To paraphrase the still great but, unfortunately, not still living Douglas Adams, anyone who is capable of getting herself made president should on no account be allowed to do the job.

I don't know how I got myself made president of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. I'm sure it's a source of bewilderment to my constituents, too. I can imagine them reading my messages in the newsletter, frowning at my picture and saying, "Howard, do you remember voting for this person?"

I didn't run or anything. I didn't campaign. I tell NSNC members that anyone can be president, regardless of race, creed, color, gender, sexual orientation, height or personal hygiene as long as he or she is willing to volunteer the long hours in the hospitality suite.

I swear that's what made me what I am today: A president with the liver of a 70-year-old wino.

(I'm sorry, that term is insensitive and antique. I should have said "the liver of a 27-year-old starlet who can get busted for another DUI faster than she can spell it.")

When we have our annual conference, wherever we go, we require the hotel to provide us with a hospitality suite full of booze and, often, some kind of tasty but nutritionally catastrophic local snack foods, like Uncle Boudreau's Crawdad-Flavored Lard Cracklin's or Miss Squiffy's Creamy Bean Lobsta Puffs.

We adjourn there after a long day of speeches and panel discussions with titles like "Tweet Your Way To A Global Media Conglomerate" or "Only Taggers Write For Exposure," and, as they say in the TV listings, hilarity ensues.

It's not just the shrieks of laughter and the raucous repartee. It's also the singing and the cartwheel contests that result in calls to the front desk. I'm a quiet, introverted soul myself, and I'm OK with demure socializing and exchanging of business cards, but some of the more veteran members of the group don't feel the hospitality suite is quite hospitable enough until Security knocks on the door to threaten us with defenestration at least twice.

(Look it up. It's worth it.)

I'm sympathetic to the guests who are trying to sleep -- I know what it's like to lie awake, tormented by thumping music, shouted arguments, sugar-crazed squealing children and vigorous romance, but hey, that's vacation Bible school.

Consider this: If you ran a hotel, would you give a convention of journalists an open bar on a guest floor? Of course not! You'd give them an open bar at the bottom of a disused swimming pool and then fill it. And sell tickets.

Come to think of it, that's pretty much what has happened to the whole profession over the past year or so. Except for the ticket-sales part. No one has figured out how to make money on anything related to journalism.

Over the years, I joined NSNC, made myself a fixture in the hospitality suite, won the cartwheel contest (over-40 division) and ate enough Lobsta Puffs to attain the highest office. Now I get to hobnob with the likes of Dave Barry, Steve Lopez ("Soloist" guy), Jeff Zaslow ("Last Lecture" guy), Jon Carroll (S.F. Chronicle guy) and Heloise ("getting chewing gum off the dog" lady). People call me "Madam President" and let me up on stage with a microphone, which is always unwise. Sometimes I introduce the next speaker, and sometimes I just ask to have the lights dimmed so I can sneak out.

With half my two-year term behind me, I'm thinking about my legacy. Should I attempt to broker a peace settlement between unpaid bloggers and their unpaid print counterparts, or should I launch a pre-emptive strike on, say, the editorial writers or cartoonists? The first option requires further study, and the second would result in a draw.

Either way, hilarity ensues. It will be muted for Security reasons.