You might say things came to a head last week -- and this time, most of the news was good... literally.

I churned out 5 stories, two on the front page, and two others on A-2. Not too bad. The last week Congress is in session is always eventful, and I was able to reap the rewards of sticking with it -- "gangbusters" style, like our friend Dickie likes to say.

This last little run might have positioned me to package a nice set up clips to bolster my journalistic accolades a bit, which before this summer, were admittedly lacking.

I've now got 10 nice clips that I'd be proud to present to newspaper hiring agents, along with a thin, but diversified resume.

Things are looking up, thankfully, and it appears that the artillery is somewhat stocked for a battle.

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In other news, I was fortunate enough to get third-row seats to the Wonderful and Blissful Camden Yards, one of the true gems of professional baseball. They really did that place justice. Wonderful, wonderful planning. We sat in Post columnist George F. Will's season tickets and were treated to soft, cushioned seats, an up-close view of the game, and a pair of leadoff man Brian Roberts' batting gloves.

Roberts, after struggling during the last week, hit a weak dribbler to first base, and after he returned into the dugout in disgust, he flung his apparently unlucky batting gloves over the dugout and into my hands. How funny. He's got some small hands, my friends, and I had a hard time fitting into them. And, from me -- a man of short and fat hands -- that means something.

Black Nike gloves loaded with pine tar. In my appreciation for the tickets, I handed the glove to my professor's son, a budding baseball enthusiast and Oriole fan, knowing that he'd appreciate them more than I. It worked out pretty well, I'd say.

Below, here's a photo of the lucky crew: El Matador (who I just murdered in darts the other night), Shelly E. (smart of her to bring her camera, I forgot mine in the rig), and that guy (with hot dog and beer very nearby.)



And, here's the view from the seats. That's right, third row. Looks straight out of a newspaper, but with an even better view. I love baseball.



Here's the view, part II. Watching the Steroid-burping Palmeiro going for hit 3,014. Drugs... Psssssshhhhhhht.



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This week, though starting slowly, is going to pick up on Thursday, when I head to the Hinterlands for an interview for one of my hometown Fishwraps. Thankfully, having two friends on the inside helps, and I'm going in with confidence and aplomb. Cross your fingers.

Certainly, landing back where I started seemed like an incredibly hopeful proposition, but if I play my cards right, I might just have a shot at the job.

Plus, there would be no selling of the house, no early retirement of Fiancée, and no red-eye flights for the bachelor party and wedding. Again, keep your fingers crossed for me.

So, why after all this good news is there talk of "Desert Landscapes?" Well, it's fairly simple: The once fertile ground of Washington reporting has dried up. All U.S. senators and representatives have flown the coup and returned to their homelands, leaving nothing behind put an old, dimpled fry pan for me to sift for gold in the endless sands of the Sahara.

This panning for non-existent gold has turned into a meagerly funded archaeological dig, and thus far, I've turned up... exactly... nothing. Dammit.

Hopefully, I'll get a little more help here... I'm not ready to quit just yet.

Does anyone have a HOT TIP for me?