The Battle of the Ballroom, Part II

If you haven't already read Part I, go check it out now. Oh, come on, you can just scroll down; you don't need a link, do you? I can wait....

So I was waiting for the beginning of the tournament when I discovered something I enjoy even more than Sudoku -- free food. Of course, it kind of amazes me how we can delude ourselves about these things: I paid $25 to get into the event, and while I eventually found out there would be prizes, I'll bet they got a lot of stuff donated. I can tell you for a fact that while I hit the freebies pretty hard, I didn't get 25 bucks' worth out of it.

On my way back from the snacks, I mentioned to the reporter that I was there in part because I knew it would make good blog fodder. He wrote that down and even took my URL, but said he couldn't guarantee a mention. I was not surprised by that (nor by my omission entirely from this morning's feature story). I think what he was really looking for was someone to say, "I discovered Sudoku in your newspaper and it's brought me so much pleasure!" But since I didn't, and since their puzzle is generally so easy it's hardly even entertaining, I didn't give him the hook he was looking for.

Soon we were under way -- they distributed the Round 1 puzzle and we all began to work. This first one was pretty simple and, although I got off on the wrong foot by putting a 1 in a box that already had a 1, I got straightened out and quickly hit a respectable rhythm. I was probably 75% done and feeling good, when...

... the first person finished. Then another, and another, and.... I realized I had forgotten something crucial. I'm thorough. I'm methodical. I might even be called reliable; I almost always solve the puzzle eventually. However, I've never been called a fast mover, or particularly speedy -- at anything. As my shot began to slip away -- in the middle of the first round! -- I was able to turn up the dials in time to finish in the middle of the pack. The first 5 finishers get 7 points each; I was in the second (5-point) group. Then we all waited for the hapless 3-pointers to finish, or not finish as the case might be.

OK, not lost yet. Just gotta buckle down, pick up the pace a little. Round 2: the puzzle's a little more difficult, the results are exactly the same. The same woman finishes first; I wind up in the dead center again. We take a break, fortunately, for I've started to notice an uncomfortable sensation inside my skull. While I'm working the puzzle at (my) top speed, I can feel my synapses snapping and crackling like the power lines and tree limbs in our recent ice storm. Is it just the aging process? Or encroaching mental infirmity? I don't suppose it matters -- the warranty has long since expired and this is the grey matter that's going to have to get me through my Golden Years. I have to guess that my Blue Book trade-in value is close to zip at this point, as well.

For the results of Round 3, see also Round 2. And Round 1. Same winner, same clueless group bringing up the rear -- and me bobbing ineffectually around the median. As a math guy, I can't help but think of the statistics involved: the Spearman rank-difference coefficient of correlation has to be astronomical for this group, if you know what I mean, and why wouldn't you?

However, I'm still thinking that I might be able to creep up into 4th place, and one of the prizes, if I catch a break in the fourth and final round. And I get off to a lightning-fast start in Round 4; I might still be able to pull this out. Of course, this puzzle ... doesn't seem... all that... hard? That's when they announce: Oops, we gave you the final puzzle from the kids' event earlier. Misdeal!

We wait for the replacement to be Xeroxed at the front desk. and I wonder if I have any gas left in the tank. And when it finally comes down -- I could've had jet fuel, it wouldn't have made any difference. It was probably the hardest puzzle I ever saw; you know the phrase about "nowhere fast"? I was getting nowhere, excruciatingly slowly. The time was dragging on like I was at the opera.

It seemed no one was getting anywhere, so they announced we'd take a couple minutes to finish up, then score the round on the basis of how many correct numbers we'd filled in. At this, the guy across the table said, "I'll just start filling in numbers, then!" But I stubbornly stuck to my method -- what I would I prove by guessing right anyway?

Final score: me 9, Random Fill-In Guy 30. In fact, I believe I had the lowest (reported) total of anyone. So for the day, I wound up in a tie for 9th out of 15. That's even a lower rank, percentage-wise, than when I competed in the City-Wide Spelling Bee in 6th grade... and goodness knows I haven't recovered from that yet. I can tell you what place I finished in, and out of how many, and what word I missed (and why I missed it) -- but I'm not talking about it. I'll just say sometimes the people they have announce the words at these affairs talk kind of funny.

I did, however, win one of the door prizes: the book the puzzles were taken from, and an extremely tiny and cheesy Electronic Mini-Sudoku (I'm talking "attached to a keychain" tiny/cheesy). Plus, I did something for myself (and by myself -- not at all to be taken lightly). Also, I got a Coke and 3 M&M cookies absolutely free, if you don't count the $25.

And if the 8 people who finished ahead of me are unable to fulfill their duties as Champion -- maybe they'll get disqualified for using calculator watches or something -- I'm ready to step in and wear the crown.

The Battle of the Ballroom, Part I

I like to read history -- not so much the kind of history that relates big battles and geopolitics, but moreso the kind that helps you understand how the people lived. What life was like, in other words. That might more properly be described as anthropology, I don't know.

There are obvious differences between eras, but recurring themes as well. For example, every period seems to go through fads or crazes over games. The 1920s featured both crosswords and mah jongg; the 50s was notable for Hula Hoops; the 80s saw the success of Rubik's Cube. At present we're experiencing at least 2 such crazes -- not including video games, which have taken on a life of their own.

According to our friends at ESPN, poker is now a sport, with a televised World Series and everything. Now, a generation that mostly gave up homey family recreations like card-playing as unexciting has instead discovered the thrills of watching other people play cards on TV. I have perhaps remarked on such curiosities before (how unlike me to return to a familiar theme).

Although I'm pretty sure televised Sudoku will have to wait till the advent of ESPN-(some double-digit number), there's no question it has also become part of our cultural vocabulary (do I get any points for refraining from using the word Zeitgeist?). Why, just recently, Sherman's Lagoon did a whole week on Sudoku, and there can't be any better indicator of what's hip than the comics page. And no, I don't get all my ideas from the comics page.

You know -- by the way, this is our regularly-scheduled digression -- I sometimes feel bad about linking back to my previous posts so much. Then this week I was reading a Scholarly, Learned Theological Treatise that arrived in my e-mail inbox. The author constructed his argument at length and with care, complete with footnotes. When I got to the bottom of the page, I discovered that four of the six sources cited were this author's previous writings -- unpublished, at that. So this isn't just me yammering; I'm actually observing the current standards of scholarship.

As I have mentioned (ibid.), I enjoy Sudoku; I also have a bit of competitor in me, so when our local newspaper announced a Sudoku tournament, I was in all the way. Today was in fact that fateful day, so off I went to a local hotel "ballroom" to test my brainpower, and my knowledge of single-digit numbers, against the best this area has to offer.

It turns out the area doesn't have that much to offer (at least in volume), as only 14 other souls turned up on a sunny winter Saturday to match wits. I was issued ID# 10, which actually came in handy; later, when I had trouble finding my assigned seat, I was able to explain it by claiming I wasn't prepared to deal with any numbers greater than 9.

Since the newspaper was a co-sponsor, a reporter was circulating through the crowd (well, group, at least) interviewing my competition. I heard him say he was looking for a male contestant to interview, and someone pointed me out.

I didn't get to use any of my "A" material on him, like how I had brought my Sudoku dictionary (a Sudoku dictionary is an index card with the digits from 1-9 written on it. Or if not, it ought to be). Before I had much chance to uncork a magnum of sparkling wit, we were called into the room -- where I had the aforementioned seating issue.

You can imagine how I felt sitting there (at last) waiting for the tournament to begin... but to give you a better sense of what that was like, I'm going to continue this post next time in Part II.

The Sound of Music

My wife reminded me recently of a moment I'd completely forgotten. When our son was born, he had some trouble with jaundice and with getting his breathing regulated, so he was kept in the hospital for 6 days. His room was not quite the high-tech hospital room teeming with expensive equipment... it always seemed to me more like a storage room or perhaps an exam room with a "baby hospital bed" jammed into it.

While he was there, there usually was a radio playing in the background -- after all, we couldn't be there 24x7, so he was alone most of the time. On this particular long-forgotten occasion, I turned to my wife and expressed a festering anxiety: "I don't want my boy to grow up a country-music fan."

Well, for the first seven years, at least, I seem to have avoided that fate, but only because he's a musical omnivore. I only wish that there were an elementary version of "Name That Tune"; I could get a pretty good college fund started for him, because if he hears any sort of mildly kid-oriented tune (he's also pretty adept with Christmas music), he will identify it. And if it's playing anywhere in the environs, he will hear it. This is actually a useful extension of the axiom that says a kid can hear anything but his parents telling him what to do.

He certainly gets plenty of exposure in plenty of directions. When I was a kid, my parents were "easy listening" devotees. If you're not familiar, easy listening is basically elevator music, (occasionally) with words. While this has come in handy recently, since the "easy listening" music of the 60s & 70s makes up most of the "easy piano" books of the present day, it didn't necessarily help me develop a sophisticated musical palate.

In fact, I was surrounded; since I lived outside the school district I attended, I was transported not by a standard bus -- nor even by the now-legendary Short Bus -- but in fact in a regular station wagon with the rest of the literal outcasts (how sad is that, that I didn't even merit the Short Bus?). Every afternoon, all the other kids were called by bus number; then the voice intoned, "Station wagon, please... station wagon." Not that I'm bitter.... anyway, Mrs. Dickenson, the driver, was an aficionado of that same easy listening station. Narrow range of musical exposure -- that, and hymns! -- is what I'm getting at here. I was in high school before I figured out you could do a song with an electric guitar and drums.

The kids today, however (or "Those kids these days", if you prefer, but I'm not wearing my flannel shirt and suspenders today) get all kinds of chances to hear all kinds of cool stuff. Just watching kid TV, look (listen) what they can hear:

• Ziggy Marley does the theme from "Arthur" (the aardvark, not the drunken Dudley Moore!)
• Little Richard sings the "Magic School Bus" theme
• They Might Be Giants do opening AND closing themes for "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse", as well as "Higglytown Heroes"
• Taj Mahal performs the theme for "Peep and the Big, Wide World"
• and many, many more... perhaps you get the point

In addition, one of his favorite tapes is the soundtrack to Fantasia, which is honest-to-goodness, no-kidding-around, Philadelphia Orchestra classical music. Not only that, but he was flipping through TV channels not long ago when he stopped, transfixed by a sound I don't think he'd ever heard before.

It was polka, and he was clearly diggin' it.

He doesn't say no to much, although when we are in the car he will occasionally ask me to change the station if there are too many "girl songs" (i.e. female singers). Just in case, though, I stick to the radio preset buttons -- that way I know we're not going to wander into a country station by mistake.

Second Annual Christmas Performance Review

The bad news about reaching my first blogiversary is that now the calendar turns over and I hit many of the same occasions again – that is, many of the same occasions I wrote about the first time around. So the next challenge: should I attempt to write about all the same things, but try to do it better (or risk doing it worse – or perhaps more painfully, end up repeating myself)?

Right after Christmas 2005, I wrote a piece about my expectations for (and subsequent frustrations with) the Christmas season. I also included my plans for doing it better “next time”.

Well, we’ve just passed through next time, so I thought it would be worthwhile to review last year’s piece and see if anything’s changed.

I guess the good news is that I don’t have to write a “Christmas piece” this year, because I already said it all the first time. I find that basically everything I wrote last year still applies… oh, wait; the kids are now 7 and 4. Everything else still holds true. I’m going to choose to view that as a validation of the Universal Truth of my writing, rather than an illustration of my Complete Inability to Change.

Note that this post is really also in keeping with the fine holiday-season tradition of repeat programming – or if you prefer, “classic episodes”. So in lieu of any original thoughts, please enjoy an encore of Christmas 2005!

The Christmas Alphabet

I discovered at an early age that wherever "hip" was located, I was always going to be in the next room. Or maybe "cool" was just being sequestered at an Unknown Location. In any case, I wasn't very old before I came to terms with -- maybe even embraced -- my nonhipness.

Perhaps it was inevitable anyway, for a skinny kid with glasses, always the youngest in my class, not athletically gifted, but pretty successful academically. Compound that with the fact that, as someone in a position to know said recently, I was born old; all of this is unlikely to add up to someone who will ever be anointed as an Arbiter of Style.

So instead, when other kids wore jeans & sneakers to school, I was wearing doubleknits (OK, I just dated myself) and sports shirts and dress shoes. When the popular kids were waiting for class to be over, I was the kid with his hand up -- not just to answer the question but to be first to answer. And although I was, as you might guess, not invited to the cool parties, I'm pretty sure that the playlist at those parties did not include Barry Manilow.

And I'm equally convinced: they don't know what they were missing!

With all of that, you'd think I would be prepared to land on the Unhip List yet again, but I was a bit caught off-guard this year by all the abuse heaped on writers of Christmas letters. Both the comics pages and several columnists I've read recently have had caustic things to say about the level of truth contained in such letters, as well as the level of interest on the part of their readers.

I suppose some people probably write to induce envy; perhaps some get bogged down in minutiae unintelligible to 'outsiders'; maybe some test the tensile strength of the truth. As for me, I got the idea to write an annual letter from my mom, and I've been writing our family's letter since... well, I think the first couple were printed on a dot-matrix printer, for anyone who's ever seen one of those in a museum. I try my best to make them interesting for all possible readers (of course, I try the same with the blog, and look how that's working out); I also resist the temptation to exaggerate or even brag. And as I write, I always keep in front of me a few specific goals, stated here in no particular order:

• A basic recap: This part may be more for me, but I like to summarize the most important parts of the year (very) briefly.
• A shorthand character sketch: Since our marriage we have lived in 4 towns in 3 states, and made & left behind friends all along the way. The letter is a way for them to see what we've been up to, as a window on who we are now (well, not me -- I haven't changed since I was about 7). This is particularly important for our more recent friends, many of whom are very fond of our kids. I labor the hardest to paint the kids' picture: not of "what they do", but more of "what they're like".
• Coherently written: Especially in the years B.B. (Before Blog), the letter served as an outlet for my literary impulses. My wife is grateful that the release valve of the blog has lessened my inclination to write jokes in the Christmas letter. Actually, I am too; it saves me the trouble, since she always took them all out anyway.
• A spiritual undertone: I have always tried to make it clear to our readers (not all of whom are Christians or church-affiliated) that for our family, Christmas is much more than a jolly fat guy in a red suit. I try not to command anyone to find a Bible and open to Luke chapter 2, since not everyone is thrilled with a full-fledged sermon in their mailbox. Still, there's always the chance that some reference might touch a heart in some way.
• A gentle prod for response: I don't think we're alone in this, but of the people whose company we enjoy who we don't see regularly, only perhaps a tenth are in any kind of regular touch. I always put a commercial at the end of the letter saying, please contact us -- maybe the unintended subtext is that "your news can't be any more boring than ours", I don't know -- and it does pay off some percentage of the time. That alone is worth it....

It seems to me that people who carp on the great American tradition of the Christmas letter ought to keep in mind the difficulty of the task. Not only am I trying to capture an entire year (in this case, 4 person-years) in a space of 800 or so words, but I have to do it with an alphabet that has a letter missing. Or at least, it seems like everywhere I go, I keep hearing “Noel”!

Love, and puns, from our house to yours... <:-)~

Turn, Turn, Turn

Around our place, basically anything that has buttons or a display -- particularly any kind of digital readout -- is my responsibility. TV, VCR/DVD, clocks, computers, even to some extent the oven, all fall under my purview. After all, I am the Moderately-Well-Paid Information Technology Professional. I do my best to bear up under such a heavy load... although it's probably best that we don't talk about the first day of Daylight Savings Time back in 2000, AKA "Black Sunday".

The irony is that I am not the one in the house who owns a personal digital assistant. My wife, whose traditional brand of organizer has always been the patented "lots of scraps of paper" method, saw another minister using one at a meeting; when she got home, we got in the car and went out to buy one for her.

As enthusiastic about technology as I am in general, I haven't felt the lack of a PDA too intensely. I'm not exactly an Early Adopter by nature -- I even bought a VCR recently. However, I'm coming to the conclusion that I need something to help me keep track of one thing: whose turn it is.

It started simply enough, although I confess I don't recall what the first instance was. One day we went to do something and someone said, "He/she got to do it yesterday", so I said, "OK, today it's your turn." But I have a 7-year-old son who is obsessed with being first, and a 4-year-old daughter who is grimly determined that he won't get anything that she can't also have. In both cases, the wailing about the hideous fate of 'going second' is earsplitting; my son is especially fond of "Ohhhhh, I never get to do that!"

So at present, I am attempting to keep track -- using only the memory chips my Maker originally gave me -- of (at least!) whose turn it is to do the following:

• bring in the newspaper in the morning
• choose a group of 3 videos for potential viewing
• select the afternoon video from the group of 3 (this division of duties was itself devised to try to get around the 'my turn' thing, but succeeded only in creating an extra turn)
• choose his/her afternoon snack first
• open the door first
• get in/out of the van first
• take the first bath
• open our Advent calendar and retrieve the day's chocolate treat
• sit on a particular parent's lap during prayer time
• administer evening prayer time (each evening during prayer time one of the children gets to choose who goes next to offer their "thank you to Jesus")
• be put to bed by a particular parent

I actually thought about keeping track on our "fridge calendar" -- but there's literally not enough room to write it all in, unless I expand it to include the whole side of the fridge. I suppose the alternative is to designate each day as belonging to one kid or the other, but I'm not sure either of them can wait a whole day for their next turn! At least this way each child has something to hold onto each day. Or, you know, I can just ask them... to which the response is almost invariably "Me!"

Since a parent's job seems to involve a striped shirt and a whistle anyway, perhaps we should start each day (each activity?? Noooo!) with a coinflip: "Captains ready? Call it in the air..."

How long do you think it would be before, "Ohhhhh, I never get to be heads!"

Metablog: Better to Light a Single Candle

As far as I can tell, Hallmark does not carry a line of Happy Blog Anniversary cards -- nor, as far as I can tell, do the popular e-card sites. That is unquestionably why I have not received any greetings, salutations, or felicitations on the occasion of this, my First Blog Anniversary.

What's worse, a Google search on "blog anniversary" produced a bunch of very complimentary readers, congratulating their favorite blogger on his/her happy occasion. I didn't read them, but several of the search-text results included a line about 'I read you all the time' or 'I can't start my day without you'... which did kind of make me wonder the secret of their success.

No matter; I'm coming to terms with the concept that I'm writing this for me, and if anyone else pops in, I hope they enjoy it too. Living in a parsonage for most of my life, I'm acquainted with the need to be prepared for unexpected guests, so I've actually done a little bit of renovation that I'm showing off today in my Anniversary Open House (unfortunately, it's BYORefreshments -- but please, feel free to enjoy a refreshing beverage or tasty snack as you read. Just remember to use a coaster).

My host (or, I suppose, "landlord", to extend the metaphor), Blogger, has recently introduced some new features. The one I was eagerly anticipating was the "labels" feature, which allows me to categorize my posts. So I've been plowing through the Back Issues, trying to pigeonhole myself... not an easy task, since I really do take the "Random" part seriously! I also have a habit, more pronounced in some of the earlier efforts, of starting out in one direction but fetching up entirely somewhere else -- kind of like Edgar Allan Poe with multiple personalities and a touch of ADD.

Anyway, here's the list of my labels and what they mean:

1. A&E -- this is my Arts & Entertainment section. I write about books, music, TV or movies. For some reason, when I started out, I was sure the cyberworld was desperately awaiting my opinions on these things. I do it a lot less now, but I think my favorite was My Date With Donnie (Pt I-II)... although Sine Qua Noel is certainly more timely in this season.
2. Comics Page -- I had a hard time deciding what to call this one. It's a little embarrassing, or at least risky, to stand up and say This is funny about something you've written yourself. In any case, this is the place for things I wrote that I either intended at the time to be funny, or ended up sort of accidentally amusing. Not only does this label continue the "newspaper" metaphor I use in other labels, but I'm also secure in the knowledge that the "real" comics page is itself only sporadically funny (with the possible exception of Frazz) so I'm shooting at a makeable target. I think my favorite here is Not Quite the Fortress of Solitude; in general this category has the highest percentage of "not quite what I had in mind".
3. Day in the Life -- The largest group, entries based on something that's happened in my daily life. With any luck there is some overlap here with the previous category. I'm probably fondest of these myself and it's hard to pick one to recommend; if pressed, I'd probably go with Into the Rodent's Jaws or Christmas Performance Review.
4. Family Room -- Pieces in some way about my family. Like most parents I pull a fair amount of material out of the kids. I believe my pick here would be Lower Education.
5. Locker Room -- I thought when I started that I'd be writing pithy, amusing, insightful sports pieces pretty regularly. That was before I discovered that the people who do read this with any regularity are not generally sports fanatics... and that I don't have all that much pithy or amusing or insightful to say about sports. In any case, my fave is probably Not For Nothing Do They Say Hope "Springs"... although truthfully it's not all that much of a sports piece!
6. Metablog -- These pieces are blogs I write about writing blogs. I tried to write a piece about writing a piece about writing a piece once, but I blew a hole in the time/space continuum. I can already tell this entry will not be my favorite here; I'd say my top was The View from the 40s.
7. Op-Ed Page -- I started this to begin with in part because I had opinions on a couple things and no real place to put them; the alternative is to write the newspaper and become One Of Those Guys Who Writes to Newspapers. You know the type -- they type with one hand and use the other to hold onto the tinfoil hat that keeps out the thought rays the government is trying to poison them with. I don't do it too often -- even I'm not that interested in my opinion -- but the one I feel the most strongly about is Motivational Speech.
8. Rewind -- I think a lot about the past, whether mine specifically or simply in the historical sense. I don't write it that much, though, because I can't always see my own past, at least, from far enough away to make sense (or something interesting) of it for another reader. The one of these I enjoy the most is The Hazards of Time Travel.
9. Theology for Dummies -- is my somewhat tongue-in-cheek label for anything spiritual. It stems from my core belief that we are all theologians, whether we really "think about it" or not; everything you do is in some ways a reflection of who you believe God is and how (or if) you relate to Him. I'm not going to pick a favorite here -- some are "big" thoughts and some are "smaller", but I feel like they're all (I hope) truths that God has helped me see, so they're all important.

So that's the starting lineup. I'll add more categories if the need arises, and I may add more labels to some of the entries -- an entry can fit, and be assigned, several labels.

I have really enjoyed writing Year 1; I've taken great pleasure in the pure writing piece, and in thinking about my life and the world in new ways. I'm also appreciative of anyone who chooses to read it, even if they don't share a comment. But my pleasure, or satisfaction, shouldn't be (can't be, under the circumstances!) dependent on yours... so I'm going to keep going as long as I can, and see what else I learn.

Work Release

Some days, my commute to work can be pretty tough.

If one of the kids spills their milk, conditions can get slippery. And when there's a pileup -- of toys on the basement steps -- there can be significant delays in getting downstairs to my office.

I started working some of my hours from home almost 7 years ago, and for about half that time I've been a 100% remote employee. I vaguely remember those office days, but it's hard to imagine going back at this point. On the other hand, I may actually observe a stricter dress code for the most part than my last office -- I find that the more casually I dress, the dumber I am. I must say I particularly appreciate the "footwear-optional" policy at this location, however.

Obviously self-discipline can be an issue when you're all alone. If nothing else, the combination of no one watching, a little bit of stress, and unlimited access to snacks can be dangerous, if not lethal. The biggest challenge, however, is probably the isolation. I'm pretty solitary by nature... but even for me, there's a fine line between solitary work and solitary confinement.

That's why my occasional forays out of "the office" can feel a bit like being let out of jail (or at least like the prison work-release program). Taken to its extreme, I get to go to a meeting in Las Vegas; after all, the 7 people on my immediate team live in 6 different states, so that kind of extravagance is the only way we ever get to see each other.

Even my last "outing", although not reaching the Vegas standard, was a significant treat. Last week I drove about an hour to attend a class in Microsoft Excel (no, Bill doesn't get a link from me). I got to wear a shirt with a collar, and real shoes, and carry a briefcase. Just for one day I got to feel like a grownup... as opposed to a kid holed up in the basement playing video games or something.

Granted, the impartial observer might see it as a bit of a disappointment. I drove a long way, in the rain, to sit in a drafty meeting room with a mob of strangers (some of these strangers, judging from their inane and repetitive questions, had a difficult time finding their way home afterwards). The instructor was... well, not a natural teacher, with a decent but not awe-inspiring grasp of Excel. Though I was only four rows back, I couldn't see much of the work on the screen anyway; I could frankly sit down for an hour with the handout and get more out of it. Even my long-anticipated lunch out was just okay.

On the other hand, I just kept remembering it was my Grand Day Out -- and isn't it fortunate that I have such a relentlessly sunny outlook on life? After all, the next workday is back to the slippers, and back to the basement... at least as soon as the traffic clears on the stairs.

L&O: CC – The Conclusion of a Special 2-Part Episode

In the criminal justice system, the people are also represented by a third important group who normally go completely unnoticed: the jury. This is their story.

DUN-dun!

Previously on L&O: CC, the jury selection process. On tonight’s episode: the trial.

The trial began on a Tuesday morning bright and early. Okay, 9:30 (court keeps some pretty relaxed hours, really; our first “day” of jury selection was actually 9:30-12:15). I came to regret my decision to wear suspenders – not because of the fashion faux pas my wife warned of, but because I set off the metal detector. So once again my arrival fell into the general 9:29ish category.

Not long thereafter, we settled into our comfortable yet squeaky chairs for opening arguments. Problem #1: the judge doesn’t allow note-taking. He wants us listening instead of scribbling; I’m shocked at his lack of concern for those of us who are bloggers. Hard to get the good stuff without writing it down!

I do make a few general observations pretty quickly: first of all, it’s really dimly lit, the exact opposite of a television studio. Almost restful, as I would find to my chagrin after perhaps a little too much lunch.

There’s no gallery, which is going to deprive us of the legendary Perry Mason finish. I suppose it’s still possible one of the witnesses will jump up and say he did it. Or, who knows, maybe a juror. Although only the foreman generally gets a line.

Court reporters on TV don’t get lines either – just the standard shot of her (always “her”, right?) tapping away. This one talks more than the judge, constantly interrupting to ask the witness to repeat himself. I’m on the verge of asking her to switch places.

The case concerns a man who went to an instant oil-change place. During the service, he was standing next to the car when it began to roll. He jumped in front to stop it, but was pinned against the garage door and severely fractured his leg.

The basic facts are not in dispute; the plaintiff says it's the garage's fault for letting him stand next to the car, and they must have done something to make it roll. The defendant says he wouldn’t have been hurt if he hadn’t jumped in front of the car... which is certainly true in the “fact” sense; we’ll have to see if it holds up in the “liability” sense.

I think opening arguments are kind of like the opening act at a concert. Nobody’s there to see that part, and nobody pays any attention to it anyway. It’s just sound; in this case the opening arguments boil down to:

• My client has been wronged, and his life is ruined, so you’ll want to give him a bunch of money.
• We didn’t do anything, the guy jumped in front of the car, and besides the car moving must’ve been an act of God.
  

Then we have witnesses, starting with the two mechanics on duty. Their stories are just enough different to leave you wondering what really happened. On the other hand, the incident was 2½ years ago, so it might be weirder if the accounts were identical.

We do get one stock moment when one of the mechanics says something and the plaintiff’s lawyer takes a pause. Then he pulls out a document and says, “Perhaps you need to refresh your memory...” The witness studies the paper, then says, “I must have said that but I don’t recall saying it.” Disappointingly, no one is hauled off to the Graybar Hotel for perjury (“Call my wife! Call my lawyer!”).

The plaintiff takes his turn. He’s kind of a mope and I take an instant dislike to him. I can also feel brain cells popping from the strain of trying to formulate all the facts and spin into a coherent, and impartial, account – mindful that it’s hard enough to know what happened, but I also need to know why, and who’s really responsible (and potentially, how much dough that’s worth).

On top of that, I’m very conscious of not only listening objectively but also appearing to be objective. I know the lawyers and the judge are watching, and I don’t want to look like I’m favoring one side or another. Fortunately, my default face is pretty expressionless anyway....

We also get an Expert Witness, in the field of... Auto Mechanics. Much discussion ensues about how the car moved and why it might have moved. Oddly, the thing that strikes me most about his testimony is that he is in fact expert at being a witness; if he’s asked a yes/no question, he answers only yes or no and waits for the follow-up question to supply the details. We are thus deprived of the classic: "Objection!" "Sustained -- the witness will confine himself to answering the question."

Now it’s midafternoon and the judge says we’re moving quicker than anticipated and have covered what was planned for today. Translation: the remaining witnesses are doctors and there’s no way they’ve been just sitting around waiting for their turn. As a result, we are adjourned. Day 2, 9:30-2:15 (with 2 breaks, and an hour and a half for lunch) – I could get used to these hours.

I’m getting the rhythm of this trial down; on Wednesday, I arrive at the jury room at... 9:29 (no suspenders, and I left my sunglasses in the car, so I breeze through the metal detector). The Court Officer says there will be a slight delay – the judge & lawyers are in conference. We immediately begin to speculate that it’s a settlement conference. After about a 45-minute wait, we are brought into the courtroom to be told that the parties in fact have settled; later, in the jury room, the judge tells us the plaintiff got $125K.

Looking around the room, the consensus seems to be that he wouldn’t have gotten that much from us; we weren’t entirely sold on his story, or the extent of his “pain and suffering”. And none of us can quite decide: is it cool that we got out without having to deliberate, or did we miss out on part of the experience? Overall, I’d say I’m just as happy not having to translate all that testimony into a dollar figure.

So in exchange for sitting in a chair for (parts of) 3 days, I'm off the hook for (at least) 6 years. Plus, now I know how those Perry Mason extras felt.

Law & Order: Civil Court

Now I know how the extras on Perry Mason felt.

A recent day's mail held the modern-day equivalent of the old Selective Service "Greetings". This one, however, came from the County Commisioner of Jurors, and requested my presence at the courthouse for a fun-filled week of jurisprudence.

Of course, the odds were still in my favor. Surely a hundred or more similarly civic-minded citizens were being summoned as well -- after all, my number was 65.

Secure in the "knowledge" that I was off the hook, I completely forgot to call in till bedtime that Sunday night, when my wife said, "Hey, don't you have jury duty tomorrow?" So I dug the instructions out of My Pile, confident that I wouldn't need to go at all... but the recorded announcement said numbers 2-80 should report between 8:30 and 9:30 a.m. the next morning.

Unfortunately, I have a hearing problem: if you say "between 8:30 and 9:30", I hear "as the second hand hits 9:29:59". And it would have worked, too... if not for the school bus I met. Or the fact that I parked at the wrong end of the "municipal complex". Or the metal detector at the courthouse door.

In any case, when I got there, the Jury Spiel was already (just, okay?) under way. Even so, walking in I noted that there were perhaps 40 people in the room -- a far cry from the almost 80 I was anticipating.

The orientation process included a video, narrated by (among others) Ed Bradley -- slightly unsettling, as he had only just "signed off for the last time" four days before. The highlight, by far, of the video was a recreation of the practice of Trial By Ordeal of Cold Water, which so neatly parallels the corresponding scene in Monty Python & the Holy Grail that I couldn't help but chortle (and wonder aloud if we would get to practice a similar form of justice).

We had almost completed the video when half of us were summoned to a courtroom, and suddenly I began to get a picture of my true odds: 21 people in the room, choosing 8... and then some guy says, "I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow," and the judge says, "Sure, no problem," and now it's 20. Since everyone's got an equal chance of landing in any of those 8 chairs (and they're all equally stuck), I have an 8/20 chance of being snagged: 40%.

Naturally, I felt a bit smug when 8 names were called and I was missed. And I have to admit, it was pretty entertaining watching them being quizzed, and realizing that some of them were clearly not going to make the final cut -- right up until the penny finally dropped and an inner voice started yelling "dummy, if somebody goes home you're back on the hook!"

Sure enough, 5 stay and 3 go; now it's 12 bodies for 3 seats (25%). Another round of calls, another bullet dodged... before I know it, 12 have been called (the gallery where I'm sitting is starting to look like the stands at a Tampa Bay Devil Rays game), but only 6 chosen: 2 seats left and I'm back to a 25% chance. And then, the hammer falls.

Now we all know there's more than one way to answer a question, and it would have been a simple thing to spin one of those "can you be impartial" kinds of queries to get a free ticket out the door. I felt that several of the dearly departed were very careful to stress attitudes that ensured they would be voted off the island; I decided it would be a worthwhile and interesting experience to stick around, so I played it straight.

Some of those who got the boot actually came after me -- we ended up running through a total of 18 of the group of 20 in order to assemble a panel of 8. And the two who turned right around and went home without even speaking are still excused from jury duty for a minimum of 6 years!

So, as the Book of Genesis would have it, there was an evening and a morning, the first day of my experience as one tooth on one cog in the enormous intertwined system of gears that is Our Justice System. In the next episode of Law & Order: Civil Court, the trial begins!

Truth, Justice and the American Way

Here in the carefully-vague region of "Upstate New York" -- if I'm being overly cautious in revealing personal details, it's only because I'm trying to avoid the inevitable onslaught of paparazzi -- we've recently emerged from the sludge of Election Campaign Season. I've discovered that you can use all the Windex you want on your TV screen, but it's still hard to watch when the film of slime is coming from inside the set.

Our Congressional race was famed far and wide for the brutal, yet juvenile, tone of its advertising. I think most of us who have seen a few campaigns knew that the relatively unknown challenger had to kick up a bit of fuss to be noticed; incumbents have an enormous built-in advantage in money and recognition. And certainly, the incumbent had a few, ah... foibles... that merited discussion.

But I, at least, was a bit surprised when the Congressman avoided discussing his performance record and instead eagerly embraced the Politics of Personal Attack himself. In the end, I believe it was the insight thus gained into his personality, and not any debate over his past performance (or, for that matter, the worth of his challenger), that made the difference in his somewhat surprising loss.

In the interview after her victory speech, the Congresswoman-elect noted that the incumbent hadn't aired a single ad about his own record. This appropriately enough was, like much of what we'd heard for weeks upon weeks, "more-or-less" true -- true in spirit, at least. Full of what Stephen Colbert would call "truthiness": the essence of being or at least seeming true, without actually being what the dictionary might identify as "accurate".

So in the continuing pursuit of Truth, Justice, and the American Way... I have the general sense that perhaps Truth was not 100% victorious in this case (not that it would have been any more so, if the outcome were reversed). Justice? You tell me; as I said, I suspect the result was largely self-inflicted, so there's a certain karmic justice, at least, in that.

And what about the American Way? The sad fact is that I think this now is the American Way. Someone once said we get the campaigns we deserve, and I fear that's correct. The West Wing was popular at least in part because it allowed us to think we like our politics noble -- that we'd all rush to vote for a man of principle like Jed Bartlett. I'm not sure, however, that the electoral records of those few who have told us the truth about who they are and what they hope to accomplish are all that glossy. Not that we have that much data to go on. And honestly, how different was the tone of this campaign from the tone that society in general has taken in recent times (as I discussed quite some time ago)?

Not long ago, a bunch of reporters from newspapers all over (including our own) gathered to discuss the political campaigns they'd covered, and our paper did a story featuring some of the most telling/amusing incidents. One of the anecdotes related concerned the candidate who put out a glossy brochure featuring a photo of his All-American family (we're in favor of that, right?) -- down to and including the faithful family dog.

However, as the candidate subsequently admitted... he'd rented the dog, to make the photo look more All-American.

Gee, I wonder why we're having so much of a problem with voter turnout?

Sure, Now You Listen

As a parent, you seek every day to help your children absorb all the lessons they'll need to grow and learn and become the people you want them to be. So naturally, when they demonstrate that they've really "gotten" something, it gives a parent a rush of pleasure. Right?

Well, as it turns out, that may depend.

One of the relatively small things we spend time discussing is table manners, which aren't necessarily top priority for a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old. We're not bad at please & thank you, but food-related behavior is often up for grabs.

Recently my son was having crackers & peanut butter for the Ritual Afternoon Snack; he is, as I have mentioned, a creature of the clock, and if he sees it hit 3:00 he will remind me that it's snack time before the colon blinks again. He loves crackers and nearly lives for peanut butter, so naturally he put a whole Ritz in his mouth. Not for the first time, I reminded him that "we need to take bites". He gave me the look he often gives me, which translates roughly into "you didn't see that, did you?" (Sometimes he even says that to me when I reprimand him for something: "You didn't see that!" It's probably my second favorite rejoinder of his, after: "You don't tell me what to do!" Um, that's actually most of my job description...)

That evening during supper, he got a chance to demonstrate that he was catching on. I popped a french fry into my mouth and he instantly said, "Dad, we're not supposed to put the whole thing in our mouth." I briefly considered explaining to him that it was really a bite-size fry -- but I figured it was best to affirm him for recognizing the lesson, so I began to apologize to him for breaking the rule.

So my daughter broke in quickly and said, "Dad, we don't talk with our mouths full!"

With No Direction Home

One of the best ways to tell whether I'm awake is to note whether I'm reading. While we discontinued the newspaper briefly when the kids were tiny, for a few years now I've had my daily dose of text delivered to the door -- to go with four weekly publications and a houseful of books. Along with the advent of the Internet, I rarely have to fall back on cereal boxes to get my daily fix.

I've also very much enjoyed having a fresh Sudoku arrive every day (two on Sundays!) -- at least in theory. For some reason, our local newspaper is publishing the Short Attention Span Theater version of Sudoku. They are so painfully simple that they never take me more than 10 minutes, and usually 5 or less.

The problem is that the Puzzle Center in my brain is just starting to wake up at that point and still wants to play. So I've gotten into the habit of tackling the crossword puzzle located on the same page. I'm not a crossword maven, but with a mother and aunt who structure their day around the morning puzzle, there's definitely a strand of it entwined in my DNA. The newspaper crossword is not overly difficult, so I've had reasonable success.

My daughter found a way to increase the challenge level, however. Finding herself with the day's newspaper and a pair of scissors (and minimal supervision, apparently), and knowing my fondness for puzzles, she cut out the crossword, sought me out and presented it to me with a flourish.

Unfortunately no one had the chance to explain to her that in order to do the puzzle, dad would also need the clues.

But you know, I see this kind of thing going on around me all the time. The virtue seemingly most prized in today’s world is “tolerance”, which at one time meant “respecting the right of others to have different viewpoints and beliefs”. The new & improved Y2K definition appears to be “believing everyone’s viewpoints and beliefs are equally valid”.

When you carry this to its logical conclusion, there’s no way for parents to teach their kids the difference between right and wrong – if there are no absolutes and it all depends on the situation and “what feels right to you.”

I think those of us who were raised to believe that there are moral absolutes would probably testify that we’ve seen some disturbing and even tragic choices come out of this approach to life. Recently, however, I've found myself feeling sorry for the young minds that have been put in this spot. After all, it’s hard enough to Do the Right Thing when you have some idea what the Right Thing is. It must be a truly helpless feeling to try to make decisions, some of them potentially life-changing, with absolutely nothing to go on. As Rich Mullins wrote in another of my favorite Neglected Classic songs, “The Maker of Noses”:

They said boy you just follow your heart -- but my heart just led me into my chest
They said follow your nose, but the direction changed every time I went and turned my head
And they said boy you just follow your dreams -- but my dreams were only misty notions
But the Father of hearts and the Maker of noses
And the Giver of dreams: He's the one I have chosen
And I will follow Him

I don't lay claim to a perfect record of making perfect choices, but I'm certainly glad that I have something, and Someone, to base them on (the poor choices have more to do with my own Short Attention Span). The puzzle's hard enough to do when you have the clues.

A Brief History of Competition

I suppose at the beginning of the history of man, he spent most of his time working. Adam, for example, had to name and classify and organize all of creation; remember, this predated not only the computer database, but also the invention of the 3x5 index card. Eventually, however, he must have felt the need for recreation. The Scripture does not record whether he recognized the basic human instinct for play within himself, or whether Eve simply began complaining that he never took a day off or took her anywhere – judge for yourself.

Soon thereafter, recreation probably included testing one’s skills in rock-throwing for distance or accuracy, or the like: the beginning of sports as we know it. Then, after the invention of what we like to call “other people”, someone else was standing nearby and said, “I’ll bet you a day’s manna that I can throw the rock farther,” and suddenly we have competitive sports.

One day two of those guys were having a close contest, and the neighbors came over to watch, leading to the advent of spectator sports. My guess is that it was the next day that an enterprising fellow put a wall around the other two and began to charge admission -- would you call that “organized” sports? And the day after that, one of the contestants said, “I’m not going to put on a show for you unless you give me a cut of the gate,” which of course constitutes professional sports.

And so it continued for many, many years without much change – until the coming of newspapers. Think about it: reading a newspaper allows us in effect to send someone else to the game for us; then we read his or her account of what happened. Which is yet another “degree of separation” from the original guy throwing a rock.

Two things got me started thinking about this topic: Television Without Pity, and Big Brother. Television Without Pity is a blogsite where the writers blog about TV shows; I visit it frequently to keep up with my favorite shows. Oddly, I prefer to read an entry about an episode I’ve already watched over an episode I’ve missed; I do that every day, and even I think that’s weird.

Big Brother is a reality competition program (as always, using the word “reality” in its TV rather than its actual literal English-language sense) where people go live in a house filled with cameras, and one by one they get kicked out. I watched the first season, right after the original Survivor got me all hyped up about reality TV, and... nothing happened. They sat around, they talked, they ate peanut butter; once in awhile they had a competition invented by the producers. There was one guy who was mildly controversial, so they kicked him out first thing. OK, I confess I watched the second go-round too, but even less happened, so I’m all done.

But suppose I take it into my head to read the Big Brother blog? Actually, I do, once in awhile if the headline catches my eye. Then I’m sitting at my computer, reading something written by a guy who watched a show produced by a bunch of guys who pointed their cameras at a bunch of other people sitting around in a house doing nothing.

I love TV, I love to read, and I especially love to read a good TV blog. But when I consider how far removed you can get from actually doing something, I have to turn off my computer and go outside. Let's see how far I can throw a rock.

Root, Root, Root for the Virtual Home Team

In the photo album of my mind, I seem to be missing many of the pages allotted to childhood, but one memory I can almost put a specific date on is the 1969 World Series. I’m aware that I may have inadvertently embellished this one over the years, but I have a very distinct memory of Jerry Koosman batting for the Mets and NBC play-by-play man Curt Gowdy talking about what an awful hitter he was. I also remember being a bit offended by that (although I would, over the years, learn for myself that he was indeed an awful hitter).

The real significance of that memory is that it marks the conscious beginning of my interest in the Mets. Throughout 1970, our local TV station would occasionally broadcast Sunday Mets games, which I watched avidly; in 1971 I got to go to Shea Stadium to see a game in person, and by then the affair was in full bloom.

As a consequence, this has been a satisfying season for me – except for the fact that I’ve seen about the same number of Mets games as I did in 1970, thanks to the evil gatekeeping trolls at our cable company, who even through a corporate takeover have (both) steadfastly denied me access to the Mets’ cable network. So I have an extra reason to enjoy the Mets’ trip to the postseason: I get to watch their games.

I find that playoff games give me a purer kind of joy than the regular season games do; you see, as I’ve confessed previously, I am a fantasy baseball player. In any game, the team I am rooting against – even the absolutely loathsome corporation that also wears an NY logo, whose name I shall not speak – may include a player (or worse yet, a pitcher, since their performances tend to have a more pronounced effect on my scores) who is part of my fantasy squad. So I end up hoping that a guy like Ryan Howard of the Phillies will bat against the Mets with 2 outs in the 9th and the bases loaded, trailing by 5 runs, so he can hit a grand slam: Mets win, I get 9 points for my team.

This brand of rooting is extremely mentally fatiguing, especially when you multiply by the number of players I “own”, so in some ways it’s a relief that the fantasy portion of the season is over (all the more so since I won my league, and by the absolute thinnest of margins: after 6 months of competition, my score was 0.5% higher than the second-place finisher).

Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m obsessed or anything. No, no, no, the Other Guy is “obsessed”; my friend is “preoccupied”; for me, it’s merely an “interest”. I could point out to you that I was in second place as late as September 26, but I’m afraid you might read something into the fact that I'm aware of that statistic.

Trust me, it’s only a “hobby”.

If I told you that I had the leading scorers among both shortstops and outfielders, you might lose sight of the impressiveness of that feat (distracted by wondering who would even know such a thing).

Really, it’s just a “pastime”.

However, if you’re curious about the standings as of June 12… if you’re wondering which player scored the most points in the month of August… if you need to know which team totaled the most RBI for the season (ahem, ahem)… just let me know. I mean, it's not like the binding on the yearbook is even real leather.

The Lifesong in My Head

Some time ago, I read somewhere that people who talk to themselves are usually very intelligent. At least I think that’s what I read; I’m certainly not going to go back and try to confirm it. Considering the alternatives, I’m going to stick with the most attractive, and self-serving, explanation possible.

In my defense, it is basically one conversation at a time… well, that may be a little misleading (and self-serving). There are usually several channels going at once: besides the mundane running dialogue (oops, did I say dialogue? I know, I KNOW, you’re not supposed to answer yourself), it’s not uncommon for something like a separate “process” to be running, writing a blog in my head; and there is almost always a music channel playing as well. This doesn’t even count the input from external sources, which – depending on the number and identity of the children in my vicinity – can be prodigious in its own right. I am fortunate that the brain is the ultimate Windows(TM) operating system, capable of minimizing one program while one of the others is running full-force.

Most of the music I listen to from outside my head these days is Christian contemporary, so that’s also the bulk of my interior playlist. While, as I have mentioned, I’m fairly susceptible to getting a song stuck in my head, in this case it’s not entirely a bad thing.

My opportunities for spiritual self-maintenance are somewhat sporadic… or more accurately/truthfully, I don’t fully take advantage of the opportunities I have. One thing I do have going for me is that I've always found that Christian music burrows inside my soul and my brain in ways that books and sermons can’t always match.

Recently I have been haunted (I don’t think that’s too strong a word, actually) by one image in one song: “Lifesong”, by Casting Crowns. Mark Hall, the lead vocalist & principal songwriter for the group, has a remarkable ability to capture important spiritual concepts in a song that rocks but is also challenging (I would recommend without hesitation either of their first 2 CDs).

Here’s the chorus I keep hearing:

Let my lifesong sing to You
Let my lifesong sing to You
I want to sign Your name to the end of this day
Knowing that my heart was true
Let my lifesong sing to You

It made me really think about how many of my days I even want to sign my own name to, let alone God’s name. Most of the time I think I would be content to submit my day anonymously (just leave it on the desk when nobody's looking), and not have to answer for the results. Well, all right, there are any number of days where I’ve done “good work”, and I’d be willing to take the credit for them. But how often is my day of the kind of quality, and consistency, that makes it appropriate for inclusion in the God Signature Collection?

I continue to ponder that as we move into fall; with so many demands ramping up all around me, it can be tempting to settle for Good Enough. I’m getting the feeling more and more that God (who created my multichannel brain to begin with) is using one or more of those channels to remind me not to settle for the best I can do … but instead to strive for the best He can do.

Einstein Said He Could Never Understand it All

I've awakened on several mornings recently with a song in my head -- the only pop song I'm aware of that references Einstein's Theory of Special Relativity -- an unjustly-neglected James Taylor classic called, "Secret O'Life":

Now the thing about time is that time isn't really real
It's just your point of view
How does it feel for you?
Einstein said he could never understand it all...

Note that the Theory of Relativity does not refer to the idea that time goes slower when your relatives visit. I never said that and I will continue to deny that I did.

Regardless of what you think of Professor Einstein's theory, and Professor Taylor's corollary, there are a lot of examples of time being relative. This is impressed upon me quite forcefully when talking to other parents, especially the ones with adult children.

For some reason all of them are obligated to advise me: "Enjoy this time -- they grow up so fast." You will perhaps pardon me if that seems a little difficult to believe. Since our son was born in 1999, and our daughter will be graduating from high school in 2020, we are still in the warmup stage, kidwise.

I'm going to entirely put aside the question of "enjoying" this time... probably best to take the Fifth Amendment on that one.

It's definitely true that it's difficult to maintain an accurate sense of time when you're in the midst of the whirlwind. For a long, long time we were eternally vigilant over our children. Never can tell when the little one might take a notion to expand the concept of what's considered "edible"... or perhaps her brother might decide to use her to practice for his future calling as an NFL punter.

Suddenly -- and I have absolutely no idea when or how this happened -- we've reached a state of affairs where we look at each other and ask, "Where are the kids? What are they doing?" I'm not talking about tossing my daughter the keys and telling her to drive herself to preschool... but they have showed they can handle a certain amount of autonomy.

We still have the odd occurrence of Wrestlemania down in the playroom, but we're just as likely to hear bumping & giggling and when you call down, "What's going on?" they reply in completely innocent-sounding unison, "Nothing!"

I can take advantage of the extra free time by doing lots more chores. That is, I can... but I don't. It actually gives me a chance to check a few extra websites, or finish a sudoku, or simply grab a snack without having to explain to the kids why I get one and they don't.

It's all part of the master plan: we encourage the kids to be more independent, to amuse themselves, to learn to get along better and resolve their own disputes, fostering more closeness between siblings.

Or maybe I just don't want to have to share the chips.

Affirmative Action

When I was in college, I would sometimes listen to the Dr. Demento radio program. With a name like that, you can imagine it seemed extremely subversive on my conservative Christian campus – which of course was part of its appeal.

If you’re not familiar, it’s not as bad as it probably sounds. Each week the Doc played an assortment of comedy bits, song parodies, and the like; I won’t deny that the guy definitely has one table leg that's shorter than the other three, but it was pretty harmless. Perhaps his greatest crime was that he introduced Weird Al Yankovic to a wide audience, but that’s not indictable.

I vividly remember one routine of a guy going through a drive-thru window. The kid on the speaker is virtually unintelligible and keeps mangling the order; the driver repeats it again & again, a little louder, a little slower, a little more agitated… and then finally goes berserk. You hear the car rev up and drive into something – then, garbled through the speaker: “Can I take your order?”

I thought of that bit recently when I was musing about being a dad: some days it feels like you’re hollering into a microphone but the party on the other end isn’t quite hearing (or maybe listening); other times it’s like listening to that fuzzy speaker. Especially when my four-year-old gets going – she can ramble at length, and it’s all subjects and verbs and subordinate clauses and prepositional phrases and everything; complete sentences, perfect grammatically, but when she’s done I have no idea what she’s talking about.

There’s also one form of parental communication that's almost unique to parenting: the incessant stream of “nice job”, “way to go”, and “I’m proud of you” for tasks as basic as sharing a toy, pushing oneself on the swings, or going potty (hence the expression, “way to go”). I’m not that easily impressed as a rule – some would say I’m probably more blasé, in general, than I need to be – but I recognize the importance of affirming my kids. I also see how much they like to check in with us and receive our approval, and I want to keep that going as much as possible. I know the day is coming when the Parental Seal of Approval will feel more like a condemned sign to them, so I’ll enjoy my position of oracle while I can.

In a neat twist, I find myself on the other end of that sort of ego-boosting, because for several months I have been taking piano lessons. As I’ve mentioned, I’m reasonably adept on guitar; not a pro by any means but able to keep from embarrassing myself. And I know enough about music to know what piano-playing is supposed to sound like. Once in awhile, when the stars are aligned right, and the light hits the paper just so, and my fingers are optimally limber, I play something that sounds like the song in my head (well, one of the songs in my head, at least). Most of the time…not so much.

My piano teacher, of course, is unfailingly encouraging. Often she’ll tell me how much progress I’m making, how well I played the song, and …“I’d like to hear it for one more week” (thus giving me the option to imagine it’s because she’s enjoying hearing it so much). And sometimes, after I’ve struggled to the end of a piece for the umpty-umpth week in a row, sweaty like I just ran a lap, she’ll check it off (and sometimes add a smiley!) and I know in my heart: it’s not because I’ve mastered it, it’s because she knows I’m about to go crazy from the effort and the frustration and the sheer Chinese water-torture sensation of playing the same thing over & over & over again -- especially the mistakes, of course.

I don’t suppose the kids get much objective joy out of sharing toys; the praise is supposed to reinforce the habit. And until I can consistently play a basic piece without sounding like my fingers (or the keys, or the notes – pick any two) have all been removed and reattached in random order, I won’t have that many moments of true musical satisfaction either – so I need all the sunshine pumped in my direction that I can get.

Theology for Dummies: High Concept

Seekers of Truth in Advertising will be thrilled with the current movie, "Snakes on a Plane." Aficionados of classic cinema will no doubt have to look elsewhere, but when it comes to being self-explanatory, it's hard to beat a title like that.

On the other hand, we've all seen "Coming Atttractions" that make it unneccessary to see the actual movie, so there is such a thing as giving away too much. In my case the title itself is actually overkill -- as soon as I see the word "snakes" I know to stay away.

This is an excellent example of what Hollywood calls a "high concept" movie. Anything you can describe in one sentence -- let alone a 4-word title -- is considered high concept. Obviously not high in the sense of lofty, but rather in the sense of taking precedence over story, characters, acting...

Any film where special effects, car chases, and/or the soundtrack should get top billing is a good example of high concept. Movies like Top Gun, Die Hard, and every Stallone picture after the first Rocky fit comfortably in this category.

[A slight oversimplification: I'm not sure Stop, or My Mom Will Shoot fits comfortably into any category.]

I'm really not a cinema buff; I think in TV terms. "Miami Vice" is the quintessential high-concept show; it's said that Brandon Tartikoff (head of NBC) wrote "MTV Cops" on a napkin, and the show sprang from that. "Seinfeld", on the other hand, became known as the show about nothing precisely because it's so hard to put your finger on.

If the same sort of classification were applied to books as well, I believe we'd find that in some ways, the ultimate high concept book is the Bible.

That seems absurd on the face of it, because the Bible is actually made up of 66 books: history, poetry, prophecy, teaching; all different writers; spanning hundreds of years. But I believe that the entire Bible exists to illustrate two basic ideas (hey, it's a big book -- I can use 2 sentences instead of just one).

1. God loves us in a way that, if He were human, you'd probably call irrational. Time and time again He reaches out to His people, only to be pushed away; over and over He believes in them, and they let Him down. He keeps reaching... He keeps believing... and "in the fullness of time" (what a wonderful phrase!) He sends them His Son. By the way, when I say "them", I mean of course us.
2. God uses the most unlikely people to accomplish great things. Abraham & Sarah were old; Moses was a fugitive; David was a shepherd boy; Mary was a young girl; Paul was a professional Christian-hunter. Two lessons from that: first, God doesn't need to use us but it delights Him to work in partnership with us. Second, no matter what you are, you're not ineligible (or exempt, or safe) from being called to His purposes. Or, as someone wiser (and funnier) than I said about the story of Samson (Jdg. 15:13-17), if God can use the jawbone of an ass, He can certainly use you.

There are unquestionably other Big Themes in the Scripture, but these are my favorites and in my eyes the most important. But hey, it's a game anyone can play -- go find your own! Read the Book, don't wait for the movie.

Metablog: The View from the 40s

A new quarter has been heard from in the ongoing debate about what constitutes middle age (and whether present company is excepted), as I discussed previously.

I had been noticing over the last 6 months or so an increasing difficulty seeing close up. I found myself, in fact, peering over the top of my glasses whenever I had to work with something tiny. I was concerned enough to violate my usual protocol and make a doctor’s appointment.

When the ophthalmologist came in to begin his very thorough exam, I described my symptoms to him, and he sort of snorted before retorting, “You’re describing what happens to everyone in middle age.” Later in the exam he explained he would try to avoid over-correcting my vision, since younger eyes can adjust for that… but “you older fellows will definitely feel it.” Evidently ophthalmologists have little experience in developing bedside manner.

So I’m now adjusting to a brand-new pair of “progressive lenses”, the modern-day version of bifocals. Actually I think I’ve done well adapting to the lenses; it may take longer to adjust to the idea of being a guy who needs progressive lenses. Not to worry, however; the optician, who is clearly in league with the doctor, tells me that the shape of my new frames makes me look “younger”. So there’s a bit of a paradigm shift as well – I used to seek to look older, more mature…

Anyway, it wasn’t really my 40s I set out to discuss (although it seems to be preoccupying me more than I have perhaps admitted even to myself!). I noticed on my blog maintenance home page recently that I am now in the 40s for number of posted articles. And while it won’t be until later in the month that I reach my 40th week, I sensed an opportunity for a look back.

I read a statistic recently -- in my favorite airline magazine -- that 55% of all blogs are abandoned before they hit 3 months. If nothing else, it’s wonderful to know that at least in one respect, this blog is above average – well, median, at least.

Like the new lenses, having a blog has changed the way I look at life. It’s arguable whether it’s a better way now, but I find myself in some ways more engaged with what’s going on around me, trying to determine what makes today unique (or sometimes, archetypical) or interesting or funny. Maybe I’m in some ways less engaged too, because I’m sometimes walking around writing in my head. I didn’t start this to make myself a better person, but I don’t want it to make me a lesser person either!

I did do it for my own satisfaction, and for the chance to put down my thoughts in a place that was all my own. Along with 8 zillion other bloggers. And I’ve found even more pleasure in the act of creating and writing than I thought I could. I tend to re-read my stuff pretty frequently, and I’m still proud of what I’ve written and enjoy reading it, with a few notable exceptions. When I get into trouble is usually when I have one thing to say, usually a joke, and I try to create a 500- or 600-word frame to put it in. Some of them are meant to be serious and come out kind of pseudo-serious; others are meant to be funny and come out… well, pseudo-funny is no funny at all.

As I have alluded to previously, it astounds me how often a conversation reminds me of something I just wrote. Unfortunately it’s usually my conversational partners who are astounded in turn as I try in vain to find a subtle way to slip in the fact that I have a blog: “You should read what I just wrote about that.” So far the rate of responses inquiring about my blog and its URL is running at approximately 0.00%, so that’s one conversational gambit I’m trying to abandon.

In addition to my own amusement and satisfaction, I do sometimes get a tiny bit of external validation. I don’t think I get too many “random” visitors, but a few of my friends & family have acknowledged stopping by now and then. Just knowing others are reading is gratifying, but I actually have one pretty regular correspondent who says nice things often enough to keep me on the hook. I wonder if she’s familiar with the concept of variable reinforcement?

I was talking to another friend recently who had just read some of my stuff, and she gave me the one compliment I treasure above all others... although it’s still not 100% clear to me that she meant it as a compliment! She said, “When I read it, all I could think is that it sounds just like you.” And that’s exactly what a blog should be, or at least what my blog should be. So if you read two or three and you don’t like them, don’t waste your time by coming back: it’s not the entry you don’t like, it’s me.