Someone suggested that I take a long walk on a short pier.

That was Yahaira. She used to be my wife; now we're just good friend (she got demoted after our divorce).

"Let's have an adventure," she said.

And what made more sense than overnight camping for two people who between them don't own a tent. We borrowed supplies from an over-trusting neighbor and arrived at the campground shortly after eleven ... p.m.

"We got a little lost," said Yahaira.

Pam, the register lady, smelled like hickory cigarettes. She chuckled country-style, but I could see her thought bubble: What a coupla twits.

Pam pointed to our campsite "one mile yonder as a crow flies." Yahaira and I stared into the night with Elvis lips.

"What about security?" said Yahaira.

Pam waffled like the president without his earpiece.

"Well, patrol doesn't actually go out that far, but there's a security gate. You'll be fine."

Yahaira squeezed my arm. You could hear the music from Friday the 13th: Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

We drove to the "security gate," a metal bar certain to keep away killers ... UNLESS THEY'RE ON FOOT. The pole was fastened with a Master Lock that could withstand anything up to but not including its publicly known combination.

Two Confederates drifted by with half-crumpled cans of Budweiser. One serenaded Yahaira, who looked to me for help. I wished we had brought a grownup. So it goes.

Safe behind the Barricade o' Death, we followed our headlights to stake number three. Yahaira took to striking, or pitching, or whatevering, the camp; I was in charge of swearing at the fire.

"What is WRONG with this wood?"

I spread the paper, sprayed chemicals, melted my sneaker -- nothin'. How do forest fires start in the first place?

Fire seemed urgent on account of the crunching sounds. Every few minutes, a branch would crack in a way that made your neck-hair pay attention. Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

Yahaira suggested -- okay, I suggested, I suggested -- that we go home. But we had driven all night and I had already lost a shoe ... We agreed to sleep in the truck beside our protective steak knife. With a deep breath, we drifted off and forgot the whole thing ever happened.

Until Yahaira woke up in a terror.

"What's the matter?" I said.

She had no air to answer. Yahaira's nightmares get that way. It's endearing when you're not stuck in Children of the Corn.

"There's a dead body," she said. "Men are looking for us. I want to go home."

"NOW?!"

It was two a.m., the witching hour when rednecks are loosed from local taverns wielding rifles and scythes. In muddy socks I repackaged our campground while Yahaira, by show of support, revved the engine.

We skidded through the security gate, which was -- surprise! -- wide open. It wasn't till the 101 that we rested our sphincters and reflected: "Remember the woman's eyes when we asked about security? What about the open gate? Do you suppose Velma and Scooby are okay?"

Yahaira and I plopped down at Denny's, I in one shoe, Yahaira in her PJs. We smelled like low tide. And there at our sticky table we laughed and gorged and remembered a pointer from Dave Barry: "Camping is nature's way of promoting the hotel industry."

Yahaira and I had spent some quality friend-time fearing for our lives together and have already planned our next trip to "almost go camping."

At five a.m., we hugged and parted ways. Somewhere in the distance (hundred miles as a crow flies), the sun pried through the oak trees to reveal a hastily abandoned campground with one melted sneaker, an unused steak knife, and two half-crumpled cans of Budweiser.

Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

* Why is there boxing at the Goodwill Games?
* They say the universe is expanding. What is it expanding onto?
* What are we supposed to do when they issue air quality warnings? Hold our breath?
* Why do we call it a walk when the batter jogs to first base and becomes a runner?

* A concert is where they ruin all the songs you enjoyed on the radio.
* There is no "I" in team, but there is a "me."
* Judging by our political decisions, hindsight is 50-50.
* "Royal gala"..."Rome beauty"..."red delicious"...apples are always looking for that edge.

I noticed that my blue jeans were starting to fray, so I went to the mall to replace 'em. Have you been shopping for jeans lately? They've all got faded thighs, frayed edges, paint splotches, holes. They might as well have sh#%! stains on the seat. Turns out that I didn't need new jeans; the old ones just needed more holes.

* When you have children, you become a dictator. You answer only to God. You make the laws, you enforce the laws, and you expect nothing short of total submission. You don't need reasons either. Your entire rationale is, "Cuz I said so."

"Did you disobey me? ... You're grounded." And off to prison they go.

* It's weird when your friends have babies. You ask them to play cards, and they're like, "No, man. I've got to watch the kids." How about a football game? "Sorry. Can't do it." You want to hear a joke? "No, I've got kids." These are the same people who just yesterday would find things on the floor and smoke them.

Last time I scrapped was the fourth grade, when Benji Leva spat on my sister at the bus stop. I pulled the bully's raincoat over his head, kicked him in the backpack, and bolted to school as fast as I could.

Would you believe I had no formal training?

That all changed when I met welterweight champ George Sylva, who taught me the ropes (and how to stay off of them). I had a few things working against me. One, I am skinny; two, I'm white; and three, my HMO is so weak that it covers only an apple a day. So it goes.

The whole gym worked out in three-minute intervals. When the round-clock buzzed, everything stopped like The Twilight Zone. It's hard to describe the tricep pain without using the F-word. Three minutes doesn't seem like a long time, but when you're shadow boxing it's like 180 seconds.

George ordered some ab drills that he had learned in the navy. Until then I had seen medicine balls but didn't know how much I despised them. And when I absolutely, positively could not go on, he ordered ten more crunches.

"Body blows," he said. "You'll thank me later."

Every time I dropped the jump rope, I had to jog a lap; and during that process, I made a discovery ... You know what works just as well a jump rope? An imaginary jump rope. Same exercise -- no friggen mind games.

One day George showed up with funny eyes and said, "I think you're ready."

Sparring, for the record, is a time for boxers to hone their technique. It may look friendly on account of the headgear, but getting punched is a lot like getting punched.

George called on 16-year-old Hugo Centeno, a junior gold medallist who was -- gulp -- 56 and 0.

"He's skilled enough to control his sting," said George.

Oh. Well. That's encouraging.

First, I hate it when ninth-graders are taller than me. Second, I was old enough to be his ... spiritual advisor. Stepping into the ring, I mentioned my HMO, but Hugo didn't get it. The round clock buzzed and George pushed me out of the nest.

I sidled up to Hugo, peeking through a gap in my gloves. Hit him?! I don't even know him. Jab. Jab jab. Nibble jab.

George shouted from the side: "You're trying to swim without gettin' wet."

Did I have Dr. Phil for a trainer? "You can't change her feelings. That's like trying to touch up the Mona Lisa with motor oil."

THWACK! Hugo punched my eyeball, and I immediately recalled all jabs.

"Think of your arm as a piston," said George. "It's got to snap back."

"You mean like my head?"

The second round was mostly hit and miss: Hugo hit me; I missed him. Then, at the risk of walking away like something by Picasso, I decided to throw as many punches as I could, to win by volume.

This is called "punching yourself out." Hugo waited for my triceps to catch fire, then introduced The Counterpunch. And George was wrong: It didn't feel like a car wreck at all; it was more like a plane crash.

In the third and final round, Hugo played the bongos on my noggin. And right there, in the midst of that flurry, something beautiful happened: I opened my eyes and breathed. In, out, Zen, out. My courage grew not with every punch I landed but with every punch I took. I finally stopped running from the bus stop.

After the fight, I drove to the park and looked at the stars. It was still light outside: The stars were in my head. And there I reflected.

Whereas I used to find boxing a silly sport -- grown men fighting over a belt -- I learned that most boxers don't fight for the trophy; they fight for that look in George's eyes, the freedom to walk the earth with nothing to prove.

I'm the newest member at Sylva's Gym. They call me Cinderella Man because that's how I fight -- like Cinderella. And even though I take the worst of the exchanges, I'm getting better. Someday I may even fight a grownup.

Do we abbreviate ADD because it's too long to say?

Why does "middle of the night" come after "end of the night"?

In fairness to other nations, maybe it's time to wrap the Washington Monument in a 600-foot condom.

When you think you know what the writer means but aren't really sure and don't care anyway ... that's poetry.