The jersey has arrived!

Just got it from the mailroom not five minutes ago. It's an XL, which is better than it being a medium, but I'm not sure how well it'll fit. Once I get home I can give it a whirl, but I think Kirsti MacPherson may have a new addition to her wardrobe yet. (Based on her asking for the jersey if it didn't fit.)

The jersey bears number 23, the number of Casey Jacobsen, the pro-bound guard whose whining about an East Coast bias never quite got put to the test as the Cardinal bowed out to Kansas in the second round of this year's NCAA tournament. One hopes that Jacobsen will toil in anonymity in a place like Phoenix for the term of his NBA days- assuming he doesn't suck and wind up playing here.

For those of you who listen to the radio I show I do with Laura De Veau and Scott Monty, here's a little update on our live listener base.

On the plus side, we're (barely) the top morning show. On the minus side, this doesn't measure people who listen to the simulcast on the campus TV station.

Now, I don't have any pretenses about taking the top spot, but for all of you out there with computers, I'm asking for your help. Those of you with no cost Ethernet (hello college students) are a key resource here, as are any Europeans out there (I think there's one or two) who are at least at work and near lunchtime when we come on.

All you have to do is go to the BCR homepage five minutes before our show starts (7 AM EDT), click on the link to listen live, and then let it run. Turn down the sound and go back to bed if you want. If you are near other computers, feel free to stream BCR to them, too.

Heck, for those of you on the opposite coast, you could probably do this before going to bed and stream BCR all night long.

Of course, for those of you who pay for net access, don't run up your bill. Just set all the computers up with BCR before you leave work for the night!

Oh, and it seems like the BCR page works best with Internet Explorer, which frosts my cookies just a bit thank you very much.

The Bruins, true to form, were knocked out of the NHL playoffs last night by the Montreal Canadiens. That's the top seeded Bruins getting knocked out by the bottom ranked team from Montreal.

So why am I not surprised?

As much as you hear about Sox-Yankees, Pats-Jets (or Dolphins, depending on the year), or even the recent renewal of the Celts-Sixers, there is no one single pairing that should make a Boston-area sports fan's blood run cold more than Bruins-Canadiens. They are the proverbial 800 pound gorilla that the Broons can't shake.

What makes this pairing that much more consternating is that you have a regular season rivalry which, until recently, was almost always topped by a meeting in the playoffs. Back in the olden days of playing within your division first, the odds of not having a Bruins-Canadiens matchup in the Adams Divison were tiny.

So, for a good half century, the Bruins would face the Canadiens in the playoffs, and would make their exit in any one of a number of ways. Just as they did this year, when they combined blowing a big lead with an inability to cool off a hot goaltender to hitting more posts than your above-average cricketeer.

And yet we don't see the collective wailing and gnashing of teeth that arises when the Yankees roll into town during a pivotal series, or when there's an AFC playoff game the Pats have to play in Dade County. For some reason the Bruins' historical failures when playing Montreal are well known but not well lamented. And by "well lamented" I mean "column fodder for the Globe until mid-July."

Perhaps we're less angst-ridden over Montreal than we are New York. Montreal is a nice city, but located in another country and is full of people who don't care to speak English. New York, while seemingly in another country and full of people who can't or won't speak English (or who are, but who can tell with the accent and all?), is in the US, and is of a proximity that forces comparisons. The idea that Boston dislikes New York because we're in their shadow is a common one... most often bandied about by New Yorkers.

I blame the Puritans. Their dour world view and emphasis on self-denial would, naturally, lead to fixating on the one thing that should give the most pleasure but never does, and that year in and year out teaches us a lesson in humility. Thought I don't think they'd approve of the bright red, I think the Puritans would approve of the Red Sox's mortifying aspects. How could the Bruins top that?

It makes me sad to think the former Hartford Whalers are still in the playoffs while the Bruins aren't, but I'm sure someone will crow about it.

As you may remember, Sarah and I had stopped going to St. James the Great in Wellesley as they had a priest in residence there who was removed due to allegations in the current scandal. The allegations, as far as we know, didn't involve St. James parishoners, but I think we had a general feeling of unease about the place.

We decided to go back today to see how things were now. Shortly after we sat down, one of the lay assistants (there's probably a more Catholic name for them, but I'm blanking) asked if we wouldn't mind bringing the gifts (communion wafers and wine) to the altar at a given time during the collection. After being assured that Sarah's not being Catholic wasn't a problem, we agreed.

The mass starts, we get to the collection, and just as we're getting ready to go to the table where the gifts are, this older guy seated 3 or 4 rows ahead of us gets up and grabs the gifts! It's kind of embarrasing to think that there was a backup plan for us in case we blew it, but it wasn't like we were just sitting there. I would also add that the directions on when to get up weren't that good. If the guy had just said "get up when they start the collection," we'd have been all over it.

Perhaps it's back to church shopping after all. Thankfully, we've already decided on using my home church, Sacred Heart, for the wedding (pending availablity, especially now that we're probably going to have to move the wedding up for Sarah's cousin whose wedding is why we're going over in December).

And whatever church-induced peace I had left was blown away by a trip up Route 9 to do some shopping. I used to think that all the talk about Massachusetts drivers was bunk, until I moved out to Wellesley. I can't get back to the North Shore fast enough, as far as drivers go. They're idiots there, too, but the roads are narrower, limiting the amount of idiocy possible.

An example on why it's important to read directions.

I've been half-playing the Citgo Pick 6 horse racing game on ESPN.com's fantasy sports page. Basically, you try to pick the winning horse in six races being held at various tracks over the weekend. I say I was half-playing because I didn't always remember to make picks.

Up until last week, I had never hit a winner. With what little I know about the day to day world of thoroughbred racing, that didn't surprise me. So I made my picks last week, hit enter, and noticed something odd.

I had picked two horses to win in the same race.

At first I thought it was some sort of mistake, but then realized that, in every other case where this sort of thing happens, ESPN is very good about sending you to an error page. This led me to the rules page, where I learned something very interesting.

For each week, you were allowed 15 picks to spread among the races, to improve the odds of you actually hitting one.

This is information that would have been useful to me during the first couple of weeks in the game, not the next to last week.

I suppose I should be happy that I messed up here and not with something with explosive tendencies, but you think I'd know better by now and read everything.

As I was reading the New York Times sports section this afternoon, I ran across a picture of Jay Pandolfo hugging Brian Gionta after the latter scored the first goal in the New Jersey Devils' win over Carolina in game 3 of their playoff series.

That's BU's own Jay Pandolfo hugging BC's most annoying player since David Emma.

I know at some level I should just let go and realize that they're both pros now, beyond the school ties other than some good-natured ribbing in the locker room when the alma maters square off. But I still hope that, at some level, Jay wants to elbow Gionta in the throat.

So I got engaged last night.

A little background is in order. You've probably read mention of Sarah, my girfriend (now fiancee) here before. We've been dating for 2 1/2 years, and have pretty much gotten to the point where we knew we wanted to get married. It was mostly a question of when and how rather than if.

Back around Christmas, I was able to make the ring purchase. Sarah was very clear as to what she wanted (you may remember a past trip to gawk at rings), and I was able to find something of the proper size, quality, and price at the Jewelry Exchange in Sudbury. Kind of an interesting process, as they sell loose diamonds and then put them in the setting, etc. I had Shawn DeVeau along as my ride/second/moral support, and his experience with this sort of thing was an added plus.

So the ring was bought and ready to go as 2002 commenced. The issue: how am I going to ask her?

I worked through a number of scenarios in my mind, some better than others, but none particularly satisfying. I'm not sufficiently sappy to do it with flowers and a poem. I'm not comfortable with the public spectacle of a restaurant, sporting event, or similar venue (Sarah said she worried that I'd do it during a college bowl trip!). So my options were limited.

As it turns out, popping the question may have been the most spontaneous thing I've ever done.

For most of the time since I bought the ring, I kept it at work as I mulled how to do this. About a week ago, I brought it home, thinking that it was about time I came up with a plan, and having the ring handy would facilitate things. I left the ring in my backpack, which is kind of funny considering that, for this entire time, Sarah could have come across the ring by accident.

So we're on the couch, watching the news, killing time before going out to dinner for a friend's birthday. The last few days we've been joking about breaking up, doing so for five minute stretches, that sort of thing. So Sarah says to me that she's going to break up with me unless I pop the question. I respond as expected, and ask her to marry me. She says yes.

But she then adds that it's only valid if I give her the ring. Call it karma, serendipity, or an easy out to a problem I'd been wrestling with, but I responded to her by asking if she really wanted the ring. She said yes. So I got up, went to the backpack, and pulled it out.

Needless to say, Sarah was surprised.

She did add the proviso that I had to get down on one knee and ask, which I did. That pretty much made it official.

We didn't want to tell folks until we'd told our families first, which we finally finished doing this afternoon (needed to track down my sister). So there it is. Sarah and I are officially betrothed, engaged to be married, taking the plunge, what have you.

No date set, probably later rather than sooner. You'll read about it here, to be sure.

Saw a couple of lawsuits in the news that were worth noting.

The first is that a woman is suing the makers of Pirate's Booty due to some incorrect information on its packaging, which indicated lower calorie and fat amounts per serving than were true. She's asking for a modest sum for the trouble this has caused her.

$50 million.

Now I'm not one to jump on the frivilous lawsuit bandwagon. Heck, I thought the woman with the McDonalds coffee made some sense, given the volcanic temperatures at which that Mickey D's served its java. This, however, is ridiculous, given one simple question.

If you're on a diet, why are you eating snack food?

I know, it's supposed to be good for you snack food, but all things being equal it's still a snack food. If this woman has such a need to snack, perhaps she needs counseling, not a puffed corn and wheat munchable.

Of course, I'm making a list of companies should she win.

The other lawsuit comes from the family of Charles Bishop, the teen who flew a Cessna into a Tampa high rise in some sort of suicidal pro-Taliban gesture whose futility level is just somewhere below the 2002 Detroit Tigers.

Anyway, the family is suing Hoffman-La Roche, the makers of Accutane, a drug for treating severe acne. The family contends that the drug causes depression and "spontaneous suicide," and that they know it. The company points out that they've included depression warnings on their labeling since 1985, and that there's no proven link between suicide, depression, and the drug.

I always get a little nervous about the intersection of science and law, given that it's a pretty simple trick to confuse a jury (or a judge, for that matter) with research. Just look at the studies funded by the Tobacco Institute, which do everything but bring back the white coated GP claiming that Chesterfields soothe your throat. But in this case, it seems like the family's reaching.

Why? Because a "spontaneous suicide" would probably not require the theft of an aircraft and a note expressing support of al-Qaeda. Perhaps spontaneous has some term of art meaning in these circumstances, but I would tend to think that playing in traffic or enjoying some Ny Quil and vodka would do the trick. Even if he wanted to take a plane, wouldn't plowing into the ocean be more of a spontaneous reaction? Or just crashing on purpose on any old stretch of ground?

My $.02 crackpot theory is that young Mr. Bishop was having issues, but not those caused by Accutane. It may be that another Hoffman-La Roche product would have helped more.

The police also noted that they didn't find any Accutane in Bishop's blood, but also noted they didn't recover enough blood to make a full confirmation. That's perhaps more than I wanted to know.

Continuing the weekend recap...

SATURDAY First day of TRASHionals, the national championship tournament of TRASH (the pop culture and related stuff quiz company that I write/"work" for). A relatively uneventful day, which is usually a good thing to say during such an event. Perhaps a little too much time standing around waiting for things to happen that should have already, but no big whoop.

I did get to wear my new Latvia hockey jersey, which would look better (a) if I wore a maroon T shirt underneath rather than white, and (b) I dropped a few pounds (then again, every shirt I own would look better that way, perhaps that's a hint?). It's a fairly crappy jersey (mesh replica, which wasn't obvious from the web site), but I got what I paid for.

Should you find yourself in Ann Arbor, I would highly recomment Pinball Pete's arcade (many current and classic video games, pinabll, air hockey) and the Maize n Blue Deli and Eatery across the street.

SUNDAY Tournament ended with last year's runner up taking the title (with a slight reformulated team). Part of me wishes I could play in this thing, but it would mean leaving TRASH for a year, which would stink. I'd also have to take Greg with me, so we could play as a full Gerbils team.

Tournament ended on time, which is a novelty for such things, and we were on the road at a good hour after lunch at Arby's and a stop at Detroit Metro to drop off the Dartmouth team. We had the exact opposite experience around the Ambassador Bridge than on Friday. The Canadian border guard barely even looked up when he asked where we were from, and hearing that we were going to Boston he just told us to go ahead. No questions about our purpose for going to Canada, if we were smuggling cheap cigarettes into the country, nothing. And then the bridge was relatively easy to cross, without the driving rain and large trucks.

The only real memorable part of the trans-provincial drive this time was getting to sample the wares at Tim Horton's, the Dunkin Donuts of Canada. I had a chocolate glazed and a sour cream doughnut (the sour cream being like a richer, glazed plain doughnut), and was very happy with both. I would rank things Horton's, Dunkin, and then Krispy Kreme (which I like, but I've never quite understood as far as the rabid fandom that seems to come from most aficianados of the place).

Getting back into the US was also uneventful, guy asked where we were going, why we were in Canada, and took a peek in the side door of the van. Then it was steady driving until Boston, marred only by a lot of rain and a jackass of a woman working the counter at some Roy Rogers on the Thruway, who listened to us talk about what we wanted, but didn't tell us what their limited menu was until we ordered (I will say that I was a little out of it, and still tried to order something she said wasn't available).

Got home around 4 a.m., plenty of time to rest for...

MONDAY Got back up around 8 something to get ready for the Sox-Yanks game at the traditional Patriots Day start time of 11:05. I was oddly alert, Sarah less so but neither of us were anywhere near the level of tired that came after the trip to UNC.

Got to the park a little later than hoped (quarter of 11) after realizing that if we tried to take the T from Woodland, we may have been stuck for a while as the marathon goes right by the station. We drove in, faced little traffic, and were able to park on the street by the school formerly known as SFA.

Suffice it to say, it took us longer to get from the gate A entrance on Yawkey Way to the other side of the turnstiles than it did to clear the US-Canadian border FOUR TIMES. We spend a good 20 minutes in a throng waiting to get past the gate, thanks to (from what I could see) some extra security precautions, less for terror than for drunken idiocy, I would think given that we wre playing the Yankees.

Sox won, El Guapo made it closer than we'd have liked, but a win's a win. Sarah and I then had to traverse the marathon to cross Beacon Street (thankfully still mostly top runners coming through, and not the throngs that start to show after 3 p.m.). Got lunch and headed back to Babson, only to get caught in a detour traffic jam coming off of the Pike. We wound up getting home the long way, taking Route 30 through Newton and Weston before hitting a road that led back to the main street in Wellesley (by this point it was something like 4:30, and if you were just hitting the 13 mile marker outside of Chico's at that point, you were better off hailing a cab).

Got home, slept, did some late grocery shopping, and that's that. This coming weekend we're going to a tournament at Dartmouth, a drive which, in light of the last two weeks, will seem like popping over to the Natick Mall.

FRIDAY We were scheduled to leave around 5 a.m., but Cooch over-slept, and we probably didn't get on the road until sometime between 6:30 and 7:30.

The Mass Pike was the Mass Pike. Nothing really of note there, other than we were listening to Howard Stern, and got to hear how one of the people on the show bet $5000 to take the field against Tiger Woods in The Masters. Oops.

With all the focus on New York City, you tend not to think about the vast expanse of land that makes up the bulk of the state. Having driven it, I can now understand why you tend not to think of it. Between Albany and Buffalo there's not much to see by way of settlements. It's a lot of land, lots of animals, and an odor of dung that only varies in its intensity. The rest stops were nice, most notably the one that won some sort of award in 1994 for its outstanding use of wood (perusing the New York Thruway web site, I'm thinking it's either this one or this one. I tend to think it was Ontario, given that we'd have been in that area around lunch.

Crossing over to Canada was eventful only in that (a) I'd originally put us on the wrong road, the first of many time I'd do that during the trip, and (b) we were very low on gas, only finding some when we drove over by Niagara University thinking there must be gas there. The border check was short, didn't even have to show IDs. The guard asked if we had them, we said yes, and she just waved us through.

Driving through Ontario was a lot like driving through New York, only much, much flatter. Ate at a Mr. Sub, one of the many Canadian fast food/chain eateries that put whatever we've got here to shame. You can't get green olives as a topping at Subway, can you?

We passed a number of largish cities without ever seeing the buildings. You drive pretty much right through Hamilton, but you don't see a single bit of London, Waterloo, Brantford, or the other cities between Niagara and Windsor.

The highways are like the roads in Maine- a couple of lanes bordered by ditches that pretty much spell nasty accident if you wind up in them. Which may explain the plethora of signs along the highways detailing all the dangers to driving while intoxicated, without wearing a seat belt, going over 100 kph, and so on. The signs also trumpeted big fines for being a scofflaw (all in excess of C$100, which is still a fair bit of money in real US money), which would have made me more worried about the speed we were going if I'd ever seen a police car on the roads. New York was under lockdown by comparison.

We got to Windsor in a heavy rain, which made crossing the Ambassador Bridge interesting. The bridge, like many of the roadways associated in some form with Detroit, was apparently last repaved during the Eisenhower administration.

We got to the US checkpoint, and the incredibly pleasant woman (hmm, can't find the HTML code for sarcasm) asked for all of our IDs. We handed them over, and at one point she jerks her head up and asks if any of us had a camera. One of the people on the trip did and said so, at which point she asked why we were taking pictures. Apparently, she was mistaking the lightning, WHICH HAD BEEN GOING ON FOR ALMOST HALF AN HOUR, for a camera flash. She did this twice; apparently, our mention of the lightning didn't go through the first time.

So, after a little jerking around we were back on US soil, and had a relatively uneventful drive to the Microtel Ann Arbor (if you don't count the boulder size chunks of blacktop that were lurking on I-94, or my getting us going the wrong way again). Sarah and I passed on the trip to Casino Windsor, opting for dinner and sleep.

As the post I tried to put up Friday morning encountered some strange error that prevent it from going up, I'll take this opportunity to start a running commentary on the weekend.

THURSDAY I count my weekend starting here in that I had to leave work early to go up home to get a variety of paperword related to a life insurance policy and forthcoming "international" travel. This necessitated stops in Salem and Manchester.

I anticipated a long time of it at the Salem courthouse, given the conventional wisdom/stereotype regarding government employees. I can say that from top to bottom I was pleasantly surprised with the helpfulness of all the staff, especially as I did everything ass-backwards. What I expected to be some Kafkaesque plunge into the nightmare of bureaucracy took all of 20 minutes (including a phone call to the insurance company).

This left me plenty of time to wander Salem before the train arrived. Did a little walking down memory lane as I passed the Peabody and Essex Museum and the Hawthorne Hotel. The museum was the focus of the first class I took in my elementary school's academically talented program. We went there every week, and it was a great deal of fun. The Hawthorne Hotel was the site of my junior prom. It was not a great deal of fun, at least not from a being with my date perspective. I think we both had fun with our respective group of friends.

Got up to Manchester, went to town hall to get birth and death certificates (how's that for the circle of life?), and walked up home. Don't know if it's an actual increase or just that I'm noticing more, but there were a lot of houses with for sale signs on them. And it was while I was at the house that I learned that my childhood home would soon replace the "for sale" sign for one saying "sold!"

We would up getting a significant amount less than we were originally asking, but that's getting to be the case up in that part of the state. Had we put the house up for sale quickly we'd probably have made more, but considering my folks bought the house for $14,000 in 1968, what we did get for it is very nice indeed.

Sarah came up, we spent a little time talking with my aunt, and then went home to prepare for our second long day's journey into that not so fresh feeling: a van ride to Ann Arbor, Michigan.

As I think I've mentioned to folks, Laura DeVeau, Scott Monty, and me (or is it I? I can never keep it straight.) have a little radio show on Babson College Radio. Wednesdays, 7 to 8:30 AM.

What I'm writing for though, is in reference to the station's stats page. Click around to the part that shows the most popular clips, and you'll see that our show's top played clip ranks only 11th.

My request: let's get Hey! Stop Doing That! to the top of the chart. While I'd prefer it if you listened, feel free to load up an archive, start it going, and leave the room. Tell your friends to tune in. Set up all the computers at your local library with an old show.

If I can get a response anywhere near that of the Great Basketball Jersey Election, we should be at the top in no time.

Does it surprise anyone that after going on the great overland trek last weekend that I now have a cold?

I've been pretty lucky the last few years as far as colds go. As a kid I was pretty much guaranteed to have 3-4 over the winter, and have one of them develop into bronchitis. Never really a flu sufferer, though, which is odd and hopefully will continue.

My last real serious illness that way was a lung infection from I think my freshman year (could have been sophomore year, I suppose). Got on a course of tetracyclene, which made me better and cleared my skin. I was also never told when to stop taking it, so I probably went a week longer than needed. Problem there being that taking tetracyclene can make you feel a little queasy, which made me think "hmm, I should stay on this stuff, I still don't feel 100%."

Anyway, the ride back was relatively uneventful. I got more sleep on the way back (due, no doubt, to not getting much sleep on the way down). Maryland did give a couple of rude surprises:

1. The Baltimore visitor's center/rest stop is pretty gross. Not as bad as the crack-smoking bathroom (also in Maryland, go figure), but definately not the place to stop. Hold it and wait for the Chesapeake House rest area.

2. Maryland has a toll booth up in the middle of 95 that's $4. Now I understand what C. W. McCall was singing about.

I really should be pro-toll, given that (a) it puts the cost of the roads directly on the users, and thus (b) should lessen the cost to the average person. But in reality, I can't escape the sense that, like the tolls on the Mass Pike, Maryland is using the tolls to suck cash out of weary travelers.

What else from the trip? Chapel Hill is nice, but I don't know if I'd have done well there (they wait listed me for law school). I had enough trouble navigating the part of campus I was on, never mind trying to get around the whole thing. There was a distinct lack of signage; BU, for its faults, has great signage.

So here I sit, trying to unstuff my nose, thinking about the next roughly 1500 mile van trip, which starts Friday with the object of getting to Detroit and back without putting the van in Lake Erie or having Ty Law give me a bag to take home.

While college bowl has given an opportunity to go places I probably wouldn't go on my own (remember Greencastle, Indiana?) and travel more than perhaps is wise, the current trip I'm on may just take the cake.

I'm writing from the business center of a Doubletree in Durham, North Carolina, after a 14 hour or so drive from Boston.

Why did I consent to go on a trip of such length? Let's just say when I volunteered to go, I thought we were flying. I never asked for clarification, so in a way it's my own fault. As Mike Brady said, "Caveat emptor."

The fact that we made it in one piece, without getting pulled over or piling into a bridge abutment, is a testament to the human spirit. And a lot of caffiene.

The trip started with some bad portents, as we couldn't find a parking space near the BU campus. Sarah then drove back to Babson and I got to direct the van there to pick her up. The van was also late, but tardiness on that end stopped being surprising in, oh, 1992.

Now, there are 7 of us on this trip, and the plan was to get a minivan. A little tight, perhaps, but doable.

So what do we get? Perhaps the largest 15 passenger van we've ever used. It was a maxivan. A megamaxivan, even. It seems to wide for normal lanes. It seems longer than most T buses. The thing is a behemoth, and, just to cut in on the savings of driving over flying, a pig on gas.

Oddly enough, the front passenger seat is actually not that roomy. The front is set up with a focus on the driver, which is fair. The center console, though cuts well into what would be normal passenger side leg space. And, in true Dodge fashion (having had other vans of theirs over the years), the wheel well cuts into the leg room, too. I'd have been better off commandeering a bench seat.

In any event, we drove pretty much full out. We made our required pilgrimage to the Vince Lombardi rest area on the New JErsey Turnpike sometime around 2 AM. We got to pay something like $8 in tolls to go through the dozen miles or so of 95 that cut through the top of Delaware. We stopped in Maryland for gas (and use a restroom which smelled of some sort of nefarious activity requiring an open flame), Virginia for breakfast at the Waffle House, and got into North Carolina around mid-morning.

If you come down this way and take route 85, be forewarned that it may be the most uneven stretch of interstate in this part of the country (94 near Detroit wins natioanlly for its mammoth potholes). There is also no sign welcoming you into the state. The closest you get is a sign informing you of the state law requiring helmets on bicycle riders.

As is often the case on these trips, we got lost right at our destination. We spent a goodly amount of time driving around Durham looking for the hotel, which we found despite some really lackluster directions (at least in comparison to the map we had of the city; Mapquest is involved somehow).

So, we're here, we're waiting for one of the two rooms to be ready, and I think I've had about 3 hours of sleep in the last 30. And that in increments no greater than a half hour. I need a shower. And I could really use some sort of vending machine right about now, as the only food option seems to be the hotel restaurant, which is probably very nice but way overpriced for the moderately peckish.

Off to continue my quest for sustinence. More on my return, when I'll be truly knackered from a second overnight drive and the loss of another hour thanks to Daylight Saving Time!

So it appears that there was more than one person involved in the heavy Stanford voting. Both Matt Boggie and Greg Sorenson (linked on the left margin) stuffed the box, for similar reasons. The XYZ Affair had fewer co-conspiritors than my little poll.

I've printed off the form I need to send to get my jersey. There's not space for size. I have a bad feeling I'm going to get a medium.

Not much to note from the weekend past, though we (more correctly, Sarah) did a lot of driving within 48 hours. From Boston to Wellesley to pick my sorry ass up (my ride to the T was otherwise occupied in some sort of crisis), Wellesley to Stockton Springs, Maine, Stockton Springs to Plaistow, New Hampshire, and Plaistow back to Wellesley. That's not including her driving back home from the family excursion to Bangor that seems to happen every time I visit (or, more correctly, every time Sarah visits and I happen to be there, too).

Ate very little ham, just a sandwich Saturday night. Ate out for Easter dinner, and the only ham they had was with raisin sauce. Ack. Had prime rib instead. That was fine with me!

Looks like I'll be getting a Stanford jersey, as the voting was for the Cardinal in a walkover. I'd like to know who voted 1100 times for them, as it apparently wasn't who I thought it was.

Hmm, what else? I managed to take up 2 of the final 3 spots in my own March Madness pool, a sign that my general negligence towards college basketball is taking its toll. I can't say I'm that saddened; the worst part is going to be trying to collect $5 from people who live, variously, in western Mass., Maine, and New Jersey.