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My fantasy football team is awful. They are worse than awful. They are just sad. I thought I knew something about football. Apparently, I was mistaken.

I started the season losing my depth at running back. James Stewart is out for the season. The quarterback for one of my top receivers then took a trip to the emergency room. I suppose that is what Vick gets for running against the Ravens.

I’m now lost in a sea of mediocrity. Marvin Harrison, the top wideout from a year ago, is being shut down. He has 16 catches this season. Last year, that would have been a good game. Peerless Price made the move from a #2 receiver to a #1 by going on vacation. No one has heard from him since. Marty Booker, another stud wideout, is suffering from quarterback loss in an indirect sort of way. Can you believe Chicago actually wanted Kordell Stewart as their QB? Ugh.

Now injuries are beginning to settle in. Travis Henry, my star running back, hurt his ribs this week. He gained seven yards on the ground and threw an interception. Yes, my running back threw an interception! Dante Culpepper, the only real bright spot in my lineup just broke some bones in his back. Wonderful. Neither guy made it to halftime.

I keep thinking that they can’t be that bad. Marvin has to eventually catch a pass or two. William Green will again show the flash he had last year. But then I look at my sad 1-2 record and lose hope.

Sniff, sniff. If this keeps up, I’ll actually have to start watching football for the football. People still do that. Don’t they?

I didn’t think my son really enjoyed television.
Baby Eistein can hold his interest for a little while.
The Wiggles can grab his attention for minutes at a time. But
rarely does anything on the little flickering tube garner
any type of reaction from him. It’s not like he asks to
watch a favorite show. Of course, it’s not like he can talk
quite yet either.

But the other day, the wife called me down to show me the Wiggles
in a little bit of car trouble. It seems the engine of their
Wigglemobile was acting up.
The purple Wiggle, who my wife informs me is named Jeff, opens up
the hood and promptly gets a faceful of grease. There’s a pause,
a squirt, a pause, and a squirt. My son couldn’t hold himself
back. Each shot of grease brought about a howl of laughter. It
wasn’t a chuckle. It was a signature belly laugh. He was hysterical.

The wife swears it is his favorite show. Who am I to disagree? It’s
not like he finds The West Wing particularly funny.

I know. I know. As a good little parent I shouldn’t be advocating
my son’s involvement with that evil box of horrors. It’s not like
I’m looking for a
babysitter.
I was just happy to see his joyous response, even if it means I’ll
be fighting him for the remote from this point on.

Is anyone else thinking about hurricane Isabel? It’s not like the local news would let us forget. Isabel isn’t the top story right now. It’s the only story. I find it pleasing to get a break from all the death the news at five normally fires at us but sheesh. There’s got to be something else to talk about. Let’s not forget that Jamal Lewis rushed for 295 yards this weekend. Now that’s news.

I’ve always been facinated by storms. Massive storms that look so pretty from space are no exception. Despite the fact that Isabel is weakening, she looks like a doozie. I look forward to pictures and video from the front lines. Run for cover people, unless you are a reporter. In that case, leave the camera on.

It’s still unclear how much the Baltimore area will be affected but, for the moment at least, I’m concerned about my future vacation spot. The wife and I have plans to visit Ocean City in a couple of weeks. I hope it is still there when we arrive.

For some odd reason, I find it comforting that this hurricane is named after my grandmother. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Would she? Even if she does, I’ll have some stories to tell Cambell. There was this one time when your great-grandmother reshaped the East Coast. Tell your buddies to beat that.

This is what I saw when I arrived home yesterday from work. It resembled the former corner of my house but something wasn’t right. I didn’t remember doing any digging during the night. The cable box has tilted since a plow hit it during the winter months but I didn’t remember deciding to fix it myself. What the hell happened? You can tell I was unhappy; I took pictures.

This morning I got my answer. A Verizon truck was parked on this very corner. Aha, I thought. I have found the culprits of this dirty deed. I took a detour from my normally short jaunt to my car to express my unhappiness. I expected the damage to be fixed. I wanted grass again. Hey, what are those guys doing with the shovels?

I was assured that the mess would be cleaned up. They would level off the ground when they were done. New seed would be planted. The neighbors down the street had service problems and the wires underneath my lawn were the source of the evil. The crew knew they would be back today to finish the job. They didn’t bother to clean up because they were not done. I even got a business card to identify crew leader.

Explanation accepted.

This is what I saw when I arrived home from work today. Look what they’ve done with the place. It’s not Art Deco but, then again, what is? The Empire State Building you say. We are getting off subject.

My yard has seen better days, even when I forget to mow. The sidewalk is busted up, something I didn’t realize until I saw pieces of it cradled in the grasp of the big yellow machine. A ditch several feet wide and several feet deep hides within my beautiful new red fencing. I saw two guys with shovels when I left. I didn’t expect a backhoe.

I actually found myself wondering if the beer bottles in the bottom of the ditch were dug up artifacts or new additions to my property. There’s something to be said for dedication to the job.

Even so, I hope they come back tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be nicer this time around.

This morning the wife found a bug in her bowl of cereal. The creepy little thing was squirming for breath in a sea of milk. I had just finished a bowl of that same cereal when she made the discovery. It was bug free, I think.

She called the company responsible to explain her little crawling problem and they promised to send us some free coupons. You could almost hear the wife’s stomach turn as the company representative queried her about the bug’s shape and color. I tried to console her. At least she didn’t find half a bug.

My fantasy football team notched their first win last night. As I find out every year, fantasy football does wierd things to your football watching experience. You may vote for a team or player you hate. You might be timid about the success of a team you love. A meaningless game suddenly becomes a fascinating matchup.

Last night, both my opponent and I had a stake in the Philly Tampa game. Donovan McNabb would throw for his team. I started Philadephia’s defense and Tampa Bay’s kicker. My opponent wanted to see Donovan McNabb flash some skills. I wanted to see a battle of field goals. Philly 0, Tampa 3 would make me very happy. The final score – Philly 0, Tampa 17 – was good enough. Mr. McNabb, a very good quarterback, had a very bad day. That’s too bad. I like him as a player. I just don’t like it when he plays against my team, fantasy or otherwise.

The wife and I went shopping for a car seat yesterday night. It only took us three stores to find one we liked. She was focused on features and safety. I was determined that it would match the truck. Cambell didn’t seem to care. He fell asleep as the sun set. One of us has our priorities mixed up. Don’t worry. I’ll straighten her out.

The new seat feels like a graduation of sorts for the little guy. Daddy, I can stand up on my own. I’m this close to crawling and I’m ready to amaze you next week with a host of new activities. I think it’s time for a big boy seat.

I hear ya boy. Just don’t be in too much of a rush to grow up. It won’t be long before Dad is asking you to mow the lawn and make your own breakfast. Bug free, of course.

I attended my final physical therapy appointment last Wednesday. I’m not entirely cured of my Bell’s Palsy but I’m close. A while ago, my doctor told me that no one would be able to tell I was sick by Labor Day. That prediction turned out to be true.

Some nagging effects remain but they are constrained to small things. I’m not worried about blinking. I’m focused on getting my bottom lip up to speed. I no longer slur my speech. My toothy smile only has only a little bit to go. Generally, it is now hard to notice. Unless I strain to show folks my problem, they’d likely never know there was one. For that, I’m extremely grateful.

I’m not grateful, however, that I have not been given a free pass with regard to the silly exercises I do day in and day out. I’ve promised to continue my funny faces for another month. It will be a long, face-tortured month.

It’s not that I hate them that intensely. This past weekend, while vacationing with some good friends, they were actually a lot of fun. I wasn’t juiced with the prospect of performing my fanciful art in front of an audience but I could understand their curiosity. So, we made a deal: they could watch but they must also participate. Imagine a group of folks making silly faces at each other. Add alcohol and stir. A daily chore turned out to be a fun evening activity.

I have an appointment with the neurologist next week. I fear that I’ll be stuck in the face with buzzing needles again but I’m still encouraged. This visit would fall under the heading of follow-up, a title that I very much welcome.

I wanted to note how thankful I am to my physical therapist, who took time out of her busy schedule to help out someone with really crappy health insurance. Bell’s Palsy is a funny affliction, where healing occurs at a slow pace, normally without any treatment whatsoever. Because of that, I’m unsure of exactly how much physical therapy has helped. However, I’m convinced that I spoke clearly sooner because of the effort. I’m convinced that my eating habits returned to normal earlier because of her help. I’m sure that the healing process was accelerated. For that, there’s a lot of thanks to go around.

In fact, I plan to make sure some flowers go her way this coming week. The wife will likely be the delivery girl. I’ve already wrote the note I intend to include. I hope it brightens her day.

Over at By the Way, John Scalzi’s new little blog adventure with AOL, he’s doling out advice to some first time bloggers out there. (That’s right; AOL is empowering a whole new group of people to muse endlessly on the internet. Watch out.)

Specifically, folks queried him about writing a blog about other people. What if they find out? Grandmom won’t be pleased that I don’t like her pie. Here’s the short version of his longer response:

My personal blog (found right here, amazingly enough) takes a much lighter and complimentary tone because of this very fact. Mom taught me that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. When it comes to personal acquaintances this is still a very good rule. Everyone else — political figures, actors, athletes, and even good old John himself — well, rail away.

What you may find interesting, though, is how folks you know may react to their names showing up on your blog at all, even when you post something nice about them. Some are delighted to see their name in lights (even if, generally, these lights are very, very dim). Mom might be happy that you love her. Others are more sensitive. Brother Bob might be upset to see his full name appears in so many google search results. Maybe you shouldn’t have posted his home phone number.

In some cases, you might need to be sensitive. This whole Internet thing is still rather new and scary to a lot of people. In other cases (e.g. other bloggers tend to be pretty open people), you might have a lot more rope to play with. I personally tend to let those close to me know when I write about them. It frees my conscience from the odd feeling of speaking behind one’s back and I get a, possibly faux and often silent, approval of my comments.

You’ll get a feel for this stuff as you go. Just be ready to be read, by anyone, especially the source of your material.

Those who don’t follow NASCAR — and, if I know my small reading audience well, that’s nearly all of you — probably missed all the fun that Jimmy Spencer and Kurt Busch had over the weekend. See Kurt Busch gave Jimmy Spencer a nice little bump during the race. Jimmy Spencer returned the favor with his fists shortly after the last lap was run.

This isn’t the first time the two of them have tussled. This is, however, the first time it came to blows. After running out of gas following the race, Kurt found an angry Spencer swinging at him through the driver’s side window. He’ll race next week with a broken nose and a missing tooth. Spencer won’t be racing next week at all.

The trouble is, I can’t feel sorry for either of them, even poor little slanted-nose Kurt. I can’t defend Spencer’s wild sting-like-a-bee move but Mr. Busch isn’t Mr. Innocent. As they say, he had it coming.

The event before the impromptu boxing match, also known as the race, took place at Michigan, a track that sports some of the fastest speeds of any track on the NASCAR circuit. Kurt’s bump of Spencer’s car wasn’t an accident. How do we know? Let’s listen in on his pit radio:

Why would he do such a thing? There are two reasons that come to mind. One, he could ruin the Spencer’s areodynamics. Bang him up and he slows down. Two, he could make Spencer cut a tire. A blown tire normally means the driver gets a very rough reception from a nearby concrete wall. The move was classless and, unlike this weekend’s trip to Bristol, where such tactics are almost encouraged due to the small track and slow speeds, dangerous.

Incidents on the track are often referred to as “racing deals”. Incidents at any other time are personal. That, in my opinion, is bullshit. A “racing deal” is every bit as personal at 200 mph. It involves much more than a pretty little face. It involves a life. Note to drivers: don’t be surprised when you get a spanking for a dumb-headed move on the track.

By the way, those who have even a little interest in NASCAR would be served well by watching this weekend’s tussle at Bristol Motor Speedway (here’s an entry about the last Bristol race). Yeah, yeah, it’s all about cars that go in a circle. But this circle is really, really small. And there are lots of cars. Tempers flare and helmets fly. That’s where I’ll be on Saturday night, at least in spirit. I’ll actually be looking for a beer to accompany me and the wife on the couch.

This weekend I was treated to an unexpected surprise, courtesy of my friend Jason. Someone had backed out on him at the last minute and a ticket to the John Mayer/Counting Crows concert was up for grabs. Surely I couldn’t let it go to waste. I quickly rearranged my plans and (with a, ahem, heavy heart) left work early to head to the concert.

First up was a band that we passed on a side stage. While sweaty young men and nubile young women glared at them from the beaches of the oversized posters on the prominently sponsored stage walls, Parker’s Back played some tunes very reminiscent of Train or Matchbox 20. I can’t say they were taking any musical risks but as the music fell through the summer heat, I couldn’t help but think it was a great warm up to the main event.

The opening band – which, I must say, I was surprised to see because I was unaware that there was an opening band – had an interesting mix of instruments. Wisechild replaced the standard rhythm guitar with a violin, reminding me of Dave Matthew’s Band without the sax and with a few more open spaces in their music. As I’m a big fan of Dave Matthew’s Band, it should come as no surprise that I enjoyed the show. Occasionally, their Tennessee roots were a little too obvious but I liked their sound. I picked up their new CD, which sits comfortably next to the CD I purchased of Parker’s Back earlier that day.

What surprised me about both of these bands was how well they were chosen for this event. Both of them gave us tunes that should have fit squarely in the middle of the radar of anyone in attendance. I was no exception.

The Counting Crows was the first of the two main acts. This was another surprise. My ticket had the words Counting Crows in the middle in big lettering. I thought that would make them the headliner. I was wrong. After speaking with some rather inebriated folks, we determined that it isn’t always this way. The Crows were taking a little break and sharing the stage. This article from MTV makes it sound like the co-headlining thing was the plan all along. Who knew?

They played a mellow set. Mr. Jones was a meandering ballad more than an upbeat quickie. Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi took a slow turn around the block. Their usual staple of songs were left to simmer, only boiling over on their last song, Hangin’ Around. The slow pace and warm summer buzz of tunes was surprising but not disappointing in the least.

You got the impression that the Crows have really grown into the concert thing. You can tell when musicians are jittery or nervous on stage. They weren’t. They were relaxed, comfortable fiddling with their music, and more than happy to try something a little different for a single night.

John Mayer took the stage as the headliner. The music could have come directly off the CD. My only complaints were that he didn’t move around all that much and that my favorite Mayer tune, Neon, was left off of the play list. I’ll get over it. Come Back to Bed, a track off his upcoming album, made up for it. This blues inspired tune was the highlight of the show.

No concert experience is complete without talking about the venue and, I have to say, the Nissan Pavilion was not the most wonderful place in the world to visit. It’s not a bad place to listen to music. It really isn’t. It was clean. I really enjoyed the use of a side stage to keep us occupied in the hour or so we waited for the concert to start. But that’s the problem. We arrived more than an hour early, given that concert took place in a venue that was smack dab in the middle of the route home for every commuter in the Washington Metropolitan area. If we had left any later, we would surely have listened to the concert from nearby Route 66, as my wife has done on more than one occasion.

Getting out was no easier. We camped out on a couple of large boulders and watched cars fruitlessly attempt to leave the parking lot for over and hour and forty minutes. The traffic was insane. A car in front of us moved 10 feet in the first hour and a half. That was gas well spent.

Despite Nissan Pavilion’s attempts to poison our good time, I had a blast. There’s nothing like a summer concert, especially when it is free (Jason, thank you very much). As for the pavilion itself, it’s not very likely I’ll return to that place anytime soon. My wife mentioned that the only way she would return to the Nissan Pavilion is if Jesus himself was preaching there. I’m guessing that is a tough act to book.

Of course, the biggest news story of the day and the week and, likely, the summer, is the lack of electricity flowing in much of the country right now. New York, Detroit, Cleveland, and some of our friends in Canada sat in the dark last night, feverishly lighting candles to stave off the black of night.

The initial reports have been interesting. They are more focused on what didn’t happen than what did. Yesterday, we were told that it wasn’t terrorism. Today, we learn that it’s not related to the internet worm that has been making its digital rounds. One of these days they will get a handle on what actually caused the problem.

My personal interest in the matter centers not on the chaos but on the smaller stories amid the mass exodus of Manhattan and the thirsty folks of Cleveland. The “human side” of the story, as the news likes to say, really makes the outage something to watch.

Some people failed to be unique in their troubles. They were trapped in one of the thousands of elevators in New York. They were stuck on the subway, deep underground. Many found that Manhattan isn’t the easiest place to escape.

Others were more creative. Some folks looking for a little fun were caught on amusement park rides. When exactly will this coaster start to go down? A lady on the news proclaimed she was in the dentist chair when the lights went out. Sorry, I think we’re done drilling now. The radio this morning metioned that vehicles in Detroit were stuck in the car wash.

I’ve even heard rumors that this whole power outage has made accessing the internet a challenge for much of the Northeast. It seems that this whole “electricity” thing does something to make to make computer screens light up around the world. Now that sounds like a travesty.