I was a grasshopper today when I should have been an ant. Actually, I was an ant trying to be a grasshopper, which is much worse.

What?

Whatever. I'm some kind of insect, the kind that works intensely, forgets to take a break, and has to quit early to ice down his neck and back. That's what I am. That kind of insect, grasshopper or ant or cockroach.

I didn't get back to the computer for a long time, either — not to work or read or write or anything. After using the ice (actually a bag of frozen peas) on my neck, I climbed up into the loft to read. I was up there for an hour, about three minutes of reading and 57 of sleeping.

I'm not sure, but I think the reason I worked so steadily without a break (besides the fact that for once I wasn't beset with phone calls every ten minutes) was that it was such a beautiful day out. I had the door open and instead of putting music on the CD player I just listened to the birds. Without having to get up and change the CD every 45 minutes, I didn't have a trigger to tell me when to take a break. So I had my neck in the same position for way too long and paid the price.

The trade-off isn't bad. I got a lot of work done, and I feel as if I've turned a corner or crested the last hill before sliding to the finish. Part of it was the actual work, a series of spreadsheets that give the Company's profit-and-loss picture for last year. The other part was just actually spending a whole day working on it, and realizing that a few more days like this will get it done and off my desk and out of my life.

No, that's a little optimistic. It won't be out of my life until the Boss has reviewed it and challenged it and asked interminable questions about it. He'll twist it and tweak it to make it look better, just like they did at Enron (only without doing anything illegal, of course, and since we're not a public corporation there aren't any investors to fool). Then the accountant will get it and I'll have to answer his questions. Then it'll be out of my life, until I get to start it all over again next year.

I don't know why I still watch the Grammys. I'm so out of the loop when it comes to the current music scene, and the further I fall behind, the more the Grammys seem to catch up. That's a good thing, but I'm still wondering why I think I have to watch.

Is it the live performances? It's not as if I Christina and the Backstreet Boys aren't everywhere on TV these days. Gillian Welch, now, there's someone you don't get to see very often (unless you have the Down From the Mountain DVD, of course). And India.Arie — wow!

Is it the lame jokes? I'm sure some people thought it was hilarious to see Jon Stewart get strip searched. Tony Bennett seemed to enjoy it. As usual, the presenters were (or should have been) embarrassed by the material on their teleprompters. The funniest thing all night was U2's sixth or seventh acceptance speech.

It definitely isn't the wonderful acoustics in the Staples Center that brought me to the party. Everything sounded like it was coming out of the bottom of a barrel. So to speak.

And it wasn't to see all my favorite entertainers appear to accept their awards. If I hadn't been reading the title cards leading into the commercials, I wouldn't have known that James Taylor (!) won for best male pop vocal performance for "Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight." Didn't he record that in 1971? I wanted to check and see that I wasn't watching the History Channel or VH-1 Classic.

It must have been to see Alicia Keys dance the tango. Or to see roots music recognized and celebrated. (The O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack is album of the year!) Or to see which Bob Dylan would show up this year. Or just to see India.Arie. (Wow again.)

The actual real and true reason I watched the Grammys tonight is of course the hope that it would give me something to write about. I got a little carried away taking notes, so I'm not going to mention how out of place Ralph Stanley looked on that stage, or the fact that Nelly Furtado won in a category in which Sade and Lucinda Williams were nominated, or the curious lack of male R&B singers (all five R&B album nominees were by female acts). I could also point out that Quincy Jones won for best spoken word album, but probably everyone noticed the irony there.