Buying a round at the NCAA tourney

Or maybe not. I'll get back to that.

Recently, Oakland Press sports editor Jeff Kuehn told me this was his favorite time of year. 4 days of non-stop, buzzer-beating action. Well, count me in with the boss man. I'm all for that. Bring it on.

While gazillionaires like Jeff no doubt have a staff of "domestics" to make sure everything's just right for March Madness, I have my own humble routine.

Six pack on ice? Check. Pizza order phoned in 30 minutes before the first tip-off? Covered. Fresh bag of Downey's potato chips, french onion dip, and a family sized pack of Reese's cups? Got it.

Make sure the generator in the garage has plenty of gas, and run a couple extension cords from there into my man cave, so I can switch over in a hurry, just in case the power goes out? Not a problem.

New batteries in the remote for all the clicking to come, plug in the Bose headphones to the surround-sound, so I won't hear dumb stuff like the doorbell, the phone, the neighbors arguing again, or somebody stealing my car, and I'm good to go.

Then it started. Second round action. Wait a second. Second round? What happened to the FIRST round? Could it be the NCAA considers those "play-in" games a "round". You know, those early contests where two not-so-good teams battle it out for a #16 seed, so the winner can have the privilege of being demoralized, humiliated and embarrassed on national TV, at the hands of a #1 seed? THOSE games make up a round? Pah-leeze.

They serve up more potent rounds than that at AA meetings. For that matter, you can see better rounds than that at 4 AM, on some obscure sports channel, watching two white heavyweights boxing. Not to say some of those guys are out of shape, but the only way they're going to see their feet is in a full length mirror. All of this is not exactly highly stimulating and artistic stuff.

Alas, it is what it is. As the rounds go on, maybe I'll lighten up some. The batteries should still be fine; KFC, Taco Bell, Arby's and Wendy's are always good, and I suppose as a last desperate tactic, I could actually, gasp, cook something.

And who knows? When it gets down to the Final Four, in a perfect world, maybe Jeff will invite me to his palace to see the games. Manservants, maidservants, hot tubs, chefs and masseuses on call with a finger snap, being fed grapes by gorgeous women, and watching the games on high-def screens the size of your average pole barn, all while wearing a toga, sounds pretty good to me.