I was recently invited to write again on the Internet for one of the big sites and I might...if I can write under a pen name.

Lynx, I've heard your argument before, which is that a long-established pen name on the Internet equals one's true name, but until a million or a hundred thousand or even ten thousand people can finger your flesh and say, "You're Lynx," it's not the same as writing under one's true name.

As far as "They're just words" position, we've all read the stories where words have killed, as in the case of the mom who pretended to be a kid to hurt a true kid and that true kid killed herself. Now, that's an extreme case, but there's still a kid in a casket.

Meet Eric and Lynx and me at the Lucky Bar on Connecticut Avenue and I'll buy you all a beer.

And since your phone number is unlisted and you have a P.O. Box, you too comprehend the danger of parking your true name beside an idea.

ramoncreager, what I fear is not the messiness of democracy, but those who don't assume the responsibilities of democracy and the consequent, superfluous mess.

Bukk63, I'll buy your two beers for reminding us of what really matters: the costly, illegal, and immoral war in Iraq. More than ever, as they said of the Civil War, it's a rich man's war and a poor man's fight. I'm planting cherry and pear trees in my backyard this morning: for the coming poverty. I'll still want cherries when they're $9 a pound. I've slowly turned my backyard into a mini-farm and I read yesterday that I'm not alone in anticipating the end of cheap grapes from Chile and cheap tomatoes from Cali, that many Americans are turning their lawns into gardens and orchards.

Lynx, thanks for the civil disagreement rather than uncivil war.

I read it and I think that Mr. Bissinger might be smug, but I think that the boys at Deadspin embody their own form of smugness. You know how a local tv station will dispatch a camera crew to photograph the grief of a family whose house is burning? And you understand that that same tv station would NEVER dispatch a camera crew to capture the anchorwoman's grief if her home were to burn? If the viewership were to see their anchorwoman weeping and frantic and pathetic, they'd never again drive by a billboard of her again and return that whitened smile. I think Deadspin does the same thing. In the "Costas Now" interview, Mr. Leitch asserted that his readership want to see that Matt Leinart is just a regular guy who does beer bongs. Well, as Mr. Leitch's fame grows, when do we get to see that Mr. Leitch is just a regular guy who leaves skidmarks in his underwear? Mr. Leitch is doing the very piggybacking to fame that he accuses conventional sportwriters of doing, but instead of gladhanding athletes at the front door, he skulks in the bushes for photos of others' skidmarks and pretends that he's a journalist nouveau.

Mr. Kaufman, you pegged me. I do post from my basement. I've placed my computer in the dreariest part of my house to force me to get my work done to be free.

All hail her mama!

MamaC is right. We're invisible to others with this caveat: unless they want something us.

For those who assert that shiny lists are a function of youth, you should read my alum magazine, where 60somethings assert that they look like Audrey Hepburn and are equally comfy in sturdy boots and in Prague.

@ Jason G, who wrote:

"Inane and incoherent

I haven't read anything else by Ms. Hustad, so maybe this column is an aberration. I certainly hope so.

A collection of inarticulate, tangentially-related spoutings-off is not an essay."

Why not insufferable? Ingratiating? Insidious?

If you're going to have your in-party, invite all the in-words!

Ms. Hustad, I like your meandering. I read the entire essay, which is what I generally don't do, for I can often extrapolate from a writer's first paragraph what will follow. Yours tendered surprises. Although it seems inedible to Jason C.'s tender tongue, it was an innocuous morsel for me.

like, "99% of chicks read nothing but self help books," then I assert that 99% of chickadees eat nothing but bacon!

Beware, pigs!

I once worked at a place where I acquired a rep for being smart. Really, really.

I'd attend a party and someone would say, "Say, you're that really, really smart person, aren't you?"

I would immediately say something inane, which is, for me, as automatic as breathing.

And they'd re-assay me, thinking, "Wow, what a dolt."

And I'd stand there, smiling, "Whew, I don't have to be really, really smart."

That's the danger in a really, really smart collection of books: you have to back it up, again and again, instead of kicking back and being a dolt.

Yep, you acknowledged their smugness. I just like to wander off on rants. I'm the cyberversion of those guys who walk around, soiling themselves and ranting, except I've managed to join the two, soiling myself via my rants. Thanks for the firejoemorgan suggestion. I'm headed there right now!

"That the poverty line is also some kind of zero sum of keeping it real? That the concerns and articulations of those with a steady income are inherently frivolous?"

From hillbillies to Hollywood's hillbillies (Hey, Paris!), you find the same pathetic pining for true love, with a cute guy with a cute butt, of course.

Just remember, Ms. Hustad, you are not your readers' remarks!