Nobody I know cares about sports. I don't even care about sports, particularly, except for, as with so many things, the business and marketing and whatnot. But Ricky Williams? The story keeps getting better (and note that I'm just hitting the highlights. I'm skipping, for example, the way that new Saints coach (and penis-drug spokesperson) Mike Ditka sold the farm to get Williams in the NFL draft).

First he signed to Master P's No Limit sports agency (currently, as best I can tell, defunct). Then he signed a ludicrous contract, literally negotiated on the golf course, with the New Orleans Saints. This contract consisted of, basically, an $8.8 million signing bonus, the NFL's minimum annual salary and a whole bunch of incentives, tied to things like touchdowns, 100-yard games and averaging 1600 yards/game over his first four seasons. Very few of these things happened (the last has only happened twice in NFL history, and not to anybody who keeps a weblog or chills with Ziggy Marley). Williams got a different (read: competent) agent, and, eventually, signed a deal with the Miami Dolphins. He was on the cover on NFL Street. Then, well, not much of interest, to football fans or anyone else, happened, until just recently. After failing an NFL-mandated drug test for the third time, he decided to retire, seemingly after having decided that he'd rather get high and hang out with Lenny Kravitz than play football. Dare I live out the American dream? Anyway, the definitive Ricky Williams story has yet to be written. I, for one, am hoping for a decent ghostwriter.

Also, here's a paleoclimatologist's review of 'The Day After Tomorrow.'  ¶ 4:42 PM