IT'S LIKE PLAYING WHACK-A-MOLE WHERE THE MOLES HIT BACK: There's still an entity that operates under the Taliban banner and is capable of this? Huh? These goddamn Muslim fundamentalists are like trick birthday candles.

BOO HOO: Jeremy Roenick has lost his mind. If he thinks everyday folk are gonna cry for him because he's only gonna make $3 million a year to play hockey instead of $5 million a year, he's crackers. His little rant kinda reminds me of the record companies thinking that suing their customers is a good way to win 'em back.

DUMBWAYS: My wife and I don't get to see a lot of movies these days, what with our boys and the alternate activities and fatigue that comes therefrom. But given my interest in wine and the great buzz around the movie SIDEWAYS, the wife and I saw fit to PPV it and Tivo it and then, finally, to watch it over the past weekend.

What a dud! The movie was slow city, taking forever to get going. I had heard it was a comedy, but I didn't actually laugh until about two-thirds of the way through the movie (when the car misses the tree, for those that saw it). Mostly I just squirmed between moments of why-should-I-care and oh-my-God-is-that-sappy. I didn't really like or believe anyone in the film, which made it awfully tough to care about any of them. If this little half-asser of a film is what suffices for quality indie cinema these days I'm glad I have two little diversions to keep me out of the moviehouse and in the backyard running through sprinklers where I belong.

LOOK AT THEM EYES: I snapped this pic of my son CJ with my sorta new Treo 650. Pretty cool shot. This is the face of a kid who's been running through the sprinkler when he's supposed to be napping. 

MAYBE MY MOST BORING POST OF ALL TIME? Out in Westchester County (NY) this morning. Flew in last night for a presentation to an agency over in Stamford, CT, then head back later this afternoon. No biggie. One of the nice things about today's schedule is I have ample time to head down to the restaurant and score two eggs over medium, some breakfast potatoes, and a pop. I love breakfast!

KICKING THE PUBLICIST HABIT: A very interesting (and contrarian) take on the Tom Cruise meltdown tour.

CRAVING THE BACKSTORY: As my pal Trisha said on her blog, ___________. (In other words this left me speechless.)

WHEN I SAY "WE WON," DO I REALLY MEAN WE? I wrestle with being a sports fan. Is there any value in my endless hours sitting there staring at the Cubs or the Pistons or the Red Wings or the Bears? I mean, as Shaq reminds us time and again, they're businessmen. It's not personal. Right?

One of my big issues with the Cubs is that, for me, Steve Stone and even Chip Caray, by way of his legacy, were as much "Cubs" to me as any of the current crop of players. No, they were more "Cub" to me. They were the essence of my Cub experience. And so without them, more often than not, I'm starting to see a bunch of hired hands passing through town who have more in common with the guys on the other teams than they do with the Chicago citizenry.

Steve Stone was Chicago baseball in a way that it'll take years for Dusty Baker and Derek Lee and Carlos Zambrano to be, you know.

The Pistons, on the other hand, somehow feel "Detroit" to me. They're a bunch of scrappers, a team getting by on heart and hard work, with a dose of old-school talent (rebounding, spot-up jumpers, sticky defense).

Still I wonder why they matter to me, and if they should. How much Detroit is still in me?

I'd like to root for the Midwest to beat the South, the West, and the East. I could get my heart into that. But only if they made sure the players were actually *from* those regions. That's the thing: Maybe we should all just stick close to where we were born.

Or maybe I should wait to post until I'm coherent.

Nah.

CHALLENGING PRECONCEIVED IDEAS: So I was watching my favorite media trainwreck of late last night, the indescribable HIT ME BABY 1 MORE TIME, wherein (okay, I'll try) a bunch of past-their-prime bands and solo artists re-take the stage to churn out two songs each. First, they play their "hit," then next they cover a hit by a contemporary artist.

For example, Wang Chung (or at least two really dorky guys purporting to be Wang Chung) showed up last night and played "Everybody Have Fun Tonight (Everybody Wang Chung Tonight)," then came back and covered Nelly's "Hot in Heeeeeerrrre," I shit you not. Oh, and there's also this gawky, mullet-headed British guy who is apparently the host who dodges in and out and mispronounces stuff. He's painful. I don't know his name, but something like Nigel Dumbass would be appropriate. Ian Dickwad or Sir Colin Jackass would also work.

Anyhoo...

Last night's show featured the aforementioned Chungs (and believe it or not, aside from that one insufferable song, they were not a half bad band at one time), Irene Cara (who won the "audience favorite" award last night, big whoop), Sophie B. Hawkins (who seems like the kind of hyper-granola gal that would be the worst person in the world to get stuck in an elevator with, all hyper and fake-happy and soldered together with hot curlers and a lot of pancake makeup), and Howard Jones (he of the leaning tower of split ends hair-do).

I think I'm forgetting someone, but there's a reason for that, so I won't injure myself trying to think of 'em.

So, without blathering on for days, here's my point: This Howard Jones, he's good. He sat at a piano and sang his song his song "No One Is To Blame," and despite the bad show and bad host and had-to-be-breathing-laughing-gas, over-the-top audience, I found myself moved. The guy is an artist. He meant it. He was taking it serious. Good on him. And then he came back with his cover of Dido's wonderful "White Flag," and I was like, yes! Howie! Which had me clicking into the iTunes store this morning and buying like six of his songs, which I'm now listening to in my phat Bose Noise-Cancelling headphones in the middle of an overpriced Mom-'n'-Pop coffee shop that has the audacity to charge eighty cents extra for soy milk and to employ unwashed art-student servers with bad looks on their faces.

But this Howard Jones, my goodness, he's for real.

BOYS, YOU WILL TAKE SHOWERS: Back on the ground from Miami, doing a wireless session at Starbucks and then heading home to pick up C.J. for t-ball. Three-year-old t-ball! It's pretty funny. Last week he learned how to run the bases, although he wasn't much interested in doing it by himself. Basically he wanted to join forces with his pals Luke and Zack, so they could all run down to first base and hang out there together, on to second in the same fashion, etc. He had zero interest in batting all by himself. Talk about your team players, these three-year-old are all about holding hands, sticking together. Reminds me of my junior-high gym teacher, actually. He was this drill sergeant type, and part of his priceless schtick was to tell us, "Boys, you will not be standing around holding hands in my class." And scared to death to be painted with the homo-brush, we nodded along. "No way, Mr. B., we don't want to do that."

Mr. B. Loved that guy. I could write a whole novel around Mr. B. What a classic.

"Boys, you *will* take showers today."

Oh, shit. We *hated* to take showers. We didn't understand it at all, why we had to. It was a lesson in something, although we knew not what.

I gotta write more about Mr. B. And I will.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN: Heading down to Miami for a day/night, home for a day, then out to Sacramento for another day/night trip. Shouldn't be too rough.

KEEPING THIS INSIDE: I was reading this article in the New Yorker about a guy who writes fortune cookies, and it made me want to write a few. So, Camel readers, here are your fortunes to choose from today:

If a dog is your best friend it's time to go for a walk.

Use your imagination to become more real.

The love in your life is a reflection of the love in your heart.

Bad dreams are your brain's exhaust.

If you find your mind racing, crash.

We learn to talk. We're born to sing.

Man, that's fun!

AT THIS MOMENT YOU MEAN EVERYTHING: My wife is celebrating a milestone birthday today, and so it seems fitting to write a little tribute to her here.

Eileen Nisky Hess is, quite simply, the perfect woman for me.

She's beautiful and yet casual. (On the first two days we spent time getting to know each other -- on consecutive days -- she wore the exact same clothes: an old sweater and some faded jeans.)

She's a responsible adult, but she can be as reckless as a teenager in the right situation. (I got us third-row seats and a limo for the Rolling Stones concert at Soldier Field. She puked during the first song. I was furious and proud at the same time.)

She's thoughtful, but she doesn't overthink things. (I often seek to understand the reasons for her moods. I probe on topics like religion and her place in the universe, our goals as individuals and as a couple, and the impact of world events. She tells me she's tired, she's hungry, or she has to go to the bathroom.)

She's a mystery even to herself. (Her own laugh often startles her, escaping from her body in the form of a snort or a yell. Ordering food, even from the McDonald's drive-thru, inspires near-paralysis in her. This is a kind of primitive genius: Each new food order in her life is rife with possibilities. For Eileen, nothing is mundane or rote.)

She lives all day every day. (Recently on vacation one of my brothers observed, "Eileen is amazing. She wakes up the second she opens her eyes. She never stops moving all day long. And when she closes her eyes at night she falls asleep immediately.")

Eileen is amazing. She is everything I wanted in a life partner. She is the most beautiful mother I have ever seen. And although today is her birthday, I woke up with the feeling that her presence in my life is the greatest gift I've ever received.

Here's to you, Nisky. Happy Birthday!

THE INTRADE CLASSIC: My brother Eric and I have swapped a couple e-mails about a site called intrade, which bills itself as "a trading exchange for Politics, Current Events, Financial Indicators, Weather & other Unique Contracts." Pretty cool stuff. Basically you can wager on the outcome of events like the Michael Jackson trial or the 2008 U.S. Presidential election. Check it out.

Eric suggested we have a Hess Male Showdown, where each of the Hess men puts up a hundred bucks and, over the course of the year, we see who can make the most money (or lose the least). Sounds like a pretty fun idea. But I started to think it might be even more fun to expand the field somewhat, and let some other folks join our merry band of speculators. Folks like Steve, Bart, maybe some Hess women, and anyone else who feels lucky. We don't have the rules figgered out 'zactly yet, but I was thinking something like everybody agrees to "buy in" with a hundred bucks for starters, and then we run it for a year, and at the end the loser all ante up an additional $20 to the guy/gal who amasses the largest fortune. Something like that. Any interest?

(No, this headline does not refer to a song or a book or anything like that.)

I LOVE EVERYDAY PEOPLE: So I'm at Starbucks this morning. (I'm still here.)

I see a crusty old guy that hangs out here everday on his way indoors with a bad look on his face. At the same time, one of the really nice baristas is heading his way with a big green umbrella to put on one of the patio tables.

"I was just coming in to complain about that," he says to her.

"I've got your complaint right here," she says, smiling.

They both laugh uproariously. And this small moment makes me happy somehow.

RUNNING TO HER LIKE A RIVER SONG: Would it be illegal for TIME magazine to run a cover story titled "Tom Cruise: He's Totally Ape-Shit!" God is this fascinating. Cruise. Michael Jackson. Paris Hilton. Jennifer Lopez. Jessica Simpson. Is it possible to get HUGE and stay sane? Who is the most "normal" person in Hollywood, anyway? Sometimes I think it's Ron Howard, but the more I hear about his partner Brian Grazer, the more I think Opie must be nuts, too.

BEHIND BLUE EYES: As requested in "Comments," here's a picture of a non-smiling Mikey. It's true. For about thirty seconds a day he wipes the smile off his face and just stares blankly ahead. Does he cry? No he does not. It's tough for his parents to weather those brief non-smiling moments, but we do our best. 

YOUR PHONE'S OFF THE HOOK, BUT YOU'RE NOT: I just conducted an e-mail interview with the mysterious and succint author of THE PHONE RANG, the blog we're all talkin' about. Here it is, for your vicarious enjoyment:

CAMEL: What's your blogging process? Write once in a flurry of creativity? Edit, manicure, primp, and prune? Something else?

TPR: it's a lot like going to the bathroom: i sit down, it all comes out, i never push and then i wipe. for real: i try to write as fast as i can and then i cut it all down to as few words as possible. i spend more time on editing than writing.

CAMEL: What if your wife or your mom or some other intimate ever reads THE PHONE RANG? Do you ever worry about that? Do you have a plan for when/if that happens?

TPR: my closest friends, who know about all of my shit, read it often, which really flatters me. I wouldn't want my wife to read it yet -- that's right, yet. I think eventually I'll show it to her in one form or another. I've always written about the important events in my life, so i don't think this would surprise her as much as you might think.

CAMEL: Why bother writing THE PHONE RANG at all?

TPR: here's a cliche for you, but it's true: ever since i started blogging, it's made me feel alive again. yes, it's cathartic, but more than anything it's reminded me of who i am -- a writer.

CAMEL: Sometimes I think your wife cheating on you was the best thing that ever happened to you? What do you say to that?

TPR: i say that you are one fuckin' smart dude! what it did was it woke me up. a while back, i wrote something like, "is it better to be happy in a fantasy world or in pain in the real world?" it's better to live in the real world and face your shit, whatever it is, and i hope to someday be happy.

CAMEL: People write comments. You never respond. How come?

TPR: the blog does my talking. sometimes a comment will spur an idea and i'll wind up posting something about it. anyway, most of the comments are anonymous.

CAMEL: It seems like most of your best posts have arisen from deep horror, pain, or other negative stuff. Do you ever worry you'll get addicted to the "from pain comes great art" equation and unwittingly create new pain for yourself in order to be able to respond creatively to same? Know what I mean?

TPR: holy shit, i think i just got a brain aneurysm! my style has always been to mix funny with sad. it's the perfect combo of peanut butter and chocolate.

CAMEL: Finish these thoughts:

The reason me and my wife got married was...
TPR: i needed someone to take care of me and my wife needed someone to take care of.

The reason me and my wife had kids was...
TPR: it was time.

The reason my wife had an affair was...
TPR: her way of saying fuck-you to the way we lived our lives.

The reason I had an affair was...
TPR: my way of saying fuck you right back.

The thing that's wrong with me is...
TPR: i'm too tall.

The thing that's wrong with my wife is...
TPR: she's too short.

The best thing about me is...
TPR: locked up inside me.

The best thing about my wife is...
TPR: that she's tougher than she thinks.

If I could program my kids to finish this sentence the way I'd want them to, they'd say: "My dad is...
TPR: the motherfuckin' shit, yo! and i don't need to program them.

CAMEL: Write a three sentence "plot summary" of your marriage over the next year. Now over the next five years.
TPR: A) She keeps the peace. I accept it.We go to Amsterdam next summer.

TPR: B) Kids go to college. We fuck a lot. Someone gets sick.

CAMEL: You and the Jamaican guy run into each other in a dark alley. What happens?
TPR: we share a spliff.

CAMEL: You are old and wise now. What advice would you give a newly-wed couple?
TPR: never listen to any advice from an old, wise man. And keep your eyes open.

JUST A GAME THAT'S PLAYED IN FUN: Just a quick heads-up, if you haven't been 'round here for a while: All the titles of my posts are allusions to songs, books, and other cultural bric-a-brac. Usually they're just lyric fragments, actually.

So, as readers, your job is to guess the allusion. It's sort of fun. Sort of. Right?

I'd say Trisha is winning overall, with my brother Eric in second. After that it's pretty much a toss-up between my cheating sister-in-law, my dad, Steve, Bart, and all manner of others.

IT BURNS YOU WHEN IT'S HOT: Biological determinism...what a relief!

GET ON YOUR BIKES AND RIDE: And what's a blog without a little nudity? Here's CJ tricycling au naturel in our gangway. 

MEET THE NEW BOSS: Can't leave the new guy out -- here's Mikey at six months, enjoying his "Biodome" in the backyard. 

HELLO, I LOVE YOU: Here's CJ, three years old. (Seems like we could use a picture or two around here to brighten things up.) I snapped this picture at a fundraiser carnival for the school he'll be attending this fall. I think it captures him perfectly. (This is also my first post using Hello, a free service from Picasa. We'll see how it works.) 

MARRIAGE IS WHEN WE ADMIT OUR PARENTS WERE RIGHT: I was talking about marriage with a friend of mine who writes the aforementioned "The Phone Rang" anonymous blog, and then I came across this old article about the pending divorce of Gavin Newsom and Kimberley Guilfoyle. Oh, wait, that's because I was looking at this Page Six article about how Bill Hemmer is now dating Guilfoyle. Hemmer, who went to my college, who my wife apparently once smooched, and who I used to see at the Mt. Lookout Tavern during my Cincy days, back when he was just a cocky sportscaster and I was a very uncocky nightime banquet setup supervisor at the Omni Netherland Plaza. (I was jealous then. Am I still?)

It occurs to me that one of the reasons I didn't much like Nick Hornby's latest, A LONG WAY DOWN, is that much of it has that same sort of careening-downhill feeling of my previous paragraph, as if the writer is riding along in a rickety soapbox derby car of idea fragments, rather than driving a high-performance sedan full of wisdom. Which is to say, it felt careless, instant, almost bloggy.

But back to the marriage thing. Check out that Newsom divorce article. Whoa. Basically sounds like they're getting divorced because they just can't fit marriage into their schedule/lifestyle. Bummer. I believe in gay marriage -- and Newsom has been perhaps its most famous advocate in recent years -- but I don't think he's such a great poster-boy for the institution. For me -- for ME, people, not for everyone -- but for me marriage is about establishing a firmament for a family, committing to build and maintain a solid foundation for something that will grow larger than the two individuals who "seed" it, so to speak. All the rest of it -- moving in together, registering at Crate & Barrel, etc. -- is just housekeeping and pragmatism.

While marriage may be born of eros, or romantic love, it seems to evolve quickly into something more, into something that, in my undereducated and simple worldview, is more akin to what most religions aim at -- it becomes not just romantic love, not just passion, and not just the custodial love we associate with families and old people, but unconditional love. Boundless. Timeless, even. Through our relationship with our communities, our children, we actually do enter into something that's connected to the eternal, to time everflowing, etc.

Perhaps this is a better way to express my "feel the burn" sentiment from my previous post, eh Laurel?

Marriage is a North Star, and we married people are astronauts intent on making a landing there. How about that?

Or, in the case of Newsom-Guilfoyle -- and how to say this without seeming snarky -- well, maybe these two thought they were just going on a car trip to the countryside, and once they realized they were leaving Earth's atmosphere, once the suits got a bit warm and constricting, they asked to be dropped off at the nearest terrestrial singles bar.

If I had an editor, a benefactor, or some goddamn purpose to my writing, I could be dangerous. Or at least an unrivaled metaphor machine.