Evidence of me at Veterans Stadium. I'm the one in the middle who looks placid -- despite the fact that the heirs to my childhood idols, the 1980 World Champion Philadelphia Phillies, did not appear even to be trying to beat the despised and miserably bad Cincinnati Reds. It was a grand night to watch a game. Shame one wasn't happening in front of us. I must say: I was just damned glad to be there.

Was it Brett Butler (the "Lenny Bruce of the South") who referred to that lovely furrow we women get between our eyebrows as that indication of intelligent thought? I've always mentally referred to mine as a worry line, just as those next to both my eyes and my mouth are smile lines to me. I suppose I could just as easily credit the stress on my eyes to squinting -- but I smile with my eyes. As I mature, and continue to work in Manhattan, I'll admit that I have second thoughts about those lines and about my childhood inclination to never have plastic surgery on my face. I always felt that I'd wear my face as a simple badge of honor, as any man would, proudly. Well, the trend is heading in the other direction. Many people of both sexes are altering their appearance to appear younger and more vital -- no doubt to continue to pump themselves up to make themselves feel more vital, too. I'm still so skeptical. Working out & eating well are gimmes. They've always make good sense, and they always will. Finding good health-care professionals -- of course that's a no-brainer, too. But what do you let those folks do to you? Do you let your dentist start pointing purple lights at your teeth? Would you have someone inject botulinum toxin into your system & risk looking like a Stepford wife? Are you happier thinking about the possibility of buying infomercial makeup for your legs in your 60s than you would be letting some cosmetic surgeon have a go at them when you're in your 30s? Is it all vanity, or is it a business expense, like dry-cleaning? Myself, I'm still working on learning how to worry less, even in these troubling times -- as a means of minimizing a worry line. Simplistic? Yes. But it's the start of a plan. More extreme cosmetic measures may be a fallback. In the meantime, I also trust in the power of my Clinique three-step system. I've been told it only works if I take it off my bathroom shelf and use it on my face, though.

A late (and hilarious) addition from the advice for the drenched and, often, lovelorn at my Baltimore alma mater in the wake of tropical storm Isabel: "Some precautions worth considering: If you have a flashlight, keep it handy. Keep bottled water and non-perishable food items on-hand. Don't think of driving if you can avoid it. (emphasis mine) Local road flooding may be possible, as well as high winds. If you have them, make sure your cell-phone and laptops are fully charged, although you can expect lots of annoying service disruptions if the storm is intense." Remember: Thinking of driving can be quite dangerous. Luckily, it's still not actually forbidden. Just discouraged. Stay dry, and make sure you pick up some of the good kindling this wicked storm left us.

Oh, I am oh-so-steeped in baseball. Two weeks of early deadlines at our paper because of an oh-so-pretty (and fun) four-color Yankees insert. But it's a killer. You'd think I'd be sick of baseball, since it's not been very, very good to me. But I'm headed to Phila., Pa., to get a chance to say goodbye to Veterans Stadium. It's ugly (oh-so-ugly), but it was ours. [Sigh.] Out with the old, and in with the new

The world lost Johnny Cash and Warren Zevon in the space of a few short days. Neither death was entirely unexpected, and there are medium-sized mercies in the reliable truths that (a) spouses can apparently still die of broken hearts, despite what the death certificate says, and (b) grandparents can still try to hang on to see their new little grandbabies come into the world. Both of these images are comforting -- and not as darkly comforting as they might first appear. It is a beautiful weekend to rest, putter and play here in New York City. I may take in a low-expectations flick, and I'll certainly get my dear old pooch out for a long overdue trip to the vets. Cheers. I'm adding the text below with a suggestion that you might visit www.johnnycash.com and become even more aware of this Arkansas-born treasure's body of work. Ragged Old Flag I walked through a county courthouse square, On a park bench an old man was sitting there. I said, Your old courthouse is kinda run down. He said, Naw, it'll do for our little town. I said, Your flagpole has leaned a little bit, And that's a ragged old flag you got hanging on it. He said, Have a seat, and I sat down. Is this the first time you've been to our little town? I said, I think it is. He said, I don't like to brag, But we're kinda proud of that ragged old flag. You see, we got a little hole in that flag there When Washington took it across the Delaware. And it got a bad rip in New Orleans With Packingham and Jackson tuggin' at its seams. And it almost fell at the Alamo Beside the Texas flag, but she waved on though. She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill. There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard, and Bragg, And the south wind blew hard on that ragged old flag. On Flanders Field in World War I She got a big hole from a Bertha gun. She turned blood red in World War II She hung limp and low a time or two. She was in Korea and Vietnam. She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam. She waved from our ships upon the briny foam, And now they've about quit waving her back here at home. In her own good land she's been abused -- She's been burned, dishonored, denied and refused. And the government for which she stands Is scandalized throughout the land. And she's getting threadbare and wearing thin, But she's in good shape for the shape she's in. 'Cause she's been through the fire before And I believe she can take a whole lot more. So we raise her up every morning, Take her down every night. We don't let her touch the ground And we fold her up right. On second thought I do like to brag, 'Cause I'm mighty proud of that ragged old flag.

Sept. 11, 2003, been done & gone. This morning as I walked my dog in the early light there were two candles on the steps of a low-rise apartment building here in Inwood. It reminded me very vividly of the many candles throughout the Cobble Hill neighborhood off Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, where I stayed after my own pied-a-terre in the financial district was rendered uninhabitable. That, and a the smell of a recent fire in this neighborhood -- a charred, chemical, electrical, God-knows-what smell -- are the strongest recent sense memories I have of 9/11. The rushing cloud of smoke, which is still played on TV because folks don't want to show fire or jumping and falling footage, is getting pretty played out. So I don't count the memories that engenders. At any rate, I prefer to center on the mixed fear and hope of the candles. Apparently, one of my neighbors did, too.

The Yankees just spanked the Detroit Tigers, and I was in the stadium for a significant portion of the game -- in the bleachers. If you've never sat in the bleachers, it's the way to go. As a child, I sat right behind home plate at Phillies' games (as they were leading up to their World Series win). Have no doubt, I got a thrill out of it, and wouldn't turn down those tickets again. But I wasn't allowed to be in the least way rowdy. And I was a rowdy child, particularly when it came to baseball. In the bleachers, you don't have to hold back. And if you're not ready to let go, you can take in the vicarious thrill of the atmosphere. Also, this weekend I had the pleasure of seeing a gathering of search and rescue folks -- brought together because of the dogs they work with -- at a ceremony and gathering down at the Intrepid Sea-Air-Space Museum. Weird, cool breed of people, and very special dogs. Time to hit the hay. Gotta work to pay the bills tomorrow.

A day, and a week, filled with music, spoken poetry, good politics, exhausting work -- and weekend plans for work, rest and play. Can there be a more perfect time to be pulled into the undertow of web logs? I think not. My dog is either trying to sleep or listening to David Gergen on the tube. I think I'll emulate him. Cheers.