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.

GET YOUR PROTEIN: Just discovered a great blog, Protein Wisdom. Not sure where this came from originally, but here's an image they posted under the headline "Ted Kennedy's SCOTUS confirmation hearings crib notes." Number four made me spit on my monitor:

DARK DAYS INDEED: Sullivan's "e-mail of the day" is too good not to repost.

"I was there for the Hitchens-Gallowat debate last night. I'm a moderate lefty with uncompromising pro-regime change sentiments. Hitch came out and was his dazzling self. There is no one alive with his talent for disputation. He hit masterfully all the blunt and subtle points of the the pro-regime change argument. In respons, Mr. Galloway stirred up a pep rally with buzz words catering to the lowest common denominator and, tragically, elicted cheers and raves. A sad night indeed. I see now, for once and all, the "left" is truly not interested in reason, logic, or even humanity. It's a self-sustaining mob mentality of Bush hate and free-floating paranoia. I'm deeply disturbed by the anti-war factions feverish embrace of a man such as Galloway. I see the writing on the wall. The left has already become the right. They do not care about internationalism, freedom, or just causes. They walk around in search of another reason to denounce Halliburton. Dark dark days."

Exactly!

HITCHENS IN A WALK THUS FAR: Geez, this is crystal clear. Hitchens absolutely de-fucking-stroyed Galloway in the first round. If it comes down to choosing sides, I wonder who in their right mind would take Galloway's side over Hitchens'? I wish these guys were on TV every night.

SHINING LIGHT ON THE LEFT, MAKING ROOM IN THE MIDDLE: It's ironic that, in my view, the media seems to be killing the Libs of late. The more spotlight the gets shined on 'em, the worse they look.

Here's what I mean...

My friends Isaac and Bart continue reminding me that, to equate the Left with charlatans and shriekers like Michael Moore and Janeane Garofalo and the rest of their lot is unfair, like painting the Right with only the Falwell/Dobson/Robertson brush. Funny thing is, the Right folk I see on TV most often seem reasonable and well-informed -- Giuliani, this Enterprise Institute guy (Glassman), McCain, Hitchens, Sullivan. Meanwhile Maher and other Left mavens keep trotting out narcissistic nutbags like Carlin and Vonnegut and Clinton(s) and Nader and Chomsky and pretending like they're national treasures when in reality they're narcissistic nutbags. (Of course Maher is the world's biggest narcissist, so perhaps he simply enjoys the company of his peers.)

It used to be I just heard or saw these people in little bits and bursts, and their jokes and one-liners and aphorisms seemed compelling. But now, getting to see Carlin expound at length about how he "has no personal stake in theft," so he doesn't care about people stealing, to see how overwhelmingly pompous he is...

Getting to hear Vonnegut's doomsaying crap...

Hearing Nader's utopian visions spun out at length...

Sometimes I think the disputed election, 9/11, and now this hurricane have lifted a veil from the face of the Left, and what's been revealed is flat-out ugly. Vonnegut last night called humanity a virus on the surface of the earth and seemed hopeful that the planet would soon rid itself of us. Looking at his wizened, dark old face, I thought...

Well, I won't say it.

Look, life is impermanent. People are imperfect. And 39-year-old men start to lose muscle tone and gain fat pockets. These are facts. But in the face of all this, can't we decide to create a set of laws and a style of governing that reveres and affirms life, that recognizes humankind's shortcomings, and that espouses enduring values like freedom, honor, and justice? Sure we can. This is not the domain of one party or another. This is something we can all do.

In the meantime, here's hoping the planet doesn't cure itself of me any time soon. I'm a good virus, I swear. Despite the fat pockets...

GEORGE CARLIN IS AN UNFUNNY IDIOT: Am just watching the Bill Maher show on my Tivo, whatever it's called. Maher remains a smug idiot, of course, but what's most overwhelming on this particular show is what a huge stupid dumb idiot George Carlin is. I've never thought he was remotely funny, and now I know he's also not remotely intelligent. Again, I must be turning conservative, because the only person who seems to have a lick of sense on the panel is this guy from the American Enterprise Institute, Jim Glassman.

INTELLIBRAWL: I can no think of no more exciting event in the coming week than Christopher Hitchens' public debate tomorrow against George Galloway. If I had to choose between watching the debate and watching the next Bears/Cubs game, I'd choose the debate hands down. Granted my local teams suck, but this debate looks to be the friggin' Super Bowl of public intellectuals. Each side is a villain to the other, and each is a champion of rhetoric. That Galloway is an idiot and a liar makes him, in my opinion, likely to play the 1984 New England Patriots to Hitchens' 1984 Chicago Bears. Go Hitch!

LET'S SEE, SURF OR JOIN AL QAEDA: I hope someone is writing the Adam Gadahm story. I'd like to know what this guy's major defect is. I'd also like to see a videotape where, in the middle of taping a propaganda broadcast, a team of Navy SEALs bursts in and hauls his ass off to oblivion. (Here's some decent background on the nutter, if you're interested.)

GAZING: My dad just e-mailed me a cool shot from our not-too-long-ago family trip down to Sanibel Island, FL. I dicked around with it a bit in Hello (a Picasa photo program), and I really like how it came out. It pretty much nails my mood of late. Plus I don't look too fat or old in it.

 

HYPERBOLEFT: I can't say this surprises me. Or this.

ME OVERWRITING ABOUT THE HURRICANE: I have all kinds of swirling thoughts about Katrina. More than anything, I feel compassion for its victims. My wife and I are going to make a donation through her work, since they're matching funds. I've also stuffed some bills into our local firemens' boots as they've waded through traffic in our neighborhood, collecting funds for the victims.

Beyond that, it also seems clear that our federal, state, and local governments were ill-prepared to deal with the aftermath of the storm, especially the flooding of New Orleans. From what I've read, it sounds like FEMA represents the biggest failure in that it acted as an impediment to relief efforts, rather than a lubricant.

I also haven't been very impressed with New Orleans' mayor, Ray Nagin. Granted, he was presiding over an apocalypse, but were I was a New Orleans resident I would have much preferred the reassuring, positive tone of a Rudy Giuliani to the negative, finger-pointing tone of a Ray Nagin. (I continue to marvel at how calm Giuliani seemed in the face of 9/11, and I wonder if this hurricane might somehow lift his presidential campaign.) I've read elsewhere that Nagin is an impressive guy, so the fact that he's not Giuliani may only reveal how rare Giuliani is.

I'm sure there will be ample time and effort devoted to sorting out who helped and who failed in the months to come. (I'm sure our own JD will be on hand shortly to lay the entire thing at the feet of the president. I don't believe that, any more than I believe those that are arguing that the whole thing is Ray Nagin's or Kathleen Blanco's fault.) I'm sure blame will find nooks and crannies at all levels of our government. For now, though, I'm going to keep the focus on what I can do to help. And the first thing I can do is to make a personal donation. I hope we'll all do that.

The next thing I can do is to read the news stories and the blogs in the months ahead, and to consider how and where my vote might make a difference in '08. Whether it's the war on terror, stem cell research, or an "act of God," I'm looking for a candidate that grasps that his first job is to set a tone and create an environment that inspires and enables Americans to be as healthy, free, and safe as can be reasonably expected in our modern world, so that we can continue our own unique pursuits of happiness in our own idiosycratic, varied ways.

My allegiance won't be to party politics. I hope yours won't be either. In the face of tragedy -- which is intermittent -- and reality -- which is constant -- we are all one people. May that reality unite us, all of us, so that we can meet each subsequent and inevitable tragedy with the combined force of our compassion and love.