"We named our tree cutting service 'Ike's Tree Cutting Service.' We named it after Dwight Eisenhower."

This is the first time I've gotten to check my email since Hurricane Ike came storming into town like an uninvited relative who thinks a shared last name gives them license to raid your fridge. Ike was not kind to my city, but he was way nicer to us than to Galveston, which is FUBAR.

My body is hurting. I feel like David Carr on Monday morning -- or at least, the David Carr who used to get on the field on Sundays, on Monday morning. That's because of the recent industry I've joined, starting Saturday afternoon: tree cutting.

That's right, I'm using my expensive UVa education to go around in ripped up Carhartt's and a black, mesh trucker hat that says "RAM ROD" -- ("Say 'Team Ram Rod.' Say 'Team Ram Rod!'") -- cutting up trees felled by Ike. Demand has been higher than Cheech, though less and less so with every passing day. My hands, after three straight days of working my ass off, have become 10 percent tree -- I swear the bark and sap molecules have simply become one with my flesh. The red marks on my neck make me look like an arbophiliac; if I had a girlfriend, I'd have some explaining to do regarding this hickey: "Baby, I swear, it's from all the heavy lifting and placing of logs on my right shoulder, a la some big strong guy from Scandinavia on ESPN2!"

My bank account, which was in the red as recently as Friday, is about the only thing that isn't hurting these days.

In three days I've made over a thousand dollars. And I'm still trying to go today. Business is starting to die out, thanks to the massive cleanup efforts that have been underway since the morning after the storm hit, throughout the city, and to the fleets of crafty Mexicans trying to undermine my business with rakes and flatbed trailers. All I've got are a couple of buddies with chainsaws. How can I compete with ocho Mexicanos who have business cards and blowers?

I will write much more about this later. Right now, there are trees that need a cuttin'.

p.s. I hate Bud Selig and I want him to die. It is very evident that he wants his darling Brewers in the playoffs so badly that he will resort to anything, ANYTHING, to help facilitate that dream. Nevermind that the Phils just pushed them to the side, and that the Cubs are about to finish them off. He wants the Astros out of the picture. So he reschedules two of our three games with Chicago to be played at, of all places, Milwaukee, an hour from Chicago? Against the Cubs? Home games?! If we miss the playoffs by two games I want him hung in effigy from the rafters of our real home stadium, Minute Maid Park.