There are a few different categories of excuses. There are the garden variety “Not me” excuses. For instance, if your significant other is standing at the fridge, holding what appears to be a failed science experiment—an attempt to play God that has gone horribly awry—and asks, in a voice that could curdle milk, “Why was this partially-wrapped burrito in the vegetable crisper?” a simple “not me” will suffice. This will cause confusion, leaving you an opening to run for the door, down the block, and into the almond orchard, so that there you will crouch, behind the charred and broken remains of a tree knocked down by an errant bolt of lightning from the near past; there you will crouch, in the gloaming, with naught but the remains of the tree for comfort, and the new-fallen rain as your succor.

You count its rings—this tree was old, much older than yourself. It has lived through countless presidents, seen a man walk on the moon; how many have hung from its branches, in play and in finality? How many have received nourishment from its fertile boughs? You sit and contemplate, until the minutes blend into hours, and the moon is high in the now-clearing sky.

Finally, you bid the tree, and its history, adieu, and skulk back up the block; you crawl, on all fours, your ears perking at the slightest sound, your nose twitching with the spoor on the wind. You are more aware than you’ve ever had right to be. You’ve become one with the night, a dark and eerie presence among the shrubs and trees, and you move like velvet sliding over silk, soundless. Back, back, to the door of the apartment. You slide the bolt, and with a rasp of key on lock you enter.

A cold slickness covers your forehead; your eyes dart like doomed moths trapped in the glass of a lamp, yet the dark is total, and you see nothing but your own fear before your face. You strip to your underwear, leaving anything that could make a noise behind. You slip quietly, ever quietly, into the bedroom, and gingerly trust your weight to the bed, praying the springs don’t announce your presence. You are free—you have made it. You lay your weary head upon the pillow, and slide your hand under. And then you feel it.

Burrito.

In your pillow.

Sorry, chump. You lose.

And then there are the “I was busy” excuses. That’s the kind I’m going to use this week, as I open this, The Week That Was.
As follows:

MOVERS AND SHAKERS
Despite the passing of more than two full weeks, the hot stove has been cold. No moves were finalized in the past two weeks, though the trade between Josh and Eamon of Juan “I’m fast but I suck” Pierre for Torii “My momma makes up names” Hunter is still pending league approval.

TOP PERFORMERS
As of two weeks ago, Josh stood tall atop the league, king for a day. I rapidly changed his outlook on life, as I soared back into first place on the strength of the Cubs winning 8 of 9 games, largely due to Your 2007 National League Most Valuable Player Award Winner Derek Lee and Your 2007 National League Cy Young Award Winner Rich Hill (Friday’s performance was an aberration, I tell you!). At one point I was up 30 points on the rest of the league, but alas, it was not to be, as Ryan’s team, buoyed by the performance of Barry Lamar “Rx” Bonds, made a run, and is currently 1 point up on me in the standings.

TOP PERFORMERS: At Sucking
Though I traditionally use this space to aim a dig at Pat, I really have to call out Scott. In the span of a day he lost Piazza, Westbrook, Hughes, and Capuano to injury, and has since dropped something like 4 places in the league. Congratulations, sir. You are the TP:AS this week.

Baseball, Ray
The Cubs had an up-and-down two weeks. They clawed back to .500 after winning 2 of 3 from the Bucs, followed by a sweep of the Nats. Unfortunately, this was followed by losing 2 of 3 from both the Bucs and the Phils. So who knows what the hell will happen. The one thing that appears to be less and less of a fluke are the performances of Ted “Town Bicycle” Lilly, and Jason “The Grand” Marquis, as Lilly threw 8 innings of 1-run ball today and Marquis threw a complete game shutout in his last start.

The Giants have kept pace with the Cubs, standing as of this writing at a .514 winning percentage. The Braves continue to roll, currently leading the East by a half game over the hated Mets. And the A’s, as usual, are rope-a-doping the rest of the league, sitting in second at 1 game back of the Angels.

FIN

And that…was The Week That Was. Or were. Or whatever.