I'll blame my sister for this not being as long as I had thought it might be. Or, perhaps, I'll thank her.

A coworker had a particularly rough Wednesday. I like this coworker quite a bit. I turned to him, 11ish, when it was already apparent that it was going to be a rough one: "Let's drink tonight." He nodded in agreement, and it was on. He came over about 8:45 or 9, left about 12:45, we picked up another one along the way, and everyone made it to work on Thursday. So, really, pretty successful. Upside: There was more Bell's left, though not a lot. Downside: His contribution was Labatt which is, well, not Bell's.

Two things make this notable:

1) You'll recall that, previously in this space, I've railed against this insolent cat that will sometimes stop on my patio, stare in at me, and whimper. I don't like cats. This cat is here all the time. I believe I previously wrote that I had named the cat, given him/her the most despicable name I could come up with: Hitler. I don't like Hitler the dude, and I don't like Hitler the cat.

So, not less than ten minutes after my coworker showed up, Hitler showed up. "Is that him?" "That's him." And we made Hitler jokes, mostly about how I'd stop that insolent cat from coming by if I'd just step outside and punch him in the face. (It's a pretty funny mental picture, no? Dude punches cat. Funny.) A few minutes later, "What's that one's name?" "Huh?" "That cat. It's a different cat." "There are two cats?" "Yeah, this one's black. The first one...wasn't black."

So, in fact, there are two cats that I hate. At least two. But I think I'll continue to call them all Hitler, not unlike George Foreman's children. Grown children. Except they're all George, not Hitler.

2) At the end of the evening, I foisted Dizzee Rascal, Rhymefest, and The Streets upon him. He's into the underground stuff but, once you've heard Dizzee Diz, you're never the same. Maths and English, out June 5, I think. I'll probably buy it. Garsh.

- - - - - - -

Related to notable thing #1, above...

Today, as I was paying some bills or something, a possum/an opossum wandered by on my patio. It was huge. Like Bjork's "Human Behavior" video huge. Or, it seemed that way. But, seriously, a possum wandering by. Were I a real Ring Fingernail native, I'd've probably shot it, then eaten it. Raw.

- - - - - - -

So, on Tuesday, I did some major self-haircutting. I'm going to give myself a solid C, where C is average, which is to say that I lost no eyes during the process. I'm not quite sure this is going to work. However, I did a nice job on my eyebrows. I fear that I'll find myself with excess bald patches.

Also, I fear that, like Mr. Belding and the bonsai tree, I'll probably trim and trim and trim and trim and just destroy the thing. In his case, it was a tree, in my case, it'd be a beautiful, beautiful head of hair.

This self-haircutting decision was made last month in reaction to a) the decision that I no longer liked the barber shop I began going to here last summer and b) the fact that my chain store haircut cost $15, plus $2 tip, which seems altogether outrageous. However, it's not. In fact, it's probably cheaper than just about every reader here.

But it's also more expensive than The Noyes Boys, I'm pretty sure. "Don't cut class. Get a first class cut." Works for me.

- - - - - -

I've officially got seven framed photographs located throughout the apartment. The 'friends' ones located on my bookshelf, the 'family' ones by the door, and my grandparents on a lamp/table thing. I think the next step is going to be a wall clock, to hang in the kitchen. $15 at Target, and I think it'll fit well.

This only leaves one gigantic wall in need of things. Maybe I'll just coil together some unwound wire hangers on that side of the room and hang things on it. Hopefully it'll last longer than, say, four days. Only one person will get that non-joke, maybe.

There's also a horizontal wall, the back side of the high kitchen cabinets, that begs for something. However, I can't figure out what that'd be. Maybe framed, ebay'ed gig posters would work there. Hmm...

- - - - - - -

Related, slightly, a twilight walk behind my apartment reveals that, yes, trail-walkers can see in. And clearly. This means more clothing than planned on, say Sunday mornings. Or, say, closing the blinds. But that would just seem to be overkill.

- - - - - - - -

I haven't written anything here about Virginia Tech here. I've got no real comment. However, I'll say that the Second Amendment is dumb. "But if you don't allow law abiding citizens to get guns, the only people that'll get them will be criminals." Or people who aren't yet criminals.

I'd say just about every stat available will show that privately-owned handguns cause a lot more damage than they prevent, right? If, say, "self-defense" prevents a home robbery but results in a death...isn't the net effect far, far worse? (That is, doesn't the negative of, like, the dead guy, outweigh the positive of, say, the fact that the insurance-covered jewelry wasn't stolen?)

- - - - - - -

The Chicago Bulls are just great. Fantastic. There was not a moment in a single game of the series that I didn't think the Bulls were going to win that single game. (Granted, I knew the result of game one as I watched it.) While the Heat are older and Wade isn't healthy, they're still basically the same team that won the title.

Entering the series, I think that the oddsmakers probably expected a Bulls win, but not an out-and-out dismantling. But that's just what it was, and it was awesome.

On raw numbers, losing Chandler (#2 rebounder in the league, young, cheapish) and signing Wallace (worse than that in terms of rebounding, old, expensive) was a net loss for the Bulls this year. When Wallace is in the final year of the deal, it will certainly be a net loss for the Bulls.

However, Wallace was absolutely the difference in this series, and not just because he made those ridiculous seven free throws in a row. He was awesome. He was an intimidator, and he never let Shaq get comfortable. I'm not sure this team even makes it through to the second round if they've got Chandler, and, if they did, I'm certain that it wouldn't've been a sweep. I'm absolutely certain that I wouldn't be thinking that they had a reasonable chance to win it all if Chandler were their starting center instead of Wallace.

Obviously, Deng's their best player, and Gordon's a remarkable scorer, and Hinrich is a strong leader, and Nocioni provides so much energy, but Wallace is an absolute rock. (With Brown, of course.)

Also, it's really fun to watch a team that tries really hard.

I didn't see more than three minutes of the Pistons-Magic series, and I only saw scores of the regular season Pistons-Bulls games, but I've gotta think that the Bulls are the better team, right now, in this one as well.

- - - - -

Also, NBA games featuring either Hubie Brown or Bill Walton are absolutely a blast to watch. Walton's ridiculous, and Hubie teaches me something seemingly every possession.

I can imagine that Hubie was a truly fantastic coach. There was a great moment today, when James Posey avoided plunging into the broadcast table, and Hubie was using his coach's voice with him - "We'd've gotten you, James," or "Thanks for saving an old man, James," or something like that - and you could see Posey's happy, friendly glance at his old coach as he returned down the court. I appreciated the moment, though nobody else probably did.

Is it wrong to admit that I find NFL draft coverage strangely riveting? My post-run Saturday was delayed when I, for some reason, couldn't pull myself away. It was only a half-hour or 45 minutes, and it didn't prevent me from getting anything done, but I couldn't believe that I had been sucked in like that.

- - - - - -

I bought Peter Bjorn & John's Writer's Block today, after having heard the single "Young Folks" on WXRT on the drive up last weekend. "Young Folks" is pretty fantastic, and the rest of the record is nice as well. I also bought the new Arctic Monkeys record, which is too rawk to get much in the way of spins over this beautiful weekend. It was a lush, harmony-laden Swede-pop kind of weekend, and PB&J provided a nice soundtrack.

Yes, it was 70 degrees all weekend and, save for three runs and a walk, I only got out for errands. Sigh.

I think this city has lost it's only downtown bar that features outside drinking. That's a major, major loss, especially when you consider that, apparently, possums regularly wander by my patio, and I don't have anything to shoot 'em with.

There were a whole lot of reasons I wasn't looking forward to this past weekend - the imminent 11 hours in the car, a wedding I wasn't that excited to go to. And then, as it turns out, it was about the most beautiful weekend we've had this year - 80-plus degrees, even in The Ring Fingernail - and I was pretty pissed to know that I'd be driving, sunroof open, but still driving, rather than enjoying the weather.

But, as is the case with every trip home, the good far and away outweighed the bad. I arrived back North at about 12:30 Sunday morning, fairly drained, but really happy at what had transpired over the previous 48 hours. (Wow. Just 48 hours, and 48 fairly quick ones.)

I mentioned that I wasn't particularly excited for the wedding - a Sunday afternoon, a group of people that I don't really see anymore, a group that I'm not really friends with anymore, sadly. And, sure, there was some awkwardness - no booze, after all, so there's bound to be awkwardness. But what it comes down to it, I got a chance to catch up with people I hadn't seen for a while (there was a follow-up conversation with a high school friend, talking about the about-to-open school that he was about to teach at, until I realized that we had had that conversation 15 months ago, and that the school was now open, for six months, actually; there was the other one where one of my best friends from high school had moved into his new house...ten months ago, which makes you feel bad, but not that bad), but who are worth seeing.

Oddly, the best part wasn't the ceremony, nor was it the carrot cake dessert nuggets (always a highlight), nor was it the slide show (I didn't make it in), nor was it yelling "Mazel Tov," but it was probably seeing the groom's family. Five years, at least, and people I was never actually close to, but it's nice small talk, I think.

- - - - -

The best part of my weekend, however, was certainly my three hours spent at Wrigley Field. The game was positively laid back - Barrett hit a three-run blast in the first inning and, after St. Louis missed a few early chances, it was never really in doubt. I enjoyed hearing organist Gary Pressey play "Louie Louie" when Piniella came out to discuss an apparent batter's interference call, and I enjoyed Tommie Harris throwing out the first pitch in the #91 jersey, and I enjoyed, most of all, making conversation about pretty much nothing for the duration of the afternoon. Also, I enjoyed my three Old Styles, the first two paid for by my dad and the third by me.

My least favorite part of the game was the 12 times when the doofus in the Red Sox cap said, "Down in front! Hahaha! That's how we do it at Fenway!" and then sought solace in the guy in a Red Sox cap three rows in front of him. Also, I didn't care about Papi's home run in the seventh inning, though I got the full play by play of it from across the aisle.

Saturday night saw myself and The Boy and Jenny at The Twisted Spoke and, while Jenny was disappointed that the sloppy Joe no longer had a place on the menu and I was disappointed that a temporary brain lapse led me to order a hamburger (in this case, the brain lapse led to me believing that "bovine"="pork"), I'd still give the meal a solid B. The waitress was kookilee-dookilee, and the breeze was nice, and the El provided just the right amount of distraction, and my burger had two kinds of cheese. And, as is apparently the case in most of my conversations now, the topic was weddings. Jenny set me straight - "Dude, Jews have their weddings on Sundays. That's why it's on Sunday."

So that was nice of her.

Also nice was when my brother said, "But the industry, man...that was a revolution," though that came later in the night.

- - - - - - -

Inspired by my last post, my sister proposed a hot dog night among her friends. Sadly, at last check, it hadn't happened. I'm hoping it's happened by now.

I wrote to her about it. She wrote back. It hadn't happened yet.

However, she and her friends, in an effort to relieve stress, "took a drive down Central Ave stopping at every ice cream shop (3 in total). ...i will try to blog about it..."

Though she hasn't, it's still pretty exciting. College is pretty cool. Turns out she's done in about a month, however.

- - - - - -

The greatest part of work is the three-day weekend. Long weeks, those are, with ten-hour days, but three-day weekends certainly should be the balls.

My three-day weekends are as follows:
June 15-17
June 29-July 1
July 13-15
July 27-29
August 10-12
August 24-26

I'm assuming that's it.

You're all welcome to come, though I might be gone for the July 13-15 weekend - there's a possibility of a Pitchfork-fest, I think. Also, you should call first.

- - - - - -

A potential trip to Comerica/Ann Arbor just isn't going to work out this weekend. It could work out, potentially, but Nemo'll be pretty busy. Still, as Nemo emailed, "So, gasp, the next free weekend I have for Tig[e]s* would be June 29-July 1. Wow, that's depressing. But summer will be bitchin."

This is the second time I've quoted a private email in this post, which seems to be a violation of some sort of confidentiality.

*I don't see how the nickname form of "Tigers" can be spelled "Tigs," which is how Nemo insists on writing it. It seems like "Tigs" should rhyme with "digs," which certainly is a different sound than "Tigers." Therefore, I'll continue to write it "Tiges," despite his disagreement.

- - - - - - - -

Conversation with a Houston-based client Friday, about 2:30 Eastern.

Me: [dials phone]
Client: "Hey, A."
Me: "How ya doin', R?"
Client: "It's 80 degrees, Buffett's in town, and I'll be drunk this time tomorrow."
All: [uproarious laughter]

- - - - - - -

I think the Bulls will beat the Heat. I think a Bulls-Pistons series could be so darn fun. Maybe Paxson and Dumars will suit up.

Deng's the Bulls best player, it's apparent by now, but it sure is a deep squad. Tyrus Thomas really is a blast to watch. He's also got the face of an 11 year old.

Wouldn't it be fun to have Tyson Chandler and Tyrus Thomas in the same frontcourt? Oh well.

- - - - - - -

Tracy McGrady just referred to "my supporting cast." Isn't Yao like his co-star or something?

- - - - - -

The Cubs suck again. Three extra-inning home losses in seven days? Wow.

- - - - - -

There's probably more to write, but I can't think of it. I'll really try to get another midweek one in over the next few days, but something of substance will have to happen. Like, for instance, my sister having her hot dog party.

Let's get something down here. It's been too long.

I was all set to make a great joke, but then I didn't get around to posting last week. The joke: "Yeah, so the kids up here were pretty disappointed on Thursday. You see, they should have had a snow day. But they couldn't - they were on spring break."

See, so it's not that funny of a joke, and it wouldn't've even been funny when it was pertinent, and I've reached a new low by not just writing about the weather but, indeed, by leading with the weather. The weather! Who am I? My grandma!? (She doesn't read this. I'm hopeful my mom won't try to explain what a 'blaag' is to her. Nothing good could come of that, I don't think.)

So the point is, yeah, lots of snow. Lots and lots of snow. We haven't cracked 35 degrees in about two weeks, though there exist rumors of 50s and sunny on Monday. Though I'd imagine it'll be 50s and sunny with snow still on the ground.

- - - - -

I've decided that I need to decorate. The problem here is that I have no taste, nor a sense of color. I've successfully hung discarded mirrors, though I'm not sure that two different-colored mirrors in one corner of a dining room is a particularly good use of two different-colored mirrors. Though, to be certain, one mirror gives me a great view of the fake plant when I'm sitting on my couch, and another gives me a great view of the washer/dryer-covering shower curtain when I'm standing near it. So both are pretty good uses, I guess.

I own a total of about seven photographs, and I've decided that three are worth framing.

The inventory:
- New Year's 2002, Apartment E2 - I'm wearing what appears to be a tiara, and Harper appears to be drooling
- August 2006 - Nemo and Carrie. I'm not in the picture, because I don't think there exist any photographs including both myself and Nemo (unless it was a Rovell-snapped photograph from that NUR football trip to Indiana. We totally listened to a capella for the entire drive home, after an awful game - "Rud's got Antwaan. Rud's got Antwaan." But he doesn't have batteries.). The highlight of this particular photograph is the gigantic D-Nemo yawn in the background.
- May (June?) 2006 - Me and Gurs and Bullshot and Sharon. I think it's a pretty successful picture, though I'm sweatier than I'd like to be. It happens.

As trips to Target on consecutive nights can attest, these are 4" X 6" photos, not 5" X 7".

These will look nice on the bookshelf, though first I'll have to find somewhere else to put my Vinny Rottino bobblehead. How tough is it to put three snapshots in frames and on top of a bookshelf? Tough enough, apparently. It's taken three days. Small steps.

I've also got a nice vertical frame suitable for holding three horizontal pictures. I don't know where it'll go. We'll have an elder-Rud wedding photo with my brothers, a self-taken airport photo with my sister from February, and an as-yet-undetermined one.

This counts for news these days.

I should note that, on the second trip to Target, I definitely was tricked into buying some Kashi Go Lean Crunch ($2.50, so not a bad deal) due to excitement over the 'Serving Suggestion' on the front image. Turns out, it didn't come with blueberries. Crap.

- - - - - - -

I really like The Thermals' most recent album, The Body, The Blood, The Machine. I decided that I'd like to purchase their previous album.

You've not lived until you've had this conversation:
Clerk: Thanks for calling Borders. Would you like to preorder Harry Potter?
Me: No, thanks. I was wondering if you'd be able to order a CD for me.
Clerk: Sure. I can see about that. Who's the artist?
Me: The Thermals.
[pause. typing.]
Clerk: And the CD you're looking for?
Me: Eh. Well...
Clerk: Fuckin A?
Me: Yeah, how much is it?
Clerk: $13.99.
Me: Yeah, let's do that.

Point is, I totally choked when there was a totally legitimate (semi-legitimate) reason to say "Fuckin A" in a grown-up setting. I really blew it.

(It's reasons like this exchange that only bad can come from my grandma learning about this here 'blaaaag.' Then again, ...)

- - - - - -

I got a great gift last Saturday when the Sports Illustrated featuring Corey Brewer on the cover finally arrived: A Gary Smith article. I think Gary Smith is probably America's best living writer, not that I'm entitled to have an opinion on something like this. And not the best living sportswriter, or the best living journalist, but the best living writer. Period.

He writes about four or five times a year for Sports Illustrated, but I think those four or five articles probably pay for the subscription by themselves. His Pat Tillman piece was one of the most thoroughly-reported and absolutely engaging/depressing/uplifting in its own way things I've ever read. It's already moved with me twice, and I've read it at three different home addresses.

This one, which may be his first article since then (? - Seven months? Can't be.) is about the 50th anniversary of the integration of Little Rock Central High School, which also happened to be the home of one of the greatest assemblages of high school football talent ever. An all-white team, of course, and nine black students that year, though one was expelled, and how they were at times escorted through the halls by the National Guard.

And the article's about how the team was definitively instructed to not get involved in the situation.

The article switches perspectives constantly - the guilt, or the denial, or the embarrassment of that old team, and their reticence to even go back to campus - intertwined, of course, with the history, and those players' perspectives on it, while mixing in anecdotes and attitudes of the current team, a multi-racial group that represents what is still one of the best high schools, academically, in the country.

My favorite part of the history, from Smith, regurgitating a former player: "Hell, no, he wasn't for integration any more than most of his team was, but for God's sake, if the adults had just stayed out of it, the kids would've accomodated the change. No one consulted them, even though it was they who would pay the price."

If you've not read it by now, I'd imagine you won't, but, gosh, the final portion of the story is just so well done. It imagines a meeting between the two teams, something which will never happen:

...Why, [the current team] would even assume that they'd be seeing the old Tigers here again on Sept. 25, when the world shows up on their front lawn for the big anniversary. But wrong again. No, some of their predecessors would tell them as they bid farewell. Too many years of feeling stereotyped, ignored, forgotten, and stigmatized.

This get-together would be it, the only chance for 67 teenagers to hear the story. The one about how a bunch of old white guys, best damn football team in the United States, got an inkling of how it feels to be black.

It's jarring. Wild. We'd compare it to O'Henry if this were seventh grade.

It's just so, so well done.

- - - - - - - -

This Don Imus thing. Just briefly. It's easy to excuse him, some say, because, "Hey, he's old! Old white guys are racists, after all, and they don't get gays or Latinos or Asians. Remember how Billy Packer said 'fag out' and how Tommy Heinsohn referred to Yao's 'chopstick hand?'" (Of course you don't.)

Here's the thing, though, friends:
The phrase 'nappy-haired hos' didn't exist when Imus was growing up. That's pure-1990's racism. He shouldn't be so dumb, but I guess that's kind of his thing. The bigotry, not the stupidity, that is.

- - - - -

Me, I'm more interested in Sanjaya. Sultry.

- - - - -

I got to talk to Jenny last weekend. That made me pretty happy. I get to see her next weekend. That's pretty super fantastic. I'd also like to see Bullshot and, if it can happen, HotPocket. We'll have to work on that. I think Jenny and Bullshot and HotPocket and The Boy could be a pretty good crew. We'll see if it can happen. Saturday? The 21st? Yes!

Is Opening Day the best? Yes, Opening Day is the best.

Sure, the Cubs stunk, though only the box score can tell me that. (Working during the game, sigh, though I did get cursory, surreptitious glances at the score throughout the day.) I got home only in time to hear some sort of odd Mitch Williams-Don Zimmer highlights montage, but also in time to turn on the Royals-Red Sox game - about the seventh inning or so - on ESPN. I got to see Alex Gordon put the ball in play for the first time of his career, after two strikeouts to start it.

I loved Jon Miller's statement at one point: "The Royals, and these fans - Opening Day means more to them than to most." The implication, of course, is that Opening Day is valuable to the teams that know they'll suck. Because, after all, they don't suck yet.

So, I watched Alex Gordon ground out sharply to first - it would've been a double, but there was a runner on first and the sharp grounder was handled for a three-unassisted putout - and then I decided to go for a run. I usually go for a run after work and, in fact, going for a run is one of the more boring recurring themes of this here blog. So, my run was fantastic - a random selection of R.E.M. songs comprised the soundtrack, and 'Exhuming McCarthy' came right at the end, powering me to a strong finish. Early on in the run - perhaps during "Gardening At Night" - a series of thoughts hit me:

1) It's Opening Day.
2) Opening Day means hot dogs.
3) Sunday night's ultra-successful stir-fry dinner yielded two lunches worth of food; therefore, I don't need to make dinner tonight solely for the purposes of leftovers tomorrow.
4) Shoot. It's not that cold outside. I'm already dripping sweat on this long-sleeved t-shirt.
5) I'd really like hot dogs for dinner.

So, powered by 'Exhuming McCarthy,' I crushed the final half-mile of my run, immediately showered and, in 45-degree weather, donned my sandals, shorts, (long-sleeved) t-shirt, and Tigers cap and headed to the grocery store.

The list:
1) Hot Dogs
2) Hot Dog Buns
3) Kosher Dills
4) Sport Peppers
5) Celery Salt
6) Bag of spinach - need my greens, after all

I already had onions and relish, and I don't like (neither eating nor slicing) tomatoes, so my proper Chicago-style hot dog menu ingredients list was complete. I also already had beer, and there was no Old Style at the store, of course. I could've purchased Goose Island, but the Honker's was something like $11 (plus deposit) for a six-pack and, let's be honest, it's not worth it. The Sam Adams Honey Porter served me well.

Minor quibbles:
- In deference to my slightly-expanded waistline, I went with turkey dogs.
- There was not a single poppy seed bun in the store. I had resolved to purchase wheat hot dog buns, even if there weren't poppy seed wheat buns. However, upon entering the hot dog bun aisle, I determined that I'd defer to authenticity and go with poppy seed buns, even if they were enriched white buns. Sadly, this decision was moot as, again, not a single poppy seed bun to be found.

Gosh, though, it made for a fantastic meal. I had the salad first - the spinach, some chopped onion, carrots, celery, balsamic dressing, some fresh ground pepper, and some parmesan - then went to the hot dogs. Boiled, of course, Chicago-style. I toasted the buns, I gave myself an extra kosher spear and, oh baby, it was perfect. I also had an apple.

- - - - - -

While doing my hot dog shopping, I resisted the urge to pick up some Twizzlers - after all, the Twiz is a Rud-family baseball-watching tradition. But, no, I couldn't do it. After all, I plow through anything sweet just about the moment I obtain it. (Witness my "jar of peanut butter in four days" story of a few weeks ago. Despicable.)

However, while in line, I saw it - another Rud tradition. Starburst. Mmm. Starburst.

I'd say probably my happiest memories involve Starburst, baseball, and a scorecard. I think just about all the Ruds really liked afternoons involving Starburst, baseball, and a scorecard. I think, if pressed, even the youngest Rud will admit to looking back fondly on days spent with her brothers, eating Starburst in the sun. It's a pretty good way to spend an afternoon.

Other Rud Wrigley essentials:
- Twizzlers
- Peanuts, purchased before the trip to the El, at the grocery store
- In latter days, I believe, sunflower seeds
- Skittles
- A thermos of lemonade
- A squirt bottle, to the benefit of the sweaty beer vendors
- The binoculars, but only if they were hung around your neck
- During one three-game-in-five-days stretch during one spring break, bananas. Lots of them.
- During this same stretch, the Tribune sports section

How cool is it that outside food is allowed in the park? It still is, isn't it?

Wrigley was about the best, and then the yuppies took over.

- - - - - - -

My final Baseball Prospectus-related piece of baseball geekdom (though I doubt it):

They project stats. They list comparable players, based on age, and similar performance in the three years prior to reaching that age, and they project. That's how they do things. They also list four comparable players under each reviewed players bio. Player comparables go back to 1960, I believe, though not that far for minor league comparables.

Julio Franco is, of course, old. Real old. 48 this year, I believe.

His comparables:
Satchel Paige
Strom Thurmond
George Blanda
Harriet the Galapagos Tortoise

That's comedy, folks.

- - - - - - -

I talked to The Boy tonight. I was caffeinated. I was excited about my just-picked up hot dogs and fixins. I took an hour of his time. It was great.

- - - - - -

Great commercials I've seen a lot of lately:

"We're with A.I.G., honey, so I'm just thinking about butterflies." If I had assets to manage, I'd manage them with A.I.G.

"Mac is asking you a question. Deny or allow?" "Allow." The message here is that Windows is uncool and Macs are cool. Being uncool, I'm satisfied with my pre-Vista machine.

- - - - - - - - -

It's like Greg Oden really, really tried tonight. It's a shame they lost. I like Oden a lot, as a player. I like Conley more. I like the entire Bucks roster a lot more than I like the Florida roster, though Horford's pretty likable, only because of his wide-eyedness.

- - - -

My life has been changed for the better a few times in recent weeks, due to foodstuffs.

Generally, I eat lunch at 1 - last night's entree, and an apple; or a tuna sandwich, an apple, carrots and celery, and another piece of fruit (a bag of grapes or, if it's the right season, clementines) - and then eat a snack at about 3:45. Generally, the snack is a Nature Valley granola bar. Nature Valley Oats N' Honey is about my favorite food ever. Maple and Brown Sugar is another traditional favorite, and sometimes I'll dip into the variety pack, featuring Cinnamon and Peanut Butter varieties. Sometimes, I'll have a similar product if it was on sale that weekend; for instance, South Beach Diet 100-calorie bars, which are just okay.

Last week, Nature Valley bars were on a killer sale. Buy One Get One, perhaps, or a 3-for-5 bucks, or something like that. This being the case, I got adventurous. And, with the adventurousness came fantastic success, in the form of Roasted Almond Granola Bars. (For the record, Nature Valley's site sucks.) (For the record, you can order boxes of granola bars on Amazon. Who knew?)

I don't know if it's just excitement over having found something new and exciting, or if the Roasted Almond Granola Bar is really that good but, sweet Jesus, the Roasted Almond Granola Bar is pretty fantastically good.

The second foodstuff is less-standard, and perhaps more fantastic. Yesterday's stir fry recipe (You need a recipe for stir-fry? I do.) called for sliced fresh ginger. And I wandered through the various aisles, and I had no success finding fresh ginger. Perhaps because I'm stupid, or perhaps because there wasn't any. Who needs fresh ginger, after all?

So, what's better than fresh ginger? Ginger in a squeeze tube, my friends.

Nothing more.