Chapter 29.5: Crash Goes 2004

For weeks I've felt like 2004 was already done. I haven't written 2005 on any checks yet, but as far as I'm concerned this year should be flushed and forgotten. Today I've experienced the perfect metaphor for 2004. From the time I got into the office at 8:30, the day has been pointless. My archaic Mac crashed three times before 9:30, and another five or six before I started typing this entry to close the day. I don't know if it suggests that I have no more metaphoric memory left for 2004 or I'm in desperate need of repair or perhaps I'm just falling apart. Maybe it's all three.

The time has come to say goodbye to a year that began with such promise and ends in stops and starts and restarts. The tragic tsunami of last week is still too painful and new a wound to the earth to serve as a metaphor. Yet, I can't help wondering if it's time to just wash away 2004. I think it's time for a beer or a nice scotch.

For those 10-12 readers out there (if that many), I pray your new year is wonderful and full of promise. Aim high but not so high that you come crashing down upon yourself.

Chapter 29.1: Not Science Fiction

As a fan of the film 2001: A Space Odyssey, I was curious whether Sir Arthur C. Clarke had survived. He has reportedly spent most of his waking hours in a wheel chair for years, so he seemed among those unlikely to get out quickly if the waves rushed at his home in Colombo. Like most Americans, I have no idea exactly where in Sri Lanka Colombo is. (Hey, I should at least get a point for knowing where the island was in the first place right?)

But Space.com anticipated my question and got a first-hand response from one of the 20th century's greatest creative minds (at least among writers).

Chapter 29: Horrible Tragedy

For anyone who reads this little blog, I hope you're able to assist in some way the thousands of people affected by the terrible tsunami that struck people throughout the Indian Ocean area -- Sri Lanka, Sumatra, Thailand, and elsewhere throughout that region. Today's reports show upwards of 44,000 people killed by this event.

While I've heard some people make comments about how God is being vengeful against mostly non-Christian areas, I think the proper thing for people to do is show charity knows no religious bonds. Indeed, all major religions promote doing good deeds for those less fortunate. This is the time.

Chapter 28.5: All Praise Nothingday

I was informed of a brilliant press release that captures my feelings about the ongoing debate about the appropriateness of celebrating Christmas publicly. Personally, I consider the argument that public schools or other government buildings noting religious holidays represents an illegal combination of church and state a waste of breath.

Celebrate Christmas, celebrate Ramadan, celebrate Passover, celebrate Nothingday, celebrate the autumnal equinox for all I care. Just don't hate other people because they're celebrating something you don't agree with. Are some people over the top? Yes. Should it be stopped? That depends on how egregious the practice is. Would I as a Catholic take offense at a huge menorah on the lawn of my town hall? Not at all. If a person who chooses not to worship any religion gets offended at the sight of a nativity scene in front of a public school, as far as I'm concerned that's their problem. Your choice to not worship shouldn't interfere with other people's choice to show their religious beliefs.

I'm not a Bible thumper. Most people I know consider me liberal; I consider myself politically moderate. But to me the decisions to stop playing Christmas music or recognize the significance of religious beliefs at this time of year, whether they be Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Taoist, Pagan (if paganism is a religion), etc., is ridiculous. It takes away from what should be a special, pleasant time of year.

Chapter 28.3: The Loneliness of the Long Distance Swimmer

There is an interesting story I just read on nytimes.com about a whale that no one can identify. Scientists have said they don’t think it’s a blue whale, the largest creature on the planet, and not the second largest whale either, but such comments intimate that they think it’s of similar size. Not discussed thoroughly is whether scientists believe this is a new species. They call it the "52 herz" whale because of where its sonorous moans register (as regular as a metronome, as the article describes.)

While the article discusses the poignancy of this lonely whale's lament, to me the article drives home how much there still is to learn about life on this planet. I don’t believe in Bigfoot, per se, but I think it’s possible for a large ape-like creature to go undetected in the vast nothingness of the remaining heavily wooded regions of the Pacific Northwest. Gorillas were once considered mythological creatures. I can’t take the Loch Ness monster seriously when science shows there isn’t a viable food source for such a creature as has been described. Yet, if the creature is smaller than people think and amphibious, perhaps the food issue is less of a problem.

The lives of the large and mysterious continue to captivate us. Perhaps it’s because we tend to think of ourselves as less than we are. "I can’t do that. I’m not that important," we say. "I can’t go there, I’m not a star." And when others do things we wouldn’t ourselves do, we say, "Who the hell does she think she is?" or "How does he get away with that?" In the meantime, we swim through our lives nearly under the radar, our voices heard in the distance but misunderstood.

I admit I feel sorry for this whale, because it seems to be so much like us. Among the things we humans need to learn and relearn is that we’re not alone. It’s said over and over, sometimes at different frequencies, but we must recognize ourselves in others.

Chapter 28.1: It Took Two.

Saw some sad and odd news today. Gary Webb, a Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist, reportedly shot himself -- twice -- to death.

While it's sad in itself, the manner in which he apparently committed suicide was almost fitting in its controversy. Webb was perhaps best known for writing about an alleged CIA relationship bringing drugs to California. His paper paid thousands of dollars on his trips to Central America to establish facts in the series, which I believe came out in 1996. After the story was reported and the government pressured the paper to present its facts, the paper retracted its findings, ruining Webb's career. I expect that he swore to his death that he was right. He even wrote a book about it.

I heard him speak back in 1997 or 1998 at an Investigative Reporters and Editors conference and met him briefly. He explained that there was no way to prove without a doubt that the CIA was involved; spies are too good at lying and covering their tracks to pin them down completely. An editor shouldn't have accepted that explanation, but it doesn't mean he wasn't correct.

Now that it apparently took him two shots to the head to kill himself (the report linked above does not detail where in the head the shots went, so it is indeed possible to necessitate a second shot, as grueling as that must have been), readers are left with a fading memory of one reporter's tragic career. There's a book out there for someone.

Chapter 28: Democracy In Action?

Was it the will of the people or the action of a power-hungry despot? I couldn't say, but the recent news that Ecuador's leader removed that country's Supreme Court judges should scare anyone who believes in the separation of powers. To be fair, I don't know how much separation there had been to start. The article noted an impeachment attempt against the sitting president, who I believe got his position through a coup d'etat.

But the dramatic shift still concerns me, and I think more Americans should be aware of it. Perhaps geographically the country is about as close as Great Britain is to us. Ecuador is due south of Florida (obviously hundreds if not thousands of miles from Florida and well below the Panama Canal), though most Americans are likely oblivious of this change in its realm of the world.

I guess the world these days is America's realm. Yet, I wonder how significant President Bush considers such a dramatic move. Would he replicate it if there were a Supreme Court decision that went against his political will? I doubt he would. Even if the court allowed gay marriages and upset much of his conservative base I expect he'd be reluctant to remove most or even all of the High Court. Not even the Republican majority in both houses of Congress could support that.

With the political problems throughout much of the northern end of South America, however, the shift in Ecuador only adds to the security concerns for Americans.

Chapter 27.8: Who's Your Daddy?

Some sports news today. Reports are that Pedro Martinez is signing with my beloved N.Y. Mets. I'm not crazy about signing a 33-year-old six-inning pitcher to a four-year contract, but I don't think the signing is only about the games he'll pitch. He's going to revitalize the Hispanic -- particularly the Dominican -- population's interest in the Mets. This signing is all about selling tickets, and that's fine.

I expect that once his signing is confirmed and there's a press conference praising the future Hall of Famer joining the staff with another former Cy Young Award winner and potential HOFer, Tom Glavine, ticket sales will increase. The Mets aren't winning the division with this club in 2005. They'll be lucky to finish third. But they were reportedly 18th or 19th in ticket sales last year. That's unacceptable in the New York market. Now Omar Minaya, the general manager, needs to improve the bullpen, because Felix Heredia isn't an answer to anyone's mid-game problems.

In a different sport, I read that Mia Hamm has been named among the three potential candidates for player of the year. If she wins, it would be the third time for her. The recently retired superstar, married to Cubs shortstop Nomar Garciaparra, has been a fantastic ambassador for women's sports. I think of her as the most important soccer player in the United States. I'm not saying merely women's soccer, but all U.S. soccer. For the casual fan and especially for the non-fan who at least likes sports in general, Mia Hamm IS American soccer. Not since Alexei Lalas and the 1994 World Cup team have American players been widely recognizable.

Good luck, Mrs. Garciaparra. You deserve all the accolades of American sports fans, in my opinion.

Chapter 27.7: Planting Questions

The revelation that soldiers' questions to Sec. of Defense Rumsfeld were "planted" strikes at the problem of access the current administration allows the press. But while I consider that a notable challenge, I think the administration is suggesting something far more insidious about how they view the troops fighting the war. The suggestion the soldier couldn't have asked the question himself is insulting.

Moreover, some of Sec. Rumsfeld's responses were so poorly phrased they sounded like he was not proud of our troops. I truly hope he didn't mean what it sounded like when he said, "As you know, you have to go to war with the Army you have, not the Army you want." I don't want to believe that the nation's top official on the war effort was intimating we didn't have the types of soldiers we need to protect the nation's freedom. I hope that when he referred to the Army in that manner he meant the materiel moreso than the personnel. I never served in the military, so perhaps it's a phrase that gets tossed around in those circles, but it doesn't play well in mass media. He shouldn't have said it.

Personally, I found the Pentagon spokesperson's comments ridiculous. To say reporters have ample access to Sec. Rumsfeld and that the reporter infringed on the soldier's time is disingenous. The reporter helped a person formulate a question, keeping the guy focused -- just as a person in Sec. Rumsfeld's position is briefed on subjects that will likely be asked. Seen another way, it's one reason why writers have editors.

The laudatory response by others in the crowd indicated the soldier's view about not having proper armor was not a solitary one. I suspect this question has been asked a hundred times, and what made this time different is that it was caught on film and was embarrassing to the administration. They should be embarrassed.

Chapter 27.5: Every Vote Counts

I just read in the Washington Post that the latest recount in the Washington state gubernatorial race showed a difference of only 42 votes. Imagine that, 42 votes, out of the estimated 6.17 million that live in the state (obviously not all voters). Reportedly, the state will now recount them all by hand, and it's impossible to say whether the state will be able to inaugurate its governor as scheduled in January.

Makes me glad I live in New Jersey, where we just let the governors come and go like waiters in college town restaurants. We don't worry about democracy as much here, I guess, since we've had two state senators become acting governor in the past five years. Actually, more than that considering the weird turn over after DiFrancesco stepped down. At least they were all elected officials, even if most of the state didn't have a right to choose its chief executive.

Chapter 27.2: Throw the Bums Out

I'm choking on the discussion about steroid-abusing baseball players. Here's a novel approach that won't happen: Expel these players from Major League Baseball. I know the Player's Association won't allow it and reportedly the Collective Bargaining Agreement hadn't included steroids as banned substances back in 2002. To hell with that: they cheated, throw them out.

Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, Gary Sheffield, some of the best players of our generation abused their privileges. I don't believe them for a second that they didn't knowingly use steroid-related substances. And I would not be surprised if estimates of 50 percent of players were using them up through the 2003 season prove to be low-balling the truth.

Such discipline should fall within the Best Interests of Baseball clause, or whatever it's called, that is within the commissioner's rights. Of course, that's one major reason it won't happen: the commissioner is closely aligned with ownership, having formerly owned the Milwaukee Brewers.

Barry will continue his assault on the most precious record in baseball. Giambi will field questions about steroids with the same dexterity he shows around first base (that is, not much) for the rest of his career. And Sheff will waggle his sanctimonious words around the league once more in the Yankee uniform, which used to stand for unquestioned success. There are questions now. Chief among them in my opinion is why do we continue to allow this?

Chapter 27: The Emergence of Blogs

I've gotten pretty well sick of reading other people talk about how ubiquitous blogs have become and how they're basically useless as marketing devices.

To me, a Web log is different than a Web site. I view blogs as an electronic journal of thoughts, quickly typed, often shoddily edited (if at all) and based on opinion. A corporate Web site should be an extension of the company; a blog should be an electronic extension of the person. Semantic distinctions of corporate vs. corporeal aside, I don't care if a blog isn't an effective marketing device. Furthermore, if it is a successful marketing device, in my opinion it's not a blog, it's a Web site.

Just as a writing journal kept bedside is not a book, neither is a blog a marketing device. The bloggers that attract attention to their opinions, that's fine. But would they spout off their thoughts if there weren't readers? I know I would. I do. Those that wouldn't, good riddance.

Chapter 26.7: As Stupid Does

Jason Giambi typifies the arrogant stupidity of the modern baseball player. His acceptance of the steroid-like, performance-enhancing substances exemplifies the types of things athletes have been doing for decades, if not forever. And we as fans need to stop encouraging it with our adoration of tape-measure home runs.

In this "Be Like Mike" world of emulation of the superstars, Jason Giambi's reported testimony shows what little personal regard athletes have for their bodies. It's all about their performance. And we as fans reward them for that, further feeding their addiction to performance, to the adrenaline rush of competition. Moreover, when one athlete shows it works, others will follow.

I think I see now why this story has become so attractive to sports fans: It's not merely about what our superstars will do in the quest for glory and that they'll "deceive" the world in their quest for millions. It's about winning at all costs, not merely for the team, but for themselves. We as fans recognize that this could happen to anyone, and when it's happening to people we love to see play games we enjoy, perhaps that makes them more like us.

Just like the players who strive to be better than their competition and better than their vision of their achievements, we as fans have juiced ourselves up on our teams' successes. We're just as dumb as they are, because we delude ourselves that it's "just a game" while we engross ourselves in water cooler discussions, bets and pools, sports-centered vacations, even our dreams. Giambi is responsible for his actions, as is Gary Sheffield for his, Barry Bonds for his, Sammy Sosa for his, etc., on down the road. We should also take responsibilty for how we accept their stupidity. It's time to stop being addicted to the athletes and show respect for the game. Win, but not at all costs.

Chapter 26.4: Formulating Questions

Today there appeared an excellent article by Mike Allen in the Washington Post about the fine line White House reporters walk when asking questions of President Bush at his infrequent press conferences.

Perhaps I think about proper questioning techniques and interview strategies more than many people, since I'm a journalist, but I think anyone interested in the nuance of the president's relationship with the press would find it fascinating.

If the link fails to work (which I'll keep checking), it's in the Dec. 1 edition of the Washington Post. It appeared on page C1. I presume it was above the fold.

Chapter 26.3: Blog the Recount

I just read in the Washington Post that in addition to Ohio, there will be recounts in Nevada and New Mexico of the vote for president earlier this month. Honestly, I think it should be left alone. I think it would be fascinating if those states turned out to be incorrectly awarded to President Bush, but I doubt it would change the result. Have those elections already been certified by their respective secretaries of state? (I'm assuming that is the proper person to do so.) It's a minor story right now, because the major media venues likely don't believe anything can come of this. I know I don't, and I'm just a minor media person.

If someone is willing to use their own money -- not tax money -- to fund a recount, I'm all for it. But the greater issue is whether it's a proper use of county resources. This argument has weight. I'm curious whether volunteers could handle this. Personally, I doubt it because such volunteers would be viewed as politically opportunistic and untrustworthy. At least I'd be skeptical.

If there were questions of a flawed election with the gravity of what appears to have occurred in Ukraine, then of course it should be recounted. I have to believe the push for an Ohio recount isn't based on the early polls. I don't know about anyone else, but I was one Democrat who was eager to vote early that Tuesday morning. I suspect many were, judging by the lines that existed in polls throughout the nation. I'm disappointed in the result, but we move on.

Chapter 26: Home Stretch

The Thanksgiving holiday allowed me to progress on the novel. In addition to getting beyond 260 pages, I also "finalized" my map of the rest of the book. While I don't know how many pages each chapter will be, I now envision it being completed in 72 chapters. I have 44 done at this point, with a couple incomplete ones later in the book.

My deadline for finishing the first draft by the end of the year now requires roughly a chapter a day, which is difficult for me during the best of months, but nearly impossible when I need to also prepare for Christmas and my full-time job. Yet, I'm pleased to have a clearer vision of the future. If it takes me until mid-January to finish the first draft, so be it, because my goal remains the same: finish the novel as soon as possible.

It could end up over 400 pages now, though I expect that after editing and revision I'll end up with a tight 360 pages or so.

Chapter 25.35: Turkey Test

I got an odd little press release yesterday. I get nothing out of this, but feel free to check out the turkey trivia test given by the National Wild Turkey Federation. Personally, when I think about Wild Turkey, it's the alcoholic kind, but having seen a few families of turkeys in my yard the past few years, I can relate to some of the questions.

Anyway, enjoy the holiday. I'm off to listen to Alice's Restaurant ...

P.S.: Just because that organization promotes hunting doesn't mean I do. Nor does my enjoyment of Thanksgiving mean I'm in favor of the horrible manner in which our country has treated Native Americans.

Chapter 25.3: Turkey Time

For all my friends and family and to those few readers I don't personally know who visit this blog, I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving. I realize this is a potentially world-wide audience, including people who don't celebrate Thanksgiving and who possibly have never eaten a turkey. For those people, I wish you a happy day of being thankful for what you have in life.

I love Thanksgiving. It's not a religious holiday, there's no stress of buying the "perfect" gift for someone. It's about getting together with people who matter in your life. It doesn't have to be politically correct -- those morons who argue that not eating turkey is somehow "un-American" aside. I miss playing touch football in the morning or early afternoon and topping it off with a bottle or three of Bass, but on goes life. And there's usually tasty leftovers.

So, whoever you are, enjoy.

Chapter 25.25: Diary of a Recent Home Owner

Ok, so I've owned a home for more than three years. I've finally begun some actual home fixing projects. Nothing too large and nothing that deserves any praise, faint or otherwise. But I replaced the kitchen faucet on Friday. I feel proud of it, not because I did something particularly difficult (it's not), but because I actually did it.

I feel inept watching the various home shows on television and seeing that I too should be able to accomplish these projects. Before Friday, the extent of my home repairs was limited to a mediocre caulking job I did around the tub.

My point of blogging about it, however, is that it seems like an apt metaphor for my writing. I know I can do it. I can even do it well. But without putting the time in, things are just going to deteriorate.

Chapter 25.2: For Those Who Care

I had a good night of writing last night, creating a new chapter and further developing one of the previously written ones. I now have 234 pages of novel in the hopper. That's more than 68,000 words. With at least 100 pages left, I still have much work to do, but I'm starting to see the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

Of course, that's just a new path into another tunnel, one with other lighting sources and a map with a legend in a language I barely speak. I still have no guarantees I'll get out of it alive (published, that is).

My goal is still to have the novel's first full draft completed at the end of 2004. From there, I've got significant editing to do. I intend to follow the guidance in Stephen King's "On Writing" with regard to the revision process and putting the novel aside as I start the second. Frankly, I'm excited and eager to get working on a different story than the one that's crept around my head since 1995.

At least the second novel only emerged in my brain in the past 12 months. (Unless I start the other one that I thought of two years ago, or the fourth that I believe would be a better screenplay, that arose four years ago.) Lots of work to do.

Chapter 25: That's a Lot of Potatoes

I happened upon an amazing statistic while looking up a U.S. Senator today. Who do you think had the most overwhelming victory in this year's elections? Well, unless you live near the land of potatoes, you'd probably never guess it's Sen. Mike Crapo (he pronounces it CRAY poe, by the way, though he acknowledged on his Web site that it's a source of amusement for some.)

He won with 99.5 percent of the vote. I think only Saddam Hussein ever got a higher percentage of the electorate. I'm not trying to make ANY connection there; I write that only for the humor value (little though it may be). Less than 3,000 people voted for his Democratic challenger. I'd expect that fewer people than usual voted there, at least for the senator, since there was obviously little chance the senator wouldn't get re-elected, but it's still an impressive whipping he gave his challenger.

I guess the people of Idaho are mighty proud of their junior senator. I may have to look up this guy's record to see why he's so popular with Idaho voters.

Chapter 24.5: Brain Twister Answer

Thanks to all who visited. There were actually a few people who got the answer. Pat McBride got it almost immediately, though he acknowledged his recent trip to Las Vegas may have helped. A.D. Hampton got it too -- also without any clues. Ken Herr got it after calling a meeting at his office (all right, maybe it wasn't that dramatic, but he had help).

The sought-after answer was this: The man was killed after being discovered cheating at cards -- specifically, using Bicycle brand cards. (That's why that word was capitalized.) The other clue that more people seemed to pick up on was that there were 53 of them -- one more than a standard deck, not counting jokers.

Pat wanted a cookie for getting it right, but to my knowledge, this Web log doesn't give you cookies. I could be wrong.

Again, thanks for checking it out. I think I'll have to try dispensing brain twisters more in the future.

Chapter 24: Brain Twister

Here's a brain twister. The clue to answer the riddle is there. Submit your solution in a comment. I'll report back by Monday. While I'm looking for a specific answer, other creative ideas could be clever answers too -- just not the one I was looking for. If people have tried by Saturday night but still not showing the answer I'm looking for, I'll offer a clue.



A man is found dead inside a room, lying among 53 Bicycles. The only other objects in the room are a table and some chairs. What might have happened to cause this scene?

Chapter 23.3: Door Hits Him in the Ashcroft

So long, Mr. Attorney General. Go back to your barbershop quartet and bully pulpit. In a hopeful sign that the second Bush Administration might actually attempt to include the word "compassionate" as it moves forward, John Ashcroft has resigned as attorney general -- and, more importantly, the president accepted it.

The man who couldn't beat a corpse for governor of Missouri took his shambles of a political career back to Washington, D.C., four years ago and arose from the debris of 9/11 to become the face of censorship in America. I'm not completely stupid, I know that our freedom of information can be used against us. But I tend to agree with Benjamin Franklin on this one; he said something like 'Those who diminish freedom in the name of security will lose both.'

I regret that Democratic fundraisers won't have Ashcroft to kick around any more, but I'm sure they'll find someone else.

Chapter 23.2: More Mess From Texas

It's just not right! Can't that moron from Texas simply go away. I don't mean President Bush this time, but rather it's Roger Clemens. He just won his seventh Cy Young Award -- his first in the National League. I recognize he had a fine season, but with his victory and with Randy Johnson's second place finish, I'm starting to wonder if the major league baseball writers have gotten too lazy.

My view of the season was that Clemens had a great first half and then faded in the second half. I admit I didn't watch many Astros games, so I could be wrong in this assessement. Honestly, I don't like Clemens, and that has more to do with my disgust than claiming his teammate Roy Oswalt was more deserving. I respect Clemens's ability and his dedication to the game and the craft of pitching. I just want him to take his Cy Young Awards and go away. Maybe he'll do that now, but I don't expect him to go out on games in Japan. He wants that World Series ring with Houston. I think he'll be back.

Chapter 23: Awaiting Winter

How is it that just a few hours after a beautiful day began, it shifts like a cloud front moving in. By 10 a.m., this Monday morning had begun to feel like 2:30 Tuesday. I'm inside the week already. Gone is the heartpumping buzz of a leaf blower in my hands. My muscles no longer feel the tightness of lifting tarp-topping leaves to the street. Even the soft pleasantness of daybreak has past into a windy morning outside, and windy people inside.

Now I hear that a long-term prediction has snow falling through the weekend before Thanksgiving. This month started off with bad news. I'd like to take a day off and relax. I'm not sure I know how to do that anymore.

Chapter 22.4: Wally World

I can't believe the Wally Backman debacle. The former Mets second baseman who had just been named manager of the Arizona Diamondbacks earlier this week was fired. The reason: the management just learned that he had a DWI (that he reportedly fought for two years before finally pleading guilty), an assault charge, and they had concerns about his financial situation because he'd gone bankrupt two years ago.

I have not done any investigation into this, but it doesn't smell right. The team completely botched the hiring (who waits until after a press conference to do a background check?), but shouldn't there have been some information they already knew? Backman had been one of their minor league managers. Why hadn't they known about his declaration of bankruptcy from a couple years ago? The team had a new managing partner with the departure, but unless I'm mistaken (which is possible, I don't follow the team closely), the new managing partner had been an owner prior to being named managing partner. Shouldn't he have been aware of who was among their managers?

Frankly, I think we're not hearing the whole truth. The first thing that crossed my mind when I heard on the radio that Backman had financial troubles that concerned the team was that was code for "this man gambles and might gamble on the game." Perhaps there was more similarity between Backman and Pete Rose. I caution this by saying I have never met Wally Backman, I know no one who knows him, I am not calling him a gambler, and I think he's gotten a raw deal. But as an observer of baseball, where some managers and players are known to be alcoholics, womanizers, pot smokers, and worse, it's unfathomable to me that there isn't more to the smattering of details that have been released. Good God, future hall of famer Tony Gwynn went bankrupt because of a corrupt agent. He manages at San Diego State now. There must be something more to the Wally Backman story.

Chapter 22.3: Cracking Through Egg Harbor

It occurred during the night, when only four members of the custodial staff were there, but an F-16 war plane accidentally shot at least eight large slugs that hit a school in Little Egg Harbor. According to reports, the strafing sounded like feet running across the roof, which is what one of the custodians reported to local police.

I don't want to go too far on this, because I understand that our country's military needs to train and accidents can happen, but how is it that a multi-million dollar vehicle with state-of-the art technology and flown by a trained pilot can make such a potentially awful mistake? This wasn't a map error, according to reports, there was no Taliban wedding service going on at the school (tongue in cheek). This was a plane on a training mission flying in a military air space. A desk inside the school was hit, so thank God no one was sitting in it.

It appears to be a mechanical malfunction. I guess we have to be thankful people didn't die as a result of this mistake. Somewhere in this, I think there exists a metaphor for the current political/economic situation. Military budgets strafe Leave No Child Behind program...

Chapter 22: Changing of the Guard

All right, now that the political season is effectively over, on to more important things: baseball. Willie Randolph is going to be named the new Mets manager today, and I think it's about time. The guy was known to be a smart baseball man when he was a player. If my recollection is correct, Baseball Digest predicted back in the 1980s that he would be a manager. So why has it taken so long?

I have no idea. I'd hate to think it was because he is black, but it wouldn't be the first time that's happened. The man proved he can play in New York. He's been criticised after big games as a third base coach for sending guys home where they got nailed by 10 feet and he weathered those storms. He'll be harangued as Mets manager when the media thinks he's made poor decisions. That's part of the job.

The only thing I've heard against him from Mets fans is that he's a Yankee. I understand that, but so was Casey Stengel when the Mets were created and Mets fans loved him. So was Dallas Green when he became Mets manager, and he wasn't run out of town for that. (He was run out for other reasons, but it wasn't because he had been a Yankees manager.) And Yankee fans got over Joe Torre having begun his managerial career with the Mets. I think Met fans will get over Randolph's pedigree. What matters is that he develops a winning team. He's got that history, so I believe he'll achieve that as manager. Good luck, Willie. Now go out and make them win.

Chapter 21.2: A Brand New Day

In looking at the election day results, it appears that Sen. Kerry has been relegated to the historical scrap heap. Personally, I'm disappointed, but at least several million Americans went out and voted. That's an important statement to the entire world. There were no locust sightings or riots, the polls apparently allowed all those who were in line when the polls were scheduled to close to vote, even if it took several more hours. (I believe that is the law in most states, actually, so the law seems to have been upheld.)

In my unscientific analysis of what went on, at this moment I think the biggest reason for the Bush victory was the presence of several anti-gay marriage initiatives on ballots -- most importantly the one in Ohio. Had that initiative not been there, perhaps Sen. Kerry would have taken the state. I don't know. I thought the fact of thousands of jobs lost in the state would have been more important to Ohioans than whether a couple of men or a couple of women who are already living together can have the right to help each other when they're trying to get their estates in order, for example. I don't know.

What I do know is that President Bush now has a mandate. He received a majority of the votes and he has two houses of Congress that hail from the same party. But hopefully progressive, populist thinkers will arise from this era of secrecy and mistrust and there'll be a candidate for president in 2008 that will honor the ideals upon which the nation was formed. That's my opinion, anyway.

Chapter 21: The Sky Is Falling

I hope every registered American voter out there is doing the right thing and casting a ballot in this election, no matter what your political preference or affiliation. Personally, I think we're going to have some repeat of 2000 in that there will be court actions. But it could actually be worse than four years ago.

Picture this: Not only could we have a recount in Florida, but also in Ohio and even possibly Pennsylvania. That's 67 electoral votes right there, I believe, and the three largest anticipated EV contests out there (assuming New York and California go Democrat as expected). If one or more of those cases go through the state supreme courts and end up having to go to the U.S. Supreme Court then we're in a similar setting to 2000. Now, just to really mess with things, imagine that Chief Justice Rehnquist dies before a decision is made. With the recent disclosure of his faltering health, it's not impossible that he could die soon.

I can't imagine a new justice could be nominated and approved by congress before the High Court makes its decision on those case(s), and I don't have enough knowledge of civics to know how a new chief justice is chosen (or whether that truly matters), but it seems plausible we could have a 4-4 deadlocked court, which I believe means the state decisions are affirmed (whatever they may be in these hypothetical cases).

I hope that none of the above doomsday scenario becomes reality. Nor would I really like to see another of the prospective outcomes that could create a split ticket of President Bush and Vice President Edwards (how bizarre would that be!), where I'd expect to see then former VP Cheney reprise his role as Secretary of Defense or maybe Secretary of State if Colin Powell steps down. It would be a sham of a government, and our nation deserves better than that. So if I can have any influence on the two or three or fewer people that occasionally look at my blog it would be to say this: get out and vote so we have certainty in government.

Chapter 20.3: #1 and #100 (and some in between)

The Red Sox did it, at long last. They became the World Champs after 86 years of waiting to taste such victory again. The decades and lifetimes of frustration are already well chronicled, so I'm not going to waste any more time on that.

But I found a few less noticed things interesting about the World Series and long-standing frustration. The Red Sox franchise has now won six championships. The 1918 season gave them their fifth, which meant that of the first 15 World Series (remember, there wasn't one in 1904), the Red Sox won fully one-third of them. Not too shabby, though admitedly not close to (the hated) Yankees accomplishments after they acquired Babe Ruth. The 2004 World Series was also the 100th of all time (again, no series in 1904 and none in 1994), so it seems fitting that the first "century" of World Series play has bookend Boston victories. Others can argue that point.

But I disagree with the characterization that occurred during the final moments of game 4; the Red Sox are not third overall in championships -- at least not when you look at franchises. The A's have won nine championships. The first five came in Philadelphia and the last four in Oakland (sorry Kansas City). Furthermore, the Dodgers' championship in Brooklyn shouldn't be forgotten, though they certainly have been far more successful in Los Angeles, where they've been champs five times.

I hadn't realized how relatively unsuccessful the Giants franchise has been. The team at the heart of the 1904 World Series void (where I think their opponent would have been the defending champion Red Sox, though I could be mistaken), may be suffering from some other form of curse. I'll call it the Wertz Curse, reflective of the great catch Willie Mays made in the Polo Grounds off Cleveland Indians slugger Vic Wertz in the 1954 series -- the Giants franchise's last championship. Only the Yankees (13) have more World Series losses than the Giants. Like their fellow Boys of Summer -- the Dodgers -- the Giants have also lost 12 times.

The Cardinals are at least as impressive as the A's franchise, with nine championships in 16 World Series. I was surprised to see that the Red Birds didn't appear in their first World Series until 1926. Even the Washington Senators had been champs before that. Since then, however, they played in 20 percent of the World Series.

Perhaps no former champion is as sad as the Chicago Cubs, however. They're 2-8 in World Series play and have yet to appear in a fall classic since 1945. Heck, expansion clubs such as the Mets, Blue Jays, and Marlins have been champs as frequently as the boys from the Friendly Confines. The Cubs' two championships came in what was arguably their hey day. They won in 1907 and 1908, after having fallen to their South Side rivals, the White Sox -- also known as the Hitless Wonders -- in 1906.

The White Sox haven't won now in 87 years. Their victory in 1917 was the lone blemish for a string of strong Red Sox teams that won three out of four titles from 1915-1918. Of course, the White Sox should have won in 1919, but they discolored their sox and the game that year. It's been a long time since the Windy City could boast about its baseball teams. Personally, after the Mets, I'm rooting for the Cubs next year. I think it's more than time for them to win.

Let the Curse of the Goat be smote!

(originally written on 10/29/04, but unable to post for technical reasons until 11/1/04)

Chapter 20.1: Boston Grows Up

I read a story in today's (10/22/04) New York Times that included a description of the Red Sox as the "little brother" of the Yankees. After an experience I had yesterday, I think that's a fair characterization.

I must offer this caveat in the interest of full disclosure: I am a Mets fan, always have been and I suspect I always will be. I wore my Red Sox cap yesterday as I have been throughout the series between the two arch rivals. It's more an "anti-Yankees" hat than a reflection of my devotion to the Bean Town Nine.

Yesterday I walked into a pizza place to get a slice, wearing my Sox cap. Initially, I got a few comments from the guys behind the counter and some stares from other customers. (One guy behind the counter said, "You're wearing that hat in here?") Soon, however, the pizza guys gave me respect. They quickly showed their true baseball grit by congratulating the Red Sox. They knew their team had been beaten, and it had happened on their field.

I thanked them and waited for my slice to emerge from the oven. When it was ready and I was paying for it, one of the pizza guys said, "In all seriousness, is the curse just about beating the Yankees or winning the World Series?"

"The World Series," I said.

He thanked me and said, "Good luck. I hope you win it." And I felt he was sincere.

For the first time since I was a kid hating to watch my Mets finish in last place -- not even having a shot at contending when they moved north from spring training -- I kept my true allegiance a secret. In fact, maybe it's the first time ever, because I never really hid my being a Mets fan from anyone. But I didn't say it in the pizza place. I knew the respect they were showing there was sincere, and my insincerity of wearing a Red Sox cap that I didn't truly deserve would have been an insult. I didn't want to disrespect them; they deserved better.

Yankee fans, the ones I've talked to in the 36 hours, have been respectful of the Red Sox. It's like the little brother has grown up and gotten a place of his own. My estimation of the true Yankee fan has been raised.

Perhaps the Mets were above the Red Sox before, but now they've fallen behind. The Mets lost in the World Series four years ago. The Yankees -- particularly Derek Jeter -- were respectful and classy and honored their fallen opponent. Now the Yankees have fallen. And by virtue of the Red Sox victory, the Mets seem to have been relegated to third place in New York.

I'm ready for the comments now. I'm a Mets fan. I'm rooting for the Red Sox, but the Yankees ... Derek Jeter, Joe Torre, Mo Rivera, Jorge Posada, Bernie, Matsui, Mussina ... you guys are professionals. I tip my Mets cap to you.

Chapter 20: Ya Gotta Believe!

It's hard to believe, but the Red Sox beat the Yankees. I'm thrilled at the prospect of seeing them become World Champions, especially since it doesn't come at the Mets' expense.

If the Astros win the National League tonight, then we have Kerry's home state vs. Bush's home state. Personally I'd rather see the Cardinals win the NL, because I think they're a better club. Plus, the Red Sox have lost two of their previous four World Series appearances since 1918 to the Cardinals (1946 and 1967). Why not wipe out two curses at once...

I won't make any predictions about who will win yet, but I have to believe it'll be an exciting series. Even if the NL team took a 3-0 lead in games, this Red Sox club can't be counted out.

So, will Bruce Hurst throw out the first ball at one of the games this weekend? (For the uninitiated, he was going to be the MVP of the 1986 World Series until Bob Stanley's wild pitch and Bill Buckner's error changed everything.)

Chapter 19.7: American Fool

Caught John Mellencamp on Letterman last night. I've been out of the loop when it comes to his recent music. But back in the late '80s and early '90s, he was the quintessential American pop songwriter in my mind -- even moreso than Bruce Springsteen. His voice came from middle-America, his values seemed to be those of the people of the soil. And with the jangle of mandolin, the sweet lacing of fiddle strings, and a jumpy accordian part or two, a song by John (don't call me Cougar) Mellencamp was immediately identifiable and often memorable.

Last night, the sound was still there. But who the hell was the guy in the zoot suit? How much jell did he have slicking back his hundred-dollar haircut? Did I miss the episode of Queer Eye when they made over Mellencamp? When did he become John Cougar Metrosexual?

I realize he's getting older, but Mellencamp looked like a cross between Wayne Newton, Don Henley and a light bulb. This is the man who sang "Rain on the Scarecrow"?

In the music world, image often is everything. Good luck in Vegas, Mr. Mellencamp. It was nice knowing you.

Chapter 19.6: Gay Rights For Fish?

According to a story in The Washington Post today (10/15/04), several male smallmouth bass were discovered to have developed eggs. They're being called "intersex" bass, but it's not clear whether they're capable of reproducing as males or as quasi-females. [I'm not linking the story since it'll be sent into the Post's archives within a few days and thus is a waste of time.]

The chief questions revolve around how the fish were altered -- was it pollution, hormones in the Potomac River, other causes -- but I wonder if it might signal something more profound. Could all life be capable of being sexually altered as a consequence of man's careless actions upon the environment? If so, and if played out on a major scale, how would that affect the social, political, cultural, and spiritual environment?

Gotta read the news every day ...

Chapter 19.4: Family Connections

I'm back and in the few moments I have today to jot in a blog entry, I reflect on the past weekend rather than the week that preceded it. Maureen and I and her siblings and their spouses and families got together to celebrate the 50 years of Maureen's parents' marriage. Congratulations to them, and I'm so pleased we were able to all come together. Plus, my parents came down to help celebrate the event. It was great to see them, too, and to introduce them to my sisters-in-law that they haven't met. The day was really about family and maintaining strong connections.

My mom said she didn't want anything like the party we just had -- in terms of size and seeming extravagence, I presume. But, God willing, when my parents arrive at that milestone, I think they'll deserve a celebration too. We have some time to consider it, however.

On another note: I think Maureen's siblings are recognizing that I actually intend to finish my novel. When I suggested that I might have one or two of them serve as readers for the book, they weren't too keen on the idea. My chief concern is that my depiction of the artist in the novel rings true, so I hope Bobby will at least be able to read some of it -- preferably all of it.

One way or the other, I'll make sure this book is an honest portrayal of the characters in their element.

Chapter 19.2: Catch & Release

I've been home since Sunday and now it's off again on another business trip. We had a very good time in Vegas. I actually gambled more than I expected. We might have actually lost $20 to $25!

The next trip doesn't involve my giving a presentation, so the stress level is just a smidgen lower. I'm looking forward to getting to meet many in this industry that is still rather new to me.

In other news, I express my condolences to the family of Scott Muni, the famous disc jockey who made WNEW what it was before Opie & Anthony heralded its demise. Scottso was a familiar voice of my childhood, perhaps only third behind the recently deceased Bob Murphy and his annnouncing partner Ralph Kiner. As a Beatle lover, I also appreciated that Muni always kept them at the forefront of his play list.

And one more note of loss: The Montreal Expos are ending their history where it began -- Shea Stadium, playing the Mets. Unlike in the Expos inaugural game in 1969, their opponent in their final game isn't the future World Series champion. I saw an Expos game at the "Big O," against the Mets in the late 1980s, sitting behind Darryl Strawberry in right field. I was there with a group of young kids from the Summit YMCA who were in my care.

To me, Montreal is losing something, but I don't deny the team had fallen into an untenable situation. No true owner, a dwindling market of supporters and no television contract to keep fans rooting and aware of the players meant the team was doomed. It was once a baseball town, however, second to the Canadiens, of course. It was the city where Jackie Robinson debuted in his affiliation with Major League Baseball (though in my mind the Negro Leagues were filled with Major League capable players and should be considered "major league.")

In my mind it would be appropriate for the new team of the national capital to take on the name of the old Homestead Grays that played in the area half a century ago. It would honor the memory of the Negro Leagues in a city that has a strong African-American population that should provide a huge part of their new fanbase. It would recognize the legacy of their team's predecessor town in a baseball sense. And think of the marketing possibilities!

Chapter 19: Sort of Vacation

Maureen and I will soon be traveling to Las Vegas. I'm going to be involved in a presentation, ostensibly moderating it though that will involve asking a few easy questions and pointing out who the experts are.

What matters most to me is that Maureen is able to join me. We're celebrating our eighth anniversary during the week and I couldn't imagine not being with her. And because of the wonders of "Saturday stayover" costs, we are paying less by staying until Sunday than we would have by leaving three days earlier. So, we'll actually have a couple days to ourselves in Vegas.

We'll visit one of Maureen's friends she hasn't seen in years and whose child we've never seen in person. Luckily neither of us are gamblers, so we should be able to hold our money to some degree. I'll probably lose a quarter or two while I'm there.

It's been so long since we've had a real vacation trip that this business trip will have to do. I feel guilty knowing that some of the days she'll be alone while I stand in uncomfortable shoes in an exhibition hall and smile happily at people I don't know and likely don't care much to know.

But we'll have Friday and Saturday. I expect it will be a trip we remember forever. Not because it's Vegas exactly, but because it's us together a step removed from the constant calls and pressures of living pay check to pay check. (Maybe only half a step.)

This year has been one of transition, and as we head into the home stretch of 2004, I hope it'll be a good transition where we look forward to 2005 and real progress. I've got deadlines for my novel and aspirations for the second one. I need an agent, I of course need a publisher, but I have reasons to hit that ground running. If all goes as we believe it can, 2005 will be the year in which some of our dreams come true. Then the hard work really begins...

Chapter 18.9: Birthday wishes to an old friend

An old friend, Mark, will turn 36 tomorrow. I've not spoken with him in more than a year. It's my fault; I simply haven't called.

He and his wife invited us to a party around July 4 (2003). I don't think I even RSVP'd, though we were to be out of town that weekend. My life has been so busy, but that's hardly a good excuse. Maybe we've grown apart over the years. That's not any better of an excuse, though it's probably more understandable by other people.

I'll call him and see how life has gone. "Catch up," as the cliché goes. I hope all is well, and I know I'm being truthful in that remark. If nothing else, I want to say "Happy birthday" and that he was on my mind. No matter where we go in life, we carry the memories our brains are capable of holding. It seems fair to let him know he's in mine.

Chapter 18.7: Sunshine and Clouds

I guess the title for this section sounds hokey and soft, but it's the mood I'm in right now. I'm writing while at the squad building. The weekend has been busy, with duty for me and for Maureen yesterday. It has also included the third anniversary of the horrible day that affected just about everyone in this area, and really has affected the world.

On Friday, which is the date of both the beginning and ending of my book -- that is, the novel begins on 9/10/00 and ends exactly one year later -- Maureen and I enjoyed a pleasant evening at home, sitting on the patio enjoying the Indian summer weather, sipping drinks and chatting about everything in the light of Citronella candles.

Yesterday I attended the memorial service for a friend's father. He died in Ireland about six weeks ago after having caught a salmon. I consider it such a perfectly Irish way to die. My friend and her family seem to be handling it well, though I know it was not easy for them. (Is death ever easy?) Later that night, Maureen and I joined with the squad and fire department and police department on the village green for a candlelight service.

Today I saw a person who looks older than he should, whose life seems to be rolling away faster than the commercials he watched on television. Yet, outside the sun is shining, the sky is blue and life seems perfect. I hope that such beauty is not missed or forgotten.

Sometimes I think that after a spat of rain, when the sun comes out again it's as though I've never seen it before -- as though it's better than any other day before it. I feel like a dog when the master of the house has returned: "Oh, joy, you're home! Come play with me, feed me and pet me and let me know again that you love me!"

Perhaps without the tragedies of 9/11/01 I wouldn't appreciate as much of the good in my life as I do, but I still don't understand why the lesson had to be so harsh and affect so many people. And it was such a beautiful day...

Chapter 18.4: Movie, Movie

Got into a conversation with a co-worker today discussing Garden State. I haven't heard one person who didn't like it, (see my comments in Chapter 15.5, on August 1) though I've read at least one online review that hated it and walked out.

I'm not getting any money for this comment, but I suggest that any one who can tolerate a movie that isn't wed to the formulaic story lines of today's bigger budget films should see it. Plus, it's a good date movie.

So far, of the films I wanted to see this summer, that's the best.

Go see it!

Chapter 18.2: New Season

OK, the Mets are so dead and decomposing that they've lost their stink and are simply beyond recognition. You'd need dental files and DNA to show that this is the same team that was a game out of first place before the All-Star break.

Time to turn to football!

I have slightly more hope for the Giants than I did for the Mets entering the season. But when they open their season against the Eagles, they're in for trouble. I'm hoping the Giants can pull off a 9-7 season and possibly contend for a wild card slot. The division will be tough, with the Eagles, Cowboys and even Joe Gibbs' Redskins formidable foes.

As the team's long-forgotten cheerleaders reportedly wrote out in placards in the 1970s:

OG GINATS OG!

Chapter 18: Labor Every Day

I love holiday weekends, perhaps more now than when I was young. It's been a busy couple of weeks, and production begins on Tuesday, so next week will be horrific as well. Plus I need to get the next issue assigned during the week.

Sometimes this drives me nuts -- the never-ending tasks associated with my job. I suspect such tedium is typical of all jobs. Indeed, I've never truly enjoyed any job, except perhaps when I was a camp counselor. Even that had its problems.

Luckily, I have a wonderful wife and family. With those things in place, I can tolerate work.

Now, it's back to doing things around the house. I love vacation!

Chapter 17.76: Anti-war.com

In light of this week's protest party in New York, I thought I'd pass along a collection of commentary I just found today. I'm sure it's not new to many, but I'm not what I'd consider an active anti-war mongerer.

A friend forwarded me a piece ostensibly written by former Orlando Sentinel columnist Charley Reese. I haven't found the actual article, so I won't post what was sent. But I've seen other pieces he's written, which appear on anti-war.com and he's clearly not pleased with President Bush. Rock on Charley!

Chapter 17.7: Escape From New York

Here's something that I haven't seen reported yet. Trains out of New York's Penn Station were cancelled on Saturday due to the volume of people trying to leave the city in anticipation of the final week of August and the surge of Republican conventioneers. The volume apparently delayed so many trains that afternoon trips out of the city had to be cancelled. I don't know if there were similar problems on Sunday.

Estimated thousands of New Yorkers were forced to wheel their suitcases out of Penn Station and find alternate travel or stay home. In addition, New Jersey highways were filled with drivers -- seemingly half with N.Y. plates -- to the point where traffic jammed up the Garden State Parkway, the N.J. Turnpike, Route 9, Route 195, and Route 33. Those are the roads where I puttered along at 25-30 mph.

I feel sorry for those poor New Yorkers stuck in the city this week. There may be no end to the protests and stress of the Republican convention. One more reason not to go to Shea Stadium!

Chapter 17.3: Not yet there

I'm going to have my summer vacation tomorrow. That's it: just Friday. I can't wait! I haven't planned out my day yet, but I hope to be able to jog my long run since it'll probably rain on Saturday. I'll try for 7 miles again. Aside from that, I hope to enjoy being at home with Maureen. And later we'll drive to the shore -- whether it's Friday, Saturday, or even Sunday we haven't decided. When people advise living one day at a time, I wonder if this is what they have in mind. I should get some beer on the way home and contemplate that.

Chapter 17: Scottish roots

As I get re-accustomed to late nights at work during production and feeling tired by 10 on a Friday night, I find myself relying on things like my freelance work with the Clan Currie Society to keep my writing brain going. While I like using the subject matter to give me a better understanding of my own Scottish roots, the interviews and writing enable me to not lose my skills as I become more of an editor than a reporter.

The profiles and press releases, the feature articles and artsy folk are different than my novel, and that's part of the point. I've learned a lot about Robert Burns, for example, as well as his biographer, James Currie. I've attended Highland Games and seen some of the strange folk who dress up as druids. Decked out in the regalia of centuries past, these folk may seem odd, but at least they enjoy themselves.

I've met some strange Sinclairs too, but I won't go into that. Suffice it to say that whether an ancestor of mine discovered America or not, he didn't stay long enough to stake much of a claim. That's just my opinion.

Chapter 16.7: Too Damn Old

I must admit it: I've become old. Not aged and decrepit, ready for the home. But old in the sense that I'm not as young as I was not so long ago. Maureen and I were out four of the past five nights. These haven't been keggers and beer-pounding nights of debauchery, but they went later than my 30-something body and mind could handle.

It probably means I got out of shape. I don't drink as often (or as well) as I used to. Not to sound too proud of it, but I used to be able to pound back some beer. Good stuff like Guiness, Bass, Sam Adams, Sierra Nevada, and lots of other tasty ales and stouts. Now I tend to sip at cans of Miller Lite, Bud Light and even worse: Coors Lite. Watery, bland brews that sizzle on the tongue like a sip of Pepsi. My head and waistline are better off, but I had a lot of fun back then. I'm sure I could get back into drinking shape, but that's an expensive lifestyle and really not all that it's cracked up to be.

Chapter 16.5: Old Friends

We're going to visit friends that we haven't seen since their wedding, nearly a year ago. I was the best man; you'd think we'd have seen more of each other. I take the blame. Busy schedules be damned, friends are precious.

I've seen many friends simply fade into memory of decades past, and these are people who are more than Christmas card acquaintances. Dave and I played baseball together as kids. I caught his first varsity win and several others. When he experimented with a knuckle ball, I was the guy putting down the odd sign I'd never used for any other pitcher. His wife, Anita, I don't know as well. We've met only a handful of times. But she's a wonderful person and knowing him as well as I do, I'm sure she is the perfect partner to his life.

I'm looking forward to this night. It's an evening of being both a kid and an adult. We can enjoy a meal together, share a bottle of wine, and talk about the past, the present, and the future. Simple pleasures are usually the best.

Chapter 16.4: K

I'm possibly getting older than I realize. Last night became the final softball game of the summer for me. The team we played legitimately beat us. They had a bunch of hits against our stellar pitcher. They deserved to win. But when I came up last night with two outs and the tying run on first in a 5-3 game, I had the game on my shoulders. Not too long ago, that would have meant a run, perhaps two. I'd refuse to make an out in that situation and drive the ball down a line or in a gap. Last night, however, after getting up to a 2-2 count, I struck out on a pitcher's pitch: high in the zone, over the plate and hard to hit. Not my pitch, but with two strikes I couldn't afford to take the chance the ump would call it a ball. The second K of the season for me.

I'm not sure what will come of softball next year. Even though I don't play as often as I did last year, this commitment is still difficult. Work promises to be wose next year. I enjoy playing, but I don't know that I can do it at the level I expect of myself. My bat speed is slow for modified softball. My fielding is fine, but I'm definitely an infielder these days. I can't gun the ball from an outfield position like I did a decade ago.

Luckily, I don't have to make that decision now.

Chapter 16.3: ... Different Day

Sometimes a day doesn't make any difference at all. Don't listen to those happy-go-crazy morons who prattle on and on about ways to improve your life. Better than nine times out of 10, can you honestly say today isn't pretty much what you expected it to be? Assuming you're a "middle-class American" like myself, you got up out of bed, put your clothes on, worked, and eventually went back to sleep. Along the way you ate, had a bunch of conversations, most of which ultimately meant nothing by the time you returned to your bed, and there were probably a few fantasies mixed into the day. Daydreams about what you'd do with no financial worries, sexual fantasies, or simple "where would I rather be now" moments.

Sure, life changes all the time, and it's impossible to know everything that's going to happen before it occurs. People will die suddenly, cars will collide, arguments will flare into nasty confrontations. But it's rare that three tomorrows from now, nine tomorrows from now, you will recognize how these moments altered you.

A bird flew into the front of my car yesterday. I was upset as I saw its body bounce on the road behind me, like some random soda can on the street. I had almost forgotten about it 12 hours later. But at the moment it occurred, it was all that mattered; if not for my driving before 7 a.m. on a sleepy Sunday, I could have had an accident. Perhaps this incident doesn't make a difference for the rest of my life. I have no idea. Maybe I needed that moment to remind me how precious life is -- though I think the two first aid calls that day would have helped accomplish that too.

There are countless "what-ifs" I could associate with that poor dead bird. Ultimately, we all find our final resting spot. Hopefully I'll make a difference before then. I guess I did for that sorry bird.

Chapter 16.2: The slate

Had a unique experience today -- unique for me. A friend's son is filming a movie. It's a small film, done on a budget of less than $1,000. None of the actors are paid (unless the film sells, I guess). The son, Ryan, has said repeatedly that he'll give me a cameo appearance. I don't need a cameo, but I do enjoy watching him film. Today, as one of the crew members had to leave to pick up an actor at the train station, I was put to work. My moment in the sun was a brief clap of the slate, having marked the scene.

Who knows, this experience may lead to a film version of my novel, once it's actually done. I printed out nearly 200 pages today; that's about two-thirds of the story, I suspect. If I reach my goal of completing the first draft this year, then I'll be able to assess the "filmability" of it better. I already see it in my head, but it would be incredible to see it on screen.

Chapter 16: Murph

Sad news for Mets fans. The voice of summer nights, Bob Murphy, passed away due to lung cancer at 79. I went to the game at which he was honored last year, his final game as a Mets announcer. Players and fellow announcers recognized him for his 42 seasons of service.

Murph was one of the three original announcers for the team, working with Hall of Famer Ralph Kiner and Lindsey Nelson from game one in 1962. His voice was perfect for the radio, conveying the excitement of a strikeout in a crucial situation, or a "long drive to left field ... it could be ... it is ... Gone! a home run for Mike Piazza. Mike Piazza has just given the Mets the lead."

There was a cadence, a rhythm to the way he broadcast a game. It carried you from the early innings through the final out. He knew when to add the interesting anecdote and when to keep his mouth shut and let the constant din of the crowd, the roar of the planes over Shea, and the vendors hawking Budweiser fill up the air. He was a Mets fan, but as a listener you didn't feel he lost his objectivity. He was broadcasting the game, not espousing a company position. He helped give the Mets dignity even when their teams scoured the depths the National League.

As this season of mediocrity continues, I only wish he could have seen the Mets win it all one more time. But at least he witnessed two world championships, four World Series and two additional post seasons while earning his position in Cooperstown as a broadcast Hall of Famer. You are missed, Murph.

Chapter 15.6: Novel & Obscure

I'm closing in on 200 pages again, which will (for now) represent 30 chapters of story. I can tell already that much will need to go and much will need to be better developed. But by the middle of August, I hope to be able to print out 200 pages of novel and read through it. I still believe I can be done with a first draft by the end of 2004. We'll see.

Chapter 15.5: Garden State

Garden State, written, and directed by lead actor Zach Braff, is an enjoyable film with a simple message about going home in both a physical and emotional sense. Yet home in this film is not so much in the place as it is in feeling safe. Appropriately, Maureen and I saw the film in Maplewood, N.J., the home theater of New Jerseyan Zach Braff, whose brothers and he attended nearby Columbia High School.

Andrew Largeman or “Large,” played by Braff, is an small-time actor who returns to New Jersey for his mother’s funeral. Since his youth Large has taken a variety of medications, including Lithium, that keep him from his supposed violent tendencies. His anger manifested itself as a nine-year old when he pushed his mother down in the kitchen, which led to her accidental paralysis. Large’s father (Ian Holm, who played Bilbo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings trilogy) is his psychiatrist who diagnosed and treated his condition. Large hasn't seen his family in a decade.

While at a doctor’s office to treat his small explosive headaches, Large meets Samantha (played by Natalie Portman), who introduces him to new music after a Seeing Eye dog masturbates on Large’s leg. She recognized him as the guy who played a retarded quarterback so convincingly she thought he actually was retarded.

Sam is a pathological liar and an epileptic, who must wear protective headgear when she travels. It looks like a soccer ball on her head. Before her epilepsy, she performed as an ice skater, including her signature moment as a skating alligator. “Here comes the double axel!” She has an African “brother,” who she explained had been sponsored by her family after Sally Struthers made an appeal on television. Forgotten for years, he later arrived at their home in New Jersey to attend Rutgers University to study criminology. How much of that story was true, however, was never quite explained, which was part of the fun.

When Large returned to New Jersey he left his drugs behind in Los Angeles. Dr. Cohen, who examines him in New Jersey, counsels him to seek a new psychiatrist and treat the true cause of his problem.

The problem, of course, is that his father has never forgiven him for taking away the vital woman he’d married, and Large has never been able to shed a tear for his mother. He blames a piece of plastic that failed to hold the dishwasher door up. Had the door stayed in its proper spot, when he pushed her she wouldn’t have fallen over the door and cracked her neck on the counter. Yet, he knows that he and his father love each other and that they will be fine. It is only after Large and Sam chat in a tub (his mother drowned in a tub) with their clothes on that he recalls for her the moment he realized his mother loved him: when his nose was so full of snot and she offered her sleeve to him to clean himself. Sam catches the lone tear in a Dixie cup.

Portman was excellent in this film, a refreshing change from her Padme role in the Star Wars prequel trilogy. She came across as a fun-loving, affectionate, intelligent young woman who has learned to live with her disability and who becomes the source of truth as well as safety in Large’s life. She, like the Garden State, are home for Large.

The story is simple and the scenes can be poignant, but the film is also filled with unnecessary characters and moments that exist purely for their humor value. Frankly, I found that pleasant in a non-formulaic sort of way. I liked the main characters and the odd moments and settings that make me wonder if Braff is a fan of the magazine Weird NJ. The ending seemed abrupt, as though a series of scenes back in Los Angeles were cut out for budgetary reasons. I still don’t see any reason for the character of the police officer who pulled Large over for speeding and turned out to be an old friend who seemed the least likely to become a police officer – unless it was an inside NJ joke that so many of us here have friends who became cops, which is true.

All in all, I’d say it was worth the price of the tickets, popcorn and soda.

Chapter 15: Time for a Movement

I had to switch offices, which meant I had to dig through years worth of crap. I ended up spending hours sifting through folders I'd not viewed in as many as perhaps eight years. Faded faxes, forgotten phone numbers, scribbled "off the recond" interviews with people who have died, handwritten notes from people I wish had died... Out it went. Now I cower deep in a cavernous, fluorescent-lit room. We're likely to move again to another building next year. I guess I've had a head start.

Chapter 14.7: Air Conditioning

It's not the humidity, it's the need to combat it. Wash me in cool air and my lungs freeze, but it's more comfortable than sticking to the furniture or feeling the sweaty seams of my pants through each hair on my legs. Can't the weather just find a state of equilibrium and hold stable for a few days? Why must it change by the hour?

Chapter 14.45: Another Tricky Day

When the rain came tumbling down today, it rolled all over the grass. I wasn't quite prepared for the mudslide that ensued, and my pant legs became quite slick with chunky bits of moist ground. I slopped some of it back onto the ground, yet there could always be remnants of the earth in my jeans. So much for casual Friday.

Chapter 14.4: Be aware!

One of the most frightening articles I've ever read arrived in my email box today:

Everyone should read this and be aware.

Chapter 14: Working Writers

The novel moves faster now and time goes herky-jerky in real life. So much to do, so much to want. The trappings of words stop me from feeling too secure. Is it all like this?

Chapter 13.6: Time Zones

A decade ago I worked for a place an hour away from my home. I'd intended to get an apartment closer, but within weeks of starting the job I realized I wouldn't be working there for long. So I didn't search for an apartment and saved money for the prospect of being unemployed.

When work is an hour away, everything feels rushed. I wasn't sleeping well because I hated my job, and an hour on the Garden State Parkway, twice a day, day in day out, is enough to make anyone's skin crawl. It was like working in a different time zone than where I lived.

These days, when I travel I like to keep my watch set to my home time zone. It's where my heart lives.

Chapter 13.5: Coffee

When I started to drink coffee I used to count how many cups I'd ever had. Among the first couple were Irish coffees, imbued with a shot of Jameson and topped with whipped cream and Crème de Menthe. Coffee was something I didn't expect to be a major part of my life.

For years now, however, I've started my mornings with a cup or two. I look forward to it. It's not the flavor, though I have become aware of what strikes me as bad, weak coffee. It's not the sweetness of the spoonful of sugar I drop into my cup. It isn't a way to wake up, though I'm not above using common phrases like "I'm just having my coffee, I can't think yet." It's more the routine it provides. It's a stalling tactic. Coffee is an accessory.

Coffee is still not a major part of my life, though it's become a usual segment of my mornings. When I worked in New York, I spent a few minutes picking up my coffee with a cinnamon-raisin bagel. The Indian guy at the deli knew exactly what I wanted and had it waiting for me by the time I'd gotten to the register. We exchanged smiles in addition to the dollar or so it cost. Those were tall cups of coffee. I loved how the hollow stirrer shot out little balls of coffee that skimmed across the surface when I tapped it on the rim of the Styrofoam. It was like a science experiment to me: how fast do the circles of coffee exist before they become part of the whole?

These days, I have a small pad where I sit my coffee cup, marked with my alma mater's name, and sip at the morning. I go through the hundred or so emails I receive each morning, read the headlines of three or four newspapers, an article or two, and get into the day. Within a half hour, I go for another cup of coffee. Sometimes, rarely, I grab another cup later in the day. It's an extravagance, and it usually ties up my belly.

I don't count the cups of coffee anymore. When they're a dessert, it usually means I want a drink of alcohol more than a caffeine fix. It's only at 5 a.m. when I can't sleep that I miss the days of early "coffee-hood." And I do look forward to putting on my shield, armed with my coffee cup to face the increasing vagaries of work. Still, coffee is not enough.

Chapter 13: Watching the Markets

A person I work with looked despondent on a rainy day. "Bad breakup," she said, when I asked how the weekend had gone.

After that came the usual comments about how you keep going on and telling yourself it's going to get better.

It occurred to me that relationships among the single are like the stock market. It's an old metaphor, of course. Relationships go up and they go down. Sometimes you sell lower than you'd like. But I realized when the co-worker related to me her situation that I was decidedly off the market and had no desire to be back in it. Watching the markets from the sidelines isn't all that bad, perhaps, but I see little purpose in spending much time thinking about it. Metaphors can only go so far.

Chapter 12.6: Different Position

The Summit Squad played the Springfield Squad in softball today for the first time in my 19-year tenure. It was our first road game in many years -- at least a decade.

I'm glad to say we won, 19-15. And I got my first pitching victory since I played Little League. I just didn't know who else might be able to pitch, so I took the responsibility on myself. I actually was able to throw strikes, which somewhat surprised me. What helped immensely was our scoring 10 runs in one inning -- several of them on small hits that barely reached the pitcher. At that point we were up 16-3 and I wanted to make sure we didn't embarrass anyone. I almost embarrassed ourselves by letting up too many runs.

They came as close as 16-15, but we scored three in the top of the 7th inning and I didn't give any more up in their last licks of the game.

I've not felt so "loved" on a baseball field since I was a kid. I'd forgotten how pleasant it is to hear teammates cheer for me and congratulate me for throwing a strike. It seems cheap and easy, but I got a thrill out of it. Not as much as I got when I hit a home run today in our 10-run inning, but a good feeling nonetheless.

I might have to pitch again.

Chapter 12.5: Softball and Hardball

Last night we lost a tough game in the modified league. We only had three hits going into the final inning; one was my infield hit. But in the last inning we got the bases loaded and were down 5-2. I was up and no one was out. I lined a 2-2 pitch off the pitcher's hand. The run scored, but I was thrown out in what I still insist was a bad call. Still, at 5-3 with second and third things weren't completely bleak. Our next hitter lined out to the third baseman. Unfortunately, the fielder picked off our pitcher -- who'd hit a homer already -- at second to end the game. It was a bad play on his part, but we wouldn't have been close without his strong pitching.

Tonight and tomorrow I'll be umpiring baseball. I don't know if I'm by myself tonight or not. That could be difficult, though I trust everything will go fine. I've done it before.

Chapter 12.3: Growing Old

I read that James Doohan, who played Mr. Scott on the original Star Trek series, has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. While it's sad that the 84-year old actor is facing this terrible malady, I'm sadder still for his 4-year old child. It's difficult enough to have so little time with one's father, but for that father to possibly not know who his small child is... I couldn't imagine how tragic that would be to a child.

Chapter 12.2: Next Challenge

For what it's worth, I'm glad Sen. Kerry chose Sen. Edwards on the ticket. I'm looking forward to a debate between Vice President Cheney and Sen. Edwards, though I doubt it'll show much about policy and will be more of character assassination attempts from both sides. Political theater at its best!

Personally, I'm not sure which is more dangerous, a crafty veteran pol like Cheney who will stand at nothing to attack an opponent, or a trial-tested lawyer who is considered a gifted speaker, quick on his feet, and sharp of mind who really has little to lose.

Obviously, the next few months will be where the election is won or lost. I expect it to be as tight, electorally, as it was in 2000. One state could be the difference yet again. Personally, I think that state could be Ohio with its 20 electoral votes. But there's much more to see.

Chapter 12.1: A Win from Right Field

The squad played a makeshift team of retired police officers and members of their families on July 4th. Since they still didn't have enough players, I "traded" some of our players to them to make two teams. These weren't bad players, either. I put a father and son on the cops, and both of them are decent players in this context. "Traded" isn't the right term of course, since we didn't get people back. But what we got in return was a pleasant game on a sunny holiday.

Normally, I make sure I'm in the center of the game, because I believe I can make a difference. This time, however, I put myself in right field. I could manage the game much more easily there, but there was little to manage. We won handily. I think the score was 15-2; they didn't score a run until their half of the sixth and final inning.

At the plate I hit two doubles, a single, and a home run in my final at bat. It was a little overkill, perhaps, but I rarely hit home runs, so I take them when I get them. Afterward we adjourned to the squad building for a wonderful picnic with our members, several police and firemen (including active squad members among them) and family and life members we tend to see only at this picnic and the annual dinner. Also there was our umpire, who cares as much about this summer tradition as any of the current squad members.

I'm glad to have finally won a "mayor's trophy" game; I've done it as a player and "assistant coach" with my brother, but though we've come close since he moved, this was the first win on July 4th since my brother moved. Perhaps I should retire now from running the club. I just don't have much time for organizing it. I'll worry about that some other day. We've got another game against the Springfield Squad next Sunday. Time to put together a winning streak!

Chapter 12: The Kid in Right Field

After a decent game at third base on Tuesday, I was asked to play right field last night. No problem. I'm a good enough fielder to handle that. Our 3-2 loss wasn't related to any play at third or in right.

I used to always play the outfield. I enjoyed it. A decade ago I still had some speed and my arm was stronger than most opponents. Now it's not quite as strong. My legs are in shape for endurance runs, not short sprints over bumpy outfield grass.

But things change. I made the plays when they came to me. I thought about where I'd throw if the ball went to me, where I'd run if I needed to back up a throw elsewhere. It's what I do; I play softball for fun.

On Sunday, I'm managing the squad's game against the police department. Usually the biggest challenge is getting everyone who wants to play into the game. That will still be the main stumbling point. But I want to win this game. It means something to me this time. It's not a life-changing moment. If we lose, I won't fall into a fit of depression. But I want to win.

I've been a graceful loser for too long. Time to step up.

Chapter 11.7: Cat of My Dreams

I had a bit of a nightmare last night, and I was planning to file a lawsuit. I was told that our cat Riley was not going to remain with us -- that the shelter where we adopted him nearly four years ago still retained legal custody and they were planning on sending him to another family.

I was extremely upset, even crying and threatening to sue the organization for not explaining the entire situation to us. How could we have been so misled? I was shown a paper with Latin terms I couldn't completely translate, but I was told they meant we were only caretakers for our boy, not the legal owners.

I ripped myself away from the dream. The blur of time on the clock indicated it was after 4 a.m. Our furry sentinel was standing watch at the window observing the night life, but he'd not seen the nightmare slip past. I went back to sleep.

An hour or so later Riley was awake and in a playful mood, meowing for attention. He does that a lot -- usually around 5-5:30 as the first hints of dawn break through and the birds awaken. I wasn't quite as annoyed this time. Eventually he joined us at the foot or our bed and snoozed. Nice life.

When I got up a couple hours later I petted him and told him how happy I was he was there. He'd left a nearly beheaded mouse toy at Maureen's side of the bed. I picked Riley up, cradled him in my arms, and he placed a paw up to my nose. He nibbled at my wrist and I placed him back on the bed. It amazes me how important a pet can be in life.

Chapter 11.5: I Don't Know -- Third Base

Played softball last night, starting at third. It's been several weeks since I last played there, but I actually felt pretty comfortable. I made the plays that came to me (with one exception, in which I short-hopped a throw to the second baseman, who didn't catch it). Even the umpire commended me for my play at third during the game, which surprised me. I was on the back end of a line-out double play, where the pitcher caught the liner and gunned it over to me. Frankly we both thought the runner had gotten back, but I'll take the umpire's word for it.

I think I prefer it to short and second. While the speed of the ball coming in can be disconcerting, there's not much time to think about it. You either make the play or you don't. One of the plays in which I didn't, my footing went out from under me. I was annoyed, but I couldn't do anything about it once the ball was into left field. Another advantage third has is that I'm generally not involved in many cut-offs. Occasionally I might have to take a throw from the left fielder, but the shortstop takes most of them. I'll relay information about whether to throw through to third or to cut and hold, but it's basically like being a destination spot. It's almost like being a catcher again!

The important part of last night's game, however, was not as positive. We got killed, 20-3. I scored one of the runs, having walked in my second plate appearance. I didn't get another one.

Chapter 11: Revising The Process

I was walking Riley, our cat, on Saturday morning after I'd run my six miles, when I decided that putting both "long runs" on the same day probably wasn't necessary. By that I mean the physical long run and the extended writing day. I'm going to switch the long writing day to either Fridays or Tuesdays.

Tuesdays are when Maureen's off at squad duty, so I have computer access, but Fridays offer more time. I'll experiment this week. With the holiday coming, I should be able to get more than 15 pages in this week.

The running has been fine, though I'm struggling to find a good route for the runs longer than five miles. Experimentation again is the rule of the day.

Chapter 10.7: I, Idiot

I stayed home for a couple hours today because we were having work done on our washing machine. We'd been unable to use it for more than a week because it wouldn't agitate. Our friend John Martini had come over on Sunday and we investigated the problem without success. We couldn't access all the motors and things, but we were able to test the electronics. We thought we'd isolated the problem -- by process of elimination -- to the transmission or what we thought was an alternator.

John suggested a local repairman he trusted. The name was familiar to me too, and when he returned my call he suggested I contact General Electric, because if it was still under warranty I'd save money. I like an honest business owner. I set up the appointment for today, and I was ready to assist the technician by relaying what John and I had learned.

The man arrived within the expected four-hour time window. I told him the problem as I saw it. He noticed the little flap where the probe from the loading door hit was out of place. It had been that way for months. John and I had played with it on Sunday as well. The washer had worked in the past with the flap out of place, though it spun regardless of whether the door was open or not. Today the appliance man flipped that flap back into its proper alignment. Just like that, the washer agitated again. I couldn't believe it; we'd tried that on Sunday!

And just like that I was out nearly $100 for his visit. I felt like a fool, but a fool who can clean his clothes again. It would have cost more had it been what I'd feared. Though the transmission was under warranty, the labor wasn't. (I don't understand that scheme.) So instead of a $150 job, I'd spent $100 for the five minutes this man was in my house.

I told Maureen what had happened. "I spent $100 for this guy to show me I'm an idiot," I said. "I usually get that for free."

Chapter 10.6: Old Friends

Happened upon the Web site of an old high school buddy of mine today. Leif Welch has been in a few bands in the years I've known him, including one with me that played for one gig only at Drew University, back in 1992 or '93. It's hard to even call that a band, but it was actually the first time I got paid to perform: $100 total, which I split four ways.

He later had a band based in New York called Trip to Mars, which I opened for a few times at Desmond's Tavern in New York in the mid '90s. I played solo under my own name and also with my friends John Upwood and Helen Nadel in a group known as Rebecca's Key. I don't think we got paid for those gigs, but I got some free beer, which in those days was the same thing as money. Plus I enjoyed having waitresses think I was someone important because I was opening for Leif's band. Ah the joy of angst-driven songs and a halfway decent voice to back them up. Back then I wrote songs that my sister has described as "songs about getting dissed by women." I guess I'm too happy in my love life to write such songs now. There are worse excuses for not playing guitar.

Leif eventually left the East Coast, heading to grad school in Chicago and apparently now lives in San Francisco. Perhaps I'll be able to catch up with him there whenever Maureen and I visit her brother and his family. Hope he's doing well.

Chapter 10.5: Field & Dream

Is there anything more lonely than an empty baseball field? It's so sad to see -- all that potential fun going unused. There aren't enough baseballs in the world to satisfy my need to knock a few around the park.

If heaven is anything akin to the Norse visions of battle fields where warriors fight their battles, perhaps fall on the field, then return again the next day, then my nirvana would be to play baseball forever. I know it sounds like Field of Dreams, but that's why that film touched so many people. (Oh yeah, and the idea of connecting with one's father.)

Baseball doesn't seem to be as popular as it was when I was young. Kids today like to play it, but I lived in my back yard imagining myself pitching to batters, formulating a Whiffleball league of whales and sharks and dolphins and elephants and assorted others. Players with histories, families. Making trades, selling clubs to my friends, then acting as commissioner when they weren't honoring the league's traditions. (I was a bit of a pain in the ass, I guess.)

My point is I didn't need a whole team of players to create a game. Heck, I'd play by myself if no one was available.

Is it a lack of imagination that keeps children off baseball fields these days? Is it parents' fears of litigation that instills within a child a reluctance to pitch another kid inside when there's nothing on the line? Does any child in the Brayton school district of Summit know what qualifies as a double or a triple when playing stick ball at Memorial Field?

There is nothing wrong with boys and girls playing baseball for hours by themselves. It's not a waste of time. It's imaginative, it's creative, it's structured ("If you hit it to right field, you're out, because we don't have anyone covering there"), it's healthy. Kids strengthen their arms by throwing, their legs by running, their social skills by being their own umpires.

"Go out and play, be home for dinner by 6"

Chapter X: SpaceShip One

We're in a new era, in case anyone noticed. We now live in a world in which it's possible to fly into space without having the public pay the price in taxes. SpaceShip One has gone up and returned, and it will go up again soon. That puts the team led by Burt Rutan and funded largely by Paul Allen in the lead for the "X Prize." There are some hurdles yet to cross, but I consider it an auspicious beginning.

I was listening to a critic on the radio who said this was an "impressive stunt," but he shot down the significance of this effort. He pointed to Rutan's non-stop flight around the world in the '80s, and asked what implications that has had for the public since. To be fair, I can't say he's wrong because I've not heard of anyone whose done that since and his plane's design doesn't seem to have been copied in order to fly people to far off places without refueling.

But to me, the trip to space is different. I think there are applications short term and long term, but there are inevitable questions that need to be answered first. How quickly can such trips be turned around? SpaceShip One should go up again within a couple weeks, according to the rules of the X Prize. In fact, I'm not sure it's qualified yet for the first part of the X Prize. I think it needs to have two passengers or the equivalent weight of two more people. From the first couple of paragraphs of articles I've read, I've not seen whether the weight was met on Mike Melvill's flight. I think he was the lone flier. Assuming the Rutan team eventually meets the criteria and turns around two return flights within two weeks, how long will it take before those flights can be replicated even faster? Is it possible to get it down to two flights per day? How much does it cost for the fuel of those flights and how much would it cost to send 'ordinary' people up? Could the price point get to $1,000 per 15 minute flight?

At the early stages of amateur space flight, I envision space barnstorming. I picture people scheduling months in advance for their 15 minutes above the stratosphere, throwing a grand to the pilot for the chance to see the world in a different light. Two flights, maybe three flights a day per vehicle. And that's just for the first couple of years as the technology progresses to create orbital flights, which obviously would cost more. I don't know, one orbit might take 90 minutes to two hours ... surely that would be worth $10,000 at least. Eventually, barnstorming would lead to destinations in space, such as space hotels: Can you say Astral Hilton? I'd imagine that's a couple decades in the future at least, but it could happen.

Of course, there are questions about whether this is proper: We've polluted the planet, we've polluted space, but such hotels and ongoing trips would only exacerbate the problem; how many people will die before this is shown to be a bad idea? But the point is, Americans and others will recognize that there's money to be made in space, and therefore space cowboys will venture out on the Spacedust Rush of the 21st century. If I had the money to spend, I'd love to literally "see the world." I don't think I'm alone.

Go for it!

Chapter 9: Making progress

The night has been miserable, with humidity and bad movies. I'd never seen Jaws III The Revenge all the way through before. I wasn't missing anything. At least one of the scenes looks like film from the dailies, another scene gives the impression it's been spliced in from the wrong section of film. The tail of the shark is ripping apart. And I'm not even getting into the acting and script! Truly bad cinema.

Afterward, Maureen dragged the fan into the living room and I went into the office to write. I've finally returned to the original 240+ pages I'd originally written for this novel and plucked out what was then chapter 5 and placed it in as chapter 14. There's some continuity issues I need to address, which I'll get to tomorrow. I'm pleased to see the book taking better shape, however.

Chapter 8.6: The Bird and the Heat

Do birds breathe heavy? I was sitting in my car, the egg, listening to someone on NPR talk about whether "blog" will last as a prefix (as opposed to a faddish trend such as "cyber" in the '90s) when I noticed a robin hopping about the foliage. I noticed when it stopped that the bird seemed to be breathing heavily, its puffed chest moving back and forth in a quick , rocking motion. It was almost comic, it looked so strange. I've never noticed how a bird breathes. It hopped away as though nothing was wrong.

It's very hot out. Perhaps the bird is affected by it. I can't remember if birds are warm blooded.

The heat and humidity have lingered all week, burning the ground and firing up tensions. Last night I umpired another playoff game. Both my playoff games have involved the Angels (a team I've mentioned in at least one previous posting). The game was in Summit and pitted the Angels against the Summit team coached by a guy I almost tossed last year. He's kind of a Bobby Valentine type; he argues about everything -- always in front of his players -- yet he also tries to joke around as though he's your buddy. Given the significance of the game (single elimination tournament) I expected trouble. While there was one play early that he disputed, the game was so well played by both teams that the game rolled along at a good pace. The Summit team lost by one run. They had a runner on base in the bottom of the 7th, and their best hitter up at the plate popped up to the first baseman. Afterward, the Angels coach asked if I was available to ump on Saturday. I guess I'm doing fine.

Maureen and I went out last night to celebrate her gaining a new client. We both needed to get out of the house, where the central air conditioning is timid and the fan disrupts our sweaty sleep. Maureen has felt ill for a few days, lethargic in the heat and a little nauseated. The washing machine is still not working, and she's been concerned about an old friend she spoke with recently whose injuries from an accident a couple years ago left her with brain damage. Sitting in a veritable sauna doesn't make her work easier.

Since I'd had the game, followed by a meeting with the Scottish group, I didn't get home till nearly 10. Maureen and I went down to McLynn's for a late meal and a few drinks. We needed to get out and relax with each other. I spent the exact amount I'd earned that night umpiring. We got home around 1 a.m., much later than I'd planned. I didn't write, I didn't run. Still, it was a productive night. I'm breathing easier.