A rough Sunday morning

7:29 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I don't mind getting up early, folks. I really don't.

As friends and family know, I am not opposed to waking long before dawn (4 a.m. is the record, I believe) to arrive at a tailgate as soon as the lots open (and is there a sweeter feeling, folks, than pulling into those Beaver Stadium lots, hopping out of the old SUV and feeling the morning dew on your feet, knowing that within a few short minutes you will commence tailgating? I think not.).

The thing is, there's no tailgate today. There is only a scheduled trip to Lowe's and Target (ugh) to pick up some outdoor essentials, and possibly a sandbox for Young Jack, who is right now driving Your Editor absolutely bonkers, and making Your Editor's early morning hours a bit of a struggle.

At 14 months, Young Jack is displaying some very linebacker-esque tendencies. OK, maybe just one--a willingness to destroy everything. Nothing is spared here in the Wissahickon Valley, folks. Young Jack is, for instance, currently eating some software. I gotta go.