Pre-Fourth of July Stream of Consciousness Scott Kazmir is good. In fact, I'd venture to guess that his poo is better than Victor Zambrano, the guy the Mets traded for when they gave up the best young lefty in the game.

Best of luck to young Steve Burtt, who is in Charlotte for rookie mini-camp in hopes of making the Charlotte Bobcats' Orlando Summer League squad.

I like ice cream. Especially soft-serve, low-fat frozen yogurt with chocolate sauce and crushed Heath bars.

I also like cheez doodles. And so does Stephen A. Smith. Quite frankly, cheez doodles make my hunger go away. And that's all I have to say.

Capote the movie...Philip Seymour Hoffman was amazing. But the movie? Painful. I dunno why, maybe I'm just not a drama guy.

You know you're dealing with someone with issues when they send you text messages when they're drunk...and even the messages are slurred.

Good to see Rocco Baldelli back, healthy, and doing well for the (Devil) Rays.

Roulette's a stupid game. I never really followed up the first Vegas post, as I caught a bit of the I-ate-shitty-Japanese food-and-puked-up-black bile syndrome that Saturday night. But during the day, I gave MGM Grand a few dollars (read: $35) trying to play that stupid assed game. I sat down, put 10 bucks on Big Papi (34), and it didn't come up. The next spin? 34. I put another 5 bucks on Papi and another 5 on Schill and it came up Jim Ed (14). The rest of the time I tried to guess black or red. It came up green once. Stupid game.

Among the many things I hate about the YES Network, is its policy to not show the score too often if the Yanks are losing. Which makes me have to listen to Michael shampooing Kay for 5 minutes to find out how those scumbags are doing.

It was five years ago today that I was midway through my first baseball vacation - from New Rochelle to Cooperstown to Syracuse to Toronto to Cleveland and back to New Roc City. After a dead battery in Toronto prompted a change, my theft-deterrent radio locked me out, so I drove the 5+ from Canada to Cleveland and the 7+ from Cleveland to New Ro with no tunes. None. Just conversation and crossword puzzles with my co-pilot and then-girlfriend Jessica. Don't know why I just thought of that.

The Sun's not Yellow. It's Chicken.

When I was growing up, I really wanted to be an astronaut. Right now, as the aging Space Shuttle is broken AGAIN prior to a seemingly-forced launch by NASA officials, I'm kinda glad I'm not an astronaut. I'd rather eat cheez doodles and watch Scott Kazmir shit on the Sox (CG, one-hitter).

Might go see Lewis Black tonight at Summerfest. But that would require me getting off my couch. Not sure if I'm up for that. Am I manically depressed, lazy or something else? Maybe it's a thong. They're probably just regular cotton panties. But what if they're silk? Or something cool I never thought of? Wait, am I still in the nest? The trust tree? (told you it was stream of consciousness)

I'm going back to New York City, I do believe I've had enough.

Ok, need to shower. I smell like poo. Which is still better than Victor Zambrano.

One.  ¶ 9:21 PM