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April 30, 2004: ERRATA

I attended a CLE (“continuing legal education” seminar) today. It took seven hours and I had little time for my $2.67 lunch of Cheetos™ (the puffed kind), a Milky Way™ and a Code Red Mountain Dew™. It’s been a tough week. And I want to thank my family for suffering through it with me, especially my sister, whom I adore and rely on for editorial assistance in these pages in my humble abode in cyberspace.

A few days ago, I posted an e-mail I sent to my sister concerning a few mistakes in an essay I had written. After reading what I wrote, my sister believed I had exaggerated her response. I thought I had reported the exchange correctly but, upon further review, I discovered my sister was correct and she had not told me to fix the mistakes immediately. She was concerned that someone who read the essay might consider her an editorial tyrant or, worse, a really mean sister.

So I want to make known to anyone who read “My Sister, My Editor” that I love my sister very much and it was not my purpose to embarrass, humiliate, fold, spindle, ridicule or taunt her. My sister is very kewl and funny and if you met her you’d wonder why she doesn’t have her own comedy hour because she’s more entertaining than the incredibly talented Ryan Seacrest, who I think should not only host “American Idol,” and his own radio and television shows, but should also have his own network--although you’d have a difficult task convincing me that aside from “24” and “The Simpsons” that Ryan Seacrest isn’t the Fox network now. But, as my sister would say, I digress.

My mistake in reporting the events involving my sister did not result from intentional error. My mistake resulted from my perception of the event. And my perception was erroneous.

Several people observing an event will offer different accounts of what they observed. But don’t take my word for it. Observe a jury trial or watch one on television and you’ll see how varied people’s memories of history are. Even if people agree on what generally occured, they will often report conflicting versions of it. Each person has different life experiences that alter each person’s version of “truth.” Except, of course, for most politicians who are all dirty liars. But I don’t want to lecture.

Today, my sister e-mails me and tells me she enjoyed my column on the “f” word. Any mention of errors in my column were also conspicuously absent in her missive. My sister generally confirms my account of what happened in the Heck’s but she remembered some things about the event a little differently than I. In particular, she recalls my mom having waited for us in the car while we played video games. I recall it otherwise, although it is true our mom often waited in the car while we played video games in Heck’s. That’s testament to my mom’s patience and coolness. It’s been over twenty years and I can’t expect to remember everything about that day. But my sister and I share no doubt that I did something really shocking--even for me. In any case, I did not intend to exaggerate anything yesterday. Nor do I intend to exaggerate or invent what I write unless, of course, it’s obvious from the context that I’m exaggerating. All of which gets us back to perception.

But it’s late and I’m tired of explaining myself. Just know that I love my sister.

April 29, 2004: Where Hoyt Uses The “F” Word A Couple Times And We Learn A Valuable Lesson About The Dangers of Smoking

Someone at work overheard me use the “f” word today. It wasn't difficult to hear considering the numerous times and volume with which I uttered it. I used it in the morning, several times after lunch, and about six or seven times between three and four p.m.

I have a couple of cases that are wreaking havoc on my sanity. And it's not good practice to perform your Tony Montana from "Scarface" impression on the phone for your clients. (Unless, of course, your client is someone like Tony Montana, in which case, the "f" word is the only vocabulary you'll ever need.) I can't detail the particulars of what caused me to embark on one of my "Tony Montana tirades," but I can tell you that the repeated uses of the "f" word were extreme even for me.

Of course, if you've been reading these essays, and you don't know me well, you might think I don't use lewd language or curse. And you would be mighty wrong. I’m no John Ashcroft (THANK GOD!) and I love using filthy language. When I was younger, my repeated use of the "s" word and the "f" word was prolific and, no doubt, usurped the space in my brain that had originally been designated for learning and remembering “important” words for the SAT. This explains why I scored lower on the verbal SAT than my parents expected and also why I didn't know what "jumentous" meant in the eleventh grade.

I never understood why anyone in the eleventh grade would need to know what "jumentous" means, especially an eleventh-grader who lived in the suburbs and watched entirely too much "Gilligan's Island." When I discovered years later what jumentous meant, I wished I had learned it earlier. It’s a much cooler word than the “f” or “s” words, the latter of which better approximates it in meaning. “Jumentous” isn’t in my copy of Webster’s Ninth Collegiate Dictionary but the “f” and “s” words are.

I don’t recall where I first learned the definition of “jumentous,” but to find a definition for it today, I had to check it on Google, which in a few months I predict will own everything but Wal*Mart. “Jumentous” means smelling strongly of an animal, especially horse urine, as in, “Cadbury, dear chap, wouldn’t you agree that the New York subway system assumes a rather jumentous quality in late summer?”

The amazing thing is most people I know don't have any idea what jumentous means and several of these folks scored higher on the SAT than I did. This group of people includes my wife who grew up on a farm.

My dad warned me whenever he heard me cuss. He’d ask me, “Would you use that language in front of so-and-so” and insert the name of an authority he’d think I’d fear and/or respect. Of course, I would never have told any of my teachers or elders to “Fuck off.” My purpose in using the “f” word was solely to express the occasional frustration or angst I had as a teenager. Or the pain and rage I felt when a stranger’s cigarette burned my arm once.

My sister and I were in the vestibule in Heck’s, a local department store, and I was playing Asteroids. Mom was there to buy various and sundry items before our visit to the swimming pool at the tennis club. It was sometime in the summer and the day was warm. As I controlled the tiny spaceship and avoided rocks made of pixels, my ten-year-old sister, Hilary, watched me and drops of sweat beaded on my forehead. A man with white hair, in his late forties or early fifties, entered the store, and as my right arm dangled from the side of the video game’s cabinet, the man’s cigarette brushed against my skin and burned me. My pain was horrible and the burn made a red hole on my arm. I must have flinched because the man said to me, “Oh, I’m sorry, did I burn you.” And with the pain and rage only a fourteen-year-old boy can understand, I stammered like Roger Daltrey:

“Yeah...well...F-F-FUCK YOU, MISTER!”

The man must not have expected my response and, quite frankly, I surprised myself. He quickly entered the store and I never saw him again. My sister left to tell my mom. And a couple who had witnessed the incident later approached me outside the vestibule (where I had gone to consider what I had done) and told me to “Take it easy, kid!”

Let this be a lesson to anyone who still smokes cigarettes.

And if you’re reading this and you’re the guy who burned my arm with the cigarette in Heck’s in the summer of 1981, my right arm has healed and I’m very sorry I told you “FUCK YOU, MISTER!”

April 28, 2004: The Pregnancy Menu

As my wife’s first pregnancy progressed, she craved different foods. One week, it was egg salad sandwiches. The next week, it was french fries with ketchup. For some reason, my wife especially liked the ketchup more than the fries, and I recall she poured it on everything. Another week, she needed Kraft macaroni and cheese dinners. Then, after several meals of aforesaid macaroni and cheese, the mere thought of it made her nauseous. Over the next year, when my hand reached for one of these macaroni and cheese dinners, my wife’s face would wrinkle and reveal an expression that only those who have experienced morning sickness can understand.

My wife’s second pregnancy has been different in a couple ways. First, her morning sickness is worse. And, second, she craves different foods.

Since last week, based on the tally of its boxes in our home, Giovanni’s pizza remains number one on Melanie’s Favorite Pregnancy Foods Chart (also known as the MFPFC).

In the number two position, and the Hot MFPFC Mover™ this week, is The Chinese Food from Main Kwong featuring “The Crab Rangoon” dipped in sweet sauce. At less than three bucks for eight of them, The Crab Rangoon may bump Giovanni’s pizza from the number one position on the MFPFC by next week.

And, moving back onto the charts after a year and a half absence, is, of course, Kraft macaroni and cheese. My wife enjoys eating the mac and cheese cold, and should the trend continue, my money is on the mac and cheese to take the number on spot on the chart in a week or so.

NOTE: This week’s rankings of the MFPFC have been based on my wife’s actual, fulfilled requests for these foods. If my wife’s unfulfilled requests were counted, margaritas would rank number one and “The Crab Rangoon” would rank number two on the chart.

April 27, 2004: Windows

There was the window from where I watched my dad jog around the house in Chesapeake. I would cry, “Gingy, gingy,” because I thought my dad was the gingerbread man from a story my parents read to me. The gingerbread man always laughed, “Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.”

There was the window in my bedroom that overlooked our backyard. I used to put my mouth on the glass and feel the cold pane with my lips.

There was the window on the back door that I banged and broke while my mom was giving my sister a bath. The cut left a scar on my nose.

There was the window in the kitchen behind a bush where the birds made a nest every spring. Years later, our family had the bush removed, and the birds never returned.

There were the windows in our upstairs bathroom that overlooked the front yard. Mom banged on that window to break up a fight between David Selinger and me in the snow.

There was the window in my first, single room in college that measured less than seventy-square feet. The window had bars and offered a view of three other buildings and windows with bars that created a dark, enclosed courtyard.

There was the window near the air conditioner and television set in my apartment on Fern Street where I watched the Los Angeles riots after the verdict in the Rodney King case and where I studied for hours for the Louisiana bar exam.

There was the window in my apartment in my hometown where I sat alone and listened to music and read.

There were the windows that nobody ever cleaned in my second apartment in my hometown that were only a few hundred feet from the funeral home that prepared my father for burial.

There is the window in our parlor from where our son watches me return from work. And he giggles and shakes when he sees me bring home the pizza tonight.

April 26, 2004: My Sister, My Editor

Before I post my entries, I edit my copy. Sometimes my wife will review my writing. More often than not, nobody reviews it. When my sister comments on my website, however, she will always note any mistakes I’ve made. In fact, more often than not, the comments from my sister address any errors in grammar, spelling or syntax.

Today’s essay results from an e-mail exchange with my sister about the column I wrote yesterday. She knows how I feel about her criticisms, but, unfortunately, yesterday’s essay contained a couple of “glaring” errors, which compelled my sister’s inner editor to “scream” at me--or should I say send me an e-mail urging me to correct them immediately. What follows is the fifteen-minute response I drafted from work, and, for those interested, I sent it before leaving to rescue my wife from two romping babies in our parlor:

As I sit here in my office, miles from our home computer with the Net Fusion program, I cannot correct the misspelling of proboscis or change "Melanie and I" to "Melanie and me," where the former phrase is not the subject of the sentence. Yes, Ivy-League graduate that I am, I am fully aware of these mistakes in yesterday's April 25, 2004 entry entitled "Buddy, Can You Spare A Pacifier."

The funny thing is before receiving your e-mail, I had planned a column about grammar and editing and how difficult it is to post perfect, error- and typo-free essays twenty times or more a month. Your reminding me of the errors is good news and provides me with an opportunity to address the matter in full in today's weblog.

When you have an eleven-month-old boy who enjoys having you hold his hands as he learns to walk, your amazing wife's exhausted from her pregnancy and requires your assistance for the household chores, which, in addition to washing dishes and cleaning the house, now includes removing fresh kitty vomitus from the front room where your wife will baby sit another child the next day for what amounts to two bucks an hour, maintaining an error-free website is not a simple task--nor is it the highest priority of the day. If I had a few extra minutes, I could fix a few errors, but, quite frankly, I'm astonished I'm able to post as regularly as I do and that I don't have MORE grammatical or typographical errors in my blog, which, according to my new web design program, now totals over 30,000 words.

I'm not able to fix my website from work. In fact, I shouldn't write at work because I don't receive remuneration for it. So, here's the deal: I don't mind if you, or anyone else reading this, check my page for errors. If anyone wants to use my columns for exercises in grammar, I encourage it! Based on the latest statistics, my page could benefit from a few more visits, even from those stylistic martinets too busy to consider the substance of my writing!

Although I graduated from Mrs. Sims' class, I still know that misspelling a few words out of 30,000 isn't unexpected or inexcusable. It's not as if I wrote a column about B.D. losing a leg in "Doonesbury" last week and spelled controversy "CONTROVERCY," as NBC did. Why don't you write them and tell them to make an apology for the misspelling? Didn't your editorial radar find that error? Sheesh, how many millions of people saw that mistake? If NBC doesn't know how to spell "controversy" correctly, isn't that a more egregious mistake than my misspelling of proboscis? (I bet Tom Brokaw and his NBC buddies can't spell proboscis either!) We watched "Spellbound" this weekend, and let's face it, "controversy" is not a difficult word to spell. Better yet, you should write to CNN and tell them to fix the crawls, which, I'm sure you've noticed, always have mistakes.

I'm glad you liked yesterday's essay. And, of course, I fully demand and expect a report from you on every misspelling and grammar error before I post it later today.

Love,

Hoyt

You can thank my sister for noting the correct spelling of “remuneration” and noting that three out of four people prefer the use of “inexcusable” over “unexcusable.” Also, I wish to thank my wife for correcting my many misuses of commas in this essay.

And, if you find any other errors, tell my sister. She’ll appreciate it, I’m sure.

April 25, 2004: Buddy, Can You Spare A Pacifier?

Somewhere in our house are seven pacifiers. Maybe there are six. Or eight. I’ve lost count. My wife probably knows the exact number, but she’s sleeping, and, if she does know how many pacifiers Seth has, she doesn’t know where all of them are. The location of half a dozen pacifiers is not as important as the location of an eleven-month old, who not only has the ability to lose pacifiers faster than you can buy them, but has now learned how to climb on a box of diapers near the supposedly childproof brick hearth of ours.

How is it possible for this child to lose so many pacifiers? Does this happen with our people’s babies? Is it a game babies play with their parents? Until recently, when Seth began crying and needed his binky to sleep, Melanie would ask me where his pacifiers were. Why would I have this information? I can’t find my one set of car keys and my paralegal constantly has to remind me that the order I’m looking for is in front of me on my desk. Finally, in the last month, Melanie decided it would be easier to ask Seth for this information because even if he can’t speak, it’s more productive than asking me.

“Honey, where is Seth’s pacifier?

“I thought I just saw it in his mouth,” I say.

“No. He doesn’t have it,” responds my wife.

The amazing thing is that the room we’re in doesn’t have many objects or pieces of furniture. The same day Melanie has purchased four new pacifiers, and, hours later, we now can’t determine where any of them are.

Melanie turns towards Seth, whom she’s holding, and asks:

“Seth, where’s your binky?”

And then Seth looks at the carpet and points to the area under his exersaucer, where, a new, drool-covered pacifier lies tilted on its side.

Over the last couple months, we’ve discovered Seth enjoys teasing us. Hiding his pacifiers from us in plain view is one of his older tricks, actually, and he’s probably laughing at Melanie and me because it took us forever to uncover his trick. One of his more obvious teasing games is to misidentify objects that he knows. I’ll ask him, for example, where my nose is. Seth understands what a nose is and his preferred method of identification is to grab my schnoz with his sharp nails and pinch with--what seems to me is--the strength of a forty-year-old. But, when we sit at the dining room table, and I ask him where my nose is, Seth immediately directs his left index finger toward the clock on the wall. As large as my nose is, it cannot credibly be confused with our clock, which Seth has identified properly without reference to my proboscis.

If I move closer to Seth, and ask him again where my nose is, of course, Seth seizes this opportunity to grab my snout with his sharp baby nails and then squeezes as hard as he can. Sometimes, he’ll add a giggle.

My mom always told me that she hoped I would have a child just like me. I guess she thought my mischievous behavior with her should result in return consequences for me when I became a parent.

I never hid my pacifiers from my parents but I did do some things involving toilet training that, truth told, I knew not to do.

If Seth raises the stakes beyond pacifier hiding and nose-pinches, Melanie and I are in for some real trouble.

April 24, 2004: “Capturing The Friedmans”

“Capturing The Friedmans” ranks as one of the best documentary films I’ve seen. We watched the film on dvd last night, and, fifteen hours later, my wife and I are still discussing it. This morning, we viewed the special features on dvd, which included commentary from the director, Andrew Jarecki, and updates on several of the principals involved in the story.

Arnold Friedman was an adored and respected teacher, and based on all outward appearances, he and his family were a normal family in a typical, well-to-do suburb on Long Island. Within its first few minutes, the film informs us that sometime in the late 1980s, Mr. Friedman had received a magazine involving child pornography from the Netherlands, which alerted his local law enforcement officials. Following their discovery, these officials engaged in an exchange of child pornography with Mr. Friedman to confirm their suspicions. Soon after, while Mr. Friedman, his wife, Elaine, and their three sons, David, Seth and Jesse are about to begin their Thanksgiving dinner, several cops take a battering ram, enter the Friedmans’ home and ransack it for evidence involving the allegations of child molestation now raised against Mr. Friedman. The media appears and documents the police carrying computers out of the house, and as the cameras roll, they reveal the eldest son, David, wearing his underwear on his head. It’s only the beginning of this circus.

Jarecki interviews the leader of the sex crimes unit who investigated the Friedmans. She recounts how numerous children claimed Mr. Friedman had engaged in sodomy with them and abused them during the computer classes Mr. Friedman taught in his home. She tells us “you can tell this is not Fred MacMurray and ‘My Three Sons.’” When asked if the police found any physical evidence of sexual abuse, she can’t recall any. Another officer confirms that the case against the Friedmans proceeded largely on personal accounts from the alleged victims.

Jarecki also interviews several of the parents of the alleged victims and the computer students. They offer conflicting accounts. Some maintain Mr. Friedman and Jesse committed these unspeakable crimes. Others don’t understand how anyone could raise these absurd allegations against The Friedmans.

Was Mr. Friedman guilty of molesting his students? Did the police violate the law in gathering evidence against him? And what about the innocence of his son Jesse? The film doesn’t answer the questions it raises. The answer depends on how you resolve what you’ve seen. That’s why the film succeeds.

Another reason is that David, the eldest son, also documented the events as they unfolded. In this era of “reality television,” the images he filmed provide a horrific picture of a family coping, as best its members can, with the prospect of losing a father and son to prison. This, not an MTV manipulated, presentation of “seven strangers picked to live together to see what happens,” is “the real world” of The Friedmans.

I also liked the film because it revealed the practical consequences of our “justice” system. When the machinery of a prosecution involves someone, its gears grind everything in its path. Criminal charges affect The Friedmans’ community and further fuel the outrage against Arnold and Jesse. Imagine, if you will, how you would react if you learned your neighbor were accused of molesting a child. Would you feel comfortable allowing that person to baby sit your child?

The accusation of some criminal acts may produce outcomes inconsistent with our criminal justice system. The more wicked the alleged deed is, the more likely people will believe the accusations are true. And although the presumption of innocence must attach to anyone accused of a crime, certain allegations, such as child molestation, will often result in greater community anger than a simple burglary or theft charge. And if the police don’t act fairly investigating the charges, the risk of a wrongful conviction increases.

Another suspect who risked prosecution with Jesse, maintained his innocence for several months. In the dvd’s extra features, you learn the prosecution offered this suspect the chance to serve only six months with no record if he would “turn State’s evidence” against Jesse. He implicated Jesse. “You would have done the same,” says Jesse’s lawyer when he’s interviewed, “if you were facing fifty years in jail.”

“Capturing The Friedmans” is an amazing work. And it all started with a twenty-minute documentary about a clown.

April 23, 2004: Preliminaries To An Ultrasound

Melanie had her ultrasound today. It was her second one for this pregnancy, but the first one I attended. From the first pregnancy, we learned patience when Melanie was a patient. Invariably, Melanie’s visits to the doctor lasted three hours or more, with most of the time consumed in the waiting room.

On this visit, we were prepared. Melanie took a copy of her “Atlantic Monthly,” and I took a copy of “Moneyball” and a few pages of notebook paper for writing because, geek that I am, I do not own a notebook computer, blackberry™, palm pilot™, or personal assistant to document my ideas.

We arrived at the hospital’s parking garage at 11:49 a.m., parked the car at 11:52 a.m., and arrived inside the doctor’s waiting room at 11:55 a.m. for my wife’s noon appointment. After Melanie registered at the receptionist’s desk, we took a seat on the couch beneath the shelf holding the television where “Andy Griffith” held court. On this episode, Howard worried about his facial hair and annoyed not only everyone in the episode, but my wife and me as well. One lady in the waiting room, however, found Howard’s antics entertaining and constantly laughed at his remarks, which, ironically, caused my wife and me to giggle. A few minutes after the show ended, the news aired footage involving a man who had caught himself on fire while using a lighter near a gas pump. This was not a local story, but, for some reason, it seemed to my wife and me that this newscaster took particular delight in describing the burning man as the video of it flashed on screen. The juxtaposition of this footage of burning pants and the lady’s earlier laughter at Howard and his mustache on “Andy Griffith” propelled Melanie and me into further giggles. Of course, we were the only ones laughing now in the waiting room. So I was glad when the nurse finally called Melanie into the patient examination holding tank.

What happened in the holding tank was not nearly as eventful as the waiting room. After the nurse took Melanie’s blood pressure, we waited for over two hours. Melanie read some of her magazine and I wrote. Then Melanie and I talked. And talked. And Melanie, who was exhausted, took a nap on the examining table. Finally, the nurse took Melanie into the ultrasound room, where we waited another ten minutes. And then the doctor entered and examined Melanie.

As he conducted the ultrasound, the physician explained the images on the screen. Melanie and I easily noticed the heartbeat, represented by a tiny, flashing image inside the oval-shaped egg sac. We were both excited and nervous as we watched. The ultrasound took ten minutes.

“Worth the wait, right?” asked the doctor?

Oh yeah.

April 21, 2004: God, I Love Democracy! (Or Fun With Footnotes and Statistics)

West Virginia's primary election occurs soon. Although I don't care who wins the governor's race, if I did, I couldn't vote in the primary. I registered as an Independent voter years before it was cool and anyone knew who Ross Perot was. But West Virginia doesn't allow Independent voters to cast a ballot in the Democratic primary. As further punishment for anyone who dares register as an Independent, the Republican party will allow you to vote in its primary.

If I devoted my energy to more constructive pursuits¹, I would take the time to challenge West Virginia's primary policy involving Independents. My apathy for politics prevents me from further considering the issue as soon as I finish writing this essay. Besides, having a weblog is not mutually exclusive with political activism--or, at least in Howard Dean's case, a recipe for political success either.

In my area, every eight minutes, the leading candidates appear in campaign commercials. They repeat the same, traditional campaign trinity: Family, Faith, and Jobs. I don't know how much these dudes paid their spin doctors to devise these spots, but whatever it was, it was too much. I could shoot a more interesting commercial with Seth holding the camera. Of course, if I did this, my opponent would air a negative commercial, call me a plagiarist, and allege I stole the idea from having watched² "The Blair Witch Project."

In this post-ironic age of manipulated presentations of reality, I'm jaded about politicians. And, when I view a video clip of a candidate surrounding himself with smiling, ten-year olds or drooling infants, it doesn't trigger a positive image. It makes me believe something's wrong with the guy if he has to gain my sympathy and trust through schoolchildren he didn't father. I then imagine this dude's a phony, abusive lecher, who, as soon as the shoot's done, emits a hearty, beer belch and proclaims, "How's that for a family man, fellas!"

The sad truth is, more often than not, our elected leaders are not the paragons of virtue they present. Had Clinton admitted engaging in cigar games with Monica, I would have had some respect for him. Not much respect. But some. Now, when people see clips of Clinton, I'm know I'm not the only one who has fantastic images involving cigars.

In recent years, West Virginia has voted for Republicans at the national level, but, in the local elections, the State usually selects Democrats. I'm not a statistician³ but I think it's because Democrats outnumber Republicans by a 2-1 margin. And, come May, a "majority" of 316,000 people, or fifty percent of the 632,000 registered Democrats who vote, will decide for the remaining "minority" 1.5 million⁴ of us in this State the person who will take the governor's oath of office next January.

God, I love democracy!

¹As evident from my essays in this web journal, what I consider a “constructive pursuit,” is, of course, subject to debate.

²I watched “The Blair Witch Project” on a blind date two days before I met Melanie. That’s what I will always remember best about this film.

³But if Bill O’Reilly can misuse statistics, then so can I.

⁴Here’s how I arrived at this calculation: West Virginia has about 1.8 million people, give or take a few hundred uncounted, rural mountain dwellers in Nicholas, Mineral, Upshur and Mingo counties. In the 2000 election, a total of 648,000 votes were cast for the governor, with slightly more than half for the victor, Governor Bob Wise, who, in recent weeks, urged the State’s denizens to boycott and destroy Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirts. Assuming voter apathy in 2004 remains similar to voter apathy in 2000, I have projected that whoever wins the race for governor will need at least 320,000 votes. That means 1.5 million people is the total of people who will not vote for governor and/or disagree with the candidate chosen by the “majority” of 320,000 voters--or less than 20% of the population. For some real fun, check out the results for yourself.

April 20, 2004: I Don’t Like “Friends”

"Friends" and "Frasier" will soon end their run on NBC. Based on the promotions, I know "Friends" has three remaining episodes while "Frasier" has four. I've watched four--maybe five--complete episodes of "Frasier." But I've never watched an episode of "Friends." I consider never having watched "Friends" one of my proudest accomplishments in life. It ranks only below marrying Melanie, fathering our children, and learning how to upload and reformat this website last weekend.

Don't, in the words of President George W. Bush, "misunderestimate" me. I love television. Always have. Always will. But, I'd rather sit in a crowded, hospital waiting room with disgruntled patients ready to explode with anger and watch Bush deliver a speech than endure a "Friends" episode. "Friends" is a popular show. My friends watch "Friends." And their friends watch “Friends.” So do their enemies. Many of them have copies of the "Friends" board game, which they play when they're not watching "Friends."

If you're one of the few, the proud, the “I-never-have-watched-a-single-episode-of-"Friends"-and-I-am-pr oud-of-this-accomplishment-club,” you're gonna lose the "Friends" game. The answer to every question in it relies on your having memorized "Friends" minutia so trifling I can't fathom how--much less WHY--anyone would remember it. On further reflection, I did last week.

Last year, I tried to play the "Friends" trivia game with, of course, friends. I have always excelled at any board game regardless of my level of knowledge. I figured if I knew the names of Ross, Rachel, Chandler, and Joey, I could compete based on the dozens of "Friends" previews that had, unfortunately, flashed before my eyes over the years. My hypothesis proved incorrect.

The "Friends" game is the young, suburban couples’ version of nerd games, such as "Dungeons and Dragons" and "Star Wars.” If you're not a "Friends" geek, you will fail at the "Friends" game. Quite frankly, I think it would be easier for someone unfamiliar with "Dungeons and Dragons" or "Star Wars" to play those games than it was for me to play Friends. I'm not a "Star Wars" geek by any measure, but, if you asked me how Boba Fett behaves when he's drunk and naked nekkid, I could probably guess the correct answer. But there's no way I could imitate Rachel if I don't know how many episodes in which she's paraded nekkid around the loft.

After a round of questions, all of which our friends answered correctly, my bitching and moaning prompted everyone to abandon the game. We decided to play a few rounds of Jenga.

That’s what friends are for, right?

April 19, 2004: A Fool And His Money

As we cruised the aisles of the grocery store yesterday, my eyes caught a glimpse of Donald Trump’s new book “How To Get Rich.” Before Melanie and the grocery cart disappeared down the aisle, I perused a few chapters of Trumps’ book. It wasn’t difficult because the chapters were only a couple of paragraphs in length and it only took ten seconds to learn Trump doesn’t shake hands when he greets somebody.

From what I gleaned in that minute of speed-reading, Trump’s book entertains. You either enjoy his audacity or you don’t. I do and I watched every episode of “The Apprentice.” But what bothers me is Trump doesn’t need the money from this book, especially when, as we all know, his book’s not going to make anybody “rich.”

If you watched “The Apprentice,” it certainly seemed Donald Trump is generous with his wealth. He sponsored a celebrity auction with its proceeds donated to the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric Aids foundation--a wonderful charity. The Donald also sponsored the building of an ice rink in New York City. The truth, however, is the Donald isn’t nearly as charitable as the celluloid suggests. Considering that Trump has over a billion dollars, his giving represents a fraction of his wealth.

Donald Trump didn’t get rich because he’s altruistic. He got rich because he inherited his wealth from his daddy, Fred Trump. To Donald’s credit, however, he hasn’t lost his inherited wealth; The Donald has built on the foundation of his father’s fortune, as you can also tell from all the “fabulous” hotels, golf courses and bottled water Trump promoted on “The Apprentice.”

Several years ago, I regularly read columns and articles by “The Motley Fool.” The “Fools,” as they’re known, advocated investment for the masses by the masses. They taught basic banking and saving concepts and encouraged us to make our own financial decisions. Why pay a broker large commissions, said the Fools, when you can pay eight bucks a trade with a discount broker? Do your own due diligence and research and follow our lead. You’ll make money and retire rich.

Right. The Fools published a book. Then they published another book. Then, the Fools took their previously FREE site, and turned it into a premium “pay-for-content” site. If you wanted to know which stocks the Fools recommended, it was no problem. Send them some money for the Fool newsletter. Want to know what some low-cost high return investments are? No problem. Send the Fools some more money.

Where the Fools had once championed investing for the lower to middle-income investor, it had now adopted the model that catered to the wealthier broker-assisted person. The Fools, of course, will probably tell you that they really don’t charge that much for the advice, and, hey, they can’t run their website if they can’t pay the electric bill. After all, the Fools want to help you succeed as they have.

If you happened to buy a stock the Fools liked and the stock tanked, of course, that was your problem--the same as when you paid a full-commission with a broker. Investing is risky. Or didn’t you read that part in the Fool forum? Heck, even the Donald tells you that in his new book.

The Donald’s book isn’t going to make anyone richer--except for Trump and his publisher. Years from now, his books will sit on the shelves of public libraries, or, in some cases, boxes in people’s basements, where it will join others like it.

You want to get rich? Make a budget for your food, electric, gas, phone and water bills. Eliminate your entertainment expenses. Try not to travel. Save as much money as you can--even if it means not having any fun. And, never, ever, donate or give any money to anyone. It also helps a lot if you happen to have a large pile of cash to start with, or, in the case of Jack Whittaker, win a $150 million powerball jackpot.

And, finally, whatever you do, don’t follow Jack’s lead and do this. You don’t need a book to tell you this, but, I’d appreciate your “thank you” if my advice helps you someday.

April 18, 2004: Good Hostas Make Good Neighbors

We’ve lived in our house for four years. Our street reminds my mother of the neighborhood in “Poltergeist.” This isn’t because it’s built on an old cemetery property or gravesite--although I have heard that there is a school bus and a couch buried under the lot next to ours. It’s because our Lowe’s-assembled abode resembles most of the others on our street. All have a front yard the size of a postage stamp, a chimney whose height doesn’t comply with the building code, and a mailbox inside a square, brick-constructed lampbox. In the evenings, the lights on all these lampposts glow, except for ours, which for some reason, burns out within days of our installing a new light bulb.

Based on my estimation, eighty people reside in our subdivision. Since we’ve been here, however, we’ve met only ten. Most of them, we rarely speak with, or when we do see someone exiting his car, we will give him a half-hearty wave as we both retreat indoors.

My parents raised my sister and me in a subdivision with an array of housing styles and a different community attitude toward neighbors. More than a couple hundred people lived on our hill. But we knew almost every family. On Halloween, weather permitting, Hilary and I would visit dozens of homes. We learned to expect certain treats (or tricks) from each home. One elderly lady, whose name escapes me, gave us full-size candy bars. Another elderly couple usually retrieved old lollipops--which were probably from their bank visits--to give to us. A few cheapskates would dump pennies in your orange, plastic, jack-o’-lantern. And Mr. Ward, the dentist, would give us toothbrushes as he drank his homemade wine from a glass.

On our return, my mom would still inspect our candy and ask where we had received it. If she weren’t sure of the person’s identity, or if the treat were homemade, then mom pitched it in the trash. Sometimes, dad would eat the candy mom deemed unacceptable. (And, after my sister and I went to bed, dad would consume some of the acceptable candy too!)

Were it not for Halloween, I doubt that we’d ever communicate with any of the other families on our street. Even then, the exchange of candy and pleasantries doesn’t last. The parents of the children plod down the street and nobody bothers to share a small chat outside the hackneyed lines of “what nice weather we’re having.”

The low interest rates have prompted a turnover in several of the nearby houses over the last year. But I couldn’t tell you the name of the person who moved in across the street.

It started with a hosta. Melanie, Seth and I went to Lowe’s (of course) to purchase some plants for our front yard. The boxwoods we planted three years ago expired passed away last summer. The actual cause of death is still unknown, but the unofficial cause is “brown thumb, caused by inexperience in gardening, caused by the lack of time to learn gardening.” We decided to purchase some plants that don’t require great shade or skill to maintain, and we settled on three blue bogs.

On Friday evening, after dinner, we took Seth and his playpen outside and began. Although our efforts haven’t proved successful, my wife and I enjoy planting. We took turns digging and removing the boxwoods and watching Seth. After about twenty minutes, Seth lost his patience and we had to remove him too. But, for about thirty bucks, and twenty minutes, our front yard looked nice. It isn’t as beautiful as Tim’s yard, but, nobody has a lawn as cool as Tim, the lawn king.

Before she sold her house to Tim and moved, Beverly was the lawn queen. Every two days, she’d mow her grass. And, yes, her grass was always greener than ours. She also maintained a hedge of perfect, flourishing boxwoods, which, unlike ours, would never need an inquiry into their cause of their death. Beverly planted hostas along the side of her house and had several other bushes, whose names I don’t know, but whose arrangements reminded us of a “Better Homes and Gardens” photo shoot. By comparison, our lawn always resembled the “before” picture, except everyone knew there was no such thing as an “after” picture as it involved our yard and horticulture skills.

When Tim and his wife arrived next door the week of Seth’s birth, we didn’t know what to expect. Nobody could maintain a yard like Beverly did. But Tim had other plans. Tim removed every hosta Beverly had planted along the left side of her house. Then, over the course of two weeks, he mowed his grass everyday. At first, I thought I imagined it. Maybe he kept his lawnmower in the front yard all the time. But, one day when Melanie was not sleep-deprived from the birthing process, she noticed it too. By my calcuation, Tim averaged mowing his lawn every two point two days last summer.

By March 27, 2004, the official beginning of this year’s Lawnmowing Season, Tim’s yard had surpassed Beverly’s yard in beauty. And I think I now understand how Picasso’s father felt when he saw Pablo’s paintings for the first time. So we had to do something about the three, dead boxwoods immediately.

As a token of friendship, the lawn king gave us two hostas he had recently purged from Beverly’s garden. Tim even helped us plant them. Afterwards, we spent about an hour talking with him and his wife. They’re nice folks.

Last night, I asked Melanie if she remembered what Tim’s wife’s name was. I guess I was so happy to establish communication with our neighbors that I forgot.

For now, I’m calling her Vicki.

April 15, 2004: Form Over Substance

Construction of Pleadings. All pleadings shall be construed as to do substantial justice. --Rule 8(f) of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure [italics added].

This is not a law school lecture. This is a true story about my seventh-grade, composition teacher, Mrs. Sims. The names and events are real and, based on one graphic depiction, I caution those with weak stomachs or morning sickness to avoid the paragraph where I describe the anxiety Mrs. Sims caused me in the fall of 1979. (I will provide a warning before aforementioned paragraph.)

A few days before I would begin attending junior high school for the first time, I was late for the orientation. The school bus that was scheduled to gather the children in my area did not travel to my neighborhood. I had to have my mom drive me to the school, where, upon entering the cafeteria, I saw several hundred kids whose bus drivers obviously had no hangovers that morning.

If the Scooby Doo gang would have found my phantom school bus, then perhaps I would have arrived on time. Perhaps I would have felt more comfortable about junior high. Perhaps. But missing the first-half hour of orientation proved ominous and was the first of many anxieties I endured in junior high.

I don't remember the particulars of our introduction to Mrs. Sims. I know she greeted us with a smile. I also remember her thick, red lipstick. She carried a Styrofoam cup for her coffee. And, by early morning, the white Styrofoam cup she used retained dark, red smears of lipstick across its rim. Nobody recycled then, and it disturbed me that she couldn't replace her Styrofoam cup at least once. It disturbed the other children, too. But nobody had the guts to tell her to replace her nasty Styrofoam cup. It was probably because, like me, they had all spilled the contents of theirs earlier that morning.

Mrs. Sims required us to keep a journal. Each class, we spent the first ten minutes writing in our journals. I never enjoyed this composition ritual. Perhaps if Al Gore had invented the internet earlier, I would have liked it and I could have uploaded my material online for a couple of strangers to read. Perhaps. But I still hadn't developed my cynicism. That would have to wait until after I graduated from Mrs. Sims' class. In an absurd effort to maintain my interest in journal keeping, I named my journal "The Blue Beetle." And, on its cover, I drew a picture of a large ladybug-like creature with black polka dots on its abdomen and thorax, neither of which I could draw to scale or identify in biology class.

Keeping a journal counted toward your composition grade. Mrs. Sims expected everyone to write an entry on each school day of the week. If you were absent a couple days, tough doo-doo, pal. You should have had your buddy bring the journal to your sickbed. Mrs. Sims conducted random journal inspections. And if your journal lacked an entry, then, in the battle cry of Mrs. Sims, "DOCK 'EM! FIFTY POINTS OFF!"

Journal checks occurred at the beginning of class. After the period bell rang, Mrs. Sims closed her classroom door and proudly announced "JOURNAL CHECK!" She would then instruct us on how to proceed. Sometimes I'd pass the journal to the person in the seat in front of me. That usually meant Alyson checked my journal.

As my luck would also have it, Alyson was the class valedictorian. Rumor was she never made less than an A in anything. It was no rumor. I saw Alyson's grades on Mrs. Sims' tests and she later became our high school valedictorian. Alyson was friendly to me, however, and she never docked me on my journal entries. If Alyson had done nothing else for me, I would still have the utmost respect for her. Had Mrs. Sims' class been like Mark Burnett's "Survivor," I would have formed an alliance with Alyson in my struggle against Mrs. Sims and her evil journal-point dockers.

Mrs. Sims also enjoyed giving her classes "pop quizzes." Alyson never had trouble with them. Most of us, however, rued the days she gave these tests. We had class in the morning and could not receive any notice of these anxiety producers. I resented the afternoon classes because they would discover the horror and have ample time during lunch to prepare for them. I suppose I could have studied and prevented my anxiety. But I was twelve years' old and I didn't need logic. I needed my Slim Jims® and my remote control to watch "The Flintstones" and "The Little Rascals" on WXIX out of Cincinnati.

One day, during a journal check, somebody asked Mrs. Sims how many words should each journal entry have. This fool must have devoted attention to her journal because nobody, not even someone who watched "The Flintstones" instead of studying, would ever dare raise a grading standard with Mrs. Sims. Mrs. Sims was the worst martinet. And nobody needed to suggest another unreasonable grading standard to her if she hadn't considered it.

"Hmm....," Mrs. Sims thought aloud like the Owl in the commerical for the Tootise Pops®, "How many words should a journal entry contain? . . . What do you guys think?" she asked aloud, with no intention of following our suggestions. "How about fifty words!" she pronounced. Of course, her edict drew the obvious response:

"What if somebody has forty-nine words in their journal?"

Which then drew the obvious response from Mrs. Sims:

"DOCK 'EM!! FIFTY POINTS OFF!"

On this particular "journal check," we passed our journals across the room. One of my entries lacked the requisite fifty words. I looked across the room at Mr. Max, who, only months later, would have his Bar Mitzvah the same day as I did. On this day, however, Mr. Max did not remember that we were both MOT ("members of the tribe"), and, despite my pleas from across the room, and wild flailing of my arms, he followed the fifty-word rule as written. And I got docked fifty points.

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH CONTAINS A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF GASTROINTESTINAL DIFFICULTIES. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE BUT LIFE IS LIKE THAT AND YOU HAVE GOT TO LEARN TO DEAL WITH IT. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Mrs. Sims' pop quizzes and journal checks had now wreaked havoc on my stomach. Every morning before leaving for school, I would vomit the eight ounces of milk I drank. I drank only eight ounces of milk because that's all my stomach could tolerate. I wasn't able to eat the toast or breakfast bars anymore. Don't even make me think about the eggs. I couldn't handle thinking about eating until after Mrs. Sims' class ended each morning. That class made me one neurotic seventh-grader.

I eventually learned I had the power to prevent my anxiety simply by modifying my behavior. In this case, that meant I would count the words for each journal entry. After I reached fifty-five (the margin of error was +/- 5 words, I figured), I stopped. Although Mrs. Sims intended our journal writing to develop our composition skills, her implementation of the fifty-word rule instead increased my mathematical abilities, reasoning and sarcasm about rules--especially the exaltation of form over substance.

My journal entries turned into avant-garde explorations of how to consider the same theme without repeating myself. The theme I used was now "I have to write fifty words in this entry so Mr. Max will be happy and Mrs. Sims won't dock me and I won't puke near my dad's shoes anymore."

And a typical entry might read:

Today I have to write in my journal again. I must make sure I have at least fifty words in this entry. Writing fifty words takes time because I can't type fifty words. I learned to count to fifty when I was little. Fifty follows forty-nine. I hope having fifty words in this entry makes you happy.

This entry would pass muster because even if you count forty-nine as one word, and not two, you have at least fifty-five words in it. And this is how I had to write the remainder of my seventh-grade year in Mrs. Sims' class. My barfing stopped and I became an A-student in her class. And today, when I see people blindly follow rules without considering the reason(s) for the rules, I get very angry and I tell them the story about Mrs. Sims.

I never did beat Alyson's scores on any tests. Damn.

April 14, 2004: Take This Quiz

As I always say, you don't need pen or paper if you know the answers. Answer the following questions without consulting the internet or your dog-eared "World Almanac" by the computer:

1. Name the seven dwarfs from Disney's animated classic film "Snow White."

2. Now name the sitting nine justices on The Supreme Court of The United States.

3. Name the twelve finalists on this year's "American Idol."

4. Now name the fifteen members of President Bush's Cabinet (not including "Cabinet-rank" members).

5. Name the eight remaining contestants on "Survivor All-Stars."

6. Now name the leaders of Canada, Japan, the United Kingdom, Italy, Russia, Germany and France.

Ok, ready? Here are the answers:

1. Sleepy, Sneezy, Grumpy, Happy, Bashful, Dopey, and Doc.

2. Chief Justice Rehnquist, Justice Stevens, Justice O'Connor, Justice Kennedy, Justice Scalia, Justice Souter, Justice Thomas, Justice Ginsburg, and Justice Breyer.

3. Amy Adams, Camile Velasco, Fantasia Barino, Jasmine Trias, George Huff, John Stevens, Jon Lewis, Diana DeGarmo, Jennifer Hudson, Jon Peter Lewis, Latoya London, Leah LaBelle, and Matthew Rogers.

4. Ann Veneman, Secretary of Agriculture; Secretary of the Interior, Gale "Ralph Kramden and Ed" Norton; Secretary of Commerce, Don Evans; Department of Justice, John "I don't smoke, drink caffeine or dance" Ashcroft; Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld; Secretary of Labor, Elaine Chao; Secretary of Education, Rod "Turn the" Paige; Secretary of State, Colin Powell; Secretary of Energy, Spencer Abraham; Secretary of Transportation, Norman "Don't call me Norm, k?" Mineta; Secretary of Health and Human Services, Tommy "Not Tom" Thompson; Secretary of the Treasury, John "I'd rather have sunshine than" Snow; Department of Homeland Security, Tom Ridge; Secretary of Veteran Affairs, Anthony Principi; Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, Alphonso "Action" Jackson.

5. Kathy, Shii Ann, Amber, Jenna, Big Tom, Boston Rob, Rupert Boneham (heh heh), and Alicia.

6. Prime Minister Martin, Canada; President Chirac, France; Chancellor Schröder, Germany; Prime Minister Berlusconi, Italy; Prime Minister Koizumi, Japan; President Putin, Russia; and Prime Minister Blair, United Kingdom.

When I devised this quiz, I knew I wouldn't know all the answers to these questions. I'm not ashamed to admit that I forgot Matthew Rogers and Amy Adams were contestants on American Idol. I also checked to make sure I had all the names of the seven dwarves correct. Doc is the only one that wears facial hair, but, for some reason, I forget he's one of the dwarf clan.

I also admit that I didn't know many persons in Bush's Cabinet. My father-in-law would ridicule me if he ever discovered I didn't know who our Secretary of Agriculture is. He owns several head of cattle and breeds quarterhorses. He devotes substantial time to working on his farm. I imagine he'd be shocked if I told him I didn't know who Ann Venemin is.

"What?" He'd say. "You're kidding me. You don't know Ann Venemin is the Secretary of Agriculture?"

"No," I'd reply. "I had to check it on the internet."

My wife's father has never used the internet. He's decided he can't learn how to use it, and he can function without it. Of course, when we sent Melanie's parents a digital photograph of Seth wearing a "big brother" t-shirt to announce the news of the pregnancy, my father-in-law quickly realized there's a big disadvantage to being roadkill on the internet highway.

At age 70, this is the man we call when we need somebody to repair something broken in our house or car. He can fix anything. When the skylight over the bathroom leaked a few years ago, he climbed onto the roof, and with caulk in hand, patched those holes. That skylight will never leak again. And when our cooling unit malfunctioned in the basement, and spread a pool of water over the floor, this is the same man who told me "That's not how you mop a floor," and, grabbing the mop from my hands, proudly proclaimed "Here's how you mop a floor."

I'm not a handy person. But I think I can mop a floor, thank you. And I told him so. My father-in-law and I are opposites. But we love and respect each other, and, even better, is he adores Seth. (When we stayed at Melanie's parents' house for Easter last weekend, Seth cried when Grandpa left the room.)

My father-in-law could easily learn to use the internet. I taught my mom how to use the internet several years ago. And, let's face it, my mom has to call me when her kitchen light bulbs burn out. The truth is my father-in-law doesn't care about the internet.

Last night, as President Bush droned on about the military action in Iraq, and I fumed over the postponement of "American Idol," I thought about the value we place on information. We're educated and indoctrinated to believe that possessing knowledge of world events and leaders has intrinsic importance. In school, we learn to identify current and historic events and persons. Then, after we end our formal education, we decide for ourselves the information that we accord special. In some cases, obviously, this will depend on our employment, and, in most cases, will also turn on what we seek in and from life.

I admit I didn't know most of the members of Bush's cabinet. But it's not because I can't learn their identities. I've chosen to remain ignorant about them because I'd rather watch "American Idol" or "Survivor" or "The Apprentice" than spend the time to maintain my knowledge of current events. This could change, depending on when, if at all, I decide to become a contestant on "Jeopardy!" or change employment, or assume a pretentious attitude.

Displaying a pretentious attitude is synonymous with "Jeopardy!" or at least it is with Mr. Alex Trebek. Alex knows everything. And, if you identified Condoleeza Rice as a member of Bush's Cabinet, Alex Trebek would quickly admonish you and cry "Oh, no. That's not correct. Condoleeza Rice is the National Security Advisor. She's not technically a Cabinet member. Now, get out of that hole, and choose a category, Hoyt." The program editors would then leave your response, "Bite me, Alex!" on the cutting room floor.

"Jeopardy!" now makes its questions easier to answer than in the past. It doubled the value of its questions this season because, I suspect, nobody wants to watch somebody win a measly $10,000 when by watching "Fear Factor" you can see scantily clad Miss USA contestants vie for $50,000 by seeing who can eating a sea cucumber the quickest. "Jeopardy!" can't compete with the reality game show format--despite my hunch that most of us, myself included, would love watching a celebrity edition of "Fear Factor" with Joe Rogan telling Alex Trebek to chow down on that sea cucumber.

After I learned President Bush would present his speech last night, and pre-empt one of our favorite television programs, I made a visit to our local, public library. I checked out several books for me and the wife to read. And, after we put Seth to bed, my wife and I sat down on the couch and read our books.

I never thought I'd say this, but President Bush has actually promoted education and literacy in our household.

April 13, 2004: Talkin’ Baseball II

Last month, I drafted players for my fantasy baseball teams. I've followed baseball since Nixon was in office. Back then, I loved Chuck Finley's Oakland A's. I didn't know about Chuck Finley then, but I loved the A's green and yellow uniforms and the mustaches all the players wore. (Finley, the owner, mandated this dress code for his players.) Those A's teams won three consecutive World Series and featured Reggie Jackson, Rollie Fingers and Gene Tenace. I think everyone's heard of Reggie Jackson, and, to a lesser extent, Rollie Fingers. But only the devoted baseball fans will remember Gene Tenance.

Gene Tenace played catcher. During the regular seasons, he never hit for high average, and, by the standards of his time, his power numbers were not exceptional. (If you're interested, check out the link to his statistics.) But, in the 1972 World Series, Tenace hit four home runs and, had ESPN existed then, Tenace would have easily provided over twenty minutes of highlights for Sportscenter.

Like ESPN, fantasy baseball didn't evolve until after Tenace's playing days ended. Had fantasy leagues existed, Tenace would not have been the type of player you would have drafted in the early rounds. As a catcher, he would have been picked. But everybody would have regarded Johnny Bench and Carlton Fisk as the "one-two" picks for catcher.

I began playing fantasy baseball online about five years ago. I use Yahoo!'s service because it's free and it's simple. I'm not interested in competing for prizes, which pay leagues offer. By maintaining a couple of teams, I can follow my favorite sport without having to watch hours of ESPN or read countless articles. And that's ample satisfaction.

This year, I participate in a public league and a private league. The public league consists of me and eleven "owners" randomly selected among thousands of players. The private league includes some people I know and has ten teams, including mine.

Public leagues are either interesting or dull. There is no middle ground. Several years ago, I played in one league where the owners and I posted messages on the league's board. The debates were informed. So were the friendly insults, or "trash talk" we exchanged. I didn't win, but I liked playing the game and trading players and jabs with everyone.

Interesting public leagues are the exception. Most public leagues have not resulted in any, much less lively, posts or even trades for me. In my current public league, for example, five posts are on the board. Four are mine. The first post, from a team whose name is too obscene to merit mention, asked if anyone could trade him a relief pitcher. I offered his team the choice of one of several relief pitchers in exchange for Roger Clemens. The other team took Troy Percival and I got The Rocket. And, based on The Rocket's first game, I think I made a really good trade.

Using my own player rankings, and the computer's draft in my public league, I received Mike Piazza and Jorgé Posada as catchers. I don't need two all-star catchers, and because Piazza's going to play first base this year, I can spare Posada. That's why I posted that I would be willing to consider trading Posada.

I posted my message several days before the Yankees, Posada's team, played the first game of the season in Japan. Nobody made any offer. So I posted again. And there was still no response. That's why the third message on the board reads "Bueller? Bueller?" No response. After Posada hit two home runs and drove in six runs in the second game, I received a trade offer. It was a ridiculous offer. But at least someone made one.

I sent a message to the offeror team explaining my reasoning for rejecting the trade. I wasted my words and time on this person. This fool kept suggesting ludicrous deals. Although I said I would not make a trade involving more than one player, he kept pressing "four-for-five" deals. You might think that receiving an extra player would help your team. You would be wrong. In Yahoo! baseball, if you receive an extra player, you have to drop one of your players to make the trade.

Any deal requiring your team to drop one player will usually not favor your team. Unless you have a player who lacks any value to you or the other teams who could grab him off the waiver wire, there isn't any reason for making an uneven trade. It's bad managing. Unfortunately, like real MLB, fantasy baseball has its share of bad managers. And, no matter what league you play in, there will be one manager like Grady Little who thinks Pedro Martinez's arm can give him another five outs against the Yanks and take his beloved Red Sox to the World Series. Or, if you're a National League fan, you can substitute Dusty Baker for Grady Little and Mark Prior for Pedro Martinez and the Marlins for the Yanks. As bad managing goes, "it's all good."

After one week of baseball, both my public and private league teams have performed well. I've been offered several trades in my private league, and, of course, the posting and comments are somewhat regular and entertaining. My public league has devolved into a boring, waiver-wire league. I don't expect anyone to suggest or make any trades or post anything interesting. It's a shame because, as I said, the fun is in the debate, not in the result.

What a disappointment my public baseball league is. I experienced a similar letdown yesterday when my wife informed me President Bush will present a speech tonight that will--shudder--postpone the airing of "American Idol" tonight.

I can't wait another day to hear that red-headed kid butcher another pop classic. Or watch George and Fantasia in another shoddy video promoting Ford vehicles. The commerical spots featuring the contestants, in fact, provide more entertainment than the program, much like the toy in a McDonald's "Happy Meal" provides more nutritional value than the meal itself.

Can't the networks air a "tape delay" of Bush's speech? Nobody could be that dull. Not even my public baseball league.

April 12, 2004: Expecting!

MELANIE'S PREGNANT!!!!

This is really good news! I wanted to write about it as soon as I heard. But if I had, then the two or three strangers who read my writing would know before we told our families.

As I watched Seth crawl on the kitchen floor this morning, I still can't believe I'm a FATHER. I remember holding Melanie's hand during his delivery. I watched with excitement as the doctor pulled him out of mommy's belly and into the air of the operating room. And then, when I finally saw him held in the air. . . how can I explain my feelings. . . I don't know. . . I had never experienced any emotion like it! It's more than wondrous and the sensation transcends my vocabulary. If I were using a hackneyed expression, I'd remark "words can't express how I felt." But that's probably most apt because you can't describe the emotional process of becoming a parent.

And now we're going to have another child! I feel so blessed and, again, I don't know how I can accurately reveal my feelings. It's more than cool, better than rad', and it's like, you know, totally awesome, to become a parent again.

How else would you have me describe becoming a father? I'm a child of the eighties, dude!

April 9, 2004: Yippee! Our Tax Refund is Here!

It took only five weeks! What a nice surprise it was to see that envelope from the United States Treasury in our mailbox. I didn't expect our refund to arrive until at least next week.

It amuses me how the IRS and tax software programs encourage you to file your taxes electronically so that you can receive your refund sooner. Every software program we've used requires a payment of at least fifteen bucks or more for the quicker refund. And if you want to receive your quicker refund for free, you'll have to apply for the rebate. As I figure it, by the time you finally receive the rebate, you could have filed your taxes by snail mail and received your refund already.

Fifteen bucks may not seem like a lot of money to you, but in our household, fifteen bucks buys a lot of happiness. Fifteen bucks will get you thirty or more jars of "Blueberry Buckle" dessert--Seth's favorite repast. Fifteen bucks will also buy three packages of baby wipes (sensitive, please), which, is, by no coincidence, exactly the amount of wipes you'd need to clean Seth's butt after he's eaten one jar of "Blueberry Buckle" dessert.

I know that few people want to read stories about baby poop. That's why I don't write about it. In fact, for many years, I didn't want to hear these stories either. Yet, as a new father, I've discovered one of my favorite conversation topics is now baby poop. My other favorite conversation topics are, in descending order of importance: baby food, baby toys, guess what baby did today stories, guess what baby did yesterday stories, wonder if the baby will like Mexican food, and, of course, how will we pay for baby's college tuition if our Yahoo! stock plummets? And, if you don't have a baby, or don't care about babies (like my brother-in-law), then I'm not a very interesting fellow to talk to these days.

I recall the time when I was the only single, male employee in an office comprised of mostly married, female employees, 99% of whom, it seemed to me then, had all given birth within weeks of one another. At various times during the day, especially those when the senior partners were out of the office and billing some client while playing golf with him, the women would gather around one of the babies someone had brought into work. Everyone would smile and coo at the baby. I actually liked these baby meetings because, aside from those times when someone got fired, it was one of the few times I ever saw anyone smile at this law firm. As the ladies would share stories, the topic of "baby poop" would eventually rear its ugly behind, and any remaining vestige of interest I had in the conversation vanished.

These ladies would discuss, in detail more vivid than a Seurat painting, the color, shape, size and texture of their babies' poop. They even used special terms for how their babies expelled their poops, too. I won't recount them here, because 1) it's too gross and 2) They're too numerous to mention. Besides, if you really want to know about these gross things, you know how to use the internet by now. (That's how I finally learned what "tossing the salad" means.)

Thanks to our tax refund we can relax about our finances for a few months. To earn some extra money, my wife recently began babysitting. Melanie earns twenty dollars a day for this work. The extra money pays for little luxuries. This week, we made several trips to the doctor, where the garage costs increase by the hour. The rest bought us some honey bar-b-que wings, mashed potatoes and a biscuit.

Thank God for our tax refund. We gotta have our parking and chicken.

April 8, 2004: From A Bumper Sticker

A society that will trade a little order for a little freedom will lose both, and deserve neither.
--Thomas Jefferson

We won't hear these words today when Condoleeza Rice testifies. The hearing will produce several soundbites, and a few clips for our entertainment on "The Daily Show." But Ms. Rice isn't going to tell us anything meaningful, and, truth told, I don't think it matters if she does.

Several months before September 11, 2001, someone contacted me about a legal matter. This person had worked over eighteen years with her employer without any incident. She had no criminal record and spent her spare time volunteering in her community. The week before her scheduled vacation her employer placed her on a paid suspension. When she asked why, the employer told her she had made "threats" against its employees. The employer refused to divulge any names or any other specific information about the allegations. When my client returned from her suspension, she discovered her password to her computer didn't work. That's because the employer had terminated her employment--and had a plain clothes police officer waiting in a room down the hall with a copy of an injunction to serve on her.

She was a union activist. She wanted to secure collective bargaining at her job. Although she had no history of violence, and did not cut an imposing figure in the least, the judge on the case upheld the temporary restraining order against her, which he later converted into a permanent injunction. He did so on the basis of five witnesses who testified against my client. Of course, most of these witnesses admitted they opposed my client's efforts to get a union. And nobody could remember my client having done anything violent in the past. Nor could they testify that my client had ever threatened any of them in their presence. But, my client did own a gun, and, combined with the "possibilty" of workplace violence, this convinced the judge that my client had a twisted mind and the requisite ability to commit unspeakable, dastardly deeds. Oh, and, by the way, it was September 14, 2001 when the judge finally held the trial on the employer's request for the permanent injunction.

I appealed that decision, and the high court reversed and remanded the case for a new trial, including my client's counterclaim for retaliatory discharge. (The lower court judge had also decided my client couldn't have a trial by jury on her counterclaims--a matter that the United States Supreme Court had established over forty years ago. But I digress). By the time for the new trial arrived, this country had marked the two-year anniversary of the 9/11 tragedy.

As I litigated that case, I saw the employer's counsel use a similar parade of horribles that our politicians often employ to justify imposing additional restraints on our freedom. "It's a dangerous world, and, if we don't enact [insert applicable legislation here], horrible events could unfold, the consequences of which we could never remedy again." At one hearing, I remember counsel remarking along the lines that the employer "couldn't prevent tomorrow. Only God can do that. But we needed to take these steps, because if we didn't, someone could have been seriously hurt, or worse." In the legal profession, we call this the "waving the bloody shirt" argument. And it's very effective, especially in a world that grows increasingly paranoid and scared of its own shadow.

Some people who know me have, in the past, accused me of being paranoid. I prefer to think of myself as having a "heightened awareness," however. And I don't believe I exhibit the full panoply of characteristics necessary for a paranoid diagnosis under the DSM-IV. But I've always understood that we live in a dangerous world and I've always appreciated the freedom and safety in this country. It's unfortunate if many Americans never considered the value of our freedom and safety until the unspeakable events of 9/11. As tragic as those events are, you can't, as my dad often told me, live life like a "scared rabbit," who looks over his shoulder as he eats a blade of grass.

Blaming Condoleeza Rice for the tragedy of 9/11 isn't helpful now. We need to examine solutions for making ourselves safer that do not compromise our freedom. I believe this is possible, but, in our political world, the solution may not occur to us for sometime. Until human nature changes, the potential for people's inhumanity to each other will continue. And if it's not guns, it'll be sticks, or stones, or, in the extreme case, a frozen turkey dropped on somebody's pate.

My client would often ask me, "How could this happen to me?" Sometimes I would mention the story of my father. But I suppose that I never had an adequate answer. Her case is over now, and she's enjoying riding her motorcycle with her husband again.

From a bumper sticker on a restaurant wall: "In God We Trust. All Others Pay Cash."

April 7, 2004: Pediatrician Mission

Quarantine is a simple concept: You separate ill persons from healthy ones and prevent the spread of disease. That's why when we took Seth to the doctor yesterday, his appointment was in the afternoon. That's when all the other little sickies visit the doctor.

For the doc, a sick kid in the waiting room is a sick kid in the waiting room--regardless of the degree of illness. I think Seth saw it differently. By the time of his visit, his fever had vanished. And based on my translation of his baby grunts and gestures, Seth told us he didn't like the risk of exposing himself to a more virulent fever-causing agent simply so his Mommy and Daddy could make the ten dollar co-pay for some peace of mind.

The attending physician (oh, how I love that term) said Seth had some type of virus. What type it was, she didn't know. She said if his fever continued until Friday to call the office--which, of course, is not open this Friday, ha-ha-ha, but the doctor will be on call. And what if Seth doesn't have a fever this Friday? Call the office. "Hello, is this Dr. Feelgood? Yes, sorry for paging you in the middle of that three-hour surgery, but we wanted to make sure you knew that our son Seth has no fever and he's doing fine! Our Verizon service is also fine (for a change) and we didn't want you to be worried when you hadn't received a call from us in several days!"

If I were a doctor, I'd make housecalls. That way I could avoid exposing my patients to other illnesses and determine who required immediate hospital care. The insurance companies would hate me, of course. They'd argue house calls are not efficient, or covered under the malpractice policy. They'd say we simply can't have our doctors making individual visits and providing personal care and attention to patients. To quote José Lutzenberger, they'd exclaim "Your reasoning is perfectly logical but totally insane." The insurance companies would then trot out their bean counters and tell me my housecall plan is cost-prohibitive. House calls preclude seeing large numbers of patients-- especially those who would much rather spend any remaining health they have reading four-year old copies of "Field and Stream" and "Cosmopolitan" over four hours in your waiting room.

I'm so glad I'm a lawyer.

April 6, 2004: Maybe It Was A Cold

I thought I had a bad allergy attack last week. Now I think maybe I had a cold. When I have a cold, my throat gets more sore than it does when I have an allergy attack and I will crave food. I didn't have a very sore throat or crave food. I sneezed and my nose dripped. And dripped. And dripped until my nostrils burned and the Kleenex felt like the coarse sandpaper I used last year to strip the red paint off the old bookcases I painted for Seth's room.

Seth had a temperature of 102 degrees last night and wasn't his chipper self. He was cranky and sought solace in the arms of mommy as he slept. I don't blame Seth for not wanting to sleep in his daddy's arms. Daddy feels responsible for his fever, and Daddy would have tried to avoid contact with Seth if he had believed he had a cold. Melanie tells me it wouldn't have mattered. She's right. But Seth hadn't been sick yet, and it hurts us when he's not comfortable.

[NOTE: Believe us, beloved Seth, we don't enjoy sticking a thermometer in your rectum, either. We understand why you bawled uncontrollably when mommy stuck the thermometer in your behind this morning because none of us wants that kind of greeting the first thing in the morning. So, if you're reading this years later, please accept our apologies. We're doing the best we can until you learn to speak and may tell us what crappy parents we are and how much your cold sucks.]

After we gave Seth some baby Tylenol, his temperature dropped to a range within normal, and he slept well last night. This morning, he drank his formula and ate cereal and fruit for breakfast. By 7:00 a.m., he danced to The Beatles.

Seth dances by assuming the crawling position and rocking back and forth with the music's rhythm. He especially enjoys The Beatles' early albums; I played "Help" this morning, which seemed appropriate. I don't know if it's the use of Aeolian cadences, melisma, or Ringo's drumming that makes The Beatles still sound so cool after forty years. I hate music theory, and, I know Seth doesn't care either. Like me, he knows what he likes. But I'm still not going to play him "The White Album" when he has a fever.

April 5, 2004: Seth Can Clap, My Goatee’s White

And, this weekend, I had to remove another dead mouse from my mom's basement. There is no correlation among these events. Although, on further reflection, it's possible that if you had to dispose of dead mice from my mom's house as often as I do these days, your goatee's color would turn from red to white too.

The rain drives the mice inside my mom's house. The mice search for food in the house. The mice chew on the potato stick containers in my mom's pantry. Then, when nobody's looking, and they have complete privacy, the mice take their current mice issue of "Reader's Digest" and make their little mice doo-doos in the pantry. This causes my mom to freak out and clean out the pantry.

It's not a simple "wiping" either. When my mom cleans her pantry, she treats it like the CDC treats Ebola or any other incredibly contagious, dangerous and airborne pathogen. She takes every package of cookies, cereal, potato chips and pancake syrup--including those that haven't been opened--and tosses them all in the trash compactor. Then, using cleaners containing chemical compounds not found in mouse hair (or nature), my mom scrubs and scrubs and scrubs the shelves. And, the answer to your question is "NO, it doesn't matter if the mice haven't chewed on any of the boxes, or paused to consider how little saturated fat those Keeblers have." If one mouse has made one tiny mouse poop in the pantry, then everything goes, pal!

The only difference between my mom's cleaning the pantry and the CDC's effort to contain the spread of infectious diseases is that Richard Preston hasn't documented my mom's method yet. I'm convinced that if she won the lottery, my mom would also add a few racks with spacesuits and an airlock in her kitchen in her never-ending fight against "those mice that the rains drove inside my house."

The mice should end their battle. But they think they can win it, or at least win the battle for my mom's heart and mind. They keep drafting their young into battle with Sylvia--with both predictable and unfortunate results. They won't accept defeat or the endless parade of dead mice in sticky traps. They don't understand my mom must defend her territory and way of life, which doesn't include little mice making incredibly tiny poo-poos in her pantry.

So, mouse, go ahead, make my mom's day. Chew on a few bags of "Andy Capp's Hot Fries." And take your little Stuart Little dumps near that unopened Oreo bag. It's always fun, isn't it, until you consume a few, green D-Con pellets in the basement, pass out on a sticky trap, and croak under the combined weight of the "M," "N," and "R" volumes of the 1974 “World Book.”

This time, no giant books were used to harm any mouse--or, "D.M.," in my mom's special vernacular. In my mom's house, "D.M." does not stand for "dungeon master"--although the mice might think otherwise. "D.M." means "Dead Mouse." As in, "Son, I saw the D.M.'s feet when I cracked open the basement door, and please get your ass over here now and dispose of it for me!"

It worked out well for us. I enjoyed eating the fresh, non-mouse contaminated food from mom's pantry. Seth also enjoyed crawling on the living room rug, which had numerous dead ladybugs on its surface. And, the answer to your question is, "No, I don't understand why my mom's rug still had dozens of dead ladybugs when she demonstrates such over-the-top decontamination skills as it involves a six-ounce mouse."

Maybe, as my mom admits, ladybugs, spiders and insects don't trouble her. Birds and mice do. This explains why my mom fears bats the most because a bat is really a bird-mouse. And a dozen sticky traps and the World Books won't defeat bird-mice.

Many years ago, our house had a bird/mouse in it. My dad and I disposed of it using a broom, a can of Raid and a shoebox. That is another story, for another time. It's Monday, I'm wearing my Pillsbury Doughboy tie, and I'm hoping I don't receive another "D.M." call from my mom this week.

April 3, 2004: Waiting Room

In the waiting area of a local hospital, there's a copy of "Spin" magazine from 1999. Elijah Wood, pre-"Lord of the Rings", stares at me on its cover, as I hold onto the stroller in which Seth sits. Seth grabs his right tennis shoe, the kind with velcro fasteners, and pulls it toward his mouth. I don't bother to stop him from sucking on his shoe. Trying to stop him from eating his shoe encourages his habit. And Seth's not walking yet, and his shoes are relatively clean.

As I read an article reviewing the best teen exploitation flicks ever (as of the spring of 1999), my wife speaks to the receptionist about a medical matter and, except for our family, noone else is in the waiting room. In walks a woman, in her thirties, with a little boy, about seven, and a little girl, about four. The little girl approaches Seth, nearly caresses his head, and exclaims, "Oohhhh....look at the baby." Instinctively, my hand pulls the stroller toward me before the girl's mother tells her not to touch the baby's head. The receptionist tells the woman to have a seat as she continues to speak with my wife.

The waiting room has two small couches, the chair I'm sitting in, and another incredibly small couch, which now holds the woman and her little girl. The woman's little boy roams the room and occasionally watches a brush fire burn on a news show. My wife continues to speak with the receptionist. In walks a woman, carrying an oxygen tank, with her male companion. This woman is in her late teens, maybe early twenties, and, in addition to the large oxygen tank, she carries a small pink teddy bear. Her guy is twice her size, stands over six feet tall, and weighs over two hundred pounds. The receptionist asks the couple where they came from, and the young woman replies tersely, "Home." The receptionist tells the couple to have a seat.

The lady with the pink teddy bear and her guy take a seat on the couch next to me. The big dude's sitting next to me and Seth. The couple does not notice Seth, who now has stopped chewing his shoe and expressed interest in the developments in the waiting room. I continue reading my 1999 copy of "Spin" magazine, which ranked "Cruel Intentions" with a 9.8 out of 10 on the "teen exploitation" scale. The young couple begins muttering to each other, and, although I haven't glanced up from the "Spin" magazine, my spider-sense informs me that the woman to my right on the other couch isn't happy.

As the receptionist gathers information from my wife, another couple enters the waiting room. The man is in his late thirties, bald, and has a muscular build. His woman is not nearly as muscular, but has an athletic build and long, black hair. When this couple enters the room, the receptionist tells them to have a seat. They take seats on the couch opposite me, which, by now, is the only seating left in the room. And, although the couple to my right are muttering very loudly now, the tension in this waiting room makes it seem silent. I continue looking at the "Spin" magazine, but, I have stopped my reading.

Another couple enters the room. Before the receptionist can finish telling them to take a seat, the couple exits the room. This is when the young woman with the oxygen tank, pink teddy bear, and six-foot-tall male companion says, very clearly and very loudly, that the receptionist is "RUDE." The woman with the kids agrees, and, in a very clear and very loud voice, reiterates the opinion of the woman with the oxygen tank and pink teddy bear, except she adds that the receptionist is "RUDE AND SHE DIDN'T BOTHER TELLING ANYTHING TO ME. HOW RUDE IS THAT? WE HAVE WITNESSES. HOW MANY PEOPLE DO WE HAVE IN THIS ROOM? ONE. TWO. THREE." I stare directly down at the "Spin" magazine and completely avert any eye contact with anyone in the room, which now rumbles with very loud and very angry remarks about the receptionist, who, in the span of four minutes, is now having a very bad day indeed.

The receptionist, who hasn't finished completing my wife's paperwork, grabs her telephone, and, in a very loud voice says: "LISTEN, YOU NEED TO SEND ME SOME HELP DOWN HERE. I'M GETTING SLAMMED. I HAVE HAD TEN PEOPLE COME IN HERE IN THE LAST FIVE MINUTES. YES. NOW." As I look up from the magazine, I notice the brush fires on the television have stopped. The receptionist gives my wife directions to the lab. I jump up from my seat, and roll the stroller to the door. And, I say, in a very clear, but not nearly as loud voice to my wife, "I think a riot's about to happen. Let's get out of here."

I suggest that hospital order some recent issues of "Spin" with some extra couches.

April 1, 2004: A Sub-Zero Cold Call

"There's a call for you on line 1, Hoyt."

"Who is it?"

"A Michael somebody, I can't pronounce his last name."

"Who?"

"He asked for you. He's from a brokerage firm."

"Ok. I'll take it. Thanks."

"Hello, this is Hoyt."

"Hello, is this Eric?"

"Yes, this is Hoyt."

"Eric?"

"No. Hoyt."

"It isn't Eric?"

"That's not my first name."

"Hoyt?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Ok. Sorry 'bout that. How are you, Hoyt?"

"I'm fine."

"Listen, my name is Michael Lastnamechangedhere, and me and my partner, Dan Anotherlastnamechanged, wanted to know if we could take a few minutes to meet with you next week to discuss some financial planning."

"You work with Frank Yetanotherlastnamechanged, right?"

"I'm sitting in his office right now."

"Where is Frank?"

"He's not in this office anymore?"

"Where is he?"

"Florida."

"You know Frank handled my account at your firm."

"Really?"

"Umhmm. I fired him."

"Oh, that's not good."

"Nope, it wasn't. But he and your firm still handle my mom's money."

"I wasn't aware of that."

"Oh, yes. Frank is still on her account with your partner Dan. Didn't you check that before you called me?"

"Uh, No."

"Yeah, and every year I help my mom prepare her taxes, it's such a hassle dealing with your firm's financial records. You're trading so often in her account, you'd think your firm was churning or something."

"Oh, that's not good."

"Yeah. I told my mom she needed to give Frank a call. But you should have my mom's records there, right?"

"Well, she would be Frank's client, not mine."

"I'm still going to have my mother give you a call. I'm concerned about the heavy trading your firm does using her account. My mom is on a fixed income, and, don't get me started about her bad back."

"Yes, sir. We'll certainly look into it."

"Isn't that how you found my name to call me."

"No, I didn't get it from your mother's account."

"Anyway, I don't need to meet with you guys because I handle my own finances, and, quite frankly, I don't think you really want to hear what I have to say."

"Oh, no, I really would like to hear what you have to say."

"When I have the means, I simply invest in solid, blue-chip stocks and hold them."

"Buy and hold."

"Yes."

"That's a good plan."

"Yeah, and I don't see why I should pay your brokerage firm to make investment choices I can make myself with a little time and research."

"I hear you, but a lot of people don't have the time or resources to do that."

"Might as well profit from their ignorance, then, right?"

"Heh heh."

"May I ask you, where you got my name to call me?"

"Right out of the yellow pages."

"Cold call?"

"Yes."

"It's been nice talking with you, Michael."

"Nice talking to you."

"Buh-bye."

All written material ©2004-2007 by HEG.