I went to bed last night with the windows open and the breezes coming through, the occassional hum of a car passing on the street outside and the sweet smell of spring coming in.

I woke up to the sound of lawn mowers next door and the smell of freshly cut grass carried on the wind, the sun shining brilliantly through the blinds.

I took the opportunity to wash my car today. It was washed last week, but with some rain and the pollen falling from the trees, my black car was dotted in yellow. But the sun shone so strongly, that I'd barely wet down the roof and hood before it evaporated. I had to soap up the hood, then wash it off immediately. And when I tried to dry it, the heat from the metal came through the cloth, too hot on my hands.

In the afternoon, I grabbed my camera and went to see the alma mater's baseball game, to satisfy a creative urge to shoot baseball photos and to catch the son of a family friend in at least one game his senior season. His picture-perfect left-handed swing made for some great photos, too.

After dinner and several beers, I watched "Down To You" and became a little saddened because I was reminded that I'm not dating Julia Stiles.

And this morning, while checking my e-mail, the parents of a college friend sent a message. (The quick background: One year in college, this girl's mother got us with an April Fool's joke, since this girl and her family lived in South Bend, where we went to school. So every year since -- including those we've been out of school -- we've kept up the April Fool's pranks.) Debbie wrote to tell us she had been hit -- a few weeks ago, we ordered dozens of pink flamingos and had some contacts in town set them up on their back lawn. Their house is in a development, with an entire block of houses cirlced around a pond, all with the back yards facing the pond. So this army of flamingos looked as if it was marching from the pond to the house. Quite a site. So I responded to Debbie's account with this, with which I will leave you:

There should be a song: "Flamingos Marching."

They march up the lawn
Make their way to the house
They're on their way in,
They're after your spouse.

A pink army of birds
With one mission in mind:
Draw attention to the house
And what lies behind

They're the flamingos marching
Creeping up for some grub
Coming in the back door
And taking a dip in the tub.