I feel like a lump of pudding today. A globule of some amorphous substance. Goo. Remember when Letterman used to refer to the Atlanta Braves pitcher Terry Forster as a “big tub of goo”? (I can’t remember why Forster was even mentioned on Late Night, though. Anyone out there recall why Letterman started picking on the guy?) Well, that’s what I feel like. Pure, unadulterated goo. And I only weigh 162 pounds, too. You’d think that, since I’m feeling large, I’d at least get to say that my gelatination is the result of too many delicious, life-affirming cheeseburgers. This, sadly, is not the case; it is due to pure, old-fashioned, Michigan-nurtured laziness. In homage to baseball, which just got underway, I will now enter my own personal Spring Training, only without the use of a fungo bat.

Stucco. For some reason stucco, which I haven’t seen or thought about for at least a year, has jumped unbidden into my mind. What gives?