Hot Dog Bank lies in Hot Dog City, east of Hot Dog Square. You know when you’re walking past The Mustard Store and you see a statue of Oscar Mayer on the corner and there’s a fountain to your left? Yeah, yeah. That’s the one. Well, you take a right at the statue, walk five feet, and then Boom! you’re practically there, there at Hot Dog Bank.

Hot Dog Bank is a bank unlike any bank you’ve seen before. It’s not made of marble. It’s not made of brick. It’s barely big enough to walk in.

If you were a jerk, you’d take one look at Hot Dog Bank and say, “Hot Dog Bank is a shitty bank, and Oh, God! it smells like hot dogs.” But you’re not a jerk. I’m vouching for you. So keep an open mind.

Hot Dog Bank is where Hot Dog City stores most of its cache of meat. Inside of a drawer, inside of a box, inside of a handful of sealed plastic sleeves, lie 960 all-beef hot dogs, the entire endowment of the City of Hot Dogs, Hot Dog City’s fashionable nickname recently approved by a consortium of the city’s top brass.

A reasonable person would expect Hot Dog City to guard its hot dogs tenaciously, with a watchful eye and a terrifying arsenal of very loud and very heavy automatic weapons. But no one in Hot Dog City is like that. Here, here in Hot Dog City, one can visit Hot Dog Bank for a tour of Hot Dog Vault 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Hot Dog City is an open society. “That’s the Hot Dog Way!” we say.
.
Fort Knox is home to the United States Bullion Depository, the second largest reserve of gold bullion in the country. It houses more than 5,000 tons of gold worth more than $130 billion, which is about enough money to change your life for the better.

But guess what.

You can’t go there and withdraw any of it!

Because the government won’t let you!

And so the money just sits there and rots, which would be a horrible fate for a hot dog if Hot Dog Bank were as stingy. Which it’s not!

At Hot Dog Bank you can always make a withdrawal. One hot dog. Two hot dogs. Three hot dogs. You name it. In fact, you can walk into any one of Hot Dog Bank’s branches today and withdraw as many hot dogs as you please. If they’re your hot dogs, originally deposited by you, you won’t ever have to pay them back. If they’re not your hot dogs, if someone else first deposited them, you probably still won’t have to pay them back. Just be cool and say good things about hot dogs, and it's almost a given that you and the bank can call it even. It’s that easy!

And yet it wasn’t always so.

There was a time when the City of Hot Dogs was struggling, and a run on the bank seemed ready to finish it. Folks preferred to keep their hot dogs close at hand, where they could see them -- in a coffee can, under a mattress, framed maybe. None of it was any good for the hot dogs.

And then one day over hot dogs, two men had a notion. They were two of the biggest holders of hot dogs the city had ever known.

"My hot dogs are no good if I don't use them for something," said the first man. "What if we take our hot dogs and put them in the bank to show folks that we have confidence in the system? I think such a move may be needed right now."

"I can afford to lose my hot dogs," said the other. "I've had none before. I could have none again."

"The future of this city very likely hinges upon what we decide here today," said the first man. "So, we agree? We'll endeavor to save The City of Hot Dogs, this town whose foundation was built upon meat?"

The men shook hands in agreement.

"Confidence is contagious," coaching legend Vince Lombardi is quoted as saying. "And so is lack of confidence." So when the first great load of hot dogs was ready for deposit on a sunny day in June many years ago, it was by no accident they were carried high in the air and through the front door, in great big boxes with great big labels on them, for all to see and draw hope and inspiration from.

It was a stunning act of sacrifice and philanthropy at a time when fear and inertia seemed perfectly reasonable. It was historic and pivotal, and its success proved immediate. Morning papers told the story of the fateful deposit, and those who could read them told those who could not. Word of the news spread quickly through town.

By mid-morning, a small line had formed outside of the bank for deposits, and by mid-afternoon the line had grown and snaked around the corner. A thick smell of hot dogs had even set upon the air as folks around town began to unearth theirs -- dusty, dry, and slightly worse for the wear, they were hot dogs nonetheless. The great fear that sparked the run on the bank had been lifted. The bank's vaults soon swelled. Reserve ratios could finally be met. A city had been saved.

Hot Dog City has always been a town that pulls together, and we're closer now for all that we've been through. You won't find any statues here of the men who saved our city, but their spirit lives in everything we do. To those two men, we say sincerely: This city of ours is itself a memorial to you.

Game Strategy in Two-Person Price Is Right-style Bidding Game

Section 1: Opponent Bids First

Opponent bids $X. You think that's too high. Bid $1.

Opponent bids $X. You think that's too low. Bid $X + 1.

Opponent bids $0. Ask him if he's feeling okay.

Section 2: You Bid First

Listen to the audience.

I don't know if you were planning on doing anything special for me for Valentine's Day, but I want you to know that my mom and my dad and my grandma have already asked me to be their Valentine.

And I've accepted.

I'm sorry.

I want a kidney. Not for me. Not for dinner. But for my mom because hers are failing.

You can help if you pass this information on to people you know or if you'd consider undergoing laparoscopic surgery* to donate one of your kidneys. First, however, it's important that you understand that Transplant Ethics and Law require that neither I, nor anyone, give you anything in return for your generous intention and the gift of life you are giving when you give your kidney. Your transplant expenses would be covered, but the gift must be freely given.

My mother is a good person, a caring friend to many and a therapist who helps others cope with life’s challenges and make positive changes in their lives. I can't begin to adequately express my admiration and love for her. It exceeds anything of which many of you would think me capable. Now she needs a living kidney, and neither my sister nor I are good matches for her.

To be a donor you need to be a generally healthy adult with Type “O” blood, who has not had any of the following health problems:
Cancer
Diabetes
Elevated blood pressure (although elevated cholesterol may not be a problem)
Serious heart problems, such as previous heart attack or use of stents.

If you're interested in becoming a donor, please contact my mom at lucindakidney@sbcglobal.net and tell her that you’d like more information. If you find that you'd like to continue, she'll have the Transplant Donor Coordinator contact you. The Coordinator will ask you questions about your interest in donating and about your health. All your answers will be held in strict confidence.

The Transplant Coordinator can make an appointment for you to have a free blood test. If you're from outside Connecticut, she'll mail you several vials to be taken to a laboratory near you for use when your blood is drawn. The tests will be paid for by my mom’s insurance, except for the small charge of having a lab technician draw your blood. Instructions will come with the vials.

Because kidney donation requires a careful evaluation and that the donor travels to my mom’s hospital in Connecticut, donor candidates should be living in the United States.

Thank you for your generosity in considering giving this lifesaving gift.

*Laparoscopic surgery has made donating a kidney far easier than it had been in the past. Today a kidney donor can expect a couple of days in the hospital, a couple of very small scars, and couple of weeks at home away from work to fully recover. Most donors are back to their normal routines within 2-3 weeks. The surgery does not impact one's quality of life or life expectancy. Statistically, childbirth is six times as dangerous as laparoscopic kidney surgery.

And please, if anyone would link his or her own website to this story, I'll thank you very much.

-Lighton Ndefwayl, a Zambian tennis player, responding to a 1992 defeat at the hands of countryman Musumba Bwayla.

Lighton Ndefwayl may once have been a pretty good athlete, but a pretty good sport he was not. That quote? I kinda like it, but only because it's funny. Otherwise I'm not a big fan. I don't think athletes should make excuses when they lose.

I think they should make them beforehand.

If they feel good, say, "I feel bad." And if they bad, say, "Oh, it's the worst!" A good excuse, if laid properly and long before an endeavor begins, is a simple way for one to save face. I believe that much with all of my heart.

And so too does Eater X, although you'd hardly know it by what's been printed lately. By all accounts in all the papers, Eater X is a gracious good sport. Not a single excuse to his credit.

"But it's not like I haven't tried," he said when I saw him in Austin last week. The stress and the worry were evident on his face and in his voice. "I've been trying to plant good excuses. Honest. I'm always trying. You know that."

"So then what's gone wrong?" I asked him.

"No one will ask me 'The Question," he said. His words were pointed. His tone was deadly serious.

'The Question' to which Eater X was referring is a question typically asked by most reporters: How do you think you'll do on Saturday? Whenever possible Eater X embraces the query as an opportunity to explain why he'll fail.

The contest is too short.

The food is too chewy.

It doesn't suit my strengths!

He's got a million of them. He believes them all. And he loves to lay them down.

"I swear to God those things matter," he told me one time long ago.

"I know they do," I told him back.

And it's true. They do. They matter. But people often overlook them. And so Eater X has made it his mission to call attention to them whenever possible.

Before the Pretzel Twister World Pretzel Eating Contest two weeks ago in Miami, Eater X paced backstage nervously. He'd combed through the morning's papers and read every article. Each one had painted him as confident. He worried what people would say when he lost.

"They're gonna think I had a bad day," he said, "when in fact I truly can't win it. This food is too chewy for me. It doesn't conform to the size and shape of my throat. It's gonna be a swallowing contest, not an eating contest!" He was panicking, and soon so was I.

"Can we blame it on Y2K?" I asked.

"I doubt it," he said, "but I'll try."

But fortunately he didn't. As Eater X took the stage that day a few minutes before the contest began, he scanned the crowd and, finding me, winked. "He's got it!" I thought. "An excuse. He's thought of one at last." I hoped he'd found a reporter in time to record his concerns beforehand. I studied his face. He looked comfortable, which convinced me that he had.

As the contest began and the eaters dug in, Eater X took a curious tack: he untied each of his pretzels, wasting precious time. And when the dust had settled and the food had been chewed and all the pretzels counted, Eater X had finished a distant second to the winner, Joey Chestnut. It broke my heart, it turned me red and made me want to break things.

"Eater X," I said shaking my head as I approached him after the contest. "What were you doing up there? You looked awful. Why on earth untie them?"

Eater X smiled and took a bite of a piece of pretzel and spoke through a mouthful of food. "I needed to have an excuse for losing. I gave them one today."

And I looked at him and, getting it then, I finished his crafty thought: "And you didn't do it after the fact! Good job!"

(mimicking a crowd at a comedy show) HOW ANGRY ARE YOU?

Stop it! I’m not kidding. I am very angry. Very, very, very angry.

Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. Why are you so angry?

Because OJ Rifkin lied to me! He…she...it (?!?) lied!

Wait. OJ Rifkin lied to you? Are you sure?

Yes. I’m sure. I’m very sure. I’m super sure in fact.

(confused) But that doesn’t sound like something OJ Rifkin would do? OJ Rifkin hates lies. He took liars to task in a post a few days ago. He practically called Eater X a liar!

OJ Rifkin doesn’t hate lies. OJ Rifkin can’t hate lies. He's as big a liar as anyone else. He’d have to hate himself to hate lies.

Okay then. I’ve got to ask. Tell me, How exactly did OJ Rifkin lie to you?

Because he goes by the name OJ Rifkin. He's been writing under a pseudonym!

Geez. You’re right. He does. He has. (pause) Do you think he just forgot?

I love The Olive Garden for its incomparable breadsticks and salad, which my anemic vocabulary can't flatter enough. I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that The Olive Garden’s breadsticks and salad have been touched by the hand of God! Twice in my life, in the spirit of honest debate, I asked men of faith how they were certain that God exists, and each of them gave me the same unsatisfying answer. “Because I just know,” they said self-righteously. Ask me on the other hand how I know that God exists, and I’ll give you something a whole lot better. I’ll give you actual proof. “Because I’ve been to The Olive Garden,” I’ll whisper. “And I’ve had their breadsticks.”

I like The Olive Garden’s breadsticks because they glisten with butter and sparkle with salt and because they're perfectly soft on the inside and out, as if my mom had kindly clipped away crusts and given me half-baked centers. I like The Olive Garden’s salad because it's made with iceberg lettuce and because every molecule comes bonded to Italian dressing. I have always favored iceberg lettuce over other greens because iceberg lettuce has no flavor of its own. It tastes only like that which it’s wearing, which is, I think, how a salad green should be. Other greens are bitter and dominate their dressings. I want a green that’s flavorless and efficient, like a plastic straw, which I’d use instead of lettuce if I weren’t embarrassed to drink dressing in public.

The Olive Garden offers a surprisingly broad selection of wines for a restaurant of its standing, but I don’t even read the wine list anymore. I couldn’t care less which wines The Olive Garden sells. I’ll drink red or white, whichever color fills my cup, because I am an opportunistic drinker. I would drink blue wine if that’s what you gave me, and I’d drink it all and then ask for more.

I heard a credible rumor once that nothing is made from scratch at The Olive Garden, that everything comes in a plastic bag for the chef to reheat. “They just boil it and then…Voila!" my friend told me one day. She’s never liked that I love The Olive Garden. She thinks it’s beneath my caste. If I were a candidate for public office, I’m pretty sure she’d do her best to keep me away from The Olive Garden. She’d tell my handlers, “It’s a political liability.”

I had to explain to that friend one time that I don’t care that the entrées come in a bag. “The Olive Garden’s entrées,” I told her, “have always been secondary.” But that was an understatement. In fact, The Olive Garden’s entrées have always been denary. When I am at The Olive Garden, my Hierarchy of Needs reads like this: salad, breadsticks, wine, family, friends, football, salad, breadsticks, wine, and finally my entree. I don’t even know where I’d place fresh air on that list. I’m too worried that it would hasten the oxidation of my blue wine. Sometimes I liken The Olive Garden’s salad to a nightclub. “To enter,” I say, “you’ve got to pay a cover charge.” And then I’ll point to a picture of the shrimp scampi, and say, “It’ll cost $20.95 for us to enter tonight. Plus tax and tip.”

I brought Eater X to The Olive Garden last week to thank him for feeding my beloved goldfish, Whistlepea, while I’d been away on a recent vacation. It was Eater X’s first trip to The Olive Garden and, even though I know he loved it, he called to my attention what I now realize to be The Olive Garden’s only obvious flaw.

“There’s a man in the bathroom handing out mints,” Eater X said nervously upon returning to our table mid-meal. He stood there in front of me, his eyes wide open.

“You mean the bathroom attendant?” I suggested kindly.

Eater X stood still. His expression remained unchanged.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Aw, nothing,” he said. He paused, and as he sat down he continued, “It’s just that I guess I would have preferred that he hand out breadsticks.”

Foast Pwace: Cwazy Wegs Conti (38)
Second Pwace: Aw-toh-oh Wios (35)
Thode Pwace: Aywik Da Wed (32)

On-a-wa-boh Menshohn: Justoan Mih, (disquawified because of a wee-voh-soh of foh-chohn)

And da west, in no poh-tic-u-woh ohdoh:

Waywee McNe-oh
Day-moan Serignet (can't pwonounce it)
Ken Fed-oh-weegee
Myko Pahwahmen
Mike Witchohdson
Bwyan Sims
Joseph Zaydehwo
Jawn Wyohns
Antohnee Whitehead
Bih-wa Taywee
Taywee Bwown
Kwis Bawn-hought
Dustohn Shoh-wee
"Da Mississippi Muncho" Mowis Momolstein

Fact: I hate Bo Bice.

Fact: You should hate Bo Bice.

Fact: Bo Bice’s music causes more deaths each year than cancer, car accidents, and AIDS combined.

And now Bo Bice is on the move, invading another arena, and it's not even a civic center. Bo Bice has entered the world of competitive eating, which makes me wish to suffer urges contrary to swallowing.

Why?!?

I’ll make it right, God. I swear!

In Texas, in Dallas, in two concentric areas of land that I loathe, Bo Bice made his competitive eating debut last week in the State Fair of Texas’s Corny Dog Eating Contest. I don't know how well he did, and I'm not even gonna try to find out. I think I'd have to watch a video of the contest. I think I'd have to watch Bo throw his hair around haphazardly. (Shaking my head) I don't need the anguish. Enough things keep me up at night already. Those results? They're dead to me.

The IFOCE used to sanction the corny dog eating contest in Texas, but it doesn’t do so anymore. I surmised once that corny dogs are so similar in nature to hot dogs that the IFOCE’s sponsorship made the Nathan’s folks uneasy. I imagined Nathan’s CEO Wayne Norbitz calling IFOCE Chairman George Shea on the telephone.

“Operator!" I imagined Wayne screeching. "Get me George Shea!" I imagined her patching him through immediately.

"George here." I imagined George saying.

And then I imagined Wayne begging George not to sanction the corny dog eating contest anymore. I imagined Wayne saying "please" and "pretty please" a dozen times each. I imagined it made George think of Wayne as a candy ass. "How in the world," I imagined George thinking, "did Wayne ever get ahead in this life?!?" It was a rhetorical question. (George doesn't have time to answer silly questions like that. He hires people to do it for him.)

And then I imagined George stopping to consider Wayne's request. I imagined George imagining traveling to Texas and not liking the thought one bit. I imagined George frowning. And then I imagined his answer. "Aw, Wayne, Geez! If it means that much to you, I won't." I imagined George whining completely insincerely as he said it so that Wayne would think he'd owe George one. It seemed like a very good strategy on George's part.

That’s what I used to think.

Until last week.

But I know better now: George Shea hates Bo Bice too, which is why he won't sanction the corny dog contest.

I have no idea if Bo Bice harbors eating aspirations grander than his brief fling with corny dogs in Texas. I hope to God that he doesn’t. But the thought that he does and might some day show up and eat next to me has turned me into a man I can't recognize anymore.

Bo, I never thought the day would come when I’d beg you: Please don’t quit your day job.

A scene, my friend. A dialogue. And I’ll put it in play-form for you to read.

Scene: A common bar in Gloucester where numerals of every origin gather. It’s high noon on September 30th, and the Arabic numerals, many of whom are devout Muslims, have yet to arrive because they can’t drink while the sun is up during Ramadan. Most of the bar’s habitués are Roman, and at a table in the corner, three particular numerals gather to discuss the impending weekend’s most important matter: The Krystal Squareoff qualifier in Memphis. The text of their conversation has been translated from its original Italian.

LII: Okay, guys. Time to draw straws. Which of us is it gonna be?

LIV: (rolling his eyes) Oh, God! Again?

LIII: Yeah, why do we have to do this anyway? Eater X already ate Krystals last week.

LIV: He pretty much qualified for the finals!

LII: Guys, we've been over this before. Eater X loves Krystals. He loves 'em even more than that brown-noser Shoudt does. (LII pauses to ponder what he just said.) Okay, maybe not as much as Shoudt does, but whatever. Eater X wants Krystals now. And he MAPQUEST-ed it, and the easiest place for him to get them, the Krystal restaurant nearest to his apartment, is in Memphis.

LIII: (irritated) Fine. Let's get it over with.

(LII removes three straws of varying lengths from his pocket and places them inside of his fist. One by one the straws are drawn and put forth on the bar for comparison.)

LIII: (seeing that he's drawn the shortest straw) Fuck! I wanted to watch football on Sunday.

LIV: (relieved and suddenly completely in favor of the draw) Hey. Fair's fair.

LII: Just go to Memphis. It'll be fine. It's not like you're missing Super Bowl LIII. You know I wouldn't do that to you.

LIII: Where's LX? Why can't he go to Memphis? He didn't go to Atlanta either.

LII: We're saving him for the finals. You know that.

LIII: Okay, fine. I'll go to Memphis, and Eater X will eat his 53. But I better not be going to Chattanooga. I've got a life, you know?

LII: I know. I know. Don't worry. We'll send someone else to the the finals. I promise.

Except for Queens. In Queens there was no light, which troubled God, for His legacy seemed suddenly tainted.

On the Second Day, God tired of a thick fog that hugged the marshy ground upon which He walked. "It's been very foggy here lately," God said aloud to no one in particular. "And damp. Oh boy, has it been damp!" And God looked down at His sandalled feet and recoiled with further disgust. "I'm wearing sandals!" He yelled. "All I own are sandals, and they're gross to wear when the ground is wet." So God took drastic action.

With the wave of a finger and the wink of an eye, God created the atmosphere, which made evaporation possible, and as the moisture drained through the soil around him, and as the puddles slowly shrunk, God's sandals finally dried, and God again was comfortable.

But Queens still had no light, and God's confidence further betrayed him. At the end of the second night of His stewardship on Earth, in the smallest corner of His massive brain, God wondered if He was a failure and cried Himself to sleep.

On the Third Day, God had a radical idea.

"I'll break up Pangaea," He thought to Himself, because Pangaea had never quite suited God's unique sense of design. He thought it was clunky and awkward and that it dominated the globe, but He'd never known what to do with it either, and if He had, He'd kept His ideas hidden from the world and lacked the resolve to effect them. And yet now God was determined to act. "I'm doing it. I really am," He said aloud as if convincing Himself of the righteousness of His course. "And no one here can stop me."

And just like that He did it, and He clapped His mighty hands together and like a mime wiped them clean for emphasis. "There. Done. Finished," He said. "Can't take it back now."

A moment passed as God surveyed his work, and God grew visibly pensive. And then another moment passed, and God began to fret. He looked where Pangaea once had lain, and then He looked at it now in seven pieces scattered across the oceans. He bit His knuckle. He bit His lip. He wrinkled His brow. He fidgeted. "Oh, dear," He said. "I hope that wasn't a mistake."

And Queens still had no light, and again God cried in bed.

On the Fourth Day, God created the moon and the sun as a gift to the borough of Queens, which had lived without light since the First Day. "At last!" God said to Himself, relieved, as the sun beat down upon the world He'd created. "At last the borough of Queens shall have..." And God intended to say "light" but didn't because before the word had left His mouth, a telegram arrived at His door. God read the telegram quietly. His eyes grew wide, and His nostrils flared, and His face turned a fiery red. "There's still no light in Queens?!?" He bellowed. "This has to be a joke!"

But the telegram bore no lie, and darkness reigned still in Queens, and God's tears fell thick like a curtain.

On the Fifth Day, boredom plagued The Almighty, and He stocked the rivers and lakes with animals so that He could fish when bored again. He cast his Natural Motion Fishing Snake into the shallows, caught a huge black bass within seconds, and said aloud, "I like to angle."

In the evening, God built a fish tank and filled it with fish from the tropics.

And then He looked at Queens, in the dark still, and cried.

On the Sixth Day, God cast His eyes toward His fish tank. "These Harlequin Fish are boring," He complained. "You Harlequin Fish are boring," He told them. He tapped the glass. The fish did nothing.

And then God created people because people at least will do stuff.

"Do stuff," He said. "Now do stuff." And the people quickly sinned.

On the Seventh Day, God did not rest as many scholars have long suggested. He took the morning off to fish and appeared to be resting, but by mid-afternoon He was back at home and hard at work again.

Having fished now twice in three days, God had seen firsthand that the lakes and the rivers and the forests were thriving, and yet God seemed deeply troubled. "If such a thing is possible," He thought, "some of my species seem to be doing too well." God recalled an essay he'd read once about wildlife management in which the author had recommended the introduction of predators into an ecosystem overwhelmed by a few tasty species. "It makes sense," God said to himself, scratching His chin in thought. "It makes good sense."

And then God put forth a masterpiece, Eater X, his greatest creation yet. "You shall eat what others cannot!" He commanded. And Eater X vowed that he would.

And Queens was still without light.

339 (censored) St., Apt. Hot Dog City
NY, NY

You can write me there if you wish.

Hot Dog City was incorporated on May 27, and since then it's established a reputation as a thriving municipality. By all traditional measures of standard of living, Hot Dog City, as its slogan reads, is a wonderful place to live. We enjoy modest median and average incomes, we are healthy and young and good looking, our real estate market is robust, and we boast cell phone coverage that is never, ever, ever, ever spotty. But Hot Dog City is a tiny town, and as its only resident, I am lonely here. You should come and visit some time. I would give you a tour. It would be good for our relations.

"Welcome to Hot Dog City!" I'd boom from under the brim of my stovepipe hat upon seeing you approach the city limits. "Come in, come in! Hot Dog City welcomes you."

I would promptly fix you a hot dog, a Nathan's Famous Hot Dog from the year's supply of Nathan's Famous hot dogs that sits in Hot Dog City's vault.

"Can you afford this?" you'd ask uncertainly before accepting it. You'd be concerned that I were depleting a valuable municipal resource, and you might even suggest a public referendum to approve the expenditure first because that's the kind of person you are, always thoughtful and always selfless.

I'd quickly laugh off your suggestion and press the warm hot dog into your hand and tell you that Hot Dog City could more than afford to bequeath to you such a tasty gift. "Aw, shoot! We have many hot dogs here in Hot Dog City. It's what we're known for. It's how we got our name. When you came here today, Hot Dog City boasted a hot dog supply of 480 hot dogs. Now, sure, we don't have as many hot dogs as we did during our heyday last night. But fear not!" And I'd clap my hands together once before resuming my thought impassionedly. "Hot Dog City isn't going anywhere. In fact, our future is bright. In 10 short months, another shipment of hot dogs will arrive at our port, and in the meantime these hot dogs will carry us through. Would you like another?"

You'd say yes, and I'd hand you another famous Nathan's Famous delicious Hot Dog City hot dog. And then I'd resume the tour.

I'd show you the botanical gardens, which are fake and downstairs from Hot Dog City's main drag. I'd point to the reservoir to the north, to the commissary to the northwest, and to the recreation center to the east, all of which are open to residents of Hot Dog City 24 hours a day. I'd show you the public restroom, which is clean and doesn't cost a nickel. "Now this should be the model for all other municipalities facing a shortage of clean, public toilets," I'd say. And then in jest I'd shout into the air to our neighboring city's mayor, "Mayor Bloomberg, are you listening?" Our tour would last a full five minutes.

With nothing left to see, you'd thank me for the tour. "Well, thank you for the tour," you'd say. "I can see that Hot Dog City is, indeed," and you'd wink, "a wonderful place to live!"

I'd smile and blush and shuffle my feet because you'd have flattered me so, and then my smile would fade away. I'd look at you forlornly, with teardrops moistening my eyes, as I'd looked upon the rest of the day prior to your arrival.

"You'll come back, won't you?" I'd ask, for the first time that day sounding lonely and vulnerable.

"When I can," you'd answer vaguely, which wouldn't be much consolation.

I'd take you to the edge of Hot Dog City and then walk to our famous vista to watch you walk away down the street. I'd lay my elbows upon the sill of the window and my head upon my hand and wave to you goodbye. I'd watch you disappear into the commotion of surrounding New York City, and then I'd look out onto your town and back in on my town, and I'd wonder why no one else wished to live with me here, here in Hot Dog City.

"I'll wait for you," I'd softly whisper, not meaning to actually speak. "I'll wait for you here in Hot Dog City, such a wonderful place to live. Such a wonderful place to live?"

The title of my play refers to the thirteenth hour of the Fourth of July, the hour during which the hot dog title is contested each year. The setting sun represents Takeru Kobayashi, who hails from Japan, the Land of Rising Sun. The original title was "And in the 13th Hour of the 185th day of the Year 2007 A.D., a Sun that Rose Six Years Ago Will Set Below the Sea: The Joey Chestnut Story," because I wanted to acknowledge that Kobayashi has dominated competitive eating without interruption since he first arrived on our shore six years ago. I opted for the shorter title because I worried that some people would forget how the longer title had begun before they'd finished reading it the first time. I didn't want them to have to go back and reread it again. I wanted to do them a favor.

The first scene opens at 12:40 PM on Coney Island on the Fourth of July. Joey Chestnut can be seen in the background in dim lighting beating Kobayashi. Eater X can be seen in the foreground, in the intense glow of three overlapping spotlights, eating far fewer hot dogs than Joey Chestnut and Kobayashi. George Shea can be seen in the middleground. He is talking. No. Wait. He is shouting. Yes! George Shea is shouting. "Tim Janus, Tim Janus, Tim Janus, Tim Janus," he cries. The play is poorly thought out.

If my play is ever made into a movie, Joey Chestnut will play Joey Chestnut. He can play himself without auditioning for the role because he's such a small part of my one-act play that it won't even matter if he can't act. No one will notice because his part doesn't require him to recite any lines. He just has to look like he's eating, which I know he can do. Eater X might play himself in the movie, but I'm not sure yet. I haven't decided. But it doesn't really matter right now anyway. We're at least a year away from casting.

If "And in the Thirteenth Hour the Rising Sun Shall Set: The Joey Chestnut Story" is ever made into a movie, I will start a profile of Eater X on imdb.com. It will go on and on and on about every nuance of his life. Doris Kearns Goodwin will write it. I will also start a profile of Joey Chestnut. It will begin, "Joey Chestnut is the world's top ranked competitive eater according to the International Federation of Competitive Eating, and he knows Tim Janus, who..." and then it will go on and on and on about every nuance of Eater X's life. I will have written the first sentence; Doris Kearns Goodwin will have written the rest. She will spare no superlative in describing Tim's impact upon the human race, the planet earth, outer space, the fifth dimension, and cancer. She will have interviewed his parents and his sister, who will bolster her assessment that Eater X is among the most important figures in modern history. She will attempt to interview Eater X for the piece, but because he is so modest and would never dream of aggrandizing himself, he will decline her request for an interview. Awe will ooze from her prose. You will wish to drink it.

Of course, none of this plan will come to pass without a victory by Joey Chestnut on the Fourth of July, which is I'm busy working on a second play too: "This is the Most Amazing Sunrise Ever. Can You Believe It? Seven years and Counting! Long Live Kobayashi."

Michael Landon is my master.

He told me so in a dream.

He came to me while I slept and said, "You can rest now. Your job here is finished. You've been good."

It meant the world to me to receive his praise, and yet I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to be done. "But, Michael," I said. "It's not. My hair is not as long as yours. I have work yet left to do."

And Michael Landon laughed--not a hard laugh, not a mean laugh, not a smug laugh, but a chuckle, a confident, hearty, cheerful chuckle that made me think he knew better than I and made me feel young.

Michael Landon placed his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. "Son," he said. "Your hair will never be as long as mine. It's not as long as mine now, and if you grow yours longer, I will grow mine longer too. I'll be one step ahead of you always."

I raised my eyes to meet his because while he'd spoken, I'd cast mine toward the ground, unable to look him in the eye as an equal. "Well," I said, and I fumbled for the words to disprove him. "What if I were to, what if I were to, what if I were to cut your hair off while you slept? Why, then my hair would be longer than yours!"

And Michael Landon laughed again, but this second laugh was different. It didn't end of its own volition and trail off as the first one had, tired and ready to rest. He cut it off abruptly instead as if it hadn't been a laugh at all. And then he stared at me sternly and spoke to me firmly and tried, I think, to break my spirit. "But you can't cut it off. I'm a ghost!"

And my eyes got red and filled with water, and I looked at the ground and said, "Yes, Pa." And then I turned and ran away to the creek past the mill.

Editor's Note: If you need another study guide, just ask.

Ingredients:

1/2 cup butter
1 ounce of tobacco*
3 squares semi-sweet chocolate
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 large eggs
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon Frangelico liqueur

* A vanilla or cherry cavendish is best, but in a pinch a couple of Camels will suffice. Use menthols if you like your brownies minty.

Directions:
1) Using a double boiler, melt the butter over low heat.
2) When the butter has melted, add the tobacco. If you've had a rough day or just love a stiff buzz, use a little extra.
3) Simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
4) Remove from heat, and let stand for five minutes.
5) Strain the tobacco leaves from the butter by pouring the mixture through a cheesecloth or sieve.
6) When the cheesecloth and its contents have cooled and can be handled, wring the remaining butter from the cheesecloth.
7) Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
8) Combine the butter and chocolate in a saucepan, and mix until melted. Set aside.
9) In a mixing bowl, combine the sugar and eggs. Beat well.
10) Add the chocolate mixture to the eggs. Mix well.
11) In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt. Slowly add them to the chocolate mixture.
12) Add the vanilla extract and Frangelico, and stir.
13) Spread evenly into a well-greased 12 x 7 x 2-inch baking pan.
14) Bake at 350-degrees for 30 to 35 minutes.

Serve with beer.