Wonder boys: owen wilson and vince vaughn

AT FIRST, IT’S A LITTLE DISCONCERTING HANGING OUT With Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn at Dodger Stadium, in Los Angeles, watching a ballgame. Given what you know about them from their movies,

you expect a few things. You expect Owen to act lazy, goofy and stoned-out, and Vince to be tossing off raised-eyebrow wisecracks, and girls to be gathered around, hoping for a ride home.

Instead, after ordering two hot dogs, two bottles of water, two Cokes, nachos and a bag of peanuts, they turn to each other and start riffing in a Gauloise-smoking, grad-student kind of way,

not a joke in sight. “What exactly does the word ‘circa’ mean, do you think?” Vince says to Owen, apropos of nothing, really. “It means ‘around,'” Owen says to Vince. “Right. But what

exactly does it mean?” “It’s just a bullshit kind of thing to say to sound kind of smart. ‘Presupposes’ is another.” “‘Presupposes.'” “And ‘Cite your sources.'” “‘Cite your

sources.'” Then Vince offers up an example of his own. “‘Parenthetically speaking.'” “Oh, yeah,” says Owen, savoring the phrase. “That’s a good one.” Briefly, both are silent. But

then, suddenly, Vince erupts with another random query: “Who was the president of the Confederacy?” Owen: “Jefferson Davis. Who wouldn’t know that?” This is all very well and good, but it

isn’t exactly what you want to hear from these two, especially since they’ve got a movie coming out called _Wedding Crashers_, about a pair of pickup artists who specialize in hooking up at

weddings. Skip the history lesson. Let’s talk chicks. But that would be so crass, so expected. So, the conversation veers off in any number of different directions. They both firmly deny

that they, along with Ben Stiller, Jack Black, Will Ferrell and Owen’s actor-brother Luke, are part of some highly organized, tightknit, power-consolidating, new-order comedy mafia, as

recently postulated by the thinking heads at the _New York Times_. EDITOR’S PICKS Getting back to the game, they both say that as kids they stunk at baseball. “I just wasn’t any good,” Owen

says, looking a bit down. “I’m afraid of the ball.” Licking nacho goo off his fingers, Vince says, “On my team, they called me Eagle Eye. At first, I was excited, like, ‘Hey, Dad, they love

my eye!’ And then, when I’m at bat, they tell me, ‘Come on, Eagle Eye. A walk’s as good as a hit.’ And then I sort of figure it out: ‘Hey, wait a minute. They’re not cheering me on to swing

but to not swing!’ It wasn’t exactly flattering.” Owen is about to add more of his two cents when out of the blue a dolled-up, exceedingly top-heavy brunette makes an appearance a few rows

away. All talk of childhood traumas comes to an end. Vince checks her out. “There’ll be no babies starving on her shift!” he says. Owen grins. And suddenly all is right with the world again.