Last Saturday night, I was walking home from late drinks with friends when I heard a loud metallic BANG about thirty or forty feet to my left.

I looked up, and two cars had collided, apparently at fairly high speed. And the vector product of their interaction sent them in a new direction: directly at me.

Yipe.

You don’t see cars coming right at you in the middle of the sidewalk very often. This was like one of those movie moments when a character looks up and sees a large, moving, out-of-place object — a falling building, a crashing plane, a strangely airborne car, etc. — that is about to suddenly kill him.

Two tons of metal were hurtling directly at my thighs. I’d have maybe half a second to do something about it.

Mostly, I said the word “shit” over and over. Also, I ran like hell. All I could come up with.

Fortunately, since the cars were also still braking and rotating, the one barreling most perilously at me slowed rapidly as its tires became perpendicular to the direction of travel, and I probably could have just stood there like an idiot (instead of running like one) and escaped. False alarm. No actual danger. (For me, anyway. One of the drivers seemed pretty hurt, although he refused medical assistance. The other driver is probably in pretty big trouble; she fled the scene, but a passing paparazzi — the same guy who got beat up on a Malibu beach recently, in fact — happened to see the accident and scribble down the license number.)

Still, for all of one second, I had pretty good reason to wonder if my number was up.

In the movies, that’s the sort of thing that gets people to reevaluate their lives, maybe improve their relationships or pursue their life’s dream or stop drinking or, hell, I dunno, join a gym or get that nifty sex change or at least form a freakin’ 4-H club or something. So for the last two days, I’ve been kind of waiting for my big insight or important life-changing decision.

Come on, insight! Here I am! Ready and waiting!

But so far… nothing. Nada.

It appears, shockingly, that running away from a large noise may have granted me no special knowledge.

What a ripoff. Makes it seem hardly worth almost getting killed in the first place.

I wonder if this is because (a) deep down, I truly believe my life choices are all very good, (b) I don’t, but I have no real interest in happiness whatsoever, or (c) something important is still brewing that I haven’t yet noticed.

All of these seem unlikely.

So, great: I don’t even have any insight about my own lack of insight. Well, crap.

Of course, if this sort of thing ever worked, Evel Knievel would have been the wisest man alive.

Man, Evel Knievel would have been like an oracle. With, like, robes, and a big throne, and people would have come to him with their problems, and Evel would have been all Obi-Wan, stroking his chin and gesturing somberly with his scepter, and then doling out advice in little aphorisms whose meanings would slowly unfold as the listener would contemplate and grow.

And then he’d, like, go jump over some sharks in a minibus. And then he’d come back and be even wiser.

But he didn’t. That is also disappointing.

Bottom line: if I’ve gained any larger awareness of the world to share from the experience, it is only this: all of us, brothers and sisters, everywhere on this green earth, should try, every day and in every way, not to get mashed by a Lexus.

This is my advice to you.


Today’s Los Angeles Times contrasts McCain’s claims on how he dumped his injured first wife, the one who was faithful to him the whole time he was in Vietnam, for millionaire booze heiress Cindy Hensley, finding pretty sleazy behavior right in the public record:

A brief and final update on my buddy Mike Irwin, fighting stage four bone cancer since the startling and sudden diagnosis just a few months ago.

He didn’t make it. Mike passed away, surrounded by loved ones and at a reasonable amount of peace, this morning.

There are a lot of things I’d like to say about him, but I’ll keep it simple. He taught me a lot about stand-up comedy, about politics, and just about getting through life. Mike was funny, Mike was smart, Mike cared deeply about somehow making a more compassionate, rational world, but more than anything, Mike was kind. Everything else I could write would just be illustrations.

Last time I saw Mike was in his hospital room, the night before my flight home. We both knew it might be the last time we would see each other.

The conversation could have been kinda hard, but fortunately there was a good baseball game on, so we put it on, just like we used to do back when I lived with him in Chicago, back when we were both young and starting out not so long ago. We talked about the big things sort of in between the spaces of the game, just like we always did. We said the stuff we needed to say. And in between we cheered and booed. One last night of something like normality, right there amid all the tubes and pumps and horrible hospital crap.

It was wonderful.

I’ll always be glad for that night, both for his sake and mine.

If you’ve got folks you love you haven’t spoken to in a while, do. One of the most important things you can do while you’re here, I think. And you never know how fast the time can go.

btw, I understand some folks reading this might want to send a note of condolences. Thanks, but no need. It’s just grief. It’s part of life. If you want to, just take that energy and put it into hugging your own loved ones like you mean it. That’ll do more good. And maybe go over the the fund set up for Mike and his family and chip in a few.

Thanks.

I’m in a fantasy baseball league. I am a geek. Shocking, I realize.

I’ve never won.  But his year, I’m trying a new strategy: trying to win by making all the other teams better, too, one by one.  Strangely, it seems to work.

Here’s the deal: by early May, my team (“The Fighting Pudu”) was already struggling in last place. I’d had a bunch of injuries, plus I’d drafted both Victor Martinez and Troy Tulowitzki, possibly this year’s two most impressive flops. It already looked like winning would be a longshot.

And then came an epiphany.

Trades in this game tend to be infrequent, partly because people can be reluctant to give up players of value, and partly because people sometimes ask for a little more than they’re giving up. Basic stuff. Nothing surprising there.

But if you’re in a league with ten other teams (which I am), and you make ten trades, one with each team, each of which benefits both parties equally, win-win — totally fair transactions, where you give up some major all-star the other guy needs, in exchange for some good player at a different position that you want, so both teams get better — that’s essential — eventually, you’re probably going to win.

The math is thuddingly obvious: in the hypothetical example, your team improves ten times; if other people aren’t trading generously, everybody else’s team improves just once. Eventually, the team with ten improvements will rise — precisely by finding ways to make everyone else better.

The outcome seems so inevitable (at least in this closed system) that I think you can actually afford deals more advantageous to the other guy, over and over and over — as long as your own team keeps improving, little by little, and you keep rotating partners.

It’s like a strange Zen arithmetic of cumulative generosity.

This thought had philosophical appeal, so I’ve been pursuing it ever since, just to see what happens. So far I’ve managed to ship off Chipper Jones, Edinson Volquez, Manny Ramirez, David Ortiz, and Matt Holliday — five All-Stars, including last year’s NL MVP.

That’s no way to win, is it? But the Pudu started charging up the standings immediately.

(In exchange, I got Joe Mauer, Alfonso Soriano, John Lackey, Johan Santana, and Prince Fielder, if you’re curious.  There were a few thrown-ins each way, but both teams benefitted in every deal.)

At the moment, pretty much half my team is on the trading block — and the Pudu have been in first place for weeks now, by a margin that just keeps getting bigger.

I’m sure there are other factors involved, too, of course. And maybe I’ve just suddenly lucked out for months.  Maybe I’ll be in last place again by fall.  But dang, so far, the logic is holding up.

Weird, huh? Make everyone else better, and you win. But the math seems obvious, once you get it. Then it almost feels like they should teach it in Sunday school.  (Although it’s so self-interested it almost feels more like business school.)

The best thought: this would have worked whether or not I’d understood the math.  Being friendly and interested in what everyone else needs would be rewarded — inevitably, as a function of very simple arithmetic — even if you had no idea how.

I wonder how often we find ourselves in other situations like this and we never realize it. Maybe a lot.

Maybe even some big ones.

That’s pretty wonderful to think about.

As to the Fighting Pudu, I’m no longer worried about a particular roster spot or injury; now I’m just worried about the other players getting wise to the tactic and trying to out-nice each other, all at once.

But that would be pretty cool, too.

I’m in a fantasy baseball league. I am a geek. Shocking, I realize.

I’ve never won.  But his year, I’m trying a new strategy: trying to win by making all the other teams better, too, one by one.  Strangely, it seems to work.

Here’s the deal: by early May, my team (“The Fighting Pudu”) was already struggling in last place. I’d had a bunch of injuries, plus I’d drafted both Victor Martinez and Troy Tulowitzki, possibly this year’s two most impressive flops. It already looked like winning would be a longshot.

And then came an epiphany.

Trades in this game tend to be infrequent, partly because people can be reluctant to give up players of value, and partly because people sometimes ask for a little more than they’re giving up. Basic stuff. Nothing surprising there.

But if you’re in a league with ten other teams (which I am), and you make ten trades, one with each team, each of which benefits both parties equally, win-win — totally fair transactions, where you give up some major all-star the other guy needs, in exchange for some good player at a different position that you want, so both teams get better — that’s essential — eventually, you’re probably going to win.

The math is thuddingly obvious: in the hypothetical example, your team improves ten times; if other people aren’t trading generously, everybody else’s team improves just once. Eventually, the team with ten improvements will rise — precisely by finding ways to make everyone else better.

The outcome seems so inevitable (at least in this closed system) that I think you can actually afford deals more advantageous to the other guy, over and over and over — as long as your own team keeps improving, little by little, and you keep rotating partners.

It’s like a strange Zen arithmetic of cumulative generosity.

This thought had philosophical appeal, so I’ve been pursuing it ever since, just to see what happens. So far I’ve managed to ship off Chipper Jones, Edinson Volquez, Manny Ramirez, David Ortiz, and Matt Holliday — five All-Stars, including last year’s NL MVP.

That’s no way to win, is it? But the Pudu started charging up the standings immediately.

(In exchange, I got Joe Mauer, Alfonso Soriano, John Lackey, Johan Santana, and Prince Fielder, if you’re curious.  There were a few thrown-ins each way, but both teams benefitted in every deal.)

At the moment, pretty much half my team is on the trading block — and the Pudu have been in first place for weeks now, by a margin that just keeps getting bigger.

I’m sure there are other factors involved, too, of course. And maybe I’ve just suddenly lucked out for months.  Maybe I’ll be in last place again by fall.  But dang, so far, the logic is holding up.

Weird, huh? Make everyone else better, and you win. But the math seems obvious, once you get it. Then it almost feels like they should teach it in Sunday school.  (Although it’s so self-interested it almost feels more like business school.)

The best thought: this would have worked whether or not I’d understood the math.  Being friendly and interested in what everyone else needs would be rewarded — inevitably, as a function of very simple arithmetic — even if you had no idea how.

I wonder how often we find ourselves in other situations like this and we never realize it. Maybe a lot.

Maybe even some big ones.

That’s pretty wonderful to think about.

As to the Fighting Pudu, I’m no longer worried about a particular roster spot or injury; now I’m just worried about the other players getting wise to the tactic and trying to out-nice each other, all at once.

But that would be pretty cool, too.