I spent several hours snowbound in a hotel in Boston with David Halberstam a few years ago and it was one of the most memorable days of my life. The wind whipped 25 inches of snow at us that day but I could not have cared less as I sat mesmerized as David and Ken Burns swapped war stories about writing about baseball and trying to interview ball players like Ted Williams who didn't give a rat's ass about resumes and credentials. He gave you an interview if you would put up with his bullshit and liked fly fishing. But that's another story and you had to be there. David was one of the last of the old school journalists and for me, a hero. I fell in love with him and his ethics and the passion with which he lived and wrote The Best and the Brightest and The Teammates. Do yourself a favor and read some of David's stuff. He was righteous and brave and good and made me proud to be a reporter and I went home afterwards with a renewed resolve to tell the best stories I could, no mattter how small and insignificant. One of my pilot lights blew out today when I heard he died in a car accident in San Francisco.

note to self: you are still as bad at saying what you mean without being remorseful about it later on as you were when you were 25. Only now it's not so cute and he's not speaking to you and there are no more pink peeps in the house to be had. again.

this has not been the greatest of weeks for me but I am always aware that no matter how crappy I may be feeling, other people are having a crappier time of it and I should be glad I have just the regular crap I have to deal rather than crap like:

~Having to make a court appearance and plead guilty of DUI manslaughter.

~Having to grovel and plead for forgiveness (and my job) because I made a colossal asshole of myself on the national stage. I cannot imagine the self-loathing the Don Imus is dealing with. This particular scenario is horror to me--horror--to be hated and vilified (and not unjustifiably) on such a huge scale. What must that feel like? Don't wanna know. Ever. I like my fuck-ups private, thank you very much.

~Not being able to go to Albertsons for some bagels and olives without seeing a really bad photo of my bald self on the cover of every crappy tabloid rag in the rack next to the check out.

So I have that going for me...

Here is what I bought myself for my birthday. I have been working, lately, on feeling more comfortable with spending money on myself. It isn't easy. And I have no idea where the neurosis comes from. Money isn't really an issue at my house. We have enough, we've never paid a bill late, never had an argument in 15 years over money, life is good that way. But I can spend, spend, spend on others, yet I cringe when I buy myself a new tube of mascara for $5. It's weird. So here is my therapeutic birthday purchase and I cannot wait to hold it in my quivering hands. And thanks to the genius of Fed Ex, I can watch its progression as it makes its way around the world to my home in the hot, steamy little beach hamlet in which I dwell. It left Shanghai on Monday, arrived in Alaska, went to Indianapolis, then on to Memphis where it now sits awaiting its connection to Tampa. I picture Tom Hanks' "Chuck" character from Cast Away (pre-plane crash and tropical island marooning) carefully sorting it into the proper pile in Memphis and patting it on its little cardboard ass as it prepares to wing its way to its new mommy. A Mac!! Ooooooooooo, ahhhhhhhhhhh.....