Late last night my wife came down and said, ``You know the windows are open. The neighbors can all hear you swearing.''

So God and I have some more work to do, what can I say?

Few things get me riled like Phil Jackson.

I despise the smarmy swami.

Oh, it's personal, all right.

And professional both.

This goes back to when I was starting out as an outdoors columnist for the Sun-Times and was a distant second to the late John Husar at the Tribune.

All the same, Jerry Krause gave me a couple of my biggest stories early on. One column ended up framed in his office at the Bulls Deerfield complex. There was no reason for him to give me a chance, other than he read me and apparently trusted me.

I am forever grateful to him.

BTW, on the sports side, Chicago will never see another general manager with the success of Krause.

I thought maybe Kenny Williams was young and tough enough to do a baseball equivalent with the Sox (say two or three World Series championships), but it is so much harder in baseball and I am fast losing faith.

Back to memory lane.

Let me contrast that with the actions of Jackson. I put a feeler out to see if I could tag along on some fishing, maybe fly fishing, or at least talk about it.

Oh, I got a no back.

Which is fine. There's a way to say no and not burn bridges.

Tim Floyd turned down, politely and professionally, an offer to go bass fishing. Mark Buehrle turned down, politely and professionally, a request to tag along on a bowhunt for deer.

Jackson's people, acting for the great poser, made sure to turn me down in such a way to let me know I was a minor nebbish. Give me a figurative finger, if you will, and I will.

Maybe I was a nebbish, but I really didn't need to have it rubbed in.

Yes, I can nurse a good grudge with the best of them.

So, that brings me to last night. I really thought that the Celtics could stick one to Jackson and the Lakers in the final game of the NBA playoffs.

I filed the last of my Sunday stuff for the Sun-Times outdoors page and was working on my second or third glass of merlot when I turned the game on.

The score was tied, Kobe Bryant was stepping to the line.

Shortly, thereafter, my swearing started as it all went downhill.

I am still steamed this morning.

And it didn't help that a small storm came through just before the morning ramble with the meathead. That just turned the morning into a sauna.

Even finding several good handfuls of perfectly ripe and overly fat mulberries and raspberries, a double delight, around the town pond didn't help.

Some things stick with you.