A. tore his knee up sliding into second, breaking up the double-play. Cheers, A. I had fun in the emergency room.

Besides that, August brings ants, tomatoes, raccoons eating sweet little goldfish in the pond. Me working like hell. All good. (Except the ants and that bastard raccoon.)

If you haven’t already, you really must catch up on the Bob Olen Butler / Liz Dewberry split. Gawker’s a good place to start, I hear Slate has something, too. Literally (pun intended) speaking it’s beautiful, the stuff of novels. Ted Turner thrown in for sitcom potential.

Me, I’m taking two of A.’s vicadin. I’ll call you in the morning.

Green again in the Sunday Times, green’s bugging me. Do I need to write another letter? Enough, already, it’s a cliche, it’s now bad writing. They’re going to ruin the whole damn thing, the media. They’re going to ruin green they already have, green sucks.

I’m embarrassed to go to my CSA pickup now, thanks a lot. I wear a hat so no one sees me. Junior slapped an “I Eat Local Vegetables” sticker on the car (thank God, not a hybrid, scrap that plan, A.!) and I cringe every time we get out of it — what people must think of me. It’s annoying, I don’t even want to recycle anymore.

I feel guilty asking for the stupid plastic bags (not paper) at Safeway. I feel the need to explain to them that of course I’d much rather use paper but I just got a new dog and the new dog poops and the kids only pick up the poop if they have a little plastic bag. I keep my mouth shut, though, because I’d probably be led out in handcuffs once someone did the quick math: puppies poop 20 times a day x 20 plastic bags x 365 days, etc.

At least I didn’t just buy a motorcycle. That has to be worse than my white plastic bags. I’ll make up for it, I’ll get hybrid light bulbs.

In other news the wall guys come today, if anyone cares. And, A. I got everything back in the room except the chair because I couldn’t get the second door open.

Go plant a tree.

[Helen, why did you make me read that book! It was horribly depressing.]

While the rest of you were busy staring at computers or making dinners or driving your cars, my brother-in-law was busy buying motorcycles and being famous.

You can get an autographed photo (nude, on his bike) by sending $100 here.

.. My pool and a pitcher of Mai Tais have rendered me unfit to write. I’ll get back to you shortly.

Meanwhile: The Manny trailer gets NY Times coverage and the book cracks top 30 at B&N. Email me here if you want a guest spot in the trailer for The Good Wife. The parts of neighbor, french exchange student, exterminator, and Angelica the brazilian bikini waxer are all up for grabs.

A., go see Scruffy today! Chin Poo, bottom row. More gray than blonde. Unlike me.

Everyone else, shake up some martinis and listen to this. Yeah, baby.

[Big bonus prize to whoever finds link to my favorite Roger Angell essay, "Dry Martini"; The New Yorker; don't know date. Chop-chop, get to work.]

One of Matt Taibbi‘s friends would rather show you pictures of his genital warts than be called a liberal. And he’s a liberal. Maybe we need a new name.
[The American Left's Silly Victim Complex]

H. and T. are off to Tuscany tomorrow. Buon Viaggio! And thanks, H. for Pink Martini! It’s in the car, I’ll listen on the way home.

Speaking of home, today’s the last day I drive (commute) for awhile. Maybe now I can write.

A., want to have lunch today? Let me know pronto.

Anyone else if A. can’t make it?

Hats off to you, every one. (Separate words intentional. As in “every one of you”.)

These guys are nuts. [Courtesy Zulkey].

Zulkey’s fun, read her. I have work to do.

Julie Nipp said I looked nice today, she likes my jeans.

My father-in-law has a cell phone and voicemail but he doesn’t check the messages, he assumes you’ll call back. Keep this in mind if you get his voicemail.

More later.

He was working on making this happen when we had dinner. (Click on “walk of fame archives” — October 28, 2006, though it was actually 2005.)

In other news, I’m slicing new potatoes!

(Helen, call me today if you get a chance. I don’t have any of your numbers on my cell phone and when I call your son to ask he says in a really low, scratchy voice, “I’m in a meeting.”)

Yawn, I know. Hey, it’s slow here, what do you want?

First spiders in our ears, now prozac in our water. I’d like to add that there are also ants in the guest house, and I’m not talking about my mother’s sisters. Obviously the world is ending.

(Still, the Times published my letter. But M. was there first.)