I went over to the rents’ house last night to fix my father’s computer and, in exchange for my assistance, he grilled burgers and brats. I asked my mom if eating a brat would make me a cannibal (“Yes.”) but I ate one anyway - mmmmm, bratwurst. My mom did the accompanying cole slaw, potato salad and baked beans. The rents have this huge porch on the back of their house, which is where the grill and picnic table are. While Daddy was cooking, we were all sitting out there and a summer rainstorm blew up. It was so cool (as in, both meanings of ‘cool’) out there, staying dry on the porch while all around us, the rain fell in torrents, releasing that lovely, fresh summer rain smell to mix with tasty-things-frying smell, with the accompaniment of the rain drumming down on the tin roof of their carport (which is just behind the porch).

We also watched Game 7 of the Stanley Cup. Tampa Bay won; as you may remember, I told you they would (see blog for May 10). Consider for a moment my astonishing sports accuracy: I was correct about the Cup winner, I was correct about the Super Bowl champions (see January 30) and I have been correct about every Formula One race thus far except Monaco. It could be argued that I was at least semi-correct about Monaco, because I did write (a) historically the track wasn’t kind to Ferrari, (b) the race would hold a few surprises - Ferrari didn’t win and I think no one was more surprised than Jarno Trulli when he won the race. I’m not bringing this up to flaunt my impressive, multi-sport accuracy - really, I’m not. I’m bringing this up because I can’t understand why I’m not an engorgingly overpaid sports analyst for ESPN. I thought about this all night; while I do have the World’s Greatest Boss, it would be pretty sweet to get paid to fly around Europe and assorted other climes watching F-1 races and dramatically stating my opinion, instead of doing it at my own expense like now. Tragic, isn’t it?

MONTOYA DELENDA EST!