A Man's Best Friends

The Bob loves the dogs. The ones we have now, at least.

Pacifico

and Shiner

Growing up, I don't think I saw my dad pet our old dogs a single time. Corona and Lone Star, for whatever reason, were like Peter Tosh dogs in his eyes -- they couldn't find no love, no sympathy.

What is it that softens a man's stance towards his puppies in old age? I have no answer for you. But I do have an assurance: The Bob loves his dogs now. Have a look for yourself.

(I have no idea if he is calling Pacifico "staley" or "steely." Either way, I'm not quite sure those words have meanings.)

If/When I create a television series centered around my father, known around these parts as The Bob, I've got my intro.

By now, everyone with an Internet connection faster than the one in East Africa has seen Sarah Palin's infamous Katie Couric interview. They have also seen Tina "Could I Have Asked For a Bigger Godsend than Sarah Palin for Vice President" Faye's SNL spoof.

If you haven't, then please click here to watch both.

One of my really good friends is an avid McCain supporter. Actually, that isn't true. He's an avid hater of anyone who would ever vote for a black man, although he would never say that out loud. (He just whispers it to you when he's drunk). I skipped over the whole "How can you be racist in 2008" card and went straight for the "John McCain is older than Methuselah" jab, trying to paint a portrait of an America run by Governor Palin.

"John McCain has just as likely a chance of dying in office as Barack Obama!" he yelled.

"Are you kidding me? Unless you're talking about someone assassinating Obama, how could you possibly argue that point?"

"Because it's AMERICA!" he yelled, again.

I just stared at him. To make him replay the dialogue in his head.

"We have modern medicine in this country," he said.

I just hope there aren't too many more people in this country who ascribe to this kind of logic. If there are, then they may be excited about Palin's foreign policy experience.

Keep Austin Weird.

I'm in the fruit section at H-E-B, picking up supplies for Day One of Austin City Limits. I've heard security is lax at the festival, so I'm stocking up on food, liquor, and all that other stuff that makes music festivals more enjoyable than they'd be otherwise. All of this will go in my backpack. Some in my pockets. But first, I've got to buy everything. And I'm perusing the many types of apples they've got going in this ginormous grocery store, my wet hair brushing against my shoulders, as my right hand grips the metal handles of a red plastic H-E-B basket.

I'm wearing my favorite shirt, one I had our village tailor make for me in Tanzania. There are two huge pockets sewn onto the front of it, at the bottom, covering the feet of a rooster (jogoo, pronounced joe-go'oh, my favorite word in Swahili) who takes up the majority of the kitenge fabric, the beak pecking at my shoulder. The last time I wore this shirt, a woman in Houston remarked that I "have the Austin look." I think what she meant by that was, "You look like a freaking hippie." Or just weird.

I could easily drop two apples in those pockets below the rooster and walk right into ACL, I bet.

In Tanzania, there are no apples, unless you go to the Wazungu grocery stores. It is as I'm remembering this fact -- only wealthy people can eat apples in TZ -- that I first notice the middle-aged man in the golfer hat. His eyes are covered by thick prescription lenses, and he wears a pink button down shirt. The man, somewhere in his sixties, is standing in the aisle about six feet to my right, where more apples sit stacked on top of each other. He is staring at me, clearly waiting eagerly for the time when we can make eye contact.

I am holding a plastic sack with three Fuji apples inside. I love Fuji apples. Those you can't find anywhere in Tanzania, even if you are a Mzungu.

"Yeah," the man says, as if I've asked him something, a strange choice for his opening line. "How are you?"

We exchange pleasantries. I am amused by this guy, but I can't say why just yet. He says "Yeah" like kids my age say "like" -- excessively, and unnecessarily. I've never heard someone use "yeah" as a space filler, like "um," or "you know." He is definitely weird. Or a freaking hippie.

"They say these are 99 cents a piece." The man holds up his own bag of apples. There are four of them inside, bulging through the cheap, flimsy plastic. They are not Fuji, but still an amalgamation of red and yellow in tone. There are so many types of apples in American grocery stores. "So that means for the rest of my life, I get 2,993 less of these per year."

I smile, because I don't know what else to do. I could ignore him, I suppose, but like I said, this guy amuses me. So I smile a confused smile and walk past him. But I turn back, because I don't want him to think I'm weirded out by him. We weirdos have to stick together. When I look again, there he is, still staring at me; we've traded places in the apple aisle.

"... Because of the White House party yesterday," he says, hoping that that will send me over the edge. It doesn't, but I do laugh a bit now. Mainly I'm tickled by the fact that this guy has probably made this joke to ten people by now, as if he was conducting of a poll of the various types of humor to be found in the fruit aisle at H-E-B. This was last Friday, when everyone just assumed the $700 billion bailout would take place.

Once he's out of sight, I take out my notebook.

Why I ♥ Austin. That's how I headed that story in my brand new Marble Memo book.

This was last Friday, when the $700 billion bailout was seen as inevitable by one and all. The man had come to some sort of figure in his head as to what that would cost him as an individual tax payer, and how it would affect his apple-eating. He'd then bitched about it to a random kid 40 years his junior at H-E-B.

These are the types of encounters with strangers that I like. That contrasts with another encounter I had the week before in Houston. The man with the golfer hat left me smiling; the woman with the makeup left my hands shaking with rage. This, in a way, illustrates the tale of two Texas cities.

Lai Lai Dumpling House is a dive joint in the China-town neighborhood surrounding my old high school, Strake Jesuit. Lai Lai is owned by a Chinese couple who immigrated to Houston from Shanghai; by the sounds of their accents, one could surmise that they got off the boat yesterday. They know David's and my face well. David is the guy I was sitting with when I had my ultimate "I Want to Leave Houston" moment. He went to Strake, too. We have been loyal customers at Lai Lai for about nine years now.

Lai Lai is a dump. You could feed a family of six for about $15 there, and everyone would be full. I'm pretty sure they've got illegal Chinese immigrants sleeping on cots in the kitchen, too.

I say all this only to illustrate the type of clientèle that frequents the place. They are not wealthy by any means. Muchos hablan Español, if you catch my drift. But it is still Houston.

So there we were, David and I, having a very pleasant exchange about the upcoming election. I am an Obama supporter; David likes McCain. Both of us have reasons, but more importantly, both of us have reason. Some people, though, just have reasons.

"Excuse me," the woman said as she lifted her chair a few centimeters off the ground and swiveled around to join our table, without being asked, and without asking. "I couldn't help but overhearing your conversation, and I'm just curious, who are you voting for?"

She was looking directly at me, and I noticed that she did not say "y'all." It was obvious to any eavesdropper, such as this woman, who both of us were voting for. But the tone of her voice was so pleasant, and plus she just looked like the quintessential, nice grandmother. The nice Southern grandmother, since she had on enough cheap perfume to singe my nose hairs, and more makeup than Bozo. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, despite how menacing her husband appeared. He was a dead ringer for any one of the Good Ol' Boys, the band whose gig was stolen by Jake and Elwood Blues at Bob's Country Bunker. "I have very leathery hands," delivered in a very deliberate, strong Southern accent, is the quote I use to describe his essence, even though he never said a single word. He sat in the corner, quietly, next to his wife, with a big, white mustache, black cowboy boots, and an extremely intimidating demeanor.

All of this I processed in the blink of an eye. And then I answered the woman's question. She was about the same age as the man in the apple aisle at H-E-B.

"I'm voting for Obama," I said.

"And why?" She was quick to respond, extremely quick, but still coming across as nothing but pleasant. Like she just loved youth and young people and young people's energy about life.

"Because of what he represents to me," I said. She was looking right at me, the faint trace of a smirk beginning to develop on the corners of her heavily painted lips.

"Do you work, son?" she shot back without having heard my answer. It was like a script had been written beforehand, only she was a B-rate actress who can't get work. Now her tone was beginning to harden. She lifted her eybrows, oh so slightly, yet oh so noticeably.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, partially telling the truth. (Does non-taxable tree cutting work after Hurricane Ike count?)

But she didn't care about the answer. I have the Austin look, remember? I must be a freaking hippie. Or a weirdo.

Looking back, it should have been obvious from the outset that this lady was getting ready to bite my head off. The contrast between our energies made me feel like Raoul Duke at the District Attorney's Convention on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. All the fake pleasantness was simply her preparing for take off.

Who are you voting for? Ready.

And why? Set.

Do you work, son? GO!

Like Usain Bolt in the 200m blocks waiting for the sound of that gun, this woman saw victory as a preconceived formality. All she has to do is enter the race and she wins. Barack Obama? What he represents? How about I burn your ass in this race and gloat my way to the finish line; then come talk to me about Barack Obama.

"He's gonna tax youuuuuuu," she chastised, her eyebrows now really raised, like she was one of the black cheerleaders in "Bring It On." David was sitting in between us. He didn't want to get involved. David is shy.

I am not shy. I was a bit taken back, yes, but I'm not easily flustered to the point of silence. Reminding myself of my recent decision to change my attitude about life, to become more peaceful, less confrontational, and also reminding myself that this was a woman in her sixties, who deserves respect, I tried to keep my composure while not letting her treat me like a bitch.

"Maybe if you educated yourself a little better on the issue, ma'am --"

She had already cut me off by the time I got to the word "better." I didn't hear what she said after that, because I myself kept talking, not letting her Bill O'Reilly me.

"-- you'd see that Obama's tax plan is actually targeting the 1.9 percent of the population that earns over $250,000 a year."

She was still spitting out her Haterade, rivulets of words and epithets; I caught "taxes," "You don't know anything," "Obama," and that's about it. She heard even less of what I had to say. People were looking at us. David was looking down at his General Tso's. My heart was pounding so fast my hands shook as I tried to take another bite and forget about this bitch.

This is not where the woman lives.

Speaking of the word bitch, lots of alternate endings were swirling around in my head, like Wayne at the end of the first movie. Almost all of them involved me making a scene.

Just eat, Billy. Forget about her. Just eat your flat rice noodles. And breathe. And "conversate" with David, like Mike Leach would say.

But I couldn't let it drop.

"You know what I'm gonna do, ma'am?" I said as I picked up the baton left lying on the track. I was really emphasizing the word "ma'am," mocking her with faux respect, while still appearing to be above the fray. Kind of like I was running for president. "I'm gonna pull up a chair to your table there, and I'm gonna listen in on y'all's conversation." She had turned back around by this point, and was talking to her husband, pretending like she couldn't hear me. But she could. "And every time I hear something I don't agree with, I'm gonna interrupt with a rude comment."

"Oh, I apologize, I really do," she shot back at me without turning her chair. I mock her with faux respect; she shoots some faux remorse right back at me. Kind of like she was running for president.

"What do you think about that plan, MA'AM?"

I wasn't yelling, but certainly had raised my voice at this point. David was still silent. Poor David.

"I'm so sorry. I apologize." And she waves her hand at me, like she's sending back the soup. Maybe she really was sending back soup, though, now that I think about it. There are rumors that dead cats have been found in Lai Lai's freezers, though I refuse to believe it until I see it.

I, am, so, mad. Each comma represents a breathe-in, breathe-out. My hand is a 5.0 on the Richter Scale now; I'm worried the fork may go into orbit if I let go. "Don't call her a bitch, don't call her a bitch," I keep telling myself. I don't want to get us banned from Lai Lai. "General Tso's. She's not worth it. General Tso's."

We paid the bill and we left. It took everything I had to act my age and not deliver any parting words. Neither the woman nor her leathery handed husband even glanced our way as we walked out. I'm sure she made a comment about my ponytail though.

"That hippie belongs in Austin."

Perhaps I do.

America.

Falling apart at the seams.

Napenda kuongea Kiswahili...

"I love to speak Swahili." Which is why I've been trading emails with a few of my Tanzanian friends since returning to the States, partly just to say what's up, mambo vipi, hope you're well, but mainly to keep up my language skills, seeing as Swahili is the only one I speak halfway decently aside from English, although signs of rust are already starting to appear.

Swahili is a simple language. I always tell people that there is no way there can be an easier one in the world. It is not possible. The range of expression is so limited -- words like "frustrated," or "exasperated," or "distressed," they're all grouped together into one category: mbaya. Bad. Nasikia vibaya. I feel bad. Sure you can say "Nimechukia." I'm angry. But that's it. Now if you want a word for a type of wind, or plant, or something relating to things that I'm never going to talk about, it can get pretty complex. And so on and so forth for the rest of our flowery language, and its translation into Swahili: things Wazungu want to know are simple; things a poor Tanzania farmer needs to know offer more breadth.

An example of something nobody needs to know about in East Africa is what happened in southeast Texas recently: Hurricane Ike. That guy rocked our world. And my buddy Rahim, the sweet shooting small forward from Soweto, read about it in the local newspapers, and was nice enough to email me expressing his condolences: "nasikia huko ni noma upepo na mvua ni kubwa sana."





"I hear there is a problem there. Wind and rain are very big."

That is how you say "hurricane" in a language that has no word for it. If they were forced to create one, I'm sure it would simply come out as "hurikeni." (Pronounced "her-ih-cane-ee.") Instead, Rahim just says "very big wind and rain."

(Ironically, Rahim's self-appointed nickname is "The Rain," as evidenced by another line in that same email: "ni mimi mchizi wako the rain hastalavista msalimie sana muwindaji na mademu wa texas." It's me your boy the rain, hasta la vista (Rahim studies Spanish), greet Hunter and all the chicks in Texas.)

The following is an email I just got from Lazaro, our old Maasai security guard, but not the one who loads the arrow backwards onto the bow.




Lazaro is a sweet guy; he's 17. He printed out his email and had it laminated, so that we could communicate in the future. When he handed it to me, it was with all the reverence that an Asian businessman would present alongside with his business card. It was a Maasai security guard's version of a business card, this laminated rectangle of computer paper. You can really see not only Lazaro's personality shine through on this email, but a sense of what the Swahili language is all about, too: lots of courtesy, lots of repetition of very simple ideas. And in Lazaro's case, no punctuation. This is why I was able to learn it so quick. It is extremely straight forward.


mambo hatari vipi mbona kimiya nashukuru nimepata meseji yako ninawakumbuka mlionisadia asandeni sana familia yako awajambo namimi sijambo sana uko marikani joto sana mimi naendelea vizuri na kingereza yangu natakiwa mkija tanzania tunaongea kingereza tu mimi natakiwa nizome toeged kumbeleka wazungu porini maisha yangu ya badae niliyokuambia sasa usikasirike nikuambie nitafutie mzungu ya kuowa mimi nimekuwa mtu mzima anzande sana mimi lazaro baraka mnzalimie muindaji mwambie namzalimia sana mwambie namkumbuka alifiyo nimpeleka osipitali nashukuru sana kwahilo sasa naishi nawanzungu mwambie muindaji wakati anakuja tanzania aniletee kamera na lapotop kwasababu nimeshajua kutumia ansande nakutakiya kazi njema marafiki yako tutakuja uko marikani mungu akipenda ansande sana kasi njema msalimie dada furaha kama siyeye ningekuwa wapi namkumbuka sana mwambie akija tanzania nimeandalia zawadi yake tu tupo pamoja naendelea vizuri sanana wakina all alley tamika end tim bay bay tu

"what's up danger ("Hatari" was my nickname) how come you're so quiet thanks i got your message ("meseji," the new word for message, see?) i remember y'all when you helped me thank y'all so much is your family all right and me i'm doing just fine over there in america it's really hot me i'm doing well and my english y'all should come to tanzania we'll just speak english me i should study (followed by a word I don't understand) to take wazungu (word for white boys) to the forest to set up my life for the future i told you now don't be sad i'm telling you i'll find a mzungu (a singular form of white boy) to be with me i've become a real man thank you so much i am lazaro baraka tell hunter (his nickname, the literal word for "hunter," is Mwindaji) hello tell him i greet him warmly tell him i remember when he took me to the hospital (Lazaro had really bad malaria right before we left) and i'm really grateful for that now i'm living with wazungu tell hunter when he comes to tanzania he should bring me a camera and a laptop because i already know to send him thanks (this part I don't get at all, and it's not because of language barriers) i wish you good work to your friends we will come to america if god wishes thanks so much good work greet tait (his other Mzungu friend, also ours) where should i be i remember her a lot tell her if she comes to tanzania i've got her present we're together i'm doing very well (don't know "wakina") alley tamika and tim (the three people living there now) just bay bay (does he know that's my old nickname from junior high??)"


Aisee, naimiss ile lugha!!

Raja and I went to Agora last night to chill for an hour or two before the midnight curfew still in effect in Houston. His friend Alex had recommended the peach beer they sell. I don't like fruity beers, since I'm a man. Raja, who has big muscles and is very intimidating if he gives you the stare down, like fruity beers.




Here was the dialogue between Raja and the female cashier:

Cashier: "That'll be ten dollars."

Raja: "For everything?"

Cashier: "No, for the beer."

Raja: "Ten dollars?!"

Me: laughing

Raja: (sensing that he needed a justification for spending ten dollars on a bottle of beer, while not in Moscow or Oslo or Manhattan) "My friend told me I really needed to get the peach beer..."

Cashier: "Is your friend a she?"

Raja: "Excuse me?"

Cashier: silence

Raja: "No, it's a guy."

Cashier: (clearly trying hard to react like she was not surprised) "Oh."

I met four Balkan guys last night at a coffee shop called Agora. We sat and talked for about an hour, before the waitress kicked us out -- there is still a midnight curfew in Houston, to prevent looters from running amok in the continued wake of the hurricane. All of them are best friends, and all are from the former Yugoslavia, though from all sorts of creeds and nationalities.

A Bosnian Serb.

A Croatian Serb.

A Bosnian Muslim.

A Croatian Croat.

And this guy.

It made me miss the Balkans more than you can believe. For just a moment, the passion, the intensity, the dark humor, the cigarettes, and talk of history, of beautiful women, of rakija, it was back. If I could have hopped on a flight for Belgrade right then, at 12:15 in the morning, I would have.

I felt alive as I stepped off that patio last night, headed for my mom's car, which I am driving these days, seeing as I do not have one. I felt a buzz in my bones. Like I had dropped a few pounds, and was almost gliding on the pavement. Alive. I smiled as I glided, wishing I could call O.G. Zoka. That energy I only get when I travel, it came to me last night in a small dose, just to remind me what it feels like. There is nothing quite like spitting out some sentences in a language you can't quite remember, just to prove your street cred for a group of people shocked to hear that an American has not only visited their home towns, but visited all of their home towns, and stayed for six months in their home country.

This is why I am glad I've done what I've done over the past two years now, while I'm still young, as opposed to working the next 40 years of my life so I can save enough money to be able to do it then, when I'll already be far removed from the last time I could get it up on my own accord. I've still got the rest of my life to live, with many lives' worth of memories to live with, and those memories come in handy when you see someone wearing a jersey for the soccer team from a quaint little town in Bosnia known as Mostar.

The best part was that I finally had someone to tell about the messages I'd seen written on the paper towel dispenser in the Agora men's room.

Volim te.

"I love you" in "Serbian/Croatian/Bosnian," as I referred to their language last night after first having sat down, since I didn't want to offend anyone.

And right below:

OБИЧAM TE.

They had laughed when I said "Volim te," was written in the bathroom, which guaranteed they'd crack up when they heard what else. "And next to it is 'Običam te!'" I yelled as I walked out, my parting words.

While I can't just call O.G. up out of the blue -- it's expensive to phone Belgrade from my cell phone -- my best friend from my time in YU is always ready for a text message. She'd answered my question about what that last phrase meant the time I'd gone to Agora a few days earlier: "'običam te' in serbian doesn't mean anything only could be used as a sleng fraze...like a 'you're my bitch, i'll bitch you up' .. something like that..."

The word "Balkan" is a collection of two Turkish words: bal, which means honey, and kan, blood. I've always been fascinated by this etymological pun. But nothing exemplifies the contrast better than that paper towel dispenser at Agora: "I love you" together with "I'll bitch you up."

Honey and blood. Take me home, country road, to a place, I belong.

Whoa is me. (Is that how you type that? It's kind of like when you say, "I'll be it" in a story. Is that really "albeit"? I am lost on this.) Houston sports are in abysmal shape -- see Houston Astros; see Houston Texans. And our economy, formerly called "the free market system," is hurting like John McCain at a yoga convention. So I go to read the paper online, to see what's happening in the world. And what do I read?

I read that our "national debt ceiling" is about to reach $11.3 trillion.

ELEVEN POINT THREE TRILLION?!

Dollars?!?!

Dollars. Not TZ Shillings.

Oy.

I know what you're thinking: We need tax cuts! I love Sarah Palin because her kids played hockey!

Oy.

“This is a big package, because it was a big problem,” President Bush said about his proposed $700 billion bailout plan for Wall Street. Thanks for explaining it so thoroughly, George. At this point, you know he's counting down the days on his calendar until someone else can take control of the huge, embarrassing failure called the presidency like an eighth grader counts down the final days of junior high.

When I read about the debt ceiling, though, I almost choked. I know nothing about finance; I travel around, speak Swahili and cut trees for a living. Raja knows about finance; he works for UBS. He was in the room when I almost choked.

"What I really want to know," the muscular Arab said, "is what comes after 'trillion'? What word comes after 'trillion'?"

"I don't know, a bagillion?" I asked.

"Please let it be a bagillion."

"I know, man. And it's like, if 'bagillion' is not already a real word, can we please make it so? Can we please define the word that comes after a trillion to be 'a bagillion'?"

At least I can laugh about stuff when it gets pretty bleak. This has gotten me into lots of trouble in the past with girlfriends and bosses. But if I couldn't laugh, I'd probably have to escape to a tree house on a beach in Brazil somewhere to keep my sanity. I laughed when the Texans got stopped on fourth down inside the ten twice today. And I laughed when the Astros, who had won 14 of 15 before Hurricane Bud Selig knocked down their house of cards, lost six of of seven as they limp into the finish line of a third consecutive year without a postseason appearance. And I laughed when I read that we owe $1 bagillion to the world.

I laugh not because it's funny, but because it's sad. You're right. All we need is tax cuts and a ban on stem cell research, and everything should be good. And lower gas prices. That's all.

It's good to be back!

Two days ago, during my fifth day of tree cutting after Hurricane Ike, Mike, Will and I knocked on the door of an Indian family in Bellaire. A woman came to the door and refused to open it, talking to me through the glass. I found this odd. Perhaps it was my desheveled apperance and ratty pony tail, coupled with my odor that might have permeated the cheap window panes, that caused her to be so rude to a complete stranger.

Her husband and father came out to negotiate with me as to the price of the work that needed to be done: two dead trees, with tons of branches knocked off by the storm, stood in tatters in their front yard.

They spoke in an Indian language which was completely foreign to me, except for one thing: "broken limb."

"Shabada boo, shabada bah, shee la noo, broken limb shaba da."

"Shee shah boo boo da broken, shabada be bop boo broken limb."

"Shabada, shabada."

(Me: trying not to laugh).

What, do limbs not break in India?

"We named our tree cutting service 'Ike's Tree Cutting Service.' We named it after Dwight Eisenhower."

This is the first time I've gotten to check my email since Hurricane Ike came storming into town like an uninvited relative who thinks a shared last name gives them license to raid your fridge. Ike was not kind to my city, but he was way nicer to us than to Galveston, which is FUBAR.

My body is hurting. I feel like David Carr on Monday morning -- or at least, the David Carr who used to get on the field on Sundays, on Monday morning. That's because of the recent industry I've joined, starting Saturday afternoon: tree cutting.

That's right, I'm using my expensive UVa education to go around in ripped up Carhartt's and a black, mesh trucker hat that says "RAM ROD" -- ("Say 'Team Ram Rod.' Say 'Team Ram Rod!'") -- cutting up trees felled by Ike. Demand has been higher than Cheech, though less and less so with every passing day. My hands, after three straight days of working my ass off, have become 10 percent tree -- I swear the bark and sap molecules have simply become one with my flesh. The red marks on my neck make me look like an arbophiliac; if I had a girlfriend, I'd have some explaining to do regarding this hickey: "Baby, I swear, it's from all the heavy lifting and placing of logs on my right shoulder, a la some big strong guy from Scandinavia on ESPN2!"

My bank account, which was in the red as recently as Friday, is about the only thing that isn't hurting these days.

In three days I've made over a thousand dollars. And I'm still trying to go today. Business is starting to die out, thanks to the massive cleanup efforts that have been underway since the morning after the storm hit, throughout the city, and to the fleets of crafty Mexicans trying to undermine my business with rakes and flatbed trailers. All I've got are a couple of buddies with chainsaws. How can I compete with ocho Mexicanos who have business cards and blowers?

I will write much more about this later. Right now, there are trees that need a cuttin'.

p.s. I hate Bud Selig and I want him to die. It is very evident that he wants his darling Brewers in the playoffs so badly that he will resort to anything, ANYTHING, to help facilitate that dream. Nevermind that the Phils just pushed them to the side, and that the Cubs are about to finish them off. He wants the Astros out of the picture. So he reschedules two of our three games with Chicago to be played at, of all places, Milwaukee, an hour from Chicago? Against the Cubs? Home games?! If we miss the playoffs by two games I want him hung in effigy from the rafters of our real home stadium, Minute Maid Park.

It's 12:30 a.m., and it hasn't even started raining yet. Sure, the wind is picking up, but what happened to all this gloom and doom? I don't want to jinx it, of course. Hurricane Ike is very real, especially for the poor people of Galveston, and especially for the idiots who refused to leave (apparently that covers 40 percent of the island's population). I know a storm is still coming. I'm just ready for it to start, because I'm yawning ever ten seconds here and am ready for a show.

Murray's predicted headline tomorrow: "Ike Strikes!"

Raja's predicted headline tomorrow: "Y-IKE-S!"

My predicted headline tomorrow (if the storm doesn't live up to the hype, of course): "S-IKE!"

Oh, shit.

I never liked purple.

"You thinkin' bout stayin'?"

My friend John Stewart (not that Jon Stewart), who lives in the historic section of Galveston, had his arms wrapped around bags of supplies as he walked through the parking lot. Yes, he was thinking about staying, even though the entire island was under mandatory evacuation orders. He nodded to the old man, drunk and stumbling, who had been so kind as to ask.

"Yer an idjit."

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At first, I thought all the preparation for Hurricane Ike seemed a little excessive: all businesses, if they opened at all today, were closed by 1; move all the plants and furniture in from outside; drain the pool; no school; no Astros-Cubs games, today or tomorrow, postponed to a date to be determined later, even though I had tickets. But now, I'll admit, I'm starting to get a little worried. Everyone and their mothers are getting prepared for Ike to hit this part of Texas sometime late tonight. People along two hundred miles of coastline, as well as inland here in Houston, are crossing themselves and hoping they're not about to get the comeuppance that we always knew would eventually come after the devastation that beset New Orleans three years ago.

The only exception being, of course, Raja. His extremely large muscles will surely protect him from 100 mph winds.

"What's the point in writing about it; you can't do anything about it," Raja is saying from my green swivel chair in my room as I type.

(pause)

"Can you just put in your blog that I just farted? Come on, it's my birthday." He turns 25 tomorrow.

(I write it)

"And can you just write 'Raja farted'? I don't want any of this Baylessness in there, none of your penmanship: 'And then, the winds came from his buttocks..'"

I was calling all this hysteria the Post Katrina Crying Wolf Syndrome for the past two days. It started in 2005 with Hurricane Rita, when the entire city of Houston essentially decided to get on I-10 West at the same time to evacuate. That didn't work out so well -- more people died sitting on the pavement in the crazy Houston heat than were killed by the actual storm, which may or may not have overflowed our dogs' food bowls which were left outside. But regardless of how many false alarms that may occur, in the post-Katrina age, no mayor wants to go down in history as the one that disregarded the Next Big One.

I am hoping that Katrina Pt. II is not named Ike. From what I've been reading in the past hour, though, it looks increasingly possible that this guy could be the real deal.

But here in east Texas, I just thank the good Lord and Savior Jesus Christ that we've got real American patriots like Robert Shumake willing to stand up to a terrorist, liberal, hippie, homosexual storm like Ike:

"But many of the island’s residents took a cavalier approach to the storm. Surfers and storm watchers were on the beach Friday morning. One man, Robert Shumake, carried a flag along the shore to commemorate the victims of 9/11, a ritual he does every morning.

"'I say bring it on, Ike,' said Mr. Shumake, 53, as a wave broke just feet behind him. 'You can’t touch this flag right here.'" - The New York Times, "Hurricane Ike Bears Down on Texas Coastline," 9/12/08

What does that even mean?

"Why are we going to a hotel?" I asked yesterday when I first heard The Bob's plan to climb to safety at the Mariott. "What, is that place hurricane proof? Isn't it pretty nearby?"

"Because," he answered, distracted with the long list of other hurricane preparations that still needed to be made, like backing the cars into the driveway, front bumpers facing the street, "when the power goes out, the Mariott will have a generator."

I just got back from Tanzania. The power goes out there every day. You just deal with it. The world actually continues to orbit the sun, if you can believe it. The fact that I honestly didn't see what the problem was with this proves that I'm still not all the way back.

"Read a book," I said.

"The A/C," The Bob shot back, irritation dripping from every syllable.

I weep for the future of our species.

We're not going to the Marriot, by the way, because of our two dogs, Pacifico and Shiner. We can't leave them.

Unless the power really does go out. I'm trying to watch Ohio State-USC.

So I'm looking for a part time job at the moment, as I linger in Houston for the next few weeks before I plan to move to Austin. I committed to coaching my cousin's church league soccer team until the end of October, so it doesn't leave me with many options as far as trying to make some cash right now.

I'm basically willing to prostitute myself out for money while I wait for November.

I think I found the perfect gig on craigslist.com.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Seeking 1-2 Attractive & Gay-friendly Bartender for Wedding 10/11/08 (Private Ranch outside of Austin, TX)

---

Reply to: job-832551225@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-09-08, 12:12PM CDT


Seeking 1-2 very attractive & friendly guys to bartend at a gay wedding (grooms are 29 & 31 year olds) on a private ranch outside of Austin on the night of Saturday, October 11th, from 6:00pm - 12:00am (with potential overnight lodging as well as a brunch shift the next day). There will be roughly 125 guests from all over the world (mostly from New York, Los Angeles, & Texas) and a full bar. This will be a great opportunity to meet some very interesting people, eat amazing food, and have a BLAST at one of the coolest ranches in Texas.

Please reply to this posting with your resume (or a description of your bartending experience) and at least one clear recent photo of yourself. We look forward to hearing from you!!!

• Location: Private Ranch outside of Austin, TX
• Compensation: $200+ (or commensurate with experience

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Thoughts (oh, how many I have):

1. A description of our "bartending experience," eh? Is that what they're calling it these days?
2. Yeah, I bet there's potential for overnight lodging ... of things ... in things.
3. And I'd get to stay for breakfast...
4. $200 doesn't seem like much. But it's like Michael Scott said, "It's all about the perks."

The Mighty Ducks took flight for the first time last night, our opening game coming less than a week after our first practice. We play soccer, but it felt more like the opening weekend of hunting season.

If you want to put a positive spin on it, no 5-1 loss is ever going to feel as close as yesterday's defeat at the hands of River Oaks Baptist.

But it's like Gordon Bombay said: "Ducks fly together."*

*If you haven't seen the movie, you won't get it.

In Emilio We Trust.

When two of your players -- including the ringer, Wang, whose name I will sadly never get to yell now -- quit before the season even starts, "Ducks fly together."

When you're left with a roster of only 12, leaving us with no subs, should anyone not be able to make it (as happened last night), "Ducks fly together."

When you only take a total of three shots on goal, two less than the number scored by the other team all night, "Ducks fly together."

And when everyone is dead tired by the half, since they're all in fifth and sixth grade and playing on a FIFA sized field ...

"Do I have to play?" Our left midfielder was sitting on a cold metal bench, and her cheeks were steaming hot. Flushed and red, she was panting like a dog on I-10 as she clutched her water bottle.

"Yes," I said. "You have to play. We only have 11 kids. You have to play." Everyone else, except for our goalie, was exhausted as well. As a matter of fact, another midfielder had asked if there were water breaks during the game, about three minutes after the opening whistle. The girl with the flushed cheeks well aware that we did not have anyone to sub in for her.

"But..." she was clearly beat as a street, but so was everyone else. "Can I just sit out this half?"

I stood there staring at her, trying to decipher if she was playing dumb like a fox or was being sincere. Did she think this word trickery would work on me, or did she really not realize we only had one half remaining? The girl goes to private school. But then again, she is only 11. I couldn't tell.

"There is only one half left," I said, before briefly explaining the concept of quitting versus quitting on your team. "You're playing."

Ducks only fly together if they admit they're ducks. Before the opening kick -- actually, up to the moment that Matt and I had to get off the field so the game could commence -- there was continued dissension as to whether or not this was the case. Not about what positions they were playing, or questions about where they should be standing on the field, but about what our team name is. If you'll remember, there is a strange obsession with Mexican food among the players on our roster.

"All right Mighty Ducks, let's go!" I yelled as my co-coach and I jogged towards the sidelines.

"Noooo! Not Mighty Ducks!" came a chorus of 11-year-old girl voices.

I stopped jogging.

"Yes. Mighty Ducks. We are the Mighty Ducks. I don't want to hear any more on this topic." And tried to just keep moving, as if that would add some sense of finality to the dispute.

"NOOOO!" The ref was standing there with the ball, staring at us. The other team, they were all ready in their positions. They seemed to be on the same page regarding their team name. We weren't quite ready for the season to start, it appeared. "Tortiiiiiiillas! Can we just say Tortillas and y'all say Mighty Ducks?"

I had turned back around at this point, slowly inching my way towards the sidelines, in increments. "NO! MIGHTY DUCKS! END OF ARGUMENT!"

There was continued discussion among the girls most vocally opposed, but I nipped it in the bud. "We will talk about this after the game. For now let's just concentrate on playing!"

Which brings me to the reason I was so proud of our team during halftime. They finally caved.

"All right y'all, we're only down two goals, we can tie this thing!" I yelled as we brought it in for "Mighty Ducks on three," right as the second half was set to start. I was expecting a repeat of what has happened at both of our practices so far: Matt and I yell the real team name with our deep, 24-year-old man voices in an attempt to drown out the sea of high, 11-year-old girl (with a few boy) voices screaming whatever they would order at Molina's. But that's not what happened.

"ONE, TWO, THREE!"

"MIGHTY DUCKS!"

I was blown away. All 11 of them, plus the two coaches, together.

"That was amazing," I said to Matt, as our kids jogged back onto the field into their assigned positions, which they seemed to take only as suggestions. Once the ball got rolling, it devolved into a display of how much everyone was willing to run after the ball, or stand around hoping it would come to them.

Down 2-0, we went out and got outscored 3-1 in the second half.

But it's church league. I really could care less if we win or lose. All that matters is that I can use the Emilio Estevez quote now to motivate them. Ducks fly together.

Oh, and I am going to tell them to call me Coach Gordon Bombayless from now on. Gotta milk this baby for as many jokes as possible.

"Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate?

The Blue Tortillas!"
No. This is not a democracy.

Our first practice in the books, and only the one ice pack request. To paraphrase Frank the Tank, all in all I'd call it "a pretty good little Saturday."

My career as youth soccer coach has begun.

"Our team name is the Mighty Ducks. There will be no discussion about this."

Let me just say, coaching Little League, which I did three times at UVa, is way better. Any excuse to wear a baseball glove, spit and openly scratch my balls, while being granted access to 19 oz. bats with which to bomb home runs during post-practice home run derby sessions with my best friends, a.k.a. assistant coaches, is worth it. Especially on the days when, batting lefty and doing my best late 90's Griffey impression, I connected with one from the opposite side that left the park.

Pingggggg! God I love coaching Little League.

I like soccer, too -- I mainly just like the World Cup and Champions League -- but I am not really a soccer guy.

What I am is the guy who knows that a two-month commitment to coach his younger cousin's team is the least he can do for an uncle, her father, who took him to Asia on a two-week business trip last year, and paid for him almost 100 percent of the way. Sure, there was some "healthy family pressure/manipulation," as I call it, when being asked to take on the team-without-a-name. But like I said, it's my way of repaying the debt.

Our team name is the Mighty Ducks. End of discussion.

Only Twerner and I really appreciate the joke. The players, if they've even heard the phrase, are too young for it. The parents, they just don't see the humor really. But isn't that about hockey? Yeah, it's youth sports. Good enough.

Of course, we're dealing with fifth and sixth graders, most of them girls. If they don't like the team name, they let us know. And they don't like the team name.

"We don't like 'Mighty Ducks'! Let's be the Tortillas!"

"Yeah! The Blue Tortillas!"

"We're not the Tortillas," I deadpan. "We're the Mighty Ducks."

"Let's be the Tacos!"

"You guys, that is so racist," I try. "What, just because someone speaks Spanish, oh, they like soccer?" No one gets the joke. They're all 11-year-olds.

"Tortillllllllas!"

"Y'all don't seem to understand," I say. "We choose." I look over at Twerner, and point to him, then back towards my chest. "You guys don't have a say in this matter."

"Let's put it to a vote," one of the girls says.

"Yeah, VOTE!"

"No."

"Majority rules," another says in a tone of voice I'm almost positive you have nailed without me even trying to describe it to you.

"Yeah, in some settings, you're right. But not here. We are the coaches. We decide. We are the Mighty Ducks."

"But this is a democracy," brainiac to my left blurts out.

"Actually," I say, relishing the opportunity to play brainiac myself, "it's a republic." The temptation to make a joke about Florida 2000 was strong, but I knew they would just stare, not understand, and yell back something about enchiladas.

We got to practice forming a wall, though. That was entertaining. The four guys in the mix, for some reason, actually argued with me when I told them all to cover their balls. As in, I had to almost yell at them to convince them to cover their balls when someone was kicking a ball at them from ten yards away.

"Why is this difficult?" I asked out loud, to no one in particular. "Why am I having to argue on this point?"

To the girls, I said, "Y'all can put your arms wherever you want." I have no idea what they would normally coach girls to do in this situation. But I know they don't have any balls that need protecting. That's the kind of personal experience I bring to the team.

My favorite part of our first practice, however, has to be the introductions during stretches. They already all know one another -- everyone goes to the same school -- but Twerner and I know just Diana, our common cousin. So we had them all go around the circle saying their names, what grade they were in, and who their favorite soccer team was.

No one knows any soccer teams, though.

Okay, fine, tell us your favorite player. (What kind of person hasn't ever heard of David Beckham? The when-in-doubt option.)

No one really knew any of those, either. In fact, I'd say easily half the team couldn't even name a single soccer player that doesn't play on the Blue Tacos. Those that did? David Beckham, Mia Hamm, Mia Hamm, Beckham, Hamm, Hamm, Hamm ...





To find a kid in Africa or Europe that couldn't name a single player other than these two would be like finding a kid in America who had never heard of video games. As in, such children don't exist in those distant lands.

There was one kid who did impress, though. He went last, so you know he was feeling good about himself as he saw player after player crumble in the face of such a difficult question -- We've got to know a soccer player's NAME to answer this question properly? He told us his name, his grade, and then, something other than Beckham:

"Ronaldhino."




I just reached over and gave him a high five.

"Nice!"

Our five awkwardly connected. We kind of missed, but not really. It was a moment I wish I could do over, because going in for the repeat five is just awkward.

At the end of practice, we tried a "MIGHTY DUCKS!" on three. Instead, it was Twerner and I yelling "Mighty Ducks" at the top of our lungs, so that we could drown out the voices of opposition, who were yelling about some Mexican food, I'm not sure which.

Our first game is Tuesday. My uncle recommended I look online for some duck patches of some sort. Preferably iron on.

NYPDriscoll.

That's right.

"So... basically, could you kick my ass right now if you wanted to?"

Driscoll never did inspire much fear, at least not of physical pain, in me when he was my R.A., and I an 18-year-old first year -- (we don't say "freshman" at UVa, because we're better than you) -- putting soiled rags and interactive paper women on my R.A.'s dorm room door. But this was not the same Driscoll who led icebreaker games and held court over our Humphreys dorm council meetings. That was English major, Jefferson Scholar Sean Driscoll.

"Yeah, basically," he said after a moment or two to reflect. He was smiling, but wasn't kidding.

I had noticed that his hand shake was much stronger now. Or maybe I just didn't remember how it felt when I shook it for the first time just over six years ago. But Driscoll, short Sean Driscoll who loved U2 and wore ties to football games, definitely carries a certain aura with him these days: Don't even front. I will hurt you.

This is I have a gun, and I can also taser you Sean Driscoll.

That Humphreys was the best dorm in UVa history was never in doubt -- we had the No. 4 overall draft picks in both MLB and NFL drafts (D'Brickashaw Ferguson, who has started all 32 games of his career as an offensive tackle for the Jets, and Ryan Zimmerman, who lived next door to Driscoll, and is now the third baseman of the future for the Washington Nationals), the hottest girl in our class (who my best friend later dated), kids named Phil Jackson, Robert Downey and Seth Green, Hot Dog Man, Wes the Original Beach Kid, a badass who beat cancer twice, and the real life nephew (therefore, the real Fresh Prince) of Uncle Phil from "The Fresh Prince." Yeah I'd say Humphreys dominated.

But it was really our hall that led the way. Humphreys First Left. And it was headed by Driscoll, an R.A. who was firm but fair, who never went out of his way to get anyone in trouble, which was why everyone respected him.

On 4/20, for example, it was becoming way too obvious what holiday we were celebrating in Hot Dog Man's room (hint: it wasn't Hitler's birthday). So Driscoll tried knocking to warn us that other R.A.'s passing through may not be so fun to deal with. But instead of a reply, all he heard in the seconds that followed were the sounds of a muted gathering and a panicked Wes, spraying Lysol all over the place with abandon, like it was DDT and his door was a jungle in North Vietnam. Driscoll is not an idiot. He just went back to his room, opened up his Pleistocene era IBM laptop (which just recently died, I discovered) and logged onto AIM. Tom was also logged on. A few moments after the coast was declared clear, a message popped up on his screen. It was from our R.A.: guys, it's pretty obvious what you're doing in there. please just go to another room.

Driscoll wanted to smell no evil.

Would your R.A. have done that? Better question: would your R.A. have done that... and then become an NYPD officer?




I just couldn't believe it when I first heard in March -- Tipton, from Humphreys second right, had sent me a Facebook message after he ran into Officer Driscoll on the streets in New York. I wrote back asking if it was a joke. Driscoll?! My R.A.?! The dude who hated getting kids in trouble when other people in his position got off on it?!

"you better believe it," Tipton replied. "also, he made a remark about how it wasn't enough for him to police the hallways at dorms..."

It took some networking, but I was able to get a hold of Driscoll's number just before I left NYC to come home.

"When I see you I am going to take a bong rip and blow the smoke right in your face," I texted him, the first he'd heard of me in maybe three years. I always loved to mess with Driscoll.

He answered the text, probably said something to himself about how little I'd changed, and disregarded my provocations.

So I kept messing with him.

"Please don't search my bag when we meet up tomorrow," I said when we actually got to speak on the phone.

"Ya know," he said in a voice that only slightly betrays his Queens roots, "that right there is enough for probable cause, just so you know."

Driscoll wasn't in uniform the day we met up, sadly. He was still working, just in court, so he looked like he could have been coming from any office job, or a Strake Jesuit assembly, or a baptism. But he was still packing heat, and still had the badge. We had lunch at a Cuban restaurant; he paid. Then we grabbed a coffee; I paid. If you're ever poor and being subsidized by a friend who knows you're poor, and you want to make yourself feel better, to trick yourself into the notion that you're carrying your weight somehow, always offer to pay for coffee. It's cheaper than food.

I paid for Driscoll's coffee, and we sat in a park next to City Hall, on a bench that started in the sun, that slowly drifted into the cool embrace of the shade. We talked, and talked, and talked. Where to start? It had been so long. I hadn't even known he'd been in the academy when I was still in school. He knew just as little about what I'd been doing -- the Balkans, Africa, wow. I was fascinated as Sean talked about what he has learned about humanity, government, law, "the real world." He loves that phrase. He said it maybe ten times. The context of "real" for him was completely different, but the lessons he'd learned, it sounded very similar to the realizations I myself had come to over the past two years.

The words I'll never forget are "abject disasters." That's how he paraphrases the story of people. Humanity is abject disaster. I thought of Bosnia. I thought of Kenya. I thought of shaking hands with George Bush, and all the people who have perished in those lands, and because of those hands. I thought of a thousand places and faces, all at once, all on that bench, that were once real in the flesh to me. Human beings are abject disasters. I agree.

And yet...

And yet.

Lots of us are insulated from the types of things that would drive people like me and Driscoll to this state of mind. I know it wasn't like this for him, the son of Irish immigrants, but I grew up living in an affluent neighborhood, riding in nice cars with excellent sound systems, eating out and getting new cleats for every sport, every season. I knew life was hard for people not as fortunate; after all, my dad always made sure to mention these people in our nightly prayers. And sometimes we would go volunteer at a soup kitchen. A couple of times. Maybe just twice, actually. Both on Thanksgiving. But I didn't really get it. We don't even have black people in my neighborhood. Maybe one family. But they're not quite like the black people my dad was mentioning in those prayers.

Sean's a cop on the Alphabet City beat, and I'm a wanderer on the Eastern Europe/East Africa beat, and we both know that humanity is not pretty. We sought out a reality that doesn't fall in line with the one we were subjected to at UVa, or that most UVa grads experience in the jobs they typically take upon graduating. And we learned, in a way that we can't forget, just as you can't forget the feel of a nice breeze, or the warmth of a beautiful woman's bed, or the pain of a lost loved one, that life is hard for most people. That includes Americans. Hard. And it brings out a side in humans that is almost enough to make you lose hope. They are violent, and selfish, and drunk, and irrational. It makes you want to throw up your arms and say fuck it, what's the point?

It's when you reach that point when you have to find a reason to not quit. Perhaps this is the point of life: finding a way to just keep going. Forget saving the world, or policing it. Just waking up every day, getting out of bed, no matter what may happen from that point until you go to bed at night -- that is a quite a mission.

Driscoll? He may disagree with that statement. His mission, after law school, is to land a job in the U.S. Attorney's Office. The anti Gonzalez.

Me? I just want to write a book, man. About humanity, and these lessons I've learned the past two years.

Maybe I should amend what I said earlier. Maybe the mission, the point of it all, isn't just to keep breathing. That would make life pretty dull, wouldn't you say? If you want to maintain your sanity in the midst of all these abject disasters, maybe the key is to be able to analyze all of our issues while laughing about it, as calloused as it may seem. That is my mission in this book. That is what I am going to be doing for the next year.

Today is my first day of soccer practice.

I haven't said that sentence since I was 16 years old -- I quit midway through that season, my junior year at Strake, after scoring a goal on a meaningless PK in the final seconds of a 7-0 victory. I hated my coach; he hated me; and I figured it would be nice to go out like Ted Williams. Turning in my jersey the next afternoon in his office -- I was quitting to play a new sport at my school, lacrosse -- meant that the last kick of my life would be a goal.

I would have used MJ in that analogy had the Wizards incident not taken place.

This time around, I'm coaching. Twerner and I are the coaches. Diana, a sixth grader on the team, and the reason I even got asked to do this by my uncle Dan, is a cousin to both of us, through marriage. What does that make Twerner to me? My cousin's cousin? Is this the context you use the term "once removed"?

Fascinating times we live in.

I was really excited when I first found out I'd be coaching 5th/6th grade girls soccer at AOS, until I found out it's not girls soccer. Tell me something: what kind of 11 year old dude is playing on a team that's majority girls? It's about 40 percent male, the make up of this squad.

At least one of the kids, Stephen, has the last name Wang.

"God DAMNIT WANG!'

Can't wait for that.

We're in charge of team names, Twerner and I, and that annoying statistic now kills my "Ladybugs" idea. There's only room for one Jonathan Brandis.

"I say we either do Mighty Ducks or the Little Giants," Twerner said on the phone today, before asking me if I had a whistle, or a ball, or anything at all, a few hours before our first practice.

"Definitely Mighty Ducks."

"Yeah, and that way, we can get all the parents to just go, 'Quack, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK!'"

Expect tons of great stories about the Mighty Ducks over the next two months.

"Alcohol is not classed as a performance-enhancing substance and is not formally prohibited in athletics competition."

No, no it's not. Ivan Ukhov, why do you have to be so ... Russian?

John McCain looks like one of the humans whose body had been inhabited by aliens in "Men in Black." Parts I and II. Any sort of walking or swiveling simply makes him give off an FDR in his 4th term vibe.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hey did you hear? John McCain was a P.O.W. in Vietnam.

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"When you've lived in a box, the world becomes clear. No time for petty, no time for wrong. Only time for right." - Fred Thompson.

How does being a P.O.W. make you right about everything?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I mean honestly, John, how many months do the doctors give you? I hope you people out there who tell me that "Barack Obama is a Muslim" -- without being able to cite any written works besides an email whose subject begins with "FW:" -- are ready for a woman who has been the governor of Alaska for almost two whole years to take that oath of office within the next four.

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"My country saved me... and I will fight for her so long as I draw breath, so help me God."

If I'm John McCain's speech writer, I'm not bringing his eventual death to the attention of the audience.
Did the people running this convention go back and time the length of applause and awkward "Thank you's" in Obama's acceptance speech, and then mandate that John top that?

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"U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!" - the crowd, for no apparent reason, in the middle of McCain's intro.

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Cindy looks like she has just taken two Vicodin's an hour before, all the time.

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"U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!" - the crowd, for no apparent reason, right after his intro.

(We're all Americans, guys. You don't have to "live in a box" to be American.)

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"In truth, [Cindy] is more my inspiration than I am hers." - John McCain.

Who was your inspiration when you "lived in a box"?

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"And she doesn't want me to say this but she's 96 years young."

Translation: "I'm not that old. Look at her!"

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Why do the signs people are holding up say "Peace" on them? What exactly does this have to do with Straight Talk McCain?

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"We're Americans! ... We never hide from history; we MAKE history!"

This, ladies and gentleman reading from overseas, says it all about us.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

What is this McCain-centric country song?

"We're all just raisin' McCain!"

There must be some play on words I'm just not getting.

On Facebook:

1) I recently (not that recently, I suppose, now that it has been almost a month) had my second successful "Facebook Fakeout Birthday," on August 6. What makes it especially amusing is that I received 37 wall posts about it this time around (only three less than the inaugural bash), with only a handful of those being sarcastic or trying to blow my spot. My former history T.A., who knows the significance of the date I chose to fake people out with, August 6, 1945, simply wrote, "and hiroshima goes boom." And I had a couple of cousins, once again, enthusiastically wish me a happy birthday.

I also had one girl from New York, who fell for it hard last year, when I turned 62, take the time to write me a personal email in congratulations of the big day, since my Wall was cluttered with "screaming Bayless fans," and she wanted to show that she really cared. In her email she wrote, "You are probably also getting a lot of shit for crying wolf back in November or whenever that was that you faked your facebook birthday. So I'll stear clear of that."

It's called out-thinking yourself. And it makes me smile to know that I got her twice now.

2) I finally got to ask the question that has been bugging me for some time now: What icon shows up for people who break off engagements when this news becomes public on the News Feed?

I've been interested in the business of bad news icons for some time. But I caught a boon when my cousin broke off her engagement last summer, right before I left for Tanzania. Her engagement party was promptly converted into my going away party. Now that it's been over a year, and she's more than over it, I finally got to ask her: "Was there an icon of a broken ring next to your name when you broke off your engagement?"

She didn't check to see, was her response.

Great. The wait continues.


*Now that I see that they no longer do broken hearts, but rather entire, intact hearts for break ups, I guarantee my dream of hearing "Yes" to that question will never be fulfilled.

The WILTHATA Vice President

Is it just me, or is Sarah Palin kind of hot?

Wouldn't mind her keeping me warm during those dark Alaskan winters, in sickness and in health, till death do us part

Well it's obviously not just me. Apparently there is a magazine called "Alaska" that actually exists.

And there are the people who like to call Palin a MILF. And the ones who, in true American Dream style, immediately got to work on trying to make money off of this assertion.

But let's get something straight: Sarah Palin is not a MILF. This picture, I found out after a little bit of research, is not actually her. (Google Images is not always 100 percent accurate.)

But with McCain at such a fragile old age, I wouldn't mind if it was!

Maybe, because of the fantasy points it brings to the table, you could call Palin a VPILF (this joke sure would've been a lot more fitting had www.whitehouse.com still been a porn site, like it was when I was in high school). But she's not a MILF. Sarah Palin is a WILTHATA.

I think "MILF," for as amazing a term as it is, and for as thankful as I am to the makers of the "American Pie" movies for bringing it to the attention of the world -- (honestly, what did they say to describe hot moms before this word?) -- is the most overused word in the American English vernacular. Those who say it typically run on the younger side: they range from high school age to the "I frame my Phish posters now," post college, fifth year frat scene age. This is because most dudes of this demographic don't have any female peers who qualify for moms they would like to bleep yet. The chicks they're usually doing are actually a bunch of GILF's, plain old girls.

When you hear one of them say, "Man, McCain's chick is a MILF, man!" it means they would like to tap her halibut right then and there, without hesitation, as if she were on par with the hot girl in their chemistry class. But I doubt a very high percentage of 14-26 year olds really mean that.

You see, true MILF's are actually very rare. Often times, a hot mom is simply "good for a mom," but that isn't the same as Angelina Jolie, a mother herself, who is maybe the hottest woman alive. Angelina Jolie is almost too hot to be called a MILF.

That's like saying Michael Jordan is a Hall of Famer.

Mary Louise Parker, on "Weeds." Now that is a MILF.

The photo that comes up beside the definition of the word in Webster's.

Sophia Loren, not so much.

Warning: Those with pacemakers, beware.

I mean, at age 73, just one year older than presidential hopeful McCain, she looks better than anyone else on this earth old enough to remember the death of Il Duce. And my friend Jeep would probably label her a "GrandMILF." But that's just gross. Loren is the perfect WILTHATA -- if I was 73, and that was who I slept next to every night, I am a happy, happy man.

To shore up the shortcomings of our language when it comes to fully expressing ourselves on this matter, Hunter and I decided while we were in Tanzania that we needed a better and more accurate term than "MILF" for the moms that we find attractive, but "for a mom."

WILTHATA: Wife I'd Like To Have At That Age.

As in, when I'm 50, or 60, or even 72, if my wife looks like that, I am chillin.

The future FLILTHATA?

John McCain knows what I'm talking about. He's married to a WILTHATA. And he's hugging on one for the rest of his campaign, too.

His thoughts right now: "I love photo ops."

The most prime example of a WILTHATA? Easy.

Admit it, gums and all: If you're Katie Couric's age, you are stoked on being married to a relative babe like this.

Especially with that $15 million a year from CBS. Now that is a wife I would definitely like to have at that age.

Kurt Warner doesn't need the money. Or the looks.

This is what I would call "busted."

His wife Brenda is more of a YCHH. A You Can Have Her.