that the reality of an enduring marriage -- the work, the faith, the selflessness, etc. -- is a hundred times more powerful than the fairy-tale.

PUSH-UPDATE: Knocked out 60 push-ups and 30 sit-ups yesterday while watching the baby. He just looked at me like I was nuts. Am not ashamed of the 60 push-ups, although I wish I could do more; but am somewhat ashamed of the meager sit-up total, executed in two sets of 15. My only defense is that the SEAL sit-ups -- nobody holding your feet, arms in an "I Dream of Jeannie" pose -- are pretty tough (way tougher than crunches).

WHAT HE SAID: Ed Koch speaks for me.

PUSH-UPDATE: So I've done my push-ups four times since I last wrote about it. I've knocked out between 50 and 60 good ones every time, which seems to be my max right now (in a row). I'm going to set my new target to 65, which should be a nice and reasonable stretch for the next week or so.

Have I done the situps? No, I have not. I hate doing ab stuff, for whatever reason. So...another small goal will be the 50 situps I was supposed to be doing. Starting now. Errr, later today.

Next comes some cardio. My pal Kev wants me to start training for next year's Alcatraz swim, and I love the sound of it. Maybe I'll try to make a weekend pool trip, see how rusty my swim muscles are these days. I'm gonna say the tin man's got nothing on me...

Funny story: Saw the NFL guy's wife over at the park last week, and she was telling how her husband had got down on the floor to do some push-ups, and "he was really bummed he could only do 50."

So, as the kid from RUSHMORE said, more or less, "I can do 55, so I'm not sweating it."

STEP INSIDE MY KIMONO: One of the things I wrestle with, blog-wise, is this: Seems like the most compelling blogs -- heck, the most compelling art projects of any stripe -- often deal rather directly with dysfunction, with tragedy, with conflict. They open up the kimono, so to speak, and let the readers in on their innermost fears, struggles, hopes, dreams, and other sundry important stuff. The creators let you see their stretch marks and smell their natural musk, right? It can get ugly under there!

At the same time, it's just not my style to peel the onion in such a public forum. I know who my few readers are -- friends, family, the handful of random rabble-rousers that wandered in from a Google search and happened to stick around -- and I simply don't feel comfortable asking 'em all in to fold my dirty laundry with me, let alone to peel my onions or share my kimono. Heck, many of you are my dirty laundry, my onions, etc., and you shouldn't have to find that out on some webpage...

My intention here, most of the time, is simply to entertain and/or titillate. To entertain myself, first and foremost, through the exercise of writing; and to entertain those precious few (you) who are kind enough to reward me with two seconds of browsing time during your days and nights. (And those of you that actually write comments, you have no idea how nice it is not only to be read, but to be digested and regurgitated in some small way. Writers are like hungry little birds waiting for a mouthful from any wayward bird with a beak of worms. Mama!)

And so I keep things relatively light in here, or at least I steer clear of parting my kimono any lower than navel-level, right? Sure. I do. You know it. I rarely even tease with my innermost thoughts, let alone all-out flash 'em at you.

But I do have this recurring thing, this thing that needs some third-party input. Here I am right now, in my life, at the place I always wanted to arrive at. Wife. Sons. House. Throw in a couple rescued dogs and I'm set. Set. But it won't hold still, this life. It wants me to travel, to work, to fly and flux and such. It has no time for dogs right now. It leaves me clinging to the edges of my family life like a man on the outermost horse on a willy-nilly merry-go-round.

I just can't figure out how to slow things down enough so that I can loosen my grip a bit, so that I can have enough time and attention for the things I love and have enough money for the things I need. I know this is not a novel lament. But beyond solving my mortality -- and I've mostly given up on that -- this issue of how to make the most of my fleeting time is my holy grail right now.

Perhaps the only way to solve this is to do what I advise others all the time: Surrender the problem to the universe and wait for an answer to materialize.

Hmmm...

The way that has worked for me in the past is that I start out by visualizing the solution, the endpoint. And then my life, quite often, just starts to Ouija its way in the right direction. Eureka! My first challenge lies in actually visualizing what success will look like. That's why I've felt so muddy about it. I just can't see it yet. Okay. I can handle this.

By the way...anybody wants to weigh in, I'd love to hear how you're solving this riddle. Feel free to open up your kimono in the Comments.

YOUR RANDOM NASCAR POST FOR THE WEEK: I realize a very small part of my very small readership is NASCAR fans, but still I have to wonder: Why does Kurt Busch seem like such a tool and Kyle Busch seem like such a good guy? Same family. Granted, it's possible Kurt is a good guy in private, but if the snippets we see of him on TV are even remotely indicative of his real personality, guy's a jerko.

PUSHING FOR SELF-RESPECT: I want to write about push-ups.

I was listening to Mike & Mike (ESPN Radio) the other day, and the guy filling in for Greenie (one of the Mikes) was talking about how he knows he's over the hill now because he can only do eight push-ups. Next thing you know giant former NFLer Mike Golic is swearing he can do more, and he gets down on the ground in the studio and proceeds to pump out...nine. And he's winded. He's maxed out.

I've long been a fan of push-ups and sit-ups and pull-ups as barometers of strength and fitness, not to mention the most portable exercises a travelin' guy can have. Throw in a bit of jogging and you're pretty far down the path to fitness in my book. In other words, there's no excuse for my last-couple-years bout of non-fitness, right?

So I've been thinking of...and you've heard this before...setting the bar kind of low for myself to get back in the game. And listening to the push-up challenge made me think, man, I should just start doing the basics, at least.

Last night when I got home I pumped out 50 quality push-ups. (A few years ago I could do in the neighborhood of 120 without stopping.) Not bad. Not bad. Tonight I'm going to do 50 Navy Seal-calibre sit-ups (you kind of get in a seated "I Dream of Jeannie" pose, nobody holding your ankles, and come up clean). And so on. I figure I should be able to work up to 100 of each, push-ups and sit-ups, on alternate nights.

This whole fitness thing has been bubbling up of late. Coupla days ago my uberfit neighbor and me had a pull-up showdown in the park across from our houses. He did six or seven. (And this guy is training for a marathon, has done a couple 20-mile runs in the past month, not to mention a triathlon and some other road races. Make no mistake, he's in better shape than me.) Anyway, your favorite blogger managed to grit out 10 of 'em. Not impressive, but not embarrassing. I'm nothing if not competitive.

I think this whole focus on fitness and strength comes on the heels of a recent ass-whooping I took, also in the park. Friend of ours, a neighbor, great guy...used to play middle linebacker in the NFL for like eight years. Retired now, and only 33. Humble guy. Cool. Like him. Thing is, as I've told my wife, he's just not *that* big. I mean, me and the guy are standin' by each other, I'm not thinking he's an order of magnitude bigger than me. (Let's not kid ourselves, people, he is.) Anyway, I'm tellin' this crap to my wife, making myself seem all big and tough, and my wife spills it to him, the NFL guy. Great. Next time I'm over at the park he comes walking quickly toward me with mischief in his eyes. A gaggle of our local desperate housewives, including my wife, are looking on.

"So you don't think I'm big enough to play in the NFL," he says. "Do I look big enough now?"

He lunges at me, arms outstretched, and the guy has the malicious wingspan of some kind of bionic albatross. He seems about a foot taller than me, at least, and he bats me back and forth between his arms like a kitten playing with a very inconsequential ball of yarn. A piece of yarn, even. He grasps me by the shoulders, the arm, then lets go. Bat. Grab. Repeat. I get that seasick, out-of-control feeling. He's laughing. And truth be told, he's being very nice about it. He's not *really* being a tough guy, just sort of pretending to be. Nonetheless, it's abundantly clear he's operating at a different level than yours truly, six years older than him, several inches shorter than him, many gallons of muscle less than him, and much less like a former NFL linebacker than him. So good for him. He *is* that big.

But I bet that stiff can't knock out 50 push-ups right now! And definitely not the 100 that I'm working my way up to. I'll be back.

REPRESENT! I ordered a BLIND CAMEL t-shirt from Neighborhoodies a few weeks ago, and it showed up in the mail yesterday. Pretty cool! The shirt fits perfect, it's soft, the colors are great, etc. I'm quite pleased. I'll wear it and snap a photo for here soon.

SAY WHAT? This is a news story?

WOE IS WANNIE: Look, I know Wannie is pals with coaching great Jimmie Johnson, but has he ever really won anywhere on his own? When he was in Chicago I remember really liking him...and thinking that he would never build a winning program. He almost seemed like too nice a guy. Now I just feel sorry for him.

HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT: As I've been saying for about a decade now (cue bluster), it's terrifically difficult to shove the "digital content is free" genie back in the bottle. My contention has long been that we're headed to an intellectual property model where packaged content -- recorded, static, an artifact -- will be free, and performed content -- brand new, created in the moment, part of a live experience -- will cost money. In other words, you can listen to U2 recordings all you want, for free, but you gotta pay to see 'em when they come to Chicago (or when they're on pay-per-view, at least if you want to see it live). You can read Malcolm Gladwell's book (or listen to it) basically for nothing (you can pay for the portable package, the book, if you want), but you have to pay to have him come to your company and speak or think. Etc.

Here's another great example of someone subverting the pay-for-static model, this time the New York Times' attempt to shove its marquee columnists behind a wall they call TimesSelect.

IN THE INTEREST OF FAIRNESS: If you want to read about and see George Galloway making some sense and acting reasonable, such a thing does exist, believe it or not. You don't have to agree with him -- I don't -- but at least he doesn't come across as a puffed-up kook.

WHEREIN I CRITICIZE BUSH AND THE RIGHT FOR ONCE: Looks like the Bushies are working to stamp out porn again. Why? Why should we be worrying about this? Don't we have better things to do?

An edited excerpt from a very funny Washington Post article on same:

The FBI is joining the Bush administration's War on Porn. And it's looking for a few good agents.

Early last month, the bureau's Washington Field Office began recruiting for a new anti-obscenity squad.

Mischievous commentary began propagating around the water coolers at 601 Fourth St. NW and its satellites, where the FBI's second-largest field office concentrates on national security, high-technology crimes and public corruption.

The new squad will divert eight agents, a supervisor and assorted support staff to gather evidence against "manufacturers and purveyors" of pornography -- not the kind exploiting children, but the kind that depicts, and is marketed to, consenting adults.

"I guess this means we've won the war on terror," said one exasperated FBI agent, speaking on the condition of anonymity because poking fun at headquarters is not regarded as career-enhancing. "We must not need any more resources for espionage."

Among friends and trusted colleagues, an experienced national security analyst said, "it's a running joke for us."

A few of the printable samples:

"Things I Don't Want On My Résumé, Volume Four."

"I already gave at home."

(A nod to Dave at Just Procrastinating for pointing this out.)

LATEST IN LINGO: Here are two phrases that are currently on the rise, according to me.

First, be on the lookout for "threw up in my mouth a little bit," used to describe something gross or uncomfortable. This was perhaps coined on the ESPN radio show "Mike and Mike in the Morning." Anybody know differently? I'm hearing it a lot.

Next, this football season watch out for the idea of "game management." It's all the rage for NFL analysts this year, used to describe a coaching philosophy whereby the quarterback (and the offense in general) is responsbible more for avoiding mistakes than for making plays. Trent Dilfer, in the Ravens' Super Bowl year, was the ultimate "game management" quarterback.

BTW, what the f--- is the Camel about, anyway? My God, I'm all over the map. Someday I'll focus.

KANYE RANTS, MIKE MYERS BENEFITS? The more I watch the now-famous Kanye West "George Bush doesn't care about black people" rant, the more I think that Mike Myers has a chance to be the big winner here. I mean, the guy has been somewhat on the fade of late, with the Austin Powers franchise either wrapped up or dormant. But what this does is, if he chooses, provide him with the most wonderful platform from which to launch a standup movie/tour/HBO special, ala Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy or Chris Rock. There's so much tension in his face as he listens to Kanye, so many shifting emotions. I'd love to hear him stand up on stage and talk about it, do a riff on it. Sure, he'll need more material than that, but you can't tell me that riff alone wouldn't be anxiously awaited. Who doesn't want to hear what Myers was thinking as he stood there?

Hell, somebody's gonna break it down, the rant. Maybe Chris Rock is the most likely. Because, c'mon, really listen to Kanye: What the fuck is he talking about? Can't you hear Chris Rock asking that very question? "Look, I'm down with Kanye...but what the fuck was he talking about?"

I almost feel sorry for Kanye, he's so tongue-tied. I ain't mad at him. He seems earnest. He seems young and emotional and confused. His rant is irresponsible, but then so was Ray Nagin's. The bottom line is this whole thing will blow over, poor metaphor, but I won't be surprised if it doesn't breathe some wind into the Mike Myers sails. We'll see.

NEXT TIME I'LL AIM HIGHER: Alright, finally, the story of the day I threw out the first pitch at Wrigley Field earlier this year...

Way back when (once upon a time) at the beginning of the Cubs season, I noticed that my 39th birthday fell on the same day as a home game against the Mets. I placed a call to an old college pal of mine who happens to work for a major sports brand and asked him if he could maybe set aside some tix so that a group of us could take in the ballgame together on my big day. No prob, he replied. I've got six seats right down by first base. Splendid, I replied. Lovely. Grand. (Okay, maybe I didn't say exactly that.)

I surveyed the troops and, hard to believe, six of my college cronies quickly agreed to jump onboard my little plan. About a week in advance of the fateful day, the guy who scored the tix (heretofore referred to as "the sports pal") sent a somewhat cryptic e-mail to the lot of us, asking us to show up early for lunch at the Stadium Club (or whatever they call it at Wrigley). How nice. Super. He also alluded to a surprise for the birthday boy (me). Hmmm, I thought. Maybe we'll get a pre-game pic with Dusty. Maybe we'll get to tour the dugout or the clubhouse. Cool!

When the big morning arrives, I make quick reminder calls to all the guys, telling them to meet up at the Sports Corner bar and also emphasizing the "don't be late" theme of the day. Next, I go in my backpack to grab our six tickets...and I come up empty. Huh? There are no tickets in my backpack. Frantic phone calls reveal there are no tickets in my desk at work, no tickets in my wife's car, no tickets anywhere that I've been in the past month. I am sweating, freaking, fucked. I am so bummed.

I call the sports pal, the orchestrator, and even Mr. Cool-as-a-Cucumber sounds a little freaked. "I'm on it," he says. But he doesn't sound happy. Luckily this guy is a seasoned "fixer." As the president of our fraternity, his legacy of cleaning up his friends' (our) messes extends way back. He's good.

Way late, sans tix, I sprint out of my house underdressed for the early spring day, heart pounding, a sense of mild diarrhea making itself evident in my nether regions. Can't find a cab. No freakin' cabs anywhere. I'm already twenty minutes late. Holy mother of shitstorms, I am gonna have a grabber here on Armitage. I'm sprinting toward Wrigley, and finally a cab almost runs me over. I make it to the Sports Corner and try to calm myself with a warm beer in a plastic cup. I am a wreck. The sports pal calls to say he's scored replacement tickets (those exist?), and to tell us to get our asses over to the restaurant, pronto. My friends are making so much fun of me I can barely get a word in edgewise.

We get to the restaurant, sit down, heart still near explosion volume, and my friend hands me a letter:

"Congratulations, Scott. You'll be throwing out the ceremonial first pitch at today's game."

No way. NO WAY! All my friends are looking at me. "No way!" I say out loud.

"Way!"

My friend Brad punches me hard in my pitching arm. My friend Vince orders me a beer. My friend Brian looks at me and shakes his head. My friend Krogo...well, I have no idea what Krogo did. But that's neither here nor there.

No shit. I'm throwing out the first pitch. And I'm a wreck.

"Drink up, pal," says the waitress, in on it. "And you better not short-hop it."

My heart is pounding. My hearing seems affected, so that everything seems to have a layer of hum atop it. I'm dazed, and I have that feeling that the whole world is staring at me. Lord. We eat a quick lunch, and then we're off. Most of the waitstaff wish me good luck on the way out the door.

The sports pal ushers us through layers of security and down onto the field. I'm still dumbstruck. They hand me a ball. I start to try and play toss with Brad, but I'm told to stop it. "None of that, please." Several pockets of guys in the lower rows begin to heckle me. "Hey dumbass," they say, "keep it out of the dirt."

I attend a quick "meeting" with two other guys throwing out first pitches and the Cubs reps. One of the other guys is very old and can barely walk. Another guy is about my age, and he seems as nervous as me. He looks like a salesman, phone on the hip, logo on his shirt. We get briefed.

"When they call your name, just trot out to the mound and throw it. Don't mess around. Aim high, the mound makes you throw it into the ground. After you're done your catcher -- a Cubs rookie -- will sign your ball for you. I think it's gonna be Cliff Bartosh today, a young pitcher, and he's over six feet, so he'll be able to reach up for it. Good luck."

Wayne Messmer sings the anthem. My heart-rate escalates. The hecklers are staring at me.

The old guy shuffles out to the mound with a helper. The crowd loves him. He's old. He's handicapped. And he's wearing a Cubs jersey. They march him three feet in front of the plate and he delivers a strike. Hurray! Yes! Way to go!

Next comes the salesman. They announce his name, and as he begins his trot out to the hill I get a taste of what's in store for me. "Boo! You suck!" He rears back and throws his ball about halfway to the plate and into the grass. "Boo! Nice throw, grandma!"

"Ladies and gentleman, please direct your attention to the pitcher's mound where Scott Hess will throw out today's first pitch."

"Boo! You suck! Lift up your skirt!"

At least that's what I think they said. The pounding of my heart overwhelmed all external audio.

I start my brisk jog to the mound, and it looks three miles away. I concentrate on each footfall...and begin to worry about falling down. I can't remember how to run. The mound is very tall and very large. It looks more like a mesa than a mound. I wish I had a Camelbak and some crampons. I wish I had a sherpa. I wish I'd worn a Cubs jersey instead of this dumb hipster jacket that's tight across my chest. I wish I had thrown an actual baseball at least once in the past five years. I wish...

And then everything goes silent. I stare in at Cliff Bartosh. He smacks his mitt with his fist, gives me the slightest nod. Bring it.

I drop my arm back in a three-quarter motion, not quite overhand. (After it's all over my friends will tell me that I looked like I was a video on fast-forward, that I ran out there and stepped on the mound and threw it all in one motion, like I was in a rush.) I cock my arm and kick my leg and really let it go. I do not puss the ball up there. I friggin' THROW it. They're gonna hear the pill hit the mitt!

The ball lauches from my hand and begins its trajectory toward the plate, the mitt, immortality. I complete my leg kick and my body swings around and I stare in at the catcher's mitt, awaiting the pop.

Alas, it's not to be. The ball has a mind of its own. Looking more like an 0-2 "waste" pitch than a ceremonial first pitch sans batter, the ball dives for the red dirt just in front of home plate, skidding about six inches in front of the plate and taking a wicked, dastardly, family-planning bounce right at Cliff Bartosh's nuts. Time stands still, and this is what I think: Do relief pitchers wear cups when they trot out to catch the ceremonial first pitch?

Bartosh's glove flies down from on high to save the family jewels, his deft scoop actually reclaiming respectability for my pitch. He trots out to the mound with the ball.

"Thanks, Cliff!" I say, beaming.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks for that," he says, not exactly beaming. "Jesus."

I trot back to my friends, a chorus of indifferent boos and "you sucks" raining down on me. I am thrilled.

I just threw out the first pitch at Wrigley Field! Who cares what you say?

I leap over the foul line and high-five my friend, the sports pal. "I think that's one of the coolest things I've ever done," I tell him.

And it was.

Next time I'm gonna get it all the way there. But in the meantime I don't mind looking at the telltale red scuff mark and knowing that it's Wrigley dirt.

(Sorry I don't have a great ending for this, but I just typed it in one fell swoop, and that's how it came out, unvarnished by editing.)

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO THE DUMBASS ON THE FIELD: I feel like I still owe my readers an account of throwing out the first pitch at Wrigley on my birthday. Heck, I owe it to myself to memorialize the event before I get too old to remember it. Alas, that's not gonna happen now. But I will toss up a picture of the great day. I have an even better pic, of me in full throwing motion with the ball on its way, taken by a pro. But I don't have it...handy (spoken like Freddie "Boom Boom" Washington, of course).

But this one's pretty cool, too, shot by my friend Brad using his Treo 650. Not bad. Do I look terrified? 

WRITING QUICK ABOUT A SPORTS QUANDARY: As most of you know, I've grown to love NASCAR over the past three years, due largely to my involvement in a "fantasy" league that began as a joke and has turned pretty serious. All the "owners" in our league started out as NASCAR doubters -- heck, we thought it was funny to be in a fantasy NASCAR league, something we could tell our friends at parties to raise an eyebrow -- but now that we've all learned the tracks, teams, and drivers, it's a whole different ballgame, so to speak. We love it.

While flipping back and forth between the race and the football yesterday, I quickly grasped how NASCAR and football have become the top two TV sports by a long shot, and the only ones that seem to speak to the younger generation today. In a word: passion.

As Robby Gordon jumped out of his wrecked car and flung his helmet at Michael Waltrip...as Kurth Busch scaled the tower of Scott Rigg's crew chief after a crash, looking for an explanation...as Tony Stewart blew off the cameras after Ryan Newman passed him with two laps to go to claim the victory...you just couldn't miss how much it mattered to them. They friggin' cared.

After enough time spent courtside at NBA games and bleacherside at baseball games, you figure out there's a big difference between playoffs and the regular season in those sports. On any given night a basketball or baseball player may phone it in. Not so for football players and NASCAR drivers. Their livelihoods, if not their lives, are up for grabs every week. To invoke an old song, they care a lot. As well they should...

On a related note, I've also been a pretty big boxing fan over the years, and I've seen quite a few fights live, on TV, pay-per-view, etc. But I'm feeling more and more queasy about it of late. As yet another fighter faces serious consequences after a fight, I'm not sure how much more boxing I can stomach.

Meanwhile, as I grow more in love with friggin' auto racing, I'm wondering how responsible it is for me to love sports that can easily kill you, or at least knock you out. Thoughts?

R.I.P. MATTHEW BOHLING: A sad and stirring account of a solider's funeral, from a unique perspective. No matter which side of the conflict you're on, take a moment to be moved and to acknowledge the deep sacrifices being made.

A CAR AS BIG AS HER EGO: As regular readers know, I think this whole "SUVs are evil" campaign is a bunch of b.s. So I can't say I was upset to read that Ariana Huffington and her Sierra Club sponsors are hypocrites. (And no, I don't own an SUV. At least not yet.)

BEAR DOWN: My hometown Bears are up 31-6 at halftime. Somehow that little bit of trivia inspires a sense of well-being and equilibrium. I am a simple man, but then most of you knew that already.

MASTER OF THE LEFT: Watching Clinton on MEET THE PRESS -- Bill Clinton, that is -- and for the umpteenth time being reminded that he raised the bar for all Dems, and ain't nobody after him who stands a chance of getting over that bar.

He's calm, intelligent, prepared, plain-spoken, etc. He's a master. As much as he frustrates me, as much as I think he's full of shit on a lot of fronts, I still feel like I'd vote for him.

SOMETIMES A BLOG IS JUST A BLOG: I'm convinced this new template is going to inspire more traffic (due to the shorter load times and easier reading experience). And, in classic chicken/egg form, perhaps that will inspire me to write more/better. Or not. There remains the classic unanswered question of what and who this blog is for. Whether or not my non-self will allow this non-blog to continue to have no-meaning and no-purpose, that's the big question, eh? Eh? Eh? Awww, whatever.

SINISTER PIFFLE: The WSJ weighs in on Hitchens-Galloway.

MORE ON THE GRAPPLE IN THE APPLE: Here's a nice little post about the Hitchens-Galloway dust-up, complete with a few useful links to other analysis of same. Has anybody else heard it yet? Seriously, one of the most entertaining intellectual events in memory. Makes me wonder why there aren't more public debates like this, and reminds me how staged, overpolite, and shallow our presidential debates are.

THE SWEARING PIANIST: Because everyone can use a good dirty joke with British slang in it once in a while...

I SPY ON HIGH: I have a habit of taking digital pics out airplane windows. Granted, I futzed around with the colors a bit, but this one (below) turned out pretty cool on its own.

WHAT SHE SAID: Check this shit out, he said eloquently.

WHERE HITCH IS COMING FROM: I've been a fan of the blog Belmont Club for some time, and so I'm not surprised they have a smart analysis of the recent Hitchens/Galloway dust-up. Here's a particularly insightful snippet, wherein the writer does a nice job explaining the nature of Hitchens' oft-cited "conversion":

A lot of conservatives were cheering for Hitchens because he is on "our side". But that is coincidental. Hitchens, as will be evident to anyone who heard him address members of the audience as 'comrades' and invoke socialist solidarity is still a man of the Left who has merely remained true to the internal logic of his convictions. It puts him on the side of those fighting for republican forms against absolutist theocracies; and if that is the same camp as George Bush's then so be it. In that context, the contrast between Hitchens and Galloway is less of belief than of integrity: Hitchens opposes Al Qaeda because of his Leftist beliefs; Galloway supports Al Qaeda in despite of them; and to the traditional socialist this can only be explained by the inducement of cash. That was Hitchen's wider and subliminal reproach to the audience: what manner of men would pay to hear to George Galloway? Call yourselves anything, but don't call yourselves 'progressives'.

INSTALLING A NEW TEMPLATE AND ACTING LIKE I ACTUALLY DID SOMETHING: Last night's blog rehab was fueled by a few things: coupla e-mails from my pal Kev lamenting the load time and suggesting some possible solutions (God bless ya, Kev); coupla Belgian Tripels and, truth be told, a Pacifico chaser; the need to totally throw myself into something almost meditative as a salve on the chaos of my day.

And I must say it's awfully nice to wake up to my sleek new blog, despite the fact it's been denuded of its most fun part, your comments. Those of you that write a blog know, something like 90% of the reason to do this -- slap all your dreams and thoughts and bad poetry and armchair political analysis up on a website -- is to get the feedback from virtual intimates, those precious few that pull the car to the side of the road for a sec and scribble something on the wall.

That kind of sloppy writing -- maybe mixing metaphors, maybe not even making a real metaphor at all -- reminds me to disclaim the following: You can probably tell I write all this stuff on the fly. And maybe it doesn't make for the most studied analysis, duh, but I hope it's breezy enough to sweep your hair from your eyes, tickle your neck, maybe even give you allergies.

NO WAY! I *so* thought these kids were gonna make it. Oh, well. Romance is dead, but true love lives on, I'm tellin' ya.

THE CAMEL IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE CAMEL: I owe y'all an explanation. Say what? Wha' happen? What are we lookin' at?

Man, I was being driven crazy by the slow load times and the quirkiness of my comments feature. Sucked. Blah. Blech. And the trouble is I'm just NOT that technical, when it comes down to it. Don't have the patience. Maybe don't have the smarts, either.

So...

I blew out my customized template, which was surely full of all kindsa bad code I'd inserted in there. And...when I glommed on to the new template I hadda crash and burn all the old comments. And you'd be right if you said, "Hey, that's where all the good stuff was!"

Well, shit. I feel terrible. But now the Camel loads right quick, is easier to read...

Sure, I'm gonna muck this template up, too, with my customizing. And I hope you'll keep commenting, and that this fix will make that easier for y'all to do so!

Let me know what you think. I'm damn sorry for blowing away all your great comments. I hope it's worth it.