Youngest Son finished his high school football career on Saturday afternoon. His team had made the playoffs despite a heart-breaking loss in its last conference game. That loss cost the team a home game; instead, we were set up as sacrificial victims for a local football powerhouse -- Long Suffering Spouse's alma mater, as it turns out.
"Did you go to a lot of games here, Mom?" Younger Daughter asked as she settled in beside us Saturday afternoon.
"No," said Long Suffering Spouse, "I was only in here once -- for graduation. They have the graduations outside when the weather's nice."
Younger Daughter came with Middle Son. Oldest Son came by himself. (Older Daughter demanded updates by cellphone; she couldn't come up from Indianapolis this weekend.)
Because it was Halloween weekend, a lot of the kids in the student section came to the game in costume. Green was the predominant color of all costumes on the visitors' side of the field -- we had only the green Teletubby, for example -- because green is one of the school colors. Younger Daughter also wore a green sweatshirt, and there was a greenish pallor to her skin. But I attributed the facial coloring less to makeup and more to how she spent the prior evening. My speculations were confirmed when I inquired.
It wasn't hard to figure: Younger Daughter was hiding behind huge (non-prescription) sunglasses. She should have worn her regular glasses. She really needs them to see the field. She kept asking her brothers whether Youngest Son was on the field and, if so, where. They mocked her.
You'll note that I've gotten this far into the essay without mentioning the actual game. The less said of it the better. There was one play in particular that suffices in itself to describe the day: Their quarterback dropped back to pass and we had three rushers closing in. But they couldn't wrap him up because he kept dropping back. Ten yards, 20, 30 yards behind the original line of scrimmage. He wasn't running straight back, not always; he was weaving from side to side, too, so he could see down field. (This was why they were afraid to try and bring him down, afraid he'd make them commit and get around them.) Still, it looked like our guys were going to chase him out of the other end of the stadium. Then he saw a kid come open far down the field. Very far down the field. The ball must have traveled 60 yards in the air, landing in the receiver's arms like it had been dropped from two feet away. (And this QB is a sophomore!) They scored on the next play. Or maybe it was the play after that. Whatever: They kept scoring.
And so ended my last high school football game. Unless I live to see a grandchild play, this was the end -- at least, this was the last game I'll attend where I have a real rooting interest. Long Suffering Spouse and I added it up yesterday: Between grammar school and high school (and Oldest Son's 'intra-hall' college career), she and I have been attending football games for 15 straight seasons. My sons all played hard, in their time, and all, I believe, are better for it. They made good friends, they learned teamwork and cooperation, they enjoyed success -- and they learned to endure, and recover from, failure. These are lessons that you can't learn in books.
And these are lessons I could not teach.
Monday, November 01, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
A letter I didn't send to the mortgage company
Abraham Lincoln used to write scathing letters to his generals in the field, upbraiding them on strategy and tactics and whatever else was on his mind. Then he would lay the letters aside in a drawer, putting off the decision on whether to actually send them until the morrow. In most cases, the letters were never sent.
Yesterday I wrote a letter to my mortgage company and laid it to one side. Specifically I wrote to "Mr. Smith" -- oddly enough, not his real name -- at the Soulless Megabank (not its real name either). I read it to my wife instead and, in ages past, that probably would have been the end of it... but I have this blog... and I can share my letter, with all specific identification removed, with you instead....
Yesterday I wrote a letter to my mortgage company and laid it to one side. Specifically I wrote to "Mr. Smith" -- oddly enough, not his real name -- at the Soulless Megabank (not its real name either). I read it to my wife instead and, in ages past, that probably would have been the end of it... but I have this blog... and I can share my letter, with all specific identification removed, with you instead....
Dear Mr. Smith:
I acknowledge your most recent dunning letter, dated October 22. This is the first one I’ve bothered to open. I only opened this one because October is about to end and I do not – and am not likely to – have your October mortgage payment before the calendar page turns.
This is not a matter of forgetfulness. I don’t really need robocalls to my house each and every day starting on the 15th of the month advising me that “there’s been a change in the status of my mortgage.” Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I’ve forgotten? And why do you call three or four times a day? Do you think I'll forget between 9:00am and 8:00pm that I owe you money? I’ve been paying on this mortgage since 1996 – paying a little ahead each and every month, in fact. There have been months when I’ve been late before, and yet you’ve always gotten your money in the past. Including your late fees. You will get your money this time too – as soon as I get it.
I am self-employed, Mr. Smith, and (unlike so many banks) when my customers don’t pay me – or when they take their sweet time in paying me – the Federal government does not provide me with large sums of cash to tide me over. I just have to wait. So, therefore, must you. I realize you may find this unsatisfactory. I’m not happy about it either. Perhaps you can take comfort in the fact that the Soulless Megabank is not alone in waiting for my receivables to mature into receipts: I have a drawer full of bills in the office and a desk full of bills at home, each of them with real and valid claims upon any funds that may straggle in. All will be paid as soon as funds become available – your October payment (as the oldest) first of all. If this provides inadequate assurance, please send me your home phone number so I can call your home three and four times a day, dinnertime included, and repeat this promise for you.Very truly yours,
Curmudgeon
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Solve the budget crisis: End (most) public pensions
I had a pension 30 years ago. I had it for two or three years and then the law changed. I don't know exactly why; I've never been a pension lawyer. As I recall it, though, the partners in my firm couldn't put what they wanted in their pension accounts without putting substantially more in each of their employees' pension accounts. So the pensions were all scrapped. I am pretty sure that they cashed us out when they killed the pensions: That chunk of change (sadly) remains the largest single piece of my retirement savings.
We can talk about my poor retirement planning some other time.
Today, though, I want to talk about pensions. I don't have one. I don't know anyone in the private sector who has one. My wife was enrolled in a pension plan when she started to teach full-time for the Archdiocese of Chicago -- but that plan was scrapped a couple of years later. They still take money out of my wife's check, but it gets invested in money markets and things like that, subject to the perils of market fluctuation.
The only people I know who do have pensions are public sector employees. Bureaucrats, public school teachers, bus drivers, garbagemen, cops, firemen....
Public pensions are a sweet deal: For most public sector employees, at least here in Illinois, one need only put in 30 years and reach the age of 50 to pull a full pension -- a large percentage of your highest pay anytime in the four years preceding your retirement. Many school superintendents, for example, get huge one-time bonus payments on the eve of their retirements -- thereby greatly enhancing their pensions. My friend Steve, who pulled his pension earlier this year, was able to stitch stints with the City of Chicago and Cook County to reach his 30 years. And he was 'forced' to retire in that his boss cut his pay four years ago -- making it vital that Steve pull his pension this year or take a significant 'hit' in his pension payouts. A lot of the conversation among my contemporaries, when I was coaching at Bluejay Park, concerned pension issues. We were all turning 50. Most of the coaches had City jobs, or County jobs.
But I didn't. And I have no pension.
They've just changed judicial pensions in Illinois and a steady exodus from the bench has apparently begun as jurists pull their pensions. There is still a pension in place, but it is a thin and pallid thing, from what I'm told, over what there was before. But however wispy a weed it may seem to those on the inside, it is a California redwood to one such as me who has no pension at all.
Anyway, pensions are a sweet deal for those who have them.
But there is a teeny, tiny problem: The entities that are legally committed to paying these pensions -- state, county and municipal governments -- are broke. Unfunded or underfunded pension liabilities are frequently cited as the biggest single reason why local governments are in such bad shape.
Thus, I make a modest proposal -- here in the relative safety of an anonymous blog, where I am less likely to be torn from my office by a torch-bearing mob of AFSCME activists and strung up from the nearest lamppost: End most public pensions.
We have obligations to those who have, in good faith, done their 30 years and pulled their pensions. Honor those obligations.
But for everyone else... just stop. No more contributions. If the folks with the sharp pencils say we can afford it, maybe we can reach back and continue funding pensions for those with 20... or 25 years' service already. Maybe. But for everyone else, we stop, just as pensions were stopped for me, my wife, and those of you (if you ever had one) who have worked only in the private sector. Public employees would get their proportionate share of the pension they'd earned before the switch, just like I got cashed out -- and my wife got a promise of (if I recall correctly) about $17 a month when she turns 65.
I would make two exceptions: Police and fire. Not judges. Not legislators. Not public defenders or state's attorneys. Not attorneys general. Not employees of the Clerk of the Circuit Court or the Bureau of Electricity or the Department of Aging. Not even for teachers. Only for police and fire. And only because these are analogous to military units -- men and women who put their lives on the line on every shift. The guy who stamps papers with a red stamp or a blue stamp depending on whether all the rules were followed is not in the same position -- even if the occasional paper cut hurts like the dickens.
This does not mean, I quickly add, that I would not happily accept a pension if, by some miracle, I ever did wind up on the bench. That's not hypocrisy; that's common sense. But we are in a budget crisis. I could save from a judge's salary if I had to. And so could all the other judges. Moreover, what one person does will not rescue the public pension system from ruin; I am suggesting a virtual abolition of public pensions to save the pensions of current retirees and rescue governments from their own generosity.
The public sector might even be able to afford some sort of continuing contribution, like the Archdiocese is making in the case of my Long Suffering Spouse -- as long as these are not guaranteed benefits. The 11% contribution that a lot of public employees make to their pensions now could be diverted to that sort of program. Of course, this would put public employees at the mercy of the markets, too.
Just like the rest of us.
Is this unreasonable? Am I being mean-spirited or reactionary? What do you think?
We can talk about my poor retirement planning some other time.
Today, though, I want to talk about pensions. I don't have one. I don't know anyone in the private sector who has one. My wife was enrolled in a pension plan when she started to teach full-time for the Archdiocese of Chicago -- but that plan was scrapped a couple of years later. They still take money out of my wife's check, but it gets invested in money markets and things like that, subject to the perils of market fluctuation.
The only people I know who do have pensions are public sector employees. Bureaucrats, public school teachers, bus drivers, garbagemen, cops, firemen....
Public pensions are a sweet deal: For most public sector employees, at least here in Illinois, one need only put in 30 years and reach the age of 50 to pull a full pension -- a large percentage of your highest pay anytime in the four years preceding your retirement. Many school superintendents, for example, get huge one-time bonus payments on the eve of their retirements -- thereby greatly enhancing their pensions. My friend Steve, who pulled his pension earlier this year, was able to stitch stints with the City of Chicago and Cook County to reach his 30 years. And he was 'forced' to retire in that his boss cut his pay four years ago -- making it vital that Steve pull his pension this year or take a significant 'hit' in his pension payouts. A lot of the conversation among my contemporaries, when I was coaching at Bluejay Park, concerned pension issues. We were all turning 50. Most of the coaches had City jobs, or County jobs.
But I didn't. And I have no pension.
They've just changed judicial pensions in Illinois and a steady exodus from the bench has apparently begun as jurists pull their pensions. There is still a pension in place, but it is a thin and pallid thing, from what I'm told, over what there was before. But however wispy a weed it may seem to those on the inside, it is a California redwood to one such as me who has no pension at all.
Anyway, pensions are a sweet deal for those who have them.
But there is a teeny, tiny problem: The entities that are legally committed to paying these pensions -- state, county and municipal governments -- are broke. Unfunded or underfunded pension liabilities are frequently cited as the biggest single reason why local governments are in such bad shape.
Thus, I make a modest proposal -- here in the relative safety of an anonymous blog, where I am less likely to be torn from my office by a torch-bearing mob of AFSCME activists and strung up from the nearest lamppost: End most public pensions.
We have obligations to those who have, in good faith, done their 30 years and pulled their pensions. Honor those obligations.
But for everyone else... just stop. No more contributions. If the folks with the sharp pencils say we can afford it, maybe we can reach back and continue funding pensions for those with 20... or 25 years' service already. Maybe. But for everyone else, we stop, just as pensions were stopped for me, my wife, and those of you (if you ever had one) who have worked only in the private sector. Public employees would get their proportionate share of the pension they'd earned before the switch, just like I got cashed out -- and my wife got a promise of (if I recall correctly) about $17 a month when she turns 65.
I would make two exceptions: Police and fire. Not judges. Not legislators. Not public defenders or state's attorneys. Not attorneys general. Not employees of the Clerk of the Circuit Court or the Bureau of Electricity or the Department of Aging. Not even for teachers. Only for police and fire. And only because these are analogous to military units -- men and women who put their lives on the line on every shift. The guy who stamps papers with a red stamp or a blue stamp depending on whether all the rules were followed is not in the same position -- even if the occasional paper cut hurts like the dickens.
This does not mean, I quickly add, that I would not happily accept a pension if, by some miracle, I ever did wind up on the bench. That's not hypocrisy; that's common sense. But we are in a budget crisis. I could save from a judge's salary if I had to. And so could all the other judges. Moreover, what one person does will not rescue the public pension system from ruin; I am suggesting a virtual abolition of public pensions to save the pensions of current retirees and rescue governments from their own generosity.
The public sector might even be able to afford some sort of continuing contribution, like the Archdiocese is making in the case of my Long Suffering Spouse -- as long as these are not guaranteed benefits. The 11% contribution that a lot of public employees make to their pensions now could be diverted to that sort of program. Of course, this would put public employees at the mercy of the markets, too.
Just like the rest of us.
Is this unreasonable? Am I being mean-spirited or reactionary? What do you think?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Probe Finds Large Amount of Water on Moon
ABC News is reporting that the probe that NASA recently crashed into the Moon splashed up a lot more water than expected -- enough that humans might be able to set up a base inside the crater with hot and cold running water -- all locally produced.
Can we go back now?
Bad news for Curmudgeon: World won't end in 2012 after all
Oh, sure, some of you were probably relieved to learn that the Mayan calendar may have been translated incorrectly and world might not end in late 2012 after all.But -- for me -- this was terrible news and yet another reason why I should never, ever plan.
See, I had it all figured out. At the rate I'm going, my credit cards will all max out in December 2012. If it turns out there really is a January 2013, it's going to be a real drag for me....
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Time for an attack ad counterattack?
"Shoe" comic by Chris Cassatt, Gary Brookins andSusie MacNelly. Obtained from this site. (Click to enlarge.)
My friend Steve has a theory about politicians. Someday, he says, medical science will progress to the point where a desire to enter politics will be recognized as a mental illness.
As a one-time candidate myself, I've argued with Steve on this one. But I am beginning to think this may be the only explanation for the attack ads that are attacking all of us every night when we try to watch the news.
At this point, I would happily choose a block of commercials for Viagra, Cialis and Flomax over any more commercials concerning Kirk, Giannoulias, Quinn, Brady, Halvorson, Kinzinger, Dold, Seals.... I could go on, but my stomach has started churning.
We have early voting in Illinois -- people can cast their ballots today instead of on November 2 -- and I'd do it in a heartbeat if it would make the commercials and the robocalls stop.
But it won't.
The cartoon at the top of this page expresses my feelings about this election rather well.
To illustrate why, let's just look at one race, the race for Barack Obama's old seat in the U.S. Senate: Here, State Treasurer Alexi Giannoulias is running against 10th District Congressman Mark Kirk.
Giannoulias was very proud of his family's ownership of Broadway Bank when he ran for office four years ago. That was before the Great Recession. Since then, the bank has collapsed and has been taken over by the government. The amount of the loss to the taxpayers varies from attack ad to attack ad. Giannoulias severed his connections with the bank at some point, but there seems to be some question about precisely when this occurred. In this campaign he's said one thing; in his prior campaign he said something else. And he may have told the IRS something different still. What is certain is that while a loan officer at Broadway Bank, Giannoulias had a hand in making large loans to mob figures. He has said he didn't know the 'extent' of the mobsters' dealings at the time. Really? I couldn't get a loan without the banker knowing how much silver there is in the fillings in my teeth. When the Great Recession hit, the Bright Star college pre-paid tuition program, administered by the State Treasurer's office, took a huge hit, just like most people's investments. The extent of these losses, too, are a matter of some dispute, depending on which attack ad is playing at the moment. (You wouldn't know it from the ads, but Giannoulias may be faulted -- may -- for not responding to the slide sooner by switching funds. It's not as if he took the money to Vegas and lost it at the craps table.)
The Republican candidate, Rep. Mark Kirk, is also an officer in the U.S. Naval Reserve and had been pretty well respected for his first-hand knowledge of foreign events. Then someone looked at his résumé. Although his record was honorable in and of itself, apparently Kirk exaggerated his military accomplishments. The extent of the exaggerations are lost in the fog of attack ads and, to a lifelong civilian like myself, this might not seem like such a big deal. But it is a big deal to people who have served: Consider that a former Chief of Naval Operations committed suicide in 1996, allegedly because it was about to be revealed that he did not have the right to wear "Valor device enhancements... on his Navy Commendation Medal and Navy Achievement Medal" -- two tiny bronze "V's" on a chest full of fruit salad. Kirk had been a liberal Republican, that term not always having been an oxymoron, but, in this election, in order to secure his party's nomination, he had to move to the Right on several issues. Thus, this guy plays fast and loose with the facts and with his beliefs in order to advance his career.
The good news about the race for the U.S. Senate in Illinois? At least none of our candidates is a witch.
I think we have to strike back at the attack ads, lest we all wind up as crazy as the politicians.
I'm thinking of starting a fund to buy up airtime on all the local newscasts. We'd crowd out the attack ads with pictures of sunsets and mountain tops, waving wheat and soft, fluffy clouds, all set to a relaxing orchestral accompaniment. It might even calm me down enough to handle the latest sports news out of Halas Hall.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Curmudgeon's house gets a new roof
We have an old house. It has an old roof. It was probably old when we bought the place and that's over 14 years ago now. Roofs wear out. I know it and insurance companies know it, too.
But we had a tough Spring in Chicago this year. Tremendous hail storms. And roofers have been everywhere since, soliciting business. Someone even knocked on our door and talked to Long Suffering Spouse. He wanted to make a claim with our homeowners insurance company on our behalf arising from hail damage during one of the storms in April.
Big hail storms, or wind storms or other disasters that affect a large number of people in a given area are called "cat losses" in the insurance business, "cat" being short for "catastrophe." Insurers assign extra personnel (the bigger companies bring in crews from out of state) to handle the claim volume. And even in this modern age, where insurers are able to print out estimates and sometimes even checks right from their cars in the ordinary course of business, the claim process may be streamlined still more when insurers are coping with a cat loss.
However.
As an insurance lawyer for 30 years, if I know anything, I know that property insurance only pays for things that may happen; it doesn't pay for things that must happen. The fancy legal principle is called "fortuity." Insurance companies generally don't buy new roofs for their customers just because the old roof has worn out.
Thus, I looked at the roofing contractor prospecting for business with something of a jaundiced eye: It's an old roof, I thought. Past it's freshness date and then some, I thought. The adjuster coming to view the roof on the insurance company's behalf (and who has far more training in evaluating property losses than I) will no doubt arrive at this same conclusion and deny the claim.
On the other hand, I had no chance of putting a new roof on my house now or in the foreseeable future on my own. The family exchequer simply would not support such a stupendous undertaking. So -- I thought -- let the young man try. He would, I was sure, roll snake eyes but, as with the lottery, you can't win if you don't play. I resolved merely to stay away from the process -- because nothing I could add would help my cause.
And, sure enough, the roofer's first encounter with the insurance adjuster did not go particularly well. Yes, the adjuster agreed, there is hail damage. But it's an old roof. I can, he said, pay to replace shingles here, here and here -- and some siding, too -- but that's as far as I can go.
This all sounded reasonable to me, and consistent with my own experience and training. But the roofer was not satisfied. I could do just the work the adjuster approved, he said, but lifting shingles here, here and here, will cause all the rest of the ones in between to crumble like dust. "Because it's an old roof, right?" I asked. "Exactly," he said, sounding a note of triumph that I did not think appropriate to the circumstances. Still, when he asked for one more opportunity to plead his case to the insurer, I did not refuse him.
And thus, somehow, the young roofing salesman persuaded the insurer that nearly all of the roof had to be replaced. (The section over the 14-year old addition was not included, but, then, it was not nearly so old as the rest of the roof.) I suppose it is a function of replacement cost coverage: Having agreed that there has been a loss occasioned by a covered cause, the age of the property being repaired becomes essentially irrelevant.
At least that's what I think the thought process may have been. But, as I said, I'm not asking questions. Keeping my mouth shut, for once, got me a new roof.
Perhaps I should be quiet more often?
It'll never work....
But we had a tough Spring in Chicago this year. Tremendous hail storms. And roofers have been everywhere since, soliciting business. Someone even knocked on our door and talked to Long Suffering Spouse. He wanted to make a claim with our homeowners insurance company on our behalf arising from hail damage during one of the storms in April.
Big hail storms, or wind storms or other disasters that affect a large number of people in a given area are called "cat losses" in the insurance business, "cat" being short for "catastrophe." Insurers assign extra personnel (the bigger companies bring in crews from out of state) to handle the claim volume. And even in this modern age, where insurers are able to print out estimates and sometimes even checks right from their cars in the ordinary course of business, the claim process may be streamlined still more when insurers are coping with a cat loss.
However.
As an insurance lawyer for 30 years, if I know anything, I know that property insurance only pays for things that may happen; it doesn't pay for things that must happen. The fancy legal principle is called "fortuity." Insurance companies generally don't buy new roofs for their customers just because the old roof has worn out.
Thus, I looked at the roofing contractor prospecting for business with something of a jaundiced eye: It's an old roof, I thought. Past it's freshness date and then some, I thought. The adjuster coming to view the roof on the insurance company's behalf (and who has far more training in evaluating property losses than I) will no doubt arrive at this same conclusion and deny the claim.
On the other hand, I had no chance of putting a new roof on my house now or in the foreseeable future on my own. The family exchequer simply would not support such a stupendous undertaking. So -- I thought -- let the young man try. He would, I was sure, roll snake eyes but, as with the lottery, you can't win if you don't play. I resolved merely to stay away from the process -- because nothing I could add would help my cause.
And, sure enough, the roofer's first encounter with the insurance adjuster did not go particularly well. Yes, the adjuster agreed, there is hail damage. But it's an old roof. I can, he said, pay to replace shingles here, here and here -- and some siding, too -- but that's as far as I can go.
This all sounded reasonable to me, and consistent with my own experience and training. But the roofer was not satisfied. I could do just the work the adjuster approved, he said, but lifting shingles here, here and here, will cause all the rest of the ones in between to crumble like dust. "Because it's an old roof, right?" I asked. "Exactly," he said, sounding a note of triumph that I did not think appropriate to the circumstances. Still, when he asked for one more opportunity to plead his case to the insurer, I did not refuse him.
And thus, somehow, the young roofing salesman persuaded the insurer that nearly all of the roof had to be replaced. (The section over the 14-year old addition was not included, but, then, it was not nearly so old as the rest of the roof.) I suppose it is a function of replacement cost coverage: Having agreed that there has been a loss occasioned by a covered cause, the age of the property being repaired becomes essentially irrelevant.
At least that's what I think the thought process may have been. But, as I said, I'm not asking questions. Keeping my mouth shut, for once, got me a new roof.
Perhaps I should be quiet more often?
It'll never work....
Do you know why they call it the 24-hour flu?
Because that's the most time that anyone can devote to an illness that is not completely crippling in today's ridiculous world. Oh, sure, if you have a heart attack or cancer or get run over by a bus, people are willing to give you a little more slack.
But for the garden-variety, creepin'-crud-type illness that fells us all a couple times a year, 24 hours is all you get, brother. You'd better be up and at 'em promptly by hour 25.
Tuesday afternoon I felt myself sinking into a viral funk. Nothing exciting -- merely that I lost the ability to perform the simplest tasks. Writing the simplest letter was beyond my capabilities. Printing an envelope would have been impossible. I struggled with Free Cell. Finally, I realized that I should just pack up and go home. I put together a bunch of stuff I could do from home if I felt up to it in the morning. In the end, I didn't even move the daily backup files from my memory stick.
In fact, my signal accomplishment yesterday was turning on my cell phone -- so that when my one paying client did call in the afternoon, I could tell her I wasn't in the office and wasn't feeling well. She hung up quickly. A thousand miles away, over the phone, and she acted like she was worried she might catch something from me.
And I don't blame her. After all, there's no slack given for the minor ailments that slow us down from time to time.
It wasn't an entirely restful day at home. We had a new roof put on most of the house yesterday. (How we got a new roof is worthy of a post in and of itself, so I'll put that up next.) The point here, however, is that, with roofers running around, there would be no napping. When the roofers knocked at the door, I had to figure out where they could plug in their equipment. In my fuzziness, I thought there was a plug outside, on the front of the house. (But, no, that was the old house.) After thinking awhile, I was pretty sure there was an outside plug, though, and I found one on the side of the house -- but I'd forgotten that it didn't work. Eventually, I found working plugs inside the house and got their equipment going. I proudly reported this achievement to Long Suffering Spouse when she called to check up on me at lunchtime -- and she promptly told me I was wrong. Didn't I remember that we'd talked about setting them up with the outlet inside the garage? (No, I didn't.) A few more questions along these lines -- and a few more non-responsive answers on my part -- and Long Suffering Spouse hung up on me.
I had the effective IQ yesterday of a coffee cup. An empty coffee cup. The excitement of the roofers notwithstanding, mostly I watched old movies that I'd put on the DVR and played a computer game and dabbed at my nose. Later, I finished a book I'd started over the weekend. I can't really be sure whether I even enjoyed the movies.
Whether I'm really so much better today is, I suppose, for the reader to decide.
But for the garden-variety, creepin'-crud-type illness that fells us all a couple times a year, 24 hours is all you get, brother. You'd better be up and at 'em promptly by hour 25.
Tuesday afternoon I felt myself sinking into a viral funk. Nothing exciting -- merely that I lost the ability to perform the simplest tasks. Writing the simplest letter was beyond my capabilities. Printing an envelope would have been impossible. I struggled with Free Cell. Finally, I realized that I should just pack up and go home. I put together a bunch of stuff I could do from home if I felt up to it in the morning. In the end, I didn't even move the daily backup files from my memory stick.
In fact, my signal accomplishment yesterday was turning on my cell phone -- so that when my one paying client did call in the afternoon, I could tell her I wasn't in the office and wasn't feeling well. She hung up quickly. A thousand miles away, over the phone, and she acted like she was worried she might catch something from me.
And I don't blame her. After all, there's no slack given for the minor ailments that slow us down from time to time.
It wasn't an entirely restful day at home. We had a new roof put on most of the house yesterday. (How we got a new roof is worthy of a post in and of itself, so I'll put that up next.) The point here, however, is that, with roofers running around, there would be no napping. When the roofers knocked at the door, I had to figure out where they could plug in their equipment. In my fuzziness, I thought there was a plug outside, on the front of the house. (But, no, that was the old house.) After thinking awhile, I was pretty sure there was an outside plug, though, and I found one on the side of the house -- but I'd forgotten that it didn't work. Eventually, I found working plugs inside the house and got their equipment going. I proudly reported this achievement to Long Suffering Spouse when she called to check up on me at lunchtime -- and she promptly told me I was wrong. Didn't I remember that we'd talked about setting them up with the outlet inside the garage? (No, I didn't.) A few more questions along these lines -- and a few more non-responsive answers on my part -- and Long Suffering Spouse hung up on me.
I had the effective IQ yesterday of a coffee cup. An empty coffee cup. The excitement of the roofers notwithstanding, mostly I watched old movies that I'd put on the DVR and played a computer game and dabbed at my nose. Later, I finished a book I'd started over the weekend. I can't really be sure whether I even enjoyed the movies.
Whether I'm really so much better today is, I suppose, for the reader to decide.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Youngest Son learns (and forgets) things about football
Four Fridays ago, Youngest Son angled across the middle of the field from his wideout position just past the first down marker. The pass was thrown his way, but high, and Youngest Son had to jump to snare it. He did -- and was rewarded for his effort by being clobbered by a mob of defenders.
"Ooooh," said the fans on our visiting sideline.
"Ooooh," I said.
"Ooooh," said Long Suffering Spouse, and with considerable feeling, I might add.
"At least he held on to it," said one of Youngest Son's brothers. Oldest Son and Middle Son were both in attendance. Older brothers are a tough audience.
Youngest Son stayed in the game and caught another pass but, though the game was competitive until the final minutes, Youngest Son's team lost.
Sunday, after Youngest Son returned from Mass and film study (it is a Catholic school) I asked what he had learned from watching the film.
"I learned I caught a second pass," he said. "I didn't remember that."
"Ooooh," I said. "Maybe we shouldn't mention this to your mother."
We were in the den -- with the TV on and the volume pretty far up. My son and I were speaking in hushed tones. Nevertheless, from the kitchen came a female voice, "What shouldn't you tell me?"
The following week the team went to the far southern suburbs for its Friday night game. Traffic in the greater Chicago area is almost always miserable, but it is never quite so miserable as it is on Friday night. So Long Suffering Spouse and I did not arrive until the middle of the first quarter, with Long Suffering Spouse reminding me with nearly every breath that our being late was entirely my fault. Which, of course, it was.
We took our seats on the visitors' sideline and looked for Youngest Son. When the defense is in, Youngest Son can usually be found standing next to his quarterback or to one of the coaches. We didn't see him right away because he wasn't standing where he usually does. We noticed also that he wasn't on the field as often when our team had the ball: He was out there, yes, but they were substituting for him regularly.
What we missed in those first few minutes of the game was Youngest Son's reception over the middle. Once again, he'd been creamed by a swarm of defenders -- and driven into the turf. As he explained later, when he came off the field he found a teammate who he thought might know and asked, "Quick, tell me: What is the trainer going to ask me?"
The trainer found Youngest Son soon thereafter and asked his questions and Youngest Son (having boned up in the manner described) answered them correctly. The trainer cleared Youngest Son to return to the field... but it was clear, at least in retrospect, that neither he nor the coaching staff thought that Youngest Son was entirely unaffected by the hit.
"Well, this proves you have a brain, son," I told him, "because you've managed to injure it." No, neither Robert Young/ Jim Anderson nor Hugh Beaumont/ Ward Cleaver would have used that line. But we had what seemed, at the time, to be a good discussion about the need for candor in disclosing and assessing injuries. And the Mohawk haircut he got for the following week's big rivalry game was not, in my opinion, related to the brain injuries of the preceding weeks. That was simply the product of the normal, underlying teenage brain damage that Bill Cosby used to talk about.
So, last week, as we went to Youngest Son's game in the western suburbs (and, despite my getting a late start, having come from a wake, we got there before the opening kickoff), Long Suffering Spouse and I were operating under the assumption that a new era of openness in parent-child communication had dawned between us and Youngest Son.
As we walked into the stadium, though, the athletic director's assistant buttonholed us. "Is your son feeling better?" she asked. "He was really hurting this week."
"This week?" I said.
"No, he seems fine," Long Suffering Spouse said, "he's fully recovered." But Long Suffering Spouse thought we were talking about the head injuries... and so, I suppose, did I.
We noticed, however, that, once again, Youngest Son did not play as much as he might have. There was another player running his route on a touchdown throw. Youngest Son did have two receptions, though, and the team won big, and a lot of people got to see the field. But, still, I thought I'd better revisit the injury issue with him on Sunday after Mass and film study.
"Oh yeah," Youngest Son said, "my back was killing me during the week. I'd get my reps in on offense and Coach would send me to the locker room to ice it."
I asked him how his back felt on game night.
"I was fine," he said. "After my first catch, Coach called me over and asked me the same thing. And that's what I told him." He was quiet for a moment. "I don't think he believed me, though."
Gee, I wonder why.
Long Suffering Spouse later found the heating pad in Youngest Son's bedroom. The good news? The season is almost over -- even if, as a big part of me still wishes, the team goes deep into the playoffs.
"Ooooh," said the fans on our visiting sideline.
"Ooooh," I said.
"Ooooh," said Long Suffering Spouse, and with considerable feeling, I might add.
"At least he held on to it," said one of Youngest Son's brothers. Oldest Son and Middle Son were both in attendance. Older brothers are a tough audience.
Youngest Son stayed in the game and caught another pass but, though the game was competitive until the final minutes, Youngest Son's team lost.
Sunday, after Youngest Son returned from Mass and film study (it is a Catholic school) I asked what he had learned from watching the film.
"I learned I caught a second pass," he said. "I didn't remember that."
"Ooooh," I said. "Maybe we shouldn't mention this to your mother."
We were in the den -- with the TV on and the volume pretty far up. My son and I were speaking in hushed tones. Nevertheless, from the kitchen came a female voice, "What shouldn't you tell me?"
The following week the team went to the far southern suburbs for its Friday night game. Traffic in the greater Chicago area is almost always miserable, but it is never quite so miserable as it is on Friday night. So Long Suffering Spouse and I did not arrive until the middle of the first quarter, with Long Suffering Spouse reminding me with nearly every breath that our being late was entirely my fault. Which, of course, it was.
We took our seats on the visitors' sideline and looked for Youngest Son. When the defense is in, Youngest Son can usually be found standing next to his quarterback or to one of the coaches. We didn't see him right away because he wasn't standing where he usually does. We noticed also that he wasn't on the field as often when our team had the ball: He was out there, yes, but they were substituting for him regularly.
What we missed in those first few minutes of the game was Youngest Son's reception over the middle. Once again, he'd been creamed by a swarm of defenders -- and driven into the turf. As he explained later, when he came off the field he found a teammate who he thought might know and asked, "Quick, tell me: What is the trainer going to ask me?"
The trainer found Youngest Son soon thereafter and asked his questions and Youngest Son (having boned up in the manner described) answered them correctly. The trainer cleared Youngest Son to return to the field... but it was clear, at least in retrospect, that neither he nor the coaching staff thought that Youngest Son was entirely unaffected by the hit.
"Well, this proves you have a brain, son," I told him, "because you've managed to injure it." No, neither Robert Young/ Jim Anderson nor Hugh Beaumont/ Ward Cleaver would have used that line. But we had what seemed, at the time, to be a good discussion about the need for candor in disclosing and assessing injuries. And the Mohawk haircut he got for the following week's big rivalry game was not, in my opinion, related to the brain injuries of the preceding weeks. That was simply the product of the normal, underlying teenage brain damage that Bill Cosby used to talk about.
So, last week, as we went to Youngest Son's game in the western suburbs (and, despite my getting a late start, having come from a wake, we got there before the opening kickoff), Long Suffering Spouse and I were operating under the assumption that a new era of openness in parent-child communication had dawned between us and Youngest Son.
As we walked into the stadium, though, the athletic director's assistant buttonholed us. "Is your son feeling better?" she asked. "He was really hurting this week."
"This week?" I said.
"No, he seems fine," Long Suffering Spouse said, "he's fully recovered." But Long Suffering Spouse thought we were talking about the head injuries... and so, I suppose, did I.
We noticed, however, that, once again, Youngest Son did not play as much as he might have. There was another player running his route on a touchdown throw. Youngest Son did have two receptions, though, and the team won big, and a lot of people got to see the field. But, still, I thought I'd better revisit the injury issue with him on Sunday after Mass and film study.
"Oh yeah," Youngest Son said, "my back was killing me during the week. I'd get my reps in on offense and Coach would send me to the locker room to ice it."
I asked him how his back felt on game night.
"I was fine," he said. "After my first catch, Coach called me over and asked me the same thing. And that's what I told him." He was quiet for a moment. "I don't think he believed me, though."
Gee, I wonder why.
Long Suffering Spouse later found the heating pad in Youngest Son's bedroom. The good news? The season is almost over -- even if, as a big part of me still wishes, the team goes deep into the playoffs.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Gobsmacked by the death of a colleague
Young people see themselves as immortal -- which is, oddly enough, why they do so many reckless things and sometimes die in the process. There's a reason why we send young men off to fight wars: They don't really know (until they get there, at least) that they might actually get killed.
As we get older we find out that we are mortal after all.
I had a call yesterday morning from one of my ex-partners. He called to tell me that someone we'd both worked with at the old firm had just dropped dead.
The guy who died was just a year ahead of me in school. When he passed the bar, I replaced him as the law clerk. When he left the firm (in an argument over his partnership agreement) I tried to leave with him. He wouldn't take me. I didn't leave for several years thereafter.
This guy who died set up his own firm and had done fairly well. Unlike me, he actually grew his firm to the point where he had minions -- associates and staff. After I went out on my own, he tried on more than one occasion to throw a little business my way. I called him a couple of times with questions in his specialty (worker's comp). We'd run into each other on the street and chat amiably. We exchanged Christmas cards. We weren't close friends, but we were friendly.
And then, yesterday, after breakfast with his wife, he went back upstairs to get something from his room that he'd forgotten. He never came back downstairs. He was gone -- just like that.
I was in a fog yesterday after that call. I called another colleague that my ex-partner would probably not have called. I told him I was doing "Irish duty." "Who died?" he said immediately. (It's not for nothing that the Obituaries are called the "Irish Sporting Pages.")
After court this morning, I checked to see if the obituary was yet on line. It is. So I wasn't "punk'd." I'd held out a sliver of hope that it might be just a stupid, cruel prank.
I've long understood that "kids my age" might get a wasting disease and die. I know too many who did. I came too close to that one myself. But "kids my age" aren't supposed to just drop dead. Especially ones that I know. And that I remember best from when we were both a lot younger.
As we get older we find out that we are mortal after all.
I had a call yesterday morning from one of my ex-partners. He called to tell me that someone we'd both worked with at the old firm had just dropped dead.
The guy who died was just a year ahead of me in school. When he passed the bar, I replaced him as the law clerk. When he left the firm (in an argument over his partnership agreement) I tried to leave with him. He wouldn't take me. I didn't leave for several years thereafter.
This guy who died set up his own firm and had done fairly well. Unlike me, he actually grew his firm to the point where he had minions -- associates and staff. After I went out on my own, he tried on more than one occasion to throw a little business my way. I called him a couple of times with questions in his specialty (worker's comp). We'd run into each other on the street and chat amiably. We exchanged Christmas cards. We weren't close friends, but we were friendly.
And then, yesterday, after breakfast with his wife, he went back upstairs to get something from his room that he'd forgotten. He never came back downstairs. He was gone -- just like that.
I was in a fog yesterday after that call. I called another colleague that my ex-partner would probably not have called. I told him I was doing "Irish duty." "Who died?" he said immediately. (It's not for nothing that the Obituaries are called the "Irish Sporting Pages.")
After court this morning, I checked to see if the obituary was yet on line. It is. So I wasn't "punk'd." I'd held out a sliver of hope that it might be just a stupid, cruel prank.
I've long understood that "kids my age" might get a wasting disease and die. I know too many who did. I came too close to that one myself. But "kids my age" aren't supposed to just drop dead. Especially ones that I know. And that I remember best from when we were both a lot younger.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Can a person get a "contact hangover?"
I assume that many of you will be familiar with the expression "contact high" -- not from experience, of course, but, rather, from your wide and deep reading in American culture.
Middle Son had heard of that concept, but he had not seen how it might work until one night, a few years back, when he ushered a Rolling Stones concert at Soldier Field. Many of the concertgoers were smoking cigarettes in which tobacco was not an ingredient. What particularly surprised and alarmed Middle Son was that many of these same concertgoers were clearly as old as -- or older -- than his own parents.
But today's essay is not about "contact highs." It goes back, instead, to last week when, as you may recall, Younger Daughter celebrated her 21st birthday. I mentioned at the time that all my kids of legal age (and Hank and Abby, my son-in-law and daughter-in-law) decided they would take Younger Daughter out for a celebration after Youngest Son's Friday night football game.
All were gathered, then, in my living room, after the game. It was nearly 11:00pm. I was standing up only because, if I sat down, now that I was safely in my own house, I would surely go right to sleep. Abby, I noticed, was nodding over on the couch. Oldest Son, her husband, said he was feeling tired, too, and therefore needed to start drinking. Older Daughter and her husband Hank weren't saying much -- but, then, they'd driven up from Indianapolis already today. They certainly looked tired. I made a suggestion about getting a quick one in the neighborhood and calling it a night -- but that plan was swiftly voted down.
The delay was caused by Younger Daughter's insistence on changing outfits -- from football chic to something more appropriate for nightclubbing. With a mom, a sister, and a sister-in-law available to critique the results, this was not an easy process. In my exhaustion, I may have missed one, but I'm sure there were at least two complete outfit changes before a consensus was achieved. (Long Suffering Spouse, I recall, was most insistent that Younger Daughter wear shoes. The cold front hit during the second half of Friday's game and the temperature had plunged. Flip flops, she said, simply would not do.)
Eventually, with the costuming issue resolved, the group left. There was one further debate, about whether they should take the family van or whether they could all fit in Middle Son's car. There would have to be two lapsitters in his car (they were picking up one of Middle Son's friends en route) but Middle Son's car would be easier to park in the Lincoln Park area, where they were headed.
We expected Older Daughter and Hank to return, and Younger Daughter, of course. But, on the way out, Middle Son advised he'd probably be coming back to the house as well. I suggested it might be easier if everyone stayed in the City -- Oldest Son's apartment is small... tiny, even... but bunking there might be better, I thought, than trying to navigate the roads after this late night frolic. My suggestion was considered -- and rejected.
The group did go to Oldest Son's apartment before and after but, after their revels, everyone except Oldest Son and his wife came back to my house... in a cab.*
In a cab, via Taco Burrito King.
Taco Burrito King -- or TBK, as it is more colloquially known -- is the after hours place to go for today's Chicago Nocturnals. In my day, it was either White Castle or some place called Dewey's (that I never actually saw) where one would get "a bowl of red" (chili) or "a bowl of red with eyes" (chili with two fried eggs on top). Personally, back in my drinking days, I never saw much virtue in mixing food with my liquor. But that was a matter of personal taste. Many people -- my kids included -- like to end a spree with a meal. Thus, TBK.
Anyway, I heard noises around 5:00am. "Who's there?" I hollered. There was no reply. I heard more noises, put two and two together, and went back to sleep.
I slept in on Saturday, in deference to my houseguests. I managed to stay in bed until 8:00am or so. By mid-morning, nearly all of the Nocturnals had awakened, to one degree or another, and were regaling me with tales of their grand adventure the night before. It's the kind of stuff you've all heard before: Shots of various liquors, beer pong, transvestites posing for glamor pictures on the stairway in a bar.... I won't bore you with the details.
But as the stories went on and on, I began to feel worse and worse. And, so, it occurred to me: Can you get a contact hangover? Because I think that's what happened to me Saturday.
------------------------------------------------------------------
* I wish to stress my approval and appreciation of the cab idea. Oldest Son brought the car back later Saturday.
Middle Son had heard of that concept, but he had not seen how it might work until one night, a few years back, when he ushered a Rolling Stones concert at Soldier Field. Many of the concertgoers were smoking cigarettes in which tobacco was not an ingredient. What particularly surprised and alarmed Middle Son was that many of these same concertgoers were clearly as old as -- or older -- than his own parents.
But today's essay is not about "contact highs." It goes back, instead, to last week when, as you may recall, Younger Daughter celebrated her 21st birthday. I mentioned at the time that all my kids of legal age (and Hank and Abby, my son-in-law and daughter-in-law) decided they would take Younger Daughter out for a celebration after Youngest Son's Friday night football game.
All were gathered, then, in my living room, after the game. It was nearly 11:00pm. I was standing up only because, if I sat down, now that I was safely in my own house, I would surely go right to sleep. Abby, I noticed, was nodding over on the couch. Oldest Son, her husband, said he was feeling tired, too, and therefore needed to start drinking. Older Daughter and her husband Hank weren't saying much -- but, then, they'd driven up from Indianapolis already today. They certainly looked tired. I made a suggestion about getting a quick one in the neighborhood and calling it a night -- but that plan was swiftly voted down.
The delay was caused by Younger Daughter's insistence on changing outfits -- from football chic to something more appropriate for nightclubbing. With a mom, a sister, and a sister-in-law available to critique the results, this was not an easy process. In my exhaustion, I may have missed one, but I'm sure there were at least two complete outfit changes before a consensus was achieved. (Long Suffering Spouse, I recall, was most insistent that Younger Daughter wear shoes. The cold front hit during the second half of Friday's game and the temperature had plunged. Flip flops, she said, simply would not do.)
Eventually, with the costuming issue resolved, the group left. There was one further debate, about whether they should take the family van or whether they could all fit in Middle Son's car. There would have to be two lapsitters in his car (they were picking up one of Middle Son's friends en route) but Middle Son's car would be easier to park in the Lincoln Park area, where they were headed.
We expected Older Daughter and Hank to return, and Younger Daughter, of course. But, on the way out, Middle Son advised he'd probably be coming back to the house as well. I suggested it might be easier if everyone stayed in the City -- Oldest Son's apartment is small... tiny, even... but bunking there might be better, I thought, than trying to navigate the roads after this late night frolic. My suggestion was considered -- and rejected.
The group did go to Oldest Son's apartment before and after but, after their revels, everyone except Oldest Son and his wife came back to my house... in a cab.
In a cab, via Taco Burrito King.
Taco Burrito King -- or TBK, as it is more colloquially known -- is the after hours place to go for today's Chicago Nocturnals. In my day, it was either White Castle or some place called Dewey's (that I never actually saw) where one would get "a bowl of red" (chili) or "a bowl of red with eyes" (chili with two fried eggs on top). Personally, back in my drinking days, I never saw much virtue in mixing food with my liquor. But that was a matter of personal taste. Many people -- my kids included -- like to end a spree with a meal. Thus, TBK.
Anyway, I heard noises around 5:00am. "Who's there?" I hollered. There was no reply. I heard more noises, put two and two together, and went back to sleep.
I slept in on Saturday, in deference to my houseguests. I managed to stay in bed until 8:00am or so. By mid-morning, nearly all of the Nocturnals had awakened, to one degree or another, and were regaling me with tales of their grand adventure the night before. It's the kind of stuff you've all heard before: Shots of various liquors, beer pong, transvestites posing for glamor pictures on the stairway in a bar.... I won't bore you with the details.
But as the stories went on and on, I began to feel worse and worse. And, so, it occurred to me: Can you get a contact hangover? Because I think that's what happened to me Saturday.
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Monday, October 04, 2010
Explosive change of seasons at the Curmudgeon home
Summer morphs into Winter overnight in Chicago, then weakly back to Summer, then back to Winter (its grip tighter this time).
Fall, if it comes at all, may last a day or two or even a few hours while the dominant seasons decide which will rule the day.
The seasonal struggle has begun now in Chicago and, at the Curmudgeon home, after a couple of mornings of teeth-chattering, we grudgingly conceded that it was time to fire up the furnace.
We have gas forced air heat in our home, just as in every other home I've lived in over the years (student apartments with alleged steam heat don't really count). The smell of the furnace kicking in for the first time triggers something pleasant for me -- happy memories, perhaps, of the security of childhood?
On the other hand, the start of heating season means the ballooning of the gas bill. The more rational, less sentimental Curmudgeon that I've become wants to put this day off indefinitely for obvious reasons.
But -- yesterday -- we decided that the furnace must be started.
Long Suffering Spouse and I put in the new furnace filter and I scraped off some of the accumulated crud inside the machine.
Ours is an elderly furnace. It was venerable when we moved into that house, now almost 15 years ago. The furnace contractor was trying to talk up a replacement from day one. We know we are on borrowed time. But new furnaces are the kind of luxury that must await the end of the tuition cycle -- and, for us, that's 2015. Unless, of course, the world ends in 2012 like the Mayans warned.... What a waste it would be to get a new furnace if things were to work out that way.
We made sure the covers were properly placed and I went upstairs dial the thermostat down to 68 (it had been on a much higher temperature, of course, for air conditioning). I threw the switch.
(There will be a brief pause, now, for dramatic effect.)
There was a noise... BOOM!... and, then, a shout: "Turn it off! Turn it off!"
Long Suffering Spouse reported that the furnace cover flexed as the force of the explosion pushed it outward. A sheet of flame erupted beneath the hatch cover. She feared for a moment that a fire was about to start.
It didn't.
But the furnace guy is coming over tomorrow....
Fall, if it comes at all, may last a day or two or even a few hours while the dominant seasons decide which will rule the day.
The seasonal struggle has begun now in Chicago and, at the Curmudgeon home, after a couple of mornings of teeth-chattering, we grudgingly conceded that it was time to fire up the furnace.
We have gas forced air heat in our home, just as in every other home I've lived in over the years (student apartments with alleged steam heat don't really count). The smell of the furnace kicking in for the first time triggers something pleasant for me -- happy memories, perhaps, of the security of childhood?
On the other hand, the start of heating season means the ballooning of the gas bill. The more rational, less sentimental Curmudgeon that I've become wants to put this day off indefinitely for obvious reasons.
But -- yesterday -- we decided that the furnace must be started.
Long Suffering Spouse and I put in the new furnace filter and I scraped off some of the accumulated crud inside the machine.
Ours is an elderly furnace. It was venerable when we moved into that house, now almost 15 years ago. The furnace contractor was trying to talk up a replacement from day one. We know we are on borrowed time. But new furnaces are the kind of luxury that must await the end of the tuition cycle -- and, for us, that's 2015. Unless, of course, the world ends in 2012 like the Mayans warned.... What a waste it would be to get a new furnace if things were to work out that way.
We made sure the covers were properly placed and I went upstairs dial the thermostat down to 68 (it had been on a much higher temperature, of course, for air conditioning). I threw the switch.
(There will be a brief pause, now, for dramatic effect.)
There was a noise... BOOM!... and, then, a shout: "Turn it off! Turn it off!"
Long Suffering Spouse reported that the furnace cover flexed as the force of the explosion pushed it outward. A sheet of flame erupted beneath the hatch cover. She feared for a moment that a fire was about to start.
It didn't.
But the furnace guy is coming over tomorrow....
Friday, October 01, 2010
Younger Daughter gets past her 21st birthday
Or at least most of it -- she's going out with all her of-age siblings tonight. The whole bunch are gathering to attend Youngest Son's football game tonight. Youngest Daughter's actual birthday was Monday.
As a father, I get particularly nervous around these 'milestone' birthdays: Too many kids overdo the natal day festivities to the point where they make themselves seriously ill. Occasionally, some die. Having a lot of friends is a good thing. Having a lot of friends buying you shots is a bit more problematic.
Anyway, we are just about safely past the celebrations, so we can look back and be amused by how things went....
Long Suffering Spouse was grading papers Monday evening, as usual, when her cell phone went off. Younger Daughter was calling.
Somehow Younger Daughter had Tuesday off from school. The whole campus did (I looked it up). It wasn't closed for Younger Daughter's 21st birthday; I can't remember the actual occasion. But it certainly was convenient for Younger Daughter's purposes.
Younger Daughter's purposes involved the legal purchase (for once!) of stimulating beverages. She was in the Jewel closest to the school, pacing through the Liquor Department, and she needed a mother's advice.
"What's Bombay Sapphire?" Younger Daughter asked.
My wife knows a great deal about a great many things, but she has never made a particular study of potent potables. So my wife repeated the question for my benefit.
"Gin," I said.
Long Suffering Spouse had put her phone on speaker, but she still had to repeat the answer for Younger Daughter's benefit.
"Gin?" Younger Daughter asked. "What's that?"
"I don't much care for it," I said.
"Well, it's a really pretty bottle," Younger Daughter said, "and blue sapphire is my birthstone. I think I'll get it."
"Good luck," I said -- and left it to my wife to make all the admonishments about being careful and not getting sick and so forth. The call was promptly terminated.
But, apparently, Younger Daughter wasn't done. Olaf was with her, of course. Olaf is not just her boyfriend, he is her loyal chauffeur (it may not have been too far to walk to the Jewel but the burdens would have been too heavy to make the return trip on foot). Moreover, Olaf -- we found out later -- rather likes gin. Or at least he did. One of Younger Daughter's best friends from grammar school was also along for the expedition to the grocery store. They were apparently making no secret of the purpose of their expedition and the reason therefor.
In the movie version of this story, there will be an increasingly large number of people, young and old, attaching themselves to Younger Daughter and her friends as they wander up and down the aisles making their selections. Some would offer advice. By the time Younger Daughter gets to the checkout lane, the entire store will be in tow, cheering her on in Capra-esque fashion and calling out birthday wishes as Younger Daughter makes her exit. My mental reconstruction of the scene may be a bit much -- but Younger Daughter did tell me later that "the whole store was cheering" for her as she completed the transaction.
Younger Daughter and her friends went back to the dorm for "pre-game" -- putting away a significant amount of the newly-purchased booze there so as to hold down the later bar tab. Because, after a sufficient time, the birthday party, increased now by various hangers-on from the dorm, adjourned to the fleshpots of Madison Street.
Middle Son looked in on the happy group at some point later on. He noted they were too happy to get home on their own, so he got Olaf, Younger Daughter and her other friend safely back to the dorm. "And Olaf didn't throw up in my car," Middle Son said appreciatively. "I made him keep his head in a bag, though, just in case."
Ah, the glamor and elegance of turning 21....
As a father, I get particularly nervous around these 'milestone' birthdays: Too many kids overdo the natal day festivities to the point where they make themselves seriously ill. Occasionally, some die. Having a lot of friends is a good thing. Having a lot of friends buying you shots is a bit more problematic.
Anyway, we are just about safely past the celebrations, so we can look back and be amused by how things went....
* shimmer * shimmer * shimmer * shimmer *
Long Suffering Spouse was grading papers Monday evening, as usual, when her cell phone went off. Younger Daughter was calling.
Somehow Younger Daughter had Tuesday off from school. The whole campus did (I looked it up). It wasn't closed for Younger Daughter's 21st birthday; I can't remember the actual occasion. But it certainly was convenient for Younger Daughter's purposes.
Younger Daughter's purposes involved the legal purchase (for once!) of stimulating beverages. She was in the Jewel closest to the school, pacing through the Liquor Department, and she needed a mother's advice.
"What's Bombay Sapphire?" Younger Daughter asked.My wife knows a great deal about a great many things, but she has never made a particular study of potent potables. So my wife repeated the question for my benefit.
"Gin," I said.
Long Suffering Spouse had put her phone on speaker, but she still had to repeat the answer for Younger Daughter's benefit.
"Gin?" Younger Daughter asked. "What's that?"
"I don't much care for it," I said.
"Well, it's a really pretty bottle," Younger Daughter said, "and blue sapphire is my birthstone. I think I'll get it."
"Good luck," I said -- and left it to my wife to make all the admonishments about being careful and not getting sick and so forth. The call was promptly terminated.
But, apparently, Younger Daughter wasn't done. Olaf was with her, of course. Olaf is not just her boyfriend, he is her loyal chauffeur (it may not have been too far to walk to the Jewel but the burdens would have been too heavy to make the return trip on foot). Moreover, Olaf -- we found out later -- rather likes gin. Or at least he did. One of Younger Daughter's best friends from grammar school was also along for the expedition to the grocery store. They were apparently making no secret of the purpose of their expedition and the reason therefor.
In the movie version of this story, there will be an increasingly large number of people, young and old, attaching themselves to Younger Daughter and her friends as they wander up and down the aisles making their selections. Some would offer advice. By the time Younger Daughter gets to the checkout lane, the entire store will be in tow, cheering her on in Capra-esque fashion and calling out birthday wishes as Younger Daughter makes her exit. My mental reconstruction of the scene may be a bit much -- but Younger Daughter did tell me later that "the whole store was cheering" for her as she completed the transaction.
Younger Daughter and her friends went back to the dorm for "pre-game" -- putting away a significant amount of the newly-purchased booze there so as to hold down the later bar tab. Because, after a sufficient time, the birthday party, increased now by various hangers-on from the dorm, adjourned to the fleshpots of Madison Street.
Middle Son looked in on the happy group at some point later on. He noted they were too happy to get home on their own, so he got Olaf, Younger Daughter and her other friend safely back to the dorm. "And Olaf didn't throw up in my car," Middle Son said appreciatively. "I made him keep his head in a bag, though, just in case."
Ah, the glamor and elegance of turning 21....
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The resiliency of nature -- expressway edition
The three dead pigeons, lying close together on the shoulder of the expressway, didn't faze me, but I was curious. Were they poisoned? They were lying near a railroad overpass. Were they part of a group that was sitting on the tracks? Were these three too slow to move out of the way of an oncoming train?
I had to drive to work this morning and I couldn't help but notice Nature in the least natural of places, to wit, the inbound Kennedy Expressway.
It was the small patch of green in the pavement, no more than a couple of feet long and a few inches wide, erupting through the joint that separates the roadway from the shoulder, that got me thinking along these lines. It wasn't grass, but it was a ground cover of some sort and it was green. Really green.
From then on, I was looking. There were all sorts of spots were plants had taken root -- one plant here or there -- mostly scraggly looking, but alive. I'm no gardener, but these looked like weeds to me. A foot tall or more, some of them, with thin leaves and cone-shaped, purplish flowers on several. Most of these had sprouted underneath the concrete medians, concrete blocks four roughly feet tall that strongly discourage traffic moving one way from drifting into a lane moving in the opposite direction. So there is massive concrete sitting atop a concrete floor -- O wondrous the mighty works of Man -- and, yet, every 100 feet or so, sometimes less, sometimes more, there was another plant pushing through.
Thus, the dead possum on the Ohio feeder ramp, just entering the downtown area, came as no surprise. Why shouldn't there be wild animals (not just rats) anywhere at all? Nature bides her time with us, our human infestation. So many of us think we control her: So many of us believe we can plant mighty cities anywhere we choose, in swamps (like my Chicago) or deserts (Phoenix, Las Vegas). We believe Nature will conform meekly to our desires. Al Gore's disciples are more afraid of Nature, but still they think they -- we humans -- can control her. They think Nature will do our bidding if only we curb CO2 emissions.
But a trip into the City, through one of the least natural landscapes possible, shows that it's more complicated than that. Nature will do what she wants, when she wants, whether we like it or not. Whether we can survive it or not. We can fight, of course, but -- for the foreseeable future -- we must lose. Nature is far too strong. It's too bad we don't have a space program anymore. By our inaction, we have placed all our hopes, all our futures, at the mercy of an oft-capricious Nature. But anyone who has studied history and geology and paleontology, even casually, knows that Mother Nature can be one tough mother at times.
Of her own choosing.
I had to drive to work this morning and I couldn't help but notice Nature in the least natural of places, to wit, the inbound Kennedy Expressway.
It was the small patch of green in the pavement, no more than a couple of feet long and a few inches wide, erupting through the joint that separates the roadway from the shoulder, that got me thinking along these lines. It wasn't grass, but it was a ground cover of some sort and it was green. Really green.
From then on, I was looking. There were all sorts of spots were plants had taken root -- one plant here or there -- mostly scraggly looking, but alive. I'm no gardener, but these looked like weeds to me. A foot tall or more, some of them, with thin leaves and cone-shaped, purplish flowers on several. Most of these had sprouted underneath the concrete medians, concrete blocks four roughly feet tall that strongly discourage traffic moving one way from drifting into a lane moving in the opposite direction. So there is massive concrete sitting atop a concrete floor -- O wondrous the mighty works of Man -- and, yet, every 100 feet or so, sometimes less, sometimes more, there was another plant pushing through.
Thus, the dead possum on the Ohio feeder ramp, just entering the downtown area, came as no surprise. Why shouldn't there be wild animals (not just rats) anywhere at all? Nature bides her time with us, our human infestation. So many of us think we control her: So many of us believe we can plant mighty cities anywhere we choose, in swamps (like my Chicago) or deserts (Phoenix, Las Vegas). We believe Nature will conform meekly to our desires. Al Gore's disciples are more afraid of Nature, but still they think they -- we humans -- can control her. They think Nature will do our bidding if only we curb CO2 emissions.
But a trip into the City, through one of the least natural landscapes possible, shows that it's more complicated than that. Nature will do what she wants, when she wants, whether we like it or not. Whether we can survive it or not. We can fight, of course, but -- for the foreseeable future -- we must lose. Nature is far too strong. It's too bad we don't have a space program anymore. By our inaction, we have placed all our hopes, all our futures, at the mercy of an oft-capricious Nature. But anyone who has studied history and geology and paleontology, even casually, knows that Mother Nature can be one tough mother at times.
Of her own choosing.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Why people hate lawyers: Part 5,237
It's a busier than usual week here at the Undisclosed Location as I try and craft an appellate brief from a huge volume record in far less time than I should. It will be done. Or I will be done. One or the other. Posting will probably be sparse in the meantime, unless I have a piece to speak, as I do this morning.
See, busy as I am, I'm going to court three times this week, on three different cases, and not one of these trips is necessary. In my opinion, anyway.
Case #1, this morning: I lost the SJ motion. The other side won. The case should be over. But the other side brought their motion on only one of the three counts of their complaint. Because they are closely related, judgment in the other side's favor should be entered on Count I as well as on Count II, the count on which the motion was brought. But the other side never did anything with Count III of their pleading -- which alleged an alternate theory on why my side should lose -- and my thought was that it should just be withdrawn. A couple of weeks ago, the court ordered us to agree on a proposed final order.
I prepared my proposed judgment order accordingly, granting judgment against me on the various counterclaims my predecessors brought as well. Since the District Court has already said it will not make the current order appealable under FRCP 54(b) (which allows appeals from judgments on fewer than all claims or involving all parties in certain circumstances), the goal has to be to get a final, appealable order. But the other side doesn't like my proposal. They worry that they may be giving up a viable claim that would be unavailable to them in the event I win on appeal -- a contingency that they insist, in the same breath, can never come to pass. So I had to bring a motion to ask the judge to enter the order cutting my own throat.
The judge listened to us wander around in the wilderness for a couple of minutes, then finally asked, "Well, what do you want me to do about this?" I'd made my record that we don't yet have a final order, and the judge did not disagree, and she'd reiterated that there would be no 54(b). So I said, with that understood, give opposing counsel a little more time to go back to his client and, hopefully, reach agreement among themselves that they've beaten me enough. Want to bet that we'll need that next hearing date? I've got the I'll-bet-we-do side of the wager.
Case #2, tomorrow: I settled a case in late August for chump change. I need a release in order for my client to pay even this little amount of money. But the other side is balking. My real opponent in this case is a lawyer who is also the party defendant -- a lethal combination. First he refused to sign any release. Yesterday, after a long conference with me and the lawyer for the other defendant (who organized the settlement and did a pretty good job of it), he retreated to the position that my release was too broad. I changed some language and sent it out again last night. Want to bet it won't be signed by the previously scheduled status hearing tomorrow? I've got the I'll-bet-it's-not side of the wager.
Case #3, Friday: This is a case I settled in early August -- after years of litigation and after a court ordered mediation failed -- and after the mediator persisted in trying to get the matter resolved even after. (Yes, even in my own blog, I can't pretend to be the hero of every anecdote. In this case I was just a happy and relieved beneficiary of the mediator's diligence.) Anyway, the party that did everything possible to delay the settlement insisted on taking the laboring oar on the settlement documents. Five weeks ago. I filed a motion last Friday asking the court's help in enforcing the settlement. Last night I got a draft settlement agreement. A screwy, over-the-top in many ways draft -- but something. But I won't even put this one out for wager, because only a rube would think this will be done before the motion is presented Friday. That party wants to play for more time.
Three cases. Three unnecessary court appearances. But before all you prospective clients and current victims of the legal system jump up and down and shout how this confirms your worst impressions of my brothers and sisters, know this: Not every lawyer is a co-conspirator in a plot to inflate your legal bills. Frankly, stuff like this cranks most of us totally out of shape as well.
See, busy as I am, I'm going to court three times this week, on three different cases, and not one of these trips is necessary. In my opinion, anyway.
Case #1, this morning: I lost the SJ motion. The other side won. The case should be over. But the other side brought their motion on only one of the three counts of their complaint. Because they are closely related, judgment in the other side's favor should be entered on Count I as well as on Count II, the count on which the motion was brought. But the other side never did anything with Count III of their pleading -- which alleged an alternate theory on why my side should lose -- and my thought was that it should just be withdrawn. A couple of weeks ago, the court ordered us to agree on a proposed final order.
I prepared my proposed judgment order accordingly, granting judgment against me on the various counterclaims my predecessors brought as well. Since the District Court has already said it will not make the current order appealable under FRCP 54(b) (which allows appeals from judgments on fewer than all claims or involving all parties in certain circumstances), the goal has to be to get a final, appealable order. But the other side doesn't like my proposal. They worry that they may be giving up a viable claim that would be unavailable to them in the event I win on appeal -- a contingency that they insist, in the same breath, can never come to pass. So I had to bring a motion to ask the judge to enter the order cutting my own throat.
The judge listened to us wander around in the wilderness for a couple of minutes, then finally asked, "Well, what do you want me to do about this?" I'd made my record that we don't yet have a final order, and the judge did not disagree, and she'd reiterated that there would be no 54(b). So I said, with that understood, give opposing counsel a little more time to go back to his client and, hopefully, reach agreement among themselves that they've beaten me enough. Want to bet that we'll need that next hearing date? I've got the I'll-bet-we-do side of the wager.
Case #2, tomorrow: I settled a case in late August for chump change. I need a release in order for my client to pay even this little amount of money. But the other side is balking. My real opponent in this case is a lawyer who is also the party defendant -- a lethal combination. First he refused to sign any release. Yesterday, after a long conference with me and the lawyer for the other defendant (who organized the settlement and did a pretty good job of it), he retreated to the position that my release was too broad. I changed some language and sent it out again last night. Want to bet it won't be signed by the previously scheduled status hearing tomorrow? I've got the I'll-bet-it's-not side of the wager.
Case #3, Friday: This is a case I settled in early August -- after years of litigation and after a court ordered mediation failed -- and after the mediator persisted in trying to get the matter resolved even after. (Yes, even in my own blog, I can't pretend to be the hero of every anecdote. In this case I was just a happy and relieved beneficiary of the mediator's diligence.) Anyway, the party that did everything possible to delay the settlement insisted on taking the laboring oar on the settlement documents. Five weeks ago. I filed a motion last Friday asking the court's help in enforcing the settlement. Last night I got a draft settlement agreement. A screwy, over-the-top in many ways draft -- but something. But I won't even put this one out for wager, because only a rube would think this will be done before the motion is presented Friday. That party wants to play for more time.
Three cases. Three unnecessary court appearances. But before all you prospective clients and current victims of the legal system jump up and down and shout how this confirms your worst impressions of my brothers and sisters, know this: Not every lawyer is a co-conspirator in a plot to inflate your legal bills. Frankly, stuff like this cranks most of us totally out of shape as well.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Apparently I missed "Talk Like a Pirate Day"
Friday, September 17, 2010
The last Homecoming toilet paper caper
I got it wrong in a recent post.
Homecoming is this weekend, not last weekend.
I was still getting dressed this morning when my wife called up the stairs. "Have you looked out the window?"
I had not. I don't generally gaze out of the windows. If rain or snow is predicted, I might take a peek to see whether the forecast appears accurate, but generally I only look outside when I go out the front door. I therefore responded in the time-honored tradition of cautious husbands everywhere. "No. Why?"
"We got TP'd last night!"
While there are of course other occasions on which a house may be TP'd, it is a lock-cinch certainty that, in these parts, on the evening prior to a school's homecoming game, the cheerleaders will go out and TP all the players' houses. I really don't know how the kids can toss rolls of toilet paper in the air, high into trees, and create a virtual two-ply fairyland of streamers. I particularly don't know how they can do it without making enough noise to wake me, especially during this change of seasons when my windows are open to take advantage of the outside air.
But the important aspect of my wife's announcement, as I thought it through, was not the fact it communicated but the tone in which it was rendered: She wasn't upset.
This has not always been the case. If you read the linked post you'll see that we got TP'd last year prior to the homecoming football game at the parish grammar school. Our three boys all played for the grammar school team in their day, but by last year, those days were long past. So, on that occasion, my wife was most definitely not amused.
But -- this morning -- Long Suffering Spouse went out and took pictures -- as a memento, not as evidence of a crime. She had to clear a path so we could get to the car and she found some more or less complete rolls that had been discarded by our midnight marauders. "I've got stuff to wrap the Christmas ornaments again," she told me.
When the house is TP'd for a proper purpose -- when an occupant of said residence is on the roster for the Homecoming football game, that is -- family tradition (firmly grounded in superstition) requires that the paper (or as much as possible) remain in the trees until after the game.
Older Daughter and her husband are coming up this weekend for a wedding in the western suburbs somewhere and they plan to stay with us tonight. Although they're supposedly going straight to the rehearsal dinner from Indianapolis, they may get to our house before we return from Youngest Son's game. They will no doubt ooh and aah a bit when they see the trees.
After tonight (unless the team makes the state playoffs and obtains a home game in that) there are only two more home games left in Youngest Son's football career. He's not the only one who'll be a little nostalgic about it. I'm a mess already.
Homecoming is this weekend, not last weekend.
I was still getting dressed this morning when my wife called up the stairs. "Have you looked out the window?"
I had not. I don't generally gaze out of the windows. If rain or snow is predicted, I might take a peek to see whether the forecast appears accurate, but generally I only look outside when I go out the front door. I therefore responded in the time-honored tradition of cautious husbands everywhere. "No. Why?"
"We got TP'd last night!"
While there are of course other occasions on which a house may be TP'd, it is a lock-cinch certainty that, in these parts, on the evening prior to a school's homecoming game, the cheerleaders will go out and TP all the players' houses. I really don't know how the kids can toss rolls of toilet paper in the air, high into trees, and create a virtual two-ply fairyland of streamers. I particularly don't know how they can do it without making enough noise to wake me, especially during this change of seasons when my windows are open to take advantage of the outside air.
But the important aspect of my wife's announcement, as I thought it through, was not the fact it communicated but the tone in which it was rendered: She wasn't upset.
This has not always been the case. If you read the linked post you'll see that we got TP'd last year prior to the homecoming football game at the parish grammar school. Our three boys all played for the grammar school team in their day, but by last year, those days were long past. So, on that occasion, my wife was most definitely not amused.
But -- this morning -- Long Suffering Spouse went out and took pictures -- as a memento, not as evidence of a crime. She had to clear a path so we could get to the car and she found some more or less complete rolls that had been discarded by our midnight marauders. "I've got stuff to wrap the Christmas ornaments again," she told me.
When the house is TP'd for a proper purpose -- when an occupant of said residence is on the roster for the Homecoming football game, that is -- family tradition (firmly grounded in superstition) requires that the paper (or as much as possible) remain in the trees until after the game.
Older Daughter and her husband are coming up this weekend for a wedding in the western suburbs somewhere and they plan to stay with us tonight. Although they're supposedly going straight to the rehearsal dinner from Indianapolis, they may get to our house before we return from Youngest Son's game. They will no doubt ooh and aah a bit when they see the trees.
After tonight (unless the team makes the state playoffs and obtains a home game in that) there are only two more home games left in Youngest Son's football career. He's not the only one who'll be a little nostalgic about it. I'm a mess already.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Apple TV vs. Google TV? Still more I don't get
Being a dinosaur is getting harder and harder.I read an article on Yahoo! today concerning the anticipated differences between "Apple TV" and "Google TV." The differences are "anticipated" at this point because neither of these wondrous devices has yet been placed before an expectant public.
But both, apparently, will be in the stores soon, there to taunt me.
There's one thing I understand though: The linked article refers to "set-top" boxes. Obviously, then, both devices are doomed to failure: You can't put anything on top of these razor thin TV screens these days.
Right now, in the Curmudgeon house, we're having a crisis because none of our remotes feel like changing the channels on the cable box. Not, at least, without extraordinary difficulty. The cable box lets you change one channel at a time (I found where -- I was so proud) but that makes it hard to change between Turner Classic Movies (Channel 501) and Comcast SportsNet (Channel 200). If those are the only two channels I want to watch, the "last" button on the remotes still work -- but I sometimes want to know what's on History International or the Science Channel or Retroplex. Youngest Son wants to browse the entire family of ESPN networks. And what about when it's time for the local news?
And don't tell me to change batteries. I thought of that one, too... eventually. And it didn't work. I've tried looking for schmeres on the cable box, something that's partially blocking the infrared (if that's what it is) receptor -- but I found nothing.
It's something wrong with the cable box. It's a new box, too, because after a recent storm downed wires in the area and our "On Demand" stopped working, the cable guy swapped out our old box (with hours and hours of saved Jack Benny programs that no one in my family will watch with me) and put in this now-flawed device. And Comcast charged me another $30-something for the privilege, too, even though it was their equipment that failed to work. Cable costs too darn much as it is without letting these robber barons add spurious charges on the bill.
When Long Suffering Spouse called to complain, she was told, in no uncertain terms by a very imperious customer disservice representative, that her computer screen insisted that it was our wires that were at fault. What wires? We have no wires that aren't from the cable company. I was going to write a nut letter to Comcast -- only to find out that there is apparently no way to determine who is the president of the subsidiary company responsible for our area. There are a million and one Comcast entities... and the number, apparently, is growing... to Xfinity. (Sorry. I couldn't resist that one.)
Anyway, anything that puts a crimp in Comcast's monopoly sounds like a good thing to me, even if I don't understand any of it. Except for the part about "set-top" boxes. Apple and Google are definitely going to have to rethink that if they want to succeed.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Today's essay was to be about typewriters...
and how I miss them.
Thirty years ago (OK, 35 and counting) I had an already old portable on which I did all my school papers and, in order to keep supplied with funds for beer and pinball, other peoples' papers as well. I may have charged 50¢ a page; my memory is fuzzy on the point. Possibly as a direct and proximate result of the beer consumed with my earnings.
On the day before a paper was due, I would begin thinking about what I might write. When I had a general idea of what I wanted to say, I'd begin typing. Inevitably, about the middle of the first page, I'd reach a spot where I'd need to cite, and quote extensively, from some authority supporting my position. At this point I would go to the campus library.
It is a bald-faced lie that I had to ask for directions. Despite what you may have heard.
It is true that I did not go to the library very often. The campus library was a very depressing place. Actually, it was a nice-looking building, with modern wings surrounding a more elegant, older core. Somewhere in there, if I recall correctly, there was a nice lake view.
But it was depressing nevertheless because one could not avoid, upon entering the place, feeling the tension. All these pre-meds gathered together, cramming for some life-changing chapter quiz in Bio 124 or -- if they'd made it past that first, drastic cull -- Organic Chemistry, tended to contribute to an overall atmosphere of near-despair. They weren't studying together, these pre-meds. No, mostly, when they looked up from their notes or their books at all, they'd eye each other warily, searching for some confirmation, in the faces of their fellow pre-meds, that the others were equally baffled. Naturally, they all became practiced at not letting anyone read their emotions. Eventually, the ones who made it into American medical schools learned to suppress their emotions entirely.
I exclude from this number the ones who became osteopaths. At least some of these were normal. Well, collegiate normal....
Anyway, the campus library was no place for a sensitive soul to linger. And I, with as sensitive a soul as anyone, in my own opinion at least, had no intent to loiter. I would head for the most promising shelves (after all, I did know what the paper was supposed to be about) and grab an armload of books. Then I would return to my room and my waiting typewriter.
I'd pick a book at random from my stack and begin paging through. With luck, I'd quickly find some paragraph that arguably supported my opinion. The length of time to find just the right passage varied, unfortunately. Whenever the elusive words were found, however, I'd copy them into the paper -- giving, of course, due attribution and proper citation. Then I'd bang out a few more paragraphs and reach for another book. I would repeat this process until the paper was long enough to meet the requirements of the assignment.
There was no "rough draft." What I typed, I turned in. I did use Wite-out strips (I believe that was the brand name) and I used them liberally. But I seldom tore a page out of the platen and crumpled it. There was ordinarily not enough time for that kind of artistic flourish.
Despite this -- or perhaps because of it -- I usually did fairly well on my college papers. True, some professors hated my writing style. On a scale of Hemingway to Faulkner, I was very much a Hemingway. (And I mean this strictly in terms of sentence length and complexity, please!) Some professors, those who'd strolled too long in the grove of Academe, again in my opinion, liked sentences that wandered around the block and got lost looking at the clouds. Others, though, really liked my style -- even going so far as to praise its organization. Obviously, I did not share my writing secrets with these fans.
Readers of this blog will also note that I seem to have lost any penchant for for short, pithy sentences that I might have once possessed. That's what the law will do to you, friends.
But I was reading on the train last night and I got to thinking about those far off days and my battered portable and what I called 'combat writing.' By this I meant writing at the very last minute and pushing myself to physical extremes to accomplish the task at hand.
This part of my style has very much survived into my law practice.
Indeed, I have an appellate brief due in a medical malpractice case in (as of today) 15 days. The common law record stretches to 45 volumes -- and then there are many, many more volumes of transcripts. And I've only begun to scratch the surface of this assignment. The panic is beginning to surge within me -- not enough to keep me from writing this post, you'll notice, but still.... And there's an amended pleading due today that I truly intended to do last Friday... but I didn't have what I needed from the client to get it done until this week. And there are two new notices of appeal to get out. And I'm waxing nostalgic over some crumby, beat-up, old typewriter?
In the storage room-cum-closet of my Undisclosed Location there sits an IBM Selectric. My office mate uses it from time to time to fill in forms. I used to be a Selectric virtuoso, a master of squeezing a six letter word into a four letter space in order to avoid retyping a page. But for all my pretended affinity for the good old days of Wite-out and banging out pages, I almost never touch that typewriter.
So why the wistful reminiscence of days long gone by disguised as an ode to a portable typewriter? It's just that, in those increasingly far-off days, my body was equal to the tasks I made it perform. My tasks are bigger now, and my body weaker. I wish it were otherwise.
Thirty years ago (OK, 35 and counting) I had an already old portable on which I did all my school papers and, in order to keep supplied with funds for beer and pinball, other peoples' papers as well. I may have charged 50¢ a page; my memory is fuzzy on the point. Possibly as a direct and proximate result of the beer consumed with my earnings.
On the day before a paper was due, I would begin thinking about what I might write. When I had a general idea of what I wanted to say, I'd begin typing. Inevitably, about the middle of the first page, I'd reach a spot where I'd need to cite, and quote extensively, from some authority supporting my position. At this point I would go to the campus library.It is a bald-faced lie that I had to ask for directions. Despite what you may have heard.
It is true that I did not go to the library very often. The campus library was a very depressing place. Actually, it was a nice-looking building, with modern wings surrounding a more elegant, older core. Somewhere in there, if I recall correctly, there was a nice lake view.
But it was depressing nevertheless because one could not avoid, upon entering the place, feeling the tension. All these pre-meds gathered together, cramming for some life-changing chapter quiz in Bio 124 or -- if they'd made it past that first, drastic cull -- Organic Chemistry, tended to contribute to an overall atmosphere of near-despair. They weren't studying together, these pre-meds. No, mostly, when they looked up from their notes or their books at all, they'd eye each other warily, searching for some confirmation, in the faces of their fellow pre-meds, that the others were equally baffled. Naturally, they all became practiced at not letting anyone read their emotions. Eventually, the ones who made it into American medical schools learned to suppress their emotions entirely.
I exclude from this number the ones who became osteopaths. At least some of these were normal. Well, collegiate normal....
Anyway, the campus library was no place for a sensitive soul to linger. And I, with as sensitive a soul as anyone, in my own opinion at least, had no intent to loiter. I would head for the most promising shelves (after all, I did know what the paper was supposed to be about) and grab an armload of books. Then I would return to my room and my waiting typewriter.
I'd pick a book at random from my stack and begin paging through. With luck, I'd quickly find some paragraph that arguably supported my opinion. The length of time to find just the right passage varied, unfortunately. Whenever the elusive words were found, however, I'd copy them into the paper -- giving, of course, due attribution and proper citation. Then I'd bang out a few more paragraphs and reach for another book. I would repeat this process until the paper was long enough to meet the requirements of the assignment.
There was no "rough draft." What I typed, I turned in. I did use Wite-out strips (I believe that was the brand name) and I used them liberally. But I seldom tore a page out of the platen and crumpled it. There was ordinarily not enough time for that kind of artistic flourish.
Despite this -- or perhaps because of it -- I usually did fairly well on my college papers. True, some professors hated my writing style. On a scale of Hemingway to Faulkner, I was very much a Hemingway. (And I mean this strictly in terms of sentence length and complexity, please!) Some professors, those who'd strolled too long in the grove of Academe, again in my opinion, liked sentences that wandered around the block and got lost looking at the clouds. Others, though, really liked my style -- even going so far as to praise its organization. Obviously, I did not share my writing secrets with these fans.
Readers of this blog will also note that I seem to have lost any penchant for for short, pithy sentences that I might have once possessed. That's what the law will do to you, friends.
But I was reading on the train last night and I got to thinking about those far off days and my battered portable and what I called 'combat writing.' By this I meant writing at the very last minute and pushing myself to physical extremes to accomplish the task at hand.
This part of my style has very much survived into my law practice.
Indeed, I have an appellate brief due in a medical malpractice case in (as of today) 15 days. The common law record stretches to 45 volumes -- and then there are many, many more volumes of transcripts. And I've only begun to scratch the surface of this assignment. The panic is beginning to surge within me -- not enough to keep me from writing this post, you'll notice, but still.... And there's an amended pleading due today that I truly intended to do last Friday... but I didn't have what I needed from the client to get it done until this week. And there are two new notices of appeal to get out. And I'm waxing nostalgic over some crumby, beat-up, old typewriter?
In the storage room-cum-closet of my Undisclosed Location there sits an IBM Selectric. My office mate uses it from time to time to fill in forms. I used to be a Selectric virtuoso, a master of squeezing a six letter word into a four letter space in order to avoid retyping a page. But for all my pretended affinity for the good old days of Wite-out and banging out pages, I almost never touch that typewriter.
So why the wistful reminiscence of days long gone by disguised as an ode to a portable typewriter? It's just that, in those increasingly far-off days, my body was equal to the tasks I made it perform. My tasks are bigger now, and my body weaker. I wish it were otherwise.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Second Effort post now on BoomSpeak
Thanks to Jay Harrison for taking my August 27 post about Facebook and putting a (slightly edited version of) it in on the Essays page of his blog/magazine (blogazine?) BoomSpeak!
Explanation for Ms. Sainz's discomfort?
The headline on the Chicago Tribune website is "TV reporter says she was 'uncomfortable' at Jets practice; NFL, team investigating."
The reference is to the alleged discomfort sustained by Mexican TV reporter Ines Sainz while attending a practice session of the New York football Jets. Here is a picture of said television reporter. While this photograph was apparently taken on a different occasion, no less an authority than Ms. Sainz herself says (if my rudimentary Spanish translation is correct) says she was dressed just like this for Jets practice:
Carefully viewing this photograph (making the kind of sacrifice that you've no doubt come to expect as routine here at Second Effort), a thought occurs to me: Ms. Sainz's discomfort may have been caused by constricted bloodflow.
Of course, some of the Jets players and coaches may also have acted like goofs.
This could be one of those chicken-and-egg problems, wouldn't it?
The reference is to the alleged discomfort sustained by Mexican TV reporter Ines Sainz while attending a practice session of the New York football Jets. Here is a picture of said television reporter. While this photograph was apparently taken on a different occasion, no less an authority than Ms. Sainz herself says (if my rudimentary Spanish translation is correct) says she was dressed just like this for Jets practice:
Carefully viewing this photograph (making the kind of sacrifice that you've no doubt come to expect as routine here at Second Effort), a thought occurs to me: Ms. Sainz's discomfort may have been caused by constricted bloodflow.Of course, some of the Jets players and coaches may also have acted like goofs.
This could be one of those chicken-and-egg problems, wouldn't it?
Monday, September 13, 2010
The vultures closing in?
We start this week with a deposition, later this afternoon, and I will have to spend more time preparing for it than I can bill. My memory buffers should be working better than they are, especially the short-term ones, but there it is. A great deal of studying must be undertaken here.
If the depositions weren't so spaced out -- if they were conducted in a couple of weeks' time, as I'd proposed, for example, as opposed to one every couple of weeks -- things might be different. But they aren't.
One of the reasons why the memory buffer is so stuffed is I am trying to cram an appeal into the next two weeks. It is a lengthy record, bordering on huge: Two trials (so far) and I am expected to persuade the Appellate Court that there must be a third. If one imagines that the learned justices of the aforementioned Appellate Court may view this suggestion with some skepticism, one would probably be entirely on point. Still, we have our orders, and the promise of a significant hourly fee that will probably be paid before the end of the year.
Probably. I have had a serious run of significant fees that remain receivables -- promises that are never redeemed -- wishes that are never fulfilled. This creates rather a crimp in my cash flow. The credit card companies are not interested in my flush receivables. These are populated by shallow creatures. They are interested solely in my anemic checking account. If they employed more well-balanced individuals, they might appreciate the larger picture. But, alas.
If the bill is paid, I hope I'm still here to receive it: The weekend mail brought two new bills -- and no checks. As we are at the height of the tuition season just now, this ratio must be reversed... and soon.
Somehow, in the past, as those of you who have endured my regular bouts of self-pity in these essays, I have always managed to scrape by. But it seems that I must become more creative each and every month: This month I paid my rent with money withheld for taxes. Those of you who know about such things will likely recognize the defect in this strategy.
Though I'd rather be blogging, it appears I'd better get to work.
If the depositions weren't so spaced out -- if they were conducted in a couple of weeks' time, as I'd proposed, for example, as opposed to one every couple of weeks -- things might be different. But they aren't.
One of the reasons why the memory buffer is so stuffed is I am trying to cram an appeal into the next two weeks. It is a lengthy record, bordering on huge: Two trials (so far) and I am expected to persuade the Appellate Court that there must be a third. If one imagines that the learned justices of the aforementioned Appellate Court may view this suggestion with some skepticism, one would probably be entirely on point. Still, we have our orders, and the promise of a significant hourly fee that will probably be paid before the end of the year.
Probably. I have had a serious run of significant fees that remain receivables -- promises that are never redeemed -- wishes that are never fulfilled. This creates rather a crimp in my cash flow. The credit card companies are not interested in my flush receivables. These are populated by shallow creatures. They are interested solely in my anemic checking account. If they employed more well-balanced individuals, they might appreciate the larger picture. But, alas.
If the bill is paid, I hope I'm still here to receive it: The weekend mail brought two new bills -- and no checks. As we are at the height of the tuition season just now, this ratio must be reversed... and soon.
Somehow, in the past, as those of you who have endured my regular bouts of self-pity in these essays, I have always managed to scrape by. But it seems that I must become more creative each and every month: This month I paid my rent with money withheld for taxes. Those of you who know about such things will likely recognize the defect in this strategy.
Though I'd rather be blogging, it appears I'd better get to work.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Older Daughter nursing a grudge against manager
Older Daughter, you'll remember, became a nurse recently.
And she's employed, in a hospital, in Indianapolis, working three 12 hour shifts a week. The days vary from week to week -- but she does work days.
But things haven't been all rosy for Older Daughter. She bent down to pick up her purse a few months back and fell awkwardly. She wound up looking for work on crutches. She got an offer anyway and was scheduled to start... and then her doctor told her she'd have to have surgery on the knee. From bending down wrong.
The hospital pushed back her start date to give her time to recover because, as it turns out, one-legged nurses are notoriously ineffective. Also, it's hard to carry meds and crutches.
Eventually, she started work -- but the knee was not responding as hoped to therapy. Her doctor said a little more scoping and scraping would be in order. They found a five day window between scheduled shifts and did the work. Nevertheless, she still had some restrictions when she went back to work. Her doctor wanted her to sit 15 minutes every hour.
Her manager wants her to stay on her feet for the entire 12 hour shift.
It's not just Older Daughter who is allegedly required to stay wholly vertical for so long; every nurse on the floor is under the same directive.
Now, certainly, one can't have nurses lounging in a patient's room. But there are no chairs at the nursing station. Computer terminals have no chairs. There is a meal break, when work permits, and sitting is allowed then -- but it seems extraordinary (to me at least) to impose this requirement even on people with healthy knees.
Long Suffering Spouse stands during most of the school day, but that works out to about half the length of Older Daughter's shift. And when Long Suffering Spouse returns home... she needs to sit down.
It has occurred to me, in fact, that standing for virtually an entire 12 hour shift must violate some health and safety code -- but Older Daughter says this is not so. Not in Indiana, anyway.
The standing order re: standing has damaged the relationship between Older Daughter and her manager. But this is not the only issue that Older Daughter has with her.
It seems that Older Daughter's training is incomplete -- and yet she has been dumped into situations where she has minimal training or none at all.
The unit where Older Daughter works is supposed to be for persons with difficulty breathing. In practice, it has become the dumping ground for psych patients and drug addicts. Last week Older Daughter had to care for a person dying of AIDS who showered her with bodily fluids -- I let her mother discuss the specifics with her. I am too delicate. Almost everyone on the floor is on Medicaid or some other government program. And Medicaid pays less than private insurance, and Medicaid patients are pronounced fit for discharge far sooner, and in a far more fragile state of health, than their privately insured fellow patients. It has occurred to me that the hospital may figure that these are the people least likely to sue. And it certainly gives me warm and fuzzy feelings about the days to come when we are all dependent on government payments for our health care.
For some reason, Older Daughter chafes against being plunged into situations without adequate training. She worries that someone may die because she doesn't know what to do. This is another source of friction with Older Daughter's manager -- who tells my daughter that she will be trained before getting put into these situations, but schedules her into them anyway. Other nurses on the floor have expressed similar concerns: There is 100% turnover of the nurses on the unit every six months.
One hundred per cent! If my daughter is not exaggerating, that surely says something (and not something nice) about the management of the floor.
Older Daughter talks about quitting after every shift. I'm encouraging her to stick it out for at least six months -- that seems to be the minimum quantum of experience necessary to get a better job.
But I still can't help but think that things might be better for Older Daughter if she was allowed to sit down, at least occasionally, at the nursing station or in the hallway while (for example) making entries on a patient's chart. I don't think that's crazy; do you?
And she's employed, in a hospital, in Indianapolis, working three 12 hour shifts a week. The days vary from week to week -- but she does work days.
But things haven't been all rosy for Older Daughter. She bent down to pick up her purse a few months back and fell awkwardly. She wound up looking for work on crutches. She got an offer anyway and was scheduled to start... and then her doctor told her she'd have to have surgery on the knee. From bending down wrong.
The hospital pushed back her start date to give her time to recover because, as it turns out, one-legged nurses are notoriously ineffective. Also, it's hard to carry meds and crutches.
Eventually, she started work -- but the knee was not responding as hoped to therapy. Her doctor said a little more scoping and scraping would be in order. They found a five day window between scheduled shifts and did the work. Nevertheless, she still had some restrictions when she went back to work. Her doctor wanted her to sit 15 minutes every hour.
Her manager wants her to stay on her feet for the entire 12 hour shift.
It's not just Older Daughter who is allegedly required to stay wholly vertical for so long; every nurse on the floor is under the same directive.
Now, certainly, one can't have nurses lounging in a patient's room. But there are no chairs at the nursing station. Computer terminals have no chairs. There is a meal break, when work permits, and sitting is allowed then -- but it seems extraordinary (to me at least) to impose this requirement even on people with healthy knees.
Long Suffering Spouse stands during most of the school day, but that works out to about half the length of Older Daughter's shift. And when Long Suffering Spouse returns home... she needs to sit down.
It has occurred to me, in fact, that standing for virtually an entire 12 hour shift must violate some health and safety code -- but Older Daughter says this is not so. Not in Indiana, anyway.
The standing order re: standing has damaged the relationship between Older Daughter and her manager. But this is not the only issue that Older Daughter has with her.
It seems that Older Daughter's training is incomplete -- and yet she has been dumped into situations where she has minimal training or none at all.
The unit where Older Daughter works is supposed to be for persons with difficulty breathing. In practice, it has become the dumping ground for psych patients and drug addicts. Last week Older Daughter had to care for a person dying of AIDS who showered her with bodily fluids -- I let her mother discuss the specifics with her. I am too delicate. Almost everyone on the floor is on Medicaid or some other government program. And Medicaid pays less than private insurance, and Medicaid patients are pronounced fit for discharge far sooner, and in a far more fragile state of health, than their privately insured fellow patients. It has occurred to me that the hospital may figure that these are the people least likely to sue. And it certainly gives me warm and fuzzy feelings about the days to come when we are all dependent on government payments for our health care.
For some reason, Older Daughter chafes against being plunged into situations without adequate training. She worries that someone may die because she doesn't know what to do. This is another source of friction with Older Daughter's manager -- who tells my daughter that she will be trained before getting put into these situations, but schedules her into them anyway. Other nurses on the floor have expressed similar concerns: There is 100% turnover of the nurses on the unit every six months.
One hundred per cent! If my daughter is not exaggerating, that surely says something (and not something nice) about the management of the floor.
Older Daughter talks about quitting after every shift. I'm encouraging her to stick it out for at least six months -- that seems to be the minimum quantum of experience necessary to get a better job.
But I still can't help but think that things might be better for Older Daughter if she was allowed to sit down, at least occasionally, at the nursing station or in the hallway while (for example) making entries on a patient's chart. I don't think that's crazy; do you?
Thursday, September 09, 2010
And they're off! Wannabe Daley successors begin jostling for advantage
As I forked over my six bits for the Sun-Times yesterday morning, the newspaper guy asked me, "So, are you running?"Even in this anonymous blog -- wherein I suppose I could indulge my fantasies of self-importance without immediate fear of ridicule -- I can not pretend that the newspaper guy was making any suggestion about my actual political charisma. Rather, said newspaper guy was making a very valid point on the heels of Richard M. Daley's decision not to seek a seventh term as Mayor of Chicago, namely, that everyone and his brother are eyeing Daley's soon to be vacated chair.
I responded in kind. "Sure, I'm running," I said, "if I can talk my wife out of running against me." He laughed and I went to work. (Come to think of it, Jesse Jackson, Jr. may be saying the same thing for real....)
It is a time of celebration in many parts of Chicago. While Mayor Daley has unquestionably employed some extraordinarily good people in key positions, many of Daley's political operatives have been convicted of corruption charges. Daley has raised fees and costs, imposed crazy fencing requirements (either history or the U.S. Attorney will eventually reveal, I am certain, some Daley relative in the wrought iron business), lost the Olympics, starved the police department, forced unpaid furloughs on municipal employees, and -- worst of all -- apparently managed somehow to spend the windfalls acquired from the sale of Chicago's parking meters and the long-term lease of the Chicago Skyway.
The City is broke and breaking down.
Still, if Daley had chosen to run again, whatever the numbers suggested before his announcement, I believe he would have been reelected. The Daleys have always managed to quash or co-opt any potentially credible opposition before they can become a real threat. In other words, there was no viable alternative.
Scott Waguespack, alderman of the 32nd Ward, and one of the few brave souls willing to talk about seeking the crown before Mayor Daley's announcement, said the first thing he'd order, were he elected, is a comprehensive forensic audit of the City's finances. Where has the parking meter money gone? Where did the Skyway money go? What is laying around in all those TIFF accounts?
This is something on which all voters should insist. The next mayor is going to be told by his or her staff that property taxes must go up. But why?
Daley's legacy is not all tarnish and tyranny. This is a beautiful city, and more beautiful now than ever. Daley deserves credit for this transformation of the Hog Butcher of the World into an international tourist destination. Unless we can keep our police force intact, however, we will rapidly decline. Tourists will not come here. Unless we can save our tax base, we will rapidly decline. Beautiful skyscrapers lose something of their charm (for businessowners at least) as taxes increase.
Mr. Daley has been a strongman. When Richard I (a strongman if ever there was one) passed from the scene in 1976, chaos reigned. We had the Bilandic interregnum, smothered by the Blizzard of 1979. We had Jane Byrne for a time and The Blues Brothers. But we fell into "Council Wars." We became "Beirut-by-the-Lake."
Will the passage of Richard II unleash similar forces of chaos? What happened when Tito was no longer on the scene in Yugoslavia? What happened when Saddam Hussein was removed in Iraq?
I doubt that any new mayor will have anywhere near the control that Daley has had. Some are pleased with this. I understand. But I am also worried....
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
I can't top this post on Popehat re: Florida lunatic
It is entitled "Why I Will Not Write About This Latest Outrage By A Sick, Twisted Individual And his Followers Against A Target Group, Even Though I Am A Person Of Good Will."
And I won't mention the name of the Sick, Twisted Individual either. Too bad the networks and other media outlets do. If you don't know what we're talking about, read this.
There's no reason to give this goof coverage. There appears to be very good reason to offer him therapy.
And I won't mention the name of the Sick, Twisted Individual either. Too bad the networks and other media outlets do. If you don't know what we're talking about, read this.
There's no reason to give this goof coverage. There appears to be very good reason to offer him therapy.
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