Hal Stern's thoughts on the economy, software, services, technology, and snowmen. Hal Stern: The Morning Snowman

I spend approximately 70 nights a year away from home. Part of my travel koan is to eat a good breakfast, because lunch often reduces to Altoids mints and a Starbucks coffee. I have become a self-proclaimed connoisseur of french toast, a veritable gourmand du pain frite, which is appropriate no matter how bad your Francophone accent.

So based on nothing more than my personal recollection of taste, texture and desire to eat several hectares worth of the stuff, here are my Global Toast ratings:

Cinnamon Bun French Toast, Ko'Sin restaurant, Sheraton Wild Horse Pass hotel, Phoenix, Arizona. It's so good I woke up at 5:30 am to enjoy it even though I knew there was a free breakfast coming up the same day. It is precisely what it sounds like, topped with prickly pear butter. In terms of caloric content, cholesterol and other bad stuff, it's the french toast equivalent of uranium. But worth it.

Vanilla Bean French Toast, Black Bear restaurant, Lake Placid, New York. Yes, it's worth the four hour drive from New York City. Well, maybe not in the snow, but if you do venture up there before the annual melt (in April) buy a dozen or so servings to go in case you get stuck on the way home. Or not. It's that good. Supposedly the vanilla bean and cinnamon bread used as the base comes from a local bakery that has some unique intellectual property in the bakery biz. You can enjoy your breakfast, walk across the street and see where Miracle took place.

Thick-sliced French Toast, Ritz Diner, Livingston, New Jersey. I'm slightly biased, because the Ritz has the home field advantage. They make an amazing challah bread, enhanced even more after being egged on and fried to give it that uniquely Jersey diner look & feel. Yes, it's the blue/green diner where parts of the Sopranos fifth season were filmed. Start your day with high-density carbs and a "How you doin?".

French Toast, House of Blues at the Mandalay Bay hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada. The best-kept secret for hangover-less breakfast in Sin City. And it hasn't been touched by that guy who just handled $65 in nickels at the slot machine before getting in the buffet line.

Fall is here, which means basketball, hockey, and the voting season are nearly upon us. I was instantly reminded of this first thing today when I found an email from Peter, asking for selections from this year's New York Knicks season ticket plan. I've never met Peter in person, but his willingness to share prime Madison Square Garden real estate during roundball season makes him the second coolest person at Merrill Lynch (the coolest is not whom you might think, but actually a hockey buddy nicknamed "Cheese Sandwich" -- another story).

Peter's email got me thinking about hoops, and my very short-lived recreation basketball league career growing up in Freehold, NJ. Such thoughts necessitated a guilty pleasure, ensuring the continued safety of The Jersey, pictured here in its pathetic current state. Circa 1974, it had two sleeves, zero holes, and a color somewhat more inspiring than dilute mud. It is the only piece of clothing I still own from the Before Marriage Clothing Era. It has survived four moves, secreted away where it can't be thrown out, burned, or worse yet, used to clean wood surfaces.

I digress. The best player on that orange rec team was a kid named Steve. Steve was a truly likeable person. His family moved to town about a year earlier, and he had a slightly southern inflection in his speech, along with a sense of respect for just about everyone. The worst player on the team: yours truly. The one person who never busted my chops about it: Steve. He played on our middle school team, where he was distinguished by being one of the few players whose surname the coach remembered (his teammates included "that big kid" and "that kid with the long hair"). He played hoops in high school as well, was always popular, and eventually went into the Navy.

I retold most of this story at my 20th high school reunion in Steve's memory. He was killed in a (somewhat secret) search and rescue mission in between our major class gatherings. Steve was serving American interests but also protecting American rights -- including the right to vote.

Watch the debates. Read. Listen. Make an informed choice -- but do make a choice. It affects you, other Americans, other countries in the world, and guys like Steve.