It's such a wonder that I think I'll stay in bed, as Rufus Wainwright put it.

I'm in L.A. this weekend, for a wedding and a little bit of work-related stuff. California is one of those places, like Neverland, that sound great in theory but then in practice is a bit wearisome.

Anyway, the hotel we're staying at has a tennis court, which gave the lovely Mrs. Sarah Urist Green the opportunity to beat me silly. When Sarah and I play tennis, she is the United States and I am Grenada: Our conflict is brief, largely bloodless, and an unadulterated rout. The problem, basically, is that I am not any good at the parts of tennis where you have to run around and hit a ball over a net. Now, I don't want to sound immodest, but I am extraordinarily good at some facets of tennis, such as A. the part where you get mad and throw your racket around, and B. the part where you pretend to be John McEnroe and loudly insist that a ball was in even though it was clearly and inarguably out. But I'm wretched at the sports part of tennis; in fact, I'm wretched at the sports part of all sports. Fortunately, my wife is a patient opponent and a gracious winner.

Okay, so I will now close with three questions:

First, is there a single librarian among the 18,000 people who attended the ALA's annual conference in New Orleans to whom I did not give the flu? Seemingly there is not. By the way, I would like to publicly apologize to Justine Larbalestier.

Second, does anyone know why ever since I got my fancy new Mac, I don't have a button to hyperlink in blogger? I don't like the idea of blogging without hyperlinking; it seems to me like playing air guitar.

Third, and this is from the excellent new novel KING DORK: Is or is not "Tennis with Guitars" the greatest name for a hypothetical rock band in human history?