AND THAT IS THE REST OF THE STORY: My clever pal Brian e-mails with an addendum to my Gergen story:

I think you're leaving something out of that story...Isn't this what really transpired?
We march through the doors and past the people, and the Gergen offers a very soft "thank you." He seems almost annoyed that he's needed me.

"Have a good flight," I tell him. "You're on your own now."

Gergen says..."uh, hold on second." He seemed unsure.

"Huh" said Hess.

"You seem to really know where you're going," said Gergen," and have strong leadership skills...I do some political consulting. Let me ask you something."

"OK, shoot," replies Herman

Gergen: "If Clinton were to run in '08, and I mean Hillary, who would you like to see with her on the ticket?"

Hess says, without hesitation "Obama."

Gergen literally stops dead in his tracks. He seems lost in thought. Suddenly he gets a huge smile on his face. "Obama" he says confidently. He winks at Hess and starts running toward his gate.

TALK TO GOD AND LISTEN TO THE CASUAL REPLY: It's Monday morning, and you know what that means: Your favorite frequent flier is back in the Red Carpet Club, eyes open for unsuspecting minor celebrities to help on their way.

Off to Denver today for a quick overnight. Time go board.

SOME DAY I WILL CALL UPON YOU TO DO A SERVICE FOR ME: I'm walking into the usual frenzy of a Friday morning at LAX, and somehow, not paying attention, I end up at general check-in. Since I travel so much, I have the benefit of using the Premier check-in counter and security line, which saves tons of time, and so I endeavor to cut back through the terminal to get there. As I do so, I notice that it's closed off, and I'll have to go outside the terminal and walk down several doors. Just as I have that realization, I see another guy who's apparently in the same boat. He's tall, fairly well-dressed, and he looks very frazzled. I hear him telling a United agent that he needs to get to First Class check-in, that he's in a big hurry.

"International," says the agent, whose English is not great. "Down dare."

The tall gentlemen looks confused, doubtful, lost. He does not trust what he's hearing.

"Excuse me, sir," I say to the harried traveler, who then turns to face me, applying his gaze of dubiousness.

Alas...it's David Gergen.

I continue with nary a hint of acknowledgement of his Gergenness.

"I'm headed to where you need to go," I tell him. "First Class checks in down by the International terminal."

"I'm really late," he tells me, making sure I get it that he doesn't have time to mess around.

"I know exactly where you need to go," I tell the Gergen. "Follow me."

So me and Gergen fast-walk it outside, with him falling in step a few paces behind me. As we're walking he's looking in through the window, and I can tell he's wondering if I'm a savior or a nutcase.

"That line's really long," says Gergen, his voice tinged with worry.

"Don't worry," I say in a soothing tone. "That's for the unwashed masses. When we get inside just follow me over by the wall. We get to walk past all that in our own premier security line."

He seems mollified...perhaps by the familiar language of "premier line," or perhaps it's my steadying presence, my natural leadership profile.

I give orders. The Gergen follows. He needs me.

We march through the doors and past the people, and the Gergen offers a very soft "thank you." He seems almost annoyed that he's needed me.

"Have a good flight," I tell him. "You're on your own now."

(Hat tip to Eric for the idea for my subject line.)

CALIFORNIA...CALIFORNIA...HERE WE COME! Where else but...Red Carpet Club, getting ready to jump a bird back to Los Angeles. There until Friday AM, when I head back home.

GIVE PARIS ONE MORE CHANCE: A little more than a year ago I theorized that Paris Hilton would be more than just a blip on the radar...and might emerge as a major face of her generation. (I have this presentation I give, called "Paris Hilton Rules," that outlines some of the reasons she's so resonant for so many of today's teens.) Anyhow...toot toot...looks like I might have been right.

WE SPEND OUR DAYS LIKE BRIGHT AND SHINY NEW DIMES: My straightforward posts are boring me, so I feel the need to compose a rambler.

I've been thinking about weight of late, clearly, and so was wondering where that came from, what was the spark of this latest (and recurrent) bout of "I am not perfect -- file under WEIGHT" feeling. And, as often happens if you just give feelings (which are made of gas, right?) long enough to rise to the top of the liquid mess that is your consciousness, well, they do, and so here's the gas:

I was watching some celebrity weight loss show -- and it really doesn't matter which show -- and they had this guy on it, Willie Aames, I think -- and it really doesn't matter which guy -- and he was talking about how his wife had intimated to him that she expected sooner or later to simply find him lying dead somewhere on accounta the fact that he'd let himself go from his heartthrob days of yore (insert picture of long-haired hearththrob version of Aames, complete with visible musculature peeking out from underneath taut young skin), to the extent that he now weighs almost 200 pounds (emphasis mine, on oh-so-many levels).

And I'm sitting there, knowing that I'm somewhere a touch north of 200 pounds, thinking: How tall is this little motherscratcher, Aames, and does he really need to sound so freakin' concerned over being the perfect weight? And, for sure his wife's a nutbird, right? She's gonna drive him to his grave, not to mention find him there...

Etcetera.

Which brings up: What is the right weight? BMI? Did the McDonald's #9 with fries just shorten my life on accounta cholesterol or bad carbs or too much sodium...or did it just lengthen my life on accounta happiness and carefree consumption...the zen of fast food, my mobile mojo workin', etc.

And is living longer any reward anyway?

One advantage of my almost 38 years in this life -- as compared to when I was, oh, say, ummm, younger -- is that this angstiness is familiar now, is sort of a companion and a pesky pal moreso than something to wrestle and defeat.

So that was rambling enough. I feel better. And so I'll stop for now.

WE RUN SO HARD AND ALWAYS END UP IN THE SAME PLACE: I did the big weigh-in this morning. Dunno whether my coupla glasses of wine last night (McManis Family Merlot, 2002 -- a really nice, fruit-forward glass of grape juice, for about $10/bottle) helped me (by flushing out water-weight) or hurt me (by encouraging my body to retain water).

The bottom line: 200 lbs., even. Same as when I started a week ago.

What did I accomplish? Three cardio sessions over the course of the week, the most I've done in at least a year if not more. Less junk food. Less late eating. General weight/health consciousness.

Thing is, even though my weight number is the same, I'm convinced my jeans fit a little better and my stomach is less posh. Call it the power of positive thinking -- or the reality of minor weight/muscle redistribution, perhaps from gut to glutes or legs.

Any changes for the coming week? Hmmm. Well, I'd like to lengthen my cardio sessions a touch...at some point I want to get back to being able to run comfortably for an hour, so I need to start gradually building up...and maybe just start keeping track of my sugar-cola intake. That'll do.

Meanwhile, my friend Isaac tells me he's also engaged in a bit of a weight-watching exercise on his blog, and that his has been reported on by a syndicated newspaper columnist named Mark Bazer. Maybe y'all will see it in a paper near you.

HEAVY IN HERE? Got in another cardio session yesterday, bringing my week's total to three. If I can get one in tonight, that'll be a respectable four for my first week of actually paying attention to my health again.

Yesterday's session was 40 minutes on an Elliptical trainer. Love that machine! Watched the end of the Talladega race on it, and almost leaped into the air when my driver (in fantasy NASCAR) Jeff Gordon held off a couple late charges and notched the win.

Ate after eight again last night -- my wife ripped into a raspberry/cheese danish from Whole Foods, and I felt compelled to join her.

Am really curious what my weight will be tomorrow morning. I don't feel much different, so I'm guessing it'll be somewhere between 198 - 201. Whatever.

I am wondering whether I need some kind of shock-to-the-system approach, where I do something drastic to get this weight-loss kicked off and in motion, so that I drop like five pounds in a week.

Screw that.

ANY KID CAN CHATTER, FEW CAN INFORM: A friend, Keith, sent me this link to the most astounding piece of inadvertent comedy I've seen in a long while. It's almost impossible to screw something up as badly as this guy does.

THE LAST PARTY I ATTENDED, I GOT DRUNK BEFORE IT ENDED: Okay, Laurel, try and Google that. A great line by a great band.

PROMISED YOU A MIRACLE: My lifestyle-change regimen has been imperfect, as expected. So far I've had fries twice, eaten after 8PM twice, and only done cardio twice. Luckily the week's not over yet. At least I can squeeze in a few more cardio sessions...and hopefully no more fries or late eating.

Why am I eating fries? No excuse other than that I love 'em, and some of the meals I've eaten just don't seem right without french fries. (Think of a big fat veggie burger with everything including grilled onions and liquid cheddar cheese...or a McDonald's #9 fish combo in the airport.)

And the late eating? Gimme a break. One was a night I was flying back from the West Coast, and when I arrived home after 8PM my wife had a huge salad (with hard-boiled eggs and avocadoes) already made for me. And then there was last night, when the neighbors and their kids were over and we were too busy being the cops (with the kids) to feed ourselves.

Can you blame a guy? The guy doesn't blame himself. Much.

MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT THE FUNCTION AND THE FORM: I picked up the latest Beck record a month or so ago and have been wrestling with it. This review is the best explanation for my mixed feelings. It's also one of the first interesting and artful reviews I've read in a long while. That Pitchfork site has really gotten good.

ONE LESS TOOTHBRUSH HANGING IN THE STAND: A quick two cents on what went down on IDOL a few days ago: Farewell, Constantine! And Scotty the Body is in the top three!

What killed the long-haired pouty-cat? Song selection. That Nickelback crap is crap. Any of those bands with the basso mumble-singers, they just ain't right for IDOL. No Creed or Trapt or Nickelback need apply. Also, lay off the Whitney and Christina and other totally signature diva shit. You need to bring MOR pablum, my peeps, like what my boy Scotty did with that Luther track, like he did with his Hall & Oates track, n'ahm sayin'? Old Constantine got lucky with his over-the-top "Bohemian Rhapsody." Turns out his voice fits over Freddie Mercury like lycra pants over microphone-straddlin' thighs.

And it turns out America will turn on a favorite if he/she doesn't "bring it," as that genius Randy Jackson puts it.

One of the greatest things about that show are the trainwrecks that are Paula and Randy, btw. You almost feel sorry for Simon. Simon is like the one guy at work -- okay, me -- that actually has his shit together. (On the off chance somebody from my work ever reads this, please note that the previous comment was satirical in nature, pointing out the idea that we all sometimes feel like we're the only one on the ball at work, while everyone else is a bunch of chimps, just like that great commercial.)

I used to loathe Seacrest, but over time he's kind of grown on me, like a too-taut tag in my favorite shirt that I'm afraid to cut out for fear of wrecking the shirt, and so you kind of grow a callous back there, or maybe you even start to like the little itchy-scratch of the tag dragging across your the top of your spine.

TV PARTY TONIGHT! Swiped from Trisha, a cool game:

a. Post a list of 10 TV shows you follow (current or canceled).
b. Have your friends/readers guess your favourite CHARACTER from each show.
c. When guessed correctly, bold the line and write a sentence about why you like that character.

1. The Andy Griffith Show. Barney Fife indeed, as guessed by Dave. Don Knotts is a genius, and Barney Fife was his best role. You'll never convince me Barney Fife wasn't a real person.
2. Three's Company. Stanley Roper, as guessed by Trisha. Norman Fell's facial expressions alone were hilarious. His eyes were comic characters.
3. Surreal Life (I have a favorite character across all the seasons). Nobody guessed Christopher Knight (Peter from the Brady Bunch), but he was my favorite (although I only saw like two episodes from this season). What did I like? He's old, but he's still in shape, seems very nice, and scores the model chick. Good for him. A close second? Erik Estrada, who, as my brother Eric suggested, "gets it."
4. Happy Days. Al's my man, as Trisha guessed. I love the hangdog character actors. With one simple phrase (yep yep yep), this guy steals every scene he's in. He's ugly beautiful, as the French say.
5. Welcome Back Kotter. Mr. Woodman (as guessed correctly by Eric) is another one of these character-actor guys. He has a face for radio, as they say. I just remember that every time he entered a scene I smiled. And when he would have a spasm of laughter it would just kill me.
6. NYPD Blue (I have a male and a female favorite). Sipowicz, as guessed by Trisha, is correct. Life is hard for the Dennis Franz character, and you can see it on every inch of his body, hear it in the timbre of every word. Still, he gives goodness everything he's got.
7. The Sopranos. I'll give Paulie Walnuts to Eric. On a show of superstars, Paulie stands out as real, funny, and real funny. His simmering outrage is a sight to see.
8. Arrested Development (hard to pick just one favorite!) Nobody guessed Gob, and he's my favorite. Gob's manic sense of self -- one minute he's sure he's a genius, the next he's convinced he's a vulnerable idiot -- strikes a chord with me. That said, I could have easily gone for Tobias, Buster, or Lucille, who are all brilliant. And although I'm not a big Martin Short fan, his cameo as a crippled Jack Lalanne-ish fitness guru ("Shoot me!") was inspired comedy.
9. David Letterman. Yep, Paul Shaffer, as guessed by Trisha. Dave is funny, but Paul's knowing presence takes the edge off the host's smarm and reminds us that's it's all a great big game in the business of show.
10. Law and Order. Trisha's right. Lenny Briscoe is the man. He's like a less tortured Sipowicz, a man who seems to have endless cheeks for the slaps of life, yet who retains a punch-drunk sense of humor that gives us all hope.

THESE BIRDS CAN'T FLY AWAY: The rumors are true -- I've been watching AMERICAN IDOL intently this season. Last note I voted for the first time. In fact, I voted twice...for Scotty the Body.

I thought last night's performances were the worst of the season, across the board. Although Vonzell looked hot as hell (as always), even she sounded kinda sloppy. Bo Bice and Constantine, as much as they trouble me, both have oodles of star quality. But Constantine's song was horrible. Horrible. And Bo's was sort of a meandering mess of attitude, devoid of any highs or lows. "I gotta be me" is a tough pose to pull off an a show like AMERICAN IDOL. I was like, whut-EVER. Tired of it. I liked the country chick with the great-butt-in-jeans, but I won't pretend that had anything to do with her performance. I just think she's cute. Fedorov was better than usual, and I like him, but I don't dig a guy singing Celine Dion. Heck, I don't dig Celine Dion singing Celine Dion.

So why did I vote for Scott? Granted, he has some vocal issues. He seems uncoached, mostly. But when he's on, I think he's got the purest vocal sound of anyone in the competition. I think he's versatile. I think he could undergo a makeover as a star that would make him fun to watch. And I just like him. I think he's the least fake of anyone in the competition, the least calculating. The guy just likes to sing.

I'm sure his days are numbered, but he's got my vote(s) for now.

WORK 'TIL YOU'RE MUSCLEBOUND: At the risk of feeling even mildly self-congratulatory after just one day of paying attention to my diet/weight/exercise, let me just say: It's working!

No, I didn't break my promise not to get on the scale 'til next Tuesday. But I can just sense it. Yesterday I steered around McD's and Taco Bell at the mall and opted for a shitty veggie half-sandwich at some little no-name place. Last night I hurried up my high-priced sushi order so it would arrive pre-8PM. And then, grudgingly, I ambled out in short-pants at 10PM to commence running. I really only ran for about 20 minutes or so, but my heart-rate was definitely (and sadly) up for 30 minutes.

Am really curious who will nail the above reference...and want to add a bonus: The band in question plays one of my Top 10 favorite songs of all time. Name the band...and the song!

DISEMBODIED POETICS: My friend Vince (who runs a really cool web business called Reusable Bags, and who once painted Trisha's house, if memory serves) just sent me an e-mail that, even devoid of context, is just hilarious. It's one line, and it says:

Let's beat that ape senseless.

In other trivia, note that the above headline refers to a school founded by a bunch of beat writers. Any reference of any kind will win you The Glory. Oh, and I just downloaded a new Coldplay single, a new New Order record, and the new Ben Folds record. Hooray!

FONZIE CAN'T RUMBLE, AND BY THE WAY... According to my favorite gossip-hound, Lloyd Grove, Bryant Gumbel is Matt Lauer's best friend. Huh? Lauer embodies likability, whereas Gumbel embodies the opposite. How odd. Makes me think I need to rethink my feelings for one of 'em. Which one?

NOT SUCCULENT, TASTY, OR KIND: One of the many reasons I chose my ovo-lacto-pesco-veg diet is my family history of heart disease. First, I quit smoking (several years ago). Then, having addressed that, I went after my diet. It certainly helped that I was very sympathetic to the idea of animal rights and such. Turns out, at least as far as cardio-health goes, I might have been ahead of my time. (And my love for red wine also works with the linked article!)

TAKE A LOAD OFF, FANNY: There are all manner of studies that show that carrying extra weight is bad for one's health. (I'm talking corporeal poundage here, fat cells that are attached to the body -- not carrying the laundry up from the basement, although I'd argue that's not so great for you either. I have actually argued that, but my wife's not buying it.)

Anyway, as I mentioned yesterday, I'm kind of a fat f--- right now, and after a week of semi-nudity (toplessness) in a tropical location, there's simply no denying that I need to get my shit together, so to speak.

My plan is this: Weekly weigh-ins, posted here, so as to shame and motivate myself (and to celebrate my efforts!). Truth be told, I'm the kind of self-obssessed loser who weighs himself every day. You'd think this would be a good thing, but I find that it sort of blinds me to the big picture, has me focused on a pound here or there, the effects of one meal or one run rather than of a lifestyle.

As Camel readers and friends and family already know, I stopped eating all meat save for fish some three or so years ago, maybe more. If you want to label me, I'm an ovo-lacto-pesco vegetarian. (I eat eggs, dairy, and fish, plus veggies.) It was an ethical/mindfulness/health decision, and I feel it's served me well. One advantage is, as friggin' fat as I am, I don't seem to have quite an unsightly a midsection bulge as I did several years ago at this weight. That said, although this diet-style seemed for years to make it easier to maintain my desired weight, that effect has abated somewhat and I find myself a fat-fuck all over again.

So in addition to posting my once-weekly weigh in, I'm going to do the following:

- No eating post-8PM.
- No french fries.
- No chips or other bagged bullshit carbs.
- At least 30 minutes of cardio/day.

These are my four little resolutions, the stuff I'm going to implement this week. I'll keep you posted on my progress, my struggles, etc. I fly to L.A. on Wednesday evening, and then again next week, and then somewheres else the next. The travel will make it tough to adhere to my nuanced lifestyle change program. But so what? Life's tough all over. Let's see if I can unfat myself somewhat!

I weighed in at a scrumptious 200 lbs. even this morning. My jeans are snugger than I want them to be. Let's see if a week makes any difference at all. I'll weight in again next Tuesday AM. Until then, I'll share a gripe or two, my progress and pitfalls. Good luck to me!

BECAUSE I'M PROUD TO BE BACK Y'ALL, AND THAT'S A FACT Y'ALL: So I'm just back from the vacation and buried at work and about to head up to Milwaukee for the rest of the day, but wanted to sort of leave a placeholder post in here about what's next:

Blogging about my big fat weight and about how I'm going to address it. Blogging about notebooks I keep that aim at self-awareness and such but seem not to make a difference. About Sundays. About writing poetry. This and that. Oh, and about the books I bought yesterday (Nick Hornby, this guy Harris writing about THE END OF FAITH, and Franzen's seductive HOW TO BE ALONE).

LOOKIN' DOWN ON CREATION: We're loving our place. It's a big old joint with a lofted living room, a huge master bedroom, and two more smaller bedrooms. Granite countertops, new stainless steel appliances, and a great tile floor. The highlight, literally, is a widow's walk at the top that offers a great view of the beach, which seems to feature more dolphins this year than ever. I am so not ready to head home.

GLORIFIED VERSION OF A PELICAN: A mom, a naked kid, and a pelican. Bliss! Picture deleted. [Too many creepy incoming links to it.]

WALK ON THE OCEAN: Hanging down on Sanibel Island, FL this week with the family. Our place is beautiful, with a great view of the Gulf. I'll post a pic or two at some point.

GOT TO KEEP ON KEEPING ON: Wrote this poem on the flight back from L.A. today. A friend of mine suggests it ought to be the title poem of a collection of airplane poetry. Anyway, here it is:

Going Nowhere

Why is it
only when I am
speeding above
the earth
my life
the land, passing
between places
that I can
finally
slow down

well
enough

to hear my heart
beating to feel
my being moving to no
destination no
place no
where?

Is there more
wisdom in the answer
or the question?

MODEL WORLD: Writing from a Starbucks in Manhattan. Columbus Avenue and 67th to be exact. It's really crowded in New York today. Must be a convention in town. Oh, and there are a lot of lovely women here, too. Maybe it's a model convention.

I'm seeing packs of nannies and dogwalkers, too. For some reason I feel sorry for the kids and the dogs.

I JUST WROTE A GREAT HEADLINE, SO I'M NOT SWEATIN' IT: I'm thinking that, for entertainment, I'm going to make all my headlines allusions to film, literature, or music for the time being. He or she who nails the cite (w/in the COMMENTS feature) wins the glory.

TRAVEL AHEAD, TRAVEL BEHIND: Big week ahead, with a major flight in the middle. Wednesday afternoon I present in Manhattan, then Thursday afternoon I present in Los Angeles. My home base is Chicago, so I'll be criss-crossing the country again this week.

CRAPRAMENTO: Morning flight to Sacramento today, focus groups tonight, and then back home. Should be a whirlwind. Coolin' my heels in Red Carpet right now, listening to my unruly stomach. Pray the Immodium is doing its job...

ANOTHER AIRPLANE POEM: Tapped out another poem on the flight home last night. I think it has some Pope and some Schiavo in it, as well as my own usual musing on mortality.

Tilting
You can
hear it,
the sound of your body
living
and
dying
in every moment.

Life is a labor
to breathe,
to
pull in
and push out;
it is grasping
and releasing
to be whole and still
tilting toward
nothing.

ORD 2 HPN: 7AM little-plane run up to White Plains, NY for a day's worth of meetings, followed by a 5PMish little-plane run back to Chicago. Cruising on just under four hours sleep, counting on adrenalin, Starbucks, and the energy of the universe to carry me through. Will be fun to see if this little Canadair jet offers enough elbow room for typing. Still have a little more scribbling to do on the plane.

Today's moment of gratitude: Despite lack of sleep and a tough deadline...no real extra stress. Feeling tired but solid. A touch sweaty, too, but you can't have it all.

POEM THERAPY: Tons of work today, first day back, stressed, tight shoulder, oy vey, ugh, etc., and so I wrote this poem:

MANIFESTS
Life is
learning how to
stand still
at the center

of the storm
or better still

how to be
the cloud

that is not really
there
to begin with.

(Note: It occurs that another nice title for this one might have been "Blow Me." Seriously.)

VIVA! Off to Vegas today through Sunday. Sitting in Red Carpet Club, waiting on a plane. Bloody Mary? Not yet.

BATTLE OF THE BIG CHEFS: Two of Chicago's superstar chefs are engaging in a highly personal war of words...over foie gras. Thing I can't understand: How can you defend the practice of force-feeding ducks? Gross.

Okay, I don't eat much meat these days. Only fish, actually, for like the past four years or so. Nonetheless I *do* get how some people -- most people -- can eat meat. I get it. It's just not for me.

But I *don't* get foie gras. I don't get veal. I don't get doing stuff that is so blatantly cruel, stuff where the cruelty is right out front in the debate. You can pretend not to know about how pigs and chickens are tortured from birth. But we've all seen the veal-fattening pens. We've all heard about how ducks become foie gras.

What excuse is there?

GERE ASTAIRE STRIKES AGAIN: This Richard Gere story is disturbingly close to something you would see in THE ONION. (Mom and Dad, the onion is a satirical newspaper, sort of like a smart MAD magazine.)

The first two paragraphs are awesome:

TOKYO (Reuters) - Expecting no more than light chit-chat about ballroom dancing, reporters in Tokyo were startled when actor Richard Gere launched into a condemnation of Europe's plans to lift an arms embargo against China.

After promoting his new film "Shall We Dance?," in which he co-stars with Jennifer Lopez, Gere grabbed a microphone to denounce plans by the European Union to lift the embargo imposed after China's bloody crackdown on pro-democracy protests in 1989.

Don't get me wrong. I find plenty to admire about Richard Gere. But there's no denying the comedy of it all. (And yes, comedy and tragedy are often seatmates.)

TURN IT UP: My wife and sons have been out of town this month, hunkered down in Florida with both sides of grandparents. I was with them for a week, then down for another weekend. But...

...for much of the month I've been in our house alone. And when I'm not feeling especially melancholy about their absence, there's one thing I've been doing a lot of...

Not that.

Playing music loud!

I hadn't really noticed it until they left, but it's been ages since I've been in the house alone with the stereo up loud. My God is it fun!

Most fun songs of the past few hours:

"Radio," by Rancid
"Dreaming," by Blondie
"God Tells Me To," by the Ass Ponys
"Down," by 311
"Keep It Clean," by Camera Obscura
"Snot," by Snot

UNREAL ENTERTAINMENT: Just watched an episode of Wayne Newton's THE ENTERTAINER on the E! channel. It's pretty much THE APPRENTICE does Vegas, with contestants vying for a big-money prize and a chance to become a star on The Strip. Yuck.

What can I say...it's one of the most bizarre, laughing at not with things I've ever seen. How to describe it...must...find...words. Look, let's just say that this episode centered on the heartbreak of a prop comic. Enough said.

Oh, and Sir Newton was wearing a bizarre camouflage ribbed muscle shirt and a dome of hair that resembled a bike helmet made of black cotton candy.

BIG THANKS: Just wanted to take a second to acknowledge how much I enjoy and appreciate all the smart, insightful, personal, funny, and great contributions y'all make in the COMMENTS section. It's really tremendous. Makes me proud, humble, and happy.

LAID-BACK, INDEED: Another truly great hip-hop cover.

YOU DOWN WITH POB? I've been hearing stories about Pat O'Brien excesses over the years. In my various travels in and around the media/entertainment space, it seems everyone's got a POB tale. Anyhow, this NY Daily News gossip piece is funny and sad. The guy sure sounds like a self-obsessed nut job!

WOW, TECHNOLOGY: Kinda neat that I'm able to look at the grim traffic ahead of me, jump off the expressway, hunker down wirelessly in a Starbucks, watch the traffic flow online, and eventually jump back on the highway when it abates sufficiently. Sort of a good metaphor for how 'Net connections can de-friction many aspects of life.

MORE INFO ABOUT SCHIAVO: Another really helpful article on the Schiavo case, this time arguing that the legal and medical questions are not in doubt at all (as Bart and Steve have argued in COMMENTS).

SAVE SCHIAVO? I don't recall which side of the political divide Fred Barnes sits on. And I realize there's likely a whole 'nother side to the Schiavo story than the one he writes here. Nonetheless, the article sure makes a lot of sense to me.

UNFLAPPABLE: For whatever reason I much prefer Bush's "sleeps-through-everything" image to Clinton's "stays-up-all-night-fretting" image. From DRUDGE:

President Bush was asleep, came out in hallway, signed Schiavo bill and went back to bed
Mon Mar 21 2005 13:03:56 ET
Q Can you go over what went on last night, in terms of the President signing the bill and how it went down?

MR. McCLELLAN, WHITE HOUSE: Sure. I guess the bill -- the House passed it shortly after midnight, and then the President signed it at 1:11 a.m., in the morning. The Staff Secretary, Brett Kavanaugh, walked the legislation over to the residence for the President to sign. He came outside his bedroom and signed it in the residence.

Q Had he been asleep?

MR. McCLELLAN: Yes, he was woken up after it was passed, when it was ready to be signed.

Q I heard you describe it earlier, he came out of his bedroom and literally signed it standing up in the hall; is that how it went/

MR. McCLELLAN: That's correct, yes. He was just standing in the hall in the residence an signed the legislation then.

Q Was he wearing --

Q Is it safe to assume he wasn't wearing a suit and tie at the time? (Laughter.)

MR. McCLELLAN: I'm not going into that much detail. Yes, he cleaned up, put on his suit -- (laughter.)

END

GONNA GET YOU: Seems like it's time for a picture...so here's one of my son running on the Siesta Key beach, his camera-toting dad in hot pursuit.

CHECK IT: A good article on the MLB steroid scandal, post Congressional testimony.

BACK TO BLOGGING WITH BLATHER: It's always tough after days away to launch back into blogging.

Here are some randoms:

Watched the Belle & Sebastian DVD last weekend. It's called FANS ONLY, and it hammers home what a delightful and unique band this is. If you've not discovered them yet, go find some audio clips from their record IF YOU'RE FEELING SINISTER. I think you might like it.

Was listening to a soundtrack in the car this morning on the way out to work -- Mark Knopfler's work on METROLAND. Great disc -- haven't ever seen the movie! -- and at one point, out of the blue, "Sultans of Swing" comes on. Talk about a song that has held up over the years.

Have any of y'all ever heard Slobberbone? Great beer-drenched alt-country, especially the song "Your Excuse." Love it.

Wish I knew more about the Schiavo case. I know that part of life is dying...but I have a hard time arguing with Bush's statement that our laws ought to err in favor of respecting life. Anyone know a good article where I can get myself caught up on this case? I'm way too uninformed to leap into this fray.

Got an "out-of-print 41-track retrospective CD" of tracks from the band Sneeze today. Don't know much about 'em, save for the track "Shaky Ground" is a big favorite of mine.

BTW, don't overlook Sade and Dido.

Okay, I'm back in it, this blogging. God knows why *this* post with *this* mishmash of music musing and then one quick and shallow nod to a right-to-live/right-to-die battle.

I want to make a soundtrack to a movie that will never exist. That's one thing I know for sure.

THE REAL HITCH IS NOT A DUMB MOVIE STARRING WILL SMITH: Christopher Hitchens weighs in with a sober (funny adjective when appended to Hitchens) analysis of what the recent "organized looting" stories really mean.

I'd hat-tip Sullivan for first pointing out the article, but heck, I may as well hat-tip him for just about every sentence of politics I attempt to inject in this blog. He's been a huge, huge influence on me. Not exactly the letter of his politics, mind you, but the fact that one's social orientation, education, taste in the arts, etc., need not prescribe one's ideological affiliation.

COMPELLING CONTENDER: Saw my first episode (actually the show's third) of THE CONTENDER (the boxing reality show) last night and loved it. Stallone is goofy and Sugar Ray is oddly bug-eyed (face lift?), but there's no substitute for the pure human drama it portrays. Sure, I'm something of a boxing fan, but you don't have to be a boxing fan to get hooked at all. It's like THE APPRENTICE, except in the boardroom those vying for elimation get to kick each other's ass, physically.

I think this show will rise, ratings-wise, on good word of mouth. Like this post, for example.

GAY? FELON? FOOLISH? I give the bloodhounds of journalism (or Drudge) 72 hours to figure out what's behind Mario Vazquez's AMERICAN IDOL departure. So, by that calculation, you should be reading the real story before the weekend.

WAIT 'TIL THIS YEAR? Last year everything looked GREAT pre-season for the Cubbies...and they couldn't get it done. This year everything looks SHIT for the Cubbies pre-season...so maybe this sense of foreboding will be rewarded with a ring.

SHE BEATIN' HIM! This is one of the funniest things I've heard in a long time. (Here's the backstory.)

MIXED MUSING ON PORNO AND GANGSTA RAP: If you haven't heard Ben Folds' earnest reading of Dr. Dre's "Bitches Ain't Shit (But Hos and Tricks)," you really owe it to yourself to do so. Folds, as expected, sits at the piano and tenderly croons Dre lyrics (verbatim) that include:

Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks
Lick on deez nutz and suck the dick
Get's the fuck out after you're done
And I hops in my ride to make a quick run...

To hear Ben's tender tenor wrap itself around Dre's comic-book tale...well, it's to truly grasp the out-and-out ridiculousness of gangsta rap (and mind you, I'm an admitted fan of the genre). (It's also friggin' hilarious, for sure.)

That there are people that take Dre and Snoop and 50 and Eminem and The Game seriously...that find them to be "authentic" and "artists," well, it seems ridiculous to me. They are pornographers of a kind, really. And I'm not knocking pornography either. It has its place. But notice that the g-rap's place has been in our most mainstream media arenas -- big radio, TV, movies, etc. It's pretty astounding, and the Folds cover hammers that home for me.

It also hammers home how entertaining pornography can be, in the hands of an auteur. Heck, even in the hands of a pornographer.

GET THE POOL BOY TO WALK THE DOG: MSNBC's Jeanette Walls quotes Britney Spears, from an ALLURE article, talking candidly about her marriage:

“We hit a little bit of reality, hardcore, after the first three weeks. But we handled it fine, and now things are starting to go really smooth,” Spears told the magazine. “Before we got married we were on tour, and we were just like kids, ordering room service, saying, ‘Let’s go out tonight. Then, all of a sudden, you have this home, you have the kids [Federline’s children Kaleb and Kori], you have to get the diapers, get the dog to the vet. It’s this reality. Like omigod, I have to tell the maid to buy diapers and get the pool boy to walk the dog? Can’t I just make out with Kevin all the time? Being married sucks.”

There's nothing I can type that can top that quote. I'll just let it sit there on its own.

FROM GOD'S MOUTH TO THIS BLOG: Am reading Sharon Salzberg's FAITH right now, and a passage from it made me think of GARDEN STATE, of what Braff may have been getting at with some of it:

We don't know the ultimate unfolding of any story; certainly not enough to decide that what we do has no effect. When we stand before a chasm of futility, it is first of all faith in this larger perspective that enables us to go on.

Further on she quotes T.S. Eliot's similarly resonant, "For us there is only the trying. The rest is not our business."

Affirmative.

BIG HEART: I'm totally rooting for this guy on American Idol.

FINALLY A GOOD MOVIE: Watched GARDEN STATE on the flight back from New York yesterday. Absolutely loved it. I wish, when movies like this come out, that somebody would friggin' force me to watch 'em. I almost missed this! Finally my neighbor kept raving about the soundtrack so much I thought, What the heck. Could almost become a top 10er for me. So, here's your admonition: Go see it!

MOCK SHOCK & OUTRAGE: What? You mean to tell me professional coaches and athletes might be behind ticket scalping? Oh, man. Wow. Next thing you know I'll find out that concert promoters and venue owners are involved, too. I mean, do you want to try and tell me that baseball players are on steroids? That big-time college athletes get money from boosters while coaches look the other way? What's next? Is nothing sacred? Does Las Vegas put a neon countenance on a massive criminal underbelly? Are people still smoking pot? Is there underage drinking in our suburbs? Do people cheat on their taxes? Break the speed limit? Steal cable? Are marketers trying to fool the public? Do our politicians care more about reelection than policy? Are teachers' unions more worried about protecting incompetents than teaching children? Do you mean to tell me network television is more about money than serving the public good? And what of big companies? Are they not more committed to environmentalism than profits? They are, aren't they?

Is it too much to ask that each of does some moral accounting, takes some responsibility for our actions, etc. I mean, c'mon Tice. You knew it was wrong. C'mon, Neuheisel. And c'mon institutions, owners, management, etc. Enough of the wink-wink, nudge-nudge society.

INTEREST ACCOUNTING: A quick and surely incomplete summary of things/people/places that are somewhat *less* interesting to me now than they were just a couple years ago, possibly as a result of my political conversion/awakening/vison quest:

THE NEW YORKER, VANITY FAIR, Salon.com, Slate.com, Howard Stern, Dan Rather, Peter Jennings, the New York Times, Sheryl Crow, Sean Penn, R.E.M., Green Day, Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman (although I still count ISHTAR as one of my fave movies of all time), the Beastie Boys, HARPER'S, MOTHER JONES, Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon (although I still admire her ample bosom), Bill Maher, D.L. Hughley, Michael Moore, ROLLING STONE, Johnny Depp, Janeane Garofalo, NPR, Richard Gere

And a quick and incomplete accounting of things/people/etc. I'm *more* interested in of late:

Tom Wolfe, Bruce Willis, all things military, NASCAR, Travis Tritt, Charles Krauthammer, THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, MEET THE PRESS, Joe Lieberman, John McCain, Arnold Schwarzenegger

And finally, people/things I never much liked anyway, so it was no great shakes when they did something I found kind of dumb: Bruce Springsteen, Ann Coulter, Ted Kennedy, Hillary Clinton, that Focus on the Family guy and the other Big Religion nuts, Jay Leno

(Seems like I've lost far more than I've gained. Bummer! Hate to trade in the Beastie Boys for Travis Tritt.)

PORTRAIT OF COURAGE: Loved this David Brooks celebration of Paul Wolfowitz.

WHAT HE SAID: Tom Shales's review of FAT ACTRESS pretty much nails it.

BAD TV: For some reason SHOWTIME is now showing up on my satellite network. Maybe it's a free week or something. Anyhow, this little blip allowed me to check in on the debut of Kirstie Alley's FAT ACTRESS last night, as well as an episode of their lesbian drama THE L WORD.

First off, FAT ACTRESS is huge trainwreck mess, much like Alley herself seems. It's not funny-funny, sad-funny, dumb-funny, or any-kind-of-funny. It's sad. It's dumb. It's bad. And not so-bad-it's-good bad, either. Just plain bad. It's so bad it can never be good. In fact, it reminds me of my trip to Branson, MO. Thought it would be funny to go there for a weekend. Turns out it was so bad it was just bad.

John Travolta shows up in it for some reason -- perhaps some kind of Scientologist good deed? -- as does Jeff Zucker. Both are vulgar in awkward ways. Meanwhile Kirstie tries to play her scenes over-the-top but somehow manages to come across pathetic and shameless. After a certain point I felt myself thinking, Good God, she's gross. Seems like this show's premise asks you to feel some sympathy or empathy (somepathy) for the star and her bulkiness, but then the writing and performances render her loathsome. An unmitigated disaster, the likes of which I haven't seen since that MCENROE show got canned.

Come to think of it, maybe it is trainwreck-bad, which almost gives me an excuse to watch it again, to see if it can possibly get worse.

Oh, and then THE L WORD. Let's just say I wondered if there was a way to make a show focused on hot lesbians unwatchable. And the answer was a resounding yes.

BIRDS GONE WILD: What do I have to do to get women to protest my arrival by baring their breasts at me? Prince Charles is a genius.

OUCH: I regularly troll Yahoo's "Most Popular" news stories and news photos. They're usually entertaining and indicative of what's, well, *popular* with and interesting to the masses. You tend to see a lot of near-nudity, cute animals, and physical oddities (really fat people, kids with heads growing out of their heads, etc.). But this photo, below, made me laugh out loud. The fact that what is basically a lowest-common-denominator pictorial "gay joke" tops the Yahoo leaderboards is just hilarious. I'm sure this photographer had no idea what he was capturing when he shot it. Here it is:

BUSY BOY: C.J. and his new gal-pal Sophie collaborate on an untitled beach sculpture.

RUNS IN THE FAMILY: I find my son hilarious. So does he:

SHOT ON VACATION: By popular (one-person) demand, here's a shot of my mom and my youngest son, lounging poolside:

WHERE I BE AT: Hiding out down near Sarasota this week wiht the wife, boys, and grandparents. It's a little cool (in the 60s), but the sky is blue and so is my attitude. Blogging may be light this week.

OSCAR BLATHER: Some quick thoughts about the Oscars thus far, not in any order...

Rock's opening monologue was not very funny, and the Bush jokes with the cutaways to a tittering Warren Beatty were so startlingly predictable and unfunny I was, well, startled.

This show is a disaster.

Mike Meyers looked really fat. Robin Williams was blindingly unfunny. I can't understand a damn thing Salma Hayek and that old Cruise girlfriend (ah, Cruz!) are saying.

I think this is the worst Oscars ever.

I loathe Whoopi Golberg. I love Cate Blanchett.

Halle Berry is so pretty I can't bear it.

This Spanish dude singing with Carlos Santana...sucks.

I felt good about the Morgan Freeman win. Career achievement award, etc.

I think the only movie I saw this past year was ANCHORMAN, which was pretty lame.

Thank God for Tivo.

Oprah looks kind of hot.

Renee Zellwegger has to be nuts. She looks nuts.

I'm glad Martin Scorcese's glasses obscure his caterpillar eyebrows.

Oh, shit, I'm all caught up on Tivo now. No more fast-forwarding. Maybe I'll have to go do something else and let Tivo get ahead. I can't watch this in real time.

Was there a time when this show was worth giving hours to?

TAKES AFTER HIS MOTHER: A quick look inside the wonderful world of parenting...

CJ (nearly three) wakes up at 5:30 and comes up to Mom and Dad's room. Mom and Dad struggle to wake up as CJ's demands escalate. Thing is, this kid NEEDS to be on the computer playing OSWALD games right away. He's emphatic. Mom and Dad get him up and running and then commit the horrible injustice of trying to have a conversation with each other. CJ spikes the computer to the floor and earns his first time-out, accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of teeth. CJ returns to the scene of the crime and, when Daddy begins talking to Mommy again, bites Daddy on the ass. Daddy shakes it off, delivers a verbal lecture, and somehow resists the urge to fling the lad by his hair into the wall. (Kidding!) When Daddy and Mommy accidentally give Mikey (3 months) some attention, CJ delivers a bite to Mikey's toe, earning time-out number two. Upon his return, as Mommy is giving CJ some verbal reinforcement of the "dont' throw the computer or bite your brother's toe" message, CJ spits at Mommy, earning time-out number three. At this point Daddy repairs to his car and heads for Starbucks, all the while thinking a martini sounds better than a latte...

SHRILL CENTRAL: I don't know much about Susan Estrich. But this exchange alone is all I need to know she's an idiot. God bless Kinsley.

TED'S HEAD: Remind me to hang myself if my son decides he wants to play football. A few weeks ago we were handed Tedy Bruschi as an archetype of male virility. Now he's having health troubles. Any chance it's related to the fact that he crashes his head into other giant men day in and day out?

All sympathy to Tedy and his family, and best wishes for a total recovery.

BTW, the fact that I'm a big boxing fan reveals what a huge dummy -- hypocrite? -- I am.

WHO KNEW TIMES TWO: It dawned on me as I read the umpteenth steroid article earlier today: You know, Canseco is the only guy that actually seems credible on all this. Of course everyone knew baseball had a big steroid problem. Of course most of us could guess who at least some of the most obvious users were. Of course there are still baseball players and football players and basketball players using steroids. How can some of these folks pretend they're shocked by all this? In the words of ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT's Gob: C'mon!

BTW, the aforementioned is the best show on TV, cable or otherwise. The Dana Carvey as Jack LaLanne-ish fitness guy plotline last week -- "Shoot me!" -- was perfectly over the top. Wonderful. Love that show.

WHERE I BE: Just woke up in Orange County (okay, I flew here yesterday, so it's not like I'm surprised) after a night of focus groups with 15-year-old girls here. I felt like I was living inside an episode of LAGUNA BEACH for a few hours. Now am headed back to Chicago for the night, then off to Long Island Thursday morning for more of the same. Unfortunately will have to work during my flights. Ah, well. At least I like the work.

HAPPY IN HEAVEN: My brother Eric wrote of my deceased dog:

I like to think he's with Bruno [note: Vladi's old running mate, also a rescued Airedale, died about three years ago] now... not quite so sore. And happy to know when to bark at the people who walk by [note: Vladi needed Bruno's leadership on many fronts]. He'll be waiting for you outside your door when you leave here as well.

If this was true...or more importantly...if you could prove it...think how much anxiety and heartache that would just sail away into the ethers. If Trisha's dad and Paul's dad and my grandparents and my uncle and all our pets and loved ones and leaders and icons were all waiting somewhere, cured and whole, my God, that would really be something. Not only would we regain our family and friends and pets, but we, too, would be able to be remade as new. It buoys me to imagine it. But alas, although I "like to think" it, as Eric wrote, I'm not necessarily inclined to *believe* it. Therein lies the rub. Therein arises the faith. Or not. Therein rests the riddle of everything.

THE HOLE THAT GRIEF MAKES: Hopefully I'm numb enough to write this without getting all slobbery again.

In a nutshell, we had to say goodbye to our faithful friend, Vladi the Dog. His end came Friday evening. It was terribly difficult.

I'm not going to write more right now, 'cause I don't feel like picking at the wound. I'm not feeling great about it. In fact I'm feeling awful.

Okay.

Two things I want to write down, though, in hopes that I won't lose them again.

The first is that I just relearned that words lack the proper shape or weight or something to fill the hole that grief makes. They're useless for that. They fly right through the void. They don't stick or settle. No words lift the hurt, patch the hurt, or hide the hurt, not even a little. That's not to say they're bad. They're just sort of nothing. Reminds me that, when consoling someone, a hug may be the height of eloquence.

The second is that I was forced to remember something I learned several years ago that is very important: Forgive everyone. Forgive everything. Start with yourself. Start right now.

Okay, maybe words can make a small difference.

MO' MONEY, MO' LAWYERS: One of my daily guilty pleasures is reading Lloyd Grove's "Lowdown" column on the NY Daily news site. This quote, from rapper Cam'ron in today's column, made me chuckle:

"You can never have too many lawyers," the 29-year-old Harlem-born rapper told Lowdown Wednesday night at Ono. "I got an entertainment lawyer, an actor lawyer, a court lawyer, and then a lawyer to watch all them, and then a lawyer to watch him!"

SOMEDAY: I need a happy image on my blog. some kind of "sun'll come up tomorrow" thing. Here's the best I could find on short notice, courtesy of my brother Casey.

RAINS, POURS: Our old dog Vladi fell down the stairs last night and can barely walk. Vet this AM. Baby Michael is now sick. Too congested to sleep much. My cold is clearly turning yellow/brown/bacterial. CJ seems mildly better. Lower fever, and cough is more productive than wheeze-based.

Why be a parent? Because it gives you the most vivid sense of gratitude towards your own parents. What looked like a normal home during my childhood must've been an overlay on all manner of complexity I never knew.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

FAREWELL TO A GREAT MAN: Guido Regelbrugge passed away on January 30. He was my high school soccer coach (and my two brothers' coach, too), and he was my friend Paul's father. (You've seen Paul post here many times. Although our politics don't exactly align anymore, our hearts are still in the same place, we've concluded.)

Guido was a lion. He was *that* coach, *that* teacher, the one who immediately earned a superhero nickname ("Mr. R." or "Coach R.") and the respect of parents, students, and players alike. He was the adult who took young people seriously, who challenged them to exceed their own expectations by taking themselves seriously. He was not one to let the young off the hook simply because they were young. He invited us to open our ears, to learn, and to grow into ourselves in a hurry. His lot in life -- a blessing and a curse, I'm sure -- was to immediately belong to all he came in contact with. His words and gestures bred stories and mythology. Everybody had a favorite Coach R. story, if not several.

A few of my favorite memories:

Upon arriving at a rival team's home field, our coach was greeted with a loud "Guido sucks" from the opposing crowd. (So notorious was he as a coach that he actually inspired people to yell stuff like this!) After we played a great game and kicked their butt, our coach graciously stayed around and congratulated the other team and coach on their fine play. Meanwhile, we all loaded onto the bus. A few minutes later, a somber Guido boarded the bus and paused at the front. We grew silent immediately, waiting to hear what he would say. "Guido sucks!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, bursting into a huge smile. We went nuts.

Junior year I received a note in one of my high school classes. "Coach Regelbrugge would like to see you as soon as you're free." I hustled up to his room the minute the period broke. "You're a good kid. You work hard. But you will not be a starter on the soccer team next year. There are young guys who are better than you," he told me. I was crushed. I was certain I'd start my senior year, or at least I was hoping. And you know, even as I write this, I have to be honest. Crap. I knew he was right. Deep down I knew. Then he gave me hope. "If you want to be a starter, there is a way. I want you to be our goalie next year," he said to me. "You will go to camp this summer, and you will learn how to play 'keeper. You will work your butt off, and you will be our starting goalie next year. You're smart, and I trust you to play that important position." I did as he said, and he delivered. God, I'm smiling just writing this. Because I'm also remembering his speech at our awards banquet at the end of the senior season. "Scott Hess was not a great goalie. But he was a hard worker, and he gave us his all, and sometimes that's enough. I want to thank him." Pure Guido.

A tiny moment, but one I'll keep with me forever: Guido joins us during a scrimmage and manages to fake a defender to the ground and deliver a no-look pass to a rushing forward who then parks it into the goal. "The old man can still play!" he celebrated, arms extended to the heavens in triumph.

Indeed he could. And so the old man will be mourned and missed by many, including this grateful writer, who will never give up these memories, and who will always feel that Guido lives on for as long as I do.

WOE ARE US: Sick kid. Nebulizer at the doctor's office, there 'til 9:30PM. Then to the pharmacy. Finally home 'round 11PM. CJ's fever up to 103, trouble breathing, etc. Miserable. In the shower with him, in his bed, etc. We all finally passed out around 4AM. He's off for a chest x-ray this morning.

Silver lining? Michael (3 mos.) slept from 11PM until 7AM and woke up smiling and hungry.

NO BOOBS, NOT BAD: Not much not to like about this year's Super Bowl halftime show. You've got one of the most famous performers of all time. He sang his own songs. He sounded good. There were no baton twirlers or superfluous multicultural kids. There didn't seem to be any fake fans. Basically it was a front-row seat to a hot concert. Well done.

RANDOM: Buried under work and life and unable to blog much in the past few days. Sorry 'bout that. Things on my mind:

Is that Henry character on OSWALD gay? I'm thinking yes. And what about the Egberts? They say they're brothers, but one wonders. Come to think of it, Daisy is pretty butch, too. Oh, and is Fred Savage (as Oswald) trying to sing that badly, or is he truly a bad singer?

I'm also thinking the "Maestro" character on OOBI seems a bit light in his loafers, so to speak. And I love the "Grandpoo as eligible senior bachelor" motif.

FOREVER YOUNG: Roma Hess is not just a frequent commenter on this site, she's also my mom. And God bless her, she turned 39 again today. Happy birthday, Mom!

SUBTEXT IS SUPER: It occurs to me that perhaps the funniest, most edifying, and best writing and thinking on the Blind Camel is appearing within the COMMENTS realm these days. Congrats to those who are writing -- and thanks! -- and a word of encouragement -- go explore! -- to those who've yet to delve into the COMMENT realms.

IF IT RAPS LIKE A CRIMINAL, IT'S PROBABLY A CRIMINAL: I'll apologize in advance that I don't have time to do this next post justice. But...

This article reminds me of my brief foray into the music/entertainment biz. Without naming names, let me just say I was astounded how much involvement and overlap big-time Hollywood and big-time Music have with crime and criminals. This is not an isolated thing. There are all manner of gangsters and gangstas mixed up in the business of show, as they say. I mean, just read the article. Not so many degrees of separation there between big-time show business and big-time street criminal. Like no degrees. One and the same. Okay, so maybe it takes one layer to get from gangsta to superstar, from criminal enterprise to big-screen blockbuster. One!

Sure, I like movies and music as much as the next guy. Hell, I even like wild and sexy movies and gangsta-rap. But the premise we often hear -- this is just fantasy, it's not reality, it's harmless entertainment -- to justify the misogynism and criminality and drug infuence and amorality of it all...well, it's not really true, at least not all the time, now is it? If a guy calls himself "Gotti" and runs with drug dealers and uses a recording studio called The Crackhouse...are we that crazy not to be shocked when it turns out he's a criminal?

In a roundabout way...and I apologized already for not running farther and harder with this premise...this is why Big Entertainment is a drag on the Democratic party. Middle America is catching on that songs and movies about killing and drugging and sexing -- and the progenitors thereof -- are not simply innocent fantasies and visionary artists. Nope. They're criminal kingpins/enterprises channeling our lust for helter-sheltered, vicarious thrills into real-life evildoing.

Not elegant writing, I know. But you get it.

FREE VERSE AT 37,000 FEET: Wrote a new poem on the airplane the other day. Was thinking I should create a little chapbook, call it IN THE AIR or something like that. Anyway, here's the new one:

VACUUM
------
When you have
endured
that first calamity --
been embraced
by love and then
suffocated
after it's sucked
out after all --
it is in
that moment
you first learn
what is gone
and what is left
to come.

DEADLINE OR DO-NOTHING DISORDER: They've got a pill to help you stop smoking. (Worked for me.) A pill to help you get it up. (Ahem.) But what they really need: A pill to help you stop procrastinating. I'd buy 'em by the bushel. Good God, it's the next great mass affliction, Acute Procrastination Syndrome (APS).

Must. Stop. Procrastinating.

Thing is, I keep putting off doing anything about it.

Bah-dump bump! (Take my wife...)

DON'T JUDGE A SCOURGE BY ITS COVER: Here's what our little night-time terrorist looks like these days. Innocent on the outside, insurgent on the inside.

PROCREATION CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR MENTAL HEALTH: So it's two nights in a row my nearly three-year-old son C.J. has decided to get up -- and stay up -- at 4:30AM. Meanwhile his two-month-old brother -- the one who's supposed to be causing trouble -- sleeps like a champ. Since I've turned in 'round midnight both nights, I'm going on precious little sleep. My wife is in worse shape, although she somehow maintains a reservoir of good humor. Last night I, on the other hand, really hit an anger level that I haven't hit before. I wasn't just annoyed or frustrated...hell, far as I can tell parenting is about 80% low-level frustration...I was mad. Still, it passed, no harm no foul, etc. But it reminded me how desperate and irrational lack of sleep can make a person. I had no logical mental processes going on. I just wanted to shake the boy.

We survived.

And perhaps the reason he was up was because of an exchange he and I had had earlier in the evening. My wife was out to dinner with a friend, so I had both boys. We were prepping to head out on a car trip over to a friend's house. I had the baby all set, but CJ the Elder was running from me, evading his jacket. I told him to stop, and he yelled NO at me. I grabbed his arm and shoved it into his coat sleeve, telling him in very direct and firm tones, "You *never* say no to Daddy." I then walked him to the front door and paused, thinking I'd reinforce the point: "Are you going to tell Daddy no again?"

He started to say no, then stopped. He started to say yes, then stopped. Realizing I'd inadvertently given him a unsolvable koan, I let him off the hook. "I know you're going to do what daddy says," I told him.

"Yes!" he said.

Maybe the 4:30 wakeup had something to do with solving the koan.

READ MY WRITING ABOUT READING: Nick Hornby's got a new book out, compiling his "Stuff I'm Reading" columns from THE BELIEVER. As much as I love Hornby, I'm not sure I can justify reading about what's he's reading...rather than reading what I want to read. And, from this review, I gather he laments how tough it is to get through all the books one buys...without mentioning that it becomes even tougher if one feels obliged to read one's favorite writer opining about how tough it is to accomplish same.

Still wondering if I was the only one who enjoyed his HOW TO BE GOOD. Maybe not as good as his first two, but still a thousand times better than most of what I pick up.

Which reminds me: Am LOVING the book I'm reading right now, Elizabeth Gilbert's LAST AMERICAN MAN. Can barely put it down.

BOTH FEET ON THE BANDWAGON: Break. Up. The. Bulls.

BEACHBLOGGER: In Santa Monica (CA) this week. Currently camped out in a Starbucks on the 3rd Street Promenade, with blazing loud classical music pouring out on my head. As far as I can determine this little neighborhood is all about Eurasian tourists and homeless folk.

Got to watch some of the Inaugural from my hotel room today. Most indelible images (for me) were the so-called protesters who saw fit to fly the bird and yell "Fuck You" at the presidential motorcade. Pathetic.

I know, I know, there are nutbirds on both sides of the fence. Sad for what was my party that the face of the opposition (read "Democrats, sadly) has become these anarchistic, anti-American, disrespectful, politics-as-fashion fucknuts who, somewhere in their depraved DNA, equate protest with profanity. James Dobson, that Focus on the Family zealot, appeared balanced, bright, and downright huggable on his network interview, especially in contrast to the finger-flyers.

Bunch of "street teams" working the street (where else) for this new show, NUMB3RS. I think it's a show. I wish one of 'em would come up to me and give me their swag...I mean, c'mon, I must be one of the only non-Eurasian tourists and/or homeless people anywhere in the vicinity. Maybe the laptop-on-lap look doesn't make me appear particularly receptive to solicitation. Plus I'm tired and a little sick, so I'm pallid and grey-eyed. I *am* wearing my snazzy new french-cuff shirt atop some niiiize Lucky jeans, so I have that going for me. But apparently my greyness overwhelms my couture.

God Bless America. Good luck, 43. You're gonna need it.

CATFIGHT! When it comes down to a showdown between Barbara Boxer and Condi Rice, my money is on (and my heart is with) Dr. Rice every time. One of the first times I really felt my liberalness falling away -- I could almost feel it lifting from my body and brain, more accurately -- was when I saw Barbara Boxer on Larry King, talking about the various issues of the day, and realizing I disagreed with her out-of-touch, utopian stands on nearly everything.

WHAT IF I BLOGGED ABOUT SOMETHING? I'm growing very jealous of blogs that have a focus, that revolve around some particular interest. You know, blogs like The Cub Reporter (the Chicago Cubs), Bookslut (literary fiction, mostly), and even AndrewSullivan.com (politics, mostly). I'm thinking Blind Camel either needs a focus...or I need a new blog that has a focus. Focus. I'm tired of just blogging about the innards of my own navel on any given day. I want to build an area of expertise. To delve more deeply into something. To become a clearinghouse for some narrow niche that over time becomes mine, mine, mine.

CHARACTER! I'll say it again: Break up the Bulls! Check this out:

The Bulls are #1 in the league in defensive field goal percentage

New York was the Bulls' 22nd consecutive opponent held under 100 points

They're like last year's Pistons, minus the talent. (Kidding.) Like Al Davis said in another sport, "Just win, baby!"

WORMS OF ETHIOPIA, REJOICE! So they're digging up Bob Marley -- or the remains of what was Bob Marley -- and moving it/him to Ethiopia. My big question: Why for? What freakin' difference does it make where you decompose? Sorry, I just don't get it.

BOGGED DOWN ROADBLOGGER: So I was supposed to be on the 4:00PM, but I thought I might make the 2:00PM, but I missed it, or so I thought, but then it was delayed, so I didn't really miss it, so they put me on the 2:00PM leaving at 3:10PM, but then it got out early, so I DID miss it, so they put me back on the 4:00PM, which is now scheduled to go out at 5:30PM. And so here I sit in the Red Carpet Club where they may make an announcement if ATC lets the flight go earlier, but then again they may not. Meanwhile I may arrive at O'Hare very late -- in fact I WILL -- so that I can go home and sleep in my bed before waking up and flying to San Antonio, from which I'm scheduled to head back to Chicago on Friday afternoon...or evening...or whenever God and United feel like transporting me.

As my friend Brad would say, time to start drinking.

ROADBLOGGER: Settled in Boston tonight, staying in Cambridge. Even at 38, I still muse about what it might have been like to go to school at the Big H. Had dinner tonight with a pal who went there, and he assured me it's no big whoop. The guy is as humble and unassuming as they come, so maybe he's just being unassuming and humble when he says that.

Headed over to Babson College to speak in the morning, then flying back to Chicago in order to re-pack my bag for a Thursday trip to San Antonio.

METAFIZZLE: I think human beings must be born with something like faith...or is it grace? It's that intangible inside-of-us governor that keeps us from running down the middle of the road shouting "We're all going to die."

Because at some point we all realize it. And since we all wear different weights of different faiths as protective psychic clothing, well, sure, some of us (or I should some of *you*, perhaps) have at least some protection against the cold wind of mortality. But there are many of us, yes, *us*, who are nearly naked out here. Why aren't we running willy-nilly and shouting. How, in the face of 9/11 and the Tsunami, do we just soldier on, just stumble on, just keep on keeping on? Sure, some fall, some surrender, but the mass of us roll on like a great tide of indiscriminate and implausible...what? Hopefulness? Faith? Are we cloaked in grace, even in spite of our clumsy attempts or non-attempts at Faith?

When I was younger I was fascinated with the idea that we are, as one poet or novelist wrote, "magnificent dust." Mostly at that time, I was keyed in on the "magnificent" half of it. Now I'm feeling the "dust" angle, as my body slips and softens somewhat. Wither? Whither?

I'm hearing Talking Heads now: We're on a blog to nowhere. Ah, well. Travel in the morning. At least moving feels like something important.

Comment. Comment. Comment. I implore you, you noble few readers. Bart! Steve! Eric! Trisha! Paul! Buehler!