TORONTO - I can always tell how my day is going to go by turning on my Blackberry first thing in the morning while I'm still in bed.
Yesterday, I knew it wasn't going to be a good day, even though it was the exciting Raptors season opener at the Air Canada Centre.
I generally get a few e-mails overnight, either ripping me or thanking me for something I wrote. Usually, I get ripped.
Some readers are positive, but I've reached the conclusion that angry people tend to e-mail more than happy people.
Truth be told, I don't mind angry e-mails, as I've said before.
But the messages I really hate are the ones when somebody points out a mistake. My column Wednesday on the state of the Raptors' fan base wasn't particularly controversial, so I didn't receive many e-mails one way or the other. But I did receive one from a guy who disagreed with my assertion that the Raptors are doing A-OK (or something like that).
Everyone's entitled to their opinion, but the thing that irked me was when the guy accused me of not "doing my homework".
There's nothing worse than that.
I was going to message him back with something clever like "$%^# you" but decided that the last thing I needed was another enemy.
Friends I need. More enemies I don't need.
Anyway, getting back to my lousy day, I roll out of bed, grumpy, shuffle off to the bathroom, glance in the mirror and realize that my front tooth is still broken.
I usually go to a dentist downtown but now that I don't come to the office much, I want to find a guy somewhere in the burgs. My colleague Steve Simmons, who knows everybody, gave me a name of a guy, but I forgot it.
So there I was, trying to figure out how to use my new electric toothbrush (do you move an electric toothbrush around like a regular toothbrush while it's buzzing away?) when I remember that I was supposed to get my blood work done a long time ago. But I hate getting my blood done, because I'ma pathetic coward. So I've been putting it off.
And I know when I finally see my doctor, David Greenberg, who knows more about sports than I do, he's going to give me crap.
Anyway, I head downstairs, and after eating my usual breakfast of an apple, a glass of water and a whole whack of pills--I head to the gym, which is always a drag, because I'm lazy.
I get to the gym and my buddy Ron isn't there. Ron is a great guy to talk sports with and when he's not there I'm forced to work out to my iPod, which is full of crappy '70s and '80s music. I don't know how to download music to my iPod because I'm an idiot, so I get Bubba to do it for me (after I pay her a large fee). How does that work out? I ask Bubba for Led Zeppelin and The Police and she downloads Starlight Vocal Band and Dexy's Midnight Runners.
I don't know if she's playing with me or what, but it doesn't matter.
She knows I forget things. And I always forget to give her, you know, s#*&.
Anyway, after working out, I head to the grocery store to buy Bubba dinner because I have to leave early for the Raptors opener. In the checkout line, I drop a chicken rice box all over the floor and the checkout lady now hates me.
I get home, check the mail, and see that there's a letter from Bubba's school. Usually when I get a letter from Bubba's school, the news isn't great. Bubba's a lot like I was in school, not always soaring to huge heights.
But the good news is, I have what I think is a great idea for my big Raptors opening day column.
When I arrive at the ACC, my boss, Smilin' Bill Pierce, informs me that my colleague Frank Zicarelli had already written what I was planning to write. So now, minutes before tip-off, I got nothing.
Worse than that, I have four other Sun scribes telling me what I should write. Sy (Simmons) offers to give me a "great" column idea if I lend him a notepad. I don't have an extra notepad, so I get squat.
I'm in a big lurch. Some lurches are good, like Lurch from The Addams Family, but my lurch isn't good.
Worse than that, I'm told there's not enough room for me in the main press box at courtside, so I'm banished to the auxiliary press box. Now I don't know how to get to the auxiliary press box, and so I ask Raptors media coordinator Phil Summers for directions, and then I set off for the auxiliary press box, and I get lost.
Worse than that, I end up out on Bay St. (seriously). And then when I make my way back into the ACC, my tape recorder falls out of my knapsack and breaks into three pieces.
Now I'm sitting in the auxiliary press box, crazy Sy is shaking like Buddy Holly because his Blackberry broke, the fan behind me is yammering on about his dopey wife, and the power outlets don't work.
The Raptors? Apparently they lost.