That's just an unfortunate misunderstanding caused, probably, by poor cell phone reception during a conversation yesterday between my Long Suffering Spouse and our Oldest Son.
Oldest Son was calling to tell LSS about the interview he had with a guy he met in a gas station a couple of weeks ago, when Oldest Son came to Chicago for Ring Day. This guy approached Oldest Son at the gas pump and asked if he had yet secured summer employment. When Oldest Son said no, the man said he represented a line of vitamins and health food and that he was looking to hire college kids. He had a website that Oldest Son could look at. The URL was provided and cell phone numbers were exchanged. Eventually an interview was set up for last night at a super-mega-bookstore somewhere in the greater South Bend area. Oldest Son asked me if I thought he should show up for this "interview." Though the circumstances were odd, I encouraged Oldest Son to go ahead.
I mean, if you have a website, you must be legit, right? (OK, never mind....)
Anyway, the guy did have a site, promoting a line of beauty, health and fitness products -- but you had to "register" to get past the front page. Neither Oldest Son nor I are that stupid.
Somehow, in this recital via cell phone, LSS heard "gas station," "vitamins" (which she translated as "drugs") and "interview." She concluded that Oldest Son was meeting a drug dealer at a gas station -- and when I walked in the door last night, she told me to call Oldest Son immediately.
This is what I found out when I called: Oldest Son went to the interview -- at the super-mega-bookstore, not at a gas station -- but the interviewer was as cryptic as he'd been while standing outside at the gas pumps: He didn't want to answer simple questions about the job, other than to say that this would give Oldest Son the opportunity to set up his "own small business." When Oldest Son asked if that meant he'd be expected to buy inventory and re-sell it, the interviewer said he would give Oldest Son more information about the job if Oldest Son would come back for another interview Thursday. Clearly, this individual isn't selling health food, he's selling sales jobs selling health food. Oldest Son has suddenly discovered that his homework schedule makes it impossible for him to attend a second interview -- ever.
This is how one generation can improve on the next. When I was a junior in college, I was offered a job selling Bibles in Arkansas, on the very buckle of the Bible Belt. Sort of like selling ice to Eskimos. But, unlike Oldest Son, I was so dazzled by the salesman's pitch at the very first interview that I actually said yes to the job -- and had to weasel out later. Sad, ain't it?
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
Speaking of trials... and juries...
The jury that convicted former Illinois Governor George Ryan and his pal Larry Warner here in Chicago recently seems itself on trial now as defense attorneys research the veracity of every statement made by every juror on their initial questionnaires (and presumably during voir dire as well).
It has been alleged that not all of the jurors were entirely truthful in what they told the court and counsel prior to their selection.
Imagine: A jury of liars deciding whether a politician has told the truth. Is that the definition of irony or what?
Not all the alleged misrepresentations are equally serious, nor is the materiality of many of these alleged misrepresentations immediately apparent. Some surely are both old and trivial. Nevertheless, the cumulative weight of these misstatements, omissions, and forgotten past encounters with the law may be enough to overturn the guilty verdicts. Maybe.
But here's the part that I don't get: Usually people lie to get out of jury service. Anyone who's picked a jury has encountered more than one man or woman who will say nearly anything to avoid being selected. In my most recent trial, a woman had already talked herself off the jury -- but, not being certain, continued to spin additional tales of woe about her small business out in the hallway as the judge was trying to tell her she could leave. The people who are now being attacked in the Ryan case apparently told fibs so they could serve for months.
There were no surprises for the Ryan jurors in terms of the time commitment that they were being asked to make; they knew they'd be tied up for months on this case. And yet they were willing to serve. They may have even fibbed, or stretched the truth, in an effort to secure this duty. I'm not sure what to make of this.
It has been alleged that not all of the jurors were entirely truthful in what they told the court and counsel prior to their selection.
Imagine: A jury of liars deciding whether a politician has told the truth. Is that the definition of irony or what?
Not all the alleged misrepresentations are equally serious, nor is the materiality of many of these alleged misrepresentations immediately apparent. Some surely are both old and trivial. Nevertheless, the cumulative weight of these misstatements, omissions, and forgotten past encounters with the law may be enough to overturn the guilty verdicts. Maybe.
But here's the part that I don't get: Usually people lie to get out of jury service. Anyone who's picked a jury has encountered more than one man or woman who will say nearly anything to avoid being selected. In my most recent trial, a woman had already talked herself off the jury -- but, not being certain, continued to spin additional tales of woe about her small business out in the hallway as the judge was trying to tell her she could leave. The people who are now being attacked in the Ryan case apparently told fibs so they could serve for months.
There were no surprises for the Ryan jurors in terms of the time commitment that they were being asked to make; they knew they'd be tied up for months on this case. And yet they were willing to serve. They may have even fibbed, or stretched the truth, in an effort to secure this duty. I'm not sure what to make of this.
It was a splendid victory?
I was on trial last week. Not a big trial, not a high profile matter, not important, really, except to the parties and to the 14 people (12 jurors and two alternates) hailed in off the street to decide the controversy. It's nothing you'd ordinarily read about, even here in the blogosphere.
But it was a jury trial. And civil jury trials are rare beasts: Most civil cases settle or are otherwise disposed of before trial -- on the order of 99%. (Of course, when quoting those kinds of lop-sided statistics, I can't help but recall what a judge once told me about the pre-trial section he supervised: He had a 99.6% success rate, he told me, because 99.6% of the cases assigned to the "Fast Track" Pre-Trial Section were either settled, dismissed, or returned to the trial call. There will be a brief delay while you process that data.... Can you think of any other possible dispositions? So what the heck happened to the other .4%? I didn't have the heart to ask.)
Anyway, I've always liked being on trial. It certainly beats getting ready for trial all to heck: Before you start, you're trying to commit your entire case to memory, trying to anticipate every possible scenario, trying to avoid thinking about all of the million things that can go wrong. What if the witness gets lost on the way to the courthouse? What if the judge doesn't accept your argument on the admissibility of the key testimony or piece of evidence? What if you catch a cold?
I did catch a cold this past week -- spent Easter with bronchitis and on antibiotics. All from trying to get ready for trial and make it to baseball practice (to Youngest Son's eternal chagrin, I've been his coach for the past several years) and keep up with the other things that must be done in a solo law practice.
But when you're on trial, those things all go by the boards: You are immersed. You are committed. You are locked in. As I was this past week.
And for all this commitment, what was the result?
Well, it was what we call a Pyrrhic victory: The jury gave us something. It was therefore a victory -- but many more such victories and we are bankrupt. As I told the attorney who referred the case to me, we swung for the fences... and popped out to the second baseman.
I've long held the belief that trials only happen when someone is unreasonable; that's why they're so rare. It may be the party. It may be the attorney. It may sometimes be the judge. Of course, I'm working on an explanation as to why the rule doesn't apply in this case....
But it was a jury trial. And civil jury trials are rare beasts: Most civil cases settle or are otherwise disposed of before trial -- on the order of 99%. (Of course, when quoting those kinds of lop-sided statistics, I can't help but recall what a judge once told me about the pre-trial section he supervised: He had a 99.6% success rate, he told me, because 99.6% of the cases assigned to the "Fast Track" Pre-Trial Section were either settled, dismissed, or returned to the trial call. There will be a brief delay while you process that data.... Can you think of any other possible dispositions? So what the heck happened to the other .4%? I didn't have the heart to ask.)
Anyway, I've always liked being on trial. It certainly beats getting ready for trial all to heck: Before you start, you're trying to commit your entire case to memory, trying to anticipate every possible scenario, trying to avoid thinking about all of the million things that can go wrong. What if the witness gets lost on the way to the courthouse? What if the judge doesn't accept your argument on the admissibility of the key testimony or piece of evidence? What if you catch a cold?
I did catch a cold this past week -- spent Easter with bronchitis and on antibiotics. All from trying to get ready for trial and make it to baseball practice (to Youngest Son's eternal chagrin, I've been his coach for the past several years) and keep up with the other things that must be done in a solo law practice.
But when you're on trial, those things all go by the boards: You are immersed. You are committed. You are locked in. As I was this past week.
And for all this commitment, what was the result?
Well, it was what we call a Pyrrhic victory: The jury gave us something. It was therefore a victory -- but many more such victories and we are bankrupt. As I told the attorney who referred the case to me, we swung for the fences... and popped out to the second baseman.
I've long held the belief that trials only happen when someone is unreasonable; that's why they're so rare. It may be the party. It may be the attorney. It may sometimes be the judge. Of course, I'm working on an explanation as to why the rule doesn't apply in this case....
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Update on Ring Day -- Or -- A demon has been exorcised?
We got the rings.
I had to leave the office at 10:15 and wait in the cold with my son at Gate 5 at "the Cell" -- I must have cut in front of 100 people behind him, but I had to get my ticket from him, didn't I?
When the gate finally opened, a loud cheer went up from the assembled throng, and we began surging forward. No one was trampled, and Oldest Son found a seam and started to pull away. I urged him to go on ahead alone; I'd get my ring if I could, but he was young and strong, and he should go move ahead if the crowd dynamic permitted. (I told him to start calling my cell phone if I hadn't caught up with him in an hour or two. Just in case I got trampled.)
Our seats were in the very last row of the upper deck, under the new canopy, in the shade, about two-thirds of the way down the left field line.
When the ballpark was first opened, the wind used to whip through the upper deck concourse at hurricane speeds, even if it that wasn't windy outside. There would be a wind-chill factor in July. The recent renovations have tamed the winds within, but they have to go somewhere, don't they?
Yesterday was a very windy day, and winds went around the stadium, accelerating along the way, and blowing right up our backs. I had was wearing Under Armour beneath a flannel shirt and a jacket. And I was still cold. And I kept waiting for my hat to blow off my head.
Young people are generally oblivious to the chill, but an hour before game time, Oldest Son said, "My feet are cold. This is a bad sign." (In the sunshine, people were wearing t-shirts and were comfortable. LSS told me the radio announcers were disputing the stated 47-degree temperature at game time; they thought it was more like 80°. They, too, were in the sun.)
So we're freezing. We're in seats that even Bob Uecker wouldn't confuse with "the front row." We're seemingly in danger of being swept by a gust of wind and hurled to our deaths from the still-steep upper deck at U.S. Cellular (though it does look much nicer now). But we got our rings. And for me it was a Löwenbräu moment.
The cultural reference may be too obscure for those who weren't paying attention to beer commercials 25 years ago. The jingle (and anyone happening upon this little essay may be grateful that I have not undertaken a study of how to make an audio post) went, "Here's to good friends/ Tonight is kind of special/ The beer we pour, must be something more, somehow.... Each commercial in the series was a little tear-jerker, about bonding, among friends, between family members.
Oldest Son had bought me a ticket to the ballgame. A circle closed somewhere.
And we had some time to talk. So I mentioned that the day had put me in mind of some of the ballpark giveaway days that I mentioned here in my last post -- the Bat Day, the Red Hat Day.
Oldest Son waited until I subsided and said, "That's not what I was thinking about."
"No? What?" said I.
"The baseball cards," he said.
How in the world does a kid remember that, 16 or 17 years later? He was four or five years old. How much does anyone remember from when they were four or five?
He remembered, and I've remembered more, too. When we were told that they were out of cards at the gate where we entered, we walked around to every other gate in the park. We went to an office. LSS remembered (when I told her this story) that she called the team to complain, and that she was told that cards would be mailed.
They never were.
This obviously left an impression. I thought that might be a subconscious motivation -- but I never dreamed it was still in active memory.
I'm so glad Oldest Son invited me yesterday. And I'm so glad we got the rings. Maybe we even healed the hurt feelings of a little kid, 16 or 17 years later.
I had to leave the office at 10:15 and wait in the cold with my son at Gate 5 at "the Cell" -- I must have cut in front of 100 people behind him, but I had to get my ticket from him, didn't I?
When the gate finally opened, a loud cheer went up from the assembled throng, and we began surging forward. No one was trampled, and Oldest Son found a seam and started to pull away. I urged him to go on ahead alone; I'd get my ring if I could, but he was young and strong, and he should go move ahead if the crowd dynamic permitted. (I told him to start calling my cell phone if I hadn't caught up with him in an hour or two. Just in case I got trampled.)
Our seats were in the very last row of the upper deck, under the new canopy, in the shade, about two-thirds of the way down the left field line.
When the ballpark was first opened, the wind used to whip through the upper deck concourse at hurricane speeds, even if it that wasn't windy outside. There would be a wind-chill factor in July. The recent renovations have tamed the winds within, but they have to go somewhere, don't they?
Yesterday was a very windy day, and winds went around the stadium, accelerating along the way, and blowing right up our backs. I had was wearing Under Armour beneath a flannel shirt and a jacket. And I was still cold. And I kept waiting for my hat to blow off my head.
Young people are generally oblivious to the chill, but an hour before game time, Oldest Son said, "My feet are cold. This is a bad sign." (In the sunshine, people were wearing t-shirts and were comfortable. LSS told me the radio announcers were disputing the stated 47-degree temperature at game time; they thought it was more like 80°. They, too, were in the sun.)
So we're freezing. We're in seats that even Bob Uecker wouldn't confuse with "the front row." We're seemingly in danger of being swept by a gust of wind and hurled to our deaths from the still-steep upper deck at U.S. Cellular (though it does look much nicer now). But we got our rings. And for me it was a Löwenbräu moment.
The cultural reference may be too obscure for those who weren't paying attention to beer commercials 25 years ago. The jingle (and anyone happening upon this little essay may be grateful that I have not undertaken a study of how to make an audio post) went, "Here's to good friends/ Tonight is kind of special/ The beer we pour, must be something more, somehow.... Each commercial in the series was a little tear-jerker, about bonding, among friends, between family members.
Oldest Son had bought me a ticket to the ballgame. A circle closed somewhere.
And we had some time to talk. So I mentioned that the day had put me in mind of some of the ballpark giveaway days that I mentioned here in my last post -- the Bat Day, the Red Hat Day.
Oldest Son waited until I subsided and said, "That's not what I was thinking about."
"No? What?" said I.
"The baseball cards," he said.
How in the world does a kid remember that, 16 or 17 years later? He was four or five years old. How much does anyone remember from when they were four or five?
He remembered, and I've remembered more, too. When we were told that they were out of cards at the gate where we entered, we walked around to every other gate in the park. We went to an office. LSS remembered (when I told her this story) that she called the team to complain, and that she was told that cards would be mailed.
They never were.
This obviously left an impression. I thought that might be a subconscious motivation -- but I never dreamed it was still in active memory.
I'm so glad Oldest Son invited me yesterday. And I'm so glad we got the rings. Maybe we even healed the hurt feelings of a little kid, 16 or 17 years later.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Ring Day brings memories of other giveaway days
As I write these words, Oldest Son is behind the wheel of his roommate's car, trying to figure out how to navigate around the ubiquitous road construction that cuts Northern Indiana off from Chicago. His object: To arrive at U.S. Cellular Field (ne Comiskey Park) before 11:00 a.m. when the gates open on "Ring Day." Today the first 20,000 patrons admitted to the park will receive diamond-less replicas of the World Series rings. The actual rings will be awarded to the players during a pre-game ceremony.
He found tickets for the game on eBay, which shows some initiative. And he's asked me to go with him today, which is really something special for me.
On the way to work this morning, I couldn't help but think of another giveaway day at the ballpark -- not the Bat Day where Middle Son got his bat and immediately began swinging at about knee or shin-level of the fans crowded around him, although that was a memory, too.
No, I recalled a Card Day, many years ago. Oldest Son learned to write by copying line-ups out of the newspaper. He had memorized rosters at an age when other kids were struggling to spell their own names. And he loved baseball cards.
My memory puts this at the old park, which means before 1991, which means Oldest Son could not have been more than five. We got to the park early that day -- but not early enough. We didn't get any cards.
I don't recall exactly what happened. I just remember the kid's overwhelming disappointment. We may even have gotten cards from someone before the day was out. I know something like that happened a few years later, on a Red Hat day at the new ballpark: Cleveland was in town then, too, and this was in the days when Jacob Field was newly opened and always sold out. So a lot of Cleveland fans came to Chicago -- and a couple of them took pity on my boys and gave them their hats. Which wouldn't have gone over in Cleveland anyway.
Maybe today we will be in time for souvenir rings. I hope so.
He found tickets for the game on eBay, which shows some initiative. And he's asked me to go with him today, which is really something special for me.
On the way to work this morning, I couldn't help but think of another giveaway day at the ballpark -- not the Bat Day where Middle Son got his bat and immediately began swinging at about knee or shin-level of the fans crowded around him, although that was a memory, too.
No, I recalled a Card Day, many years ago. Oldest Son learned to write by copying line-ups out of the newspaper. He had memorized rosters at an age when other kids were struggling to spell their own names. And he loved baseball cards.
My memory puts this at the old park, which means before 1991, which means Oldest Son could not have been more than five. We got to the park early that day -- but not early enough. We didn't get any cards.
I don't recall exactly what happened. I just remember the kid's overwhelming disappointment. We may even have gotten cards from someone before the day was out. I know something like that happened a few years later, on a Red Hat day at the new ballpark: Cleveland was in town then, too, and this was in the days when Jacob Field was newly opened and always sold out. So a lot of Cleveland fans came to Chicago -- and a couple of them took pity on my boys and gave them their hats. Which wouldn't have gone over in Cleveland anyway.
Maybe today we will be in time for souvenir rings. I hope so.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Yes, Virginia, the White Sox really did win the World Series last year
I was at the opener last night, until about 30 or 40 minutes after the rains came and it became obvious that the game was not going to get re-started anytime soon.
I wasn't there on my own nickel of course; with three kids in college I no longer possess that kind of discretionary income. Or any other kind, for that matter.
But I was there, wondering how I could be at a Sox-Indians game and cheering for Jim Thome. The world changes.
The banner ceremony was moving -- some thought too slow-moving, I've since heard, but I was not one of these. I was trying to keep from choking up during the deluge of images. Part of this is because my father lived his whole life without seeing the White Sox win a World Series -- and to see them play in exactly one. He probably didn't mind as much as I did.
Eight Men Out was on the cable the other night, and I was protesting to LSS and Youngest Son that they shouldn't be watching such a sad movie. LSS pointed out, not unreasonably I suppose, that the movie isn't as sad anymore, not since the Sox won the Series. But I complained to keep from crying: Maybe it's because my father's cousin-in-law once was given a glove by Buck Weaver. Maybe not.
Maybe it's because, as I get older, I choke up at the strangest things. Emotions well up unbidden and barely controlled. I worry that I'll someday be a seventy-something who cries every time the Sun goes behind the clouds. Or comes back out.
But I don't think that's a sufficient explanation. I think there's something about the connection I forged with the White Sox, as a child, listening to Bob Elson late at night -- late at night for me, as a little kid -- it's a totally one-sided love affair, of course. Back when I did have disposable income, we had weekend season tickets at the old park. Beautiful seats, too: First row above the walkway, last section of the Golden Boxes, just about even with third base. If the game was terrible, we could watch the parade of people wandering past. If the game was good, we could see the whole game.
Then 1991 came and we got moved to "equivalent" seats in the new ballpark -- deep in the right field corner (section 110) with no view of right field and just a couple hundred feet further from the action. See what I mean about one-sided? But they weren't bad seats, they were just nowhere near as good. And it was baseball. I could tell story after story about the ballpark (old and new) and how it figured in at important moments of my life.
Last year, I held back a bit, trying not to get too wrapped up in the pennant chase and the World Series because, as a life-long Chicagoan, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For some disaster to happen. For some routine grounder to get booted. Even when they won, when LSS clipped and saved every front page (some of which are framed in our home now), even when the victory parade went up LaSalle Street, some part of me didn't entirely believe it had really happened.
But last night, I couldn't help but give in -- and believe. I looked up, not just at the scoreboard, but at the furthest corners of the park, the seats that are never filled, even during a supposedly sold-out game. They were filled last night. "And," my host reminded me, when I pointed it out to him, "they're happy to be there."
And they were there early, too. The Sox gave out 20,000 tube socks to the first 20,000 through the gates. My host and I arrived an hour before the scheduled 7:00 p.m. game time. We didn't get socks. At least we got magnetic schedules: Some traditions remain.
Two jets flew over the park after the National Anthem. I believe they flew directly over my left shoulder. I won't say they were flying low, but I thought I could feel the exhaust -- and the pilot of one of the planes needed a shave.
So the Sox actually won the World Series. I'm certain of it now. And they won the opener, eventually, last night or this morning as you prefer, somewhere around 1:00 a.m, while I was dozing on the couch back at home. (And it may be a good thing, too, that there was a three hour rain delay: I got thoroughly wetted on my journey home, which I think made LSS and the kids less jealous of my good fortune in getting to go in the first place.)
I wasn't there on my own nickel of course; with three kids in college I no longer possess that kind of discretionary income. Or any other kind, for that matter.
But I was there, wondering how I could be at a Sox-Indians game and cheering for Jim Thome. The world changes.
The banner ceremony was moving -- some thought too slow-moving, I've since heard, but I was not one of these. I was trying to keep from choking up during the deluge of images. Part of this is because my father lived his whole life without seeing the White Sox win a World Series -- and to see them play in exactly one. He probably didn't mind as much as I did.
Eight Men Out was on the cable the other night, and I was protesting to LSS and Youngest Son that they shouldn't be watching such a sad movie. LSS pointed out, not unreasonably I suppose, that the movie isn't as sad anymore, not since the Sox won the Series. But I complained to keep from crying: Maybe it's because my father's cousin-in-law once was given a glove by Buck Weaver. Maybe not.
Maybe it's because, as I get older, I choke up at the strangest things. Emotions well up unbidden and barely controlled. I worry that I'll someday be a seventy-something who cries every time the Sun goes behind the clouds. Or comes back out.
But I don't think that's a sufficient explanation. I think there's something about the connection I forged with the White Sox, as a child, listening to Bob Elson late at night -- late at night for me, as a little kid -- it's a totally one-sided love affair, of course. Back when I did have disposable income, we had weekend season tickets at the old park. Beautiful seats, too: First row above the walkway, last section of the Golden Boxes, just about even with third base. If the game was terrible, we could watch the parade of people wandering past. If the game was good, we could see the whole game.
Then 1991 came and we got moved to "equivalent" seats in the new ballpark -- deep in the right field corner (section 110) with no view of right field and just a couple hundred feet further from the action. See what I mean about one-sided? But they weren't bad seats, they were just nowhere near as good. And it was baseball. I could tell story after story about the ballpark (old and new) and how it figured in at important moments of my life.
Last year, I held back a bit, trying not to get too wrapped up in the pennant chase and the World Series because, as a life-long Chicagoan, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For some disaster to happen. For some routine grounder to get booted. Even when they won, when LSS clipped and saved every front page (some of which are framed in our home now), even when the victory parade went up LaSalle Street, some part of me didn't entirely believe it had really happened.
But last night, I couldn't help but give in -- and believe. I looked up, not just at the scoreboard, but at the furthest corners of the park, the seats that are never filled, even during a supposedly sold-out game. They were filled last night. "And," my host reminded me, when I pointed it out to him, "they're happy to be there."
And they were there early, too. The Sox gave out 20,000 tube socks to the first 20,000 through the gates. My host and I arrived an hour before the scheduled 7:00 p.m. game time. We didn't get socks. At least we got magnetic schedules: Some traditions remain.
Two jets flew over the park after the National Anthem. I believe they flew directly over my left shoulder. I won't say they were flying low, but I thought I could feel the exhaust -- and the pilot of one of the planes needed a shave.
So the Sox actually won the World Series. I'm certain of it now. And they won the opener, eventually, last night or this morning as you prefer, somewhere around 1:00 a.m, while I was dozing on the couch back at home. (And it may be a good thing, too, that there was a three hour rain delay: I got thoroughly wetted on my journey home, which I think made LSS and the kids less jealous of my good fortune in getting to go in the first place.)
Friday, March 24, 2006
The NCAA Tournament Ended Last Night
At least for me. And I'll bet it ended for lots of other people too when LSU beat Duke. My brackets were shredded by the upset wins of George Mason and Bradley (Bradley beat one of my Final Four) -- but no one predicted those wins so all of us ameteur 'bracketologists' were in the same leaky boat.
But Duke -- well, Duke always seems to have a good tournament run. So I always pick Duke to go far. In fact, when Youngest Son was printing out the brackets at home, he aksed, "Dad, do you want to fill out a bracket this year, or should I just write down Duke as your champion?" This may have been followed by a little rim shot.
Everyone in our house is a comedian.
But Duke -- well, Duke always seems to have a good tournament run. So I always pick Duke to go far. In fact, when Youngest Son was printing out the brackets at home, he aksed, "Dad, do you want to fill out a bracket this year, or should I just write down Duke as your champion?" This may have been followed by a little rim shot.
Everyone in our house is a comedian.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
The Journey of the Shoes -- Or -- Maybe We Should Just Bag the Whole Thing
I had completed my morning ablutions and was perched at the edge of the bed, warily eyeing the sock in my hand.
Now I realize that for some people, perhaps even most people, putting on one's socks is not an arduous task. For me, however, it amounts to strenuous exercise -- what with the bending and all. (It's enough to make me wonder, sometimes, if perhaps I should get more into shape.) I was therefore fully engaged in this endeavor when I heard Long Suffering Spouse come back into the house.
LSS had just dropped off Younger Daughter at the home of the girl with whom she carpools to Orchestra class, four days a week. We take turns running this shuttle, one week on, one week off. During the off weeks, like this one, I have more time to stress about putting on my socks.
LSS does not drop Younger Daughter off at the girl's actual home, not ordinarily. By the time Younger Daughter finally arrives in the morning, her car pool companion and the girl's father are in their car, at the end of their street, ready to turn onto Talcott and race like the wind to the North Shore. Orchestra class meets at 7:00 a.m.
Younger Daughter's habitual tardiness is a source of continuing stress for LSS, and this morning had been no exception. Like most teenage girls, apparently, Younger Daughter prefers extended stays in the bathroom, requiring another half hour to select her clothes and dress herself beyond that. (I wonder sometimes how much worse it might be if Younger Daughter attended a school which didn't require uniforms.) During the weeks that I'm not driving, LSS must shower, dress and hector Younger Daughter about why she still isn't downstairs -- all within that last half hour. This sort of routine can cast a pall on the rest of the morning.
But this morning was exceptionally bad; I could tell that from the way LSS slammed the front door. Younger Daughter must have done something out of the ordinary, I thought.
As if on cue, LSS called up the stairs, "Do you know what she did?"
Now I could have answered, in all honesty, that I had not seen Younger Daughter that morning; that I was busily engaged in my morning sock ceremony; and that it would therefore have been impossible for me to ascertain what Younger Daughter had done.
That would have been a mistake.
So I carefully answered: "No. What happened?"
"She left her soccer shoes here! Doesn't she have a game today? What is the matter with her? She can't play without shoes!"
These remarks may have gone on a bit longer than this, and they may have become repetitive, but LSS was letting off steam. She built to her conclusion: "And I'm not bringing them to her!"
In the minutes that followed, I learned that Younger Daughter had fussed and fidgeted even more than usual this morning. She no doubt made more than one trip out to the car in the driveway, going back inside to pick up this or that, maybe her lunch, maybe something else. Younger Daughter did have her first JV soccer game yesterday; she may have been excited about that. She was definitely not excited about the prospect of 7:00 a.m. Orchestra, or about carpooling. She feels that the other girl's waiting at the end of the street rather rubs it in about Younger Daughter's tardiness, without conferring any significant advantage in terms of arriving more promptly at the school. This has never motivated Younger Daughter to be ready on time, however.
This morning Younger Daughter had a bag for books, another bag for her uniform skirt (why she couldn't wear it, even over the lounge pants that the girls favor, is not something I presume to understand), perhaps another bag for lunch. There were, according to LSS, five million bags in all. This may have been a slight exaggeration. But the point was that, however many bags there may have been, Younger Daughter's soccer shoes were in none of them.
These were brand new shoes. We'd just bought them Sunday, after LSS realized that Younger Daughter -- who was complaining that her feet hurt -- was wearing the soccer shoes she'd worn (and worn out) in 8th grade, two years before.
"And I'm not going to bring them to her," LSS told me again. "I can't go now; I have to be at school." (LSS teaches at the grammar school that all of my children attended, and which Youngest Son still attends.) "And by the time school's out, it'll be too late."
LSS was not hinting for me to do anything. On the contrary, she expressed the fond hope that this failure to bring shoes would cause Younger Daughter to be benched (probable) and would awaken Younger Daughter to the need to become better organized (in my opinion, not likely).
I did, however, volunteer to deliver the shoes. It was a sunny morning, and I could take Sheridan Road and Lake Shore Drive into the city. I don't do that very often, and it is a beautiful drive. If I could get to the parking garage before 9:00 a.m., this little detour would only cost me $14.50 -- the difference between the price of taking the train and the price to park, plus the cost of whatever gasoline I burned in the 22 year old car available for my use.
"And she wanted a Gatorade, too," LSS told me, adding more detail to the morning's confrontation. "She finally gets in the car and the she asks if she can get a Gatorade. I said 'fine' and she said forget about it. So we left."
And LSS was still bothered by the 5,000,000 little bags: "If she had everything in one bag, like the boys do for sports, then she wouldn't forget things." So we found a bag, one of the bags we'd used for our recent Arizona trip. In went the shoes and the Gatorade, and out the door went I.
The delivery was accomplished without incident. At Younger Daughter's all-girl school they are wary of male visitors. The custodian eyed me suspiciously as I walked in the front door, not relaxing until I headed directly to the office. The bag was taken in with the understanding that it would not be delivered to Younger Daughter until after school. This seemed fine with me: If Younger Daughter realized what she'd forgotten during the course of the day, she could sweat it out until the end -- some stimulus for behavior modification in future -- and still allowing her to play in today's game. But, what with the time expended in identifying the right bag to bring and all, I didn't make it downtown before 9:00 a.m., and had to pay the full $25 to park.
But that's not the punchline. No, the punchline concerns the bag: Last night, when LSS picked Younger Daughter up from the game, the bag was nowhere in evidence. LSS inquired about the bag and received a typical teenage nonresponsive response -- on the order of, "I've got it, don't worry about it."
Well, this morning the bag was still nowhere to be seen. And LSS, while driving Younger Daughter to the other girl's house, inquired specifically -- and found that the bag that was supposed to help Younger Daughter get more organized is languishing in her locker at school.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed this morning, holding a sock and preparing myself for the struggle to put it on, when LSS came home....
Now I realize that for some people, perhaps even most people, putting on one's socks is not an arduous task. For me, however, it amounts to strenuous exercise -- what with the bending and all. (It's enough to make me wonder, sometimes, if perhaps I should get more into shape.) I was therefore fully engaged in this endeavor when I heard Long Suffering Spouse come back into the house.
LSS had just dropped off Younger Daughter at the home of the girl with whom she carpools to Orchestra class, four days a week. We take turns running this shuttle, one week on, one week off. During the off weeks, like this one, I have more time to stress about putting on my socks.
LSS does not drop Younger Daughter off at the girl's actual home, not ordinarily. By the time Younger Daughter finally arrives in the morning, her car pool companion and the girl's father are in their car, at the end of their street, ready to turn onto Talcott and race like the wind to the North Shore. Orchestra class meets at 7:00 a.m.
Younger Daughter's habitual tardiness is a source of continuing stress for LSS, and this morning had been no exception. Like most teenage girls, apparently, Younger Daughter prefers extended stays in the bathroom, requiring another half hour to select her clothes and dress herself beyond that. (I wonder sometimes how much worse it might be if Younger Daughter attended a school which didn't require uniforms.) During the weeks that I'm not driving, LSS must shower, dress and hector Younger Daughter about why she still isn't downstairs -- all within that last half hour. This sort of routine can cast a pall on the rest of the morning.
But this morning was exceptionally bad; I could tell that from the way LSS slammed the front door. Younger Daughter must have done something out of the ordinary, I thought.
As if on cue, LSS called up the stairs, "Do you know what she did?"
Now I could have answered, in all honesty, that I had not seen Younger Daughter that morning; that I was busily engaged in my morning sock ceremony; and that it would therefore have been impossible for me to ascertain what Younger Daughter had done.
That would have been a mistake.
So I carefully answered: "No. What happened?"
"She left her soccer shoes here! Doesn't she have a game today? What is the matter with her? She can't play without shoes!"
These remarks may have gone on a bit longer than this, and they may have become repetitive, but LSS was letting off steam. She built to her conclusion: "And I'm not bringing them to her!"
In the minutes that followed, I learned that Younger Daughter had fussed and fidgeted even more than usual this morning. She no doubt made more than one trip out to the car in the driveway, going back inside to pick up this or that, maybe her lunch, maybe something else. Younger Daughter did have her first JV soccer game yesterday; she may have been excited about that. She was definitely not excited about the prospect of 7:00 a.m. Orchestra, or about carpooling. She feels that the other girl's waiting at the end of the street rather rubs it in about Younger Daughter's tardiness, without conferring any significant advantage in terms of arriving more promptly at the school. This has never motivated Younger Daughter to be ready on time, however.
This morning Younger Daughter had a bag for books, another bag for her uniform skirt (why she couldn't wear it, even over the lounge pants that the girls favor, is not something I presume to understand), perhaps another bag for lunch. There were, according to LSS, five million bags in all. This may have been a slight exaggeration. But the point was that, however many bags there may have been, Younger Daughter's soccer shoes were in none of them.
These were brand new shoes. We'd just bought them Sunday, after LSS realized that Younger Daughter -- who was complaining that her feet hurt -- was wearing the soccer shoes she'd worn (and worn out) in 8th grade, two years before.
"And I'm not going to bring them to her," LSS told me again. "I can't go now; I have to be at school." (LSS teaches at the grammar school that all of my children attended, and which Youngest Son still attends.) "And by the time school's out, it'll be too late."
LSS was not hinting for me to do anything. On the contrary, she expressed the fond hope that this failure to bring shoes would cause Younger Daughter to be benched (probable) and would awaken Younger Daughter to the need to become better organized (in my opinion, not likely).
I did, however, volunteer to deliver the shoes. It was a sunny morning, and I could take Sheridan Road and Lake Shore Drive into the city. I don't do that very often, and it is a beautiful drive. If I could get to the parking garage before 9:00 a.m., this little detour would only cost me $14.50 -- the difference between the price of taking the train and the price to park, plus the cost of whatever gasoline I burned in the 22 year old car available for my use.
"And she wanted a Gatorade, too," LSS told me, adding more detail to the morning's confrontation. "She finally gets in the car and the she asks if she can get a Gatorade. I said 'fine' and she said forget about it. So we left."
And LSS was still bothered by the 5,000,000 little bags: "If she had everything in one bag, like the boys do for sports, then she wouldn't forget things." So we found a bag, one of the bags we'd used for our recent Arizona trip. In went the shoes and the Gatorade, and out the door went I.
The delivery was accomplished without incident. At Younger Daughter's all-girl school they are wary of male visitors. The custodian eyed me suspiciously as I walked in the front door, not relaxing until I headed directly to the office. The bag was taken in with the understanding that it would not be delivered to Younger Daughter until after school. This seemed fine with me: If Younger Daughter realized what she'd forgotten during the course of the day, she could sweat it out until the end -- some stimulus for behavior modification in future -- and still allowing her to play in today's game. But, what with the time expended in identifying the right bag to bring and all, I didn't make it downtown before 9:00 a.m., and had to pay the full $25 to park.
But that's not the punchline. No, the punchline concerns the bag: Last night, when LSS picked Younger Daughter up from the game, the bag was nowhere in evidence. LSS inquired about the bag and received a typical teenage nonresponsive response -- on the order of, "I've got it, don't worry about it."
Well, this morning the bag was still nowhere to be seen. And LSS, while driving Younger Daughter to the other girl's house, inquired specifically -- and found that the bag that was supposed to help Younger Daughter get more organized is languishing in her locker at school.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed this morning, holding a sock and preparing myself for the struggle to put it on, when LSS came home....
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Writing, writing every day
That is my firm resolve. At present, at least. How long it will last -- well, time will tell.
I've already realized that some days I will not be able to write here. Yesterday, I didn't write here because I used my self-allotted writing time to compose an essay for the State Bar bulletin board (an essay which, despite the time and care lavished on its composition, received no comments, favorable or otherwise).
(So -- he said in a self-pitying tone -- it was sort of like writing here....)
And, of course, there were a couple of days last week where all I wrote were checks. At least that makes some people happy.
But today I will focus on writing something that may bring in a dollar or two. Which means, unfortunately, I must sign off here.
I've already realized that some days I will not be able to write here. Yesterday, I didn't write here because I used my self-allotted writing time to compose an essay for the State Bar bulletin board (an essay which, despite the time and care lavished on its composition, received no comments, favorable or otherwise).
(So -- he said in a self-pitying tone -- it was sort of like writing here....)
And, of course, there were a couple of days last week where all I wrote were checks. At least that makes some people happy.
But today I will focus on writing something that may bring in a dollar or two. Which means, unfortunately, I must sign off here.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Getting back to normal
Or as normal as it gets for us.
I made it into the office yesterday for awhile -- not earthshaking news, by any standard, but a healthy development, I hope, inasmuch as the bills will be coming due soon for our Arizona adventure.
And the office is taking shape as well. The carpet's been replaced in my office -- but my worst fears were realized: I did have to move again.
The carpet people showed up at 2:00 p.m. on Friday, March 3. They were expected. But they did not expect the size and scope of the project they'd been sent to undertake. They understood that they'd be replacing the carpet in the hallway outside my office. They'd not been briefed on the giant Rorschach blot on my office carpet.
But that was fair, because it came as a complete (and wholly unwelcome) surprise to me that I'd have to move out of my office right then. The hope that I'd clung to, that they'd first try a patch, was quickly and thouroughly crushed.
The people from the building sent up a number of men to assist in the panic clean-up -- but the weeks I'd spent agonizing on where to put things to minimize losses when moving in were compressed into minutes. And I did lose things, but so far nothing too serious. That was part of yesterday's exercise: Just being around my stuff again, organizing.
Fat chance that'll ever get done. But we must try....
I made it into the office yesterday for awhile -- not earthshaking news, by any standard, but a healthy development, I hope, inasmuch as the bills will be coming due soon for our Arizona adventure.
And the office is taking shape as well. The carpet's been replaced in my office -- but my worst fears were realized: I did have to move again.
The carpet people showed up at 2:00 p.m. on Friday, March 3. They were expected. But they did not expect the size and scope of the project they'd been sent to undertake. They understood that they'd be replacing the carpet in the hallway outside my office. They'd not been briefed on the giant Rorschach blot on my office carpet.
But that was fair, because it came as a complete (and wholly unwelcome) surprise to me that I'd have to move out of my office right then. The hope that I'd clung to, that they'd first try a patch, was quickly and thouroughly crushed.
The people from the building sent up a number of men to assist in the panic clean-up -- but the weeks I'd spent agonizing on where to put things to minimize losses when moving in were compressed into minutes. And I did lose things, but so far nothing too serious. That was part of yesterday's exercise: Just being around my stuff again, organizing.
Fat chance that'll ever get done. But we must try....
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Excused Absence -- Or -- How We Brought Rain to Phoenix
I've been "away from this microphone," as Paul Harvey would say, for some time now, but not, unfortunately, on a lucrative speaking engagement.
The good people of Phoenix had gone over 140 days without rain. Someone had to do something about this.
And so the Curmudgeon and his Long Suffering Spouse, Younger Daughter and Youngest Son in tow, followed Middle Son on his Spring Training trip to Arizona -- and pretty much ruined it.
But from what I saw in the TV coverage, the people of Phoenix were happy, even downright giddy about the rain that washed out last Saturday's doubleheader and the snow that fell so close to the City.
You'd think, for the benefit we conferred, the nice people of Phoenix might have at least 'comped' our trip -- but, no, we'll have to figure out some way to pay for it ourselves. Somehow.
Now I can understand a certain amount of skepticism in reviewing this post; perhaps the reader doubts that our mere presence in Arizona could bring much needed rain. And perhaps I overstate my claim: It was not our presence alone that brought rain; it was our being there on vacation.
And it's not as if we did it on purpose. If we had known the consequences of our visit, I surely would have brought a coat, or at least a long-sleeved shirt -- but I didn't. The hotel had only an outdoor pool -- and the temperature never climbed above 50 from Thursday on. I did have a tweed jacket, with leather patches on the sleeves. I like to wear a suit or sportcoat in the airport -- the additional available pockets make security a little less difficult. (I like to wear tweed jackets with leather patches on the sleeves because this can sometimes deceive people, for at least a little while, until I open my big bazoo anyway, that I am somewhat smart.) And I wore that and a sweatshirt I wasn't going to pack but for the insistence of the LSS, while locals wore parkas -- parkas! -- to the March 8 WBC game between Mexico and South Africa. And that was the warmest night of our stay.
(And why was I at a World Baseball Classic game between Mexico and South Africa? I was there because Youngest Son, whom I've renamed Bud Selig, Jr., has been obsessing about this tournament since it was announced. I had not been looking forward to this game in any way. And, despite my reservations going in, the game turned out to be a hoot because the Mexican fans were so raucous -- and still friendly to me and my son.)
Still, we saw parts of two White Sox games (we were late to both), and two games involving Middle Son's team. (We froze at both of them.) But did we see Middle Son play?
We arrived Wednesday. He pitched Tuesday. He might have pitched again on Saturday, but for the rain.
Still, the reader may not be persuaded just by the foregoing series of miscues, misjudgments and misfortunes that our mere presence as vacationers would have caused cold weather or rain in the usually warm and sunny desert. Well consider this: We flew home last Sunday night -- into the teeth of another storm, one that closed O'Hare. We were diverted to Milwaukee, not making it into Chicago until after 2:30 a.m., not making it home until 4:00 a.m.
It's just got to be us.
The good people of Phoenix had gone over 140 days without rain. Someone had to do something about this.
And so the Curmudgeon and his Long Suffering Spouse, Younger Daughter and Youngest Son in tow, followed Middle Son on his Spring Training trip to Arizona -- and pretty much ruined it.
But from what I saw in the TV coverage, the people of Phoenix were happy, even downright giddy about the rain that washed out last Saturday's doubleheader and the snow that fell so close to the City.
You'd think, for the benefit we conferred, the nice people of Phoenix might have at least 'comped' our trip -- but, no, we'll have to figure out some way to pay for it ourselves. Somehow.
Now I can understand a certain amount of skepticism in reviewing this post; perhaps the reader doubts that our mere presence in Arizona could bring much needed rain. And perhaps I overstate my claim: It was not our presence alone that brought rain; it was our being there on vacation.
And it's not as if we did it on purpose. If we had known the consequences of our visit, I surely would have brought a coat, or at least a long-sleeved shirt -- but I didn't. The hotel had only an outdoor pool -- and the temperature never climbed above 50 from Thursday on. I did have a tweed jacket, with leather patches on the sleeves. I like to wear a suit or sportcoat in the airport -- the additional available pockets make security a little less difficult. (I like to wear tweed jackets with leather patches on the sleeves because this can sometimes deceive people, for at least a little while, until I open my big bazoo anyway, that I am somewhat smart.) And I wore that and a sweatshirt I wasn't going to pack but for the insistence of the LSS, while locals wore parkas -- parkas! -- to the March 8 WBC game between Mexico and South Africa. And that was the warmest night of our stay.
(And why was I at a World Baseball Classic game between Mexico and South Africa? I was there because Youngest Son, whom I've renamed Bud Selig, Jr., has been obsessing about this tournament since it was announced. I had not been looking forward to this game in any way. And, despite my reservations going in, the game turned out to be a hoot because the Mexican fans were so raucous -- and still friendly to me and my son.)
Still, we saw parts of two White Sox games (we were late to both), and two games involving Middle Son's team. (We froze at both of them.) But did we see Middle Son play?
We arrived Wednesday. He pitched Tuesday. He might have pitched again on Saturday, but for the rain.
Still, the reader may not be persuaded just by the foregoing series of miscues, misjudgments and misfortunes that our mere presence as vacationers would have caused cold weather or rain in the usually warm and sunny desert. Well consider this: We flew home last Sunday night -- into the teeth of another storm, one that closed O'Hare. We were diverted to Milwaukee, not making it into Chicago until after 2:30 a.m., not making it home until 4:00 a.m.
It's just got to be us.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Set the Wayback Machine for 1982 -- Vacation Story I
Yes, this is about the honeymoon.
No, it won't be that kind of story. (There are plenty of those kinds of stories out there elsewhere in the blogosphere.)
The first thing you have to know is that the tradition of June weddings got started because May was unavailable.
May is the month for bowling banquets.
Snicker if you will, but banquet hall owners would much rather book a bowling banquet than a wedding. The bowling banquet may come back next year. The bride and groom? Maybe in 25 years, if it lasts -- and if it doesn't, chances are they'll take their trade elsewhere for their next weddings.
I don't expect you to know all this inside stuff about the banquet industry; I didn't know it until my then-fiancee and I had to reschedule our June wedding to May.
We had to reschedule because my intended's sister was going to have her still recent vows solemnized at her husband's home church on the distant isle of Cyprus. My intended and I were expected to attend, of course; indeed, the passage was to be our wedding present from the prospective sister-in-law and her new husband. This was a fabulous opportunity, obviously, and we were looking forward to it eagerly.
There was just one small hitch: We would not yet be hitched at the time of the trip -- the Cyprus ceremony was a couple of weeks before our chosen date. My prospective mother-in-law was beside herself at the prospect of her daughter traipsing across Europe with me -- and without the benefit of clergy.
This was a source of great pre-marital stress, and there was only one solution. I don't think it took me more than a couple of weeks to think of it: We'd just move our date up.
Silly, naive boy.
That's when I found out about bowling banquets -- but we finally found a place on Milwaukee Avenue that could fit us in, if we would do a morning wedding, and so long as we were gone by 5:00 -- so they could clean up for the bowling banquet that night.
We got married the day before Mother's Day. Another piece of advice for you brides and bridegrooms: The day before Mother's Day is not the best day for a wedding. First, the price of flowers will kill you. Second, your friends and relatives will make all sorts of obvious jokes. (Tell me you didn't think of a couple just now yourself.....)
And there was still another reason to avoid Mother's Day, as we found out in the wee small hours of the following morning, waiting in the longest line ever seen in an airport before 9/11, with all the campesinos waiting for the flight to Mexico City. The line was so long because all the passengers (except us) were bringing large consumer goods home to their mothers -- washers, dryers, refrigerators, TV's.
You may be suspecting a continuity error at this point, unless your ignorance of geography allows you to think that Mexico City might be the first stop on the Road to Cyprus.
But we're still waiting for that trip to Cyprus. Thus, if I pick up the thread of this narrative in future posts, it would be to describe the honeymoon in Mexico....
No, it won't be that kind of story. (There are plenty of those kinds of stories out there elsewhere in the blogosphere.)
The first thing you have to know is that the tradition of June weddings got started because May was unavailable.
May is the month for bowling banquets.
Snicker if you will, but banquet hall owners would much rather book a bowling banquet than a wedding. The bowling banquet may come back next year. The bride and groom? Maybe in 25 years, if it lasts -- and if it doesn't, chances are they'll take their trade elsewhere for their next weddings.
I don't expect you to know all this inside stuff about the banquet industry; I didn't know it until my then-fiancee and I had to reschedule our June wedding to May.
We had to reschedule because my intended's sister was going to have her still recent vows solemnized at her husband's home church on the distant isle of Cyprus. My intended and I were expected to attend, of course; indeed, the passage was to be our wedding present from the prospective sister-in-law and her new husband. This was a fabulous opportunity, obviously, and we were looking forward to it eagerly.
There was just one small hitch: We would not yet be hitched at the time of the trip -- the Cyprus ceremony was a couple of weeks before our chosen date. My prospective mother-in-law was beside herself at the prospect of her daughter traipsing across Europe with me -- and without the benefit of clergy.
This was a source of great pre-marital stress, and there was only one solution. I don't think it took me more than a couple of weeks to think of it: We'd just move our date up.
Silly, naive boy.
That's when I found out about bowling banquets -- but we finally found a place on Milwaukee Avenue that could fit us in, if we would do a morning wedding, and so long as we were gone by 5:00 -- so they could clean up for the bowling banquet that night.
We got married the day before Mother's Day. Another piece of advice for you brides and bridegrooms: The day before Mother's Day is not the best day for a wedding. First, the price of flowers will kill you. Second, your friends and relatives will make all sorts of obvious jokes. (Tell me you didn't think of a couple just now yourself.....)
And there was still another reason to avoid Mother's Day, as we found out in the wee small hours of the following morning, waiting in the longest line ever seen in an airport before 9/11, with all the campesinos waiting for the flight to Mexico City. The line was so long because all the passengers (except us) were bringing large consumer goods home to their mothers -- washers, dryers, refrigerators, TV's.
You may be suspecting a continuity error at this point, unless your ignorance of geography allows you to think that Mexico City might be the first stop on the Road to Cyprus.
But we're still waiting for that trip to Cyprus. Thus, if I pick up the thread of this narrative in future posts, it would be to describe the honeymoon in Mexico....
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Competing with the Griswolds
Middle Son leaves tomorrow for Arizona and Spring Training. His Spring Training -- which sounds so cool, to me anyway, that I can't help boring people with the repetition of it. Yes, it's only a Division III college team; yes, he's only a freshman; yes, he's not likely to be more than a spot starter this season, and even that expectation may be more a reflection of my paternal optimism than of the coach's plan. But still: it's baseball, college baseball.
I am a couch potato. So to see my children succeed in sports is simply amazing for me. And it's not just Middle Son who's succeeded in baseball, either: I was thrilled when Oldest Son made the high school team. I was bustin' buttons proud that Oldest Son lettered twice. I wasn't disappointed that he chose to 'retire' after high school -- but I thought he could have played football or baseball, and maybe both, at a Division III school. I thought he might have parlayed that into graduate school, and a graduate assistant's job, at a big-time football school -- maybe even a coaching career. But he decided that he'd rather go to the University of Our Lady in South Bend. That was the challenge he wanted -- and he was not going to play either sport there. Except for dorm football -- but that's a different post.
This post is about Middle Son's Arizona trip -- and the fact that we will follow him down next week. This will be the first time that my wife will take an airplane trip in 24 years -- since our honeymoon. It will be Youngest Son's first airplane trip.
We've taken a few vacations as a family, but with five kids flying was out of the question -- unless you can charter a flight. So we drove to various places -- sort of a real life Griswold family. We're able to fly this year because Older Daughter and Oldest Son are both staying at their respective schools. And even though I had to buy Middle Son's ticket (of course) I have persuaded myself that I'm really only buying four airplane tickets. Self-deception can be a useful thing.
Anyway, a theme begins to take shape: I expect that future posts will share some of our vacation stories -- as I remember them, anyway. I don't pretend to have total recall -- I don't want to get in trouble with Oprah like James Frey did. She'd cut me into a million little pieces. (I guess that one's been used a few times, eh?)
In the meantime, I must now turn my attention, and the rudimentary HTML skills I have acquired in the production of this blog, to my real life web sites -- you know, the ones that may make get me some paying clients some day.
I am a couch potato. So to see my children succeed in sports is simply amazing for me. And it's not just Middle Son who's succeeded in baseball, either: I was thrilled when Oldest Son made the high school team. I was bustin' buttons proud that Oldest Son lettered twice. I wasn't disappointed that he chose to 'retire' after high school -- but I thought he could have played football or baseball, and maybe both, at a Division III school. I thought he might have parlayed that into graduate school, and a graduate assistant's job, at a big-time football school -- maybe even a coaching career. But he decided that he'd rather go to the University of Our Lady in South Bend. That was the challenge he wanted -- and he was not going to play either sport there. Except for dorm football -- but that's a different post.
This post is about Middle Son's Arizona trip -- and the fact that we will follow him down next week. This will be the first time that my wife will take an airplane trip in 24 years -- since our honeymoon. It will be Youngest Son's first airplane trip.
We've taken a few vacations as a family, but with five kids flying was out of the question -- unless you can charter a flight. So we drove to various places -- sort of a real life Griswold family. We're able to fly this year because Older Daughter and Oldest Son are both staying at their respective schools. And even though I had to buy Middle Son's ticket (of course) I have persuaded myself that I'm really only buying four airplane tickets. Self-deception can be a useful thing.
Anyway, a theme begins to take shape: I expect that future posts will share some of our vacation stories -- as I remember them, anyway. I don't pretend to have total recall -- I don't want to get in trouble with Oprah like James Frey did. She'd cut me into a million little pieces. (I guess that one's been used a few times, eh?)
In the meantime, I must now turn my attention, and the rudimentary HTML skills I have acquired in the production of this blog, to my real life web sites -- you know, the ones that may make get me some paying clients some day.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
"Remember man that thou art dust...
... and unto dust thou shalt return." That's one of the standard warnings of Ash Wednesday and it was pretty close to the words spoken by the Franciscan who dirtied my forehead this morning at St. Peter's in the Loop.
It's just what I need: Another reminder of my onrushing mortality.
Sunday night I was watching the news with Younger Daughter and Middle Son. There was a story during the show about the Hustle up the Hancock, a charity race up the stairs inside Chicago's John Hancock Building -- 100 floors, give or take.
Younger Daughter speculated that she might be able to get most of the way up the stairs, not running perhaps, at least not after the first 10 floors or so. Middle Son, the baseball player, said he could do it with no problem.
I challenged him. I have a hard time believing that anyone could undertake such a climb, much less that anyone I know. He gave me that pitying look that teenagers give: "Dad, I run stairs all the time in practice."
I said I could barely make it from the couch each night up the stairs to my bedroom. And Middle Son and Younger Daughter both laughed. (That Dad, he exaggerates so!)
But I had to climb two flights of stairs to get out the Wells Street exit at the CTA Clark & Lake Station recently. By the middle of the second flight, my legs were lead and my vision blurred. (OK, blurrier than usual.)
Some days I'm dustier than others.
It's just what I need: Another reminder of my onrushing mortality.
Sunday night I was watching the news with Younger Daughter and Middle Son. There was a story during the show about the Hustle up the Hancock, a charity race up the stairs inside Chicago's John Hancock Building -- 100 floors, give or take.
Younger Daughter speculated that she might be able to get most of the way up the stairs, not running perhaps, at least not after the first 10 floors or so. Middle Son, the baseball player, said he could do it with no problem.
I challenged him. I have a hard time believing that anyone could undertake such a climb, much less that anyone I know. He gave me that pitying look that teenagers give: "Dad, I run stairs all the time in practice."
I said I could barely make it from the couch each night up the stairs to my bedroom. And Middle Son and Younger Daughter both laughed. (That Dad, he exaggerates so!)
But I had to climb two flights of stairs to get out the Wells Street exit at the CTA Clark & Lake Station recently. By the middle of the second flight, my legs were lead and my vision blurred. (OK, blurrier than usual.)
Some days I'm dustier than others.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
It's "Fat Tuesday"
Big deal.
For the Curmudgeon, every day is fat... as sadly illustrated by this morning's vignette.
I was 10 minutes late for a dentist's appointment. I'm only about a mile away from the dentist's office, but a traffic accident on the outbound Kennedy filled all of the adjacent streets with cars looking for the mythical "alternate route" -- as I did not find out until I attempted to drive over.
I'd been to see the dentist just a couple of weeks ago, to replace an old cavity that had failed after many years of diligent service. (You need not observe a moment of silence.) At that time we had discussed this morning's adventure, another cavity filling, but one so minor, the dentist said, that anesthetic might be unnecessary.
My tardiness this morning decided the matter: There was no time for Novocaine.
"Let me know if this hurts you," said the dentist.
"Don't worry," I answered, "if it hurts I'll scream like a banshee."
The dentist turned to his assistant: "Close the door," he said. "We don't want to lose the morning patients."
Despite this inauspicious beginning, the cavity filling proceeded without incident. The dentist may have revved the drill a bit more than necessary. With a tad too much enthusiasm. And the dentist's chuckle may have been a half-tone too dark, more an evil cackle than a kindly chuckle. But I endured, and the worst was soon over. Or so I thought.
But then came the most unkindest cut of all: "You're all set," he said, "but don't eat anything for about 40 minutes."
Sizing me up (and the pun is intended), he must have felt this would be a challenge for me.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
It may be Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but in Chicago, it's "Paczki Day."
I probably heard vague references to "poonchki" (the standard pronunciation of "paczki") for years, but I never realized what a big deal it is in the Polish community until I was running for judge the first time.
I was up early every morning during that futile effort, passing out my propaganda on any street corner or bus stop or train station that I could. On Fat Tuesday I was near a Polish bakery -- and I was duly impressed by the long lines of pastry aficionados. I may be slow on the uptake on many things, but when it comes to baked goods, I make it my business to become well informed.
Are my 40 minutes up yet?
For the Curmudgeon, every day is fat... as sadly illustrated by this morning's vignette.
I was 10 minutes late for a dentist's appointment. I'm only about a mile away from the dentist's office, but a traffic accident on the outbound Kennedy filled all of the adjacent streets with cars looking for the mythical "alternate route" -- as I did not find out until I attempted to drive over.
I'd been to see the dentist just a couple of weeks ago, to replace an old cavity that had failed after many years of diligent service. (You need not observe a moment of silence.) At that time we had discussed this morning's adventure, another cavity filling, but one so minor, the dentist said, that anesthetic might be unnecessary.
My tardiness this morning decided the matter: There was no time for Novocaine.
"Let me know if this hurts you," said the dentist.
"Don't worry," I answered, "if it hurts I'll scream like a banshee."
The dentist turned to his assistant: "Close the door," he said. "We don't want to lose the morning patients."
Despite this inauspicious beginning, the cavity filling proceeded without incident. The dentist may have revved the drill a bit more than necessary. With a tad too much enthusiasm. And the dentist's chuckle may have been a half-tone too dark, more an evil cackle than a kindly chuckle. But I endured, and the worst was soon over. Or so I thought.
But then came the most unkindest cut of all: "You're all set," he said, "but don't eat anything for about 40 minutes."
Sizing me up (and the pun is intended), he must have felt this would be a challenge for me.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
It may be Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but in Chicago, it's "Paczki Day."
I probably heard vague references to "poonchki" (the standard pronunciation of "paczki") for years, but I never realized what a big deal it is in the Polish community until I was running for judge the first time.
I was up early every morning during that futile effort, passing out my propaganda on any street corner or bus stop or train station that I could. On Fat Tuesday I was near a Polish bakery -- and I was duly impressed by the long lines of pastry aficionados. I may be slow on the uptake on many things, but when it comes to baked goods, I make it my business to become well informed.
Are my 40 minutes up yet?
Monday, February 27, 2006
It's FAFSA time again
FAFSA is an acronym for Free Application For Student Aid. It's one of the major ways in which dollars are found to pay for college for people whose names aren't Pritzker, Rockefeller or Gates.
In the FAFSA you tell the government how much you earn and how much you've saved and the government tells you how much you are expected to "contribute" to your child's college education. It is also used to determine eligibility for student loans and work study. Even "academic" scholarships typically require parents to submit FAFSA's.
Somehow the government always thinks I can pay more than I think I can pay.
There was a time when middle class parents would be mortified at making such a comprehensive disclosure of their assets -- but there was also a time when an ambitious kid, working during the summer and part-time during the school year, could put a sizeable dent in his or her own tuition. That time is called the "distant past."
Each FAFSA is "signed" electronically by the student -- as if the student actually fills this monster out. I can't get my kids to pick up their own laundry or turn off the lights, much less prepare their own tax forms. I'd have no chance getting them even to look at a FAFSA.
The trepidation I feel at the outset of this task this year is compounded by the fact that, last year was, at least on paper, a good year. In fact, despite the wailing and lamentations that I have previously recorded in this blog, I made more money last year than I did in either of the two previous years. One of the problems with being self-employed is that income tends to fluctuate, both within the year (as past posts have discussed) and from year to year.
And success, in this case, is counterproductive: By making more last year, I will surely qualify for less aid this year -- even though I have no idea, at this point, how I'm going to replace three cases that generated nearly all of my income last year but are now concluded, or largely concluded.
My income will almost certainly fall this year, and so will the available student aid. On the plus side, I will only have two college tuitions to pay next year. (I'm really, really hoping Older Daughter can find a job after graduation.) And I still have two kidneys at this point -- but I also have two kids who have yet to start college.
In the FAFSA you tell the government how much you earn and how much you've saved and the government tells you how much you are expected to "contribute" to your child's college education. It is also used to determine eligibility for student loans and work study. Even "academic" scholarships typically require parents to submit FAFSA's.
Somehow the government always thinks I can pay more than I think I can pay.
There was a time when middle class parents would be mortified at making such a comprehensive disclosure of their assets -- but there was also a time when an ambitious kid, working during the summer and part-time during the school year, could put a sizeable dent in his or her own tuition. That time is called the "distant past."
Each FAFSA is "signed" electronically by the student -- as if the student actually fills this monster out. I can't get my kids to pick up their own laundry or turn off the lights, much less prepare their own tax forms. I'd have no chance getting them even to look at a FAFSA.
The trepidation I feel at the outset of this task this year is compounded by the fact that, last year was, at least on paper, a good year. In fact, despite the wailing and lamentations that I have previously recorded in this blog, I made more money last year than I did in either of the two previous years. One of the problems with being self-employed is that income tends to fluctuate, both within the year (as past posts have discussed) and from year to year.
And success, in this case, is counterproductive: By making more last year, I will surely qualify for less aid this year -- even though I have no idea, at this point, how I'm going to replace three cases that generated nearly all of my income last year but are now concluded, or largely concluded.
My income will almost certainly fall this year, and so will the available student aid. On the plus side, I will only have two college tuitions to pay next year. (I'm really, really hoping Older Daughter can find a job after graduation.) And I still have two kidneys at this point -- but I also have two kids who have yet to start college.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
On the wrong end of the trend... again!
Sorry Bored Housewife.
Sorry all you "Blogs of Note."
It's all over for blogs and bloggers, at least according to this editorial in yesterday's Chicago Tribune:
The clueless and the greedy, eh?
At least they didn't call me by name.
Anyway, it's all my fault and I'm very sorry. I've killed trends before: The aforementioned Internet bubble burst right around the time I was offered an equity stake in a can't-miss dot.com start-up. Fortunately for me I was just as impecunious then as I am now -- or I'd be even worse off today. (With a tip of the logic cap to Gracie Allen on that one... but you get the point.) At least this time I got in before the bubble burst.
So, lock the doors, bloggers. Kill the lights. Strike the sets. I may stand out here on the boards declaiming to the empty balconies a while longer yet, but I know, now, that it's all over. Still, it might be good practice for me to continue... just in case a book editor who's just as clueless and greedy as I am happens by.
And, actually, even the Tribune editorial suggested that blogs may persist among "that segment of inordinately dialed-in Americans who are enthralled with, or at least entertained by, one another's opinions about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.... So blogging has a future, however indefinite. At least till Al Gore invents the Next Big Thing."
And I'll probably kill that, too. Maybe, though, I'll get in earlier next time....
Sorry all you "Blogs of Note."
It's all over for blogs and bloggers, at least according to this editorial in yesterday's Chicago Tribune:
Bloggy, we hardly knew ye
No sooner had Al Gore invented the Internet than early adopters discovered a liberating opportunity: Anybody with a modem and an ego could share his or her thoughts with the world.
Remember what happened next? By the mid-1990s, a few self-publishers were sharing with tiny audiences links to Web sites they found interesting. In time, these hardy pioneers began adding commentaries--often insightful, usually irreverent--to their lists of links. In short, smart people were posting virtual logs of their interests and thoughts. In December 1997, the term "Web log" surfaced. In short order, we had the inevitable contraction: "blog."
After that, the deluge. Today there are 20 million blogs worldwide, a number that grows by thousands daily. The ones that matter most, of course, have gobs of readers--with enough eyeballs to attract investors and advertisers.
But will everyone live happily ever after?
You're forgiven if you cling to the conventional wisdom that blogging, like half-pipe snowboarding, enjoys an unrelievedly rich future. Forgiven, but maybe behind the curve. A new report from Gallup pollsters, "Blog Readership Bogged Down," cautions that "the growth in the number of U.S. blog readers was somewhere between nil and negative in the past year."
* * *
The pixels hadn't faded on Gallup's downbeat report when Slate.com columnist Daniel Grossman chimed in with another requiem, "Twilight of the Blogs." Grossman says: "There are troubling signs--akin to the 1999 warnings about the Internet bubble--that suggest blogs have just hit their top." Among those signs: too much corporate money trying to buy into what could be a fad (including Time Warner paying a reported $25 million for Weblogs Inc.). Is too much money chasing not enough revenue? As Grossman aptly notes: "In the end stages of any investment mania, the clueless and the greedy flood in."
* * *
The clueless and the greedy, eh?
At least they didn't call me by name.
Anyway, it's all my fault and I'm very sorry. I've killed trends before: The aforementioned Internet bubble burst right around the time I was offered an equity stake in a can't-miss dot.com start-up. Fortunately for me I was just as impecunious then as I am now -- or I'd be even worse off today. (With a tip of the logic cap to Gracie Allen on that one... but you get the point.) At least this time I got in before the bubble burst.
So, lock the doors, bloggers. Kill the lights. Strike the sets. I may stand out here on the boards declaiming to the empty balconies a while longer yet, but I know, now, that it's all over. Still, it might be good practice for me to continue... just in case a book editor who's just as clueless and greedy as I am happens by.
And, actually, even the Tribune editorial suggested that blogs may persist among "that segment of inordinately dialed-in Americans who are enthralled with, or at least entertained by, one another's opinions about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.... So blogging has a future, however indefinite. At least till Al Gore invents the Next Big Thing."
And I'll probably kill that, too. Maybe, though, I'll get in earlier next time....
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
I've met the cleaning lady. . .
I met the cleaning lady because I was here until 11:00 p.m. Monday working on a brief (the title of the song you're thinking of is "Hearts and Flowers" by the way) which was due Tuesday.
Last Tuesday.
I know what deadlines are supposed to be, and I try to observe them. But for many lawyers, a "deadline" is more of a "starting line" -- the date on which the file is taken down and looked at and something thrown together at the last minute. Just as soon as the motion to extend time is filed.
I don't think that was the case with this particular brief -- and not just because I was working on it, or at least the responses to the seemingly interminable 'statements of facts,' before the motion to extend time was filed. I've been working on it, in my mind, for what seems like forever. I can't bill for my ruminations, though, nor can I bill for the time spent carrying copies of the briefs to which I was responding back and forth, to and from home, for a couple of weeks now.
The problem is time. What I needed was a block of uninterrupted time where I could focus exclusively on this project -- no interruptions, no emergencies, no questions from people in the office. That just didn't happen until Monday.
My wife is a teacher and she works all the time. Any downtime -- waiting to pick up a kid -- watching the news -- whenever a spare moment presents itself, she reaches into her ever-present red bag, pulls out a folder, and starts grading papers. She can start and stop as many times as necessary -- but every time she starts, she makes irrevocable progress. Each test or worksheet takes a minute, or two, to grade. Once done, it's done forever. She moves on to the next one on the stack. When a stack is done she has to put the grades in her book and on her computer. She has to be in school only for this last part of the task.
It just doesn't work this way when writing briefs. There is the matter of researching your issues, reviewing and analyzing the documents on which you rely (or which may undermine your position), perhaps reading the other side's papers, figuring out an approach and then -- only then -- starting in. Starting a project like this without the prospect of a significant block of time stretching before you is not a waste of time -- you learn something, you gain some insight, you put some more mulch on the pile -- but you lose a lot by stopping at almost any point along the way.
Research you can do in a piecemeal fashion, if necessary -- but you need the time, after the research is done, and the cases are printed or copied or downloaded, to read them, to see how they fulfill the promise you thought they had when you first came across them on line or in the library -- or how they don't. This often leads to more research. Which may look, on the timesheets, like piecework. But it's not. Not if you're serious about getting the project done.
I used to work for a firm that was scared to send a client a bill for 12 or 14 hours on a single day for a single project -- even though that was legitimately the time I spent. Break that time up over a couple of days at least, they'd tell me, or better yet, three or four. So we'd condition clients to think that this work could be done -- like grading papers -- when a spare moment presents itself. And I can't break entirely with how I was taught: The people I worked for were successful doing it their way, so even now I find it hard to write down more than 10 hours a day on a time sheet for a single project, no matter how long I actually spent.
But some tasks do not lend themselves to a piecework approach -- even for my wife. Sometimes (and always to her regret, it seems) she assigns essays. She must find uninterrupted time in which to read them all -- all together -- to see which are average in quality, or above and below. Only then can she assign grades to any of them.
She hasn't tried the method that some of my professors used for grading essays in law school: Step 1: Stand at the top of the stairs with the stack of papers (blue books, back in the day). Step 2: Throw the papers down the stairs. Step 3: The papers that go farthest are the A's -- the ones that go the least distance are the failures. Most will wind up somewhere in between -- the C's. (She'd never go for the other rumored but never proved law school method -- the bottle method -- wherein the lowest grades came earliest in the process of draining the bottle. But once again I digress.)
The bottom line is that I've accomplished something sitting here at this desk. The new undisclosed location is now, finally, a place of business.
Last Tuesday.
I know what deadlines are supposed to be, and I try to observe them. But for many lawyers, a "deadline" is more of a "starting line" -- the date on which the file is taken down and looked at and something thrown together at the last minute. Just as soon as the motion to extend time is filed.
I don't think that was the case with this particular brief -- and not just because I was working on it, or at least the responses to the seemingly interminable 'statements of facts,' before the motion to extend time was filed. I've been working on it, in my mind, for what seems like forever. I can't bill for my ruminations, though, nor can I bill for the time spent carrying copies of the briefs to which I was responding back and forth, to and from home, for a couple of weeks now.
The problem is time. What I needed was a block of uninterrupted time where I could focus exclusively on this project -- no interruptions, no emergencies, no questions from people in the office. That just didn't happen until Monday.
My wife is a teacher and she works all the time. Any downtime -- waiting to pick up a kid -- watching the news -- whenever a spare moment presents itself, she reaches into her ever-present red bag, pulls out a folder, and starts grading papers. She can start and stop as many times as necessary -- but every time she starts, she makes irrevocable progress. Each test or worksheet takes a minute, or two, to grade. Once done, it's done forever. She moves on to the next one on the stack. When a stack is done she has to put the grades in her book and on her computer. She has to be in school only for this last part of the task.
It just doesn't work this way when writing briefs. There is the matter of researching your issues, reviewing and analyzing the documents on which you rely (or which may undermine your position), perhaps reading the other side's papers, figuring out an approach and then -- only then -- starting in. Starting a project like this without the prospect of a significant block of time stretching before you is not a waste of time -- you learn something, you gain some insight, you put some more mulch on the pile -- but you lose a lot by stopping at almost any point along the way.
Research you can do in a piecemeal fashion, if necessary -- but you need the time, after the research is done, and the cases are printed or copied or downloaded, to read them, to see how they fulfill the promise you thought they had when you first came across them on line or in the library -- or how they don't. This often leads to more research. Which may look, on the timesheets, like piecework. But it's not. Not if you're serious about getting the project done.
I used to work for a firm that was scared to send a client a bill for 12 or 14 hours on a single day for a single project -- even though that was legitimately the time I spent. Break that time up over a couple of days at least, they'd tell me, or better yet, three or four. So we'd condition clients to think that this work could be done -- like grading papers -- when a spare moment presents itself. And I can't break entirely with how I was taught: The people I worked for were successful doing it their way, so even now I find it hard to write down more than 10 hours a day on a time sheet for a single project, no matter how long I actually spent.
But some tasks do not lend themselves to a piecework approach -- even for my wife. Sometimes (and always to her regret, it seems) she assigns essays. She must find uninterrupted time in which to read them all -- all together -- to see which are average in quality, or above and below. Only then can she assign grades to any of them.
She hasn't tried the method that some of my professors used for grading essays in law school: Step 1: Stand at the top of the stairs with the stack of papers (blue books, back in the day). Step 2: Throw the papers down the stairs. Step 3: The papers that go farthest are the A's -- the ones that go the least distance are the failures. Most will wind up somewhere in between -- the C's. (She'd never go for the other rumored but never proved law school method -- the bottle method -- wherein the lowest grades came earliest in the process of draining the bottle. But once again I digress.)
The bottom line is that I've accomplished something sitting here at this desk. The new undisclosed location is now, finally, a place of business.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Typical weekend complications
This is the first Friday I've been here at the New Undisclosed Location. Last Friday I was out with Youngest Son at the sports doctor; the Friday before I was with Younger Daughter at the hospital for tests prescribed by her doctor. The Friday before that was Moving Day.
And, oh yeah, about that carpet... Not this week, apparently. Maybe on the weekend beginning March 3. That's the Friday before Casimir Pulaski Day -- or, as a friend of mine who works for the government calls it, "the end of the Holiday Season." The Pulaski Day holiday resulted from a close gubernatorial race between Big Jim Thompson and Michael J. Bakalis -- the incumbent, Thompson, was fishing for votes in the Chicago Bungalow Belt. But that's a different story.
This weekend we're off to South Bend to visit Oldest Son on the occasion of "Junior Parents Weekend." I've not spoken much of Oldest Son since I mentioned his trip to the Fiesta Bowl and thereafter to the vicinity of the Rose Bowl.
We don't know what Junior Parent Weekend entails. Oldest Son was going to find out before Christmas, then after Christmas, then last week -- but he never did. He did tell us recently that everyone else's parents were coming and taking their kids to the bars, but he's not 21 and my wife did not see that as a good plan. We didn't sign up for any of the "official" events because Oldest Son wasn't sure that we should or that any of his friends and their parents were going.
Apparently they are now. And it's no longer possible to sign up. I suggested we go to dinner anyway -- but my wife wasn't wild about that plan either. She pointed out, reasonably enough, that the kid doesn't eat food and never has. We were convinced for the longest time that he survived by absorbing nourishment from air molecules. I now believe he subsists on Coca-Cola products and chips of various dimensions. And pizza.
My impression was that Oldest Son was feeling kind of blue; that he didn't want to be around while his friends were off with their parents, nor did he want to sponge off them in the event he was invited to accompany them. He didn't want to be looked at as the "Orphan Boy," which he certainly is not. At one point he suggested coming home for the weekend. I understood that he was going to tell people at school that he was going to visit friends at the University of Illinois, a cover story that they'd readily accept since Older Daughter attends school there. But he didn't mean it as a cover story. He told us this week that his plan was to come into Chicago on the train Friday afternoon, pick up a car, and continue on to Champaign.
By 'picking up a car' Oldest Son was not referring to Hertz or Avis; rather he was referring to one of the family vehicles. There are three. But two of the three are really not up to the long trip; the other is the van that we need for the usual weekend activities which, this week, include:
And, oh yeah, about that carpet... Not this week, apparently. Maybe on the weekend beginning March 3. That's the Friday before Casimir Pulaski Day -- or, as a friend of mine who works for the government calls it, "the end of the Holiday Season." The Pulaski Day holiday resulted from a close gubernatorial race between Big Jim Thompson and Michael J. Bakalis -- the incumbent, Thompson, was fishing for votes in the Chicago Bungalow Belt. But that's a different story.
This weekend we're off to South Bend to visit Oldest Son on the occasion of "Junior Parents Weekend." I've not spoken much of Oldest Son since I mentioned his trip to the Fiesta Bowl and thereafter to the vicinity of the Rose Bowl.
We don't know what Junior Parent Weekend entails. Oldest Son was going to find out before Christmas, then after Christmas, then last week -- but he never did. He did tell us recently that everyone else's parents were coming and taking their kids to the bars, but he's not 21 and my wife did not see that as a good plan. We didn't sign up for any of the "official" events because Oldest Son wasn't sure that we should or that any of his friends and their parents were going.
Apparently they are now. And it's no longer possible to sign up. I suggested we go to dinner anyway -- but my wife wasn't wild about that plan either. She pointed out, reasonably enough, that the kid doesn't eat food and never has. We were convinced for the longest time that he survived by absorbing nourishment from air molecules. I now believe he subsists on Coca-Cola products and chips of various dimensions. And pizza.
My impression was that Oldest Son was feeling kind of blue; that he didn't want to be around while his friends were off with their parents, nor did he want to sponge off them in the event he was invited to accompany them. He didn't want to be looked at as the "Orphan Boy," which he certainly is not. At one point he suggested coming home for the weekend. I understood that he was going to tell people at school that he was going to visit friends at the University of Illinois, a cover story that they'd readily accept since Older Daughter attends school there. But he didn't mean it as a cover story. He told us this week that his plan was to come into Chicago on the train Friday afternoon, pick up a car, and continue on to Champaign.
By 'picking up a car' Oldest Son was not referring to Hertz or Avis; rather he was referring to one of the family vehicles. There are three. But two of the three are really not up to the long trip; the other is the van that we need for the usual weekend activities which, this week, include:
- Picking up Younger Daughter from soccer practice during Friday rush hour;
- Baseball camp for Youngest Son on Friday night;
- A Niles-league basketball game for Youngest Son on Saturday morning;
- A dentist's appointment for Younger Daughter on Saturday morning;
- A Niles-league basketball game for Youngest Son on Sunday afternoon (the Niles Park District leagues being a rather competitive recreational program, a step up from intramurals but a step down from inter-school competition);
- Mass (Youngest Son was was supposed to serve as some sort of a junior usher at the anticipatory Mass on Saturday evening, but, as our plans developed, we're hoping he can switch that to Noon Mass on Sunday); and, of course,
- Groceries.
If Oldest Son had really taken a car, we'd have to add returning him to school on Saturday night or Sunday morning to this list.
But Middle Son has dibs on one of the cars for baseball practice. He's a freshman at a local college and he should be living in the dorm at school -- but, for reasons not relevant to this discussion, he was invited to move back home for this semester.
This is tough for all of us, particularly now because his practice schedule is so brutal: It's a small school -- one gym, no separate indoor practice facilities for the baseball team. Right now it's basketball season -- so that team understandably gets dibs on the gym for practice. They finish about 9:00 p.m. That's when baseball practice starts, usually ending around 1:00 a.m. Maybe this would not be so bad for college students on campus -- college kids are nocturnal creatures -- but it's brutal for any kid who has to live at home. And it's not so great for that kid's parents, I'm here to tell you.
Anyway, when we learned of his difficulties at school, we thought that we would force him to take public transportation to and from school. That would be part of the penance he would pay for his transgression.
But that proved impractical -- though the school is rather close by, public transportation to and from is not very good. And his current schedule makes it impossible.
So we bent -- but he's still being punished. After all, we're getting him up in the morning for his 9:00 a.m. classes and pushing him out the door. I don't know that his attendance would be quite so good if he were still in the dorm.
But that ties up the other functioning car on almost a full-time basis. Oldest Son was not happy to hear this, but I'm already hearing about it on a regular basis from Younger Daughter who's 16 and has imagined that car as "hers" now. I'm still having trouble imagining this car as desirable: It has over 100,000 miles on it.
And Younger Daughter doesn't yet have her license. We're still doing the mandatory parent-driving hours. Which is how I wound up as a passenger in that car being driven east into westbound traffic last Sunday morning. But I digress yet again.
Bottom line is this: After a great deal of discussion, Oldest Son is not coming home today. Instead, I'll take the rest of the family -- maybe even Middle Son depending on his schedule -- Saturday night to sit around a hotel, watch Oldest Son not eat and maybe take in Mass at the Basilica at Notre Dame. This last may mollify my wife somewhat. There may also be a party that he wants us to attend. If it's not in a saloon I think my wife will go along. We'll leave after groceries and basketball Saturday and return before Noon Mass Sunday.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh, I guess I haven't mentioned why I didn't think the third car was up to the trip. I drove that car to court in Waukegan last week and was scared to death. Something is wrong with the steering. On the other hand, the car is 22 years old.
Anyway, it's cheaper to take the family to South Bend in the van and stay overnight than it would be to let Oldest Son take this car and have some breakdown on the road along I-57. This is without even considering the obvious safety issues. And, funny thing, I still think this is what the kid wants us to do. But who knows with kids?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Almost unpacked at the undisclosed location
I haven't written much about our move since the Moving Day post of January 27. This is not, however, because the move was wholly uneventful --
On the very day of our move, while we were packing frantically at our old office, a painter stopped by at the new one, just to touch up a door frame or two.
It is customary for the landlord to agree to repaint the walls and so forth when attempting to entice new tenants to sign a lease. In our case the landlord agreed to provide new carpet as well. We also had to reconfigure a number of interior walls, adding interior windows, called clerestories, that allowed us to turn a dead-end hallway into a miniature conference room and a storage closet and adjacent equipment room into what is now my office. The costs of these improvements, no matter how loudly the leasing agent protests to the contrary, are in some way figured into the rent ultimately charged.
In any event this work had progressed satisfactorily by the date of our move, with only minor clean-up and touch-up (such as the aforementioned door frame work) left to be done.
I don't know whether the painter was in an extreme hurry or whether he simply felt that the setting out of a dropcloth for such minor work was somehow beneath his professional dignity. In either event, the painter eschewed a dropcloth on this occasion.
Nor can I reconstruct exactly how events unfolded. I can only surmise that some sort of twisting motion was involved as the can of black oil paint fell from the ladder. My conclusion in this regard is based on the Jackson Pollock-like spill and drip patterns which resulted... in my office... in the hallway outside... in our receptionist space....
Such an artistic spill pattern might have provided an interesting conversation-starter for visitors to our new quarters but, alas, the painter, or someone from the building, decided instead that the spill might be blotted up before we noticed. Turpentine or some other solvent was brought in for the attempt -- which resulted in huge, ugly smears on the new carpet and eye-watering fumes in the air which did not even begin to dissipate until I brought a fan from home to move the air around.
On the other hand, I am assured that there will be no extra charge for the plastic sheeting and masking tape overlay which the landlord thoughtfully provided.
The carpet will be replaced this weekend, I'm told.
The landlord wants to try and cut out the stained portions and insert patches and I hope that this proves an adequate fix -- because the alternative would be to re-carpet my entire office and that would effectively require me to move yet again. The landlord is not optimistic -- there has been some initial difficulty getting carpet from the same mill run and, even if this has been accomplished, there is no guarantee that an exact color match may be made. And even if an exact color match can be made, there may still be very visible seams.
So I'm worried about that.
But I have checks again, as of yesterday. I'd ordered new checks sooner, of course, to arrive more in conjunction with the date of the actual move -- but I got fancy when I ordered the replacements. I thought I'd add in my new phone number -- and the printer obligingly attempted to comply with this request, the phone number appearing on the initial delivery and the actual phone number differing by only one digit.
And I'm still having phone problems.
But I'll write about that later, perhaps, after I calm down. If I don't have to move again....
On the very day of our move, while we were packing frantically at our old office, a painter stopped by at the new one, just to touch up a door frame or two.
It is customary for the landlord to agree to repaint the walls and so forth when attempting to entice new tenants to sign a lease. In our case the landlord agreed to provide new carpet as well. We also had to reconfigure a number of interior walls, adding interior windows, called clerestories, that allowed us to turn a dead-end hallway into a miniature conference room and a storage closet and adjacent equipment room into what is now my office. The costs of these improvements, no matter how loudly the leasing agent protests to the contrary, are in some way figured into the rent ultimately charged.
In any event this work had progressed satisfactorily by the date of our move, with only minor clean-up and touch-up (such as the aforementioned door frame work) left to be done.
I don't know whether the painter was in an extreme hurry or whether he simply felt that the setting out of a dropcloth for such minor work was somehow beneath his professional dignity. In either event, the painter eschewed a dropcloth on this occasion.
Nor can I reconstruct exactly how events unfolded. I can only surmise that some sort of twisting motion was involved as the can of black oil paint fell from the ladder. My conclusion in this regard is based on the Jackson Pollock-like spill and drip patterns which resulted... in my office... in the hallway outside... in our receptionist space....
Such an artistic spill pattern might have provided an interesting conversation-starter for visitors to our new quarters but, alas, the painter, or someone from the building, decided instead that the spill might be blotted up before we noticed. Turpentine or some other solvent was brought in for the attempt -- which resulted in huge, ugly smears on the new carpet and eye-watering fumes in the air which did not even begin to dissipate until I brought a fan from home to move the air around.
On the other hand, I am assured that there will be no extra charge for the plastic sheeting and masking tape overlay which the landlord thoughtfully provided.
The carpet will be replaced this weekend, I'm told.
The landlord wants to try and cut out the stained portions and insert patches and I hope that this proves an adequate fix -- because the alternative would be to re-carpet my entire office and that would effectively require me to move yet again. The landlord is not optimistic -- there has been some initial difficulty getting carpet from the same mill run and, even if this has been accomplished, there is no guarantee that an exact color match may be made. And even if an exact color match can be made, there may still be very visible seams.
So I'm worried about that.
But I have checks again, as of yesterday. I'd ordered new checks sooner, of course, to arrive more in conjunction with the date of the actual move -- but I got fancy when I ordered the replacements. I thought I'd add in my new phone number -- and the printer obligingly attempted to comply with this request, the phone number appearing on the initial delivery and the actual phone number differing by only one digit.
And I'm still having phone problems.
But I'll write about that later, perhaps, after I calm down. If I don't have to move again....
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Birthday Greetings
Benny Kubelsky was born in Waukegan, Illinois on this day in 1894. His mother wanted him to play the violin in the worst way -- and he did, winning fame and fortune in radio and television. He may not have been a true movie star, but he made one great movie (To Be or Not to Be), a lot of fine movies -- and also The Horn Blows at Midnight. (Well I liked it -- but I haven't seen it in years. It's not available on DVD.) If Benny Kubelsky were alive today he'd be celebrating his 39th birthday.
You know, of course, that Benny Kubelsky later became Jack Benny.
For many years I've listened to Chuck Schaden's Those Were the Days February broadcasts -- during "Jack Benny Month."
I guess I've always made a big deal out of it.
Part of this is because my oldest child, my Older Daughter, was also born on Benny's birthday, 22 years ago. Even before that blessed event, I had taken the position that it would be inappropriate to buy expensive presents on Benny's birthday -- but I've never sold anyone on that idea. Especially since Older Daughter was born.
Anyway, when Older Daughter was in first grade, the teacher asked the class if they knew which American Presidents were born in February.
Older Daughter was one of many who raised their hands, and the teacher called on her.
"George Washington," Older Daughter said.
"Very good," the teacher said. "Now can anyone name another one?"
Now fewer hands were raised, and those kids that left their hands up seemed kind of half-hearted. All, that is, except for Older Daughter, who was practically leaping out of her seat.
So the teacher called on her again.
"Abraham Lincoln --" said Older Daughter --
"Very good," the teacher started to say, but Older Daughter wasn't quite finished: "-- and Jack Benny."
Older Daughter has never forgiven me.
But Benny Kubelsky would have loved the story.
Happy Birthday, Jack.
(And Happy Birthday, Older Daughter.)
You know, of course, that Benny Kubelsky later became Jack Benny.
For many years I've listened to Chuck Schaden's Those Were the Days February broadcasts -- during "Jack Benny Month."
I guess I've always made a big deal out of it.
Part of this is because my oldest child, my Older Daughter, was also born on Benny's birthday, 22 years ago. Even before that blessed event, I had taken the position that it would be inappropriate to buy expensive presents on Benny's birthday -- but I've never sold anyone on that idea. Especially since Older Daughter was born.
Anyway, when Older Daughter was in first grade, the teacher asked the class if they knew which American Presidents were born in February.
Older Daughter was one of many who raised their hands, and the teacher called on her.
"George Washington," Older Daughter said.
"Very good," the teacher said. "Now can anyone name another one?"
Now fewer hands were raised, and those kids that left their hands up seemed kind of half-hearted. All, that is, except for Older Daughter, who was practically leaping out of her seat.
So the teacher called on her again.
"Abraham Lincoln --" said Older Daughter --
"Very good," the teacher started to say, but Older Daughter wasn't quite finished: "-- and Jack Benny."
Older Daughter has never forgiven me.
But Benny Kubelsky would have loved the story.
Happy Birthday, Jack.
(And Happy Birthday, Older Daughter.)
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Life after death, maybe, but credit cards are forever
This from an e-mail I received earlier today:
I don't vouch for the verbatim accuracy of this exchange and I've admitted to a couple of edits. But the dialog rings true to me because of my own experience: Even though she passed away nearly six years ago, my late mother still receives new credit cards in the mail. One arrived just a few months back. Last year she received a $20 credit from one card issuer because it noticed that there'd been a lack of activity on her card. The card company was hoping that this little credit would supply an incentive for her to resume shopping.A lady died this past January, and her bank billed her for February and March for their annual service charges on her credit card, and then added late fees and interest on the monthly charge. The balance had been $0.00, but now is somewhere around $60.00. A family member placed a call to the bank, eventually reaching someone who denied being a machine:
Family Member: "I am calling to tell you that she died in January."
Bank: "The account was never closed and the late fees and charges still apply."
Family Member: "Maybe you should turn it over to collections."
Bank: "Since it is two months past due, it already has been."
Family Member: So, what will they do when they find out she is dead?"
Bank: "Either report her account to the frauds division or report her to the credit bureau, maybe both!"
Family Member: "Do you think God will be mad at her?"
Bank: "Excuse me?"
Family Member: "Did you just get what I was telling you -- the part about her being dead?"
Bank: "Sir, you'll have to speak to my supervisor."
So the supervisor gets on the phone.
Family Member: "I'm calling to tell you, she died in January."
Supervisor: "The account was never closed and the late fees and charges still apply."
Family Member: "You mean you want to collect from her estate?"
Supervisor (stammering now): "Are you her lawyer?"
Family Member: "No, I'm her great nephew. But I'm also a lawyer." (He proceeds to give his professional information.)
Supervisor: "Could you fax us a certificate of death?"
Family Member: "Sure."
The fax number was provided and a death certificate followed in due course. After the death certificate was sent the colloquy resumed:
Supervisor: "Our system just isn't set-up for death. I don't know what more I can do to help."
Family Member: "Well, if you figure it out, great! If not, you could just keep billing her. I don't think she will care."
Supervisor: "Well, the late fees and charges do still apply."
Family Member: "Would you like her new billing address?"
Supervisor: "That might help."
Family Member: "Village Memorial Cemetery, Highway 119, Plot Number 75." [Name and address changed from original e-mail just in case it might have been an actual address.]
Supervisor: "Sir, that's a cemetery!"
Family Member: "What do you do with dead people on your planet?"
It didn't work.
My late mother has even had her credit limits increased on a couple of cards (presumably, again, to spur her to greater shopping heights). Now you know that if a dog bites you for no good reason, it's the dog's fault. On the other hand, if you stick your hand in the dog's mouth, or pull the dog's tail, and then the dog bites you, it's your fault, not the dog's. You provoked it.
If I steal a credit card, and use it, surely that would be my fault. But if idiot computers keep sending me credit cards in my late mother's name, at some point, when I go off on a spree, can I claim that I was provoked? I leave you to chew on that one.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Islamic Jihad won't join Hamas in Palestine government
Duh.
A wire service report confirmed the obvious this morning.
Hamas had offered to share power with Fatah earlier, despite its landslide victory.
Don't you get it? These guys don't want the responsibility of governing. If they accept this responsibility they might have to deliver something: Services. Jobs. The destruction of Israel -- or, gulp, peace.
Too bad for them. They swaggered through the streets. They shot their rifles in the air. They boasted. And now they must suffer the consequences: They must undertake the responsibility of the welfare of their people.
And there's only one way for them to deliver anything: They must make peace with Israel. They must live in harmony with their fellow People of the Book.
Hamas may not learn this lesson. They probably won't.
But their successors may.
We can only watch and pray.
A wire service report confirmed the obvious this morning.
Hamas had offered to share power with Fatah earlier, despite its landslide victory.
Don't you get it? These guys don't want the responsibility of governing. If they accept this responsibility they might have to deliver something: Services. Jobs. The destruction of Israel -- or, gulp, peace.
Too bad for them. They swaggered through the streets. They shot their rifles in the air. They boasted. And now they must suffer the consequences: They must undertake the responsibility of the welfare of their people.
And there's only one way for them to deliver anything: They must make peace with Israel. They must live in harmony with their fellow People of the Book.
Hamas may not learn this lesson. They probably won't.
But their successors may.
We can only watch and pray.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
With friends like these....
James Laski has resigned as Chicago City Clerk, just three weeks after being indicted in the ongoing Hired Truck scandal.
At one time Laski, a former alderman, viewed the City Clerk's post as the next rung on the cursus honorum and he clearly harbored hopes of ascending still further.
True goo-goos (irreverent Chicago slang for devotees of 'good government') would protest strenuously, but one can imagine a politician exerting influence in order to obtain work or contracts on behalf of a friend. (Goo-goo's can afford to posture this way, since they are seldom in a position to dispense or withhold favors to anyone, friends or not.) Depending on how this influence was exerted, such conduct might be legal or illegal.
And one can also imagine a venal, cynical pol demanding a quid pro quo for assisting a supplicant. The criminality of this conduct would not be open to debate: A public employee has no right to ask for anything other than the posted salary for discharging the people's business.
But Laski is accused of something particularly low: Laski is accused of demanding -- and getting -- monthly payoffs from long-time friends in exchange for getting them business in the city's Hired Truck program. This is friendship? What the heck happened to this guy?
At one time Laski, a former alderman, viewed the City Clerk's post as the next rung on the cursus honorum and he clearly harbored hopes of ascending still further.
True goo-goos (irreverent Chicago slang for devotees of 'good government') would protest strenuously, but one can imagine a politician exerting influence in order to obtain work or contracts on behalf of a friend. (Goo-goo's can afford to posture this way, since they are seldom in a position to dispense or withhold favors to anyone, friends or not.) Depending on how this influence was exerted, such conduct might be legal or illegal.
And one can also imagine a venal, cynical pol demanding a quid pro quo for assisting a supplicant. The criminality of this conduct would not be open to debate: A public employee has no right to ask for anything other than the posted salary for discharging the people's business.
But Laski is accused of something particularly low: Laski is accused of demanding -- and getting -- monthly payoffs from long-time friends in exchange for getting them business in the city's Hired Truck program. This is friendship? What the heck happened to this guy?
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Moving unpacks memories
I have one relatively large, relatively current family portrait -- and a series of old Christmas card pictures, put together in a multi-opening frame. The oldest of these is 18 years old now. I know this with certainty because only three of my five children are depicted in the photograph, and all of them are now in college.
As I took down these family pictures and packed them away for the move to the new office, I couldn't help but think of a photo in my father's office.
I was out of school already, working, living on my own, but for some reason I needed to stop by my father's office. I can't remember why. I was probably dropping something off for return to the family homestead, or else picking something up. I didn't go to my father's office often; it may have been the very first time I had gone to this particular office: By this time my father had already 'retired' once, which in this case meant moving from one company where he'd worked for 25 years to a competitor, just down the street.
My father wasn't in when I got there, but his assistant, Phyllis, said she recognized me. From my picture.
I went in the office to drop off or pick up whatever it was that I was there for, and I saw the picture in question: It was a picture of me, my sister and brother, circa 1966 or '67, in our Easter finery. For my brother and myself, that meant hideously loud, maroon and red plaid sport jackets and red ties. The photograph had faded somewhat with age, but the sportcoats were still lurid. I could not have been more than 10.
I guess I had aged well.
Or at least predictably.
I've since noticed that a lot of people have, shall we say, less than contemporary family photographs in their offices. Is that because we're clinging to our youth?
As I took down these family pictures and packed them away for the move to the new office, I couldn't help but think of a photo in my father's office.
I was out of school already, working, living on my own, but for some reason I needed to stop by my father's office. I can't remember why. I was probably dropping something off for return to the family homestead, or else picking something up. I didn't go to my father's office often; it may have been the very first time I had gone to this particular office: By this time my father had already 'retired' once, which in this case meant moving from one company where he'd worked for 25 years to a competitor, just down the street.
My father wasn't in when I got there, but his assistant, Phyllis, said she recognized me. From my picture.
I went in the office to drop off or pick up whatever it was that I was there for, and I saw the picture in question: It was a picture of me, my sister and brother, circa 1966 or '67, in our Easter finery. For my brother and myself, that meant hideously loud, maroon and red plaid sport jackets and red ties. The photograph had faded somewhat with age, but the sportcoats were still lurid. I could not have been more than 10.
I guess I had aged well.
Or at least predictably.
I've since noticed that a lot of people have, shall we say, less than contemporary family photographs in their offices. Is that because we're clinging to our youth?
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