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).