http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TwryFOYTKac <--- ***Listen while reading!***

Saturday, 9:40 a.m. In the workout room, I hear the opening strains of Chicago's "Saturday in the Park". I figure it's just a sample and am braced for the beats and rapping to kick in - lyrics about the easy joy of public copulation, gun play and drinking grain alcohol in the park, but I'm happily surprised to realize it is the original song.

Invigorated, I drop to the floor and perform 50 spontaneous push-ups. At home I can never break 40, but the adrenalin (brought on by thinking people are judging me for doing such an archaic exercise in a room full of expensive nautilus equipment) fuels me. The imagined judgment of others always brings out the best in me.

12:45 p.m. Trevor phones. "I spent the last three hours cleaning," he says. "Deleting stuff from your computer desktop counts as cleaning, right?"

Trevor tells me that he's expecting an old friend he hasn't seen in years and he's trying to bring his apartment up to snuff. Evidently, this involves putting out plastic fruit to make the place more colorful and leaving cash lying around so it looks like he's doing well.

"You might want to be doing push-ups when he walks through the front door," I say. "Right out the gate, you'll establish your alpha male-hood."

"Or establish my heart attack," Trevor says.

2:50 p.m. My neighbor's kids, Christina and Kayla, are building a tree house in their backyard. I stop by to see how it's coming along. Their mom suggests I grab some tools and make myself useful. I explain that I'm visiting in more of a supervising capacity.

"I'll really come alive during the interior designing process," I say. "I've got some Picasso prints, plastic fruit arrangements and shag carpeting samples all picked out."

"You're a real hero," she says.

"If you want to see heroism, wait until their first tree house dinner party. One of the few ways I have of demonstrating heroism is through overeating."

In fact, eating too much in a tree house constructed by children is even more heroic, as there's the added danger of falling through the floor during the main course.

3:45 p.m. Just like the old song, it's Saturday and I'm in the park. But unlike the song, it's a dog park and I'm arguing with my buddy Henry.

"Fancy poodles are not born with naked legs and puffy tails," I yell. "They're groomed to look like that."

This may not be where it is at, but it is where I am at. It is also where Henry is at. And together, we make do.