The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
June 23, 2005

Let

Tennis fever is a manageable illness so long as everyone in the house has it. Ask my neighbor Derek Lowe, he'll tell you. He called in sick today and took in some tape-delay Wimbleton tennis with me in the billards room. I thought it was tape delay anyway, until Manolo pointed out that Jimmy Connors no longer played the game at this level. It turned out to be an old tape in the VCR. Nevertheless, the proceedings led me to dust off the racquet and balls. Wherein, I found one last present from the Ishii kids in the equipment room. My electric tennis ball power-server had been stuffed with rotting potatoes. Well, I plugged it in and held my Prince in front of the barrel and made restaurant style french fries for everybody. OK, Diary, I admit I did not do that. I dragged the rig to the curb with a note that read "it serves (food)."