At a certain point, everybody looks familiar

In the course of a typical day, I will wander back and forth through the City Hall and County Building on my way to and from the Daley Center or run to this bank or that one, there to pay a bill or (¡ojalá!) make an actual deposit.

Along the way I will see, and nod at, a great many men and women.

It wouldn't do to walk past someone with whom one is acquainted and ignore them entirely; that would be rude.

The problem is that in strolling quickly through City Hall or down LaSalle Street I really can't stop to scrutinize the faces of passers by and see if I really do know them. I would probably be arrested if I tried. Or slugged. So, rather than commit a serious social blunder, I nod courteously to anyone who looks familiar.

Problem is, these days, just about everyone looks familiar.

There are probably multiple reasons for this. Certainly, I have worked in downtown Chicago for well over 30 years at this point; one can't help but see many of the same people day in and day out when one works in the same place that long. And, of course, with the passage of so much time, I have become acquainted with more and more people each year. By this time, of course, many are dying off -- but there are more than enough new acquaintances to take their places.

Also, although the Irish are no longer dominant in most Chicago demographics, there are still a lot of us working in the Loop. Many of the Chicago Irish hail from a handful of villages in County Mayo, God help us, and we're pretty much all related somehow. And genetics is funny: Your good friend's fourth cousin twice removed may look an awful lot like your your good friend, at least at a distance, even if the two of them have never met. Baseball writer Peter Gammons -- Youngest Son watches the MLB channel a lot when he's home -- looks eerily like a guy I went to college with.

But the biggest single reason that so many people look familiar to me is that, with each passing year, my eyesight gets worse and worse. Everyone has started to look the same -- in a blurry sort of way -- even when I wear my glasses.

I remember when I first realized this. I was in a Costco a few years back and I saw someone that -- from a distance at least -- looked like someone I knew from court. I put on my best lodge brother face and strode forward to greet this person only to realize, as I closed in, that this wasn't who I thought it was at all.

"You don't have the first clue who I am, do you?" said my quarry.

"No. Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"It happens."

And it does -- to me at least -- more and more.

So, these days, I just nod and keep going, my purposeful stride discouraging any embarrassing conversations of the type I had that day in Costco.

But I notice, too, that, these days, a lot of people nod back. So I don't think I'm alone in this....

A guest post from the Baby to Be Named Later: On to the Terrible Twos!

It's a cold and dreary day in Chicago today, the kind of day where this Curmudgeon would gladly work from home -- if work from home were possible. These days, of course, Younger Daughter and the Baby to Be Named Later rule the den in the morning, watching at least one and maybe two episodes of "Play With Me Sesame" -- the same darn shows, over and over -- and just generally being enough underfoot that I never quite gear down to the point where I can accomplish anything substantive.

There are compensations, of course. This morning, I found a carefully folded note in the pocket of my trench coat (yes, it's June here, too, but it's downright chilly as well as damp here this morning). I've deciphered the scrawl as best I can -- I think Granddaughter No. 1's handwriting is actually worse than mine -- and I reproduce that here.

OK, I admit it Grampy. I'm not in the best of moods these days. I think the teeth have stopped erupting for the time being but, as you and Grammy note when you think I'm not listening, I'm starting to have tantrums. Yes, I'm loud. And I'm not just imitating you, Grampy, although you are a continuing inspiration to me.

I get frustrated so easily these days. I can climb up into any chair in the house, but I can't always get down. I want to use a spoon when I eat, but stuff keeps falling off it. I want to see new stuff. And I know there's good stuff up on the counters in the kitchen and on the bookshelves in the den (it's on the shelves that you hide the iPad, Grampy, and don't think I don't know it) so I reach up and grab whatever I can reach. One minute you and Grammy and Mommy and Daddy are praising me for being "soooo big" and then, in the next breath, you're yelling at me because I pulled a knife down off the counter. (It's kind of like a spoon isn't it? How come I can run around with a spoon and you all laugh but when I run around with a knife you all get so upset?)

And you're happy if I crawl up on a chair -- "such a big girl!" you all say -- but when I crawl onto the coffee table somehow it's a different story. It's no wonder I get upset.

But there are other reasons, too. I know, from reading over Mommy's shoulder when she's looking up parenting tips on the Internet, that kids my age are very imitative and want to do everything they see adults do. But you don't even let me see everything you're up to. I've got Mommy pretty well trained now; she knows better than to try and go to the bathroom by herself anymore -- but you and Grammy never let me in, even when I stand outside the door and scream. I know what the shower sounds like, Grampy, and I can open the sliding door when Mommy is in there. She usually lets me come in then, too. You and Grammy make sure to get your showers in when I'm still stuck in my crib. I ask you, is that nice?

The worst, though, is that I can't quite seem to get words out yet. A vocabulary of four or five words (mama, dada, agua, dog -- sometimes I pant when I say this so you figure out what I'm getting at -- or boo -- for balloon, Big Bird and Pooh Bear) is simply inadequate to express the complex ideas that are constantly rattling 'round my cranium. I have so much to say... and I just can't. If it weren't for the release provided by these occasional notes, I think I might explode.

Just the other night everyone said "good night" to me and Mommy scooped me up and headed for the stairs. No one asked me if I wanted to go to bed. I tried so hard to explain that I wasn't tired in the least, but all that came out was gibberish. It's no wonder I started screaming. (Mom said I went right to sleep that night, but I don't remember.)

There are so many things you do that seem so arbitrary to me. Like always putting on shoes before going out into the backyard. Putting on shoes takes time. Sometimes I want to go into the backyard right then but you, or Daddy, or Mommy or someone is always delaying things by looking for my shoes. I'd tell you where I put them -- but I can't, remember? And you don't seem to mind so much if I take the shoes off inside the house -- why should it make a difference in the backyard?

I've noticed, too, that when you want to go somewhere, you get your keys and your glasses and you just go. Well, don't you think that sometimes I want to go places too? I get tired looking at the same old toys all day long. I get my keys and the sunglasses Mommy got me and I head for the door but no one lets me go out. Yes, that gets me going again.

I've heard you and Grammy say I'm going into my Terrible Twos. I don't know what those are, but it doesn't sound good. Especially when you tell Grammy that some of my uncles are still in them.

You're kidding about that, right?

Anyway, I'm getting the distinct impression that somehow my tantrums are related to these Terrible Twos.

Well.

Grampy, you're not a bad guy. You give me animal crackers or pretzels even if Mommy frowns at you. You talk to me and pretend to understand me when I talk, even though we both know I can't express myself properly. And, of course, you read and publish my notes. But I don't think I'm going to able to stop these tantrums anytime soon. I'm really sorry about that.

Frivolous Friday: Potpourri edition

"Potpourri." That's a French word. It means "no organized theme."

Which fits right in with Second Effort generally, doesn't it?

Let's start in with this Wizard of Id strip from May 28 (all comics here obtained from Yahoo! Comics unless otherwise indicated):

This is a pet peeve of mine -- judging by some of the things my wife (a teacher) has picked up at schools or seminars, educators seriously believe that kids don't have to memorize things (like facts) anymore because Google has all the answers.

But -- and this is a huge but -- search engines know all the answers only, only, only if you know the right questions and if you know how to sort the wheat from the chaff in the results provided.

While we're on the subject of teachers, though, Grand Avenue (by Steve Breen and Mike Thompson) has been doing a series this week on the end of the school year. This one struck me as very funny:

My wife would probably disagree. She gave her 6th graders tests yesterday. They complained bitterly. How can you give us tests now, they protested, don't you know we get out of school next week?

One parent, lobbying (I guess) for her son to get a second retake of a test he'd bombed already twice, seemed to be making a similar argument. Long Suffering Spouse had to remind the parent that, next year, when her son goes to high school, his last class will be a final exam. The kid's mother is an intelligent, educated woman; surely she remembers this. The good news, I suppose, is that the mother is concerned about her son's grade. The bad news, however, is that her son stopped caring around the time he took his high school placement test. In January. And his grades reflect this. It isn't just this one test that has brought down his grade.

Sticking with schools, this Grand Avenue strip struck me as all too true:

But, as apprehensive as parents may be about the kids coming home for the summer, it does not compare to the relief that teachers feel at being rid of the little monsters, er, darlings for the summer. (See discussion above.)

We switch now to the terrible world of telemarketing. I do feel sorry for telemarketers. I do. They have horrible jobs and people mostly answer their calls just to scream at them. Still, there's humor even in this, as the following Duplex comic, by Glenn McCoy, from May 28, shows:

I've spent a lot of time here crowing about being a grandfather -- and I truly do love the gig. I mean it when I tell people it's the best club I've ever joined. Even so, this F Minus comic, by Tony Carrillo, from April 18, strikes me as all too true:

I lack the discerning eye of all those (in my family, it's the womenfolk) who can gaze at a newborn infant for 10 seconds and pronounce authoritatively that 'the baby has her father's eyes' or 'she has her mother's ears' or 'she has her Aunt Tessie's tushie.' No! I don't believe it. Newborn babies look remarkably like Winston Churchill or Richard J. Daley. Eventually, as they grow, they will resemble this relative or that one -- but sometimes, at least it seems to me, for only a little while because, with another growth spurt, they then resemble someone else entirely.

But that's my opinion only. The weight of authority is clearly against me on this one. I guess.

I enjoy reading the comics -- lots of comics -- every day. For amusement. For entertainment. For laughs. But sometimes... well, sometimes it seems the comics are used as a place for the artists to work out their own issues.

Recovering lawyer (and one of my favorites) Stephan Pastis, the creator of Pearls Before Swine, may be going through some sort of rough patch and working it out right in front of us in our daily papers. At least if this May 23 Pearls strip is any indication:

This week, Stephan invents a little kid from down the street, a precocious 2nd grader named Libby, who turns out to be able to draw rings around the artistically-challenged Mr. Pastis (he's such a terrible artist that he's only syndicated in about a gazillion newspapers). Today's installment brings together his domestic issues, his insecurities about his artistic skills, and his concerns about how long there will be a gazillion papers to carry his work (and keep him from having to return to the practice of law):

I hope Mr. Pastis feels better soon. I hope his domestic issues are resolved satisfactorily. But, although it's a little dark for me to say it, right now, I'm sort of enjoying his pain.

Wow, that came out badly.

But not as badly, I'm afraid, as things turned out for Dorothy in this truly dark, (*ahem*) Wicked re-imagining of The Wizard of Oz in this May 28 Bizarro strip by Dan Piraro (this one was obtained from the Chicago Tribune Comics Kingdom):

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UPDATE 6/7/14: This is so cool! Pardon me, while I gush like a teenager, but "Libby" in this week's Pearls episodes was none other than Bill Watterson. Yes, that Bill Watterson. The man who drew Calvin and Hobbes. The J.D. Salinger of cartooning. The recluse. Mr. Pastis kept the secret all week, but, he says, now the story can be told. Wow....

In which Curmudgeon explains about monopolies and why he was an hour and a half late to work this morning....

Some men are born Curmudgeons. Some have Curmudgeon-ness thrust upon them. Despite my long-time nom de blog, I may be among the latter category. I did not set out to be rip-roaring angry this morning. But then....

Abuela is having health issues. She is 80; she will be 81 in August. She will be 101 in August 2034, too. In other words, this crisis will pass and she'll be fine.

But, right now, she is scared. Her blood pressure, usually low, is soaring. Her pulse is speed-racing, even when she doesn't move. And, at the moment, other than dialing the phone to one of her daughters or one of her doctors, she's not moving at all. Last week she got an appointment with a cardiologist set up for this morning; she also talked the cardiologist into providing a monitoring device and a 24/7 help number. She called it last night when her heart beat started zooming out of control again. Then she called Long Suffering Spouse.

And Long Suffering Spouse checked in with her before we retired last evening -- Abuela had calmed down some -- and, under the circumstances, I was neither surprised nor upset when Abuela called again this morning as Long Suffering Spouse and I were trying to get ready to leave. I kept emptying the dishwasher while Long Suffering Spouse fielded the call.

I finished unloading the dishwasher. I put in the dishes that accumulated overnight (remember, Youngest Son is back from college). I fixed my bagel and poured my coffee. Long Suffering Spouse was still on the phone to her mother. I couldn't tell by sound, you understand -- my wife was obviously not getting a word in edgewise -- but she was still in the rocking chair in the living room not moving.

I took my coffee and my bagel and my sandwiches for lunch into the den and fired up the desktop computer.

Younger Daughter and Granddaughter #1 were awake; they were just turning on Play With Me Sesame for the 9,000,000th time when I walked in. I opened the screen door, letting the cool air wash over me.

Younger Daughter immediately groused that it was too cold. Well, yesterday it had been too hot. Younger Daughter had merely complained that I'd not turned on the air conditioner; Youngest Son was nearly belligerent about it. But 30 degree temperature drops (and sometimes 30 degree temperature increases) are just part of the background noise of living in Chicago. I didn't let it bother me any. I was still pleasant and cheerful.

I opened up Facebook. I'd taken some pictures at the Memorial Day Parade in our neighborhood and posted these on the parish Facebook page and, sure enough, I'd picked up a few "likes." This pleased me. The milk of human kindness was coursing through my veins. I clicked on the Home tab intending to look at the news in a couple of other groups I've assembled. The little Windows 7 wheel of misfortune began spinning.

And kept spinning.

I looked at the router, the router I'd just purchased from AT&T barely two weeks ago. I may not have needed to do this. I thought my old router had failed, and Younger Daughter really needed the Internet to finish a project she was doing for my friend Steve (keeping the gaps as small as possible on her resume, doncha know), but when I went through all the steps to set the new device up I realized that my equipment wasn't broken; rather, AT&T had broken the Internet. There was a large outage in the Chicago area and we were caught up in it. I was, I admit, fit to be tied on that occasion.

Now, as I looked at the router and saw the ominous red light, the milk of human kindness curdled.

But, fine. Even new equipment can have a problem. Pull the plug, count to 10, try again. I know the drill. For good measure, I rebooted the desktop.

I waited.

One by one the green lights lit on my router. One by one, but not the one I needed. That light came back red. I was seeing red by now, too.

Still, there was one more thing to try -- the Windows troubleshooting menu.

People used to be able to fix things, back in the day. My father taught me how to change spark plugs and set the gaps and change the oil on the car. But then came electronic ignition and bans on what you could do with the old oil you drained. So I don't change my own oil. And nobody changes spark plugs.

But, also back in the day, only not as far back, during the DOS days, I could troubleshoot problems, locate corrupted files, reinstall programs. Meanwhile, back in Redmond, Washington, Darth Gates and his minions were designing Windows. (We can't have a self-sufficient peasantry, he must have told them, they'd be far too independent.) But, as a sop to those of us who thought we could diagnose and fix problems, the evil geniuses came up with 'troubleshooting menus' -- additional buttons to push, all to no avail, while the button-pusher's blood pressure spikes ever higher.

So, no, I didn't expect much from the Windows troubleshooting menus, and I was not surprised when Windows soon admitted that it could not resolve my problem.

Meanwhile, as I was plummeting from the heights of happiness to the depths of Internet despair, Long Suffering Spouse was trying to talk Abuela into not driving herself to her doctor's appointment. "If you feel like you're going to pass out, someone else should drive," my wife said -- repeatedly.

Younger Daughter volunteered and Long Suffering Spouse relayed the offer.

The offer was rejected. Long Suffering Spouse didn't really want Granddaughter #1 anywhere near a doctor's office -- who knows what germs she might pick up? -- and Abuela was adamantly opposed.

Youngest Son was volunteered.

Note the use of the passive voice. He did not know his services were being offered; he was asleep. He just got a job coaching a high school travel baseball team and they have a game today; only he knows when and where. So he might not have been actually available anyway. He was dismissed as a possible chauffeur.

"Do you have court this morning, Curmudgeon?" my wife called from the living room. I was in red-light Hell by this time; I snarled back that I did not have anything scheduled. But the last thing I wanted to do today was drive my mother-in-law around.

"Curmudgeon can do it," my wife told her mother. "No, it won't be any problem at all; he has nothing up in court." Abuela agreed to think about it and the conversation, finally, came to an end.

I could at last tell my wife that the Internet had died, right before my eyes.

"Did you try unplugging and replugging the router?" she asked.

"Yes," I barked. "It's not us; it's AT&T. Service is down again."

I raged and fumed and sputtered and swore about monopolies and Third World service at First World prices (I could see Granddaughter #1 mentally taking notes). My wife and daughter anxiously tried to shush me.

Long Suffering Spouse was not pleased. "Calm down! You're going to have a stroke, Curmudgeon," she scolded me, "and they're going to put you in Abuela's room at the hospital."

Ah, yes, Abuela.

"You realize, of course," I told her, "that your mother wants you to go with her? She's scared."

"I can't go. I have to go to school. I can't believe it's so late. I'm not going to get a parking space."

Long Suffering Spouse was up until midnight preparing materials to use in a couple of her classes today. She had every intention of going to school. I'm generally the expendable spouse, the one whose day can be sacrificed for the crisis du jour -- like when Younger Daughter called me to tell me she was going into labor. As long as I was reasonably close by, Younger Daughter wouldn't have dared to try and reach her mother at school.

But Long Suffering Spouse is worried about her mother, too. She expects her mother to be admitted to the hospital after she's seen today; I think Abuela is almost looking forward to it. Abuela seems to like being in the hospital. There was the time, a few years back, when Abuela's hemoglobin crashed; I forget the details. But if good hemoglobin is 11.5 and you need a transfusion at 8 or 9, she was down to a 5 or a 6 or a -2 or something -- something truly alarming -- and it was decided to put her in the hospital immediately. My wife went to take her (it was summertime) and got her in the car, with her bag packed, all ready to go, when Abuela realized she had forgotten to pack a favorite perfume. So my wife went back in her mother's house, rummaging through her bedroom, looking for a bottle of perfume, while she feared for her mother's life. And Abuela, sick as she was, was giddy like she was going on vacation.

Aside from a couple of similar episodes, Abuela has enjoyed really good health, particularly in the last 10 or 15 years. I think it must be sort of disappointing for her.

Anyway, mad as I was at AT&T, and mad as my wife was at me for being so mad, she could see the logic in what I'd said. "I'd better call school right away then," she said. "What's the number?"

We got her the number.

She got an answering machine. "No, this won't do at all!" she shouted. "Bring me my iPad. I need to send an email."

"You can't send an email. We have no Internet." (Younger Daughter asked whether we could send an email to the school from our phones. But the school system is a proprietary one, and one must be logged in before doing anything. I don't know how to do that quickly, if it can be done at all from a phone, I told her. Do you? No, my daughter admitted.)

Eventually, Younger Daughter and I persuaded Long Suffering Spouse to go to school in person and inform her principal of the problem. Problems. Meanwhile, I steeled myself for the ordeal of calling AT&T.

I dug out the most recent bill (it's not even overdue yet!) and began looking for a customer service number.

Like all monopolies, AT&T does not believe in customer service, only billing. On the bill detail there is a number for Internet or DSL billing questions. My actual Internet or DSL billing question -- how dare you send out bills for this crappy level of service? -- was not likely to receive a polite answer. But, after further scrutiny of the bill, I did find a paragraph labeled "customer support," that listed phone numbers -- different phone numbers -- that one could call to speak to AT&T in English, Spanish, Mandarin, Korean, Tagalog, Polish, or even Russian. They probably connect you to one of Putin's own family members if you call the Russian number. AT&T is the kind of business that a guy like Vladimir Putin can appreciate -- as long as he's an owner, not a customer.

Anyway, my Mandarin not being really up to par, I decided to call the English number.

A computer answered.

"If you'd like to continue in English, press 1," the computer said. "Para continuar en Español, marque numero dos."

If you have to, you can think about that one for a little while.

I dutifully pressed number 1 and the computer started talking again. "I see you're calling from" -- and here the computer recited my home phone number. "Is this the number you are calling about?" Yes, I snapped. The AT&T computer voice is always so damn chipper; it just gets me madder to hear it. "One moment please while I gather information about your account." The computer then makes a little whoosh and gurgle like it's pulling in data from the far-flung corners of its endless files. "In a few words, tell me about why you are calling. For example, you can say, 'I'd like to pay my bill' or 'I'd like to order new service.'"

"AT&T is a bloated, corrupt monopoly that was broken apart by the courts but which stupid politicians and regulators have allowed to re-form into an entity even more evil than it was originally."

"I'm sorry, I did not get that," said the computer.

"My Internet is out. Again."

Eventually the computer put me in line to speak with a representative -- all of whom were busy servicing other customers at present, darn it -- but in the meantime I could listen to a steady stream of commentary -- like how many Internet connection problems can be solved by turning off the modem, or unplugging it for 10 seconds, and plugging it back in. I added some commentary of my own about this and Long Suffering Spouse -- back from school already -- started in shushing me again.

Then the recorded voice told me that all sorts of further troubleshooting advice was available at AT&T.com. Isn't that nice? If I could get to AT&T.com I wouldn't be in hold-Hell here now, would I?

These messages, and others like them, all equally unhelpful, repeat until a human can be found to pick up the call.

I feel sorry for the poor lady who answered my call. It's not her fault that she has such a miserable job. The economy stinks. And then she has to listen to people driven crazy by endlessly looped messages that are completely unhelpful.

At least when you call the IRS you get soothing classical music as you waste away on hold. Or the music would be soothing if (1) you weren't calling the IRS and (2) it wasn't interrupted every 45 seconds or so by a voice urging you to stay on the line.

The woman from AT&T identified herself. She made me identify myself (didn't the computer already tell her?) and then she asked me how she could be of assistance today.

"Internet service is out in my area again. This is the second time in less than two weeks. This is entirely unacceptable."

"Can I put you on hold, sir, while I investigate? I'm not aware of any outage in your area."

At least this time, there was music and no useless suggestions.

When I began speaking in tongues at the computer this morning, Younger Daughter hustled her child out of the room. Play With Me Sesame had ended anyway. So I put the morning news on for something to pay attention to besides prerecorded inanities from AT&T.

In this news this morning it seems a person was struck and killed by a Metra commuter train in the vicinity of Arlington Park. I don't live in that vicinity, but I do live much closer to the center of the City along that same train line. And, sure enough, the news advised, the CTA was honoring Union Pacific passes this morning on the Blue Line (which I do take) because of disruption to the Metra service going to the northwest suburbs. So that was making the Blue Line slower than usual.

That would have been bad enough, but the Blue Line was also having equipment problems coming in from the airport -- in other words, by me -- and things were really messed up.

"I may just go back to bed," I announced. "If I ever get off hold."

The AT&T lady eventually came back on the line. "Sir, it turns out that there is an outage in your area." She seemed surprised. With monopolies, the customer is almost always wrong.

"When will this problem be fixed?"

"It is currently scheduled to be repaired by 7:30 p.m.," she said. Just another 11 hours (give or take) to go.

"You know," I said, "this is completely unacceptable. To find a number to call you, I had to pull out my bill. And what should I find in my bill but a notice that you are 'upgrading' Internet service in this area? Faster speeds for bigger dollars. Now why would I -- why would anyone -- do that when you can't keep the system you have operating smoothly?"

"Well, sir, I do see that we are going to fiber-optic service in your area and we won't be dependent on the old, copper telephone lines anymore. And that's the problem, that the old lines are in need of replacement."

Like the one I'm presently speaking to you on? But I kept that to myself. Instead I said, "And I also notice that you are billing me for a full month's service even though you have had two outages in two weeks."

"You are entitled to a credit, sir," said the woman. "I can put you on hold and connect you to a billing specialist."

"Please," I begged. "Do. Not. Put. Me. On. Hold. Again."

"Well, alright, sir, have a nice day."

I hung up the phone.

And it rang again almost immediately.

It was Long Suffering Spouse's sister, Josephine, calling from her office. Abuela, it seems, was on the other line with her, even now, telling her how weak she felt, how she thought she might pass out, how she was worried she wouldn't be able to answer the door when Long Suffering Spouse came to take her to the doctor. But, Josephine said, Abuela did not want to call Long Suffering Spouse and burden her with this. She didn't want to inconvenience her. "Not want to inconvenience me? I've already taken the day off to get her to the doctor," Long Suffering Spouse told her sister.

She hung up and said she'd better go to her mother's. "I can drop you off at the train. If it's working."

"I need to get some bills out," I admitted, "and I need the Internet for that."

"If it's not working in your office, just turn around and come home," my wife said.

But it was. It is. And I still need to get out some billing. Now that I've blown off some steam.

Family togetherness comes with increasing levels of complication

Sure, you're pretending to work today, surfing the web, hoping the phone doesn't ring, counting the minutes until you can start on your holiday weekend.

I so envy you.

I mean, it will be Memorial Day weekend for me, too, but I can't exactly say I'm looking forward to it. It sounds terribly wrong to say it -- it is terribly wrong -- but I'm dreading this weekend.

Older Daughter is coming for a visit. With Hank and now-month-old Granddaughter #2.

You, dear reader, are probably outraged at this point. Curmudgeon, you fiend! you snarl at your monitor, imagining me cowering in shame. Your daughter is coming to visit you and bringing your new grandchild to see you and you are something other than thrilled?

Well, actually, yes.

The Curmudgeon Manse is, sadly, not a stately English country home. I live in a nice area of the City of Chicago, and my house is not small by urban standards. The modern four bedroom suburban house dwarfs our house, the original part of which probably dates to the 1920s. Our four bedrooms are tiny, by modern standards (the room where Granddaughter #1 sleeps would be considered a walk-in closet in a modern suburban home), but we have a living room, dining room and, by way of addition, a den and something of a great room, though it is mostly used for storage.

As is our basement -- bulging, still, with the wedding gifts from the nuptials of Olaf and Younger Daughter, now two years past. But they are still living with us, along with Granddaughter #1, an increasingly energetic toddler, tall for her age, able to see and pull things off all but the highest shelves. Like knives from the kitchen counters. Or phones recharging in the den. Oh, that child loves phones. Clearly, some of my mother's genes course through her veins. My mother was part telephone, you know.

And then, last weekend, Youngest Son returned for the summer. His stuff returned on Saturday. He returned on Sunday night, having remained in Wisconsin an extra day to witness his girlfriend's graduation from South Janesville College. He's made some progress toward settling in over the past week. The unlaundered pile of clothes and blankets in the living room is now a pile of laundered clothes and blankets. But it's still in the living room, right where Older Daughter and Hank intend to put the mountain of stuff they will bring for their weekend sojourn.

You might think that, inasmuch as we live in the O'Hare flightpath, there might be one or two gazillion hotel rooms within spitting distance of our house. And, if you think that, you'd be right.

But Older Daughter wouldn't think of staying at a hotel. The whole point of coming home is hanging around the house. If you've been counting bedrooms, you may have calculated that Younger Daughter and her husband have one bedroom, their daughter another, and Youngest Son a third. That leaves one for Long Suffering Spouse and me. And none for Older Daughter and her husband and their daughter.

We acquired a futon for Older Daughter and her husband after they got married five years back. That was initially located in the sort-of great room (maybe we could call it a merely good room instead) but it became our primary couch when the couch in the den finally gave up the ghost.

The only room in my house where I spend any time (other than the bathroom of course -- I am a man of a certain age) is the den. My desktop computer is there. The TV is there. The DVD player is there. My recliner is there.

Most nights, Long Suffering Spouse and I fall asleep in the den -- she grading papers, me watching TV, fiddling with my iPad, and waiting for her -- waking up at 1:00 or 2:00 to make the coffee (for Olaf's 5:45 a.m. daily exit) and stagger upstairs.

So I didn't entirely lose it when Long Suffering Spouse seriously suggested that we give up our bedroom for the weekend. It's just a few additional hours in the recliner, and I can go on the computer or do any number of other things before the rest of the sleepers awaken.

This morning, though, Long Suffering Spouse was having second thoughts. If the baby has a rough night, she said, speaking of the newborn, she'll wake up the whole house if she's in our room. Younger Daughter recalled that she used to bring her newborn downstairs in the middle of the night for that very reason. They will advise me of their decision about where I sleep tonight in due course. Maybe -- if Older Daughter decides to delay her expedition until Saturday morning -- I can have a temporary reprieve. I'm not counting on it.

Older Daughter has invited her other brothers over for a barbecue this weekend; she's not sure -- even at this point -- when it will be. And she wants Abuela to come over to meet the new great-grandchild, too. I'm not sure who else she's invited. She's invited my friends Steve and Charlotte certainly, and possibly others.

(Did I mention that this was supposedly my house?)

Yes, I know. Older Daughter is happy. She wants to show off her new baby. I understand; really I do.

The good news is that Older Daughter is (supposedly) not bringing either of her giant dogs this time. I've written about Cork, their giant golden retriever, from time to time. Well, last year they got Cork a playmate, another golden, this one named Tipperary. These are spastic creatures on their best days; that's in the nature of golden retrievers. But these poor monsters are also attention-starved. They need constant reassurance and, if you fail to pay sufficient heed, they will find a way to make you notice them. You haven't lived until an 80 pound dog has leapt into your lap while you're dozing (and you don't feel much like living for some time thereafter).

Cork and Tipperary are being left behind on this occasion because Hank and Older Daughter don't think they can fit both dogs and the baby in their car for a (minimum) three hour trip. It has nothing to do with my convenience, or preference, I can tell you that.

Youngest Son announced last night that he's going to a friend's 21st birthday party this evening, so he'll be gone all night. This would scare me sufficiently for one weekend all by itself. Given the weekend agenda, however, I volunteered to go with him. "I always liked that kid," I told him, as he reminded me of whose birthday it was. "What's his name again?"

Curmudgeon finds that breathing is more optional than commonly supposed

There was an article online recently about an athlete -- a football player, I think -- who has decided to increase the difficulty of his normal off-season workout by wearing some sort of mask or filter that limits his air intake.

I couldn't find the article this morning to link it -- I can never find anything when I'm looking for it -- but even a non-athlete like myself knows that you need more air, not less, when you do something strenuous, like exercise. In my case, just standing up can sometimes trigger huffing and puffing.

The athlete apparently hopes that, when he plays his sport -- without the filter, of course -- he will be that much stronger, that much more refreshed, because of his unusual conditioning routine.

Of course, the athlete probably spent a significant sum of money on this oxygen-limiting equipment. He might have been better off just by coming to Chicago for the spring.

We were warned that our brutal winter would be followed by a rough spring for allergies. Apparently, all the trees and flowering plants, their revival delayed by winter's refusal to depart, would make up for lost time, pumping out the pollen in record volumes.

Sadly, these gloomy forecasts seem to have fallen well short of the mark. It's much worse than predicted.

My nose is constantly running, except when I'm sneezing, but no matter how much stuff comes out of my nose, there doesn't seem to be room for air to come in through the nasal passages to my brain. My pockets are bulging with used and about-to-be-used "facial tissues." (Remember, all you aspiring writers out there, that we're not supposed to refer to kleenex as kleenex, especially when the "facial tissues" aren't Kleenex, but Puffs. So, for purposes of the written word, in order to avoid any legal unpleasantness, it is strongly recommended that we use the term "facial tissues," even though you've never heard that term used in real life.) And, still, despite all the nose-blowing, dripping, and sneezing, my sinuses remain impenetrable.

It is commonly supposed that humans are required to breathe a certain amount of oxygen in order to survive. I'm beginning to have my doubts. First there was that kid who hid in the wheel well of a jet that flew to Hawaii. According to generally accepted medical belief, the young man should have asphyxiated before he froze to death. But he didn't do either. When the wheels came down on the Hawaiian airport tarmac, he dropped out of the wheel well, a little unsteady on his pins, but otherwise apparently unharmed.

But, of course, it's my own experiences -- or, rather, the lack of my experiencing any significant airflow in roughly the past month -- that is pushing me to the conclusion that breathing is not nearly as necessary as we thought.

Because I can't breathe properly, I'm more tired than usual, and grouchier. But it's not all bad. When the allergy season started, I thought I'd developed a cold. I never drink when I have a cold. I've found that I get even more congested if I try. But then, slowly, because my oxygen-depleted brain is not functioning at anything near peak efficiency, I realized that I did not have a cold at all, but just horrible, miserable, unceasing spring allergies. Drinking wouldn't make that any better -- but it wouldn't make it any worse either. So I could drink again. (When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Isn't that what we're taught? Long Suffering Spouse likes lemonade. Actually, I prefer a slice or wedge of lemon in my vodka. But to each their own.)

I'm also taking cold and allergy pills on occasion (not when I'm drinking -- if you value your liver, that's a bad idea even if you don't have a cold). The problem with taking cold and allergy pills (other than the interruption of one's evening cocktails) is that these pills are apparently useful in the making of methamphetamine, typically referred to as "meth" or "crystal meth." I'm not certain what the connection is; I'm not inclined to look up any recipes. I find it hard to believe, however, that my 40-pill package of cold and allergy medicine could be transmuted into any commercially useful quantity of the illicit drug. Nevertheless, in order to procure the pills, I must produce a driver's license and sign all sorts of small-print disclaimers, before the pharmacist will produce the package from behind the counter. With the spring we're having, I worry that I'm going to wind up on a DEA watch-list because of all the pills I've signed for. I'll bet there's a lot of folks around here who are similarly worried. I know I'm not the only sufferer.

Meanwhile, if only I could, I'd like to take a deep breath and get some work done.

Curmudgeon becomes a grandfather again -- Part III

Parts I and II of this series available by scrolling down or clicking here and here.

The maternity floor was on the third floor of the very modern hospital. It was a large room, but oddly shaped, long and narrow.

Our in-laws were already there, of course, at the far end of the room. There was a huge flatscreen TV on the wall showing the NBA playoff game between the Indiana Pacers and the Atlanta Hawks, but neither of them were really watching.

They were watching us. They didn't look entirely pleased. It could have been the stress of the moment, of course.

But there's no getting away from the fact that this is their grandchild. A child in which they feel -- understandably! -- that they have a proprietary interest. Bought and paid for.

IVF treatments are not cheap, and Older Daughter has endured so many. So many false starts. So many failed attempts. So many, many tears.

But this night -- this birth -- could not have been possible without the funds so generously provided by my in-laws. Older Daughter and Hank laid out an awful lot of money themselves, but Hank's parents paid a boatload of money, too. Long Suffering Spouse and I could not have helped. I couldn't afford the cost of gasoline for the trip to Indianapolis.

I understood their point of view. I'd like to think I might not have thought that way, were I in their shoes, but I'm only human. We all are.

I resolved to be friendly. I sat down by them and began chatting.

Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter took up posts a bit further away.

It was the Baby-Who-I-Still-Have-To-Name who bridged the gap. She saw the long room as a runway. And she ran up and back that runway multiple times, grabbing my arm and shrieking in her loudest, shrillest, happiest voice. I'd turn and growl at her and she'd flee in mock terror, only to repeat the process immediately. The in-laws watched carefully. "The kid hates me," I explained, while my granddaughter readied another charge.

"Obviously," said Hank's father, with a four-syllable delivery that would have done Professor Snape proud.

This was further evidence, to them, if any were really needed, that we already had our grandchild. This one -- the one being born down the hall somewhere -- was theirs. So why we were intruding on their party?

Granddaughter #1 charged me a few more times, shrieking every time, ignoring our suggestions that perhaps she might cultivate an 'inside' voice. Well, the kid had been stuck in a car seat for over three hours. Finally, on one return trip, her mother detected a whiff of something that suggested that all this running around might have had another purpose than merely to alienate the in-laws. She scooped up her child and, making apologies, disappeared in search of a bathroom.

The in-laws stared at me. "I guess I bring out the best in her," I shrugged, feigning momentary interest in the Pacers-Hawks game.

More careful small-talk ensued.

Granddaughter #1 had returned by this time and, at their far end of the long room, Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter were trying to interest her in various toys and books. She was still noisy.

Finally, Hank's mother had had enough. She stood up.

"I'm going to see what's going on."

"Good luck," I offered.

This particular hospital had a strict no-visitors policy for the first two hours after childbirth -- the idea being to give Mom a breather, after her ordeal, and a moment or two for the new family to introduce themselves to each other -- and Older Daughter told us that this rule would be strictly enforced.

Why were we even at the hospital then? Truth to tell, we had nowhere else to go. Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter had arranged to stay at Older Daughter's house even before the blessed event began unfolding -- so we had to wait where we were, if only for the purpose of receiving keys.

I didn't much care one way or the other. I could spar with the in-laws or sleep in my chair or pretend to watch an NBA game or, if all else failed, look solemnly at my phone. I could read my Twitter feed or play Solitaire. I can hang around doing nothing with the best of them.

Granddaughter #1 would become increasingly cranky, of course. It was getting to be her bedtime, and she'd just accomplished something besides, and she had run around like a crazy person for some time. No, her fuse was lit. And Long Suffering Spouse was distinctly uncomfortable; she knew the in-laws weren't thrilled to see us, and she also understood why. Younger Daughter wasn't as uncomfortable; she had a basic understanding that the present situation was a tad awkward, but she was too focused on her ticking time-bomb toddler to worry much about her sister's in-laws.

Anyway, at that point, we had no idea whether Granddaughter #2 had even been born, so we had no idea where the two-hour clock might have stood. But neither did the in-laws.

This did not discourage Hank's mother. "I'm a pediatric nurse," she said, and she is, "so I'll play the nurse card. And, if that doesn't work, I'll play the cancer card." She said it lightly, as a joke, as she marched toward the labor and delivery area. She has suffered from breast cancer, diagnosed last year, and while there was some initial concern about what she had and how serious it was, the story now seems to be that she's responded well to treatment -- surgery and chemo and radiation -- and, indeed, she even scheduled her treatment regimen so that it would be concluded before the baby was born. She didn't want to give anyone any excuse to deny or limit access to her grandchild.

I thought I saw Hank's father wince a little at the cancer 'joke." Speaking as someone who's had several feet of innards removed, I am very careful about how I 'joke' about such things. Nothing may be always and everywhere off-limits (as you may note per the linked posts in the preceding sentence). But this didn't seem much like the time or place to bring up the subject. In my opinion.

I don't know what was said, ultimately, or what cards were played. But apparently whatever cards that Hank's mother did play were trumped by the hospital staff. She returned unenlightened. I pretended to really concentrate on the Pacers-Hawks game. Long Suffering Spouse really concentrated on holding Granddaughter #1's attention on a book.

Time passed.

Eventually -- and I do mean to imply an additional goodly wait here -- Hank showed up. Happy. A bounce in his step. Our new grandchild had apparently arrived about the time we pulled into the hospital parking lot. She had 10 fingers and 10 toes and everything.

Hank's father produced a bottle and some shot glasses. One was pressed into my hand. Well, of course, I would not refuse!

But this is the 21st Century. Celebration can't get in the way of notification: All present, Granddaughter #1 excepted, produced cellphones and began texting various and sundry persons.

Then Hank dropped the bombshell. Older Daughter had asked to see Long Suffering Spouse first.

This could not have played well with the in-laws. But, if Hank's mother may have crumpled a bit, Hank's father more than covered for her. I'd provide more detail here, but -- once Hank made his announcement -- I suddenly realized that I'd been just a wee bit nervous, too. I may have surrendered to my emotions. I surely exhaled.

Long Suffering Spouse did not dally. She told me later that she refused Older Daughter's offer to hold the child, realizing that this would go down very badly with the in-laws. Indeed, every moment that she remained in there alone counted against us. So she encouraged Older Daughter to let the floodgates open, promising we would depart promptly and let her get some rest. (Older Daughter, being Older Daughter, didn't want to rest. She wanted everyone to stay -- but that just wasn't smart.)

The nurse had our new grandchild under the french fry warmer when we came in. I'm sure there's a technical name for that lamp, but that's what it reminds me of, and everyone probably understands what I'm talking about, right? She held the child up for inspection and (inevitably) photographs.

Tiny.

That was my first impression.

Red.

That was my second impression. But, some part of me remembered, they were all pretty red at first.

"How much did she weigh again?" I asked Older Daughter. "Seven pounds, six ounces," she said. "She's too small!" I protested. "Put her back until she's done." (Older Daughter was our smallest, at 8 lbs., 4 oz.) "Da-ad!" Older Daughter and her sister both yelled. Long Suffering Spouse just rolled her eyes (for better or for worse she may have muttered to herself).

Actually, although she was supposedly two weeks early, her head did not loll and her eyes were open. In my completely un-expert opinion, the child was clearly full-term.

I don't understand how a baby can be early or late when the actual moment of conception can be calculated -- heck, it was charted! -- but maybe that just means we don't know as much about how these things really work as we like to pretend.

We made our excuses to clear out of the hospital room as quickly as possible. Granddaughter #1 was a big help because she clearly had no idea what to make of this tiny red thing and she began to tell us so in no uncertain terms.

"How long are you staying?" Hank's mother asked, but she really meant when are you leaving?

Older Daughter will have her hands full with that one.

But, for now, all is good. It was a very happy Mother's Day in Indianapolis Sunday. I don't care whose grandchild she is; I'm just happy Older Daughter was able to have a baby.

(I know that's very un-Curmudgeonly of me. Tough. I'll try and regain my Curmudgeon-cred in future posts.)

Curmudgeon becomes a grandfather again -- Part II

For Part I, scroll down the page or click here.

I raced home from the office expecting to see my wife, Younger Daughter, and the Baby-Who'd-Better-Get-A-Name-Soon sitting on the front steps glaring at me. But they weren't through packing yet: There were decisions to be made about what food to bring and what to leave behind. My consent was required (merely as a courtesy, you understand) for the clothes that Long Suffering Spouse had picked out for me. And which electronic devices would be taken, and where were the chargers?

At some point, I was told to take Granddaughter #1 into the backyard and jolly her up whilst her mother and grandmother finished putting things together. One of us -- either me or the toddler -- was apparently in the way. (Yes, I suppose it was me, too.)

Anyway, it was a glorious day in Chicago last Tuesday, the kind of day when you'd want to be outdoors anyway, and #1 Granddaughter was very pleased at the opportunity to play on the jungle gym (I spotted her down the slide) and she shrieked with pleasure when she sat with me on the swing. Before that, though, I checked my messages. My phones have an uncanny way of ringing five minutes after I leave the office. Sure enough, I had a message from one of the attorneys (an ex-partner, actually) who was trying to engage me in a new matter that would be up in court tomorrow. I'd already told him that would be impossible, and he'd already agreed that it should be possible to get a continuance in the circumstances. Now, though, he wanted to talk to me about the papers I'd need to review for court. I returned the call from the backyard, as the planes flew continuously overhead on their way to O'Hare. The new runway configuration has somehow resulted in increased traffic over the Curmudgeon Manse. Granddaughter #1, knowing no better, does not mind; in fact, she waves 'bye-bye' to the planes as they pass. She is getting very adept at 'bye-bye.'

"There's too much to scan," my ex-partner told me, reversing an earlier proposal to email me the materials I needed to review. "We could deliver them to your office, but you're already home?" he asked. And leaving momentarily, I lied, not knowing how far preparations had yet advanced. In the end, it was decided to overnight the materials to my house. That way, when I got back into town I would have them immediately. That struck me as sensible. I hung up and went to play on the swings.

It turns out that swinging on the swingset isn't quite as easy as it looks when you have to hold a toddler in place. I tired quickly. Granddaughter the First was made of sterner stuff; she was prepared to keep going for a much longer time.

Nevertheless, I told her, we have to see if it's time to go bye-bye. I got her car seat out of the little car and hooked it up to the van. This was difficult to do while holding onto the Baby-to-Be-Named-Soon, so I had to trust her not to rush into the street when I put her down on the ground. Fortunately, her mother did not catch me while I was doing this.

Then, having hooked everything together as best I could, I installed the child in the car seat and went inside to see if I could carry any bags to the car. Indeed I could, I was told -- and back and forth I trudged. I'd left my briefcase in the van anyway (just in case I was going to find time to get some work done) but there was plenty else to carry.

Granddaughter #1 was happy to see me galumphing to and fro. It doesn't matter the age or the relationship, the female of the species likes it when the male is constructively engaged.

Eventually Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter came out to inspect my handiwork. Long Suffering Spouse rearranged everything in the trunk while Younger Daughter eyed the car seat skeptically. "You put this in?" she asked. "I did," I said, and not without a little pride. "Hmmmm," she said, and she tugged here and pulled there before pronouncing the results inadequate. She fixed it. I pretended not to mind.

Finally, though, we were ready to hit the road. It was too late now to go back through the City (rush hour in Chicago, especially on the inbound Kennedy, starts by 3:00 and it was nearly 3:30). Actually, we'd be going with traffic on the Tollway route as well, and we'd be tied up there, too, unless we got going immediately.

Long Suffering Spouse got a text from Older Daughter just as we were pulling out of the driveway. They broke the bag but nothing's happening, the text read. It was adorned with a frowny-face as well. You have to wait awhile, Long Suffering Spouse texted back.

So would we, as it turned out.

There were no more texts from Older Daughter, even after Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter fired off a couple of inquiries. Involuntary radio silence descended on our expedition as we worked our way south and east.

There is a wind farm now along I-65, about halfway between the beginning of the highway and Indianapolis. For the anxious adults, the rows of giant, slowly rotating windmills, looking more like giant table fans than anything else, provided confirmation of our journey's progress. For #1 Granddaughter, the windmills provide a source of wonder and entertainment. She pointed and commented and gibbered. I've no doubt that she was expressing her opinions on alternate energy sources, but, at roughly 18 months, her diction is not yet precise.

By the time we made Lafayette, the continuing telephone silence was becoming worrisome. Speculation had been exhausted. Maybe she's already had the baby -- maybe she's having a problem? -- maybe she'll have to be C-sectioned, too! (Younger Daughter had a C-section, and she's a bit sensitive about it still, as if she somehow did something wrong. The vigorous, healthy toddler in the car seat next to her should have satisfied her on this point, but there you have it.)

It was determined that extraordinary measures would have to be taken. "I will text Hank," Younger Daughter announced, and Long Suffering Spouse, who had until now opposed such a radical step, agreed that it was time.

I did not participate in this discussion about whether to text, or not to text. We didn't have texting when my kids were born. I can well imagine my response if my phone had beeped in the middle of events, however. I am pretty sure the phone would not have survived. I can't say whether I would have crushed it underfoot or dashed it against the wall, but I am absolutely certain that I would not have simply responded to a text.

Hank responded. His initial message -- that things were fine -- was a bit terse and incomplete for Long Suffering Spouse's and Younger Daughter's taste, but they were somewhat relieved.

And there were further communications from inside the labor room. I can't recall the exact sequence now -- only a week afterward -- but, at one point, he said that Older Daughter was 'taking a break' from pushing.

Long Suffering Spouse was incredulous. "Taking a break? Taking a break?" But all her labors were quick and extraordinarily intense. In her experience, pushing had not been something that could be interrupted, much less suspended.

The other datum which had been communicated by Hank was the name of the hospital where Older Daughter was laboring and more importantly (since there are apparently about six hospitals in Indianapolis with that same name) which of these was the correct one to aim for.

We would have to rely on GPS to find the place.

I hate GPS.

It is unreliable. Certainly it is insufficient as the sole means of providing directions: How many news stories have you read over the years of people turning off highways and into ditches or onto railroad tracks (and not at a crossing) because they slavishly complied with the dictates of their GPS? I really started to hate GPS, though, when we traveled as a family to Oldest Son's wedding in San Antonio, Texas, a place where I'd never been. I'd put some time into reviewing maps and printing out directions beforehand; my children all pulled out their smart phones (I was years away from getting one myself) and solemnly assured each other, and me, and Long Suffering Spouse, and my increasingly fearful mother-in-law, that I had led them to the wrong hotel. In the wee small hours of the morning. After a delayed, and cramped, flight. And they were wrong. I was right.

Just last summer I had to produce a witness for a deposition in the western suburbs. I met him at the Kane County Courthouse. We adjourned to the Starbucks across the street to prepare him for his testimony. We then were to drive our own cars to the other lawyer's office which was located, literally, in the middle of nowhere. I called for directions. My witness -- one of those 20-somethings that lives on his mobile phone -- used GPS. I was on time. He was a half hour late -- GPS had gotten him hopelessly lost -- and he never would have made it had he not called me for directions.

So I wasn't wild about relying on GPS. "Well," I growled to Younger Daughter, "you relay the directions. I don't want to hear the stupid phone voice."

"That way it will be my fault," Younger Daughter said. She didn't ask. She didn't have to ask.

"Right," I confirmed.

Do you have traffic circles, sometimes called roundabouts, where you live? We have one in the Chicago area not too far from us. We avoid it like Chernobyl. It scares me to death. On the couple of occasions that I have been forced, for one reason or another, to venture through it, traffic seems to be coming from every direction at once, and randomly, and unpredictably besides.

But apparently the power-that-be in the outlying areas of Indianapolis are greatly enamored of traffic circles. At least they have installed them approximately every two blocks on the road that we were forced to take to the hospital.

We were forced to take this literally circuitous route because the main highway was closed due to construction. There was no surprise here. Wherever I want to go, no matter when, no matter how, I will encounter serious construction.

"At least it's still light out," Long Suffering Spouse said as I careened through still another traffic circle. "I'd hate to try this in the dark," she added.

"Yes," I managed. I was the picture of concentration, focused entirely on the swerving traffic around me. Still I heard Younger Daughter add, "Just two more of these to go and we're there."

And, for a wonder, the GPS was right.

Darkness was descending on Indianapolis as we parked in the hospital lot. So much for encountering traffic circles in daylight, I thought, but did not say. We'd not heard anything from inside the hospital for awhile (our last instruction was to come to the third floor waiting room). I scanned the darkening skies anxiously. I didn't see any storks.

Yes, I'm stretching this into three parts, I guess. Next: Waiting with the unhappy in-laws.

Curmudgeon becomes a grandfather again -- Part I

I hadn't written about Older Daughter's pending Blessed Event for reasons explained in this post. She's had such a tough time of it, and I didn't want to tempt Fate or Karma or Anything Else by writing prematurely. However, I believe the embargo is now lifted....

"If that kid is born deaf, don't say I didn't tell you so," I grumbled once again as Long Suffering Spouse regaled me with the tale of Older Daughter's latest ultrasound examination. "Even if the kid isn't deaf, she'll go berserk every time a dog whistle goes off anywhere nearby."

Because of the problems Older Daughter had in getting and staying pregnant, she took every possible opportunity to get an ultrasound examination performed. As a nurse in Indianapolis, Older Daughter found many such opportunities -- far more, I'm sure, than the average expectant mother in a different line of work. Older Daughter has more pictures of her child in utero than my wife and I do of our Youngest Son in the first year after he was born. Granted, there's a drop off in the number of photos taken of any child from the oldest to the youngest. By the time Youngest Son, the fifth-born, came along 21 years ago, we'd pretty much stopped taking pictures altogether. If he'd been kidnapped as a child, we'd have needed to use the annual school picture for the milk carton.

Anyway, with Older Daughter's pending child, we already knew she was a girl, and, thanks to the considerable advances in ultrasound technology since our own children were born, we'd already been subjected to debates about whose nose she has, or whose ears.

And Older Daughter got so big, so fast. I remember when Long Suffering Spouse was carrying Older Daughter. My wife still fit in her own jeans in the sixth month (she doesn't remember things quite that way, but I do). We both recall that she got bigger sooner with successive kids -- "well, everything has been stretched out of shape already," she'd lament -- and maybe that's what happened to Older Daughter, too. She never got very far with any of her previous attempts, but maybe her body reacted like this was a sixth or seventh pregnancy and not the first, true, lasting one. Maybe it's an IVF thing. I don't know. I don't really want to know.

It's not just here on the blog that I've been quiet about Older Daughter's baby. In real life I've been rather circumspect, too. Many of our close friends did not know until recently that Older Daughter was on the nest. I didn't mean to cause offense. Put it this way: The time to be happy, I'd say, on those occasions when I was challenged on account of my reticence, is when the baby is safely here. And not before.

Nevertheless, we were obliged to attend a baby shower a month or so ago in Indianapolis -- an event that surely rates its own post, or perhaps a chapter in the book I'm getting more and more determined to write -- but, with that exception, and it was forced upon us, Long Suffering Spouse and I have been verrrrry quiet about this pregnancy.

That doesn't mean that Older Daughter's pregnancy wasn't Topics A, B, C and sometimes D on the agenda at every family discussion. Older Daughter would call my wife two or three times a day, more on weekends, and she'd call her sister just as often. My mother-in-law would check in daily at least to inquire about Older Daughter's status. Granted, she'd want to tell us about the coming rainstorm, too, or the forecast of more snow (she always latches on to the most pessimistic weather forecast) and to talk about the latest topics in the news besides. It had gotten to the point where I couldn't exchange pleasantries with my wife until around 8:00 p.m., whether I came home early or late, because that was the time it would take for the day's phone calls with mother and daughter to wind down.

There was a flurry of speculation within the family that the baby would be born on Easter Sunday (the actual due date was May 3). My wife pooh-poohed such speculation, or she had, until sometime late last week, when her baby sense began to tingle.

I have mentioned, I think, that Long Suffering Spouse has an unerring sense of when a wee beastie has gotten into the house, whether she sees evidence of the creature or not. She just knows. And once she knows you had better be prepared to drop all regular activities for as long as necessary until said wee beastie is dispatched. With extreme prejudice.

In addition to that superpower, my wife also possesses an amazing baby radar. She can size a pregnant woman up and, in a moment, say, "soon," and the baby will come soon. Sometimes she can say "tomorrow," and you could make book on tomorrow. This extrasensory perception apparently relies on more than just sights and sounds. It also relies on pheromones or Higgs bosons or dark matter or something nifty like that, but nothing (of course) that my wife can articulate. But she knows just the same.

With Older Daughter away in Indianapolis, my wife's baby sense was not so sure -- even radar works better with objects closer as opposed to further away -- but she did have a lot of phone time with Older Daughter. That, and the report that Older Daughter made of fresh blood, which her doctor assured her was the "plug" coming loose (no, I don't really know exactly what that means and, no, I don't really want to know), caused, by the weekend, my wife to stop pooh-poohing those who were predicting Easter Sunday. She would not go so far as to commit to a day, however; she only pronounced "soon."

In her condition, Older Daughter could not join us for Easter Dinner. And, besides, as a professional church singer (in addition to his day job as an architect), Hank is extremely busy during the Triduum and on Easter. But Oldest Son came over with his wife, and Middle Son with his fiance, and even Youngest Son came down from South Janesville College for the day. (He was driving his girlfriend's car, but his girlfriend was in Europe, visiting relatives.) Our regular tenants, Olaf and Younger Daughter and the Baby to Be Named Later (and pretty darn soon now, since there's two of them), went to dine with Olaf's parents and aunts and uncles, but they joined our party already in progress. I was fairly bushed by the end of Sunday and my wife had this week off anyway and I had nothing up in court on Monday. I didn't need to think too hard about extending the weekend.

Besides, whether Older Daughter had the kid or not, Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter had committed to journeying to Indianapolis to provide such aid and comfort (and retail therapy) as they could. I counseled that they'd be better off going earlier in the week, as opposed to later, and my wife was coming around to this view. So by staying home Monday I could have one day with my wife during her week off.

Naturally, Long Suffering Spouse spent most of Monday morning on the phone with Older Daughter. Their discussion was focused on what they would do when Long Suffering Spouse got there (what, specifically, still needs to be bought?) and what food they would be bringing and how long they would be staying (Older Daughter wanted them to stay all week; Long Suffering Spouse was thinking Tuesday and Wednesday and being home for dinner Wednesday evening).

But, even in the midst of all these delicate negotiations, my wife was able to perceive that I wasn't really 'working from home,' as I had proposed to do Monday, I was merely playing a computer game. And having much too good a time at it, too. So Long Suffering Spouse decided that I needed to take the van in to get the tires rotated. "It's been a long winter," she told me, needlessly. No one who's been around this winter would need reminding. "And we're going to be driving this van a lot and soon, depending on when she has this kid." I grumbled a bit, but I could not dispute the logic. I saved my game and left.

"Have them check the brakes, too," she called on my way out the door. "I'll come get you if they're keeping the car."

She texted me shortly after I got to the tire place. There was at least one car ahead of me, I told her, and they hadn't yet looked at the van. I told her to stay home until I texted her.

"Well, your daughter is at the doctor's again," my wife texted back.

"Why?"

"More blood."

"More? That doesn't sound good."

"That's why she's at the doctor."

The tire rotation took 20 minutes or so; I apparently don't yet need new brakes.

I raced home to resume the conversation.

"They're giving her another ultrasound," my wife said -- and that brings you right to the beginning of this post.

We waited and we fretted. We fretted and we waited. We voiced our worry to each other.

Younger Daughter expressed surprise. "This is a side of you I didn't see when I was expecting."

Well, of course not, we told her. When you were in this situation, we explained, you didn't need to see us worry, though we did. Privately. But around you we were all happy and reassuring. That's our job.

"And, besides," added Long Suffering Spouse, "you were right here. We had a better sense of what was going on. Your sister is so far away."

Younger Daughter joined in fretting with the both of us.

Eventually the phone rang. Long Suffering Spouse was on it in an nanosecond. There was a pause, and, then, "OK, call us when you're situated." Long Suffering Spouse looked up at Younger Daughter and me hovering anxiously. "They're admitting her."

Apparently they weren't happy with the baby's heart rate. It was too low and, they said, it dropped further when Older Daughter stood up.

"So they're inducing?" I asked.

"No," said Long Suffering Spouse. "They're monitoring. They don't want to induce because she's still a couple of weeks early." Older Daughter was permitted to go home and pack a bag and return. "We'll know more in the morning."

Well, we didn't know much more next morning, you understand. We were told that, according to the monitoring devices, Older Daughter and baby passed the night just fine. These devices also documented that Older Daughter was in labor and the prior reservations about inducing gave way, among her medical providers, to a recommendation that they break her bag and put her on Pitocin. Older Daughter initially refused these enhancements, but her doctors weren't going to send her home regardless. The last tumblers clicked for my wife's baby sense. "Tonight," she said authoritatively, "tomorrow at the latest."

Well.

Given the imminent prospect of meeting a new grandchild, I decided to attach myself to this expedition. My wife agreed that they might find things for me to do. But first I had to stop in the office and see what, if anything, was going on.

You know, I have to tell you: I think my kids should have kids more often. It may be only coincidence, not cause, but I had two new files waiting for me Tuesday. I thought I was going to have to turn one of the new matters down -- they wanted me in court Wednesday and I had to explain I was about to leave town. Honestly, the surest way to attract legal business that I have found (and I have found very little business, of course, so take this with a large grain of salt) is to say that one is too busy to handle it.

I had to stay in the office a little longer than I'd planned. My wife called looking for me. "She's gone from 3 to 8," my wife told me. "They're going to break the bag." I have a vague, male understanding of what this jargon means. It means get the lead out, things are moving right along. I got moving as quickly as I could.

NEXT: The stork, and the Curmudgeon family, converge on Indianapolis.

The resiliency of nature -- expressway edition

Things are very busy for me at the moment. I expect to explain later but -- for now -- it being Earth Day and all, I thought I might recycle this post from September 2010 about humanity's relationship with Nature. It seems sort of appropriate, at least to me.

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.

Solving public pension woes: Unleash the trial lawyers!

Illinois faces an enormous public pension problem. Pensions for firefighters, police officers, teachers, and government employees of all ranks and titles, state and local, are "underfunded" by billions of dollars. Our recent "temporary" state income tax hike will almost certainly become permanent (repeat after me: there is no such thing as a 'temporary' tax hike) but that won't solve the problem by itself. In Chicago, property taxes are almost certain to go up, possibly way up, to bring the local pension deficits into balance.

You already know that, right?

Now... let's think about this for a moment. How does something like this happen?

Every two weeks, when a public employee is paid, a certain amount is taken from his or her check for the pension fund. That money can add up, all by itself, to a significant sum.

In our many public corruption cases here in Illinois, for example, it has (finally) become fashionable to deny a public pension to a politician who has been convicted of impropriety in office. But the disgraced politician is eligible to have his or her pension contributions refunded. Years after former Illinois Gov. George Ryan was convicted on corruption charges, the Illinois Supreme Court ruled he was ineligible to keep even a portion of his public pension (the argument had been that Ryan was entitled to a pension for government service in positions where he wasn't charged with corruption). Ray Long and Michelle Manchir reported the story for the Chicago Tribune in February 2010:

[Ryan received pension payments of] $635,000 from Illinois taxpayers in the three-plus years between his retirement and his major political corruption conviction, a top pension official said. Ryan also got a refund of $235,500 when his pension was taken away -- the amount of personal contributions he made during his more than 30 years in public office.

Anyway, one part of the pension contribution comes from the public employee who hopes to some day receive the pension. When you hear teachers and firefighters and cops say, hey, we did what we were supposed to do, believe them. They contributed. They had no choice.

But there are two other components to the pension equation.

The public body is also supposed to make contributions to the appropriate pension fund and the rest of the money is supposed to come from the income earned by investments of these sums.

Public pension funds took a beating around the country when the banks torpedoed the economy and caused the Great Recession in 2007. Growth forecasts and investment projections proved just as overly optimistic in public pension funds as they did in your 401(k) at home.

In Illinois, however, the problem was greatly exacerbated by the fact that our dedicated public servants did not make the pension contributions required by law. To the extent that some of them may have thought about it at all, they bet that the bull market and the never-ending appreciation of real estate values would cover up their malfeasance and nonfeasance forever; meanwhile, they took the money that they were supposed to have invested for the future of public employees and put it into programs, grants, jobs for idiot relatives -- all the usual stuff that governments do. But this was money that should have been unavailable for any purpose but pension investment.

Worse, our public pension funds, unlike your 401(k) at home, were managed by the politicians, or more precisely by their friends and relations, and they invested liberally in other friends and relations with little regard to the safety or security of the bets they were making.

In a lengthy article for the November 18, 2010 Chicago Tribune, headlined "Pension bets not paying off; Public funds fall further behind after making risky investments," Jason Grotto wrote:

Trustees of Chicago's failing public pension funds have funneled hundreds of millions of dollars into highly speculative investments that have not only failed to realize outsize returns but also saddled them with underperforming, long-term assets that can't be sold off, a Tribune investigation has found.

The investments, which involved buying equity stakes in businesses ranging from fast-food franchises in Mississippi to a Los Angeles grocery chain, were supposed to plug huge holes in pension fund coffers by yielding gains of up to 20 percent a year.

But a Tribune analysis of nearly 130 private equity and real estate investments made by four pension funds since 2000 found that nearly half have lost value so far. Of the $1.3 billion invested to date, the pension funds have seen just $60 million in added value on their balance sheets.

Had the funds used an equal amount to buy and hold a 30-year U.S. Treasury bond offered in 2000, they would have received $893 million in interest payments to date -- and their principal investments would be secure.

Trustees of the city's pension funds made these risky calls because they were hoping to make more than the modest returns offered by government bonds. For years, they have been under tremendous pressure to make up for city agencies' inadequate contributions to the funds, which promise retirement security to the city's public employees.

Among the beneficiaries of these investments was a real estate firm, co-founded by a nephew of then-Mayor Richard M. Daley, Robert Vanecko, a brother of R.J. Vanecko, who recently pled guilty to involuntary manslaughter on charges arising from a late-night altercation on Rush Street. According to Grotto's article, City pension funds put $60 million in Vanecko's firm -- and lost $11 million. (The other co-founder of DV Urban Realty was lawyer and real estate developer Allison Davis, the man who gave a very young Barack Obama his first job after law school. In Chicago, everything is connected somehow.)

The politicians themselves are probably immune from suit for failing to do their legislative and executive duties, allocating public pension money for public pension funds.

That's a shame, although if I were an ambitious prosecutor, I'd be thinking about how I could make a criminal case of this astounding dereliction of duty.

But the losses accumulated by the pension funds may be another matter. You can't sue the fund that ruined your 401(k) because it made bad business decisions. In the Great Recession, thanks to the megabanks -- the "too big to fail" banks that We the People bailed out, for reasons I'll never understand -- there were a lot of bad decisions made. But the fund that tanked your 401(k) probably wasn't speculating in investments touted by the offspring of fund managers. A lot of public pensions apparently were. There can be liability for making unsound investments with inadequate disclosures of risks and conflicts.

If I were running the SEIU or another public union whose members are about to be shafted by this pension mess, I wouldn't limit my lawyering-up to only those who will challenge the constitutionality of the bills we've passed here purporting to trim increases for current pensioners and cut benefits going forward for employees still on the public payroll. I'd also be looking for lawyers who can sue the funds that invested the money, the recipients of those investments, and anybody else I could find who might help defray the costs of this debacle besides taxpayers like thee and me.

The unions might be a tad suspicious of the deep-pocketed, silk-stocking lawyers they'd need for this purpose, because these are usually deployed as management tools, trying (and generally succeeding, at least in the private sector) to minimize the union footprint on the American economy. But, if I were a public employee union executive today, I'd be shopping.

Actively. Unleash the trial lawyers!

Curmudgeon is reminded that he lives in the city

The ride to work is usually uneventful. I take the CTA Blue Line from O'Hare to the Loop. Granted, the outbound trip has been more exciting, particularly on one recent occasion....

But that's the exception, not the rule.

The Blue Line is generally pretty tame. There are occasional homeless people camping out in the train cars; there probably have been more than usual this winter, given the terrible weather we had. But even the bums on the Blue Line are generally a cut above the bums on other CTA lines. A couple of weeks ago, for example, I had to change to a Red Line train to get somewhere, probably a doctor's appointment. I notice that the car that stopped right in front om me seemed rather empty and I had just begun to congratulate myself on my good fortune when I stepped into the train and into a cloud of the most terrible stench I can recall ever smelling. There were three or four recumbent forms in the car, at various locations throughout. I couldn't tell which was the prime offender. There were a few ordinary commuters, like myself, sitting in the car, stony-faced, glassy-eyed, breathing as little as possible. I made it one stop before I bailed out, gulping lung-fulls of subway platform air as if I were suddenly transported to a springtime orchard in full bloom.

So, yes, some of our bums on the Blue Line may be a tad pungent, but never, ever anything to match that.

There was a sleeping bum on the train when I got on the other morning. I took my seat across the aisle and busied myself in the morning Sun-Times. The train filled up in the usual course. As is ordinarily the case, even when the train car was full and people began standing in the aisles, no one had sat next to the sleeping man.

Here's a tip for you travelers out there: If you want to get your own seat on the train, don't bathe or shave for at least a week. Make sure your clothes are filthy and that you are carrying a plastic bag or something similar that all and sundry will assume is the sum total of all your possessions on this earth. Make the occasional random noise, preferably in a low sing-song voice, and you should be able to keep a seat entirely to yourself all through the rush hour, no matter how crowded the train may get otherwise.

The operative word in the preceding sentence, however, is "should."

The other morning, a younger man, with tattoos covering all his visible skin (his face excepted), with long, greasy black hair and wearing an orange T-shirt, boarded the train and decided that he would sit next to our sleeping bum. The newcomer took the bum's plastic bag off the seat next to the seemingly sleeping bum and put it on the floor.

That woke the bum up.

He did not wake up in a cheerful mood. Indeed, he took offense that this younger man had moved his bag and he said so. Loudly.

The bum was older than the newcomer, but I wouldn't want to guess whether he was 30 or 40 or 50. Nobody looks their best when they've been drinking for a long time, and my guess would be that he'd been drinking as often as possible for a loooooong time. Still, he was bigger than the newcomer and, by waking up like that, he did have the element of surprise working for him.

The younger man was not fazed by the sudden revival of the bum. In fact, it soon became clear that he would not likely be fazed by much short of a shotgun blast, and only then at close range. I would be guessing were I to suggest what drugs he was taking, but his drug of choice was not alcohol; of that much I can be certain.

He therefore responded to the challenge from the bum in a belligerent manner, unapologetic about moving the bag. A lively debate thereafter ensued. An increasingly loud and lively debate.

I looked up from my newspaper and watched my fellow passengers carefully sneak peeks at the two disputants. They were calculating, as I was, just how likely this argument was to end badly. I would dare say that most people, even most persons impaired by drink or drugs, would have responded to the bum's challenge by mumbling an insincere apology and getting the hell out of there. But not our tattooed gentleman. Retreat was not in his vocabulary.

As the dispute escalated ("You got no right to move a man's stuff!" "You got no right to leave your stuff on the seat so people can't sit down!" I don't want you sitting down by me!), I found I could no longer pretend to read the newspaper. My fellow passengers had put away their screens as well. One young woman, deciding it might be more prudent to go stand over at the other end of the car, offered Mr. Tattoo her seat on her way out. A lot of the passengers immediately adjacent to these two began to move out of their seats. I followed. I didn't know whether either of these two had a weapon of some sort. I did know that I did not want to be collateral damage.

The train moved from the elevated Milwaukee tracks into the subway, approaching the Division Street station. The doors opened; the disputants stood up.

GO TIME!

I don't know who swung first. I do know that almost all the passengers surged out the doors at this point, onto the platform. I was looking for the button to alert the motorman; there's one by one set of doors in every car, but it must have been the one closer to them than it was to safety. I wasn't going there. I got off the train with everybody else. Almost everybody else. The two combatants now had more room to flail at one another.

I found a button on a column on the station platform that is supposed to summon a station agent at the same time a young lady did.

And then I realized that not everyone had left the train besides the two guys fighting.

There's a Cook County Deputy Sheriff that gets on the train at my stop; I've seen him around for years. He's assigned to the Daley Center. Going on 10 years ago now, he used to be the courtroom deputy in a room that I was in every week without fail. Naturally, we've struck up a nodding acquaintance. I've never learned his name; he doesn't know mine either. I say, "Hey, how ya doin'?" and he says, "Hey, counsel."

He's not a young guy, and he's not tall or particularly muscular. If anything, he's a little pear-shaped. There is, or has been, a deputy on the 22nd floor at the Daley Center who has as many tattoos as the guy on the train, and this particular deputy has massive muscles. He's also a little mean, I think. (Steroids? Who knows?) When he shushes you in the hallway, you get the distinct impression he'd prefer that you didn't shush as requested so he could wail on you. Maybe even use his service revolver on you. Either as a club or according to manufacturer's directions depending on how much lip you wanted to give. But scary muscular deputy wasn't there. Deputy Howyadoin was. I don't want to guess how old he is. I'd say he's my age, but I'm terrible at guessing ages. Anyone from 40 to 70 seems to be my age these days. I'm pretty sure he's not 70, or even 60. But he's no kid.

Still, he was trained to intervene and he did. He waded in between the two of them, grabbing Tattoo Man from behind and pushing him away from the bum, all the while telling the bum to back off.

I'm still on the platform at this point. I know this because I remember seeing the CTA station agent running up, a slender young man armed only with a walkie-talkie, stopping right next to me. Oh, good, I thought, that'll be a big help. He was talking into the radio. "...two men fighting... African-American and Hispanic males... there's a Cook County Deputy Sheriff trying to break it up...."

I marveled a little at that. Chicago police and Cook County Sheriff's deputies may travel in uniform, but they generally wear baseball jerseys over them. So, unless you already know, you really can't tell. The young man on the walkie-talkie was more perceptive than I at first thought. Still, I wished he was two or three rather burly cops, in uniform, with billy clubs. But, alas.

Deputy Howyadoin seemed to be having some success in getting the two separated. He got Tattoo Man to sit down, a couple of rows away. The bum, meanwhile, was still on his feet, rockin' and ready for more, and making no secret of his desire in this regard. A couple of younger African-American men tried -- very gingerly -- to walk the bum back from the situation, but it didn't look or feel resolved.

I got back on the train. I had no idea of what I was going to do, or how. It's just -- well, I know this guy, sort of, and if things reignited, I felt I should try to do something.

It happened quickly. Tattoo Man was back on his feet facing the bum, barking at him. The bum had never left his feet and he was barking right back. The deputy was trying to move Tattoo Man back again; the Good Samaritans were trying to move back the bum.

Now, again, the way it works in all the best movies is that the two combatants, or one of them at least, lets himself get pushed away, barking all the while so it doesn't look like he's backing down, but allowing himself to be maneuvered to a safe distance. Bob Hope used to do this to great comic effect. But that wasn't happening here. Both guys were being pushed, but both were resisting. And, just like that --

ROUND 2!!

The bum got off a good one almost right away, pushing Tattoo Man into a window -- and breaking it (it's safety glass, so it did not shatter but merely spidered, but still, these guys were not playing) and I was still ineffectually trying to figure out what I could or should do that might help and -- suddenly -- it was all over.

The bum took off.

Maybe honor had somehow been satisfied when he nearly pushed the punk Tattoo Man through the window. Maybe the bum thought that, now that there was significant property damage, he did not want to face the police. Maybe he'd been doing a silent countdown in his head right along, calculating the time he had before the police might arrive. Whatever, he suddenly departed for greener pastures. Deputy Howyadoin got Tattoo Man (who to all appearances was entirely uninjured despite the collision with the window) to sit down again. The passengers got back on the train and we resumed our trip to the Loop.

Now it was Tattoo Man who had a seat to himself. And the seat in front of him and behind him, too. No one wanted to set him off again.

Tattoo Man decided to get off at Clark and Lake. I thought he might barrel through the people in front of him when the doors opened. I think they thought so too; they moved with some alacrity just as soon as the doors parted.

Deputy Howyadoin and I got off at Washington, at the Daley Center. I made it a point to engage him a little in conversation as we trudged with the rest of the commuting hoard down the platform. "Heck of a morning," I offered lamely. "Not the best way to start the day," he acknowledged. "Thank you," I said. I probably said some other stuff, too, and so did he. But "thank you" was the important bit, I think.