Before I start, I have to warn you: this column zigs and zags worse than Rasheed Wallace's Humvee. It has virtually no real point from beginning to end. Just so we understand each other.

First, I must report a star-sighting. Why? Well, this is Boston, not LA or New York; the only star-sightings we get around here are Peter McNeely asking for spare change in the Public Garden and Joey McIntyre working the shake machine at the Tremont St. Mickey D's, so a real one is a big event. Anyway, I'm in this overpriced, foofy specialty supermarket -- don't ask -- when I look up, and right there in front of me, sniffing the fresh thyme, is none other than John C. Reilly. Who's John C. Reilly, you ask? Do the names "Reed Rothchild" or "Chest Rockwell" ring a bell? Sure, you might also know Reilly from Perfect Storm, The Good Girl, Magnolia, and a thousand other movies. But to me he will always be "Reed Rothchild"/"Chest Rockwell," standing over there on the left next to Mark "Dirk Diggler" Wahlberg in Boogie Nights. (Sideline Note #1: Has there been a better movie character in the last 15 years than "Reed Rothchild"/"Chest Rockwell"? Ok, I'll give you "Tommy DeVito" [Joe Pesci] in Goodfellas, but that's as far as I'm willing to go.) So there I was, a 34-year-old man, feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl at a Justin Guarini concert. But which of Reilly's famous Boogie Nights lines would I awkwardly recite back to him, letting him know I was a big fan and causing him to scan the market for security? The one from the recording studio scene, when Reed and Dirk are trying to get their session tapes back from the studio exec: "The magic that is on those tapes. That fucking heart and soul that we put onto those tapes, that is ours and you don't own that!"? Or perhaps the poem he recited to Dirk and Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds) in the hot tub: "I love you, you love me. Going down the sugar tree. We'll go down the sugar tree, and see lots of bees: playing, playing. But the bees won't sting, because you love me"? In the end I did what any of you would have done: I pretended that I was too cool to know who he was, said nothing, and breezed right past him toward the Dead Sea salt crystals, fig balsamic, Tanzanian peaberry coffee, and imported truffle butter. After all, he might have taken the poem the wrong way.

Any-hoo, on to wasting the next ten minutes of your life….

One day last month, while I was busy not writing this latest Sports Rag issue, I was flipping around our illegally-free basic cable -- clearly an AT&T Broadband miscue that I would report if I had any character at all -- and I stumbled across a movie called Sweet November.

If you've seen this epic, chances are you've already paid a Santeria high priestess to splash you with chicken blood and exorcise the plot from your mind. But allow me to refresh: it stars legendary thespian Keanu Reeves as a humorless, hard-driving advertising executive -- which, in another inspired Hollywood depiction, meant Keanu constantly watching ten "ad guy" TV's at once, driving a cool $100,000 "ad guy" Mercedes, and muttering hip "ad guy" brainstorming ideas to himself in the shower and, afterward, jotting them down on napkins in "ad guy" fashion. (Sideline Note #2: Not since "D&D Advertising" on Melrose Place has there been a clumsier swing-and-miss on the ad biz. Nothing in Common, What Women Want, Crazy People and countless others also butchered it. But this was just painful. What's keeping these genius Tinsletown development people from consulting with actual ad people before they film these abominations? Oh, right… I wouldn't want to hang out with ad guys either.)

Anyway, through a series of unrealistic events, Keanu eventually meets and falls in love with the wacky, free-spirited Charlize Theron, who should have gotten far more naked, terminally-ill or not. And then, um, some more stuff happens for two hours, none of which bears repeating. The end.

The movie was as forgettable as most of Keanu's career vehicles other than Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. (Sideline Note #3: don't you wish Keanu had just stuck to playing "Ted Theodore Logan" [left] and other stoners, like Martha Plimpton's drag-racing boyfriend in Parenthood? The world would be a far better place if Speed had never, ever happened.) Worst of all, however, its title was awfully misleading. November isn't sweet at all. November is when freezing rain starts falling. November is when shopping malls turn into ultimate fighting championship arenas. November is when we're reduced to a slackjawed, Ozzy-esque mental state by the debilitating combination of Riunite boxed wine and triptofane, and forced to suffer the indignity of watching the Detroit Lions play on national TV. And November is one half of a classic Guns & Roses song -- "November Rain" -- that reminds me how spent, bloated, and sweaty that Axl Rose impersonator looked fronting the re-formed G&R on MTV's Music Video Awards. What? That was Axl Rose?! Good Lord! Well, that officially moves Mr. Rose past Strom Thurmond, Daryl Strawberry, and Bam Margera from "Jackass" in my death pool.

On the contrary, my friends, it is December, that is truly sweet. And not because the Holidays are here, which only mean a) Pretending to appreciate the Canoe cologne your skinflint kids gave you, b) Fending off the ham-fisted advances of your parish priest during midnight mass, c) Having to endure another company party during which you tell your boss "Happy Holidays, Mr. Not-Giving-Me-a-Raise-Yet-Buying-Yourself-a-Beach-House while fighting the urge to throw a scorching mug of mulled cider into his eyes, and d) Enduring your Great Uncle Stan's endless dramatic monologues about his days as a door-to-door anvil salesman in greater Topeka.

No, December is so sweet because of one thing and one thing only: fantasy football playoffs! (Sideline Note #4: Point alert! Point alert! This is the closest I will ever get to a salient point all day, so you can start paying attention now.)

The playoffs are what you all strive for. They're the top of the mountain that you dreamed about reaching way back in August, when you said, "With my first pick of the 2002 draft, I select…." and then received the requisite insults from your fellow owners when that sentence finished with "….Charlie Batch." The playoffs are what make the first fourteen weeks of blood, sweat, tears, and senseless, jealousy-fueled commissioner trade vetoes all worth it. (Sideline Note #5, to my commissioner: I know where you live. I know where your children go to school. So next year, I suggest you happily approve my Kevin Faulk and James Thrash for Priest Holmes and Marvin Harrison trade.) And while leagues have different playoff formats, scoring systems, and numbers of teams, the thrill of making the playoffs is universal. So to all you masterminds who guided your heroic squads past injuries, lineup gaffes, erroneous pre-game Chris Mortensen reports, and the incessant touchdown-vulturing of Moe Williams, James Mungro, and the King of All Vultures, Stacey Mack (right), I applaud you, and wish you the best of luck. Except for those of you who play in touchdown-only leagues; I have nothing but pity and contempt for you single-celled organisms, so, please, just exit the column in an orderly manner and no one will get hurt. And anyone out there playing in a TD-only league as part of a two-owner team, you are beyond help. You are officially banned from any more man-related events/clubs/games, and might as well put your testicles in a mason jar, bury it in the backyard, buy a halter top, and change your name to Ashley.

(Sideline Note #6: While I congratulate the playoff-bound teams out there in fantasy football land, I offer a sincere apology to all of you who did not make your league playoffs. This column is not meant to be a verbal stomp on your collective graves, although I'm sure you deserved to be eliminated from contention because you are either unlucky, or, more likely, a half-wit. If so, here are a few hints for next year: do not draft Jeff Wilkins, Vijay Singh, and "Facts of Life" star Kim Fields (left) in your first three rounds. Do not drop Ricky Williams after one bad game in order to pick up Joel Mackovicka, who scored a garbage time 2-yard TD versus Seattle. Do not believe that other owners make trade offers out of the goodness of their hearts. Do not draft a quarterback before the fifth round. Do not get distracted by Suzy Kolber's underrated, sleepy-eyed beauty on "Edge NFL Matchup." [Sideline Note Within a Sideline Note: Melissa Stark may get all the ink, but I'd personally take an evening alone with Suzy Kolber any day. We'd have a nice dinner, I'd gawk at her "I know more about football than you ever will, but I'm too cool to rub it in," smile in the candlelight, and then we'd make passionate love while wearing vintage Patriots helmets and breaking down NFL game film. Even my wife knows of my secret Kolber-love, and would let me leave her for Suzy if the chance presented itself, much in the same way I'd let her leave me for her #1 infatuation, Matt Damon. It's only fair. In short, Stark vs. Kolber is the "Ginger vs. Mary Ann" argument of the new football millennium, with Suzy, of course, being Mary Ann. But back to my hints….]. Do not be distracted by delusions that your jalapeno popper-eating ass could ever get those Coors Light twins. Do not keep two kickers on your roster at any time. Do not draft a kicking or talking mule as your lone kicker. Do not believe anything that comes out of "genius" Mike Martz's mouth regarding his starting running back, as he is now, and forever will be, Satan. Do not bench Terrell Owens because Deion Branch had a good game the previous week against the Vikings. Do not listen to some jackass who writes a column for a fake sports site and has no point. And, finally, do not draft Randy Moss, period. Yes, I managed to survive drafting Moss at #1.8 [out of 12] over the likes of Priest and McNabb, but never again will I draft Method Man before Round 2. He's just not worth the headaches. What's worse, his posse turned my team locker room into Jeff Spicoli's van.)

Yes, December, combined with fantasy playoffs, is truly sweet. It means most of the mouth-breathing half-wits who talked smack to you all year will be watching from the sidelines, and, at best, trying to win back some of their league entrance fee through side bets. It means the Falcons-Cardinals game that FOX forces you to endure is actually worth watching, because you were lucky enough to draft Looney Tunes character Mike Vick. It means that even if you're a Bengals or Lions fan -- translation: you've all but given up on NFL football -- you can still feel good about turning on the television and seeing Akili Smith warming up on the sidelines or Marty Mornhinweg going for two after just having scored to tie the game with :03 left in the fourth. Why? Because your fantasy team has no knowledge of the ineptitude practiced by the real team you root for. Because you still have Marvin, Owens, Portis, and other REAL football players to cheer you up. Because it's December, and you're in the playoffs.

Yes, like so many tiny little bottles in Winona Ryder's purse, the playoffs take the pain away, at least for one more week. And for all you Bengals fans, they make football bearable until Paul Tagliabue steps to the podium next April 26 and says, "With the first pick in the 2003 NFL draft, the Cincinnati Bengals select…. the 23rd rated Offensive Lineman in Division II."

So good luck to all you playoff teams out there. May those high ankle sprains heal (this year's NFL injury of choice). May those running back-by-committee messes become crystal clear. And may you always make the right lineup choice regardless of matchup. As for the official Sports Rag squad, "Acme Fantasy Football Inc," (Garcia, Deuce, Faulk, Owens, Ward, Bubba) I may have already been knocked out of the playoffs by the time this goes to print. After all, I play a very tough team in round one (Daunte, Ricky, Eddie, Driver, Peerless, Shockey…oh my). Will a gimpy Faulk suck up the ankle pain and help me get to the Super Bowl? Will my #1 WR, T.O., continue rampaging through NFL secondaries like Dom DeLuise rampaging through all-you-can-eat fried shrimp night at Long John Silvers? Will these odd lesions on my genitals ever go away? In all cases, it remains to be seen. But if you hear a primal scream emanating from the general direction of Boston -- one that sounds like the tortured wails of hell itself, piercing your very soul and shrouding you in a dark cloak of eternal terror -- you'll know that Mike Martz gave Gordon all the carries after saying Faulk would start, that Ward's hammy limited him to 30 yards, and that December, in the end, did not treat me so sweetly after all.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go stalk John C. Reilly…