Dodging Lions and Wasting Time

Kodachrome.

2008-11-13T22:20:00.004-05:00

I keep telling myself to carry a camera around with me, so at a moment's notice I can take whatever interesting or unusual (read: stupid) thing I happen to come across. Today, when I got my hair cut, it was one of those days. Where was that little Canon when I needed it, when I looked down at the black smock, and saw all of that white hair? Where the hell did that come from? There was an elderly woman in chair before me -- it must be hers, right?

Actually, I don't know why this surprised me; my hair's been getting gray for years now. Yet every time I go to the salon (yeah, I call it a salon, so?) I'm stunned. I'm also surprised every time a season ends, as in, "I can't believe it's fall already," in spite of the fact that I'm on -- what it is now? -- my 45th autumn? I really need to get over it, I realize.

Anyway, I didn't have my camera, so I can't show you the salt-and-pepper carnage the lay in clumps on my smock this afternoon. Here's the closest approximation I can offer, using the tried-and-true, hold-my-arms-out and take-my-own-pic method:

I still have a pretty good head of hair on me, so I shouldn't complain. I will though, I will complain, because I do it so well. And no, that is not a nascent bald spot -- the camera is just at a funky angle. So shut up.

Next time: Love handles!

Now, the Man on the Stand, He Wants My Vote.

2008-11-04T21:58:00.005-05:00

I've never felt as excited or as hopeful about my vote in a presidential election as I did when I lined up at the polling place at 6:30 this morning. Now, as I watch the returns come in, I actually feel kind of choked up. Something really special is happening, something we can all be proud of. I'm so happy my children are getting to see this.

Meanwhile, I guess this guy couldn't find an "I'm a Dumbass" sign for his front yard:

And from the Department of Creepy Oddities and Misplaced Quotation Marks:

Anyway.

This feeling almost certainly won't last long, but I plan to enjoy it while it lasts. What a great night.

I Might Owe You an Apology.

2008-10-27T21:52:00.002-04:00

I don't like to brag but, as perhaps I have mentioned, I am prodigiously skilled in many areas. Not the least these areas is time travel. Now, leaping from decade to decade, era to era, can be a great, highly educational expericence. (Hint: you might want to put some money down on 2014 Cincinnati Reds.)

But it's not without its drawbacks. For example, there was the time I transported myself back to the Jurassic Age and, while there, I trampled a prehistoric centipede with my space boot. I returned to the present day to learn that my simple misstep was responsible for ABC's decision to leave Brothers & Sisters on the air. Sorry about that.

And now I have another confession, and let me just say, I'm sorry. Really, really sorry. What happened was, my curiosity about the upcoming election got the better of me, and I headed off to the the very near future to find out what will happen on November fourth. What I saw, I didn't like. Take a look below.

And, again: Sorry!

All-American Boy Makes His Endorsement.

2008-10-19T22:43:00.000-04:00

Coming soon - more posts.

2008-10-19T09:43:00.003-04:00

For now, though, I can't seem to think of anything to say. So, meanwhile, here's an inexplicable photo.

"Who stole me pot o' gold?!"

2008-10-07T22:35:00.002-04:00

I'm dressing as an angry leprechaun for Halloween this year.

What Scary Thing are You Going to be for Halloween?

2008-10-04T22:29:00.006-04:00

I am Rifle Panzer Palin. (Aren't we all?)

2008-09-18T21:42:00.002-04:00

What would your name be if your mother were Sarah Palin? Get your answer right here.

An Special Announcement from the Republican Party.

2008-09-10T21:47:00.003-04:00

We interrupt our regularly scheduled pointless noodling to bring you this important message from the G.O.P. and the McCain campaign.

The following words and phrases, when written or uttered to, about or in the general vicinity of Gov. Sarah Palin, shall henceforth be considered sexist:

1. lipstick;
2. pig;
3. pit bull;
4. dog;
5. husky;
6. Iditarod;
7. bridge;
8. nowhere;
9. library;
10. books;
11. hockey;
12. mom;
13. hockey mom;
14. baby;
15. foreign policy;
16. evangelical;
17. church;
18. Jesus.

This list is subject to amendment without notice.

I Smell a Pulitzer.

2008-09-08T22:10:00.004-04:00

My inner masochist requires that I watch the 10:00 news on Channel 19, which is Cincinnati's FOX affiliate. It's all there: the bad makeup; the frosted hair; the deep-voiced anchorman who likes to plug his "take no prisoners blog"; the C-list, ESPN-imitating sports guy; the wacky weatherman -- excuse me, meteorologist; the fake jocularity. You name the cliche, they have it.

At the moment, they're splitting the newscast into two hard-hitting, breaking stories. First, it's the live coverage at an airport not too far from my house, where Sen. Maverick's "Straight Talk Express" jet has just landed. The doors are opening! People are moving around inside! Is she with him? Oh my god, is she with him?!

No? Okay, next story -- cut to a live shot of a reporter standing in front of a salt pile. Will there be enough salt for the roads when we get an inch of snow in January? Well, will there? Jesus fucking christ, just tell me, will there be enough salt or will there be disaster?!

There will be? Oh, thank you, thank you! I prayed to Jesus and told him I'd vote for Sarah Palin and that old guy she's running with, if he'd just make sure we would enough precious, precious salt this winter. You can count on me, you spunky little bear cub-shooting hockey mom!

Republican Spokesmodel Update.

2008-09-02T20:00:00.004-04:00

Sarah Palin is creepy. From the Washington Post:

Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin, the Republican vice-presidential nominee who revealed Monday that her 17-year-old daughter is pregnant, earlier this year used her line-item veto to slash funding for a state program benefiting teen mothers in need of a place to live.

Nice pick of a running-mate, there, Sen. Maverick. I'm sure the Jesus wing of your party had nothing to do with it, nothing at all.

Plus, contrary to popular reports, she's not hot. In fact, she's crazy-looking.

She's a leaky faucet of scandal. I think she'll "gracefully withdraw" her name before November. Regardless of whether she stays or goes, though, is there really a chance we'll elect these people?

Oops!

2008-09-01T20:33:00.005-04:00

In another triumph for abstinence-only sex education, Republican vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin announced today that her 17-year-old daughter is pregnant. Needless to say, Republicans -- the same people who are more than willing to trash Barack Obama with innuendo and unfounded rumor -- are falling over themselves to say this is a "private matter." I agree, but the hypocrisy is astounding. If this had happened in Joe Biden's family, FOX News, et al., would be tearing him limb-from-limb, around-the-clock. We wouldn't even know there'd been another hurricane in the Gulf, because cable news would be all TEEN PREGNANCY, ALL THE TIME.

I feel sorry for the girl, really, and it would be nice if the press laid off her. Obama insisted that his aides not discuss the matter, and said, "Let me be as clear as possible: I have said before and I will repeat again, I think people’s families are off limits, and people’s children are especially off limits. This shouldn’t be part of our politics.”

Oh, and as a reminder, how has John McCain shown respect for the families of his rivals? Why, by telling a cruel joke about a teenage kid, that's how: "Why is Chelsea Clinton so ugly? Because her father is Janet Reno."

He even threw in a dash of homophobia for good measure. How mavericky!

Things that Annoy Me, part 26.

2008-08-20T22:36:00.003-04:00

Mark at The Rambler reminded me that this exists: The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks. Unnecessary quotation marks are way up there in my list of pet peeves.

Another pet peeve, you ask? Why yes, in fact, I do have another pet peeve: the misuse of the phrase, "beg the question." Here, let this quasi-hipster T. Rex explain it.

I nurse my pet peeves and they grow stronger with time. They're superheroes and supervillains; they're my best friends and my worst enemies.

Fine Dining.

2008-08-19T22:23:00.006-04:00

My son and I went fishing before we left Florida. I caught a repulsive catfish and some other thing that the guy who piloted (drove? captained? steered?) cut up and used for bait. I also caught five or six mangrove snappers, which are pretty, as fish go.

Good eating, too. But what to have with them . . .?

I and I

2008-08-08T23:53:00.007-04:00

As soon as we got across the bridge from the Florida mainland, we pulled into the Sanibel visitors' center. In the parking lot, I saw this:

True, it's a van, but it's not just any van. It's a van with this bumper sticker:

Chances are this means nothing to you, and the truth is, it should mean nothing to me, either, but it's the logo of a Cincinnati band called The Modulators, who have been around so long that they played at a high school dance I attended (the condom is still in my wallet, by the way) when I was maybe 17 years old. Back then, they were among the two or three most popular groups in town, and these bumper stickers were everywhere. The Modulators are still around, with some of the original members, no less, but that "next big thing" aura they had, or that I thought they had, is long gone. They're still fun, though; they played a parish festival last summer and I actually danced along with the other doughy, middle-aged locals, and my 6-year-old son, who totally showed me up on the dance floor. The kid does an excellent Worm.

Why does this sticker excite me? Because I'm old, that's why. This fact was confirmed when I saw this:

. . . and I thought, "Well, that kind of makes sense. Marco Polo is a really loud game."

You make the rules, you say what's fair.

2008-08-07T22:50:00.003-04:00

A list of rules as long as my arm, and nothing prohibiting thongs and Speedos?

By the way, anyone know if we're allowed to dive here?

Greetings from Sanibel, FL

2008-08-06T22:24:00.010-04:00

My alarm went off at 3:45, Friday morning. I went downstairs, stumbled around and made the coffee. Back upstairs, I woke my family, and we were on the road at 4:30. By mid-afternoon on Saturday, we were on the beach in Sanibel, which is an island near Ft. Myers, off the southwest coast of Florida. I had a lot of time during that drive to mull things over, and I've set it all out below. I hope you'll find this information helpful.

An 1,100-mile drive is a long fucking time in the car.

Georgia is the bad haircut capital of the country, if not the entire world. At a Taco Bell in some shithole town between Atlanta and Macon, we saw the most glorious mullet in the history of mullets; I tell you, words can't even describe it. I wish I'd had my camera, although I don't know if having a photo would have been worth the ass-kicking I'd almost certainly have received if I'd tried to take a picture of the guy. I've scoured the series of tubes for shot that most closely approximates the Dixie stud and, although this one doesn't really do it justice, it's sort of close:

Scouring the internet for pictures of guys in mullets is funny at first, then it becomes sort of disturbing. After that, kind of sad. Finally, funny again, oddly enough.

Southerners love themselves some Jesus. You get past the middle of Kentucky, and you start seeing them: the crosses at the gas stations; the billboards with New Testament quotes; the ads for "Cool Christian Music" (an oxymoron if there ever was one); the billboards with quasi-New Testament quotes (Jesus - He's holding your atoms together or Uninspired by Jesus? Bet you've never met him!); the radio dial saturated with proselytizing shouters. Even the cute, enthusiastic manager at the Gainesville Marriott where we spent Friday night gave off a vibe that said she'd be the kind of woman who, about midway through dinner on your first date, would ask you, "Do you have a relationship with the Lord?" It's Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! until you cross that causeway from Ft Myers and then -- thankfully, as if by magic -- nothing.

McCain is beating Obama in Florida's bumper sticker race. I hope that's a false positive. I don't think about politics too terribly much but, honestly, I believe if McCain gets elected, we are doomed.

Question: What's more depressing than a McCain bumper sticker? Answer: A McCain bumper sticker placed next to a Confederate flag bumper sticker.

One word to describe what it's like to grow a beard in a place where the average temperature is about 97 degrees -- itchy. I've jumped back on the goatee bandwagon about 10 years too late, but that's what guys do on vacation, right? My beard can be generously described as "salt and pepper." While I'd like to think I look like this guy:

I really look more like this guy:

Grooming tip for the gentlemen: If the image your beard projects is "genocidal despot," then perhaps it's time to shave.

Lying out in the sun (or "laying out," as we call it in the grammatically challenged midwest) sucks. I enjoy swimming in the ocean, walking on the shore, looking for shells, and so on, but for the life of me I can't understand how someone can just lie there prostrate, baking. It's madness, I tell ya.

All right, at the risk of this becoming a "aren't my kids just the greatest" blog, I'll just say this is pretty cool:

I guess that wraps it up. We have a couple of days more here, and then we're back on that long, lonesome road. Pray for me.

I'm a Mosaic.

2008-07-28T23:17:00.004-04:00

Stole this idea from Karen at Vexed in the City. Here's how it goes: Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr search, using only the first page, choose your favorite image, copy and paste each of the URLs into the mosaic maker (3 columns, 4 rows).

The questions:
1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What high school did you attend?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favorite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favorite dessert?
9. What do you want to be when you grow up?
10.What do you love most in life?
11. One word to describe you.
12. Your Flickr name.

Then, go to Big Huge Labs. Enter the URLs for all the pics you found on Flickr. Follow the instructions and off you go.

Here's my result:
What does it all mean, doctor?

Bad Blogger

2008-07-26T08:05:00.003-04:00

I've missed almost all of July. Yikes. I could dream up all kinds of reasons why I haven't posted, but I have the sneaking suspicion that I don't have that much to say. My family and I are going to Sanibel, Florida (average daytime temperature, 134 degrees) next week, so maybe that will inspire me.

Meanwhile, wanna see some really hideous cakes? Look here.

Shopping Fever!

2008-06-25T22:26:00.005-04:00

On Monday, before we left New York, my son and I had lunch on the Upper West Side. Our plan was to walk from there across Central Park, get on the subway one last time, collect our bags from the hotel, and head to the airport. Seeking to delay the inevitable as long as I could, I suggested we take a spin through Zabar's, the fantastic food market and housewares store. Good sport that he is, he agreed.

Once inside, our inner conspicuous consumers emerged into the light. Here's what he wanted to buy:

And here's what I wanted to buy:

Yes, it's a $3,300 espresso maker.

Mmmm . . . $300 cup of coffee.

Postively 4th Street.

2008-06-24T22:11:00.007-04:00

My 12-year-old son and I just got back from a greatly anticipated trip to New York. It was a bit of a whirlwind, but we managed to do a lot. We arrived at about noon on Saturday and, after checking into our hotel and grabbing a slice of pizza, we got on the subway and headed downtown. We strolled through Little Italy, which is touristy as hell but buzzing with activity, and from there we took a long walk through Chinatown. I've been there a dozen times but it still blows my mind, just like it did when I was there with my parents for the first time in 1980 (when we attended part of the Democratic Convention).

The boy and I ventured to the Lower East Side, where I'd hoped we could tour the Tenement Museum, but we arrived too late. Luckily, though, we were not too late to visit what turned out to be a highlight of the trip: Economy Candy.
It's a wonderland of sweets from my childhood; it hadn't dawned on me until I looked around in there that you never see Clark Bars anymore. Feeling the "hey, it's vacation" vibe, I let my son spend as much of his own money as he wanted. You'd be surprised how far $15 can go in this place. How much I'll eventually pay his orthodontist in another story entirely, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. As for Saturday, my son got his sugar fix and I ate a Clark Bar.

Mmmm . . . Clark Bar. I had a Proust-like moment when I tasted it -- I could see myself at my son's age, outside the little drugstore near my childhood home, just finishing one off, wrapper in my hand. I could also see myself as a college sophomore, dressed as a Clark Bar for Halloween. Yeah, you heard me -- I dressed as a chocolate bar.

So I guess I had two Proustesque flashes, but I digress. After Economy Candy, we wandered around the Lower East Side a bit more. Before I knew it, he was smoking. I guess that's just what happens in those parts. Looks good on him, though, don't you think?

I let my son choose the dinner locale that night. That meant only one thing: ESPN Zone. THE WORLD'S LOUDEST RESTUARANT! WHAT? SORRY, AM I YELLING? MY EARS ARE RINGING!

The next day, it was time for Reds vs. Yankees at Yankee Stadium. First though, a nice long walk through Central Park, where I tried to convince my son that we should pack up the rest of the family and move to New York. He was concerned that our dog couldn't make the transition, and rather than suggest we could just leave her in Cincinnati, I pointed out every dog being walked in the Park. I think I made my point after we passed six or seven, but I belabored it, as is my wont, until we lost count at about fifty.

Oh, and since he was smoking, I also taught him to drink coffee. Black.

Unfortunately, the Reds lost, but just getting there with my son was a great experience. Paying $9.50 for a cup of beer was a great experience, too. It was special big city beer. Plus, my purchase helped the Yankees finance their new $3 billion stadium. Note the solid gold lettering above the entrance.

There was more to this trip, but it's late now, and I've just written more than I have in the last two months combined. I'm tired and I want to save some material for another post. It was nice getting away for a couple of days with my son, and I wish we could have stayed longer. He's a good kid.

Well that's an abrupt ending, isn't it?

Don't bury me . . .

2008-05-31T08:55:00.003-04:00

. . . 'cause I'm not dead yet. I swear.

This whole "job" thing is really taking it out of me. It's all so . . . bourgeois, don't you think? Between that and all my kids -- I've lost count of them -- I haven't had even the chance to look at my blog in ten days, much less write one of those witty, insightful posts that so delight my readership. I was vaguely afraid that I'd find squatters here when I checked back in this morning.

So, coming in June, I'm a re-invigorated blogger! (Unless I'm not.)

Dear Landlord.

2008-05-13T22:14:00.004-04:00

My children have been freeloading for too long now. So, a few weeks ago, I gathered them around me and laid it all out. "If you want to stay under my roof, " I said, "you need to start paying the rent."

I must say, my six-year-old son embraced the idea and has worked hard to earn his keep. One day he came home on the bus from wherever it is that he works (I haven't had a chance to ask) and he had a live chicken in his arms. "I named her Goldie," he told me. "She's nice. She doesn't peck me. Can I keep her?"

"Sure, you can keep her," I answered. "Until dinner."

Self-Editing.

2008-05-04T21:36:00.002-04:00

So few posts lately, and I've just deleted two of them. The first was meant to be a knock on the lameness of this blog, but ended up reading as if I was suggesting that my wife looks at porn sites, which she doesn't. Not well thought-through, I guess.

Unintentional Hiatus.

2008-04-27T22:16:00.001-04:00

Two weeks! I know, I know -- I never write, I never call . . . I didn't mean to be gone this long. Honest.

I Took My Potatoes Down to be Mashed.

2008-04-12T22:20:00.002-04:00

I've been tagged by Misplaced in the Midwest -- correct in his assumption that I am badly in need of blog ideas -- to list seven random facts about myself. Let's see . . .

1. Like Misplaced, when I was a boy I had a crush on a girl named Jackie -- not the same one, though. I won't print her last name, not because I have any sort of ethical objection to doing that, but because I recently learned she doesn't remember me, and having her come across this lame blog would be the shame icing on my humiliation cake.

2. I'm an only child. As far as I can remember, as a kid I didn't spend much time wishing for sibling. Yet I did, and still do, spend a certain amount of time answering the question, "Did you ever want a brother or sister?" I suppose it's a fair question, but it's irritating, particularly when people who've asked it before ask it again, as if I lied when I answered the first time.

3. Dining outdoors only interests me if the weather is just right. A little too cold or, especially, a little too hot, and I'm inside.

4. I play a pathetic little mental game by myself: I listen to average remarks and try to make them sound dirty. For instance, if the woman narrating a commercial for dishwashing soap comments on the product's amazing cleaning powers, I think, "I'd like to cut her grease" or "She can rinse my fine china any time." Yes, I realize how lame this is and I know I'm the only person who thinks it's funny. That's why I don't say it out loud.

5. I am the only person in the world who didn't like Rent.

6. Seventeen years and four jobs into my so-called career and I've never been promoted.

7. Speaking of jobs, I've come to the conclusion that the best one I ever had was in a Chicago bookstore, right after I graduated from college.

8. Special super-bonus random fact -- I once hitchhiked naked.

Ah, that was cathartic, and yes, I'm leaving "cathartic" in this sentence even though I just looked it up and found that one of the favored definitions is "an agent for purging the bowels." To join me in this special catharsis, I tag Karyn of Vexed in the City, Michelle of Verbal and Mark of The Rambler. Try it -- it feels gooood.

Live at the River Styx Outdoor Amphitheater! Sponsored by Miller Lite

2008-04-07T07:15:00.001-04:00

Now if they just add the Capitol Steps to warm up the crowd, Satan's entertainment hat trick will be complete.

Teachable Moment.

2008-04-05T23:15:00.004-04:00

Fact: This product costs about $8.00 in Paris.

Lesson: What the fuck are you doing, eating pork and beans in Paris?

Springtime in Cincinnati.

2008-03-30T08:27:00.008-04:00

It's back, finally, after a long, dreary break -- baseball season. As I've mentioned before, I'm one of those suckers who get a little giddy every year, right about now. Against all logic, I believe this is the year my team will contend, and we might well see some October baseball right here. Maybe it's not illogical, though . . . I mean, they now have a big-name manager with a record of success, a brand-new, proven closer, a solid offense . . .

See? There I go again.

Anyway, Opening Day is tomorrow, and I wish I were going. It used to be that the first game of the Major League Baseball season was always played here in Cincinnati. In its never-ending effort to destroy its own game, MLB has done away with that tradition, but the day is still a big event. People take the day off work, pull their kids out of school, go to the parade and then to the game. I have so much work piled on my desk right now that I don't know where to begin, so I suppose in a way it's fortunate that I don't have a ticket for tomorrow, but still . . . I wish could go.

I have tickets to ten home games this season, the first being this Friday night, against the Phillies. Could be fun, could be bitter cold, you never know. As the year progresses, I'll see a game here and there every month, including the last game of the regular season, when I fully expect to be cheering the Reds on to the post-season. In June, a road trip: my son and I are going to New York to see our team take on the bad guys at Yankee Stadium. I think that weekend is destined to be the highlight of our summer.

This year, in honor of the 50th anniversary of the Reds' Hall of Fame, the team has featured many members of the Hall on their tickets. I chose the tickets you see here not because I have any particular interest in seeing the Braves play, but because of the absurdly named player pictured on them -- Heinie Groh, as in, Hey, keep eating those hot dogs like that and you'll get yourself a real case of Heinie Groh!

Oh, the hilarity!

Play ball.

You Know You're Getting Old When . . .

2008-03-23T15:18:00.002-04:00

. . . at a Bruce Springsteen concert, as you watch him race from one end of the stage to the other and back again, you think, "He could break a hip, jumping around like that."

. . . later, at the same concert, you turn to a friend and on comment how lucky you are to have seats on the aisle, in case anyone needs to go to the bathroom.

. . . glancing around at the crowd, you think, "Maybe we should leave a little bit early to beat the traffic."

. . . you look at the giant monitor above the stage and think, "Hey -- nice picture on that jumbotron."

. . . the next "concert" on your list, one you're really excited about, is in reality an appearance by the host of National Public Radio show.

. . . you start writing like Larry King.

Paris Memories: The Story of St Eustache.

2008-03-10T22:40:00.009-04:00

It's been almost a month since my wife and I returned from our trip to Paris. The post-vacation letdown has abated, but not totally. Later this week, I travel to Omaha and Des Moines, which are are sure to make me forget about the City of Lights once and for all, but for now, I'm reminiscing.

First stop, St Eustache Church in Paris' Les Halles neighborhood. It's a beautiful Renaissance building, but what's even more interesting and more moving than the architecture and decoration of the church is the story of the sanctuary's namesake. As even the most casual saint aficionado knows, St Eustache (cf., "mustache") was a hirsute Roman general named Capillus who converted to Christianity when he tired of the pagans' mocking his white man's afro. When Bob Dylan stole his line about the streets of Rome being filled with rubble, that was the final straw, and Eustache packed up his comb collection and moved Paris -- Paris, France.

Eustache was an immediate hit when he arrived in that most fashionable of all world capitals. He was not embarrassed to wear a beret, and he taught Parisians how to tie their scarves just right. He drank strong coffee and charmed local women with his George Bush imitation. Soon a movement was afoot to build him a mansion, but they called it a church to take advantage of certain tax loopholes and utilize peasant labor. His popularity reached its zenith as the building was completed, and he moved in, a happy, hairy man.

But trouble wasn't far behind. One misty night, invaders slipped past the city ramparts, and the now-infamous Brazilian sack of Paris was on. On their way through the city, the Brazilians gorged themselves on cheese and bread, which were readily available since it was 9:30 p.m. and the locals hadn't gone to dinner yet. When they arrived at Eustache's home, he was caught by surprise as he gazed deeply into Carla Bruni's dark eyes. He never stood a chance; his attackers used the wax from the thousands of candles they carried to denude his once virile body. Then, even though Eustache was now as hairless and as smooth as a newborn baby, the Brazilians added insult to injury -- they decapitated him. Now, a visitor to St Eustache Church can climb all over a gargantuan stone likeness of his cranium or leave a loving note on his middle finger.

Of course, that's the part of the story of St Eustache that everyone knows. What's far less known, however, is what led to his canonization. Why was he made a saint, you may ask, when the likes of Oprah Winfrey and Tom Brokaw haven't even been beatified? Here's why: first, he turned peanut butter into Nutella; second, and even more significantly, he convinced Europeans that Nutella is edible. Miracles are the surest way to sainthood.

It's knowing this kind of background that makes the world's great monuments all that much more meaningful.

A Visit from the White Death.

2008-03-08T22:16:00.005-05:00

Maybe it's my imagination, or my increasingly faulty memory, or a combination of the two, but I'm certain that when I was a kid, Cincinnati got at least four or five good, deep snows every winter. I remember waking up on a school day, looking out my window and seeing the whole neighborhood blanketed and motionless. I'd turn on the radio, praying for a snow day, and I'd listen as the DJ read the whole list of closures, dominated by the many Catholic schools in the area. I'd lie there with my fingers crossed and listen as he stumbled through all those saints' names, from Aloysius to Xavier, and I'd think, "Come on, just this once, close it. Please close it."

Then, finally, I'd hear, "And, Cincinnati Public Schools are . . . (dramatic pause to which ellipses do not do justice) . . . open!" This was usually followed by an announcement that the buses were running late, but nobody knew how late, so all students should arrive at their bus stops at the regular time -- all of which was particularly meaningful to me, since my high school was 12 or 13 miles from home. Bastards.

Now my kids attend a Catholic grade school less than a mile from our house, and the place shuts down whenever there's a prediction of possible sighting of a rain cloud. And they don't get why I'm bitter. A few months ago, I began telling them that when I was young and a student in the public schools, we didn't even get Christmas Day off. I've said it so many times now that I'm starting to believe it. Or maybe I've said it so many times because it was true, damn it.

All of which brings me to this. The snow started to fall here on Friday morning and by the time it ended early this afternoon, we had twelve inches of snow on the ground. A foot of snow! On a Saturday! I'm not sure whether a grown man should be so happy about a snowfall, but it was fantastic. The downside after-effects are already in motion; right now, for instance, I'm watching the local news and the weatherman cannot stop congratulating himself on how right his prediction was. But this morning . . . well, that was cool.

I took my kids sledding down the street, where we saw more neighbors gathered than at any other moment in the four years we've lived here. After that we came home, built a fire in the fireplace, ate lunch and they settled in for an indoor day. Usually the video games irritate me after a relatively short time, but what the hell? It's Saturday and there's a foot of snow out there.

My wife and I were supposed to have attended a formal charity event tonight. It would have been the first time in 17 years that I'd worn a tuxedo, but the event was canceled. (Probably fortunate, since I don't know how to tie a bowtie, and my frustrated, profanity-laden attempt to learn last night didn't yield much.) Thinking the event was still on, however, I decided I'd better shovel the driveway. Ordinarily, I'd just wait it out, figuring the snow would melt eventually, right? Because my boss had invited us to this thing, however, I thought I'd better do what I could to get there.

So out I went. You know what? Snow is heavy. Sure, it looks all light and fluffy like cotton candy or something, but try lifting it! I was on the front sidewalk when I felt something pop in my lower back, and I collapsed to the ground. The wind whistled by my ears as I loosed my plaintive cry, "Little help?! Little help here?!" Nobody heard.

Nobody, that is, except this brave canine. Out of nowhere, she bounded to my side, wearing one of those mini-barrels of rum on her collar. I took the rum, she popped the cork with her teeth, and I drank, deep and long. The rum was warm like a Caribbean sunset and it made me feel like a pirate. The dog looked at me, waiting for instructions, and I said, "Go, friend, and tell my family I'm hurt. Tell them to hurry! Now, go! Go!"

Off she tore into our yard and I could hear her barking at the back door. After what seemed like an hour -- I'm sure I was delirious from my injury -- the dog returned, alone. I think she shrugged her shoulders, but her valiant reaction inspired me to stagger to my feet and follow her back to my house.

I've always thought of myself as more of a cat person, but I'll tell you what, this is one smart dog. First, a daring rescue and now, she's helped me find a way to pass off this injury as a workers' comp claim. Next stop, long term disability!

Man, what a great Saturday!

It's Serious.

2008-03-05T22:41:00.002-05:00

I guess I have a real case of writer's block, if in fact what I do here qualifies as writing. I have all of these great pictures from Paris, stories waiting to be told, but I can't seem to motivate myself. I wonder if I've lost my six readers. Are you out there? Ask me some questions - that seemed to help last time.

Pleasant dreams.

2008-02-28T16:41:00.004-05:00

I'm sitting at the Greensboro, N.C. airport, waiting to board my plane home. Right across from me sits a paunchy man, probably in his mid-50s. He's leaning back as far as he can, with his legs stretched out in front of him. His head rests at a right angle to his shoulders, as if there's a hinge in his neck. He is snoring, loudly. If we were in a smaller room, the windows would be rattling. If we were in a car, we'd both have gone deaf by now.

Last week, waiting at O'Hare for a flight back to Cincinnati, I saw the exact same thing, again directly across from me. I doubt today's Mr. Sleepy is the guy I saw in Chicago, but he easily could be, really.

I chuckled to myself at O'Hare sleeper, but I've realized that just as easily as he could my current neighbor here in North Carolina, I could be him, too, stretched out, snoring, dreaming. The only thing that keeps me from doing it is my own self-consciousness. I'm told that when a man reaches a certain point in his 50s, he no longer cares so much about appearances.

Not giving a shit -- I look forward to it.

LDP's 115th Bob Dylan Dream.

2008-02-24T23:43:00.001-05:00

I don't often remember the details of my dreams, but when I do, I make a point of telling everyone about them, even though I know that kind of thing can be excruciatingly dull. This one should be no exception.

In last night's dream, I was sent up on a stage to replace an AWOL Bob Dylan. The setting was a small club, the kind of place he hasn't played in 45 years. He was missing, and my friend Steve insisted that I not only replace Dylan, but pretend to be him, too. The lighting in the smoky club was dim and the air, damp.

After much cajoling, I agreed to do it, but only on the condition that Steve write all of the necessary chord changes on the neck of the guitar. I think I was vaguely amused by this even as I dreamt it, because in real life I barely even know what the phrase, "chord changes" means. He said he would, and I went backstage to prepare.

Moments later, I heard the announcement, "Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Bob Dylan!" I swaggered out onto the stage and things looked good until I spotted my guitar. Although my friend had kept his end of the bargain -- the chords were right there on the neck, as agreed -- he'd written them on one of those very cool National Steel Guitars. The sight filled me with dread and panic.

Honestly, I woke up in a sweat. What does it mean, doctor?

Stuck Inside of Mobile.

2008-02-17T08:07:00.006-05:00

Back home. Great to see our kids, but other than that, I'm experiencing some serious, post-vacation letdown. (Note for my dissertation: the feeling is much more intense when you return from Paris than it is when you return from, say, Indianapolis.) We got back on Thursday evening and soon found ourselves at Noble Roman's pizza when, just 24 hours earlier, we were eating wonderful bread and cheese at a sidewalk cafe. I went to work on Friday, which was a mistake -- it was a particularly difficult day.

I suppose, having just returned from a European vacation, I shouldn't complain, but it's in my nature. I spent so much time thinking about the trip during the weeks leading up to it, and had such a good time while we were there, that real life is going to seem a bit less lustrous than usual for a while.

My wife and I came home with hundreds of photos, so I have plenty of blog fodder. Of course, three of the seven people who read this blog were in Paris and still are, so they've seen it all before. But just as we tell our kids that their soccer games aren't about winning -- they're about having fun, see -- this blog isn't about readership. It's about . . . come to think of it, what is it about anyway?

Anyway, I'll start posting pictures soon. In the meantime, I'll just mention a few things. One day we went to Sacre Couer church in the Montmartre neighborhood and, the next day, I came across a blog post by an American woman living in Paris who had just roamed the same neighborhood. She really captured the experience well, and I like her blog, Badaude, a lot. I added it to my links on the right but be warned: don't read it unless you're okay with the idea of wanting to drop everything and move to Paris.

We also went to an excellent dinner hosted by the husband-and-wife bloggers of Our Family in Paris and Paris Musings, and their lovely children. My wife was the only adult non-blogger there, and she kept the "nerd" comments under her breath. I think I heard her say something about Dungeons and Dragons, but I let it slide. Otherwise, our meal was delicious and it was a very nice evening.

Finally, our hosts for the week were great. My old friend Misplaced and his wife are busy, he writing a novel and she slaving away in grad school, but they spent a lot of time with my wife and me, which was very cool. We stayed at their apartment for a week, which couldn't have been easy for them, what with my daily, three-hour-long beauty regime and my sleepwalking, but they were quite gracious, as was their cat. Great fun.

I think I'd like to go back.

Paris Postcard.

2008-02-12T11:06:00.000-05:00

Today was another great day in Paris. My wife and I spent the morning at the Musee d'Orsay, home to the largest collection of Impressionist art in the world. Today, you see works by Monet, Degas and their contemporaries reproduced or imitated on everything from toilet paper packaging to motel wallpaper, but in their day, they were real rebels. When you enter the museum, the first galleries you visit hold the work of the Impressionists' predecessors, paintings described as "Conservative," after the Conservatory where they were exhibited at annual salons. Even the uneducated like me can see what a huge change the Impressionists represented after that. I think the word used most frequently by the voice in the audio tour guide was "shocked," as in, "The public was shocked by Sisley's blurring of lines." Personally, I think they may be exaggerating the level of the general public's consternation but, still, I left wanting to know more.

After the Orsay, we took a long walk through Tuileries Gardens and up the bustling Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe. I'm glad we went, because the view as you walk up the broad boulevard is right out of a Paris poster, but the high-end designer stores didn't really interest me. Wealthy Japanese visitors seemed to dig them, though.

I prefer the Marais, where our friends live: narrow, winding streets, lined with boutiques, bars and restaurants. I'm sitting now in the living room of their apartment. The window is open and I can hear the Vespas buzzing along the roads and children laughing on the playground below. Reality is beginning to creep into my thoughts. Tomorrow is our last day here, and then we're on the plane and back to earth. I miss my kids and I look forward to seeing them, but for now I'll sit and plan how I can send for them, find a little place to live and make this city our home.

Yes, I realize the plan is not well-formed. I'm telling you though, a guy could get used to this place.

What time is it in Paris?

2008-02-10T23:52:00.000-05:00

The Parisian day starts later than the American day. In Cincinnati, I'm up early to milk the cows and fetch water from the well, but here in the French capital I have no such obligations. Our hosts, Misplaced and his wife, live in a great neighborhood, the Marais. Last night -- a Sunday night, mind you -- the vicinity was buzzing, full of energy and beautiful people. The mornings are serene. I was just looking out the window; the street below is deserted. It's also immaculate.

My wife and I are getting an early start today. We want to hop on the Metro and make it to the Louvre by the time it opens, 9:00 a.m. She and I both fell asleep early last night, and so I've been awake for a while. Thinking the bells for 8:00 were about to chime (and judging from my previous mornings' observations, it wouldn't be odd at all for the streets to be so quiet at that hour) I was just about to wake her when I realized it was only 5:30. I guess my body clock, such as it is, hasn't adjusted quite as well as I'd thought. Fortunately, I had my realization about the time before I rousted Red. Let's just say she's not a morning person and leave it at that.

I'd go get baguettes and pastries, but I don't think the bakeries are open yet. The problem is, I've drunk half a pot of coffee and I'm doing that leg-jiggle thing that so endears me to colleagues at work during lengthy meetings. I'll wait for a little more light outside, then I'll go for a stroll. The streets are narrow and cobble-stoned, and there's something interesting around every corner: restaurants, shops, and did I mention beautiful people? I know there won't be anyone out walking now, but it could be fun to watch the bakery owners open up their stores.

In the meantime, let me recount a little bit about my day yesterday. Misplaced and I spent a good portion of it roaming around. We stopped at a restaurant and I'm virtually certain the following actually happened:

(Misplaced and LDP take a seat at sidewalk cafe. As the waiter delivers two coffees, Misplaced rattles off something in French. The waiter leaves, then returns and places a sandwich in front of LDP.)

LDP: That looks like gristle.

Misplaced: It is gristle.

LDP: Oh, well . . . I . . . huh?

Misplaced: I said, it is gristle. It's very popular around this neighborhood. All the locals love it.

LDP: Gristle sandwiches are popular?

Misplaced: Yes. (Glancing at the waiter.) Don't hesitate like that -- everyone'll know you're a tourist. Do you want people to think of you like that?

LDP: Well . . .

Misplaced: You don't. I know you don't. Try it, you'll fit right in. I eat one almost every day.

LDP: You didn't have one today.

Misplaced: Yes, I did.

LDP: When?

Misplaced: Before.

LDP: I didn't see you.

Misplaced: Nevertheless, I did.

LDP: But we've been together all day. When did you eat one?

Misplaced: You're still jetlagged.

LDP: Well, that's true. (Taking a big bite.) Mmmm . . . . that's good gristle.

The waiter smiled broadly at me and I could tell I'd made him proud. Misplaced grinned too, knowing he'd taught me something about getting to know other cultures. I left feeling I'd done my part to mend Franco-American fences.

Live from Pont Marie

2008-02-10T06:47:00.000-05:00

This has been a fantastic trip so far. Here we have a little trio, with a cameo by my wife, on a bridge from Ile St. Louis to the Right Bank.

How could anyone not love Paris?

Au revoir for now.

2008-02-06T14:49:00.000-05:00

Last night was dominated by children vomiting, and so I've just now finished packing for an overseas flight that leaves in four hours. My wife and I are nervous about leaving the kids behind, but we know, in the end, they'll be fine living at the airport for a week. Everybody loves an adorable airport urchin.

I'd planned to take my laptop and blog about how much the Parisian women dig me -- I mean live blogging, as they were actually digging me. It would have been so hot. The problem is, I never got around to copying our photos, music, work, etc. onto an external hard drive, and suddenly I'm seized with fear that I'll leave the laptop in a park somewhere. So it's staying home, but maybe I can mooch someone else's.

Time to go. There's a beret with my name on it, on the table of a corner coffee bar, or something.

Campaign Dictionary.

2008-02-04T23:03:00.000-05:00

Unctuous:

1. characterized by excessive piousness or moralistic fervor, esp. in an affected manner; excessively smooth, suave, or smug.

2. of the nature of or characteristic of an unguent or ointment; oily; greasy.

3. having an oily or soapy feel, as certain minerals.

T minus 2

2008-02-04T21:53:00.000-05:00

At about 7:45 tonight, all the power went off in our neighborhood. My wife and I ate dinner with the moonlight shining through our dining room windows. She then put our 6-year-old son to bed, and I helped our 9-year-old daughter do her homework by candlelight, which sounds very rustic and pioneer-esque, but ended up annoying us both. She's an excellent student and likes to get everything just right; needless to say, squinting over the books in the dim light of the candles and my Blackberry is not her preferred studying mode. She considers this half-assing it.

Now everyone's in bed. The house was pitch black for a while, and going to sleep just felt right, even though it was only about 9:30. I thought I'd come back downstairs and write a post in the darkness, just like Paul Revere. But the power came back on, and with it, every light in the house. From the street, it looked as if the place were on fire.

I should be packing my bags, but my momentum is gone. Funny, I can hardly think about anything now other than this trip to Paris -- which is just days away -- but I can't manage to open that suitcase. It'll work itself out, I'm sure. Talk about half-assing it, huh?

One thing I have done, however, is secure my in-flight wardrobe. Voila:

Stylin'. Bonjour City of Lights!

Super Bowl XLII Prediction!

2008-02-03T08:39:00.000-05:00

Boredom -- 56

Me -- 0

You read it here first.

It's true, I tell ya.

2008-02-01T19:51:00.000-05:00

Whenever I tell people I'm going to Paris to visit friends, the first question they always ask is, "Wait, aren't we at war with France?" After that they start asking about who, exactly, I'm visiting, as if I couldn't possibly know anyone overseas. Once they find out who it is, though -- that's when the questions get irritating.

"Do you really know Misplaced?" they say. "Can you get me tickets to his blog? Is that his real hair?"

You can imagine how frustrating this is -- a frustration not born out of jealousy over the thousands of hits his blog gets while mine languishes in obscurity, I assure you. Whatever its cause, I will begin feeling angry and bitter about it just as soon as I finish bunking at his apartment, eating his food and drinking his coffee.

For those who doubt my honesty, I offer the following photographic evidence that he and I do, in fact, know each other.

Misplaced (right) and me during our stint with the Chippendales (Juniors Division)

I suppose we were 14 or 15 when that pic was taken. Mercifully, I forget the details of that particular junior high dance. I don't even remember who my date was, but I'll say this to her, whoever she is, where ever she is: Sorry! I'm sure the cheesy piping on my lapels and my circus clown bowtie made you think staying home that night might have not have been such a bad idea after all. Plus, Anonymous Girl of Decades Ago, I'm virtually certain I was too nervous to speak to you that night. Let me treat you to an espresso to make it up to you.

On the positive side, though, I think this picture helped me solve my "what to wear in Paris" question. Can't go wrong with black tie.

Cincinnati Saturday Night.

2008-01-27T22:18:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I spent my Saturday evening at a mall. What of it?

Christ, I didn't know there were so many teenagers in this town -- gaggles of girls wearing what amounts to matching outfits, being trailed by gawky, pimply boys. I vaguely remember being one of those boys, back in the dark ages of my early teens. We didn't do the mall scene, but the rest is basically the same. Isn't it always? One day last year I picked up my then 5-year-old son and his friend from pre-school. I asked them what they'd done that day, and when they began to talk about recess, they became quite animated. The girls made us chase them! Get used to it, fellas.

Back in the present day, yes, I was there navigating through the swarms of adolescents. I went because I'm in desperate need of new clothes. I know this, but the thing is, I don't know what I want. Plus, I hate to shop, particularly at malls. Can you imagine what a delight it is to go to one with me? My wife, Red, wouldn't come along, begging off with some flimsy excuse about our kindergardener not being old enough to stay home by himself.

It irritates Red to no end that almost every time I go shopping, I don't buy anything. (She has no such problem.) I just can't muster up any enthusiasm for it. Plus, the only clothes I seem to like these days are the really expensive ones. The problem is, tomorrow morning I leave town for a couple of days' worth of company "leadership meetings" in Miami. I'm going because I'm the new guy in my department and this is an opportunity for me to meet people and so on, but here's the thing: what does one wear at meetings in Miami? I scoured the mall for pastel t-shirts and white suits, but I guess they're sold out.

My dilemma was complicated by the fact that one afternoon, we have our choice of recreational activities, and I chose to go out on a catamaran. I don't know what one wears on a catamaran, but whatever it is, I'm confident I don't have one. I could feel myself panicking as my search became more frantic, but then it dawned on me, the perfect outfit. Tell me what you think of this:

Good, huh?

I have another attire issue looming -- what to wear when Red and I go to France. "I don't want to walk around Paris with some doofus," she told me. Apparently she doesn't like my Columbo-style raincoat, which I've had since we got married. I thought she loved me in that thing; I was rumpled hot with it on.

I guess I'll deal with my foreign travel wardrobe when I get back from these meetings. I think I'm going to do all right in that department, because a few weeks ago, at my high school reunion, a woman told me I looked like a French gynecologist. Needless to say, I took that as a compliment and I've been running with it ever since. Bonjour les jolies femmes!

"Seven years of college down the drain . . . "

2008-01-24T21:27:00.000-05:00

John Belushi would have been 59 years old today.

My Little Pickle.

2008-01-23T21:27:00.000-05:00

The national condiment of France is the cornichon, a miniature pickle. But you knew that. What you didn't know is that the country's cornichon farmers are up in arms about having to compete with Indian cornichon farmers. Actually, I didn't know that, either. In fact, I still don't, because all I heard was a 10-second ad for a radio show. I forgot to listen to the story itself, and when I found it on Marketplace's website, it wouldn't play. I just decided to go with it because pickles are inherently amusing.

Speaking of tiny cucumbers, did you know President Bush made 260 false statements about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and Saddam Hussein's connection with Al Qaeda in the two years following the September 11 attacks? It's true. In all, his administration made at least 935 false statements during that time leading into the Iraq war. What I'd like to know is this: if this country elects another Republican president in 2008, just how stupid does that make us? I suspect the answer is very.

Remember when Larry King had a column in U.S.A. Today, and he'd fill space by stringing together ten or twelve non sequiturs, linking them all with ellipses? That's what this post is. Hey gang, how 'bout that Larry King, huh? I hear he's got quite a cornichon on him.

It Takes Real Balls to be a Good Criminal.

2008-01-16T21:54:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I imagine myself as a master thief. At 3:00 in the morning, dressed elegantly in black, I'd creep through the skylight of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or pad silently through the immaculate corridors of a fortress-like Swiss bank. Without a sound, I'd work quickly, efficiently, but without a hint of nervousness. I'd have planned it out to the last detail, and I'd take only that which I came for, a very valuable but not immediately recognizable Matisse, say, or a safe deposit box containing rare jewels that once belonged to European royalty. I'd depart as unobtrusively as I arrived, and other than the empty space where the stolen goods used to be, there would be no trace of my presence.

Either that, or with a hankering for cigarettes and cash, I'd try to hold up a Seven Eleven and end up like this guy. You can probably guess what happened:

Surveillance tape from the store shows an armed man with a cloth sack entering the store. After yanking the female clerk by the hair, he demands money.

He slipped his gun into his waistband and pow!

The bullet pierced his right testicle, then tore into his left calf. Telling the clerk he shot himself, police say (the suspect) took the money and ran.

Yes, he ran -- to his grandma's house.

(His) grandmother, who doesn't want to be identified, is disappointed.

"I have grandchildren, but I've made it possible for them to have all kinds of things, not by taking something that belongs to somebody else," said the grandmother.

She then added, "Plus, his bloody nuts made my living room an absolute mess. What is it with young people today, anyhow?"

In any case, he obviously did not read my book, How to Rob a Convenience Store Without Castrating Yourself. Rule number one: avoid pointing your gun at your groin.

See, I know what I'm talking about. Why won't people listen to me? I mean, come on!

S-O-S

2008-01-14T22:35:00.000-05:00

I wish I could say I’m one of those people who have kept a diary or journal all their lives, but I can’t. Instead, what I am is one of those people who have talked about keeping a diary or journal all their lives, but have found it much more convenient just to watch television. As a result, although I possess a near-encyclopedic knowledge of old episodes of Late Night with David Letterman and Homicide: Life on the Street, I have no archive of my own writing that I can mine for ideas when I’m running low. I’m not yet ready to plagiarize from someone else (although that day may come) but I’d happily steal from myself right now.

What I’d like is for you to ask me some questions. I’ll answer them in the comments and maybe I’ll find some inspiration. I realize my readership is limited – I think of this as a boutique blog – so send some of your readers over here.

Yes, I am begging for ideas.

In return, allow me to present you with a list of words and phrases that annoy me. Because I’m a man of many pet peeves, this is only a partial accounting.

That’s what I’m talking about! and its less confident cousin, I’m just sayin’. I think these phrases have urban roots and probably sounded pretty hip when they were fresh. Now that fat, suburban, white guys like me use them as we grill sausages on the back deck, they’re insufferably lame.

You go, girl! and Don’t go there! Again, stale. White, suburban mothers are saying these things to one another as they drop their kids off at school. Both phrases should be outlawed.

Think outside the box. For a while, I thought this silly bit of corporate-speak had faded from serious usage, and people now only used it ironically. Wrong! And it’s still stupid.

If you will. My observation is that people pepper their speech with this phrase when they want to sound intelligent, as if they’ve just come up with a new way of expressing a certain idea. I’ve also observed that the more a person uses it, the less likely he is to have anything to say. It’s very much like how President Bush says something incredibly simplistic, then follows up with, “In other words . . .” and proceeds to say the exact same thing all over again. I believe that’s called “putting lipstick on a pig.”

Access as a verb, as in, “How do I access the porn on my hard drive?” I realize the battle over this has long since been lost to the “it doesn’t matter how you say something as long as people know what you mean” forces. It’s even in the dictionary now, acceptable as a verb. Nevertheless, it irritates me immensely. What was so difficult about, “How do I get access to the porn on my hard drive”?

Webinar. This one just fills me with rage.

There you have it. Thanks for listening. Now start the interrogation. I’d appreciate it if you
would think outside the box.

Eat This Story.

2008-01-08T21:50:00.000-05:00

My wife and I are going to France in less than a month, and I've started to do my prep work. First stop: food. I Googled our friends' Paris neighborhood and found there's a T.G.I. Friday's near their apartment. I've made reservations for a Wednesday evening at 5:30 but, unfortunately, our friends can't make it. They both have important business meetings that night, as it turns out. Strange timing, at least to an American, but hey, I guess that's France for you!

There will be plenty of other nights, though, and that's good, because I'm feeling very inspired by a story I heard about the late president of France (and alleged Nazi collaborator) Francois Mitterand, who ruled the country from 1981 until 1995. Late in his tenure, he learned he had prostate cancer, and by the December of '95, he knew his end was near. Faced with the prospect of imminent death, Mitterand did what most of us will do as the grim reaper nears -- he traveled to Egypt to commune with the pharaohs. The disease hadn't diminished his ego, and when he returned to France and was asked what wanted for his final meal, he knew he deserved something fit for a king.

Mitterand decided to have 30 friends join him for a royal feast, beginning with fois gras and oysters. The guests dined at the table and watched as the already weak pharaoh-channeling former president, stretched out on a chaise lounge, ravenously consumed the shellfish until he felt sick. Then came the ortolan.

Ortolan is a tiny, very rare songbird. So rare, in fact, that eating it is now a violation of French law. How does one prepare ortolan? Excellent question. From In the Devil's Garden - A Sinful History of Forbidden Food:

The birds must be taken alive; once captured they are either blinded or kept in a lightless box for a month to gorge on millet, grapes, and figs, a technique apparently taken from the decadent cooks of Imperial Rome who called the birds beccafico, or "fig-pecker." When they've reached four times their normal size, they're drowned in a snifter of Armagnac. Cooking l'ortolan is simplicity itself. Simply pop them in a high oven for six to eight minutes and serve.

Mitterand knew the magic of ortolan was in the eating, and he did it just as prescribed by the experts:

. . . place the entire four-ounce bird into your mouth. Only its head should dangle out from between your lips. Bite off the head and discard. L'ortolan should be served immediately; it is meant to be so hot that you must rest it on your tongue while inhaling rapidly through your mouth. This cools the bird, but its real purpose is to force you to allow its ambrosial fat to cascade freely down your throat.

When cool, begin to chew. It should take about 15 minutes to work your way through the breast and wings, the delicately crackling bones, and on to the inner organs. Devotees claim they can taste the bird's entire life as they chew in the darkness: the wheat of Morocco, the salt air of the Mediterranean, the lavender of Provence. The pea-sized lungs and heart, saturated with Armagnac from its drowning, are said to burst in a liqueur-scented flower on the diner's tongue.

Hungry yet? I am.

One other thing. Mitterand wore an ornamental napkin on his head as he chowed his endangered species. There's some dispute over why he did this. Either it was to help capture the bird's succulent aroma, or it was to hide his act from the eyes of God. Regardless, he ate his bird and never consumed another meal. I'm sure he and King Tut had a lot to discuss after Mitterand died in early 1996.

Needless to say, I'm now planning my final meal. There will be no dainty little napkin on my head, oh no. I don't want to hide from God; in fact, I'll do whatever I can to attract his attention, because I know Jesus (the official deity of the U.S.A.) will want to watch me dine on deep fried bald eagle. Look for me wearing a red, white and blue cowboy hat on that fateful day.

But that's years away. For now, it's time to plan for Paris. Maybe my friends can find a little place that serves the illicit ortolan. Mmmm . . . fig-pecker.

I Went to the Doctor the Very Next Day.

2008-01-06T22:45:00.000-05:00

Every time I say something like, "I never get sick," you know what happens? I get sick. I don't say it very often and, perhaps as a result, I'm usually pretty healthy. Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut. It's the kind of thing that almost makes be believe in jinxes.

This time, I have a sinus infection: aches, pains, sore throat and a headache as if my cranium is in a vise. (An opportune moment, perhaps, to mention that when I was about 5 years old, I got my head caught in the bars of the Cincinnati Zoo's alligator exhibit. Ah, those sweet, sweet, saftety-free days!) I've felt bad since Thursday; the antibiotics are beginning to kick in, I think, but I'm still sweaty and a tad delirious. I've been sitting in front of the fireplace, trying to get work done, but it hasn't been easy. I like the fire hot -- really hot, roaring, furnace-like, as if it's one of the Circles of Hell to which I'd be able to make a more graceful reference if I'd actually read Dante. So that's what's happening now in my living room, but the thing is, it's about 60 degrees outside, and as a result I have all of the windows open. My wife has gone to bed, claiming the room is "hot as hell," and although I tried to convince her that it's just me, that heat is coming from me, baby, she's off.

I say a fireplace is for fire. Otherwise, what?

And winter is for cold. I've heard about a thousand people say how great the weather is today. I'll say this: 60 degrees in January, in the Midwest, is not "great." It's freaky, and it sucks, and I certainly wouldn't complain if a gigantic snow storm blew in just about now and left me unable to get to my office tomorrow. Now that's what "great" means. It's true. Look it up.

There's something else, too. I took my kids to a place called Great Wolf Lodge on Saturday. It's a giant, indoor waterpark. Was it ill advised, going to a place like that when I was ailing and maybe maybe maybe a wee bit contagious? I suppose, but who can resist a humid, extremely loud room filled with hundreds of pale, doughy Midwesterners? I know I can't. I pondered this as lounged in the hot tub, which I affectionately refered to as the bacteria bath.

That brief foray to the hot tub reminded me of this: Eddie Murphy on SNL, in "James Brown's Celebrity Hot Tub Party." It's a skit I hadn't thought of in years, and when I finally looked it up on You Tube today, I wondered if it was really as funny as I remembered. It was. Maybe it's the fever talking, though.

Where was I? Something about work, I think? Well, I have a lot of it, and I should get back to it. Busy busy busy. Or maybe I should get to bed myself -- chug a little Nyquil and it's all good, just as long as the house doesn't burn down. Hope I don't dream of alligators again.

Happy New Year.

2008-01-01T08:24:00.000-05:00

2008 has arrived, and it's time to clean up our acts, people. Personally, I'd like to stop being fat. I also have a few other New Year's resolutions:

Keep writing.
Grow a handlebar mustache.
Knit some pretty sweaters for my dog.
Donate to a Democrat's presidential campaign.
Successfully maintain deep cover as an office drone.
Treat myself to a bikini waxing -- because I'm worth it.
Place a huge CLINTON sign in my front yard, just to annoy the neighbors.
Visit Paris.
Write an angry letter to NPR about how much the Capitol Steps suck.
Stay in touch with a couple of people I saw at my 25-year high school reunion.
No more Mr. Nice Guy.

You?

The Trotters Win! The Trrrrrrrrrotters Win!

2007-12-27T22:35:00.000-05:00

Yes, I saw the Harlem Globetrotters tonight; yes, the whole experience sucked just as much as I assume it ever has. And yes, you're probably correct to note a bit of snobbiness in my assumption about the whole, sorry business but, really, shouldn't entertainment be entertaining? This wasn't. It was utterly lame and even more boring than the real NBA. The tickets cost $27 apiece, and there were nine of us. I'm no mathematician, but doing the numbers in my head, I'm pretty sure it all adds up to a shitload.

I'm watching the news as I write this, and the doofus anchorman is reporting on the Globetrotters "game" as if it were a real sporting event. Suddenly, I'm no longer angry at the glorified sideshow for emptying my wallet. Instead, I'm more than a bit irritated this pandering, inept journalism, yet strangely comforted by the fact the local newscasts everywhere - from Steubenville to Cincinnati to Chicago -- they all stink. Now I feel pretty good. Ah, the great circle of life, huh? Goodnight!

Happy Holidays.

2007-12-25T00:13:00.000-05:00

It's about 12:15 Christmas morning, and I'm sitting here waiting to make sure my kids are sleeping upstairs before I put their presents under our Christmas tree. I don't feel the same sense of anticipation about the holidays that I used to, not even as a I did when I was a in my twenties but, on the other hand, I look forward to it more than ever. I think what's really going on it that I look forward to seeing my children so excited, which is plenty.

Our oldest, who's 12 years old, doesn't believe in Santa. I'd thought the middle one, our 9-year-0ld daughter, was on the fence, but it became pretty obvious over the weekend that she still believes. The 6-year-old, of course, is an immensely enthusiastic believer, making sure the cookies and milk are placed in just the right spot (I always left cookies and a martini when I was his age) and generously sprinkling our yard with carrot pieces for the reindeer.

What I'm thinking about as I write this is that one of the cliches about parenthood that I always heard but never believed is true -- once you have kids, time just flies. Weren't they just born?

Anyway, they're asleep now, so I'm off. Next time I post, one of them will probably be graduating from college.

Guess Who's Expecting.

2007-12-22T22:59:00.001-05:00

The Girl in the Picture.

2007-12-18T21:15:00.000-05:00

I guess I'm the last person on earth to learn this, but I just read today that Steven Spielberg, Harrison Ford and company are making another Indiana Jones movie. Indiana Jones and the Bingo Night Mystery? Indiana Jones and the Quest for the Golden Dentures? [Insert your own lame geriatric joke here.]

What's really meaningful to me about this piece of entertainment news is that Karen Allen will be in the new film, reprising her role as Marion Ravenwood from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Ah, Karen Allen, how I've missed you.

Her first film role was Katy in 1978's Animal House. I can't imagine there was another movie from the era that had a bigger impact on me than this one. I'm not necessarily saying that was a good thing, but that combination of obnoxious guy behavior ("See if you can guess what I am now") and Katy's sexy flirtatiousness with her boyfriend, Boon (played by Peter Reigert) . . . well, let's just say my 15-year-old hormones were ripe for Animal House.

After a few appearances in tv shows and minor movies, she hit it big, or so it seemed, with her co-starring role in Raiders. The two Indiana Jones sequels that followed were nowhere near as entertaining, and while I'm sure a number of factors beyond her absence contributed to that, she was really good in the first one. And remember her in that silky negligee/nightgown thing?

Then came 1984's Starman. It was a vaguely ET-like movie co-starring Jeff Bridges as an alien who crashes to earth near Allen's remote Wisconsin house. By means I can no longer recall, the alien takes human form and looks exactly like Allen's husband, who died a couple of years earlier. He gets her to drive him across country -- to meet his alien rescuers, I think -- and while she's terrified at first, she comes to trust him and helps him avoid capture. I loved it. (Yeah, I know, I know. Shut up.)

In my memory, she looks just fantastic in Starman, and I believe the stills from the movie prove me right. I'm feeling pretty self-congratulatory about this, much as I do when I reminisce about how I dug WKRP in Cincinnati's Jan Smithers when every other teenaged boy was hot for Loni Anderson. Karen Allen's looks really hold up; maybe I'm finding I like wholesomeness more than I ever thought I did.

Her career never really hit the big time, I guess, but she's worked steadily since then. Now, she's back with Indy but she's not the leading lady. In keeping with time-honored Hollywood tradition, Spielberg has cast a lead actress who's at least a generation younger than the leading man. This time, it's Cate Blanchett sparring with the Metamucil-swilling Harrison Ford. She's great, actually, but come on -- whoever she plays, she won't be any match for Marion.

Finally, here's the thing that really got me as I did a little research on Allen: She's 56 years old. Holy shit! as Katy's old acquaintance Bluto said. It seems impossible but of course it isn't. Among other things, it means I must be older than I feel, but I don't care. In fact, maybe I'm Spielberg's target audience this time, because I know I'll go see his movie, and there's only one reason for that.

I am not Leo Kottke. Don't Talk to Me Like I'm Leo Kottke.

2007-12-13T22:35:00.000-05:00

One morning before school, when I was a teenager, I sat in our family room watching the Today show (god, Jane Pauley, you were so hot). After the news, the guest was a guitar player named Leo Kottke. I don't really remember much about his performance other than that my mother said she liked the music and voila, a Christmas gift dilemma was solved.

My mother listened to the record I bought her a few times, but I think it probably wasn't Sinatra-esque enough for her. So, it seemed like the right thing to do when I "adopted" it. That album came with me to college, then to Chicago and, I think -- although I can't find it now -- back to Cincinnati. Sorry, Mom. I wonder if karma's going to get me for that?

I wonder if karma is real at all. A friend and I used to mock a certain tv show. Looking back on it, I'm so appalled that I can't get myself to reveal the name of the show, or the name of its central character. I don't remember now if I shared this with my friend, but back then I kind of worried about whether my making fun of this particular program would somehow come back to haunt me. It didn't -- at least, I think it didn't.

Who knows, though, when it might strike? Earlier this week, I flew to Phoenix for a meeting. I took the latest flight, so by the time I got to the rental car place, it was nearly deserted. The tired clerk checked my driver's license and directed me to my waiting car. "Number two thirty-eight," he growled.

I trudged out to the lot and when I arrived at my car, my name was not on the lit sign above it. Instead, the sign read, LEO KOTTKE.

I hesitated. Had fate handed me the chance to make something right? Could I wipe this small transgression off my slate by just walking back to the counter and telling the clerk he had directed me to the wrong car? One regret erased with one small admission.

You know what? Screw it. It was 12:30 in the morning, and I got in the car and drove off. I'm back home now, unscathed. Take that, karma. Up yours, Guitar Boy.

Even Though You Know What You Know.

2007-12-09T22:08:00.000-05:00

When I woke up on December 9, 1980, I saw the newspaper on the kitchen counter. Odd, that, because my father, who rode the bus to work, always took the paper with him. Of course, he'd left it for a reason: he knew I'd want to read the previous night's big story.

I'd loved the Beatles since I was a little kid, when my cousins played the White Album over and over again. It was "Piggies," a George Harrison song, that first drew me in (he said "damn"!) but I quickly became a Lennon and McCartney guy. As I grew up, I'd waver over whose songs were better, John's or Paul's. I still waver over that today, and I've decided that I'll never decide. I do think they each had a special kind of genius that required the presence of the other, even though they didn't really write songs together after their early days. Neither ever did solo work approaching the quality of the work they did as Beatles.

But you could always count on Lennon's music to tell you exactly what was going on in his life. Even as a teenager, I admired that. He was honest in a way that most pop stars never are.

I was 17 when he was killed. As a fan I was sad, of course, but I wasn't part of the generation that grew up with the Beatles. I was only 7 when they broke up in 1970. That morning, after I read the paper, I didn't cry or walk around feeling stunned. I went to school and talked about it with my friends, but I'm sure we talked about a dozen other things, too. We didn't attend vigils or lose sleep.

Now, though -- well, the memory of Lennon's murder moves me more than I can describe. I'm not sure why that is, why I should be more affected by it today than I was when it happened. Maybe it's because I have a greater appreciation of how much he meant to so many people. I wonder, too, if it has something to do with the fact that I'm older now than he was when he died. Plus, he left behind two children; I'm sure that didn't even register with me in 1980. Twenty-seven years later, with kids of my own, "registers" is a drastic understatement. Such a shame they never got to know their father.

This morning I listened to Lennon's songs from Revolver. So amazing. I hope his sons and widow have taken some comfort over the last 27 years in knowing how much joy his gift has brought to so many.

A Sorry Tale.

2007-12-09T21:42:00.000-05:00

Here's a lesson in the pitfalls of procrastination.

From the day I started this blog, I'd saved up an amusing little story. Here's the set-up: My wife Red (god, how she loves being called that) and I know a couple - J and C - who'd planned for months to take a week-long trip to Paris. They arranged it so that J's frequent flyer miles would cover the flights for both of them, and he did everything he needed to do at work to be able to take the time off. Meanwhile, C arranged the childcare for their four kids -- no easy task, considering that three of them were at two different schools, and the youngest was only a couple of years old.

They did it, though, and on the day of their flight to France, they left early for the airport, so they could relax and have a pre-boarding cocktail. And so they did, sipping their drinks and talking about how they looked forward to spending some time together, just the two of them, in the City of Light.

When the time came to board, they gathered their things and headed toward the gate. They'd checked almost all of their bags, so they anticipated an easy trip through security, but guess what they discovered -- C's passport had expired a year earlier. Disaster, right? I mean, ugly-public-argument-level disaster. But no. J, being a kind, loving and romantic husband and all that sort of thing, basically said, "That's okay, honey. We'll find something else to do." With that, they left the airport and drove to Paris, Kentucky.

Now, the joke: Last summer, my wife suggested we go to Paris (France, that is) to visit friends. I wasn't totally on board at first, mostly because of the expense, but Red found a direct flight that I could cover with my frequent flier miles. Once that sunk in, I started getting excited about the idea. She didn't have a passport, though, and I kept reminding her about our friends, just to set up the punch line, which was that if we got to that day and she didn't have her passport, I'd be off to Paris on my own; I wouldn't be speaking to her for about a week anyway, so I might as well be in Europe.

The problem: She got her passport and killed the joke, and now we're going to Paris. What a buzzkill.

Governor of Ohio Forces Teenagers to Have Sex!

2007-12-04T21:50:00.000-05:00

Or so local ~~columnist~~ hack Peter Bronson would have you believe. He visits the "Voice Your Choice" abstinence rally (an abstinence rally? really?) quotes a handful of rightwing crackpot anti-sex freaks, cites bogus studies and pulls lame anecdotes out of thin air, then concludes by quoting a slogan he claims to have read on a t-shirt at the rally: Manhood is proven by a person's ability to control his passions - not his ability to satisfy them.

(Just as an aside . . . huh? Also, how does all that fit on a t-shirt? Finally, wear that shirt and it's a given you won't get laid -- no abstinence education necessary.)

Needless to say, Bronson's column virtually ignores the truth, which is that Governor Strickland favors comprehensive sex education that includes, but isn't limited to, teaching kids about abstinence. You know, the kind that deals with . . . oh, what's the word? . . . oh yeah, reality, that's it.

Hey Bronson! Teenagers have sex! You didn't (and, okay, I didn't) but a lot of them do. Maybe giving them the tools to avoid pregnancy, disease and death might not be such a bad idea. Time for you to relax a little, Pete. Maybe when you go to your next holiday party your can wear a shirt with one of your "abstinence rally" sayings: A lady's beauty is marked by how she carries herself with class and dignity - not her measurements. Chicks will think you're sensitive; you might even get lucky.

My Art Comes First.

2007-12-03T22:39:00.001-05:00

Ken Burns' latest work, the 16-hour documentary, The War aired on PBS a few weeks ago. I recorded it, but haven't watched yet. My father is a World War II veteran, and so I want to watch the film, but it also has the feel of something I should watch, you know? And that kind of makes me shy away from it.

The other problem is that I've been extremely busy with my own project, which I've just finished, a film called Silly and Shaggy. It's a documentary about Ken Burns' hair. Please tune in, and don't worry, it's only 12 hours long.

And, oh yeah, that reminds me . . . hey, Don Imus! Get a fuckin' haircut, will ya, old man?

Is Mama Bear Dating Again?

2007-12-02T16:11:00.000-05:00

Stan Berenstain, the man who, with his wife, created the wildly popular Berenstain Bears book series, died two years ago.

Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but dude -- your books suck.

Brother and Sister Bear are two confused cubs who can't get out of their own way. Room-cleaning and shoe-tying induce panic in them both.

Papa Bear is a bumbling idiot who never, ever gets anything right.

And Mama Bear . . . well, Mama Bear is a know-it-all harpy who's worn her husband to a tiny little nub and has the cubs afraid of their own shadows. Sources say she was modeled on Jean Schmidt.

It'll take years of psychotherapy and family counseling to straighten out that mess.

And they don't even look like bears.

That Reminds Me of a Story.

2007-11-29T22:15:00.000-05:00

Once a few year ago, on my lunch hour, I went to a sandwich place, Au Bon Pain. I'm very international, you see. As I ordered my sandwich (au jus) the woman behind the counter said, "You know who you look like? You look like that one opera guy."

"Opera guy?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Yeah," she said, "you know, that one. Sings loud."

"Pavarotti," I smiled, certain she meant someone else.

"Yes! That's it, Pavarotti! You look just like Pavarotti!"

Several years before that glorious moment, I worked for a summer at a small grocery store near an apartment building where a lot of elderly people lived. The same few would show up in the market at the same time every day and buy just a couple of items because, I suppose, they couldn't carry much. (Too bad they didn't think to get an old lady cart like this one.) There was one tiny woman who, like clockwork, arrived at 3:15 every afternoon. One day, she studied me quizzically for a few minutes before walking to the counter.

"Do you know who you look like?" she asked.

In that moment, I wondered who it could be. Some Golden Age film star -- Erroll Flynn, maybe? Or hey, I thought, how about a Cool Hand Luke-era Paul Newman?

"Who?" I said.

"Sylvester Stallone!"

I must have looked a tad disappointed, perhaps even crestfallen. "What's the matter," she asked, "don't you like Sly?"

"No, not really . . . "

"That's okay," she said. "I think he's real ugly."

So when I got an email recently from an acquaintance who said she saw a guy who looked just like me, what else could I think but, "That lucky bastard!"

I Grabbed My Hat and I Began to Run.

2007-11-28T06:27:00.000-05:00

Last week, a friend called to suggest that we train for the Flying Pig Marathon together. It's in May '08, and because I've run some marathons before, I know I have plenty of time to train if I get busy now, but it's been two years since my last one, and I've never felt so out of shape. My girlish figure is gone, and my physique is Pavarotti-esque (from when he was alive, that is). I just finished a 3-mile run; my lungs are searing and my legs feel like lead. I have a long, long way to go.

The last marathon I ran was New York in November '05. Here's that harrowing tale, which I wrote a day or two later.

Looking Back in Self-flagellation: NYC Marathon 2005

My best marathon time ever was 3:55, and it took me over an hour more than that to finish NYC last Sunday. And now I can't find my hair shirt anywhere!

Of course, that p.r. was thirteen years and eight or ten kids ago, so maybe I shouldn't be so hard on myself . . . okay, yeah, I should be. I'd had a pretty good training season -- my legs felt strong and I'd run two twenty-milers that made me think I could finish in 4:15 or 4:30. Perhaps it's time to admit I'm not Ethiopian.

The day started off well. I'd had a fairly good night of sleep in the world's smallest hotel room and when I left at about 5:30 to meet a friend at his hotel, I found the morning dawning free of rain, if a bit warm. We trekked with thousands of others to the New York Public Library where the buses to the start awaited us. The line snaked all over the place but things moved quickly; the New York Road Runners and city officials really do an amazing job.

The ride out to the start on Staten Island was interminable. That's really my only complaint (other than that I think it's a tad unfair that so many beautiful women live in one city). I'd run NY six times before, and the ride to the start had never taken more than 40 or 45 minutes. I thought we were in for a revolt as our bus inched across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Aching bladders do tend to put people on edge, don't they?

The Marathon starts on the Verrazano. It almost defies description, the feeling of being out there, looking out into the harbor and, beyond that, to the Manhattan skyline. Even on a hazy day, it was amazing, and everyone out there, all 35,000 plus, were shot full of adrenaline because of it.

I wasn't actually on the bridge for the official start but that was cool. I heard the cannon go off and burst out of my portolet; it took me about thirteen or fourteen minutes to get to the starting line, not bad, considering. I was an orange start, meaning my group started on the bridge's upper deck. (Note to future NYCers who start on the lower deck: run in the middle of the road until you get to Brooklyn. Men will pee anywhere, including from a bridge at the start of a 26.2 mile race and, well, anything that comes down from the top has to go somewhere. It can get windy up there, let me tell you.)

Once into Brooklyn, I quickly advanced and joined the front runners. I found the police escorts a bit annoying, since the motorcycle engines' noise almost drowned out the cheers of the thrilled onlookers. Almost. But I could hear you, my friends . . . oh yes, I could hear you! To run through your borough is to take a quick trip around the world, getting high-fives all the while.

Pop quiz time! Something I wrote in the last paragraph was a lie. Can you spot it?

Eleven miles or so in Brooklyn, then a short trip through Queens. Saw some friends there, all of whom were drinking cold beer -- definitely activity prohibited by the Geneva Conventions.

Then on to the 59th Street Bridge which, for me, was the second great adrenaline rush of the Marathon. Watching the Manhattan skyline approach, hearing the music and the crowd get louder and louder -- really remarkable. Off the bridge, around the bend and up the long First Avenue stretch, and that's when it starts. You see an attractive woman and think, "Wow, she's the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen." But then, seconds later, "No, she's the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen."

And so on and so on for about 45 city blocks. Sure, some may say I'm shallow, noticing the dark-haired girls in all their NY sexiness at a time like that, but you know what I say? I say it's heroic, being true to biology even as my legs felt like lead.

At the 20-mile mark, on the narrow bridge from Manhattan to the Bronx, so many people were walking that running was impossible. It was right about then that my body really started to feel ancient, and I never really picked up the pace after that.

Limping back into Manhattan, I was so far behind my projected time that my fan club had left Marcus Garvey Park by the time I arrived. When your fan club includes little kids, I guess you need to expect the occasional impatience-related meltdown.

Fifth Avenue was kind of tease, especially at the north end of Central Park, but the crowd support was phenomenal, and the avenue and Park were beautiful.

Finally, mercifully, I turned into the Park. Running with a gait not unlike that of Frankenstein's monster, I navigated those last, rolling hills, thinking how good a Coke -- a real one -- would taste after I crossed the finish line, if I could live that long.

Miraculously, I lived to cross that line and collect my medal. I might have been foaming at the mouth a bit when my wife took this photo but, fortunately, that wonderful autumn, late afternoon lighting in Central Park worked in my favor. Shortly after that, I tearfully announced my retirement from the sport.

But you never know.

He's Eatin' Pizza.

2007-11-25T21:56:00.000-05:00

My family and I spent the Thanksgiving weekend near Chicago with my wife's family. Evidence that I am old: my legs ache from playing football on Friday morning. Other than my wife's brother-in-law and me, the game's oldest participant was eleven. That kid can move, though.

On Saturday, we left my sister-in-law's house and headed downtown. I used Priceline to get a hotel room that was inexpensive and very close to Michigan Ave. and although our room was vaguely grimy ("I'm not showering in that dirty place!" said my 6-year-old son) a good time was had by all. The area was jammed with doughy tourists and suburbanites, and I did my part Doughboy pride by taking my family to Gino's East. I did this despite the facts that: a) it's probably the single biggest tourist-magnet restaurant in town; b) if there are no tables available, they make you wait in line outside in the cold, even though the bar is wide-open; and c) the signature dish, deep dish pizza is not, in fact, pizza, but rather a casserole with thick crust (there oughta be a law).

Nevertheless, we had a good time. The walls at Gino's are covered with graffiti, which my 6-year-old enjoyed immensely, since he can now spell "fart." I wondered if I ever wrote my name on the walls anywhere in the place when I lived in Chicago, but chances are, I guess, that they paint over everything more than once every 15 or 20 years.

Certain areas of the restaurant, however, are off-limits to graffiti.

I used a camera phone to take this pic in the men's room just before I got arrested. And look what else:

That's right, it reads, "Dylan '07." Bob Dylan wrote his name over the urinal at Gino's East! He did exactly what the sign told him not to do! He pulled the cap off his Sharpie*, looked in the eyes of the Man and said, Take that, Man!

Zimmy, you're the man. Not the man, but the man. You know what I mean, man.

*I realize there's an anatomical joke to be made here. See you in comments!

Set Me Down on a Television Floor.

2007-11-19T21:37:00.000-05:00

I guess this has been what the young kids with their blogs and their face books and their my spaces call a "light blogging" week. I traveled for a few days, had a million things to do over the weekend, and now seem to be having trouble thinking of anything to post about. (Did you notice how I just ended a sentence with a preposition? I've always been a rebel.) Is this writer's block?

Let me tell you what I just did. I lugged an old television set out to the curb. It's out there now, sadly awaiting its fate. Does it have regrets? Is it sorry for having sucked me into hours of mesmerizing trash, when I could have been doing better things, like surfing for porn? I have a feeling it will be rescued by a kindly, if misguided, TV addict who will soon be disappointed to realize that he needs to smack the side of it every three minutes to keep the picture from vanishing. Good luck to you, my trash-picking neighbor friend!

My wife bought the TV twenty years ago; it was black and clutter free and at the time, it seemed quite high-tech. As I hauled it outside, though, it felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds, a big, crappy antique.

The first TV set I remember was my parents', way back in the middle of the last century, when I was a little kid. It only received three channels -- it didn't even have UHF. I know what you're thinking: Why didn't the child welfare people intervene? All I can say in response is that things were different in those days.

I would get home from school at about 3:00 and watch Dark Shadows, a vampire soap opera. That's right, you heard me -- a vampire soap opera. Barnabas Collins was the main vampire's name, and I'm sure there were all kinds of not-so-subtle sexual references, what with the biting of the necks and all, but I just wanted to see the guy turn into a bat. Now, as I look at a photo of him, I realize why I thought he was so cool -- he was played by George Harrison, badly in need of a gig as his band disintegrated. You go, Quiet Beatle!

Once or twice a week, I'd walk down the street to a friend's house, a rich kid who had a TV that pulled in five channels. Five! That was living! One of the extra stations was channel 19, WXIX, the home of Larry Smith's Puppets. Larry and his gang would cut up between cartoons. His cast included Snarfy the Dog and, I think, something called Nasty Old Thing who, as far as I can recall, did not wear a stained trench coat and reveal himself to unsuspecting passersby. I could be wrong about that.

The puppet I recollect most vividly was Hattie the Witch, aka Batty Hattie from Cincinnati (not to be confused with the Cool Ghoul). That's Hattie on the far right in the picture below. I remember her being wartier. In retrospect, she reminds me of my old boss, only less ill-tempered.

Funny I'd think of all this now, when it hasn't crossed my mind in years. It makes me wonder a little if this the kind of thing I'll obsess over when I'm eighty-five. I guess there are worse things to remember.

Live on Tour.

2007-11-14T11:25:00.001-05:00

On Monday afternoon, I flew to Atlanta for an evening dinner and all-day Tuesday meeting with some of my new colleagues. (See photo to the left for an example of typical Atlanta architecture.)

I don't do that well in cocktail party situations, when I don't know the other guests. Ever since my teen years, I've never liked going to big parties unless I'm in the company of my friends. So, the drinks before dinner on Monday were awkward, but dinner was another story. Dinner parties are easy, because you're there, sitting at table, everyone thrown together. There's none of this having to march up to a group of strangers and interjecting yourself into their conversation. I guess not everyone sees it that way, huh?

The next day's meeting went well, although I can't shake the feeling that I have no clue what's going on. There were moments when I thought, "You people might as well be speaking Chinese, for all I understand." I'll get over that, though -- eventually.

From Atlanta, I flew to Orlando, where I am now. I'm here at Disney World for a department conference. My family and I visited a couple of years ago, and before that, I'd never had any desire to come here. In fact, I'd actively resisted the idea for a long time. Once we got here, of course, a good time was had by all, but it's weird being here solo. It just makes me miss my kids.

Everyone's Gone to the Movies.

2007-11-11T21:46:00.000-05:00

There are a lot of movies out right now that I'd like to see -- No Country for Old Men and American Gangster, to name just two -- plus the upcoming trip into Bob Dylan's secret life, I'm Not There. Last night, though, I saw Jerry Seinfeld's Bee Movie. Why? Because I have kids, lots and lots of kids, and my wife would be pissed if I took them to an R-rated blood-fest, or the story of womanizing, drug abusing rock star. She's old-fashioned that way.

So, we saw the animated Bee Movie. I have a lot of residual affection for Seinfeld, based on the glory days of his tv show, and the movie isn't bad, exactly, but it's forgettable. I'm virtually certain I laughed once or twice, but as I sit here today, I couldn't tell you much about the plot, and I couldn't come up with any lines worth quoting. That's what's really a shame about the movie: the guy who was Seinfeld doesn't say one thing worth remembering in a 90-minute film.

I love movies, and always have. These days, I see so few that when I watch something mediocre like this that could have been so much better, I'm really disappointed. I read reviews and keep a list of films I want to see, but I just can't get to them like I used to. Maybe my New Year's resolution will be to see more movies in 2008. I realize that's not exactly up there with "give more time to my favorite charity" or "put aside old resentments," but -- oh, just stop judging me, damn it.

There was a time when I'd say I wanted to be a film critic. Needless to say, I never actually pursued it, but I realize now that if I had, I would have found that criticism is a lot more difficult than I'd imagined. In my mind, I saw myself watching two or three movies during the day, then heading home to dash of my insightful, witty and often withering reviews before a martini or two with other critics who were secretly jealous of me. See, I'd managed to become popular and wealthy without compromising my aesthetic principles. They hated me for that -- hated me, even as they wanted to be me or sleep with me or both.

The reality is that I don't have the kind of mind that can come up with any true insight about a movie. I probably would have ended up as a small town, local news, "this movie has too much sex!" plot-recapper who doubled as the weekend non-meteorologist weather guy who dresses in a hot dog costume for church cookoffs. And they still would have wanted to sleep with me.

I still try my hand at the occasional review, though. If I ever get out to a movie again, I'll write another. In the meantime, here's one I wrote a while back.

Grizzly Man

I finally saw Grizzly Man, the fascinating, harrowing story of Timothy Treadwell, a true headcase who marched off into the Alaskan wilderness every summer, to live among the grizzly bears. This went on for thirteen years, until one of his ursine friends got too hungry to resist the temptation of Treadwell and his girlfriend.

Werner Herzog directed the film, using beautiful footage shot by Treadwell himself. It begins with a great scene, a couple of bears just walking through an open field in the vast landscape of Alaska. I began to tense up almost immediately after that, when Treadwell comes into the frame, starts talking to and about the bears, and when one gets close, sticks his hand out and touches its snout.

Dude! Don’t you see the teeth on that thing?

Treadwell was a self-styled “protector” of grizzlies, although the “protecting” seems largely to have been a figment of his imagination. Herzog, narrating, notes that the bears live in a huge national park and so are already well protected. In fact, if Treadwell knew much about the animals, there’s not a lot of evidence of that in the footage Herzog used. At one point, Treadwell says, (paraphrased) “Until I came up here, no one knew about these bears. No one knew they could decapitate! No one knew they could bite!”

I’m no naturalist, but I’m pretty sure people knew grizzly bears could bite. (As I was walking my dog the other night, another guy made a huge arc to my right as he passed us. When he said he was afraid of dogs, I told him mine wouldn’t hurt anybody. “Hey,” he said, “if has teeth, it can bite.”) So the film begins with that glimpse of Treadwell’s state of mind, and documents his growing self-delusion. For whatever reason, I was particularly unnerved when, after one of his favorite bears relieves herself on a rock and moves on, he walks to the pile she left behind and lovingly places his hand on it.

“You might think it’s weird that I’m doing this,” he says (paraphrasing), “touching her poop like this. But it was in her, it was part of her, and she’s so beautiful.” Yikes.

It’s really a sad story. In Treadwell’s mind, he was doing good things for the animals, but from outside his head it’s hard to believe someone so clueless and self-absorbed managed to make it through thirteen summers up there. He admits to alcohol problems in his past, and friends and family report drug abuse and unmedicated manic depression. I guess I pity him and dislike him at the same time.

Grizzly Man reminded me of a book by Jon Krakauer, Into the Wild, the true story of a promising recent college graduate, a star student and athlete, who abandoned his possessions, changed his name to “Alexander Supertramp” and walked off into the Alaskan wilderness, where he ultimately died after getting lost, injuring himself and eating poisoned berries. He was reckless, he was a fool, and just the pseudonym he chose for himself was enough for me to dislike him. Yet there was something likeable about him.

Treadwell’s delusions of grandeur got two people killed. Periodically throughout the movie, a coroner describes the remains he examined and, more disturbingly, the audio recording of Treadwell and his girlfriend being attacked by the bear. He talks about how the recording helped him determine exactly how the pair died; it’s beyond brutal. His girlfriend, who was afraid of bears, must have been there strictly out of loyalty to Treadwell. She didn’t have to die.

Why don’t I completely hate him?

**********************************************

Special Hidden Bonus Track

For my brief review of Brokeback Mountain, click here.

I'm at the Apple Store . . .

2007-11-08T20:39:00.000-05:00

. . . playing around with Photobooth.

I believe I'm willing to pay $2,000 for a new iMac, just so I can get this software.

uh oh, here comes the sales guy . . . I mean, here comes the Apple iPod Leopard OS X iPhone iGenius from the Genius Bar . . . gotta go, bye.

A Japanese Woman in Her Underwear.

2007-11-07T22:43:00.000-05:00

This is not porn! No, this young, half-naked Japanese woman is helping save the environment by wearing a specially designed bra that contains a pocket to hold compact chopsticks, thereby reducing the use of disposable chopsticks. Thank you, young, half-naked Japanese woman!

Al Gore, if you're reading this -- and I know you are -- you'll want watch this important video of the young, half-naked Japanese woman doing her part to combat climate change:

Now, that's Nobel Prize-worthy.

In other news, site traffic here at Dodging Lions has increased dramatically. I will investigate this surge once the young, half-naked Japanese woman story blows over.

Life, art, etc.

2007-11-06T21:55:00.000-05:00

A comment by Misplaced to one of my earlier posts reminded me of a true tale, which I will present in the form of one-act play.

The scene: LDP toils in the fields beneath a blazing Cincinnati sun. His broad back strains as he labors and he sweats the sweat of a working man. Buzzards circle menacingly overhead. Somewhere, a phone rings, and LDP turns his square-jawed face toward the sound. Reluctantly, he drops his tools and paces across the estate and through the back door of his house.

He picks up the phone.

LDP: Hello?

Misp*: Hey! What are you doing?

LDP: I'm cleaning dog crap out of my back yard. What are you doing?

Misp: I'm at the beach.

LDP: The what?

Misp: The beach?

LDP: You're at a waterpark?

Misp: No, a real beach. In Nice!

LDP: What's Neaps?

Misp: No, Nice -- in France.

LDP: Wait, you're in the south of France?

Misp: Yeah!

LDP: (bewildered silence)

Misp: And guess who I just met!

LDP: I -- uh --

Misp: Pete Townshend! I just met Pete Townshend!

LDP: I have to go now. (He gently places the phone handset in its cradle as a single tear rolls down his cheek.)

Curtain.

*Back then, Misplaced was still known as Misp, which is what we called him on the rough-and-tumble streets of our childhood, when we attended the school of hard knocks.

I Can't Explain.

2007-11-05T21:29:00.000-05:00

In the late 1970s, when I was a teenager, I listened to the Doors a lot. That's right, when I could have been discovering the Ramones, the Clash, Elvis Costello and Talking Heads, I was listening to the Lizard King and his sidemen. (Sample lyric: Ride the snake . . . to the lake . . . the snake is old . . . and his skin is cold.) I am not proud of this.

On the other hand, I also loved the Who. Loved them. They were pretty well past their prime, but I didn't care. I had a photo of Pete Townshend in my locker and and for I'd go for weeks listening to nothing but his band's music. A few weeks ago, I listened to Quadrophenia for the first time in years and was surprised to realize that I knew the all the lyrics to every song. Man, those guys were good.

I'm thinking of the Who now because I'm watching a documentary called Amazing Journey: The Story of the Who. It has all the usual VH-1 rock-doc elements: tension among the band members; drug abuse; cheating managers; the whole bit. But it also has rare footage, insightful commentary and incredibly powerful music. I'm kind of rocking back and forth right now as I listen to "A Quick One While He's Away," and I remember doing the same thing years ago, in a movie theatre at a midnight showing of The Kids are Alright, except then I managed to break the chair I was sitting in.

Of course, there's the sad stuff: 45 minutes into the show and we've already seen Keith Moon's now-ancient mother saying, "He was always a good boy, always did what I asked him. That's what I don't understand." It won't be long, I'm sure, until we get to the band's infamous 1979 concert in Cincinnati, when 11 people died.

Right now, though, it's "Happy Jack" and "I Can See for Miles." I look forward to "Baba O'Riley," when, undoubtedly I'll reminisce about the time I was visiting a friend in college and he leapt up in a picture-perfect Townshend imitation and hit his head on a door frame, resulting in a hurried trip to the emergency room for stitches in his gashed head. That's called sacrificing for your art.

I'm trying to do real work right now, but the music is drawing me in, and I can't think of anything else. I suppose I should have grown out of this by now, but in a way, I'm glad I haven't.

In Which I Summarize My Thoughts from My First Two Weeks on the Job.

2007-11-05T07:01:00.001-05:00

Don't fuck up . . . don't fuck up . . . do NOT fuck up!

Well, the Moral of This Story . . .

2007-11-04T21:20:00.000-05:00

A Texas town is for sale, exclusively on eBay. I'd write a fictional story about that, but who'd believe anyone would ever pay for a piece of that state? The other thing is, it's already been written. There's a Donald Barthelme short story called, "I Bought a Little City," and I listened to a reading of it in a New Yorker podcast on my way home from Chicago last weekend. It's an odd, wry piece, the kind of writing that a part of me feels as if I might have inside myself somewhere, although the rest of me realizes that's just wishful thinking. It's a funny story, but with a little bit of menace. Listen to it here.

I've always had it somewhere in the back of my mind that I'd like to be a writer. I never really did anything about it, and although I enjoy working on this blog, I doubt one or two silly posts per week will ever get me anywhere. I heard "I Bought a Little City," then read it, and it seemed so easy, as if I could just come home, sit down at my laptop, and knock out something just as good. I guess that's what the pros do, though -- they make it all look simple.

And that brings me to another New Yorker podcast I heard on the same trip: Richard Ford reading John Cheever's "Reunion." It's an amazing story, "economical," as they say in the podcast commentary. And talk about making it look easy.

Writing like that is inspiring and discouraging at the same time. Know what I mean? I guess I'll keep plugging away at this blog, knowing what my limits are, but allowing myself the occasional delusion.

Sing it to You Right.

2007-10-29T22:03:00.000-04:00

The trip to Chicago was brief but exciting. On the way there, I made better time than I have in probably 17 years. I drove by myself, a thermos of coffee and an iPod my only friends. I call the the thermos "Speedy." He's nice.

My family had left Cincinnati at noon on Friday. They drove through heavy rain for several hours, and my 6-year-old son vomited a number of times. My wife was in a remarkably good humor when I arrived, all things considered, although it might have been the exhaustion talking. After spending some time with her family, we left the kids with her sister and drove to meet our friends Sara and Steve at their house in Evanston, where we piled into their car and headed downtown. I wore an old, novelty watch and when Steve asked what was on it, I told him it was a newsboy. "A what?" Sara asked.

"A newsboy."

"You have a nude boy on your watch?"

"Yeah," I said, "I got it in Thailand." (That was funny at the time, but now I'm afraid it might get my blog shut down.)

We had an excellent dinner, during which Steve convinced me to get duck confit salad. "The duck is marinated in its own fat," he told me. How could I resist? It was delicious, and the wine and the rest of the meal were, too, but the best part was the conversation. As I've mentioned before, I've known Steve since we were 5 or 6 years old; I've known Sara since the two of them were dating in college, which was over 20 years ago. It was a good feeling, just hanging out.

The concert was kick-ass (this blog now rated NC-17). Amos Lee, a serviceable, competent singer and guitar player performed seven or eight songs that all sounded alike, or maybe it was one long song.

Elvis Costello took the stage next and sent Amos back to rock star school. Elvis had no band, just his guitars and his voice. I saw him in a solo show like that in Ann Arbor, and a quick search of the internet -- friend, advisor, secret lover -- reminds me that show was in 1984. I can close my eyes and envision Elvis of 23 years ago, and I can say that the Elvis of last Saturday sounded just as good. (I guess I'm getting to the age now where almost anything I do, see, say, hear, etc., is an opportunity to engage in nostalgia.)

And Bob Dylan? Steve pointed out that he sounded like the kid with asthma on Malcolm in the Middle, but the fact that I've listened to his music every day for the last 30 years gave me a distinct advantage over the non-fan. Where I understood every word, my wife claims all she heard was "Mwah wmah whah Minnesota mwah . . . "

To which I say, Yeah, and?

One More Cup of Coffee.

2007-10-27T06:01:00.000-04:00

I was supposed to leave for Chicago last night after work, but I was wiped out. I'd really forgotten what's it's like to be new to a job. So far, the people seem really nice, but there are so many of them. And so much work! On the bright side, I'm only 20 years away from retirement. So close, I can taste it.

Now it's time for me to start driving to Chicago. As usual, the long lonesome road will tempt me to a life of long-haul trucking: black coffee; cb radio; and speed. For this weekend, though, I'll stick to the plan -- early drinks and dinner with my wife and friends, then Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan at the Chicago Theatre. Listen for my squeals.

I Pity the Poor Immigrant.

2007-10-25T20:07:00.002-04:00

Cleaning out a filing cabinet the other day, I found my first passport, which I got in 1974 in preparation for a trip to Italy with my parents. My wife pointed out that in this photo, I look more like a kid coming to the U.S., perhaps in steerage.

I had several observations: 1) hey kid, nice collars; 2) that haircut looks better on me than it does on Ken Burns; and 3) I was 10 years old and had a little nascent facial hair -- now that's virility for ya.

Notes from Maggie's Farm (part 4)

2007-10-22T21:47:00.000-04:00

My first day at the new job went reasonably well. I say "reasonably" not because anyone did or said anything that gave me pause; in fact, if anything, I provided them plenty of reasons to regret their hiring decision. See, I was sick all weekend, with some pesky combination of cold and flu-like symptoms. Saturday, I was sluggish all day, and on Sunday morning, I almost fainted after about five minutes of throwing a football with my son. After that, I slept on and off all day, then tossed and turned all night.

Believing calling in sick on my first day would be a rather inauspicious start, I dragged my ass out of bed and went to work this morning. I had this delightful combination of intestinal distress and one of those head colds that renders it impossible to hear what anyone says, yet somehow makes your own voice echo and rattle around in your skull. As I walked around the office, meeting my new colleagues, my conversations sounded like Charlie Brown talking to an adult, with the adult voiced by a muted trumpet. "Hi, I'm Louis," I'd say.

"Wah-wah, wah wah-wah waaaahh" they'd respond.

"Thanks, I'm really looking forward to it," I'd reply, except in my head I heard, "THANKS! I'M REALLY! LOOKING FORWARD FORWARD FORWARD! TO IT IT IT IT!"

"Wah-wah, wah wah-wah-wah?"

"Oh, about seven years," I'd reply, taking a wild stab at what they might have asked. This went on ad nauseam -- and I do mean nauseam.

I have some groundbreaking observations from my week off that I want to report -- for instance, can I be the only person who thinks Barbara Walters looks as if she smells of formaldehyde? -- but now, I'm off to bed, hoping for a healthier day tomorrow.

The Jugglers and the Clowns.

2007-10-18T13:35:00.000-04:00

The gym at 11:30 in the morning is a very different place than it is at dawn. Generally, it's much less crowded at the later hour, and the mix of people has changed: fewer knuckleheads admiring their own biceps in the mirrors, and more moms. Sitting at my coffee shop retreat now and reflecting on this, I conclude the late-morning crowd is flat-out better. Chalk up another point in favor of not having a job.

A sparsely populated locker room is a good locker room. When I'm there, whether I'm showering, shaving, changing clothes, or what have you, I do whatever I can to send out "don't talk to me" vibes. Sometimes this means keeping my iPod's earbuds in even if the music stops; other times, it means I try to look angry as hell, as if I'm about to snap. I've found this dual approach works, and it's spared me many an unwanted conversation with Chatty McTalkathon, who's always there when I arrive at 5:45 a.m., dressed head-to-toe in heavy, black sweats. He yaks away to the hapless and less prepared guys who glance furtively around the room, wishing for a secret exit -- maybe a trapdoor -- that can get them out quickly and without a fuss. Meanwhile, I just look pissed as I stuff my things in a locker and head out to the gym floor. Usually, I see him out there for a few minutes, but by the time I'm back in the locker room an hour or so later, there he is, stripped down to his tighty-whities, talking up a storm. (And yes, that's his real name. I know it is because his sister Gabby lives across the street from me.)

Unfortunately, some things in a locker room, you can't avoid: sights and sounds so horrible that, once they enter your brain, become permanently seared in your memory. That may be unique to men's locker rooms, where there is absolutely no privacy. My wife -- whom we'll call "Red," because other than "Big Red" there are no nicknames that a redhead likes more -- was shocked when I told her a couple of years ago that the men's showers at our gym were "community" style. You see things you'd rather not, because there's no way around it. Our conversation went like this:

LDP: You can't imagine, the hair on some of these guys.

Red: You mean you look?

LDP: Well, there's no choice. Any way you turn, there's a body -- a flabby, spotty body. I could walk around with my eyes closed, but then I could end up touching, which I have to think would be even worse than seeing.

Red: Yuck.

LDP: Tell me about it.

Red: Well, I wouldn't look.

LDP: Wait, you've never looked at another woman in a locker room? I find that hard to believe.

Red: Well, it's true.

LDP: So you'd never look? Never sneak a peak? What if it's Monica Bellucci in there with you?

Red: Who's Monica Bellucci?

LDP: (stunned silence)

LDP: Okay, then . . . Angelina Jolie?

Red: Nope.

LDP: Come on, not just a little glimpse as she wrapped herself in a towel?

Red: (exasperated sigh) What're you, 16 years old?

I'm not exactly sure how, but that ended our conversation.
All of which brings me to something that happened the other day. I worked out and showered, as usual, then proceeded to the sinks to shave. Luckily, Marty Moleback had already finished his ablutions. Marty is probably in his mid-70s; he likes to stand naked at the sink and put one foot up on the counter. He proceeds to smear lotion on his leg, from toes to upper thigh, then repeats the process on his other leg. He'd just finished, so I had the whole row of four sinks to myself. I chose the one on the far left, in keeping with my zone-of-personal-space policy, and began to shave.

A moment or two later, I heard a blow dryer start to my left. Instinctively, I turned my head, but the guy there wasn't drying his hair (probably because he was bald). Instead, he had the dryer pointed at his . . . nether regions. This struck me as a violation of the rules of etiquette, but I doubt Emily Post addresses the subject. When I told my wife, she was taken aback, but not as disturbed as I thought she should have been.

LDP: Come on, isn't that just creepy?

Red: Did he fluff it?

LDP: Did he what?

Red: Fluff it. You know, tease it, make sure everything got dry?

LDP: I have no idea.

Red: Didn't you look?

LDP: No, I did not look. Ick.

Red: You're homophobic.

LDP: I fail to see how not wanting to watch a guy tease his pubic hair and adjust his scrotum makes me homophobic.

Red: (exasperated sigh) What're you, 16 years old?

Oh, well played, Red. Well played. But I'll continue to keep my eyes to myself.

Idiot Wind.

2007-10-17T10:51:00.000-04:00

President Bush's press conference is going on as I write this. He just finished tripping all over his written remarks, and now he's stumbling and smirking as he "answers" reporters' questions. What's left to be said about this guy? How did such a colossal idiot become the world's most powerful man? I see him, and I get why the whole world hates us. And yet, I keep watching. Am I a masochist?

Lift Up Your Glasses and Sing.

2007-10-15T23:24:00.000-04:00

Just got home from the fantastic Bob Dylan concert. Amos Lee was the opening act, and he was good, but Dylan wiped the floor with him. When I say "wiped the floor," I mean Bob came out on stage, grabbed Amos by the ankles, and mopped the sweat off the stage with him. It was cool; you should've seen it.

Read Books, Repeat Quotations.

2007-10-15T09:51:00.000-04:00

First off, let's clear the air: Yes, those are my legs. It's okay to be jealous.

My feet are up as I begin the week that will almost certainly be the high point of my so-called career. I'm between jobs, with no employer until next Monday. I walked my kids to school this morning, and on my way home, I stopped at a coffee shop. That was two hours ago, and I'm still sitting here at a window seat, watching the passing parade of retirees, students and stay-at-home mothers. Something I realized about myself a long time ago is that I'm not one of those people who "need to work." I mean, I need to work to pay the mortgage, but I don't have that inner drive or whatever it is that some people have, that keeps them going to their jobs day after day, long after they could have retired comfortably. Perhaps this explains my less-than-meteoric career trajectory, but I'll tell you what -- sitting here reading, people watching, writing -- I could do it every day. I know a lot people, men in particular, see this as a lack of ambition, but to them I say, Who gives a shit what you think?

"But what would you do all day?" The answer to this question -- why, I'd do exactly this all day -- strikes me as so blindingly obvious that I can't imagine why someone would ask in the first place. An old friend of mine and his wife recently moved to Paris, where she's going to grad school and he's writing. I imagine he must hear that question all the time. Personally, I admire the decision even as it fills me with a jealous rage so great that I refuse to speak to him.

Cincinnati's no Paris (it's a very close second) but I have no doubt I could fill every day with something that would interest me. I'd love to give writing a serious try, but I'm plagued by my lack of talent. Still, I'm enjoying sitting here typing away. I could stroll across the street to the park after this, maybe write there for a while, or read the paper. Then, walk home, maybe do some laundry and have lunch, make the beds and walk the dog. By mid-afternoon, I'll be ready to head back down the street to pick my kids up from school.

Does that sound unambitious to you? If so . . . well, please see my response above.

I'm (Still) Not There.

2007-10-12T20:35:00.000-04:00

I mentioned in another post that I'm seeing Bob Dylan in concert next week (woo hoo!) but I'm missing out on the I-can-die-now combo of him and Elvis Costello (awww) because for reasons unexplained, E.C. is skipping Cincinnati. Maybe he's pissed that he didn't get here in time for the world's largest chicken dance, I don't know.

Anyway, last week I got an email from a friend in Chicago; her husband Steve’s birthday is later this month and she suggested that my wife and I go up there and join them for . . . the Elvis Costello/Bob Dylan concert at the Chicago Theatre (woo hoo!) So I'm thinking about Bob Dylan all over again and my mind is wandering all over the place. It occurs to me that I used a one of his lines as my "senior quote" (now there's a phrase that makes me cringe) when I graduated high school 25 years ago, and here I am today, and how many times have I quoted him just in this shiny, brand-new blog? I realize some people might see this as sad, sorry and even pathetic. I prefer to think of it as an "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" kind of thing.

I became a fan when I was maybe 15 years old. This was the late '70s, when Dylan was in his Jesus phase and liking him had long since ceased being cool. I was hooked pretty quickly after hearing Blood on the Tracks, and Steve (the same one who’s turning 44 later this month) and I dug through his catalog and we each developed our own set of favorites, making mixed-tape after mixed-tape.

He and I saw Dylan live in 1981 or '82; I remember turning to an acquaintance and saying, "If he leads off with 'Serve Somebody,' I'm walking out." But I stayed, we all stayed. What a show, a mere two-and-a-half decades ago.

Later, in college, a girlfriend taught me how to write "Bob Dylan" in Hebrew, which gave me innumerable notebook doodling ideas when I should have been taking notes in class. Meanwhile, that new skill was well-timed with the release of Infidels in 1983, one of several Dylan "comeback" albums, and his first secular music in years. A cassette of that record was the soundtrack of a 4 1/2-hour drive Steve and I took from Cincinnati to Ann Arbor, during which we drank beer and smoked cigars with the windows closed. When we showed up at the home of a friend of his, the friend’s minister father did not invite us in, despite our delightful manners. I guess he was more of a "Born-Again Bob" kind of guy.

Got out of college, moved to Chicago, and my first couple of years there passed in sort of a blur. I listened to Bob Dylan on and off, but I wouldn't say he provided the soundtrack for that period. In 1989, when I was in Rome ~~on a boondoggle~~ studying, I attended another Dylan show, this one with "festival seating," which I guess in Italy means pulling away the yellow police tape and letting the throng of drunks stampede to the stands. Being one of that throng, I don't remember much about the show except that Edie Brickell was the opening act and I think she really dug me.

So now I'm seeing him two more times in the next few weeks, once with a guy I've known since kindergarten. It's dawning on me as I write this that it's pretty cool to have been friends with someone for that long. I'm glad we're getting the chance to get together for something we'll both enjoy, and it'll be great fun to throw our underwear on the stage together.

Notes from Maggie's Farm (part 3)

2007-10-10T14:53:00.000-04:00

Last week I wrote "goodbye and thank you" email that I'd intended to send out to my colleagues today, since my last day on the job is tomorrow. I'd written it and saved a draft, adding addressees as their names occurred to me. Unfortunately, after a few rounds of this, I inadvertently clicked "send" one afternoon, and the email went out about 10 days before I'd planned. At least I didn't write anything stupid or insulting, as is my wont, but it must have looked as if I wanted to get the word out so there'd be plenty of time for me to receive adulation and free lunches.

I've been with this company for more than 7 1/2 years, which is far longer than I've ever held any other job. There's good reason for that: of the three jobs I've had since law school, this one was easily the best. When I addressed the email, I thought about that and realized I'd worked with a lot of really nice people over the years. I'll be lucky if I have the same kind of co-worker at my new company.

Anyway, speaking of free lunches, look what I found as I cleaned out my desk! Who's hungry? (Sorry, gizzards available only at select locations.)

So I Hocked My Sailor Suit.

2007-10-06T22:11:00.000-04:00

First off - my urine is clean! So says LabCorp, although I could have told them that. Just held that cup up to the light, swirled it a bit . . . well, you know the drill. I'm not telling you anything you don't know, right?

The test result cleared the way to a new job, which means the opportunity to redesign my look. I know what you're saying -- don't paint over the Sistine Chapel ceiling! -- and you make an excellent point. Rest assured, I'm not talking about an extreme makeover or anything; my brow is already youthful and smooth as glass, my lips deliciously pouty. No, what I want to do is reassert myself with a look that emphasizes my intellectualism, my urban hipness, my hip urbanness, and of course my to-the-very-core sexiness.

And what could do that better than a new pair of glasses? After an exhaustive search, I'm down to two frames that I think really complete my image. Here they are:

The "Harry Caray"

The "Uncle Jun"

I know, I know . . . they're both so hot that it's not even fair. I rock a pair of jumbo eyeglasses like not too many other guys can. So which should I get? As a a little token of my appreciation for your opinion, here's a naked picture of me. No credit card necessary.

Notes from Maggie's Farm (part 2)

2007-10-04T06:28:00.000-04:00

I gave my notice and handed in my letter of resignation. Woo hoo! Or, as a friend of mine used to say, "Party ass, man!" (Not to be confused with, "Party, ass man!")

Sick of the poke of the Man's thumb in my eye, I marched into my boss' office and said, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it any more!"

And I stared -- oh, I stared long and hard -- and then I said, "I'm not out of order! You're out of order! You're out of order! The whole trial is out of order! They're out of order!"

I sensed I was on a roll. "Cut the horseshit, son," I said. "Who dropped a whole truckload of fizzies into the swim meet? Who delivered the medical school cadavers to the alumni dinner? Every Halloween, the trees are filled with underwear. Every spring, the toilets explode.

"Now you listen to me, you smooth talking son-of-a-bitch," I continued, "let me lay it on the line for you and your boss, whoever he is. Johnny Fontane will never get that movie!"

Did I show her, or what?

Property of Jesus.

2007-10-02T06:43:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, the Cincinnati Enquirer (a local publication loosely referred to as a “newspaper”) ran an unusually sensible opinion piece, titled, “Congress needs to step in, make birth control more affordable.” Needless to say, the article was not written by an Enquirer staff member. Instead, a local graduate student wrote it, and she argued persuasively that via a simple fix by Congress, contraception could and should become accessible to college students and low-income women. She pointed out that until last January, birth control was relatively affordable, but costs soared as a result of the federal Deficit Reduction Act.

Seems obvious, doesn’t it, that affordable contraception is a good thing?

“No!” shouts local resident Clyde Stauffer, wearing his bathrobe and shaking his fist in his front yard:

The writer . . . set forth a position that may be expressed as follows:

Young women have a "right" to engage in unlimited sexual activity.

They have a "right" to be free from untoward consequences of such activity; therefore

Congress has an "obligation" to act so as to facilitate those "rights."

I don't believe either of her premises is correct (hence the conclusion is invalid). I don't believe the authors of the Constitution thought that one of the duties of the legislative branch is to promote untrammeled fornication. The writer's concern for an unimpeded educational outcome for these young women is commendable. She might better spend her energies on suggesting changes in their behavior to that end, rather than seeking congressional action in support of questionable activities.

Clyde clearly didn’t get any in college – and believe me, I feel his pain – but he so totally mischaracterizes the column that I wonder if he even read it. Plus, isn’t untrammeled fornication the very best kind of fornication there is?

Meanwhile, in a related story, desperate, pandering presidential candidate Sen. John McCain (remember when he seemed like an okay guy?) says Christians make the best presidents and the Constitution established the U.S. as a "Christian nation." Now, I'm not a historian or a lawyer or a Revolutionary War re-enactor, but I'm pretty sure there's no mention of Jesus in our founding documents. I'll go back and check, but I think I'm right on this one.

Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?

2007-09-30T21:56:00.000-04:00

During my lunch hour the other day, I went to one of those lab testing places for a drug screening. No particular reason; it's just something I do. If you don't get it, well then that's your problem. Don't go judging me -- I'm sick of being judged by squares.

On this day, I found a cozy little place nestled comfortably under the expressway overpass near my office. Seeing only one other car in the parking lot (whose owner might have been at the check cashing place next door) I strode confidently through the front entrance. "I'm here to give a urine sample!" I announced with pride.

A very old couple in the waiting room halted their whispered conversation as their eyes followed me across the room. The massive woman behind the glass glanced up briefly, then returned to her telephone conversation. I arrived at her desk and smiled. "Hi, I'm LDP," I said.

She didn't look up, or even miss a beat in her phone dialogue. "Yeah," she said into the mouthpiece, "I lost my license . . . yeah, that's right . . . aw, hell yeah! I had to walk! By the time I got there, I was all sweaty and shit!"

"Excuse me, " I said, "but I'm here for --"

"I'm with somebody right now," she barked. "I know it don't look like it, but I am."

I stared. She said, "Go sit down."

"Okay."

I turned and saw the old couple. The man was talking, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice down. The woman stared straight ahead, looking frustrated and a tad dizzy. Her companion got louder. "I don't have herpes," he said.

She folded her arms and said nothing.

"I don't have herpes!"

Silence.

"Come on, now," he said, "I don't!"

The old woman opened her mouth, which I can only describe as jack-o-lantern-esque, and emitted a noise that sounded somewhere between, "Bah!" and the clucking of an angry hen.

"Mom, I DO NOT HAVE HERPES!"

Slowly, methodically, and without making any sudden movements, I took a seat on the other side of the room.

The rest of my appointment was essentially uneventful. Eventually, the woman behind the glass called my name. She turned out to be really nice, although she lacked what we corporate climbers like to call a "sense of urgency." She led me to the back, handed me a clear, plastic cup, and pointed to a small bathroom. "Go to it," she said.

And did I go to it? Oh yes, I went to it. But you wouldn't understand.

My Loss Will Be Your Gain.

2007-09-29T21:29:00.000-04:00

I just returned from the ballpark, where the Reds took a one-hit, 4-0 thumping at the hands of the Chicago Cubs' second-stringers. Good news, though: the place was packed. The inevitable bad news: the place was packed with Cubs fans. The crowd was 35,000 strong, and about 25,000 were there to celebrate Chicago's clinching the Central Division crown.

It's funny, Wrigley Field is a great place, and I had plenty of fun there when I lived in Chicago, but a day there is a less a sporting event than it is the world's largest chugging contest. The typical crowd there isn't exactly known for its baseball acumen. I'll hand it to all those Cubs fans who made their way to Cincinnati, though. That was pretty cool, and they had the ballpark rocking like it never has in its five-year history. I'd say it must have been pretty demoralizing for the Reds, but how much enthusiasm could they really have left after six months of having their asses kicked?

But don't just take my word for it. Listen to the perspective of another Reds fan:

Notes from Maggie's Farm

2007-09-28T21:12:00.001-04:00

My boss storms to the threshold of my office, waving a few sheets of paper in her hand. "What is this?" she yells. "What is this?!"

It crosses my mind that maybe it's time for me to seek other employment. In fact, as I mull over the odd little outburst, I wonder why I didn't have this particular epiphany earlier. Perhaps something should have dawned on me when, during a conversation on her first or second day on the job, she uttered the phrases, "I'm a bulldog," and "There's a new sheriff in town." In one sentence.

I'd always wondered if there were people who actually talked like that. Turns out, there are. Well, there's at least one.

Send for the Nurse.

2007-09-26T22:16:00.000-04:00

I have a hideous wart on my toe. To be precise -- and precision is key when discussing lumpy, gray skin growths -- this wart is on the "knuckle" of my left big toe. It's unfortunate, because I'm an otherwise perfect specimen of virility. When people stare at me, I want them looking at my square jaw and Nordic features, not at this monstrous deformity. I've experimented with all kinds of cures, to no avail. Someone told me I should freeze it off, and I tried that, but standing there in the kitchen for hours with my foot jammed between the ice cream and the box of corn dogs got really old, really quickly.

So today I got online as the kids like to say, and started searching out the definitive cure. I Googled the term "foot wart," and for a few minutes resisted the temptation to click on the "images of foot warts" link. But I'm weak . . . oh, I'm weak. And in that moment of weakness, I learned there are far more people out there with warts on their feet than I ever would have dreamed. Briefly, I mentally outlined plans for a wart-footed rights movement, before deciding I didn't want to go anywhere near those freaks.

The other thing I learned is that there are wart fetishists out there -- a substantial number of them, apparently. God bless America! You think they have wart porn in Iran? Take that, Ahmadinejad.

He Drank Coca-Cola, He Was Eating Wonder Bread.

2007-09-24T17:31:00.000-04:00

Let's see . . . I just polished off a sausage pizza; what would be good for dessert? Ooh, I know! A crust covered in Oreos! With frosting! And it's only four bucks . . . maybe I'll get two, save one for breakfast.

Do they have this in other parts of the world? If not, then I'm never leaving home again.

Actually, I freely admit that my eating habits could be better -- much better. But a cookie pizza? The apocalypse is nigh.

This Time Tomorrow, I'll Know You Better.

2007-09-20T19:31:00.000-04:00

I've been tagged by Kate at Innisfree. The idea is to give a little snapshot of where I was 10 years ago, 5 years ago, etc. There's more to the survey than that, but I'm not doing it all, because I don't play by anybody's rules, Jack.

10 years ago: It’s safe to say that by September 1997, I’ve settled comfortably into domesticity. My wife and I have long since moved from the fantastic apartment we lived in for our first few years in Cincinnati, and into our money pit. September '97 is after the furnace died in the dead of winter (which happened a few days after we closed on the house) but before a water main buried four feet below our front lawn breaks, resulting in a geyser of Old Faithful-like proportions. On the upside, we’ve had our first child, who by this point in ’97 is nearing two years old and beginning the talking storm that continues to the present. I work in the legal department of an HMO/health insurance company. I’ve been there for about a year and it’s still a pretty good job, albeit in a soul-sucking suburb. I’m two months away from running my fourth NYC Marathon.

5 years ago: Two new children, one new job. By September 2002, my kids are 6, 4 and 1, and the money pit is vastly improved, the result of a kitchen remodeling and the addition of a bathroom on the first floor. It looks great, mainly due to my wife’s eye for color and design. No reason for us ever to leave, right? Meanwhile, I’m about two-and-a-half years into a different job, in the law department of a manufacturing company. Good place, good boss, and a legal group respected throughout the company (corporate legal departments are often loathed by the businesses they support, so this is a good thing). No reason for me ever to leave, right?

1 year ago: It’s September 2006, and we’re comfortably ensconced in our new, bigger, money-pittier house. Say, does that gigantic tree in the front yard look . . . unhealthy to you? My two older children, now in fifth and third grades, are in the midst of their school magazine drive. Somehow they con me into buying about 20 subscriptions. (Us Magazine, by the way, is for readers who find People too wordy and challenging.) At the office, my boss has handed in his resignation. I feel pretty hopeful as a result, and why not? I’ve been there for six-and-a-half years, I know the organization, my performance evaluations have been excellent, I’m next in line for the job according the company’s succession planning, and my boss is recommending me for the position. In my head, I plot the details of my post-promotion regime.

Yesterday: I wake up at 5:15 a.m. to meet a couple of friends for a 4-mile run. I have a few minutes before I leave the house, so I check my blog for the anticipated flood of comments and offers from publishing houses. (What the hell, people?) I go out for my run, it’s a beautiful, cool morning, and I regret not having trained for a fall marathon. I get back, shower, shave my entire body, and dress for work. Then I wake the kids and they tumble down for breakfast: Pop Tarts and Lucky Charms. My wife follows and is, let’s say, distressed by this meal. She’s not a morning person. I enjoy a little bit more time with my family, then haul myself to work. My boss leaves early to attend an out-of-town conference; the mood lightens considerably. That evening, we meet friends for a quick dinner, and I take my 11-year-old son to his guitar lesson, where he’s learning to play the Beatles’ “Birthday.” Later that night I fall asleep in front of the tv as I watch the Reds’ post-game show. I wake up at about 1:00 in the morning to the sounds of some atrocious sports program, with three former athletes and a third-rate, smarmy, Letterman-imitating host, all yelling at one another. Off to bed.

Today: I miss my run as a result of my poor sleeping habits. My 9-year-old daughter wakes up first, goes downstairs and voluntarily practices her piano. She sounds good on “Fur Elise,” and the music makes me think about Schroeder playing for Lucy. I go downstairs and the two boys come next. We all discuss the school lunch menu for today – rotini with tomato sauce – then off to work. Shortly after I get there, my wife phones to tell me the guys have come to do some repair work on our roof, and they’re also going to give us an estimate on replacing the front porch, which needs to be done before we have the house painted. Thinking about this, I wonder how much longer I need to work before I can retire. I pull a file and look at the numbers, and then I vomit.

Tomorrow: The eagle flies on Friday, baby. Time to get my drink on.

I'm Not There.

2007-09-18T21:52:00.000-04:00

Bob Dylan rules my fall.

It's still summer, I know, but as it wanes I'm reading the biography, Down the Highway: The Life of Bob Dylan, and I can't stop listening to Mark Ronson's remix of one one of my favorite Dylan tunes, "Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine)." The remix adds some horns and a heavier beat to the sarcastic kiss-off song, and it all feels right. Its video is an addictive walk through Dylan's career, with clever references to some of his other songs tossed in here and there.

Next up, on October 1, he releases Dylan, a compilation of his "greatest songs." Have they all been released before? Yeah. Do I have them all in my collection already? Almost certainly. Will I buy this anyway? Yup. Is this what you kids these days call being a fanboy?

Then, on October 15, I'm seeing him live in concert for the first time in 18 years. The show might be great or it might be terrible, and although I'm inclined to lean toward "great" even before I've seen it, I hope he really pours it on so much that even the doubters and the people who don't really want to be there -- say, for instance, wives whose husbands drag them there -- even they enjoy the music. (The next night, just up the road, he's doing a show with Elvis Costello as his opening act. All you other pretentious English majors out there know what I'm talking about when I say, now there's a dream team. Nobody wants to go with me, and I can't go alone, because who will catch me when I faint?)

And the celebration continues on November 21, with the release of I'm Not There, director Todd Haynes' "rumination" on Dylan's life and times. The movie stars six actors as Bob, including the sometimes gorgeous, sometimes cadaverous Cate Blanchett, who plays the cryptic, "gone electric" Bob. Take a peek at this trailer:

I have a feeling Todd Haynes is a pretentious English major.

Unfortunately for me, the movie opens in New York. Opening night is just a week before my birthday, though, so now you big-city sophisticates and hipsters who were wondering what to get me have your problem solved. Thanks in advance -- that's really sweet of you.

Newspaper Men Eating Candy.

2007-09-13T21:24:00.000-04:00

One thing I’ve learned in my so-called career, with the bit of traveling I’ve done, is that there are cities in this country that are worse – far worse – than Cincinnati. That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, and it’s not really fair, either, because Cincinnati, though far from perfect, is a pretty good place to live. We have the arts, we have major universities that attract students and faculty from all over the world, we have professional sports, we have a fantastic library system, and so on.

Yet you don’t need to look too hard to find someone who’s not from around here, who knows the city by reputation only and believes it’s a backwater town run by right-wing Bible thumpers. Why is that? Could it have something to do, perhaps, with the fact that the city’s major (and soon to be only) daily newspaper, the Cincinnati Enquirer, is run by conservative hacks and reads as if it were hastily cut and pasted by a group of people who only do journalism as a hobby? The paper has one or two bright lights, most notably the amazing cartoonist Jim Borgman. Everything else? Bad, really bad.

The worst offender is columnist Peter Bronson: never insightful; never amusing; always predictable. Read my summary of today’s column and then never bother yourself with him again.

Shorter Peter Bronson

I’ll begin today’s column with an inept attempt at relevance, in the form of a long out-dated pop culture reference. See, I’m just a regular guy! Now, I’ll twist myself into knots making that reference fit this morning’s G.O.P. talking points. (And isn’t it lucky for me that as an editorial columnist, I don’t have to back up my opinions with actual facts? See, just like Joe Six-Pack.) From there, I’ll segue into pure mean-spiritedness masquerading as humor. Annnnd . . . all done! But wait, I forgot a gratuitous swipe at a Clinton! Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow!

Do You Remember Where You Been?

2007-09-11T22:19:00.000-04:00

I'm wrapping up my day, thinking I should write something about the anniversary of the September 11 attacks, but knowing I have nothing to say that hasn't been said much better in many other places. It just doesn't seem right -- since I am keeping a blog and I did post something today -- just to let the day pass with nothing but a silly little piece about a silly little group and its silly little protest about the name of a department store. It probably would have been better to post nothing.

So I don't know. Like everyone else, I remember exactly where I was when I heard, but I can't imagine the value of recounting my whereabouts here. Like many people, I wasn't directly touched by the attacks; no friends or relatives of mine were in the Towers or the Pentagon. I've spent my entire life in the midwest, and know very few people in New York and Washington. What would be the point of writing about what I felt, when so many other people felt it so much more intensely? So I don't know. I was lucky.

I went to NY a few weeks later, and I remember thinking, These people are so resilient. How did they do it? I guess they just had to keep going. I met a friend for dinner and drinks, and we were out until 1:30 in the morning; when I finally left the bar to head back to my hotel, people were everywhere, as they always are there, laughing, having a good time. That was something.

The next day I went for a long walk and saw hundreds of handmade "missing" signs, and firehouses decorated with wreaths and cards and drawings sent in by little kids from all over the country. I don't know. I guess when people can pull together and support each other like that during the day, they've earned the right to keep going, to try to do the things they always do. It was sad, it was hopeful.

See? I have little, if anything, to add to the discussion. I think our president squandered an enormous amount of worldwide goodwill with a staggeringly, embarrassingly inept foreign policy. I'm not a particularly political person, and I'm not even sure it's right to get into this kind of thing when I'm just trying to remember that day, but that's a part of what I think about when I consider these past six years. (And who can believe six years have passed already?) So really, I don't know. What else can I say?

Streets are Filled with Broken Hearts.

2007-09-11T05:57:00.000-04:00

I admit, over the years, I haven't been very good about getting involved in the issues that are important to me. I might have donated a little money here and there, but I've never marched in protest over anything. I've never attended a sit-in. I've never gone on strike or even refused to cross a picket line. That's a lack of commitment on my part, I guess, and not something I'm particularly proud of.

That said, who the hell has the time or inclination to protest a department store's name change? Why, Mr. Jim McKay, head of "Field Fans Chicago" does, of course:

He led the crowd in a moment of silence on State Street, then rallied them to fight for the Field's name.

"We wouldn't let the New York Giants take over Soldier Field, why are we letting Macy's take over Marshall Field's?"

Oh, excellent point there, Mr. McKay. And a moment of silence? The perfect way to commemorate the acquisition of one corporate behemoth by another. I wonder, though, do you realize Macy's bought Marshall Field's and changed the name over a year ago? It must be good to know you're not alone, strength in numbers and all that:

Darrid Morris of Columbus, Ohio, said he's shopped from coast to coast but has never found a store with the level of service and quality of Marshall Field's. He's dedicated a Web site, Darrid.com, to his love for the store.

"It's standing up for what you believe in," said Morris. "I believe a Chicago icon should remain a Chicago icon."

I, for one, would like to thank Mr. Morris for taking a break from his coast-to-coast shopping, to raise public awareness of this important issue. Maybe I'll send him a check.

I'm in Love with the Ugliest Girl in the World.

2007-09-10T12:53:00.000-04:00

Super-hot Rep. Jean Schmidt, my representative on the House floor, is also a plagiarist. Who doesn't dig a bad girl?

Just a Little Glimpse of a Story I'll Tell (part two).

2007-09-08T13:06:00.000-04:00

Chapter Two

My early childhood is a blur of warm memories: President Roosevelt’s reassuring voice coming over our Crosley radio; the old picket fence I convinced my friends to whitewash; tetanus shots; police cars at our next-door neighbor’s house every Saturday night; cockfights; and so many, many more. Probably my fondest recollections come from my tenure as Eddie in “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.”

Next time: Chapter Three -- I Discover the Beatles.

I'll Take You Where the Green Grass Grows.

2007-09-07T19:20:00.001-04:00

I'm one of those suckers who get excited about baseball every year, right about when winter has become tiresome and depressing, but spring still seems ages away. I know it's a cliche, but that feeling, knowing that spring training is about to start, that's hopefulness. Somehow your heart tells you anything can happen, and this might finally be your team's year, no matter what your head tells you about how bad they were the year before. And my team, the Reds, were really bad last season.

And this year . . . well, guess what -- my head was right. They're bad again. In fact, they're terrible. Yet again. They last won the World Series in 1990, and haven't even had a whiff of the post-season since 1999. Things have been familiarly dismal in 2007. So that early-year hopefulness has long since worn off, and in its place I feel a sort of resignation, about as far from enthusiasm as my feelings can be.

Yet I keep going to the ballpark, like the sucker that I am, because there's just something I love about the game. I went to Tuesday night's game, and watched the New York Mets pound the Reds into submission, but you know what? I still enjoyed it. I love the pace of a baseball game, I love the little bright spots that even the worst teams have. For the Reds, one bright spot has been Brandon Phillips, who not only plays hard, every inning, but willing comes out of the dugout before the game and signs autographs. He smiles and talks to the fans, which doesn't sound like much, but it's a whole lot more than most other players do.

The other part of all this that means a lot to me is that I go to most games with my dad. I guess it's another cliche, right? Fathers and sons, sharing baseball, and all that? Still, it's nice. We went a little over the top a few years ago at Comiskey Park, but generally these outings are a great way for us to spend time together. I don't like missing them.

Baseball is perfect for that kind of thing, ready-made for contemplation and nostalgia. I remember one chilly March day in the late '80s, when I lived in Chicago, I was out walking with my camera when I saw an open equipment door at Wrigley Field. I walked in and found myself on the right field warning track as the Cubs' grounds crew busily manicured the field and painted the seats. Nobody asked me to leave, so I walked around, taking pictures for about thirty minutes. That I found this thrilling, and that I recall it vividly today even without the photos, might strike the non-fan as more than a little odd. Fans get it, though.

"The Cure," by Katharine Harer

baseball is a good antidote for death
where else do we mutter belief scream
hope over green grass bathed
in light where else do we coach the best
out of one another

it's all right baby
you can do it
settle down guy
you'll be okay just hang in there
we need you buddy
we need a spark
be the ignitor man

our whispered pleas combine over rows
of seats and peanut calls and pour into the ears
of our boys fixing them
with our best hope the best we have to give

nowhere else do we do this together
reverently from some untapped placein our chests saved for our children
and our lovers we thought we'd used it up
but listen to us croon making our voices
carry just the right mixture
of love and demand

our throats are sore
the peanut shells under our feet flattened
from jumping up and sinking down again
our heats extended
pumping belief
into this one afternoon

you can do it
you can do it for us
do it now come on
do it now

from Line Drives: 100 Contemporary Baseball Poems, 2002.