Weirdest coincidence ever:

Just was looking for furniture on Craig's List. Specifically, an extra office chair. I find one for $15 and send an email to see if it is still available.

Half an hour later, I get a terse reply: "Yes." That's not the coincidence part.

Who is it from? Why, Stanley, the pornographer who tried to hire me for no salary. I suppose that's another sign that 5 percent of revenues wouldn't have been very much money.

I decided that I did not want the chair.

Is there anything more frustrating than rooting against the Yankees? Maybe a few:

1. Chasing white whale.
2. Pushing rock up hill, repeating.
3. Having liver removed, time and again, by some sort of mythological bird.
4. Rooting for Mets.

You know, for years, I’ve had a monogamous, if dysfunctional, relationship with the Mets. Every April we celebrate an anniversary of sorts; they always look as beautiful that time of year as they did when they had Hubie Brooks at third and L’Grande Orange as their star pinch hitter. By May, we're bickering about who should be balancing the checkbook, and by June I’m usually sleeping on the couch.

A new ingredient fell into the mix this year when the Red Sox happened by like the girl next door with a boob job. They had always been there to make fun of, sure, but they’d never looked so damn sexy. I was powerless. But I want Mike Piazza to know that it was a fling, a meaningless fall fling. Sure, I thought it was true love, the way I would sit up until one in the morning to see the end of a game. The way I would wait all day for those four o’clock starts to roll around like a teenager waiting for the prom invite. The way they were all I could talk about with anyone. I considered buying a new hat.

But then they left me, well, speechless in a bar in Brighton. It's easier to just not make the playoffs. I'm trying to tell myself that I don't care who wins the World Series. Hell, Marlins fans don't really even care who wins the World Series. But it isn't true. Go National League. I'm back, and I swear it didn't mean a thing.

Since I'm just hanging around the house, I figure I could be updating this a little more regularly. But then, I've said that before. Actually, it isn't just hanging around. There's plenty to do. First, I had to get up early to let a plumber in. Then, some floor guys. Soon, we'll have a new floor. Next, a carpenter will come. Then the plumber will come back, followed, we hope, by an electrician and a different kind of carpenter.

Life in the house is pretty darn fun. Just yesterday, for example, Leah and I teamed up to teach Jacob how to make macaroni and cheese. Honest. The week before, I taught him how to iron. This week, we're going to work on putting irons away after your shirt is all nice and neat.

On the work front, well, Leah keeps going to work every day. It looks hard, from my perspective.

On other fronts...I think, despite a feeling in my gut that tells me not to, that I will admit that I am feeling like a Red Sox fan. Ok, maybe not a Langone-style, get-kicked-out-of-Yankee-Stadium kind of fan, and definitely not a "Let's grow a goatee and shave our heads to support the Boys" kind of fan. But the sit on the couch and feel pretty nauseous when Grady Little tries the same damn useless hit-and-run with one out and a 3-2 count, or when Williamson calmly gives up a dinger in the ninth to make it a one-run game? Or that weird delayed steal of home thing with Damon up? (Could this team run the bases any worse? Thank god they hit so damn many homeruns.) I'm that kind of Red Sox fan. It's a "a 2-run lead just means that we're about to give up 3 in the 9th" feeling that I think anyone who has ever hoped Armando Benitez could get a save when it mattered will understand. The Mets and the Red Sox, they're not so different.

Boston, of course, has declared the goings on in playoff world to be the most important event since the advent of agriculture. Last night they had a reporter on location at the home of the special ed teacher that got beaten up by the Yankees. You could hear weak cheers in the background as he stood in his window in a neck brace and "Cowboy Up!" t-shirt. Then, they cut to the cheering section: four of his students. One said, "It's weird anyone would want to kick Mr. Williams with a cleat. He's real nice." There you have it.

Most people downtown have adopted the goatee and haircut mentioned above, and clearly had been working for a while on a baseball-player-style gut. The nearer you get to Fenway, the higher the odds are that someone will tell you to cowboy up. I definitely wouldn't know how. The papers are filled with stories about nuns and dentists and entire classrooms full of kids brushing aside their daily routines to make sure they can watch the games on TV. Now, if you're someone like me, that's ok. My afternoon walk can wait. But nuns? One quoted in the paper after showing up an hour late to Mass said, "It's ok, God is a Red Sox fan." So if you were praying for something to get done this week, and it's not happening, maybe that's why. I am sure it is the reason behind all those cover letters that aren't getting answered.