So imagine this scenario:

You work for a magazine, let's say. It's time to put out a special edition previewing an event or the summer season or something. There's an editor who is in charge of organizing the thing, most of which consists of coming up with story ideas, then assigning those stories out to a few writers.

In the planning, he talks with the main writer, who had already come up with many of the same story ideas, and they each add a few unique ones. The writer begins writing, as do the others, and the stories come into the computer system and get filed away.

Once advertising has sold ad after ad, necessitating, say, 100 pages, the editor gets the page layouts with the ads on them and begins deciding where stories will go. The stories come in, and he reads them over, writes some headlines, and sends them over to be put on the pages. But this editor does not know how to use the computers and the programs used to put stories on the pages. So someone else does that for him.

Meanwhile, the lead writer has written maybe a dozen stories -- easily the majority of the copy -- and hundreds of column inches. He's even edited a few stories, written a few headlines, and done some last minute work. He's called most of the contacts, set up most of the meetings, and conducted most of the interviews. He came up with the idea for the centerpiece, a colorful, two-page spread, a wonderful, informative graphic put together by a graphic artist. The editor, of course, had nothing to do with this.

Once all the pages have their stories and photos and graphics placed, the head writer and the editor take home proofs of the issue to give it a final look before the deadline day so that last-minute changes can be made. The writer does so, and comes in in the morning to make some corrections. At the same time, the head of the design department has also gone through all 100 pages -- when he hadn't had anything else to do with the issue, so this is sort of a courtesy on his part -- to fix some little mistakes made during the original pagination.

When it's all over, the magazine has come out with a fabulous 100-page issue that gets raves from the entire office and the advertisers and others in the community. The head writer has put in four days of overtime (normally days off, so that he's worked more than three weeks straight) and also continued with his regular work while working on this section.

The editor has come in on a day or two for overtime, and with the exception of two days out of his week, has put most of his other responsibilities on hold for two weeks while getting this special issue out.

And now imagine this: You are the head writer, and the editor is called into the Main Boss's office to be told he's the employee of the month for his efforts with this special issue. He gets the bonus, the recognition, the lame-ass jacket and the parking space for the next 30 days.

Let's review. Editor: Came up with some story ideas, decided which stories went where, edited some stories and pages. Head writer: Wrote the majority of the copy, came up with centerpiece idea and other main graphics, edited some stories, paginated some stories, made final corrections and worked three straight weeks, maintaining his regular shift.

This editor couldn't make a correction to a page on the computer if his his bald spot depended on it; he couldn't get a photo onto a page if ... ah fuck it, he couldn't do it. The guy's the best illusionist I've ever seen: Making people believe he's doing things he is in no way doing.

But he gets the credit.

So I've been steamed for most of the day. I didn't even look the guy in the eye today; the Main Bosses who made the decision didn't give me any kind of "We understand your hard work and role in this too." Sure, they did when it first came out, but if it were me in their position and I was choosing the editor as employee of the month, I'd be sure to let the person who did the legwork know that I understood and appreciated his or her effort just as much.

Played a hard game of basketball today on the hot blacktop of Belmar's 16th Ave. courts. When I say a "hard" game of basketball, I don't mean I got game or that I was running like an inner-city hero, dishin' and dunkin' and drainin' the rock like Allen Iverson. No, I mean I was working hard to not trip, running hard just to keep up with the 6-4 guy flying to the rim ahead of me, doing my best to get out on fast breaks -- because that's the only way I'll score -- but then taking four or five steps because I have no idea where I am in relation to the basket when I catch the ball.

I'm a horrible basketball player. I'm 5-7 with cushion-soled sneakers with no coordination and limited athletic use of his left hand. I'm vertically challenged and horizontally prone -- I end up on the ground a lot. I'm not that uncoordinated, it's just that I never got the hang of basketball. My parents' driveway is on a hill, it's not flat, and covered with large blue stones. Not paved. I never attempted any kind of basketball play until one day in grade school -- I don't even remember which grade -- gym class when it was time to start basketball.

I have no jump shot and no control over my shot no matter how I release it. I can't box out and I can't out jump anyone. On a good day -- maybe with some help from the wind -- I can hit outside shots, three-pointers and the like, when I'm not covered, and I can play decent defense away from the person with the ball. I'm good at reading passes and altering them, preventing my guy from getting a pass.

Luckily, with 12 of us playing, there were about eight other people just like me.

This isn't what I wanted today. I didn't want to get all pissed off about work gain. It's bad enough I'm going to be in the office for the next two weeks.

I didn't want to be this sore after basketball, on top of volleyball yesterday.

I just wanted to have a quick, uneventful, quiet night at work, watch David Gray on Letterman (only after a helpful tip in my guestbook), try to enhance my diary layout, then head home and get lost in Stuckeyville, and perhaps a visit to the West Wing, before bed.

Now I'm online at 2 a.m. with my thoughts down and Ed to go and tomorrow will just have to be one of those days that I wake up when I do.