It's the end of the month; a good time for a 'Wag' catchall laundry list. Feeling reflective. Too much for bullets - grant proposal-style... W00t! Let's do this thing.

CBS's 'How I Met Your Mother'
I totally missed this show during the 2005-2006 TV season. Sitcoms are rarely any damn good anymore. Maybe its just my current disposition, but this is a strangely addictive television programme (verily). I hate everyone on the show, make no mistake, but I can't seem to look away. Strike that; midget-lover Bob Saget narrates and Neil Patrick Harris is pretty hilarious as smarmy Barney Stinson. The star-crossed lovers stuff is fairly predictable, and the protagonist is the kind of guy you want to shove into traffic during rush hour.

I will probably TiVO it next season nonetheless, if only to get a little more Alyson Hannigan into my life and to see if Barney emerges as more than just a sidekick. For those who've skipped it (I don't blame you) - mix Vince Vaughn from 'Swingers' with that average-looking, slightly annoying swinger at work who gets by on his chuptzah - and you got Barney. "Haaaaave you met Ted?" The awful/brilliant wingman you look good next to by comparison. I'm glad to see him overcome the child-star label. I wonder what Wanda - Lisa Dean Ryan - has done lately... Hey, she was born in Ireland! She was an early crush. Vinny had a supporting role on the Sopranos.

"Doogie Likes to Air Dry?"
Funny story - I saw N.P.H. at the Equinox/Columbus Circle back when I was a member. I found myself changing at the same time as him for about two weeks, with a locker directly next to his no matter where I moved (yeah, exactly). This was around the time of 'Assassins' was in rehearsals and I'd heard some stories. When you feel like you're being followed by several sets of piercing eyes in the men's dressing room, it's good to keep your head down, change quickly and have a couple extra towels at all times.

Long story short, I did end up mistakenly catching a glimpse of "the 'Doog" - he's the type who walks to the scale sans covering. Not that I intentionally looked, believe me; I've peed at urinals next to Anthony Hopkins and Leonard Nimoy and kept my eyes on the prize, so I'm used to that sort of weird moment. But accidents happen.

On a completely unrelated note: I saw N.P.H. on Celebrity Poker Showdown lose to Mekhi Phifer. He gave it a good run, but he simply didn't have the cards to compete.

Let's see, who else did I encounter at Equinox from January 2004 to March 2005?

Elizabeth Berkeley, who is just as tall as you think and is stunning in person. I mean, a million jokes went through my head ("I'm So Excited!"), but she effortlessly did 8.5 on a treadmill next to me for 30 minutes. Hard core. I caught the sounds of the Pixies from her first-generation IPod, followed by what I believe to be Elastica and definitely several Clash tunes. She's okay in my book.

I asked Stephen Baldwin if he was finished with the assisted chin lift, and his trainer said they had a couple sets left - "It could be a while." I stood nearby and stared them down as if to say - "You were lucky to get 'The Usual Suspects,' you've done nothing since and I want on that machine." I think I made them both nervous enough to adandon the set and quit for the day. He left sweat circles; fluid that was just two degrees from Kim Basinger.

Through a colleague, I managed to secure an Equinox membership during the very first week they were issuing them; they had yet to schedule dump trucks for 10 Columbus Circle and AOL still had a bright future. We'd just begun the war with Iraq. I hadn't yet considered switching jobs. They were offering introductory memberships for $79/mo. for a year, which given the newness and high-profile nature of the place was reasonable, but required fewer Starbucks runs. I won't lie; I was intrigued by the preppy-fabulousness of it all. Isn't this why I left Jacksonville? The gym was designed to be their corporate flagship and it showed. Two colleagues joined thereafter with me as a reference, resulting in two things:

1. Netted me two free months of membership (thru 3/05) and two free 60-minute deep-tissue massages, which convinced me that true euphoria can be attained without the aid of alternative substances;

2. My sales rep, to whom I referred those colleagues, sought me out to tell me who was/had been in the gym that day, asking me to explain the structure of Lincoln Center and whether Jazz at Lincoln Center had teeth (I told him they absolutely did). I threw him some cultural references and (even at the time, public via the NYT) info about the LC renovation - which I heard him dutifully drop into casual conversation when I was around. I got free weeklong memberships for everybody I brought in there (15 people?), even friends from out-of-state. I felt somehow important and connected.

He invited me to a couple parties and I went to neither. One was at the launch party for a restaunrant at the Mandarin (I know, I was a fool - I think it was Asiate, and I've been back there with houseguests since, this story a nice anecdote and egg-on-face cautionary tale); the other at the Central Park West private residence of someone who referred something like 50 clients. Clearly these were bad decisions. My twisted thinking at the time was that they were duds, and he only told me to get bodies in the room. Also, my thoughts at the time were centered on one thing; an unhealthy, dead-end concept as it turns out - and that clouded everything. I heard that guy is currently in the Las Vegas hospitality business, so, you know, take those opportunities as they come. You never know who you might meet, and who might hook you up with a weekend of Texas Hold'Em in Vegas.

Several lessons learned - 1. Don't look at Neil Patrick Harris no matter how many times he coughs and clears his throat; 2. Go to the weird party with the shiny people if you have nothing better to do; and, 3. Always tell Elizabeth Berkeley you admire her body of work if presented with the opportunity.

Astoria is My Home: Pssst... Stop Patronizing Our Beer Garden
Recalling the circumstances of the Equinox experience brings me back to those first two years in NYC. I can admit now that I didn't really know what I was doing. I'm truly lucky everything worked out the way it did. My Manhattan-envy was strong at the time - not really knowing anybody in Astoria - and a couple times I very nearly scrapped the whole thing and tried to find roommates on Craigslist. Stupid idea. In most cases, I was just overreacting to the snobbery.

To wit: I went on a horrible pseudo-date back then with a lawyer-to-be who asked me if I was done with the Stairclimber by touching me on the arm and flaring her eyes. My confidence was at an all time high. Drinks after work at the sort of place someone has to show you to have any idea it exists. She all but but asked for the check when she found out what I did for a living, unimpressed with my pedigree and especially my Astoria address. "Yeah, I work in the performing arts... uhhh, no, not an actor... fundraising... one-bedroom in Astoria... Queens... yeah... yup, the Beer Garden... Never been? To Queens? At all? Ten years in the City? Wow..." I suggested a second drink, to her amazement, and tried to convince her. Came home that night and started looking on Craiglist. How lame, to let some snooty chick ruin my good vibes.

Worse was the temptation to head south to the "sanctioned" borough. I know most people my age covet the Brooklyn lifestyle, with its hipster enclaves, underground music scene, and... and... look, I'll be honest, I don't know crap about Brooklyn. I've been there, sure, but it's a big, spread-out borough and I could really care less about it. I don't look down on anyone for choosing to live wherever the hell he/she wants to. If you can find affordable rent (by whatever standards you choose) in a neighborhood that brings you joy, God bless ya. The attitude of many Manhattanites and Brooklynites I've met, though, is that the very notion of living in Queens is somehow deplorable, lowly and beneath them. "Ohhh, you live in Astooooria... is it temporary?"

Give me a break. I think every neighborhood in the greater metropolitan area pales in comparison to mine. We all feel this way, no matter where you live. Or you don't and you move. When you find where you want to be, you own your neighborhood and want to protect it and defend it. It's the New York experience.

Happy August. Long live Elvis.

Author Robbie Harris has written a book, and Candlwick Press has published it, that "graphically describes sex." And for some reason this makes people nervous... or outraged... or titillated. Okay, probably not titillated... it was written for an audience of 4-year olds.

Really? We need to be teaching children that young about the "ins and outs" of sex?

Maybe so. I've never been a fan of deliberately misleading children. Even when it isn't deliberate, children absorb some pretty twisted notions of why things are the way they are. And when they find out - say, in kindergarten on the playground at Plumosa Elementary School in Boynton Beach, FL circa 1982 - that newborns don't come from "that slutty baby factory next door," it can be kind of traumatizing.

Just got off the phone with my buddy of mine, the most knowledgeable cycling enthusiast I know. He's my go-to guy for perspective about a lot of things, and tonight's 'Wag' is only a somewhat balanced view because of his informed, devil's advocate responses to my knee-jerk, reactionary sticking-it-to-the-man conspiracy theories. In fact, in parts of this rant (whenever the writing appears lucid and well thought out), I am merely attempting to record his thoughts on the subject.

For starters, here's a sample of what I was planning to lead with tonight: "Today, a great injustice was heaped upon an American in a foreign land by an organization that has fought to discredit our heroes for the last twenty years. Sound familiar? If you thought I was talking about something pertaining to our involvement in the Middle East, I'm sad to say you are not far off in sentiment, if not in content."

Yeah, I know, way over the top. I've calmed down a bit. I snapped at someone at work today who innocently brought the subject up and I feel badly about that. I all but yelled "innocent until proven guilty!" Why have I gotten so worked up over a sport I didn't even really follow until last year? I aim to answer that question tonight.

For those who haven't heard (though you will likely be inundated with it soon enough) - American cyclist and 2006 Tour de France winner Floyd Landis is having his name dragged through the mud, his reputation ruined, because of sketchy details regarding the ratio of testosterone to epitestosterone in a urine sample taken following his historic come-from-waaaaay-behind effort on Stage 17 of the Tour de France . The T/E-T ratio after the Alpine Stage 17 has not been released, nor have any details regarding his ratio at other points in the race. The results of the second sample taken at the same time - they always take two - has yet to even be tested. We know nothing else as fact. "Initial tests found higher-than-normal levels of testosterone" is all we know.

Here's a five things I do know as fact:

FACT: Landis did not test positive for steroids. This is the popular assumption in this post-BALCO climate when media outlets across the country ("Tour de Fraud" anybody?) simplify headlines to:

Landis Suspended for Flunking Drug Test - ABC News
Landis Tests Positive for Banned Substances - LA Times
Tour Champ Landis Failed Initial Doping Test - NPR

FACT: His ratio has not been released to the public. Without getting into too much science here, the T/E-T ratio for most people is 1:1. Some people have higher ratios for normal reasons. Cyclists, because they are athletes, usually generate higher levels of testosterone. The ratio limit for this test was lowered this year from 6:1 to 4:1. So if Landis tested at 5:1, which was legal last year, he would fail the test. Since we don't know what that ratio after Stage 17 was, any speculation about it is just that - conjecture. Because I saw it referenced in other articles, I searched for any features published today that might offer alternative reasons for increased testosterone levels and all I could find was this article.

FACT: Virtually every cyclist who has challenged the results of the test has won his case and kept his title. But not before public opinion has cast an ominous shadow of doubt, ruining what should be a period of celebration. It is believed many of those accused were indeed guilty but figured out a way to explain it all away by, say, paying a doctor to lie.

FACT: Cycling is probably the dirtiest sport out there. Just before the Tour de France began, 9 cyclists were banned from participating due to their connection to Madrid sports doctor Eufemiano Fuentes. His clinic was raided in May and investigators found blood packets with the names of 56 cyclists and some of the sports biggest stars, including strong contenders Jan Ullrich and Ivan Basso. Blood doping boosts the amount of red blood cells that carry oxygen. They don't test cyclist's blood, and it is believed the practice is rampant.

FACT: And, to me, most importantly: Landis flatly denies that he took anything illegal or against Tour rules. He said yesterday: "All I'm asking for is that I be given a chance to prove I'm innocent. Cycling has a traditional way of trying people in the court of public opinion before they get a chance to do anything else.'' I agree. Big time.

Okay, those were facts. Time for opinion:

1. Until we get more information, it is morally reprehensible to condemn this man.

2. The French have had it out for American cyclists for years. And by "the French," I do mean quite literally the entire country. I didn't know until my conversation tonight that the race was established by a French newspaper 100 or so years ago. The 1st place jersey is yellow because the banner of the newspaper was yellow. It is THE French sport, a national event far bigger than the Super Bowl for Americans. A Frenchman has won the race 36 times in its history, but has failed to capture the title every year since 1985. Greg LeMond became the first American to win the contest the following year. Lance Armstrong won it 7 times in a row. In the last 21 years, an American has won the title 11 times. This is a fact that seriously pisses off the host country. Some feel Tour officials had a vendetta against Lance Armstrong, whose character was likewise called into question time and again regarding doping allegations, all debunked.

3. I am not naive to the possibility that Landis did in fact cheat. Given the history and politics at work here, I reserve judgment on any accusations made in any sport played on a world-wide stage. He may have cheated, but I will not jump to a conclusion until all the facts are laid bare.

4. The American media covering these allegations are seriously dropping the ball. I was reminded during my conversation tonight that the day Landis won the tournament was the same day Tiger Woods had his emotional win at the British Open. Tiger broke down in tears after securing a win on the 18th hole, it being his first win since his father's death. The American press, who hadn't really given the Tour de France much coverage anyway, made Tiger the lead the next morning. I'll put my entire life savings down on the bet that Landis is the cover story on the sports section in every newspaper in the country tomorrow morning. Muckraking reporters, who could care less that he had won the tournament just four days ago, called his mother yesterday in rural Pennsylvania and published some pretty crazy quotes from a woman unaccustomed to using a telephone, much less giving an interview. Where is the journalistic integrity in that?

5. The sad part is, Landis was a helluva story before all this talk of doping. Growing up in a strictly-religious Mennonite family in rural Pennsylvania, the guy left home to pursue his dream against his parents' wishes, telling him he was risking eternal damnation. Despite his near-Amish beginnings, his strong work ethic and determination helped him become one of cycling's best. He fractured his hip in a crash while training in 2003, and as a result, he will have to have hip replacement surgery later this year. He rides in pain. Much of his training involves therapy for his hip. Shades of Lance Armstrong's beating cancer and winning it all.

Okay, that's my take on the accusations, longwinded as it is. But it's only part of why I was so riled by this turn of events. For the last week or so, Floyd Landis was kind of a personal hero of mine. I'm new enough to the sport that my mind didn't immediately turn to thoughts of cheating when he made his unbelievable comeback during Stage 17. Instead, I thought it was perhaps the greatest individual sports achievement of my lifetime - the sheer fortitude it took to do what he did astounded me. Reading about his upbringing and his hip condition, I was struck by how few real heroes there are anymore. I actually spent time over the weekend thinking about this very subject. "But you know what," I thought, "there will always be a few Floyd Landis-types to renew my belief in the power of the human spirit."

My parent's generation exposed the seedy underbelly of American politics. My generation seems bent on tearing everything else down, taking our shared pessimism to the Nth degree where public opinion is traded like fact. Our new "heroes" are not people who accomplish great acts or think great thoughts. Opportunists have embraced this "tear it down" culture, invited the media into their lives and will do whatever it takes to keep them there. We make Gods out of mortals and then revel in their misery when its time to tear them down. It somehow makes us feel better about ourselves.

But I don't think it really does. I feel idealism slipping away - my own, my generation's, the next generation's. And that, ultimately, makes me angry... and sort of depressed.

I hope he's found innocent.

"Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio, our nation turns its lonely eyes to you." - Paul Simon

Sometimes you come across something on-line that hits too close to home and it just nails you in the gut.

According to a survey conducted by the Opinion Research Corporation, the number of people who bring their work with them on their vacations has doubled in the last ten years, from 23% in 1995 to 46% this year. Worse, only 61 percent of Americans use all of the vacation time they earn from their jobs.

When I quit The Juilliard School in March 2004, I left with more than a month of unused vacation time. I thought it was pretty cool. I received a full month of pay as a send-off, and I bought a couple of sweet tailored suits with the windfall. Now? I just think it's sad. In fact, I had more than a month of paid leave, so I took off early and vacationed into my next job. Wooo-hooo! I didn't go anywhere. I worried about the first day of my new job and studied the organization's materials.

Isn't that sort pathetic? Rather than take a break from the daily grind, I willingly subjected myself to endless five-day cubicle prison. I could have taken a week off here and there just to do something different, like walk across every major bridge in NYC, or camp out in front of the Dakota in hopes of getting Yoko to sign my Two Virgins LP, or attend 9-straight baseball games in prime-choice box seats at Yankee and Shea stadiums, or build a 292:1 replica of Stonehenge out of gray Legos, or taken the Chinatown bus to D.C. and photographed the politico bars, where the real deals go down... you know, normal stuff... the kind of activities that have been on the napkin to-do list forever but remain undone. Hell, there are areas of NYC I've never visited, places just five miles from where I sit now.

But, to be honest, I'm sick of the City, with its unrelenting pulse and clogged arteries. I need a break, and not the kind that comes with motherly guilt. For the first time in my life, I am taking an entire week off in August and, among other jolly pursuits, joining some of my closest friends in Cape Cod. That sunset above comes courtesy of Sandwich, Massachusetts. We have a cottage on the beach. It's less than a month away and I can hardly wait. I intend to leave everything, EVERYTHING, behind.

I think in terms of fiscal years that end June 30, so this month is a fresh start for me. This year (7/1/06-6/30/07), things are going to be very different. Many plates will be simultaneously spinning - writing here more often, mapping out the book, occasional Thursday night gigs at Sunswick on 35th Ave and 35th St, volunteering with a small non-profit arts organization, weekend travel to the Hamptons, exercise with an eye toward that other side of the closet, building a 'coalition of the willing' to launch CrappyApple... and this idea I've been mulling to facilitate new experiences...

I want to infiltrate community groups via MeetUp.com - assimilating into urban enclaves with interests completely foreign to me, like the NYC Atheist Group (393 members) or the NYC Black Professionals Lunch Club (282 members). I won't fully lampoon their interests, but I'm definitely looking for unique experiences. I wonder if they have a group for glue-sniffing free-thinkers?

If Hunter S. Thompson has posthumously taught me anything - and his seemingly effortless style of writing and balls-to-the-wall Gonzo ethos has inspired me deeply - it's that one must live to write. Passive observation isn't good enough. And if it's an uncomfortable experience, it will make for a better literary exercise.

Stay tuned 'Wag' readers... all that came before was prelude. "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." Time to change the laces on my big boy shoes.

I live in Astoria, Queens; a lovely little edge city just a stones throw from Manhattan. Astoria, for those of you out-of-towners, is a largely Greek neighborhood that, through the miracle of gentrification, now has several Starbucks and a Cold Stone Creamery. The neighborhood has changed in my time here, and not necessarily all for the better (see: Starbucks), but I still think its a great place to live.

Thankfully, my rent is virtually the same as it was when I moved here in 2002, and it was low then. I know of comparable apartments going for twice as much quite literally next door. I'm not bragging, rather I'm giving you some insight into why I think Astoria is so damn great. It's safe, close, cheap and comfortable. And these days, nearly all of my closest friends live within a six block radius. Manhattan envy? Not this kid.

In the spirit of protecting my little corner of the world, I worry tonight for the hundreds of businesses left in the dark by the 9-day power outage that continues to impact Long Island City, Astoria, Woodside and Sunnyside. Any business that works with perishables is screwed. I read an article today that quoted $20,000 in losses for one fishmonger (actual word usage), with ConEd only willing to pick up about $7,000 of the losses. And those that have re-opened are going to have a couple weeks of leery customers wondering about the product. It is bad, and I wouldn't be surprised to see many small businesses go under almost immediately without some sort of emergency aid.

Even now, there are Con Edison workers on my block working through the night to repair whatever damage was done by the invisible worms that have been eating through the lines. Or was it a demon fire? Hezbollah terrorists? Can we blame it on the French? Those of us who live in the area haven't been given any reason for the outage. The cops, who are now stationed on every corner, don't seem to know. The ConEd guys ignore any questions (I've tried). 100 degree heat and substation failure are the only official causes. Those who are in the dark still have no timetable for when they might recharge their cell phones. It's a mess.

Full disclosure: I really didn't have any problems, and I'm right down the street from businesses that have been dark for days. The first couple days there were brownouts. I didn't run my air conditioner. I unplugged unecessary electronics. I feel I did my part.

On Sunday, I turned every electronic item on in my apartment, cranked the A/C, wrapped myself in Christmas lights, stuck a knife in an electrical socket and basked in an orgy of wasted electricity. Nothing happened - not even a flicker. I think the worst is over.

Queens local elected officials are calling for the head of ConEd's CEO Kevin Burke. The politicos argue that ConEd woefully underestimated the extent of the damage initially, and have been slow to respond. On Tuesday, Mayor Bloomberg praised the response from ConEd and asked for finger pointing to wait, leaving the Queens lawmakers stunned.

The blame game has begun. Political careers can be made a destroyed by situations like this, especially in Queens. Just check out Mayor John V. Lindsay's 1969 reelection campaign, which many feel was decided by angry Queens voters who held him personally accountable for not getting snow plows out to Queens during the blizzard in February of that year.

I take a middle-of-the-road view, which as someone unaffected, I am able to do without regret. If it turns out ConEd did something wrong (say, ignoring warning signs or deliberately misleading customers), they should create a mechanism for helping in a meaningful way. Right now, if you lost food due to spoilage while the power was out, you can submit a claim to ConEd. They will reimburse individuals up to $350 for spoiled food, and businesses can claim up to $7,000. For the guy who lost $20,000 in clams and oysters, that helps but, it isn't enough.

Demanding the scalp of the figureheads is just political posturing. Right now, these elected types would be better off rolling up their sleeves and getting on the ice delivery trucks. Not to make the typical comparison, but Giuliani is beloved not because he got in front of cameras and demanded retaliation, but because he was the calm, powerful leader in a time of turmoil.

In any case, other cities have it far worse than we do. More than 200,000 people are estimated to be without power in St. Louis tonight. Rolling blackouts are expected throughout the entire state of California, and they don't really know what might happen there. Gov. Schwarzenegger has suggested turning over the control of all California utilities to Skynet.

Call me crazy, but I think I trust him.

PS: A post each day until August 1. I've been neglecting...

On assignment in the afterlife, Hunter S. Thompson brings part III of his three-part series on the All-Star Game held in Pittsburgh this week:

A misconception of major sporting events is the supposed economic impact for the host city. Team executives flaunt studies demonstrating millions in potential out-of-state revenues. Local businesses pressure city commissioners. The city spends millions in tax revenue on parades and potato sack races. Hotels are filled, bars are patronized, and the whole shitfactory wakes up with a hangover when it's over. When I left a few days later, I half-expected the rotted corpse of Robert Moses to make a special command appearance, tapdancing naked to the beat of wild expectations popping like balloons.

The Strip District comprises Pittsburgh's "hip scene," or some such overused journalistic term. One gets the impression that, during any other week, the area is dominated by frat boys and jockettes. The alley in which I ducked to sinfully indulge smelled of piss and garbage.

Quickly and chronologically, because this was meant to be two-paged essay for print. The premise - three bars, three fights, and only one actually involving me.

11:38 PM
The first incident occurred at the rum station at the west end of the Strip, nearest to downtown hotels. I aped as a Seattle Post Intelligencer sports writer in town covering the Japanese phenom Irchiro. I knew attacking the prospects of a winning season for the Steelers post-helmetgate would be the quickest way to bring the desired violence. Did Big Ben actually enter the endzone? Does it matter? To many in this hole, it was the difference between a meaningful life and unthinkable misery.

The guy I chose to serve as my last-minute mark turned to me after the deed was done, as if seeking validation. He said he thought I was "not from around here," and then he jabbed my ribs, his meaty arm suddenly wrapped around my neck like a vice. It was drunkenly aggressive, meant to let me know that he could easily have taken me down too. I played his wicked game. I did four quick shots of "One for the Thumb" with him, which tasted like sweat, but it settled my nerves. The room was spinning, my mouth a mush of immovable parts. I showed him my watch - a Timex - and noted that the end was nigh.

In front of several witnesses, this villager fielded most of the questions from the PPD who were monitoring the area for debauchery. The subject of my experiment was out cold, his friends had abandoned him, and he could offer no alternative tale to the one currently being spun. I was not required to show identification - the half-hidden plastic credentials around my neck served as my Get-Out-of-Jail Free card.

The poor bloodied bastard, his jaw askew, was loaded into an ambulance, out of sight and out of our lives. I secured an interview with my muscular mark - who proved amazingly lucid and non-evasive. It was, in fact, the most efficient impromptu interview I'd conducted in years. We understood each other, bonded by the experience. My opinion of these natives would teeter back and forth all night. For the time being, I considered them my lead, if not my story.

12:20 AM
The second incident played out nearly the same way - at least what I remember of it. I was on the worst kind of trip. How I stood erect I do not know. I vaguely recall loudly declaring Myron Cope the Anti-Christ.

"Repent, sinners! I forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear him, which after he hath killed you hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, Fear him!"

I was thrown to the curb before the ensuing mêlée. Christians were injured, their elective martyrdom a kind of soul cleansing. Zero regret.

1:54 AM
I arrived at the Downtown Hilton on foot, a considerable walk, and proceeded to the elevators. I'd lost several personal belongings in the 2 hours since I'd left, but the essentials were intact. I entered the elevator, pressed the largest button and pulled the rag from my pocket. I noticed I was not alone. "Seasonal allergies," I mumbled. When I came to, the doors were opening on the revolving rooftop glass-encased lounge. I was underdressed, the maitre de informed. I showed him my credentials and a rolled-up Andrew Jackson. He fetched me a blazer that fell just below the cuff of my Bermuda shorts.

The City of Pittsburgh had elected to extend legal alcohol consumption in restaurants and bars to 4AM during All-Star week. The lounge was packed as a result of the euphoria felt after a particularly well-fought home run derby. I recognized several players and their wives, MLB executives and prominent local names like Fisher and Heinz. I'd somehow stumbled my way into the hornets nest! It was then that I realized the lounge was not actually revolving, nor had it ever been. I found a seat at the end of the bar, away from the circus, and ordered a margarita neat.

On assignment in the afterlife, Hunter S. Thompson brings part II of his three-part series on the All-Star Game held in Pittsburgh this week:

As we made our way toward the entrance to the Park, I saw more armpit hair than I care to report. The sleeveless jersey was ubiquitous, and with the heat in the 'Burgh approaching hellish proportions, many of these fans had gone sans undergarments. A gaggle approached the ramp of the escalator like gumballs approaching a great metal maw; a twisted question mark leading to salvation in the sky. These fanaticals wore the ugliest of countenances. They'd waited all season to flaunt their status, but they hadn't dressed for the occasion. Just showing up at this pricey event was enough. Of course, many were season ticket holders, and they held the darkest looks. They'd suffered through a miserable season, and now their own private stadium was being taken over by unfamiliar winged bats; out-of-towners who had already checked out of their hotels.

I'm not one to appreciate such crowds, and this situation was no different. I elbowed a young man for grabbing my side. Steadman spied an under-used staircase and we lost no time disengaging from the shoulder-to-shoulder mob.

For some unGodly reason, PNC Park was built with the press box roughly 4 miles above the homeplate. Our journey up the staircases scolded me to smoke less and do more calesthentics. I don't have the caved-in ashtray physique of so many others my age, but my inner workings are poor. I was wheezing barely a third of the way up, and despite signs asking politely to abstain, I stopped to fill my cigarette holder and light one up. I felt instantly better.

A beat writer I recognized from the local paper stopped on his way down. He'd been at the hotel bar the night before, when I approached Bill Mazeroski and asked him if he was still proud to have cried like a baby during his Hall of Fame induction ceremony. I thought there might be trouble in that stairwell, but he continued on, shaking his head. Dijon mustard. Between a rock and a hardplace; and definitely churning copy. He assisted on the lead (read = wrote) for a pominent national that night after the AL comeback - the original draft and supporting copy having been written from a David Wright-as-MVP angle. Fools. He proved to be the most honest, tapped-in guy in the room. Or so I heard. I avoided him.

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

7 is a prime number. 147 is not. I counted by 7s to keep it interesting. I was left without my typical meager remainder. 147 steps, easily divisible by the number I arbitrarily decided upon just minutes before. A sign of positive events to unfold? Not likely.

I took the final three flights of the ever-rising deathtrap two at a time. I did this for effect, sure, to prove to myself that I was still virile. At the same time, it was necessary to slow down my stride as I released gallons of sweat. The exertion was powerfully taxing my tricky right lung. Steadman had turned to check on me and, watching me climb the final steps, insisted I retrace my last few. He claimed to have found "his perfect cover," a phrase I would hear multiple times that week. After five minutes of holding a dashing pose (gulping down air), he stopped. I mistakenly asked to see the rough sketch and he proudly held it in front of me. I was a heat-stroked drug abuser suffering fits of pure Beijing during the high season of Christendom. The sketch was perfect; the sort of thing I'd appreciate gracing the hallway leading to my bathroom or torture chamber. At the very least it was truthful, and I didn't think I'd see much of that anytime soon. Instead of telling him so, I growled and pushed past him. Such was our relationship. He promptly ripped the sketch in half and I was relieved.

I was severely off-kilter entering that morbid press reception. At a time when I most needed my faculties - to trust in my professionalism and journalistic wherewithal - they abandoned me in a blitzkrieg of phlegm and spilled beer rapidly warming. I recalled nothing leading up to that moment. Squat. I'd forgotten everything - including the altercations in the Strip District the night before.

Now with some perspective, I will gladly admit this for the official record: I instigated several fights with homegrown-Pittsburghers, but at the last possible minute, I would pawn the brute off on someone I did not know, someone enjoying his time. I had the notion to do it when I saw a 1st class passenger on the flight down laying into a middleaged stewardess. His wife sat there with a wry smile, and I knew she'd wound him up. Success! You manipulate better than the rest! Here's your wings! Thank you for flying Eastern!

Sure, one could blame it on the five gin and tonics I'd thrown back on the 1.5 hour flight from Kennedy. I would contend that I was in Double-Decker 1st Class ("go professional, lose your mind, you've earned the upper echelon/level"). The nuts were mixed and lightly salted - the G&T's pure heaven. I asked for a margarita on descent, a request that was unfulfilled. I left no tip.

It could also have had something to do with the piss-poor reds I'd taken earlier. My "Pittsburgh connection" turned out to be a part-time German instructor and novice puppeteer training with a local childrens television program host. We had a common friend - an improv actor on the Lower East Side - and he came right over. The first 3 hours of any multi-night stay are the best times to snow me with utter garbage. I am just glad to be on the ground. Turbulence does not agree with me, mind-lubricated or not.

Nope, it wasn't booze, or drugs or even boredom. It was a minor experiment. To avoid taking responsibility for that evening would not only be a complete lie, it would keep me from relating the following events. I admit that I forced these events. If you had any sense, you would stop reading this now. This is neither news, nor opinion. Turn to Page 47 and read about the fabulous marketing talents of the great OJ Simpson instead.

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Continue to Part III of 'Fear and Loathing in Pittsburgh'

On assignment in the afterlife, Hunter S. Thompson brings his unique view to the All-Star Game held in Pittsburgh this week:

Pittsburgh is a town built by steel and coal at the furthest reaches of the decay. Is there something wrong with this typewriter? I had meant to type "decade," but is my typographical error actually a non sequitur? I won't quibble with such nonsense, though the phrase reminds me of why I'm in this dastardly burgh in the first place.

I was handed my assignment to cover the All-Star Game by André Laguerre himself, his final "screw you" before hightailing it back to France with his frog tail between his legs. He's a decent man, lest I be accused of hating the French, but for the managing editor of a sports magazine to wear an ascot in July is unbecoming. At my side was Steadman, my constant illustrator and the only man I've known able to hold my gun in one hand and a fifth of Jim Beam in the other and not completely lose his shit. The day before I packed my bag and jumped on a winged beast to the city at the confluence of four great rivers - the Ohio, the Alligator, the Hairymongo and a swill beer they call Iron City. I should check my facts, but I believe this was in the dossier Laguerre handed me before the raid.

PNC Park is a baseball lovers dream, and as I found myself surrounded by a whirling mass of beer-drinking jesuits with bad ideas and weird faces, I realized how quickly that dream could become a nightmare. They were everywhere, wearing the prescribed uniform of smug expressions and Brut aftershave. A man tried to sell me his lone ticket for $4,000. I pointed at my press pass and journeyed further into the throng. My intial interviews did not go well. In attempting to put my crooked finger on the pulse of the proceedings, I found nary a willing vein.

Jesus Christmas, these bastards insist on baseball talk, as if the whole of the world were filtered through the diabolical doings of the hometown team's ownership group. Who doesn't long for the days of milkmen delivering their froth, fathers teaching their sons the rules of engagement, and a true and shared belief in the goodness of mankind. It's not only ridiculous to be conjuring such methods during a time of Nixon naybobbery and the catchall pathos of the 1970s, it's downright insane! Who does these things? Where do they live? What drugs are they imbibing? And where can I get my hands on some? Steadman and I were eager to learn, so we gathered our courage and press passes and made for the media bar on the Clemente level. At least there, amongst the unkept heathens, we would find comfort from the storm of yellowed souls.

Part II

The National League lost to the dreaded American League tonight in the 9th inning of the All-Star Game. This marks the 11th consecutive season the NL hasn't gotten it done (10 losses and one very infamous tie). The NL had won every All-Star Game the great city of Pittsburgh had previously hosted (1994, 1959, 1974 and 1994). Nice streak. Broken.

The Pirates' representatives (Jason Bay and Freddy Sanchez) played most of the game, with Bay starting and going 7 innings and Freddy a mid-game replacement. Jason had a nice single. Freddy made a great defensive play. The fans cheered.

It was a boring game. They usually are. However, there was a very nice tribute to the great former-Pirate Roberto Clemente who died in a plane crash in 1972 while on his way to assist earthquake victims in Nicaragua. A selfless, gifted ballplayer, he became an idol of his native Puerto Rico and a really good reason to know that a team called the Pittsburgh Pirates even exists. His wife and sons were on hand to accept the Commissioner's Historic Achievement Award on his behalf. Unfortunately, that meant we had to endure the vocal stylings of MLB Commish Bud Selig. He's a joke. The award bestowed posthumously on Clemente is not.

Keep in mind - I love Roberto Clemente even though I was not even born when he died. As a lifelong Pirates fan, I inherit the team's legacy and history, and Clemnte is perhaps the greatest Pirate player ever on-and-off the field.

A group called Hispanics Across America has petitioned Major League Baseball to retire Clemente's Number 21 in order to "recognize the growing status of Latin American ballplayers in the U.S. national pastime at a time when Hispanic immigrants are asserting their rights in U.S. society amid a political debate about immigration policy."

I'm not really a big fan of retiring numbers in the first place, especially across the entire sport. I completely get the reasoning behind retiring Jackie Robinson's 42 - he broke the color barrier after all. He endured racism no one of this generation could possible understand and should be mentioned with Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks as visible leaders of the equality movement. Branch Rickey, the Dodger president deserves some credit too, for aspiring to desegregate the sport. He was also an opportunist who saw all that talent in the Negro League as game-changing. And he was right.

He also drafted Clemente, the first Hispanic player drafted. And RC became a great symbol for many people. But he didn't endure the same hardship, relatively speaking, that Jackie Robinson did. And where would this end? What about the first Japanese MLB player, Hideo Nomo? At what point do you stop using a sport to make political statements?

So let players wear the number with pride, honoring the player personally. The rightfield wall at PNC Park in Pittsburgh is 21 feet high in honor of the Great #21. There's a brilliant statue of him outside the park. He has an entire section at the Baseball Hall of Fame. Let's honor the great man he was to the game of baseball and look past the political ramifications of his heritage.

I bought Cakewalk Music Creator 3 today. It's a program for home recording and it ain't exactly intuitive. I'm starting to get the hang of it, though, and will hopefully spend some time this weekend working on a couple recordings.

Rather than do my traditional X-mas mix this year (for the fifth consecutive year), I'd really like to make my own holiday recording. That's what I'm building toward. I decided last Christmas that I really wanted to do it, and with the year more than half-way through, I figured I'd best get going.

Hence the Cakewalk program. Despite all the numerous bells and whistles (and there are tons of them), the base program isn't crazy difficult to use. But I'm realizing this is a painstaking process if you want it to turn out well.

Ahhhh... yeah. My first attempt at this sort of thing. It's called "Forgetfulness."

I am reminded, again, that sun and alcohol are a bad combo. Here's an article about it, as if anyone really needs science to reinforce this bit of obviousness.

Prolonged exposure to the sun, or heat, causes dehydration. The increased level of alcohol in the system, combined with the loss of fluids, leads to a rapid transition into the bloodstream. So, you know, you're feeling fine and then BAM, the effects set in:

'Heightened loss of inhibitions'; a 'gradual dulling effect on the central nervous system'; 'Poor judgement and recklessness'; 'Normal situations turned into potentially dangerous ones'….

The rule I break time and again - one beer, one water. The phrase is "live and learn." I have no problem living; it's the learning part that's tough. And oh yea - self control. That's a big one.