Conversation at a University City bar led to an old lunchtime exercise between me and my coworkers: casting a live action Simpsons movie.

There were favorites: William H. Macy as Nedward Flanders, Tony Shalhoub as Apu Nahasapeemapetilon (I know he's not Indian but neither is Hank Azaria, nor Ben Kingsley for that matter), Greg Kinnear as Timothy Lovejoy, Alan Arkin as Abraham Simpson...

John Goodman keeps coming up as Homer Simpson but I think he's too big; Homer's just not that big. Perhaps someone the size of Paul Giamatti but with a deeper, dumber voice.

We've never done too well with the women. There aren't too many women character actors to choose from. The kids were also difficult; they grow too fast. The nice thing about this exercise is it's easy to drop once it gets hard.

"Carl Reiner as Montgomery Burns?"

"Well, he was in Ocean's Eleven with Brad Pitt, who was in Sleepers with Kevin Bacon."

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Interesting to note: the Banana Boat Song (Day-O) made famous my Harry Belafonte is often credited to Alan Arkin (and his folk group, The Tarriers).

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The gas inspector was here to trace our lines. According to his results, everything is in order; no lines are crossed between our two story apartment and the salon below. Then I asked him, off the record, if he thought my gas bill is a little high.

"I can't say for sure; I don't know the prices. I'm just here to trace the lines."

The bill in question, our first since our move, is over $700 for one month. I guess I am under the impression that a monthly bill like that is shocking; but no one will give me a straight answer and no one will act surprised for my benefit, not even off the record.

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Breathe.

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Woke up with a mild sore throat and a telltale throb in my right ear. Throughout the
morning I would feign a yawn to pop my ears, like when sitting in coach during the final descent. I'm a little achy but that could be from riding.

I always say that I generally get sick three times a year; when it first gets warm, during the first heat-wave, and when it first cools down. I was just sick a week ago when the weather first turned; but since then it turned back, then turned again, and at is this moment backing into a mildly chilly spring groove.

I might have to rephrase my stand-by statement: I get sick whenever the weather changes faster than I would like it too.

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At least it seems like we have a spring season here in Philadelphia. Chicago springs seem to last around two or three days.

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After stopping by the bank in Chestnut Hill, I had the option of getting coffee from either Starbucks or, across from that, the local cafe. I chose Starbucks because it was on the sunny side of the street.

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I normally would have arm and knee warmers on (or at least on hand) this time of year. It would have been handy today, when I went out in 63 degree weather; only to make it back in the 50s. By then, my calves and quads on both sides were taking turns cramping up. I blame the chill and I blame the warm day we had yesterday.

"I'll never wear an outfit like that." overheard as I passed a mob of high school kids waiting for the bus.

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We grilled chipotle chicken sausages and baked chipotle fries from Trader Joe's. It was a good, quick meal even though Tammie took a bite that was almost all hot pepper.

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Like pickled ginger between servings of raw fish, we got the first season of Grey's Anatomy to freshen our palate between seasons of 24.

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It's always a strange sensation: riding in shorts for the first time on the first warm day of the year.

I felt unprepared, unprotected, and under-dressed. I kept patting my back to see if I had everything in my jersey pockets; phone, food, keys, tools, camera. I kept looking down on my bike; computer, bottles, wheels. Everything was there, the wind on my legs was just throwing me off.

It was 77 but it felt like 80. It was so warm that I felt like I should be in better shape already. But I still have a long ways to go; thirty more base hours to be precise. At least it will cool down later this week; I can pretend it's still spring.

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For some reason I was in bed trying to remember the year I quit smoking. I know it's been a few years; as little as two and as much as five. I know that it's on Valentine's Day. I even know how it happened: I ran out of cigarettes and, as is my nature, procrastinated picking up a pack for no reason. After pushing it off for a week or so, it became one of those things you can't get yourself to do; like making a birthday call when you've missed it by several days.

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This morning I did catch a mouse.

This time around I had too much to do to delay the experience. To my surprise the rodent was a cute little thing with beady, little eyes and a meek demeanor.

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Saw Delicatessen for the second time. It's paced a lot slower than I remembered; but that could be because of what I've been watching the past couple of weeks.

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Today is exactly three months after my thirtieth birthday. I wish that was somehow significant. Maybe if I think of it as nine months to my thirty-first.

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Yesterday evening I set some traps for our nocturnal guests. These are plastic live traps that work on a simple see-saw mechanism and peanut butter bait. Using this method the mice would be unharmed, save for dying from stress which I've read can happen.

After a disturbing night imagining angry, shrieking mice; traps bouncing around like animated alarm clocks; and tiny, little feet scurrying across the blanket; I went down to the kitchen to find two traps untouched and one trap triggered.

It was rather disappointing that after spending twenty minutes finding the nerve to touch that thing; walking it to a safe, unnavigable distance a block away; and spending several more moments goading myself to release the damn rodent; the trap turned out to be empty. It was a false trigger.

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Are my sentences too long? Perhaps it is a cultural thing.

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Waking up at seven in the morning on a Saturday to find an overcast sky and wet pavement was enough reason to skip the group ride and stay in bed for a few hours more. Actually, I didn't even do that—just listening to the sound of cars going by on wet-sounding pavement was enough reason to skip the group ride and stay in bed for a few hours more.

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We tried the local Mexican restaurant; I can't remember its name. I wasn't expecting much but the idea was that anything will taste fine after a fifty mile ride. I suppose the place was fine, though its menu had a significant flaw; there were no steak tacos.

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The three pairs of pants were ready when I came for them. The lady behind the counter didn't even ask for my ticket; she was more fascinated with my dog.

"Sit." she instructed.

The dog lies down on her stomach.

I explain "She goes straight to down because it usually follows sit."

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Half the people who see our dog ask if she's a hyena. A few of them have done so at the top of their lungs from across the street.

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A Maxine is a type of Australian Cattle Dog distinguished by its continuous groaning, moaning, and overall moping around. They live on the fancy BARF diet, which takes a bit more time to prepare than mere kibble. They never bark except to interrupt their owners' sleep cycle. On running days, they lie on their side panting. On non-running days, you will find them on the couch on the brink of tears. If scolded, they pee. If called, they pee. If their owner walks through the front door after a short absence, they pee. When upset, they need to be held or carried. When a Maxine pouts, you can forget about it.

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Not really all that interesting.

I left the apartment once; to the pick up some pants from the cleaners across the street. Tammie had two pairs hemmed and one pair re-hemmed. For the second time in a row—we've only gone twice—the lady shuffled through the plastic-wrapped clothing hanging on the conveyor: once, then twice, then once more. Then like the previous time I tried to pick up she said "Come back tomorrow?" She had one pair done and two not even in the works.

Like I said, not that interesting.

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The rest of the day was spent: trying to fix borders in firefox, sticking a Huffy decal on my down tube, wondering if the powerlines on the bike path were interfering with Tammie's computer, having the dog dumped into the shower stall while I was in it, rooting for Izzie and George instead of Callie and George, and, of course, wondering why no one ever believes Jack Bauer.

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We're in the middle of the second season of 24; at a point where immediate threats are resolved and the episode doesn't end in a cliff-hanger. It's impressive that a television series kept us in suspense for fifteen straight episodes. It is our conclusion that this show isn't very good for our health, especially when viewed before bedtime.

It is interesting to know that the first season was only promised a twelve episode trial by the network. Jack Bauer had to tie up loose ends in the plot by the twelfth episode just in case the network didn't pick up the second half.

I wonder who would win in a fight between Jack Bauer and Chuck Norris.

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As far as training goes, it's a week until april and I've only got 29 hours (496 miles for the milage-inclined) of base training. That's a hair short of my goal of 66 hours of riding (about 1,000 miles at 15 mph—roughly 44 movies on the Netflix training program). I guess I can think of it this way: I'll be ready for cross.

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I will have to pick up more duct tape.

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I spent a good chunk of the morning rat hunting. well... more like mice than rats. And more like patching holes than hunting.

This started yesterday when I found a mouse scurrying through the kitchen floor to find refuge in the recyclables. Suspecting that it was smaller than I perceived, I courageously used a broomstick to prod among the tins and the tetrapacks, and bounded decisively as it abandoned the bin for the space between the cabinets and the wall.

Last night I found droppings to confirm that it was, indeed, a mouse—and that this mouse comes and goes through the drywall behind the cabinets.

I used cardboard scrapped from moving boxes and duct tape (and, when I ran out of that, masking tape) to fill large holes in the drywall behind the dishwasher and the stove. I taped up the space between the linoleum and the wall. I taped up the gaps between unfinished pieces of drywall in case the mouse can achieve gaseous form and back. And then I double-taped.

The thought crossed my mind that the adhesive might contain animal (read horse) byproduct. Since mice are attracted to animal fat (read cheese), it isn't beyond the realm of my imagination that the mouse can find sustenance in the duct tape and eat through to find it's way back into the kitchen.

But that's getting ahead of myself. The next move would be to confirm that patching holes is a step in the right direction. If I find more droppings (read poop) tomorrow, I'll have to pull out the fridge to look for more holes.

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Spring starts in three hours—actually, spring was supposed to start today but since I overslept, tarnishing my debut into the season, I decided the change will happen right at the moment of equinox. So... spring starts in less than three hours at 7:07 pm, eastern daylight savings time.

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