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I hit a couple of media markets each week, thumping the tub for a book I wrote about Joe DiMaggio. Some days, I visit a dozen cities by phone, flinging my voice into cars and bars, kitchens and card shops via sports radio. This offers a strange perspective on the country, which after a while seems less like a land mass and more like a bubbling soup pot of talk. A bunch of pots, actually, all steaming on a multi-burner stove -- the sports chowder next to the rich bisque of stock tips and finance factoids, which is next to a fat-free minestrone of health chat, which mingles its aroma with malodorous shrink-advice on life and love Every day and night, the nation is glistening under a coat of congealed vapor from these broths aboil -- the moisture, of course, necessary to fill the pots for the next day's soup.

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