Paper still has a place in the world

I like my tablet and I've reached a rapprochement with my smart phone. I've been blogging, off and on, for almost a decade (this is, after all, my Second Effort). So I'm not totally tech-averse. I'm not a doctrinaire Luddite, whatever my kids may tell you.

Still, my desk at the Undisclosed Location is choked with paper. Stacked high. I still find I read better on paper than I do on the screen. I read newspapers. I read books. No one steals a newspaper or book from you on the el going home; iPhone users have to be aware of "Apple pickers."

Perhaps that explains why I really laughed out loud when I saw this commercial online this morning. Perhaps no explanation is really needed.

Welcome to Apocalypse Maybe Week at Second Effort!

The world may or may not be ending on Friday.

The U.S. Government says the world absolutely will not end this week, so that makes me nervous.

On the other hand, astronomers have identified no rogue planetoid on a collision course with Earth, so that makes me feel better.

On the other, other hand, as Zay N. Smith noted in his QT column Monday, sometimes potentially deadly asteroids aren't detected until they're pretty darn close at hand:

News Item (December 10): Astronomers discover Asteroid 2012 XE54.
Which passed between Earth and the moon two days later.
News Item (December 13): Astronomers discover Asteroid 2012 XB112.
Which passed between Earth and the moon a day later.
News Item (December 14): Astronomers discover Asteroid 2012 XL134.
Which passed between Earth and the moon during the weekend.

So there's still time for something to turn up.

Now, I'm nervous again....

So I'm going to try looking at the bright side of our perhaps-impending doom.

This picture has been making the rounds among my Facebook acquaintances. Hard to tell whose work it is, but it presumably originated offshore (the temperatures are apparently in Celsius):

The first 10 times I saw this I don't think there was anything on the picture about linking up at any safe house....

Here's another one I saw on Facebook that made me laugh:

I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do if Friday is really the last day. I'm reminded of the confused bartender in the movie version of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. After Ford Prefect announces that the world is about to end, the bartender asks:

Barman: Shouldn't we all lie on the floor or put paper bags over our heads?
Ford: If you like.
Barman: Will it help?
Ford: Not at all.
[Ford runs out of the pub]
Barman: Last orders, please!

So while I'm not sure yet what to do or how to do it, maybe we'll find out together here on Second Effort as we (imagine big echo chamber basso profundo here) countdown to the End of the World!

I wasn't worried about the Mayan Prophecy of Doom. Until Now.

Oh sure, I've kidded about it. Made jokes. In 2010, I put up a post lamenting a news report that the Mayan calendar may have been mistranslated because, counting on the end of the world to occur as scheduled, my credit cards were on pace to max out at the end of 2012.

But, while I joked about the possible total destruction of the world on December 21 -- whistling past the graveyard, I think it can be called -- I never really, truly worried that it might be so.

Until now.

Now, I'm just a teensy bit worried.

Why?

The U.S. Government has officially weighed in on the issue. According to blog.usa.gov, "The world will not end on December 21, 2012, or any day in 2012."

You see what this means, don't you?

If the world doesn't end two weeks from Friday, it will mean that, this time, the government was right!

Now, seriously, what seems more likely? A phantom planet showing up and smacking our poor little Earth -- or the U.S. government getting something 100% absolutely right?

You're getting a teensy bit nervous too, now, aren't you?

Curmudgeon not a grandfather yet... but soon?

The headline, I suppose, could be that Long Suffering Spouse was wrong in guessing we'd be grandparents by this morning. (I reported her prediction here last Thursday.)

This could be the headline because it is 'news' in the 'man bites dog sense': News, in this commonly accepted view, is not just 'what happens' but what happens and is also unusual. What's unusual here is that my wife appears to have been mistaken.

That hardly ever happens.

But, as always, there are extenuating circumstances. Last week I told you that Olaf's job interview had gone well, so well that his prospective employers wanted him back for another interview as soon as the next day (Friday).

Friday proved too soon for the person-who-needed-to-sign-off-on-Olaf; he was just back at work after an illness and he needed more time to catch up. So the interview was postponed until this morning. That gave Younger Daughter a strong incentive to wait.

Not that you can turn these things on or off, of course, not consciously -- but, well, attitudes and expectations probably have more to do with these things than science can prove.

We were joking yesterday that -- given the importance of Olaf securing gainful employment -- Younger Daughter wouldn't actually tell him she was in labor (even if she was) until after the interview was concluded. Younger Daughter thought that a splendid idea; Olaf was not nearly as amused.

Nevertheless, it got me thinking.

There's lots of things that Long Suffering Spouse shields me from for as long as possible. Long Suffering Spouse operates (sometimes) on the theory that I have enough trouble focusing on things I'm supposed to without worrying about this relative or that one. So I sail on in blissful ignorance -- or at least fret about only one thing at a time.

Today (no surprise here) my major concern is financial. I have, by my count, $11 and change in my checking account. I have a charge card bill due today with a $12,000+ balance; the minimum payment is only $166. "Only." It might as well be the whole $12,000+ because I can't pay the big amount or even the little one unless a check comes in the mail. I'm waiting for one at home and one here. And there's another card due tomorrow and phone bills and....

Well, you know the story. It's one all of us have in common, to greater or lesser extents, from time to time (Mitt Romney excepted, I suppose).

Anyway, it occurred to me that Long Suffering Spouse might not even bother to tell me when Younger Daughter's labor begins lest I lose focus on the crisis du jour. I'm downtown now. I'm not at all useful: I'm a good hour away by train, counting the walk home from the station. I could come home tonight and (eventually) notice that Younger Daughter was absent. "Where is everybody?" I might ask.

Long Suffering Spouse could tell me that Younger Daughter and Olaf were out for a walk; I'd buy it. Then I'd eat dinner and fall asleep in front of the White Sox game. (The way they've been playing on this current five game losing skid, it's the only way to watch.)

I'd go to bed eventually. Maybe I'd ask, "Is everybody here?" Long Suffering Spouse would only have to tell me "yes" and, if she'd already closed the door to the kids' room, I'd believe it.

I wouldn't necessarily see the kids on my way out in the morning either; I don't always.

If my wife put her mind to it, I wonder how many days my grandchild could be in the house before I figured it out? Two? Three? A week?

I actually saw Younger Daughter this morning (she was up getting Olaf out to his very early morning interview) and she was still 'great with child' then. But tomorrow?

Well, I'm sure I'll find out eventually.....

Five leadership lessons from James T. Kirk

Forbes has a great piece online now by Alex Knapp, "Five Leadership Lessons From James T. Kirk."

If you read the article, I think you will be as easily persuaded as I was that Mr. Knapp, the Forbes social media editor, is well-versed in the Star Trek canon.

The best part is now I find out that all those hours and hours I spent near-memorizing those old shows was putting me on the cutting edge of business philosophy. I think I should almost qualify for an honorary MBA just for this alone. This probably puts Captain Picard in line for a PhD.

Things I've NOT been doing while NOT blogging

The problem with being a lawyer and a blogger is that, sometimes, the need to tend to my law practice requires that I not spend time here. I can seldom talk about matters on which I'm working -- as you would expect -- and a lot of my day to day issues, problems and frustrations get... well... repetitive.

My computer is old. And slow. How many posts can you put up about that?

I have issues with money. In this economy, who doesn't?

Credit card interest rates are outrageous -- sure -- but how times can you write how the government bailed out the banks with our money and, now, the banks are paying back the government with our money?

So, rather than trot out an old warhorse, I thought I'd share with you some of the things I've NOT been doing while I've NOT been blogging.

I've not been sailing round the Isle of Wight with Tony Hayward.

Apparently BP's Tony Hayward likes a fresh ocean breeze now and then because, as soon as he could get away from America, he went sailing with his son "on his $270,000 (£182,000) Farr 52 racing yacht, 'Bob,'" at the JP Morgan Asset Management Round The Island Race.

Of course, I wasn't there only because my yacht hasn't come in yet. A lot of people are waiting for their ship to come in; at this point, I'd settle for a dinghy.

I haven't been watching the World Cup.

I found this picture of the World Cup Trophy, though, in Wikipedia. I'm now thinking I may watch the last couple of minutes of the final game so I can see the trophy awarded to the winning team. I'm curious: How are they going to carry this using only their feet? Or will they have the goalie carry it for them all? (I wouldn't want to try heading this thing; that's for sure. It looks heavy.)

I haven't been sitting in Judge Zagel's courtroom watching the Blagojevich trial.

This Tribune photo shows Rod Blagojevich and his wife Patti getting out of a giant SUV at the Dirksen Building on their way to another day of the trial. Patti once ate a giant bug while living in tropical jungle as a contestant on a reality show. Rod was supposed to be the contestant, but Judge Zagel wouldn't let him leave the country for the for the shooting.

Why don't high profile criminal defendants ever take the subway to court? There's a subway entrance right there on Dearborn Street, too. Wouldn't you think that one's man-of-the-people image would be burnished by riding the train with the rest of us "small people?" (Yes, that's another BP reference. Sometimes I can't help myself.)

The Blagojevich trial will be interesting today as the lawyers try and concentrate on the testimony while trying to read the Supreme Court's opinion this morning in Skilling v. United States. That link will take you to 114 pages of opinions, concurring opinions and a dissent -- but, cutting to the quick, the court held that the "honest-services statute," 18 U.S.C. §1346, proscribes only bribes and kickbacks. Blagojevich is charged under this statute.

Jeffrey Skilling, by the way, the Skilling of Skilling v. United States, is the former Enron CEO and the brother of beloved Chicago TV weatherman Tom Skilling.

Whether Blago will benefit from Skilling is to be determined. But Conrad Black, or Baron Black of Crossharbour, as he is known to his closest friends, the man who looted the Chicago Sun-Times and inflicted wounds on that newspaper that may yet prove fatal, unquestionably has benefited from today's decision in Skilling. See, Black v. United States, also released by the Supreme Court this morning.

Please note: They call the site Fake Science

If you're reading this in, say, Texas, you might not get that right away.


These very amusing cartoons, and a lot more in this same entertaining vein, are taken from a site called Fake Science (motto: "Fake Science is for when the facts are too confusing"). (Thanks to Popehat for the introduction.)

Words you can't say at work?

I saw that headline on Yahoo! this morning and my first thought was how many ways can you reuse the classic George Carlin routine?

But I looked anyway... and it turned out to be an apparently serious article by Linda Durre on Forbes.com. It also turned out that the list was more George Lucas than George Carlin.

Tops on the list of words one should not use at work?

Try "try."

Apparently modern employers are like the Jedi Master, Yoda:

(Source.)

I work alone -- and maybe this is one reason why -- but I can't imagine why "I'll try" or "we'll see" are supposedly workplace no-no's. Why in the world would anyone agree to do something before he knows whether it can be done? If I had minions (something I wish for in my prayers each evening) and I said to one them, "Billingsgate, I want a proposal for a workable perpetual motion machine on my desk before 5:00pm today!" and Billingsgate said, "Sir, yes, sir!" I would think him the biggest idiot in the world. I'd fire him at lunchtime. Also on the proscribed list are some of the most vital phrases in the lawyers' arsenal: "I'll get back to you," "I don't know," and "We'll see." I suppose this may be every client's secret fantasy: You call your lawyer (Milo) and you say, "Milo, tell me yes or no, is the new health care bill constitutional?" Even if Milo helped to write the darned thing, how can he answer that question? "Milo, about that case we just filed: Will we win?" If Milo has a brain in his head he doesn't answer that question yes or no even if it's not asked until the day before trial. "Milo, the Supreme Court just handed down a decision in the Jones case. Does that help or hurt us in our case?" I'm breaking out in a cold sweat just imagining these scenarios. Not only would it be the death of the billable hour -- how in the world could any competent lawyer presume to answer any of these questions without research, investigation, careful thought -- and the liberal use of every weasel word on the proscribed list? Maybe Ms. Durre was intending satire and I am too dim to recognize it. But I think I would have been far happier reading a rehash of the old George Carlin routine.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

P.S. -- Did you realize... that these two guys are really the same guy?

I don't know if that enhances my respect for Fozzie Bear or diminishes my regard for Yoda....

Obama seems determined to "out" Curmudgeon?

About a bajillion possible replacements have been suggested for retiring Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens so far. Most of these, like Stevens, are from Chicago -- or at least have a strong Chicago connection.

In no particular order, this ever-growing list includes, but is by no means limited to:

• Seventh Circuit Judge Diane P. Wood;
• Solicitor General Elena Kagan (who used to teach at the University of Chicago Law School);
• D.C. Court of Appeals Judge Merrick Garland (raised in suburban Lincolnwood);
• Harvard Law School Dean Martha Minow (a 1972 New Trier High School graduate and the daughter of former FCC Chaimrman Newton "Television is a Vast Wasteland" Minow);
• Illinois Attorney General Lisa Madigan; and
  
• Judge Reuben Castillo of the Northern District of Illinois.

This morning another Seventh Circuit Judge, Ann C. Williams, was reportedly added to the mix.

I can see what's happening here.

Granted, there are a few thousand... OK, a few tens of thousands... more qualified in between those named and myself. But, if present trends continue, it looks like every lawyer in Chicago will soon be named as a possibility except me. And then, by process of elimination, I will have been "outed" by President Obama.

Of course, maybe I'm being paranoid. Again.

I have been getting calls at home now for about a week from a Washington, D.C. number. I've assumed it was a sales call, so I haven't picked up. And, so far, the caller hasn't left a message.

Anyway, Mr. President, if it's you that's calling, please leave a message. I'll call right back. I promise.

Today's the "deadline" for census responses?

I heard it on the radio this morning: Today is supposed to be the "deadline" for returning census forms. I hadn't filled mine in yet -- hadn't even looked at it, really, since it arrived a couple of weeks ago -- and for a very simple reason, too: Every single question is geared to who is living at my house on April 1.

That would be today.

How could I fill it in before now?

You may say that's an overly legalistic view, and I suppose it might be seen that way. But I wasn't thinking legalities; I was thinking reality: Is tomorrow promised to any of us?

Of course, I used it as a threat, too. Seventeen year-old Youngest Son gave me some lip recently and I said in response, we'll see if you're listed on the census form come April 1. I may throw you out before then.... Of course, I was only kidding.

Probably.

Almost certainly.

Today being April 1, however, I have filled in the form accurately and I will post it promptly.

But, in the meantime, can I express my disdain for the racial politics of the census?

I know the census is supposed to tell us -- and our progeny -- about what America looked like in 2010 but I very greatly fear that it tells us far more about the race-obsessed bureaucrats who rule over us at this troubled time in history.

A "note" following Question 7 (for person 1) and Question 4 (for everyone else) tells us that, "For this census, Hispanic origins are not races." (This will come as a shock to the various La Raza folks.) The questions which follow establish that almost everything else is a race. (Except, of course, for those of boring whitebread European ancestries. They are merely "white.")

Thus, a respondent can't be "Hispanic" but can be White, Black (including "African Am., or Negro" -- Negro? Really? Has anyone used that term since the late 1960s?), American Indian or Alaska Native (but you have to supply the name of your tribe), Asian Indian, Chinese, Filipino, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Native Hawaiian, Guamanian or Chamorro, Samoan or -- if you print it in the boxes provided -- Hmong, Laotian, Thai, Pakistani, Cambodian, Fijian, Tongan "and so on."

At least they used the term "American Indian" instead of "Native American." Because I would have checked the latter category in an eyeblink: I am an American, born and raised in the good ol' U.S.A. and therefore, under any definition I understand, a "native American."

Just in case these weren't enough racial categories, there was an opportunity to check a box marked "some other race" and a line that could be filled in with the name of that race. I suppose the geniuses who thought this form up were thinking that this could be used by recent African immigrants who might want to note their ethnic origins. But, I have to tell you, I was sorely tempted to simply check that box and fill in the boxes below with these letters:

H U M A N

Because that is the only race of persons living on this planet (even if you subscribe to the wackiest conspiracy theories involving Area 51, the human race is by far the race to which the overwhelming majority of this planet's residents belong). Anyway, the sooner we as a species figure out that there is only one race, the human race, the better off we all will be. For one thing, future censuses would cost less money....

Anyway, I was tempted... but I wimped out. The census form also asks for my home phone number and warns ominously, "We may call if we don't understand an answer." Answering the race question that way would almost certainly result in a phone call... and I just don't want to deal with that.

Catholic diversity:

Wednesday it was green for St. Patrick, today a splash of red for St. Joseph.

Secret insight into the male psyche revealed -- and why Curmudgeon is more screwed up than usual

I will let you in this morning on a deep insight into the male psyche: We crave an orderly routine above almost anything else. This is not to say that women prefer chaos -- that would be silly -- but women can cope with it better. Usually.

I suppose it all goes back to the earliest days of the human species, when men were out hunting mastodons or great elk or bison or whatever. Everything had to be done just so in order for the hunt to be successful. And the hunters' quarry followed a predictable routine -- gathering at the bend in the river after the snows melted and when the Sun rises over the Great Rock -- that sort of thing. Our most remote male ancestors struggled to discern patterns in their surroundings -- and the men who were better at it had more successful hunts and lived long enough to reproduce.

Meanwhile, back at the caves, our great-great-grandmothers were tending the young and gathering roots and berries and maintaining the cooking fires and tanning hides -- multitasking right from the Dawn of Time. Babies then, just like babies now, would wake up unpredictably, demanding to be fed, sometimes in the middle of the night and sometimes during roots and berries time. And of course, occasionally (and unpredictably), while the hunting parties were off chasing deer, a bear might wander into camp and try to repossess the cave. The women would have to cope with that, too.

Thus, from earliest times, women have been conditioned to handle whatever comes -- and men aren't.

Recent events in the Curmudgeon household illustrate how these primal principles are still operative. Older Daughter just finished nursing school, you'll remember, and she's stressed about the upcoming boards -- and she's got the kinds of problems that a lot of young married persons have when the honeymoon daze dissipates. And she's going to have gall bladder surgery at the end of the week. Long Suffering Spouse copes with it. I do my best to ignore it.

Oldest Son is getting married in May and we have to hie ourselves to San Antonio for the occasion, with all the disruptions that this entails. Long Suffering Spouse is coping with it. I'm doing my best to ignore this, too.

Youngest Son is driving for the first time to school and getting up at ridiculously early times for baseball and/or football workouts -- but not everyday. Long Suffering Spouse keeps track. I am annoyed that my morning routine is interrupted on days when Youngest Son doesn't leave early. Or maybe it's on days that he does....

Younger Daughter had to get back to school this weekend. Well, actually, she doesn't have classes until Wednesday, but she was complaining about sitting around the house with nothing to do while the rest of us were at work or school. And, oddly enough, her boyfriend is back on campus, too. Hmmmmm. Long Suffering Spouse had to cope with Younger Daughter's saving all her laundry to be done yesterday and then her haphazard packing. All I had to do was drive and help carry stuff.

Also, this weekend, we had to take down the Christmas decorations. I was against putting these up in the first place -- but the house settles into a routine with the tree up so that's fine. But the holiday routine is destroyed by taking everything down. (I may want to talk about this one separately at some point.) But Long Suffering Spouse coped while I chafed.

The one thing that's putting Long Suffering Spouse closest to the edge at this moment is Middle Son. He finally started -- last week -- that job he had been promised for June. In the last couple of weeks, he's bought a car, rented an apartment, bought a new phone and a giant TV set -- all with money he hasn't earned yet. For the last week he's stayed at our house, visiting his swinging bachelor pad perhaps only once or twice. "There's no hurry," Long Suffering Spouse counseled, especially since Middle Son (who loves to eat) has not learned to cook... or iron a shirt....

Nevertheless, yesterday afternoon, when Middle Son awoke, he announced to one and all that yesterday would be his last in the Curmudgeon house. While Long Suffering Spouse ironed his shirts for the coming week, Middle Son borrowed our van to take over a bed and a table to his new digs. He returned to gather up his clothes (including the newly ironed shirts), stuffing his new car, and finally leaving last night around 10:15.

Long Suffering Spouse had reached the end of her ability to cope. "This is crazy," she told me. "He can't cook, he can't iron -- will he get up in time to get to work? He has to do well in this job!" I asked Middle Son to text me this morning when he arrived at work -- and he did -- but, on a primal level, I understood what is happening here: Middle Son is feeling the instinctive lure and comfort of a routine, even a new one, and there can be no routine living in two places.

He'll be back frequently for meals; I just know it.

In the meantime, I have hopes of reclaiming a routine of my own. And about time, too.

Curmudgeon explains deposition practice

Much of the time after a civil case is filed and before it comes for trial is devoted to something called "discovery."

Discovery is another word for billing.

Well, not exactly: In discovery each side tries to find out juicy information about the other that will, if revealed, cause the opponent to seek surrender (settlement) terms.

There are several different discovery "tools." These may be called different things in different jurisdictions but the major ones are interrogatories, document requests and depositions.

Today's lesson is about depositions.

Depositions are where a lawyer tries to find out what a person will say at trial by asking him or her questions that the lawyer would never, ever ask in front of a judge or jury.

A deposition is just like any other conversation.

Except that it's usually conducted in someone's conference room. And the witness is under oath, of course, and in at least theoretical danger of being slapped with a perjury charge if he or she lies (and, in case the witness happens to be President of the United States, in danger of being impeached). And Every Single Word Spoken is taken down by a court reporter. And an attorney for every party in the case may be present waiting for a turn to ask the exact same questions that his or her colleagues have asked already.

Other than these things, a deposition is just like any other conversation.

Sometimes the witness is represented by counsel. Usually that's because the witness is also a party to the suit. But sometimes the witness is not a party and has an attorney present because the witness wants to stay that way.

The attorney representing a witness at a deposition usually believes that his or her job is to interrupt every time the lawyer asking questions starts asking questions that might reveal relevant information. This sort of deliberate obstruction is typically prohibited by ethical codes, so the obstructions are usually framed as objections. The experienced practitioner will remind counsel that speaking objections are prohibited (at least they are in the jurisdictions in which I've practiced) -- which reduces the interrupting attorney to becoming something of a verbal Geiger counter: Objection. [Long Pause.] Objection. [Shorter Pause now.] Objection.... Objection.... Objection.... [Now No Pause At All.] Objection!Objection!Objection! Thus does the experienced attorney hone in on the good stuff without having to prepare too much.

Depositions are often taken of persons who have submitted Affidavits. Affidavits are also testimony but, because they are pieces of paper, are notoriously hard to cross examine.

An attorney who wants to "test" an Affidavit will seek the deposition of the "Affiant" (that's the person who signed the paper). Usually the lawyer will ask the Affiant-witness if he or she said each of the things that he or she already said in the Affidavit. Now these things have been said twice.

Of course, sometimes a witness will surprise everyone by, for example, denying that he has have ever seen that paper in his life. Then someone -- the lawyer who drafted the Affidavit, for example, helpfully points to the witness's signature and asks a clarifying question: Isn't that your signature?

The witness's agreement that this is indeed his or her signature may not do all that much to restore the witness's credibility, but it presumably spares the lawyer a disciplinary inquiry.

Another way that lawyers "test" Affidavits is by asking the witness whether he or she prepared the Affidavit.

Let me say this to the lawyers of America: Any darn fool who would let a non-lawyer witness prepare his or her own Affidavit should be immediately disbarred on the grounds of terminal stupidity. Of course witnesses don't prepare their own Affidavits; hopefully the witness has supplied the factual information that is at the core of the document -- but the ribbons and bows and linguistic flourishes must be supplied by a lawyer licensed in the jurisdiction and well versed in the peculiarities of the local practice.

I recently watched a lawyer ask a bunch of nice people who signed Affidavits in a case whether they prepared their own Affidavits. I only wish one of them had responded this way:

Q. Did you prepare this Affidavit?
A. I provided the information that's in this paper, yes.
Q. No, I mean, did you physically prepare the paper?
A. Are you asking whether I go around starting stories by saying, 'I, BARTHOLOMEW T. BOONDOGGLE, being duly sworn on oath?' Do I push away from the table at the country club on Saturday evening, having regaled all present with my latest golfing triumph, by proclaiming 'FURTHER AFFIANT SAYETH NAUGHT'?
Q. Well, yes, I suppose....
A. No, I don't. Do you?

Curmudgeon returns to the eye doctor

I was back at the eye doctor this morning for a follow-up visual field test. That's an example of what the test printouts looks like -- not my results, you understand, just one grabbed for illustrative purposes from the swirling vortex of the Internet.

The last time I took my visual field test, I flunked.

I wrote about it here in late August in "The eyes have [had] it -- Or -- Sleeping through a test is a bad idea even long after graduation."

Yes, I've watched a lot of Rocky and Bullwinkle in my time. Although the alternate title of that post is a little long for the high velocity William Conrad narration. (Yes, that William Conrad, from "Jake and the Fat Man." Seriously. You could look it up.)

I was determined to improve my test results this time. I was motivated by the glint in my doctor's eye last time as he started talking about the different surgical options. There sure were a lot of them.

We were supposed to do the test in late September or early October, but my schedule and the technician's and the doctor's did not coincide until this morning.

I was worried about something other than just passing the test, too: I've had this stubborn virus for about 10 days now. It's finally begun to subside -- but that means all sorts of things are coming out of my nose on a random basis and I'm hacking and wheezing like an end-stage consumptive. Nearly all of yesterday I sounded like I was trying out for the part of an invalid in the dramatization of a Dickens novel. And have I gone through tissues. I pity the fool who tries to pick my pocket.

I didn't want to ooze and leak all over the good eye doctor's equipment this morning. Fortunately I was able, by means of disgusting everyone in my house this morning by my imitation of an off-key elephant frightened by mice, to divest myself of a pound or two of various secretions. That gave me a window of reasonably appropriate social behavior.

Gosh -- it just occurred to me -- I sure hope you're not reading this on your lunch hour. Perhaps I should dial back on the vivid descriptions.

Summarize it then, thus: I stayed awake. I passed. My results today are not significantly worse than they were when I started treating, 15 years ago.

My glaucoma is stable. The doctor was devastated.

Hip checks on the subway

I catch the 'el' (which, on my particular line, is elevated only over a small portion of its run) fairly near O'Hare Airport; the trains are usually pretty empty when they pull into my station and I can almost always get a window seat.

That means, as the train fills up, someone must choose to sit next to me.

This frequently results in a territorial struggle.

Now, granted, I am not a small person. I do not spill over, however, into the adjoining seat; I fit within, if snugly so, the 'footprint' of the contoured seat. Except it's not a 'footprint,' of course; it's a 'buttprint,' I suppose, if it's anything -- but that sounds rude.

Anyway, when someone sits next to me on the train, he or she almost always hip checks me: We sit cheek to cheek, as it were.

When the new arrival is a large person, man or woman, such intimacy is understandable... and, of course, unintended. And when the new arrival is a comely young lady, the contact, I will concede, is not entirely unwelcome.

But it always happens: Old or young, large or small, each new arrival shoves me into the wall. I scrunch up and over, thinking thin thoughts, and often reestablish a millimeter or two of personal space -- but a significant percentage of new occupants insist on continuing to press. Why is this?

Let me be the first non-retailer to wish you...

...a very Happy Holidays. (Or, if you're feeling traditional, Merry Christmas.)

Because, as you surely know if you've set foot into almost any kind of a store at any time since Saturday, we are now squarely in the Holiday Season.

The entire month of November has been sucked into some sort of temporal vortex, whooshed right out of the calendar: After Halloween comes Christmas.

Now, for years, I have decried the early advent of the Christmas season -- weeks before Advent even starts. (Catholics, at least, will catch the reference; just groan along with them at the feeble play on words.)

But I give up, er, I grow and change. I don't think there's a choice: They're running Christmas commercials during the World Series. The Boys of Summer are morphing into Christmas elves right in my den. And I'm not drinking anything stronger than water.

Remember the old cliche... I wish every day could be like Christmas?

Well... if retailers get their way... it will. It will at least be the Christmas season.

Ho ho ho! Pass the eggnog!

In praise of 25 hour days... and other calendrical improvements

We went from daylight savings time to standard time here this weekend....

It's a gloomy Monday morning in Chicago, only a little brighter this morning when I left for work than it was on Friday. I thus had no difficulty in accepting that I'd arrived here at the Undisclosed Location around 8:20am, well within the range of my usual arrival times. Neither the evidence offered by the clock by the receptionist's work station nor the battery powered clock on my desk could dissuade me from my acceptance of the time. I quickly reset those lying clocks anyway -- although the desk clock is still 14 or 15 minutes fast. The button to reset the minutes long ago became inoperable.

It's not that I'm rested or refreshed. It's still Monday. I'm still tired. I am still overwhelmed by the prospect of the week to come.

But I really like 25 hour days.

In fact, I'd like it better if we could string a bunch of these 25 hour days together. On Mars every day is about 24 hours and 39 minutes long (how's that for a reason to colonize?) but here the effects would be noticeable right away: There'd be some days here where the Sun would not rise before noon... or even before dinnertime if we could keep the streak going long enough... but, in November, in Chicago, who'd really notice the difference? And the benefits! An extra hour of sleep a day -- or, for the ambitious, an extra hour to read and learn. Perhaps, some days, an extra hour to blog?

And even this could be improved: If we could add a few extra days to the end of each month -- an extra week or so might do nicely. Earth would still continue in its orbit, so the dates of the solstices would change -- hard for the neo-pagans, I suppose, and the Stonehenge Tourist Bureau -- but think of the advantages for the rest of us: We'd have an extra week to prepare for those bills due on the first of the month! I might even have my timesheets for the first 30 days of the month done as the first of the month begins. Of course, I'd still be missing a week... but no system is perfect.

But don't you think it's time to experiment? Here, surely, is positive change!