The gender of the Blogosphere -- an Unscientific Survey

Long Suffering Spouse teaches Spanish to junior high students and one of the most difficult concepts they struggle with -- year after year -- is that every noun in Spanish has a gender.

*WARNING* I am about to attempt an illustration of this point. Native Spanish speakers in particular, be ready to cringe. *YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED* Thus, it is el gato, the cat, male in gender, even when the cat is female.

I didn't understand it either when I took Spanish.

But thinking about that led me to think about the 'gender' of the Blogosphere. Saturday I joked in my bloghopping post about experiencing a sex change operation... because the person who bloghopped me referred to me as a "she" (is that too many pronouns?) in her blog. On the other hand, at first blush, it seemed a safe assumption.

Women write most of the blogs I visit regularly. Not all of them, of course. There's Captain Picard and Dr. A, Chris from Thermal,and Ben and Bennie. And of course Sarge -- but he fell into the habit because of his blogging bride Bee. I believe that to be true of Barb of the blockbuster blog (say that 10 times fast -- g'wan now, I dare you!) Skittles and her husband Mike. And then there's professional comedy writer and sometime baseball announcer Ken Levine. Or Josh, "The Comics Curmudgeon".

I've lost you now among the exceptions, haven't I? We lawyers tend to do that.

But most of the blogs on my blogroll are written by women. And there's a huge community of popular "mommy blogs" such as Suburban Turmoil.

Indeed, I was prepared to state this morning unequivocally that the gender of the Blogosphere should be feminine... I was going to argue that the women are so dominant here that our miniscule male presence can be ignored entirely which is why the women feel so free to speak their minds... on any and every topic... and using any words they feel like using. I was going to cite some of the comments I've been reading... anything by Mist1... oh, I had a dandy post taking shape as I was coming to work this morning on the train.

And then I opened my email. And saw my Sitemeter stats for the week.

I had 531 hits this week -- 76 a day.

Paltry figures, to be sure, next to Barb's 442 -- but, put it this way -- since I first started tracking with Sitemeter, I've had about 3,900 hits total. This week represents over 13.6% of that entire total.

This latest upsurge in traffic is due, without question, to Sgt. Michelle Manhart, USAF. My post about her appeared January 12. Traffic shot up on January 13. And I had only one AP photo with my post... not the pictures that ran in Playboy.

Now, none of these new visitors left comments. They presumably were disappointed quickly and left. But my suspicion is that all (nearly all?) the Google searches for Sgt. Manhart were from males.

And I realize there are a lot more male bloggers out there doing political blogs.

I've mostly shied away from politics here. It's not that I don't have opinions. I have lots of them... but here I'm trying to attract readers. I'd accept acolytes, of course, but my wife would not allow me to have any groupies. So I want readers -- and political opinions tend to put off potential readers.

Besides, my red meat conservative acquaintances think I'm a Commie Pinko hippie radical freak. My true believer liberal acquaintances think I'm a heartless souless running dog reactionary. I'm afraid that may make me... middle of the road.

And you know what you're most likely to find in the middle of the road, don't you?

Road kill.

No, I'll continue to steer clear of politics.

But there are men are out there in the Blogosphere. And they're certainly running Google searches. (On the topic of searches, Ken Levine's Sunday linkbaiting post is more shameless than anything I've ever done. And funnier, of course. Although he left out Sgt. Manhart. And Chrissy Popadics. I'll have to leave him a comment on that....)

But in the meantime, I'll leave you with my irregular feature, the Unscientific Survey: What gender do you assign to the Blogosphere? Feel free to explain your answers.

No joke: Germans only following orders when they veer off the highways

Some people find ethnic humor very offensive. Perhaps you have been scolded for resorting to this sort of humor in the past. I have been scolded on occasion myself. And I have learned: Just because someone is German, for example, does not mean he will blindly follow orders.

So I will present this news story, posted on Yahoo! News without comment:

BERLIN (Reuters) - A 46-year-old German motorist driving along a busy road suddenly veered to the left and ended up stuck on a railway track -- because his satellite navigation system told him to, police said on Sunday.

The motorist was heading into the north German city of Bremen "when the friendly voice from his satnav told him to turn left," a spokesman said.

"He did what he was ordered to do and turned his Audi left up over the curb and onto the track of a local streetcar line. He tried to back up off the track but got completely stuck."

The police spokesman said about a dozen trams were held up until a tow lorry arrived to clear the car off the track.

Several German motorists have crashed their cars in recent months, later telling police they were only obeying orders from their satnavs.

Must remain politically correct.... still trying not to comment....

Oldest Son went to the Bears game...

Photograph acquired from the Chicago Tribune website.

I'd try to explain the various machinations he went through, buying tickets from StubHub! and selling them on eBay through the good offices of a "power seller" of his acquaintance... and then obtaining four better seats and selling two of these... but during his explanation my head began to pound and I could no longer pay attention.

The bottom line: Yesterday was the first time Oldest Son made it to a Bears game.

It wasn't supposed to be that way.

In December 1997 the Bears were terrible, the weather was worse, and there was no hope of a playoff berth. One of my partners had season tickets... and no intentions of going to the last home game.

StubHub! hadn't been invented yet, and I don't believe eBay had either. Season ticket holders would try to peddle their extra tickets to friends and family... but, when all else failed, they'd give them away.

This was where my partner found himself in December 1997: He'd paid for the tickets. He wasn't going to use them. He'd tried and failed to sell them. He hated to see them go entirely to waste. So he asked if I would take them off his hands.

I took the tickets.

There is a tipping point in these transactions and my partner had crossed it: By the time he asked me, I was doing him a favor by taking these ducats free, gratis and for nothing. I wouldn't have taken them otherwise.

The great day arrived and Oldest Son, Middle Son and I set off for the game. The plan was to park by my office (I had access to a free parking space at that time) and then take the subway down toward Soldier Field. When we got to the office, we went inside, just for a minute, to let the kids use the necessary. I fussed around the office for a couple of minutes. There's always something to look at.

In 1997 I had a cell phone. But I didn't carry it all the time. I saw no point in carrying it to a football game in crumby weather where I wouldn't hear it anyway and I might lose it. So I didn't have it with me that day.

The flashing light on the office phone told me there were messages. I played them back.

One was from Long Suffering Spouse.

My mother had been in the hospital for cancer surgery. She was recuperating normally, we were told. But, I thought, trying, but unable to banish the thought away, perhaps something had happened. Long Suffering Spouse's message was that I should call home right away. She sounded upset.

I finished the messages and made ready to dial home.

Middle Son and Oldest Son had probably completed their business and were getting fidgety, ready to leave. Excited. But I told them that Mom had called and asked them to bear with me a moment. I placed the call.

"Your mother's had a heart attack," LSS told me, without preliminaries. "They don't know how long she has and you'd better get back here."

So we went back home. The boys didn't get to go to their game. I went to the hospital.

My mother survived another 2½ years -- spending most of that time in the hospital -- at least the way I remember it. I used to tease her that she spent more time in the hospital than a Soviet leader while the succession was being worked out.

Middle Son has been to lots of Bears games over the past two years... as an usher. My late father was a great football fan. But, yesterday, when Oldest Son was so excited to go to his first Bears game, it was my mother I thought about.

Bloghopping... sort of

A little over a week ago Rose DesRochers left a comment on my junk mail post and added that she was out "bloghopping." I was invited to hop on over to her site and where else she'd gone.

I couldn't do that right away -- for one thing the link to her Blogger ID did not link to her blog. But I found her... on Thermal I believe... and that's how I have an active link to her site here.

Incidentally, this may be the 17th plug I've given Chris already this year. I'm going to have to start charging....

Herewith a link to Rose'sbloghopping post. When I got there I found out that I'd undergone a sex change operation. But Rose said something nice about this post so all was forgiven. Besides, the effects do not seem to be permanent.

Now you might think, if I was going to try this bloghopping thing for myself, I'd start with Rose. Turnabout and fair play and all. But, no, that's just what they'd want you to think, wouldn't they? So I'll say instead that I enjoyed Rose's I'm going to be a Grandmother post and start this bloghopping adventure instead with...

... Lawfrog of Toadally Talking because of the hopping and frog and the --

Look. If I have to explain everything, we'll get nowhere, OK?

Anyway, Lawfrog is a lawyer who's just quit her job. So she's got a lot on her mind and I'm sure a lot more to come on her blog.

Now the rules of this game, as I understand them, are you start at one blog... and then hop into the blogroll at random.

Yeah, right. I'm going to look and see what's most interesting.

Hmmmmmm. East of Oregon... Doctor Anonymous.... I can't fault Lawfrog's selections here. *looking, looking* What's this? Second Effort? *blush* *brief detour to reciprocate with a link on my page*

So I click on most of the links available to pages I don't know. Looking for just the "right" one that will lead to an amazing adventure in the Blogosphere. This lead to clicking from some of those links, trying to see how this would work. I wound up at a Google video called Bikini Calculus. I had to watch, didn't I?

At the end, it offered me a link to post it here... and I did think about it... and then I thought Bee would probably figure I was only doing it to increase Sitemeter hits... although I've already used the word "bikini" twice now so I've probably got the Sitemeter buzzing anyway. My real concern is that I don't remember enough calculus to know whether they were really providing good information. I have my credibility to consider. (You believe that, don't you?)

In any event, now that I've provided the link, Chris will probably have it on Thermal next week. And there's more than one video Chris! Or so I'm told... I haven't really looked. (And that's 18!)

But this bloghopping thing wasn't moving along nearly as well as it should. I was still at square one. So I moved the mouse over to the links column, closed my eyes... and clicked... and came right back here.

Some of us are just not meant to hop.

Maybe I'll try some other time.

TV Stars

Ben and Bennie did just fine tonight on CNN -- tried to leave comment there but of course Blogger won't cooperate.

Maybe there's heavy traffic.

I hope it's mostly good.

Air Force sergeant photographed out of uniform

This is Staff Sgt. Michelle Manhart, USAF. According to an AP story posted today on Yahoo! News, Sgt. Manhart appears in this month's issue of Playboy magazine. According to the AP, Sgt. Manhart is in uniform in one photo, "yelling and holding weapons under the headline 'Tough Love.' The following pages show her partially clothed, wearing her dog tags while working out, as well as completely nude."

The Air Force is not amused. The AP reports that Sgt. Manhart has been "relieved of her duties while the military investigates." That presumably will involve looking at the pictures. Over and over again. Asking for the outtakes. Looking at them, too. Investigative work can be so tedious.

I can understand why the Air Force is not too happy about Sgt. Manhart's decision to pose. They've had their troubles with sexual harassment cases -- even a rape scandal -- involving the Air Force Academy in recent years. So I can understand when Oscar Balladares, Lackland Air Force Base spokesman, says "This staff sergeant's alleged action does not meet the high standards we expect of our airmen, nor does it comply with the Air Force's core values of integrity, service before self, and excellence in all we do." Although he's pre-judging the outcome of the investigation a bit isn't he? I mean, maybe the pictures do display excellence.

I understand that posing in this fashion may not be conducive to good order and discipline in the ranks. Heck, I've haven't seen the pictures and my own discipline is no longer in good order. And if there hasn't been an express ban on this sort of thing in the past, it may be a good idea to adopt a rule now.

But, in the meantime, I'm thinking that what's done is done and the Air Force might be better off just embracing the pictorial. (No, not the subject of the pictorial. Not given the Air Force's past sexual harassment issues.)

What I'm thinking about is this: Aren't recruitments down these days? Isn't this a heck of a recruiting poster? And a slogan: "Join the Air Force! We got sergants that look like this!"

Give your child a sense of individuality -- by forcing him to wear what you want

Mary Anne from A Place I call Home responded to yesterday morning's post about hair dyeing with some thoughtful comments. An extract:

Is not part of learning to learn how to become tolerant of one's differneces? Is that not part of education? Should we squash someones creativity because another person does not see it as being educational? What about art class, do we not promote creativity? Encourage individuality?

And this got me thinking. About indviduality... and I was already thinking about hair dye... and that led me to think about what kids wear.

When I was in high school, a generation ago, dress codes were toppling all over the country, often as the result of court challenges. We would now be "free" to express our individuality in how we dressed.

But what really happened is that we dressed according to new dress codes: the unwritten, ever-changing and often merciless code of whatever our "group" was. Jocks dressed like jocks. Freaks dressed like freaks...

...although no high school kid ever grew a beard like this. Ever. Except in his own imagination.

Greasers dressed like greasers. Straights dressed like straights.

By the way, "straight" had nothing to do with gender preference in those days. Good heavens: In those days, "gay" meant happy.

I had a high school classmate named Gay.

So the language has changed. And so have the names of at least some of the groups. Maybe you went to school with Goths, Nerds, or Preps -- but the tyranny of the group over a kid's clothing choices has remained constant through the years.

The pendulum started to swing back in favor of dress codes when educators and, still later, courts began to realize that street gangs also had dress codes. Wearing the wrong sweater in the wrong school prove a fatal fashion faux pas. Quite literally. Many Chicago schools have dress codes now... and gangs have adapted by coopting the uniforms, in at least some cases, into their own "colors."

But that's a different story.

So here's my hypothesis: I think that kids don't develop or express their individuality in their clothing choices, if they're allowed to make these choices entirely "on their own." Because they won't make them on their own. They will instead make only those "choices" consistent with their group ethos.

So I suggest, if you want your child to develop a sense of individuality, dictate your kids' clothing choices to the extent you possibly can. While that sounds contradictory, the teenager who's not allowed to wear the "right" brand of jeans must develop a sense of individuality in order to withstand the scorn of his or her group. What are they supposed to do? Blame it on their parents? "My Mom made we wear these" will only work in the short term, if at all. Eventually the group will ostracize the child... unless the child persuades the group that these khakis, or the shirt with a collar, is really his own "personal" style.

Sounds like a dream doesn't it? And, if we're talking shirts with actual collars, it probably is.

And that's another reason why I like school uniforms. But I've already blogged about that.

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It's going to be a busy day here at the Undisclosed Location, so I'm going to sign off now and probably not get back here the rest of the day.

Not even to check the Sitemeter. (Beads of perspiration already beginning to form....)

I can check the email for comments, though, can't I? (Hands starting to shake just a bit....)

Tagged by Skittles

Barb is calling this the "Thinking Meme." But these look an awful lot like beauty contest questions to me.

I'm terrible with beauty contest questions... however, for Barb, I'll try. But I'm going to be all over the board on these....

1. If you had to choose one vice in exclusion of all others what would it be?

Right away, a tough one. See, I have so many that it's hard to choose. And that's after having already given up so many.

But if I could take an occasional wee dram of something warm, that wouldn't be so bad, would it?

And that's "Blue Label" in the background. I'd like to acquire a taste for that. Heck, I'd like to acquire a single bottle of Blue Label... but that's going to be some time in the distant future, I'm afraid.

2. If you could change one specific thing about the world what would it be?

I'd make cars run on seawater instead of gasoline. When you think of all the changes that would follow from that one, you'll see I'm serious....

But I'll get over it as soon as we get to the next question.

3. Name the cartoon character you identify with the most.

This is another toughie.

There's a resemblance here. But I'm no hunter.

There's a resemblance here as well. Although my eyesight is a little better....

But this is either my Communion picture or Alfred E. Neuman.

And if I can't tell which, I'm guessing this
must be the cartoon character I most resemble.

4. If you could live one day in your life over again which one would it be?

I'd pick a day on which I received a big check. Live it over and over again for a month. Maybe two months. And then retire. The checks would cumulate, right?

5. If you could go back in history and spend a day with one person who would it be?

Only a day? That doesn't seem fair. And only one person? I'd like to be with Lincoln the day he visited Richmond. I'd like to be with Washington at Fraunces Tavern.

I'd like to hang out with Julius Caesar... any day but March 15, 44 B.C. I'd like to spend a night at the White House when Churchill was visiting FDR.

I wish I could have been with Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin on July 20, 1969. I was there in a sense, watching TV, but I mean really, truly there with them. That would require some revision of history and equipment, however.

But if I get only one person, and only one day, I suppose I'd have to ask for a good seat at the Sermon on the Mount.

I'm not partial to fish, but when they passed the bread around after, I'd take some to be sociable.

6. What is the one thing you lost, sold or threw away that you wish you could have back?

I wish my mother hadn't thrown out my baseball cards. But they probably weren't in near as good shape as I remember them now. I can still smell the bubble gum. And I regret that my aunt got rid of all the Lego I'd accumulated as a kid. It wasn't all kits then and I think my kids would have enjoyed it more. (I know I would have.)

7. What is your one most important contribution to this world?

Barb said it best: Her children.

Not that her children are my most important contribution. No. No. That's not what I mean.

Well, you know what I mean.... don't you?

8. What is your one hidden talent that nearly no one knows about?

Please. This is the Blogosphere. What's hidden?

9. What is your most cherished possession?

I'd like to be "deep" and say something like 'possessions aren't important to me.' I'd be lying, of course.... I suppose I'd have to say my law license. Without it, we don't eat.

10. What one person influenced your life the most when growing up?

Finally! An easy one!

I watched Bozo every day -- heck, my mother watched the show long after we kids were grown up and out of the house.

Or maybe this guy -- Frazier Thomas -- the Prime Minister to Garfield Goose, King of the United States.

Oh, wait, I'm kind of imitating the Bill Murray routine from Scrooged, aren't I?

No, my parents were the biggest influence on me. That's probably true for most people, for better or for worse. In my case it was largely for the better. This question should probably be amended to exclude parents....

11. What one word describes you better than any other?

Cowardly?
Cheap?
Boring?
Insufferable? (And, no, I'm not opening this to a poll!)
No, in the end, I think I'll go with "curmudgeonly."
Kind of ties in with the blog, anyway.

Under the rules of meme-ing -- and there's a word I'd challenge at Scrabble -- I'm supposed to tag some other suckers unsuspecting victims innocent bystanders.

With no malice aforethought, and without meaning to impose any obligation whatsoever, I'll tag Bennie, of the tag team of Ben & Bennie; Susan, of stuff and nonsense; Sari, of The Geek Inside; Shel, of Musings of a Phenomenal Webmistress; and Sarge, of Sarge Charlie. I don't think any of the aforementioned have been overly burdened with memes of late... I think Sarge may be looking for a break from the vacation stories anyway.

Anyone else who wants to wade into this voluntarily, please feel free to do so. And if you wished I'd tagged you, please let me know! I may need victims volunteers in future.

A hair-raising issue -- or -- dyeing to get out of school

The on-line version of Stefano Esposito's story in this morning's Chicago Sun-Times is not illustrated. The photo which accompanied the story in the actual paper paper is too small to reproduce usefully here. It shows a normal looking young teenager, with mostly brass-colored or golden tresses -- and, as the story notes, a couple of quite distinct cranberry red streaks. Herwith Esposito's article, complete and unabridged... for a reason which I'll explain:

Some might consider Sandridge School Principal Leroy Coleman a bit old-school.

The 50-something educator doesn't approve of kids holding hands in the hallways or "romancing."

Mom sides with daughter

And when seventh-grader Holli Boam arrived Wednesday with cranberry-red streaks in her hair, Coleman sent her home to wash it out. The principal at the Chicago Heights school was taken aback Wednesday when he learned that Holli and her mom weren't going to comply.

No 'romancing' either

"I'm surprised the mother would call you -- especially when we had such a wonderful conversation," Coleman told a Sun-Times reporter.

Holli's mother, April Boam, says her daughter's youthful expression of individuality doesn't violate rules.

Coleman says it's a distraction. "The best way to resolve this is to rinse out that ink -- or whatever it is."

April Boam says her daughter is being singled out. Boam points out that Coleman has sent her daughter home half a dozen times for no good reason, including for a kiss with a boy.

"The only reason they come here is to get educated," Coleman said. "I'm not having any romancing going on."

Holli says: "It's not like it's any color. It's not like it's blue or a neon-green color."

The entire article is presented to illustrate a lesson in newspaper reading. Reading this story tells me that there's some "history," mostly unpleasant, between the principal and the girl's family. And it may have at least as much -- if not more -- to do with the young girl's burgeoning interest in boys than with her interest in hair dye. Or at least with the principal's perception of what the young girl is most interested in. That's why you shouldn't take sides on almost anything you read in the newspaper based on one article alone.

But the general subject of the article, about young girls dyeing their hair, is something which all too frequently becomes an issue for parents of girls. And I do have a side to take here.

Don't allow it.

Listen to the voice of experience.

My daughters had brown hair. It would lighten a bit in the Summers -- I've since learned that there are shampoos that aren't quite dyes to enhance that normal process. I think Older Daughter's original hair may have originally been lighter than Younger Daughter's.

But I can't remember for sure.

A few years back, Older Daughter asked us if she could dye her hair. I said no... and was promptly overruled by my Long Suffering Spouse. "It's just this one time," my wife said.

But it wasn't. And Older Daughter's hair became various shades of red over the next several years. Sometimes lighter, sometimes darker, sometimes nearly orange.

I am not saying there's any addicting substance in either this hair dye or any other. I'll wait for the scientists to prove it, as I'm sure they will someday. Then I won't get sued.

But -- for whatever reason -- girls do not dye their hair once. They have to do it again and again. They have to go to other girl's houses and help them dye their hair. Other girls have to come to your house to dye your daughter's hair.

All their birthday money, their allowances, their earnings from babysitting or part-time jobs get plowed into new tubes and bottles and jars. Then there's related lotions and potions and the next thing you know, you can't get into or out of the shower in the morning.

Trust me on this.

Younger Daughter recently dyed her hair black. Coal black. Midnight black. She thought she looked like Snow White. I told her she reminded me of someone else.

Fathers can be so cruel.

And the sarcasm didn't help: The hair is still very dark.

Both daughters assured us over Christmas that their hair is returning to the colors Nature intended. Since Long Suffering Spouse is also skeptical of this claim, I feel safe in saying I don't think this is so.

So my advice to the aggrieved mother in today's story: Wash the kid's hair as often as necesary to get the "ink" out. And don't let her do it again.

If it's not already too late. And for anyone looking in for whom this has not yet been an issue... when your daughters ask...

It was all innocent fun... I thought... and then...

A couple of days ago I did a silly post about Internet traffic and how certain key words in posts had generated spikes in my Sitemeter statistics.

Well, not spikes, really, more like boomlets.

OK, barely perceptible ripples -- but that's beside the point. A number of you left comments suggesting other phrases I could use, or that you have used or might use, that might also cause traffic spikes.

May, from about a nurse suggested that I insert the words "naked lawyer" in a post. May, I will do no such shameless thing... or will I?

MJ, of Nurse Ratched's Place recalled that she'd once used the term "hot nurse." The many persons racing to her blog who relied on that phrase in their search argument may have been disappointed to learn that she was writing about an air conditioner malfunction. Now, I've disappointed them yet again.

Chris, of Thermal accused me of "linkbaiting" -- which sounds disreputable, surely, if not downright felonious. But, in due course, he offered a suggestion... which I won't repeat... although his comment remains available for your consideration.

Barb, from Skittles recalled that her husband, Mike, of Mike's Place, once did a "hillbilly name generator" that generated a lot of traffic. Probably from people with at least two first names each.

Ladeedah of La La Land suggested she might try phases like "ufo's abduct talking cat" and "aliens from mars kidnaps elvis."

Elvis' birthday was January 8, the same day the post in question appeared. Coincidence... or not?

I didn't think so either.

Anyway, since it was Elvis' birthday so recently, it seems appropriate to run his picture.

What? You were hoping for a "hot nurse"? Or, gulp, a "naked lawyer?" Please, I'm not that kind of blogger. (Even though Bee, of Muffin 53 -- the Empress, with her new banner and all -- called me a "sitemeter ho.")

And Susan, of stuff and nonsense, chimed in mainly because I'd run a picture of Boris Badenov and used the phrase "Moose and Squirrel."

Well, I used it again.

But, anyway, the three terms that had started all this fuss were "Chrissy Popadics," "basement fusion reactor," and "Dominic the Christmas Donkey." Why this happened I don't know. Perhaps Bobby Griffin of The Bestest Blog of All-Time can explain it. All I know is that the repitition of these these key phrases somehow pumped up the page ratings of the original (very different) posts in which each of these terms appeared. So, in fact, I did generate a little boomlet... most of which arrived via search arguments including "fusion" and "Thiago Olson" -- who really did build a fusion reactor of some sort in his parents' Detroit area home.

I thought this was all very amusing, until I noticed that one of the domain names was "pentagon.mil."

Uh oh, I thought. I've stepped in it now. Heistantly, cautiously, with some budding regret that I may have inadvertanly diverted someone from a national security matter, I clicked for details about this visit... what was the referring URL?

It was... page loading, tension building... Chrissy Popadics.

Ladies and gentlemen, Boise State's own Ian Johnson and Chrissy Popadics. It's still a great story....

Long Suffering Spouse thinks she has it tough teaching junior high... or she did...

Until we saw this story on the 10:00 news last night....

This excerpt is from this morning's story in the Chicago Sun-Times by Annie Sweeney:

A 51-year-old Malcolm X College instructor who was demonstrating a math problem on her blackboard Tuesday was stabbed in the back by a student who apparently became frustrated with the exercise, authorities said.

The veteran instructor, who was teaching a GED class, was taken to Stroger Hospital, where she received stitches and was released, officials said.

The incident occurred around 11 a.m., when a 40-year-old female student in the class repeatedly asked the instructor to explain a math problem and apparently became upset when she couldn't grasp the material, Chicago Police said.

The student pulled a small steak knife and stabbed the teacher in the left shoulder area, said Monroe District Capt. John Kenny.

Kenny said that before the stabbing the student repeatedly said: "I don't understand. . . . Explain to me."

The explanation, apparently, was deemed insufficient by the student.

Speaking of orange and blue...

The Bears have their first playoff game on Sunday and many of us here in Chicago have passed right through worry and are close to panic.

Which Rex Grossman will show up? The one whose overall stats made a case for him to go to the Pro Bowl? Or the one who had a 1.3 QB rating against Arizona -- and, worse, a 0.0 rating against Green Bay on New Year's Eve?

Not everyone is panicking of course. Not Oldest Son. He's cruising eBay looking for tickets to the game. He'll pay as much as $150 or $200 from money he's not yet earned for the privilege.

I told him he doesn't need to spend that kind of money to get the whole stadium experience. For only $100, I told him, we'll open the windows so he can freeze. When he has to go to the bathroom I'll jump up and stand in front of him for 20 minutes. And just to show my generous side, I'll charge him only $4 for a can of beer instead of the $6 or more he'd pay at Soldier Field. (It is Soldier Field, by the way, not Soldier's. Or Soldiers'. Just another way we can tell who's really from here....)

So far Oldest Son has turned me down.

There will be all sorts of civic tributes to the Bears as we draw closer to Sunday's game. But I don't think any will equal the banner I saw this morning on Monroe Street at the Claretian Publications building.

I wish I had a camera; you'll have to settle for descriptive words. The banner -- orange and blue, of course -- was huge, as were the words "Go Bears."

But it was the next line that caught my eye:

praytostjude.org.

The Claretian order operates the National Shrine of St. Jude, so the tie-in is natural.

But the banner that the good fathers have put up may not convey the right sense of, um, confidence?

St. Jude, you see, is the patron saint of desperate causes.

Go Bears!

The Orange and Blue team is no. 1 now right?

I mean, Ohio State lost to Florida last night. So that means the orange and blue team is the new National Champion, right?

You know... the one major college team that finished its season undefeated?

Boise State?

How not to win friends in the Circuit Clerk's office

I'd worked steadily on the brief all weekend. I didn't work constantly but, when I was on the computer, I was working more often than I was goofing off. And I was on the computer so much that Younger Daughter was beginning to despair that she'd ever get the opportunity to catch up on the latest developments in Teenage World via Facebook.

Younger Daughter recently broke up with a boy by changing her status on Facebook to single. He did the same. There is some question about the time-stamp on these two events, critical as always to the issue of whether one is the Dumper or the Dumpee. But I digress.

The brief was due yesterday. And, after working diligently all weekend, when Monday morning rolled around the brief was... not done.

Yes, I was agonizing over it. Looking for the 'right' word, for the 'best' citation.

It's a coverage case. A personal injury attorney has hired me to try and persuade the Chancery Court that the target defendant in his underlying case is covered under two excess insurance policies. While a lot of money is at stake, I will receive only an hourly fee for my services.

Still, being involved in big cases like this is the only way to become involved in other big cases in future... and in those cases maybe I'll be able to divert more of the income stream into my irrigation ditches.

So the brief wasn't done Monday morning. And it wasn't done at lunch time. But by 3:30 or so in the afternoon I had a draft ready to email to my referring attorney.

A few modest corrections here and there, a parenthesis closed, a comma removed, an extraneous article excised... all the corrected pages reprinted. It's coming up on 4:00.

I prepared the Notice of Filing and printed it, abbreviating the looooooong case caption to get the notice on a single page (two with the lengthy service list) and now I'm ready to photocopy. Now it's just past 4:00.

The photocopier is like the rest of us: It doesn't like to be neglected all day, only to be rushed into doing something at the last minute. It fought back the only way it could: With a paper jam. And then another.

Finally, though, the copier stopped balking and while the brief was running through the copier I put on my coat. I stapled the originals and headed out the back door. It was now 4:15.

The Clerk's office is in the Daley Center, just a couple of blocks away. But it closes at 4:30. And I had to wait for the elevator.

The elevators in our building were designed by a Zen Master to teach patience to an impatient world. The elevators are slow, yes, but not just slow: When the light on the button goes off there is a lengthy pause so that the elevator can stop and consider the wonder of becoming open.

Finally the light went off.

And the sound of moving machinery told me that the elevator was near.

But still I had to wait.

And wait.

And when the elevator believed that I had waited in silent contemplation for a sufficient period of time, the doors opened, and I went in.

This process was repeated on the ground floor.

It's after 4:20.

Yes, there are only two blocks to go, but there are streets to cross and the drivers have not learned patience, as I have. And I still must clear security.

By now it is 4:26... maybe 4:27... maybe even 4:28. Somewhere a timeclock must be reading 4:30 because all the public employees are beginning to swarm out of the courthouse.

I am as the salmon, swimming upstream. Only not to spawn and die -- just to file my papers. If I can get there before the doors close....

One of the double glass doors to Room 802 is already closed as I come out of the elevator. A man is just locking that side and turning his attention to the other and I hear someone shout, "Wait! There's another one!"

I don't know if he means me. I don't stop to find out. I execute a little bit of a spin move and make it around the man who's trying to close the door. I have made it in time.

Fortunately, yesterday, the pleading I had to file was something that did not require a fee. I could, and did, use the self-serve time-stamp box. If my papers had required a fee, I would have had to get in line... and face the Death Glare from the clerk.

If you ever want to see someone look at you just like this, just try and file a new Complaint in the Circuit Clerk's office -- any division will do -- at a minute before closing time on a Friday afternoon. Just don't expect me to go with you.

Internet Traffic... and my latest fiendish plan

Like Boris Badenov here, I have a new fiendish plan. However, my plan does not involve any threat of harm to "Moose or Squirrel."

Let me begin by saying I sometimes check my Sitemeter during the day.

And by "sometimes" I mean darn near constantly.

So I know how few many people are dropping by. And I know that there have been a few occasions where my posts have caused little traffic boomlets.

The little boomlets happen when people arrive via Google searches. And Sitemeter tells me what the search arguments were that led them to this humble establishment. Almost none of these who are steered here by Google searches stay long or leave comments, but it's quite late in the day today and I've had to interrupt my usual blogging routine with a dose of actual work. So I need something cheap and easy to get my daily numbers up to par.

So here goes: I'm thinking about a fictional post wherein Boise State cheerleader Chrissy Popadics creates a fusion reactor in her basement, all the while humming Dominic the Christmas Donkey.

That I've not actually written such a post shouldn't mean a thing... it's the search terms that count.

Good night everyone.

A problem paying the bills... and not the one you're thinking of

Oh sure, I've complained about money problems here before. And I will again. But not today.

We receive a lot of mail at the Curmudgeon home. With two kids presently in college and another recently graduated, we receive credit card solicitations every single day for one or more of them. (You've been preapproved!)

Wouldn't you think that a kid smart enough to go to college would also be smart enough to see through the glamor of easy credit to the lifetime of debt servitude that lurks behind? The constant stream of credit card solicitations suggests otherwise.

Because we have kids in college, we also get loan solicitations from banks and other seemingly official-sounding institutions. (Important information about your child's college loan! But these aren't about existing loans at all; they're about how we should take out new ones.)

And Younger Daughter is a junior in high school. So she's receiving college information... a lot of it... every single day. Somewhere along the line, she failed to write her first name clearly on a form. So nearly all of these solicitations butcher her first name. The computers don't know that these random letters do not add up to anyone's actual name... although, in this day and age, maybe they do.

When I was a kid, I received an entire drawer full of college solicitations, mostly from schools in Illinois, Iowa or Wisconsin. Because I lived in Illinois. But Younger Daughter does also... and she's received solicitations from Washington State, Florida, Maine, and California and every point in between.

A week from tomorrow Youngest Son will take his entrance exam for the Catholic high school of his choice. He'll go where his brothers went... but the computers at all the other Catholic boys' and co-ed schools haven't yet given up hope. He's getting mail from all of them.

And then there's catalogs. Lots of catalogs. Baseball equipment. All the department stores. The occasional Victoria's Secret catalog.

I was mugging with a Victoria's Secret catalog one day, having (I thought) a little innocent fun with Long Suffering Spouse.

She put a quick stop to that: "You do realize that's addressed to your daughter?" she asked.

It was addressed to Older Daughter! I dropped the catalog immediately.

And then there's the junk mail related to our respective professions. Long Suffering Spouse is a teacher. There's a lot of continuing education solicitations and catalogs associated with that. And I receive all sorts of law related advertisements.


We subscribe to a number of magazines, too. I took over my parents' Smithsonian subscription when they passed; they used to give me their copies when they were through with them anyway. I'm starting to like that magazine better, most months, than National Geographic. But George Bailey and I joined the National Geographic Society at about the same age.

And then there's the Wilson Quarterly. There's something about everything in there. And the magazines I get from the Illinois State Historical Society. And American Heritage -- which used to be issued in hard cover, but now is just another magazine, albeit one that is usually a good read.

Did I mention Discover Magazine? We get that, too. My lips move when I read some of the articles, but I do try to be well informed on a variety of subjects.

And then there's Sports Illustrated. Youngest Son finally talked Long Suffering Spouse into getting him a subscription.

This will be interesting: Long Suffering Spouse would be none too pleased if I were to get the Swimsuit Edition... will Youngest Son get to keep his copy?

Every magazine sells your name to all sorts of other hopefuls, all of whom contribute to the junk mail pile. Which therefore grows and grows and... well, you get the drift.

And that's pretty much what the junk mail does in my house, accumulate in drifts. And somewhere in these drifts are the bills I'm supposed to pay.

And if I don't find 'em, I can't pay 'em -- and that's the problem I wanted to talk about with you this morning. Because it's happened to me recently.

But I'm afraid we're all out of time.

Hmmmmmm. I wonder if I can work from home on the day when the SI Swimsuit Edition comes out....

"Bloggies" nominations underway

Nominations are open until January 10 for the Seventh Annual Weblog Awards.

Barb at Skittles' Place has a post with further information, if you're interested.

I went over to take a look, but they don't seem to have a category for me -- unfocused, disjointed ramblings and feeble attempts at humor without any unifying theme.

Probably too long to fit on an award certificate anyway.

Joke Thursday

With a tip of the cap or apologies as may be required to rdl who usually does "Joke Friday."

Mrs. Goldberg was very concerned about her son, Abie. Now in his late teens, Abie seemed to have no direction in life, no goals. Mrs. Goldberg confided to her friend, Mrs. Wise, that, to her, Abie seemed to be just drifting through life. Maybe she was missing something. Wasn't there anything she could do to find out if Abie really did have a purpose or a calling?

Mrs. Wise said there was. "We'll give him a test," she said. "Is there some place you can hide and still see the dining room table?" Mrs. Goldberg nodded. Mrs. Wise continued. "Good. So, one day, next week, when he comes home from school, hide so you can see the dining room table. On the dining room table you put three things:

"A $50 bill,

"a bottle of whiskey,

"and a Bible.

"Watch him and see what interests him," Mrs. Wise counseled. "If he takes the money, he's interested in business. You could do worse."

"True," agreed Mrs. Goldberg.

"If he takes the liquor," Mrs. Wise continued, "that's worse: It means he's only interested in carousing and carrying on."

"And if he takes the Bible?"

"It means he'll be a scholar after all. Maybe even a rabbi."

"A rabbi," echoed Mrs. Goldberg, and she agreed to try the plan.

The appointed day arrived, and Mrs. Goldberg carefully put the $50 bill at one end of the table, the bottle in the middle, and the Bible at the other end. She waited in a closet where she could watch. Eventually Abie came home.

He saw the items on the table right away. He walked around the table, looking at each. Back and forth he walked. Finally he stopped. He picked up the money and put it in his pocket. He picked up the bottle, opened it, took a generous swig, and put the bottle under his arm. The he walked over to the book, picked it up with his remaining hand and left the room.

Mrs. Goldberg was nearly hysterical with grief: "Oh no!" she cried, "He's going to become a Catholic priest!"

Younger Daughter wonders why I don't let her drive

Part of the problem, as I've mentioned in other contexts, is that I have an imagination.

And it's not bad enough that I have an imagination. People like Chris, from Thermal, post items on their blogs and I stop by... and follow the indicated link -- in all innocence -- and find pictures like this one.

But let's have some fun with this. How about a caption contest? Absolutely no prizes of any value will be awarded but your creativity will be on display for all your fellow denizens of the Blogosphere to see and enjoy. As always, keep it clean.

I'll start:

You said you wanted a side door. Now you've got your #$%@!! side door.

-- or --

(I'm hearing Wally Cox or Wallace Wimple from Fibber McGee & Molly as I'm writing this.) Sweetie? Um, Sweetums? I don't think this is a drive through.

Halfway point reached in ring season and all's quiet so far

The Christmas season is nearly over, whether we're on the nine ladies dancing or 10 Lords a'leaping. I haven't been keeping track.

But our own personal "ring season" is merely at the halfway mark.

Older Daughter was home for Christmas, arriving, in her new car, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.

Her eventual arrival was heralded by the usual announcements:

• The day before: I'm leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow; I should be in by 8:30 or so in the morning;
• 8:30 or so in the morning: I'm leaving now;
• 10:30 or so in the morning: OK, now I'm leaving. Did you know the Post Office is closed today? Why would the Post Office be closed on Christmas Eve? (I don't know -- maybe because Christmas Eve was on a Sunday?)
  

There was a subsequent call asking about the price of gas in Chicago, but we believe that by that time she was in fact en route. Older Daughter does not let a little thing like a flashing gas tank dashboard icon hurry her into buying gasoline, not if three cents a gallon may be saved. The car would not run out of gas on her. This is how she thinks. Fortunately, gas is always pricier in Chicago than almost anywhere in Indiana.

The Boyfriend did not make the trip with her. He came up Tuesday, with his parents. The parents stayed downtown. The Boyfriend stayed in our basement.

Now, please don't get me wrong: I am not trying to marry off Older Daughter. However, she's been dating the Boyfriend now since early in their undergraduate days. After they both graduated, she moved to Indianapolis because that's where he lives. Some speculation along these lines is therefore inevitable.

There was, however, no movement reported along this front during the recent Boyfriend visit. But I don't think the crisis is behind us, particularly since Older Daughter has a February birthday. A Valentine's Day birthday, no less. Thus, I conclude, we're only halfway through our first "ring season."

My guess is that this is the first, and probably not the last, ring season for Older Daughter and the Boyfriend. But it's another milestone for me and my Long Suffering Spouse: This isn't something we've had to realistically worry about before.

Isn't it nice to unpack a fresh, new anxiety?

They've got to be to killing themselves at Fox

Trying to figure what to do for an encore, that is.

Last night's Fiesta Bowl on Fox was a stunner. A shocker. A made for TV movie: Cinderella Kicks Butt.

And after dominating the game over highly-favored No. 7 Oklahoma, the wheels seemed to come off the cart for Boise State, a "mid-major" from the unheralded Western Athletic Conference: Oklahoma came storming back late in the game with 18 unanswered points to tie. And that those 17th & 18th points did not come easily: Thanks to penalties, the Sooners got three chances to make the necessary two point conversion, but they finally, dramatically did so.

The Sooners didn't just have momentum back on their side. They had a tsunami. And then, in what seemed to be the last gasp, Boise QB Jared Zabransky gave up an interception. A pick six. The ball seemed over. Cinderella was shoeless -- and the coach had turned back into a pumpkin as orange as the Broncos' uniform pants.

And then Boise State, now looking to tie, scored on a crazy, 4th and 18 razzle-dazzle lateral play... and we went to overtime.

College overtime rules are so much better than the NFL: Each team gets a chance to score. If both score, a second OT is staged. If a third OT is necessary, a team scoring a touchdown must attempt a two-point conversion. Oklahoma had the ball first.

Adrian Peterson needed one play to get the Sooners their OT TD. One play. Men against boys. Goliath had shaken off David's pebble attack and gotten back on his feet.

And then it was Boise State's turn. They struggled. They did it piecemeal. But they finally scored... on fourth down again... on another 'go out to the manhole cover and turn toward the Buick' play.

And then they went for the two point conversion.

They're calling it a Statue of Liberty play. I think Oldest Son would dispute that, but Quarterback Zabransky mimed the throw with his right hand and Ian Johnson plucked the pigskin from Zabransky's left hand and ran to the corner of the endzone before several of the players knew he had the ball. I'm sure I wasn't the only viewer who needed the replay to figure out what I'd just seen.

Cinderalla 43, Established Football Powerhouse 42.

And the drama still wasn't over.

Ian Johnson gave a very composed post-game interview, with his adoring cheerleader girlfriend at his side and the usual chuckleheads crowding in the background making hand gestures of questionable decency. I was thinking what an unusually well-spoken young man he was... when he got down on one knee and proposed marriage to the aforementioned cheerleader girlfriend, Chrissy Popadics.

It took Ms. Popadics a couple of seconds to figure out what was happening... but she did... and she said yes.

The AP story today quotes Boise State QB Zabransky as saying he'd heard rumblings that Johnson was thinking about proposing.

"I'm sure it probably wouldn't have been as romantic if we would have lost," Zabransky said. You think?

So pity Fox Sports: How are they ever going to top this? And they've still got three more games to go....

Back to reality -- although I'm still blogging....

It's a new year, a new week, and I'm running late. The more things change, the more things stay the same....

But, thank you for asking, everyone made it through New Year's alright. Oldest Son continues in New Orleans awaiting the Sugar Bowl tomorrow night -- he spent New Year's Eve in the French Quarter. There were beads, he told us yesterday, and there was beer, and there was pizza.

Nothing quite says New Orleans to me like pizza.

No, that doesn't sound at all right.

Well, anyway, I am getting a very late start and I've got a major project due on Monday next. If my attendance is sporadic here these next few days, please forgive me. I have a lot of things I'd like to write about -- and your own sites and your comments here always suggest new ideas -- but the necessity of eating regularly and keeping a roof over my family sometimes intrudes. Rudely.

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Meantime, speaking of comments, Barb at Skittles' Place has issued a challenge: She wants everyone to turn off word verification for a week and see what happens. What I think will happen is spam. And I already get several emails a day about contests I've won that I've never entered, about African widows who want me to handle their late husband's millions, and about things that are too small or medications that can be obtained by the bushel basket (also regarding things that are allegedly too small, come to think of it).

On the other hand, word verification is a pain: It's a continual reminder of how my vision is slipping... it really bugs me that every year TV's get better... and my eyesight gets worse. So, I'll accept Barb's challenge and give it a try... for a week, anyway....

Here goes....

If Christmas is for little kids and grownups -- New Year's is for those in between

This may explain why New Year's is so scary... for parents of a certain age.

"They think they're invincible!" That's the typical complaint we hear (and make) about our teens and post-teens. Or: "They think they're immortal." And the kids always hotly deny that they think this way.

And, of course, the teens and post-teens are neither invincible nor immortal. As tragic stories every New Year's Day make so painfully clear... but only to us... not to them.

I've thought about this a lot lately and I've come to the conclusion that we should believe the kids when they say they don't think they're immortal. Or invincible. They probably don't think much at all.

At best, they have a vague notion that they are safety-conscious, responsible people, the ones we've labored so hard to develop. And some of them really are.

Not that it would make any difference to the stoned zombie driving the wrong way on a one way street with no headlights at 4:00 am, or the drunk flying west up a hill in an eastbound lane in a pick-up truck now converted to battering ram.

That's the problem of having an imagination: Sometimes I use it. And I worry.

Sure, I was little better: I remember one New Year's Eve living out near where Christ lost His shoes, announcing to my horrified parents that I would be driving into the City to celebrate the holiday. In a snowstorm.

But as I remember the story, I didn't go. And I was... at least eventually... OK with that.

But the world changes: I've just dropped Oldest Son off at Union Station. He's going to the Sugar Bowl, in New Orleans, with stops en route in Springfield, Illinois and Memphis, Tennessee, picking up friends at each stop. Only the first leg is on Amtrak.

Of course, taking the train is better than driving... but we are talking Amtrak.... (Sorry, imagining again....)

And Middle Son has informed us that he and most of his far flung social circle are going to Champaign to ring in the New Year. They'll be driving. But, he informs us, somewhat surprised, that we weren't the only parents who have insisted that the group leave... and arrive... early. And stay put.

And Younger Daughter will insist on going somewhere, too. Anywhere. As long as it is not her parents' house.

Long Suffering Spouse and I will not be tripping the light fantastic in some swanky venue tomorrow night. After watching the Bears' game, our New Year's glamor will be confined to the TV screen -- where we will live vicariously, for another year, through the adventures of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. We'll wait anxiously until all the kids have checked in. This year, we'll probably have to wait until some time Monday afternoon.

Perhaps when our children have children of their own -- when they're all safe at their own homes -- maybe then Long Suffering Spouse and I can go to a formal New Year's Eve gala. If they still have them.

And then the kids could worry about us.

(Imagining....)