By Jocelyn Hale

My old friend Chuck and I were finally able to catch up recently with a Friday lunch squeezed into the end of a busy work week.  

He biked to my office in Open Book on Washington Avenue and we strolled over to the nearby restaurant, Spill the Wine. As we walked, I told him how excited I was by my recent first encounter with the green “Nice Ride” bikes. Two days before, I had rented one by the Guthrie, biked over to Public Radio International’s new headquarters in the Warehouse District, deposited it before my meeting, and then did the whole thing in reverse to get back to Open Book.

I spent $5 and got a little exercise but better than that, I experienced exactly no aggravation looking for a parking spot. Now that I’ve figured out the

By Jim Walsh

Why do we love watching Brett Favre?  

It’s simple, really. We love watching Brett Favre because — and this is worth remembering as the Favre adoration turns to jilted-lover sourness and the career eulogies start rolling in around this time next month — that there are few things more thrilling to bear witness to in sports, as in life, than a sweetly completed pass between two human beings.

Musicians know this. They play together and communicate with each other wordlessly, physically, psychically, sonically. But that much is a clandestine holiness that often gets taken for granted even by the ones who participate in it, as if this rarified air of communication is available on a regular basis to all mortals. With sports, great passes are rare