FRIDAY, Feb. 28: I go all day without hearing from Susan Schroeder, who, I've been told, is kind of DA Tony Rackauckas' media overlord. She's also kind of the wife of Rackauckas' biggest political angel, Mike Schroeder, who, until recently, was kind of chairman of the state Republican Party. You don't think any of this has to do with those stories we keep printing about Rackauckas running a slimy department and the grand jury investigating him and his slimy department and wanting to talk to his wife, a former deputy DA, and—hello—Susan Schroeder about the slimy department, and somehow the two of them disappear, so the grand jury can't serve them with subpoenas, and the DA, the guy in charge of bringing bad guys in front of juries, can't find his own wife or his media overlord, and the whole thing stinks like one big sleaze sandwich that Susan Schroeder is snout-deep in. You don't think . . .
SATURDAY-SUNDAY, March 1-2: Kids sick, can't do anything or go anywhere; so bored I watch match-play golf. . . . I do buy the Sex Pistols' Never Mind the Bullocks . . . for the ninth or 10th time—like changing my oil, you know, regular maintenance due to scratched CD, lost CD or CD used as Ninja throwing star. By the way, if you're wondering why the world is in its present state, simply play "Pretty Vacant," and all will be made clear (note to Grammy people: If a Mr. Lydon, nee "Rotten," kicks it any time soon, resist the urge to pay tribute by having "Submission" performed by Faith Hill). . . . Susan, call me. (Shut up, Anthony.)