THE SHAME OF IT: I travel quite a bit, and often when I'm on the road I have time in the hotel room in the morning before I set out to do whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing...

...and so I do what probably no other straight male does: I turn on THE VIEW as my background companion. I find it totally compelling. Issues. Banter. Real passionate arguments. Human interest. Etcetera. (I don't know why there's not a guy version of THE VIEW, altho' I suppose that's more or less THE BEST DAMN SPORTS SHOW.)

As I've seen the show here and there, I keep arriving at the same thought: I like this Elizabeth Hasselbeck. Granted, she's not as clever as Joy Behar, not as funny as Rosie (was), or as studied as Babs Walters. But I do find her principled, strong, and sane, attributes that aren't shared by any of the other chicks on the show. (Today's guest VIEWer is that money chick, Suze Orman, who is almost as annoying as Rosie.)

Elizabeth generates all kinds ire in the blogosphere, where she gets labeled as Elizabitch and is constantly getting slammed for her supposedly "right wing" views. Bottom line: She's a traditional gal with somewhat conservative values, and she refuses to toe the Hollywood line. Plus she's hot.

Oh, sweet Jesus, now they're talking to the creator of Spanx undergarments for women. Time to find SportsCenter.

I DO HAVE A WEAKNESS FOR MAKING LISTS: I have two sisters-in-law, and both of 'em blog. One is here. The other is here. Both are kind of nutso in their own way, which is to say well worth checking out and knowing and whatnot. (It's my contention that it's a Hess male tradition to marry nutjob chicks we can't live without. You could also make the case that only a nutjob chick would marry one of us. One thing is for certain: Hess men don't marry milquetoasts. We marry the fiery ones. God help us.)

Anyhoo, one of my in-law sis types posted one of those list things, where you have to make a list of three things across a bunch of categories, and then she said she wanted me to do it, too. She tapped me, or tagged me, or whatever the hip web lingo is. And so...

three things that scare me:

1. death
2. lightning
3. death by lightning

three people who make me laugh:

1. chrissy cramer mulligan
2. rob gorrell
3. brad schrepferman

three things i love:

1. my entire extended nutjob family
2. seeing raw joy on my sons' faces
3. my multifaceted wife

three things i hate/severely dislike:

1. negativity
2.
3.

three things i don’t understand:

1. tools and building stuff
2. directions and maps
3. girls

three things on my desk:

1. in-room dining menu
2. the Austin-American Statesman
3. My Cingular 8125 phone

three things i’m doing right now:

1. getting ready to eat my room-service oatmeal
2. trying to decide whether to wear the white shirt today or the loud one
3. perching on the precipice of flatulence

three things i want to do before i die:

1. see my kids happy and healthy and established
2. write a novel
3. find peace with my mortality

three things i can do:

1. present in front of a group
2. write
3. find or make fun

three things i can’t do:

1. build stuff
2. use good penmanship
3. watch ER or other bloody medical dramas

three things i think you should listen to:

1. The Legendary Jim Ruiz Group, OH BROTHER WHERE ART THOU
2. The Aluminum Group, WONDER BOY PLUS
3. Spandau Ballet, "True"

three things you should never listen to:

1. that Blake guy from American Idol
2. forwarded emails
3. Barbara Streisand

three things i’d like to learn:

1. how to write a novel
2. how to really play guitar
3. how to golf

three favourite foods:

1. sushi
2. a loaded veggie burger from George's or Little Louie's
3. french fries

three shows i watched as a kid:

1. mary tyler moore
2. happy days
3. emergency

three things i regret:

1. being such a tough kid to parent
2. not going to my wife's grandmother's funeral
3. meandering through college in a haze of booze and girls

three people i tag:

1. laurel
2. stevie
3. casey

THE DARK HORSE I'M RIDING RIGHT NOW: Oh, lord, another Texas guy. But I listen to Ron Paul and I nod and I like. Seems to have principles, passion, and conviction.

WENT TO A SYMPHONY AND A HOCKEY GAME BROKE OUT: As a guy with anger management issues, this tickled me.

ON BECOMING A MINDFUL BUDDHIST DEMIGOD: Not surprisingly, I've received a few emails and comments about yesterday's post -- the one where I admit to being a hot-headed, thuggish jerk.

Guilty.

Maybe I didn't do a good enough job of communicating how charged the situation was -- how the people behind me were waiting, how the plane was a million degrees, how the guy whose stuff was up there was really making an effort to be a jerk, to show me his contempt for my situation, etc.

No matter. Given all the time I spend reading and thinking about Buddhism and mindfulness, I know well enough that I could have reacted better. There was no need to go on tilt, to let the guy get to me.

So what was the right course? Probably to slow everything down in my head. To make a real effort to connect with the guy, or with somebody else, such that they could empathize with my plight, so that they could help me out with my bag, make some space.

Thing is, there was no overhead bin space evident even a bit farther back. So I would have had to either try and go forward to gate-check my bag -- which was a virtual impossibility, given how many people were behind me trying to get to their seat -- or go to the back of the plane to file my bag somewhere in the bowels of the plane, then try to make my way upstream to my seat. This would, of course, doom me when it came time to deplane, but such is life as a mindful Buddhist demigod, I guess.

Nah. Sometimes the monk must turn his plow into a weapon. I didn't harm anyone. And perhaps in my moment of brute force I spared a whole lot of people a whole lot of jostling.

I'm sure there's some other answer, some other graceful path, but who has the time to figure it out, you know?

NEXT TIME SHUT YOUR YAP: A long time away from blogging! A recent travel story...

I'm headed home from Boston after a couple-day jaunt. I miss the early boarding call for big-time travelers such as myself, so I end up boarding cattle-call with everybody else. By the time I make it to my seat, fairly far forward in the plane, all the storage bins around my seat appear full.

Appear.

I have a backpack, which I can easily stow under my seat, and a "roller-board," as they say, which is basically a smallish suitcase with a retractable handle and a small set of wheels on the bottom. The plane is far from full yet, so I can see no reason all the bins are so stuffed already. Probably some jamokes from farther back on the plane have ditched their stuff up front as they passed. Also, a quick inspection reveals that a bunch of folks have stuffed small items -- which could easily be stored under the seat -- up top.

I spy a tiny tote bag and a windbreaker thrown haphazardly into the overhead storage bins, expanding across the space and making it impossible for me to get my bag up there.

"Anybody have this small bag and this windbreaker?" I ask, looking around. Nobody answers. Fine. I take them out and shove my bag in, then work to fit the windbreaker and the small bag back in without mussing or smushing either. Alas, I can't quite fit them back in, no matter how I try.

"Those are mine," says some wormy guy sitting just below my crotch as I wrestle the bags around, trying to make space. "They're delicate."

"Mind putting them under your empty middle seat?" I ask, smiling.

"Your bag won't fit anyway," he says. "Next time pack lighter."

He smiles a little smile at his seatmate.

"My bag will fit," I tell him. "Watch this."

I take my bag out, shove his windbreaker and small bag back in, then smash my suitcase into them driving them into the back of the compartment. I reach over my head and grab the compartment door and slam it shut. It catches, then gives way, swinging back open.

"Told you," he says.

"I'm not done yet," I say.

I reach up and shove my suitcase back as hard as I can, pancaking his windbreaker and small bag. Then I grab hold of the compartment door with both hands, contract my abdominals and my shoulder muscles and my triceps and my pectorals all at once, breathe out a noisy grunting breath, and slam the motherfucking door shut with all my might, driving my palms against the door with all the force of an agitated Lou Ferrigno. (Or at least a testy Bill Bixby.)

"Told you," I say.