I would like to meet the person who came up with, "Thank you for not smoking," just so that I can call him a pussy to his face. Think about it. Better yet, read it out loud and slow: "Thank you for not smoking."

When I left work yesterday, there were obvious storm clouds to the west and south. This isn't too unusual for 6:00 in the summertime. But I had no sides or top on the Jeep, other than a small rectangle over the driver and passenger seats to keep the sun off me during the day, so I knew I had to hurry home. It's only a five mile drive home, but at mile one, it was dark enough to turn on headlights. At mile two, it started to rain. Thirty seconds later, I was in a downpour.

Earlier this week, I took a tennis lesson. I don't really play too much tennis. Up until a year or two ago, I played for a couple of hours one night a week with a group of guys from work. We all sucked (more or less), but we kept up a regular game for a year or more. It was something to get outside and do with no distracting computer monitors.

The new season of Six Feet Under has started. I can't help but reflect that there is no other show in television history that has so many crazy people that you actually pull for. In fact, just about everyone has at least the occasional conversation with dead people. On top of that, they all have their own insanities and hang-ups. There is rarely a scene without at least a hint of someone about to go over the edge.

This is just a quick post to make sure I understand this advertisement, which I pulled out of a major national magazine this week. (I kind of like that you can see where I dog-eard the bottom corner of the page so that I wouldn't lose it.)

I went on a fishing trip last week. We went out to a marsh in the middle of nowhere Wednesday evening, and spent the time fishing off the dock, grilling steak, and drinking beer. On Thursday, we took a guided charter out around barrier islands and caught fish all morning. It's a good way to spend a day and a half.

College baseball for LSU finished up yesterday, ending college sports for the year (sorry Track and Field -- I just don't care), and starting the long, hot countdown to football season. Hopefully, the end of the school year takes with it the Regal Beagle LSU Jinx.

I've decided that I might drop in an occasional movie review. But I won't be writing about movies that everyone reviews and that you've already decided to see or to not see anyway. So don't come back looking for my thoughts on Hitch or Revenge of the Sith. By the time I finally see those, you will have long since formed an opinion for yourself.

My buddy Guido is the king of the grand scheme. You could give him a pile of six week old dog turds, and he could dream up a way to get rich -- or at least to make a decent profit -- from said dog turds. Guido was a year ahead of me in the Electrical Engineering program at LSU, but he finally found his true calling a year or two ago as a slumlord in New Orleans. It's a perfect fit. Where you or I would see a property that should be bulldozed he sees a decent home for poor people.

When I started riding in organized cycling events, I was always amazed at the guys with big, fat guts that could ride up and down hills like mother---ers with motors. How did they get so fit, but manage to stay fat? I don't really know how mother nature lets that happen, but I'm a walking/peddling laboratory for study of the phenomenon. I'm at least 15-20 pounds over my ideal weight, and I'm five pounds of pure gut over the heaviest that I've ever been. (If you've seen me and don't think this could be, then you should see me clad in some tight synthetic cycling gear. It ain't pretty.)

From time to time, I get asked why I don't have any kids clinging to my britches as I push the stroller through Wal Mart. People don't actually word their question like that, but that's what I hear. I understand that the joy of raising your children outweighs my ability to go to Vegas on a lark, eat dinner at nice restaurants without advance planning, or sitting outside in the silence while catching up on my reading. However, there are some signs that I might not be the world's best primary caregiver.

The other day, I came in to work, and was told that I look "snazzy." From my perspective, I looked like I always look, but there must have been something different that day. I like the thought of "unintentionally snazzy" being a phrase to describe me, though.