In Philly I spoke for the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. Bill O'Reilly warmed up the crowd by calling them cross-eyed liberals and storming offstage.

I always thought Bill had to work his way up to that anger, maybe do some stretching. Turns out that he rolls out of bed that way.

"Fe fi fo fum, I smell libertarians."

For the talk I received a crystal statue that figures prominently into my plans for world domination. The others stole glances at it while debating politics, headlines, civil rights. I contributed only when I had something important to say like, "How come The Hulk's shirt came off, but never his pants?"

Whatever I lacked in social grace I made up for in Jim Beam -- "Give your brain the afternoon off." Mr. Beam was still in charge when I, somewhere between the cab and the airport curb, lost my wallet (estimated distance: five paces).

I searched my pockets at first confidently, invincibly, then with that sinking sensation you get when your car is stolen. You consider every explanation, including alien abduction, before sitting where you are and saying, "They'll be back ... They'll be back."

It's strange to be without I.D. You're turned away by airport bouncers and left to wander the earth like a fugitive until authorities arrive in their hovermobiles to scan your eyeballs and whisk you into a steaming manhole where you live out your days serving Authorized Citizens.

Eyeing the food cart, I thought about lifting a Buffalo wing. The only thing that stopped me was Jean Valjean from "Les Miserables"...

("What have I done? Become a thief in the night, a dog on the run. I have fallen so far and the hour so late that nothing remains but the cry of my hate."(

No, I would not break into song; I would call my ex-wife and tough-love friendYahaira, who assured me that once I got over my poopy pants, I would find the blessing. Maybe, for instance, the scheduled plane had a virus such as Bill O' Reilly.

I got busy calling Visa, Experian, airport security, the library (we can't have someone reading under my name). I left a voicemail for the PPA, who is to cabbies the Queen of Wonderland.

"The driver is in departures instead of arrivals?! OFF WITH HIS HEAD!"

Then I roamed the airport for empty seats. To sleep on. Like lawn trash. So it goes.

From the fetal position I watched people whiz by, all smiles, Authorized Citizens. Since becoming homeless, that was the thing I longed for most: eye contact. I felt like The Ghost of Terminal Four.

At which point a couple sat down and gave me sandwich money. I thanked them 15 times and asked if I could write a poem or something. The woman pet my head -- literally -- and off they went.

My phone rang. Enter Mario Tapia, ex-father-in-law and Philly native.

"Yahaira says you need a place to stay."

Mario arrived on his white steed (Ford Bronco) and took me to Chili's, where we ate -- if you please -- Buffalo wings.

("He gave me hope when hope was gone. He gave me strength to journey on. Who am I? Jean Valjean!"(

Next morning, Mario built me a Tony-Robbins-sized hoagie, expressing his love in number of pickles (approximately 62). My other in-laws showed up with hugs and spare change, making me feel like a jackhole for not calling.

Mario returned me newly showered to Terminal Four, where I received a call from the Queen ... as if she were watching.

"Jason, we found your wallet. The driver is on his way. ON WITH HIS HEAD!"

The cabbie, Ghebgreigzi "I'd Like to Buy a Vowel" Abiher, apologized for the screwup. The wallet had slipped beneath his seat and so on. I tipped him fifty bucks and wheeled over to check-in, where the clerk, amphetamine-level happy, waived my cancellation fee and placed me on the next flight out.

Have you ever been treated so well that you could almost believe in Santa Claus? Not only did I receive the red carpet from family I had just overlooked, but the whole world leant a hand. I have since been giving sandwich money to the homeless and mailed to Mario a wallet reading, "Backup (just in case)."

I'm thinking that maybe, under the right circumstances and with the proper amount of pickles, all this love might even reach Bill O'Reilly. We won't know for sure until one of us steals his wallet.

Some people have a green thumb; mine is more like jaundice yellow. Gardening has always confused me. Until second grade I thought birds came from birdseed.

Since then I've learned a little about horticulture, which, if I may, is one screwed-up way of saying "gardening." I've learned that there are outdoor plants, which like the sun, and there are indoor plants, which prefer daytime TV. Some plants thrive together, while others destroy adjacent roots (example: the Al-Qaeda hyacinthina).

Still, for all my lore, plants keep falling around me.

"You're going to be all right," I tell them. "The stalk is overrated anyway."

And they just give me that look: "What a buncha Bandini."

These plants have reason to be bitter. They've seen their friends disappear.

One day I bought a hibiscus for the balcony, only to find, next morning, its pot shattered on the concrete below. We have reason to believe that the other plants got to talking and the hibiscus, unable to bear the prospect of my care, leapt to its own death. So it goes.

Fortunately, I have found a solution to these problems: I buy new plants. Someday I'll walk into the nursery and find my mug shot on the register: Jaundice Jason, Wanted Drowned or Dehydrated.

Recently, after another Glad Bag funeral, I decided to turn over a new leaf, buh dum bum. My bedroom fern, "Droopy," had started to pale like E.T., which I knew to be a sure sign of something. I drove the fern down to Home Depot and found Nurse Patty.

Patty oversees more than 200 plants, which she is constantly misting with her Secret Blue Juice. Only two plants have ever died on Patty's watch, and in both cases we suspect bad karma.

Petting my fern, Patty said, "It looks like this little guy just needs some iron."

Until that moment, I didn't know that Droopy had a gender. It's a boy! Where does one find that information anyway -- where the bathing suit covers?

Turns out that yellowing fronds can mean cirrhosis from overwatering.

"Never overwater your plants," said Patty in a parental tone. "Most plants die from too much water."

The test is pretty simple: Dip your finger deep in the soil. If your finger comes out dry, water. Otherwise, don't. And if the plant makes a strange yelping noise, you may have discovered its gender region.

Patty also suggests lining the planter with gravel, which helps the irrigation. This would have been nifty information WHEN I WAS PREPPING THE SOIL. Unfortunately, you can't dig up your plants whenever you feel like it. It's a violation of their civil liberties, or to quote Patty, "like giving them unneeded surgery."

The containers in which they sell plants are, for the record, meant for temporary storage. Women know this intuitively by looking at the ugly container; men ... not so much.

"When water rushes through the soil," says Patty, "your plant may be root bound."

In this case, plants have to go under the knife. Patty says to replant at the same soil depth with a shot of B-12 to calm the roots. If you don't have vitamin B-12, you might try Budweiser, which always calms my roots.

Patty went on to describe the merits of moss, knowing your white fly, and the definition of weeds (if you water it and it dies, it's a plant; if you don't water it and it grows, it's a weed). As Patty grew impassioned, misting with her Secret Blue Juice, a whole new world opened up. It was almost like these plants were alive.

"You should also wipe the dust off their leaves," she said. "It helps the plant to breathe."

A lot of people talk to their plants; this woman listens. If only parents raised their children with half as much affection. But then, if they followed Patty's lead, parents would have 200 children and soon we'd have to colonize Mars or Nebraska.

Since meeting Patty the Plant Whisperer, I have come to invest ridiculous amounts of money on garden supplies, beginning with dirt, which last time I checked covers the entire surface of the planet. Before you know it, they'll start charging for water.

I left Home Depot with a bottle of iron, vitamin B-12, potting soil, care instructions, and just in case, a box of Glad bags.

They say you can tell a man's lovemaking skills by the way that he dances.

No wonder I don't have children.

You know those guys who throb across the floor, gentle but mannish, totally in sync with their partner? That's not me. I'm the guy who remains seated for the safety of other dancers. Some people say that I have two left feet, but it could be as many as three or four.

You have to feel, then, for Jay Byam, professional dance coach who, due to anti-discrimination laws, had to welcome me into his class. Jay teaches salsa three times a week, starting with el básico: one, two, three, five, six, seven (you pause on the fourth beat or suffer Jay's wrath).

For the sake of us gringos, Jay sometimes counts with a slower, more Frankenstein-like, "Boom boom boom, boom boom boom..."

Jay demonstrated with a flair that made us ooh and ahh like kids on the Fourth of July. He prowled the floor like a matador, spinning two girls at once, panache dripping from his pockets.

Jay emphasized the value of being smooth. I believe his exact words were, "If you're not suave, I'll kill ya dead."

Salsa is a sexy dance. In certain parts of Brazil, it's hard to tell where the dancing ends and foreplay begins. You can just hear National Geographic whispering from the bar: And here, the song nearly finished, we see the female flash her luminous tail feathers, a sure sign of approval...

Jay's class isn't so spicy. Dancers start at ten years old and go up to the age where it's impolite to ask. By night's end, the guys all smelled like perfume reps at Macy's.

Salsa isn't line dancing, where you just grab your belt buckle and go; the man has to think up dips and turns and debonair faces. As if it weren't enough to pay for dinner, now we're in charge of choreography. So it goes.

Liberated woman Dee Turner found it hard to give up control, the same issue that cut short an otherwise promising salsa career by Gloria Steinem.

Unfortunately, if both dancers led, it would be like driving a car with two steering wheels -- peligroso. So, Dee, you just make sure your man's dinner is warm and his clothes are pressed when he stumbles home from the bar at two in the morning.

Much of my education came from ninth-grader Chelsea Herzog. A regular in Jay's class, Chelsea is skilled at dodging Frankenstein feet.

"I don't mind the feet," she said, "but it's nice to dance with a strong lead."

The ladies agree that Gabriel Herrirais is a strong lead with way too many vowels in his last name. Gabe has good timing, infectious rhythm, and most important, well-defined pecs. Gabe doesn't count anymore; he's at that stage where the music dances him.

"You've got to forget about the people and feel the music," said Gabe, who grabbed Chelsea's hand and swirled away.

I was good at "marching it out," but then Jay would turn on the music, which always threw me off. If they ever invent silent, seated salsa, I will be king.

Jay and I both limbered up before class, he with his knee-bends and I by margarita. You get drunk on salsa anyway: the trombones, the congas, hypnotic lines like "something something, corazon, something, mi amor."

Then there were the pheromones. One minute we were introducing ourselves, and the next minute we were close enough to meet each other's parents.

Jay counted out loud: "One, two, three, don't look down, one, two, three, don't look down..."

Which left me to gaze into my partner's eyes with that special air that says, When did I become such a Melvin?

Sometimes, without warning, the lady pushes you away so that she can stroke her hair. Guys: You are not rounding second -- it's part of the dance.

"When she goes into styling," says Jay, "you just stop and check out your hot chickie mama."

And I thought the music was distracting.

In a telling moment, young mom Tracey Herrera asked her most unassuming voice, "Do you count?"

Why, yes, Tracey, I do count ... just not the same as everyone else. I dance to the beat of my own drummer, and he's Animal from the Muppets.

I am pleased to report that I drew blood only once, and that from the elbow of Desiree Gonzales, Jay's personal assistant and the most elegant dancer in town. Desiree forgave me.

"There are no mistakes," said Desiree, applying a Band-Aid. "It's all about learning from each other."

"One time," said Jay, "I threw my partner into another guy, and he thought it was part of the dance."

I asked Desiree if she had trouble with men hitting on her, aside from cutting her elbow.

"Jerks don't make it in our group," she said. "They don't feel comfortable with so many happy people."

I spoke to 24-year-old "Hollywood," who has only one name like Madonna or God. Due to the unfair advantage of being Latino, Hollywood salsa'd circles around me. Literally.

"Salsa is an art," he said. "It lets you connect on a whole different level."

Hollywood's voice faded to the clapping. Jay's class always applauds at the end of a step.

How Jason Got His Grooves Back

Not to brag or anything, but somewhere along the line I went from being Frankenstein to being at least the Wolfman. There were moments, if you didn't blink, when I even stopped moving my lips.

At some point, the brain develops grooves the way a rock finally furrows beneath a drip. Jay was my drip.

One night a hot chickie mama thanked me for being a strong lead and ... AAAND ... Jay gave me the a-otay. I glowed all the way to intermediate class, when we, and by that I mean they, performed a "sombrero-spin-check-Hammer-Lock-Coca-Cola."

The Coca-Cola is a quick three-point turn unless you do it my way, in which case it's more like a half nelson.

"You only need five or six steps," says Desiree. "Other than that, just make the woman look good."

I plan to keep up lessons because (a) I'm compelled to master the art and (b) pheromones. Someday I may even graduate from the advanced course, prompting the whole gang to chip in and buy me a present.

A chair, perhaps.

In youth I developed a taste for beach soot. My family summered at Seal Beach, where we ate peanut butter, jelly, and gritty sunblock sandwiches (PBJ&GS's). I thought the sand was why we called them sandwiches.

I have since learned that sand is not composed of magic, self-purifying crystals from the mines of Etch A Sketch. The beach is smutty foul. Children may as well play frisbee in a giant ash tray. DRESSED IN THEIR UNDERWEAR!

Compare, gentle reader, the following definitions...

dirt, n. the part of Earth's surface consisting of humus and disintegrated rock

sand, n. loose, gritty grains of disintegrated rock

I myself didn't know that Earth was covered in humus, which may explain the way they push it at my grocer; but the point is that if children are given to eat sandwiches, why not dirtwiches or, worse yet, humus on pita?

At least humans avoid dirt. Sand is mixed up in all sorts of corruption. As a teen, I got so wonky on beer (forced upon me by the Bad Kids) that I used the sand for a restroom, spelling my name beside that of my loved one.

She did not find it romantic. So it goes.

At the beach, then, bathing suits may be less appropriate than, say, HAZMAT chemical splashwear. Here are just a few of the items that I've found lying around on the shore: car parts, cutlery, poopy pants, hypodermic needles, a Tony-Robbins-sized marine carcass, and the face of the Virgin Mary.

Since you're already grossed out, how come we see dogs at the beach but never cats? You'd think it would be Kitty Paradise -- the biggest litter box ever! I would personally feel better if, once in a while, they swapped out the existing sand for extra-strength, allergy-control, maximum-clumping, floral scented litter. Now that's a place where I'll play volleyball.


Every year Zuma Beach sees ten million tourists, half of whom are male and think nothing of spitting in sand, which they believe to contain humus and/or pita. Five million spitters ... at least one urinator ... carry the y ... you do the math.

Yet beach loogies are a trifling concern before the more wicked and unnatural phenomenon that we call seagulls...

When they say "eats like a bird," they must not be talking about seagulls unless they mean "swallows anything up to and including an anvil." Seagulls will take your finger if you don't keep it tucked.

Sometimes seagulls stand around conspiring like Roman Senators...

"They've got the bread, men, but we've got the numbers. We've got the numbers."

It's only a matter of time before the seagull population reaches critical mass and the coast becomes lawless like Manhattan Island in the epic motion picture "Escape From New York" and no one -- neither Kurt Russell nor Al Gore -- can stop them.

Is that what we want? To forfeit the beach to winged rats and compost? Surely there is something we can do.

At this point there are no easy answers. We could order a Purell air strike. Bombing always fixes things. We could build footpaths in the sand and admire the beach from afar as one might a botanical garden...

"And this section smells like blueberry cigar with a kiss of moldy clothing."

Or we could all take a seagull home, maybe work it into our diets. Surely it's no crueler than chicken. And I will have you know that a chicken is not, at this moment, eyeing your three-year-old's PBJ&GS, thinking, "She's got the bread, men, but we've got the numbers. We've got the numbers."

Just watch out for the anvil.