I woke, fittingly, to AT&T’s oft-heard ringtone, a sound that prompts dozens of my colleagues to reach for their hips simultaneously. It was the first of what would tally to well over one hundred hugely-appreciated email, Facebook and cell phone birthday wishes.

I was groggy and tense from another fitful night of sleep, one in which my usual work-oriented ruminations were compounded by life stage worries set to a Talking Head’s soundtrack

You may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

Having pounded the star-strewn city streets all week, though, I had one goal: run the hills. And so I set out westward on Hollywood Boulevard — past Fay Wray, Grace Kelly and Ingrid Bergman immortalized in the pavement — then turned north on North Vista, entered Runyon Canyon Park, and began my 700 foot climb towards Mulholland.

The jeep trail was crowded with dog walkers, hikers and joggers. It was a gut-busting, lung-searing climb. When I finally approached the lookout, a film crew was setting up a dining room table complete with china, crystal and linens. I crept towards the edge, and looked out over the beautiful mess that is Los Angeles.

Later, at work on the Paramount Studios, I watched Christina Aguilera, T.I. and Kid Rock prepare for the 2008 Video Music Awards from just a few feet away. I climbed high above our red carpet, looked down, and considered that I was further behind-the-scenes than any seventeen-year-old version of me could have ever imagined.

In my backlot office, I overheard a story about a “young Holywood” party we’d covered the evening prior.

“Yunno, I think [name of young couple redacted] just walked the carpet, posed for pictures, picked up their swag, and left. They couldn’t have been there fifteen minutes.”

Driving home, I past a red carpet for HBO’s new vampire series, “True Blood.” As I crawled westward on Hollywood towards The Roosevelt past neon-lit homeless, street kids and prostitute scene straight out of a Guns ‘n Roses video, I thought about youth, and broken dreams.

Back in my hotel room, I cracked a beer, ordered a burger, and sat down to open the two envelopes slipped under my door: a “velvet Elvis” greeting card from my father, and a FedEx envelope from my brother containing drawings by Ethan and Edward.

I called Abbi and delivered a stream-of-consciousness monologue about my day, my job, my life, and the meaning of it all until I was too tired to talk anymore. Room service came, and I leaned back in the couch, and laughed at Steve Carell’s Maxwell Smart. I spotted my old friend Michael Stipe on the cover of a magazine, and took an intermission from dinner and the movie. I slipped on my headphones, and spent a minute reading about R.E.M., that band that has meant so much to my last twenty years.

Just before dozing off on the couch, I listened to Aimee Mann’s new single, “Thirty One Today.” “I though my life would be different by now,” she sings. “I thought my life would be better somehow.”

And as I slipped of into the second day of my thirty-seventh year, I felt the edges of my mouth slip upward, and the anxiety and frustration slip away. I thought about my dear wife, and my charmed life, and that view way up there above Los Angeles.

From the heights, one can see further — even on a hazy day.

Downtown Los Angeles sparkles outside my east-facing windows. The Hollywood sign is out the north.

Last night after work, I pulled my Hyundai into valet as Kate Walsh and the cast of “Private Practice” walked a red carpet across the parking lot.

Upstairs, I watched “Wanted” on-demand as Judas Priest played Jimmy Kimmel’s “Pontiac Garage” just below my room (and directly adjacent to Hollywood High School).

The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel was founded in 1927 by a group of Hollywood luminaries that included Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, and Louis B. Mayer. The hotel’s “Blossom Room” hosted the first-ever Academy Awards ceremony, on May 19, 1929. Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and El Capitan are just down the street. CNN and the Capitol Records building are down the block.

The ninth floor is haunted by Montgomary Cliff. Shirley Temple took her first tap-dancing lesson (from Bill “Bojangles” Robinson) on the hotel’s ornate stairway. Marilyn Monroe posed on the diving board of the hotel’s swimming pool for her first-ever ad, and now haunts a full-length mirror relocated from her former-room to the Roosevelt lobby.

A huge black-and-white photo of David Bowie hangs over my bed. I’ve got a dining room table, and some sort of white leather couch. And every night, when the cleaning staff rolls down my bed, they place a prescription bottle full of white M&Ms by my bedside.

Excepting the gaggle of douche bags mustered around the front door, it ain’t all bad.

(Still, I can’t wait to go home.)

We were full-on tourists. We had a great time riding the ferry to and from Bainbridge, jogging along Peugeot Sound, rambling through Pike’s Place Market, and staring out from the Space Needle.

We ate fresh seafood and drank local beer at every meal.

Skies were blue, and vistas were immense (in fact, check out my photos of Seattle).

Still, it could have been my hangover Saturday morning, or it could just be my generation, but it was difficult for me to walk the streets of Seattle without imagining them from Kurt Cobain’s perspective.

And like most of America, Seattle has a rusty underbelly. There are strip clubs across from Pike’s Market, and homeless under the overpasses. One guy muttered “Howly” at me under his breath. Another peeled out as I passed in front of his pickup truck.

What gives? Is it the weather? The longitude? Latitude? What makes us who we are? What makes our art what it is?

For me, anyway, Seattle is permanently brushed with grunge. At best, it’s Cameron Crowe’s “Singles,”, at worst, the place where Rock’s Savior swallowed a shotgun.

We haven’t heard the end of it since.

In “Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge On Seattle,” Kurt wails, “I miss the comfort in being sad.”

But which came first? The music? Or the misery? The place? Or the philosophy?

In Marcy Playground’s “The Shadow of Seattle,” John Wozniak sings, “Seize all the records from the past / hold for ransom all the artifacts / this ragged town protects them to the last.”

Like Liverpool, Minneapolis, and Athens, Seattle will be free.

It’s just a place. And a beautiful one at that.

I think I even remember when it started. I was sixteen-years-old snapping a photo from the double-yellow lines of a traffic-strewn Champs Elysées when I thought, “I can’t believe this was here all along!”

And it gets weirder: in a little corner of my brain somewhere, I still — 21 years later — find it unfathomable that all of those places exist when I’m not there to see them myself, especially wildly exotic places like The Maldives or Roatan.

I suppose there’s a reasonable explanation for this, something to do with the developing mind’s ability to understand that which it can’t see, that tangible evidence of a place isn’t requisite for our understanding of its existence.

Or something.

Either way, there’s an oddly similar dynamic at play with you, Dear Reader. I don’t really know who most of you are. That is, I imagine you’re my friends and family, but with some exception, I don’t really know who reads this blog on the regular, or when you’re reading it. It’s more like whispering into a gaping void. Or shouting to the traffic-strewn Champs Elysées from the double-yellow lines. Who knows who hears?

Which is what makes your comments and emails all the more appreciated, like this one from a sometimes-reader in Texas:

Hi. I check your blog occasionally to see your view what’s going on in your part of the world and your fabulous photos.

I am a former Kindergarten teacher and have moved into a position in which I will impact many more children than I would in the classroom. I have several projects going and one is a textbook for 2nd graders. When I read your “The Miracle of Showing Up” post and saw the pictures showing the changes in the sky I knew I had to ask if you would share your pictures with the second graders of Texas.

So, I’m asking. Would you be willing to allow me to use your pictures in my book? I can’t pay you, but can give you credit and will make sure you get a copy of the book for you or your precious nephews.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts and talent of photography and music with the world! I look forward to hearing from you.

Of course I said yes, am grateful the inquiry, and love that the boys — who thought I was crazy for taking the same photo over and over — will see my little exercise manifest somewhere more “official” than my blog (which I don’t know whether they see or not anyway).

So… keep those comments, cards and letters comin’. Sometimes, it’s the only way I know any of this even exists.

New York Magazine is the source of Mr. Cloyd’s quote, at least partially responsible for my sense of urban, upwardly-mobile aspiration. The Intelligencer’s cocktail party talking points, “Party Lines’” glossy pics of soirees I’ll never attend, and the pages-upon-pages of million-dollar, high-rise, smoked-glass condos I’ll never be able to afford.

It’s the degrees of separation that make everything so tantalizing. One might share a venue with Ingrid Michaelson, or meet Jared Kushner at a party. Plum Sykes could be a friend-of-a-friend.

Moreover, the next rung is always just brushing the edge of one’s fingertips.

Reluctantly admitted example: I said to Abbi just this Saturday as we ran down Park Avenue, “If I could just get to SVP, I’d get to fly business class.”

Periodically, though, that same addled pusher of aspiration that once foisted its champagne dreams and caviar nights on me makes good with the flipside, as it did with a recent article, “Where the Urban Dream Life Is Going Cheap,” in which the relative merits of Buffalo, New York (or Anytown, USA), are explored in opposition to New York City’s oppressively limitless opportunity

[Cloyd is] echoing, of course, the aspirational mantra that’s lured a million hopeful dreamers to New York before him. And in exchange for this promise of limitless possibility, this tantalizing what-could-be, New York requires of these dreamers that they pursue two simultaneous lives: the romantic, invigorating, spectacular life you imagine for yourself, and the expensive, often dispiriting, intermittently grueling day-to-day life you have to lead in order to keep that dream life alive. This is exhilarating. This is exhausting. This is what New York is all about.

Even within the narrow category of work (ok, it’s a pretty wide category), I find myself saying it all the time, “There’s so much opportunity here!”

And there is. I’m constantly unsatisfied with what I’ve accomplished, and looking ahead towards what could be.

But when does reaching towards that limitless void of possibility approach diminishing returns? When do the parties to which I’m not invited, restaurants at which I don’t dine, and museums I don’t frequent lose their allure?

As Abbi and I look towards what’s next, these questions and more are the subtext of every conversation.

Only time will tell…

Yup, that was Abbi and me this weekend.

Increasingly bored with endless loops around Central Park, I was itching to get off the island. I studied Google Maps and Map My Run, and drafted a suitably ambitious foray into Brooklyn. Not too far into Brooklyn, mind you; my intended course to and around Prospect Park and back would have racked up too many miles.

And so the plan was simple: up and around the Central Park Reservoir, south on Park Avenue (conveniently closed to vehicular traffic thanks to Mayor Bloomberg’s “Summer Streets” initiative), east across Canal to the Manhattan Bridge, back over the Brooklyn Bridge, then north along the West Side Highway.

Eighteen miles. Santa Monica to Long Beach. Cedar Rapids to North Liberty. Cleveland to Akron (well, half that, anyway).

It’s a long way, trust me. But requisite, given that the New York City Marathon is little more than three months away.

Luckily, it was a beautiful morning: low seventies, blue skies, low humidity.

Central Park was routine: trees, ponds and puppies. A long line of tourists queuing up for Shakespeare In The Park.

Park Avenue was a blast: bicyclists, roller bladers and joggers gazing up wide-eyed at the empty street and skyscrapers as if it was their first time in New York.

These, Abbi and I are doing 3-5 miles four days a week, a long run on weekends, plus one morning in the gym. We spend a lot of time running. So much so that its possible that a few miles can pass in total silence. These days, though, there’s plenty to talk about: jobs, homes, babies, families, friends. Not surprisingly, I’m often the one in monologue; I’m pretty talkative. So much so that I tends towards the apologetic.

By the Manhattan Bridge, though, I’d grown fairly quiet. My legs were running me; like some perpetual motion machine. Which didn’t mean I wasn’t hurting, or bored, or fantasizing about a big stack of buckwheat pancakes.

The pedestrian path on the Brooklyn Bridge is narrow and busy, and — by the time we crossed — pounded by the sun. Abbi and I ran single-file, dodging bikes, running groups, tourists, dogs, and the occasional homeless person sprawled across a bench.

Neither of us were terribly happy as we strode out of Battery Park City, least of all Abbi. She’s ramped up her training pretty quickly this year. Eighteen was ambitious; her season best is 13.1. That ambition, though, is one of the reasons why I love her, which I remind her when we run.

“Babe, you’re a badass,” I say. “A three-time national champion! Three-time marathoner! All-time greatest!”

She scarcely cracked a smile, staring straight ahead “Terminator” like in her sunglasses.

By Chelsea Piers — beautiful as the sun on the water and the leaves on the trees and the public art were — that sort of talk was increasingly necessary. I checked my GPS every few feet, updating Abbi on our progress.

Finally, she said, “Just tell me when we’re at eighteen, ok”?

And soon enough, we were, my champion and me.

Unfortunately, it took twenty-five years to learn of the show’s existence, and until this afternoon to see it myself for the very first time.

All I knew of Susan Stamberg’s relationship to Fred Rogers when I walked into NPR’s Washington, DC, studios way back in November, 2006, was that the two had taped some television specials together in the ’80s. Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered the topic of the specials was divorce, something my family had endured, and about which Mister Rogers and I had conversed.

When our copy of the show was finally shipped from FCI last week, my sense of serendipity was heightened still when Chris told me the original air date.

Please visit “Making ‘Mister Rogers & Me’” for the rest of this blog post.

Q4 looks to be similarly stable and rewarding for shareholders. Here’s a preview from Chairman and CEO, Benjamin Wagner’s, keynote speech this morning:

August 29 - September 1: Seattle
Abbi’s high school pal, Carmen, is getting married. I’ll be wearing plenty of flannel, and drinking nothing but Starbuck’s espresso.

September 1 - 8: MTV Video Music Awards
It’s that time of year again/already. This year’s show will come to you live from Paramount Studios in Hollywood, California. And if recent meeting discussions are any indication (My favorite: “That’s one argument against strapping GPS on the elephant.), it should be quite the ratings-shattering, integrated-marketing, brand-extending affair.

September 4: My 37th Birthday
I’ll be in Los Angeles, but still plan to celebrate with friends there. As I told one, “I’m thinking the opposite of velvet rope, bottle service, valet and reservations. You know: show up, order a pint, and talk a while, and roll. Does that exist in LA?” We’ll see.

September 11-13: Chris Abad’s 30th Birthday Extravaganza
The gang’s haulin’ ass to Vermont (location of the once-abandoned “Magic Mountain” project) to celebrate the esteemed singer/songwriter. With Chris, Tony, Ryan, Jamie Alegre (and possibly his band, Rich Girls) on hand,musical meyhem is sure to ensue. Also: Beer Pong.

September 20: All-Ages Show @ Rockwood Music Hall
The older I, and — ergo — my audience gets, the more jobs, spouses, and kids (and, presumably, exhaustion) make late-night, mid-week rock shows impossible. So the guys and I are playing an acoustic, all-ages show at Rockwood Music Hall at (get this) 5pm. The idea is to play a hushed, seated, relaxed, participatory affair featuring my songs and a few kid-oriented surprises. In other words, the idea is to seed a whole new generation of Benjamin Wagner Fans. Just kidding. Kind of.

September 25: Late-Night, Mid-Week Show @ Rockwood Music Hall
What’s better than all-ages? A double-bill with my pal, Chris Abad. Same as above, though without the hushed, seated, relaxed, and kid-oriented components.

October 4 - 11: The Anniversary
It’s been the quickest, best 365 days of my life thus far thanks to Ms. Keller (actually, Mrs. Wagner). We’re spending seven night on Nevis at this amazing villa appropriately named “Amazing Grace.”

October 21-25: CMJ Festival
Looks like Chris and I will be bringing our double-bill magic to Alphabet Lounge during the College Music Journal’s annual confab. I’m also talking with my pal, CMJ Panel Director Jimmy Landry, about sitting on a panel. So it could be a two-for-one.

November 2: New York City Marathon
Yup, #9.

November 12: “Live At Rockwood Music Hall” EP Release
You knew I couldn’t go six months without releasing a new record, right? This one will be a brief collection of the best performances from the last three shows, and is likely to be an iTunes-only release. Stay tuned.

December: Second Annual Holiday Benefit CD Release
We put together a great collection of songs and raised nearly $5000 for 826NYC with our “A Family Holiday Benefit”, and it looks like we’re gonna’ do it again. This year, I’m partnering with Rebel Spirit Music. The record will likely be all-acoustic, and the release party will likely be at The Canal Room. Stay tuned.

And then it’ll be Christmas, and then it’ll be New Year’s, and we’ll start the whole thing over again.

Frankly, I’m tired just thinkin’ about it.

Until now.

Sure, that the opening ceremonies were lip-synched and CGI-enhanced is weird, telling, and a bummer. And that NBC’s coverage is chocked-full of hyped-drama, political softballs and integrated marketing.

Still, it doesn’t matter what I know of a specific event (usually very little); watching these athletes compete bearing in mind that they’ve trained their entire lives for just a few moments is nothing short of inspiring.

Now, I never really knew competition until my late-20s. I played baseball in grammar school, soccer in junior high, and ran the 400M in ninth grade (my 1:04 was a solid fifteen seconds off semi-finalist Jeremy Wariner’s 00:49:15). And then nothing until I moved to New York City and began running NYRRC races and NYC Triathlons. And while I run 3-5 miles most weekday mornings, a long run on weekends, periodic visits to the gym and occasional bike rides and swims, I don’t train much at all. Still, I’m always racing myself, always gauging how a certain pace feels, how a given distance feels,

I’ll never win it, but I’ve stood at the start of the New York City Marathon, ten months of early morning slogs through Central Park under my belt, a torn quadricep burning above my patella, and thought, “This is it.’

And so I watch the faces of these competitors, and I feel like I have just an iota of a sense of where they’re coming from.

Like Sunday night, as Abbi and I found ourselves rooting for Romania’s Constantina Tomescu Dita as she pulled away from the pack, and won the women’s marathon.

Or earlier tonight, I made one audible gasp after another as Chinese gymnast Li Xiaopeng flipped and flew his way to gold on the parallel bars.

And just now, I watched Lolo Jones — who was crushing her competitors in thee 100M hurdles — stumble on her ninth of ten, lose, and collapse on the track. Seconds later, she fed the media beast with class.

“You hit a hurdle about twice a year where it affects your race,” she said. “It just sucks that it was on the most important race of my life.”

Seconds later, a telephoto lens spied her weeping beneath the bleachers.

Now, if that doesn’t force you to tackle your Wednesday just a little bit differently than the day before, well…