NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT: Let's take these things one at a time:

1) I'm in a Fantasy NASCAR league, on accounta one of my best buddies who I bet with all the time thought it'd be fun for us to have *something* to wager on during the NFL offseason. Of course this is the same guy I went to Branson, MO with, on accounta we hadda see if it could be as bad as it sounded. (Conclusion: It's worse; so bad it wasn't funny!) So, yeah, there is at least some small element of "Let's slum it with the common folk" to our little NASCAR diversion. Or at least there was. 'Cause see, over the course of this fantasy league I've started to take the whole thing pretty seriously. I know the difference between super speedways and road courses, which teams do better with restrictor plates, and why Kevin Harvick is so mad at Robby Gordon. And I'm in like 6,000th place out of nearly half a million drivers. Boogity boogity boogity indeed!

2) Over the years, I've determined that Schlitz in a can is the best possible beer in the world to drink in the summertime. Sure, I've had microbrews, Belgian Trippels, even brewed my own. But I just love Schlitz in a can. It tastes like summer to me.

3) I try to listen to a lot of Cubs games -- when I'm not tuning in on TV or sitting at Wrigley, it's pretty tough to beat the combo of Pat Hughes and Ron Santo on WGN-Radio. Yeah, I've got radio wired throughout the house, but with baby walks and dog walks and having to move from the yard to the basement to the deck in order to keep my son happy, well, I broke down today and bought what my friend Christina calls "an old man radio." You know, one of those little portables you can sit in the back yard with and park it against your ear.

Anyhow, here's the parts expressed as a whole:

Earlier this afternoon, I was sitting out in the backyard with my son, my wife, the aforementioned Christina, and her little gal Caitlyn. Picture it -- I'm in a crap TARGET chair, some little ten-dollar number we picked up, low-slung, one of the nylon slats ready to rip loose. I'm nursing a can of Schlitz, and I've got my radio glued to my ear so I can listen to the Pennsylvania 500.

"Look at you," says Christina. "My God."

And I hadn't thought about it. But today I realized I'm a 37-year-old man who sits in his yard in a crap chair drinking Schlitz and listening to NASCAR. So that's me. Today.