NEXT TIME I'LL AIM HIGHER: Alright, finally, the story of the day I threw out the first pitch at Wrigley Field earlier this year...

Way back when (once upon a time) at the beginning of the Cubs season, I noticed that my 39th birthday fell on the same day as a home game against the Mets. I placed a call to an old college pal of mine who happens to work for a major sports brand and asked him if he could maybe set aside some tix so that a group of us could take in the ballgame together on my big day. No prob, he replied. I've got six seats right down by first base. Splendid, I replied. Lovely. Grand. (Okay, maybe I didn't say exactly that.)

I surveyed the troops and, hard to believe, six of my college cronies quickly agreed to jump onboard my little plan. About a week in advance of the fateful day, the guy who scored the tix (heretofore referred to as "the sports pal") sent a somewhat cryptic e-mail to the lot of us, asking us to show up early for lunch at the Stadium Club (or whatever they call it at Wrigley). How nice. Super. He also alluded to a surprise for the birthday boy (me). Hmmm, I thought. Maybe we'll get a pre-game pic with Dusty. Maybe we'll get to tour the dugout or the clubhouse. Cool!

When the big morning arrives, I make quick reminder calls to all the guys, telling them to meet up at the Sports Corner bar and also emphasizing the "don't be late" theme of the day. Next, I go in my backpack to grab our six tickets...and I come up empty. Huh? There are no tickets in my backpack. Frantic phone calls reveal there are no tickets in my desk at work, no tickets in my wife's car, no tickets anywhere that I've been in the past month. I am sweating, freaking, fucked. I am so bummed.

I call the sports pal, the orchestrator, and even Mr. Cool-as-a-Cucumber sounds a little freaked. "I'm on it," he says. But he doesn't sound happy. Luckily this guy is a seasoned "fixer." As the president of our fraternity, his legacy of cleaning up his friends' (our) messes extends way back. He's good.

Way late, sans tix, I sprint out of my house underdressed for the early spring day, heart pounding, a sense of mild diarrhea making itself evident in my nether regions. Can't find a cab. No freakin' cabs anywhere. I'm already twenty minutes late. Holy mother of shitstorms, I am gonna have a grabber here on Armitage. I'm sprinting toward Wrigley, and finally a cab almost runs me over. I make it to the Sports Corner and try to calm myself with a warm beer in a plastic cup. I am a wreck. The sports pal calls to say he's scored replacement tickets (those exist?), and to tell us to get our asses over to the restaurant, pronto. My friends are making so much fun of me I can barely get a word in edgewise.

We get to the restaurant, sit down, heart still near explosion volume, and my friend hands me a letter:

"Congratulations, Scott. You'll be throwing out the ceremonial first pitch at today's game."

No way. NO WAY! All my friends are looking at me. "No way!" I say out loud.

"Way!"

My friend Brad punches me hard in my pitching arm. My friend Vince orders me a beer. My friend Brian looks at me and shakes his head. My friend Krogo...well, I have no idea what Krogo did. But that's neither here nor there.

No shit. I'm throwing out the first pitch. And I'm a wreck.

"Drink up, pal," says the waitress, in on it. "And you better not short-hop it."

My heart is pounding. My hearing seems affected, so that everything seems to have a layer of hum atop it. I'm dazed, and I have that feeling that the whole world is staring at me. Lord. We eat a quick lunch, and then we're off. Most of the waitstaff wish me good luck on the way out the door.

The sports pal ushers us through layers of security and down onto the field. I'm still dumbstruck. They hand me a ball. I start to try and play toss with Brad, but I'm told to stop it. "None of that, please." Several pockets of guys in the lower rows begin to heckle me. "Hey dumbass," they say, "keep it out of the dirt."

I attend a quick "meeting" with two other guys throwing out first pitches and the Cubs reps. One of the other guys is very old and can barely walk. Another guy is about my age, and he seems as nervous as me. He looks like a salesman, phone on the hip, logo on his shirt. We get briefed.

"When they call your name, just trot out to the mound and throw it. Don't mess around. Aim high, the mound makes you throw it into the ground. After you're done your catcher -- a Cubs rookie -- will sign your ball for you. I think it's gonna be Cliff Bartosh today, a young pitcher, and he's over six feet, so he'll be able to reach up for it. Good luck."

Wayne Messmer sings the anthem. My heart-rate escalates. The hecklers are staring at me.

The old guy shuffles out to the mound with a helper. The crowd loves him. He's old. He's handicapped. And he's wearing a Cubs jersey. They march him three feet in front of the plate and he delivers a strike. Hurray! Yes! Way to go!

Next comes the salesman. They announce his name, and as he begins his trot out to the hill I get a taste of what's in store for me. "Boo! You suck!" He rears back and throws his ball about halfway to the plate and into the grass. "Boo! Nice throw, grandma!"

"Ladies and gentleman, please direct your attention to the pitcher's mound where Scott Hess will throw out today's first pitch."

"Boo! You suck! Lift up your skirt!"

At least that's what I think they said. The pounding of my heart overwhelmed all external audio.

I start my brisk jog to the mound, and it looks three miles away. I concentrate on each footfall...and begin to worry about falling down. I can't remember how to run. The mound is very tall and very large. It looks more like a mesa than a mound. I wish I had a Camelbak and some crampons. I wish I had a sherpa. I wish I'd worn a Cubs jersey instead of this dumb hipster jacket that's tight across my chest. I wish I had thrown an actual baseball at least once in the past five years. I wish...

And then everything goes silent. I stare in at Cliff Bartosh. He smacks his mitt with his fist, gives me the slightest nod. Bring it.

I drop my arm back in a three-quarter motion, not quite overhand. (After it's all over my friends will tell me that I looked like I was a video on fast-forward, that I ran out there and stepped on the mound and threw it all in one motion, like I was in a rush.) I cock my arm and kick my leg and really let it go. I do not puss the ball up there. I friggin' THROW it. They're gonna hear the pill hit the mitt!

The ball lauches from my hand and begins its trajectory toward the plate, the mitt, immortality. I complete my leg kick and my body swings around and I stare in at the catcher's mitt, awaiting the pop.

Alas, it's not to be. The ball has a mind of its own. Looking more like an 0-2 "waste" pitch than a ceremonial first pitch sans batter, the ball dives for the red dirt just in front of home plate, skidding about six inches in front of the plate and taking a wicked, dastardly, family-planning bounce right at Cliff Bartosh's nuts. Time stands still, and this is what I think: Do relief pitchers wear cups when they trot out to catch the ceremonial first pitch?

Bartosh's glove flies down from on high to save the family jewels, his deft scoop actually reclaiming respectability for my pitch. He trots out to the mound with the ball.

"Thanks, Cliff!" I say, beaming.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks for that," he says, not exactly beaming. "Jesus."

I trot back to my friends, a chorus of indifferent boos and "you sucks" raining down on me. I am thrilled.

I just threw out the first pitch at Wrigley Field! Who cares what you say?

I leap over the foul line and high-five my friend, the sports pal. "I think that's one of the coolest things I've ever done," I tell him.

And it was.

Next time I'm gonna get it all the way there. But in the meantime I don't mind looking at the telltale red scuff mark and knowing that it's Wrigley dirt.

(Sorry I don't have a great ending for this, but I just typed it in one fell swoop, and that's how it came out, unvarnished by editing.)

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO THE DUMBASS ON THE FIELD: I feel like I still owe my readers an account of throwing out the first pitch at Wrigley on my birthday. Heck, I owe it to myself to memorialize the event before I get too old to remember it. Alas, that's not gonna happen now. But I will toss up a picture of the great day. I have an even better pic, of me in full throwing motion with the ball on its way, taken by a pro. But I don't have it...handy (spoken like Freddie "Boom Boom" Washington, of course).

But this one's pretty cool, too, shot by my friend Brad using his Treo 650. Not bad. Do I look terrified? 

WRITING QUICK ABOUT A SPORTS QUANDARY: As most of you know, I've grown to love NASCAR over the past three years, due largely to my involvement in a "fantasy" league that began as a joke and has turned pretty serious. All the "owners" in our league started out as NASCAR doubters -- heck, we thought it was funny to be in a fantasy NASCAR league, something we could tell our friends at parties to raise an eyebrow -- but now that we've all learned the tracks, teams, and drivers, it's a whole different ballgame, so to speak. We love it.

While flipping back and forth between the race and the football yesterday, I quickly grasped how NASCAR and football have become the top two TV sports by a long shot, and the only ones that seem to speak to the younger generation today. In a word: passion.

As Robby Gordon jumped out of his wrecked car and flung his helmet at Michael Waltrip...as Kurth Busch scaled the tower of Scott Rigg's crew chief after a crash, looking for an explanation...as Tony Stewart blew off the cameras after Ryan Newman passed him with two laps to go to claim the victory...you just couldn't miss how much it mattered to them. They friggin' cared.

After enough time spent courtside at NBA games and bleacherside at baseball games, you figure out there's a big difference between playoffs and the regular season in those sports. On any given night a basketball or baseball player may phone it in. Not so for football players and NASCAR drivers. Their livelihoods, if not their lives, are up for grabs every week. To invoke an old song, they care a lot. As well they should...

On a related note, I've also been a pretty big boxing fan over the years, and I've seen quite a few fights live, on TV, pay-per-view, etc. But I'm feeling more and more queasy about it of late. As yet another fighter faces serious consequences after a fight, I'm not sure how much more boxing I can stomach.

Meanwhile, as I grow more in love with friggin' auto racing, I'm wondering how responsible it is for me to love sports that can easily kill you, or at least knock you out. Thoughts?

R.I.P. MATTHEW BOHLING: A sad and stirring account of a solider's funeral, from a unique perspective. No matter which side of the conflict you're on, take a moment to be moved and to acknowledge the deep sacrifices being made.

A CAR AS BIG AS HER EGO: As regular readers know, I think this whole "SUVs are evil" campaign is a bunch of b.s. So I can't say I was upset to read that Ariana Huffington and her Sierra Club sponsors are hypocrites. (And no, I don't own an SUV. At least not yet.)

BEAR DOWN: My hometown Bears are up 31-6 at halftime. Somehow that little bit of trivia inspires a sense of well-being and equilibrium. I am a simple man, but then most of you knew that already.

MASTER OF THE LEFT: Watching Clinton on MEET THE PRESS -- Bill Clinton, that is -- and for the umpteenth time being reminded that he raised the bar for all Dems, and ain't nobody after him who stands a chance of getting over that bar.

He's calm, intelligent, prepared, plain-spoken, etc. He's a master. As much as he frustrates me, as much as I think he's full of shit on a lot of fronts, I still feel like I'd vote for him.

SOMETIMES A BLOG IS JUST A BLOG: I'm convinced this new template is going to inspire more traffic (due to the shorter load times and easier reading experience). And, in classic chicken/egg form, perhaps that will inspire me to write more/better. Or not. There remains the classic unanswered question of what and who this blog is for. Whether or not my non-self will allow this non-blog to continue to have no-meaning and no-purpose, that's the big question, eh? Eh? Eh? Awww, whatever.

SINISTER PIFFLE: The WSJ weighs in on Hitchens-Galloway.

MORE ON THE GRAPPLE IN THE APPLE: Here's a nice little post about the Hitchens-Galloway dust-up, complete with a few useful links to other analysis of same. Has anybody else heard it yet? Seriously, one of the most entertaining intellectual events in memory. Makes me wonder why there aren't more public debates like this, and reminds me how staged, overpolite, and shallow our presidential debates are.

THE SWEARING PIANIST: Because everyone can use a good dirty joke with British slang in it once in a while...

I SPY ON HIGH: I have a habit of taking digital pics out airplane windows. Granted, I futzed around with the colors a bit, but this one (below) turned out pretty cool on its own.

WHAT SHE SAID: Check this shit out, he said eloquently.

WHERE HITCH IS COMING FROM: I've been a fan of the blog Belmont Club for some time, and so I'm not surprised they have a smart analysis of the recent Hitchens/Galloway dust-up. Here's a particularly insightful snippet, wherein the writer does a nice job explaining the nature of Hitchens' oft-cited "conversion":

A lot of conservatives were cheering for Hitchens because he is on "our side". But that is coincidental. Hitchens, as will be evident to anyone who heard him address members of the audience as 'comrades' and invoke socialist solidarity is still a man of the Left who has merely remained true to the internal logic of his convictions. It puts him on the side of those fighting for republican forms against absolutist theocracies; and if that is the same camp as George Bush's then so be it. In that context, the contrast between Hitchens and Galloway is less of belief than of integrity: Hitchens opposes Al Qaeda because of his Leftist beliefs; Galloway supports Al Qaeda in despite of them; and to the traditional socialist this can only be explained by the inducement of cash. That was Hitchen's wider and subliminal reproach to the audience: what manner of men would pay to hear to George Galloway? Call yourselves anything, but don't call yourselves 'progressives'.

INSTALLING A NEW TEMPLATE AND ACTING LIKE I ACTUALLY DID SOMETHING: Last night's blog rehab was fueled by a few things: coupla e-mails from my pal Kev lamenting the load time and suggesting some possible solutions (God bless ya, Kev); coupla Belgian Tripels and, truth be told, a Pacifico chaser; the need to totally throw myself into something almost meditative as a salve on the chaos of my day.

And I must say it's awfully nice to wake up to my sleek new blog, despite the fact it's been denuded of its most fun part, your comments. Those of you that write a blog know, something like 90% of the reason to do this -- slap all your dreams and thoughts and bad poetry and armchair political analysis up on a website -- is to get the feedback from virtual intimates, those precious few that pull the car to the side of the road for a sec and scribble something on the wall.

That kind of sloppy writing -- maybe mixing metaphors, maybe not even making a real metaphor at all -- reminds me to disclaim the following: You can probably tell I write all this stuff on the fly. And maybe it doesn't make for the most studied analysis, duh, but I hope it's breezy enough to sweep your hair from your eyes, tickle your neck, maybe even give you allergies.

NO WAY! I *so* thought these kids were gonna make it. Oh, well. Romance is dead, but true love lives on, I'm tellin' ya.

THE CAMEL IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE CAMEL: I owe y'all an explanation. Say what? Wha' happen? What are we lookin' at?

Man, I was being driven crazy by the slow load times and the quirkiness of my comments feature. Sucked. Blah. Blech. And the trouble is I'm just NOT that technical, when it comes down to it. Don't have the patience. Maybe don't have the smarts, either.

So...

I blew out my customized template, which was surely full of all kindsa bad code I'd inserted in there. And...when I glommed on to the new template I hadda crash and burn all the old comments. And you'd be right if you said, "Hey, that's where all the good stuff was!"

Well, shit. I feel terrible. But now the Camel loads right quick, is easier to read...

Sure, I'm gonna muck this template up, too, with my customizing. And I hope you'll keep commenting, and that this fix will make that easier for y'all to do so!

Let me know what you think. I'm damn sorry for blowing away all your great comments. I hope it's worth it.

GET YOUR PROTEIN: Just discovered a great blog, Protein Wisdom. Not sure where this came from originally, but here's an image they posted under the headline "Ted Kennedy's SCOTUS confirmation hearings crib notes." Number four made me spit on my monitor:

DARK DAYS INDEED: Sullivan's "e-mail of the day" is too good not to repost.

"I was there for the Hitchens-Gallowat debate last night. I'm a moderate lefty with uncompromising pro-regime change sentiments. Hitch came out and was his dazzling self. There is no one alive with his talent for disputation. He hit masterfully all the blunt and subtle points of the the pro-regime change argument. In respons, Mr. Galloway stirred up a pep rally with buzz words catering to the lowest common denominator and, tragically, elicted cheers and raves. A sad night indeed. I see now, for once and all, the "left" is truly not interested in reason, logic, or even humanity. It's a self-sustaining mob mentality of Bush hate and free-floating paranoia. I'm deeply disturbed by the anti-war factions feverish embrace of a man such as Galloway. I see the writing on the wall. The left has already become the right. They do not care about internationalism, freedom, or just causes. They walk around in search of another reason to denounce Halliburton. Dark dark days."

Exactly!

HITCHENS IN A WALK THUS FAR: Geez, this is crystal clear. Hitchens absolutely de-fucking-stroyed Galloway in the first round. If it comes down to choosing sides, I wonder who in their right mind would take Galloway's side over Hitchens'? I wish these guys were on TV every night.

SHINING LIGHT ON THE LEFT, MAKING ROOM IN THE MIDDLE: It's ironic that, in my view, the media seems to be killing the Libs of late. The more spotlight the gets shined on 'em, the worse they look.

Here's what I mean...

My friends Isaac and Bart continue reminding me that, to equate the Left with charlatans and shriekers like Michael Moore and Janeane Garofalo and the rest of their lot is unfair, like painting the Right with only the Falwell/Dobson/Robertson brush. Funny thing is, the Right folk I see on TV most often seem reasonable and well-informed -- Giuliani, this Enterprise Institute guy (Glassman), McCain, Hitchens, Sullivan. Meanwhile Maher and other Left mavens keep trotting out narcissistic nutbags like Carlin and Vonnegut and Clinton(s) and Nader and Chomsky and pretending like they're national treasures when in reality they're narcissistic nutbags. (Of course Maher is the world's biggest narcissist, so perhaps he simply enjoys the company of his peers.)

It used to be I just heard or saw these people in little bits and bursts, and their jokes and one-liners and aphorisms seemed compelling. But now, getting to see Carlin expound at length about how he "has no personal stake in theft," so he doesn't care about people stealing, to see how overwhelmingly pompous he is...

Getting to hear Vonnegut's doomsaying crap...

Hearing Nader's utopian visions spun out at length...

Sometimes I think the disputed election, 9/11, and now this hurricane have lifted a veil from the face of the Left, and what's been revealed is flat-out ugly. Vonnegut last night called humanity a virus on the surface of the earth and seemed hopeful that the planet would soon rid itself of us. Looking at his wizened, dark old face, I thought...

Well, I won't say it.

Look, life is impermanent. People are imperfect. And 39-year-old men start to lose muscle tone and gain fat pockets. These are facts. But in the face of all this, can't we decide to create a set of laws and a style of governing that reveres and affirms life, that recognizes humankind's shortcomings, and that espouses enduring values like freedom, honor, and justice? Sure we can. This is not the domain of one party or another. This is something we can all do.

In the meantime, here's hoping the planet doesn't cure itself of me any time soon. I'm a good virus, I swear. Despite the fat pockets...

GEORGE CARLIN IS AN UNFUNNY IDIOT: Am just watching the Bill Maher show on my Tivo, whatever it's called. Maher remains a smug idiot, of course, but what's most overwhelming on this particular show is what a huge stupid dumb idiot George Carlin is. I've never thought he was remotely funny, and now I know he's also not remotely intelligent. Again, I must be turning conservative, because the only person who seems to have a lick of sense on the panel is this guy from the American Enterprise Institute, Jim Glassman.

INTELLIBRAWL: I can no think of no more exciting event in the coming week than Christopher Hitchens' public debate tomorrow against George Galloway. If I had to choose between watching the debate and watching the next Bears/Cubs game, I'd choose the debate hands down. Granted my local teams suck, but this debate looks to be the friggin' Super Bowl of public intellectuals. Each side is a villain to the other, and each is a champion of rhetoric. That Galloway is an idiot and a liar makes him, in my opinion, likely to play the 1984 New England Patriots to Hitchens' 1984 Chicago Bears. Go Hitch!

LET'S SEE, SURF OR JOIN AL QAEDA: I hope someone is writing the Adam Gadahm story. I'd like to know what this guy's major defect is. I'd also like to see a videotape where, in the middle of taping a propaganda broadcast, a team of Navy SEALs bursts in and hauls his ass off to oblivion. (Here's some decent background on the nutter, if you're interested.)

GAZING: My dad just e-mailed me a cool shot from our not-too-long-ago family trip down to Sanibel Island, FL. I dicked around with it a bit in Hello (a Picasa photo program), and I really like how it came out. It pretty much nails my mood of late. Plus I don't look too fat or old in it.

 

HYPERBOLEFT: I can't say this surprises me. Or this.

ME OVERWRITING ABOUT THE HURRICANE: I have all kinds of swirling thoughts about Katrina. More than anything, I feel compassion for its victims. My wife and I are going to make a donation through her work, since they're matching funds. I've also stuffed some bills into our local firemens' boots as they've waded through traffic in our neighborhood, collecting funds for the victims.

Beyond that, it also seems clear that our federal, state, and local governments were ill-prepared to deal with the aftermath of the storm, especially the flooding of New Orleans. From what I've read, it sounds like FEMA represents the biggest failure in that it acted as an impediment to relief efforts, rather than a lubricant.

I also haven't been very impressed with New Orleans' mayor, Ray Nagin. Granted, he was presiding over an apocalypse, but were I was a New Orleans resident I would have much preferred the reassuring, positive tone of a Rudy Giuliani to the negative, finger-pointing tone of a Ray Nagin. (I continue to marvel at how calm Giuliani seemed in the face of 9/11, and I wonder if this hurricane might somehow lift his presidential campaign.) I've read elsewhere that Nagin is an impressive guy, so the fact that he's not Giuliani may only reveal how rare Giuliani is.

I'm sure there will be ample time and effort devoted to sorting out who helped and who failed in the months to come. (I'm sure our own JD will be on hand shortly to lay the entire thing at the feet of the president. I don't believe that, any more than I believe those that are arguing that the whole thing is Ray Nagin's or Kathleen Blanco's fault.) I'm sure blame will find nooks and crannies at all levels of our government. For now, though, I'm going to keep the focus on what I can do to help. And the first thing I can do is to make a personal donation. I hope we'll all do that.

The next thing I can do is to read the news stories and the blogs in the months ahead, and to consider how and where my vote might make a difference in '08. Whether it's the war on terror, stem cell research, or an "act of God," I'm looking for a candidate that grasps that his first job is to set a tone and create an environment that inspires and enables Americans to be as healthy, free, and safe as can be reasonably expected in our modern world, so that we can continue our own unique pursuits of happiness in our own idiosycratic, varied ways.

My allegiance won't be to party politics. I hope yours won't be either. In the face of tragedy -- which is intermittent -- and reality -- which is constant -- we are all one people. May that reality unite us, all of us, so that we can meet each subsequent and inevitable tragedy with the combined force of our compassion and love.

HITCH ON DAILY SHOW: Here's video of Hitchens and Jon Stewart jousting. Note Hitchens' last jab at Stewart, where he cleverly notices that Stewart is implying he's on the same side as Bush if only he'd do a better job of explaining himself. Yeah, right.

ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR, WHAT THE HELL ARE WE FIGHTING FOR? Thank God for Christopher Hitchens. The next time somebody looks at me with incredulity in their eyes and asks me how I can support Bush and the war in Iraq, I'll point them to this article. He says everything I think, and does so far more comprehensively and eloquently than I could ever dream.

A WINNING TICKET: As many of you have seen, I've been assailed of late by one "JD" in my Comments. He's even challenging my mom. The nerve!

Nonetheless, JD's comments link to a blog that's called Grok Your World. I'm not sure if he publishes it or not, but I do sometimes read it. Although I find much of it murky and wrongheaded, a recent post there is pretty smart. Basically, the argument is that what the Dems lack more than a good candidate are two big things: principles and balls. The poster even concedes this is what the Republicans have offered in spades.

Anyway, I read the post, thought about it, and wrote a comment on the blog. I wanted to share it here:

As someone whose politics have moved rightward in recent years, I have to say: I completely agree with you. I'm not sure I fully understood why I've moved away from the Dems in recent years, because quite often I find myself not happy sidling up to the Republicans. The answer is: I moved away from the Dems because there's no there there, to steal a phrase. I admire Newsom's strong stand on gay marriage, and I admire Hackett's service and his principled stand. Although I'm still feeling like a McCain guy in '08, I'd be far more interested in Newsom/Hackett than I would in Hillary Clinton or John Kerry. It's odd, given that I've become more conservative, and yet I'm preferring what might be more liberal options. Perhaps what I crave is what you cite: principles and balls. Now there's a ticket I'd vote for: Principles/Balls in '08!

FLY BY NIGHT AWAY FROM HERE: Some really melodramatic poetry jumped outta me this morning. Feels a little like something I might have written in seventh grade, inspired by Rush lyrics, but that's no reason not to reprint it here for your entertainment, consideration, and ridicule.

PAGING BOBBY MCFERRIN
If all you write is sour poetry,
all you say is dark prophecy,
all you believe are tossed calumnies,
all you hear are pained melodies,

is it any wonder the world
weighs heavy on your heart?

SUV B.S. FROM ANDREW SULLIVAN: Andrew Sullivan is blabbering on against SUVs. Seems like a bunch of B.S. to me, and so I sent him this e-mail:

I agree with you far more than I disagree with you. And usually when I
disagree with you it's fairly minor, and I just shake my head and
smile. But your diatribe about SUVs really rankles me. Either you've
hit a nerve or you've got a lot of nerve...

Here's what I don't get: If I drive a giant gas-guzzlin' SUV six miles
roundtrip to work, am I aiding and abetting the terrorists more than a
guy who drives a Honda Civic (with a big fat Ben & Jerry's
bumpersticker on it) 100 miles roundtrip to work every day? It seems
like the endgame to your way of thinking is that everyone should be
allotted a "responsible" amount of fossil fuel to do with as they
please, but should pay out the wazoo if they go over that amount.
Right? You've gone daft. (I think that's the saying. What do I know, I
live in Chicago.)

Where does it end? Don't imported wines implicitly require more fossil
fuel to bring them to your local wine shop than do California or
Oregon or Washington wines? If I drink Australian Shiraz, am I doing
Osama's work? Etc. Ad infinitum.

Why focus on SUVs? Seems like anti-family sentiment masquerading as
anti-Islamofascist sentiment. Seems like class envy masquerading as
eco-responsibility.

If you continue to send overnight parcels, the terrorists win! Bring
back the Pony Express!

Own a boat? Why not just send a check directly to the Taliban?

Mowing your big lawn? You selfish Muslim-lover!

- Scott

MY MIND, IT IS A'CHANGIN': Once again, to my great shock, I find myself nodding along with a sensible conservative. (In this case it's the bowtie-wearing George Will. As badly as I feel about bowties on men -- on humans -- I can't help but agree with nearly everything the guy writes in this article. His basic point is that all the latest crazed pronouncements on high oil prices, among other forecasts of economic armageddon, are mere piffle.)

Bluster and hyperbole make better copy and better newscasts, but they're bad medicine for a punch-drunk electorate that's gooped up on cynicism and conspiracy theories, IMHO.

CJ'S DARNDEST THINGS: Sometimes it's just fun to listen to my three-year-old think out loud. Among his greatest hits of late are:

"What did I did?" (anytime he senses he's about to be in trouble)

"Is that the bellybutton?" (referring to a big circle on a tree trunk where a branch had been excised)

"I got a lotta Ingles in me." (in response to his dad trying to speak Spanish with him, something he generally reserves for his Guatemalan nanny)

"Can I be in our family?" (asking to join Mommy and Daddy's hug)

"When I'm a 'dult and you're a baby, I can drink black fizz and you get leche." (advancing his theory that he's getting older and adults are getting younger, as well as his hope that, as he ages, he will be able to drink unlimited Coca-Cola while his father is relegated to milk)

NO FREAKIN' WAY! Here's my favorite Snopes entry in a long while:

Claim: An ex-congressman who had sex with a subordinate won clemency from a president who had sex with a subordinate, then was hired by a clergyman who had sex with a subordinate.

Status: True.

SULLY ROCKS IN ABSENTIA: I've been on record many times saying that Andrew Sullivan and his blog have been major, major influences in my political...well, it's not a conversion, really, but in my...political...opening up...? The fact that I no longer reflexively self-identify as a Dem is at least partly due to the stuff I read and thought about as a result of AndrewSullivan.com, plain and simple.

Although I don't always agree with Andrew, I generally admire his writing and his thinking. Turns out now I have something else to admire: his ability to judge talent.

Guest-blogging for Andrew in the past few weeks have been some smarmy editor from TNR (yawn), and then two incredibly captivating raconteurs.

The first was Dan Savage, who I knew dimly from the profane sex-advice columns (or something like that) he contributes to the Chicago alt-weekly THE READER. Dunno if he still does that or not, but what I do know is his week helming Andrew's blog was a romp, full of funny and smart and "I'd like to be his friend" stuff. Loved the guy by the end of the week.

The second star is Walter Kirn, a novelist and TIME contributor whose plain-spoken essays over the last couple days have been just fantastic. Here's an excerpt of Kirn, from earlier today:

What big-time Washington journalists largely do these days, in my experience, is to get as close as possible to power, socially and in every other way, while maintaining the legal fiction that they aren't implicated in its workings. They send their kids to school with power's kids, they marry it, they go to parties with it, they jabber with it on the phone, they watch the game with it from adjoining seats, and, as a natural result, they keep its confidences - until, that is, some secret leaks out anyway and they have to pretend that they didn't already know it but will get to the bottom of it immediately or that they knew it all along and just weren't telling their audiences because they were bound by some lofty code of ethics that allows them to do the jobs they rarely do. They're profound double-dealers, is what I'm saying, who pay for their access, influence, and by going along and getting along until it's simply too embarrassing not to. They reserve their best stories for one another, publishing them only when they have to and feeling very nervous when they do, because it might screw up the Great Arrangement. And afterwards, once the secrets are on the street, it often comes out that they were common knowledge among the people whose jobs it was to tell them.

Quick story. In the mid 1980s I went to a fancy Fifth Avenue party for Senator Ted Kennedy. There were journalists there and lots of other bigwigs. The only time I'd seen Kennedy before was at a campaign stop in 1979 when he'd been seeking the Democratic presidential nomination. He might have won, but I realized at the party that it would have been a terrible thing because he was the drunkest human being I had ever encountered in my life, and chances were that it hadn't just started that night. Sure, he already had this reputation, but it was a vague reputation, all myth and gossip, while the intoxicated wreck in front of me was as vivid and specific as a car wreck. How many thousands of times, I wondered, had such behavior as I was witnessing been quietly countenanced by journalists, and how much other wild, scary stuff pertaining to other movers and shakers who had a shot at ruling the free world, say, had they deftly slipped into their back pockets in return for the right to attend such parties as this one?

I was a kid then, in my early twenties, and I couldn't answer that question. Now I'm older, I've seen more, and I can. A certain kind of job in journalism can only be kept if its holder, for the most part, refrains from doing it.

Bottom line: Cruise by the Sullivan blog and read the past couple weeks' stuff, if you haven't already. No newspaper, website, or magazine has better writing and thinking these days, in my humble opinion.

WE HAD 'EM: This story -- that a military effort to uncover terrorists had ID'ed Mohammed Atta as a terrorist cell leader well before September 11 but was prevented by military lawyers from passing that info on to the FBI -- strikes me as huge. It's also reassuring, in an odd way. It says that we had these f-ckers, if not for bureaucracy and protocol. Post 9/11, it seems like we're willing to dispense with some of that bureaucracy and protocol, in service of safety. To me, that's what the much-maligned Patriot Act is all about, not to mention Guantanamo. Are the aforementioned a pair of slippery slopes to invasion of privacy and torture? Left unchecked, perhaps. But are they better than leaving Atta alone so that he can pilot a plane into a skyscraper? Surely they are. We are not living in a perfect world with perfect choices. In the real world we live in we simply must be able to take out the Attas before they can do us harm.

At the risk of sounding barbaric, would that we could have "rendered" Atta and his cellmates to Guantanamo in advance of 9/11. Right?

ON SAVING MADONNA AND LIVING THROUGH TURBULENCE: I'm writing this while sitting on a flight from Newark to Chicago, watching an "NBC Inflight" segment. Right now it's Matt Lauer interviewing Madonna, and you know what: This chick is totally ape-shit. Her accent is even odder and more profound than ever. She's really struggling with Matt's questions about Kaballah. (She's ostensibly on here to promote some bizarre children's book, and Matt's unveiling the fact that it's basically a Kaballah parable in illustrated clothing.) She looks uncomfortable, overserious, and shut down.

Okay, okay, now Madonna scores with her cockiness. Matt holds up a recent cover of something like LADIES' HOME JOURNAL where Madonna looks matronly, then juXtaposes it with a ten-year-old cover of ESQUIRE where she's wearing leather undies. He asks, referring to the LHJ cover, "Can you really be a pop star with this image?" Madonna easily fires off an accent-invisible, "Watch me," and for just a flash she's that cheeky babe who was smart, savvy, and sexy all at once, the one that mesmerized me rather than sickened me.

This tiny verbal parry seems to relax her, and she does much better with the rest of the interview. She smiles more, she gestures and improvises and becomes nearly real. I could swear her accent fades as her comfort level becomes more palpable.

I have the odd thought that if I could just show her this little leap -- from ice queen back to pop princess -- I could not only help her career, but I could remind her what it was like to be happy. What an odd thing to think. I know I'm shackled and driven by a desire to save the world and everyone in it -- that old "savior complex" you hear about -- but now I'm even plotting Madonna's emotional rescue.

Thank God. Now it's Conan O'Brien, who's probably the funniest man in America. And now we're bumping around like crazy. Big bumps. Yuck.

If this post makes it to my blog it means we made it through.

CUE WILLIE NELSON: Tough week ahead. Sitting in Red Carpet in advance of an 8AM flight to L.A. Then tomorrow I fly to New York. And then Thursday I fly home.

Going on very little sleep. My big boy (C.J.) was up with a high fever and the pukes last night, so my wife and I were up, too. There's nothing worse than seeing your kid suffer and not being able to do much to help. No fun at all.

I'm a bad plane-sleeper, but I'm gonna give it a try today. I gotta work when I land.

HO HO HO! I'm afraid this old blog has been a little too full of itself of late, too serious and blustery. So...

Herein please find a light e-mail I sent to a few traveling colleagues this morning, alerting them to an unfortunate event in the shared bathroom on our floor.

The e-mail was titled "Krap Kringle" and said:

Dear Male Colleagues:

A stout gentleman who resembled nothing if not a close-shaved Santa Claus just unleashed a weapon of mass destruction "across the hall." Be thankful you are on the road. That room will not be suitable for use the rest of the day.

If there is a record to be held -- for richness, noxious potency, and staying power -- this gentleman surely owns it.

Yes, I think I'm awfully clever. Or, as a junior high teacher once wrote, "Scott is always trying to be 'cute' and 'the funny guy'."

What can I say?

PRAY TELL, RAFAEL: Wow. Something's really weird here. Palmeiro says he doesn't know how the steroids got into his body. And yet they're there, and he's suspended. There's more to this than meets the eye. Can't wait to read more.

WAY TO GO RYNO: Happened to tune into Ryne Sandberg's Hall of Fame induction speech while pounding away on an elliptical machine at our health club. Wow. One of the great speeches I've ever heard. A touch sanctimonious, a ton ambitious, and incredibly inspiring. Interesting to me that, in the past 24 hours, I've been deeply inspired by 1) an indie filmmaker who made a post-cool film about an uncool Idaho kid and 2) an ever-balding big-leaguer who just made a speech about character and respect. Unlikely bedmates, eh? Maybe I'm just very receptive to inspiration right now...?

A quick GoogleNews search revealed precious little written yet about Ryno's speech, but I have to believe that's gonna change tomorrow. When the sports hacks and cultural critics come back to their laptops, they've gotta weigh in on the Sandberg speech. It was a biggie, a "goosebumper" as my dad would say.

I'M EITHER CRAZY OR LONELY: This is one of the dumbest news stories I've ever seen. When a Muslim extremist copycats Muslim extremists, protesting against a war that was brought on by the acts of Muslim extremists, of course it's fucking connected. What's the point of this story if not to tar and feather Tony Blair? Fucking A.

I was a guy that loved to read Noam Chomsky, subscribe to Utne Reader, go see Michael Moore movies, and laugh along with Janeane Garofalo at how stupid the bible-banging Republicans were. And yet since 9/11 I've felt like the whole Left has just missed the boat completely. It's shameful.

There is a dispersed global army of nutballs who want to exterminate "infidels." In this mission, they're all connected. They're trained and financed, to the extent that either of these things matters. Maybe W. doesn't have the right idea, but I don't see anybody else with any viable plans for how to deal with this right now. Instead I see a bunch of dummies thrilled about being able to trumpet the fact that some Muslim dumbfuck who TRIED TO FUCKING BLOW UP INNOCENT PEOPLE ON PURPOSE says he's not directly connected to Osama Bin Laden. Who cares what he says. Don't we see the writing on the wall?

As Napoleon Dynamite would say, "Don't be an IDIOT."

THE NAPOLEON EXPLOSION: Did anybody else love NAPOLEON DYNAMITE as much as I did?

It's one of those oddball first movies from a young director that, despite all odds, gets made and then gets relatively big.

Here's the story: Napoleon -- the offbeat, awkward kid in your high school math class who drew centaurs in his notebook -- struggles to make connections in a small town in Idaho. The movie meanders through explorations of his family relationships, his friendships, his social currency, and his foray into romance. The whole deal coalesces around his friend Pedro's run for class president. I found the movie charming, hilarious, memorable, and inspirational. It's one of those rare movies that I'll buy on DVD and watch in bits and pieces for some time to come.

And lately I've been reading interviews -- with Jon Heder, who plays the title character, and with Jared Hess (yep) who wrote and directed -- that have charmed me even more and reminded me that good art is often made mostly for the artist, and any good or bad that happens beyond that is luck, timing, and not particularly important.

A little more than a year ago, I took a look at the Paris Hilton phenomenon, and created a presentation that suited my current line of work: PARIS HILTON RULES -- WHAT TEEN MARKETERS CAN LEARN FROM A DRUNKEN HEIRESS. I'm thinking I should apply that same prism to the Napoleon craze. There's a lot of elemental stuff in the movie and its popularity, stuff that might serve as a handy reminder to marketers about the preciousness, irony, and purity that constitute today's teen zeitgeist.

I was talking to a guy in a cab a few weeks ago, a guy who happens to sell high school class rings. We were swapping stories about how we ended up doing what we do (I help brands communicate more effectively with American teens). Both of us, if you believe what we said to each other, found something special and important about staying connected to the teen years, and had managed to blend our generally free market capitalist occupations with this conceit. It's a balancing act, holding this lifestage as sacred while using a commercial viewfinder to analyze it. And yet when something manages to tap into the zeitgeist, to make us stand still long enough to nod, tear up, and laugh like hell, the commerce almost seems an afterthought, more like a celebration than an exploitation. That's how it's supposed to work.

FIXING THE POEM: So I tweaked the poem in an e-mail to a friend. Maybe this is better...

SO IT GOES
When I think
we are all going to die
and so who cares
if we feel a little sick
from stress along the way --
that's when I realize
stress is nothing
in the face of mortality --
and then I remember
we feel sick mostly
because of mortality.

So what kills us
can save us?
Why does it have to hurt
so much to be saved?

DOWN IN THE PARK: Here's our "big boy," CJ, showing off his torso at Millennium Park a couple weekends ago.

 

LICKY: CJ calls his little brother Licky (derived from Mom and Dad calling him "Mikey"). I just call him cute. Here's the view from above when I'm holding him upside down...snapped by my neighbor Jeremy, and futzed with in Picasa. Love it.

 

VICE-VERSA VERSE: Some more fragmented poetry from the most all-over-the-place blogger you know.

SO IT GOES
When I think we are
all going to die
so who cares if we feel
a little sick from stress
along the way --
next I realize stress
is nothing in the face
of mortality and then
I remember
we feel sick
because of mortality.

What kills us
saves us.
God how it hurts
to be saved.

MY MEDIA OF LATE: It's really fun getting so many comments of late. Thanks to all of you, even the dissenters and disagree-ers. I love it.

Man have I been loving ENTOURAGE this season. It's my favorite show since ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT and/or LARRY SANDERS. Jeremy Piven is a genius as Ari. And frankly, I didn't much care for Piven before this. I'd seen him out and about around Chicago, and he always seemed kind of like an ass. Perhaps this role was made for him. He's absolutely masterful, and a highlight of every episode. Boom!

Am reading Bill Sammons' MISUNDERESTIMATED, which is more or less a tribute to the presidentiary skills of Bush 43. I'm not sure if it's journalism -- there are many who think of Sammon as a house organ for the White House -- but it sure is a fun read. Also just finished SEE NO EVIL by former CIA operative Bob Baer. While it's not clear that Baer is a partisan of any kind, and he seems not a fan of any politicians, what I got from the book is that much of what happened behind the scenes in the Clinton Administration is we took our eyes off the ball in the Middle East. Baer doesn't do either Bush any favors, either. Bottom line is it's a great look into the clandestine service as it used to run in the Middle East, not to mention a remarkably breezy read. Next up for me, a touch lighter, is Buzz Bissinger's THREE NIGHTS IN AUGUST, a blow-by-blow account of a St. Louis Cards-Chicago Cubs series from a couple seasons ago, written in collaboration with Cards skipper Tony LaRussa (who I've never much been a fan of, given his general humorlessness).

What are you reading and liking? Watching?

POKER FACE: Taking a page from my brother Eric's book, I've been dabbling in online poker of late. (Very low stakes, just as a time killer.) Anyhow, I snapped this pic of myself late-night while I played in an online "sit 'n' go" tourney on my last biz trip. Couple beers from the mini-bar. Kinda fun. Right?

 

BASHING BUSH FOR BEING BUFF: I found this commentary on W's devotion to exercise...hilarious. What a grump. I admire 43's commitment to fitness and an early bedtime, and I only wish I had his discipline. After all, if he can do it we all can, right? I mean, c'mon. He doesn't just give lip service to his values, he lives them. Granted, his priorities may not be everyone's. But how can you fault a guy for living out his beliefs? The answer is, you can fault him if you hate his beliefs, I guess. But who spends time getting mad at a guy who's commited to exercise and fitness. I'm laughing and flummoxed and curious, all at once. Oh, and ten pounds overweight, at least, since I chose to play online poker last night while drinking beer, rather than hit the elliptical trainer. Ah, well.

CROSS-COUNTRY: Just flew in to Chicago (from L.A.) yesterday, and am about to start packing for a flight to Orlando this afternoon. Meanwhile I've got a three-year-old in the basement watching BLUE'S CLUES and an eight-month-old up here in the bedroom with me watching BABY EINSTEIN. (It's our morning ritual. While Mommy and Daddy get showers, the munchkins get their video fix.) Mikey is absolutely hilarious, crawling around and cooing and getting into everything. He's unloading the dry cleaning bag right now, giving occasional glances up at the TV.

Speaking of TV, looks like I might be on a national morning show next week. More details if/when they become available.

HOLLYWEIRD: Hate to make yet another negative post in a row -- but what can Sandra Bullock be thinking? I've never been a fan, but still, how can this plain little lass-next-door go off and marry a twice-divorced biker-guy whose last significant girlfriend was a porn star?

FILE UNDER WHO CARES: In dingy apartments everywhere rock critics are pleasuring themselves.

JUST STAND VERY STILL AND MAYBE THEY WON'T HURT US: It's true -- standing up to a bully puts you in immediate danger of getting socked in the mouth. But it's also the only way to get the bully to back off eventually. Giving him flowers or ignoring him while he socks you in the mouth -- not an effective strategy. (In other words, what a stupid study.)

Come to think of it, that "bury your head in your hands and don't move" thing is what they suggest when confronted by an angry bear. But bears are much bigger than us, and so it's our only hope. Not the case with terrorists, or at least that's what I hope. I see the terrorism problem as more like ants. It may take a long time to get rid of 'em, and you may always see an ant or two sneaking in along the floorboards, but you can't just decide to coexist with 'em in your house.

BUMPER STICKER ELITISM: I think I'm coining a phrase: bumper sticker elitism. It's my name for the blue-state-of-mind folks who ride along scolding everyone with their stupid bumper stickers, most of which can be summarized as "Look at me, the person in this car -- I'm smarter than you!"

Can't think of any right this second (I had like four I wanted to write about, but I've forgotten 'em now, on accounta old age), but I feel like I'm seeing 'em everywhere. I'll keep my eyes open and list some here.

YOU GOTTA READ THIS: What a great, great story. I think they may have left out the part where the American soldier stands over the now-handcuffed insurgent sniper and says, "How you like me now, bitch," but other than that it sounds pretty accurate.

LIVEBLOGGING ROCKSTAR: So I'm just back from a long day of work, and there it is again: ROCKSTAR: INXS. What is this show, on every night? Anyways, I'll liveblog it for the next few minutes.

Some chick, apparently named Tara Sloan, just rocked out the INXS's "New Sensation." Seems like she's one of the people who's up for elimination. Three of 'em got singled out, and their penalty -- or their chance for reprieve -- consists of performing an INXS song. Tara...well, she looked kind of hot. She had some good rock poses, but seemed sort of forced. It was sort of cheesy to see some of the INXS guys -- or whoever those kind of chubby balding guys on the side were -- rocking out to a cover of their own song, lip-synching the backing vocals. This show is nothing if not dorky. Dorky and taking itself seriously. I mean, c'mon, what the fuck is Dave Navarro smoking?

Now it's some skinny blonde guy in a wife-beater. He's got a good scratchy-version of the Hutchence voice. Not that charismatic, though. I think Navarro wants to do him.

Oh my God, look at Elton Fariss. What a goof.

Okay, now it's Suzy McNeil, doing some other vapid INXS song. What is this? Yuck. This song blows. Poor her.

And anyway, who wants a chick-singer out front of INXS? I mean, she'd have to be smokin' hot to pull it off.

Clearly one of the INXS guys...the one with the short blonde hair...wants to hook up with this Suzy. He had that weird-uncle smile going when they cut to him.

This song blows. "I was standing...you were there." Whatever. Something about worlds colliding. This is clearly from the Major Sucking period of the INXS career arc.

Oh my God. The band is huddling.

Hello Brooke. Meow.

What kind of booby-prize is it to be the post-Hutchence singer of INXS? I mean, aside from Brian Johnson, when has the second singer ever done anything great in any band? Sure, there must be some examples. But all I keep thinking of is that guy named, like Ripper or something, that took over for Judas Priest. Ripper.

I think the new INXS singer should have a fancy name. Tandy. Tolliver. Nindy Jansen. Shiraz Hollister. Something like that.

Oh lord, now a BIG BROTHER commercial. If I were ever single again and on a dating website, I'd make one of the criteria for people I'd date that they hated BIG BROTHER as much as I do.

And now we're back from commercial. Yep, somebody in INXS wants to nail Suzy. She sucks...and she's safe. Now they're on about how serious this is.

And the loser is...Will. He fakes a smile...steps back...and contemplates how much money he's going to make posing for BLUE BOY once his contract with Mark Burnett expires in 2080.

Now Will does some ass-kissing to the INXS geezers. He's good at it. Awww. Maybe they should have kept him.

And now one of the Gibb brothers seems to be kissing Will's ass back. Or is that a husky George Michael?

Brooke Burke looks friggin' ridiculous. Look, sister, you're all about cleavage. Either bring it or go home.

Enough. Enough.

I hope they get McEnroe to do a cameo on this show, preferably as a backup singer.

GAWKER STALKER, CAMEL-STYLE: Some celebrity sightings from this NY trip...

Saw Michael Clarke Duncan, Pauly Shore, and Scarlett Johansson making their dramatic entrances to the NY premiere of THE ISLAND on Monday night.

And then last night I'm almost positive I saw Pistons' coach Larry Brown and his wife strolling across Sixth Ave. at around 11PM or so. Hmmm...thought he was due in Detroit today?

SO BAD IT'S BAD: I flipped channels a bit last night and happened past ROCK STAR: INXS a few times. I say a few times because it was so painful to watch that I couldn't bring myself to actually stick on it for any period of time. It was really difficult to decide who was more ridiculous: Brooke Burke (the helium-boobed Valerie Bertinelli of our day), Tim Farriss (who is/was apparently a guitarist in INXS at one point but is now something of a fat Elton John wannabe with a Justin Timberlake wig), Dave Navarro (the white Prince, a curious-eyed elf with a pubic goatee and Madonna-fake elocution), or the band of amateur singers who actually give a shit about joining a marginal has-been band like INXS. The show is a MCENROE-calibre trainwreck that's so bad it's bad. Mark Burnett's comet may finally be sputtering.

On a related note, I rather enjoyed the season-opener of the new SURREAL LIFE. That show is saying something about our celebrity-addled culture, and I think it's this: Take a look at these idiots and stop idolizing them. They suck! Seriously, my goal with this season (as with previous seasons) will be to play the needle-in-a-haystack game of discovering which of the cast members doesn't entirely suck. My current front-runner: the BMX guy, whatever his name is.

LANGUAGE IS A VIRUS, BUT WRITING IS MEDICINE: My pal Trisha linked to a cool site with little "word toys" for those of us who like that kind of thing. Anyway, I went there and started playing with this thing called a "cut-up machine" and, needing some text to have it cut up, I typed the following:

I love the world. I love my life and all the people and things in it. I sometimes have trouble falling asleep because I'm afraid to turn off my life for fear it won't come back on. I guess that I write because it feels like I'm making a deal with eternity to let something of mine be immortal.

Anyway, I was so pleased with what came out of my keyboard with no thought or preparation that I figured I'd toss it in here, my little eternity-space.

ADRIFT BUT NEVER LOST: Saw a piece on DATELINE last night about a father and his two young sons who capsized their boat on a fishing trip and survived a fairly major ordeal adrift at sea.

The two boys managed to grab onto a light post with the help of their father, and they clung there until a boat miraculously happened by and picked them up.

The father, on the other hand, couldn't make it up the light post on his own and, sensing the futility of simply floundering in the cold water, made a desperate bid to float/swim his way to an island way off in the distance. (I can't imagine how hard it must have been to leave his boys!)

Nearly 24 hours later he was found miles away from his sons, not to mention miles away from the island he thought he could get to. According to computer models, he survived out there longer than he should have--given his age, the water temperature, and the fact that he had a collapsed lung from a previous car accident.

It was a gripping tale, but my favorite part by far came when the father was asked about how he managed to keep his cool out there, how he managed to keep faith that he would be rescued.

"You're either motivated by love or fear," the father said. "And I chose love."

Goddamn right. That's it! I've written before (and talked at length to friends) about my idea that peace comes when you can reduce your life into a single choice in a single moment, with the question "what is the most graceful choice you can make in the present circumstances" as your guide.

This dad said it way more succinctly!

GOING MOBILE: Off to New York today for the rest of the week, flying back on Friday. Will probably weigh in here later from Red Carpet or the Hilton.

ANGRY: So now it's London. I don't have anything profound to say (not that I ever do), other than that there's no way to negotiate with people who feel that indiscriminate bombing of civilians is the way to make a point. This requires police action on a large scale and, in my opinion, ongoing preemptive action by our military to root out terrorists and shut down terrorist hiding places. Fuck their demands, whatever they may be. If there are a million people like this, let's go get 'em all.

ONE DAY: I post here at various times and in various contexts, but here's one thing I've noticed: I tend to post more often when I'm really busy. Odd, eh? I think this place is like an exhaust valve for me, and when the pressure builds up I run over here and let it fly.

Thing is I hardly ever really let it fly. It's more like I sort of let some stuff fall out of me, a little at a time. Maybe it's more like a spit valve on the trumpet of my life, this l'il blog.

I was thinking about freshman year of college this morning. I roomed with my best friend, and he and I used to just sit around awash in melancholy, smoking clove cigarettes and listening to the same few records over and over. One of our favorites was by an Aussie band called The Church. (They had a flash hit with "Under the Milky Way," so maybe you remember 'em.) Anyway, they have this song called "One Day," and there's a line in it that me and my pal used to sing along with extra loud every time. It goes, "We run so hard and always end up...in the same place." It's a bit of Sisyphus, right? And it seemed so appropriate to the wake/school/drink/sleep routine of early college. And then again this morning, as I pulled into the parking lot with my high-priced cofee, blood starting to boil in anticipation of the deadlines and stress, it came to me. Always ending up in this same place...and always with the escape fantasies...

IT'S LIKE PLAYING WHACK-A-MOLE WHERE THE MOLES HIT BACK: There's still an entity that operates under the Taliban banner and is capable of this? Huh? These goddamn Muslim fundamentalists are like trick birthday candles.

BOO HOO: Jeremy Roenick has lost his mind. If he thinks everyday folk are gonna cry for him because he's only gonna make $3 million a year to play hockey instead of $5 million a year, he's crackers. His little rant kinda reminds me of the record companies thinking that suing their customers is a good way to win 'em back.

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.