DUMBWAYS: My wife and I don't get to see a lot of movies these days, what with our boys and the alternate activities and fatigue that comes therefrom. But given my interest in wine and the great buzz around the movie SIDEWAYS, the wife and I saw fit to PPV it and Tivo it and then, finally, to watch it over the past weekend.

What a dud! The movie was slow city, taking forever to get going. I had heard it was a comedy, but I didn't actually laugh until about two-thirds of the way through the movie (when the car misses the tree, for those that saw it). Mostly I just squirmed between moments of why-should-I-care and oh-my-God-is-that-sappy. I didn't really like or believe anyone in the film, which made it awfully tough to care about any of them. If this little half-asser of a film is what suffices for quality indie cinema these days I'm glad I have two little diversions to keep me out of the moviehouse and in the backyard running through sprinklers where I belong.

LOOK AT THEM EYES: I snapped this pic of my son CJ with my sorta new Treo 650. Pretty cool shot. This is the face of a kid who's been running through the sprinkler when he's supposed to be napping. 

MAYBE MY MOST BORING POST OF ALL TIME? Out in Westchester County (NY) this morning. Flew in last night for a presentation to an agency over in Stamford, CT, then head back later this afternoon. No biggie. One of the nice things about today's schedule is I have ample time to head down to the restaurant and score two eggs over medium, some breakfast potatoes, and a pop. I love breakfast!

KICKING THE PUBLICIST HABIT: A very interesting (and contrarian) take on the Tom Cruise meltdown tour.

CRAVING THE BACKSTORY: As my pal Trisha said on her blog, ___________. (In other words this left me speechless.)

WHEN I SAY "WE WON," DO I REALLY MEAN WE? I wrestle with being a sports fan. Is there any value in my endless hours sitting there staring at the Cubs or the Pistons or the Red Wings or the Bears? I mean, as Shaq reminds us time and again, they're businessmen. It's not personal. Right?

One of my big issues with the Cubs is that, for me, Steve Stone and even Chip Caray, by way of his legacy, were as much "Cubs" to me as any of the current crop of players. No, they were more "Cub" to me. They were the essence of my Cub experience. And so without them, more often than not, I'm starting to see a bunch of hired hands passing through town who have more in common with the guys on the other teams than they do with the Chicago citizenry.

Steve Stone was Chicago baseball in a way that it'll take years for Dusty Baker and Derek Lee and Carlos Zambrano to be, you know.

The Pistons, on the other hand, somehow feel "Detroit" to me. They're a bunch of scrappers, a team getting by on heart and hard work, with a dose of old-school talent (rebounding, spot-up jumpers, sticky defense).

Still I wonder why they matter to me, and if they should. How much Detroit is still in me?

I'd like to root for the Midwest to beat the South, the West, and the East. I could get my heart into that. But only if they made sure the players were actually *from* those regions. That's the thing: Maybe we should all just stick close to where we were born.

Or maybe I should wait to post until I'm coherent.

Nah.

CHALLENGING PRECONCEIVED IDEAS: So I was watching my favorite media trainwreck of late last night, the indescribable HIT ME BABY 1 MORE TIME, wherein (okay, I'll try) a bunch of past-their-prime bands and solo artists re-take the stage to churn out two songs each. First, they play their "hit," then next they cover a hit by a contemporary artist.

For example, Wang Chung (or at least two really dorky guys purporting to be Wang Chung) showed up last night and played "Everybody Have Fun Tonight (Everybody Wang Chung Tonight)," then came back and covered Nelly's "Hot in Heeeeeerrrre," I shit you not. Oh, and there's also this gawky, mullet-headed British guy who is apparently the host who dodges in and out and mispronounces stuff. He's painful. I don't know his name, but something like Nigel Dumbass would be appropriate. Ian Dickwad or Sir Colin Jackass would also work.

Anyhoo...

Last night's show featured the aforementioned Chungs (and believe it or not, aside from that one insufferable song, they were not a half bad band at one time), Irene Cara (who won the "audience favorite" award last night, big whoop), Sophie B. Hawkins (who seems like the kind of hyper-granola gal that would be the worst person in the world to get stuck in an elevator with, all hyper and fake-happy and soldered together with hot curlers and a lot of pancake makeup), and Howard Jones (he of the leaning tower of split ends hair-do).

I think I'm forgetting someone, but there's a reason for that, so I won't injure myself trying to think of 'em.

So, without blathering on for days, here's my point: This Howard Jones, he's good. He sat at a piano and sang his song his song "No One Is To Blame," and despite the bad show and bad host and had-to-be-breathing-laughing-gas, over-the-top audience, I found myself moved. The guy is an artist. He meant it. He was taking it serious. Good on him. And then he came back with his cover of Dido's wonderful "White Flag," and I was like, yes! Howie! Which had me clicking into the iTunes store this morning and buying like six of his songs, which I'm now listening to in my phat Bose Noise-Cancelling headphones in the middle of an overpriced Mom-'n'-Pop coffee shop that has the audacity to charge eighty cents extra for soy milk and to employ unwashed art-student servers with bad looks on their faces.

But this Howard Jones, my goodness, he's for real.

BOYS, YOU WILL TAKE SHOWERS: Back on the ground from Miami, doing a wireless session at Starbucks and then heading home to pick up C.J. for t-ball. Three-year-old t-ball! It's pretty funny. Last week he learned how to run the bases, although he wasn't much interested in doing it by himself. Basically he wanted to join forces with his pals Luke and Zack, so they could all run down to first base and hang out there together, on to second in the same fashion, etc. He had zero interest in batting all by himself. Talk about your team players, these three-year-old are all about holding hands, sticking together. Reminds me of my junior-high gym teacher, actually. He was this drill sergeant type, and part of his priceless schtick was to tell us, "Boys, you will not be standing around holding hands in my class." And scared to death to be painted with the homo-brush, we nodded along. "No way, Mr. B., we don't want to do that."

Mr. B. Loved that guy. I could write a whole novel around Mr. B. What a classic.

"Boys, you *will* take showers today."

Oh, shit. We *hated* to take showers. We didn't understand it at all, why we had to. It was a lesson in something, although we knew not what.

I gotta write more about Mr. B. And I will.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN: Heading down to Miami for a day/night, home for a day, then out to Sacramento for another day/night trip. Shouldn't be too rough.

KEEPING THIS INSIDE: I was reading this article in the New Yorker about a guy who writes fortune cookies, and it made me want to write a few. So, Camel readers, here are your fortunes to choose from today:

If a dog is your best friend it's time to go for a walk.

Use your imagination to become more real.

The love in your life is a reflection of the love in your heart.

Bad dreams are your brain's exhaust.

If you find your mind racing, crash.

We learn to talk. We're born to sing.

Man, that's fun!

AT THIS MOMENT YOU MEAN EVERYTHING: My wife is celebrating a milestone birthday today, and so it seems fitting to write a little tribute to her here.

Eileen Nisky Hess is, quite simply, the perfect woman for me.

She's beautiful and yet casual. (On the first two days we spent time getting to know each other -- on consecutive days -- she wore the exact same clothes: an old sweater and some faded jeans.)

She's a responsible adult, but she can be as reckless as a teenager in the right situation. (I got us third-row seats and a limo for the Rolling Stones concert at Soldier Field. She puked during the first song. I was furious and proud at the same time.)

She's thoughtful, but she doesn't overthink things. (I often seek to understand the reasons for her moods. I probe on topics like religion and her place in the universe, our goals as individuals and as a couple, and the impact of world events. She tells me she's tired, she's hungry, or she has to go to the bathroom.)

She's a mystery even to herself. (Her own laugh often startles her, escaping from her body in the form of a snort or a yell. Ordering food, even from the McDonald's drive-thru, inspires near-paralysis in her. This is a kind of primitive genius: Each new food order in her life is rife with possibilities. For Eileen, nothing is mundane or rote.)

She lives all day every day. (Recently on vacation one of my brothers observed, "Eileen is amazing. She wakes up the second she opens her eyes. She never stops moving all day long. And when she closes her eyes at night she falls asleep immediately.")

Eileen is amazing. She is everything I wanted in a life partner. She is the most beautiful mother I have ever seen. And although today is her birthday, I woke up with the feeling that her presence in my life is the greatest gift I've ever received.

Here's to you, Nisky. Happy Birthday!

THE INTRADE CLASSIC: My brother Eric and I have swapped a couple e-mails about a site called intrade, which bills itself as "a trading exchange for Politics, Current Events, Financial Indicators, Weather & other Unique Contracts." Pretty cool stuff. Basically you can wager on the outcome of events like the Michael Jackson trial or the 2008 U.S. Presidential election. Check it out.

Eric suggested we have a Hess Male Showdown, where each of the Hess men puts up a hundred bucks and, over the course of the year, we see who can make the most money (or lose the least). Sounds like a pretty fun idea. But I started to think it might be even more fun to expand the field somewhat, and let some other folks join our merry band of speculators. Folks like Steve, Bart, maybe some Hess women, and anyone else who feels lucky. We don't have the rules figgered out 'zactly yet, but I was thinking something like everybody agrees to "buy in" with a hundred bucks for starters, and then we run it for a year, and at the end the loser all ante up an additional $20 to the guy/gal who amasses the largest fortune. Something like that. Any interest?

(No, this headline does not refer to a song or a book or anything like that.)

I LOVE EVERYDAY PEOPLE: So I'm at Starbucks this morning. (I'm still here.)

I see a crusty old guy that hangs out here everday on his way indoors with a bad look on his face. At the same time, one of the really nice baristas is heading his way with a big green umbrella to put on one of the patio tables.

"I was just coming in to complain about that," he says to her.

"I've got your complaint right here," she says, smiling.

They both laugh uproariously. And this small moment makes me happy somehow.

RUNNING TO HER LIKE A RIVER SONG: Would it be illegal for TIME magazine to run a cover story titled "Tom Cruise: He's Totally Ape-Shit!" God is this fascinating. Cruise. Michael Jackson. Paris Hilton. Jennifer Lopez. Jessica Simpson. Is it possible to get HUGE and stay sane? Who is the most "normal" person in Hollywood, anyway? Sometimes I think it's Ron Howard, but the more I hear about his partner Brian Grazer, the more I think Opie must be nuts, too.

BEHIND BLUE EYES: As requested in "Comments," here's a picture of a non-smiling Mikey. It's true. For about thirty seconds a day he wipes the smile off his face and just stares blankly ahead. Does he cry? No he does not. It's tough for his parents to weather those brief non-smiling moments, but we do our best. 

YOUR PHONE'S OFF THE HOOK, BUT YOU'RE NOT: I just conducted an e-mail interview with the mysterious and succint author of THE PHONE RANG, the blog we're all talkin' about. Here it is, for your vicarious enjoyment:

CAMEL: What's your blogging process? Write once in a flurry of creativity? Edit, manicure, primp, and prune? Something else?

TPR: it's a lot like going to the bathroom: i sit down, it all comes out, i never push and then i wipe. for real: i try to write as fast as i can and then i cut it all down to as few words as possible. i spend more time on editing than writing.

CAMEL: What if your wife or your mom or some other intimate ever reads THE PHONE RANG? Do you ever worry about that? Do you have a plan for when/if that happens?

TPR: my closest friends, who know about all of my shit, read it often, which really flatters me. I wouldn't want my wife to read it yet -- that's right, yet. I think eventually I'll show it to her in one form or another. I've always written about the important events in my life, so i don't think this would surprise her as much as you might think.

CAMEL: Why bother writing THE PHONE RANG at all?

TPR: here's a cliche for you, but it's true: ever since i started blogging, it's made me feel alive again. yes, it's cathartic, but more than anything it's reminded me of who i am -- a writer.

CAMEL: Sometimes I think your wife cheating on you was the best thing that ever happened to you? What do you say to that?

TPR: i say that you are one fuckin' smart dude! what it did was it woke me up. a while back, i wrote something like, "is it better to be happy in a fantasy world or in pain in the real world?" it's better to live in the real world and face your shit, whatever it is, and i hope to someday be happy.

CAMEL: People write comments. You never respond. How come?

TPR: the blog does my talking. sometimes a comment will spur an idea and i'll wind up posting something about it. anyway, most of the comments are anonymous.

CAMEL: It seems like most of your best posts have arisen from deep horror, pain, or other negative stuff. Do you ever worry you'll get addicted to the "from pain comes great art" equation and unwittingly create new pain for yourself in order to be able to respond creatively to same? Know what I mean?

TPR: holy shit, i think i just got a brain aneurysm! my style has always been to mix funny with sad. it's the perfect combo of peanut butter and chocolate.

CAMEL: Finish these thoughts:

The reason me and my wife got married was...
TPR: i needed someone to take care of me and my wife needed someone to take care of.

The reason me and my wife had kids was...
TPR: it was time.

The reason my wife had an affair was...
TPR: her way of saying fuck-you to the way we lived our lives.

The reason I had an affair was...
TPR: my way of saying fuck you right back.

The thing that's wrong with me is...
TPR: i'm too tall.

The thing that's wrong with my wife is...
TPR: she's too short.

The best thing about me is...
TPR: locked up inside me.

The best thing about my wife is...
TPR: that she's tougher than she thinks.

If I could program my kids to finish this sentence the way I'd want them to, they'd say: "My dad is...
TPR: the motherfuckin' shit, yo! and i don't need to program them.

CAMEL: Write a three sentence "plot summary" of your marriage over the next year. Now over the next five years.
TPR: A) She keeps the peace. I accept it.We go to Amsterdam next summer.

TPR: B) Kids go to college. We fuck a lot. Someone gets sick.

CAMEL: You and the Jamaican guy run into each other in a dark alley. What happens?
TPR: we share a spliff.

CAMEL: You are old and wise now. What advice would you give a newly-wed couple?
TPR: never listen to any advice from an old, wise man. And keep your eyes open.

JUST A GAME THAT'S PLAYED IN FUN: Just a quick heads-up, if you haven't been 'round here for a while: All the titles of my posts are allusions to songs, books, and other cultural bric-a-brac. Usually they're just lyric fragments, actually.

So, as readers, your job is to guess the allusion. It's sort of fun. Sort of. Right?

I'd say Trisha is winning overall, with my brother Eric in second. After that it's pretty much a toss-up between my cheating sister-in-law, my dad, Steve, Bart, and all manner of others.

IT BURNS YOU WHEN IT'S HOT: Biological determinism...what a relief!

GET ON YOUR BIKES AND RIDE: And what's a blog without a little nudity? Here's CJ tricycling au naturel in our gangway. 

MEET THE NEW BOSS: Can't leave the new guy out -- here's Mikey at six months, enjoying his "Biodome" in the backyard. 

HELLO, I LOVE YOU: Here's CJ, three years old. (Seems like we could use a picture or two around here to brighten things up.) I snapped this picture at a fundraiser carnival for the school he'll be attending this fall. I think it captures him perfectly. (This is also my first post using Hello, a free service from Picasa. We'll see how it works.) 

MARRIAGE IS WHEN WE ADMIT OUR PARENTS WERE RIGHT: I was talking about marriage with a friend of mine who writes the aforementioned "The Phone Rang" anonymous blog, and then I came across this old article about the pending divorce of Gavin Newsom and Kimberley Guilfoyle. Oh, wait, that's because I was looking at this Page Six article about how Bill Hemmer is now dating Guilfoyle. Hemmer, who went to my college, who my wife apparently once smooched, and who I used to see at the Mt. Lookout Tavern during my Cincy days, back when he was just a cocky sportscaster and I was a very uncocky nightime banquet setup supervisor at the Omni Netherland Plaza. (I was jealous then. Am I still?)

It occurs to me that one of the reasons I didn't much like Nick Hornby's latest, A LONG WAY DOWN, is that much of it has that same sort of careening-downhill feeling of my previous paragraph, as if the writer is riding along in a rickety soapbox derby car of idea fragments, rather than driving a high-performance sedan full of wisdom. Which is to say, it felt careless, instant, almost bloggy.

But back to the marriage thing. Check out that Newsom divorce article. Whoa. Basically sounds like they're getting divorced because they just can't fit marriage into their schedule/lifestyle. Bummer. I believe in gay marriage -- and Newsom has been perhaps its most famous advocate in recent years -- but I don't think he's such a great poster-boy for the institution. For me -- for ME, people, not for everyone -- but for me marriage is about establishing a firmament for a family, committing to build and maintain a solid foundation for something that will grow larger than the two individuals who "seed" it, so to speak. All the rest of it -- moving in together, registering at Crate & Barrel, etc. -- is just housekeeping and pragmatism.

While marriage may be born of eros, or romantic love, it seems to evolve quickly into something more, into something that, in my undereducated and simple worldview, is more akin to what most religions aim at -- it becomes not just romantic love, not just passion, and not just the custodial love we associate with families and old people, but unconditional love. Boundless. Timeless, even. Through our relationship with our communities, our children, we actually do enter into something that's connected to the eternal, to time everflowing, etc.

Perhaps this is a better way to express my "feel the burn" sentiment from my previous post, eh Laurel?

Marriage is a North Star, and we married people are astronauts intent on making a landing there. How about that?

Or, in the case of Newsom-Guilfoyle -- and how to say this without seeming snarky -- well, maybe these two thought they were just going on a car trip to the countryside, and once they realized they were leaving Earth's atmosphere, once the suits got a bit warm and constricting, they asked to be dropped off at the nearest terrestrial singles bar.

If I had an editor, a benefactor, or some goddamn purpose to my writing, I could be dangerous. Or at least an unrivaled metaphor machine.

STUCK IN A MOMENT HE CAN'T GET OUT OF: A pal of mine is writing an anonymous blog about his marriage travails. He's a brilliant writer and, no matter how you feel about his views and his adventures, it's a can't-put-down kind of read. Check it out here.

BUT I GUESS I'M ALREADY THERE: Yet another day where I have everything and so nothing to post about.

Variables. I'm thinking about variables. Especially about the kind where, if you opt for one, you automatically rule out another. As in...

Where you live. What career you pursue.

Those are the two biggies I'm thinking about right now.

One might also throw in "who you marry" and/or "whether or not to have children." One might, but I wouldn't. I never really fret over who I married or the fact that I have children. This is not to say that either of these variables comes with no stress. But somehow when I got married I really became married to the idea of being married. I embraced my wife, and the idea of having a wife. I'm fine with it. The challenges of marriage are like the challenges of great exercise, where you find ways to "enjoy the burn," so to speak.

And as for kids, well, try this: Have a kid, one of your own, and then see if you ever regret it. Maybe some people do, but I can't imagine it. What could I have done that could have ever been better?

So for me the variables I sweat, am sweating of late, are: Where should I live? What should I do with my life, so to speak? Loving my current job. Love my current neighborhood. Unfortunately my house and my job are not close together, or at least not as close together as they could be. And so I'm thinking about these variables of late. Not agonizing. Just mulling. Thinkin'. Cogitating. Rollin' it around.

SIT ON TOP OF A BIG HILL, WASTING TIME: In case you haven't discovered 'em yet, here are some fun "read about dumb celebrity culture" sites:

http://www.defamer.com (focused on L.A.)

http://www.gawker.com (focused on Manhattan)

http://www.thesuperficial.com (focused on teen idols, I think)

http://www.tvgasm.com (focused on TV, duh)

IF YOU DON'T KNOW YOU BY NOW: I've been noticing of late that, by the time men reach my age, we seem to have developed some kind of character that we play: the curmudgeon, the aging party-boy, the buttoned-up George Will Jr. business guy, the urban bohemian, the bow-tie dork, etc. Seriously, as I bounce from airport to airport, city to city, I'm seeing some patterns. It's as if men of a certain age just lose the spontaneity that allows their personality to be shaped by situations. Instead, their personality is the constant, their grip on how they confront everything external.

"I am a bow-tie dork, so I will deal with this airport lounge bartender like a bow-tie dork. (Ahem.) Excuse me, sir, but can I get a Dewar's and water?"

"I am a business guy, so I will talk loudly on my cell phone like this: Yes, *I* know they want five points in the deal, but fuck them!"

Etcetera.

Do you see this, these characters? Do you sense that there are many forty-ish men who are becoming somewhat formed in themselves, as if the concrete of personality is hardening irreparably? Which character are you? Am I?

The bow-tie guys are bothering me the most of late. Why does a grown man wear a bow-tie anyway? You're trying very hard to say something. Something like, "I am a stuffy-ass throwback dork, a wannabe aristocrat, a dandy, a huge puss, a fraidy-cat, and an elitist. How do you do?"

Who wants to say that?

EVERY MOVE YOU MAKE I'LL BE WATCHING YOU: So here's the DJ story...

A bunch of pals of mine go out to the bars in Los Angeles one night several years ago. (Shit. I think it was L.A. Eric, was it L.A.? Seems right. He was a coach there.)

Doesn't matter.

They're in a pretty hot place, it's jumpin', they're hanging out near the bar, when up walks former Celtic great Dennis Johnson. DJ! He of the retired number and the championships. A legend as a player, nad now an NBA coach. Anyhoo...

They're pretty excited. "Hey, DJ!"

And it turns out DJ is a nice guy. A really nice guy. He buys 'em a few drinks, hangs out and swaps stories, treats 'em like they're somebody. After a bit he says, "Hey, let's go down the street to [name of other superhot club]!"

"Awww," my pals say, "the line's a mile long there."

"Not for DJ," says DJ.

DJ! What a guy. My pals rally behind him.

And so DJ leads 'em down the street to the superhot club where there is indeed a HUGE line. And, as promised, DJ marches himself and my pals to the front of the line and tells the bouncer, "They're with me." The velvet rope lifts, and in they waltz. "I'm a part owner," explains DJ to my pals. Aha! DJ!

More free drinks. Introductions to other semi-celebs. Dancing. A big time. And all the while DJ sticks with my pals, sticks very close to my pals, starts introducing 'em around as "my boys."

Over time, one of my pals grows uneasy. He pulls the others aside and says, "Hey, you know what, this has been great, but I'm gettin' a little tired of DJ."

The others sheepishly agree. Enough is enough. They begin talking about the next day when they plan to assemble for a giant game of RISK, just like back in college. They'll order in food, drink some beers, talk about old times...

"RISK? I *love* RISK!"

It's DJ. He's snuck over and eavesdropped on the tail end of their conversation. It's as if his freckled face has popped into the middle of their circle of friends. How'd he do that?

"Where y'all playing? I'm in!"

My friends glance at each other. It's unspoken, but it's there: DJ is out.

"Let me go get something to write the address down for you," says my pal. "Don't worry, I'll give you the address."

When DJ is distracted by the pounding club action around him, my friends make a beeline for the door, ditching DJ for good.

They're still a touch spooked when they tell this story, even years later.

LARGER THAN LIFE AND TWICE AS UGLY: If I were going to post something smart or at least intellectually interesting today, I think I'd try to write something about how the nature of celebrity is changing in this world of reality TV and blogging and US Magazine. It seems somehow harder for celebrities and their corporate coteries to manage their own images. Instead, the public is playing judge and jury on issues like the Tom/Kate romance or the Jessica/Nick marriage. We no longer idolize Tom Cruise so much as we watch him like a dangerous intersection. He appeals to the evil voyeur in us moreso than to our need for a role model or an idol.

We're willing to embrace reality personalities like Omarosa or even Jonny Fairplay or that drunk girl from the Real World, so long as they know their place (whipping boys and girls for the not-so-famous rest of us -- "there but for the grace of Mark Burnett go I" stand-ins for our own shadow elements) and as long as they continue to deliver on their own brand ("She's the bitch," or "He's the affable man's man," etc.). But when they try to play against type -- in other words, to confound our sense of who they truly are -- as when Jerri Manthey (the bitch from Survivor who wanted to get wit' Colby but tried to pretend otherwise) goes on SURREAL LIFE (a meta-show about a meta-show) and tries to come off as sweet, they become the butt of rather than the wielder of the joke. They have to remember, it seems, that they are funny like a clown, that they are tailless donkeys for the public to stick with pins.

(That there is a SURREAL LIFE...that alone is worth a lengthy college course littered with readings of French philosophers and Joel Stein.)

I'm meandering here, as usual. There's likely a good essay in here, but this is what you get for now.

What I want to say is that, well, I believe we actually do have some sense of who our celebrities really are these days. It's become almost impossible to "manage" anybody's image anymore.

When we watch CRIBS and SURVIVOR and SURREAL LIFE and IDOL and whatnot, we do gain some insight into what kind of people these stars really are. If you're an asshole (ala J. Lo), the public's gonna know. Assholes tend not to have a long shelf life in the popular culture these days, unless they're content being the Famous Asshole (ala the aforementioned Mr. Fairplay).

I mean, could any John McEnroe fan watch his talk show a few times and not lose some of their enthusiasm for the man? Johnny Mac's problem was he tried to be nice to his guests and his audience, and we all saw through it. Had he mined his own natural contempt for people who are not him, then maybe he'd still be on the air.

Pried loose from the mythology of advertising and the packaged chatter of late-night talk shows, we can make Malcolm Gladwellian snap judgements about our stars and discern that Britney and Kevin really are that vapid, that Tom and Kate are faking it, and that Nick and Jessica are on the rocks, no matter how much shit they shovel. We know that Scott Savol, despite a great voice, is way too unstable and insecure to be our American Idol, and we can see that Paula and Randy are both in over their heads as "judges." (Judging what, for God's sake? They're not supposed to be judging quality, which they seem to forget. They're simply supposed to be lubricating the public so that they vote -- which is the ultimate judging, the judging of marketability.)

In a reality culture, in an everyman-a-publisher culture, criticism dies and popularity ascends. More mentions, more links, more awareness, more popularity. More is more. This is where we are. And despite a lot of handwringing from various quarters, I think it's actually a pretty interesting time. Talk about your free markets...

ASK ME HOW I KNOW AND I'LL TELL YOU SO: I can't remember if I've ever posted here about a cool recent discovery: I'm buying ARCs (advance review copies) of my favorite authors on eBay. Huh? Basically when a writer I like has a book coming out (like Nick Hornby or Lee Child, recently), I bid on and win a pre-release ARC of their upcoming book. Thus far I've been able to score the ARCs for about the cost of a hardcover, with the added benefit that they're oversized paperbacks, which I much prefer. Plus my impatience is indulged, and I get to wander 'round the aiport lounges looking cool and/or connected and maybe even a touch mysterious, right?

And so I'm sad to report that Hornby's latest, A LONG WAY DOWN, is pretty much a stinker. And I hate hate hate to write that, since I really admire Nick as a writer, and I've really loved all three of his novels to date (HIGH FIDELITY, ABOUT A BOY, HOW TO BE GOOD), loved the short story collection he edited and contributed to (SPEAKING WITH THE ANGEL), loved the reading I saw him give at the New Yorker Festival a few years ago, loved his music and books essays (SONGBOOK and THE POLYSYLLABIC SPREE) and just generally found him to be the writer-I'd-love-to-grow-up-to-be in recent years.

What's the matter with the new one then? Well, first, I'll tell you a little about it. Hornby writes it from four different POVs, affecting the voices of four wildly different characters who meet one New Year's Eve as they're contemplating suicide atop a tall building in London. Amazon or somebody on Amazon describes the novel as Camus meets THE BREAKFAST CLUB, which pretty much convinced me I would absolutely love it. Alas, trouble is that each of the four characters comes across as Hornby in their character's drag, putting on their personas instead of occupying them. Very little happens, apart from midly clever dialog and asides (I mean, the guy can still write a nice sentence, and he's incapable of being anything but charming, no matter what desperate voice he channels), and unlike previous Hornby books I actually found myself considering abandonment along the way. I'm not quite done yet, either, I'm idling some twenty or thirty pages from the end, with little motivation to find out what comes next, which tells you all you need to know.

I'm not mad I read it, not mad I bought the ARC, etc. I'd still rather spend time with Hornby on a bad day than with most other writers on their best day. But after going three-for-three, old Nick has had a bit of a slip here, and I'd be surprised if even he wasn't aware of it.

HAVE I EVER TOLD ME I'M MY HERO? I started writing a post about throwing out the first pitch at the Cubs game...but it sucked, and so I gave it up for now. I did just receive the official pics yesterday, and they're pretty cool. I'll try to remember to scan 'em in the next few days and post 'em here. Ideally they'll be accompanied by some prose, but who knows if I'll keep sucking at writing between now and then, in which case you'll just get the pics.

IT'S LIKE THIS AND LIKE THAT AND LIKE THIS, AND UH: Wow! I love to see BLIND CAMEL hijacked by its readers!

Laurel, you definitely need your own blog, despite the fact it might signal that the end is near. Some really great stories!

BTW, somebody please explain to my mom the difference between "balling" and "bawling." Ewww.

I'm hamstrung by feeling obliged to write a clever, heartfelt account of my "first pitch" experience. So I just clammed up.

And I'm in New York again, about to go out and wander around a bit before we do some more in-home research sessions tonight.

I thought Vonzell was the right person to vote out, and I hope Carrie "Hot in Jeans" Underwood beats Bo "I've Never Heard of Conditioner" Bice. Randy Jackson is such a nimrod he almost makes Paula palatable. Simon's a mean jerk, but he's clearly the show's hero and center.

Alright, enough for now. You guys carry on without me.

PUT ME IN COACH: Here's an event that deserves a long post:

I threw out the first pitch at the Cubs game yesterday!

Sadly I'm on the move, just about to give a presentation in Cincy, so I have no time to do the event any more justice than that. But I will. Soon. In the meantime I just had to post that.

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.