the nytimes is making its op-ed page subscription-only, to the tune of around $50 a year. i think the washington post op-ed page and authors just got an early christmas present.

Monday mornings are, I think, when we're supposed to regale the internet with stories of -- or at least vague allusions to -- the exciting things we did all weekend. But I'm happy to say that this weekend I did nothing. There was a total, perfect absence of excitement. I did some work; I went to the gym; I watched some Star Wars cartoons; I read a little(!). Mostly, though, I slowly recuperated from the stress-induced lobotomization that work had recently inflicted. I was in bed every night by 11.

So thank you to those who invited me to go out. I'll be more interesting in the future, I promise. But I was pretty well determined to consign this weekend to sweet, sweet oblivion.

Well, okay. Catherine and I did do something. But it was entirely by accident! Taste of Arlington stood between me and my Sunday agenda of haircut- and grocery-acquisition, so Catherine and I met up there with Julie, Brian and Scott.

TOA was okay. The minimum buy-in of $25 was a little disheartening, as were the occasionally meager portion sizes that the $3-or-so tickets got you. I'll cop to gluttony, but Hard Times Cafe should still serve more than a quarter-cup of chili. More irritating, though, was the just-okay restaurant selection. Arlington's probably got more and better food per dollar per capita than DC; so why did Molly Malone's, Guiness-vendor to the pop-collar set, have a booth? Why did Chipotle? Hell, why did Kaplan Test Prep? Restaurants ought to jump at the chance to sell large quantities of one appetizer at $3/pop -- aside from the goodwill it generates, it should be easy and profitable. Although there were several good restaurants represented and quality food to be had, it felt like the festival was struggling to fill the booths. Many well-known area restaurants chose not to participate, and those who did seemed primarily interested in getting suckers like myself signed up for their spam email lists.

The mostly tasty eats weren't enough to assuage the feeling that the event was an exercise in marketing first and food second. It's been a while, but Taste of Clarendon was cheaper, more pleasant, and considerably tastier.

Oh well. At least the haircut was pretty good.

Perhaps I should have mentioned: Charles, Matt, Charles' Dad (who is also Charles) and I went to the Heat game last Thursday, when the world was new and the playoffs a joyful novelty. And it was fun. I had my heart set on making a number of banal observations about the size of Shaq, but the poor baby had a bruised thigh. Don't tell him I said that, though.

Anyway, the series has come and gone, but I've got the precious memories -- and better, a commemorative towel encouraging towel-viewers to "Beat The Heat". Well, it's a little late for that, and the seats proved to be too close together for the kind of coordinated towel waving that the Wizards were no doubt counting on to confuse and terrify their opponents. But having a washcloth-size square of fabric -- that possessed some absorbent power in spite of itself -- was a lifesaver when it came to spilled beer. Next season: commemorative Stadium Pals?