DEMS AND DUMBER: Despite an incompetent Republican president, pesky religious zealotry, and impending ecological disaster, the Dems still can't find an electable candidate, if you believe most of these early polls. That the nation won't elect a Mormon nutball is heartwarming, although the fact that we're willing to elect other religious nutballs almost cancels that out. (I'm all for God, I just don't think he plays team sports.)

RUDE AWAKENING: I usually spend my "writing" days holed up at one of a half-dozen area Starbucks, my ears cloaked in Bose noise-cancelling headphones set to play "white noise" over and over. Only this morning...I forgot to put the noise on repeat...so when the fuzz track came to an end my iTunes library skipped right down to "White Noise," an over-the-top punk track by Stiff Little Fingers. Felt like somebody had dipped my sack in a coffee pot...zoiks!

NOTE TO SELF: If Rulon Gardner calls and invites you to hang out, say you're busy.

BORING AND BORINGER: I totally agree with Tom Shales...the Oscars were a snoozefest, with the only authentic moment coming when Jennifer Hudson won. The rest was a pageant put on by pageanteers for pageanteers. Me, I'm not so much into pageants. I like small.

I asked my wife, "Why in God's name do I watch this every year when it always bores me to tears?" She had no answer for me.

I'm pretty sure it's cause I like to be part of the conversation the next day at work.

Since I'm not going to work today, I'll share a few of my thoughts here:

I was hoping Al Gore's big announcement might be that he was starting the South Beach Diet.

That Jodie Foster cleans up awful nice.

People that are annoying just to look at: Jada Pinkett Smith, Leo DiCaprio, George Lucas, Kate Winslet, Celine Dion, Maggie Gyllenhall, Melissa Etheridge, Al Gore, Marc Anthony

George Lucas looks like a guy wearing a George Lucas costume.

If Count Chocula ever retires, Marc Anthony's agent should be on the phone immediately.

When did Clint Eastwood turn 90?

Good for Melissa Etheridge. I was rooting for him.

How in blazes did Jennifer Hudson's girls stay in her dress? She must have low nipples.

How can Beyonce look so hot and so cold...at the same time?

For the love of God, no more Celine Dion. Can't we upgrade to Anne Murray or something?

The Oscars are like SNL: You know it's going to suck but you watch anyway.

Will Ferrell's hair -- and Jack Nicholson's lack thereof -- were my twin show highlights.

Mark Wahlberg has jumped the shark.

Tell me I was not the only person in America who was paralyzed by shock when Ben Affleck was introduced as "an Academy-award winning screenwriter."

The hottest babe of this year's Oscars might have been...Helen Mirren. I shit you not. GrandMILF central.

Of all the nominees, Alan Arkin is the guy I'd most like to have coffee with.

Jack Black is really great at playing...Jack Black.

Gwynneth Paltrow is a huge fan and admirer of...Gwynneth Paltrow. By the way, what's a Gwynneth? Pretty sure it's that dangly piece of skin between your...never mind...

Best understated line of the evening: "They're all nude." (DeGeneres referring to the silhouette dancers with whom she had interacted.)

I shed a tear for departed actor: Don Knotts. By far the most affecting of those whose number came up in '06, and I'm not kidding.

GIULIANI/CUBAN '08: It's gotten to the point where I can't help but be a Mark Cuban fan. Laugh at this if you want...but in an age devoid of Susan Sontags and H.L. Menckens and the like...Mark Cuban may be our leading public intellectual. He's certainly our leading public pragmatist.

WRECKED: Let me start with this: Everybody's fine.

Although C.J. was up most of the night having trouble breathing. Seems like a lot of his colds turn to asthma. I slept next to him and administered his inhaler as needed. I was too worried to sleep. I just passed the time by sweating and taking my pulse.

Although Mikey somehow climbed up on the bathroom counter around 6AM this morning, maneuevered across the sink, opened a child-resistant bottle of kids' cough syrup, and drank a fair amount of it. Granted, he did his share of spilling, too. "Mikey, did you drink this?" "Yeah! Mikey like!"

Poison Control said he would be fine, but he might act a little, well, drunk. I wasn't convinced he'd even managed to get much into his mouth. Now, after watching him stagger, giggle, and drool, I'm revising that opinion. "Music, daddy! Mikey dance!" The boy's gooped up on gop. I wish it were funnier, but it's hard to laugh through the guilt and worry. His doctor agreed with Poison Control: no big deal. Apparently it's fairly common.

C.J. seems much better, with a new day. He's tired, and he has no appetite. But he's relatively happy, and he's breathing almost clearly through his coughs.

Eileen, lucky dog, was in Memphis last night. She missed this. Good for her. Daddy was due.

Everyone in the house has been awake since 5AM now. What a debacle. Alas, we made it. It wasn't pretty, but we made it.

RAW: Yesterday it was a four-hour delay at O'Hare, en route to Newark. First one plane broke. Then they couldn't get gas in the second one. Finally we took off, landed, and I had only minutes to make my presentation. Unfortunately, I stood in the cold *downstairs*, while my driver was apparently waiting *upstairs*. I swore at the dispatcher. I'm not proud of it, but I didn't plan it. Sometimes profanity just comes out. We made it with minutes to spare.

I had 150 people waiting for me, and the A/V stuff was was not what it was supposed to be. They said it was X, and it turned out to be Y. Alas, it worked, more or less. I am a pro. Don't mean to brag, but: I made it work. That's my job.

Then my next driver was not where he was supposed to be. I found him, circling the block. I was frozen, but I did not swear. And redemption was just around the corner.

He was canny, and so he found a quick way around an overturned truck. I made it to the airport, running on one Powerbar over the course of a 12-hour day, only to discover: My flight was cancelled. That's alright. It was only the last flight of the day! I'd spend the night at Newark, eating pizza and trying to find new levels of discomfort.

And then: Deus ex machina! The earlier flight was still there. "Sir, run to Gate 14. Run!"

And then home, late, even though I was on the earlier flight. Go figure. One sick kid in my bed. One healthy wife downstairs with the other kid. Not sick, just lonely, the other kid.

And then today the sick one's cold turns into asthma. The wheezing and gasping. And that's just me. God I hate the anxiety I wear when my kids are sick. Like swimming in a sweatshirt and jeans. Heavy. Six breaths. Just relax.

So what? So I make it to dinnertime, albeit after 9PM. So a quick bottle of Chimay Blue, and ordered-in sushi. The FDA may not know it, but the buzz after raw fish is more exilarating than most controlled substances. It's a quick slap of alive, a salty, slimy, brilliant jolt of raw energy, minus the jitters. Feel good, says sushi. Full, and yet still agile. Fueled.

The wife?

Jumped the 8-bird to Memphis, headed to a meeting. Gone 'til tomorrow night. Twenty-four hours of away. Bet she sleeps like a champ tonight. As for the rest of us, I'm counting on two bedmates before dawn, and neither one likely to be good company. The sick one will come first, probably around 2AM, when the albuterol wears off completely. Six more breaths, buddy. You can do it. And then the lonely one will follow. "I want Momma." By morning I'll be wearing the both of 'em, half-dead from lack of sleep, all of us, but totally alive by dint of feeling needed. Connected.

And come tomorrow night I'll be sleeping somewhere outside of Pittsburgh, wishing I was here anyway. So why not be here now. Right. Here. Raw.

SO FAST INDEED: Something changed in our house this morning.

C.J., the nearly five-year-old, has been sick. Fever. Cough. Miserable.

Eileen took Mikey, the two-year-old, to a mom-'n'-tot class this morning, so I stayed home with old Sicky. Nothing like having Dad around to make a sick kid feel better. Right?

"I'm staying with you this morning," I told him, "but I have to do a work phone call at 10."

"Okay."

He didn't seem too heartbroken.

"So I'll need you to play by yourself for about a half hour."

"Fine," he said. "I'll play Wii."

Not very heartbroken at all.

After I finished the call, I took a couple of those little 8 oz. bottles of Coke down to the basement, his lair. I popped the cap on one for each of us, and we shared a father-son, glass-bottle-of-Coke moment. A good time was had by all. I mussed his hair, while he fixated on his favorite Noggin show, "Wow Wow Wubzie."

"Daddy?" he said.

"Yes, C.J."

"Go take a shower. I'm fine."

Have I already crossed the line from favored status to nuisance? My glass-bottle-of-Coke stunt has a shelf-life of five minutes? I had to laugh. And so I did.

Talk about your bittersweet moments.