Suddenly I lost it. I was surrounded by nylon legs and espadrilles and black ties--I had overdosed on polyester. In a fit of addled desperation I sought out the solace of the Boston Red Sox vs. the California Angels on the press room television with the refreshing company of a bored security guard named Mary Beth from Quincy.

After all the fake chandelier and highheel glory of the Sheraton Boston I could stand. I flipped on my Rolling Stones tape to the beat of the ball game.

"You know that kid?" a neon-faced gentleman of the press snapped at Mary Beth from Quincy. After some heavy conversation about over-population, nuclear power, disaster and death, Mary Beth forced the words out of her mouth.

"We're all gonna die," she said.

"What kind of pessimistic leftist nonsense were you talking about at that subcommittee luncheon?" he asked me indignantly. "Life cycles and organisms!"

"Look putz," I said, "don't argue ontology with me. It's high time we all started talking about the earth, high time, you know?"

He snapped a beer from a six pack and sat down next to us to watch the ball game, and when the press wizards saw the free drinks, several rushed over to our couch, breathing hard and sweating in the air-conditioned room. "After all," one news service reporter said, "it's only a convention, and baseball's a much better game.