Life at 5,280

I am currently broadcasting from Room 423 of the Oxford Hotel in downtown Denver. My cousin got hitched out here yesterday, which explains the whole two-time-zone-away thing. Figured I would take a few minutes while I'm waiting for my cousins to make a decision on dinner to do a quick post.

One of the first things that my Dad's friend noticed Thursday was the utter rarity of obesity in this city. I am told that this is one of the five healthiest cities in our nation, and the abundance of bike riders and granola might have something to do with that.

Coors Field, the thirteen year old home of the Colorado Rockies, is a five minute walk from my hotel. If you are even a smidgen of a baseball fan and find yourself out here, the tour of the stadium is great! At $7, the tour is a third of the cost of Fenway Park's, and you basically get to go everywhere except the home locker room and fair territory on the field. The table in the visiting locker room still contains a David Ortiz cleat mark from last season's World Series celebration, and the picture my dad took of me on the top step of the Rockies' dugout will toolishly preside as my Facebook pic for a while. Other fun things to do are stroll down the 16th Street Mall and drink one (or twenty) of the city's four jabbabillion microbrews.

Last night's events made up one of those nights that you do not forget for a long time. The wedding was great, and my cousin and her betrothed are two genuinely solid people. The "mobbed out" New Yorkers, my family and all of their 50-something rowdy friends really set the tone for an unabashed fun celebration, and I'm pretty sure I taught the Electric Slide to a cute girl or two. As someone who has tremendous admiration for the institution of marriage, it made me think a little about my own wedding somewhere down the road of this life.

I Just Hope He Doesn't Have to Buy Them Corn

In case you're feeling stressed by the current state of the economy, or just dread the upcoming dog days of summer, take heart that today is June 25th. That's right, tomorrow we'll be closer to next Christmas than we are the last. And the Big Guy don't never cancel Christmas. Four and a half per gallon does not affect the sleigh pulled by reindeer.

Speaking of summer, Awesomeness On A Stick officially endorses that type of woman's blouse that kind of looks like a drawstring backpack at the top. I'm not sure what they are called, but there were plenty of them on the streets of New York today. As Springsteen said: the girls in their summer clothes. Well done, ladies.

The Man to Right the Ship

To celebrate this bit of good news, let's watch one of Dana Carvey's greatest skits of all time ::all time::.

If It's Sunday, It's Meet the Press. If It's Sunday, It's Tim

So were the words of journalist and Tim Russert friend, Sally Quinn.

In a better world, I would have woken up this morning, given my Dad a Father's Day hug, and eaten a bacon and egg sandwich with him from the corner deli. Around 10:32 or 3, since I was always just a tad late, I would have casually made my way out of the kitchen and into the living room to watch a senator supporting Obama and a senator supporting McCain debate the issues with Tim Russert moderating and making sure neither of them got out of hand touting his respective candidate.

Today, there was a Father's Day hug, just a little tighter because at times like these you don't take things for granted as much. There was the same breakfast. But at 10:27 I was on the couch, simultaneously dreading and hoping for the next three minutes to pass by quickly. Seeing that empty chair on the set as Tom Brokaw noblely anchored the best tribute of this weekend was tough, to say the least.

I know the show must go on - as big as Tim is, we can't lose two national institutions at the same time. I will not stop watching either, because I know that NBC will not let their finest program fall apart. However, I'm a little scared to know who will take the helm. Probably the only person I could accept in that chair right now is Tom Brokaw, because the man has always been nothing but the epitome of classy, and because he is the best qualified to take over - like when ABC finally wised up and installed Charles Gibson after it initially fumbled finding a suitable replacement for Peter Jennings. I'm not sure I'd be able to handle Keith Olbermann or David Gregory, because their preening and self-importance are the total opposite of what Tim was.

In a perfect world, for me and probably many others, Mr. Brokaw would hold down the fort for a few years, until Luke Russert would be ready and capable to moderate the show. The again, in a perfect world, Tim would still be here. According to Mike Barnicle this morning, Luke said yesterday that Meet the Press was Tim's other son. Wouldn't it be fitting then for these "brothers" to come together and do their Dad proud for years to come?

Tell Me A Lie And Say That You Won't Go

Tim Russert, the NBC News Washington Bureau Chief and moderator of Meet the Press died today at the age of 58 from a heart attack.

I was driving when I got the news in a text from a good friend who knows about my borderline obsession with Mr. Russert.

I'm watching MSNBC right now, which obviously has been covering this story since Tom Brokaw broke it after 3PM. Mr. Brokaw, Brian Williams, Andrea Mitchell, Keith Olbermann and so many others have been focusing minimally on his professional and public accomplishments and almost entirely on the work ethic and demeanor of a true gentleman.

A horribly ironic part of this tragedy is that Father's Day is just two days from now, and his utter devotion to his son as well as to his father Big Russ was a fundamental part of his character.

This obviously puts a huge damper on this year's biggest news story, one to which he was all over constantly. The "Tim Russert Primary" even before Iowa was genius as he interviewed each and every presidential candidate and even tripped up a few of them. Sunday mornings and Tuesday nights since January were his times to shine. Each primary night I would come home from school and wait to fully form my opinions of what happened until Mr. Russert invariably dropped a bomb of wisdom.

I don't think I can do my feelings about him any more justice by writing right now, so I'll go back to zoning out in front of MSNBC. Barbara Walters just said that while this is a big loss for the journalism world who knew him personally, Americans across the country would be saddened as well.

A few months ago, as I was struggling with selecting a "political view" on Facebook because I've grown dissatisfied with the Republican Party and I don't think I could ever be a Democrat, I just typed in "Tim Russert." That name conveys patriotism, trustworthiness, and dedication. The perfect political view for anyone.

To a Catholic raised in the Jesuit tradition: Rest well in Heaven, sir.

P.S. I just realized in my shocked state that this is now the second huge loss in television journalism since the last presidential election cycle. On November 4th, I'll need whatever satelitte carries the Heaven News Channel, to watch Peter Jennings and Tim Russert cover election night.

Cockfighting, Dogfighting and...

We have a pool of six billion humans from which to choose athletes, so WHY is horse racing even still considered a sport? The owners of Big Brown should be fined and banned from the sport for attempting to race that poor, obviously injured animal.

Let the Dog Days Begin

This is generally the time of year when I become most irritable, most grouchy and most laconic. There is something psychological about the ninety degree barrier that both angers and depresses me. Add in our good friend Mr. Humidity, and the thought of walking to the corner deli for a sandwich defeats me. My mother makes fun of me for this, since I'm such an avid runner and I often come home from my long exercises dripping all over the carpet. That, however, is a product of much cooler temperatures. I don't mind working myself into a self-made sauna when the mercury reads a much more benign seventy, but this weather? Well, pitooey.

The nice thing about living in south Queens, minutes from Jamaica Bay, is the ocean factor. Right now, the temperature in Central Park? Ninety-three. South Ozone Park, NY? A chilly eighty-two.

The only thing more brutal than a New York winter is a New York summer.