Yes, I know it's been awhile since I visited. I'm sorry.
I haven't abandoned the online world. Actually, I've posted at least 100 posts since anything last appeared here -- but these were on my real-world blogs, under my own name.
I'd explain, but the explanation would give away my secret identity and, of course, we can't have that now, can we?
I miss this blog, but the world intervenes.
Indeed, I've just finished printing up a bunch of cases for me to read on the train tonight -- if I can find a seat (by no means certain) -- so I can work on an appellate brief I've promised... and abandoned... and promised again... while I was busy working on the real life blogs.
It's a funny thing. I don't get paid to blog, but there's some psychic satisfaction in the act of writing. I'm supposed to make my living from the practice of law -- but I too seldom get paid. And almost never without a struggle. Meanwhile, people -- some of them Important People -- tell me they like my real-life blog. I can't buy groceries with compliments, of course, but it provides satisfaction in a way that a check doesn't. Especially when I've had to beg and scrape and whimper and plead and yell and scream and beg some more to finally, eventually, at long last get that check.
Thank goodness for family to keep one's priorities in order. Not only do they spend the money I bring home much faster than I can bring it home -- thereby reminding me to keep begging and whining, etc. -- they resolutely refuse to see any value or utility in my real-life blog, even when I showed them a recent email from one of the aforementioned Important People thanking me for my efforts. "That's nice," Younger Daughter said, handing it back to me, "but where is the remote for the TV?" "That's nice," said Long Suffering Spouse, "but can he get you a job that pays money?"
Cassandra, I say. A prophet is always without honor in his own country, I say. They are unimpressed.
But I should be able to visit more often soon.
That way, you can soon be unimpressed again, too.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Monday, February 03, 2014
A guest post from the Baby to Named Later: Getting down to really basic stuff
I found another note from my granddaughter, this one tucked in the pocket of my winter coat. My granddaughter's printing remains a challenge, but I have endeavored to faithfully transcribe what she wrote.
Well, Grampy, this is the first note I've been able to leave you in quite a while. It's not because I have writer's block. I'm just trying not to bust your secret blog wide open. Ever since I learned to walk reliably I am almost always being followed. I sure can't leave anything beneath the high chair anymore; Mom would smoke that out in a second. (She got wise to my storing food under the chair for later consumption, too.)
I'm 16 months old now and, I have to tell you, getting old is tough.
When does this teething stuff end?
The other day Mom asked you that very question. I wasn't thrilled with your answer. "In her case," you said, indicating me, "it may never end. After all her regular teeth come in, she may start on a second row."
You were kidding, Grampy. Right?
I'm not always sure.
I am becoming increasingly sure that you're going to get saddled with 'Grampy' as your new name. It's kind of a contraction of Grandpa and Grumpy. Somehow, it seems to fit.
But you're right not to blame me for this handle.
Oh, Mom and Grandma (Grammy?) are promoting the idea that I started it because, sometimes, when you come home, I say g-g-g-g-g-g. (My ability to express myself vocally has a ways to go to catch up with my writing ability.)
They told you that I was trying to say Grampy but you said it might be that I'm just imitating the noise you make when you down your first vodka in the evening. Your explanation certainly fits the facts.
One of the problems of constant teething is that, sometimes, the pain gets to me. I get, shall we say, a little irritable. [A little irritable? She gets rigid like a board and screams like a banshee -- Ed.] Sometimes ice chips help. Sometimes I just need to bite things. Spoons. Keys. But, when all else fails, Mom has to give me medicine. That stops the pain, or at least numbs it, but it also stops other, er, processes that Mom seems to think are really important.
As a result, Mom has given me enough prune juice to flood a small city. It gets tiresome after a while.
And then, when things finally do get moving again, and I go wandering off for a little private time, one of you is always following me.
Just because I get into things you say I shouldn't. The pantry, for instance. Mom -- that traitor -- took a picture of me after I pulled down the Rice Krispies box out of the pantry and dumped it all over the floor. Then she sent you the picture. Look, I was hungry, OK? And I know you don't want me messing with your computer, but I've figured out how to take it out of 'sleep mode' and I've pretty much puzzled out how a mouse works. Soon I'll be able to get my own Elmo videos and not have to wait for you grownups to figure out what I require. Of course, Mom had to take a picture of me fiddling with the computer, too. Busted again.
But we were talking about something else. Eventually, whoever's following me -- you, Daddy, Mom, Grammy -- figures out that I need a little time alone -- but, by that time, too often, the opportunity has passed. And nothing else. (Who wants an audience for that sort of thing?)
I've tried dragging a book with me when I head into the living room for a little alone time. You always seem to have a book or magazine with you when you do you-know-what. I frankly don't see why. It doesn't make anything happen faster. I thought you might do it so everyone else knows not to follow you. But they don't follow you around the house the same way they follow me, do they?
Sometimes I like to be followed. Chased, even. I run around a loop through the old den and the new den and the kitchen and the dining room and I want someone to follow me. (And you'd better, because I'll empty the recycling if you don't hide it, or look for food in the garbage if you don't put the can behind the gate going to the basement, or empty one of the cabinets of pots and pans if you don't.)
Of course, you've got this game all figured out. You catch me -- you block me with one hand when I try and run past your recliner and you pull and tug and I laugh and giggle until I start to get aggravated and then you let me go. "Oh!" you say, "She got away again!" But I know you let me go on purpose. And then Mom or Dad chases me. You stay in your chair, watching TV, until I come around again. "Not this time," you say -- but you know, and I know, that you'll let me go again in a few seconds. And off Mom or Dad will go again. I think that's pretty sneaky, Grampy. Were you always like that?
Well, Grampy, this is the first note I've been able to leave you in quite a while. It's not because I have writer's block. I'm just trying not to bust your secret blog wide open. Ever since I learned to walk reliably I am almost always being followed. I sure can't leave anything beneath the high chair anymore; Mom would smoke that out in a second. (She got wise to my storing food under the chair for later consumption, too.)
I'm 16 months old now and, I have to tell you, getting old is tough.
When does this teething stuff end?
The other day Mom asked you that very question. I wasn't thrilled with your answer. "In her case," you said, indicating me, "it may never end. After all her regular teeth come in, she may start on a second row."
You were kidding, Grampy. Right?
I'm not always sure.
I am becoming increasingly sure that you're going to get saddled with 'Grampy' as your new name. It's kind of a contraction of Grandpa and Grumpy. Somehow, it seems to fit.
But you're right not to blame me for this handle.
Oh, Mom and Grandma (Grammy?) are promoting the idea that I started it because, sometimes, when you come home, I say g-g-g-g-g-g. (My ability to express myself vocally has a ways to go to catch up with my writing ability.)
They told you that I was trying to say Grampy but you said it might be that I'm just imitating the noise you make when you down your first vodka in the evening. Your explanation certainly fits the facts.
One of the problems of constant teething is that, sometimes, the pain gets to me. I get, shall we say, a little irritable. [A little irritable? She gets rigid like a board and screams like a banshee -- Ed.] Sometimes ice chips help. Sometimes I just need to bite things. Spoons. Keys. But, when all else fails, Mom has to give me medicine. That stops the pain, or at least numbs it, but it also stops other, er, processes that Mom seems to think are really important.
As a result, Mom has given me enough prune juice to flood a small city. It gets tiresome after a while.
And then, when things finally do get moving again, and I go wandering off for a little private time, one of you is always following me.
Just because I get into things you say I shouldn't. The pantry, for instance. Mom -- that traitor -- took a picture of me after I pulled down the Rice Krispies box out of the pantry and dumped it all over the floor. Then she sent you the picture. Look, I was hungry, OK? And I know you don't want me messing with your computer, but I've figured out how to take it out of 'sleep mode' and I've pretty much puzzled out how a mouse works. Soon I'll be able to get my own Elmo videos and not have to wait for you grownups to figure out what I require. Of course, Mom had to take a picture of me fiddling with the computer, too. Busted again.
But we were talking about something else. Eventually, whoever's following me -- you, Daddy, Mom, Grammy -- figures out that I need a little time alone -- but, by that time, too often, the opportunity has passed. And nothing else. (Who wants an audience for that sort of thing?)
I've tried dragging a book with me when I head into the living room for a little alone time. You always seem to have a book or magazine with you when you do you-know-what. I frankly don't see why. It doesn't make anything happen faster. I thought you might do it so everyone else knows not to follow you. But they don't follow you around the house the same way they follow me, do they?
Sometimes I like to be followed. Chased, even. I run around a loop through the old den and the new den and the kitchen and the dining room and I want someone to follow me. (And you'd better, because I'll empty the recycling if you don't hide it, or look for food in the garbage if you don't put the can behind the gate going to the basement, or empty one of the cabinets of pots and pans if you don't.)
Of course, you've got this game all figured out. You catch me -- you block me with one hand when I try and run past your recliner and you pull and tug and I laugh and giggle until I start to get aggravated and then you let me go. "Oh!" you say, "She got away again!" But I know you let me go on purpose. And then Mom or Dad chases me. You stay in your chair, watching TV, until I come around again. "Not this time," you say -- but you know, and I know, that you'll let me go again in a few seconds. And off Mom or Dad will go again. I think that's pretty sneaky, Grampy. Were you always like that?
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Paper still has a place in the world
I like my tablet and I've reached a rapprochement with my smart phone. I've been blogging, off and on, for almost a decade (this is, after all, my Second Effort). So I'm not totally tech-averse. I'm not a doctrinaire Luddite, whatever my kids may tell you.
Still, my desk at the Undisclosed Location is choked with paper. Stacked high. I still find I read better on paper than I do on the screen. I read newspapers. I read books. No one steals a newspaper or book from you on the el going home; iPhone users have to be aware of "Apple pickers."
Perhaps that explains why I really laughed out loud when I saw this commercial online this morning. Perhaps no explanation is really needed.
Irrational exuberance in getting from Point A to Point B
A major problem with a real winter like this one -- over and above survival, I mean -- is that we who are experiencing it first-hand are taking pride in accomplishing the things we'd do every single day regardless of the weather. Like showing up to work, I mean.
Take this morning, for example. We had a half foot of lake effect snow that slammed us last night, just as Polar Vortex II was settling over the Chicago area. (The sequels are never as good as the originals, are they? This morning it was a comparatively balmy 2̊ F, not the nearly -20̊ like we had on January 6.)
And we had a full foot of snow on the night of January 4-5, to go along with the foot we picked up for New Year's, so six inches of partly cloudy looks like nothing at all.
The difference is that, on the 5th, before the real cold set in, we had pretty much all day to shovel. This morning, we were shoveling in the cold.
But, anyway, here I am at the Undisclosed Location; the proof is before you on your screen.
And I feel like I've done my day's work already.
I don't think I'm the only one who feels like this.
Indeed, I've seen a number of reports from people who are lamenting the harshness of this winter and pining for spring. In my mind, I want to shout at all of them, Get a grip! It's still January, people! (The Blizzard of '67 was at the end of January, you'll recall. And Snowpocalypse hit on Groundhog's Day 2011.) But the rest of me kind of agrees with my whiny neighbors.
Scientists, of course, are blaming all this on global warming.
And -- my documented skepticism about the degree to which humans impact climate change except on a local level notwithstanding -- I'm inclined to agree with them.
We've had well over 40" of snow in Chicago this year so far. That's already above our normal average of 38" for the entire Fall, Winter and Spring season from October to May. Yes, it can snow in Chicago in May; a trace of snow has been recorded here as late as June. (That was in 1910, however. It's only 'recent' if you figure it as an event occurring after the Cubs last won the World Series....)
Last year at this time, according to the news last night, we'd had less than an inch and a half of snow officially (February and March did their best to pick up the slack, as I recall). On the other hand, although a trace fell in October 2012, there was no snow of an inch or more in Chicago for over 319 days last year.
A body could get used to that. I did get used to that and, judging by the wailing and gnashing of teeth hereabouts, a lot of folks did, too.
Our weather this winter is not unprecedented; it's well within the range of normal in my lifetime. But because it hasn't happened recently, for many people it's as if this is all new.
It isn't.
Global warming?
Maybe.
I don't mean that global warming is causing it to snow or not snow. I can't prove that one way or the other. But all this talk of global warming has made wimps of us all. I can prove that, just by my smug satisfaction at merely making it into the office....
Take this morning, for example. We had a half foot of lake effect snow that slammed us last night, just as Polar Vortex II was settling over the Chicago area. (The sequels are never as good as the originals, are they? This morning it was a comparatively balmy 2̊ F, not the nearly -20̊ like we had on January 6.)
And we had a full foot of snow on the night of January 4-5, to go along with the foot we picked up for New Year's, so six inches of partly cloudy looks like nothing at all.
The difference is that, on the 5th, before the real cold set in, we had pretty much all day to shovel. This morning, we were shoveling in the cold.
But, anyway, here I am at the Undisclosed Location; the proof is before you on your screen.
And I feel like I've done my day's work already.
I don't think I'm the only one who feels like this.
Indeed, I've seen a number of reports from people who are lamenting the harshness of this winter and pining for spring. In my mind, I want to shout at all of them, Get a grip! It's still January, people! (The Blizzard of '67 was at the end of January, you'll recall. And Snowpocalypse hit on Groundhog's Day 2011.) But the rest of me kind of agrees with my whiny neighbors.
Scientists, of course, are blaming all this on global warming.
And -- my documented skepticism about the degree to which humans impact climate change except on a local level notwithstanding -- I'm inclined to agree with them.
We've had well over 40" of snow in Chicago this year so far. That's already above our normal average of 38" for the entire Fall, Winter and Spring season from October to May. Yes, it can snow in Chicago in May; a trace of snow has been recorded here as late as June. (That was in 1910, however. It's only 'recent' if you figure it as an event occurring after the Cubs last won the World Series....)
Last year at this time, according to the news last night, we'd had less than an inch and a half of snow officially (February and March did their best to pick up the slack, as I recall). On the other hand, although a trace fell in October 2012, there was no snow of an inch or more in Chicago for over 319 days last year.
A body could get used to that. I did get used to that and, judging by the wailing and gnashing of teeth hereabouts, a lot of folks did, too.
Our weather this winter is not unprecedented; it's well within the range of normal in my lifetime. But because it hasn't happened recently, for many people it's as if this is all new.
It isn't.
Global warming?
Maybe.
I don't mean that global warming is causing it to snow or not snow. I can't prove that one way or the other. But all this talk of global warming has made wimps of us all. I can prove that, just by my smug satisfaction at merely making it into the office....
Monday, January 13, 2014
Updated for your convenience
The good news about my blogging for over eight years now is that, no matter how long you've been reading Second Effort, you probably haven't seen everything I've put on offer. (While that may actually be a good thing, we'll defer taking up that question to a different day.) Anyway, if click over here and there's nothing new, there's no reason to go away mad or stop your subscription or delete your bookmark. Pick a month and a year in the archives and, hopefully, you'll soon find something not entirely stale which you'd not read previously and which you might actually enjoy.
For the last couple of years, I've always kept a list of posts up in the Sidebar that visitors might find interesting. (I'm ever hopeful.) Until this morning, I had a list of Christmas-themed posts.
It is, of course, time to take down the Christmas decorations. It's really too soon to put up my list of baseball posts. I could put my football posts back up, I suppose (it is NFL playoff season), but instead I made this list -- a potpourri, as it were -- of essays on work and family and some larger topics. I hope one or more of these may be to your liking. Meanwhile, I have to get some actual work done today.
For the last couple of years, I've always kept a list of posts up in the Sidebar that visitors might find interesting. (I'm ever hopeful.) Until this morning, I had a list of Christmas-themed posts.
It is, of course, time to take down the Christmas decorations. It's really too soon to put up my list of baseball posts. I could put my football posts back up, I suppose (it is NFL playoff season), but instead I made this list -- a potpourri, as it were -- of essays on work and family and some larger topics. I hope one or more of these may be to your liking. Meanwhile, I have to get some actual work done today.
- Speaking ill of the living: business development in the modern age (November 2008)
- Mr. Language Curmudgeon defines “martyr” (August 2010)
- For $1,000, Curmudgeon gets a free lunch (October 2012)
- What is America? (December 2010)
- Landlords always take out the garbage and other tall tales I have learned (November 2007)
- My first oral argument (April 2007)
- Why the iPad so terrifies Curmudgeon (April 2010)
- Curmudgeon has a grand time getting the family van repaired (May 2011)
- There's a mouse in the house (September 2011)
- On mushrooms, White Castle, and other dodges (March 2011)
- Curmudgeon on insurance coverage litigation (April 2012)
- Lincoln, circuit riding, civility... and sanctions (August 2009)
- Walter – or how I almost lost my first legal job before I started (November 2006)
- Toolmaking ability and the perils of modern law practice (November 2006)
- Oldest Son’s interview brings back memories – really, really bad ones (October 2006)
- From the archives, a cautionary tale: (December 2005)
- Father’s Day at the Curmudgeon Manse (June 2013)
Friday, January 10, 2014
The Three Kings have come and gone and we still haven't sent out any Christmas cards
The 12 Days of Christmas are over. It was Greek Christmas this past Tuesday. By any standard you can articulate, the Christmas season has come and gone.
Not only did we not take a family Christmas picture this year, we didn't even send out one card. I didn't open anyone else's Christmas card myself either; a couple were opened by others and called to my attention, but I don't like to look at other people's Christmas cards until I've sent my own. So this year I just didn't look.
*Sigh* We'll just have to do better next year.
Part of it, I suppose, is that with the baby in the house, we spend a more of our evenings defending our territory than in any productive pursuit.
That grandbaby is a one-toddler engine of destruction. Of course, Long Suffering Spouse and I didn't move to our present house until Youngest Son was already three. We never child-proofed the "new" house (Youngest Son will turn 21 next month) because we didn't have to. And in those days we didn't have cords for charging phones and tablets either. We had a desktop computer, but that was just one thing to defend.
One of our five kids took pinking shears to a bedspread at some point, and another liked to raid the bathroom cabinet and make mountains out of bath powder. In the hallway. But these things took place at the old house.
The Baby to Be Named Later has discovered bathrooms herself and, in particular, toilet paper. Unrolling toilet paper is one of her favorite things in the whole world. And she's figured out that no one can hear her when she does it. Except when she squeals with unrestrained delight at her achievement, of course.
By then it's too late.
And the baby knows that smartphones and tablets show Elmo and Big Bird videos. All she has to do is ask (she thinks) and, whenever she sees a smartphone or tablet, she does ask. Loudly. Insistently.
This has caused some modifications in our usual behavior.
In other houses it might seem strange to see a 20-year old wrapped in a blanket and surreptitiously glancing down and fingering something within. (It might seem a little creepy, too, come to think of it.) But at our house the other night, for example, Youngest Son was just trying to text constantly like any other self-respecting college student -- without his niece realizing that he was on a phone.
I have DVDs on one shelf in the den and CDs on another. The baby thinks these are great for rearranging. She has liberated us from the stifling concept of storing things in mere alphabetical order.
Well, sure, you say, put things up. Put them out of the baby's reach.
But this is a big baby and she's got a big reach. And you can't put everything up. We have blocked some shelves. We've blocked some cabinets and locked others -- but some are left unlocked because the baby has to play with something, right?
I mean, if we closed off all the kitchen cabinets -- denying her access to the pots and pans and plastic storage containers -- she might be stuck playing with her million and one toys. Why, that would be barbarous!
So, unless your foot is no longer than about five inches, walking anywhere in the house can be interesting. I've had five kids; I've been pretty good at negotiating the minefield. Of course I was more agile when I was younger.
And then there's eating.
We've never been a sit-at-the-dining-room table sort of family, or even a sit-at-the-kitchen-table sort of family (at least, we haven't since our own kids were little). Even way back then, I generally did not eat with the family because I got home so late from work. (The kids grew up never knowing that their father was a picky eater. Long Suffering Spouse was -- and is -- a genius. And Oldest Son's finicky palate? That's conclusive proof of nature over nurture. My wife should win the Nobel Prize for that one alone.)
Anyway, as school and jobs and outside interests took over, the kids ate at odd hours, too.
So, in these later days, we are accustomed to eating whenever, and generally in front of the TV in the den.
This has provided a goldmine of opportunity for the Baby to Be Named Later. She's noticed, when we babysit her aunt and uncle's dogs, that the animals beg for table scraps. She's now the most insistent beggar there is. I can be eating tuna fish casserole and minding my own business when all of a sudden someone is demanding my peas, please. I always ask Younger Daughter whether I should comply with these demands, and to what extent, and I do pretty much as she says. She's the mom, after all. But, when she says no, you'd think I had a tablet in my lap and was refusing to watch The Elmo Song for the nine millionth time.
Once I made the mistake of trying to eat dinner while reading on a tablet.
Never, ever again.
I suppose this sounds like a litany of complaints. In print, on your screen, it may seem like a grouchy old guy carping and not affectionate at all.
But that's not my intent.
Last night Younger Daughter and Olaf had to make an emergency grocery run. Younger Daughter was apologetic about it -- indeed, she could have gone and returned in the time she spent apologizing. But there was nothing to apologize for.
Younger Daughter and Olaf had attended to the Level 1 Hazmat cleanup of the baby, and changed her clothes (she's still teething, you know) and, although she was worried that Vesuvius might erupt again, it really wasn't going to make any difference... even if the there was another toxic spill I was pretty sure we could contain the damage until the baby's parents returned. Just as long as they finally got going.
Eventually, Younger Daughter corralled the kid and brought her into the den. I was in my recliner. I'd just finished eating (I can wolf it down when I have to). Younger Daughter plopped the kid on my lap and the baby simply snuggled in for the whole 45 minutes or so that her parents were gone. She didn't try to escape more than a couple of times, and then only half-heartedly. Long Suffering Spouse, nodding off in her chair, tossed me one of the baby's blankets and the child was content. As Long Suffering Spouse faded out, the baby settled in.
"She's very comfortable with us," Long Suffering Spouse observed.
"She is," I agreed as I started Play With Me Sesame on the TV's On-Demand menu. (Sure it's cheating, but, hey, we're grandparents. We need that little extra edge.)
"Maybe there's something to be said for multi-generational households," my wife said sleepily.
"I would never have guessed it a few years ago," I said.
Cookie Monster sang C is for Cookie, That's Good Enough for Me.
The baby squealed with happiness.
But this post was about how we didn't send out Christmas cards this year. Well, things have been kind of busy. With a 15-month old toddler in the house, even if I'm only the grandpa, how could it be otherwise?
Not only did we not take a family Christmas picture this year, we didn't even send out one card. I didn't open anyone else's Christmas card myself either; a couple were opened by others and called to my attention, but I don't like to look at other people's Christmas cards until I've sent my own. So this year I just didn't look.
*Sigh* We'll just have to do better next year.
Part of it, I suppose, is that with the baby in the house, we spend a more of our evenings defending our territory than in any productive pursuit.
That grandbaby is a one-toddler engine of destruction. Of course, Long Suffering Spouse and I didn't move to our present house until Youngest Son was already three. We never child-proofed the "new" house (Youngest Son will turn 21 next month) because we didn't have to. And in those days we didn't have cords for charging phones and tablets either. We had a desktop computer, but that was just one thing to defend.
One of our five kids took pinking shears to a bedspread at some point, and another liked to raid the bathroom cabinet and make mountains out of bath powder. In the hallway. But these things took place at the old house.
The Baby to Be Named Later has discovered bathrooms herself and, in particular, toilet paper. Unrolling toilet paper is one of her favorite things in the whole world. And she's figured out that no one can hear her when she does it. Except when she squeals with unrestrained delight at her achievement, of course.
By then it's too late.
And the baby knows that smartphones and tablets show Elmo and Big Bird videos. All she has to do is ask (she thinks) and, whenever she sees a smartphone or tablet, she does ask. Loudly. Insistently.
This has caused some modifications in our usual behavior.
In other houses it might seem strange to see a 20-year old wrapped in a blanket and surreptitiously glancing down and fingering something within. (It might seem a little creepy, too, come to think of it.) But at our house the other night, for example, Youngest Son was just trying to text constantly like any other self-respecting college student -- without his niece realizing that he was on a phone.
I have DVDs on one shelf in the den and CDs on another. The baby thinks these are great for rearranging. She has liberated us from the stifling concept of storing things in mere alphabetical order.
Well, sure, you say, put things up. Put them out of the baby's reach.
But this is a big baby and she's got a big reach. And you can't put everything up. We have blocked some shelves. We've blocked some cabinets and locked others -- but some are left unlocked because the baby has to play with something, right?
I mean, if we closed off all the kitchen cabinets -- denying her access to the pots and pans and plastic storage containers -- she might be stuck playing with her million and one toys. Why, that would be barbarous!
So, unless your foot is no longer than about five inches, walking anywhere in the house can be interesting. I've had five kids; I've been pretty good at negotiating the minefield. Of course I was more agile when I was younger.
And then there's eating.
We've never been a sit-at-the-dining-room table sort of family, or even a sit-at-the-kitchen-table sort of family (at least, we haven't since our own kids were little). Even way back then, I generally did not eat with the family because I got home so late from work. (The kids grew up never knowing that their father was a picky eater. Long Suffering Spouse was -- and is -- a genius. And Oldest Son's finicky palate? That's conclusive proof of nature over nurture. My wife should win the Nobel Prize for that one alone.)
Anyway, as school and jobs and outside interests took over, the kids ate at odd hours, too.
So, in these later days, we are accustomed to eating whenever, and generally in front of the TV in the den.
This has provided a goldmine of opportunity for the Baby to Be Named Later. She's noticed, when we babysit her aunt and uncle's dogs, that the animals beg for table scraps. She's now the most insistent beggar there is. I can be eating tuna fish casserole and minding my own business when all of a sudden someone is demanding my peas, please. I always ask Younger Daughter whether I should comply with these demands, and to what extent, and I do pretty much as she says. She's the mom, after all. But, when she says no, you'd think I had a tablet in my lap and was refusing to watch The Elmo Song for the nine millionth time.
Once I made the mistake of trying to eat dinner while reading on a tablet.
Never, ever again.
I suppose this sounds like a litany of complaints. In print, on your screen, it may seem like a grouchy old guy carping and not affectionate at all.
But that's not my intent.
Last night Younger Daughter and Olaf had to make an emergency grocery run. Younger Daughter was apologetic about it -- indeed, she could have gone and returned in the time she spent apologizing. But there was nothing to apologize for.
Younger Daughter and Olaf had attended to the Level 1 Hazmat cleanup of the baby, and changed her clothes (she's still teething, you know) and, although she was worried that Vesuvius might erupt again, it really wasn't going to make any difference... even if the there was another toxic spill I was pretty sure we could contain the damage until the baby's parents returned. Just as long as they finally got going.
Eventually, Younger Daughter corralled the kid and brought her into the den. I was in my recliner. I'd just finished eating (I can wolf it down when I have to). Younger Daughter plopped the kid on my lap and the baby simply snuggled in for the whole 45 minutes or so that her parents were gone. She didn't try to escape more than a couple of times, and then only half-heartedly. Long Suffering Spouse, nodding off in her chair, tossed me one of the baby's blankets and the child was content. As Long Suffering Spouse faded out, the baby settled in.
"She's very comfortable with us," Long Suffering Spouse observed.
"She is," I agreed as I started Play With Me Sesame on the TV's On-Demand menu. (Sure it's cheating, but, hey, we're grandparents. We need that little extra edge.)
"Maybe there's something to be said for multi-generational households," my wife said sleepily.
"I would never have guessed it a few years ago," I said.
Cookie Monster sang C is for Cookie, That's Good Enough for Me.
The baby squealed with happiness.
But this post was about how we didn't send out Christmas cards this year. Well, things have been kind of busy. With a 15-month old toddler in the house, even if I'm only the grandpa, how could it be otherwise?
Thursday, January 09, 2014
No self-esteem problems here
This is the English language business card of Chinese multimillionaire Chen Guangbiao, who recently tried (and failed) to buy the New York Times.
Chen is not a man afflicted with the sin of false modesty, not where his business card touts him as China's most influential person and most prominent philanthropist -- and a moral leader besides. And so forth and so on....
The Yahoo! News article, by Mike Krumboltz, from which I grabbed the accompanying image, cites a Business Insider report estimating Chen's wealth at $740 million.
With that kind of money, Krumboltz writes, Chen can print any kind of business card he likes. Actually, the last time I printed up business cards (black and white, no picture), it cost about $70. I suppose cards like these would cost a little more -- but not millions. Therefore, you too can probably afford a business card just as loud and proud as Chen Guangbiao's.
But could you ever imagine giving it to anyone?
Me neither.
Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Curmudgeon swirling in the Polar Vortex with mixed opinions
The Chicago Public Schools are closed again today, for a second day in a row, because of the killer cold snap that's gripping the Midwest and much of the rest of the country besides.
All the Archdiocesan grammar schools were closed in Cook and Lake Counties yesterday, and most of the high schools as well. Local colleges and universities canceled classes. Most local museums were closed. The Lincoln Park Zoo was open, but planned to close early; Brookfield Zoo was closed entirely. (The polar bears and American bison can stand these temperatures, a zoo official explained, but most of the rest of the animals could not.) Most local officials were encouraging people to stay home yesterday. Except for those angling for face time on the local newscasts, many public servants stayed home yesterday, too.
Long Suffering Spouse was supposed to start school yesterday -- but, as noted, school was closed. No 8th grader was more giddy than my bride at the prospect of extending Christmas break another day.
"It's a mistake," I harrumphed.
"Why?" my wife asked.
"They're all closing down for the wrong reason," I said. We haven't had this kind of really cold weather here in Chicago for a long time -- but it is not unprecedented. As I told the kids, Long Suffering Spouse and I had been out at the bar on January 10, 1982, when the temperature sank to -26̊ F. The radio was on at the bar, as I recall, and when the announcer recited the temperature all of us stupid enough to be out started cheering like we'd accomplished some great feat. Of course, I was 32 years younger then. I continued explaining things to my wife. "If they're going to close everything just because it's too cold, they'll have to do it again tomorrow."
"Why? The temperature is supposed to get above zero on Tuesday."
"But it won't start there. It'll be ten below again, at least, when the kids are supposed to be going to school. If it's too cold for them to venture out today, why will tomorrow morning be different?"
Sure enough, darn near everything that was closed yesterday is closed again this morning. They'd kind of painted themselves into a corner on this.
And it's not the dumbest idea to close down in these extreme conditions, especially in the modern world when we can do (or allegedly do) so much from home. Road salt doesn't work so well when the temperature gets down below 10̊ F. Brave, but ignorant souls who started to drive to work this morning spun out in sufficient numbers on bridges and ramps to thoroughly clog our expressway system despite the reduced volume of cars.
But not everything was closed, even yesterday. I had court yesterday morning. Courts were open. (The Cook County Sheriff decided it was too cold to bring prisoners to court, but that wouldn't affect the operation of the civil courts where I practice.)
I was supposed to be out in the suburbs yesterday so I had to drive. I gave the family van a long time to warm up before forcing it into action. It still wasn't very pleased with me. The thermometer inside the car said the temperature outside was as cold as -18̊ -- and never warmer than -14̊ F. Still, the Tollway was passable. Even with the strong breezes yesterday there were at least ruts of pavement showing in every lane. Of course, one did have to get to the Tollway. The ramps were treacherous. And every stop sign, every stop light on the way to and from the Tollway was an adventure: The van wanted to fishtail every time I started or stopped, but I kept it largely under control.
Perhaps surprisingly, everyone who was supposed to be at court on my matters yesterday was present and accounted for. Like the much younger Curmudgeon in the bar in 1982, I felt like I'd accomplished something, just by getting there too.
The reason that driving was (and remains) so challenging (and, in particular, the reason that I am so concerned about the melting properties of road salt) was that, in addition to the cold, we were still digging out from two feet of snow that fell in the Chicago area since Tuesday afternoon. The first foot fell Tuesday and Wednesday; the other foot dropped Saturday evening and Sunday.
If I'd been made philosopher king for the day, I might have canceled everything on Monday -- but Monday only -- because of the snow clean-up. A foot of snow, particularly if it comes at rush hour, can shut Chicago down. The clean-up of this latest snowfall, even though it fell on the weekend, would understandably take longer because of the extreme cold that followed the snow, and it has, as the drivers spinning out this morning can attest.
But this business of shutting down schools and some businesses and government offices but not the courts and a lot of other businesses is just plain aggravating. I finished my business in court yesterday and went home for lunch; I didn't bother trying to go downtown after that. I figured I could work from home. I retrieved my phone calls and even connected -- eventually -- with most of the people who'd called and emailed me during the day.
But I missed the one call I really needed to get. He called around 4:00 p.m. I probably last checked my office voice mail about five minutes before he called. I was still working my cell phone, though, returning the calls I'd already retrieved. At 5:00 p.m., I was, I thought, the good man, at rest at last from his labors. It was around this time, also, that the call finally came for my wife advising (as I knew would have to be the case, given the pretext offered Monday) that school would not be open tomorrow either. Again, she was giddy. I'm happy for her -- but the courts are open again today, too.
I was not a happy camper weighed down by my Zero King this morning. But I made it to court on time this morning and, thereafter, to the Undisclosed Location. I spoke -- too late! -- with the man who called at 4:00 p.m. I'll be screwing around the rest of the day trying to straighten that out. But the Holidaze, two feet of snow and temperatures of nearly 20 below can undermine even well-formed plans.
All the Archdiocesan grammar schools were closed in Cook and Lake Counties yesterday, and most of the high schools as well. Local colleges and universities canceled classes. Most local museums were closed. The Lincoln Park Zoo was open, but planned to close early; Brookfield Zoo was closed entirely. (The polar bears and American bison can stand these temperatures, a zoo official explained, but most of the rest of the animals could not.) Most local officials were encouraging people to stay home yesterday. Except for those angling for face time on the local newscasts, many public servants stayed home yesterday, too.
Long Suffering Spouse was supposed to start school yesterday -- but, as noted, school was closed. No 8th grader was more giddy than my bride at the prospect of extending Christmas break another day.
"It's a mistake," I harrumphed.
"Why?" my wife asked.
"They're all closing down for the wrong reason," I said. We haven't had this kind of really cold weather here in Chicago for a long time -- but it is not unprecedented. As I told the kids, Long Suffering Spouse and I had been out at the bar on January 10, 1982, when the temperature sank to -26̊ F. The radio was on at the bar, as I recall, and when the announcer recited the temperature all of us stupid enough to be out started cheering like we'd accomplished some great feat. Of course, I was 32 years younger then. I continued explaining things to my wife. "If they're going to close everything just because it's too cold, they'll have to do it again tomorrow."
"Why? The temperature is supposed to get above zero on Tuesday."
"But it won't start there. It'll be ten below again, at least, when the kids are supposed to be going to school. If it's too cold for them to venture out today, why will tomorrow morning be different?"
Sure enough, darn near everything that was closed yesterday is closed again this morning. They'd kind of painted themselves into a corner on this.
And it's not the dumbest idea to close down in these extreme conditions, especially in the modern world when we can do (or allegedly do) so much from home. Road salt doesn't work so well when the temperature gets down below 10̊ F. Brave, but ignorant souls who started to drive to work this morning spun out in sufficient numbers on bridges and ramps to thoroughly clog our expressway system despite the reduced volume of cars.
But not everything was closed, even yesterday. I had court yesterday morning. Courts were open. (The Cook County Sheriff decided it was too cold to bring prisoners to court, but that wouldn't affect the operation of the civil courts where I practice.)
I was supposed to be out in the suburbs yesterday so I had to drive. I gave the family van a long time to warm up before forcing it into action. It still wasn't very pleased with me. The thermometer inside the car said the temperature outside was as cold as -18̊ -- and never warmer than -14̊ F. Still, the Tollway was passable. Even with the strong breezes yesterday there were at least ruts of pavement showing in every lane. Of course, one did have to get to the Tollway. The ramps were treacherous. And every stop sign, every stop light on the way to and from the Tollway was an adventure: The van wanted to fishtail every time I started or stopped, but I kept it largely under control.
Perhaps surprisingly, everyone who was supposed to be at court on my matters yesterday was present and accounted for. Like the much younger Curmudgeon in the bar in 1982, I felt like I'd accomplished something, just by getting there too.
The reason that driving was (and remains) so challenging (and, in particular, the reason that I am so concerned about the melting properties of road salt) was that, in addition to the cold, we were still digging out from two feet of snow that fell in the Chicago area since Tuesday afternoon. The first foot fell Tuesday and Wednesday; the other foot dropped Saturday evening and Sunday.
If I'd been made philosopher king for the day, I might have canceled everything on Monday -- but Monday only -- because of the snow clean-up. A foot of snow, particularly if it comes at rush hour, can shut Chicago down. The clean-up of this latest snowfall, even though it fell on the weekend, would understandably take longer because of the extreme cold that followed the snow, and it has, as the drivers spinning out this morning can attest.
But this business of shutting down schools and some businesses and government offices but not the courts and a lot of other businesses is just plain aggravating. I finished my business in court yesterday and went home for lunch; I didn't bother trying to go downtown after that. I figured I could work from home. I retrieved my phone calls and even connected -- eventually -- with most of the people who'd called and emailed me during the day.
But I missed the one call I really needed to get. He called around 4:00 p.m. I probably last checked my office voice mail about five minutes before he called. I was still working my cell phone, though, returning the calls I'd already retrieved. At 5:00 p.m., I was, I thought, the good man, at rest at last from his labors. It was around this time, also, that the call finally came for my wife advising (as I knew would have to be the case, given the pretext offered Monday) that school would not be open tomorrow either. Again, she was giddy. I'm happy for her -- but the courts are open again today, too.
I was not a happy camper weighed down by my Zero King this morning. But I made it to court on time this morning and, thereafter, to the Undisclosed Location. I spoke -- too late! -- with the man who called at 4:00 p.m. I'll be screwing around the rest of the day trying to straighten that out. But the Holidaze, two feet of snow and temperatures of nearly 20 below can undermine even well-formed plans.
Thursday, January 02, 2014
You may not be what you eat, but you think what you drink!
Reid Wilson reports, in the December 31 Washington Post, that what you like to drink says a lot about who you'll vote for, and how regularly you'll go to the polls. The article, entitled What your favorite drink says about your politics, in one chart," provides a fascinating graphic which I have borrowed for the occasion and reproduce above. (Reid's article credits the graphic to Jennifer Dube, National Media Research Planning and Placement LLC.)
Both Democratic and Republican wine drinkers are more likely to turn out at the polls than consumers of stronger spirits (perhaps because it's easier to get out of bed on Election Day if you've had nothing stronger than a glass of wine the night before).
What caught my attention, though, was that the brands I favor fall on both sides of the Great Divide, and bunch up right in the middle besides: I really do have a thirst for bipartisanism. How about you?
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Aren't we doing New Year's all wrong?
Despite Fred and Ginger gracing this post, I'm not lamenting the decline of white tie and tails as evening wear and the very elegant and sophisticated nightclub scene that exists now only in Fred and Ginger's old movies.I've probably groused about that before.
Today, however, it occurs to me that we're doing this New Year's thing all wrong: For a country allegedly founded upon (and infatuated with) the Protestant work ethic (even American Catholics, Muslims, Jews and atheists are expected to have a good PWE) why is it that we have tomorrow off?
I mean... shouldn't we start the new year hitting the ground running at full speed ahead? Isn't taking New Year's Day off sort of setting a bad example for the rest of the year?
I'll be thinking about this tomorrow. But I still won't come into the office.
Then again, I probably have a bad attitude....
Friday, December 20, 2013
Duck Dynasty: Why is anyone surprised that a weird character on a "reality" TV show has politically incorrect opinions?
But let me ask this: Why is anyone surprised? Why is anyone outraged? A&E (which used to provide actually watchable TV programming, several years ago) found a weird-looking family that makes duck calls in the swampy backwoods of Louisiana and created a "reality" TV show about their weird lives, hunting, fishing and making duck calls. Phil Robertson, the gentleman pictured here, is the 67-year old "patriarch" of the clan. Have I gotten anything wrong so far?
Now take just one more glance at Mr. Robertson. Why would anyone think that Mr. Robertson's views would be compatible with those of the persons employed by the New York ad agencies who buy time on reality TV shows?
Each can hardly believe the other is a citizen of the same country.
Now another question: What would GQ, a magazine that purports to cater to men interested in style and fashion, want from an interview with the Duck Dynasty clan?
Isn't that one an easy one to answer? Drew Magery's article for the January issue of GQ, titled (at least online), "What the Duck?," may not have been intended as a hatchet job, but it was at least intended to give the smart, well-dressed metrosexual readers of GQ something to laugh at and people to make fun of. Men who buy a magazine that features articles like "Women are Judging Your Nails" are not interested in duck hunting or backwoods philosophy per se.
Mr. Magery addressed the controversy in a Wednesday post on Deadspin. He wrote, in part, "[W]henever I go deep into the heart of 'MERICA * * * I'm always careful not to be the sneering LIBRUL who ventures into red-state territory just to rip on all the people there. That would be unfair, predictable, and dickish." No, sir. Mr. Magery just writes what he sees -- and his audience does the ripping for him.
Mind you, I'm not defending Mr. Robertson. Granted, he has a right to his views, even though I may disagree with some or all of them. However, I completely understand and agree that the folks who run A&E have a right to "suspend" Mr. Robertson for offending the New Yorkers who buy ad time -- it's their network and they are privileged to do with it as they wish. Even if they daily make TV a far worse, far more vast wasteland than Newton Minow's worst nightmare prediction. I'm not even criticizing GQ. They came up with a scheme to get some free publicity and sell some magazines. That's the American way, right? And Mr. Magery got paid to write a story. Good for him.
No.
The only one I think is open to criticism here is the the PR genius who told the Robertson family that doing this GQ story would be a good idea. He or she would best be advised to get out of town quickly: Don't those Robertsons all have guns and crossbows and such?
Curmudgeon a Grinch, Scrooge, or just a grouch? I report -- you decide
"It's that time of year," the song goes, "when the world falls in love. Every song you hear seems to say, 'Merry Christmas,' may your New Year's dreams come true."
But I'm not waltzing through the Christmas season.
Oh, I like the lights and the carols well enough.
But my Long Suffering Spouse and I are going to have to go shopping tomorrow.
I am not looking forward to spending money we don't have, on people we don't particularly like, to buy things they won't need and don't want.
"What can we do about it?" my wife tries to reason with me. "They're family."
I have suggested that we buy everyone -- including our own kids, for that matter -- an orange and a pair of socks. That's traditional, isn't it? And we won't significantly increase our credit card debt in the process.
I have, in fact, suggested this once too often, at least, for my own good. Recently, as my wife brought up the subject of Christmas shopping, I had just opened my mouth when she told me to knock it off.
Do not get me wrong.
My wife is the exact opposite of a spendthrift.
We live frugally, as we must, and Long Suffering Spouse gamely muddles along with practical restrictions I don't think either of our daughters would possibly accept.
It's just that, at Christmas, my wife feels the need to buy stuff for her sister Josephine and her sister's kids and even her sister's still fairly-new husband, Ferdinand. "We didn't buy any birthday presents," she reminds me, "or graduation gifts" (two of Josephine's kids graduated this year, one from college, the other from grammar school). "And they'll buy us stuff," she says, playing her best card last.
"We could agree not to buy each other anything, you know," I pointed out -- but Long Suffering Spouse would actually have to speak with her sister to negotiate such an arrangement. She doesn't want to do that. "Besides," she said, "Abuela wouldn't like it."
Game, set, and match to Long Suffering Spouse.
Still I find myself agreeing with Sir Michael Caine, who portrayed Ebeneezer Scrooge in The Muppet Christmas Carol (one of my wife's favorite holiday movies). Caine snarls at Bob Cratchit (Kermit), "Christmas is a very busy time for us, Mr. Cratchit. People preparing feasts, giving parties, spending the mortgage money on frivolities. One might say that December is the foreclosure season. Harvest time for the money-lenders."
Just because ol' Ebeneezer is a bad guy doesn't mean he's wrong, does it?
And what's wrong with an orange and a pair of socks anyway? Our TV died last month. We had to replace it. The DVD/VCR died two nights ago. That's something we'll presumably come home with tomorrow. We'll have buckets out in the den to catch the leaks from the roof tonight (we're having a bit of a thaw at the moment here in Chicago -- good news, mostly, except for the leaky roof). I'd love to replace the computer in the den -- it's eight years old now and the CD drive stopped working six months ago (there's still one viable URL port). Our kitchen is falling apart -- in fact, we've deferred so much maintenance for so long (it was suggested that we replace the furnace when we moved in -- 17 years ago -- and we never have), that it's hard to say where we should start to fix things. If we could start.
My law practice stinks -- it takes a lot of time and returns little. I will make more than my Catholic school teacher wife this year -- I think -- but not much more. Things are actually better now than they've been for awhile. I just moved a huge balance from one credit card to another, taking advantage of an interest free offer -- saving myself $250 a month just in interest payments on that one account.
I have reason to hope things will continue to get better.
But why do I have to have this annual reminder of just how far I've fallen -- and how far I must climb to get back up?
I don't think that makes me the Grinch. I don't think it even makes me Scrooge -- the three demons that torture my dreams aren't the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future but rather MasterCard, Visa and American Express.
But, you know, it's hard not to say "Bah Humbug."
I will adjust my attitude, I hope, before heading out on the morrow with Long Suffering Spouse.
But, seriously, what is wrong with an orange and a pair of socks?
But I'm not waltzing through the Christmas season.
Oh, I like the lights and the carols well enough.
But my Long Suffering Spouse and I are going to have to go shopping tomorrow.
I am not looking forward to spending money we don't have, on people we don't particularly like, to buy things they won't need and don't want.
"What can we do about it?" my wife tries to reason with me. "They're family."
I have suggested that we buy everyone -- including our own kids, for that matter -- an orange and a pair of socks. That's traditional, isn't it? And we won't significantly increase our credit card debt in the process.
I have, in fact, suggested this once too often, at least, for my own good. Recently, as my wife brought up the subject of Christmas shopping, I had just opened my mouth when she told me to knock it off.
Do not get me wrong.
My wife is the exact opposite of a spendthrift.
We live frugally, as we must, and Long Suffering Spouse gamely muddles along with practical restrictions I don't think either of our daughters would possibly accept.
It's just that, at Christmas, my wife feels the need to buy stuff for her sister Josephine and her sister's kids and even her sister's still fairly-new husband, Ferdinand. "We didn't buy any birthday presents," she reminds me, "or graduation gifts" (two of Josephine's kids graduated this year, one from college, the other from grammar school). "And they'll buy us stuff," she says, playing her best card last.
"We could agree not to buy each other anything, you know," I pointed out -- but Long Suffering Spouse would actually have to speak with her sister to negotiate such an arrangement. She doesn't want to do that. "Besides," she said, "Abuela wouldn't like it."
Game, set, and match to Long Suffering Spouse.
Just because ol' Ebeneezer is a bad guy doesn't mean he's wrong, does it?
And what's wrong with an orange and a pair of socks anyway? Our TV died last month. We had to replace it. The DVD/VCR died two nights ago. That's something we'll presumably come home with tomorrow. We'll have buckets out in the den to catch the leaks from the roof tonight (we're having a bit of a thaw at the moment here in Chicago -- good news, mostly, except for the leaky roof). I'd love to replace the computer in the den -- it's eight years old now and the CD drive stopped working six months ago (there's still one viable URL port). Our kitchen is falling apart -- in fact, we've deferred so much maintenance for so long (it was suggested that we replace the furnace when we moved in -- 17 years ago -- and we never have), that it's hard to say where we should start to fix things. If we could start.
My law practice stinks -- it takes a lot of time and returns little. I will make more than my Catholic school teacher wife this year -- I think -- but not much more. Things are actually better now than they've been for awhile. I just moved a huge balance from one credit card to another, taking advantage of an interest free offer -- saving myself $250 a month just in interest payments on that one account.
I have reason to hope things will continue to get better.
But why do I have to have this annual reminder of just how far I've fallen -- and how far I must climb to get back up?
I don't think that makes me the Grinch. I don't think it even makes me Scrooge -- the three demons that torture my dreams aren't the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future but rather MasterCard, Visa and American Express.
But, you know, it's hard not to say "Bah Humbug."
I will adjust my attitude, I hope, before heading out on the morrow with Long Suffering Spouse.
But, seriously, what is wrong with an orange and a pair of socks?
Thursday, December 19, 2013
On the passing of Larry Lujack
The passing of a radio DJ is seldom national news, and I was thinking that Larry Lujack's death yesterday from cancer at 73 probably wouldn't be.
But it is. No less than überblogger Ken Levine mourns the passage of the one, the only Superjock this morning.
I picked up my youngest son from college yesterday -- before the news of Lujack's death -- and somehow we got to talking about the passage of time. I think it was a sign advertising places in the high school class of 2018 (next fall's freshmen, believe it or not) that got Youngest Son going. "Can you believe it?" he asked. "2018 already?"
This coming year, I told him, 2014, marks 40 years since I graduated high school. "How do you think I feel?" I asked.
As bad as I felt at that moment, I felt much worse when Robert Feder broke the news about ol' Uncle Lar.
Uncle Lar was still Suprejock -- WCFL, the Voice of Labor, recast itself as "SuperCFL" in honor of their most valuable property -- when I was in high school. Superjock on WCFL and Bob Sirott on WLS were, if I recall correctly, the voices of afternoon drive 40 years ago and every new driver knew how to push the buttons on the AM radio to switch between 890 and 1000 without taking their eyes off the road. Button pushing might be prompted by a bad song -- there were some truly awful songs in heavy rotation on both stations 40 years ago -- or by "zit cream" commercials. But the "bits" between the songs were the really good stuff.
Sirott was the enfant terrible, the challenger. Lujack was the grizzled, bitter, burned-out veteran. His deep, deliberate, laconic delivery was unique, and seemingly entirely inappropriate to rock 'n' roll (Levine explains it better in his piece than I can but, then, he's a former DJ as well as a better writer). But whatever Lujack was doing, it worked for him.
A couple of years after I graduated high school, WCFL changed formats, going from Top 40 to elevator music. The station didn't fire Lujack, however, and he wouldn't quit. Here is how he announced the format switch.
Lujack would go back to WLS later -- his "Animal Stories" with "Little Snot-Nosed Tommy" Edwards are being remembered a lot this morning. I tuned in for them, too, even after I'd otherwise grown out of the Top 40 format.
All too soon, however, in 1987, Lujack retired, moving out west eventually. Except for a six month stint on FM and a reunion with Edwards that lasted a few years on what wasn't much more than a 10-watt AM station in the early 2000s, Lujack stayed retired. But he stayed with us, too.
Nine or 10 years ago, on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of our parish, I was asked to do the voiceover for the commemorative video. The parish hired a real filmmaker and everything -- her brother has directed several popular Disney features -- and she booked some studio time for me to come in and read the script.
Well.
This was the first time I'd been in a real studio, with a professional microphone and headphones and all the knobs and dials I was told not to touch on pain of death. But when we were doing sound checks, I did my best Larry Lujack imitation. It was, presumably, an awful imitation. But imitation, even awful imitation, is the most sincere form of flattery.
R.I.P. Mr. Lujack. I hope today you have a whole lot more of Jesus... and all the rock 'n' roll you may want.
(Chicagoans will catch the reference; the rest of you... well....)
Friday, December 13, 2013
I seem to have forgotten my Blogiversary....
I've never been a big one for anniversaries.
Money seems to know how to make itself scarce when Big Days loom on the calendar -- birthdays, anniversaries... Christmas. But I can't say I forgot my Blogiversary because I didn't want to buy myself a present, can I?
One doesn't give presents for blogiversaries anyway. Not as far as I know.
Still, 8 years. A milestone, surely. A lot of words from my keyboard. Many of them -- most of them, really -- mine (OK, can't say quite the same thing about the illustrations... I've stolen most of those).
I just updated the blog Sidebar to reflect past Christmas posts. The list is by no means exhaustive. Exhausting, perhaps. I'd prefer to think that you might find at least some of them entertaining however.
My real-world blog takes up most of my blogging time these days. I get more traffic there. But I'm not nearly as funny there.
At least, not intentionally.
I think I'd better stop now....
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Just in time for holiday daydreaming: Kim Jong-Un executes his uncle
The AP is reporting that North Korean leader Kim Jong-Un has executed his once-powerful uncle Jang Song-thaek.
The linked AP article quotes liberally from the North Korean press announcement, which is written in that breathless, inimitable North Korean style:
I'm pretty sure that I've never wanted to execute any of my relatives. I only had two uncles; I liked both of them. I suppose if we broaden the net out to include in-laws and their spouses, there are a few of whom I'm not terribly fond. Take Josephine's current husband Ferdinand, for instance. I prefer to drink heavily before having any interaction with him whatsoever, but (as Long Suffering Spouse warns me every Christmas Eve) it's a fine line between comfortably numb and in vino veritas. The stress of Nochebuena dinner can be enormous.
Still, I don't suppose I'd want Ferdinand executed. Banished, maybe.
I suppose I might get more bloody-minded were I suddenly given absolute power. Lord Acton's old saw about absolute power corrupting absolutely seems to have been proved over and over again. Thus, if I ever became Dear Leader, one of my ex-law partners would be best advised to leave town in a hurry. But that's only one out of a great many.
I wonder what ol' Uncle Jang did to so offend his nephew.
Then again, I wonder whether any of my extended family would want me to suffer the same fate as ol' Uncle Jang were any of them to become Dear Leader. It's a sobering thought....
The linked AP article quotes liberally from the North Korean press announcement, which is written in that breathless, inimitable North Korean style:
"Against the backdrop of these shouts rocking the country [demanding that stern judgment be "meted out to the anti-party, counter-revolutionary factional elements"], a special military tribunal of the DPRK Ministry of State Security was held on December 12 against traitor for all ages Jang Song Thaek."Kim and his family presumably don't celebrate Christmas. It's probably just as well. In the present circumstances, this could be pretty awkward. Can you imagine the rather forced small talk during dinner? Unless, of course, Kim's aunt really disliked her husband.
Jang was accused of possessing "...a wild ambition to grab the supreme power of our party and state." He was found to be "...despicable human scum .... [who] worse than a dog, perpetrated thrice-cursed acts of treachery in betrayal of such profound trust and warmest paternal love shown by the party and the leader for him.
I'm pretty sure that I've never wanted to execute any of my relatives. I only had two uncles; I liked both of them. I suppose if we broaden the net out to include in-laws and their spouses, there are a few of whom I'm not terribly fond. Take Josephine's current husband Ferdinand, for instance. I prefer to drink heavily before having any interaction with him whatsoever, but (as Long Suffering Spouse warns me every Christmas Eve) it's a fine line between comfortably numb and in vino veritas. The stress of Nochebuena dinner can be enormous.
Still, I don't suppose I'd want Ferdinand executed. Banished, maybe.
I suppose I might get more bloody-minded were I suddenly given absolute power. Lord Acton's old saw about absolute power corrupting absolutely seems to have been proved over and over again. Thus, if I ever became Dear Leader, one of my ex-law partners would be best advised to leave town in a hurry. But that's only one out of a great many.
I wonder what ol' Uncle Jang did to so offend his nephew.
Then again, I wonder whether any of my extended family would want me to suffer the same fate as ol' Uncle Jang were any of them to become Dear Leader. It's a sobering thought....
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
The Big Red "A" is for Atheist
A group of atheists thought they would be clever and obtain the permits necessary to put up this display and thereby thumb their snooty noses at all of us superstitious inferiors who still profess belief in a power greater than man.
Far be it from me to complain that the atheists don't have a right to believe in Nothing. But it seems to me that, with their Big Red "A," the atheists are doubly represented at the Daley Center.
I mean, at the Daley Center these days, the Jews have only the Menorah. Christians have only the Stable. (The giant Christmas tree on the south end of the plaza is not a religious symbol.) But all the empty space in between -- all the Nothing -- is that not the sign and symbol of the true atheist? Now the atheists also also have a Big Red "A." Seems to me that's two representations for the anti-religionists, but only one each for each religious group.
I said as much to Long Suffering Spouse when the story aired on the news here a week or so ago. Some smug professional atheist was interviewed, overjoyed that this rather pathetic ploy for attention was being taken seriously, at least by the TV reporter. You might not think that being an atheist would be incompatible with missionary zeal. But this guy sure acted like a True Believer, even if he believes only in Nothing.
"Is that what the 'A' stands for?" she asked. "Atheist?"
I assured her that this was the case.
"Hmmm," she said. "I would have guessed it stood for something else."
Friday, November 15, 2013
Frivolous Friday, biker bar edition
 |
| Bizarro Comic by Dan Piraro, obtained from Chicago Tribune Comics Kingdom. |
Obtained from the Chicago Tribune, even though the comic itself runs in the Chicago Sun-Times. Ah, well.
You should be getting a full-fledged rant this morning about the latest outbreak of chaos in the Curmudgeon home, and how the unplanned activities of yesterday evening prevented me from getting to any of the things I was supposed to do last night. I also have a good post in mind about Long Suffering Spouse grading papers until 2:30 Thursday morning and identifying a number of really, really feeble attempts at plagiarism. That ought to be amusing.
And that's what you should be getting here.
Except that I didn't do any of the things I was supposed to do last night. So I have to do them now. And there are other things that must be done this morning as well because I won't be here this afternoon either. That might (or might not) turn into a post on this blog.
Have I whetted your appetite yet?
No?
I was afraid of that.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Lost barbecue tools, a dangerous drawer, and an untimely phone call -- business as usual at the Curmudgeon home
People who think writing is easy -- as I do, sometimes -- find out differently when they try and tell a story that isn't exactly linear. Real stories aren't that linear. But writers, unlike audio engineers, can't work with multitrack tapes: The words on the page, or the screen, are a single track only and every clashing action must be integrated into the single stream of words. And if one thus brings order to chaos, has one actually described it -- or has it only been watered down?
The thing you have to understand here is that the kitchen in the Curmudgeon Manse was probably updated shortly before we bought the place in 1996. Updated on the cheap. The sellers were preparing the house for sale and every effort was made to maximize appearance and minimize expense.
Thus the cabinets in the kitchen had a nice label but were the cheapest model offered by that manufacturer.
For the most part they have served us well.
But there is a large drawer, in the cabinet left of the stove, that came off the tracks once a few years back. After considerable lifting and straining and pushing and bending and cussing and swearing (the cussing and swearing mostly from me) Long Suffering Spouse and I got the drawer back on the track and closed. She removed everything she was likely to need from that drawer before we closed it up, like a Pharaoh's Tomb, with solemn vows never to open it -- and certainly never to try and fully open it -- ever again. The children were likewise instructed. We moved on.
We jump now to last Saturday afternoon. It was not exactly warm, but it was nicer than it's been, and Long Suffering Spouse decided to barbecue.
Ever since my insides were removed, I don't much care for barbecue, but there was leftover pizza for me to eat. And we needed to free up some freezer space. We are heading into cookie season, you know.
Just the other day Abuela generously sent us two boxes of large QVC hamburgers -- chock full of onions -- and I went down to the basement to wrestle the box from the bottom corner of the freezer.
The electric company is always after homeowners to get rid of their obsolete basement refrigerators. And you should realize that an old aging hippie like me would not have an energy-hogging frig eating up energy in the basement: Oh, no, the ancient refrigerator died a natural death many years ago and we promptly replaced it with a newer, more efficient model. With five kids -- and all of them went through adolescence in that house -- we needed the second frig. And in cookie season we need the freezer section even more.
You would think that removing a box from a freezer would free up space therein. That's how the laws of physics are written.
But the laws of physics do not take into account bags of frozen Costco chicken wings and chicken breasts which expand to fill any space made available. Younger Daughter and her husband are responsible for the wings. I'm not sure they sealed up the wings bag properly because it promptly discharged contents all over the freezer when I removed the box of burgers. In trying to close that I somehow spilled chicken breasts. And my wife keeps foil packages of frozen meat for tacos or sloppy joes or Chinese food in that freezer, too. In theory these should be stackable; in practice, however....
It took awhile, but I eventually got everything back in it's proper bag and everything stuffed back in the freezer. It looked more crowded than ever, but at least I had my box of burgers. Chock full of onions. I couldn't eat onions when I had insides.
Long Suffering Spouse set up the grill and I headed off to the Jewel for hamburger buns and, as long as I was there, for some liquid refreshment for my own personal use.
When I got back, Long Suffering Spouse asked me where the barbecue tools had gone.
The barbecue tools are kept in the front hall, in season. I think in the winter they are supposed to be consigned to the garage, but I can't say for sure.
I could say for sure that they weren't in the front hall because the bench there had been cleared off in favor of candy for Trick or Treaters. And Long Suffering Spouse had already determined they weren't in the garage. I might have said that I didn't have the foggiest notion where the barbecue tools might be, because I didn't, but I would have been instructed to look for them anyway. I gamely accepted my charge.
I went in the house and hollered for Younger Daughter. You may think that cheating. But I knew I could have wandered around the house as long as Moses wandered in the desert and never have gotten so much as a clue about the whereabouts of those barbecue tools: They are too big to hide in plain sight, which meant they must be truly hidden, and I didn't hide them. Younger Daughter might have.
And, as it turns out, she had.
She came into the kitchen with her daughter on her shoulder -- she'd just finished changing the baby -- explaining en route that she'd hid the tools in (cue scary music) The Forbidden Drawer.
I had barely begun reminding her that the drawer was never to be opened -- ever -- when Younger Daughter pulled at it with her one free hand.
There was a crashing noise. The drawer stopped moving after about only four inches, tilting ominously upward.
I hollered. Younger Daughter started to explain that she'd used The Forbidden Drawer lots of times in the last few years without incident -- and the baby -- who was sure that they'd come into the kitchen because it was time to feed her -- began crying. Younger Daughter removed the baby to her high chair, leaving me to work with the wreckage.
I opened the cabinet beneath The Forbidden Drawer and pushed upwards. I still couldn't slide it along the track of course; the drawer had completely jumped that. But holding up the bottom of the drawer with one hand, trying to make it as level as possible, I could feel inside The Forbidden Drawer with the other. The giant barbecue tongs had gotten wedged in; I had to work them free. With that I was able to open The Forbidden Drawer just enough more to extract the tools.
Then I tried to close the drawer. Of course it would only go so far and no further. I picked up the tools and headed for the front door. (Long Suffering Spouse sets the grill up on the driveway.)
"I've got good news and bad news," I told her, cautiously, as I handed her the tools. "The good news is that we found the barbecue tools."
"What's the bad news?"
I told her.
She started hollering at me.
As soon as she got the hamburgers inside, we went to work on drawer repair. Task one was to get the drawer out. Long Suffering Spouse got underneath and pushed; I stayed upright and pulled. And tugged. Eventually we got the drawer about halfway out, to the point where it was pretty much blocking the whole kitchen (it's a narrow room). The baby was still carrying on because she wasn't getting fed; Younger Daughter was trying to explain to her mother why she thought it a good idea to use The Forbidden Drawer and Long Suffering Spouse was telling me that, whatever I was doing up there, I was doing it wrong.
At that moment, the phone rang.
Still gripping the partially open drawer and trying to wiggle it free I yelled out, "Hello, Older Daughter."
"It can't be her; she's at a football game with Hank this afternoon," protested Younger Daughter. (Older Daughter and her husband are both proud alums of the University of Illinois. Their Illini were playing at the University of Indiana Saturday; the game was still early in the second half at this point.)
"You know it's her," said Long Suffering Spouse, head buried in the pots and pans stored below The Forbidden Drawer, pushing up on it all the while trying to set it free.
"Call from Wireless Caller," said the telephone. Younger Daughter and Olaf had gotten us these talking telephones last Christmas. A computerized female voice announces each new call, with sometimes hilariously unintelligible pronunciations. Still holding the drawer I turned around to look at the phone's caller ID.
Sure enough.
"Well, pick it up," my wife told me, and I did as I was told. "Are you OK?" I asked, brusquely perhaps. "Why are you calling? Aren't you at a football game?"
Well, yes, she said, but without seat backs on the stadium's bleacher seats, her back had begun to hurt and she went back to the car to sit for awhile and, as long as she was sitting, she said, she thought she might call and chat --
I cut her off.
"You're OK, then?"
"Yes...."
"Fine. We'll talk to you later. We've got a situation here. Go watch your game."
I learned later that she soon thereafter texted her sister, apparently in tears, because I hung up on her. Younger Daughter had to explain why I was so curt.
"Oh," said Older Daughter, according to her sister's later account. "I guess my timing was bad."
But her timing wasn't bad. It was amazing. She has a talent -- a true gift, really -- for calling at the exact wrong moment.
At the moment, however, I had to return my attention to The Forbidden Drawer. I resumed grabbing and pulling and wiggling. Long Suffering Spouse kept pushing and jiggling. Eventually, we got the thing out.
I cleared off a spot for it on the kitchen table and set it down.
"We are not leaving this here forever," Long Suffering Spouse warned me.
"Well, maybe you can eat first," I suggested. The hamburgers weren't getting any warmer.
"No," she said, "I know you. I eat now and you disappear and the next thing I know we're trying to work around this drawer on Thanksgiving Day."
It was at this point that Olaf showed up. He'd worked another full day on Saturday (putting him on salary turned out to be a great cost-saving move for his employer). He innocently inquired what was going on.
"You're in manufacturing," I said, "you can figure out how to get this fixed."
To my pleasant surprise, he started looking at the problem, marching back and forth between the cabinet and the table where I'd set the drawer down, interrogating my wife about the availability of various tools.
The phone rang again. "It can't be Older Daughter," I said, "not so soon."
It wasn't. It was Middle Son.
"Talk to your son," Long Suffering Spouse commanded.
I took the phone and walked into the den, turning on the Illinois-Indiana game as I settled into my chair. Long Suffering Spouse stayed behind to supervise her son-in-law.
I explained all this to Middle Son.
"I've called at a bad time, then," he said.
"Nonsense," I said. "Your sister called at a bad time. Olaf has taken over my spot in the kitchen; we can't all be in there at once. There's not enough room."
Middle Son was actually calling about his big sister. Hank is turning 30 this week and Older Daughter has been talking about having a party, or maybe two parties, on either Friday or Saturday, or Friday and Saturday this coming weekend. Older Daughter wanted everyone to come down to Indianapolis for the occasion. Oldest Son and Abby had an iron-clad excuse; they were going to a wedding at which Abby was to be a bridesmaid. That eliminated Friday and Saturday for them. Youngest Son has no car and couldn't get away from South Janesville College anyway. Olaf and Younger Daughter didn't want to go because it would be too hard to bring the baby -- and then Younger Daughter committed to sitting for her brother's dog, Rodent, 'forgetting' that this was the same weekend of the proposed party or parties in Indianapolis. Middle Son didn't want to be the only one to go, but he'd heard that Long Suffering Spouse and I were going to go, and he was hoping we had more information than he did.
"You saw the Facebook invite, didn't you Dad?" Middle Son asked.
I had. We knew that a party was proposed for next Saturday. Although no location was specified, we were given to understand that the party would be at Hank and Older Daughter's home. But the invite did not specify any time for the party.
"Well, do you know what time they're thinking about?" asked Middle Son.
"Who knows?"
"Maybe I should call her. Since she's just sitting in her car instead of watching the football game."
I advised against that. "She's got to talk to her husband about this -- and right now they're fighting over which one of them has to clean the house for the party. There may not even be a party."
"Well, when are we going to find out?" Middle Son asked.
"Hopefully before next Saturday, that's all I can say."
We agreed that we'd let each other know if we got any information at all.
Olaf did get the drawer in (he apparently really does know this manufacturing stuff). Nevertheless, I will break the arm of anybody that tries to open it again. Also, as of today, in case you're wondering, the party appears to be set for Saturday afternoon. But Older Daughter is still thinking of cancelling because Hank won't take a day off work to clean.... Meanwhile, Long Suffering Spouse and I are arguing over whether -- because the party is in the afternoon -- we can make the trip there and back in a single day.
The thing you have to understand here is that the kitchen in the Curmudgeon Manse was probably updated shortly before we bought the place in 1996. Updated on the cheap. The sellers were preparing the house for sale and every effort was made to maximize appearance and minimize expense.
Thus the cabinets in the kitchen had a nice label but were the cheapest model offered by that manufacturer.
For the most part they have served us well.
But there is a large drawer, in the cabinet left of the stove, that came off the tracks once a few years back. After considerable lifting and straining and pushing and bending and cussing and swearing (the cussing and swearing mostly from me) Long Suffering Spouse and I got the drawer back on the track and closed. She removed everything she was likely to need from that drawer before we closed it up, like a Pharaoh's Tomb, with solemn vows never to open it -- and certainly never to try and fully open it -- ever again. The children were likewise instructed. We moved on.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We jump now to last Saturday afternoon. It was not exactly warm, but it was nicer than it's been, and Long Suffering Spouse decided to barbecue.
Ever since my insides were removed, I don't much care for barbecue, but there was leftover pizza for me to eat. And we needed to free up some freezer space. We are heading into cookie season, you know.
Just the other day Abuela generously sent us two boxes of large QVC hamburgers -- chock full of onions -- and I went down to the basement to wrestle the box from the bottom corner of the freezer.
The electric company is always after homeowners to get rid of their obsolete basement refrigerators. And you should realize that an old aging hippie like me would not have an energy-hogging frig eating up energy in the basement: Oh, no, the ancient refrigerator died a natural death many years ago and we promptly replaced it with a newer, more efficient model. With five kids -- and all of them went through adolescence in that house -- we needed the second frig. And in cookie season we need the freezer section even more.
You would think that removing a box from a freezer would free up space therein. That's how the laws of physics are written.
But the laws of physics do not take into account bags of frozen Costco chicken wings and chicken breasts which expand to fill any space made available. Younger Daughter and her husband are responsible for the wings. I'm not sure they sealed up the wings bag properly because it promptly discharged contents all over the freezer when I removed the box of burgers. In trying to close that I somehow spilled chicken breasts. And my wife keeps foil packages of frozen meat for tacos or sloppy joes or Chinese food in that freezer, too. In theory these should be stackable; in practice, however....
It took awhile, but I eventually got everything back in it's proper bag and everything stuffed back in the freezer. It looked more crowded than ever, but at least I had my box of burgers. Chock full of onions. I couldn't eat onions when I had insides.
Long Suffering Spouse set up the grill and I headed off to the Jewel for hamburger buns and, as long as I was there, for some liquid refreshment for my own personal use.
When I got back, Long Suffering Spouse asked me where the barbecue tools had gone.
The barbecue tools are kept in the front hall, in season. I think in the winter they are supposed to be consigned to the garage, but I can't say for sure.
I could say for sure that they weren't in the front hall because the bench there had been cleared off in favor of candy for Trick or Treaters. And Long Suffering Spouse had already determined they weren't in the garage. I might have said that I didn't have the foggiest notion where the barbecue tools might be, because I didn't, but I would have been instructed to look for them anyway. I gamely accepted my charge.
I went in the house and hollered for Younger Daughter. You may think that cheating. But I knew I could have wandered around the house as long as Moses wandered in the desert and never have gotten so much as a clue about the whereabouts of those barbecue tools: They are too big to hide in plain sight, which meant they must be truly hidden, and I didn't hide them. Younger Daughter might have.
And, as it turns out, she had.
She came into the kitchen with her daughter on her shoulder -- she'd just finished changing the baby -- explaining en route that she'd hid the tools in (cue scary music) The Forbidden Drawer.
I had barely begun reminding her that the drawer was never to be opened -- ever -- when Younger Daughter pulled at it with her one free hand.
There was a crashing noise. The drawer stopped moving after about only four inches, tilting ominously upward.
I hollered. Younger Daughter started to explain that she'd used The Forbidden Drawer lots of times in the last few years without incident -- and the baby -- who was sure that they'd come into the kitchen because it was time to feed her -- began crying. Younger Daughter removed the baby to her high chair, leaving me to work with the wreckage.
I opened the cabinet beneath The Forbidden Drawer and pushed upwards. I still couldn't slide it along the track of course; the drawer had completely jumped that. But holding up the bottom of the drawer with one hand, trying to make it as level as possible, I could feel inside The Forbidden Drawer with the other. The giant barbecue tongs had gotten wedged in; I had to work them free. With that I was able to open The Forbidden Drawer just enough more to extract the tools.
Then I tried to close the drawer. Of course it would only go so far and no further. I picked up the tools and headed for the front door. (Long Suffering Spouse sets the grill up on the driveway.)
"I've got good news and bad news," I told her, cautiously, as I handed her the tools. "The good news is that we found the barbecue tools."
"What's the bad news?"
I told her.
She started hollering at me.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As soon as she got the hamburgers inside, we went to work on drawer repair. Task one was to get the drawer out. Long Suffering Spouse got underneath and pushed; I stayed upright and pulled. And tugged. Eventually we got the drawer about halfway out, to the point where it was pretty much blocking the whole kitchen (it's a narrow room). The baby was still carrying on because she wasn't getting fed; Younger Daughter was trying to explain to her mother why she thought it a good idea to use The Forbidden Drawer and Long Suffering Spouse was telling me that, whatever I was doing up there, I was doing it wrong.
At that moment, the phone rang.
Still gripping the partially open drawer and trying to wiggle it free I yelled out, "Hello, Older Daughter."
"It can't be her; she's at a football game with Hank this afternoon," protested Younger Daughter. (Older Daughter and her husband are both proud alums of the University of Illinois. Their Illini were playing at the University of Indiana Saturday; the game was still early in the second half at this point.)
"You know it's her," said Long Suffering Spouse, head buried in the pots and pans stored below The Forbidden Drawer, pushing up on it all the while trying to set it free.
"Call from Wireless Caller," said the telephone. Younger Daughter and Olaf had gotten us these talking telephones last Christmas. A computerized female voice announces each new call, with sometimes hilariously unintelligible pronunciations. Still holding the drawer I turned around to look at the phone's caller ID.
Sure enough.
"Well, pick it up," my wife told me, and I did as I was told. "Are you OK?" I asked, brusquely perhaps. "Why are you calling? Aren't you at a football game?"
Well, yes, she said, but without seat backs on the stadium's bleacher seats, her back had begun to hurt and she went back to the car to sit for awhile and, as long as she was sitting, she said, she thought she might call and chat --
I cut her off.
"You're OK, then?"
"Yes...."
"Fine. We'll talk to you later. We've got a situation here. Go watch your game."
I learned later that she soon thereafter texted her sister, apparently in tears, because I hung up on her. Younger Daughter had to explain why I was so curt.
"Oh," said Older Daughter, according to her sister's later account. "I guess my timing was bad."
But her timing wasn't bad. It was amazing. She has a talent -- a true gift, really -- for calling at the exact wrong moment.
At the moment, however, I had to return my attention to The Forbidden Drawer. I resumed grabbing and pulling and wiggling. Long Suffering Spouse kept pushing and jiggling. Eventually, we got the thing out.
I cleared off a spot for it on the kitchen table and set it down.
"We are not leaving this here forever," Long Suffering Spouse warned me.
"Well, maybe you can eat first," I suggested. The hamburgers weren't getting any warmer.
"No," she said, "I know you. I eat now and you disappear and the next thing I know we're trying to work around this drawer on Thanksgiving Day."
It was at this point that Olaf showed up. He'd worked another full day on Saturday (putting him on salary turned out to be a great cost-saving move for his employer). He innocently inquired what was going on.
"You're in manufacturing," I said, "you can figure out how to get this fixed."
To my pleasant surprise, he started looking at the problem, marching back and forth between the cabinet and the table where I'd set the drawer down, interrogating my wife about the availability of various tools.
The phone rang again. "It can't be Older Daughter," I said, "not so soon."
It wasn't. It was Middle Son.
"Talk to your son," Long Suffering Spouse commanded.
I took the phone and walked into the den, turning on the Illinois-Indiana game as I settled into my chair. Long Suffering Spouse stayed behind to supervise her son-in-law.
I explained all this to Middle Son.
"I've called at a bad time, then," he said.
"Nonsense," I said. "Your sister called at a bad time. Olaf has taken over my spot in the kitchen; we can't all be in there at once. There's not enough room."
Middle Son was actually calling about his big sister. Hank is turning 30 this week and Older Daughter has been talking about having a party, or maybe two parties, on either Friday or Saturday, or Friday and Saturday this coming weekend. Older Daughter wanted everyone to come down to Indianapolis for the occasion. Oldest Son and Abby had an iron-clad excuse; they were going to a wedding at which Abby was to be a bridesmaid. That eliminated Friday and Saturday for them. Youngest Son has no car and couldn't get away from South Janesville College anyway. Olaf and Younger Daughter didn't want to go because it would be too hard to bring the baby -- and then Younger Daughter committed to sitting for her brother's dog, Rodent, 'forgetting' that this was the same weekend of the proposed party or parties in Indianapolis. Middle Son didn't want to be the only one to go, but he'd heard that Long Suffering Spouse and I were going to go, and he was hoping we had more information than he did.
"You saw the Facebook invite, didn't you Dad?" Middle Son asked.
I had. We knew that a party was proposed for next Saturday. Although no location was specified, we were given to understand that the party would be at Hank and Older Daughter's home. But the invite did not specify any time for the party.
"Well, do you know what time they're thinking about?" asked Middle Son.
"Who knows?"
"Maybe I should call her. Since she's just sitting in her car instead of watching the football game."
I advised against that. "She's got to talk to her husband about this -- and right now they're fighting over which one of them has to clean the house for the party. There may not even be a party."
"Well, when are we going to find out?" Middle Son asked.
"Hopefully before next Saturday, that's all I can say."
We agreed that we'd let each other know if we got any information at all.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Olaf did get the drawer in (he apparently really does know this manufacturing stuff). Nevertheless, I will break the arm of anybody that tries to open it again. Also, as of today, in case you're wondering, the party appears to be set for Saturday afternoon. But Older Daughter is still thinking of cancelling because Hank won't take a day off work to clean.... Meanwhile, Long Suffering Spouse and I are arguing over whether -- because the party is in the afternoon -- we can make the trip there and back in a single day.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Do Illinois Republicans have anyone to take on Sen. Durbin?
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| Sen. Richard J. Durbin |
State Sen. Jim Oberweis (25th Dist.) seems to be the only announced Republican challenger.
Really? Really?
Durbin surely is vulnerable. As Senate Majority Whip, Durbin has had to align himself with all sorts of national priorities and programs -- the kind of thing that opens one up to charges that a senator has stopped paying attention to the feelings of the folks back home. And Illinoisans have terminated the Senate careers of prior aspirants to the Democratic leadership. Sen. J. Hamilton Lewis was Democratic Whip from 1913 to 1919 when he also lost a reelection bid. (Lewis, however, actually did come back to the Senate, and into the Senate leadership, in the 1930s, eventually dying in office). Sen. Scott W. Lucas was Democratic Whip from 1947-1949, when he became Majority Leader -- only to lose reelection in 1950 to Everett McKinley Dirksen.
So there is precedent.
And just this week Durbin was caught in a whopper of a fib: Although he was not in attendance, Durbin regaled his Facebook audience with the tale of a meeting between Republican House leaders and the President and White House staff during the recent (stupid) government shutdown. Durbin quoted an unnamed GOP leader as saying to the President, "I cannot even stand to look at you."
Well of course the story went viral.
The True Blue Left thought that was just the sort of disrespectful thing that one of those crazy Tea Party bomb-throwers would say to the duly elected President of these United States. And, sadly, I'm sure that too many on the Red Meat Right thought so too (perhaps adding "right on!" if they retold the tale).
In this morning's Chicago Sun-Times, Lynn Sweet quotes White House Press Secretary Jay Carney as flatly contradicting Durbin's story: It "did not happen," Carney said.
Getting caught in a silly, needless lie like that would be fatal to many politicians. And it still may be harmful to Senator Durbin.
But only if there is a credible Republican opponent. Perennial candidate Oberweis will not fit the bill.
Durbin is a careerist who embraces whatever position seems to propel him forward. When he was a Downstate Member of Congress, then-Rep. Durbin, a professed Catholic, was moderately pro-life. To reach the Senate, however, Durbin embraced radical pro-abortion views. And there he remains. He is out front, loud and proud, in favor of gay marriage -- but, as noted yesterday, completely ineffective in influencing his fellow Democrats in the Illinois General Assembly to follow his lead. (Best of both worlds for him that way.)
Almost anyone -- besides Jim Oberweis -- that the Republicans put up would be a strong candidate against Durbin. Heck, I'd be a stronger Republican candidate against Durbin than Oberweis and I'm not only anonymous, I've never voted in a Republican primary in my life. (No lawyer from Chicago should ever vote in a Republican primary -- it's tantamount giving up your right to vote for the judges who decide your cases, since the Republicans don't even bother to field judicial candidates in Cook County races except in a far northwest suburban enclave called the 13th Judicial Subcircuit.)
But the Republicans are the Stupid Party. And Senator Durbin's nearly certain reelection will provide further proof.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Repeating my modest proposal about what we used to call marriage
The Illinois Legislature is in its Fall Veto Session this week and -- our overwhelming budget and pension problems be damned -- gay marriage is the only issue that commands the attention of TV news editors.
Yesterday all the pro-gay marriage folks trooped down to Springfield, demanding marriage equality. Gov. Pat Quinn, Lt. Gov. Sheila Simon, Attorney General Lisa Madigan (daughter of House Speaker Michael Madigan), and Sen. Richard Durbin all spoke at the rally, in the rain. There was even a Republican present, State Comptroller Judy Baar Topinka, and she was all in favor, too.
Today, a lot of anti-gay marriage folks will make the same trip but demand that gay marriage be blocked. Today's rally will attract more Republicans than yesterday's, but the numbers will come from church groups.
The Illinois State Senate has already passed a gay marriage bill. The overwhelmingly Democratic General Assembly, however, didn't have quite the number of votes in the Spring, and may not have them this time either.
For those of you looking in from out of state, I have not made a typographical error. Illinois is a blue, blue, blue, true blue state. The Democrats drew the maps and, on paper anyway, have a veto-proof House majority. And, of course, all the party leaders claim to be for gay marriage. Yet, somehow, they just don't have the votes.
No, it's not die-hards from Downstate who are holding up the passage of the bill; the biggest single reason the measure can't pass is that a lot of African-American state representatives from Chicago and nearby suburbs are afraid of crossing the anti-gay marriage ministers in their areas.
The Democrats are for gay marriage, and they welcome the donations of gay rights supporters, but they don't actually pass a gay marriage law.
Isn't hypocrisy wonderful?
Meanwhile, at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Springfield, Bishop Thomas J. Paprocki warned about any demonstrations in favor of gay marriage, saying anyone outwardly plumping for passage of the marriage bill would be removed from evening Mass. He went so far as to say that praying for gay marriage was "blasphemous."
Um.
Maybe he meant to level such an extreme charge as a sort of counterweight to the pleas of prominent Catholic laypeople, such as the aforementioned Gov. Quinn, Attorney General Madigan, or Sen. Durbin, for gay marriage.
As near as I recall, Jesus had a lot to say about marriage -- but nothing to say about homosexuality. Biblical condemnations of homosexuality can be identified -- but these are in the Old Testament or the letters of St. Paul.
And even if gay marriage is as wrong as Bishop Paprocki thinks it is, people pray all the time -- in church and out -- for things we don't need or shouldn't have. But it's not necessarily blasphemy to pray for the wrong things.
I'd like to move to close the debate. I think it readily apparent that the concepts of civil marriage and religious marriage are undergoing an acrimonious divorce. Let's separate the two and move on.
From now on, I would suggest, the states issue licenses for civil unions only. All benefits that heretofore attached to marriage would apply to civil unions. There will not be two classes of marriage, such as recently concerned Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg; there will be only one, for men and women, men and men, women and women and any other pairing or grouping that the legislature sees fit to accept. But it's not marriage. Marriage is reserved to churches. Some will embrace gay marriage (many old line, mainstream Protestant denominations already have); some never will. Doctrinal disputes, like the poor, will always be with us.
With my proposal, however, I can decide what is or is not a marriage -- and I can't interfere with my neighbors from tying the knot at City Hall. Bishop Paprocki may condemn me. But, then, so will gay rights activists. It is the scorn that would be heaped upon this proposal from both sides of the cultural divide that proves mine is the only workable solution. Bishop Paprocki and the African-American ministers save "marriage." Yet gay couples are truly equal before the law with straight couples. It may not make anyone truly happy, but it's a win-win for both sides.
It won't happen, of course. If it did, we might actually have to talk about the pension shortfall in this state.
Yesterday all the pro-gay marriage folks trooped down to Springfield, demanding marriage equality. Gov. Pat Quinn, Lt. Gov. Sheila Simon, Attorney General Lisa Madigan (daughter of House Speaker Michael Madigan), and Sen. Richard Durbin all spoke at the rally, in the rain. There was even a Republican present, State Comptroller Judy Baar Topinka, and she was all in favor, too.
Today, a lot of anti-gay marriage folks will make the same trip but demand that gay marriage be blocked. Today's rally will attract more Republicans than yesterday's, but the numbers will come from church groups.
The Illinois State Senate has already passed a gay marriage bill. The overwhelmingly Democratic General Assembly, however, didn't have quite the number of votes in the Spring, and may not have them this time either.
For those of you looking in from out of state, I have not made a typographical error. Illinois is a blue, blue, blue, true blue state. The Democrats drew the maps and, on paper anyway, have a veto-proof House majority. And, of course, all the party leaders claim to be for gay marriage. Yet, somehow, they just don't have the votes.
No, it's not die-hards from Downstate who are holding up the passage of the bill; the biggest single reason the measure can't pass is that a lot of African-American state representatives from Chicago and nearby suburbs are afraid of crossing the anti-gay marriage ministers in their areas.
The Democrats are for gay marriage, and they welcome the donations of gay rights supporters, but they don't actually pass a gay marriage law.
Isn't hypocrisy wonderful?
Meanwhile, at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Springfield, Bishop Thomas J. Paprocki warned about any demonstrations in favor of gay marriage, saying anyone outwardly plumping for passage of the marriage bill would be removed from evening Mass. He went so far as to say that praying for gay marriage was "blasphemous."
Um.
Maybe he meant to level such an extreme charge as a sort of counterweight to the pleas of prominent Catholic laypeople, such as the aforementioned Gov. Quinn, Attorney General Madigan, or Sen. Durbin, for gay marriage.
As near as I recall, Jesus had a lot to say about marriage -- but nothing to say about homosexuality. Biblical condemnations of homosexuality can be identified -- but these are in the Old Testament or the letters of St. Paul.
And even if gay marriage is as wrong as Bishop Paprocki thinks it is, people pray all the time -- in church and out -- for things we don't need or shouldn't have. But it's not necessarily blasphemy to pray for the wrong things.
I'd like to move to close the debate. I think it readily apparent that the concepts of civil marriage and religious marriage are undergoing an acrimonious divorce. Let's separate the two and move on.
From now on, I would suggest, the states issue licenses for civil unions only. All benefits that heretofore attached to marriage would apply to civil unions. There will not be two classes of marriage, such as recently concerned Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg; there will be only one, for men and women, men and men, women and women and any other pairing or grouping that the legislature sees fit to accept. But it's not marriage. Marriage is reserved to churches. Some will embrace gay marriage (many old line, mainstream Protestant denominations already have); some never will. Doctrinal disputes, like the poor, will always be with us.
With my proposal, however, I can decide what is or is not a marriage -- and I can't interfere with my neighbors from tying the knot at City Hall. Bishop Paprocki may condemn me. But, then, so will gay rights activists. It is the scorn that would be heaped upon this proposal from both sides of the cultural divide that proves mine is the only workable solution. Bishop Paprocki and the African-American ministers save "marriage." Yet gay couples are truly equal before the law with straight couples. It may not make anyone truly happy, but it's a win-win for both sides.
It won't happen, of course. If it did, we might actually have to talk about the pension shortfall in this state.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
True confessions: This morning, I was "that guy"
You know, when you're driving, and the sign says left lane closed ahead? You can count on "that guy" staying in the left lane -- maybe even moving into it because "that guy" is sooooooooo much more important than you are. As "that guy" passes you, you say something like, "That guy thinks he can just zoom past everyone waiting in line and cut right in -- the #$%@!!"
Well... this morning... not too far from my house... after dropping Long Suffering Spouse off at school, I had to head for the Kennedy, planning to jump on the Tollway and head out to court in Geneva.
It's a hike, but I had plenty of time... I thought. I knew there was construction at Cumberland and Higgins. They're rebuilding Cumberland where it crosses the Kennedy and there have been various lane closures in the vicinity -- and consequently slowed traffic -- on the few recent occasions I've had to head that way. I had to turn left from Higgins onto Cumberland.
So, yes, the sign said left lane closed ahead, but I figured, well, that must be the left lane, not the left turn lane. People still have to turn left. The sign doesn't say road closed or detour.
So I stayed in the left lane. I figured that this was the way to get to the left turn lane.
I was absolutely, totally wrong.
In my defense, I will say I didn't zoom past anyone. No one was moving in front of me. No one was moving to my right. Cars were turning out of hotels and restaurants and other parking lots trying to get in line with me. The fastest I moved was when a couple of cars in front of me gave up and made U-turns trying to get away from the gridlock.
It took me 35 minutes -- by the dashboard clock -- to go about one-half mile.
So I was punished for my foolishness -- and I was late to court besides. But, punished or not, today, I was "that guy." I'm truly sorry.
Friday, October 18, 2013
On the increasingly controversial Washington "Redskins"
Seems like everyone these days has an opinion -- mostly hostile opinions -- about the name used by the Washington NFL franchise. This recent editorial cartoon by Tom Stiglich illustrates a widely shared view:
The issue here is not whether some find the "Redskins" nickname offensive -- it is established beyond question that some do take offense.
Nor would I presume to argue that those complaining about the nickname should simply 'get over it.' There's no question that the term 'redskin' can be an intentionally offensive insult or slur.
But I will assert that, as used by the Washington NFL franchise, the term "Redskins" is absolutely not used as a racial slur. As I wrote last year, the name Redskins, like the names Indians, Chiefs, and Braves, were adopted by sports teams in honor of other teams or qualities they admired, or that they wished to emulate -- "and early in the 20th Century, most athletes (of any ancestry) wanted to emulate the skill and success of Jim Thorpe and the Carlise Indians."
In the early days of the 20th Century, the Carlisle Indian Industrial School played a major college schedule (and college football was then firmly at the apex of the football pyramid). Coached by Glenn "Pop" Warner (yes, there was a real Pop Warner), the Carlisle Indians dominated the college football world.
Now, you don't have to have a lot of skill at argument to prevail on a claim that the very premise of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School was racist, at least by any standard we understand today. The original purpose of the school was to take Indian boys off their reservations, strip away all vestiges of their heritage, and thereby 'civilize' them. Boarding schools like the Carlisle Indian Industrial School were determined to assimilate their charges into American society. Carlisle's founder, Richard H. Pratt, described the philosophy of the boarding school program as, "Kill the Indian in him, and save the man."
And Pratt was sympathetic to the Indians. He thought he was helping.
But teams didn't take up the banner of Indians, Braves or Chiefs or, yes, Redskins because they were in favor of the destruction of Native American culture. Nor did they take up the names to mock indigenous peoples. They took up the names because they wanted to be as successful as -- as good as -- the Carlisle Indians generally and Jim Thorpe in particular. (Thorpe excelled at baseball, too; it was the discovery that he'd picked up some money playing minor league baseball in the summers between school terms that led to his being stripped of the medals he earned at the 1912 Olympics.)
Stiglich's use of the Confederate battle flag in his cartoon is thought-provoking. There is a wing-nut school of historical revisionists that claim that the Civil War wasn't about slavery. From this, the wing-nut revisionists argue that the Confederate battle flag and similar symbols are not emblems of racial oppression, but of states' rights.
This is, of course, utter nonsense. The Civil War was absolutely about slavery -- even though it is also true that most Confederate soldiers were not slaveowners. Some Union soldiers were slaveholders. We like to think of big plantation owners as the only supporters of chattel slavery. That would be so much more convenient than the actual truth: Poor whites in the North and South alike feared economic competition from freed African-Americans and many -- most? -- were implacably opposed to abolition. Their descendants became casual, and sometimes virulent or violent, racists. As Reconstruction ended, as Jim Crow laws were being put in place, the view grew up that many Confederate soldiers had been chivalrous Cavaliers, possessed of honorable qualities well worth emulating. Many sports teams in the South adopted nicknames like "Rebels" as a result. The Confederate battle flag was a common sideline symbol at sports events for decades. This wasn't necessarily a deliberate slap at African-American sensibilities; it is probably more correct to say that, in the racist culture of the time, the effect of the use of these symbols on African-American sensibilities was never given a moment's thought.
But the meaning of symbols can evolve. By the 1960s the symbols of the old Confederacy became increasingly and indelibly identified with the worst, most-violent, die-hard racists. And while historians can still point to the careers of gallant, chivalrous Cavaliers who mistakenly fought for The Lost Cause, we have matured as a society to the point where the hurtful, hateful aspects of the Confederate battle flag overwhelm any virtues that this symbol might once have represented for sportsmen.
How does this apply to the current Redskins controversy? I'd agree that the feelings of indigenous peoples were not taken into account by those adopting the Redskins name. But the Redskins name and logo is, at bottom, an homage to Native Americans, not a deliberate slur. There is no feat of sophistry that can be conjured to transmute the Confederate battle flag into an homage to African-Americans.
Thus, the analogy suggested by Mr. Stiglich's cartoon does not hold.
The Redskins name is not deliberately insulting or an intentional racial slur. The PC Police are wrong to say otherwise. Still, while the "Redskins" name is just another homage traceable ultimately to Jim Thorpe and the Carlisle Indians, it is the least sensitive of all. Granted, in 70 years, the Redskins name has become a "brand name" and there are many positive things associated with that brand. Nevertheless, if I were advising the team, I wouldn't counsel Daniel Snyder to dig in his heels and refuse to consider changing the name of his franchise. But let's do so for the right reasons, OK?
 |
| Editorial cartoon by Tom Stiglich obtained from Creators.com. |
The issue here is not whether some find the "Redskins" nickname offensive -- it is established beyond question that some do take offense.
Nor would I presume to argue that those complaining about the nickname should simply 'get over it.' There's no question that the term 'redskin' can be an intentionally offensive insult or slur.
But I will assert that, as used by the Washington NFL franchise, the term "Redskins" is absolutely not used as a racial slur. As I wrote last year, the name Redskins, like the names Indians, Chiefs, and Braves, were adopted by sports teams in honor of other teams or qualities they admired, or that they wished to emulate -- "and early in the 20th Century, most athletes (of any ancestry) wanted to emulate the skill and success of Jim Thorpe and the Carlise Indians."
In the early days of the 20th Century, the Carlisle Indian Industrial School played a major college schedule (and college football was then firmly at the apex of the football pyramid). Coached by Glenn "Pop" Warner (yes, there was a real Pop Warner), the Carlisle Indians dominated the college football world.
Now, you don't have to have a lot of skill at argument to prevail on a claim that the very premise of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School was racist, at least by any standard we understand today. The original purpose of the school was to take Indian boys off their reservations, strip away all vestiges of their heritage, and thereby 'civilize' them. Boarding schools like the Carlisle Indian Industrial School were determined to assimilate their charges into American society. Carlisle's founder, Richard H. Pratt, described the philosophy of the boarding school program as, "Kill the Indian in him, and save the man."
And Pratt was sympathetic to the Indians. He thought he was helping.
But teams didn't take up the banner of Indians, Braves or Chiefs or, yes, Redskins because they were in favor of the destruction of Native American culture. Nor did they take up the names to mock indigenous peoples. They took up the names because they wanted to be as successful as -- as good as -- the Carlisle Indians generally and Jim Thorpe in particular. (Thorpe excelled at baseball, too; it was the discovery that he'd picked up some money playing minor league baseball in the summers between school terms that led to his being stripped of the medals he earned at the 1912 Olympics.)
Stiglich's use of the Confederate battle flag in his cartoon is thought-provoking. There is a wing-nut school of historical revisionists that claim that the Civil War wasn't about slavery. From this, the wing-nut revisionists argue that the Confederate battle flag and similar symbols are not emblems of racial oppression, but of states' rights.
This is, of course, utter nonsense. The Civil War was absolutely about slavery -- even though it is also true that most Confederate soldiers were not slaveowners. Some Union soldiers were slaveholders. We like to think of big plantation owners as the only supporters of chattel slavery. That would be so much more convenient than the actual truth: Poor whites in the North and South alike feared economic competition from freed African-Americans and many -- most? -- were implacably opposed to abolition. Their descendants became casual, and sometimes virulent or violent, racists. As Reconstruction ended, as Jim Crow laws were being put in place, the view grew up that many Confederate soldiers had been chivalrous Cavaliers, possessed of honorable qualities well worth emulating. Many sports teams in the South adopted nicknames like "Rebels" as a result. The Confederate battle flag was a common sideline symbol at sports events for decades. This wasn't necessarily a deliberate slap at African-American sensibilities; it is probably more correct to say that, in the racist culture of the time, the effect of the use of these symbols on African-American sensibilities was never given a moment's thought.
But the meaning of symbols can evolve. By the 1960s the symbols of the old Confederacy became increasingly and indelibly identified with the worst, most-violent, die-hard racists. And while historians can still point to the careers of gallant, chivalrous Cavaliers who mistakenly fought for The Lost Cause, we have matured as a society to the point where the hurtful, hateful aspects of the Confederate battle flag overwhelm any virtues that this symbol might once have represented for sportsmen.
How does this apply to the current Redskins controversy? I'd agree that the feelings of indigenous peoples were not taken into account by those adopting the Redskins name. But the Redskins name and logo is, at bottom, an homage to Native Americans, not a deliberate slur. There is no feat of sophistry that can be conjured to transmute the Confederate battle flag into an homage to African-Americans.
Thus, the analogy suggested by Mr. Stiglich's cartoon does not hold.
The Redskins name is not deliberately insulting or an intentional racial slur. The PC Police are wrong to say otherwise. Still, while the "Redskins" name is just another homage traceable ultimately to Jim Thorpe and the Carlisle Indians, it is the least sensitive of all. Granted, in 70 years, the Redskins name has become a "brand name" and there are many positive things associated with that brand. Nevertheless, if I were advising the team, I wouldn't counsel Daniel Snyder to dig in his heels and refuse to consider changing the name of his franchise. But let's do so for the right reasons, OK?
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Curmudgeon on the road to bankruptcy -- a continuing spiral
If anyone were sufficiently motivated to sift through the ashes of my legal career, they'd find far too many mornings like this one: I was prepared to go to work on time, but Younger Daughter woke up feeling poorly and needed to see a doctor. The local Doc-in-the-Box Immediate Care Center opens at 7:30, so Long Suffering Spouse asked if I had anything up in court this morning. No, I told her. Thus it was settled. I would stay home with the granddaughter while Younger Daughter went to the Doc-in-the-Box and Long Suffering Spouse went to work. She's a Catholic school teacher, a position that, with seniority, pays around 70% of what a starting teacher, fresh from college, makes in the Chicago Public Schools. It ranks, in other words, above 'volunteer' on the pay scale, but only slightly.
Still, it's more than I'm bringing in most days. I couldn't argue with the logic.
There are also too many days like yesterday.
I went to work yesterday, on time and everything. Here is how I spent my day:
But here I am again, back at the Teeny Tiny Law Office, ready in case work -- or a check -- decides to find me.
My auto insurance payment is overdue. It's raining. And, I've discovered, my shoes are no longer water-tight.
Still, it's more than I'm bringing in most days. I couldn't argue with the logic.
There are also too many days like yesterday.
I went to work yesterday, on time and everything. Here is how I spent my day:
- I looked over a pleading and papers filed on a motion to dismiss for an ex-partner. He wanted my opinion about the viability of an appeal. If I took the appeal, he told me, he thought he could get me as much as $4,000 -- or roughly about one third of the minimum amount I should be charging for such a service in order to start turning a profit around here. Still, beggars can't be choosers: I promised to call after I read the materials
After reading the materials, I realized that taking $4,000 from the client would be tantamount to robbery. He had no more chance of prevailing in this appeal than I do of becoming Pope. I called my ex-partner to explain why. That's what I thought you'd say, he told me. That's what I hoped you'd say. Could you put that in a letter to me so I can use it to show my client that I talked to an appellate lawyer, so he can see that I've turned over every leaf and there just is no point in continuing this?
I wrote the letter. - Along the way, I fielded a call from a colleague with whom I'm working on a personal injury case. Our client may have a serious injury. She may also be trying to fake something. Or, possibly, there is another process going on here -- she is a lady of a certain age -- that is unrelated to her accident. We're waiting -- we've been waiting -- for a neuropsychologist's report that will (hopefully) tell us what we're dealing with. But it's been a year already since the accident. And the insurance company for the at-fault driver might not simply write us a check because of our report, should it be favorable to us, and should it ever get here. If all the tumblers align, we could be looking at a nice payday -- but they aren't aligned yet and may never be.
Besides, that's not why my colleague really called. She has another case -- a littler one -- a passenger injured in a taxicab-pedestrian collision. The cab driver is a former client who thought my colleague did good work for him. He recommended my colleague, in fact, to his passenger; he gave her the phone number. My colleague wanted to know if she was conflicted out of the representation. I worked through the ethics rules with her and told her I thought she was free to undertake the passenger's case -- but she'd be wise to let the cab company's insurer know about her prior representation of the driver. First of all, they'd find out anyway.... - The next telephone conversation was with another colleague for whom I'd done a different appeal. Anonymously. And that was at my request. The appeal is fundamentally flawed and the attorneys who are pursuing it -- the ones who retained my colleague -- are foolish to take the case up. I'm pretty well convinced that they not only failed to properly preserve the substantive points of error, they actually failed to preserve appellate jurisdiction. That's the kind of thing that can force you to have to call your malpractice carrier.
Still, I marshaled all my skills and wrote the best darn brief I could. It seems to have struck a nerve with the other side: They haven't figured out the jurisdictional flaw yet -- which doesn't mean the court won't do it on its own -- but opposing counsel were apparently so concerned about my brief that they brought a motion to strike my statement of facts as 'argumentative.'
One does not argue a case in a statement of facts -- not overtly. On the other hand, the purpose of the statement of facts is to tell the story in a way that, by itself, gets the court thinking about ruling in your favor. You can't do that (not properly, at least) by omitting pertinent facts, or glossing over inconvenient facts, but by arranging all of the relevant facts in the case, good and bad alike, in the most persuasive order possible. In other words, if you've done your job properly, and if the other side is not represented by experienced appellate counsel, you may draw a motion to strike because they perceive that your statement was so darned persuasive it must be argumentative. It's almost a compliment, albeit of the decidedly left-handed variety. I needed to see if my colleague liked the Objections to the motion I'd prepared on Tuesday. She did.
Coincidentally, if you noted my comment on what I should be charging for briefs, in this case I made the princely sum of $1,250, about one-tenth of what I need to charge. That includes my fee for writing the Reply Brief (probably this coming weekend). I might make more on this case -- eventually -- even though it should be a loser, but only because my colleague has agreed to share more of her contingent fee in another appeal, for these same trial attorneys, that should fare much better on appellate review. Should. Maybe. Someday. - I also had a telephone conversation with a young attorney about a case where I'm representing a lady who works at my parish. She has no money to pay a $122 ticket that the City has resurrected some 11 years after it was (allegedly) written. It is over a decade too late to challenge the ticket on its merits, but not too late for the City to try and collect. (No, seriously.) The problem is that the City's records, such as they are, are decidedly at odds with my client's recollection. Now, I grant you that it is possible to forget a parking ticket with the passage of time. But my client recollects that the City towed her car away in the middle of the night, then made her hand over her car title lest it bankrupt her with storage fees. (The car was supposedly abandoned. It was old, yes, but drivable, and licensed, and insured. But a neighbor -- a neighbor with some serious juice apparently -- decided she didn't like the old car parked on her block and agitated to get it towed away.)
The "problem" is that the City has no record of this. Well, yes, midnight thefts are probably not well documented, even by the City of Chicago. But what this lady says happened to her car is sadly plausible. In other words, yes, I believe her. (She gave up her car title because she was thinking of selling the car anyway and she realized she'd not get that much for a 15-year old car in the best of circumstances.) The lawyer who is running the local office of the private collection firm on behalf of the City is a former Deputy Commissioner of Revenue. She was an honest, hard-working, straight-as-an-arrow public servant -- but she knew darn good and well that there were those in her department who were decidedly otherwise.
My problem is that I'm not dealing with this lawyer. I'm dealing with her green-as-grass associate. To him the City's records are Holy Writ. What is not there never happened. He will not be moved by my pleas. I've asked him to talk it over with his boss -- the former Deputy -- and he has promised to do so. But she may not have the discretion to act in my lady's favor and my lady may yet be saddled with paying the ticket. I've warned my client of this, of course, and told her to start putting aside the money while I make my last Don Quixote effort. But, gosh, I'd like to win this one. Even though I can't -- and won't -- charge the poor woman a dime.
But here I am again, back at the Teeny Tiny Law Office, ready in case work -- or a check -- decides to find me.
My auto insurance payment is overdue. It's raining. And, I've discovered, my shoes are no longer water-tight.
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