I am a terrible blogger — even with a new site! — but one thing I’ve managed to do is keep up a semi-tradition of New Year’s thanks to all of you for keeping me busy.

When I was a kid, geeky and odd and somewhat chubby,  the life I live now would have seemed utterly impossible in its wonderfulness. More than anything, like a lot of brainy kids lost in books, I dreamed of connections, of having a community. I eventually found various communities, through D&D and theater, most especially, and then college, but now, well, now, to quote Harry Bailey, I’m the richest man in town.  I’ve got a radio show, listened to by millions, and since we do it in front of a live audience every week, I get to meet hundreds of you each time we perform. I’ve got a Twitter feed followed by almost 50,000 interesting and interested folks — and many more have read my book and columns for Runner’s World and other things I offer.  It’s enough to give somebody a big head — why OF COURSE you listen to me, I’m FASCINATING — but one of the things I try to keep in mind is that your attention is a gift. The only truly finite resource we have is time, and I’m grateful, more than these poor words can say, that you choose to spend some of it with me.

I also want to give some public and fervent thanks to the people who work on Wait, Wait… with me: Ian Chillag, Michael Danforth, Eva Wolchover, Emily Ecton, Robert Neuhaus, Lorna White, and our benevolent overlord, Doug Berman. They do most of the work, and I get most of the credit. That’s unfair, but true. (Everybody should subscribe to Ian and Mike’s podcast, “How To Do Everything,” which is arguably funnier than Wait, Wait, which would worry me except I enjoy it too much.)   And of course, much gratitude to the inimitable, unflappable, indestructible, and hopefully immortal Carl Kasell, who has lent me his credibility for 14 years now and still has an undiminished supply.

For an equal number of years, I have been tolerated, coddled, protected (sometimes from myself) and even paid by the good people of NPR, most especially Margaret Low Smith. I hope I haven’t diminished the brand too much.

Torey Malatia and the staff of WBEZ, most especially the inimitable Don Hall, has provided us the warmest professional home we could ask for.

This last year began with JocoCruiseCrazy 1, and I am grateful to that remarkable band of nerds, most especially JoCo himself, as well as Paul and Storm, for welcoming me into their niche. One day on the ship, waiting for a show to begin, Wil Wheaton made a sidelong reference to the “the luck of Teela Brown” and I knew I was home. Thanks as well to all the Sea Monkeys for being kind and fun and appreciative and not at all crazy, except in a good way.

I never thought I’d be in a position to thank my agents — just like winning an Oscar!– but what do you know, I have agents, and they work hard for me, and I’m grateful to Tiffany Ward, Jonathan Swaden, Karl Austen, and  Luke Janklow for their efforts and their patience (especially their patience) and most especially Jessica F Bartolo of Greater Talent Agency, who books my speaking gigs.

“Runner’s World” treats me the way I’ve always secretly wanted to be treated: like an athlete. I’m grateful for the opportunity to contribute to their fine magazine, with many thanks to all the editors, David Willey, Sean Downey, Charlie Butler, Jenn Van Allen et al, as well as the many readers who’ve contacted me to express their appreciation, disagreement, anger, or just talk about running.

And of course intense, blubbering thanks to my family, my wife Beth and three daughters Rosie, Gracie, and Willa, who love me and welcome me home when I get back from spending all that time with the rest of you.

There are many others who I’ve spent time with this year, professionally and personally, each of whom have made me feel like I’m part of something larger and more interesting than myself, and I am grateful to all of you; I hope that I managed to let you know that directly and privately so that you know I’m talking about you, right now. Yes, you. You’re great. I’m glad you’re here, and thanks for everything, especially that thing you did for me.

One last time: all of you, who read this and listen and read my tweets are a nerdy boy’s dream come true, and I’m grateful to you. If you see me in 2012, come on up and say hello so I can thank you personally.

One of the things about Christopher Hitchens is that he got around so much, knew so many people, and made such a vivid impression, that just about everybody is offering a remembrance today. Here’s mine:

In 2007, I was invited to speak at the Amazing Meeting, a conference of skeptics held every year in Las Vegas in honor of James (aka The Amazing) Randi, magician, debunker, and skeptic.  I was delighted to be invited because all  kinds of cool people show up there every year, including Penn and Teller, Adam Savage, Phil “Bad Astronomer” Plait, and of course Hitchens, who seemingly never turned down an invitation to speak, drink, and argue. (As a man who travels a fair bit, I am in awe of how much Hitchens got around.)

His presentation was terrific, and I particularly remember the All-Speakers Panel at the end, when we all got up on stage, and took questions from the audience.  One panelist — I think it was Scott Dikkers, editor of the Onion, though I may well be wrong — suggested that perhaps it was dumb for the US to be “at war with Islam,” and Hitchens, in just the way a lion notices a limp gazelle stroll in front of it,  responded “Well, Islam is certainly at war with us,” and proceeded to eviscerate the poor man.  As the little boy says in Jurassic Park, “Look at all the blood…:”

But: the prior night, I had had my own Hitchens time. A few of us were given tickets by Penn Jillette to come see his show with Teller, and Hitchens piled into conference attendee’s  Scott Hurst’s BMW (which, graciously, Scott let me drive) and headed over to the Rio. Hitch didn’t really know who I was, but lit up when I mentioned I had gone to college with his old friend Andrew Sullivan. I should also say the sight of my attractive wife seemed to increase his illumination. (Beth’s judgement: “Terrible flirt,” with “terrible” meaning “good.”)

The show was terrific, andI had been told that Penn and Teller always invited their guests back to a special lounge they had behind the theater, just for that purpose, so we should absolutely hang around post show for that invitation.   However, as Hitch, Beth and I walked into the lobby, we saw that Penn and Teller had come out (as is their gracious habit) to greet the entire audience as it left the theater, and Hitch made a mental calculation how long it would take for them to work the crowd, didn’t like the number he arrived at, and said “Come on, let’s go get a drink.”

And so we did, heading to the nearest casino bar. I told him as we walked I had been experimenting with the proper martini recipe, and he told me that he once did an assignment as a Cocktail Taste Tester for one magazine or another, drinking gallons of the stuff, and learned all kinds of interesting points about gin, vermouth, and the relationship thereof. (Not for the first time in this account, I will regret not taking contemporaneous notes.) The bartender turned his attention to me, and I ordered three martinis, as per Hitch’s well-researched perfect recipe, and he cried, “Oh, God no, not for me. I’ll never drink that awful stuff again. I’ll have a Scotch, please, a double.”

So we talked and drank, with my thoughts being drowned out by the inner voice, “OH, BOY, I’M HAVING DRINKS WITH CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS.”  We talked about the Iraq War, then in its fifth disastrous year, and which he famously and aggressively supported. I was not fool enough to argue with him, but I did inquire, gently, as to certain aspects of the war which, perhaps, had not gone as well as he and other supporters had hoped or even predicted. “I will admit it could have been handled better,” he said, which is much as a concession as I had ever heard him make on that topic.  He did say something which stuck with me: “I’m just glad we’re at war with someone.” That’s not quite as callous as it sounds here, without context… what he meant was that he saw militant Islam as a grave threat to Western Civilization, and that he was glad that the West had finally given battle.  One could argue that the “someone” in whose front yard the war happened to be fought wouldn’t share his gladness of its commencement, but again, like I said, I chose not to be that “one,” not then.

Eventually, after much chat (see note about regret re: notes) and drinking and smoking we walked back to the Penn and Teller Theater and of course everyone was gone… we had missed our chance to see the Secret Lounge. By this time it was near 1 in the morning, and the three of us caught a cab together back to our casino. Beth and I headed to our hotel room… Hitch, 16 years my senior, headed off to a party some of the younger conference goers were throwing, where I’m told he danced and drank till dawn.

We talked that night about having him on Wait Wait, but never did it. I’m not sure I regret it… three silly questions does not seem the sort of foolishness he would have suffered gladly, and I’m grateful I got to spend some time with him in his natural element, near a bar, with a drink and a smoke, with diversions and arguments ahead and behind.

I’ll be at the Philadelphia Marathon Expo on Saturday,  at the Runner’s World booth, from 3 to 5. I’m running the marathon the next day, so if you’re in Philly and you’re on the course, watch for a desperate bald man running by.

And I’ll be narrating “Peter and the Wolf” with Symphony by the Sea, in Marblehead, MA, on November 26th. Tickets and info are here.

I was honored to serve as the host for the Third Coast Audio Festival Awards this evening. You can hear all of the award winning documentaries at ThirdCoastFestival.org – I especially recommend the Bronze, Silver, and Gold Award winners.  I opened the ceremony with the following remarks on radio, after the jump.

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