Wednesday morning, I felt naked. I'd lost my phone the night before, and spent all of Tuesday and most of Wednesday making sure all of my friends knew just how annoyed I was by making sure they were just as annoyed. The one thing more annoying than losing your cell phone is having your friend repeatedly complain that he lost his.

I was running late for a stand-up show and hopped in a cab to save some time. We pulled up as the show was supposed to start, and I checked my pockets quickly as I got out of the cab. Having left my cell phone in a cab two weeks after I first got it, I've been feeling the outside of my pants pockets every time I stand up for the last three years. Not just to check if my phone fell out, but also because it also feels kind of nice.

That day, I was carrying a tape of one of my past shows with me, and mistook this for my phone. Were I not running late, perhaps I would have been able to tell the difference between a tape and my phone. And were I not an idiot, I certainly would have been able to tell the difference. Either way, I left my phone sitting in the cab and the cab left me standing on the street, naked. This was not the first time I'd been left naked on the street by a cab driver, but that's another story for another time.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the club and I reached for my phone to make a call. It wasn't there. Frantically, I tried dialing the tape. When that didn't work, I checked my other pocket. Then, I checked my first pocket again, as if I could have somehow missed the phone the first time. I did that every half hour for the rest of the night. I even checked my pocket the next day, which was weird because I was wearing different pants. After a thorough search of every chair I had or hadn't sat on since I'd arrived at the club, I accepted that my phone was no longer in my possession.

I tried calling it. Nothing. I tried calling it again. Still nothing. I checked my pocket one more time to be safe. I couldn't think of any way I was ever going to see my phone again, so I left this clever message on the voicemail.

"If you have found this phone and are checking the voicemail, please call me at (insert home number here). There is a small cash reward."

As much as most people would jump at the idea of a cash reward less sizeable than an average cash reward, I had to try other methods. I hadn't gotten a receipt from the cabbie. I didn't have my home number written on the back of the phone. And I had left the thing on vibrate so it couldn't even ring. I hadn't done anything that would help me recover my phone if I ever lost it, even though I was thinking of all kinds of preventative measures after the fact (see hindsight, 20/20).

The next morning, I called Sprint. Apparently, when I switched plans last month, I didn't tell them to re-register me in the equipment replacement program. I'd saved the whopping $3, but was ineligible for a phone replacement. And just when I was about to yell at the Sprint woman for my own mistake, it dawned on me: I checked my pockets. After the phone still wasn't there, I asked Sprint if any calls had been made on my account after 9PM the previous night.

It turns out that the cabbie called a buddy of his to see what to do with the phone. The cabbie friend helped me retrieve my phone a few hours later, and I offered that small cash reward. He turned it down, but accepted two free tickets to a future comedy show of his choosing. To which I hope I am not running late because I don't want to lose my phone again.

Now that I am fully clothed once more, I have not written my home number on the back of the phone, have taken several cabs without asking for a receipt, and have continuously left it on vibrate. But it's still here, thankfully, residing comfortably in my pocket.

Though I'm going to have to check to make sure.

If you're like me, you've spent the past few days glued to the television, wondering what was going to happen next and speculating who would win the NCAA tournament. Because that's some good basketball. Also, there's a war going on.

"Did you see the press conference? I guess its just a matter of hours."

"Yeah, it was awful. How could Duke get a three seed?"

But the war is a pretty big draw on college campuses. Our surest sign that there's a war going on is that students all over America are opposing and supporting something that the majority of them know very little about. But if protesting means getting out of class, hey, who isn't politically minded?

Americans have been rebelling for as long as we've been Americans (see War, Revolutionary) but many of us now rebel simply for rebellion sake. We have come to value our right to protest so much that we protest anything we can get our hands on. Deforestation, gentrification, animal mutilation, cold pasta - if it's happening, someone is against it. And in the case of Augusta National, we even have two groups protesting each other's right to protest.

Many of the causes for which people are being rallied are just, but many of those people are not. Too often, someone joins a picket line, wears a ribbon, or pickets a ribbon factory simply because they have nothing better to do. I applaud the spirit of activism - it's what got our country here in the first place. But please, open your history book before you try to quote from it.

I've heard many arguments about how this war is just like Viet Nam coming from people who can't locate Viet Nam on a map; I've heard people talk about what's really going on in Iraq when they can't even name a single Iraqi leader beyond Hussein. And I see people angry about how we're ignoring the plight of the downtrodden Iraqi while they pass an American beggar and offer no change - neither financial nor otherwise. The only thing we can all agree to protest is the press' use of video phones to broadcast the war. I half expect to see Mr. Spacely pop on one of them and catch the reporter sleeping.

"Amanpour! You'rrrrrreeeee fiiiiirrred!"

I don't specifically support or oppose the war because I don't think I know enough about the war to have an informed opinion. But I do support staying in class and learning about the war before you leave class to protest it or to protest those protesting it, and I oppose people trying to tell me how they know what they're talking about simply because they watch CNN. Remember, CNN thinks Al Gore is president.

I have been flipping between channels a bit, watching some coverage of what looks like a guy playing Doom and some coverage of the tournament. As far as I can tell, the top-seeded US is facing the underdog Iraq, who barely made the tourney after a play-in game with Afghanistan. Iraq is a small school - they don't even admit women - and they just seem happy to be playing on national television. Experts are picking the US to run away with this one, but have questioned the ability to pull out a victory without much fan support. While a 16 seed has never beaten a 1 seed, a few number two seeds have lost to 15 seeds, most notably South Carolina, Iowa, and the Spanish Armada. And though the US boasts an explosive offense capable of hitting a shot from anywhere on the court, their defense mainly consists of an assistant coach with an overemphasis on fans wearng orange. Our only other option is duct tape and plastic, so I'm happy to just sit in my seat, clap, and chant "DE-FENSE!"

We've been put in a situation, whether we like it or not, that involves our siblings, children, parents, and friends going into combat and risking their lives. And I believe it is our responsibility as Americans to root for the defeat of our opponents, but our responsibility as humans to value life, regardless of whose it is. Beyond Wake Forrest pulling a surprise upset and making the finals, all I support is a quick resolution to this war so that we can have our men and women back home safely. Once we do, games can go back to being games. Because being annoyed by Dick Vitale is a freedom I value.

It's awesome, baby.

I'll admit it: I have an ego. I have a rather large ego. I have an ego the size of a small Aero bus, which makes it extremely difficult for my head to fit through doorways, but quite convenient when it rains and I don't want to get my clothes wet.

I am not the only one with an ego - I'm just willing to admit it. Everyone with whom I've ever had a lengthy conversation has an ego. The people who don't have egos don't speak much, so it's hard to tell who they are.

When was the last time you engaged in a battle of "I can top that?" Probably this morning. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, it most likely sounded like this:

"You have got to hear what happened to me yesterday. Because I don't care what happened to you."

"Wow, that is fascinating. It reminds me of one time that something similar happened to me, only with a slightly less interesting ending."

"I'm sure glad you're finished talking, because that reminds me of another similar story, with an ending that is less interesting still."

"Well, I have a cousin that had something genuinely interesting happen to him, and since I know him, it makes me vicariously more interesting, right?"

Wrong.

Since it's impossible to get rid of an ego, I found a way to get paid for it. You can't be a an author, a columnist, or a comedian without thinking that it is your god given right to be, well, right.

But while being a writer has allowed me to use my ego to pay rent, it has the unfortunate side effect of bringing out the ego in everyone I meet that much quicker.

"You're an author? So am I! What have I written? Well, nothing. But I've got this book I'm working on about how enthralling my life as an unemployed twenty-something has been. I've already got at least ten pages thought out."

"You're a columnist? You know what you should write a column on? Cheese. What about cheese? I don't know - but I'm telling you man, cheese."

"You're a comedian? Have I got a joke for you! Two rabbis, a priest, and an awkward silence after there's no intelligible punch line to this joke walk into a bar. Hey, if you use that on stage, you don't even have to pay me."

Not everyone's ego makes them think they're the best at everything. Sometimes ego comes out when people think they're the worst at everything. In order for the world to be out to destroy you, it must be revolving around you.

Last week, I was relaying a story of how my friends and I saw someone installing a glass pane in a fifth floor window with no scaffolding below them. It was exciting to watch because we didn't know if the workers would drop the glass and have it shatter on the busy street below. It was also exciting to relay the story, since people thought I was exciting for watching something exciting. My story was interrupted, however, when one of the girls listening said, "That would be just my luck. If I was walking below it, the workers would have totally dropped that glass on me."

Why? Did she get hit with falling shards of glass often? Or ever? No. But the same stuff that happens to all of us-- being splashed by the occasional car and puddle, airport delays, staining a favorite piece of clothing--she chalks up to her own private ego-driven pattern of bad luck. There are people in the world who have been struck by lightning. Twice. You do not have worse luck just because there was that one winter when you caught a cold in December AND January.

Next time you hear someone say, "just my luck!" smack them in the back of the head. They can't possibly get mad at you. After all, everything bad always happens to them, right? If their logic holds, that backhand was just part of god's plan.

And whether it is a positive or negative ego, it is perfectly acceptable to have one as long as it does not interfere with interpersonal relationships. The trick to having a successful ego is to channel it in the right situations. For example, you can use your ego as a way of exuding confidence while dating, while on job interviews, and while writing newspaper columns.

But if you can't figure out a way to use your ego for personal gain, use someone else's. When I meet someone for the first time, I spend a long time just asking them questions. Because everyone enjoys a conversation more when it is about themselves.

Oh, that reminds me of a story. See, this one time...

A few days ago, I noticed that the date was 03/03/03. My first thought was, "hey, that's pretty cool." My second thought was, "man, I need a life." In some senses, I am a giant dork. This is most certainly one of them.

I used to look forward to every January 9th, because the date would be something like 1/9/97. My favorite times of the day are 12:34 and 1:23, and I even get excited when I notice the clock has hit 2:22. The be-all end-all of coincidental time has happened twice in my life - August 8th, 1988, and September 9th, 1999. Something that special won't happen again until November 11th, 2011. Just think - it could be 11:11 on 11/11/11. Twice in the same day!

I'll admit it - I think stuff like that is cool. Though I shouldn't use the word cool - maybe "neat," "keen," or "swell" would be more appropriate. Those are words my parents are more likely to use, which makes sense since doing anything that dorky is something people my age pretend is exclusive to our parents.

But we're all tremendous dorks in one way or another. I had a friend in college that epitomized the traditional definition of cool. He got tons of girls, stayed out late partying, knew almost everyone on campus, and could hold his liquor like no one else I've met, before or since. But if you got him into a conversation about computer science, his eyes would light up.

We don't become our parents as we get older. We were always our parents. To some, this is a very upsetting revelation. I'm sure I will get many letters telling me how unlike your parents you are. But you know who else writes angry letters to columnists? Your parents.

Dorkiness is not just limited to the fans of Star Trek and Dungeons and Dragons. Any obsession has a component of dork involved. Watching a football game on a Sunday is usually seen as pretty cool. But how many of you have fantasy teams? Dorky. The Simpsons are undeniably cool. But when you can quote any line in any episode, that is, well, kind of dorky. For a guy, a magazine like Maxim is pretty damn cool. Writing in to them once a week in the vain hope that you'll win the caption contest? Pretty damn dorky.

I have a fantasy football team, know every line in every Simpsons episode, and the only thing stopping me from writing in to Maxim is the fact that I write for them. I guess writing for Maxim is pretty cool. But telling people I write for Maxim? Pretty dorky.

Think about your life for a moment. Do you separate your t-shirts into piles based on their color? Do you keep the bills in your wallet in descending numerical order? Do you read newspaper columns about why you're dorkier than you think? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you're not only dorky, you're human.

Everyone has a side to them that appreciates order and knowledge. Well, everyone who has the mental capacity to read an 800-word column without stopping for air or a dictionary. As you age, you don't change - the perception around you does. I've often heard stories about how in high school, the crew that started off as popular wasn't as popular towards the end. It's because people around you begin having the courage to admit that they post to internet bulletin boards, that they schedule detailed itineraries of their road trips, and that they kept the beads from the time they went to Mardi Gras three years ago, in order to save the 50 cents it'd cost to buy new ones in case they ever go back. You know you do it. So do I.

I am physically fit. I wear a black leather jacket. I was president of my fraternity. But I am the first to admit that I, like everyone else, am a big, big dork. I schedule my life through my palm pilot, I prefer conversations on the meaning of life to those on how drunk I am, and I keep my CDs in alphabetical order. And in the past few years, I've even started to willingly spend time with my parents. But not while they're writing angry letters to columnists, because I don't want to interrupt them.

So befriend your deep-down dweeb. Embrace your secret spaz. Welcome your disguised dip. And love the part of you that could come up with three separate alliterative sentences to describe hidden ways of being a loser.

But not for the next two minutes. It's 12:33, and I'd rather not be distracted.

Another week, another flight that I scheduled much earlier than I remember scheduling it. I have been alive long enough that I should know I can't wake up before 6:00 AM. Especially when I don't go to sleep before 3:00.

I woke up to discover that a server blip (obviously, the technical term) caused my email program to send out three copies of every e-mail one of my staff members had sent the night before. I only slept for a few hours, and the mood of the day was quickly set by 141 new messages. Especially since the most common subject line was some variation on "get bent."

Since I've known since eighth grade that I, like most guys, am physically unable to get bent, I moved on with my morning without straining my neck. Already running late from stumbling around too tired to get properly dressed, I caught a cab with my gloved hand and headed towards the airport.

There are two bridges from Manhattan to LaGuardia Airport - one at 59th street and one at 125th street. My cabbie decided to take the 125th street route, which is odd since I live ACROSS THE STREET from the one on 59th. I may be old fashioned, but I think the shortest distance between two points is much shorter when you're already at the second point. However, my logic was asleep in the back of the cab with the rest of me, leaving no choice but to go where he wanted; it is very difficult for a cab to go one way and its passenger to go another. When I awoke to find us already on 92nd, I asked what he was doing. "Oh," the cabbie said, "would you like me to turn around and go back to 59th?" I told Magellan that I was late enough, and he should just keep going. But the ride to the airport, though longer than I wanted it to be, gave me just enough time to drift off and dream about getting bent.

It's hard to actually miss a flight, since we're advised to show up at the airport seven hours before our planes board. Here's the part of the column where I make fun of airport security. It's real original material, since no humor writer or comedian has previously thought to mock the dedicated workers that make up our nation's air security force. Actually, you know what is funny about airport security? Nothing, it just sucks.

I wear a belt with a metal buckle and boots with metal lace holders, so security for me was not an easy thing. I also bring my laptop with me, which is apparently an easier place to store explosives than, say, a suitcase, because my suitcase never gets opened but my laptop needs it's own private x-ray bucket. I once got yelled at for putting my jacket and my laptop together in the same bin. Isn't the theory of x-ray to see through things? If you can't use your x-ray to see that there's a laptop under my jacket, how are you going to use it to find a bomb in my shoe?

I'm writing this column while on a plane, and I just reread that sentence. I felt like I was going to be kicked off the flight for joking about carrying a bomb. Then I realized that it is very hard for an airline to get away with kicking someone off a flight, especially this long after takeoff. And if they kicked me off after we arrived, well, I could deal.

After placing my boots, belt, and my dignity on the conveyor belt, the metal detector finally stopped beeping. Isn't it prison that takes people's shoelaces and belts? What does that say about our homeland security? While the airport carpet did feel like home under my sock-clad feet, I would feel a lot more secure if my pants weren't falling down.

I finally got my boots and belt back, though my dignity was confiscated by a man who examined my laptop with chopsticks and a Stridex pad. As I was exiting the secure area, secured by a piece of fabric hung between two three-foot posts, one of the women began explaining to me why my boots would set off the metal detector every time.

"I travel for a living," I replied, "and this is only the second time it's happened."

She told me that things are a bit more exact in New York, and I'd know that if I lived here.

"I do," I said now finally awake enough to be clever. "On 125th street. Right by the 59th street bridge."

Sir, I believe that dignity belongs to me.