Heads or Tails #129 -- "cup"

Sometimes I think Barb is just trying to get me in trouble with these Heads or Tails topics. Cup? If I were a Canadian, I might fool you into believing that the first thing that I thought of was Lord Stanley's Cup... but I'm not Canadian.

Cup? I'm a (reasonably) healthy American male. Good heavens, what images do you think the word "cup" would conjure up for me?

Nevertheless, since (I pretend) you can't see this weekly interior dialogue, I will try and fool you into believing... yes, I'll take a walk down Memory Lane instead....

It was just a coffee cup. Ceramic of some sort, I suppose, green on the outside and, at one time at least, white on the inside.

It was among my most cherished possessions, though, when I was a senior in high school.

I was one of about 10 guys in the AP Physics class. The class met daily at the obscenely early hour of 7:30am. Our teacher, Mr. C, knew that this was far too early for teenagers to be alert all by themselves, so he allowed us to install a coffee pot and bring our own mugs to sip during class. At least I think we were allowed to imbibe during class; the intervening decades fuzz the memory just a bit. If we weren't, what would have been the point?

I do recall, clearly, the deterioration of that coffee cup during the course of the year. We may have been in an AP Physics class, but the cup itself could have served as a class project for AP Chemistry.

Soap and water might have worked wonders to prevent this... but this did not occur to me initially... as the year wore on it became a point of perverse pride to see just how scummy the interior of this cup could get. It was a wonder there was room for any actual liquid coffee in there at all.

(No wonder so much of my innards have since been removed!)

Unlike all of my children, I went to a co-ed, public high school. But there were no girls in AP Physics. There was only one brave girl in our Calculus class.

This is additional proof that girls are smarter than boys: The girls figured out that they could get honors credit far easier by staying in chorus... and they all got A's. I remember being thrilled to earn anything better than a 'C' in those two classes. I even scored a passing grade on the AP Calculus test. The AP Physics test can be discussed on another occasion (it at least provided me with a valuable lesson in how to approach... and how not to approach... Big Tests).

I don't know what became of my beloved green coffee cup. Perhaps it became an EPA Superfund site. I do know that only one of my five children took Calculus in high school. None took AP Physics.

Remember "The Jetsons"? In the future, kids were going to take Calculus in kindergarten.

What happened to that hopeful future?

Heads or Tails #128 -- "rumor"

Gosh, it's Tuesday again already and our mysterious meme-mistress Barb challenges us to write about "rumor" in today's Heads or Tails. That doesn't mean we have to spread rumors, though I suppose that might be seen as tempting for an anonymous blogger like myself. But, truth be told, I don't care much for rumors. Usually.

Unfounded rumors can do a lot of unnecessary damage. I suppose all of us can recall a time when we were ourselves victims of a rumor -- nasty whisperings -- sidelong glances -- people avoiding us. Maybe you can recall a situation where someone has tried to pour some verbal poison in your ear -- someone tried telling you something you knew to be false. I hope you squelched that rumor right there.

But there are places in this world where "rumor" is the only way real news can spread. People passing along what they've heard, person to person, in person, or (now) by text or tweet. Iran comes to mind. Or any place where there is no free press that can ferret out true facts and report them.

Sadly, in modern America, where our press is surely free to report what it wants to, I begin to suspect, more and more, that the press fails to report on things of real interest to people -- and rumors crop up in the vacuum. This is one of the reasons why I am so attracted to blogging: Many times blogs report on things of interest to me that the press ignores. Bloggers may not be trained journalists (though some are), but many seem to have more regard for the truth than some of the members of the Fourth Estate.

The problem, as in so many things, is figuring out which is which.

Heads or Tails #127 -- light

Our brilliant Barb, the ringleader of the HoT gang, had a bright idea for this morning's Heads or Tails: We are to write about "light." It's February and, here in the American Midwest, light is merely a fading memory....

In Chicago, in February, it's dark when we get up in the morning; it's dark when we come home from work. The Sun continues to rise and set, because even Richard M. Daley's Chicago, seemingly exempt from so many other laws, is not exempt from the Laws of Nature -- but we in Chicago do not see the Sun during February, except in brief glimpses. The Sun is generally hidden by a thick layer of gloomy clouds.

The Christmas lights that brightened our spirits just a couple of months ago are all gone now -- not taken down, perhaps, but no longer lit. There were Valentine's decorations -- a red heart here or there -- but these had minimal effect.

Light is something that comes from a headlight, or a streetlight, or from the TV set, tuned to any channel that offers escape. There's snow on the ground but the temperature is starting to creep up a bit during the day. Some solar radiation penetrates the clouds. With the heat and friction from passing cars and pedestrians, just enough snow melts to turn all the ice and snow to shades from dingy gray to coal black.

Lent is appropriately timed in Chicago, at least this year. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday -- the beginning of 40 days of penitence and fasting. And, regardless of whether you believe in any other Reward, our earthly reward for these sacrifices will be April -- when we will see light again, even on the trips to and from work.

It is better, we're told, to light one candle than to curse the darkness. And always remember, you do not make your own candle shine brighter by blowing out the other fellow's. But T.S. Eliot didn't know what he was talking about: February, not April, is the cruelest month.

Heads or Tails #126 -- chain

In this morning's Heads or Tails, we are bound, per the directive of our meme-mistress Barb, to write about "chain." Chains: The ties that really bind? I've been working on the chain gang? Chain-chain-chain, chain of fools?

Don't fence me in.

You are no doubt familiar -- if you don't live in Chicago, at least -- with the chain link fence.

This photo, stolen, er, lifted from the Internet, is a rather artistic rendering of the weave of the chain link fence. There is a certain zen-like beauty, as well as comfort in the repetition of the shape, and in the interlocking of the pieces. From the pattern, we learn strength in unity and cooperation.

But, in Chicago, chain link fences are all but obsolete. New construction or rehabbed structures are decorated with wrought iron now:

No new construction, no rehab job, no building of any kind, public or private, seems to go up in the City of Chicago these days without some length of wrought iron fencing.

When our parish built a new parish center, the City decreed that the parking area would be surrounded by wrought iron. Chain link fencing would not do.

If you're not the contemplative type, wrought iron may be considered more aesthetically pleasing. It certainly costs more than chain link fencing.

If I were the cynical type -- which, of course, I am not, I might think that this municipal enthusiasm for wrought iron had to do with some well-placed political type's having a relative in the wrought iron fencing business. Someday, when the history of Chicago at the turn of the 21st Century is written, such a connection might be found. But, for now, I, in my innocence, see no connection whatsoever. Just don't plan to pull a permit for construction in Chicago without budgeting for wrought iron.

Heads or Tails #125 -- list of three things

In this morning's Heads or Tails, we write about anything we want -- so long as we make it a list of three things. Barb says these can be from any category we want.

Well, I haven't participated for a couple of weeks so I'm probably overdoing here... but I'll choose three things from totally random categories. If anyone wants, you can leave a comment about how the three things should be linked together.

Or not....

Three things from random categories.

Random Category #1: Seasonal -- Thing #1 -- Punxsutawney Phil

(Image -- and bad news -- from Groundhog.org, site that bills
itself as "the Official Website of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club)

Random Category #2:
George Harrison Songs --
Thing #2 -- The Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp (Let it Roll)

I'm sorry -- it popped up on my iPod as I got to this point. How random can you get, right? (The Everly Brothers are on now... but too late for them... let's see... I need another totally random category entirely....)

Random Category #3: Triumvirs --
Thing #3 -- Marcus Aemilius Lepidus

OK, maybe this one isn't totally "random." I wanted something for item three that had to do with threes... and I thought of the Roman Triumverates... and then I tried to think of which of these would be the least known in the modern age. That's how I picked Marcus Aemilius Lepidus.

I mean, everyone knows Julius Caesar and his elderly son-in-law and eventual opponent, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus (Pompey), from the First Triumverate. The third member of that informal group was Marcus Licinius Crassus, the Bill Gates or Warren Buffett of his day. No one in Rome was richer. Unhappily for Crassus, and for Rome, all his wealth didn't make him a great general, and he came to a bad end against the Parthians at Carrhae. That was the defeat that Caesar was planning to avenge when he was permanently sidetracked by a fatal bout of stabbing pains on March 15, 44 B.C.

(Incidentally, Crassus makes Wikipedia's Top Ten List of Wealthiest Historical Figures -- right behind the person you may right now be confusing him with, namely, Croesus, the Lydian king of the 6th Century B.C. The expression in English is "richer than Croesus," as in "Warren Buffett is richer than Croesus," not "richer than Crassus," though some Roman wags in the Late Republic might have gone around saying that Crassus was richer than Croesus. The sources are not clear on this point.)

Anyway, it occurred to me that Crassus would be less obscure to the modern blog reader than Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, although you may be saying to yourself about now that this is a distinction without a great difference.

And who were those other two members of the Second Triumverate? Well, perhaps linking three things this random in a comment may seem too difficult... so we'll offer a second contest letting you name the Triumvirs. Huge, gigantic hint: In the epic motion picture, wherein Elizabeth Taylor made a complete asp of herself, one was played by Richard Burton... and the other was played by Roddy McDowall. Seriously.

Heads or Tails #122 -- Sweet

In this morning's Heads or Tails, we can discourse on either "sweet" or "sour." Because I am a registered Curmudgeon, Barb and any other occasional HoT visitors might have guessed that (were I to participate... my record is somewhat spotty of late) I would surely choose "sour." But always do the unexpected; that's my motto. That, and keep one eye on the door in case you have to run away. But enough about mottoes; time now for the bitter to write about the sweet....

Soda pop wine. These were sold, at one time, and I would assume still are sold, as wine coolers.

When the public health authorities get serious about curbing alcohol abuse by persons too young to drink, the focus should be on soda pop wines.

When I was but a lad, these were the drink of choice, particularly among the girls my age, for those interested in getting blotto on a Summer afternoon.

Someday the researchers will figure out, after spending oodles of government money, that children are attracted to sweets. As we age -- as those critical synapses link up -- our taste in sweets changes. As a child, I would spit out dark chocolate as too bitter; now I far prefer it over any other kind.

Our tastes change in general: A good scotch tastes like poison to one too young to drink it (instinct, I believe) -- and like the "water of life" (that it truly is) to one old enough to appreciate it.

I seem to recall experimenting with soda pop wines at some point in the course of my misspent youth. They were too icky, sicky sweet for me even then. I remembered what my grandmother told me: "When I take a drink, I want to know there's liquor in it." Southern Comfort tasted like there was liquor in it, surely, but even that was too, too sweet for me. My tastes in those days, such as they were, went to bourbon -- much sweeter than scotch. I'm quite sure that, owing to these youthful experiments, some of the synapses that should have gotten hooked up in my own cranium remained disconnected.

At least that's my excuse now.

I'm unhappy looking in the mirror these days. I complain that, in family photographs, some old guy has been Photoshopped in wherever I was sitting. But there is at least one advantage to maturity: We outgrow any taste for soda pop wines.

Heads or Tails #120 -- "Rate"

In this, the last Heads or Tails of the entire decade, Barb asks us to talk about "rate." Nothing is nearer and dearer to a lawyer's heart....

My hourly rate is what I theoretically charge clients for the performance of services.

I say theoretical because the stated rate may, in practice, vary from client to client. If I've done work for a person or company before and the bill has been paid promptly and in full I have little difficulty in agreeing to take on additional work from that client at a rate substantially lower than that which I quote to strangers.

For some clients, at the moment of crisis the lawyer is indispensable. Worth every penny charged. These clients are effusive in their praise and gratitude while the legal storm is raging. But then the storm subsides -- and the bill is presented. And then, for some reason, many clients suddenly feel quite differently about their once indispensable comrades. The bill is questioned, nitpicked, negotiated -- or, possibly, ignored altogether. Thus, the sadder but wiser lawyer learns to charge a high rate for his or her services and to get as much paid up front -- as a retainer -- as possible. (I've got the sadder part down... still working on the wiser part.)

I used to work in a firm. When I was an associate (a non-owner employee) my bosses (the partners) expected me to bill a certain number of hours ever day. If you can bill eight hours a day consistently, even in a firm, you're probably a liar. Or, perhaps, an insomniac. Maybe both. Clients balked at paying for proofreading or administrative tasks, such as setting up files or closing them out. Thirty years ago, we used to bill our time for billing. Those happy days ended long, long ago.

Preparing a useful abstract of a deposition for purposes of impeachment at trial might take longer than did the original deposition -- but clients wouldn't pay for that. And there are cases to read and clients to schmooze and other unavoidable interruptions in the regular business day. Time had to be found to supervise junior colleagues or meet on administrative matters. I found that I'd work 10 hours to bill about six, maybe seven. That was in a firm, with others to answer the phone, file the papers and type my dictation.

As a solo, I sometimes work 10 hours and bill two. If I can collect those two hours I at least cover my overhead. If I could bill (and collect!) four hours a day in my practice I'd be doing great. In 11 years, though, it hasn't happened yet.

I read in legal publications about lawyers who have billing rates of $1,000 an hour. I don't know any of these personally. These giants are at the biggest firms. But I'd bet that most of these follow the same rule I do. They may tell the National Law Journal that they charge $1,000 an hour, but for repeat clients with a good payment record, I'd guess most of these would charge a lot less.

Heads or Tails #118 -- Gone Fishin'

When I saw this prompt on this morning's Heads or Tails I at first thought that Barb was taking the week off. I've always associated the expression "gone fishin'" with taking time off. As it turns out, however, Barb really was giving us "gone fishin'" as a discussion prompt. I thought about being really cute and taking the week off... just having the intro and saying I'd "gone fishin'" -- but the truth is I'm anything but a fisherman....

I've been fishing no more than two or three times in my life -- and this was with a lake practically out my back door from the time I finished sixth grade and all the way through high school.

My folks moved from the South Side of Chicago in 1968, from the parish where Andrew Greeley had actually served as curate at one time (if you're looking in this morning, AndyK), to the place where Christ Lost His Shoes. I'm saving nearly all of those experiences for the book -- but it won't hurt to say that my folks had an acre of land in a small subdivision of acre lots. The developer wasn't a builder -- you had to bring in your own contractor to put up a house -- and there were working farms down the road in almost any direction at that time. Ours was one of the first houses to go up.

The centerpiece of the subdivision was a small lake, created by damming an even smaller stream -- a 'crik' as we said. The developer presumably stripped the topsoil from the area to be inundated; I don't know this for a fact but it's what I would have done to (a) give the lake some dimension and (b) have some topsoil to sell.

The dam itself was an unimpressive bit of concrete that could usually be walked across (and in not that many steps either). I remember catching crayfish at the dam a couple of times. Or probably seeing others do so.

It was here that I tried my hand at fishing... perhaps, now that I think about it, only once.

The first obstacle was baiting the hook. The worm obtained for this purpose had never done me any harm that I could think of and I was decidedly squeamish about puncturing it. That, and the fact that, with my hand-eye coordination, I put more holes in my fingers than in the worm put me off the entire concept almost before I started.

If you were expecting some Hemingway-esque battle between the beardless youth and some gallant sportfish you're already disappointed, I know. Still, I must disappoint you further: The only fish in that lake were bluegill, bullheads and the occasional carp. The picture of a bullhead that I found browsing through Wikipedia this morning does not comport with my recollection of what the beast looked like.

Small, yes. Catfish-like, certainly. But I seem to recall some sort of sharp spines.

I believe I must have caught one of these poor creatures with my mutilated worm. And then it was time to let it go. I believe I threw a fit about actually touching the thing -- perhaps simply because of the spines, perhaps after actually experiencing them with my already bleeding fingers.

I don't know who was with me on this momentous occasion. It may have been my father. If it was, it's best I have forgotten. He'd gone through all the ranks of scouting, was a scoutmaster himself at one point and a member of the Order of the Arrow. I'd never been a Cub Scout. Though raised in the City, my father spent several summers on farms in Indiana with cousins I maybe met once or twice. (Irish families -- who knows what happened?) Anyway, if it was my father who had to release the poor, suffocating fish, he must have been sorely disappointed in me, even more than you are reading this. Neither my father nor the bullhead are available to prompt my recollection on this point.

Heads or Tails #117 -- "One" or "Won"

This week, Barb has gives us a choice for Heads or Tails: We may write anything (heads) about "one" or something specific (tails) about "won." Well, I haven't won anything lately and I don't want to jinx anything pending by talking about it... so we'll go with... one hit wonders.

This morning's post is prompted by an article I saw online yesterday and in the Chicago Tribune naming Daniel Powter's song, "Bad Day," as the top one-hit wonder of the decade now (mercifully) coming to a close. I note further, from this article in this morning's Tribune, that "Bad Day" was used "used for Season 5 'American Idol' contestants who didn't make the cut."

"American Idol" has been on for five years? Who knew? I have seen commercials for that show... during football games....

Anyway, I'd heard of "Bad Day" because it was also used in a commercial. Sadly (at least for the agency that made the commercial) I can't recall the product that was being shilled therein. Perhaps I was not in the target demographic for the item or service in question.

Anyway, "Bad Day" is merely a launching pad for this discussion... a launching pad into the past because, by about the mid-80s I stopped listening to popular music except for catchy tunes in commercials for products I can't identify.

Back in the late 60s, though, The Neon Philharmonic had a moment in the sun with "Morning Girl." Perhaps recalling the Flying Machine's greatest hit, "Smile a Little Smile for Me" will bring a smile to your face?

In 1970, R. Dean Taylor sang, "Indiana Wants Me." In 2009 it is likely that Indiana will want my grandchildren yet unborn... at least those that may someday be the product of the union between Older Daughter and her Hoosier Husband. I liked Ashton, Gardner & Dyke's "Resurrection Shuffle" when it came out in 1971; I didn't know until a couple of years ago that Ashton, Gardner & Dyke were Brits.

A medley of Aliotta Haynes Jeremiah's 1971 greatest hit, "Lake Shore Drive," will bring a smile to the face of any Chicagoan. I saw a reference to another Chicago group, The Ides of March, in one online compilation of one-hit wonders, but I would dispute this. Yes, "Vehicle" was far and away the best-selling record the band ever made, but I remember buying a follow-up, "L.A. Goodbye." If you own two 45s by a group they can't be a one-hit wonder, right?

Older readers, you may pause now and explain what 45s are to any young whippersnappers in the vicinity.

Anybody feel like sharing one of their own favorite one-hit wonders in the comments?

Heads or Tails #116 -- "proud"

This week, Barb has decreed that Heads or Tails will be about "proud." I know where this is supposed to go, of course, to talk about something we're proud of or someone who makes us proud. But, of course, conformity has never been my strong suit. Thus, I will talk about overused wedding songs.

Overused wedding songs? You may well ask how that fits today's topic.

Well, back in the day when I was getting married and going to my friends' weddings, we didn't have deejays playing music. We had bands. Real wedding bands with singers and fat, bald musicians wearing tuxedos or suits at least, and playing actual musical instruments.

Some were amplified -- my father used to complain that he couldn't stand most weddings because he'd be driven out by the electric bass as soon as the dessert plates were taken away -- and some were good and some were awful. Some of the bands were composed entirely of old guys; some included younger musicians hoping for something better in the future.

But all wedding bands, good or bad, young or old, had one thing in common: They all played "Proud Mary."

Did you see that one coming?

The old-guy bands were particularly amusing: "Here's one for the young people," one of them would say, and the band would start up quickly (Left a good job in the city/ Working for the man every night and day....) to cover up the groan that would assuredly arise from the assembled young people.

I wonder if any song since has been so overdone at weddings. "Macarena" perhaps?

Heads or Tails #115 -- "soft"

In today's Heads or Tails, our stern taskmistress Barb, asks that we write about "soft." I am paranoid about this, but unsure: I don't know if she's making a reference to my midsection or my intellect. (The description fits either way.) But I'll pretend it doesn't... and go off in a different direction....

When I was first coaching baseball at Bluejay Park (not its real name) I was the envy of all the other coaches in my very young age group (the kids' ages... not mine). I could toss batting practice to the kids so slow... so soft... that the kids could whack it all over the park, giving themselves confidence and their comrades fielding practice all at the same time. The entire time -- except when I was jumping for my life away from a screamer hit back up the middle -- I provided a steady patter of nonsense, about 'feeling the burn' and 'I won't be able to lift my arm tomorrow.' The other parents -- the other coaches especially -- thought this was very funny. No one who tossed as soft as I did could possibly ever strain my arm.

A lot they knew.

If only I could have retired then.

But, sadly, I kept coaching and the kids kept growing and, in the fullness of time, they needed someone who could throw the ball harder than I could. The other coaches thought I should continue throwing BP. But it was impossible: Soft as I threw, I was nevertheless throwing as hard as I could.

Timing is everything in this life.

Heads or Tails #111 -- "Stop"

In today's Heads or Tails we can either do anything about "Stop" or something specific (tails) about "Go." Barb, since I don't know anything about the Oriental strategy game, I guess I'll have to go with "stop"....



I would like to know when the above sign became a suggestion instead of a command.

Now there isn't a German corpuscle in my entire bloodstream; I am not culturally or genetically programmed to obey orders. In fact, I'm from the '60s -- and therefore somewhat resistant to, and resentful of, authority (except, perhaps, for my own).

Nevertheless, I stop at stop signs. And I want you to stop at stop signs too, gosh darn it. It's not unreasonable; it's truly for our collective benefit.

Just last night, when Middle Son picked me up from the train, we were making our way back home through the side streets and we came upon a stop sign. A large white pickup truck, appointed like an SUV, was approaching the intersection from the right as we came to a complete stop. He, too, had a stop sign. According to the Rules of the Road, he was supposed to stop and we, having already stopped, could safely proceed.

Middle Son -- now 22 and more experienced in the ways of other drivers than he used to be -- knew, as I did, that this jerk was not going to stop.

And, in fact, he didn't even slow down -- turning right in front of us.

Did I mention this was a side street? A residential side street? On the first nice day here in about three weeks, at twilight, so there were kids out and about?

I complimented Middle Son on his perspicacity. "Well, I could see he wasn't going to stop, if that's what you mean," he replied. "And he would have creamed us."

"True dat," I said. I can use the vernacular if circumstances require.

I don't know which Middle Son likes less.

But please stop at stop signs, OK?

Heads or Tails #110 -- "Cause"

I almost missed today's Heads or Tails 'cause it's Monday for me, yesterday having been a court holiday. I hope Barb will forgive me.

Anyway, today's task is to write something about "cause." Arguably, I just did... go back and read the preceding paragraph... but let's not get technical....

Teenagers have no sense of cause and effect.

That's the entire reason why teenage boys make the best soldiers: They have unchanneled, testosterone-fueled aggression and they don't understand cause and effect.

But it's not just matters of life and death that teenagers don't understand. All week long, increasingly frustrated parents warn that Sam or Sally will not get the car on Saturday night unless the kid's bedroom is picked up. Saturday night arrives, the room still looks like an unlicensed landfill, and the teenager can't understand why he or she can't have the car keys.

(I used to doubt this. I thought they knew perfectly well but were just stubborn. But I've changed my views from long, bitter, and frequent observation....)

Kids don't understand that laundry doesn't do itself. Or that money isn't always available.

I deny this, of course, but some might claim that I once suffered from this deficiency. Perhaps you did as well.

Thankfully, most of us outgrow this.

Those that don't go into politics.

Heads or Tails #109 -- "Build"

For today's Heads or Tails, our Fearless Leader, Barb has asked us to build a post on "build." "Re-build" might be more apt in my case, at least as it relates to this weekly meme, since I've not been able to participate these past several weeks.

Actually "building" is very much on my mind these days, not as in the assembly of structures, although my house is falling apart around my ears, but, rather, "building" in the sense of building a practice.

Just now, as I walked into the Undisclosed Location, I picked up a fax from someone seeking part-time employment as a secretary (in the modern dialect, "assistant"). I deposited the fax in the recycling bin. The problem with employees is that they have an annoying tendency to demand a check every week or two -- whether I have sufficient funds to cover it or not.

Thus, I have no assistant, no associate, no underlings of any kind. I have colleagues with whom I associate on given pieces of business -- thus the "& Associates" in the name of my firm is not a complete lie or mere wishful thinking. But I just completed a large project (one of the reasons why I was not posting for awhile) and I am going to get stiffed on the bill.

And it was a large bill. Not enough to pay off all my credit card debt, of course, but enough to bring me current on present bills, home and office, and keep up my self-directed debt repayment plan.

I keep thinking I can do better. And presumably I might do more if I didn't blog -- but this is cheaper than therapy, surely. Last night I dreamt of forming a law partnership; I had a formula for income sharing worked out in my head when I awoke. I'd stumbled on how to share firm expenses. But I'm thinking of how I can build the business and, I suppose, I should start by closing this rambling essay and starting in on the other tasks of the day.

Heads or Tails #105 -- "Yellow"

Today, Barb has another timely Tuesday Heads or Tails: We are asked to write about "yellow" -- some of the leaves on the trees around here are turning that color even now. On September 1! Somebody seems to have smuggled Chicago to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

But I won't write about leaves this morning because I cheated and looked at Barb's post first. She often puts up a music video and her selection today was "Big Yellow Taxi" -- but not by Joni Mitchell. Her video is from some entity called "Counting Crows."

We can't count too many crows around here since the West Nile virus came through.

But I started thinking about the "yellow" songs Barb passed by.

The Yellow Rose of Texas. The Mitch Miller version is on my iPod. There goes my street cred.

Yellow Bird by the Arthur Lyman Group. Wikipedia says this was the only version of the song to chart in the U.S., reaching No. 4 in 1961. Now you remember why America was so ready for the British Invasion. And, speaking of which....

Yellow Submarine by the Beatles.

(Despite what it may look like, Wikipedia assures us that Peter Max had nothing to do with the artwork in the movie.)

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John.

Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini by Brian Hyland. (This will boost my search engine traffic.)

Yellow River by Christie. (You'd remember it if you heard it.)

Not one but two songs from Donovan Leitch: Mellow Yellow, of course, but also Colours ("Yellow is the color of my true love's hair/In the morning, when we rise....")

And still one more, by the group "Yello." Herewith a medley of the group's greatest hit, "Oh Yeah," used to such great effect in 80s films such as The Secret of My Success and the late John Hughes' Ferris Bueller's Day Off. The video that follows shows neither of these, but may be the actual music video released with the record (kids, turn off MTV for a moment and find an adult to explain to you what a music video is was):

Heads or Tails #104 -- "Steam"

Once again, Barb has come up with a timely topic for today's Heads or Tails: We are asked to write about "steam" and there is, even now, steam coming out of my ears. Look closely at your monitor. Can you see it?

(And, no, don't worry: This isn't about politics.)

It's about Middle Son.

He graduated from college this Spring and, unlike so many of his classmates, he had a job -- a good job, apparently -- lined up and waiting for him. He'd interned with this accounting firm during the preceding summer and they'd offered him a full-time gig upon graduation. During the school year, they sent him a couple of updates -- I think they even bought him one of those 'finals care packages' that the schools are always selling... and I am never buying.

In fact, Middle Son was worried that he might have a conflict in June. His college baseball team won its conference championship and qualified for the NCAA tournament. If the team went deep in the tourney, Middle Son (a pitcher, you may remember) might miss his starting date.

I told him not to worry. That would be a good call to make. And things have a way of working out.

Oy.

Things worked out all right: The team got swept in the first round. And the accounting firm? They called during finals week and pushed back his start date to September 1. The economy -- you may have noticed this too -- hasn't been great.

As of a couple of weeks ago, the start date was September 9.

Then, yesterday, it changed.

Now they asked if it would be OK if he could start on October 23.

In the words of Han Solo, "I've got a bad feeling about this, Chewy." Long Suffering Spouse and I both told him to say 'sure' -- and to feign as much enthusiasm as possible in making that response -- and to start looking around for something else.

Sometimes I hate being a parent.

When a kid is little and he falls down, you can get ice, you can give a hug, you can apply a Band-Aid. Oh, the blood may make you a tad queasy -- or the growing lump on the head -- and when kids get sick and start throwing up in the night, it's all you can do not to gag as well, but we can fake being strong and certain and provide real comfort in all these cases. Usually.

But for a problem like this?

I can't get him a job. Heck, I can't get me a job.

It eats me up. It also makes me so angry that steam comes out of my ears.

But I have court this morning, and must suck it up and march ahead. And so must Middle Son.

Heads or Tails #103 -- "Pale"

In today's Heads or Tails, our taoiseach of topics, Barb, gives us a choice: We may write anything at all (heads) about "pail" or something specific (tails) about "pale," those two words being homonyms. No -- don't worry -- I'm not getting political again. Anyway, I chose "pale."

You've heard the term "beyond the pale?" Usually as in, 'he's really gone beyond the pale?'

You might hear the expression in connection with the shouting match that passes for a debate about health care in this country. (No -- wait! Don't go away! -- I promise I'm not getting political again.)

You probably already know that "beyond the pale" means behavior that is considered to be outside the bounds of morality, good behavior or judgment in civilized company.

But have you wondered about the origin of the phrase?

In the late Middle Ages, "the Pale" was the boundary between 'civilized' Ireland -- controlled by the English -- and 'wild' Ireland, nominally under the suzerainty of the English crown and, more accurately, under the control of traditional chiefs and assimilated English nobility. 'Assimilated' is a twenty-five cent word that means gone troppo... and this was hundreds of years before any Englishman ever saw the tropics.

And, by English, of course, I mostly mean Norman-French. The Irish largely absorbed their Norman conquerors... the English weren't nearly as successful. Not for centuries.

The Pale was a fairly compact area around that fine Viking city -- Dublin.

Anyone who strayed beyond that boundary had literally -- to the English mind -- gone beyond the reach of civilization. Isn't that grand, now?

Heads or Tails #102 - note(s on quitting smoking)

Today's Heads or Tails topic is "note," and I will resist the temptation to re-tell my Sound of Music Story and instead speak directly to our gracious HoT host, Barb, concerning a subject about which she's recently blogged: Trying to quit smoking.

As it happens, I am a noted expert on the subject... mainly because I quit myself.

Hundreds of times, in fact.

Sometimes I quit multiple times in a single day.

I didn't start out to be a nicotine addict. When I was in high school, all the cool kids (except the really serious jocks) smoked. Even some of the serious jocks would light up after a few illicit beers. And the wide receivers might smoke marijuana.

I was too young to be a Curmudgeon in those days. But I was an iconoclast -- a rebel truly without a cause. And without any James Dean cool whatsoever. So, naturally, I wanted to make sport of the people who smoked. So I started off with cigars. Large, cheap, stinky (as opposed to aromatic) cigars. For a fancy party I'd get a nicer cigar.

No one saw any hip, ironic humor in my antics, by the way. Other kids just thought I was weird.

I switched to cigarettes in college. They were cheaper -- 50¢ in the college bookstore for a pack of Kents, I remember. I soon graduated to Marlboros. Between cigarettes and coffee I could keep myself going for 36 or even 48 hours on occasion, something that came in handy during midterms and finals and, for that matter, every Thursday night when we put out the school paper. I'd work the typesetter.

My habit would vary. Half-a-pack a day seemed optimal, or so I thought, but my usage crept up to a couple of packs a day and my chest would start to hurt. Then I'd cut back to a half-pack... and work up again. And so through undergrad and law school.

Long Suffering Spouse married me anyway, though she disapproved of my habit. Her father was pleased that I still enjoyed cigars -- and I did -- especially because he could no longer have them himself. He managed to obtain some Cubans for me on a trip and lived vicariously through my enjoyment of them.

But Older Daughter came along and Long Suffering Spouse became more adamant against smoking in the house.

In those days I could still smoke in my office. I remember one interior office I had -- just like every office I've had since -- stacks of books and papers at odd angles, files I was working on, files I should be working on, cases I needed to read, cases I wanted to read. Perched atop one of these piles would be a heavy ashtray and an always smoldering butt.

It's a wonder I never caused a fire, but I didn't.

By the time, our second child came along, Long Suffering Spouse was after me to quit and I'd had my first cancer scare (a very large, but happily benign polyp) and, frankly, I was ready to quit.

We had a secretary in the office in those days who smoked Newport Menthols. I never much cared for menthols -- but I would purchase cigarettes for her while I was running to or from court. Of course, I believed that the only way to make a subway train come, in those days, was to light up a smoke. We couldn't smoke on the train at that time, but we were still permitted to puff on the platform. So I would deduct 'carrying charges' from the secretary's smokes. Sometimes she hardly got any at all. (Yes, I was buying most of these packs. Please. I'm cheap, but I'm not evil.)

This was when I was at the height of my quitting frenzy. See, I was no longer buying cigarettes for me... that meant I'd quit, right?

Well, eventually, it worked like this: One day, I didn't smoke. And then I didn't smoke the next day after that. And then came another day when I didn't either.

It's not that the urge has ever left me. Just writing this makes me long for a smoke right now. Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I realize I'd been dreaming of a smoke.

But I've resisted now for more than 20 years... and I've fallen off the wagon for maybe -- maybe -- two cigarettes or three in all that time. Part of it, I suppose, is willpower. Of course, the fact that smokes now cost a heck of a lot more than 50¢ a pack also helps....

Heads or Tails #99 -- pile

In today's Heads or Tails, our mistress of ceremonies Barb asks us to write about "pile."

I tried, but failed to resist, the temptation to re-tell the old joke about the farmer up in the hills who never had any learning but wanted better for his boy. Maybe it will be new for someone:

The farmer was a proud man and he managed to conceal his inability to read from everyone -- but after his only son had been away for many years, and the stack of unopened letters from the boy had become quite substantial, the farmer found that his curiosity outweighed his pride. He confided in his preacher. The preacher took the letters in a bundle.

"You should be proud of your boy, Zeke," said the preacher when the old man opened the shack door a couple of days later. "The boy went and got himself a B.S. degree, then an M.S., and, just last year, a PhD." The old man didn't look too happy, so the preacher asked why.

"Well, Reverend," said the old man. "If he's happy I guess it's alright. But I had hoped he'd do better."

"What do you mean, Zeke?"

"Well, everybody knows what 'B.S.' is. I reckon 'M.S.' just means 'more of the same.' As for PhD, I expects that stands for 'pile it higher and deeper.'"

Heads or Tails #98 -- spin

In today's Heads or Tails, our meme-master Barb asks us to write about "spin."

I never completely understood how a needle riding through grooves of spinning vinyl (or, before that, wax -- thus, "stacks of golden wax") could somehow extract music and convey it to the stereo speakers. But I could see that a discontinuity across the spinning grooves (a scratch) could cause the needle to skip. I could look at an album and see where the music was and wasn't. I'm not saying I could see drum solos... although some people, I believe, could. The best I could do was put the needle down just at the start of a song... and sometimes, with practice, right at some other spot I most wanted to hear. I could see, when the playing surface was not level, how the needle would bounce. I could even fix that, sometimes, with a carefully taped dime on the tone arm, if it was flat enough. Of course, too much weight on the needle and the music was literally carved out of the grooves.

I know CDs spin; I can hear them whirring around in the disk drive. And scratches can sometimes fatally injure these, too, though not always. CDs go a lot faster, however, than the 33⅓ RPM of my old albums -- or even the 78 RPM records of my late father's original collection. Laser light is involved, somehow, so we can not watch the CDs spin and imagine the music being lifted from the surface. And the music doesn't come from the surface anyway, on a CD, it comes from beneath. From the underside. It is pulled out of the disk's... well, it's not the same as watching a record spin.

On my desk now, here at the Undisclosed Location, there sits an iPod dock. I put my iPod in the cradle in the morning and press "play." I hit "pause" when I answer the phone. I (usually) remember to take the iPod home with me at night. But nothing spins on the device, except for the search wheel. It's nice. But something's lost when you can't see the record spin.