Thom Forbes

The game was in jeopardy for lack  of a venue this week but each and every one of us came through, in our own way, in an outpouring of half-hearted support.

"You're all welcome up here, as always," Art of the Deal dials in on the party line, "but the stagecoach only runs every three hours."

"Don't press your luck," tweets the Jayman, "bad as it was last week."

"If you can't get anyone else, including Johnny X, and you grovel a lot, maybe, just maybe, I can leave my mah jongg game in the city a little early," Wolf the Esq. blackberries.

"np," taps out Prof. Petey youthfully on his Mac-rigged Dell netbook, "if you don't mind a quintet of African drums playing Zambian trance rhythms in the next room."

"Not this week," writes Dr. Mike in longhand. "I've still got a coupla grand left over from the last time I played. How about next?"

"Nyet. Getting ready for Memorial Day around here," Geoff belts out, basso profundo. "Everything's akimbo."

"Twins. I can't believe it. Twins. Wow. Holy moley. Do you believe it?" skypes a bedazzled Bobaloo. "Twins."

"Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," telegraphs Mikey B. in a wastrel waste of letters (he must have hustled up a game aboard the  H.M.S. Calvin).

"Huh? The dogs ate my email," voicemails Dennis. "Which reminds me of the time ..."

And then, in the middle of my morning deadline, comes a ringing of the cell phone, a lightening bolt over the Palisades, and the definitive word: "Tommy, the game is at my house this week."  Who's to argue with Zeus?