Currently swimming down the River Loire in France, our friend here is the creation of artist Florentijn Hofman.

I like this.

There was a huge nut tree by the cemetery fence. One day, two boys filled up a bucketful of nuts and sat down by the tree, out of sight, and began dividing the nuts. "One for you, one for me. One for you, one for me," said one boy.

The bucket was so full, several rolled out towards the fence.

Cycling down the road by the cemetery was a third boy. As he passed, he thought he heard voices from inside the cemetery. He slowed down to investigate.

Sure enough, he heard, "One for you, one for me. One for you." Instantly, he knew just what it was. "Oh my!" he shuddered, "It's Satan and St. Peter dividing the souls at the cemetery!"

He cycled down the road and found an old man with a cane, hobbling along. "Come quick!" he said, "You won't believe what I heard. Satan and St. Peter are down at the cemetery dividing the souls."

The man said, "Shoo, you brat! Can't you see I'm finding it hard to walk as it is!" After several pleas, the man hobbled to the cemetery and heard, "One for you, one for me. One for you, one..."

The old man whispered, "Boy, you've been tellin' the truth! Let's see if we can see the Devil himself."

Shivering with fear, they edged toward the fence, still unable to see anything, but still they heard, "One for you, one for me. One for you, one for me." and then " And one last one for you. That's all of them...Now, let's go get those nuts by the fence, and then we'll be done."

They say the old guy made it to town 10 minutes before the boy!

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Exalted Highness Duchess Rosalind the Nimble of Throcking by Hampton Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

I have not yet read Harry Potter VII. I am not sure whether that is a mark of pride or shame, but I trust they will not all self-destruct before I get around to it.

We went to the local Borders on release night to get some snapshots of my costumed stepdaughter doing face-painting. Such a festival. Dress robes, shirts with "Property of Muggle University", a spelling bee ("no, I'm sorry, A-s-h-c-a-b-a-n is not correct"), and my favorite, a gray-haired grandmotherly woman carrying a large flowerpot with a plush Mandrake peeking out of the top. I felt sorry for anyone who had said to himself, "Hmm, I'm in the mood for a quiet cappuchino down at Borders' coffeeshop this evening."

I was hoping for this result. (Warning: the quiz is pretty "R" rated.)


Find out your Harry Potter personality at LiquidGeneration!

Baseball is the greatest sport, except for maybe curling. (Please take any arguments outside. No one here is listening.)

It is the conviction of this author that nothing in baseball matches the beauty of a marvelously executed defensive play. Unfortunately, televised baseball doesn't give us much chance to see the choreography of defense, but it does give us the chance to watch the game (1) cheaply, (2) in air-conditioned comfort on a soft couch, and (3) in proximity to a bathroom without a long line. Such are the compromises of daily life, and it behooves us to make them and stop whining.

Modern media, that slave of a society that seeks the spectacular rather than the excellent, shows us one arching home run after another on the nightly sports report. Can anyone find that really interesting? I am, however, no snob. The love of a gracefully turned double play aside, nothing beats a quirky inside-the-park home run for sheer enjoyment. (By definition, all inside the park homers are quirky. How many happen in a season, really, unless the team plays in a stadium the size of Cook County and the opposing outfielders were recruited on the set of the Wizard of Oz?)

This year was notable for the excitement of the first inside-the-park homer in the history of the All-Star game. That brought up discussion by the commentators of another, hit earlier this year by the extremely improbable Prince Fielder. At first, I thought they were kidding. I've admired Fielder's play and have vivid and fond memories of his similarly well-nourished father, Cecil, who gave joy to thousands of Tiger fans while he was in Detroit. But the thought of Prince legging it fleetly around the basepaths boggles the imagination.

To my delight, it's for real.

. . . remember that it's not always what it's cracked up to be.

Photo credit: Mike Fine

Gee, officer, maybe I need to get my eyes checked.