I spoke at a conference for columnists. Bill O'Reilly kicked things off by calling everyone cross-eyed liberals and storming offstage. I always thought Bill worked his way up to that kind of anger; evidently he rolls out of bed that way.

Afterward, the press debated headlines, politics, civil rights. I butted in only when I had something important to add, like, "How come the Incredible Hulk's shirt came off, but never his pants?"

What I lacked in social grace, I made up for in Jim Beam — "Give your brain the afternoon off" — and escaped unharmed to the airport.

Jim Beam was still in charge when, between the cab and the curb, I lost my wallet (estimated distance: five paces). I frisked myself confidently at first, then with that dizziness you get when your car is stolen. You consider every explanation, including parallel dimensions, before thinking: "They'll be back. They'll be back."

It's strange to be without ID. You feel like a fugitive condemned to wander the streets until authorities arrive in their hovermobiles to scan your eyeballs and whisk you into a steaming manhole where you live out your days serving Authorized Citizens.

I actually considered lifting a buffalo wing from the snack cart. The only thing that stopped me was Jean Valjean from "Les Miserables."

"What have I done? Become a thief in the night, a dog on the run "

I called Yahaira, resident ex-wife and friend in need, who assured me that once I changed my poopy pants, I'd find the blessing. Maybe, for instance, my plane had contained a virus such as Bill O' Reilly.

At the courtesy booth, we tracked down the cab company by my description of its car: "Um, I think it had some blue."

I left a voice mail for the dispatcher, who was to her cabbies the Queen of Wonderland. "He's in departures, not arrivals? OFF WITH HIS HEAD!"

Yahaira canceled my Visa, American Express and library card (we can't have someone renting under my name). With that I roamed the halls of the airport looking for a dry spot to sleep, the Ghost of Terminal 4. So it goes.

A married couple gave me $15 for food. I shook their hands twice and asked if I could write them a poem or something. The woman petted my head even though I smelled like low tide.

At that exact planetary moment I got a call from Mario, my ex-father-in-law, who lived in town and was coming on his shiny white steed (Ford Bronco): "Yahaira says you need a place to stay."

Mario treated me to Chili's, where we ate, as the universe would have it, buffalo wings.

"He gave me hope when hope was gone. He gave me strength to journey on. Who am I? I am Jean Valjean!"

Next morning Mario fixed me a breakfast hoagie, expressing his love in pickles (approximately 32). My other ex-in-laws showed up with hugs and spare change, and boy did I feel like a jackhole for not visiting.

No sooner had Mario returned me, newly bathed, to Terminal 4, than I received a call from the Queen of Wonderland: "We found your wallet. The driver is on his way."

The driver, Ghebgreigzi "I'd Like to Buy a Vowel" Abiher, apologized for the trouble. The wallet had slipped beneath his seat and so on. I tipped him 40 bucks and ran to the check-in girl, who waived my cancellation fee and sat me on the next plane out.

Have you ever been treated so well that you could almost believe in Santa Claus? It's like the whole thing was orchestrated by some cosmic force that just wanted me to eat pickles with old family.

As my guru Ferris Bueller once said, "Life goes by pretty fast." If you don't stop and lose your wallet once in a while, you could miss it.

— For more from humor columnist Jason Love of Port Hueneme, visit http://www.jasonlove.com; e-mail him at mail@jasonlove.com.