What? No International CB Day?

Last month I grudgingly participated in International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Aaaaaaarrrrgggghhhh.

But today is October 4 -- you know, 10-4?

So wouldn't that make today International CB Day?

A quick Yahoo! search showed this post from Busy Mom last year on October 4... but there's apparently no groundswell here, no movement, no pent-up demand to commemorate 10-4 Day.

Can that be right?

Therefore, by the power vested in me as the sole proprietor of this homely blog, I hereby declare and decree today, 10/4, now and in perpetuity, International CB Day.

Are you with me? -- C'mon back.

I'm starting to think this may be as good as it gets for me, too

Even though I actually know better.

Stumbled on at this site
(from a very strange site called Married to the Sea).

It's just -- I get these crazy letters so often now.

For a couple of weeks there, I was getting them in French.

(I wish I spoke French so I could see if the letter writers' grammar was any better in that language than in English....)

And the letters are just so darn friendly. Like the one I got just this morning:

Dearest One,

I am writting this letter with due respect and heartful of tears since we have not known or met ourselves previously I am asking for your assistance after I have gone through a profile that speaks good of you. I want to find out if it's possible for you to deal with individual as to investment.

I came across your profile and I feel it's highly reputable that is why I pick an interest getting across to you in respect of investment at my disposal. I will be so glad if you can allow me and lead me to the right channel towards your assistance to my situation now. I would like to use this opportunity to introduce myself to you.

I am Sandra James 22Years Old Lady from (cote d ivore) ,the only daughter of Late Micheal James , My father is now late he was a well known cocoa and gold merchant business man in my country( cote d ivore) ,he was poisoned by his co-business partner a year ago.

The main reason why I am contacting you now is to seek your assistance in the area of my future investment and also for a help hand over some huge amount of money in my possession.

This fund (US5.6 Million dollars) is deposited in a bank in my country in (cote d’ivoire) a years ago by my father he made me the sole beneficiary.I am now asking you to stand on my behalf,to stand as my partner and in time of the claim and investment as well. I have made up my mind to offer you 13%of the total money while the remaining will go into a productive investment.

Pls attach your direct and full information as you reply to me. You can also contact me with this email [deleted].

Thanks and remain bless.

Best Regards

Sandra James

Wow. Bad enough to be poisoned by your business partner. But by a co-business partner? Have to admit the offer is tempting, Sandra, but I think I'll pass....

Homily draws new suit in McHenry County -- and, as a bonus, an old joke about sermons

Stefano Esposito has the front page story in this morning's Chicago Sun-Times, but I saw the story yesterday in the Chicago Tribune.

Here's the set-up, just in case this hasn't made the news in your corner of the world: Angel R. Llavona, a parishioner at a Crystal Lake, Illinois Catholic church, didn't care for the sermon preached by the parish curate, Rev. Luis Alfredo Rios.

The Tribune story quotes the message Llavona left for Fr. Rios on the following Monday: "I attended Mass on Sunday and I have seen poor homilies, but yesterday broke all records."

According to the Tribune story, which describes the Llavona's newly-filed lawsuit against Fr. Rios; the parish pastor, Msgr. Daniel Hermes; and the Diocese of Rockford (McHenry County, where suburban Crystal Lake is located, is outside the Archdiocese of Chicago), Llavona "attempted to meet with Rios but was rebuffed." So he left a second message (again quoting the Tribune): "I came to meet with you and you refused. I am available for dialogue with you. You always say you want people to tell you things in front of you, but today you ran away."

But, according to Llavona's suit, Fr. Rios didn't keep running away. Instead, at another Mass, while Llavona was seated with the rest of the congregation, Rios played the answering machine tape and said (according to the Sun-Times story), "This is the person in charge of religious education here last year. That's why it is no surprise to me [that] we had the kind of religious education we had. That's why we didn't get altar boys. What should we do? Should we send him to hell or to another parish?"

I don't know how Mr. Llavona's defamation suit will fare -- and obviously there's some history here between these gentlemen that can only be hinted at in two brief news stories -- but, on first blush, it seems Fr. Rios might consider a refresher course in Scripture. It seems as though he may have missed the part about 'turning the other cheek.'

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But this unfortunate story at least reminds me of an old joke:

The priest was getting along in years and he tended to wander a bit in his sermons. Attendance was off -- worse, collections were off -- and there'd been complaints.

So the Bishop decided to call the old man in for a little counseling.

The old priest took the invitation in stride. He was eager to learn from the Bishop who had a great reputation as a fine, strong preacher. And the Bishop could see this in the old man, so he was very gentle in his coaching.

"Father," the Bishop told the priest, "when I give a sermon I try and start out with something that will grab hold of everyone in the congregation right away. I want them to even be shocked a little -- and then I say something that turns it all around and I have them."

"That sounds grand," the old priest said, "can you give me an example?"

"Ah, let me think... yes... there's one I've used a dozen times and it's always worked wonderfully for me. I start out shouting: I'm in love!

"You can see how that gets them sitting up, right, Father?" the Bishop asked.

The old priest nodded and the Bishop continued. "Now I make them wait -- just a couple of seconds -- then I shout again: I'm in love with a woman! Well, now they're on the edge of their seats. But I still make them wait another second or two -- and then I shout again: And her name is the Virgin Mary! And then I go on and they hang on my every word. You might try something like this yourself, Father."

"Ah, yes, yes," the priest agreed and the interview concluded on these amiable terms. And as the week wore on the priest thought and thought about how he could adapt the Bishop's technique for his own Homily at Sunday Mass, and he meant to write it all down, he really did, but things got busy and there were sick calls and confessions to hear and there was someone in to look at the furnace and somehow it was Sunday morning again and he hadn't had the time.

Nevertheless, the old priest was determined not to disappoint the Bishop. He tried hard to remember what he'd been told as he stepped into the pulpit to begin... and this is what he said:

"The Bishop's in love!

"With a woman!

"And I can't remember her name!"

Fearless MLB divisional series predictions

Cubs over Diamondbacks.

No, I'm not happy about it. (And regular reader -- and D-Back fan -- Sari has an interesting theory about why I'm wrong.) But I think the veteran Cubs have an advantage over the younger Diamondbacks.

It shouldn't matter though: Whoever wins that series will surely fall in the NLCS to the winner of the Rockies / Phillies series. Both teams are red-hot coming into the playoffs and this may be the best series of the entire playoffs. Somebody has to advance and I'm guessing... Phillies.

This is a position taken in profound ignorance, of course, as I only watch the American League... and this year, for a White Sox fan, I just couldn't always watch.

Both series in the American League seem pretty good to me and, with one exception, I don't much care who wins.

That said, heart over head, I'm going with Cleveland over New York. As a Sox fan, I am genetically programmed to hate the Yankees -- and even I can't find it in my heart to hate Joe Torre. And there's a part of me that wants to see A-Rod hit about .600 and put all the doubters to rest about his post-season 'failures.' But -- Yankees fans being what they are -- if A-Rod hits .750 and the Yankees lose, he'll still be a 'failure.' Go Tribe.

And in the match-up of the Angels vs. Red Sox, I suppose the smart money is on Boston. But my hunch is that the Angels will take wing in the playoffs this year. This is strictly a hunch. But, hey, I've got a 50-50 chance, don't I?

I'll make my equally fearless NLCS and ALCS predictions later -- when I find out just how wrong I was here.

And in the meantime... remember these predictions are worth exactly what you paid for them: Nothing. If you make wagers based on my predictions you probably should seek immediate medical and/or psychiatric treatment.

Unless, of course, you win.

Happy Day! Sitemeter seems better now...

I was really worried for awhile....

Curmudgeon banned in China?

I was clicking away merrily last evening, catching up on a couple of sites, Stumbling, fretting over why my beloved Sitemeter has abandoned me -- (Miss Bee tried to warn me about this -- but I thought she said I'd go blind. Oh well.) -- and I wound up on this March 12 post on Ellee Seymour's site -- and that led me to The Great Firewall of China -- a site that tells you, supposedly, if your site would be banned in the Peoples' Republic of China.

Well, guess what?

I'm banned.

I'd like to think I'm banned because of posts like this one from July, talking about our growing dependence on Chinese imports and the problems caused thereby. On the other hand, maybe they just have standards....

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The reason why I wound up back on the earlier post on Ellee's blog is that she mentioned in a much more recent post -- in which she disclosed that she'd been named among the Top 10 Political Bloggers in the UK.

You can say this much for Second Effort: I may not have a lot of readers, but it's a diverse group.

Is something wrong with Sitemeter?

Calling all techies -- (Chris, if you're out there, perhaps in your Blog-Op incarnation -- RT -- Claire -- somebody!)

At this moment I have four comments on the first post I put up this morning.

Four. And none from me.

And Sitemeter says I've had three visitors -- one just now looking for "Chicago's roadkill movie." (Eeeeeeewwwww.)

What's going on around here?

---------------------------------------------
UPDATE 2:02 pm: There are five outside comments on this post alone... and Sitemeter now says I've had no visitors today!
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UPDATE 4:31 pm: Now 14 outside comments on today's posts -- but still no visitors according to Sitemeter. And Statcounter doesn't work with Firefox? Can that be right? (It keeps telling me the login has failed -- and gives me directions for allowing a 'cookie' in IE6.x.) Sheesh.

An open plea to the Cubs: Don't win!

Yes, of course, you say. Just the sort of thing you'd expect from a Cub-hating White Sox fan.

But no! I'm thinking of the Cubs' place in history.

In 2004 the Red Sox broke the so-called "Curse of the Bambino" and won the World Serious for the first time in 86 years.

The White Sox broke an 88-year drought in 2005.

Long intervals between championships have been done. Right now, the Cub futility meter is merely 99 years. If they did win it all this year, it would be just another long streak come to an end.

But... if they blow it... if they lose... next year will be the 100th Anniversary of their last World Championship. That's when the opportunity will come for true immortality.

We put a fourth star in the Chicago flag for the Century of Progress Exposition of 1933. The City Fathers might be moved to add a fifth star to commemorate the Cub Century of Futility -- but 99 years just won't do it.

The Cubs need that third digit to become forever memorable.

Decades from now -- centuries from now -- when people reach for a metaphor of ultimate futility and frustration -- they can cite the Cubs. That's a lot easier to spell than Sisyphus anyway.

Oh, sure, winning now will make a lot of people in Chicago happy. Probably about two-thirds of all the baseball fans in Chicago. (Even Sox fans are forced to acknowledge there are more Cub than White Sox fans in Chicago -- there are several reasons why -- none of which are relevant to today's plea.)

But that number of happy people will include all sorts of bandwagon jumpers and true Cub fans surely don't want them riding along. They'll want the triumph for themselves.

But winning a World Series is just a moment. A fleeting thing. Cub fans: Just ask your White Sox fan neighbors.

You have a chance for a truly memorable achievement here. So, join with me Cub fans, and root against your team.

Destiny awaits.

Heads or Tails #8 (Stack)

Yet another challenge from Barb, the proprietress of "Heads or Tails."

(Check out the rules and graphics by clicking this link and playing along yourself.)

Today's word: Stack.

This, I thought, was a toughie.

Well, there's smokestacks.

Or library stacks.

There's a haystack -- this one, you may notice, comes complete with a needle.

(Yeah, it took me awhile to find it, too. So don't be embarrassed.)

And, of course, there's the one you figured me to go for first, didn't you? The Commodores doing "Brick House"....

She's a brick----house
She's mighty mighty, just lettin' it all hang out
She's a brick----house
The lady's stacked and that's a fact,
ain't holding nothing back.

Is chair dancing permitted at your place of employment? Because that song's in your head now, isn't it?

Curmudgeon presents: Really short science fiction theatre

Hmmmm. What to say about this? How about....

An announcement on Facebook

Younger Daughter almost tackled me the other night as I came through the front door.

"You have to see this!"

She was so excited, in fact, that she forgot her solemn vow never to let a parental unit actually view a Facebook page.

I don't believe that users actually have to take a vow to keep their parents away from their Facebook pages -- but I believe the Terms of Service require something awfully close.

That's supposition on my part, of course.

And Younger Daughter didn't actually let me see her Facebook page.

No: I was dragged over to the computer (let me put down my briefcase, will you?) to see Oldest Son's Facebook.

I have fretted about Facebook pages here in the past: I keep reading articles about how people have been denied jobs, or had job offers pulled, because an employer got wind of inappropriate photos on a social networking site. I couldn't persuade Oldest Son to drop his Facebook site entirely as graduation loomed last Spring -- but he did 'corporatize' it, 'burying' (he said) or even taking off potentially incriminating photos or comments.

But this...

Well, Younger Daughter was beside herself. How could she have missed this? she said, over and over again. "I should have stalked him more," she said, "then I would have known about this sooner."

There was apparently a "news feed" and everything.

And Younger Daughter had missed it. For two whole weeks!

By this point Younger Daughter had practically pressed my nose into the computer screen. "Don't you see it?" she screamed. In my ear.

(*Ouch.*)

But I didn't see any photos -- that's what I was looking for initially -- and my nose was pressed too near the screen to allow the words to come into focus.

I shook Younger Daughter loose so I could move my head to a point where I might read the screen.

Finally, I saw what Younger Daughter was so frantically indicating: A little red heart followed by a single line of text. Oldest Son disclosed he is "in a relationship with" someone.

Naturally, I saw only a name -- but Younger Daughter, having had an hour or more head start, had determined an entire biography. The young lady in question is someone Oldest Son met in undergraduate. Younger Daughter knew her major, her graduate school plans, that she's living with her parents (not in Chicago, interestingly enough), and the extracurricular activities in which this young lady had participated in during college. Younger Daughter had already debated with Older Daughter -- who apparently knew about this relationship some time ago -- about whether Younger Daughter should try and "friend" this poor girl.

(Translators' note: In Facebook terms, "to friend" is a verb.)

My reaction cruelly disappointed Younger Daughter. "That's nice," I said. "Now I would like to go eat dinner, please."

Oldest Son filled us in on the details over the weekend. As I suspected, he'd been dating this girl for some time -- mind you, my suspicions were entirely general, not specific -- I just figured that, if he was capable of falling, Senior year is a most vulnerable time. Older Daughter had even met the girl during graduation weekend, when we all came down for the ceremony; Oldest Son, however, had sworn her to secrecy.

Oldest Son and his girlfriend have apparently visited each other during the Summer -- and the girlfriend (I'll come up with a name later) was beginning to get increasingly put out by Oldest Son's nondisclosure of their continuing relationship.

He tried to warn her of Younger Daughter's reaction.

And, then, when Oldest Son finally bent under the pressure and posted it on Facebook (among the young people, apparently, things just aren't so unless they are posted on the Internet) and Younger Daughter failed to discover the disclosure for two whole weeks, the girlfriend began to give Oldest Son some guff: "See, it wasn't so bad," she told him, "nothing happened."

She no doubt is reconsidering that at this moment. But Younger Daughter has at least stopped shrieking....

Sight seen recently along Clark Street

The movie trailers which were parked on a lot only a block or so from my Undisclosed Location are gone now. Those were for The Dark Knight, that being the working title of the latest installment in the Batman franchise. That movie was filming here in Chicago for months.

I saw these trailers parked a couple of days ago as I was running errands in the Loop.

This is taken from Monroe Street looking south on Clark, toward Adams. At the far end of this line of trailers, presumably invisible even to persons with good eyesight, was a tall, middle-aged man, wearing a jacket with a walkie-talkie clipped on and looking -- well -- kind of bored.

I asked him what movie these were for and he told me, in a voice that left little doubt that he'd answered this question far too often already, that the movie being filed was Family Practice, a made for TV movie starring Anne Archer and Beau Bridges.

In the movie (according to IMDb), the City of Chicago will play the part of Philadelphia.

No casting director approached me as I loitered in the street.

At the Clerk's Office: Yet another reason why I never seem to get anything done

Besides blogging, that is.

I actually did finish a Complaint yesterday. I finished it on the very day I told the client it would be filed, too.

(She'll be so surprised.)

This is the glamorous life of the solo practitioner: I figured out what the Complaint would say. That's the legal work.

Then I typed the Complaint. (OK, I do both of these at the same time. Word processing is a wonderful thing.)

Then I assembled the Complaint and the exhibits and photocopied the whole pleading.

The Complaint was too big to staple. (No, it wasn't my pleading, thank you very much. The exhibits were voluminous.) So I two-hole-punched every page and used fasteners.

I stamped the copies with my handy-dandy copy stamp. This sometimes -- but not always -- prevents the clerk from asking, when I present the documents for filing, which one is the original. It's the one that isn't stamped 'copy' I say.

I prepared my Summons and my 'cover sheet' and pulled a couple of checks out of the checkbook, one for the Clerk and one for the Sheriff. And now I was ready to march over to court.

Mind you, the clerical stuff isn't billable. But it still must be done. And my desk is covered with this file -- cases I looked at to formulate my Complaint -- the investigator's report -- the pleadings in the underlying case -- and, scattered amidst all these are the portions of the six other matters that I had to work on because clients called -- or because these are already past due. Oh, there's a few of those.

But finally I was ready to head off to the Clerk's Office.

The line was long, as usual. Every department in Cook County had to cut personnel in order to make the budget balance this year. I assume that's way there's seldom more than one filing station open whenever I get there. No matter when I get there.

After awhile, though, a woman returned from a late lunch or a mid-afternoon break and opened a second window. Now the line began to move a bit faster.

I reached her station, presented my papers, began filling in my check, and then there was this ear-splitting noise.

Fire drill. Everyone must leave at once. We were herded to a central hallway, where the Clerk's personnel have lockers, and into a stairwell.

Everyone was very polite at the outset. "You can tell it's a drill," said one man to a female acquaintance. "Why is that?" she asked. "Because if this was for real, I'd have run you over already," he said. "Not a chance," she said back, "I'd be long out of here." They both laughed.

The woman going down the stairs in front of me was wearing high-heeled boots. Either these were not designed for descending stairs or she'd had little practice doing so while wearing footwear of this kind. A large gap opened up in front of her -- and increasingly impatient people pressed in behind me.

Eventually, we all made it to the 7th floor hallway.

The 7th floor of the Daley Center is a transfer point. Almost all the banks of elevators stop there and, while we were crowded into the hallway, some people came from other floors and exited the elevators... and ran smack dab into the fire drill. They had to listen to the fireman's lecture with the rest of us. Most of these were lawyers, coming from a courtroom, going to file papers or looking to transfer to a different bank of elevators to get to a different courtroom. None of them were pleased.

The fireman, for his part, was pretty funny. He had a serious message, but delivered it glibly. I have to think that would help people to remember, should there ever be a real emergency.

Finally, we were allowed to return to where we began. I finished the filing transaction and went right back to the 7th floor to place my Summons with the Sheriff for service.

This is a two-step process. Before one can pay the fee, one must first present the papers to a clerk at one end of the counter who determines the price the Sheriff will charge to attempt service at a particular address. I made it to the front of this line and got my Summons priced. I was just about to step into the second line for payment when there was this ear-splitting noise.

Fire drill. Everyone must leave at once.

I was almost afraid to get back in line after that.

Hey hey, holy mackerel, no doubt about it, the Cubs are on their way

Old people, like me, will remember that as the anthem of the 1969 Cubs. My sister actually bought the 45.

I listened to a couple of Cub games that year on the radio, too, but I felt dirty and ashamed and I never did it again.

OK, I did watch the 2003 NLCS -- but it was the NLCS, please, and Ozzie Guillen was the Marlins' third base coach.

Anyway, maybe Cub fans wouldn't want me remembering their theme song from 1969. Things didn't turn out so good for them that year, now that I think about it.

There is one thing, however, I must make abundantly clear. I am certainly not jumping on the Cubs' bandwagon. Still, I think this could be their year.

I like Lou Piniella; I liked him when managed Seattle and Tampa Bay. I think he's a good manager and the Cubs are lucky to have him.

And, in the weakest division in baseball, it looks like he's going to bring his team, with its gazillion-dollar payroll, in ahead of the Brewers.

Cub fans are suspicious when White Sox fans, like myself, don't spew hatred in their direction. There is, of course, the good-natured ribbing that we give Cub fans, like in these words to the pub song, "South Side Irish":

And when it comes to baseball, we've got two favorite clubs:
Our beloved Go Go White Sox -- and whoever plays the Cubs.

But, sure now, that's just for fun. We Sox fans aren't trying to jinx the Chubbies by saying they're going to hold on and win that division.

Even though they lost last night.

To the woeful Marlins.

And Milwaukee won.

Hey, nobody seems to have clinched yet in the entire National League. (I think I looked at the NL standings this morning for the first time all season.)

I have no rooting interest either way. If Philadelphia gets in, of course, I'm rooting for Aaron Rowand. White Sox fans remember him fondly.

But I'm much more interested in what happens in the American League.

Dr. A, Fran, 74WIXYgrad, and Misty Dawn will be pulling for Cleveland. Ralph will be pulling for the BoSox, and so will Patti and Ben and Bennie and RDL. (Rhea is in Boston, but I don't think she has ever mentioned her undying allegiance to the Carmines, which is kind of unusual for folks in that part of the country.) I don't think I have any Angels fans among the regulars here. But I will root for any and all of these... against the Yankees.

I will root for the AL club in the World Series as long as it's not the Yankees. If -- heaven forfend -- the Yankees do make it to the World Serious, I would then root for the NL club... unless... unless....

The prospect is simply too awful for a White Sox fan to contemplate. But I wish them no ill.

Honest.

The Moon belongs to Asia?

In the real future it might be Iowa farm boy James Tiberius Kirk who mans the helm while Captain Hikaru Sulu holds down the center seat, cursing Klingons in Japanese. Jean-Luc Picard might grow up in France... but speak Mandarin. Or maybe Hindi.

These thoughts crossed my mind yesterday after I read Anil Penna's AFP story posted on Yahoo! News. (Here is a link to the story on Discovery Channel News; this link may last longer.)

A new space race is underway -- and America isn't in it.

The linked article reports that Japan successfully launched a lunar orbiter on September 14.

Penna adds that China is expected to launch its own moon probe, Chang'e 1, before the end of the year, and India will follow, with Chandrayaan 1, in March or April of 2008.

Japan's space agency, JAXA, plans a number of robotic missions before sending an astronaut, according to the AFP story. The key here is that Japan is planning to send astronauts. And so are China and India.

G. Madhavan Nair, head of the Indian Space Research Organization, is quoted in Penna's article as saying, "It will take seven or eight years," before India will be ready to send people to the Moon. "We are in the process of sharpening our ideas."

Read the article: The Asians are planning to move to the Moon and exploit it. To see if its mineral wealth can provide solutions to our problems here on Earth that our muddleheaded, short-sighted, fear-riddled politicians can't even imagine. And, no, this is not my interpretation of what the Asians are doing. It is what they in fact proclaim to the world that they are doing: Penna's article quotes the head of JAXA, Keiji Tachikawa, as flatly stating, "The moon is no longer a place for us to visit. We should consider inhabiting and exploiting it."

Oh sure, as the AFP article also noted, President George W. Bush in 2004 announced an ambitious plan for America "to return to the moon by 2020 and use it as a stepping stone for manned missions to Mars and beyond."

But the next President will almost certainly cancel those plans. Or at least delay them. Because the next President will not wish to be associated in any way with the plans of his (or her) predecessor.

And I stand by this gloomy prediction even if (maybe even especially if) the next President, by some chance, turns out to be a Republican.

The Western nations are determined to delay space exploration. Franco Bonacina, a spokesman for the European Space Agency, is quoted in Penna's article as saying "humanity is a 'couple of generations away' from tapping commercial opportunities in outer space, including the moon."

But this is apparently not the prevailing attitude in Asia.

Oh, sure, you say: America began space exploration. It is America's New Frontier. The other nations are merely playing catch-up.

Sure.

And, once upon a time, Spain and Portugal, smug in their discoveries outside of Europe, divided the world between themselves.

And along came the British and the French, rising nations then, and took most of it away.

America: We're about to become a really big Portugal.

This just in -- Curmudgeon doesn't win "Genius" grant

The John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation has announced its "Genius grants" for 2007.

The Curmudgeon is not listed among them.

Again.

Here's a link to the official announcement of this year's MacArthur Fellows. They prefer that term, "fellows," actually, as opposed to "genius grants."

If you should pardon the expression, there are a lot of really 'cool' people doing very 'cool' things who win these awards. You should follow the links this time. Really.

It's just -- well, there's no grant to any over-age, slice-of-life, semi-humorous bloggers.

Darn it.

And here's something you didn't know: The John D. MacArthur aforementioned is the brother of Charles MacArthur.

The name Charles MacArthur may not be familiar to you but you may remember his wife, the late Helen Hayes.

Also, Charles MacArthur and Ben Hecht wrote a play, "The Front Page," that has been made and remade into a movie more times than just about any movie you can think of. Here's a link to the 1931 version starring Adolph Menjou -- and to the 1940 remake, His Girl Friday.



And -- because you're here at Second Effort -- there's a Chicago angle: "The Front Page" was based on MacArthur's experiences at the late, lamented City News Bureau (motto: "If your mother says she loves you, check it out").

And there's another Chicago angle (and motto) that comes into play here: Wait 'til next year!

Heads or Tails #7 (Pets)

It's Oktoberfest at our parish this weekend and that means there'll be liquor and gambling, the twin pillars of any Catholic fundraising enterprise.

Fine, fine, you say. But what does this have to do with pets?

Ah. Well, there will also be a children's room with fun fair type games and prizes.

And among these prizes will be fish.

I have no training in cannon law; I don't know what provisions of Church doctrine require that fish be given away as prizes at all kids events.

I assume it has something to do with the Apostles, many of whom were -- you may recall -- fishermen. But I've never researched the question.

All I know is that sickly looking goldfish, in baggies, are always awarded as prizes at parish events attended by children.

The life expectancy of these creatures can be measured in minutes. These are feeder fish, after all, used by the pet stores as food. And fodder for Catholic fundraising events.

Yet, somehow, these fish always, always, always defy the odds.

They live until you get home.

They survive -- even if you leave them in the baggie -- overnight.

They live when you pull down the tank you bought last year and while you feed them the fish food left over from last year.

Because they are waiting.

Yes, these fish are born to die. But they are programmed to expire at a certain time... and that time comes as soon as you spend money on them.

Trust me on this. I speak from experience. And a lot of Oktoberfests. And Cub Scout Halloween fun fairs....

But why would anyone want to stay awake for this?

Yahoo! News carries an AFP story this morning about a man who stayed awake during his own brain surgery.

John James, a retired bus driver, was apparently kept awake during the surgery to make certain that the procedure to remove an aneurysm did not harm his vision: He had to "read the words and numbers on flashcards shown to him during the surgery" so the surgeons could be sure.

Next week: Do-it-yourself brain surgery kits.

The funniest comic on any planet

(Click to enlarge. This image is taken from Yahoo! Comics, but I read Brewster Rockit in the Chicago Tribune.)

Bears disintegrate on national TV... but it's not all QB's fault

You might not be able to hear it today over the shrieks for this guy's blood, but what knowledgeable football fans should be talking about today is that last night's Bears-Cowboys game was lost when Cedric Benson plunged into the line for two yards -- and lost the ball. Bad as they were, Rex Grossman's last two interceptions were as much the product of desperation as anything else. On the other hand, when Benson fumbled, the Bears were only down 17-10. Even after that mishap (which resulted only in a Dallas field goal) there would have been plenty of time to come back if the Bears had a running game.

But they don't: Benson's fumble didn't prove it -- it merely provided the exclamation point.

Meanwhile, in New Jersey, this guy, Thomas Jones, the man the Bears chose to discard in favor of the aforementioned Mr. Benson, ran for 110 yards on 25 carries.

There is a falloff that many teams experience after losing the Super Bowl, and the Bears, apparently, will share in that experience. They're not just experiencing a falloff -- they're plummeting.

But it's not all on Grossman.

And, anyway, what else should you expect in a year when the Cubs might win their division?

*shudder*

The world is indeed turned upside down.

-------------------------------------------------------------
Rex Grossman image from the Chicago Sun-Times; Thomas Jones image cropped from the New York Times.

I fiddle with the light and dark dial on the monitor but nothing seems to happen....

Stumbled upon at this site.

Post suggested by another's post

RT, of Untwisted Vortex, laments the needless inclusion of profanity in blogs he's reading. He makes an "open plea for all writers to examine their work and see if something can be written a little less offensively. You do, after all, want me to read your writings, right?"

(If a profane comeback flitted across your synapses just now, you are only human. And a smart-aleck. If you refrained from vocalizing it, there's hope for you yet.)

Anyway, RT's post got me thinking -- the coarse language that the young people use today -- my own children, for example -- and not just in conversation when they think no elders are about -- often in writing in their IM's. These can be printed out and exhibited against them whenever a participant in an IM conversation wants to. It can get very ugly very fast.

So, yes, I was wrapping the cloak of self-righteousness firmly about me -- how I'd never used such language when I was young, etc., etc.... and then I began to remember....

*shimmer * shimmer * shimmer*

(Yes, that's taking us into a flashback....)

My poor father was teaching me to drive. I had driver's ed in school, but the cars there had automatic transmissions; the car I would be permitted to drive (on rare occasions) had a clutch -- a three-on-the-tree transmission. And, besides, the driver's ed teachers -- if there were both boys and girls assigned to the same car -- well, let's just say this was the era of miniskirts and the instructors felt it was necessary to keep the girls in the front seat practicing for as long as possible. And, when I say they felt it was necessary, I mean they felt....

Hmmmmmm. How to explain, delicately? Well, Long Suffering Spouse -- who attended an entirely different high school from me and a number of years later -- said that the smarter girls quickly figured out it was best to wear pants for driver's ed.

If that doesn't help, ask your mom.

Anyway, my father felt I needed the practice, and I did. Fortunately, we lived way out in the sticks so there were plenty of places where I could learn to stop, going uphill at a stop sign, and start up again without rolling back into anyone else's bumper.

My father claimed that both I and my sister burned out a clutch in the course of our driver training.

But in addition to rolling backwards, and stalling out the car by popping the clutch too quickly without applying the gas, my father decided I should learn how to enter a limited access highway.

My father was no fool.

He wasn't going to take me on a City expressway; that would be too far away anyway.

But there was one cloverleaf in the vicinity going from a two lane State highway to a four lane Federal route -- and it was to this location that my father directed me one morning.

I barreled down the ramp without any difficulty (going fast is really not a problem for teenage boys, is it?) but there was, I noticed, a car already on the highway below, matching course and speed as I prepared to merge.

Indeed, for a moment it looked as if I was about to merge right into him.

At that moment, forgetting entirely who was sitting beside me, I let loose with a string of invective that would do any modern teenager proud. I'm sure it wouldn't have brought the slightest blush to a career noncom, but it was blue enough.

And, as I slowed in time to safely merge behind the car that had been blocking my entrance onto the highway, I remembered that my father was in fact present.

I snuck a glance his way.

He was regarding me, as I have since learned fathers often do, with a calculating look, trying to decide how best to respond in the circumstances.

You have to understand that my father was not one of those Ward Cleaver types. He could go from calm to furious in a nanosecond and he had the kind of booming voice that could focus entirely on the object of his anger. On the other hand, since I was driving, I did sort of have both our lives in my hands....

I braced for the verbal impact -- which I knew I deserved. But my father only said, "I didn't know you knew all those words." He paused, thinking, I presume, that he should add something else. What should he say, though? Sternly admonish me against any further uncontrolled bursts of Anglo-Saxon epithets? "You did use all the words correctly," he said.

And that was that.

So I guess maybe I can't get too smug about my own non-use of profanity in my younger days....

OK, first you have to know what a piñata is....

Stumbled on at this site.

(Chris has run a lot of the "Cyanide and Happiness" cartoons at his blog, Thermal, but I hope he won't mind my grabbing this one....)

Constant pain, the price of heath?

(Click on the cartoon to enlarge.) Stumbled upon at this site. (That will take you to the above cartoon; for more of these, click here.)

Maybe I find this particularly funny because I'm trying to cut back on my coffee consumption. But I need something to keep me going in the afternoon when I'm really trying to work.

Coffee's out. Sugar's out. And I suppose greenies are out the question, too.

So I'm open for suggestions?

Setting a bad example: Parents melting down at kids' sporting events

Sports do not build character. They reveal it.
Heywood Broun (1888 - 1939)

Lindsay Ferrier's September 18 post on "Suburban Turmoil," When Dads Attack, Preschool Edition, is a very funny account of what could have been a very serious incident at a soccer game between teams of girls aged three to five. Come back after you've read it.

Back so soon?

When Younger Daughter played soccer in grammar school the home games were in "Bluejay Park" (not its real name) and Long Suffering Spouse and I would make a point of trying to go.

But we sat quite a distance away from the field.

Long Suffering Spouse is a teacher -- and she didn't want parents coming up to her during the game and asking how Junior was doing in Spanish class... or, worse, berating her for giving out too much homework... or making the test too hard.

So we didn't see a lot of bad parental behavior at soccer games. Not from our vantage point.

But we've seen plenty at baseball games over the years.

The leagues at Bluejay Park were "recreational" -- meaning supposedly not cut-throat competitive. And, by rule, all the kids had to play. Over the many years our children were in the program, the rules evolved for the older kids. At one point, when Oldest Son was in junior high, coaches were required only to bat everyone once. There was no continuous batting order -- and no rule requiring every kid to play the field. By the time Youngest Son was at that same age, eight years later, all kids had to play three innings in the field and the continuous batting order was mandatory. (Fourteen kids on the team? Fourteen kids had to bat before your leadoff hitter came up again. Usually the kids batting 10-14 were not likely to hit anything, except by accident.)

But even with these supposedly kid-friendly rules (and everybody got a trophy, too!) tempers could -- and did -- flare. My perception was that parental involvement decreased as the kids got older: Parents, grandparents, and various aunts and uncles all showed up for t-ball games. By the time the kids were allowed to pitch, only the parents were left. By the time the kids could drive themselves, hardly any parents showed up at all. (This was a shame, really, since those were much better games.)

Parents had a tendency to melt down more during grammar school games than high school games -- and to get in the coaches' faces more during the younger years, too. The change over time was not necessarily the result of increasing maturity on the parents' part: In high school, at least around here, they'll cut a kid whose parents are a problem. In football (a non-cut sport) they can make life so difficult for the child of problem parents that he'll quit.

Readers will remember my kvetching about some of the parents during this Summer's travel ball experience. But, although some of the Raptors' parents were not well versed in the game (or in what coaching teenage boys necessarily involves) I never thought anyone was going to become violent. I sometimes thought violence was a real possibility at some of those 'recreational' Bluejay Park games.

Middle Son is pitching still in college. The parents there are grizzled veterans. Some will berate the umpire -- I don't dare because I don't want the umpire to punish my son for my complaints -- although, I admit, sometimes I groan involuntarily. Or sigh. But, for the most part, the atmosphere is far more laid back than at games involving 10 year olds.

Or, apparently, involving three year old girl soccer players.

But, Ms. Ferrier and others similarly situated, I guess I'm saying there's hope.