10) Science is taught in schools, faith in churches, temples and mosques.

9) Tax credits for adopting shelter pets.

8 ) My imaginary friendship with Jonny Ives deepens.

7) The new New York Yankees logo includes a dollar sign.

6) Do I need to say, for the fourth consecutive year, “zero hungry children”?

5) Forget Mexico, let’s build a massive wall between Brooklyn and Manhattan.

4) The Minnesota Vikings are allowed 14 starters on offense.

3) You go to prison for using the terms “curate,” “content,” or “360 experience.”

2) No one “defines” traditional marriage.

1) (tie) A job for every single veteran./All hospitals are VA hospitals.

Twitter is a weird, wired little universe where armies of people, such as myself (and you, for example) go to peddle our views, trade information, kibbitz with friends, troll for celebrities, and occasionally shoulder each other’s burdens. We provide commentary during presidential debates and sporting events. We flirt and we fight. Early on, most of us make a decision about whether to be ourselves or someone else entirely for the duration of our stay on Twitter. The rest of us have other ideas.

I had dinner last Tuesday with some friends and we had a serious conversation about the identities of the folks behind several anonymous Twitter accounts that we all follow. The one I have been most curious about for the past year is a “newsroom” mouse. The object of one friend’s obsession? A household appliance. That’s right— a refrigerator.

In between bites of Indian food, we batted around some names, including each other’s (in an uncomfortable moment), but could not even build a short list of potential suspects.  My favorite mouse actually tweets with my friend and her refrigerator regularly communicates with me. Truth be told, we were both a little jealous of each other’s special relationships and indignant that we were seen as somehow lacking.

The conversation then moved on to our own hidden Twitter identities. I have on occasion impersonated a famous, blowhard rapper and she, on the other end of the spectrum, used hers to contribute to the culture of news.

Both of us tweet a fair amount under our own names—and again, her feed is muscular and consistently informative and mine is more like, Sperm whales were dealt a poor hand in the naming department— information about as useful as a two-foot crutch. Yet, both of our endeavors take up enough time so that our altar egos eventually receded into the loam.

The objects of our affection, @nyt_mouse and @NYTFridge, have shown no evidence of any such action in the near future. Nor should they, for that matter. Both are clever and keep the conversation going. I would suspect, however, that this side gig is their gig, at least terms of tweeting. The Fridge (Ah @microtony, late to the raging facial hair wars. Not every one can sport a magnificent @AremDuplessis-like beard. It requires mastery.) is busier than the mouse; and the mouse (@lexinyt @lheron I am not anonymouse. My name is Tucker, and children have been reading about me in the NYT newsroom for decades.) is more whimsical than the Fridge. The Fridge needles and the mouse winks.

As for my friend and I, we have agreed to attempt to smoke one or both of them out of their lairs in 2012, although others have doubtlessly tried to, unsuccessfully. But we are determined, and crafty, and also, when you think about it, probably a little more than a little sad. Wouldn’t you agree, @nyt_mouse?

(silence)

Damn you, rodent.

Ten years ago this morning, I woke up, showered and dressed, had coffee, read the Times, and left for work. Instead of the subway, I was planning on catching a cab. It was a day like any other. I had just gotten the new Ryan Adams CD, “Gold” and was listening to it as I left the back door of my building. It was 8:20 am.

As I stepped off the curb, I never saw the truck that hit me.

Literally. A truck was backing up on a one-way street, didn’t see me emerge from between two parked cars and slammed into me at, a nearby parking garage attendant estimated, 30 mph. I flew into the air, my iPod still playing, and landed about 20 feet from where I had been standing. I hit the ground and somehow executed a roll, ending up on my feet, my forearms bleeding profusely and my eyes pinwheeling. There was a man standing right there on the sidewalk, gripping a small child’s hand. Apparently, I held up my palms and said, “Dude, my fault. I’m fine.” I was so not fine.

He looked ashen and said, “Hey man, you just got hit by a truck. It was going the wrong way. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

But I convinced him, somehow, that I was better off going home instead. He quickly got the information of the now-parked truck driver, who was gripping his steering wheel, staring straight ahead, and he slid the paper into jacket pocket. I went back up to my apartment, sat on the floor, called my wife, who was already at work, and said,  “Baby, I think I got hit by a truck.” And then I started crying.

My doctor said that what had saved me was that I never saw it coming and so I never had a chance to tense up.  Miraculously, I had no broken bones. The next day, the 10^th, I stayed home. I was woozy, with a concussion and bandaged forearms.  My doctor told me not to sleep, and so I spent the morning prone on my couch with my sunglasses on, repeating “Don’t go to sleep” over and over. It was awesome.

My sister, the lawyer, called and told me that I should file a police report, in case months later some medical calamity would befall me, as a result of the accident. I planned to do that the next day at lunch, which was wide open, since I had already cancelled my prior plan—playing basketball with Tracy McGrady. And so on the morning of September 11^th,  instead of heading up to Rucker Park in Harlem, and against the advice of my doctor, I went back to work.

Moments after the first plane hit, my brother (the one I can’t talk about, for obvious reasons) emailed me “r u ok? Is GG ok? I’m away now. If you need to find me call this number and someone will come for you….” What followed was about 14 numbers, with a few symbols thrown in. There was a combination of other actions I would need to take to get to him, but instead I gathered my staff and we watched the unfolding drama on TV for about an hour. Although this doesn’t cast me in the best light, at one point I leaned over to my managing editor Anna and whispered, “Do you think they might hit Yankee Stadium next?” She said I sounded hopeful, which I dispute. Then we all walked downtown together, went to our respective apartments and waited, hoping that our ash-covered friends and family would soon arrive.

I thought of this story last night, while I was watching the terror alert toggle between colors and Mayor Bloomberg give us the old “You should worry/What are you worryin’ about?” directive.  On MTV, Lady Gaga, Nas and some kid I didn’t recognize spoke of where they were when they heard the news. Every Web site has remembrances, but not so much of the people that perished, but of the people who watched the people who perished. I like Nas as much as the next guy, but I don’t really need to know how he felt on September 11th, 2001. It’s not like he’s Ghostface.

It’s an odd time to be in New York City. We have moved on physically, certainly, but emotionally, many of us are rooted in the same exact place, where we hurt for our lost loved ones, or our friends’ loved ones. And that never lessens, now matter what people say. I have a friend whose dad and brother perished that morning. I think of him every single time I hear about September 11^th, no matter what time of year it is.

Thankfully, Osama bin Laden is no longer a splinter in the country’s eye. Yet so much of everything else seems to be heading south, fueled by backwards logic (Cut spending to create jobs!) and partisanship. There’s a presidential election looming at our current commander-in-chief is doing his level-best to lose and a coming generation of dumb, fat kids with hyperactive thumbs that we are pinning our hopes on to save our retirements.

Meanwhile, in New York City, our bulls-eye still firmly in place, we go about our daily routine, never losing sight of the bigger picture: for at least another ten years, we won’t have to hear how Matt Lauer and Dj Pauly D felt on that fateful morning. Or me either, for that matter.

I was speaking to a co-worker the other day about the I-wish-it-were-more-shocking news that Rep. Anthony Weiner had been engaging in entirely inappropriate behavior with a bevy of women of all ages. The news has been trickling out for days and no, that is not an anatomical joke. Necessarily.

We both agreed it was sad and deplorable conduct—but not an altogether unexpected development.  By now we are used to exposure to the private failings of public figures, and vice versa. The world of social media occasionally flips on its kitchen light before the roaches have a chance to scatter, and the opportunity to reach out and touch people (even if it’s just with naked self-portraits in a public health club—gah-ross) is too tempting for some folks to pass up.

I have met people on Twitter; really cool people, in fact. Some I don’t know their last names, or what they look like. We all show up at appointed times during sporting events, or awards shows, and make fun of far wealthier and better-looking people. And occasionally, we offer encouragement about each others’ writings, or music, or art, or, whatever. But that’s really as far as many of us are inclined to take it.

Anthony Weiner, as we will undoubtedly continue to discover over the coming days and weeks, has a slightly different take on the subject of appropriate social media conduct. As his story continues to unspool gracelessly, and we are compelled to shoulder the humiliation for his lovely (and recently pregnant) wife—in between exposure to photos of his penis and waxed chest and heavens know what else is to come—we are bearing witness to one of the great truths of the male psyche: when adult men look in the mirror, who we see is who we saw when we were seven years old.

I was an odd, bookish character that was obsessed with proofreading menus, black metal and the Minnesota Vikings. Not much has changed. Anthony Weiner clearly grew up a geeky kid with a nightmare of a last name, content to hide in his room reading comic books like Superman and Spiderman, where nerds transform themselves into superheroes. This would explain his repeated references to Clark Kent’s alter ego. “I came back strong,” he wrote to a 17-year old high school student. “Large. Tights and cape…” And it would also explain the incredible drive and ambition he has exhibited in order to become a US congressman and a real leader on many issues of importance to a lot of us New Yorkers. Unfortunately, he chose to do so while holding up signs in photos that say “It’s me!”

Where we go from here is anyone’s guess. But…let me give it a shot. Congressman Weiner is on leave to get “treatment” to see if he can repair his marriage, and his career. I suspect that he has a very small chance of doing either sufficiently. His wife is going to be watching the next few weeks, to see who or what else is unearthed. My feeling is that we have only just begun to see the depths of his need for attention. Someone who is sexting within days of getting married is undoubtedly dragging a trail of desultory behavior as long as John Kerry’s face.

But, with his career, he can still hope. After all, this is New York City, where redemption comes in many ways, shapes and forms. None of them, it should be noted, involve photographing and displaying your genitals.

Thank heavens.

I reacted to the news of Osama bin Laden’s death the same way many New Yorkers did: I thought of a friend. Mine had lost his father and brother that day. I wanted to call and tell him that he was in my mind when I heard what had gone down. But then I became embarrassed, as if my gesture itself was self-aggrandizing. So I did what I do best in such instances: I told myself,  ”It’s the thought that counts.”

Instead, I began tweeting, calling night owls and watching the unfolding news, trying to savor every last bit of the discovery. I wanted it to last, staying up until 3 am, eating trail mix and drinking Coke Zero until I began laughing hysterically every time I saw Anderson Cooper vainly grasp for profundity, his beady blue eyes blinking “I’m over my head” in Morse code.

Throughout the evening, I effortlessly managed to work both the honey badger and greedy schoolteachers into Bin Laden-related tweets. I was deliriously happy, but also relieved, and not because I’m afraid of terrorism (I’m not), but because I am tired of seeing that al Qaeda training video with them clambering over the jungle gym like deranged elementary school kids. I’ve always hated that jungle gym video and am hoping that it too can be buried at sea.

At around midnight I walked up to Union Square, which is what I did on September 12, 2001 for a somber candlelight vigil. Only this time I witnessed people celebrating in the streets, hooting and hollering, acting like degenerates. I have to admit: I cringed, feeling the display of emotion unseemly. (Then again, I find children’s birthday parties unseemly, so I may not be the best judge.)

I feel like the last several generations of Americans have become such poor winners, unable to preserve the dignity of the vanquished, even when that is undeserved. And with the rest of the world looking on, I wanted so badly for us to use the spotlight to honor our own dead, and not taunt Bin Laden. To hug each other, hold a group prayer, build a makeshift memorial. I was hoping for another candlelight vigil. Instead, I got “There’s No Eye in Osama” and “Obama 1 Osama 0.” My mood darkened, which may also have been due to caffeine withdrawal.

But, unlike the scores of sanctomaniacs that jumped on social media immediately to excoriate the celebrants, so desperate to add their voices to the chorus that they trotted out some bogus Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. quote and challenged people whose emotions were so raw, I left them alone to blow off steam.

I’m not sure those people, who took such umbrage at the celebrations, thought for a moment of the magnitude that this news had in some households, especially of those whose families were touched by the attack. For a decade, Osama-as-bogeyman had a place at every dinner table and was the special guest at every holiday celebration, wedding and graduation. He hung over every memory like a soupy fog. And now, in a flash, he was gone.  A half-hour later those affected were being hectored for making tasteless jokes at Bin Laden’s expense on Twitter.

Here’s what I think: If people went a little crazy, and hung from trees, behaving like they were at Burning Man, they should get a hall pass. On Sunday evening, as on September 11^th itself, it was impossible to prepare in advance for such life-altering news and its accompanying burst of adrenaline.  We all wish we could be profound and thoughtful and gallant at a moment’s notice. We all wish we were good winners. That we would have a candle ready. But that’s not how life works.

I have friends who behaved like heroes on September 11th and others of whom I can say that it was not their finest hour. Sunday night’s news was on a miniscule scale in comparison. But it was an emotionally charged evening. The last thing anyone needed was a lecture; unfortunately, it was the first thing they received.

Sitting here watching “Four Weddings &  Funeral” and it’s the part where Hugh Grant is about run out on his own wedding in a most ingenious way: by having his deaf brother object using sign language. My palms are sweating.

Earlier today I was reading some accounts of marriages that unraveled into miserable divorces. Some were tougher to take than others, but they all shared something in common: the road to their respective hells was paved with good intentions.

I had a friend who once drunkenly admitted to me that he married the wrong person. And he was right: she was mean as a snake, dumb as a box of rocks and he was clearly afraid of her. Even when they were dating, she would think nothing of berating him in front of his friends or ridiculing how he struggled in his career. When he told me he was marrying her I nearly projectile vomited onto him at McSorleys.  Her goal was to isolate him from his friends and that worked like a charm. We no longer speak.

In the days preceding that debacle, we had another buddy that was in the throes of a crummy marriage—completely his fault, I can barely split a pizza with dude—and he was doing his best to stop the proceedings. I remember when we were sitting in Stuyvesant Park, which was across the street from my old apartment and he told us the back story of his wedding (which we had all attended).

He told us that he knew it the moment he opened his eyes on his wedding day: that he was in big trouble. And while he watched his bride walk up the aisle toward him he kept repeating, “This is a big mistake.” There’s a video of the whole affair, and in it he is a sweaty, twitching mess.

Within 30 days he was sleeping on the couch, within six months they were separated, and shortly thereafter the divorce was final.

Whenever I hear about people cancelling their wedding after the invitations have been mailed, or even calling the wedding off the day of, I always give them a great deal of credit. I would estimate that 99% of the people who know that they are making a huge mistake still go through with it because they are afraid to cancel—of the embarrassment, expense and the general “what a jerk” that follows.

But they should and if you are heading toward the same end, you should do yourself a favor and hit the brakes. Look at Hugh Grant. He ended up with Andi McDowell. Let that give you strength.

My lasting memory of Jimmy O’Donnell was his smile. That’s what I’ll always remember: that beaming countenance and throaty laugh that made you feel like you were, in fact, the funniest person alive. The warmth of his personality; I’ll remember that too. Because Jimmy was all about the good times. And my there were many of them. Like this one:

It was a few years ago. Jimmy and I were working at the same company and there was an anniversary celebration at Cipriani in midtown. It was black tie, which was an improbable development for a group of guys who still, ostensibly, dressed like 12 year-old, in jeans and sneakers. There was a house band playing old soul, blues and R&B and they were killing it. The singer asked Jimmy to sit in, and Jimmy then led the band through a 12-bar blues song while making up clever lyrics about nearly everyone in attendance.

We were all laughing and people were dancing, and when it was over Jimmy bounded from the stage, happy and sweaty. We shook hands and then I introduced him to my wife who he jokingly told he’d heard “nothing about,” and then he was off again, pulled back to the band. Because if there is truth above all others it is that Jimmy O’Donnell could play the guitar like a you-know-what. He also rode a Harley-Davidson, drank whiskey and could fix a Mac with a toothpick and a stick of gum. He was obsessed with the color purple. There are so many things I’ll always remember about Jimmy and so many that will forever remind me of him.

Jimmy died in January. Relatively young and with no advance warning. His heart just gave out, which I still find hard to accept, because he was (and remains) larger than life, in my eyes. It’s not a true measure of how large a footprint he leaves, nor a reflection of how much living he shoehorned into his years. Jimmy may have been 55 years old when he drew his final breath, but his legacy is that of a man twice his age.

He left two young sons, Aidan and Seamus, that were his world. He had photos of them on Facebook, shirtless, missing teeth and scuffed-up, grinning from ear-to-ear like their dad. Little toughies. I used to tell him that they scared me, and he’d always laugh, and say, that’s okay, because they scared him a little too. And then he’d smile.

That’s my Jimmy. Smiling. And presumably, if you were lucky enough to know him, that’s your Jimmy too.

Here’s what happened last weekend: I woke up, read the Times, had nine cups of coffee, a bowl of chocolate Lucky Charms, and then went to the gym. While I was there, Arizona congresswoman Gabby Giffords and several other innocent people were shot, some killed, by a ruined individual.

I was sad, naturally, and furious at that state, which seems to be the prow on incivility’s ship over the past few years. There are aspects of Arizona that I like—its iced tea beverages, for one, my friend Jeremy, for another. But the parts that I don’t care for are greater in number, and they neatly encapsulate everything I dislike about the country—an ignorant, gun-wielding populace that likes to wave the American flag and then behave in every single manner contrary to its founding principles. In just a few short years, Arizona has completely lapped, Secretariat-style, Florida as the state I would most like to donate to Mexico. (Congratulations, Mom, you don’t have to learn to speak Spanish.)

And so as I sat there, fuming, willing myself to sweat as that is usually my cue to leave and eat a roast beef sandwich, I began to formulate a real stem-winder of a column; one in which I would parade around trumpeting my New York City liberalism. From atop my high horse, I could then tell everyone how things should (or even could) be working in this country. Yet a funny thing happened on my way to my own ego-stravanganza: I decided to keep my mouth shut.

(I’ll give you a few moments to compose yourselves.)

Not because I didn’t think the shooter’s actions were prompted by the insane gun and violent imagery espoused by the far right, or because I didn’t want to express the frustration of having to listen to uninformed talk-show-style braggadocio delivered by people who read a total of zero newspapers and watch even less actual news.

But because, at the end of the day, I’m punched out on delivering the vitriol. Me! Punched out on vitriol! Film at 11.

I’m tired of taking everything so personally. I am no more able to convince someone who votes to let millionaires off the hook for a trillion dollars in tax revenue and then yells about cutting spending, than they are to convince me that I should “Support the Troops” with a bumper sticker, but not adequate benefits. If folks wants to watch Fox for their news and consider Web sites created by angry, pajama-bottomed  wackjobs in their parents’ darkened basements as creditable news sources, then more power to them. Seriously. I live in New York City, and as long as I stay here, I’ll be able to deal.

I give up on banging my head against their wall, so to speak, and instead am concentrating on keeping it above water, making sure I behave in a moral, decent manner and leave as small a footprint as I can. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t be prepared so that when one of them pops up and confronts me, as occasionally happens when I least expect it, I am able to politely, and mechanically, separate them like a freakishly large chicken in a nugget factory, all the while smiling like a child in a beauty pagaent.

Brave new world, indeed.

I used to hate the sick guy at work. The martyr. The hero. The human petri dish is more like it. You know the type: shows up two hours late, parades around the office moaning, then pretends to fall asleep a few times at his desk. After a surprisingly hearty lunch, a weak wave goodbye.

This week, however, I was mindful of avoiding the caricature, and labored through four of the longest days of my very short and youthful career.  Not to be dramatic, but I had no other choice. The snowstorm that beat New York City down had stranded so many people out-of-town, and so whoever made it back safely pretty much had to go to work. And so I did, sweaty and hoarse (as opposed to my normal state of sweaty and horse-y.)

My doctor prescribed me antibiotics for what I had self-diagnosed as a combo flu-sinus infection combo. And so, after that first day that I spent clutching a cup of ice and chain-eating candy (it was like my version of Omaha Beach), I was pleased to learn that I was no longer contagious. That was a relief. Because I like my co-workers, however few of the made it through the snow. To their credit, no one said, “Hey new guy, you look like crap” or “Could you please put this SARS mask on while we meet?” And to my credit, I guess, I kept saying, “I feel totally fine. No tooootally.”

And now, it’s Thursday night and I still feel like crap. Actually, I feel worse than I did yesterday, which is not the general idea, I’m guessing. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve and we are scheduled to head upstate to our friends’ house for a small dinner party. I can tell GG is nervous that I won’t be able to rally, but I will. After all, it’s the last day of 2010 and as the saying goes: “In like a petri dish, out like a martyr.”

Happy New Year.

A debacle. That’s the only way to describe my weekend. You may have heard about the snowstorm in Minneapolis—the fifth worst in the city’s recorded history—and perhaps you’ve seen that video of the roof of the Metrodome collapsing, which caused a cancellation of the game I was to attend with some friends. And yet? I wish I were there, trapped amid the snowdrifts, which I think speaks to my sad and ultimately tragic obsession with the Minnesota Vikings.

I’ve been in Minneapolis during an epic storm before, trudged back to my hotel from the dome in 30 below weather, defrosted my beard in a hotel sink of hot water, and tried to regain feeling in my fingers by gripping hot cups of hot buttered rum in a bar.

But I’ve always thought of it as a right of passage to be a Vikings fan. Not that they ultimately repay my loyalty by winning anything; more often than not, they melt my frozen heart, by throwing games away in a variety of shocking manners. There’s something poetic about sitting in a hotel room, trying to mentally process the futility of a talented football team. But it’s more Sylvia Plath than Robert Frost, poetically speaking. (Of course.)

And so on Saturday morning, as I stood at LaGuardia airport, silently praying that my flight would get into the Twin Cities before the real bad stuff hit, I was ready, willing and able to deal with whatever mother nature was ready to deal out. Alas.

The worst part about missing the game was that my friend Mike, from London (who I have written about before) had made it to the hotel a day prior and so, he was actually trapped in the city by himself. He rode a tram out to the Mall of America, nearly getting stuck there, took a hell ride back and had drinks with some North Dakotans. Tonight, he’s eating Silver Butter Knife steak at Murrays and tomorrow afternoon he will be flying back to London without having seen a football game. After the roof collapsed, the team announced that they would be forced to play the game in Detroit on Monday evening, which is the answer to the question: When is a home game really an away game?

We spoke yesterday and I apologized to him for introducing him to the Vikings. In that I’m from New York, I could just as easily have chosen to be a fan of the San Diego Chargers, where it’s warm and sunny all year long. But after he attending a game three seasons ago (a desultory loss to the Colts, no less) he was intrigued. But watching the team dismantle the Dallas Cryboys in the playoffs last season, and then  ultimately lose to the Saints in the Championship game, he was hooked for life.

As I tried to get the words out, he swatted away my apology, refused to give ground that maybe we should go to Minnesota earlier in the season next year, and told me that, forget next season, we should think about visiting Detroit on January 2, 2011 to watch the Vikings play the Detroit Lions in the final game of this season. Visiting part of the snow belt in January?

I have to admit, the idea did pique my interest….