Notable Notes

I have noted (and whined, and made excuses) many times in this space about the stress of squeezing 10 pounds of tasks into a 5-pound sack of time, but last week I decided to raise the degree of difficulty. My wife was out of town at a 2-day meeting, I was supposed to be at choir rehearsal, and one of my favorite bands was appearing live less than an hour away. And so the usual dilemma, with some extra monkey wrenches: Fulfill my family obligations by staying with the kids? Honor my church commitment by attending choir rehearsal?

Nah.

I booked a sitter, boiled up some hot dogs for the kids, and took off to the MercyMe/Audio Adrenaline/Aaron Shust show in Albany. MercyMe is one of the leading bands in Christian music these days (at least in the more "mainstream", "radio-friendly" category) and one of the select few to receive my coveted "buy every CD when it comes out" status.

The show had its ups and downs -- more about that in a moment -- but all the way around was well-worth the time, expense, effort & overall disruption. Although I didn't actually quiz the kids about that last item. Eh, let them get their own blog.

I've been attending concerts for something like 28 years now, and whether Christian or.... what? pagan? I guess "secular" is the word I'm looking for -- there are always commonalities.

For example: I've still never quite come to terms with the custom of the encore. It always feels like the band is trying to squeeze an extra ovation out of me (and there's nothing that resonates more with me than compulsory enthusiasm): if you don't clap loud enough, we're not coming back out.... I understand the need for "dramatic tension" -- although it seems kind of self-dramatizing, especially for a Christian band -- but it really feels like it's become almost entirely a cliche.

One unique element: I was struck by the irony of attending the farewell tour of a band that's breaking up because the lead singer can't sing any more. Over the course of 16 years recording and touring (and largely screaming), Mark Stuart of Audio Adrenaline has systematically shredded his vocal cords. It was painful to hear him try to sing; as someone who only sings when I'm awake (I think), I can't imagine not being able to do it any more. And this guy had a serious pipe back in the day. Now he's croaking, or letting the other guys sing lead, or pointing the mike to the audience for them to do the singing.

And what is up with the audience singing?? Why would you pay $25 to go to a show and spend the whole night trying to drown out the lead singer? Why, there were so many inconsiderate people singing around me that I could hardly hear myself sing.

One more commonality, at least for a Christian concert: the Compassion International commercial (I won't say anything snarky about them; we've been supporters for a long time and they do great work) and a sprinkling of sermonizing from the guys on stage. Actually, I was pleased with the way these guys approached it; I've been at other shows where I wanted to leap up on the stage, grab a guitar and say, "Here -- remember this?"

Bart Millard, the lead singer of MercyMe, did leave us with a couple of cool thoughts:

• the reason some people in churches are so hard to be around is that they've seen others find a relationship with God and have their lives changed. Meanwhile, they've "hung around" God but haven't really experienced him -- who wouldn't be bitter?
• we need to soak in, absorb, live in the knowledge that the Big, Big God of the universe... all-powerful and knowing you better than you know yourself... is "madly in love with" you, and me, and each one of us.

I don't need to pay 25 bucks to know that... but it's good to be reminded just the same.

Those Who Do Not Organize the Past are Condemned to Repeat It

I read a newspaper article this weekend on the subject of mixed marriages. Of course, they emphasized the racial aspect of it, which only serves to highlight the drama... after all, isn't every marriage a mixed marriage?

I'm a great believer in the power of cliches; they are usually dismissed as trite, but really a cliche is just an observation so powerfully true that it comes to seem obvious. For example, "Opposites attract." It's undeniably true, and I would argue it's better news than it probably seems. I can tell you from this chair that I certainly wouldn't want to live with me. I think the "opposites" part is God's way of helping us fill the gaps -- and clearly if a Renaissance man such as myself is in need of gap-filling, it has to be universal enough to merit a cliche.

One notable mixture in this home refers to cleaning and organization. While I resist any facile characterization as a slob, it's also true that if cleanliness is next to Godliness, I'm probably more of a Christmas-and-Easter kind of believer. My spouse, on the other hand, considerately dropped in my lap an example of her mindset mere hours before I began to write this.

She noted that the wind was blowing pretty hard and that we might lose power (I'm not sure quite why it's so, but we sometimes lose power if a cloud passes overhead, so I understood her point). She said we needed to get prepared. Did she want to:

• a) make sure we had candles and flashlights
• b) stock up on food & fresh water, or
• c) make a reservation at a motel ?

No, I'm sorry, the correct answer is: "Clean the house so it will be easier when we get back."

On top of that, you know she believes in Tackling Things Head-On -- I would contend that tackling head-on has been proven to lead to head injuries and brain damage. I much prefer the time-honored "just don't bring it up at all and maybe she'll forget it has to be done" approach.

With the following consequence: for most of the past week our dining room table has been completely engulfed in loose photos and the albums designated to organize them. This isn't a new phenomenon; it happens every several months or so. Sometimes it's the den that's immobilized. I'm proud to report the following results to date:

1. as many as a dozen photos successfully placed in albums
2. several sporadic bouts of Putting Photos Into Piles, the significance of which no one can quite remember scarcely moments later
3. several meals eaten on a blanket spread out on the floor in the den ("Hey kids, good news! We're having another 'picnic!'")

There are all sorts of complicating factors, of course. I like to take photos of places -- sometimes because they're aesthetically pleasing, sometimes because they're personally significant -- but here's a hint: don't wait to label them for 10 or more years. You're just asking for trouble there. And while I'm an involved parent, if you're serious about 'sequencing' photos, it can be deadly difficult to distinguish between 3 and 4 years old. Or 2 1/2 and 3. And I'll admit it -- even to the dad babies often look alike....

Working together ought to be faster, but we get sidetracked both by the "look at this one -- remember?" factor and the inevitable discussion of priorities. She: "Where is this, exactly?" He: "Hmmm... it looks familiar...." She: "Well, if we don't know where it is, I'm throwing it away." He: " " (sorry, can't talk right now -- too choked up over the idea of throwing away a Piece of My Past. At least I figure it must be my past).

I have come up with the best possible solution: we bought a digital camera. Now instead of piles of photos, we have folders of photos on our hard drive (Of course, we've really shifted from "When are we going to organize photos?" to "When are we going to print photos?"). But if I can keep ducking it... it'll be our children, and maybe their children, who will have to sort out img_0147.jpg from all its numerically-anonymous digital brethren.

Almost But Not Quite

So I think it's safe to say it hasn't sprung yet -- or if it has, it's still buried under the foot-plus of snow that remains out there -- but spring is at least giving us the Coming Attractions trailer.

Speaking of which, this weekend, through the miracle of Digital Video Disc technology, I watched the trailer for a movie after I watched the actual movie. I was surprised to find (being normally such a trusting soul) that about a third of the scenes in the trailer didn't even make it into the movie; several of the rest were re-arranged to give a slightly skewed version of the story. So the next time you're in your local Multiplex and they tempt you with the charms of the Coming, caveat emptor.

Where was I? Oh, spring... anyway, I think we have a few more hurdles to clear before we get there. These include both a forecast of high temps in the 20s later this week, and St. Patrick's Day. This was rammed home for me with spectacular force on my weekly visit to the grocery store (I should say "our" weekly visit, accompanied as always by my faithful four-year-old companion).

I usually enjoy the music wafting over the PA, but it was a "wee bit" of a trial today as the Irish fiddles were skirling away at full volume. Now, remember, I love music -- in fact, I wrote one of last summer's posts at the intermission of a concert by an Irish band -- but I guess I have a skirling threshhold. By the time we got to the dairy aisle I was bleeding from the ears both internally, from the volume; and externally, from trying to claw them off. I was almost wishing for country music.

Of course, I'm usually a big enthusiast about holidays that have devolved into an excuse to drink till you hurl (yeah, I'm looking at you too, New Year's Eve).

As eager as I am for spring to get here already (or for this post to get to the point, whichever comes first), it's just as much true that I won't be too sorry to see winter go. You might know I always have an idealized goal of how "family life" is going to go; in this case I always envision us frolicking merrily through Outdoor Winter Activities. That butts up against reality, like no snow followed by blizzards followed by zero-degree weather... as well as at least one family member who from November to March is usually restricted to the "winter activities" that can be conducted from the corner of the couch under the electric throw. Not to worry, it has a 4-foot cord.

Still, we've had a couple big outings so far: one trip to the sledding hill, and one ice skating trip. I took one trip down the hill myself (and crashed), which was almost exactly as successful as the skating. A few things I learned about skating:

• Most of your Olympic skaters probably don't go quite as long between trips to the ice. I realized with a start that I hadn't had skates on since a year with a "19" in it... pretty sure those were the first two digits.
• An outdoor ice rink is a quaint and homey notion, but after a certain point in the season is not to be relied upon. Ah, the sensation of gliding along -- and coming to an abrupt halt as your blade slices through a thin veneer of ice the approximate consistency of a slice of toast. Without butter.
• Sometimes it's better to just go ahead and fall. It's actually quite possible to hurt yourself more contorting to avoid falling than it is just to hit the ice... particularly when the ice is the approximate consistency of a slice of toast.
• There is such a thing as biofeedback. After a few minutes (OK, less than one minute) on skates, several parts of my Bio were giving me all kinds of Feedback: particularly my ankles, which were retorting, "you're kidding, right?" and my hip flexors, which were making a sound reminiscent of when I tune my 12-string guitar.

Surely spring has to be better, right? Let's see: take the kids for lots of walks; teach them how to play baseball; wean the 7-year-old off his dependence on the training wheels......

Tune in again in 6 months to read about how I managed to blow the warm weather as well.

Working Through the List

The plan, of course, is always to post just about every seven days or so... after all, there are a few people who read this from time to time and I'd hate for them to think I'd given up and gone on the road as a professional Sudokuist (Sudokuer?). Rest assured, I haven't abandoned the goal of posting as often as possible. In fact, if you could read my mind, what a tale my thoughts would tell. Of course, if you could read my mind, I wouldn't have a reason to post at all.

No, I fully expect I would have posted this weekend if not for another episode of "Cancel School Just in Case", brought to you by our friends at the local school district. And yes, the forecast was relatively scary, but I would really advocate the use of that old-school weather forecasting technique called "looking out the window".

I don't like to be The Guy Who Grumbles About the Way Things Were In the Old Days (OK, I do -- "curmudgeon" can be pretty funny -- but at least I try not to overdo it), but quite clearly things were different when I was a student. The schools always gave the impression they were looking for excuses not to cancel. Now I wonder if the frequency of lawsuits doesn't have the administrators figuring it's better to eliminate any chance of an incident.

It wasn't just the kids' unscheduled presence that put a ripple in the schedule; I was also trying to put together the powerpoints we use in worship. That took forever, due in large part to the fact that the church laptop I use has about the same speed and memory as an Etch-a-Sketch. For that I can blame the person who arranged its purchase -- which is extremely convenient because he's right here in this chair.

Fortunately all that effort was vindicated by the production of an outstanding, error-free presentation... no, wait, not that either. The less said about that, the better; but all in all, pretty close to what Mom used to call an Alexander day.

Meanwhile, the daily chores go on. I know laundry has to be easier than it was in the "pounding on a rock" era, or even the "manual-wringer" era -- they called Mondays "Laundry Day" for a reason -- but on the other hand, in frontier days people had, what, one change of clothes? Not counting Sunday-Go-To-Meetin' clothes. Granted I wouldn't want to be downwind, but the laundry volume had to be a lot smaller. It's not unusual for my daughter to go through multiple changes in one day all by herself ... although some of it is fairly necessary, since she is hard on clothes. Apparently it's prohibited by law to just laminate her.

That's another thing. In those days the four-year-old was caring for the chickens and the seven-year-old was out plowing the back forty, out from under foot like God intended. I have to be like Peyton Manning, with a clock constantly running in my head: the difference is, he's calcluating how long he has to throw before the rush gets him; I'm calculating how much laundry I can get done before WW III breaks out downstairs.

At such times I go to the Priority Folding Protocol, where stuff like socks & underwear is triaged into the "fold later (maybe even tomorrow (OK, next day at the latest))" pile. As a result I found myself faced with a significant clean-sock pile. With my gift for hyperbole in the pursuit of a laugh -- did you know I use hyperbole more than anyone else in the history of written communication? -- I said (yes, said aloud; I'm That Guy too), "I'll bet there are 50 pairs of socks here!"

Of course, I was just complaining to myself, and besides I can never guess the number of M&Ms in the jar, so I wasn't surprised when the count came up short of 50... in fact, there were only 43 pairs (plus 3 odd socks).

And by the way, don't even let me get started on the whole question of why they make "hand wash only" clothes in size 4T.

The Play's the Thing

The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) project uses the computers of people around the world. Whenever a participating computer is otherwise idle, it is scanning the ambient noise from space looking for patterns that might indicate an intentional effort to communicate.

In the same way, any corner of my brain that’s not otherwise engaged is always looking for blog ideas. There was an item in last week’s Sporting News that noted that both the college football national championship game and the Super Bowl featured an opening kickoff run back for a touchdown – by the eventual losing team. It occurred to me that it could be a good jumping-off place for a blog… if I wrote the kind of blog that supplies sports insights. I know from experience that many of the people who enjoy reading this (all 4 of you) don’t care that much about sports or even understand why I might care so much.

*Light bulb*.... One of the things I do attempt with this blog is to explain why something is important or interesting or funny, to try to get people to look at some topic differently. And it ought to be a better place to start than a couple of my occasional motivators:

• I thought of a joke and now I need to think of a couple hundred words to set up the punch line.
• It’s Friday and I haven’t posted anything in almost (or over) a week.
  

Usually, of course, it's such a brilliant, potentially life-changing insight that if I didn't share it immediately it would be tantamount to malpractice....

Think about the elements of great drama: conflict, resolution, some unexpected twists along the way. It also helps if the setting is recognizable enough that you don’t have to focus on that along the way, so you can reach a comfort level that promotes letting yourself be absorbed.

Of course, you’ve also just described every sporting contest: two teams , or a group of individuals, competing in a familiar event for a victorious result that can’t be predicted (just ask the 1980 Olympic hockey team). In fact, for many years the Olympics were a sporting event that happened somewhere in the world every four years; if you were lucky you’d read the story in the sports page the next day or catch a few highlights. Then ABC tapped into the intersection between games and drama – the Thrill of Victory, the Agony of Defeat; the stories behind the athletes – and now the Games are a televised phenomenon.

Any sport is, for those of us who love it, a familiar milieu that approaches ritual. But at the same time, since most of the time we’re watching it as it happens, the unexpected is almost commonplace. I have watched a staggering number of baseball games in my life – it would be an embarrassing number, in fact, except I’m not embarrassed at all because I’ve loved every minute of it. Still, when the Dodgers got two runners thrown out at the plate on the same play (in the playoffs last fall against the Mets), I saw something I’d never seen on the field before. I have to admit I wouldn’t have been quite so enchanted if the teams were reversed.

Much in the same way that I like to eat, but I don’t like all foods equally, I love “sports” but it’s baseball that gets its own dedicated portion of my brain. I don’t think I can explain that part very well; I have plenty of friends who are NASCAR fanatics but couldn’t care less about baseball, or who can’t wait for football season but are bored by basketball. In fact, it’s not that rare to talk to someone who loves college football (or basketball, for that matter) but doesn’t watch pro football (or basketball). Just a matter of how your taste buds line up, I suppose – and what you were fed when you were a kid.

In the current sports universe, free agency makes it possible for players to move between teams frequently. And so people like me are often asked, “Why root for the Mets? The guys keep changing – you’re really just rooting for a shirt.” I like to think there’s more to it than a laundry fetish. Regardless of the guys inside the uniforms, there is a tradition and continuity that preserves a connection.

My sister-in-law is a big fan of ER. When she was living in a town where she couldn’t get cable or even broadcast TV (and why even typing those words makes me break out in a cold sweat is something to explore another time) we taped ER for her every week. Well, OK, not quite every week; each Thursday at 9:58 my wife would ask if I was ready to tape it, and I’d scrabble around looking for a blank tape… occasionally I struck out. But she just wanted ER, no interest in any other show.

If you had watched ER in about 1994, and then not seen it again until last week, you might well wonder if it was the same show. None of the faces are the same – but they’re still doing the same stuff in the same place. I’m sure many people still miss George Clooney, or think Law & Order was best with Briscoe and Logan, but they’re still fans of the shows.

Well, I suppose the Mets' Briscoe & Logan are Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman, and maybe the part of George Clooney is played by Mike Piazza... but really, how different is it? I haven't noticed any great drop-off in popularity of Shakespeare's plays since Lord Olivier made his last exit. In fact, the change helps make it fun; every new player and team provides a Compare & Contrast with the memories of the past.

I actually still enjoy ER, even in its post-peak years, and I'm an avid watcher of shows like Grey's Anatomy and Lost. But for pulse-pounding drama, sports (particularly baseball, of course) has given me unparalleled thrills. I will never, ever forget Game 6 of the 1986 Championship Series (won by the Mets in 16 innings); or, it goes without saying, Game 6 of that year's World Series -- the most exciting single event in the history of history; or even a regular season game like this one... which made me scream so loud I think my parents thought I'd fallen out my bedroom window. You want to talk reality TV? I got your unscripted drama right here.

And so ol' Bill Shakespeare said it best, as always (he must've been a sportswriter before his time) -- the play's the thing.

Season To Taste?

It was the noted philosopher and all-around role model Mae West who said, "Too much of a good thing is wonderful." Or at least she was quoted as saying that; when I was teaching, I always told my classes that everything in math is named after the guy who stole it from the guy who discovered it. I think quote attribution is similar -- and since she played a character in movies that was similar to what we know of her offscreen persona, there's an extra layer of complexity.

In any case, the wisdom of the quote was certainly tested this week. I think most of us who live in the Northeast have a fondness, or at least a tolerance, for the variety of the seasons. Even winter can be pleasing in its own way -- Currier & Ives got pretty famous with rustic winter scenes -- but I think a lot of us would have been fine with a couple of inches at Christmas, and another inch or two every so often just to keep it pretty. Instead, we basically got 2 months of brown and then the whole winter's worth of snow in one day.

I guess it shouldn't be too surprising, really; remember summer? Kind of nondescript and gray... until the temperature suddenly goes up to like 8 thousand degrees. If the pattern holds, spring will probably be completely blah, and then on May 1 the flowers will come out and the trees will turn green all at the same time.

Actually, it's autumn I'm a bit concerned about; if the kids are standing under a decent-sized tree when all the leaves fall at once, somebody's going to get hurt.

In keeping with the general "overkill" theme, we had not one but two snow days, occasioned by the always-fateful Snow Day Declared the Night Before. Seemingly inevitably, Day 2 dawned bright, clear and calm, and with completely cleared roads. So the family was treated to an extra day of Cabin Fever, and just generally 2 kids bouncing off each other like bumper cars.

To add insult to injury... the superintendent of the school where I went to high school was quoted in the paper about the necessity to cancel in that district because of the difficulty of transporting students in that town -- when we were notorious for never cancelling school, no matter what.

Say it with me: Fortunately, I'm not bitter.

And really, the pain of The Blizzard of '07, or whatever you would call it, was magnified by the contrast to the previous day. I had just heard the most joyful words of every winter -- no, not "Merry Christmas" or even "Super Bowl Sunday". The words I wait all winter to hear are, "Pitchers and catchers report." And so, in the depths of winter, a tiny green shoot of hope pokes through.....

Check Your Local Listings

I have to admit that I'm a big fan of reality shows. That probably sounds like it ought to qualify me for the Washington's Birthday Sale on lobotomies, but in truth I'm a little more discriminating than that.

I prefer the shows that feature people who can actually do something, competing with their talents, to those that are about trying to balance on a log or live in a house with a bunch of strangers. My personal jury is still out on the newest one, Top Design, but I have been an avid viewer of Project Runway, the just-concluded Top Chef, and (to a lesser degree) America's Next Top Model. Ironically, I've never been a huge American Idol fan, which probably has its origin in the same contrarian streak in me that had the school-aged Mark wearing doubleknits while all those around me wore jeans.

Combining my interest in reality shows with my son's well-documented fondness for Food Network makes me the ideal audience for The Next Food Network Star, which combines Top Chef with challenges that assess the chef's TV-hosting skills. Part of the swag associated with winning that contest is hosting an actual program on the Food Network. And while I'm pretty sure I don't have the skills to succeed on either side of the competition, I still enjoyed envisioning what my program might look like....

The more I imagined the outcome, however, the more I realized: digital cable may have brought about an explosion of cable networks but I'd be hard-pressed to think of one that would be right for my version of "Cooking With Dad".

Actually, maybe the Sci-Fi Network would enjoy the part where we're cooking along peacefully and suddenly the calm is rent by the bloodcurdling shriek of my daughter pounding up the stairs from the playroom screaming bloody murder (hotly pursued by my son wailing that he didn't do it). Believe me, it's the kind of thing that blows out the sound engineer's eardrums.

There might be a few other features of the program that would be a tough sell. I might not make very good eye contact with the camera, considering I'm almost always either reading or doing a puzzle (whether crossword or Sudoku) while I'm cooking. And we'd have to take frequent commercial breaks so I can answer the phone and take messages for The Pastor.

Because of all three of the above issues, I tend to find it a challenge to get the whole thing done in a 30-minute timeslot; on TV, we could edit out the dead spots. I can tell you that my family would really enjoy having the meals come out right on time every night!

I should probably also mention that I might have a hard time sustaining an ongoing series with my somewhat... ah, "limited" culinary range (does frozen ravioli count as a recipe?) -- not to mention that my frequent reliance on cheese, cream, butter, etc. would probably leave most of my viewers dead or recuperating from bypass surgery before the season was over. But hey, it works for Paula Deen.

Living the Dream

This past week or so has brought a tiny ripple of excitement to my life: a number of people have commented on my Sudoku blog entry (and since it doesn't go without saying, commented positively). Naturally, I always have a number of people respond to what I write, but this is one of the rare occasions that the number was greater than zero.

The danger in receiving affirmation, of course, is that I might revert to the state I described in one of my earliest postings -- if I do something someone likes, I have to figure out exactly what made it enjoyable, and then try to duplicate that exactly. But of course, that way lies madness.

It did make me reflect on the event itself, as well as the other times I've engaged in a public contest of some sort. I have already alluded to my spelling bee debacle... well, perhaps debacle isn't the right word. How about "soul-scarring experience"? And while I was writing about my shipboard obsession with karaoke, I failed to mention that I was equally hooked on the trivia contests held frequently (especially after I won the first one I tried, which as you know is exactly like when crack dealers give out free samples).

As much fun as that was -- although it would have been better if the prize had been an upgrade to an outside stateroom, rather than a plastic trophy-- the contest I look back on most fondly was Broadcaster for a Day.

At the time we were living near Albany and the Yankees' AA minor league affiliate was located in the area as well. When they announced a Broadcaster for a Day contest, I nearly jumped out of my skin. If it would have helped, I probably would have slept on the sidewalk like one of those knuckleheads looking for a PS3.

As with almost any other mental illness, to understand my reaction you really need to understand my childhood. I fell in love with baseball at a really early age, but as a realist from nearly as early an age, I understood I was probably not going to get to live out that dream. If not, I probably got a subconscious hint from my own fantasies: like many kids I wanted to pretend to be a ballplayer, particularly a Met. But whom to identify with? A couple of the best players were black, and while I'm certainly no racist I am extremely literal-minded. This also let out all the left-handed guys and the pitchers. Bud Harrelson was close -- small & skinny and not a great hitter -- but a switch-hitter, and besides I knew they'd never let me play shortstop. So I ended up with ... Don Hahn. I have to tell you, if you can't dream any bigger than Don Hahn, you probably shouldn't bother dreaming at all.

However, I was primarily learning to love baseball through the voices of Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner, the Mets' radio/TV broadcast team. And although I eventually tumbled to the fact that baseball broadcast jobs are even scarcer than baseball playing jobs, it's always been my answer to the question, "If you could have any job in the world...?" . Of course, the flames were probably fanned by the fact that almost any native English-speaker (and a few members of the animal kingdom) would be more coherent than Ralph Kiner.
So naturally at the appointed hour I showed up at the local mall to do my thing. The test would be to sit in front of a TV playing a game tape and pretend to do play-by-play. I was a bit embarrassed to note that among the competitors was a handful of boys, probably 9 or 10 years old; I wasn't sure how I felt trying to beat kids. I felt a little better when one of the kids went up and his performance consisted of, "It's a ground ball. (long pause) And he's out." Clearly I would be saving him from embarrassing himself -- although it's true that Phil Rizzuto did pretty well for himself with a smiliar level of detail.

All I remember about my turn is that the tape was of a Yankees game (of course). It was the 9th inning and Tim Leary was pitching. Actually, he wasn't; he was mostly pacing around the mound sighing -- which was depriving me of "action" to describe while my precious minutes ticked away. I did know that his career at that point was kind of on the skids, so I said, "He's probably afraid to throw the ball -- lately they've been coming back at him faster than they went in."

In any case, it was enough to win the day, and on July 16, 1991, I stepped into the pressbox at Heritage Park (a big step up, literally as well as figuratively, from the summers I worked the concession stand there). When I got there, it turned out that "Broadcaster for a Day" really meant "Broadcaster for an Inning" ... but I whined and fussed and convinced the regular play-by-play guy that they really promised me the whole game.

For nine lovely innings I got to live the dream... and along the way, I began to think to myself, "Hey, maybe if I really impress this guy, he'll invite me back." Of course, the thing about most broadcasters is that they love the sound of their own voice, so he was always going to be a one-man booth if he had any say in it... yeah, that's it. That must be why. If he hadn't been so jealous of his airtime, I'd be in the booth right now.

Well, not right now, it's pretty cold out there. And not there, because the team moved about 10 years ago. But you get the idea.

It's been a long time and I frankly don't remember anything much about the game itself. I do have it on tape, but I haven't listened to it in years. I wonder if hearing the game again would have that same powerful memory effect that music does -- to bring you back instantly to the spot. What I do remember is that I tried valiantly to soak it all in, to absorb every minute of the experience and the thrill. I had limited success with that, as I think is almost always the case, but I do know it was one of the most exciting things that ever happened to me.

The Yanks' AA affiliate is in Trenton, NJ, now, and there are only a couple of minor league teams within 100 miles or so... but if anyone involved with those teams (or any others) are reading this thing -- hey, give me a call, I work cheap.

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!"