Tonight I had my first, "Oh, jeez, it's that late?" moment of the summer, and that's truly awesome.

Scene: Some bar
Players: Myself, two coworkers
Activity: Not much, starting at about 6:30 or so. Talking too loudly, about nothing particularly interesting. Lots of me listening to 'design' talk, and eating Gorgonzola dip. Really, pretty productive, in its own (unproductive) way. Also, I should note that we were, inexplicably, inside. (This is what happens when you choose to meet people there, rather than show up first and stake out your spot. Oh well.)

So, we're there for I'm-not-sure-how-long, and I see a friend from last summer walk in. Quick hug, and a "A bunch of us are outside. You should totally come and join us," and then, after about 15 or so minutes with the current coworkers, I drop my cash on the table and wander out.

So the outside part was nice. Catching up, introducing myself to their new staff members, generally being genial and enjoying the mid-80's temps, and, eventually, they're finishing up their dinner and I'm hanging out, and then it's go time.

Still relatively bright out, certainly still warm and comfortable, and I get to my car and, Oh jeez, is it really that late?, it's 8:55. But still bright and wonderful outside and, still, another month for days to get longer. It's really pretty sweet, when it comes right down to it.

I even hustled in a quick walk post-hangout, and was home in relative lightness just before 10. Man, late sunsets rule.

- - - - - - - -

I just wrote "a quick walk," which is just lame. But my right leg's been bothering me lately - I've got a feeling it's a stress fracture - and that's severely limited my running. Usually two days off for each extended run, which isn't the schedule I'd like to maintain.

But, man, walking is just lame. And yes, it used to be my only form of exercise, but you can feel pretty inferior seeing some person run one way on the path behind my house, then passing me on their return trip. Just embarrassing, and I want to say, "Hey, check it, I'm injured," but there's just not time for that.

- - - - - - -

Also, it's much better to have a destination, even if it's just the library. Last Thursday, it was a Disc Golf (disc golf?, probably, and don't you dare call it Frisbee Golf, or Frolf, Andy Bernard) course. I was terrible and felt like a hippie, but Disc Golf seems like a pretty good way to spend a few hours. A fair amount of walking - hills and everything on this particular course - and drinking's mildly encouraged. So it was a 40 of PBR in my belly and a well-above-par score on my card, and I'd say that the net calorie intake was negative, which is to say I burned some calories in that particular two-plus hour stretch.

I also lost a friend's 'driver,' though I'll blame that primarily on the unraked leaves and the severe downslope, rather than on a lack of focus (and talent) exacerbated by the sweet, sweet nectar.

- - - - - - -

For the first time in years, I'm really, really enjoying a whole lot of baseball. Enjoying, I wrote, and not just observing. Then again, that much is obvious based on what I've written semi-recently.

Highlights from recent broadcasts:

Bob Brenly, WGN-TV: "This linescore is like binary code. All 1's and zeroes." I was shocked that he was able to pull that one out.

Also Bob Brenly, as a helicopter is shown on screen...
Bob: You know what that is, Len?
Len: What, BB?
Bob: High chopper.
Len: (Giggles like a school girl)
Not funny, but a little funny. Mostly in context, and mostly because there's a whole lot of work that goes into filling three hours of time every day for three hours. You need 'high chopper' jokes, you see.

Monday afternoon, Hawk Harrelson: "And we're just gettin' our butts kicked."

Monday evening, Detroit Tigers:

Scene: Mario Impemba and Rod Allen are discussing the Devil Rays B.J. Upton, a former second-overall pick (Brian Bullington was more polished, because he was a college pitcher, the Pirates stupidly decided), and his brother Justin Upton, the first-overall pick of the Diamondbacks in 2005.

Mario: There's a whole lot of talent in that family.
Rod: There's a whole lot of Benjamins in that family.

Me: Awesome.

And the clincher from, of course, Ron Santo. Saturday afternoon, the day after the Cubs had scored something like six runs in the top of the eighth, then allowed one or two in the bottom half to lose, say, their fourth straight. Sinking ship.

Ron: Patrick, have I told you how much this season's getting to me?
Pat: No, Ronny, you haven't.
Ron: Well, Patrick, after last night's game, I just walked across the outfield and got right on the bus. I needed to go to sleep after that one.
Pat: Ball three. Three and one. (Who am I kidding? He never calls pitches when Ronny's on a roll. But let's pretend.)
Ron: So I tossed and turned and finally got to sleep at about 1:30. And then I woke up in a cold sweat.
Pat: Strike two swinging. Full count. Why's that, Ronny?
Ron: I had a dream that my wife left me and I didn't have any friends. You think this season's not getting to me?
Pat: Don't worry, Ronny, you have plenty of friends. Millions, even.
Ron: Oh, thanks, Patrick.
Pat: Ball four. Garciaparra walks.
Ron: Goddammit. Jesus. I wanna kill Scott Eyre.

Conclusion: Memorial Day weekend rules.
Friday: One televised game.
Saturday: One televised game. Another on the radio. Sadly, a third was rained out.
Sunday: One televised game.
Monday: Two televised games. Another on the radio.

I also found time to drink a bit.

- - - - - - -

In the "Burying the Lead" category, I completed a 10K on Saturday. I kind of run a 10K about three times a week or, at my peak, six times a week, so it wasn't the running of it that was the accomplishment. It was the waking up for it (6 a.m.) that was an accomplishment and the free bananas and yogurt afterward that made it awesome.

I finished 14th of 64 in the age group (linked above), which I'm pretty happy with, though I came up 12 seconds shy of my not-unrealistic, yet kind of fast, 48:00 goal. But 48:12, equal to a 7:46 pace, which isn't anything to pee on, you know? Also, I would've won the Males 65-69 group, and finished a strong second in the Females 1-14 group, so I can also take pride in that.

There was a professional race photographer shortly before we entered the track that led to the finish line. Clad in my too-big Northwestern Wildcats N-Cat shirt, I gave a first-class Go Cats claw; I can only hope that the picture came out, and that the photographer is able to identify my number and contact me to purchase. I'd totally buy it. Sadly, I wasn't able to find the photo at the public photo display place on Sunday afternoon, but that was after it had been open for 24 hours already, and perhaps someone had ripped that fine picture off the walls. They were up for grabs, you see.

So, then the question is, How much do I enjoy this? Quite a bit, it seems. Though, as I was looking through the brochures promoting upcoming events, I kept thinking, Is it worth a hotel room and the entry fee just to get a t-shirt and some bananas? The answer, inevitably, is a strong "Probably not, stupid."

That said, maybe if I get healthy, I'll look into one of those 26.2-milers, perhaps the international one in October, or perhaps the Chicago one the following October. I don't think I'd do the 26.2-miler up here, though maybe I'll do the half-marathon next year. Sounds like you need to take a bus to get to the start line for that one, though you also get a medal. Me, I just got the t-shirt. And I spilled mustard on it within four hours of race completion.

- - - - - -

I should mention that the Northwestern Wildcats Women's Lacrosse team won its third consecutive national championship on Sunday night, and that the Women's Softball team just qualified for its second straight College World Series. It's not the type of thing I can get excited about - I'm not invested in it, and I don't really even check the results until the postseason - but it's really, really, really awesome. (Also, I do watch the softballers whenever they're on; in a lot of ways, softball is better than baseball. There's no margin for error. Of course, softball is also, in a lot of ways, a game of one-dimensional players and one-player teams. That's why it's not as good as baseball. Also, they don't scratch their crotches.)

Nothing bad comes out of it, except for, occasionally, hazing pictures.

No, there's not that much to write, necessarily, but there's never that much to write. Maybe that's the joy of it all.

My sister graduated college on Friday. Who holds a graduation on a Friday morning? A bunch of hippies, that's who. It was reported to be a pretty good time, with my parents and Stumpy (not Stump) making an appearance and, apparently, the bad weather holding off. So that's nice.

Also nice is that all four Ruds are officially done. Done. That's awesome. What took her so long?

- - - - - - - - -

Fueled by booze and sunlight, I was an accomplice in the following conversation Saturday. Let's say it started at 4:45, continued at 5:30, and peaked at 8:15. And then we all fell down.

Coworker: Man, my dog has a pretty good life.
Me: I bet.
Coworker: Man, if I had a genie, I'd totally wish to be a dog.
Me: Yeah, but you'd have to specify what kind of dog.
Coworker: Yeah, so I guess I'd ask to have a good home.
Me: Yeah, but you couldn't talk, dude. You'd be a dog.

.......

Coworker: Man, my dog's got an awesome life.
Me: Sounds that way.
Coworker: Man, I'd totally wish to have a good home if a genie gave me three wishes.
Me: And then you'd wish to be a dog?
Coworker: Yeah. Wouldn't that be awesome?
Me: Yeah, but then you'd be wasting a wish.

......

Coworker: Man, my dog's got an awesome life.
Me: Yeah, sounds like you'd really like to be a dog.
Coworker: Think about that! Someone cleans up your poop!
Me: Pretty cool.
Coworker: So, if I had three wishes, first I'd wish for a good master.
Me: That could be interpreted in a number of ways.
Coworker: Yeah, I guess you're right.

I swear two things here:
1) It was funny. I swear. Uproariously hilarious. Or it was the booze.
2) I'm officially a grownup, you know. Late 20's and everything. This dude's even more of a grownup. Married, too. Man, this world's going to hell, especially if this qualifies to someone (me) as funny.

- - - - - - -

I guess I'd just like to write, so, again, not much here.

- - - - - - - -

I'm kind of a grammar guy, you might know. Not always here, for sure, but certainly in public places. For instance, The Ring Fingernail has a public facility - "Veteran's Park" - that makes me want to vomit once a day. (I see the sign once.) That one veteran being honored must be pretty honored, after all.

Bad English can drive me crazy - "I haven't saw that," sadly, I hear from time to time. Annoying and, more importantly, wrong. (Unless you're a linguistics professor, in which case there's no such thing as being incorrect when it comes to language. Linguistics is pretty dumb, I learned in the spring of 2000.)

But, usually, the stuff that drives me crazy is the grammar - incorrect verb tenses, and the like. That, and the obligatory "apostrophe 's'" that (stupid) people feel like adding to any plural.

I've come up with a new thing that drives me crazy. I also probably know the one person in the world to make this mistake.

Anyway, twice in the last two weeks, a colleague has attempted to use the term "self-deprecating" - as in, pointing out one's own shortcomings, often for humorous purposes. However, he's pronounced it "self-depreciating" - as in, apparently, pointing out one's loss of monetary value in the marketplace. Clearly, however, he meant it in the former case, as the latter case makes no sense. At all.

The question is not whether this is annoying. It is. The question is also not whether this reflects poorly on the individual. It does. (The question is also not whether caring about this reflects poorly on yours truly. It also does.)

The question truly is, How does something like this happen? Certainly, I think that the term "self-deprecating" is one that's used almost exclusively in spoken language - I guess you could read an interview or an article about someone that's particularly self-deprecating, but I'd say it's almost exclusively used when someone says "I'm quite self-deprecating," or "He's so self-deprecating," or, "Rud, you're quite self-deprecating, at times, and that's part of your charm. Asshole."

So, in one way, fascinating.

In another, just flat annoying.

- - - - - - -

I don't particularly enjoy Len and Bob on the Cubs broadcasts, though I do enjoy Len's attempts at showing off how cool he was in college by talking about fringe hip bands. I kind of, in their own way, enjoy Hawk and DJ, but only kind of, and certainly not as an every day thing.

Anyway, I got to see but one of the three weekend Cubs-Sox games - the Sunday game - televised here on WGN with Hawk and DJ on the call and Dan Roan hosting "White Sox Warmup" in advance.

When Hawk and DJ are pulling for the Sox, and they're playing my Cubs, I don't enjoy Hawk and DJ. They're annoying at that point.

However, they did do some of the greatest, greatest, greatest TV production work I've ever seen, at least to this baseball fan who has spent twenty-something years transfixed by the centerfield scoreboard at Wrigley Field. DJ started on a riff about how quickly the count was updated at Cubs games...and then they brought out the big guns: Split screen.

So, we got the centerfield camera. Righthanded batter at the plate (Konerko, I think). Above the lefthanded hitter's box, an image of the centerfield scoreboard. And, yes, it was fantastic.

We got a called strike and, indeed, the strike was on the board before Joe West pointed his finger to make the indication. And then we got a slider low and away and, indeed, it was on the scoreboard before it was even in Barrett's glove.

Truly, it was a landmark day for television.

Also, Hawk made some sort of reference to a plumber and pliers and, I think, someone's 'Hiney,' though I'm not sure. There's his charm, for the record.

You know what a Hineybird is, don't you DJ? A Hineybird is a bird that flies in circles, increasingly smaller concentric circles, until it disappears into its own behind. Poof! Mariotti's a Hineybird.

That's Hawk's real charm, for the record.

- - - - - - - -

I got The Clientele's God Save The Clientele on Saturday. I like The Clientele, a lot, though more in theory (they're clearly awesome) than in practice (I don't listen to their records much, though they're clearly awesome.)

Elliott Smith's New Moon also arrive. Its highlight is, duh, a cover of Big Star's "Thirteen." Because that's about the sweetest song ever.

And I got the Wilco record on Tuesday. My favorite song is "Hate It Here," which is certainly about the least cool song on the record to declare one's favorite. It's stupid country rock, not that far removed from "Passenger Side" from A.M., to be honest. "I even learned how to use the washing machine." It's also not far removed from The Mountain Goats' out of this world "Woke Up New."

Speaking of The Mountain Goats, Pitchfork linked to this, and I'm not the type to embed video, so I'll just link to it:
Death Cab's Ben Gibbard doing The Mountain Goats' Palmcorder Yajna. It's great.

(It's the fantastic one from We Shall All Be Healed where John Darnielle sings, "I hope they incinerate everybody in it."

Balls.

Hey, let's talk about The Hold Steady. It was awesome.

A 90-minute set, one encore, one impromptu-seeming second encore, a pretty adoring, enthusiastic crowd, quite a bit of sweat, one really heartfelt Craig Finn monologue and another absolutely fantastic, hilarious one, one dork with a Twins jersey on and another who threw a Twins hat onstage, a few buzz-beginning beers during the opener, and quite a few fist pumps, a few more odd jigs, and smiles by the miles.

The Hold Steady is a worthy favorite band, it's been determined.

Here's the setlist, because I'm "that guy" (In parentheses, the lyrics that I wrote down to help me remember the song, then Googled)

Stuck Between Stations
Hot Soft Nights
Chips Ahoy
Party Pit
The Swish ("Shoes and socks, baby, socks and shoes. We spent the night last night in Newport News.")
Massive Nights
You Can Make Him Like You (I did the 'hold up the cell phone' thing for The Boy during this song. He hung up.)
Don't Let Me Explode
Stevie Nix ("You came into the ER drinking gin from a jam jar.")
Barfruit Blues ("Kids with broken hearts, kids with broken bones.")
Your Little Hoodrat Friend
Southtown Girls

- - - - -

Citrus
First Night
Knuckles
Killer Parties

- - - - -

Certain Songs (Craig and Franz only)


On Craig Finn's heartfelt monologue:
It came during an instrumental break in "Your Little Hoodrat Friend," which is about their rockingest song, I think. Anyway, they extended the break, and he started telling a story. ...about how they're five days into a five week tour, or something like that, and about how they'll take three days off and then head to Europe to do it again. Just a "band on the road" kind of thing. And then he kind of looked to his bandmates, and then he kind of looked back at the adoring crowd, and he says, "There is so much joy in what we do up here, and we just want to thank you for sharing that with us." And then they ripped through the rest of the song, and they ripped through "Southtown Girls," Craig pointing in various directions to coincide with the song's lyrics ("Take Penn Ave. out to the 494."), and then they left the stage.

And we screamed, and they returned, and they played a few soft songs, and they played "Knuckles," which is kind of a dumbish song ("People keep calling me Sunny D. / Cause I got the good stuff that kids go for") but which we all eat right up, and then they just slayed (slew!) on "Killer Parties."

Late in the song, the normal-est looking bandmember, the guitarist with the glasses, came out in the crowd in barreled over the barricade, finishing in the party pit. And Craig just belted it out: "Now if they said we partied. Well I'm pretty sure we partied. I really don't remember. I remember we parted from our bodies. And we woke up in Ybor City." And then he gave an odd rock n' roll sign of the cross, and it was odd, and it was rock and roll.

And then they came back and played "Certain Songs," just Craig on 'voice' and Franz on the keyboards, and I was the dork singing along. The only dork singing along. But, my God, how could you not sing along to "...C9 is for the making eyes, and it's 'Paradise By The Dashboard Light' (ed: your author didn't even know that this was the Meatloaf "Let me sleep on it" song until he looked up those lyrics moments ago) and B12 is for the speeders, and the hard drugs are for the [gesture in proper directions] bartenders and the kitchen workers and the bartenders friends. And they're playing it again."

- - - - - - - - -

About the hilarious monologue:
After "You Can Make Him Like You," Craig went into what turned out to be a true story about Saint Barbara. How she lived in third century, and how her father was an aristocrat who went off to war, and how he returned to see that she had converted to Christianity, and how he ordered her beheaded, and how he was then commanded by the executioner to behead her himself, and how he did, and how he was then struck by lightning.

Not that funny, on its face, I guess.

But he told it in a "guy hanging out at the bar telling a hell of a story" voice and pose, and when he mentioned that she converted to Christianity, he hit an absolute home run: "And you gotta understand, back then, 300 years after Jesus, Christianity wasn't like it is today, with the ski trips and the youth groups and all that. No, back then, Christianity was roughly like getting a tattoo on your face."

It was awesome.

And then he closed the story by saying, "And so now Santa Barbara's the patron saint of land mines, or rather, not stepping on them. And this one's called 'Don't Let Me Explode,' and it was just so balls.

(In looking at Wikipedia, it's clear that he tells this story whenever he plays the song. A note references that he told the story to several thousand at Lollapalooza last summer, but I kind of figured he didn't tell it just to make me giggle. Part of the routine, and an awesome part.)

- - - - - -

In structure and song style, The Hold Steady really aren't anything at all like Guided by Voices, who are the greatest band ever. But they're just so similar - they want to have fun, and they're old, and they're keeping the dream alive and, most importantly, they're absolutely thrilled at the prospect of being a hardworking rock band with passionate fans. Bob Pollard was jaded towards the end, and Craig Finn might soon enough.

But right now, there's just so much joy up on that stage, and there are so many smiles, and it's just so damn genuine, and it's just so awesome. I'd like to think that any rock fan would enjoy The Hold Steady, though those that know and love the lyrics would obviously enjoy it more. But it was just so fantastic.

And Craig is just an absolute trip to watch. Ridiculous jigs, off-mic backing vocals ("And we walked across that Grainbelt Bridge. Into bright new Minneapolis" ["bright new Minneapolis"]), finger pointing to the crowd and to the bar, arms flailing. Just awesome. He's also smaller than I expected, legitimately short, it seems. That adds to it, because he's so gruff and so authoritative, and yet so tiny.

Meanwhile, the rest of the band does their job. The longhaired bassist is cool, Franz the keyboardist (occasional accordion player) has a nice mustache, and the longer-haired drummer looks like a metalhead. The other guitarist looks like an accountant, except a sweatier one. Like my brother.

People enjoy singing along to backing vocals more at a Hold Steady show than at most. This is because there's generally no rhythm to Craig's barking, and because the backing vocals ("Whoa-oh!") are really easy.

My only complaint about the show, oddly, is that the vocals were too low. That never happens.

Also, their t-shirt selection was a bit lame. They were out of all but smalls in the light yellow version of the Twins one, which would have been my selection, and they only had a white version of that one with the two kids on the phone, which would have been my second choice.

I wound up with this one, because I needed a Hold Steady t-shirt:


Not completely my speed, because I'm neither a skulls nor a hearts kind of guy, but it worked. Navy blue, and I'm curiously short of navy blue these days.

On Thursday, when I was the kid who wore the concert t-shirt the day after the concert, I thought it worked pretty well.

One certain way to define a "good night:" Sometime, I'm not sure when, but we'll say 3:45, belly full of eggs over-easy and hash browns, drifting in and out of sleep on one of those floor rocking chairs. Not that great yet. But, upon waking, hearing that familiar strum and, instinctively, belting it out: "When you were young, you were the King of Carrot Flowers. And you how built a tower tumbling through the tree-ees."

It was awesome, though I can only partially remember it. And, no, I didn't make it home until about 2 or 2:30 the next day and, no, the ensuing morning and afternoon weren't as fun as the night but, oh baby, there were impromptu-ish "singalongs" of "King of Carrot Flowers" and "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea." (Impromptu-"ish" because I had been discussing my love of ITAOTS with the guitarist earlier in the evening, and "singalongs," because it was only myself and the guitarist singing. But, still, awesome.)

- - - - -

In trying to think of other interesting things that have happened since I last wrote, I can only think of falling asleep at 6:30 p.m. Wednesday, then waking up at 2 and, then, of course, waking up at 6 a.m. So that's 12 hours. (And I still didn't make it through the Bulls game on Thursday night entirely, drifting off shortly after Detroit picked up the lead. Ugh.) And I did it again on Saturday night, though there wasn't even a 2 a.m interruption this time - just straight through, 6:30 to 6. Pretty impressive, and at least there was an explanation for this one.

The good thing about falling asleep before 9 is that the lights don't stay on overnight. In the case of Wednesday, the better thing was that the TV wasn't even on. In the case of Saturday, well, the TV was on.

- - - - - - -

I had my most disappointing ever Ring Fingernail Borders visit on Thursday night. With Wilco's record imminent (it's Tuesday, dude), and with reviews for both very strong, I went to pick up The Clientele's God Save The Clientele and Elliott Smith's New Moon, a collection of demos 1994-97. They say The Clientele record is poppier than previous efforts, which make me less disappointed that it's a summer album, and they say Elliott's collection is just awesome.

Sadly, though, my local Borders didn't have a copy of the former, and the latter was well more expensive than on Amazon. Sadlier, the person that "helped" me look for the Clientele album was a straight bitch. Like I was interrupting something, and not in a hot way. Just in a bitchy way.

However, I'll be back there on Tuesday because, hey, it's a Wilco record. Oh, it'll be great.

I listened to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot today, and it was as fantastic as you remember. Perhaps more fantastic than I remember. I last tried to list my fifty favorite albums in, what, fall of 2002, and I'd like to do it again. But I've got things to do, too. YHF had to be on the list, but I think it'd be much higher now.

- - - - - -

Unless something unforeseen happens, I'll be two hours south to see The Hold Steady on Wednesday night. I've missed out on a few good chances to see them previously (well, kind-of good chances...nothing closer than two hours away, for instance, and, in one case, nine hours away and on St. Patrick's Day), and I'm quite looking forward to this.

I hope he talks about the Twins and the Tigers, and I think somehow he will. I also hope he plays "Stuck Between Stations," and I also think somehow he will. I also hope it lasts longer than two hours, though I think that's probably wishful thinking. I also hope that I'm home by 3 a.m., but that's probably also wishful thinking. I hope I'm not pulled over on the way home under suspicion of being stoned, which is what happened last time I made a similar trip. I won't analyze whether that represents wishful or practical thinking. But I hope I don't get pulled over.

Most importantly, I hope that they play "You Can Make Him Like You" and "Massive Nights." And I hope someone spills their beer on me, because that just seems appropriate for a Hold Steady show.

Sadly, I'll probably write about it upon my return home, though no guarantees.

- - - - - - - -

If I told you I'd rediscovered a love of email, would you say I'm a dork? I'd hope so. But email's kind of cool, when it comes down to it.

Without email, I wouldn't get to debate the merits of Amy Winehouse with my pal Tina.

I also wouldn't know about catsthatlooklikehitler.com, which Tina wrote to me about, and which is totally coincidental. I just named my cat(s) Hitler because I hate Hitler, like I hate that cat(s), and not because they look like Hitler.

(I think the Hitler site is funnier in concept than execution, for the record. There seems to be a cause to the site, as well, which is respectable, though I don't really get into the whole "Save The Cats" thing. Also, the term 'Kitler' is funny.)

- - - - - - - -

Jared from Subway is totally not a sports fan. There's no way he knew who Tony Parker, Michael Strahan, or Ryan Howard were before he shot commercials with them. (I just saw Tony Parker's for the first time. I'd imagine his rap videos are ridiculous, though I hear he's serious about it. Tony Parker, not Jared, that is.)

- - - - - - -

Sports-related, Bill Carmody's recruiting juggernaut just nabbed a top ten Illinois player (Nick Fruendt/Freundt) and a top 20 player (John Shurna), both freshman for the 2008-09 season. It seems to me that they have one scholarship left for that class though, if we're lucky, Jean-Marc Melchoir will have gone pro or died or something by then.

The great:
They're highly regarded. Freundt just was offered a scholarship by DePaul, and was getting higher interest. Shurna is one of the players whose had the biggest surge in interest since the end of the high school season.

The great:
They're local. Local is better than not-local.

The great:
They definitely represent a step up, a third straight year where the Cats'll land top area talent (Ryan and Nash; Capocci and Thompson; now these two.)

The great:
It seems like local coaches like Tavaras.

The awful:
For the second straight summer, I'm writing about college basketball. This is a problem.

The less-than-great:
They're white. I hope we get a Jamal or an Imam. (Jamal's a made-up player. Imam is "Shumpert," and is a top 15 national prospect at this point, I've heard. He was an unknown when Carmody started recruiting him six months ago but, sadly, his star seems to have risen above NU's reach.)

I'm not prepared to stamp any NU ticket to the NCAA Tournament, but they're closer to it. Still, it seems that, like Coble, Fruendt/Freundt sorta looks like a dork. It also seems that he's a top ten Chicago-area talent, so we'll deal with it.

- - - - - - -

I had a fantastic talk with my dad (and my mom listened in) about politics this afternoon. Well, not really politics, but "Who's your horse in the primaries?" talk with my dad. I'm happy that I was able to pick out "his guy." And I'm happier that, eight years ago, he was a McCain guy, even after the Bush nomination was a foregone conclusion. That speaks well of my dad.

He's probably happy he didn't ask me who my horse was in the race, though I'm not sure who it is. I *think* he knows we're interested in different races entirely, or that we'll have 'horses' in separate races (it's possible, for instance, that he'll be pulling for my horse, but for entirely different reasons, and without a betting slip), though I'm not quite sure of that.

November X, 2000: "Oh, son. If I knew you were voting for Gore, I wouldn't've reminded you to vote at all. I reminded your brother to vote, but only because I knew he'd vote for Nader.

How right he was.

- - - - - - - - - -

Unless you're related to me and reading, you've got no better than the third-best mother in the world.

The best mom: Philicia Rashad, a.k.a. Claire Huxtable.
The second-best mom: My mom.
The third-best mom: Who knows?

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

I'm coming off of the excitement of the most fantastically gay, yet completely heterosexual, weekend I've ever been involved with. I think Jenny and Tina mutually refer to each other as "hetero life partners," and it would seem that my pal Nemo and I are headed about that way.

Among the highlights:
- Getting soft serve ice cream
- Wine tasting, ever so briefly
- Playfully slapping around the volleyball at the near-empty beach
- A mid-pace jog
- Two greasy, wonderful breakfasts, neither really involving a hangover that needed to be cured (One of these breakfasts was prepared together, making it extra gay)

As far as planned weekends, it was an impulsive one - we didn't confirm anything until Thursday post-Office, and we didn't confirm Friday evening's arrival until 1:30 p.m. Friday afternoon. This meant quite a hurried post-work Friday, though I managed to fit in a run. But cleaning, laundry, groceries (including most of Saturday's breakfast items) made for a hectic night. Thankfully, it was capped off by Taco Bell, then some Blue Moons.

There's this thing that I've noticed with Nemo, and I think it's indicative of the way we know each other by this point. But the fact is that conversations always get started, and they always move in fascinating directions, and they always feature topics that get unresolved...

A general flow chart would look like this:
Nemo: [something interesting]
Me: [interesting response]
Nemo: [interesting response, eliciting laughter]
Me: [laughing triggers another though, therefore causing me to start another topic]
Repeat ad infinitum

It's pretty neat.

Learned this weekend, though it's definitely not true:
"Brain freezes affect only 30 percent of the population."

Confirmed this weekend, and it is certainly true:
"During a brain freeze, your brain does not actually freeze. There is no danger and you lose no functionality."

I also learned this weekend that some of my favorite places in the world are located on the 45th parallel, which is halfway between the Equator and the North Pole. These locations:
The Ring Fingernail
Minneapolis
Salem, Oregon
The Eastern Tip of the United States (I'm just reporting what I read)
Bordeaux, France
The Caspian Sea, which is apparently a very narrow sea


Anyway, the visit lasted less than 36 hours - from about 10:45 on Friday night until just after 9 on Sunday morning - so I'm left wanting a bit more. Yet, it was near-perfect, and I'm really looking forward to the next one, which I'd imagine will come at Harpsapalooza 2008, six weeks from now.

- - - - - -

You know, Gurs and I had talked about something in mid-May. That'd be, like, um, this weekend or next. Sadly, I'm an ass - I was out when he called on Wednesday, on with Nemo on Thursday night, and didn't make the call this weekend.

- - - - - - -

After watching Sunday's Cubs win, I've determined that they're probably not that good, but they do seem to be a bit likable. Certainly, Pinella's likable. Certainly, also, Matt the Bat is likable (due to the hair), and I think Daryle Ward is likable, owing to the not-as-old-as-you-think-he-is-and-kind-of-fat thing.

- - - - - - -

On the NBA front, Dee Brown is playing like a flat-out man right now. And somewhere in the last two years, Deron Williams became legitimately quick. Awesome. Golden State and Utah - feel the excitement!

Ernie Johnson: [some reference to a Charles Barkley commercial]
Kenny Smith: Man, you're always selling out.
Charles Barkley: Yeah, but I'm expensive.
Ernie Johnson: [something related to the game]
Charles Barkley: [interrupting] I can't be bought for money, but I can be bought for a lot of money.

The Bulls...well, I wish they could shoot. Owing to years of numbness caused by supporting the Wildcats, I didn't really think the Bulls were ever actually out of game two. But they were, just about 20 minutes (actual time, not "clock" time) into the game. Oh well.

Good news is that they're good at home, really good. I just hope that the crowd gets them hyped on Thursday. More importantly, I hope they remember how to shoot.

- - - - - - - - -

Hey, I'm going to see The Hold Steady next Wednesday. Could be pretty sweet.

"Hey Minneapolis, Hey St. Paul, We don't care if we don't get the call." (That's from their rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame.")