It seems that the school year starts earlier and earlier each year.
July ended yesterday -- and the school year began in our house.
Younger Daughter got a call from her AP History teacher: She had a term paper due July 15 (talk about your Summer reading!) -- and he was gently inquiring as to its whereabouts. His voice mail mentioned how the assignment was clearly posted on the school website.
Younger Daughter has three basic operating modes -- asleep, on the phone, or on line. But she vehemently denied seeing the assignment on the school site. She claimed to have spoken with a classmate who assured her that nothing was due before the first week of school. Perhaps this girl also got a call yesterday....
Youngest Son is still playing baseball -- although I'm done coaching, the Bluejay Park 13/14 All-Star teams are still in tournament play. But football equipment is being handed out tomorrow. That's a sure sign that the school year is nearly upon us.
LSS got a call from a fellow teacher yesterday; the middle school schedule is a muddle... as it generally is at this time of year. They've begun trying to hash out the various conflicts.
And Oldest Son went back to school shopping yesterday. Mostly, it's true, to replace the clothes he lost on his ill-fated trip to Pittsburgh -- that's one that you'll have to read about in the book -- but he and Middle Son have already started inquiring about when they can use the van to move out. Oldest Son will be gone in just about two weeks.
Yes, some in the family are sad that it's almost school time again. But not me: Soon I'll have my couch back....
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
The White Sox have fallen out of the Wild Card lead
And they're 8½ games behind Detroit in the AL Central pending today's action.
But we'll always have 2005. (Hopefully that's not all we'll have for another 88 years -- but that's a different worry....)
No one can take that championship away from us. Which puts us way ahead of Floyd Landis.
But we'll always have 2005. (Hopefully that's not all we'll have for another 88 years -- but that's a different worry....)
No one can take that championship away from us. Which puts us way ahead of Floyd Landis.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Privacy vs. anonymity vs. invisibility
We are never truly alone, not here in the Blogosphere. A local news program ran a feature recently about how what we post online can come back to haunt us. The Tribune had a feature this week about MySpace, complete with suggestions such as don’t post an embarrassing photo of yourself, especially posing with a bottle or near a keg. There is a growing realization that prospective employers can Google you, find your web page, and decide that the buttoned-down corporate image you projected in your interview is at fatal variance with the wild and crazy party animal you depict on the Internet.
The kids seem to think this unfair; they think there’s some expectation of privacy here.
I don’t know how you can make something available on every computer in the world and still expect “privacy.” But that’s just The Curmudgeon in me.
From time to time I will search on my own real surname, looking to see what’s out there about me. Not that I’ve posed in the vicinity of any kegs lately – but I am a self-employed attorney with websites, for which I pay through the nose, and a “public” blog. If a prospective client is looking for me, I want my professional sites to be “visible.”
Of course, my children share my surname – and that can be interesting: A few weeks ago, following a link from a Yahoo! search, I came across what amounted to a girl’s diary, on line. My Oldest Son figured in a paragraph about some outing or other, one of many names, several of which were familiar to me because the diarist is from our neighborhood.
So I read on.
In the next paragraph, the writer wrote about her excitement at the prospect of meeting again with her boyfriend, after a prolonged separation, and how she, and he, acted on that excitement.
There are some things I don’t need to know. I understand that, in general, 20-something girls may not always save themselves for the marriage night; I went to college during the height of the Sexual Revolution, when herpes seemed to be the scariest thing out there, and when virtually random copulation seemed the order of the day. (I was 4-F during the Sexual Revolution. I tried to enlist at every opportunity – but to no avail – and that’s a different story.) I just don’t want to have my nose rubbed in the nocturnal adventures of my children’s circle of friends while browsing the Web. Let me cling to my illusions for as long as possible.
Not that this girl forced me to read her diary – but it was on line for me to find. Anyone could find it – even her parents. I can’t believe that this is what she had in mind in creating her personal blog. (And I think the site has been taken down. I didn’t keep track of the web address for the girl’s site – I didn’t want to keep track – but I recently ran the same search argument and her site no longer came up... so maybe her parents did find it. Yikes!)
Her site was by no means private.
And neither is this one – although it is anonymous. But all anonymous means is that I’m not using my real name.
Actually, when I started blogging I thought that choosing “The Curmudgeon” as my nom de plume would give me a distinctive online identity. I should have known better. There are all sorts of sites for blogging curmudgeons – old curmudgeons, young curmudgeons, 'gamer' curmudgeons, knitting curmudgeons, even a gay curmudgeon. One I’ve bookmarked and starting reading regularly is The Comics Curmudgeon.
So I went for anonymous with this site – and wound up invisible. I just put a Site Meter on this page to document how invisible I am. But I think that will change in due course.
At least it might, if my next post is more amusing.
The kids seem to think this unfair; they think there’s some expectation of privacy here.
I don’t know how you can make something available on every computer in the world and still expect “privacy.” But that’s just The Curmudgeon in me.
From time to time I will search on my own real surname, looking to see what’s out there about me. Not that I’ve posed in the vicinity of any kegs lately – but I am a self-employed attorney with websites, for which I pay through the nose, and a “public” blog. If a prospective client is looking for me, I want my professional sites to be “visible.”
Of course, my children share my surname – and that can be interesting: A few weeks ago, following a link from a Yahoo! search, I came across what amounted to a girl’s diary, on line. My Oldest Son figured in a paragraph about some outing or other, one of many names, several of which were familiar to me because the diarist is from our neighborhood.
So I read on.
In the next paragraph, the writer wrote about her excitement at the prospect of meeting again with her boyfriend, after a prolonged separation, and how she, and he, acted on that excitement.
There are some things I don’t need to know. I understand that, in general, 20-something girls may not always save themselves for the marriage night; I went to college during the height of the Sexual Revolution, when herpes seemed to be the scariest thing out there, and when virtually random copulation seemed the order of the day. (I was 4-F during the Sexual Revolution. I tried to enlist at every opportunity – but to no avail – and that’s a different story.) I just don’t want to have my nose rubbed in the nocturnal adventures of my children’s circle of friends while browsing the Web. Let me cling to my illusions for as long as possible.
Not that this girl forced me to read her diary – but it was on line for me to find. Anyone could find it – even her parents. I can’t believe that this is what she had in mind in creating her personal blog. (And I think the site has been taken down. I didn’t keep track of the web address for the girl’s site – I didn’t want to keep track – but I recently ran the same search argument and her site no longer came up... so maybe her parents did find it. Yikes!)
Her site was by no means private.
And neither is this one – although it is anonymous. But all anonymous means is that I’m not using my real name.
Actually, when I started blogging I thought that choosing “The Curmudgeon” as my nom de plume would give me a distinctive online identity. I should have known better. There are all sorts of sites for blogging curmudgeons – old curmudgeons, young curmudgeons, 'gamer' curmudgeons, knitting curmudgeons, even a gay curmudgeon. One I’ve bookmarked and starting reading regularly is The Comics Curmudgeon.
So I went for anonymous with this site – and wound up invisible. I just put a Site Meter on this page to document how invisible I am. But I think that will change in due course.
At least it might, if my next post is more amusing.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
A coaching career ends
Saturday morning, before the Bluejay Park Picnic, my Pony League Reds will play their last game. And I will have coached my last game.
It's about time.
You remember Bull Durham -- when Kevin Costner manufactures a "rainout"?
We got one of those today, only I didn't turn on the sprinklers. God did.
But we need a rainout that lasts the length of Noah's flood: We lost our last game 20-2. This was an improvement, I think, over our last loss: 25-3. The numbers are, however, proportionate.
Our best players have quit, or are injured, or have simply disappeared. And our left fielder returned from vacation with an earring. Not even Charlie Brown had to worry about a left fielder with an earring.
But I did.
No, it's time for me to hang it up. I like baseball. I like the kids. But I don't know enough baseball to teach what these kids need to learn in order to keep playing.
Youngest Son pitched most of a 13 run inning in that 25-3 debacle. He was part of a nine run inning on Tuesday.
And yet, speaking as a neutral observer -- as neutral as I can be in the circumstances -- I swear it was not entirely his fault. Or even mostly. If a ground ball jumped into an infielder's glove in either of these last two games, he would have dropped it instead of throwing it to a base. We made more errors than the CIA did in concluding that Iraq had stockpiled weapons of mass destruction.
There was one positive development in Tuesday night's game. Because so many of our regular players were out, for one reason or another, we had to give a kid his first opportunity to pitch.
This is a big kid, a kid who's played a good first base for us most of the season. He caught a lot of games last year, but his last year's coach warned me that the kid was injured and lost for the season while catching. He broke both thumbs. We don't want kids hurt -- and his mother was fine with him playing first base. But as the defections mounted, we put him at catcher -- and he has a cannon for an arm.
Still, I didn't pitch him. He wasn't pushing for it either. But the 14 year-old All Star coach had given him some opportunities to throw batting practice, so he could get used to the idea of throwing while someone is standing at the plate. And he was starting to like the idea....
So I gave him a shot Tuesday night -- and he did well.
OK, so he gave up four runs. But he struck out the side in the first innning he pitched, walking only one (who, as kids do in our league, came around to score on a combination of wild pitches and stolen bases....)
Most importantly, the coach of the team we were playing is the freshman coach at the local high school. He asked me where this kid's parents were -- and I pointed out his mother, who comes to all the games. This other coach has now seen this kid at three positions -- and he wants him for the freshman team. And the kid is going to that school.
So I feel good about that.
But it's definitely time for me to go.
I've been a popular coach -- popular with most of the parents, that is -- because I don't try to bend the rules about playing everyone for three innings. Ours is a recreational league. Everyone is supposed to get their shot. And, for all the success my sons have enjoyed, it's the less talented kids with whom I identify. I was like them -- only not as good.
But the kids now are coming up on high school. If they want to play there, they have to play better. And (see above) I can't teach them.
At the picnic on Saturday, after our last game, I will tell them that I hope to read about their accomplishments -- in the Sports pages, sure, if it works out that way, but more imporantly in the "Schools" section in the local paper, where they publish the names of all the kids who make the honor roll.
It's about time.
You remember Bull Durham -- when Kevin Costner manufactures a "rainout"?
We got one of those today, only I didn't turn on the sprinklers. God did.
But we need a rainout that lasts the length of Noah's flood: We lost our last game 20-2. This was an improvement, I think, over our last loss: 25-3. The numbers are, however, proportionate.
Our best players have quit, or are injured, or have simply disappeared. And our left fielder returned from vacation with an earring. Not even Charlie Brown had to worry about a left fielder with an earring.
But I did.
No, it's time for me to hang it up. I like baseball. I like the kids. But I don't know enough baseball to teach what these kids need to learn in order to keep playing.
Youngest Son pitched most of a 13 run inning in that 25-3 debacle. He was part of a nine run inning on Tuesday.
And yet, speaking as a neutral observer -- as neutral as I can be in the circumstances -- I swear it was not entirely his fault. Or even mostly. If a ground ball jumped into an infielder's glove in either of these last two games, he would have dropped it instead of throwing it to a base. We made more errors than the CIA did in concluding that Iraq had stockpiled weapons of mass destruction.
There was one positive development in Tuesday night's game. Because so many of our regular players were out, for one reason or another, we had to give a kid his first opportunity to pitch.
This is a big kid, a kid who's played a good first base for us most of the season. He caught a lot of games last year, but his last year's coach warned me that the kid was injured and lost for the season while catching. He broke both thumbs. We don't want kids hurt -- and his mother was fine with him playing first base. But as the defections mounted, we put him at catcher -- and he has a cannon for an arm.
Still, I didn't pitch him. He wasn't pushing for it either. But the 14 year-old All Star coach had given him some opportunities to throw batting practice, so he could get used to the idea of throwing while someone is standing at the plate. And he was starting to like the idea....
So I gave him a shot Tuesday night -- and he did well.
OK, so he gave up four runs. But he struck out the side in the first innning he pitched, walking only one (who, as kids do in our league, came around to score on a combination of wild pitches and stolen bases....)
Most importantly, the coach of the team we were playing is the freshman coach at the local high school. He asked me where this kid's parents were -- and I pointed out his mother, who comes to all the games. This other coach has now seen this kid at three positions -- and he wants him for the freshman team. And the kid is going to that school.
So I feel good about that.
But it's definitely time for me to go.
I've been a popular coach -- popular with most of the parents, that is -- because I don't try to bend the rules about playing everyone for three innings. Ours is a recreational league. Everyone is supposed to get their shot. And, for all the success my sons have enjoyed, it's the less talented kids with whom I identify. I was like them -- only not as good.
But the kids now are coming up on high school. If they want to play there, they have to play better. And (see above) I can't teach them.
At the picnic on Saturday, after our last game, I will tell them that I hope to read about their accomplishments -- in the Sports pages, sure, if it works out that way, but more imporantly in the "Schools" section in the local paper, where they publish the names of all the kids who make the honor roll.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
The ties that bind are being loosened
One of my favorite columnists, Neil Steinberg , announced in his column Monday that he will no longer wear ties on hot days. He wrote, “I'm instituting what I call the 90-degree rule: If it's above 90, the necktie -- an antique bit of empty ritual that does no good to anybody except lawyers, and I'm not a lawyer -- stays in the closet.”
Well, I am a lawyer, and Tuesday was my day to serve as an arbitrator in the Cook County Mandatory Court Annexed Arbitration Program. That may sound more impressive than it actually is. About five or six times a year I sit as a member of a panel – each panel consisting of three lawyers – hearing smaller cases (cases in which less than $30,000 in damages are sought) filed in the Municipal Department of the Circuit Court of Cook County. Some of the rules of evidence are relaxed so that hearings can be conducted more swiftly. Each hearing takes less than two hours; we are assigned to hear three a day. We decide the facts and assess damages and costs and prepare written awards – awards which can be, and frequently are, rejected by one side or the other on payment of a $250 fee.
A disproportionate number of our cases involve “substandard” insurers – the kind that advertise on late night TV, not the ones that advertise during sporting events (although it is becoming increasingly difficult to articulate meaningful distinctions between the corporate behavior of the substandards and that of the so-called standard lines insurers). So there are dreary and repetitive cases involving property damage to cars that have been rear-ended (that should have settled with a phone call, with no suit ever being filed – or which should at least have been resolved in inter-company arbitration) and lots of cases involving modest injuries to people involved in low impact accidents – all treated with ‘therapy’ that consists largely of hot packs.
But now I’ve understated the case: It’s fun to serve as an arbitrator, particularly for a judge wanna-be like myself. One of the three lawyers has to preside at the hearing, and I usually get to be the chair. So, except for the much smaller pay, it’s kind of like being a judge. As close as I’m likely to get anytime soon, anyway.
And the other panelists are usually interesting people. Many are retirees. The Chicago Bar Association Senior Lawyers Committee supplied much of that first crop of arbitrators, more than 12 years ago. (In fact, that’s how I got to be an arbitrator; my father – a senior lawyer – was invited to go, and told me to go instead.) A lot of these original arbitrators are gone, now, just like my father - but the ones that are left are treasures. So I usually have great fun chatting before the lawyers come in to present their cases.
And that’s where we come back to the original thread of this story: The lawyers who present cases at the Arbitration Center are often young; these smaller cases provide useful training for budding trial lawyers. And the young lawyers may be harbingers of a change in the practice of law: Neither of the first two lawyers that came in Tuesday was wearing a tie. One wore a suit and an open-necked shirt. The other was dressed in khakis and a sport shirt – not tucked in. His client failed to appear; when he walked in with a folder and without anyone in tow, I initially thought he was a pro se – a person representing himself.
At our second hearing Tuesday, one of the lawyers wore a suit – but the other wore jeans and a denim shirt, sleeves rolled up, like he’d just come in from punching dogies home on the range. Although I don’t think he was wearing cowboy boots – I really didn’t have the heart to look.
Apparently, Mr. Steinberg, even the lawyers are starting to abandon neckties. What are we going to do without our ‘antique bits of empty ritual’?
Well, I am a lawyer, and Tuesday was my day to serve as an arbitrator in the Cook County Mandatory Court Annexed Arbitration Program. That may sound more impressive than it actually is. About five or six times a year I sit as a member of a panel – each panel consisting of three lawyers – hearing smaller cases (cases in which less than $30,000 in damages are sought) filed in the Municipal Department of the Circuit Court of Cook County. Some of the rules of evidence are relaxed so that hearings can be conducted more swiftly. Each hearing takes less than two hours; we are assigned to hear three a day. We decide the facts and assess damages and costs and prepare written awards – awards which can be, and frequently are, rejected by one side or the other on payment of a $250 fee.
A disproportionate number of our cases involve “substandard” insurers – the kind that advertise on late night TV, not the ones that advertise during sporting events (although it is becoming increasingly difficult to articulate meaningful distinctions between the corporate behavior of the substandards and that of the so-called standard lines insurers). So there are dreary and repetitive cases involving property damage to cars that have been rear-ended (that should have settled with a phone call, with no suit ever being filed – or which should at least have been resolved in inter-company arbitration) and lots of cases involving modest injuries to people involved in low impact accidents – all treated with ‘therapy’ that consists largely of hot packs.
But now I’ve understated the case: It’s fun to serve as an arbitrator, particularly for a judge wanna-be like myself. One of the three lawyers has to preside at the hearing, and I usually get to be the chair. So, except for the much smaller pay, it’s kind of like being a judge. As close as I’m likely to get anytime soon, anyway.
And the other panelists are usually interesting people. Many are retirees. The Chicago Bar Association Senior Lawyers Committee supplied much of that first crop of arbitrators, more than 12 years ago. (In fact, that’s how I got to be an arbitrator; my father – a senior lawyer – was invited to go, and told me to go instead.) A lot of these original arbitrators are gone, now, just like my father - but the ones that are left are treasures. So I usually have great fun chatting before the lawyers come in to present their cases.
And that’s where we come back to the original thread of this story: The lawyers who present cases at the Arbitration Center are often young; these smaller cases provide useful training for budding trial lawyers. And the young lawyers may be harbingers of a change in the practice of law: Neither of the first two lawyers that came in Tuesday was wearing a tie. One wore a suit and an open-necked shirt. The other was dressed in khakis and a sport shirt – not tucked in. His client failed to appear; when he walked in with a folder and without anyone in tow, I initially thought he was a pro se – a person representing himself.
At our second hearing Tuesday, one of the lawyers wore a suit – but the other wore jeans and a denim shirt, sleeves rolled up, like he’d just come in from punching dogies home on the range. Although I don’t think he was wearing cowboy boots – I really didn’t have the heart to look.
Apparently, Mr. Steinberg, even the lawyers are starting to abandon neckties. What are we going to do without our ‘antique bits of empty ritual’?
Nothing succeeds like success succession primogeniture
News Item: Todd Stroger, son of former Cook County Board President John Stroger, is slated by the Cook County Democratic Central Committee to take his father’s place as candidate for the presidency of the Cook County Board. John Stroger recently retired following a stroke he suffered earlier this year, in March – mere days before he won renomination in a hotly contested primary.
If elected in November, Todd Stroger will not be assuming his father’s separate seat on the Cook County Board. That office will pass to Alderman Bill Beavers – clearing the way for Beavers’ daughter, presently his chief of staff, to assume his aldermanic office.
Comment:Say, who should we complain to about this?
President Bush?
Illinois Attorney General Lisa Madigan?
Illinois State Comptroller Dan Hynes?
Chicago Mayor Richard M. Daley?
No, wait, these politicians all got their jobs because of their Daddies. (The list could go on... and on....)
I know! How about Illinois Governor Rod R. Blagojevich?
No, that won’t work either. He got his job through the good offices of his father-in-law, Ald. Dick Mell – although they’re feuding now.
This kind of stuff always comes as a shock to newspaper editorial writers and other people who you’d think would know better.
When I first ran for judge, 12 years ago now, I had to go door-to-door to collect signatures to get on the ballot. People would ask me about my credentials – but not what kind of a lawyer I am, or the kinds of cases I work on. No: They wanted to know, almost without exception, who my father was. Was he a judge? Police? Fire Department? Streets and San?
When I told them that my poor father had only worked as a lawyer for nearly 50 years, most of them with various title companies, and – excepting only a stint in the Army – never on a public payroll, my neighbors regarded me, not with disdain, or pity, but with a knowing look that said, “You’ll never get anywhere with this.” Some of them said this out loud. In those cases I always replied that this was certain to be true if they wouldn’t sign my petition – and most then did.
But, of course, I did lose. Badly.
In the tangled politics of Chicago, I was – well – not a peasant, not exactly – but certainly not royalty. My neighbors asked about my pedigree because they wanted to evaluate my chances. Might I be the slated candidate? Or was I just spitting in the wind? They knew what the editorial writers can't quite seem to understand: One must be born to the purple to get elected here.
Ah, democracy.
If elected in November, Todd Stroger will not be assuming his father’s separate seat on the Cook County Board. That office will pass to Alderman Bill Beavers – clearing the way for Beavers’ daughter, presently his chief of staff, to assume his aldermanic office.
Comment:Say, who should we complain to about this?
President Bush?
Illinois Attorney General Lisa Madigan?
Illinois State Comptroller Dan Hynes?
Chicago Mayor Richard M. Daley?
No, wait, these politicians all got their jobs because of their Daddies. (The list could go on... and on....)
I know! How about Illinois Governor Rod R. Blagojevich?
No, that won’t work either. He got his job through the good offices of his father-in-law, Ald. Dick Mell – although they’re feuding now.
This kind of stuff always comes as a shock to newspaper editorial writers and other people who you’d think would know better.
When I first ran for judge, 12 years ago now, I had to go door-to-door to collect signatures to get on the ballot. People would ask me about my credentials – but not what kind of a lawyer I am, or the kinds of cases I work on. No: They wanted to know, almost without exception, who my father was. Was he a judge? Police? Fire Department? Streets and San?
When I told them that my poor father had only worked as a lawyer for nearly 50 years, most of them with various title companies, and – excepting only a stint in the Army – never on a public payroll, my neighbors regarded me, not with disdain, or pity, but with a knowing look that said, “You’ll never get anywhere with this.” Some of them said this out loud. In those cases I always replied that this was certain to be true if they wouldn’t sign my petition – and most then did.
But, of course, I did lose. Badly.
In the tangled politics of Chicago, I was – well – not a peasant, not exactly – but certainly not royalty. My neighbors asked about my pedigree because they wanted to evaluate my chances. Might I be the slated candidate? Or was I just spitting in the wind? They knew what the editorial writers can't quite seem to understand: One must be born to the purple to get elected here.
Ah, democracy.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Soccer fails as substitute for war and other observations
France beat Germany.
That should have proved the point.
But then France faces Italy in a battle for world domination! (That, you should pardon the expression, is overkill.)
A.J. Pierzynski secures election as the 'last man' on the American League All-Star Team because Chicagoans vote early and often for the controversial catcher.
Meanwhile, in an unrelated story in a Chicago Federal court, four high-ranking members of Mayor Daley's administration, including Daley's former patronage chief, are convicted of fraud.
Or is it an unrelated story?
Former George Bush pal and disgraced Enron chairman Ken Lay succumbs to a heart attack before he could be sentenced.
In an unrelated story, George Bush celebrates his 60th birthday in Chicago with current pal Mayor Daley -- the same day that the Federal jury returns mostly guilty verdicts against the aforementioned four high-ranking members of Mayor Daley's administration.
Are these stories unrelated?
That should have proved the point.
But then France faces Italy in a battle for world domination! (That, you should pardon the expression, is overkill.)
A.J. Pierzynski secures election as the 'last man' on the American League All-Star Team because Chicagoans vote early and often for the controversial catcher.
Meanwhile, in an unrelated story in a Chicago Federal court, four high-ranking members of Mayor Daley's administration, including Daley's former patronage chief, are convicted of fraud.
Or is it an unrelated story?
Former George Bush pal and disgraced Enron chairman Ken Lay succumbs to a heart attack before he could be sentenced.
In an unrelated story, George Bush celebrates his 60th birthday in Chicago with current pal Mayor Daley -- the same day that the Federal jury returns mostly guilty verdicts against the aforementioned four high-ranking members of Mayor Daley's administration.
Are these stories unrelated?
Monday, July 03, 2006
All-Star Last Chance Ballot inspires best election slogan
White Sox catcher and enfant terrible A.J. Pierzynski is on the MLB "last chance" ballot, with a chance to be the seventh White Sox player to go to Pittsburgh for next week's All Star Game.
It's a classic Chicago-type election: We can vote as often as we wish, without fear of consequences. In fact, voting early and often is encouraged.
Pierzynski's candidacy has inspired a number of slogans, but none better the one I heard on the radio this morning.
It's a Chicago slogan. (And we revere catchy slogans here: "Punch 10" is still etched in our collective memories; pale imitations of that slogan were used even in the last primary, years after the demise of straight ticket voting, and even though the old punch ballots have been abandoned in the aftermath of Bush v. Gore).
It's a slogan even Michael Barrett can get behind.
Now, excuse me while I get back to voting: Punch Pierzynski.
It's a classic Chicago-type election: We can vote as often as we wish, without fear of consequences. In fact, voting early and often is encouraged.
Pierzynski's candidacy has inspired a number of slogans, but none better the one I heard on the radio this morning.
It's a Chicago slogan. (And we revere catchy slogans here: "Punch 10" is still etched in our collective memories; pale imitations of that slogan were used even in the last primary, years after the demise of straight ticket voting, and even though the old punch ballots have been abandoned in the aftermath of Bush v. Gore).
It's a slogan even Michael Barrett can get behind.
Now, excuse me while I get back to voting: Punch Pierzynski.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Bad karma, or something
From an AP story posted yesterday in Yahoo News:
BUFFALO, N.Y. - A pair of pot smokers picked the wrong day to use the drive-thru window at a KFC restaurant in Buffalo. Two men in their 20s pulled up to the restaurant's window and asked for the Wednesday special.Sometimes the only luck you have is bad. I imagine Messrs. Morris and Quick, desperate with munchies, still having the presence of mind to purposely bypass a Dunkin' Donuts moments before pulling into the KFC: "Whoa! Dude, don't pull in there, that's, like, a donut shop. It's like a cop magnet or something, man. There's a KFC up ahead. Let's go there!" (I'm hearing the voices of Cheech and Chong as I imagine this dialog; perhaps this is a function of my age; perhaps it's the reference to the 'biggest marijuana cigar you ever saw' that triggers this.)
Meanwhile, a couple of narcotics detectives were inside ordering their food. That's when a cloud of marijuana smoke wafted into the restaurant. The detectives then spotted the two men smoking what one of the cops called "the biggest marijuana cigar you ever saw."
The detectives went outside and arrested 23-year-old Charles Morris and 26-year-old Gregory Quick, both of Buffalo. The two men were charged with possession of marijuana and smoking it in public
Monday, June 19, 2006
Be careful what you change the channel to in the Curmudgeon's house
The White Sox had just finished sweeping Cincinnati and we were flipping channels to see what else was on -- a lazy Sunday afternoon in Middle America. Almost all of the family was gathered around the one-eyed monster, all except Younger Daughter. She was working at the neighbrohood hardware store. I had possession of the remote control device (a happenstance due largely to the fact that it was Father's Day and the children were humoring me -- ordinarily, they won't let me near the remote for fear I might put on an old movie, or, worse yet, an old musical).
To appreciate what happened next, it will be necessary to indulge in some backstory: Oldest Son can be the noisiest person in the world when he wants -- or doesn't want -- something. It was ever thus.
Once, when he was an infant, my late mother thought it would be a good idea to take my wife shopping. We had only two children at the time, Older Daughter and Oldest Son, and Oldest Son was still a bottle-feeding infant. I assume both of them came along, too; only Oldest Son figures in the story.
Oldest Son never ate much; as I've said before, we were convinced for a long time that he derived nourishment directly from air molecules.
But when he wanted his bottle, he wanted it. Right then. And there would be a couple of times a day where he would become most insistent about it. It didn't matter where we were; it didn't matter what we were doing. For a kid who doesn't eat much, being hungry is a need that must be attended to immediately.
Long Suffering Spouse tried to warn my mother; they were in Marshall Field's downtown which was then, and will be a few months still, a shopper's paradise. (It will shortly be re-named Macy's. Macy's may be a fine chain of stores. It figures in a great Christmas movie. But renaming Field's is a lousy idea that will only further New York-i-fy Chicago.)
And my mother was a shopper. When she died we found that she had more shoes than Imelda Marcos, many of them never worn -- and all of them purchased "on sale."
Sticking a sale sign in a pile of merchandise -- any merchandise -- was an irresistible lure for my mother. It wasn't fair. It wasn't sporting. It was like hunting deer over a salt lick.
And there were many such piles between the spot where Oldest Son first began to note that he was hungry and the 7th floor dining room where my mother wanted to do her grandmother thing. Those 7th floor dining rooms were just chock full, at luncheon, of matronly ladies, their slightly-stressed daughters or daughters-in-law, and their well-scrubbed and often bored grandkids.
I know my mother was looking forward to participating in this tradition, this rite of passage. But there were so many 'sale' signs along the way.
LSS' warnings got more urgent as the clock ticked ominously toward Oldest Son's (self-)appointed mealtime. My mother wasn't listening, though. It wasn't just the sales signs, though these mesmerized her; she was a grandmother now, a graduate mother, a fully experienced dispenser of maternal wisdom. No, she must have thought, babies fuss when their lunch is delayed. Babies always fuss, but all will be forgiven and forgotten when we get to the dining room.
LSS tried to explain to my mother the difference between normal fussing and what Oldest Son was about to do. And my mother must have thought, "Poor dear. She'll learn eventually. You just don't panic everytime a baby cries a little."
But Oldest Son didn't fuss. And he didn't cry.
He erupted! He exploded!
He had store patrons looking for the air-raid shelter signs they'd not looked for since the early '60's. And he made these deafening shrieks all the way to the 7th floor -- all the way to their table (they were seated quickly, for obvious reasons). He paused briefly when LSS stuck a bottle in his mouth. She'd had one ready; it needed only to be warmed and a staff person was only too glad to take the bottle from LSS the moment if was proffered.
But the bottle came back boiling hot, something which, in her eagerness to get Oldest Son to subside, LSS didn't notice. Neither, for a blessed silent second or two, did Oldest Son.
But he noticed then.
And resumed shrieking.
My mother had to hold him while LSS dashed off to the ladies' room to try and cool the bottle down. It must have been like holding an air horn that won't go off.
But eventually LSS returned -- and Oldest Son stopped shrieking -- and my mother never took him shopping again.
The other thing you need to know is that Oldest Son hates soccer.
He threatened to boycott ESPN when it profaned "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" by running it behind a World Cup promotion. Since he's an ESPN addict, this proved an empty threat.
But Oldest Son was far from animated yesterday afternoon. He was subdued. He was, we thought, possibly even hung over. He'd gone out Saturday night -- and come home in the wee small hours of Sunday morning. He was laying on the floor, in front of the TV, not trying to crowd anyone off the couch, as he usually would do.
So, mean old Curmudgeon that I am, possessed however briefly with the remote as I was, I flipped to ABC -- which was showing a World Cup Soccer match. And what did Oldest Son do?
He erupted! He exploded!
The windows rattled. The neighbors surely cringed.
I laughed so hard, I cried. I may have pulled a muscle.
I changed the channel quickly, however, and Oldest Son subsided. (Yes, I repeated this a couple of times, just for fun. If he was hung over, he paid a heavy price for keeping up this act....)
LSS said only, "He hasn't changed much, has he?"
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Later last night, I turned on the Jack Benny Show. Hey, it was still Father's Day and it's what I wanted to watch.
Older Daughter hates Jack Benny. She tried to imitate her brother's moves.
It was just as funny -- and thankfully not as loud.
I relinquished the remote and went to bed.
To appreciate what happened next, it will be necessary to indulge in some backstory: Oldest Son can be the noisiest person in the world when he wants -- or doesn't want -- something. It was ever thus.
Once, when he was an infant, my late mother thought it would be a good idea to take my wife shopping. We had only two children at the time, Older Daughter and Oldest Son, and Oldest Son was still a bottle-feeding infant. I assume both of them came along, too; only Oldest Son figures in the story.
Oldest Son never ate much; as I've said before, we were convinced for a long time that he derived nourishment directly from air molecules.
But when he wanted his bottle, he wanted it. Right then. And there would be a couple of times a day where he would become most insistent about it. It didn't matter where we were; it didn't matter what we were doing. For a kid who doesn't eat much, being hungry is a need that must be attended to immediately.
Long Suffering Spouse tried to warn my mother; they were in Marshall Field's downtown which was then, and will be a few months still, a shopper's paradise. (It will shortly be re-named Macy's. Macy's may be a fine chain of stores. It figures in a great Christmas movie. But renaming Field's is a lousy idea that will only further New York-i-fy Chicago.)
And my mother was a shopper. When she died we found that she had more shoes than Imelda Marcos, many of them never worn -- and all of them purchased "on sale."
Sticking a sale sign in a pile of merchandise -- any merchandise -- was an irresistible lure for my mother. It wasn't fair. It wasn't sporting. It was like hunting deer over a salt lick.
And there were many such piles between the spot where Oldest Son first began to note that he was hungry and the 7th floor dining room where my mother wanted to do her grandmother thing. Those 7th floor dining rooms were just chock full, at luncheon, of matronly ladies, their slightly-stressed daughters or daughters-in-law, and their well-scrubbed and often bored grandkids.
I know my mother was looking forward to participating in this tradition, this rite of passage. But there were so many 'sale' signs along the way.
LSS' warnings got more urgent as the clock ticked ominously toward Oldest Son's (self-)appointed mealtime. My mother wasn't listening, though. It wasn't just the sales signs, though these mesmerized her; she was a grandmother now, a graduate mother, a fully experienced dispenser of maternal wisdom. No, she must have thought, babies fuss when their lunch is delayed. Babies always fuss, but all will be forgiven and forgotten when we get to the dining room.
LSS tried to explain to my mother the difference between normal fussing and what Oldest Son was about to do. And my mother must have thought, "Poor dear. She'll learn eventually. You just don't panic everytime a baby cries a little."
But Oldest Son didn't fuss. And he didn't cry.
He erupted! He exploded!
He had store patrons looking for the air-raid shelter signs they'd not looked for since the early '60's. And he made these deafening shrieks all the way to the 7th floor -- all the way to their table (they were seated quickly, for obvious reasons). He paused briefly when LSS stuck a bottle in his mouth. She'd had one ready; it needed only to be warmed and a staff person was only too glad to take the bottle from LSS the moment if was proffered.
But the bottle came back boiling hot, something which, in her eagerness to get Oldest Son to subside, LSS didn't notice. Neither, for a blessed silent second or two, did Oldest Son.
But he noticed then.
And resumed shrieking.
My mother had to hold him while LSS dashed off to the ladies' room to try and cool the bottle down. It must have been like holding an air horn that won't go off.
But eventually LSS returned -- and Oldest Son stopped shrieking -- and my mother never took him shopping again.
The other thing you need to know is that Oldest Son hates soccer.
He threatened to boycott ESPN when it profaned "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" by running it behind a World Cup promotion. Since he's an ESPN addict, this proved an empty threat.
But Oldest Son was far from animated yesterday afternoon. He was subdued. He was, we thought, possibly even hung over. He'd gone out Saturday night -- and come home in the wee small hours of Sunday morning. He was laying on the floor, in front of the TV, not trying to crowd anyone off the couch, as he usually would do.
So, mean old Curmudgeon that I am, possessed however briefly with the remote as I was, I flipped to ABC -- which was showing a World Cup Soccer match. And what did Oldest Son do?
He erupted! He exploded!
The windows rattled. The neighbors surely cringed.
I laughed so hard, I cried. I may have pulled a muscle.
I changed the channel quickly, however, and Oldest Son subsided. (Yes, I repeated this a couple of times, just for fun. If he was hung over, he paid a heavy price for keeping up this act....)
LSS said only, "He hasn't changed much, has he?"
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Later last night, I turned on the Jack Benny Show. Hey, it was still Father's Day and it's what I wanted to watch.
Older Daughter hates Jack Benny. She tried to imitate her brother's moves.
It was just as funny -- and thankfully not as loud.
I relinquished the remote and went to bed.
Friday, June 16, 2006
"Clean Living" Has a Downside -- Or -- Why Dust Bunnies Are Good for You After All
This clip is from an AP story posted this afternoon on Yahoo:
In an early Woody Allen movie, Sleeper, Woody Allen's character awakens in a future in which scientists have learned that everything we thought was bad for you was good after all. Cigars and red meat are still suspect -- for now.
WASHINGTON - Gritty rats and mice living in sewers and farms seem to have healthier immune systems than their squeaky clean cousins that frolic in cushy antiseptic labs, two studies indicate. The lesson for humans: Clean living may make us sick.Think about it: All those times you told your toddler to stop eating dirt -- you never dreamed you were doing the kid long-term damage.
The studies give more weight to a 17-year-old theory that the sanitized Western world may be partly to blame for soaring rates of human allergy and asthma cases and some autoimmune diseases, such as Type I diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis. The theory, called the hygiene hypothesis, figures that people's immune systems aren't being challenged by disease and dirt early in life, so the body's natural defenses overreact to small irritants such as pollen.
The new studies, one of which was published Friday in the peer reviewed Scandinavian Journal of Immunology, found significant differences in the immune systems between euthanized wild and lab rodents.
When the immune cells in the wild rats are stimulated by researchers, "they just don't do anything they sit there; if you give them same stimulus to the lab rats, they go crazy," said study co-author Dr. William Parker, a Duke University professor of experimental surgery. He compared lab rodents to more than 50 wild rats and mice captured and killed in cities and farms.
Also, the wild mice and rats had as much as four times higher levels of immunoglobulins, yet weren't sick, showing an immune system tuned to fight crucial germs, but not minor irritants, Parker said. He said what happened in the lab rats is what likely occurs in humans: their immune systems have got it so cushy they overreact to smallest of problems.
* * *
Challenged immune systems — such as kids who grow up with two or more pets — don't tend to develop as many allergies, said Dr. Stanley Goldstein, director of Allergy & Asthma Care of Long Island.
In an early Woody Allen movie, Sleeper, Woody Allen's character awakens in a future in which scientists have learned that everything we thought was bad for you was good after all. Cigars and red meat are still suspect -- for now.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
I haven't done 'law stuff' here for awhile...
There are two reasons: First, I have a 'public' (i.e., not anonymous) blog that I started fairly recently for legal-type posts.
You never know what may drum up business. (So far, however, nothing.)
Second, we lost a colleague here at our Undisclosed Location. To a heart attack. Over the Memorial Day weekend. This man had been our ringleader in organizing the move to this new office; while he was far from enamored with the practice of law (who is?) he was happy with our accommodations here. At least after the carpet was replaced.
So, just at the moment, 'law stuff' isn't really funny, for me.
But, as Adlai Stevenson III famously said, 'the sap is rising.'
An essay is beginning to take shape on file churning and discovery abuse. If I put this forthcoming rant on the 'public' blog, where my observations might more readily be related to specific cases, it might be seen as a personal attack on the persons whose conduct has, well, inspired me. Since that is not my intention, I hope to post it here, some time in the next few days.
I assume we can always sort out what should have gone where when the book contracts are signed....
You never know what may drum up business. (So far, however, nothing.)
Second, we lost a colleague here at our Undisclosed Location. To a heart attack. Over the Memorial Day weekend. This man had been our ringleader in organizing the move to this new office; while he was far from enamored with the practice of law (who is?) he was happy with our accommodations here. At least after the carpet was replaced.
So, just at the moment, 'law stuff' isn't really funny, for me.
But, as Adlai Stevenson III famously said, 'the sap is rising.'
An essay is beginning to take shape on file churning and discovery abuse. If I put this forthcoming rant on the 'public' blog, where my observations might more readily be related to specific cases, it might be seen as a personal attack on the persons whose conduct has, well, inspired me. Since that is not my intention, I hope to post it here, some time in the next few days.
I assume we can always sort out what should have gone where when the book contracts are signed....
Monday, June 12, 2006
Screwing up a kids' game...
The following story is true; only the names have been changed for the protection of the innocent, the guilty, and, of course, the Curmudgeon.
The Bluejay Park Pony Reds had a make-up game last night in West Pond against the West Pond Pony White Sox; we rescheduled the game some weeks ago after an early season rainout.
Things haven't gone well for the Reds this season: We have a losing record. OK, we have an abysmal record. Coming into last night, we had won only three games -- and lost many, many more.
Part of the reason for our lack of success is the coaching: I love baseball -- but I never played the game at any organized level. I was a baseball fan, never a player. Other fathers teach their sons how to throw; I taught mine how to keep score. I'm a couch potato and a sci-fi geek. At one point in my life, I could actually use a slide rule. The good news is that I'm not trying to live out my athletic fantasies through little kids. I've seen people trying this and it is always ugly. And when it happened to Youngest Son, I was self-employed, and able to foolishly do something about it: I volunteered to coach.
When Youngest Son was 9, it was OK. My job was to carry the bag, put out the bases, and speak in reassuring tones to the over-concerned parents about their sons' blossoming talents. Nobody knew I didn't know anything; even when I told them I didn't know anything, they didn't believe me. I had the shirt and the hat; therefore, I was the wise old coach. And I could throw batting practice slow enough for the kids to hit. Of course, I couldn't throw any harder if I tried. (And sometimes I tried, so I know.)
But by the time kids are 13 and 14, they steal bases; they look for signs. They want to know who should take the throw at second. They want you to explain what is and is not a balk. I've known this day was coming, and I've been trying to quit for two years now -- but the good fathers in the Bluejay Park Baseball Association keep asking me to take another team. I'm in so far over my head that all the kids know just how little I really do know... and even the parents are finally beginning to suspect.
Fortunately for me -- and more fortunately for the kids -- I have an 'assistant' coach who actually does know a lot about baseball. And who can, and does, teach it well. He's happy to be the 'assistant' coach because he already coaches the grammar school team -- and, this way, he doesn't have to take or make the phone calls from the kids, nor does he have to keep the bag at his house. And he can play golf on Tuesdays, whether we have a game or not, because he's the 'assistant.' It would be an understatement to say that I defer to his better judgment on all occasions.
So -- despite my shortcomings -- coaching is not the sole reason for our sorry record. Part of it is that we're not too big. And what we lack in size, we lack in speed as well. I think all of the kids on the Bluejay Park Reds want to play baseball -- but most of them don't really want to work too hard at it. And some of them really would be happier as couch potatoes.
But this would be true, I suspect, of any random group of 13 and 14 year-olds who come out for baseball. And ours is a recreational league: Every kid, no matter how uncoordinated, must play for three innings in every seven inning game. Truth be told, I'd rather play a completely clueless and uncoordinated kid than a kid with a bad attitude. The uncoordinated kids will get better by playing, or hurt themselves trying. The kid with a bad attitude makes everyone around him worse. And nothing is his fault. Ever.
(You may think I have someone in mind as I write these words. I'd rather not admit that -- but there was a kid who, in our last game, missed an easy ground ball at his third base position -- so easy that one of our least coordinated kids would have had a better than 50/50 chance of picking it up and making the throw. And this kid blamed the third base coach on the other team for the error.)
At Bluejay Park, we take 'em all. The tall, the short, the skinny, the fat. The kids who want to play and the kids who want to play around. The kids who support their teammates and the kids who have a bad attitude. We have a draft, so to the problem children are, in theory, divided up equally.
But there are only three teams in our Pony Division at Bluejay Park.
There are six Pony teams at Gitche Gumee Park. They're supposed to take all comers, too.
But they never seem to have fat kids, or really slow ones, or kids who look like they may hurt themselves swinging a bat in the on-deck area. I tell our kids that these guys from Gitche Gumee Park drive themselves to the games. And they bring their own kids. And I tell myself I'm kidding -- but we had a game a couple of Saturdays ago, where we held off one of those Gitche Gumee teams for six innings before they finally punched through at the end. And when we lined up at the end of the game to shake hands, there were four kids taller than me on that other team.
They're supposed to be 13 or 14 years old. And I'm 6'2".
This brings us to last night, at West Pond. After our last humiliating defeat at the hands of another giant Gitche Gumee team, I told the kids that West Pond only had short kids, and fat ones, and kids with wooden legs. I was making it up, yes, but I wanted them to have some hope coming in.
So Youngest Son and I pull up to the park last night and there are kids taking infield/outfield on the diamond. And every last one of them was six feet tall.
"You told us they were midgets, Dad!" Youngest Son yelled.
I hadn't gotten entirely out of the car when I was met by one of the moms from our team. "Don't bother getting out the equipment," she said, "we probably won't play."
The good news was that the giants on the field weren't the team we were supposed to play. They were a Colt team -- 15 and 16 years old, and they were supposed to be bigger and taller than our kids.
The bad news was that the Colt team was scheduled to play on that same diamond at 8:00 pm, just as we were.
The West Pond Pony coach found me a few minutes later. The temperature was around 55°, but this guy was wearing a torn, sleeveless White Sox shirt, the better to show off the fact that he still lifts weights. Or moves boxes or cases of stuff for a living. And he had an earring.
Coach Earring was friendly enough, and apologetic: He would talk with the Colt coach and see if he could get him to relinquish the field. He told me if he couldn't talk the other coach off the field, he'd give us a forfeit. He said that the Colt coach had been at his house at 5:30 pm -- just a couple hours before -- trying to get the Pony coach to switch his game -- our game -- to 6:00 pm. If we all had beepers and helicopters we couldn't have arrived in West Pond in time. So Coach Earring had wisely rejected that plan.
As Coach Earring moved off to discuss real estate possession issues with the Colt coach, I gathered our troops and briefed parents as they arrived about our situation. One of the other moms came over with her younger children, pointing to the youngest, saying that they had to move because they were standing too close to the discussion between Coach Earring and the Colt coach, then ongoing, and the youngest child was learning too many new words. I resolved that, in the event of fisticuffs, I would advise our people to run away as fast as possible.
But violence was averted, and Coach Earring returned in due course: We had the field. Our kids stretched out and took infield practice; his kids started loosening up in left field. I didn't count their noses; what mattered to me was that we had 10 of ours ready to play. I made out a line-up and figured who'd sit the first inning. We gave them a pep talk; the 'assistant' coach had a good story about a game he played in high school, on a team that was better than its record showed.
It was then that I realized it was after 8:00. I wandered over to find Coach Earring and exchange line-ups. He was standing at the backstop. The Colt team was still hanging around, too, down the left field line -- and the team they were supposed to play was milling around the parking lot, waiting.
Coach Earring was unhappy. He only had seven kids, one of them a move-up. League rules require him to have eight to start a game, and he was minutes away from having to forfeit. A kid I took to be Coach Earring's son -- another one who was easily six feet tall -- was asking Coach Earring to call everyone on the team again. Apparently one kid on the team had showed up early -- and had been run off by the Colt team. When Coach Earring called the first time, the kid's mom said he wasn't coming back. Two kids on his 10-man roster were in Washington, on their 8th grade class trip. The whereabouts of the 10th man were unknown. "Who can I call?" Coach Earring asked.
Coach Earring asked if I'd agree to let him play with seven and take the two outs at the bottom of the order; I looked at the two Colt teams hovering just offstage and thought that my consent might be irrelevant. The umpire dashed Coach Earring's hopes about playing with seven shortly thereafter.
So we won by forfeit. And our kids seemed happy about it -- a win is a win. The parents seemed of two minds: They were aggravated to have come so far for nothing, but they, too, seemed happy to take away a 'victory.' I didn't mind getting home earlier than I expected -- but I also wanted the kids to play. I had set aside the time to be there.
As I was packing our bag to leave, Coach Earring came by and asked if maybe we could reschedule this rescheduled game and avoid a forfeit that way. You don't have to do that, he said, which even I already knew. I looked around at the rapidly departing Reds. "I don't think I can," I said. I'm afraid the parents might stone me if I agreed, I thought to myself.
Homework assignment: What would you have told Coach Earring?
The Bluejay Park Pony Reds had a make-up game last night in West Pond against the West Pond Pony White Sox; we rescheduled the game some weeks ago after an early season rainout.
Things haven't gone well for the Reds this season: We have a losing record. OK, we have an abysmal record. Coming into last night, we had won only three games -- and lost many, many more.
Part of the reason for our lack of success is the coaching: I love baseball -- but I never played the game at any organized level. I was a baseball fan, never a player. Other fathers teach their sons how to throw; I taught mine how to keep score. I'm a couch potato and a sci-fi geek. At one point in my life, I could actually use a slide rule. The good news is that I'm not trying to live out my athletic fantasies through little kids. I've seen people trying this and it is always ugly. And when it happened to Youngest Son, I was self-employed, and able to foolishly do something about it: I volunteered to coach.
When Youngest Son was 9, it was OK. My job was to carry the bag, put out the bases, and speak in reassuring tones to the over-concerned parents about their sons' blossoming talents. Nobody knew I didn't know anything; even when I told them I didn't know anything, they didn't believe me. I had the shirt and the hat; therefore, I was the wise old coach. And I could throw batting practice slow enough for the kids to hit. Of course, I couldn't throw any harder if I tried. (And sometimes I tried, so I know.)
But by the time kids are 13 and 14, they steal bases; they look for signs. They want to know who should take the throw at second. They want you to explain what is and is not a balk. I've known this day was coming, and I've been trying to quit for two years now -- but the good fathers in the Bluejay Park Baseball Association keep asking me to take another team. I'm in so far over my head that all the kids know just how little I really do know... and even the parents are finally beginning to suspect.
Fortunately for me -- and more fortunately for the kids -- I have an 'assistant' coach who actually does know a lot about baseball. And who can, and does, teach it well. He's happy to be the 'assistant' coach because he already coaches the grammar school team -- and, this way, he doesn't have to take or make the phone calls from the kids, nor does he have to keep the bag at his house. And he can play golf on Tuesdays, whether we have a game or not, because he's the 'assistant.' It would be an understatement to say that I defer to his better judgment on all occasions.
So -- despite my shortcomings -- coaching is not the sole reason for our sorry record. Part of it is that we're not too big. And what we lack in size, we lack in speed as well. I think all of the kids on the Bluejay Park Reds want to play baseball -- but most of them don't really want to work too hard at it. And some of them really would be happier as couch potatoes.
But this would be true, I suspect, of any random group of 13 and 14 year-olds who come out for baseball. And ours is a recreational league: Every kid, no matter how uncoordinated, must play for three innings in every seven inning game. Truth be told, I'd rather play a completely clueless and uncoordinated kid than a kid with a bad attitude. The uncoordinated kids will get better by playing, or hurt themselves trying. The kid with a bad attitude makes everyone around him worse. And nothing is his fault. Ever.
(You may think I have someone in mind as I write these words. I'd rather not admit that -- but there was a kid who, in our last game, missed an easy ground ball at his third base position -- so easy that one of our least coordinated kids would have had a better than 50/50 chance of picking it up and making the throw. And this kid blamed the third base coach on the other team for the error.)
At Bluejay Park, we take 'em all. The tall, the short, the skinny, the fat. The kids who want to play and the kids who want to play around. The kids who support their teammates and the kids who have a bad attitude. We have a draft, so to the problem children are, in theory, divided up equally.
But there are only three teams in our Pony Division at Bluejay Park.
There are six Pony teams at Gitche Gumee Park. They're supposed to take all comers, too.
But they never seem to have fat kids, or really slow ones, or kids who look like they may hurt themselves swinging a bat in the on-deck area. I tell our kids that these guys from Gitche Gumee Park drive themselves to the games. And they bring their own kids. And I tell myself I'm kidding -- but we had a game a couple of Saturdays ago, where we held off one of those Gitche Gumee teams for six innings before they finally punched through at the end. And when we lined up at the end of the game to shake hands, there were four kids taller than me on that other team.
They're supposed to be 13 or 14 years old. And I'm 6'2".
This brings us to last night, at West Pond. After our last humiliating defeat at the hands of another giant Gitche Gumee team, I told the kids that West Pond only had short kids, and fat ones, and kids with wooden legs. I was making it up, yes, but I wanted them to have some hope coming in.
So Youngest Son and I pull up to the park last night and there are kids taking infield/outfield on the diamond. And every last one of them was six feet tall.
"You told us they were midgets, Dad!" Youngest Son yelled.
I hadn't gotten entirely out of the car when I was met by one of the moms from our team. "Don't bother getting out the equipment," she said, "we probably won't play."
The good news was that the giants on the field weren't the team we were supposed to play. They were a Colt team -- 15 and 16 years old, and they were supposed to be bigger and taller than our kids.
The bad news was that the Colt team was scheduled to play on that same diamond at 8:00 pm, just as we were.
The West Pond Pony coach found me a few minutes later. The temperature was around 55°, but this guy was wearing a torn, sleeveless White Sox shirt, the better to show off the fact that he still lifts weights. Or moves boxes or cases of stuff for a living. And he had an earring.
Coach Earring was friendly enough, and apologetic: He would talk with the Colt coach and see if he could get him to relinquish the field. He told me if he couldn't talk the other coach off the field, he'd give us a forfeit. He said that the Colt coach had been at his house at 5:30 pm -- just a couple hours before -- trying to get the Pony coach to switch his game -- our game -- to 6:00 pm. If we all had beepers and helicopters we couldn't have arrived in West Pond in time. So Coach Earring had wisely rejected that plan.
As Coach Earring moved off to discuss real estate possession issues with the Colt coach, I gathered our troops and briefed parents as they arrived about our situation. One of the other moms came over with her younger children, pointing to the youngest, saying that they had to move because they were standing too close to the discussion between Coach Earring and the Colt coach, then ongoing, and the youngest child was learning too many new words. I resolved that, in the event of fisticuffs, I would advise our people to run away as fast as possible.
But violence was averted, and Coach Earring returned in due course: We had the field. Our kids stretched out and took infield practice; his kids started loosening up in left field. I didn't count their noses; what mattered to me was that we had 10 of ours ready to play. I made out a line-up and figured who'd sit the first inning. We gave them a pep talk; the 'assistant' coach had a good story about a game he played in high school, on a team that was better than its record showed.
It was then that I realized it was after 8:00. I wandered over to find Coach Earring and exchange line-ups. He was standing at the backstop. The Colt team was still hanging around, too, down the left field line -- and the team they were supposed to play was milling around the parking lot, waiting.
Coach Earring was unhappy. He only had seven kids, one of them a move-up. League rules require him to have eight to start a game, and he was minutes away from having to forfeit. A kid I took to be Coach Earring's son -- another one who was easily six feet tall -- was asking Coach Earring to call everyone on the team again. Apparently one kid on the team had showed up early -- and had been run off by the Colt team. When Coach Earring called the first time, the kid's mom said he wasn't coming back. Two kids on his 10-man roster were in Washington, on their 8th grade class trip. The whereabouts of the 10th man were unknown. "Who can I call?" Coach Earring asked.
Coach Earring asked if I'd agree to let him play with seven and take the two outs at the bottom of the order; I looked at the two Colt teams hovering just offstage and thought that my consent might be irrelevant. The umpire dashed Coach Earring's hopes about playing with seven shortly thereafter.
So we won by forfeit. And our kids seemed happy about it -- a win is a win. The parents seemed of two minds: They were aggravated to have come so far for nothing, but they, too, seemed happy to take away a 'victory.' I didn't mind getting home earlier than I expected -- but I also wanted the kids to play. I had set aside the time to be there.
As I was packing our bag to leave, Coach Earring came by and asked if maybe we could reschedule this rescheduled game and avoid a forfeit that way. You don't have to do that, he said, which even I already knew. I looked around at the rapidly departing Reds. "I don't think I can," I said. I'm afraid the parents might stone me if I agreed, I thought to myself.
Homework assignment: What would you have told Coach Earring?
Friday, June 09, 2006
English to be our national language...
And what was it before?
Yet recent Congressional action adopting English as our lingua franca has sparked outrage among the literati: Fr. Greeley's reaction in this morning's Chicago Sun-Times is typical.
I guess they fear that we'll descend to the level of the French, who routinely, and with impeccable comic effect, try to purge non-French words from common usage. Nothing escapes the French 'language police' -- even the term for e-mail had to be appropriately frenchified.
Yet, somehow, I don't see latter day Edwin Newmans or William Safires campaigning to strip English of invading words like 'pizza' or 'taco.' It would be far better to acquaint the allegedly English-speaking masses in this country with the richness (dare I say, the glorious pastiche) of the English language -- and move their vocabulary beyond George Carlin's Seven Dirty Words.
Yet recent Congressional action adopting English as our lingua franca has sparked outrage among the literati: Fr. Greeley's reaction in this morning's Chicago Sun-Times is typical.
I guess they fear that we'll descend to the level of the French, who routinely, and with impeccable comic effect, try to purge non-French words from common usage. Nothing escapes the French 'language police' -- even the term for e-mail had to be appropriately frenchified.
Yet, somehow, I don't see latter day Edwin Newmans or William Safires campaigning to strip English of invading words like 'pizza' or 'taco.' It would be far better to acquaint the allegedly English-speaking masses in this country with the richness (dare I say, the glorious pastiche) of the English language -- and move their vocabulary beyond George Carlin's Seven Dirty Words.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Middle Son still unemployed
He's applied at a number of places, I'm told, and he's clearly a bit defensive about it. Just the other night, when Oldest Son -- the one with two jobs, but both unpaid -- began gooning Middle Son about his jobless state, the volume level increased and the quality of language decreased to the point where, next day, the neighbor made a point of asking my Long Suffering Spouse, "Is everything OK?"
But Middle Son has raised a number of obstacles to obtaining employment: He can't work evenings and maybe not even in the late afternoons because the weight room at his school is only open then. And he's slated to pitch on weekends for a team in the summer league his college coach has put together. This Sunday's doubleheader was cancelled at the last minute -- so I begin to question the necessity of scheduling around these things.
And Middle Son would apparently be willing to work around these scheduling difficulties, too, for the right kind of money: Last week he answered an ad that promised employment at $1,000 to $1,200 a week. The ad did not specify what sort of work might be required for this princely sum, but Middle Son was invited to interview for the position when he called to inquire.
The job was near Midway Airport; we live near O'Hare -- but for that kind of money, Middle Son was willing to travel. After his interview, I asked what Middle Son would be doing.
"Driving an SUV," he said, "delivering stereo equipment." He explained that the job would be five days a week, 10 hours a day, from 8:30 am to 6:30 pm.
"Where?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Does this job just involve delivery or do you sell the equipment as well?"
"I don't know."
"What kind of equipment is it?"
"I don't know."
"To what sorts of places would you be delivering this equipment?"
"I don't know."
The interview continued a while longer yet, but the pattern did not change. Long Suffering Spouse said, "This sounds like a scam to me."
"Of course it's a scam," I replied, if for no other reason than no real employer would turn an 18-year old loose driving any vehicle in the City of Chicago, much less an SUV, but Middle Son wanted to return the next morning for the start of his three day "training." He left the house early in the morning to make certain he'd be on time. Ninety minutes later, he was on his way home.
"It was a scam," Middle Son said. "It was a sales job.... They told us we'd be starting our own business...."
The college coach has since offered Middle Son an exciting opportunity in the field of telemarketing. Middle Son is increasingly tempted, but still hopes to find something on his own.
I suggested that something in the fast food industry might be in order: He could work the early morning hours that he says he wants and still put together enough hours in a week to earn some meaningful spending money for the coming school year. He certainly has vast experience as a product tester. Moreover, I told him, when he's rich and famous he can be part of a national ad campaign touting his first successful foray into the world of work.
But Middle Son said he would rather call business people like me and endure the abuse we dish out to telemarketers who routinely interrupt our days than be spattered with a little bit of french fry grease. I told him I don't like calling people I know, much less strangers; I'd much rather push a mop and pail around the floor while wearing a silly paper hat. "Well, that's how we're different, Dad," Middle Son said.
Homework assignment: Which would you choose? Telemarketer? Or entry level fast food drone?
But Middle Son has raised a number of obstacles to obtaining employment: He can't work evenings and maybe not even in the late afternoons because the weight room at his school is only open then. And he's slated to pitch on weekends for a team in the summer league his college coach has put together. This Sunday's doubleheader was cancelled at the last minute -- so I begin to question the necessity of scheduling around these things.
And Middle Son would apparently be willing to work around these scheduling difficulties, too, for the right kind of money: Last week he answered an ad that promised employment at $1,000 to $1,200 a week. The ad did not specify what sort of work might be required for this princely sum, but Middle Son was invited to interview for the position when he called to inquire.
The job was near Midway Airport; we live near O'Hare -- but for that kind of money, Middle Son was willing to travel. After his interview, I asked what Middle Son would be doing.
"Driving an SUV," he said, "delivering stereo equipment." He explained that the job would be five days a week, 10 hours a day, from 8:30 am to 6:30 pm.
"Where?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Does this job just involve delivery or do you sell the equipment as well?"
"I don't know."
"What kind of equipment is it?"
"I don't know."
"To what sorts of places would you be delivering this equipment?"
"I don't know."
The interview continued a while longer yet, but the pattern did not change. Long Suffering Spouse said, "This sounds like a scam to me."
"Of course it's a scam," I replied, if for no other reason than no real employer would turn an 18-year old loose driving any vehicle in the City of Chicago, much less an SUV, but Middle Son wanted to return the next morning for the start of his three day "training." He left the house early in the morning to make certain he'd be on time. Ninety minutes later, he was on his way home.
"It was a scam," Middle Son said. "It was a sales job.... They told us we'd be starting our own business...."
The college coach has since offered Middle Son an exciting opportunity in the field of telemarketing. Middle Son is increasingly tempted, but still hopes to find something on his own.
I suggested that something in the fast food industry might be in order: He could work the early morning hours that he says he wants and still put together enough hours in a week to earn some meaningful spending money for the coming school year. He certainly has vast experience as a product tester. Moreover, I told him, when he's rich and famous he can be part of a national ad campaign touting his first successful foray into the world of work.
But Middle Son said he would rather call business people like me and endure the abuse we dish out to telemarketers who routinely interrupt our days than be spattered with a little bit of french fry grease. I told him I don't like calling people I know, much less strangers; I'd much rather push a mop and pail around the floor while wearing a silly paper hat. "Well, that's how we're different, Dad," Middle Son said.
Homework assignment: Which would you choose? Telemarketer? Or entry level fast food drone?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
I thought "Gasoline Alley" was closed
Gasoline Alley was one of my favorite comics growing up -- not hard-edged or hard-hitting, granted, but gentle and good-hearted. And it was multi-generational, where characters age with the readers, blazing a trail for current favorites which use this device, like For Better or For Worse. Gasoline Alley provided smiles, as opposed to guffaws. Not that the Curmudgeon is opposed to guffaws -- but I, too, am aiming for smiles here. (If you find here an occasional guffaw, so much the better.)
Anyway, Gasoline Alley was dropped by the Chicago Tribune ages ago, but apparently not discontinued. I just found it -- looking for something else of course. I've set up a link to follow it for awhile; I hope it's still as nice.
Anyway, Gasoline Alley was dropped by the Chicago Tribune ages ago, but apparently not discontinued. I just found it -- looking for something else of course. I've set up a link to follow it for awhile; I hope it's still as nice.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Good News / Bad News
All five kids are "in the house" now, at least for awhile. This Summer may be the very last time we are all together like this.
And I have decidedly mixed feelings about it. Sort of like the "good news/bad news" jokes that were once in vogue....
Good News: They're all home.
Bad News: I can never lay down on the couch and watch TV.
Good News: Older Daughter is a college graduate at last.
Bad News: She's unemployed. She says she's looking for work in Indianapolis (wherein resides her boyfriend, sometimes herein referred to as "ODB" for Older Daughter's Boyfriend) but that's hard to do while staying in Chicago. And when she was in Indianapolis, last week, at the home of ODB's family, how many employment agencies did she visit? (If you answered "none" or "zero," you answered correctly.) We've encouraged Older Daughter to look for work in Chicago -- hiring on at a national concern might open up an opportunity for her to transfer to Indianapolis... or wherever ODB decides to go to grad school. But she's babysitting instead. Older Daughter does things her way, or not at all.
Good News: Oldest Son snagged not one, but two internships -- both in his field -- this summer.
Bad News: They're both unpaid.
Good News: Middle Son has finally realized that he needs to get a summer job.
Bad News: He hasn't actually found one.
Good News: Middle Son is looking for a job.
Bad News: This does not deter him from going out every night at 10:00 p.m. or later and coming home as late as 1:00 a.m. He then finds it difficult, for some reason, to get up in the morning, so his job search starts in the afternoons -- and he's surprised that he's only hearing about jobs available in afternoons and evenings. That would interfere with his baseball schedule. Of course, his continuing concern about baseball is...
Good News: Middle Son seems serious about getting better and stronger and improving his pitching velocity this Summer.
Bad News: He's not playing in any of the prestige Summer leagues. This kid is 6'4" tall, a left-handed pitcher; he has potential to become very good and maybe, just maybe, play baseball professionally -- but somebody besides his (possibly prejudiced) old man must see him play. I don't think scouts will be coming to the games in the league where he's playing this Summer.
Good News: Youngest Son was the starting pitcher for his grammar school team yesterday and was not charged with a single earned run.
Bad News: Just a whole bunch of unearned ones.
Good News: Oldest Son finally talked me into getting a high-speed Internet connection for the home.
Bad News: Our chances of seriously limiting Younger Daughter's on-line time have just about vanished. At least, enforcement of meaningful limits will become that much more problematic. And confrontational.
I could go on, but the end of the month is coming, and I have to figure out a way to get next month's rent....
And I have decidedly mixed feelings about it. Sort of like the "good news/bad news" jokes that were once in vogue....
Good News: They're all home.
Bad News: I can never lay down on the couch and watch TV.
Good News: Older Daughter is a college graduate at last.
Bad News: She's unemployed. She says she's looking for work in Indianapolis (wherein resides her boyfriend, sometimes herein referred to as "ODB" for Older Daughter's Boyfriend) but that's hard to do while staying in Chicago. And when she was in Indianapolis, last week, at the home of ODB's family, how many employment agencies did she visit? (If you answered "none" or "zero," you answered correctly.) We've encouraged Older Daughter to look for work in Chicago -- hiring on at a national concern might open up an opportunity for her to transfer to Indianapolis... or wherever ODB decides to go to grad school. But she's babysitting instead. Older Daughter does things her way, or not at all.
Good News: Oldest Son snagged not one, but two internships -- both in his field -- this summer.
Bad News: They're both unpaid.
Good News: Middle Son has finally realized that he needs to get a summer job.
Bad News: He hasn't actually found one.
Good News: Middle Son is looking for a job.
Bad News: This does not deter him from going out every night at 10:00 p.m. or later and coming home as late as 1:00 a.m. He then finds it difficult, for some reason, to get up in the morning, so his job search starts in the afternoons -- and he's surprised that he's only hearing about jobs available in afternoons and evenings. That would interfere with his baseball schedule. Of course, his continuing concern about baseball is...
Good News: Middle Son seems serious about getting better and stronger and improving his pitching velocity this Summer.
Bad News: He's not playing in any of the prestige Summer leagues. This kid is 6'4" tall, a left-handed pitcher; he has potential to become very good and maybe, just maybe, play baseball professionally -- but somebody besides his (possibly prejudiced) old man must see him play. I don't think scouts will be coming to the games in the league where he's playing this Summer.
Good News: Youngest Son was the starting pitcher for his grammar school team yesterday and was not charged with a single earned run.
Bad News: Just a whole bunch of unearned ones.
Good News: Oldest Son finally talked me into getting a high-speed Internet connection for the home.
Bad News: Our chances of seriously limiting Younger Daughter's on-line time have just about vanished. At least, enforcement of meaningful limits will become that much more problematic. And confrontational.
I could go on, but the end of the month is coming, and I have to figure out a way to get next month's rent....
Monday, May 22, 2006
Confessions of a public masticator
I was enjoying a sandwich at my desk when my colleague walked in and sat down.
He countenance was grave; his manner direct: "Have you ever masticated in public?"
I was shocked by this question. I fought the urge to panic and flee. Since I could see no easy out for me, I felt I had to confess.
"Yes," I said.
"When was the last time?" he asked. (What did he know? I wondered. What did he suspect?)
I felt full disclosure might was the only safe course: "A week ago Saturday night," I answered. "In Champaign, at a restaurant."
"Did you feel dirty and guilty when you did it?"
I had not expected the moral question. On reflection, though, I found I did not feel either shame or guilt. "No," I answered. "It was the only way for me to swallow my food without choking on it."
My colleague threw back his head and laughed. "When we're gone," he said -- meaning our generation, not us two in particular -- "it's all over for English. The younger people neither use nor know the language."
To masticate is to chew. What did you think we were talking about?
He countenance was grave; his manner direct: "Have you ever masticated in public?"
I was shocked by this question. I fought the urge to panic and flee. Since I could see no easy out for me, I felt I had to confess.
"Yes," I said.
"When was the last time?" he asked. (What did he know? I wondered. What did he suspect?)
I felt full disclosure might was the only safe course: "A week ago Saturday night," I answered. "In Champaign, at a restaurant."
"Did you feel dirty and guilty when you did it?"
I had not expected the moral question. On reflection, though, I found I did not feel either shame or guilt. "No," I answered. "It was the only way for me to swallow my food without choking on it."
My colleague threw back his head and laughed. "When we're gone," he said -- meaning our generation, not us two in particular -- "it's all over for English. The younger people neither use nor know the language."
To masticate is to chew. What did you think we were talking about?
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
McCartney, wife announce split
Ex-Beatle Paul McCartney and his wife Heather have announced that they are separating.
Sir Paul is 63.
Now we know the answer to the musical question that McCartney asked nearly 40 years ago (Will you still need me/ Will you still feed me/ When I'm 64?): Apparently not.
Sir Paul is 63.
Now we know the answer to the musical question that McCartney asked nearly 40 years ago (Will you still need me/ Will you still feed me/ When I'm 64?): Apparently not.
Hmmmmm
Neil Steinberg, in today's Sun-Times, quoting Dr. Samuel Johnson: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money."
Uh oh.
Uh oh.
Monday, May 15, 2006
One down -- four to go
Older Daughter graduated from college this weekend.
Probably.
Her name was in the program. Her name was called and she walked across the stage at the English Department convocation. She received an empty folder, however -- all of the would-be graduates did. The school thinks they've graduated, but it reserves the right to say differently after this semester's final grades are turned in.
Still, despite the weasel words in the graduation program, I am confident that Older Daughter, in fact, graduated. This was a proud moment for the Old Curmudgeon, one not even ruined by Oldest Son's cynical (if probably accurate) observation, gesturing generally at the several hundred English graduates, "The unemployment rate just went up in Illinois...."
Older Daughter is now officially unemployed. And she hasn't yet figured out what she will do to remedy this. She doesn't even know when she's moving home. She figures she can stay in her Champaign apartment until August, but that would make it difficult to find work in Chicago. She should be here, now, pounding the pavement as of this morning. Instead she talks vaguely of babysitting in Chicago and working in the bookstore in Champaign. Without violating the established laws of nature, this plan can not possibly work.
In the last couple of months Older Daughter has toyed with the notion of going to law school -- she decided to explore this possibility too late for the coming school year, but she'd already indicated she intended to work this year anyway. At first it was to earn money for nursing school. Nursing school? Not that there's anything wrong with nursing, obviously -- but an English degree is not the traditional entree to a nursing career.
And Older Daughter has firmly rejected anything having to do with "business." But what's left when you throw that out? (Besides nursing. And babysitting. And maybe working in the bookstore.)
The sad fact is that Older Daughter will lose her health insurance benefits in a few months, not because her mother and I are big meanies (though we may be) but because she will 'age out' of our coverage. If she doesn't return home, she won't be insured on our auto policy. Not that she presently has a car, or any hopes of acquiring one.
LSS and I are hoping to have a long chat with Older Daughter when her "graduation brain" gets back to something approaching normal. It won't be today. Older Daughter's called already today, wondering whether I still have scrap of green paper she gave me with directions on where to go for Saturday's ceremony. That long-since discarded scrap of paper may -- or may not -- have on it the telephone number of the company that rented the caps and gowns and there seems to be some question as to whether it is already too late for Older Daughter and her boyfriend (ODB) to return these items.
Welcome to the real world, Class of 2006. We're probably not ready for you either.
Probably.
Her name was in the program. Her name was called and she walked across the stage at the English Department convocation. She received an empty folder, however -- all of the would-be graduates did. The school thinks they've graduated, but it reserves the right to say differently after this semester's final grades are turned in.
Still, despite the weasel words in the graduation program, I am confident that Older Daughter, in fact, graduated. This was a proud moment for the Old Curmudgeon, one not even ruined by Oldest Son's cynical (if probably accurate) observation, gesturing generally at the several hundred English graduates, "The unemployment rate just went up in Illinois...."
Older Daughter is now officially unemployed. And she hasn't yet figured out what she will do to remedy this. She doesn't even know when she's moving home. She figures she can stay in her Champaign apartment until August, but that would make it difficult to find work in Chicago. She should be here, now, pounding the pavement as of this morning. Instead she talks vaguely of babysitting in Chicago and working in the bookstore in Champaign. Without violating the established laws of nature, this plan can not possibly work.
In the last couple of months Older Daughter has toyed with the notion of going to law school -- she decided to explore this possibility too late for the coming school year, but she'd already indicated she intended to work this year anyway. At first it was to earn money for nursing school. Nursing school? Not that there's anything wrong with nursing, obviously -- but an English degree is not the traditional entree to a nursing career.
And Older Daughter has firmly rejected anything having to do with "business." But what's left when you throw that out? (Besides nursing. And babysitting. And maybe working in the bookstore.)
The sad fact is that Older Daughter will lose her health insurance benefits in a few months, not because her mother and I are big meanies (though we may be) but because she will 'age out' of our coverage. If she doesn't return home, she won't be insured on our auto policy. Not that she presently has a car, or any hopes of acquiring one.
LSS and I are hoping to have a long chat with Older Daughter when her "graduation brain" gets back to something approaching normal. It won't be today. Older Daughter's called already today, wondering whether I still have scrap of green paper she gave me with directions on where to go for Saturday's ceremony. That long-since discarded scrap of paper may -- or may not -- have on it the telephone number of the company that rented the caps and gowns and there seems to be some question as to whether it is already too late for Older Daughter and her boyfriend (ODB) to return these items.
Welcome to the real world, Class of 2006. We're probably not ready for you either.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
I second the motion
Richard Roeper says Jim Thome looks like Mr. Incredible.
You know? He's absolutely right. I wish I'd thought of it first.... In fact, if I'd been smart enough to go to Harvard (like Kaavya Viswanathan) I might have told you that I did think of it first....
You know? He's absolutely right. I wish I'd thought of it first.... In fact, if I'd been smart enough to go to Harvard (like Kaavya Viswanathan) I might have told you that I did think of it first....
If it's raining, we must have a game scheduled....
Spring comes sporadically in the Midwest; many years we go from Winter to Summer in Chicago with no transition at all. This has been a warm Spring, and, generally, a nice one, weather-wise. But once youth baseball starts, all bets are off.
Take this week for instance: To everyone's chagrin and dismay, I coach Youngest Son's Pony League team. We have only one game scheduled this week, on Wednesday. Youngest Son also has games scheduled with his grammar school team on Tuesday and Thursday.
Yesterday, the weather was nice -- but, then, we didn't have a game. But today, Wednesday, and Thursday? Tom Skilling says we may have the most rain we've had all year.
I begin to take this all personally....
Take this week for instance: To everyone's chagrin and dismay, I coach Youngest Son's Pony League team. We have only one game scheduled this week, on Wednesday. Youngest Son also has games scheduled with his grammar school team on Tuesday and Thursday.
Yesterday, the weather was nice -- but, then, we didn't have a game. But today, Wednesday, and Thursday? Tom Skilling says we may have the most rain we've had all year.
I begin to take this all personally....
Monday, May 08, 2006
Doing Dad duty, part one -- and an eventual commercial tie-in to The Da Vinci Code
Middle-aged men are supposed to be established in their careers, with accumulated vacation time and "people" to take care of things when they can't be at the office. At least that's what I've been told.
Unfortunately this middle-aged man is a sole practitioner, barely covering the rent at the moment. This is an inevitable consequence of my recent office move: I wasn't working a couple of months ago; I'm not collecting any fees now.
But I sure have a flexible schedule. (When you don't have enough business it's real easy being flexible.)
And my Long Suffering Spouse, who's working as a teacher, and whose benefits package currently includes our health insurance coverage, has very limited flexibility: It's almost more work to plan a day off than it is to work the day.
So when the trainer at Younger Daughter's school called last week to advise that Younger Daughter's shin splints had returned with a vengeance, I was delegated to obtain the medical treatment.
Younger Daughter first came up with shin splints last year, as a freshman, when she ran cross country. We discovered she had flat feet; we got inserts for her feet and different shoes and she took some time off from running. Things got better. Then she ran track in the Spring of last year -- and the shin splints came back. She couldn't finish the season.
We therefore entered into this Fall's soccer season with a certain trepidation, concerned about the possibility of recurrence. We didn't notice when Younger Daughter began popping Advil or Motrin by the handful; we had only begun to notice that our supplies were dwindling when the trainer's call came. Apparently Younger Daughter was finding it difficult to actually go up and down the stairs in the school. The trainer suspected that the shin splints might have actually ripened into stress fractures.
So I drove to work on Tuesday, not because I had a doctor's appointment, but just in case I was able to procure one.
It turns out that it is most difficult to get in to see an orthopedic doctor on short notice. I called the doctor who successfully treated Youngest Son's strained MCL during football season; the prior relationship was enough to get the appointment secretary to take my call until she figured out that I was calling about a different child. Then I got routed back to the triage nurse -- in fairness, more because of the doctor leaving for vacation Thursday than because of any other factor. But I was at my silver-tongued best, and the triage nurse bounced me back to the appointment secretary. I got a Wednesday appointment.
My office mates were impressed: No one, they said, gets an appointment with a specialist in under 24 hours except in cases of the most dire emergency.
LSS was not so impressed: Maybe we should call someone else, she said. This delay was unacceptable; our daughter is hurting now. I persuaded her that this would not get us seen any faster. She said maybe we should go to the emergency room; I reminded her that when we took Youngest Son to the ER after his injury at football practice, the doctors there casted his ankle. But it was a knee sprain, as I've mentioned already. So going to the ER would not necessarily be helpful.
So we kept our appointment with the orthopedic doctor. That is, I kept it: I picked Younger Daughter up at school at 2:00 p.m. She got out at 1:30 p.m. She didn't miss a minute of school. But I missed another half day of work.
The specialist is a nice young man, very smart and apparently very competent. He told us the x-rays he took were inconclusive, but when he examined Younger Daughter he agreed that she did have shin splints so severe that they might have become stress fractures. If the bones were actually fractured, the treatment would of course be different. The only way to find out, he said, was to have a bone scan done. But, unlike the x-rays, this test couldn't be done at his office.
Once again, LSS was not impressed: What do you mean we have to wait again? And then he'll be on vacation and we still won't have an answer?
I got back to the house and started calling the hospital. Sure we can do the test for your daughter, I was told: How about next Tuesday? I knew that wouldn't go over well, so I whined and I moaned and I begged and I pleaded -- and I eventually got an appointment for the next day, Thursday.
Of course, I'd miss another half day of work. This time, I had to pick Younger Daughter up at noon.
But it wasn't all bad. I got to read back issues of the New Yorker in the waiting room. And one of the old people who came into the room actually was brave enough to turn off the TV. I wouldn't watch the soaps or the talk shows, you understand, but they are a distraction. And naturally, although the White Sox were playing an afternoon game, the telecast was only on cable. But I would never have mustered the courage to push the off button. I'd be afraid someone would yell at me.
Younger Daughter made me buy her a late lunch in the hospital cafeteria; this was during the two hours between tests. She told me how she'd talked to the tech about how she was studying bone development in Biology this semester and the tech was very informative then about all that was going on. Eventually, the radiologist came in and added his comments -- what I heard was that he saw no fractures. I thought this good news -- but what Younger Daughter heard was that she had "mild" shin splints. She was insulted.
LSS was furious when she heard this, even though I tried to "spin" it by leading with the news that the radiologist found no fractures. He's incompetent, she said; we have to change doctors, she said. I said, wait a minute; this isn't the doctor who's providing treatment, this is only the doctor reading the bone scans.
I agree that Younger Daughter and LSS are right to take exception to the suggestion that these shin splints are mild. Younger Daughter went to the trainer because the pain was intolerable -- and she has a high pain tolerance. Every child is different: Her sister, Older Daughter, was the model for the Princess in the Princess and the Pea. She could never have endured the constant pain that Younger Daughter put up with for weeks so she could play soccer. Not that there's anything wrong with low pain tolerance: I myself am allergic to pain. (This goes hand in glove with my natural cowardice.)
But I was just a tad upset that LSS was so seemingly critical of everything I'd done.
And then it hit me: Wives are never satisfied with what their husbands do. LSS wasn't really upset with me; it's just part of the job description. Wives are so used to us husbands performing our duties in a haphazard manner, so they have to pick up behind us, that they don't always recognize those few occasions where we may actually get it right. And it's not that wives are dissatisfied with how we perform our fatherly obligations -- no, this general dissatisfaction extends to all areas, and I do mean all areas, judging by the many commercials for... well, you know.
And then I hit on a commercial tie-in: The Da Vinci Code will open in a week or so, perhaps the most anticipated potential blockbuster of the Summer movie season. A central premise of the book, of course, is that Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene and that they had a child. Do you think Mary Magdalene would have been satisfied with everything her husband did?
In fact, that's why I dismiss this central premise of The Da Vinci Code out of hand. If Jesus had been married, there would be evidence of spousal disapproval in the Bible.
Consider the miracle of the loaves and fishes: This is recounted in every single Gospel narrative. If Jesus had been married, the story would have ended very differently -- something like this: And, lo, Mary Magdalene came to Jesus and said unto Him, "So, Mr. Big Shot. These people come all this way to hear you talk and all you give them is bread and fish? You couldn't come up with a cold beverage for everyone, or maybe a nice slice of pie?"
Unfortunately this middle-aged man is a sole practitioner, barely covering the rent at the moment. This is an inevitable consequence of my recent office move: I wasn't working a couple of months ago; I'm not collecting any fees now.
But I sure have a flexible schedule. (When you don't have enough business it's real easy being flexible.)
And my Long Suffering Spouse, who's working as a teacher, and whose benefits package currently includes our health insurance coverage, has very limited flexibility: It's almost more work to plan a day off than it is to work the day.
So when the trainer at Younger Daughter's school called last week to advise that Younger Daughter's shin splints had returned with a vengeance, I was delegated to obtain the medical treatment.
Younger Daughter first came up with shin splints last year, as a freshman, when she ran cross country. We discovered she had flat feet; we got inserts for her feet and different shoes and she took some time off from running. Things got better. Then she ran track in the Spring of last year -- and the shin splints came back. She couldn't finish the season.
We therefore entered into this Fall's soccer season with a certain trepidation, concerned about the possibility of recurrence. We didn't notice when Younger Daughter began popping Advil or Motrin by the handful; we had only begun to notice that our supplies were dwindling when the trainer's call came. Apparently Younger Daughter was finding it difficult to actually go up and down the stairs in the school. The trainer suspected that the shin splints might have actually ripened into stress fractures.
So I drove to work on Tuesday, not because I had a doctor's appointment, but just in case I was able to procure one.
It turns out that it is most difficult to get in to see an orthopedic doctor on short notice. I called the doctor who successfully treated Youngest Son's strained MCL during football season; the prior relationship was enough to get the appointment secretary to take my call until she figured out that I was calling about a different child. Then I got routed back to the triage nurse -- in fairness, more because of the doctor leaving for vacation Thursday than because of any other factor. But I was at my silver-tongued best, and the triage nurse bounced me back to the appointment secretary. I got a Wednesday appointment.
My office mates were impressed: No one, they said, gets an appointment with a specialist in under 24 hours except in cases of the most dire emergency.
LSS was not so impressed: Maybe we should call someone else, she said. This delay was unacceptable; our daughter is hurting now. I persuaded her that this would not get us seen any faster. She said maybe we should go to the emergency room; I reminded her that when we took Youngest Son to the ER after his injury at football practice, the doctors there casted his ankle. But it was a knee sprain, as I've mentioned already. So going to the ER would not necessarily be helpful.
So we kept our appointment with the orthopedic doctor. That is, I kept it: I picked Younger Daughter up at school at 2:00 p.m. She got out at 1:30 p.m. She didn't miss a minute of school. But I missed another half day of work.
The specialist is a nice young man, very smart and apparently very competent. He told us the x-rays he took were inconclusive, but when he examined Younger Daughter he agreed that she did have shin splints so severe that they might have become stress fractures. If the bones were actually fractured, the treatment would of course be different. The only way to find out, he said, was to have a bone scan done. But, unlike the x-rays, this test couldn't be done at his office.
Once again, LSS was not impressed: What do you mean we have to wait again? And then he'll be on vacation and we still won't have an answer?
I got back to the house and started calling the hospital. Sure we can do the test for your daughter, I was told: How about next Tuesday? I knew that wouldn't go over well, so I whined and I moaned and I begged and I pleaded -- and I eventually got an appointment for the next day, Thursday.
Of course, I'd miss another half day of work. This time, I had to pick Younger Daughter up at noon.
But it wasn't all bad. I got to read back issues of the New Yorker in the waiting room. And one of the old people who came into the room actually was brave enough to turn off the TV. I wouldn't watch the soaps or the talk shows, you understand, but they are a distraction. And naturally, although the White Sox were playing an afternoon game, the telecast was only on cable. But I would never have mustered the courage to push the off button. I'd be afraid someone would yell at me.
Younger Daughter made me buy her a late lunch in the hospital cafeteria; this was during the two hours between tests. She told me how she'd talked to the tech about how she was studying bone development in Biology this semester and the tech was very informative then about all that was going on. Eventually, the radiologist came in and added his comments -- what I heard was that he saw no fractures. I thought this good news -- but what Younger Daughter heard was that she had "mild" shin splints. She was insulted.
LSS was furious when she heard this, even though I tried to "spin" it by leading with the news that the radiologist found no fractures. He's incompetent, she said; we have to change doctors, she said. I said, wait a minute; this isn't the doctor who's providing treatment, this is only the doctor reading the bone scans.
I agree that Younger Daughter and LSS are right to take exception to the suggestion that these shin splints are mild. Younger Daughter went to the trainer because the pain was intolerable -- and she has a high pain tolerance. Every child is different: Her sister, Older Daughter, was the model for the Princess in the Princess and the Pea. She could never have endured the constant pain that Younger Daughter put up with for weeks so she could play soccer. Not that there's anything wrong with low pain tolerance: I myself am allergic to pain. (This goes hand in glove with my natural cowardice.)
But I was just a tad upset that LSS was so seemingly critical of everything I'd done.
And then it hit me: Wives are never satisfied with what their husbands do. LSS wasn't really upset with me; it's just part of the job description. Wives are so used to us husbands performing our duties in a haphazard manner, so they have to pick up behind us, that they don't always recognize those few occasions where we may actually get it right. And it's not that wives are dissatisfied with how we perform our fatherly obligations -- no, this general dissatisfaction extends to all areas, and I do mean all areas, judging by the many commercials for... well, you know.
And then I hit on a commercial tie-in: The Da Vinci Code will open in a week or so, perhaps the most anticipated potential blockbuster of the Summer movie season. A central premise of the book, of course, is that Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene and that they had a child. Do you think Mary Magdalene would have been satisfied with everything her husband did?
In fact, that's why I dismiss this central premise of The Da Vinci Code out of hand. If Jesus had been married, there would be evidence of spousal disapproval in the Bible.
Consider the miracle of the loaves and fishes: This is recounted in every single Gospel narrative. If Jesus had been married, the story would have ended very differently -- something like this: And, lo, Mary Magdalene came to Jesus and said unto Him, "So, Mr. Big Shot. These people come all this way to hear you talk and all you give them is bread and fish? You couldn't come up with a cold beverage for everyone, or maybe a nice slice of pie?"
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Thoughts while walking home
The Cadillac Palace Theatre is not far from my undisclosed location, and I've walked past it a couple of times in the past few days since Spamalot returned to Chicago.
In fact, I've walked by in the early evening, as people were arriving for the show.
And this temptation has almost overwhelmed me: Should I or shouldn't I try out my Silly Walk as I go past?
In fact, I've walked by in the early evening, as people were arriving for the show.
And this temptation has almost overwhelmed me: Should I or shouldn't I try out my Silly Walk as I go past?
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