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Yeah, I said I'd get to a rewrite of the lost column. Sorry- events have transpired to prevent that. I'm waiting for my return flight now. If I have any time and/or energy left when I get to L.A., I'll write something substantive, or at least something more substantive than this.

Then I have to go right back out Monday and fly across the country again. I don't know how I'm gonna do it, but no matter- I just gotta. Life hands you that sometimes.

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It was on the 9:03 Amtrak from Philadelphia to Newark that it finally kicked in. I looked out the window at a place that was once my home, and I felt, for the first time, that it wasn't home anymore.

It's been nine years since we moved to California, and in that time I've never entertained the idea of moving back east, but in all that time I felt that I was still "from" New Jersey and Philadelphia and the New York area, the places I lived for my entire childhood and several years of adulthood. I tend to make it back to the area about once or twice a year, and before now it always felt like it was still, in some ways, home. It was where I grew up, went to school, fell in love, married, learned to drive, got my first job, got my second job, got my third job. It was where my memories were- walking on the boardwalk with the woman who would become my wife, learning to ride a Schwinn Sting-Ray, downing Roacheburgers and 25 cent Schmidt's drafts at the bar near school, cursing from the 700 level in left-center while the dreaded Dodgers beat the Phils again in the '78 playoffs, circling under faux-pop-flies thrown high in the air by my dad in the backyard while he yelled "MAJOR LEAGUE POP-UP!" I learned where the best cheesesteaks were, determined the best walks on early Spring days, became expert on gauging where the best running routes were to avoid the piles of goose poop in Washington Crossing park. And, over the years, riding the rails, I became expert on what was where, able to look out the train window, see a particular landmark, and instantly know exactly where I was. I drove those roads, knew those places, could picture them in my mind as vividly as if I was there.

And on Thursday night, I looked out at Bucks County and Princeton Junction and New Brunswick and for the first time, I couldn't tell Torresdale from Neshaminy, West Windsor from, er, whatever town that was across the river from New Brunswick. Metropark didn't look anything like I remembered- when did those massive parking garages materialize? And New York felt colder and more alien than it used to. I felt like a tourist, even though a lot less of a tourist than the people always delaying my entry into the subway by failing to grasp the concept of the Metrocard swipe. Jersey was a "Sopranos" set, Philly was suddenly a mass of people- male and female- in mullets and mustaches and orange t-shirts flooding towards the Flyer game. Don't get me wrong, I still love it there. It's just not, you know, home. The connection's weaker.

My friend Joe thinks it's because I "drank the Kool-Aid" of California and have thereby lost my East Coast credentials. Maybe. It could also be the emotional pain I've been experiencing from a particularly difficult circumstance with which I will refrain from burdening you right now. And as part of that, maybe it's been the heavy travel I've been undertaking lately (I'm back in California today, but I'll be gone tomorrow again, and I don't mind telling you I'm exhausted physically and psychically in a way more profound than I've ever previously experienced). Maybe it's just the way time works. Say you have a close friend, even a lover, and then you don't see that person for a while. When you reunite, it's usually not the same, and, eventually, it's not anything. I've been away.

Of course, it might just take one Eagles game to bring it all back. No amount of California Kool-Aid can wipe out decades of suffering like that. But for now, my East Coast experience left me more Californian than ever.

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I'll be traveling again Monday night, because, well, life deals you stuff you gotta deal with whether or not you have the time or energy or emotional stability for it. The last piece on my dwindling East Coastness was part of a somewhat different and even longer (!) piece that included some observations on the new Citizen's Bank Park in Philadelphia. And as part of that, I'd included photos of the place and tied the whole thing into a philsophical discussion that, naturally, got eaten by the browser when I tried to upload it. But far be it from me to deprive you of the pictures. Here's the stadium:

... and the view from the press box:

And, worst of all, this is how much the Phillies value the old-time ballpark organ, sticking Paul Richardson deep in left field, in a cubbyhole behind a cheesesteak stand, where fans can walk right up and distract him. It's kind of embarrassing, actually:

The game? Oh, Phillies won.

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I'm sitting in Long Beach Airport waiting for my flight to board. It was still daylight when I walked in a few minutes ago, but I just looked up and it had gotten suddenly dark- there wasn't so much a sunset as it was like someone had flicked a switch and it was night. It's another red eye, and if it's like the red eyes I've been taking lately, it'll be packed solid and sleep won't be an option, even with the zippy little lopsided travel pillow I carry that lets you lean your head on one side. If there's someone in the middle seat, that won't work, not for the aisle seat. Serves me right for flying this week with the holiday looming, but it wasn't by choice.

So I'm here, taking advantage of the free wireless Net service, waiting for another flight across the country. I could use a break from the travel, but that isn't happening, and there's no use whining about it, so I'll just keep testing my endurance limits. Besides, there's something kinda interesting about getting on a plane in California, landing in Florida at 4:30 in the morning, getting in a rental car and hitting 95 North as the sun slowly rises. Time to do it again.

P.S.: Apropos of nothing, you know that issue of Reason magazine that has an aerial surveillance photo of each subscriber's home on the cover? How every subscriber is supposed to be shocked that the cover shows his or her home circled on the photo? For some reason, I get two copies of Reason- one subscription, but they send me one at the P.O. box and one at the house. Each one has a picture with a red circle supposedly pinpointing my location. Neither one is close. In fact, the neighborhoods pictured appear to not even be in California. I guess I'm NOT worried about my privacy.

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I don't think there can be a more psychologically difficult job than to work at a hospice.

Hospices are unique places. They deal exclusively with the terminally ill, and all they do is try to ease the pain. They can't cure anything, and, sometimes, they can't do anything, yet they're there day after day to provide a service that's unimaginably tough. I spent most of the day today visiting at a hospice, and, man, I don't know how they do it. I know I can't.

Anyway, now you know what I'm up to these days, although I'd rather hold the details for another more appropriate time. But while I'm thinking about it, I thought it would be a good idea to mention some people who just don't get the recognition their work deserves. The rest of the nation watched "American Idol" and the Lakers-Wolves tonight. I watched a bunch of nurses and volunteers try to help people spend their last days in dignity and as little pain as possible. Idols, indeed.

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Late night again (ignore the time stamp, I'm on EDT) and it's been a brutal day, emotionally draining and ultimately not conducive to clear, rational thought. My mind's beyond repair tonight. At some point, I'll explain, and those few of you who know with what I've been dealing will back me up when I say that I have good reason to ask for your indulgence yet again. I'll be back in L.A. tomorrow, and presumably better able to communicate. Until then, how 'bout that Fantasia?

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Sold-out flight again, and I was addled from an emotional trip and lack of sleep (perhaps the late night pizza wasn't as good an idea as it seemed at the time), so the five hours and change between Fort Lauderdale and Long Beach seemed longer. That's where flying JetBlue makes a difference- having TV access at every seat is a nice distraction from the fact that the guy next to you is burying his elbow into your gut in an attempt to exercise his domain over the shared arm rest. But I would have liked to sleep, and my attempts at doing so were mostly unsuccessful.

So I watched the endless loop of SportsCenter, and a little of the Mike and Mike radio show on ESPNews (the antithesis of "visually interesting"), and I was trying not to pay attention to the guy next to me, a kid, really, maybe 19 or 20, wearing a fashion-victim outfit from some of the hip-hop designers, splayed out to take up maximum room. And he was intently watching an infomercial, the one on which Ron Jeremy- Ron Jeremy!- "hosts" a panel discussion called "Sex Talk." I thought, OK, young guy, porn stars, of course he'd watch.

But then, in the middle of the part where they start selling the "male enhancement" pills ("ExtenZe"), it happened. The kid whipped out his cell phone and turned it on, called up his address book, and carefully entered the phone number, saved it, and turned the phone off.

Aha. THAT'S who buys that stuff.

I have always wanted to know what kind of person responds to pitches like that, who gets those misspelled faux-Viagra spam e-mails and thinks "yeah, I gotta get me some of that." I wanted to know who would think that you could take a pill- "all natural!"- and before long, your penis would be thicker, longer. I wanted to know who on Earth would believe that you could take a pill and you'd suddenly be packing a Ron Jeremy garden hose.

And now I know.

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Look, I'm fully aware that in my present emotional state, I'm always a split second away from snapping and going Vic Mackey on some poor schmuck telemarketer or store clerk. But I have been experiencing something on a repeated basis that is driving me even crazier than that. Please, let me vent- you don't want a beatdown, so let me talk.

Why is it that nobody will let you back out of a parking space anymore?

It happened again today at Costco. I was three-quarters of the way out of the space when a pinhead in a Volvo wagon decided that she'd rather not stop and let me finish the back-up, even though there was no longer enough room for her to get by. So she almost hit me. And then, stopping short because she realized I wasn't going to dematerialize to let her get through, she and her husband started to shake their heads, laugh, and make "can you believe this?" gestures at me. See, they're VERY IMPORTANT PEOPLE who just have to BLOW PAST PEONS LIKE ME because they're TOO IMPORTANT TO SIT FOR 10 SECONDS IN THE COSTCO LOT TO LET SOMEONE WHO'S ALREADY BACKED OUT OF HIS SPACE TURN AND DRIVE AWAY IN FRONT OF THEM.

Yes, I flipped them the bird and drove especially slowly to the exit. No, I'm not proud of that. But, yes, they deserved it.

This is happening fairly often these days. It happened to me in the Boca Raton Town Center lot the other day, in the Publix lot ("Where Shopping is a Pleasure, and Getting Out of Your Parking Space is a Challenge") the same day, and in countless lots in cities on either side of the country for months now. I can remember the old days- 2003, actually- when people exercised common courtesy and let you back out unimpeded. Those days appear to be gone- now, everybody's Michael Schumacher, intent on racing past you even if the gap between your bumper and the cars on the opposite side is really too small for them to do that. They can't wait, not when they can veer and dash right past your bumper with millimeters to spare. It's not the Ralphs parking lot, it's Le Mans.

Here's some advice for all o' yez- stop. Let that guy back his car out. Don't try to zip around him because you need to get to the stop sign 15 seconds faster. Let him go. You don't know what that guy might do. He might be me.

You don't want that. Trust me. Not now.

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Something told me to go back. I'd just finished an emotional visit to my dad's room in the hospice, knowing that it would be most likely the last time I'd see him, and he was not the man I remembered- the vibrant, athletic, talkative father with whom I'd grown up was now a weak, emaciated, very ill man, ravaged by a disease worse than death itself, unable to walk very far or eat very much or breathe very well. We cried, we talked basketball, he slept a lot, and then it was time for me to go back to California and we parted tearfully and I walked down the hall and lost it. The floodgates opened, and a nurse came over to comfort me. And while she patted my shoulder and told me how I should just go ahead and let it out, I stopped. Something told me to go back to the room and look in on him just one last time, and I did.

The last time I saw my father, he was sitting in a chair with a portable radio in his lap, tuning in a talk station, smiling. I'd like to think that was some kind of sign.

I want to tell you about my father, how he spent his career as a school principal helping inner city kids escape the futility of poverty and lack of education, how he used to coach youth basketball and I'd go to the games with him and run like the 5 year old maniac I was along the baseline, how he managed to spend his Army hitch during the Korean War playing baseball in Europe. I want to tell you about his passion for tennis, how he played every single day until a few months before the insidious illness took him away, how proud he was that in his very last match, with less than one functioning lung, he won. I want to tell you about how I spoke to him every single day, even after we moved very far apart. I want to tell you how much I loved talking basketball and baseball with him, how as a child I went with him to countless Phillies and Mets and Yankees games, how proud I was that as an adult I could take him to Marlins and Dodgers and Heat and Lakers games, how on the last day I saw him he told a nurse about the game I'd taken him to a couple of years ago in which the Lakers stormed back from 40 points down to beat Dallas. There's so much I want to tell you about him, but it wouldn't matter. You didn't know him.

I wish you did.

My Dad, Harold Simon, died this morning. He was 73, and when I say that he died young, you could only understand that if you knew him. What I am, what I became, what I will be, I owe to him. Thanks, Dad.

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