Food, glorious food? Curmudgeon munches on a new meme -- and finally stops wringing his hands about whether to do more memes

This meme is from a new reader, TroyBoy of Pheasantly Fascinating. The idea is to reveal favorite foods for particular purposes.

I am, however, the wrong person for such a meme. Some people love to eat; I eat because, if I don't, I get light-headed and woozy. I am an habitual eater: I probably eat the same thing for lunch 300 out of 365 days a year. I was always a picky eater; I have no appetite for culinary adventures. When I practiced with a firm, we had, on occasion, to take clients out to lunch. One of the senior partners fancied himself a gourmet. He eagerly sought out gustatory challenges at the newest and latest "hot" dining spots. I would scan the menus at these places, often in vain, for something I could at least pronounce. I had to order something -- dry, white toast wouldn't cut it. I found such occasions to be sheer torture.

Now, I'm even worse. Since my colon was removed I'm not just picky, I'm scared: I am afraid to eat anything that might overwhelm my reduced digestive equipment. Nevertheless, I herewith undertake the meme:

Favorite Gourmet Item:

None. If something is a gourmet item I am probably unaware of its existence. Calamari is about as exotic as I get... on the theory that I can eat almost anything so long as it has been breaded and fried.

Favorite Snack at Home:

Pretzels.

Favorite Fastfood item:

A jamocha shake from Arby's. My days of fastfood burgers are gone. I think that each human is alloted a certain limit of fastfood burgers -- and I'd used mine up before finishing law school. I envy my kids, who are still in their White Castle phase. I recall downing a dozen slyders at a time... but that was then.

Favorite Food When Driving:

I don't really eat much when driving, and certainly not as a habit. When we took long distance family outings, I'd have fries or a shake while the kids ate fastfood burgers. Long Suffering Spouse would pack sandwiches for very long trips; I'd eat those.

Favorite Food With a Beer (or other libation - please specify):

Pizza. I'm still good for one beer at the Sox game, maybe two if it's a hot day. And, at the ballpark, I like to have a slice of pizza. But I don't much care for beer either. This may be another item for which I've used up my lifetime quota. (Fortunately, my quotas for scotch, vodka and wine seem not yet fully depleted.)

Favorite Food for Invoking Romantic Intentions:

I don't associate food with romance. With five kids, privacy has been far more important than any comestible.

Least Favorite Food:

Food that Conjures a Childhood Memory:

Food that Conjures a Sad Memory:

Food that Conjures a Happy Memory:

All pass. I wasn't partial to liver as a child -- and I wouldn't touch bologna -- but food is usually not a memory trigger for me. Although, now that I think of it, lamb with mint jelly would remind me of my grandmother. If I ever had lamb with mint jelly again.

And a fellow as picky as I am can't have just one least favorite food.

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I suppose that the foregoing is no better than a C+ effort, and I apologize.

But that is the trouble with memes: Appropriate responses seem to suggest themselves in some cases; other times it is difficult to come up with something that anyone (other than, presumably, the tagger) is willing to read.

I'd agonized over this problem (to meme or not to meme?) in an August 15 post and I hemmed and hawed on it still further in a post I put up the next day.

I asked for input from my readers:

I already knew that Dr. A passes on memes. A new commenter, Robin said that, for her, "Memes are a lazy, self-indulgent exercise" -- but she wasn't trying to pour cold water on others' enjoyment. She quickly added, "sometimes they can be fun."

I expected, and received, some strong pro-meme responses: Hilda may have had the most enthusiastic response of all: "I *LOVE* memes...and when I'm not tagged, I don't feel left out - I just steal it." But, even with this, Hilda said, "while I don't mind being tagged, I don't like tagging."

Barb, Ralph, and Patti were generally in favor of tags and tagging. Ralph said, "I like to be tagged, it allows me to open up a bit more." Patti was a bit more reserved: "I don't mind being tagged, it's just a matter of taking the time to complete them." And Barb? She wrote, "tag away anytime." (There's a reason why she's had over 65,000 visitors in little more than a year of operating "Skittles' Place.")

Bennie was a tad uncomfortable with the use of memes to build an audience: "If it's a way to gain readership I don't think I'd participate." But he's not against all memes: "I like reading memes that dig into the soul so to speak. The best ones will make me remember something interesting from the past that was meaningful."

But not all memes do that. Sharon observed, "Mostly I find the tagging stuff to be a distraction from the reading and the writing in blogosphere." Katherine, too, said she didn't pursue traffic because she's "more of a reader...not a writer."

And Katherine was one of several who expressed a certain ambivalence about memes: "For me its more about WHO tags me. There are some people for whom I would do even the most inane Meme. I'd rather not feel obligated to complete one just cause they have fourteen letters in their middle name and everyone else has done it already."

This was a common theme in reader comments: Shelby, on whom I'd just bestowed a tag, accepted the assignment with seeming enthusiasm: "I shall do this meme - on the morrow - with smiles." But, she added, "ever so gently and quite hesitantly....I do not like getting tagged." MJ said, "I'm relieved when I'm not tagged. I hate tags, but sometimes I play the game because I don't want to hurt the other person's feelings."

Silverneurotic said, "I just don't like having that feeling of obligation to participate in a meme just because a fellow blogger thinks I should.... I would not mind too much if I only got tagged occasionally by different people, but it seems that every week I get tagged by the same people to do a meme...and often times the meme's are very similar and I find myself repeating myself!" (Silverneurotic has since declared her blog meme-free. I like this sentence in her post: "Then when I get given a meme and told to fill it out…well I feel like I’m taking the SAT’s all over again, except this time without the aid of a trusty calculator." I like it, that is, except for the part about the calculator. We didn't have calculators when I took the SAT. And an abacus was too big to sneak in....)

Another new commenter, Marcia, said, "I don't mind tags, but write so much anyway, I put them aside at times and forget them." That was Sari's chief complaint, too: "My problem is, even if I AM tagged, a lot of times I just forget to do the memes." Chris doesn't necessarily forget or ignore tags, "but it does depend on whether it inspires me or if I think I could do it."

Chris also said he doesn't like to tag people because it "feels like an imposition," a sentiment with which Pilgrim and Jean-Luc would both agree.

SQT added, "Sometimes [memes] just seem tedious and other times they're fun. I guess it's a mood thing." Susan also said her moods dictate her response to a tag: "If I already have a direction in mind for my next post, I tend to find being tagged somewhat of an annoyance.... HOWEVER, if I find myself in a spot where I feel less than inspired, a gentle tagging seems to have the effect of getting the brain moving again."

Heather had a short comment, but one that sent me to the dictionary (without success). What the heck does "falky" mean? And, if it means "ambivalent," where the heck did the word come from?

Linda had a lot to say on this topic. An excerpt: "I only have x-amount of time for blogging and it already takes up way too big of a chunk of my life and I also try to do only one post per day as I think that's what people expect of me. If I have to keep trying to catch up with memes then I get behind on the stuff I really meant to write about but got sidetracked away from." At some point, she said, "you have to politely refuse but then I feel bad as if someone took the time to think of me, I feel bad not holding up my end."

Bee and RDL had what I thought was a sound approach. Bee said, "i like some of 'em and if i don't, well, then i just say no thank you and i don't think anyone has gotten upset about it with me" and RDL said, "I like memes and i like that if i don't like a particular meme, I don't have to do it - like grown-up homework; or if life gets in the way i don't need an excuse not to do it."

All of this discussion has helped me sort out my own opinions on the subject and I thank all who contributed (and I hope I didn't miss anyone in this summary).

I conclude that (a) if I do a meme henceforth, I won't tag (except for Hilda -- she's always tagged) and (b) I'll do such memes from now on that I think I can do well -- that appeal to me.

I mean no offense to anyone who tags me with a meme that I fail to do. I hope none will be taken.

Gosh, I hope I don't wind up in the dungeon of Mimi, Queen of Memes for this....

Heads or Tails #4 (School)

As the father of five, with two through college, one halfway there, and two still in high school, I write about school a lot. Oh, and Long Suffering Spouse is a teacher, too.

I looked it up in preparation for today's Heads or Tails: Out of 479 posts here at Second Effort so far, 111 of them (not counting this one) have mentioned the word "school."

But, today, if you'll gather round closely, so no one else can hear, I'll tell you a story about school we don't tell at home.

I have a lot of these; I'll just give you one today. We sure didn't tell these stories while my parents were alive -- and we won't tell them at home at least until Youngest Son is safely graduated from college.

Make sure all the kids are out of the room.

Are they gone?

Well, then, here goes:

I didn't always go to class in college. I don't mean that I cut classes occasionally. I mean I once scheduled an accounting class at 8:30 so it would be over by the time I got up. (Yes, I passed.)

I took an Irish history course and I really liked the professor. He told good stories and he wrote several good books, which I actually read, and I tried to go to that class as often as I could.

Still, my classmates apparently thought my attendance sporadic: One time, apparently after a prolonged absence, I received a rather sarcastic standing ovation when I entered the room. (Yes, I passed this class, too.)

But today's story concerns an economic history course I took. The first day of class we received a syllabus. It told us everything that was going to happen in the course and when it would happen. And the professor was boring. So after sampling the class just enough times to be certain that he would stick to his script, I found other things to do during that time slot. I showed up for the midterm and got a B+.

Then, disaster struck.

I lost the syllabus.

Now, you may say, what's the big deal? Ask for another one.

But, of course, that's because we've shooed all the kids out of the room, haven't we? We all know that would be the sensible course of action.

Except that I was still a teenager then... and I did what a teenager would do.

Namely, nothing.

Oh, I fretted about the lost syllabus for awhile. I probably even looked for it. But, after not finding it, I lost interest and went on to other things.

And, suddenly, it was finals week.

At my alma mater, like most colleges as I understand it, finals are given in long time periods, and not necessarily on the day the class met ordinarily. So a Monday 8:30 class might have its final on Monday at 8:30, but a Tuesday 9:00 class might have its final on Wednesday afternoon.

So the first problem I faced was figuring out when the final would be given.

Then I realized I'd forgotten the room in which the class met.

I recall wandering up and down the corridors in this one classroom building during the assigned time, peeking in through doors, looking to see if I recognized anyone.

It must have been about halfway through the final that I found the class.

I introduced myself to the professor. He checked the class list just to be sure I was in fact enrolled.

Somehow I talked my way into an "Incomplete."

Instead of taking the final, it was agreed that I would turn in a paper on economic history. Since I had also just taken a course in macroeconomics, I had all sorts of useful formulas I could plug into such a paper. Which I turned in a couple of days later along with my textbook from the other course.

I recall the follow-up conversation vividly. I called -- as you might expect -- with a certain degree of trepidation. The professor cut me off quickly. "You didn't come to class," he said. "You didn't take the final" -- I began to silently rehearse the stories I might try on my parents -- "so I really can't give you an A."

For once, I managed to keep my mouth shut. I took my B and was grateful.

Still am.

And -- please -- don't tell the kids.

"I'm calling to confirm...." (an unscientific survey)

(Cartoon found here.)

I mentioned in my recent "Snow Day" post that the power outages from the storms of August 23 forced the cancellation of my dentist's appointment set for the 24th.

They couldn't reschedule when they called to cancel -- because their entire calendar is on computer.

But the dentist's office called back within a day or two. I was actually at home to answer the phone and I personally made the appointment for this morning.

Total turnaround from making of appointment to this morning no more than 10 days.

(Isn't this exciting so far?)

So Thursday rolls around... and the dentist's office calls back... to confirm the appointment I just made.

I can understand the need of postcards and phone calls to follow up on an appointment made six months' earlier... but for one made a week ago?

I ignored the call.

They called back Friday: If I didn't call to confirm, the appointment would be canceled. Long Suffering Spouse returned the call for me; it had been a rough week, particularly for my wife, and she left a piece of her mind behind on their answering machine.

Note that human beings seldom communicate directly anymore... even over the phone. The person making the follow up calls on the dentist's behalf is not picking up the phone when someone pulls the message off their home machine. The person making the follow up calls might not even be in the dentist's office. So you talk to my machine; I in turn talk to yours.

Whatever my wife said to the machine must have been uncharacteristically harsh: I thought I saw a couple of dagger-glares when I walked into the dentist's office this morning at precisely the scheduled time.

(This dentist has ways of enforcing punctuality. The last time I showed up late for a filling, I was told it was "too late" for painkiller.)

Long Suffering Spouse gave me express instructions to raise the issue of these overzealous follow-up calls with the dentist. And I did. After all, it was I who sicced Long Suffering Spouse on the dentist's answering machine -- not that I would have been any less cranky.

"I mean, c'mon," I told the dentist, although I'm sure it may have sounded more like uhmin kommon, "I just made this appointment a week ago."

"I know," said the dentist, "but you'd be surprised: We make appointments on Wednesday for Thursday and people forget."

I just don't think I'm that far gone. Yet.

So let me ask: Follow up phone calls -- with due acknowledgment to Roger Ebert's copyright -- thumbs up or thumbs down? I'll hang up now and wait for your answers.

Today is Labor Day and I'm at the Undisclosed Location

Why?

Well, for one thing there's no charge to park on the street downtown today!

That, and I have work to do. And it's easier to do work on a day when I want to than on a day when I have to.

There's apparently a reason why I'm self-employed....

A truly inspired high school prank

I saw a brief story about this in this morning's Chicago Sun-Times and I was so hoping to find a picture -- and I found this instead!

According to this story in the Columbus Dispatch, the author of this prank, one Kyle Garchar, of Hilliard, Ohio (a suburb of Columbus) was given a three day in-school suspension as a result of this stunt. Garchar and his accomplice/girlfriend, Danielle Jewell, were also "banned from school activities for the rest of the semester."

You will see no "Free Kyle" protests here (although the semester-long ban seems a little harsh -- I'd have liked to see what he came up with for the first basketball game).

There are times when, as responsible adults, we must set our faces on grim and tsk-tsk gravely at a young person's behavior.

Of course, as soon as they leave the room, we can dissolve in hysterical laughter.

This is one of those times. (All the young people have left the room, right?)

I think this prank is extraordinarily creative and funny. But I'd never let that kid know I thought so....

How the Curmudgeon participates in the parish golf outing

Golf is a game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into a even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill-designed for the purpose.

-- Winston Churchill

(Churchill week seems to be continuing here at Second Effort.)

I am not a golfer.

I have nothing against golfers, mind you. I am simply unwilling to surrender myself, body and soul, to the game -- that being the minimum that one must do in order to (someday -- maybe someday) become adequate.

When I practiced with a firm we had to participate, from time to time, in golf outings; once or twice we even staged one. But since there is nothing quite so maddening for a real golfer than to have to go around the course with a duffer, and since the purpose of these exercises was to get (not lose) business, I always managed to stay behind. Someone had to watch the store, my partners would say if anyone inquired about my absence, and then I'd drive up and join them for dinner. My partners would make tut-tut noises about how sorry they were that I had to miss the fun and I would express deep regret at not being able to join them.

My Act of Contrition was silent, but sincere nonetheless.

Still, I was at one time willing to play golf -- as long as I could go around with other similarly inclined duffers.

My views on this subject were well known to others in the parish, some of whom were indifferent or even terrible golfers like myself. One of these decided to organize a foursome for the next parish golf outing, always held sometime after the Labor Day holiday. The trouble was finding two other golfers quite as bad as we were.

We interviewed several of our friends -- all of whom professed no talent for the sport. But that's the way with golfers, isn't it? No one ever claims to be a 'good' golfer; somehow, however, some people manage minuscule handicaps.

Every one of our fellow parishioners who even knew what a handicap was was immediately disqualified.

But then the questions had to be more carefully put. This is where I was able to use my legal training.

"Have you ever broken 100?" I would ask.

People would squirm at this: No one who plays with any regularity wants to admit that he doesn't, at least occasionally, shoot less than 100. On the other hand, no one wanted to say that they did so regularly; in the context of our discussion, that would be tantamount to claiming to be "good." I say again: No real golfer claims to be good.

So I would pounce before they could formulate an answer. "No, no, I wasn't clear," I would say. "Have you ever broken 100 -- on a nine hole course?"

Most people laughed; they were eliminated. A couple slumped in embarrassment: No, they said.

We had our foursome.

It was a great act of Christian charity that we four were to perform at this outing: We were certain to finish last, thereby giving satisfaction even to the foursomes composed of octogenarians with breathing tanks and walkers. Our sacrifice would bring a moment of satisfaction for everyone else: At least, they could say, in truth, we were better than Curmudgeon's foursome.

But we played our part too well.

Somewhere in the course of our back nine (it was a scramble event so we all started at different holes) we noticed that no one was playing through us anymore. The course authorities stopped sending round the beverage cart and began dragging the water hazards. We were feared lost. Someone suggested calling the police.

Cooler heads prevailed, though, and one poor fellow was designated to maintain a vigil at the clubhouse -- which he did, with increasing impatience, waiting for our foursome to straggle in.

We'd been out at least six hours.

"Don't you know," he snapped at us, "that this was a Best Ball tournament? How could you be out there so long?" This from a nice man who never snaps at anyone.

But I learned something that year: The Parish Men's Club invites businesses to sponsor holes or supply prizes for the golfers who participate. For the last few years, the price of sponsoring a hole has been the same as the entry fee.

So every year now I sponsor a hole. Everybody's happier that way.

With apologies to Sydney J. Harris: A thing I learned while looking up other things

I regularly read Zay N. Smith's Quick Takes column in the Chicago Sun-Times -- although, I notice, he prefers the even quicker abbreviation QT these days. There's a link to Mr. Smith's column in my Sidebar. I have quoted the column from time to time in these postings, most recently on August 22 -- or May 2 (in a post about compact fluorescent light bulbs) -- or on February 7 or February 8 in two posts offering one explanation as to why Lisa Nowak may have snapped.

(For the record, I've not been contacted by Captain Nowak's defense team. I still like my explanation better than the one they've come up with -- even if we both wind up with an insanity defense.)

Anyway, I didn't read the Sun-Times on February 11, 2007. (I get that other paper at home on Sundays.)

And look what I missed: Second Effort made the Quick Takes column! (I came across this at a site called Find Articles):

TRY, TRY AGAIN

Blog Subtitle of the Week (Second Effort at secondeffort.blogspot.com):

". . . If you look carefully, you can see the twinkle in the old curmudgeon's eye. Or is that a cataract?"

This is a real thrill for me. Maybe you can't tell. And I didn't even know about it!

My first MSM reference... and I'm just as slow on the uptake as ever....

Thank you, Barb, for this award!

Barb, of Skittles' Place, has begun a new blog award and she has kindly named me one of the first to receive it.

I am truly humbled by this award. Of course, to paraphrase Churchill (continuing the theme from yesterday), I have so much to be humble about.

So the good news is that I'm a blogging star.

The bad news is that I could go nova at any moment....


Barb wants her recipients to pass the award along... so, quickly, before anyone else gets a chance, I'll hand this along to Captain Picard's Journal, the Empress Bee, Thermal -- obvious choices all -- and two more which may be less well known to most of you: Home in the Highlands and A Work of Art: Raising Our Exceptional Son. I could go on and nominate many more -- but I think I'd better stop here. Barb does ask all future recipients to mention that the award originated at Skittles' Place so she can track the award's progress in the Blogosphere.

Heads or Tails #3 (Hobby)

Technically, painting wasn't Adolf Hitler's hobby; it was, at one time, his ambition as a career.

Hitler applied to the Vienna School of Fine Arts in 1907. The linked article notes that young Hitler showed some talent for drawing buildings but his "drawings showed a lack of talent for artistic painting, notably a lack of appreciation of the human form." Of course, he also had a notable lack of appreciation for humanity.

I suppose all this is well known.

It was certainly known to Winston Churchill, who nevertheless derided Hitler as an "Austrian house painter."

Churchill was also a painter, taking up painting during World War I after being dismissed as First Lord of the Admiralty.

Churchill favored landscapes in his paintings. In fact, Churchill's painting of his home at Chartwell sold last month for £1,000,000.

Surely Churchill's eloquence and fame as a war leader has enhanced the value of his paintings, but the Wikipedia biography of Churchill notes, "In 1921, Winston Churchill's artwork was exhibited at the prestigious Galerie Druet in the Rue Royale, under the pseudonym Charles Morin."

And Churchill wrote about painting, too. (Churchill wrote about nearly everything.)

His book, "Painting as a Pastime" can be found on Amazon "from $2.97" -- but according to this site a signed first edition of that same book will set you back around $7,500.

Now that's some hobby.

So we're dropping Middle Son off at college....

Middle Son filled up the van once on Saturday and took it himself, then he came back for everything else.

Including Long Suffering Spouse and me.

That's one benefit of going to college nearby.

Well, the parking lot was full, of course, as everyone was moving in on the same day, so we double-parked. We weren't the only ones who hit on this solution; a girl was unpacking another van right in front of us.

Long Suffering Spouse stayed behind in case we needed to move the van; Middle Son and I carried stuff upstairs to his room. He carried a lot of stuff; he gave me some token amounts so my feelings wouldn't be hurt... and neither would my back.

(And, in the event, neither was injured.)

Middle Son and I got separated in our couple of trips, but the work was soon done and Long Suffering Spouse and I were soon ready to leave. We said our goodbyes and took off.

"The kids on Middle Son's floor sure seemed happy to see him again," I told Long Suffering Spouse when we were underway. "He seems to know everybody."

"Well," Long Suffering Spouse said, "he certainly knew the name of that little girl who was in front of us in the parking lot."

"That's good," I said -- and then, because I am a glutton for punishment, I added, "Of course, when I was in college, I knew all the girls' names, too."

"Yes, and they knew yours, too," my wife said, "because they needed it for the restraining orders."

I asked for that, didn't I?

Can children be seen and not heard? Dining out with children....

The Chicago Sun-Times ran an article the other day about taking children to restaurants... and how some restaurants are "kid friendly" and some aren't... and how some parents keep their children under control in restaurants... and others seem to think that ordering a dinner gives their children license to scream, sing, or play anywhere on the premises.

The picture above ran with Misha Davenport's Sun-Times article. It shows restauranteur Dan McCauley and the sign he posted a couple of years ago at his restaurant, Taste of Heaven. The sign reads:

Children of all ages have to behave and use their indoor voices when coming to A Taste of Heaven.

Believe it or not, this sign was immediately controversial: "A couple of parents got ahold of a local school e-mail contact list and let everyone know they shouldn't patronize us," McCauley told the Sun-Times. Before long, the debate went national: ABC's 20/20 program, MSNBC (the link is to a 2005 AP story on the MSNBC website), and even the New York Times (*genuflection optional*) picked up the story.

McCauley has no children of his own. He has been excoriated as "anti-child."

Speaking as a father, I say McCauley seems to be speaking with the voice of sweet reason.

Taking children out to eat can be stressful -- at least at any restaurant that doesn't have a gameroom, high school kids walking around in rodent costumes, or animatronic musicians. It is, however, sometimes necessary.

My parents, before their health declined, wanted to take my children out to dinner. Once or twice they even tried to 'show them off' to friends.

I do not believe there was any connection between my parents' sudden decline and their attempting to dine with my children -- but the experiences were not always pleasant.

"Real" restaurants -- the kind with waitstaff and tablecloths -- take time. A "kiddie cocktail" (some variation on cherry juice and 7-Up, preferably with the cherry as a garnish) can keep the kids occupied for a little while while the adults get their drinks. Of course, if you must dine with children, you might be advised to skip the cocktails for once and order as quickly as possible.

But that was not the way my parents operated. They wanted a drink before dinner.

Knowing the ordeal that was to come, I sometimes managed to snag two drinks.

And, another thing about "real" restaurants -- the kinds without multicolored plastic balls and gerbil tubes in which the kids can disappear -- the meals tend to come out (for lack of a better word) piecemeal. Drinks. Then appetizers. Then salad. And only then the entree.

Meanwhile, the kids, having guzzled a couple of Shirley Temples, are staging sword fights with the stems of their cherries. Or maybe with their knives.

And they're loading up on bread.

Even reasonably-behaved children are not the most patient people in the world -- and they certainly don't understand that you'd sit still for a couple of hours and like it while strange-looking food is brought out in dribs and drabs. Oldest Son was by far the least patient of our brood. He was like this as an infant; I can't imagine him submitting to a gracious dining experience even now. Even if his business clients want to.

And you can't really expect children to wait for that hamburger when there's bread to eat... nor can you be too disappointed when the hamburger is barely touched by a bored child who has gorged on bread.

I think my parents forgot why they didn't take us out as a family when we were little. It wasn't just money.

Still, unless you count that linked story about Oldest Son (at which, thankfully, I was not present), we never had meltdowns in restaurants, nor would we have tolerated them.

Over the years, we've gone on trips and had to eat out as a family. We chose our spots: We could never afford really fancy places even if we were so inclined. And we tried to come in before or after the dinner rush so the waitstaff would be less stressed. A lot of times we'd eat at the restaurant in or adjacent to the hotel where we were stopping for the night. After having a couple of meals during the day from a cooler in the car (when we traveled we drove straight through as much as possible), getting out of the car and stopping to eat was actually a treat for the children. And they responded.

For the most part.

There were actually times when people approached me and Long Suffering Spouse in restaurants and complimented us on our children's behavior.

(Of course, we always kept the cattle prod discreetly under the table, hidden from public view.)

Children are not miniature adults -- but neither should they always be wild, free range monsters. Sometimes they should be adults-in-training. Because that's a big part of what parenting is all about: Training children to become adults. Hopefully. Some day.

Children should have opportunities to be "wild and crazy" -- but they should also have opportunities to be "very grown-up" and use "indoor voices." Like at a restaurant with their grandparents.

Just be sure to order an extra drink for yourself when you take them.

And extra napkins for everybody.

Bon appetit!

A "Snow Day" in August?

Image captured from the Chicago Tribune.

It was supposed to be Younger Daughter's first day of school today. Youngest Son is already in school; he was supposed to have his first football game tomorrow. And I had a dentist's appointment early this morning.

But it rained yesterday.

A lot.

This is already the wettest August on record in Chicago: This is supposed to be the season where the lawn turns a nice shade of cut-me-every-other-week brown... but it looks like April out there. April in South Florida.

And then, yesterday, I took a quick peek at the radar screen about mid-afternoon -- and saw some very ominous looking yellow, orange and red storms rolling across DeKalb County, just about to enter Kane... and seemingly taking aim at the City itself.

Long Suffering Spouse had to take Younger Daughter to the doctor; they arrived as those blobs became very real rainstorms over the Chicago area. It was about an hour after I'd first noticed the ominous radar.

Those storms were moving. I heard later that there were straight line winds associated with the storms of 70 mph or more. Middle Son was at home yesterday afternoon; he checked in with Long Suffering Spouse before leaving on his afternoon errands because of how incredibly dark it had become. In the afternoon.

Just after noticing the radar I looked out the window: It was bright and sunny.

I looked again an hour or so later, when Long Suffering Spouse called to tell me the storm had hit; that there was rain swirling in circles inside the parking garage. And, when I looked, I saw that night had fallen prematurely. All heck broke loose downtown shortly thereafter.

One of the attorneys with whom I share space at the Undisclosed Location had to take off during the height of the storm: A couple of large trees had given way to the winds and had taken up a new, uprooted position on the roof of his house.

We were fortunate at the Curmudgeon household; we had no real damage. Some basement seepage. A few downed branches. But nothing to compare with the stories Long Suffering Spouse and Middle Son returned with when they picked their way home from their separate errands, around downed trees and through busy intersections where the streetlights were out. We didn't even lose power at home. A quarter-million people in the Chicago area couldn't say that today.

And I was right about the course that storm took: It seemed to leave a particular swath of destruction right down North Avenue. Several suburbs along North Avenue had "boil orders" today for their tap water.

I waited out the rush hour at the Undisclosed Location, but there was still quite a bit of rain for my umbrella when I finally ventured out.

Getting off the el, I was struck by the Western sky: The Sun was setting and there were breaks, cracks really, just enough to let orange light leak out and set off the still-ominous, but now navy blue clouds. It was a Maxfield Parrish orange; the blues were too dark for him, though. And there was lightning north and east, some of it quite spectacular.

And another line of storms rumbled through later last night.

And this morning, before 6:00 a.m., we heard on the radio that both Youngest Son's and Younger Daughter's schools were closed. The dentist's office called an hour or so later: They didn't have power either, so my 8:00 a.m. appointment had to be canceled. But I couldn't reschedule -- not yet -- no computer.

And that, boys and girls, is how we had a Snow Day in August. I don't know what else to call it.

It's Skittles' Blogiversary Today... and Blogger is 8?

All the kids grow up so fast....

You can go to Barb's Blogiversary Party by clicking this link. And I found this on the Blogger sign-in this morning:

Happy Eighth Birthday!

Today marks Blogger’s eighth birthday! A time for reflection, a time to catch our breath from yesterday morning, and a time to break out the baby picture.

Thanks to everyone who has supported us over the past four-fifths of a decade, and thanks especially to you for all the blogs. Come back later this afternoon for a present.

— Pete [8/23/07 1:28 PM]

P.S. -- I know Blogiversary is being spelled with an "a" -- Blogaversary. But I'm stubborn.

What time is it? It's time to go back to school, son.

I woke up at 2:00 a.m. and noticed that the light in the living room was still on.

Odd, I thought, on a weeknight. Middle Son told me he had to be somewhere by 8:00 a.m.

But the light was on. This meant (a) he wasn't yet home, (b) he was home but had not come upstairs, or (c) he'd come upstairs but forgot to put out the light.

Now Middle Son never turns the porch light off when he comes in, but he usually manages to turn off the living room light we leave on for him so he doesn't trip over something coming into the house. So (c) seemed like the least likely alternative.

But it was 2:00 a.m. and sorting through all this was beyond my abilities at that hour. I went back to bed.

I slept fitfully, though, and was awake again at 3:00 a.m. The light was still on.

I became concerned. Not alarmed, mind you, but concerned. I looked out the window and I thought I saw the car across the street that Middle Son was driving. Or had he driven tonight? I couldn't remember. I checked his room. He wasn't there.

So this time, I went downstairs to look for him. If he wasn't home, I'd call his cell phone. If I couldn't reach his cell phone, then I'd become alarmed.

I wasn't halfway across the living room when Middle Son and I spotted each other. He was in the den, seated at the computer, typing away merrily.

"Yo! Pops!" he greeted me. "What's up?"

"You, for one thing," I mumbled. "You're supposed to be helping the freshmen move in this morning at 8:00 aren't you?"

"But Dad," Middle Son responded, "I won $30 at poker tonight."

He seemed to think that a perfectly logical response. I guess I had interrupted Middle Son in the middle of his informing everyone in his acquaintance about his good fortune.

It's definitely time for Middle Son to go back to school.

Heads or Tails #2 (Luck) -- a follow up

I saw this item this morning in Zay N. Smith's Quick Takes column and it tied in so nicely to yesterday's philosophical discourse on the nature of luck that I had to call your attention to same:

News Item: "A pig had a lucky escape after firefighters rescued it from a drain . . ."

The hard part about this story is knowing that the pig's luck is not going to hold.

Tagged by Skittles -- 8 more things

I better work through that hand-wringing on that to meme or not to meme thing soon -- meanwhile, Barb of Skittles' Place has tagged me, again, with the "8 Things" Meme.

Also known as the Meme that Would Not Die.

Barb mentioned in her post that she's done this one "a couple times already," so I suppose I shouldn't complain about doing it twice. (The first time was last month, at the request of Shelby.)

So... without further adieu... eight more random facts about the Curmudgeon. Today's theme is technology.

1. My first computer was an XT clone -- I was supposed to assemble it myself but a schedule conflict prevented that. This computer had glorious monochrome graphics and a clock speed of 2 MHz. And those cool 5¼" floppy drives. It had two of 'em -- an A and a B drive. While those disks weren't as floppy as the 8" ones that then still in use on some of the fancy word processors, they were floppy enough that the name still fit.
   


2. That first computer had a clock speed of 4 MHz with "turbo speed." The little yellow flashing line at the end of the "C:\>" (c-prompt) bulked up into a little yellow square when the computer was in "turbo speed." Other than that, though, I couldn't detect any difference.


3. The other thing that first computer had was a 20 MB hard drive. My friend Steve -- who knew something about computers back then (he was working as an analyst for a government agency which used those huge IBM 360 mainframes) -- ridiculed me for this. "Twenty megabytes?" he said, incredulously, "That's like buying a warehouse to hang up a single suit of clothes. You'll never fill it up." I've never let him forget this.


4. With the help of the manual, I was able to write some simple programs in Basic (that's a computer language) on this computer. And this was fancier than the Basic I'd learned in high school: When I wrote a random number generating program to pick my Lotto numbers, I also made the machine beep out an acceptable facsimile of "We're in the Money."


5. The program didn't really work though: I never won the Lotto.


6. My first laptop was a really great idea whose time, unfortunately, had not arrived. It came equipped with Microsoft Windows for Pen Computing 1.0 -- something like that, anyway. The 1.0 is the part that bears remembering: Don't ever get any computer software in version 1.0; it's a sure recipe for heartache. The computer had a stylus that could be used as a "pen," see, and the idea (I hoped) was that I would be able to handwrite my notes during a deposition and then turn these notes into a client-ready document shortly after attaching the detachable keyboard.... The software came equipped with a training program. In theory, the program would "learn" to read my handwriting. In practice, I was expected to re-learn how to handwrite in a manner the computer found acceptable. Somewhere there were Sisters of Mercy laughing at me -- I didn't learn the right way the first time... but now the machine would show me.


7. It didn't happen. A few years later I tried the Dragon Naturally Speaking program -- it sure wasn't version 1.0! -- so that I could "dictate" my correspondence and have it type itself. Again, there was a training program. Again, the machine and I disagreed about who was supposed to be trained. I'm told the later versions of the program are much better -- but I'm not going to fall for that again.


8. For awhile, back in the DOS days, I was the office computer guru. Proving the truth of the old adage, "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king." Then Windows came along... and my partners hired a bald guy with an earring and a nipple ring to upgrade the office machines. And, yes, you could see the nipple ring through the shirt. But I was stubborn. I thought I could install Windows programs just the way I'd installed DOS programs. And then I learned otherwise. But at least I don't have a nipple ring.
   

No tags today; instead, an announcement: Did you know that Barb is about to celebrate her first Blogaversary? (This apparently is now the preferred spelling -- I've been using Blogiversary.) And, after only a year in business, she's had over 63,000 visitors and 2000 posts. (In stark contrast, I've had about 17,400 and this blog's been open since December 2005.) So be sure to visit Barb on Friday and wish her congratulations. And, whatever you do, don't tell her how jealous I am!

Oh! If only it were so... part II

While Blogger was down this morning, I stumbled across this link to a cartoon called the Joy of Tech. What a concept! Stay in bed and save the environment.

It's the least I can do.

And you can take that any way you want.

For visitors looking for today's Heads or Tails....

That's Marlon Brando singing "Luck Be a Lady" from Guys and Dolls.

Brando played gambler Sky Masterson. Reportedly, Frank Sinatra wanted that role but, instead, he wound up playing Nathan Detroit in the movie. On the other hand, Sinatra made the definitive recording of the song.

And, if you're looking to see how I worked that into today's "Heads or Tails" post -- about "luck" you see -- that's the tie-in -- I didn't.

But scroll down and read it anyway.

Oh! If only it were so....

(From Yahoo! Comics, although I saw it in the Chicago Sun-Times on the train this morning.)

Of course, people who read stories like Lynne Marek's story in the August 20 National Law Journal might be forgiven if they see a grain of truth in this comic.

In her story, Ms. Marek talks about the growth plans of a Chicago-based law firm, Sonnenschein Nath & Rosenthal, which has a goal of reaching 1,000 lawyers by 2009. In the course of her story, Marek reports that Sonnenschein's "profit target as announced to partners in the middle of last year is $1.4 million per partner, up from the $825,000 reported by the firm for 2006." The increased target is necessary, Sonnenschein says, to get and keep top legal talent.

You may be unfamiliar with the Sonnenschein firm.

But you probably have heard of one its lawyers, Scott Turow.

He has the cover story in this month's ABA Journal: "The Billable Hour Must Die".

(Judging from my timesheets, it's already dead.)

Turow laments that newly-minted lawyers in big firms are expected to bill 2200 hours a year. Assuming 50 weeks in a working year, that's 44 hours a week -- nearly nine hours a day. "Increasingly," Turow notes, "if we allow time for trivialities like eating, sleeping and loving other people, it is clear, as a simple matter of arithmetic, that we are getting close to the absolute limit of how far this system can take us economically."

At the really big firms, lawyers have legions of support staff -- assistants who type their every word, people to make copies, people to sort and distribute the mail, people to file the papers in court. All to minimize "down time."

But that's only for the very, very few. Smaller litigation firms may have similar targets, though, and less support to make it honestly attainable....

And then, down here, on the bottom of the feed chain, there's guys like me. I can find and clear the most obscure paper jam in our communal copier here at the Undisclosed Location. I do my own court filing, thank you, and someday -- honest! -- I'm going to catch up on my office filing, too. Oh, and the bills I do actually pay -- I write the checks and enter them in the checkbook program. There's a lot more men and women like me out here practicing law than there are Scott Turows.

With all this, if I could bill just four hours a day, I'd be profitable... maybe even profitable enough to start hiring that support staff that would let me build to five or five and a half hours a day... hire an associate... hire another associate.... (Insert evil, maniacal laugh here.)

Yes, some day I hope to be an exploiter of other people's labor. Then I could blog even more.

But, today, there's filing to be done. And some correspondence to be caught up on. I'll be lucky to bill even one real, collectible hour.

*Sigh*

Another Palestinian tragedy

The title of this article, by Dion Nissenbaum, of the McClatchy Newspapers, Hamas TV's child star says she's ready for martyrdom, is self explanatory.

Remember Saraa Barhoum? You may not recall the name, but you may recall her on-air partner of recent months: Farfur (or Farfour, the English spelling varies) the Mickey-Mouse lookalike who promoted terrorism, murder, and an endless cycle of violence and vengeance to Palestinian children.

This image was taken from Deborah Lipstadt's Blog (f/k/a "History on Trial"). It shows a scene from Farfur's last appearance on the show, where he is "murdered" by an Israeli. You can read about this episode of this so-called "children's show" here.

Professor Lipstadt closed the linked post with this statement: "Next time I hear about a young person volunteering to be a terrorist I won't be surprised."

Now Saraa Barhoum has volunteered.

Heads or Tails #2 (Luck)

Barb's directions for today's Heads or Tails insist we are to "list a couple times luck has played a part in your life." That's difficult because, as I'll explain, I don't put much stock in luck. Nevertheless, I'll give you two instances in which I might have been considered "lucky."

Recently, as many of you know, I was diagnosed with colon cancer. But it was detected at almost the perfect moment: The diagnosis was serious enough to scare the heck out of me and motivate me to take immediate action, but the disease was caught early enough that, after surgery to remove most of my colon, no radiation or chemotherapy was necessary. In the sense that the disease was caught when it was, I was "lucky." However, I can assure you that I would have felt far luckier had I not had ever had that condition at all. Although then I'd never have known how "lucky" I was, would I?

Twenty-seven years and about a month ago, I went to the home of a friend for a party. It was at that party that I met the woman who subsequently became Long Suffering Spouse. Although we knew many of the same people, we'd never met before that evening. (You can debate among yourselves whether that meeting was lucky or unlucky for her.) Lucky for me, you may say, that I was out carousing instead of studying... because that was the weekend before the bar exam. If I'd decided to study more, we might never have met. So was that luck? Maybe. But I was sick of studying... and it wasn't in my nature to pretend to study if I felt I was ready for the test. Which I did. Which means maybe it wasn't so much luck as... what? Fate? Kismet?

"Luck," said Branch Rickey, the GM of the then-Brooklyn Dodgers, the guy who signed Jackie Robinson, "is the residue of design."

Or, as Thomas Jefferson reportedly said, "I'm a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work the more I have of it."

That's kind of what I believe about luck. Or, more precisely, I believe that hard work can produce what others attribute to "luck." So I guess I don't believe in luck at all.

Although... as Jean Cocteau said, "We must believe in luck. For how else can we explain the success of those we don't like?"

Hmmmmmm. My logic is so circular here, I'm getting dizzy.

And, I'm of Irish descent. And therefore superstitious. So I guess I might believe in bad luck, right? On the other hand, someone named Andrew W. Mathis once said, "It is bad luck to be superstitious." So maybe I'd better not. Be superstitious. Or believe in bad luck. (Andrew W. Mathis appears courtesy of The Quotations Page. I guess Cleveland Amory and Bennett Cerf were busy. I guess further that you have to have consulted a toastmaster's quotation book or two to get that joke. Ah well.)

Now: If I haven't gotten you dizzy enough, think on this....

We say someone is lucky because -- just a for instance -- he narrowly missed getting hit by a car while crossing the street. But -- maybe -- if he got hit, and recovered, and sued, and won -- maybe then he'd have money to invest and when the next Bill Gates tapped him on the shoulder with the next can't-miss thing. Then he'd be filthy rich and, oh boy, would people say he was lucky. Because he got hit by the car. But if the car missed, people would say he was lucky, too -- that's how we started this example -- but he's still the same poor schlub as he ever was. And then, when the next Bill Gates taps him on the shoulder, he'll just say he's all tapped out. Doesn't sound so lucky any more....

Nope. I think luck can only be determined in hindsight... and even then we don't know what lay ahead on the "road not taken." And good luck proving otherwise....

Oh, this cosmic stuff is tough, isn't it?

Dodo bones may yield DNA... and then... what?

I saw this story late last week on Yahoo! News. This, however, is a link to Andrea Thompson's story on Live Science.

I think this link may last longer than the one to Yahoo! News.

Probably not as long, however, as the DNA in the dodo skeleton to which the story refers.

Imagine: A fragile, badly decomposed dodo skeleton, discovered by chance in a cave in the highlands of the island of Mauritius, off the east coast of Africa. Despite its deterioration, scientists hope the skeleton may yield actual dodo DNA because of the "stable temperature and dry to slightly humid environment" in that cave.

The last of the dodos died out, according to Ms. Thompson's story, in the late 1600's -- that is, little more than 300 years ago. Her story does not reveal how old "Fred" (that's the nickname the scientists have given to their skeletal find) might be... but the imagination kicks in at this point, doesn't it?

Jurassic Park was true science fiction: fiction stretching science beyond its actual boundaries.

But science is catching up. Researchers are making progress in sequencing mammoth DNA; a "Pleistocene Park" may still be impossible... but seemingly just over the scientific horizon.

And if "Fred" is only 400 or 500 years old... and yields usable DNA... could the dodos be brought back?

Working through the weekend, I have uncovered an artist's depiction of what a restored colony of dodos might look like. I can't account for the porcine fellow in the middle of the sketch, however:

You were expecting more?

No, that's all folks....

When it has to get there overnight: War profiteers charge almost a million bucks to ship two 19¢ washers

A story by Tony Capaccio of Bloomberg News, posted yesterday on Yahoo! News, recounts how the Pentagonpaid $999,798 to ship two 19¢ washers from South Carolina to Texas.

That's the bad news. The good news, according to Capaccio's article, is that the company that sent the bill, C&D Distributors of South Carolina, and its surviving owner, Charlene Corey, pleaded guilty yesterday in a Columbia, South Carolina Federal court to one count of conspiracy to commit wire fraud and one count of conspiracy to launder money.

Corey may receive 20 years in jail on each count.

I submit she may have gotten off lightly.

If Capaccio's story is accurate, Corey and her late sister billed $20.5 million in fraudulent shipping costs over a six-year period. Again, according to Capaccio's story, citing Pentagon records, Corey's company "also billed and was paid $455,009 to ship three machine screws costing $1.31 each to Marines in Habbaniyah, Iraq, and $293,451 to ship an 89-cent split washer to Patrick Air Force Base in Cape Canaveral, Florida."

C&D was apparently able to milk American taxpayers in this way because of what Capaccio politely calls a "flaw in an automated Defense Department purchasing system." Citing Cynthia Stroot, a Pentagon investigator, Capaccio reports that "bills for shipping to combat areas or U.S. bases that were labeled 'priority' were usually paid automatically."

Investigator Stroot is also quoted in the article as saying that C&D got more "aggressive" over time in the amounts billed for shipping. Capaccio supplies some perspective: The cost of the parts shipped seldom reached even $100 -- a total of $68,000 billed over the same time that the contractor was billing $20.5 million for shipping those same parts. The outrageous charges were paid because (Capaccio quoting Stroot), "The majority, if not all of these parts, were going to high-priority, conflict areas." In order to evade oversight, all one needed to do was to claim that the shipment was "priority."

According to Capaccio, C&D's ride on the taxpayer gravy train finally came to a halt when a purchasing agent finally noticed -- and rejected -- a $969,000 bill for shipping two more 19¢ washers. That's when the government figured out it had just paid $998,798 for shipping two other 19¢ washers.

How brain-dead must one be to let that kind of charge sail through without so much as even a polite inquiry? Yes, send Ms. Corey to jail. Throw away the key. But fire the people who were paid to pay these charges, too.

Capaccio's story mentions nothing about the fate of any Pentagon procurement personnel.

He did say that, according to Stroot, fraudulent billing is not a "widespread problem." Although other questionable billing has been spotted during a review prompted by the belated identification of C&D, the next-highest contractor is suspected of only $2 million in questionable transport costs. The word "only" is mine. And it is inserted, like a dagger, dripping with intended sarcasm.

C&D was caught, apparently, because it was so incredibly outrageous that, finally, even the government noticed it. After six years.

Capaccio's article concludes with Investigator Stroot explaining that the Pentagon hopes to get some of that $20.5 million back "by auctioning homes, beach property, jewelry and 'high- end automobiles'" which the Corey sisters bought with taxpayer money. But, she says, they also "took a lot of vacations." So I guess we can forget about a 100% return.

American kids have died in Iraq and Afghanistan because they didn't have newer, safer helmets, or better-armored vehicles. Funds weren't available for these things -- particularly for National Guard units which, in the traditional view, were expected to operate behind the lines, providing support for regular Army or Marine units.

But there aren't any 'front lines' in Iraq or Afghanistan. And the $20.5 million that C&D bilked out of the Pentagon would have bought a lot of helmets and vehicle armor.

Ms. Corey and the people in the Pentagon who let her billing slide didn't just cheat American taxpayers; they helped kill American kids.

Of course, C&D was a small-time contractor. It didn't bill a lot for parts (only $68,000, remember) so, in order to score serious money, it couldn't just "pad" its bills -- it had to pile on heaping helpings of lard.

How much easier it would be for a contractor with a larger contract to add an extra $100 here or $50 there -- and maybe clear more, in the aggregate, than Ms. Corey ever dreamed. She forgot the old rule: Pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered.

Is anybody really looking for fraud in military procurement?

How can we believe pious assertions along these lines when it took six years to pick up this scheme?

I don't care if you like or dislike American policy in the Middle East. I don't care if you marched in the streets to protest the invasion of Iraq or whether you TiVo Fox News while you're at work, just so you don't miss anything.

This isn't a matter of right or left.

It's a matter of right and wrong.

To meme or not to meme -- still trollling for comments

Yesterday's discussion about memes drew some thoughtful comments.

I asked whether you like getting tagged. Do you feel left out if you're not tagged? Would you prefer not to be bothered with it? I'm ambivalent on doing memes: Some are more fun than others. I'm reluctant to tag people because I'm hesitant to impose... but I like the links and the extra traffic memes can bring in.

So, while I'm busy wringing my hands indecisively, the floor remains open. If you haven't already commented, please do. (Hello, lurkers....) I look forward to the discussion continuing.

For want of a nail... how a few wrapped cigars might have changed history

One morning in September 1862, outside the town of Frederick, Maryland, Cpl. Barton W. Mitchell of Company E, 27th Indiana, and a comrade saw a "bulky-looking envelope" protruding from the grass. Mitchell was moved to pick it up and inspect the contents.

And what a find it was for him: Three cigars, wrapped in a paper.

The expected course for a tobacco-craving soldier might have been to remove the paper and toss it away... but Mitchell was curious... so he unfolded the paper and scanned it.

It was labeled Special Orders No. 191 from the Headquarters of the Army of Northern Virginia.

Mitchell and his sergeant passed the paper to the company commander, Captain Kopp. He took one look and sent the paper up to regimental HQ. There, it went Col. Silas Cosgrove and then to Brig. Gen. A.S. Williams, who was at HQ that morning. Williams looked at it and summoned his adjutant, Col. Pittman, who stuck the paper in his pocket and rode off to find General McClellan.

That paper contained Lee's battle plans for the invasion of Maryland. McClellan now had Lee's plans, too, but even with this extraordinary advantage he was able to win only a technical victory at Antietam. But this technical victory was enough to force Lee to abandon Maryland... and set the stage for the issuance of the Emancipation Proclamation... avoiding British recognition of the Confederacy... and paving the way for eventual Union victory.

The improbable discovery of Special Orders No. 191 is well documented; my source for the above is Bruce Catton, in "Mr. Lincoln's Army," ch. 5; here's a link to the Wikipedia article on the Battle of Antietam (also describing the discovery of Lee's battle orders).

But... what might have happened had those orders not been dropped? Or if they'd been found... and casually thrown away in favor of the cigars wrapped within? Lee's invasion of Maryland might have succeeded; Britain might then have recognized the young Confederate States and have attempted to negotiate an armistice. There were powerful interests in Britain lobbying for Confederate recognition before Antietam... right up until the issuance of the Emancipation Proclamation.

Harry Turtledove has written 11 books -- count 'em, 11 -- that proceed in logical order from the non-discovery of Special Orders No. 191, starting with "How Few Remain" in 1997. In this timeline, Lincoln was forced to accept Britain's mediation... and to agree to share the American continent with a triumphant Confederacy. Turtledove starts with several characters in the U.S.A. and C.S.A. (such as a George Armstrong Custer who did not die at the Little Big Horn) and follows them, or their descendants, through roughly 65 years of alternate history.

After "How Few Remain" came the three books of the "Great War" series -- World War I fought on American soil: The U.S.A. battles the C.S.A. across North America, while its ally, Germany, fights the Confederate allies, Britain and France, in Europe. Woodrow Wilson is President... of the C.S.A.

Then came the three books of the "American Empire" series -- The U.S.A. has occupied Canada and parts of the Confederate States (Kentucky, a chunk of Texas, a chunk of Virginia, and Oklahoma -- called Sequoyah in this timeline). The United States has set up a puppet state in Quebec. But it fails to enforce the harsh terms it obtained from the C.S.A. at the end of the Great War... and a disgruntled noncom from that conflict rises to become a national figure, building a political party based on race hatred. You will be forgiven if you see a parallel between the events in this alternate timeline and the rise of Nazi Germany in our own. The target of the Confederate ex-noncom's hatred, however, is blacks, not Jews.

The latest series is entitled "Settling Accounts." The fourth and last book in this series, "In at the Death," was just released at the end of July.

I've just finished reading it.

The "Settling Accounts" series is an alternate history of World War II, occupying roughly the same years -- but with the parties all jumbled up. The Kaiser won the Great War with the help of the U.S.A.; the Tsar never fell. And millions of black people are being murdered in the Confederate States. But some things are the same: The atom has been split and scientists around the world -- and in the U.S.A. and C.S.A. as well -- are trying to build bombs based on these discoveries. "In at the Death" takes us to the end of that war, and into the occupation of the losing country after its unconditional surrender.

Like its ten predecessors, "In at the Death" is a chilling look into a future that might have been. Yes, Turtledove repeats himself -- if I had a nickel for every time he has a character observe how cigarettes in the North are inferior to those made from Southern tobacco I could probably cover next month's rent here at the Undisclosed Location. The pace of these books makes the repetition forgivable: The action is constant, and constantly shifting from one character's point of view to another's. Some characters are high up on either side, some are in the trenches. Turtledove has obviously studied the strategy and tactics of the Second World War; he's simply moved the action from Over There to over here.

These are not children's books: There is no attempt to sugar-coat the language used by soldiers or sailors. Characters visit sporting houses. Some characters live, some die. Many people die horribly in combat -- or otherwise. I've read reviews of these books that criticize Turtledove's characters as 'wooden' or 'one dimensional.' But I think you may come to like some of them. You'll have grudging respect for others, and there are some you will certainly hate. You'll care if some characters live or die. Wooden or one-dimensional characters wouldn't produce these responses. But I will concede that these stories are not about Turtledove's characters; his characters are instead invented in the service of the story.

What makes the new book -- what makes all these books -- worth reading is the eerie plausibility of it all.

Can you jump in and read the 11th book without reading the first ten? I can't say that with certainty, mainly because I have read the first ten. But I think so. If you're a fan of alternate history, you probably have at least sampled Turtledove before. But, if you're a history buff, and unfamiliar with the genre, you may find this quite interesting. And you will probably come away from this series, as I have, very grateful for the curiosity of Corporal Mitchell.

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

If you're looking for a one volume exposure, try Turtledove's "Ruled Britannia" (the Spanish Armada wasn't sunk and William Shakespeare is commissioned to write two plays -- the Spanish occupiers want a memorial to Phillip II and the English underground wants a play that might rouse the populace) or "In the Presence of Mine Enemies" (the Nazis won World Wars II and III and occupy America, but the action focuses on a Jewish remnant -- in Berlin in the early days of the 21st Century.)