Honestly, I’ve had enough of this cold weather. It’s March now and I still need hot chocolates on demand, you must be kidding me. I understand that when you come to Cornell, you should be prepared for this but I’ve reached my limit. Enough threats of snow, I’m honestly tired of getting smacked in the face by the wind ... I can’t go through this anymore. Its been so bad recently that my friend who visited me this past weekend almost considered passing on the Ludacris concert because of the cold ... just the other night my friend (Boa manhã consideravelmente) was walking thru Ho Plaza on her way to class and couldn’t do anything but belt out a loud scream in retaliation to this cold place called Ithaca.

Many times in professional sports, a player’s reputation and his performance vary greatly. Take Tracy McGrady. T-Mac is a seven-time All-Star and a two-time scoring champion. He is currently 29, an age at which most basketball players are in their prime. He is among the ten highest-paid players in the NBA, has a lucrative endorsement deal with Adidas and would seem to be the embodiment of an NBA superstar. However, one major piece of the superstar equation is missing from McGrady’s puzzle: He doesn’t help his team win games.

In the wake of his 799th career victory on Saturday, Feb. 21, 2009, University of Connecticut head coach Jim Calhoun entered the post-game press conference. However, the topic of conversation was not the top-ranked Huskies’ 64-50 win over South Florida, or the coach’s fast-approaching mile­stone. Freelance journalist and political activist Ken Krayeske asked Calhoun about his $1.6 million salary in light of the state’s billion-dollar budget deficit. Republican Gov. Mary Jodi Rell has asked all state-employee unions for concessions and givebacks.

“Not a dime back,’’ Calhoun barked at Krayeske, regarding his salary.

This is Part II of a two-part column. Part I appeared yesterday.  

There were three scoreboards floating separately out in center field — one, two, three.

Ron Santo quickly looked out to the mound.

“Bill Singer was the pitcher for the Dodgers and there were three of him — one, two, three,” said Santo, former third baseman and current radio broadcaster for the Chicago Cubs.

“And I go, ‘Oh my gosh, I’m having a reaction.’”

This is Part I of a two-part column. Part II will run tomorrow.

My mind is generally so preoccupied with thoughts about what others think of me that I doubt I could ever find time for the requisite male thought about sex every seven seconds, or two minutes, or whatever it is. I even recently got called a narcissist when I was got caught looking at my reflection in a store window. I honestly do that, though, because I am so concerned that people are about to laugh at me for something.

I guess the bullet point presentation of this opening is that I just want to be liked.

Being a journalist is not the way to go about doing this, unfortunately. I should clarify.

Commissioner Bud Selig chastised Alex Rodriguez for “shaming the game” when he used steroids.

“While Alex deserves credit for publicly confronting the issue, there is no valid excuse for using such substances, and those who use them have shamed the game,” said Selig, according to ESPN.com.

First off, Selig’s comments are horribly hypocritical. He praises Rodriquez for facing the issue, yet Selig put off an honest discussion of the steroid situation for a long while and still has not been completely open about the subject.

It was perhaps the most memorable dunk contest of all time. The high-flying acrobatics of the two finalists set the stage for future generations. Michael Jordan and Dominique Wilkins each entered the final round of the 1988 contest with one dunk title already under their belts.

“Nique” had just brought the crowd to its feet with his final dunk of the night, a two-handed windmill slam from the right side of the basket, but the judges only awarded him a cumulative 45 points out of 50. Jordan would at least have an opportunity to defend his thrown as the incumbent dunk champion, in front of a raucous hometown crowd at the United Center.

The walls of volleyball head coach Deitre Collins-Parker’s corner office were mostly bare Monday when I knocked on the halfway opened door. Deitre was obviously in the process of packing up the last of her stuff — a dejected black mini-fridge stood, unplugged, in front of her desk, and piles of office paraphernalia lay in haphazard heaps. In front of the dark monitor, a row of unopened Slimfast shakes stood quietly. It was their last day too, after all.

I’ve never been a huge fan of pants.

I wore sweat pants to school every day until sixth grade. Like the little shirts I had my mom sew for my Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal, or the phase I spent painting rocks and selling them for 25 cents to my mom’s friends, it was just something I did. I didn’t consider how other people would perceive these things. I wasn’t trying to stand out. An understanding of social dynamics, acute observation, and discerning judgment: these were not strong points of my youth. Blissful ignorance and naiveté, well, I was a Viking at those.

Most NFL fans enjoy the Super Bowl like the last bite of an ice cream cone; a wonderful ending to an enjoyable experience. For Detroit Lions fans like me, Sunday’s Super Bowl was more like the knockout blow after getting beaten up for most of a fight. The game served as a final, painful reminder of the Lions’ season, but at least the agony was finally over. For good measure, NBC used failed Lions’ executive Matt Millen as one its studio analysts. In case any fans forgot how abysmal the Lions season was, the architect behind the disaster served as a mustachioed reminder.