Finally. The place for all my cyber-shopping needs.

Well, my illness is cured. In only a week. I'm quite excited. I'm going to credit the quart of orange juice I drank daily.

Sunday night I attended concert #2 for the year: Bright Eyes at Club Laga in the Oakland area of Pittsburgh. I was saddened to find out that Club Laga will be closing soon. It's a cool venue that, although not ideal for this show, has a great warehouse vibe. Rough, back alley warehouse, not hip yuppie warehouse. And soon it will be apartments. Sigh.

The show turned out to be more of a singer/songwriter showcase than a concert. And I liked it. It wasn't so much main act/supporting act as a collage with the artists doing a few songs by themselves, a few together, all sharing one multi-instrumentalist. With no tearing down and setting up the stage, the whole 2 and a half hours flowed continuously. Or at least the two that I saw, thanks to a struggle to find a place to park in Oakland and the show starting early.

I missed much of M. Ward's time in the spotlight, but enjoyed his rough, somewhat wispy voice. It contrasted nicely with Jim James's smoother stronger one. I really enjoyed the songs all three did together. When Ward and James harmonized with Conor Oberst (aka Bright Eyes) and his thin, emotional voice, the juxtaposition of sounds was gorgeous.

Bright Eyes, being the headliner, had the most solo time and it was well deserved. The guy has a way with words and images that is breath-taking. And his unusual, trembling voice is even more powerful live. I can't dissect the show too much because there was a lot of stuff I didn't know, both from early albums I don't own and new stuff. But I will say that I enjoyed his songs and particularly the concert format immensely. Highlight? "Waste of Paint". I could listen to this song over and over and the live performance added a whole different dimension. Second place: All three artists coming out to close the encore with Bob Dylan's "Girl of the North Country". Not only is this an awesome song, but the three singing together made it absolutely gorgeous. Worst part: The sold-out, no-seats venue. It's tough to enjoy more low-key, cerebral material when you're crammed in like sardines. I wouldn't have minded too much if I hadn't gotten stuck way out in no man's land. Let's face it, general admission sucks if you're not within 30 feet of the stage.

Concert #3 for the year is already in the works. I'll be seeing my main man, Bob Dylan in just a few short weeks.

Well, since illness has once again interrupted my training, I've decided to add a new feature to the blog. To compensate for the fact that you won't be able to anxiously watch me cross off the tasks on my training schedule, I've replaced the triathlon training schedule with Symptom Watch '04. Here you can instead follow along through the exciting adventure that is Sara's latest illness. Here's hoping daily evaluation of my symptoms won't turn me into a total hypochondriac.

Okay, I'm starting to get seriously ticked off. I'm getting sick...again. What does my body want from me? To move to Florida, play shuffleboard and go to bed at 7:30 pm?

The Christmas season is long past, but still my neighbor refuses to take down his 15-foot tall, inflatable Santa and snowman. (Think the kind of hokey spectacle you'd find in a used car lot.) Not only do these things completely engulf his yard, but they're lit up like Rudolph's nose! Now I respect the right of each and every man, woman, and child to display tacky Christmas decorations to their heart's content, but a statute of limitations should definitely apply. Will I have to look at these monstrosities until July? Or perhaps only until a 15-foot leprechaun or Easter bunny shows up?

"Spandex is a privilege, not a right." That's what a friend once told me. And I'm inclined to agree. But even those who have earned the privilege can abuse it. For over a year now, I have watched in horror as a man at my gym insists on exercising in spandex. If it were just spandex shorts and an untucked t-shirt, I might be able to get over it, but he insists on tucking his barely-there muscle shirts into indecently short spandex shorts. Now the guy is very fit, but the outfits are so ridiculous that he looks like a total boob anyway. The shorts are so tight you can actually see the seams straining, hanging on for dear life. Spandex, by it's very nature, is a clingy fabric, therefore buying clothes two sizes too small is not necessary to achieve a slim-fitting look. This guy obviously does not have a woman, because no self-respecting woman would ever let her man out of the house looking like that.

Does anybody else have what I like to call renegade follicles? For example, amongst my full head of smooth, fine, blond hairs, I've found this lone coarse, almost wiry, copper-colored hair. It's quite unusual. Although my first instinct was to yank it out, I continue to let it live because I admire its individuality.

So does anybody else have any renegade follicles? Or am I just a freak of nature? Okay, I know. The answer to that is probably "yes", even if you disregard my follicular anomalies.

Is it car-buying season already? I'm looking out the window here at my desk and trucks are disappearing left and right at the Ford dealership across the street.

It never ceases to creep me out how often Beth and I are on the same wavelength. Not only do we both love the same Bob Dylan albums, but I just found out we both spent our weekend mesmerized by TCM's "31 Days of Oscar". This is just ridiculous.

Anyway, this delightful series on TCM has finally afforded me the opportunity to see the classic film Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. And I totally loved it. But then again, I usually enjoy movies and music that have the potential to make waves as this film did. And as much as they tried to paint Spencer Tracy's character as hard-headed and old-fashioned, I have to sympathize with him. Who would want their daughter to come waltzing in and say, "Guess what, Dad? I'm getting married...in a few days...in Geneva...to a guy you've never met...and he's black...and his parents are coming over for dinner tonight." I'm surprised he didn't have a coronary right there on the spot.

It was for similar reasons that I fell for Victor/Victoria. I can see how this film would have ruffled a few feathers in its day. I loved how it brought a different perspective to gender roles. I've never been a big Julie Andrews fan, but she was great in that role. The way the film turned the tables on gender roles and cultural conventions is delightful.

Ever wake up in the middle of the night feeling too warm? And too sleepy to go through the work of peeling off a blanket? I find that merely sticking one foot out from under the covers somehow vents the excess heat. Surprisingly enough, in all my mechanical engineering studies and emphasis on thermal sciences, I didn't come across this key principle anywhere.

I have a serious addiction to high heels, one that is quickly threatening to surpass my long-running, deep-seeded vitamin supplement habit. I recognize that 3" heels are bad for me. That someday I'll be left with mangled feet and bad joints, but I just can't give them up. Chalk it up to vanity, I guess.

I hate it when I think of something interesting to post, but by the time I reach a computer I've forgotten it.

All right. I'm getting back to the training. I'm healthy and ready to get back in the saddle. Here's hoping it will all be smooth sailing from now on.

I was doing some thinking and I realized that the people I am most drawn to and attracted to are usually the ones most like myself. Is this normal or am I just a narcissist?

I finally found a place for my drafting board. I put it on crates and voila! I've got a new coffee table.

I've never been one to let the seasons affect me much. But this winter, the cold, blustery weather is really getting to me. I'm turning into one boring, lazy person.

Question: What do you call a male ballerina?

There's no punchline here. I seriously want to know. A baller? A ballerer? A ballerist, perhaps? If you know, please enlighten me.