STUCK IN A MOMENT HE CAN'T GET OUT OF: A pal of mine is writing an anonymous blog about his marriage travails. He's a brilliant writer and, no matter how you feel about his views and his adventures, it's a can't-put-down kind of read. Check it out here.

BUT I GUESS I'M ALREADY THERE: Yet another day where I have everything and so nothing to post about.

Variables. I'm thinking about variables. Especially about the kind where, if you opt for one, you automatically rule out another. As in...

Where you live. What career you pursue.

Those are the two biggies I'm thinking about right now.

One might also throw in "who you marry" and/or "whether or not to have children." One might, but I wouldn't. I never really fret over who I married or the fact that I have children. This is not to say that either of these variables comes with no stress. But somehow when I got married I really became married to the idea of being married. I embraced my wife, and the idea of having a wife. I'm fine with it. The challenges of marriage are like the challenges of great exercise, where you find ways to "enjoy the burn," so to speak.

And as for kids, well, try this: Have a kid, one of your own, and then see if you ever regret it. Maybe some people do, but I can't imagine it. What could I have done that could have ever been better?

So for me the variables I sweat, am sweating of late, are: Where should I live? What should I do with my life, so to speak? Loving my current job. Love my current neighborhood. Unfortunately my house and my job are not close together, or at least not as close together as they could be. And so I'm thinking about these variables of late. Not agonizing. Just mulling. Thinkin'. Cogitating. Rollin' it around.

SIT ON TOP OF A BIG HILL, WASTING TIME: In case you haven't discovered 'em yet, here are some fun "read about dumb celebrity culture" sites:

http://www.defamer.com (focused on L.A.)

http://www.gawker.com (focused on Manhattan)

http://www.thesuperficial.com (focused on teen idols, I think)

http://www.tvgasm.com (focused on TV, duh)

IF YOU DON'T KNOW YOU BY NOW: I've been noticing of late that, by the time men reach my age, we seem to have developed some kind of character that we play: the curmudgeon, the aging party-boy, the buttoned-up George Will Jr. business guy, the urban bohemian, the bow-tie dork, etc. Seriously, as I bounce from airport to airport, city to city, I'm seeing some patterns. It's as if men of a certain age just lose the spontaneity that allows their personality to be shaped by situations. Instead, their personality is the constant, their grip on how they confront everything external.

"I am a bow-tie dork, so I will deal with this airport lounge bartender like a bow-tie dork. (Ahem.) Excuse me, sir, but can I get a Dewar's and water?"

"I am a business guy, so I will talk loudly on my cell phone like this: Yes, *I* know they want five points in the deal, but fuck them!"

Etcetera.

Do you see this, these characters? Do you sense that there are many forty-ish men who are becoming somewhat formed in themselves, as if the concrete of personality is hardening irreparably? Which character are you? Am I?

The bow-tie guys are bothering me the most of late. Why does a grown man wear a bow-tie anyway? You're trying very hard to say something. Something like, "I am a stuffy-ass throwback dork, a wannabe aristocrat, a dandy, a huge puss, a fraidy-cat, and an elitist. How do you do?"

Who wants to say that?

EVERY MOVE YOU MAKE I'LL BE WATCHING YOU: So here's the DJ story...

A bunch of pals of mine go out to the bars in Los Angeles one night several years ago. (Shit. I think it was L.A. Eric, was it L.A.? Seems right. He was a coach there.)

Doesn't matter.

They're in a pretty hot place, it's jumpin', they're hanging out near the bar, when up walks former Celtic great Dennis Johnson. DJ! He of the retired number and the championships. A legend as a player, nad now an NBA coach. Anyhoo...

They're pretty excited. "Hey, DJ!"

And it turns out DJ is a nice guy. A really nice guy. He buys 'em a few drinks, hangs out and swaps stories, treats 'em like they're somebody. After a bit he says, "Hey, let's go down the street to [name of other superhot club]!"

"Awww," my pals say, "the line's a mile long there."

"Not for DJ," says DJ.

DJ! What a guy. My pals rally behind him.

And so DJ leads 'em down the street to the superhot club where there is indeed a HUGE line. And, as promised, DJ marches himself and my pals to the front of the line and tells the bouncer, "They're with me." The velvet rope lifts, and in they waltz. "I'm a part owner," explains DJ to my pals. Aha! DJ!

More free drinks. Introductions to other semi-celebs. Dancing. A big time. And all the while DJ sticks with my pals, sticks very close to my pals, starts introducing 'em around as "my boys."

Over time, one of my pals grows uneasy. He pulls the others aside and says, "Hey, you know what, this has been great, but I'm gettin' a little tired of DJ."

The others sheepishly agree. Enough is enough. They begin talking about the next day when they plan to assemble for a giant game of RISK, just like back in college. They'll order in food, drink some beers, talk about old times...

"RISK? I *love* RISK!"

It's DJ. He's snuck over and eavesdropped on the tail end of their conversation. It's as if his freckled face has popped into the middle of their circle of friends. How'd he do that?

"Where y'all playing? I'm in!"

My friends glance at each other. It's unspoken, but it's there: DJ is out.

"Let me go get something to write the address down for you," says my pal. "Don't worry, I'll give you the address."

When DJ is distracted by the pounding club action around him, my friends make a beeline for the door, ditching DJ for good.

They're still a touch spooked when they tell this story, even years later.

LARGER THAN LIFE AND TWICE AS UGLY: If I were going to post something smart or at least intellectually interesting today, I think I'd try to write something about how the nature of celebrity is changing in this world of reality TV and blogging and US Magazine. It seems somehow harder for celebrities and their corporate coteries to manage their own images. Instead, the public is playing judge and jury on issues like the Tom/Kate romance or the Jessica/Nick marriage. We no longer idolize Tom Cruise so much as we watch him like a dangerous intersection. He appeals to the evil voyeur in us moreso than to our need for a role model or an idol.

We're willing to embrace reality personalities like Omarosa or even Jonny Fairplay or that drunk girl from the Real World, so long as they know their place (whipping boys and girls for the not-so-famous rest of us -- "there but for the grace of Mark Burnett go I" stand-ins for our own shadow elements) and as long as they continue to deliver on their own brand ("She's the bitch," or "He's the affable man's man," etc.). But when they try to play against type -- in other words, to confound our sense of who they truly are -- as when Jerri Manthey (the bitch from Survivor who wanted to get wit' Colby but tried to pretend otherwise) goes on SURREAL LIFE (a meta-show about a meta-show) and tries to come off as sweet, they become the butt of rather than the wielder of the joke. They have to remember, it seems, that they are funny like a clown, that they are tailless donkeys for the public to stick with pins.

(That there is a SURREAL LIFE...that alone is worth a lengthy college course littered with readings of French philosophers and Joel Stein.)

I'm meandering here, as usual. There's likely a good essay in here, but this is what you get for now.

What I want to say is that, well, I believe we actually do have some sense of who our celebrities really are these days. It's become almost impossible to "manage" anybody's image anymore.

When we watch CRIBS and SURVIVOR and SURREAL LIFE and IDOL and whatnot, we do gain some insight into what kind of people these stars really are. If you're an asshole (ala J. Lo), the public's gonna know. Assholes tend not to have a long shelf life in the popular culture these days, unless they're content being the Famous Asshole (ala the aforementioned Mr. Fairplay).

I mean, could any John McEnroe fan watch his talk show a few times and not lose some of their enthusiasm for the man? Johnny Mac's problem was he tried to be nice to his guests and his audience, and we all saw through it. Had he mined his own natural contempt for people who are not him, then maybe he'd still be on the air.

Pried loose from the mythology of advertising and the packaged chatter of late-night talk shows, we can make Malcolm Gladwellian snap judgements about our stars and discern that Britney and Kevin really are that vapid, that Tom and Kate are faking it, and that Nick and Jessica are on the rocks, no matter how much shit they shovel. We know that Scott Savol, despite a great voice, is way too unstable and insecure to be our American Idol, and we can see that Paula and Randy are both in over their heads as "judges." (Judging what, for God's sake? They're not supposed to be judging quality, which they seem to forget. They're simply supposed to be lubricating the public so that they vote -- which is the ultimate judging, the judging of marketability.)

In a reality culture, in an everyman-a-publisher culture, criticism dies and popularity ascends. More mentions, more links, more awareness, more popularity. More is more. This is where we are. And despite a lot of handwringing from various quarters, I think it's actually a pretty interesting time. Talk about your free markets...

ASK ME HOW I KNOW AND I'LL TELL YOU SO: I can't remember if I've ever posted here about a cool recent discovery: I'm buying ARCs (advance review copies) of my favorite authors on eBay. Huh? Basically when a writer I like has a book coming out (like Nick Hornby or Lee Child, recently), I bid on and win a pre-release ARC of their upcoming book. Thus far I've been able to score the ARCs for about the cost of a hardcover, with the added benefit that they're oversized paperbacks, which I much prefer. Plus my impatience is indulged, and I get to wander 'round the aiport lounges looking cool and/or connected and maybe even a touch mysterious, right?

And so I'm sad to report that Hornby's latest, A LONG WAY DOWN, is pretty much a stinker. And I hate hate hate to write that, since I really admire Nick as a writer, and I've really loved all three of his novels to date (HIGH FIDELITY, ABOUT A BOY, HOW TO BE GOOD), loved the short story collection he edited and contributed to (SPEAKING WITH THE ANGEL), loved the reading I saw him give at the New Yorker Festival a few years ago, loved his music and books essays (SONGBOOK and THE POLYSYLLABIC SPREE) and just generally found him to be the writer-I'd-love-to-grow-up-to-be in recent years.

What's the matter with the new one then? Well, first, I'll tell you a little about it. Hornby writes it from four different POVs, affecting the voices of four wildly different characters who meet one New Year's Eve as they're contemplating suicide atop a tall building in London. Amazon or somebody on Amazon describes the novel as Camus meets THE BREAKFAST CLUB, which pretty much convinced me I would absolutely love it. Alas, trouble is that each of the four characters comes across as Hornby in their character's drag, putting on their personas instead of occupying them. Very little happens, apart from midly clever dialog and asides (I mean, the guy can still write a nice sentence, and he's incapable of being anything but charming, no matter what desperate voice he channels), and unlike previous Hornby books I actually found myself considering abandonment along the way. I'm not quite done yet, either, I'm idling some twenty or thirty pages from the end, with little motivation to find out what comes next, which tells you all you need to know.

I'm not mad I read it, not mad I bought the ARC, etc. I'd still rather spend time with Hornby on a bad day than with most other writers on their best day. But after going three-for-three, old Nick has had a bit of a slip here, and I'd be surprised if even he wasn't aware of it.

HAVE I EVER TOLD ME I'M MY HERO? I started writing a post about throwing out the first pitch at the Cubs game...but it sucked, and so I gave it up for now. I did just receive the official pics yesterday, and they're pretty cool. I'll try to remember to scan 'em in the next few days and post 'em here. Ideally they'll be accompanied by some prose, but who knows if I'll keep sucking at writing between now and then, in which case you'll just get the pics.

IT'S LIKE THIS AND LIKE THAT AND LIKE THIS, AND UH: Wow! I love to see BLIND CAMEL hijacked by its readers!

Laurel, you definitely need your own blog, despite the fact it might signal that the end is near. Some really great stories!

BTW, somebody please explain to my mom the difference between "balling" and "bawling." Ewww.

I'm hamstrung by feeling obliged to write a clever, heartfelt account of my "first pitch" experience. So I just clammed up.

And I'm in New York again, about to go out and wander around a bit before we do some more in-home research sessions tonight.

I thought Vonzell was the right person to vote out, and I hope Carrie "Hot in Jeans" Underwood beats Bo "I've Never Heard of Conditioner" Bice. Randy Jackson is such a nimrod he almost makes Paula palatable. Simon's a mean jerk, but he's clearly the show's hero and center.

Alright, enough for now. You guys carry on without me.

PUT ME IN COACH: Here's an event that deserves a long post:

I threw out the first pitch at the Cubs game yesterday!

Sadly I'm on the move, just about to give a presentation in Cincy, so I have no time to do the event any more justice than that. But I will. Soon. In the meantime I just had to post that.

AND THAT IS THE REST OF THE STORY: My clever pal Brian e-mails with an addendum to my Gergen story:

I think you're leaving something out of that story...Isn't this what really transpired?
We march through the doors and past the people, and the Gergen offers a very soft "thank you." He seems almost annoyed that he's needed me.

"Have a good flight," I tell him. "You're on your own now."

Gergen says..."uh, hold on second." He seemed unsure.

"Huh" said Hess.

"You seem to really know where you're going," said Gergen," and have strong leadership skills...I do some political consulting. Let me ask you something."

"OK, shoot," replies Herman

Gergen: "If Clinton were to run in '08, and I mean Hillary, who would you like to see with her on the ticket?"

Hess says, without hesitation "Obama."

Gergen literally stops dead in his tracks. He seems lost in thought. Suddenly he gets a huge smile on his face. "Obama" he says confidently. He winks at Hess and starts running toward his gate.

TALK TO GOD AND LISTEN TO THE CASUAL REPLY: It's Monday morning, and you know what that means: Your favorite frequent flier is back in the Red Carpet Club, eyes open for unsuspecting minor celebrities to help on their way.

Off to Denver today for a quick overnight. Time go board.

SOME DAY I WILL CALL UPON YOU TO DO A SERVICE FOR ME: I'm walking into the usual frenzy of a Friday morning at LAX, and somehow, not paying attention, I end up at general check-in. Since I travel so much, I have the benefit of using the Premier check-in counter and security line, which saves tons of time, and so I endeavor to cut back through the terminal to get there. As I do so, I notice that it's closed off, and I'll have to go outside the terminal and walk down several doors. Just as I have that realization, I see another guy who's apparently in the same boat. He's tall, fairly well-dressed, and he looks very frazzled. I hear him telling a United agent that he needs to get to First Class check-in, that he's in a big hurry.

"International," says the agent, whose English is not great. "Down dare."

The tall gentlemen looks confused, doubtful, lost. He does not trust what he's hearing.

"Excuse me, sir," I say to the harried traveler, who then turns to face me, applying his gaze of dubiousness.

Alas...it's David Gergen.

I continue with nary a hint of acknowledgement of his Gergenness.

"I'm headed to where you need to go," I tell him. "First Class checks in down by the International terminal."

"I'm really late," he tells me, making sure I get it that he doesn't have time to mess around.

"I know exactly where you need to go," I tell the Gergen. "Follow me."

So me and Gergen fast-walk it outside, with him falling in step a few paces behind me. As we're walking he's looking in through the window, and I can tell he's wondering if I'm a savior or a nutcase.

"That line's really long," says Gergen, his voice tinged with worry.

"Don't worry," I say in a soothing tone. "That's for the unwashed masses. When we get inside just follow me over by the wall. We get to walk past all that in our own premier security line."

He seems mollified...perhaps by the familiar language of "premier line," or perhaps it's my steadying presence, my natural leadership profile.

I give orders. The Gergen follows. He needs me.

We march through the doors and past the people, and the Gergen offers a very soft "thank you." He seems almost annoyed that he's needed me.

"Have a good flight," I tell him. "You're on your own now."

(Hat tip to Eric for the idea for my subject line.)

CALIFORNIA...CALIFORNIA...HERE WE COME! Where else but...Red Carpet Club, getting ready to jump a bird back to Los Angeles. There until Friday AM, when I head back home.

GIVE PARIS ONE MORE CHANCE: A little more than a year ago I theorized that Paris Hilton would be more than just a blip on the radar...and might emerge as a major face of her generation. (I have this presentation I give, called "Paris Hilton Rules," that outlines some of the reasons she's so resonant for so many of today's teens.) Anyhow...toot toot...looks like I might have been right.

WE SPEND OUR DAYS LIKE BRIGHT AND SHINY NEW DIMES: My straightforward posts are boring me, so I feel the need to compose a rambler.

I've been thinking about weight of late, clearly, and so was wondering where that came from, what was the spark of this latest (and recurrent) bout of "I am not perfect -- file under WEIGHT" feeling. And, as often happens if you just give feelings (which are made of gas, right?) long enough to rise to the top of the liquid mess that is your consciousness, well, they do, and so here's the gas:

I was watching some celebrity weight loss show -- and it really doesn't matter which show -- and they had this guy on it, Willie Aames, I think -- and it really doesn't matter which guy -- and he was talking about how his wife had intimated to him that she expected sooner or later to simply find him lying dead somewhere on accounta the fact that he'd let himself go from his heartthrob days of yore (insert picture of long-haired hearththrob version of Aames, complete with visible musculature peeking out from underneath taut young skin), to the extent that he now weighs almost 200 pounds (emphasis mine, on oh-so-many levels).

And I'm sitting there, knowing that I'm somewhere a touch north of 200 pounds, thinking: How tall is this little motherscratcher, Aames, and does he really need to sound so freakin' concerned over being the perfect weight? And, for sure his wife's a nutbird, right? She's gonna drive him to his grave, not to mention find him there...

Etcetera.

Which brings up: What is the right weight? BMI? Did the McDonald's #9 with fries just shorten my life on accounta cholesterol or bad carbs or too much sodium...or did it just lengthen my life on accounta happiness and carefree consumption...the zen of fast food, my mobile mojo workin', etc.

And is living longer any reward anyway?

One advantage of my almost 38 years in this life -- as compared to when I was, oh, say, ummm, younger -- is that this angstiness is familiar now, is sort of a companion and a pesky pal moreso than something to wrestle and defeat.

So that was rambling enough. I feel better. And so I'll stop for now.

WE RUN SO HARD AND ALWAYS END UP IN THE SAME PLACE: I did the big weigh-in this morning. Dunno whether my coupla glasses of wine last night (McManis Family Merlot, 2002 -- a really nice, fruit-forward glass of grape juice, for about $10/bottle) helped me (by flushing out water-weight) or hurt me (by encouraging my body to retain water).

The bottom line: 200 lbs., even. Same as when I started a week ago.

What did I accomplish? Three cardio sessions over the course of the week, the most I've done in at least a year if not more. Less junk food. Less late eating. General weight/health consciousness.

Thing is, even though my weight number is the same, I'm convinced my jeans fit a little better and my stomach is less posh. Call it the power of positive thinking -- or the reality of minor weight/muscle redistribution, perhaps from gut to glutes or legs.

Any changes for the coming week? Hmmm. Well, I'd like to lengthen my cardio sessions a touch...at some point I want to get back to being able to run comfortably for an hour, so I need to start gradually building up...and maybe just start keeping track of my sugar-cola intake. That'll do.

Meanwhile, my friend Isaac tells me he's also engaged in a bit of a weight-watching exercise on his blog, and that his has been reported on by a syndicated newspaper columnist named Mark Bazer. Maybe y'all will see it in a paper near you.

HEAVY IN HERE? Got in another cardio session yesterday, bringing my week's total to three. If I can get one in tonight, that'll be a respectable four for my first week of actually paying attention to my health again.

Yesterday's session was 40 minutes on an Elliptical trainer. Love that machine! Watched the end of the Talladega race on it, and almost leaped into the air when my driver (in fantasy NASCAR) Jeff Gordon held off a couple late charges and notched the win.

Ate after eight again last night -- my wife ripped into a raspberry/cheese danish from Whole Foods, and I felt compelled to join her.

Am really curious what my weight will be tomorrow morning. I don't feel much different, so I'm guessing it'll be somewhere between 198 - 201. Whatever.

I am wondering whether I need some kind of shock-to-the-system approach, where I do something drastic to get this weight-loss kicked off and in motion, so that I drop like five pounds in a week.

Screw that.

ANY KID CAN CHATTER, FEW CAN INFORM: A friend, Keith, sent me this link to the most astounding piece of inadvertent comedy I've seen in a long while. It's almost impossible to screw something up as badly as this guy does.