I had a fabulous weekend. I didn’t do squat, and it was everything I thought it would be. There were two exceptions to my lazy-slothfest: on Saturday, I motivated myself sufficiently to do my hair, apply make-up and allow my wonderful boyfriend to take me to dinner. On Sunday, I steam-cleaned a few spots of doggy-wee out of the carpet. I’ve noticed that Sprocket doesn’t ask to go outside when Alan’s over; he apparently gets too caught up in games of ball, alligator and cactus to bother about bathroom breaks. When he actually manages to anoint the carpet remains a mystery, though, because the only time he’s not in front of me begging for a treat or in front of Alan taunting him with a toy is when Alan’s thrown the toy and Sprocket is scampering after it. He’s not ever out of our sight but he still manages to ‘go’ somehow.

I played some PS2; after owning the game for a year or more, I’m finally completing some of the missions in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. Previously, I’d just spend a pleasant half-hour or so stealing cars, listening to the radio stations and running over pedestrians. I wish some of Atlanta’s real radio stations were half as cool as the ones in that game...speaking of which, I got an unpleasant surprise at one point while we were listening to Retro-Active, one of the Direct TV music choice channels. On came a song by Power Station and Alan mentioned what a shame it was that Robert Palmer had died. This came as quite a shock to me because I didn’t realize he was dead! I’m usually fairly well-informed about the celebrity news, especially music news, most especially news about musicians I admire, but somehow I missed this one. It was almost a year ago! He was only 54.

While I’m on the subject of death, we had a truly bizarre one here in Atlanta this weekend. I had thought nothing could top Windshield Woman, but this may well do it. A drunk guy was driving home while his drunk buddy was hanging out the window (I suppose he was throwing up). Drunk guy hits a telephone pole guide wire. He proceeds to drive twelve miles home, go in and pass out, without noticing that his passenger is now headless. Drunk guy parked his truck in the driveway and a passerby out for a morning stroll with his baby daughter spotted the body. You know, the really really sick part of my mind is wondering about the head...I sure hope they found it.

On a much more pleasant topic, in Formula One news Kimi Raikkonen won the Belgian Grand Prix but Schumi finished second, enough to ensure mathematically that he is now SEVEN TIME WORLD CHAMPION! Woo-hoo! It was an eventful race, with Coulthard cutting a tyre, limping back to the pits and fighting back to a respectable seventh, a scuffle or two (Chubs putting a noobish move on Jarno Trulli, who was having none of it), a couple of incredible crashes (Jenson Button is remarkably unscathed). I felt sorry for Antonio Pizzonia, doing a most respectable job of filling in for Ralphie, as his skill had brought him to third and a podium seemed certain when his gearbox died. Chubs was out with 8 laps to go, when another Michelin tyre failure damaged his rear suspension - that was almost as gleeful for me as Schumi’s championship. Heh heh.

Kimi was even more bland and emotionless than usual about his victory, odd considering what a long dry spell it’s been for McLaren. Has that guy EVER moved his upper lip?!? Kimi adds an entire new dimension to ‘monotone’. He mumbles, too - between that and the Finnish accent, I’m amazed that reporters are able to discern what he’s said accurately enough to quote him.

MONTOYA DELENDA EST!