Let's see...I ran up and down Mud Island again this evening. Hot, but not as hot as Saturday morning. The Gibson 5K is less than two weeks away - I don't think I'll embarass myself.

Still, it's first thing on a Saturday morning. The very real possibility of me, flopping from heat stroke like a foul-hooked catfish, on some blocked-off street in the South Main district scares me a bit. I can handle it, though. I'm a pro!

The path up and down Mud Island is nice to run on, as it sits on top of the bluff and gives the runner a nice few of expensive houses, big trees and the wide (but surprisingly fast-moving) river. It's bad, though, 'cause there's also lots of rollerblade people and bike riders...and nothing looks more like cheating to someone panting along on their feet (like me) than people using wheels to go back and forth. Hell, if I was on a bike I could ride that freakin' trail all day.

What else do you people need to know? I'm going to send a resume to Tulane soon - they need an editor with web experience. I am so their boy. I'll keep you posted on that.

James brought red beans and rice down last night, and we enjoyed a screening of Manos, the Hands of Fate. A terrible, terrible movie. We ate the beans and rice for lunch today. Yummy. Thanks, James!

It's also come to my attention that I'm the best man in James' upcoming wedding. What exactly does that entail, beside the bachelor party, getting him to the chapel on time and handing over the ring at the appropriate time? If you have any insight, please send it along to me. Advice would be appreciated.

Did I mention that Sonya and I are very nearly broke? Again? I get paid tomorrow night at midnight, thankfully. That trip to New Orleans sucked away a brick of money, but that's okay. We had fun, and came back with goodies! We've been averaging one trip a month, which is a nice ratio, I think. Next on the agenda: Duran Duran in Biloxi in August. We'll all be dancing on the sand.

Dave Matthews is playing the Pyramid tonight, and the kids from the suburbs have been pouring into the neighborhood all afternoon long. Next Weekend Widespread Panic plays two shows at Mud Island, which I can literally see from my front door. Then, in September, Phish will play the Pyramid. Good lord. Stinking hippies everywhere. I'll be kicking them out of the way when I go to walk the dog. The Dead played two nights here in April of '95 and you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting someone wearing a tie-dye and a head full of filth-induced dreadlocks. I imagine the Phish show will be similar.

By the way, do you know who's opening for Dave Matthews tonight? The Neville Brothers! Talk about strange. Dave is all right and all, but he can't touch the Nevilles. And all the suburban teenagers won't appreciate it at all. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I've said it before, but never here: when I was sixteen girls didn't wear push-up bras.

I told this to Donna the other day, and she replied, "well, you did go to that christian school, didn't you?"

True, Donna.

Really, though. I see these barely postpubescent girls going around with their little tank tops and tits right up under their chins. It just wasn't done when I was young. Which is probably a good thing. My peers as a teenager had a hard enough time trying to get by day-to-day without talking directly to a girl's breasts. It's good to be more mature and in control of your hormones.

Or, at least, I guess it would be.

And while I'm tempted here to expound on my theory about how girls can fake boobs and butts but not legs - and, hence, why it's important and advantageous to be a leg man - I think I'll choose not to. Not right now, anyway.

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