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March 31, 2004: Allergy

Something's in the air. Since Sunday, I've had a cough and stuffy nose. Several people in my office and some acquaintances have the same condition too. The good news is my sinus problems have resulted in my voice sounding an octave lower than usual. The bad news is I don't think my allergy will continue past Thursday.

Whenever I mention I'm having an allergy attack, someone suggests I should take an over-the-counter medication. No thank you. I'd rather sit here and suffer my irritated throat, dry cough and new, raspy, James Earl Jones voice. As I see it, a sore throat and stuffy nose is a small sacrifice to endure in exchange for the enjoyment and use of my new baritone.

Taking allergy medications also results in less than desirable effects and that's another reason why I refuse to take them. Drowsiness, nervousness, dry mouth, and constipation are some conditions people may experience from their over-the-counter allergy remedies. But not me. I get to experience these conditions simply because I'm a lawyer.

I handle drowsiness the best. I have to conquer my drowsiness at least once a week when I'm attending a deposition and defense counsel decides he requires an extra three hours to repeat several questions to my client that he asked in the first two hours. I can't afford to fall asleep. If I do, I may miss my opportunity to object, "Asked and answered." Fortunately, no matter how many times defense counsel repeats a question, he never comprehends the "asked and answered" concept and plows forward with the same question. This often produces an interesting exchange between counsel, or, in some cases, defense counsel and my client. And there goes the prospect of any slumber that afternoon.

Nervousness causes many a client to forget answers, or repeat herself. It even afflicts some attorneys. If some attorneys and clients weren't nervous, then maybe some of my depositions wouldn't require an extra--and unnecessary--three hours to take. Maybe some of the opposing witnesses wouldn't have dry mouth either if they weren't nervous. Perhaps, Mr. Liar Liar Pants On Fire, if you had told me the truth in your deposition, your forehead wouldn't sweat profusely and you wouldn't need that third drink of water to wet your parched beak.

Although I have no hard proof, I'm convinced many lawyers suffer from constipation. But none of them, including me, would ever admit it. It's just not in their nature. A lawyer, however, will ask you if you've ever been constipated. And, if you are honest, and answer "Yes, I have been constipated," then you should expect several follow-up questions:

"When were you constipated?"

"Where were you when you were constipated?"

"Who were you with when you were constipated?"

"Were any of them constipated?"

"Did you, or anyone you mentioned, seek medical treatment for being constipated?"

"How did you feel when you were constipated?"

"Did you have sexual relations when you were constipated?"

A savvy witness, of course, would never answer that last question. At least not without clarifying his or her response with "It depends on what your definition of 'constipation' is."

March 30, 2004: 2025 Rookie Of The Year

Seth's crawling faster. We noticed his increased speed last weekend when we prepared the house for company. Our friends, two couples, each have a three-month old infant, and we spent the evening eating two boxes of Giovanni's Pizza and creating more digital photos for our respective collections. Our friends' infants don't crawl and we didn't need full use of the six pairs of eyes Saturday night.

Although Melanie and I keep him in our view, Seth doesn't require great time to accomplish his goals. In arbitrary order, his objectives include grabbing his spilled Cheerios® off the dirty carpet, scraping his fingers across the grates of our home's heating ducts, and, of course, yanking the ears and/or tails of Daphne and Dorian. Seth also enjoys pulling himself up on our dining room chairs, which we will soon need to secure with heavy, child-proof, cast-iron anchors when Seth reaches his boxing weight of twenty-five pounds.

Making your home safe for your small child is equivalent to pitching and catching for a major league baseball team. Think of your child as a smaller and quicker version of a major league player on an opposing team. Several ballplayers may occur to you: Ichiro Suzuki, Juan Pierre, Carl Crawford, and--although they're retired--Rickey Henderson, Lou Brock, and Otis Nixon. As the battery, your job is to keep your child from scoring runs. Applying our sample comparison here, this translates to Seth's seizing and swallowing the new Michigan quarter (which really would be something in our home because I still haven't seen one in circulation and it's almost April).

The best way to prevent runs (accidents) is simple: Keep your little Ichiro off the bases. If he doesn't reach base, he can't score. Placing your kid in the playpen or in his crib when he naps means no runs, no drips, and no errors for your team. But you can't expect a perfect game, or no-hitter, every game. And your child will refuse to play or sleep in his playpen and often draw a walk, hit or reach base on a passed ball from you and/or your battery mate.

When he's on base, your task changes. You must keep him from stealing second. In our house, the distance between first (green sofa in the den) and second (lazy Susan in the kitchen) is less than the regulation ninety feet between bases in the majors. This means Seth can easily snag second in under three point four seconds. Melanie, fortunately, calls a good game, and, on every occasion she's signalled a pitchout, we've caught him trying to steal. I'm also proud to report that this season, Seth hasn't scored any runs on us.

Seth's still developing his baseball skills. He's only a basestealer and Melanie and I have a great defense plan for him now.

We fear the day when he finally learns how to hit for power.

March 29, 2004: Yahoo! Chess For Beginners

The Good Neighbor Game

1. Hi. Hi. 2. Play? Ok.

The game begins with a simple exchange. Play progresses and, in the American variation, often includes the following lines of play:

3. Where ya from? New Jersey. 4. Michigan here. Cool. 5. I like "Smallville." Never watched it. 6. You there. (No response).

White acknowledges Black's absence of a response signals a poor internet connection, or worse, that his boss has entered the room.

7. Hello? Sorry. 8. What happened? Boss.

White, at home, has a clear, material advantage. Black resigns.

9. GG GG

Note: "GG" means "good game".

The Speechless Defense (Mime's Game)

Black, whose rating is 1803, sits at the table. White, with a rating of 1438, enters the room, sits, and clicks start:

1. Hi.

Black offers no response.

2. Play?

Black does not respond. White leaves the table.

The Speechless Defense has several variations, including the "Lasagna Gambit," where the player who refuses to play insists he must leave and eat dinner.

Newman's Game

This game has a multitude of possible openings, middle and end games. The outcome, however, is indubitable. The player, known as the "Newman," uses an alias online identity. In truth, Newman plays chess tournaments regularly and has achieved a chess rating over 1750. Newman's alias does not reflect his achievement, and, as a result of his deliberately losing games against less-skilled players, Newmans often "maintain" ratings below 1400, and, in more extreme cases, below 1200.

The Newman engages another player, known as the "Pigeon," in a game. Pigeon is usually a higher-ranked player than Newman. If Pigeon does not use "The Lasagna Defense," Newman will win the game against Pigeon, thereby causing Pigeon's rating to plummet more sharply than Enron's stock did in 2001.

The Dice Clay Attack

This game usually (but not always) results from the players' exchanges in the end game. In the following example, Black, with a clear material advantage, needs only one two moves to mate. White plays:

30. &%$#@#*! (?)

White's refusal to resign results in Black's playing:

30. YOU *******! (?)

And, the following line of play results:

31. YOU STUPID %$#@ YOU CAN &%$# MY &%$#@#*!

31. **** YOU, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE ****!

32. &%$#@#* $@@##* $#@@#* &%!!! YOUR MOTHER!

32. NO, YOU, &%$#@#* $@@##* $#@@#* &%!!! YOUR MOTHER!


33. *&^%$## @@@@@@@ !!!!!!!! AND &&^%$#@ CAN GO **&^%$#@ IN A CARDBOARD BOX!

33. GO **&^%$#@ IN A CARDBOARD BOX? (!?)

34. SHUTUP!

34. YOU ARE A SORE LOSER! (?)

White's clock expires. Black wins. Note neither player uses "GG."

These days, I don't use the "The Dice Clay Attack." I much prefer "The Lasagna Gambit."

March 27, 2004: This Review Isn’t On Amazon II

Here are some other good ones:

Berke Breathed's "Bloom County": Irreverent, topical and zany, it was THE coolest comic strip during the Reagan years. I was in high school and this comic helped keep me sane.

I especially liked "Bill the Cat." He was the anti-Garfield. Bill the Cat loved hot tubs, fast cars, and drugs. His story, "Frazzled," available only from one Sunday edition of "Bloom County," depicts Bill's "live fast, die young" approach to life.

"Bloom County" parodied itself and other comic strips before what we call "meta-humor" entered the popular lexicon. From the hot tub he shared with two non-feline women, Bill the Cat telephoned Garfield and Heathcliff to invite them to his party. And Oliver Wendell Jones mentioned that he was going to "be bussed" to "The Family Circus" comic because of that strip's paucity of African-American characters. It didn't work because Breathed ended the comic in 1989 and I still don't see any African-American characters in "The Family Circus" on a regular basis.

My parents gave me a "Bill the Cat" t-shirt. I wore it for several years. It was my t-shirt of choice when I played guitar at local elementary schools and other gigs. My Bill the Cat t-shirt disintegrated sometime in 1996. I haven't seen one like it in years. What a shame.

Gary Trudeau's "Doonesbury": Before "Bloom County," there was "Doonesbury." There's no question "Bloom County" resembles "Doonesbury" in presentation and, occasionally, political themes. But "Doonesbury" doesn't have Opus the Penguin or Bill the Cat or tales detailing their campaigns for President of the United States. That's why I didn't prefer "Doonesbury" over "Bloom County" when I was younger. Now that I'm older, and I'm not so self-assured, I find I enjoy reading "Doonesbury" more.

"Doonesbury" has a strong presence on the internet, and, when I first went online, it was one of the first sites I noticed. I haven't checked the site in a long time, but I like Trudeau's grasp of technology and his integration of it into his work. In 1999, Trudeau released a CD with "The Bundled Doonesbury." The CD contained every "Doonesbury" panel and, in doing so, reached a new audience. I read the strip regularly for a time, and, someday, I'll have to buy the collections of panels I've missed. As political cartoonists go, Trudeau is the voice of his generation. He's in his early fifties and his work still maintains a fresh approach to political and social satire.

Charles Schulz' "Peanuts": This is the mother of all post-war comics. While the previous kids on the comics page, such as the "Katzenjammer Kids" were, at best, puerile pranksters, the six-year old "Peanuts" waxed philosophical on everything from children's songs to furniture design to social acceptance. Schulz's early strips displayed his characters in different forms from their final incarnations--especially Snoopy. As time progressed, Snoopy evolved from a family pet with no lines, to an observer on popular culture and occasional writer, pilot, BMOC, baseball player, tennis player, disco dancer--and--ultimately--star of the series.

Schulz maintained Charlie Brown is "Peanuts'" signature character, and he embodies the "everyperson." But most people prefer Snoopy because he's the hero. It's strange. When you read the early "Peanuts" strips, there's no indication Snoopy would assume such prominent role. Some of the major characters, such as Shermy, Patty, Pigpen and Violet, either disappeared or assumed minor roles in the strip.
Unlike "Garfield" and "Blondie," whose strips have not weathered change well, "Peanuts" managed to pass the test of time. In the 1960s, Schulz introduced Franklin, an African-American pal of Peppermint Patty, Charlie Brown's sandal-wearing friend from across town.

Peppermint Patty is the original latchkey child. And, yes, the name "Peppermint Patty" is a blatant, commercial endorsement for York's eponymous candy. Every time CBS presented a "Charlie Brown" special, York Peppermint Patties® sponsored the episode. But Peppermint Patty, the character, contributed charm to "Peanuts," and, paired with Marcie, P.P. offered Schulz range to display his storytelling acumen.

Marcie, who bears more than a coincidental resemblance to Billie Jean King (Schulz loved tennis), possessed the intellect Peppermint Patty lacked and a loyalty to Charlie Brown I have always admired. Marcie called Peppermint Patty "Sir," causing some observers to posit views on Marcie's and P.P.'s sexual orientation(s). Schulz never needed to mine this territory for his stories.

Toward the end of his life, Schulz was in ill health and his later strips lack his earlier work's creative spark. In the strip's last decade, Schulz often trimmed the strip panel's from four to three and, sometimes, one. "Peanuts" finally jumped the shark in the early 1990s. That's when Charlie Brown found a girlfriend and hit a game-winning homer.

As a child, my sister and I were avid readers of "Peanuts" and collected the paperback books of the series. Mom must have bought at least thirty of them, which, back then, cost $2 or so. Then, in the late 1970s, Holt, Rhinehart & Winston began releasing larger collections of the series. They were collections of the smaller, paperback books, with a few additional cartoons. It was impossible to collect every "Peanuts" cartoon because Schulz never released a complete, chronological collection of them. This resulted in a patchwork release of the cartoons and great disappointment in our household.

This year, Fantagraphics books will begin release of the complete, chronological "Peanuts" series. With nearly fifty years of a daily cartoon, it will take twelve years before the complete "Peanuts" is available.

I told my sister, Hilary, to make sure and buy the first book for my birthday in May. She thought I was getting the book for her. I am. I just want my own copy.

"Highlights Magazine" presents Goofus and Gallant: This comic was the "highlight" of many a trip to the pediatrician's office. Typical panel: "Goofus tells his mom 'I'll do my homework later, I'm playing ball now.'" "Gallant does his homework and helps his sister with chores before playing games."

Whatever needed to be done, Gallant did it, and, when he did, he face radiated the same, predictable grin. Goofus did what he pleased. Dirty room? "I'll clean it later, mom." Hungry pet? "I'll feed him later, mom." Frail, elderly lady with a cane needing assistance carrying her groceries? "I'm late for my movie, lady!"

"Highlights" wanted kids to believe that Gallant was our role model. We kids knew better. Gallant was a smug, little cad, whose ass-kissing skills were so over-the-top that, self-respecting ten-year and six-years olds we were, my sister and I never respected him. Goofus, on the other hand, embodied our reality. I don't think "Highlights" intended this study in contasts to prove as humorous as it did for us. But, to this day, Hilary and I crack up when we recall the Goofus and Gallant series. Judging by the online search results for "Goofus and Gallant," we're not alone in our laughing.

"Highlights" hasn't released "The Complete Goofus and Gallant" compendium. It's sitting on a gold mine.

Lynn Johnston's "For Better Or Worse": Ok. I'm not a follower of this strip, but, on the occasions I read it, it holds my interest. When this comic debuted, it told the story of a mom, her husband, their three children and a dog. Unlike Bil Keane's "Family Circus," the comic is not saccharine or schmaltzy.

Johnston's style is not cloying. She presents her life as it is. As Hilary remarks, Johnston's characters have aged. Her son, Michael, who was slightly younger than I when the strip began in the late 1970s, is now an adult. This is a nice touch. Did you also know this strip has featured stories involving child abuse, a dead dog, and a guy who came out of the closet and told his best friend that he was gay? Now there's a living, breathing (except for the dead pooch) family circus most of us can appreciate. Except for Bil Keane and his lawyers, of course.

March 26, 2004: This Review Isn’t On Amazon

Gary Larson's "The Far Side" is my favorite comic strip. Well, actually, it's a comic panel, and Larson discontinued it nearly ten years ago. Last year, his publisher, Andrews McMeel, released an eighteen-pound, two book set of every "Far Side" panel he's drawn. My mom gave us the gift last holiday season, for which I'm very happy. If she had bought the books for herself, I suspect that after she read them that she might have employed them in a manner not intended by Mr. Larson.

The Complete Far Side Anthology is pure joy. You probably own it by now if you love Larson's work (and it is a work) and, if you don't, you know how to find it after you click on your bookmark for Amazon.com. We keep the massive tomes in our bedroom and, every once in awhile, we like to read a few panels before retiring for the night.

Although he took a one-year sabbatical from writing the panels, Larson produced a prodigious body of work between 1980 and 1994. The book proclaims it contains more than 4,000 panels. In the introduction, Larson tells us he found two strips that appeared twice in the 14 years he illustrated the Far Side. I've read about 80% of the anthology and I'm still not certain which redundant panels he means. That's testament to Larson's creativity and imagination. He always finds new ways to develop and present his themes. And that's why his "Far Side" is the best comic strip I've ever read.

It's tough to produce a comic strip, year after year, and write fresh, new material that entertains people. And you don't need to write a comic strip to realize this. You know it if you read the comics. Off the top of my head, I can think of several comic strips whose originality and entertainment value died years before their writers and illlustrators did or will. Let's see if you thought of any of the following comic strips that come to my mind:

Bil Keane's "The Family Circus": Forty years ago, the lives of Billy, Dolly, Jeffy, P.J. and a dog named after barf were hilarious. In 2004, they're not. There's nothing inherently funny about a panel depicting Jeffy tipping in a chair by himself and proclaiming "Look, mommy, my feet can almost touch the ground!" So? I ask you, is this something that merits the use of ink and the planting of several hundred saplings for printing and syndication? I think it's cruel and unusual punishment that any tree must die to be turned into paper to print "The Family Circus." It's bad enough that any newspapers might use recycled paper for Keane's "comic."

If "The Family Circus" is funny, it's only because you're laughing at it, not with it. When I was in law school, and read the newspapers in the student lounge, I played a game, which I still play today. I would look at "The Family Circus" panel, and then, without looking at its caption, would read the caption from "Herman," which "The Times-Picayune" printed beside "The Family Circus." Without exception, switching the caption from "Herman" with the one from "The Family Circus" always resulted in hilarity. It's a shame Bil Keane didn't try this approach when writing the strip. If he had, he might have sold thousands of his own one hundred dollar, eighteen-pound anthology on Amazon.com.

Several years ago, someone had an internet site called "The Dysfunctional Family Circus." The site encouraged people to substitute their own captions for Keane's. It then published the best captions. Although Keane never intended it, these rogue "Family Circus" panels were much funnier than the originals. I remember one where Dolly was reading a storybook to Jeffy on a chair. Its caption read: "And although O.J. searched the kingdom high and low, he never could find the killer." I also remember "Ida Know" and "Not Me," the ghost-like little kids Billy, Jeffy and Dolly used as scapegoats for their crayon crimes. "Ida Know" and "Not Me" were particularly ripe, comic fodder for "The Dysfunctional Family Circus." But, as you might expect, Bil Keane and his lawyers didn't find that funny and they shut the site down.

"The Family Circus" tries very hard to remain topical because a recent panel I saw depicted Billy "googling" his family's name. Of course, we all know Billy couldn't possibly access anything about his family on the internet. Daddy and Mommy have blocked everything online and Billy's never going to discover he's trapped in the 1950s.

Jim Davis' "Garfield": As I type this, Bill Murray and a crew of dozens are busy finishing the animated, film version of this strip. I like Bill Murray, I thought he did a great job in "Lost In Translation," and he usually picks good projects. But I don't know about this. "Garfield" hasn't been funny in years. Back in eighth grade, a cat who ate lasagna and bemoaned Mondays was amusing. It was also cute when Garfield kicked Odie, the dog, off the table. Odie, by the way, was actually Lyman's, not Jon's, pet.

I haven't seen Lyman appear in "Garfield" in years. Yet Jon and Garfield still kept Odie. What's up with that? Did Jon evict Lyman? Did they have a dispute over something or, dare I suggest, somebody? I've always wondered about Lyman and what happened to him. The disappearance of Lyman, in my opinion, is the most mysterious--and only interesting--thing about "Garfield."

Dean Young & Denis Lebrun's "Blondie": Most folks will disagree with me on this one. If its promotion is to be believed, over 250 million people worldwide read this strip. They must be easily entertained. "Blondie" was enormously popular in the 1930s and spawned numerous movies. But this strip's still resting on the laurels of its original success.

Like "The Family Circus," "Blondie" remains mired in a different age. Although its writers have incorporated some changes into the strip, such as having Blondie run her own business, it still remains a family comic strip with traditional (i.e., stale) family humor. I suppose that's what many people enjoy, and, I'm sure if my local newspaper eliminated "Blondie" from the comics pages it would provoke more concern and outcry than a storyline in "Blondie" involving gay marriage or rights. Fortunately, our local newspaper carries Gary Trudeau's "Doonesbury," (a great comic) and so its readers don't have to worry about that.

Reg Smythe's "Andy Capp": It's a British comic, and I like it that the lead character is a drunk. But I have never found this comic funny. Love his hot fries, though.

March 25, 2004: Listen Up, Dangerous Fool!

I'm sorry if you missed your last few issues of "Car and Driver," "Automobile Quarterly," and your favorite "muscle car" magazine. But when I'm driving five miles over the speed limit in my used, 1999 Toyota Camry, moving the front bumper of your 2004 Ford Mustang to within one foot of the back bumper of my car isn't going to increase my automobile's speed. The 1999 Toyota Camry has under 160 horsepower and your 2004 Ford Mustang's engine can easily muster more than that to allow you to direct your vehicle into the other lane to pass my car. Really, dangerous fool. You should know this without having to read "Consumer Reports."

I'm also sorry if the inferior engine power of my Toyota Camry bothered the dangerous fool and his lady passenger with the B-52 haircut. Believe me, dangerous fool, it bothers me too. I wish I had a nice sportscar like dangerous fool, with an original, vanity license plate proclaiming something like "04STANG," or "MUSTANG" or "2FAST4U," or "COOLCAT." If I had extra money, maybe I could afford a cool, loaded, silver muscle car with a fiery red stripe on its doors. But I can't even spare the extra forty bucks for the imaginative, vanity plate that reads "99CAMRY." I'm sure such an inventive, vanity tag would have made it clear that you didn't need to tailgate me yesterday. On second thought, I believe it wouldn't. You're dangerous fool.

Finally, I'm sorry if the dangerous fool doesn't understand the risk of tailgating a car at a high speed. Contrary to public opinion, West Virginia's highways are not NASCAR tracks. Believe me, I know you're confused, dangerous fool, because every car and Ford truck and horse trailer here has the number "3" emblazoned on the back windows with Calvin from the eponymous "Calvin and Hobbes" strip urinating on a Chevy insignia. But, please, LISTEN, YOU DANGEROUS FOOL, and, LISTEN WELL with your ladyfriend with the B-52 haircut:

I-79 is NOT the West Virginia Speedway and my used 1999 Toyota Camry is NOT your pace car!

March 24, 2004: Hoytster’s Believe It Or Not!

Hoytster once had a blind date that went so poorly, he decided to ply himself with as much wine as his little belly could hold. Several wine glasses later, Hoytster couldn't drive and had to spend several more hours at his date's apartment--slumped on her couch. Believe it or not.

Hoytster had another blind date, who, no matter what the conversation topic was, answered with "I tell ya, the world's going to hell in a handbasket." Hoytster told the server at the Outback to box the remaining three-quarters of his steak and partially eaten potato, and left the restaurant. Although he had always offered to pay (or paid) for his dates' meals, Hoytster didn't offer to pay (or pay) for his date's food. Upon leaving the restaurant, Hoytster's date actually told him "I had a very nice time." Believe it or not.

A year later, at the same Outback Steakhouse, Hoytster had a blind date, who barely touched her food. She didn't say anything about "the world going to hell in a handbasket," and asked her server to box the remaining three-quarters of her chef salad. Hoytster paid for her meal. Believe it or not.

On the suggestion of a co-worker, who had also tried this, Hoytster placed a personal ad in the newspaper. He received one response, scrawled with numerous obscenities, misspellings and barely, legible handwriting on a piece of notebook paper with no return address or phone number. On telling his co-worker this, she replied, "Hmmm....that's kinda strange, isn't it? What did your ad say?" Believe it or not.

Hoytster's parents thought it would be a good idea if he dated a woman who was a mutual friend of someone his dad had met in his travels to Russia. When Hoytster spoke on the phone with her, she seemed to speak English well. After Hoytster paid for her airfare to travel to the United States, however, she had great difficulty speaking English until she experienced tooth problems and needed immediate dental care. Believe it or not.

Way back in 1989, Hoytster had a blind date with the daughter of a retired, military man. Hoytster took his daughter to see "Born of the Fourth of July." Believe it or not.

In college, Hoytster had a date with a woman who shared his last name--except for one letter. They ate at Tom's Restaurant, which is the same diner used for the exterior shots on the show "Seinfeld." Believe it or not.

In 1999, on nobody's suggestion, and against the advice of conventional wisdom, Hoytster placed a personal ad on Yahoo! for free. He met a really cool woman and their first date was the best date either of them had ever had. They have been married for almost four years and have an adorable son--whose birthday is only nine days after Hoytster's. Believe it or not.

March 23, 2004: It’s All Relative In West Virginia

I'm wearing my Pillsbury Doughboy tie. It's a gift from my mother-in-law I received two or three years ago. Although I've only worn it three times, including today, the Pillsbury Doughboy tie is one of my favorites. I had an awful day yesterday and when I dressed this morning I deliberately picked doughie (as I call him) to brighten my day.

Everyone at work likes the doughboy too. Jason wants to borrow the tie. I should let him. He's given me a Brooks Brothers sweater and Harris Tweed jacket he bought on E-bay. He's also good about returning things he's borrowed from me. (I can't stand loaning something to someone if I know I won't see my stuff again--especially when it's something really cool like my Pillsbury Doughboy tie.)

While we were discussing my cool doughboy tie, someone mentioned our governor's having a tantrum over the design and slogan on an Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt. The t-shirt has a map of West Virginia with the words "It's all relative in West Virginia." Heh heh. And for only twenty-five bucks, plus tax, you can proclaim this wit on your chest. Or, if you're a politician, you can spend your effort, time and the taxpayer's money to condemn the shirt, like Bob Wise does:

"I write to you today to demand that you immediately remove this item from your stores and your print and online catalogues," Wise wrote. "In addition, these shirts must be destroyed at once to avoid any possibility of resale and proof be given thereof."

Oh yeah, Einstein. That'll work. I'm sure all the Abercrombie & Fitch CEO's now tremble and quake with fear in their chinos. You've made them panic. Listen. . .can you hear that sound? It's coming from New Albany, Ohio:

"GOVERNOR BOB WISE HAS DELIVERED A SILLY ULTIMATUM ABOUT OUR WEST VIRGINIA T-SHIRT AND NOW EVERYONE IS GONNA WANT ONE!! GET SAIPAN ON THE LINE PRONTO!!!"

Great job, Bob. While you were busy ranting, several workers in West Virginia, who can't afford the luxury of a stupid, twenty-five-buck designer t-shirt, left the state to find work in North Carolina. But at least you've created more opportunities for minimum-wage, underpaid laborers overseas. They can't stitch "It's all relative in West Virginia" fast enough to meet the demand you've engendered for this shirt. If you don't win another election to public office, don't fret, the advertising and promotion department of Abercrombie & Fitch would love to have you on board. New Albany's near Columbus and you wouldn't have to drive four hours to that really cool outlet mall or the Columbus airport--which, we all know offers more convenient flight service than the airport nearest to the Governor's Mansion.

Jason wants to order one of the "It's all relative in West Virginia" shirts, but Abercrombrie & Fitch doesn't have one in stock. When he gets one of the shirts, though, I think I'll loan him my doughboy tie in exhange for it.

March 21, 2004: Annoying Food Experiences

We celebrated Bella's birthday yesterday. Melanie, Seth and I made the hour and fifteen minute journey to Elizabeth, where we met Melanie's mom and grandma an hour before Bella's big first b-day bash at the pizza parlor. Melanie's mother brought several giant bags of toddler clothing for Seth, which are on loan from her friend. We've been fortunate because most of Seth's clothes are gifts, and, if I had to guess (and I have to), I'd estimate we haven't spent over $60 dollars for Seth's clothes. While we waited to leave for the party, we didn't spend any time investigating the clothes; Melanie's mom held Seth and Great Grandma fawned over him.

I was apprehensive about the pizza. We ate at Giovanni's. I had never tried this pizza based on the commerical and logo. They depict a mustachioed man wearing roller skates and delivering a pizza. Every pizza box I've seen has a mustachioed man on its cover. If you ask me, I think the same fellow served as the inspiration for this mustachioed pizza man. Like the guy who sat for the portrait on the Uncle Ben's rice box, the inspiration for "mustachioed man on the pizza box" probably received bupkas. I know for a fact that the guy on the Uncle Ben box got fifty bucks because I read about it in "The Emperors of Chocolate."

Seven slices of Giovanni's pizza later, I admit I was wrong. Giovanni's makes a good pizza. This is great! Giovanni's has a restaurant nearby and, hopefully, delivers in our area. Now, we won't have to order any more pizzas from Pizza Hut and have a chewed wad of bubblegum greet us from inside the box when we first inspect our pizza.

Yes, we ate a pizza served with a wad of chewed bubblegum. It was gross and we were very hungry. When you're hungry, you'll eat almost anything. Some things, however, are too nasty to eat even if you're famished.

Several years ago, Melanie and I attended a wedding where a lady licked her fingers after cutting and serving each slice of the wedding cake. I wasn't very hungry after I watched this and I didn't have any of that wedding cake. It's strange because I can watch people consume horse intestines on "Fear Factor" and still enjoy whatever snack food I'm eating. But my wife can't. I guess it must have something to do with watching something gross in person.

The nastiest experience involving eating, however, is someone else's hair in your food. Roseanne Rosanna Danna has already explained this. But I want to reiterate that there is nothing as gross as pulling someone else's hair out of something you're eating. For me, someone else's hair in my meal is worse than gristle in meat. Unlike gristle, which you can simply spit out of your mouth, hair is not easily extracted from a mouthful of food. You have to pull it out and, the time it takes to pull a strand of hair, takes an eternity. And, in my experience, the cook usually has very long, very blonde hair.

Yuck.

March 19, 2004: A Skiing Story

I didn't know Senator Kerry could snowboard. The clip I saw showed him riding a board down some slope in Colorado. Wow. That impresses me.

Forget Kerry's service in Nam. Anyone can serve in the military. Years ago, I signed up for the selective service, and, trust me, although I'd defend this country if circumstances required it, you don't want me in battle. I have trouble with rope-climbing. It gives me calluses. It also prevented me from advancing beyond the bear badge in Cub Scouts. Second, I'm not good with directions and caused many a compass to through up its figurative hands in disgust at my poor sense of location.

If I were in the military, I'd be the Leonard, a.ka., "Pvt. Pyle," of my platoon. The other guys would tire of my incompetence as a soldier and, with Matthew Modine as their leader, they would decide one night to beat me silly with soap bars, tightly wrapped in pillow cases. Or, with my luck, they'd make me the cook of their platoon, and I'd wind up in a battle, find myself driving a truck in a convoy, make a wrong turn, and get captured like Shoshana Nyree Johnson. (At least I would be a hero.)

Skiing is more difficult. I tried to ski once. It was several years ago, back when "Everybody Loves Raymond" was in its first season and still funny. Three buddies and I travelled to Snowshoe for a weekend of beer drinking, Dinty Moore eating, and totally, radical skiing fun. We didn't finish the beer or beef stew and our van got stuck on a ski trail.

As I remember it, Bill, whose family owned the cabin where we stayed, suggested we get some drinks at a nearby restaurant. We had plenty of beer, but Bill likes real liquor, and it was his cabin and his van. So it was decided we would leave the non-icy confines of the cabin and travel on the slick, unlit, snow-laden roads of an unknown mountain near Snowshoe to drink some whiskey in a club, the exact location of which none of us were certain.

Our van is the only car on the road. Bill keeps telling the three of us he thinks he knows where the restaurant is. As his confidence in his direction continues, so does the speed of the van. None of us sees anything remotely "restaurant-looking." Just lots of snow.

"Are you sure the place is here?" I ask.

"Yeah," Bill responds. "It's been a few years since I've been there, but I know it's here."

Bill uses the exact phrasing I use when my passengers ask if I know where I'm going after I've circled the same block eight times. Nothing to worry about here.

"See, here it is," Bill says, and steers the vehicle down a path, which travels a downward incline before Bill realizes he's Jean-Claude Killy and the van, its wheels, and us are now his skis. The sound of the van's wheels spinning is forever etched in my memory--as are the stares of several dozen folks from behind the large, glass window panes of the Snowshoe Ski Lodge.

We all exit the van, stationed less than twenty feet from a large snowmaking machine. I think I see tracks from skis and maybe a deer. The people inside the ski lodge still stare. They're too shocked to move. I'm too embarrassed to worry about anyone calling the cops. The embarrassment we've suffered is ample penalty, isn't it?

We tug and shove on the van, not unlike the sheep in the children's book "Sheep in A Jeep," except we have slightly less successful results than the sheep for the first ten minutes. We eventually get the van out of the snow and go back to the cabin to drink beer.

I still couldn't drink enough beer to forget the stares. Getting beat up with soap bars wrapped in pillow cases is not nearly as punishing.

March 18, 2004: The Appresident

Our current election process isn't producing well-rounded presidents. President Carter proved a great diplomat, but a weak leader. President Reagan gave us a sense of security, but his administration stalled funding for important social programs (such as Aids research). President Bush the Elder had a great sense of humor ("no new taxes," Vice-President Quayle), but like Carter, he couldn't last longer than one term. President Clinton provided the strength Carter and Bush the Elder lacked, but he did not possess a strong, moral character. As for President Bush the Younger, he looks better in military garb than most Democrats, but he doesn't work long hours.

I'm convinced we need a new method of selecting our leader. The process should both inform and entertain. The solution to the dilemma is simple: Reality Television.

On "The Appresident" the eligibility requirements for contestants are, of course, the same as those for the President: You must be at least 35 years old, a natural born citizen of the United States, and a 14-year resident of this country. A panel of three persons would conduct auditions in person in selected cities across the country. (I suggest hiring Hillary Clinton, Bob Dole and Simon Cowell for the pilot. Hillary and Bob have diametrical opinions and political experience and Simon simply offers the brutal honesty and chutzpah needed to keep the show entertaining.)

In the auditions, the contestants must deliver no more than a two-minute speech raising and addressing a social issue. The panel then selects the contestants based on the topic itself, their presentation of the topic and the "x factor." The "x factor" is a vague and arbitrary criterion, or whim, that allows the judges power over the initial selection process. This may not produce a pool of knowledgeable contestants, but it should guarantee an entertaining pool, nonetheless. The judges will determine the top 124 contestants, who then get to go to Washington, D.C. for the semi-finals.

In the semi-finals, the contestants interact and develop solutions to hypothetical problems. The judges observe the contestants in their tasks and, of course, camera crews capture everything on celluloid. (Cameras are ALWAYS present to record everything.) The judges then whittle the contestants down to 12.

The audition process will require several months, including the editing of the auditions themselves. Editing of the audition process is crucial because we don't have the time or attention span to watch hours of boring speeches. In theory, the editing team will devote equal time to each of the successful contestants so as not to prejudice our perceptions. If the editing team gives too little (or much) screen time to one contestant, the public may receive a false impression of the contestant. And a contestant, who has devoted hours of study and work in the game, could get giddy and scream a few seconds--and that would certainly end his chance of ever getting elected President.

After the 12 contestants have been selected, the real democracy begins. Over the next ten weeks, the contestants compete on national television for the chance to run for President of the United States. They develop their positions, engage in debates and make appearances on "The Daily Show." They also live in the same house, with their food supplies determined by anyone with a cellphone equipped with instant messaging. Cameras are ALWAYS present to record everything. At the end of each week, one of the contestants, "the team leader," selects two contestants, who along with him or herself, are then on "elimination block." They must attend a board meeting and tell us why we shouldn't eliminate any one of them. Using a touch-tone phone, Americans over the age of eighteen (or under eighteen with parental permission) will vote to eliminate one of the three contestants on the block. The contestants we keep receive a red rose. The process continues until all but two contestants have been voted--or dropped--out of the house. And, of course, Simon makes constant remarks about the candidates' appearance, size, clothing, family and lack of political savvy.

We place the final two candidates on the ballot of every state and Puerto Rico. It doesn't matter what party they run under because, as we all know, Democrats and Republicans are the same and the radical middle controls things. Whoever wins gets to face the incumbent President. Fox will air the outtakes of unsuccessful candidates, which will result in popularity of a few candidates the judges deemed unworthy of office. Some rejects may even discover that they now have a political future--despite having any political ability at all!

Remember, phone lines are not open until the end of the show at 9 p.m. and you may vote as often as you like.

March 17, 2004: Just The Facts, Ma’am

I had mentioned I'm maintaining this weblog to one of my co-workers, whose legal adventures and escapades I've not yet recounted in cyberspace. I haven't written about them because, as interesting as the stories are, they still arise from my work as a lawyer. And I've made a pledge not to write about my specific cases.

The reason is simple. As a lawyer, I have an ethical obligation not to reveal information relating to a client. The reasons for this rule are also simple. Keeping confidences allows a lawyer to develop the client's case, encourages a person's confidence in her lawyer, and, more important, trust, in the lawyer.

But there are still some anecdotes I can share that don't compromise any client confidences (are you reading this Mr. Dershowitz?). Here is one of them:

I've had hundreds of clients. Over the years, I've been called some horrible names. My favorite monikers (other than Seles and Lewinsky) are "clown," "FOOL!!," and "ignoramus," the latter of which could only derive from a fan of the Warner Brothers' animation catalogue. Contrary to popular assumption, I've never had anyone call me one of George Carlin's "seven dirty words you can't say on t.v."---at least not in my presence. That is not to say my clients don't pepper their conversations with "colorful" language. They do. For example, on the phone, I've been called Ma'am" hundreds of times.

On some occasions, I've been referrred to as "Ma'am" several times after I've informed the person I have a Y chromosome. These people always blame the phone connection or their colds or their hearing. But something about their excuses seems "fishy". . . .

In the last ten years, I've worked for four (count' em 4!) different employers and used four different phones. Each time I've changed jobs, I happen to have the worst phone connection in the office. What are the chances of that happening (are you reading this, Richard Dawkins?)? It's odd, isn't it?

You would also suppose colds occur only in winter or colder climes. But everywhere I've lived and had telephone access, people often have colds in warmer months. I lived in New Orleans for several years, and it never snowed during my stay. I wore shorts to class in January and February. I didn't catch a cold, either (are you reading this, mom?). I guess everyone who called me "Ma'am" on the phone must have had holes in their shorts or a crummy immune system.

As for hearing problems causing persons to refer to me as "Ma'am," this is a completely plausible theory. Some of our clients really have hearing loss and our firm has filed cases for them. As for those persons who are not clients and who have called me "Ma'am" in the past, the noise from airplanes, traffic, muzak in malls, vacuum cleaners, other people's babies, car alarms, television, coffee grinders, Chris Berman, church bells, lawn mowers, meowing cats, barking dogs, screeching monkeys, and screaming politicians are probably causing the problem.

It's probably all the screeching monkeys.

March 16, 2004: The Trouble With Google

It's no secret. The internet is now the greatest repository of drivel and fact, and everything else in between. How we determine what's drivel or fact or something else still isn't clear. FACT: A duck has feathers, swims and "quacks." DRIVEL: I'm now writing about a duck that goes "bark" not "quack." SOMETHING ELSE: If a duck that goes "bark" instead of "quack" existed, I wouldn't feel comfortable calling it a dog. I'd feel comfortable calling it a barking duck, but I anticipate I'd encounter disagreement and differing attitudes on my classification.

With thousands of web pages appearing more rapidly than e-mails for great savings on viagra in your mailbox, it's increasingly difficult to determine the importance of information online. That's why most of us use search engines to help us determine "what's important" when we use the internet to research.

And this is no secret. Google now has the most popular search engine. Google uses a system to index pages based on various factors, including popularity of the pages, themselves. Here's the text of "Page Rank Explained" if you're interested:

PageRank relies on the uniquely democratic nature of the web by using its vast link structure as an indicator of an individual page's value. In essence, Google interprets a link from page A to page B as a vote, by page A, for page B. But, Google looks at more than the sheer volume of votes, or links a page receives; it also analyzes the page that casts the vote. Votes cast by pages that are themselves "important" weigh more heavily and help to make other pages "important."

Important, high-quality sites receive a higher PageRank, which Google remembers each time it conducts a search. Of course, important pages mean nothing to you if they don't match your query. So, Google combines PageRank with sophisticated text-matching techniques to find pages that are both important and relevant to your search. Google goes far beyond the number of times a term appears on a page and examines all aspects of the page's content (and the content of the pages linking to it) to determine if it's a good match for your query.

The "uniquely democratic nature of the web" really means internet users influence the information they receive. Again, this is no secret, and others have written about it. The problem is as the internet rapidly expands, so do its users. And, if users influence how Google indexes its pages, the line between fact, drivel and something in between blurs. Or, in some cases, drivel replaces facts. (For me, it's similar to receiving dozens of e-mails with movies of ducks making loud barking noises.)

To function as a society, we've got to agree on some basic principles. We have to assume, collectively, that the sun will rise tomorrow, two plus two equals four and, as Edward Furlong told Ah-nald in "Terminator 2: Judgment Day," that you "can't just kill people." I would also add that we have to agree that "it" does not depend on "What your definition of 'is,' is." This deposition exchange signalled the problems in information exchange and, if anything, proved Clinton's prescience about the future problems of internet search. If you can control the definition of your terms, you can control the use of information. Or, like the Queen of Hearts said, "A word means exactly what I say it means, no more, no less." Nearly one-hundred fifty years later, search now means exactly what Google says it means, no more, no less.

The danger inherent in Google's search (or any other search engine) is the relative value the engine places on any link. When my wife and I conduct an online search, we prefer using Yahoo!'s search engine. (Perhaps I should disclose we own a few shares of Yahoo! here, but I don't think the SEC cares. This is because no person would ever purchase a stock based on the opinions of an individual s/he's never met in person.) Anyway, my wife and I have been researching religions on the internet, and we typed in the word, "Jew" into Google's and Yahoo!'s search engines. The results expose the flaws of using "democracy" to decide what information we value.

Google's highest-ranked page for "Jew" has nothing to do with Judaism. I suppose somebody has advised Google of this matter (link), but it's troublesome to see that ill-will against Jews is more popular than their accurate portrayal. So much for the "uniquely democratic nature of the web."

Yahoo!'s search for "Jew" does not produce the same result, which, whether it is by chance or design, encourages my belief that truth and respect will succeed in the free marketplace of ideas. It's also interesting that a search for "miserable failure" on both Yahoo! and Google yields similar results, with President Bush ranked at the top in both articles listed. (Amazing, isn't it? As fast as our creation and access to data grows, our tolerance for others shrinks.)

Anyone with the ability to surf the internet is not a tabula rasa. And I know that many people can differentiate between the facts, the drivel and everything else in between. But the problem is if the internet itself increasingly substitutes for the traditional reference and information guides we once used to educate ourselves, then who decides what the facts and drivel are and, more important, how do we decide what's true and what's not? Revisionist history no longer exists in our imaginations, but now occurs as quickly as the events themselves.

The greater the exercise of speech grows, the greater its blare sounds. And, as far as my search results are concerned, Google needs to get a better muffler.

Update: When I later checked Google for search results for “Jew” on June 2, 2004, I noticed Google now posts a “disclaimer” for “offensive search results.” I applaud the improvement.

March 15, 2004: Seth’s Toy Inventory

TOY	INTENDED USE	ACTUAL USE	LOCATION
Ball- popper	Baby presses big, red button and watches the yellow, red, blue, green and purple balls whirl down and around helix and pop out of machine.	Seth grabs top of ballpopper, and stops balls from moving with his hands and face. Seth then pushes ballpopper over and laughs as balls fly everywhere. Parents scurry across living room to collect balls.	Ballpopper is somewhere in dining room. Location of red ball is currently unknown.
Sassy® Yellow, Push Duck	Baby pushes duck across the room.	Seth ignores duck across the room.	Somewhere across the dining room.
Sony® tele- vision remote control	Hoyt and/or Melanie press button(s) to change channel or volume on television.	Seth grabs and presses random button(s), disabling functions of channel and volume buttons.	Somewhere under the cushions of the green couch.
Door- jambs	Keeps doors from hitting wall.	Keeps Seth occupied for several minutes while Melanie uses Swiffer®.	Various.
Toy Remote Control	See Hoyt/Melanie's use of Sony® remote control.	Not used.	Somewhere in toy basket in den.
Fisher- Price® School- bus with three Chunky People	Baby pushes bus, plays with Chunky People, and bus makes sounds.	Seth pushes bus and bangs the head of Chunky bus driver against head of chunky child in green wheelchair. Chunky people make no sounds.	Bus, Chunky bus driver and one Chunky child wearing the yellow slicker and hat are in den. Whereabouts unknown for Chunky child who holds the toy airplane.
Rocking Horse	Baby rides rocking horse.	With a parent holding him, Seth wildly clicks heels against horse, giggles and imagines he's Willie Shoemaker.	Seth's bedroom.
Hewlett Pack- ard Printer Paper	Hard copies for Melanie's poetry, writing and stuff we print from internet.	Twenty-four minutes of pure, crinkly joy for Seth.	Strewn on floor of computer room and under computer table.
Wood puzzle with red, blue and yellow knobs on pieces	Baby's first wooden puzzle.	Seth's first red, blue and yellow wooden pacifiers.	Puzzle pieces in baby room's and/or Seth's mouth.
Giant Eleven- Dollar Bag of Meow Mix®	Contains food for two cats, Daphne and Dorian, who eat downstairs.	Seth pulls on bag, pushes bag across floor, crawls on bag, and pulls to standing with bag. Seth's favorite toy.	Still in upstairs kitchen. (Note: Need to buy another bag of Meow Mix® for downstairs.)

March 12, 2004: Beta-Carotene Baby

When you have a baby, you expect comments on his appearance. With Seth, we hear remarks that fall into one of two categories. First, there's the "Isn't He Precious Comment," with its hundreds of variations. These include "He's The Cutest Baby I've Ever Seen" and the "Ohhhhhhh, Look At Those Chubby Cheeks, I'm Going to Pinch Them Because I Obviously Have Implied Consent From Your Child Comment." Second, there's the "My, What A Lovely Tan Your Son Has, Please Tell Me, How Many Hours Does He Sleep In The Tanning Bed?" remark. Or, as my sister succinctly states: "He's Orange."

My mom noticed it too except she didn't say Seth is orange. "He's yellow!" she exclaimed. "Stop feeding him carrots!!! He's getting too much beta-carotene!" Well, guess what, mom? We stopped. And he's still orange. Or yellow. Whatever.

We couldn't figure it out. "What's wrong?" I asked my wife. (She's smarter than I am.) She looked at the ingredients of all the foods we feed Seth.

"You know what the problem is," she tells me with her Incredulous Look. "Every baby food has carrots in it!" And you know what--she's right!

Every food Gerber and Beechnut make has carrots. Vegetable Dinner? Carrots. Vegetable Stew? Carrots. Chicken Noodle Dinner? Chicken, noodles and carrots. Turkey and Vegetable Dinner? Turkey and carrots! Garden Vegetables? More carrots! Mixed Vegetables?? Um....carrots?? Yes! Carrots! Chicken and Rice Dinner? Chicken and rice and carrots! Turkey and Rice Dinner? Turkey and Rice. And Carrots! Lasagna Dinner? Two first ingredients: Water and Carrots! Spaghetti Dinner? Ditto. Country Vegetables? Carrots (not). Just kidding! Carrots!

We've determined the only baby foods that don't have carrots in them are peas, green beans and fruits. Yams don't have carrots in them either. But they're oranger than carrots! And Seth loves yams. And carrots.

That's why today, when we took Seth to the pediatrician for his nine-month check-up, I wasn't a bit surprised when the doctor asked us "Are you feeding him a lot of yellow vegetables?" "Yes," we replied, "but I'm sure you know every baby food that isn't fruit has beta-carotene in it."

The doctor told us to keep feeding Seth the same things and not to worry.

I'm still buying a photoshop program.

March 11, 2004: In Family We Don’t Trust

We're at the mall yesterday and we enter the bookstore. It's the evening, about seven p.m. or so, and very few people--maybe three others--shuffle among the stacks. Seth is with us, behaving like the clichéd "perfect, little angel." He's sitting in the umbrella stroller I gave his mommy last Christmas and he's trying very hard not to let the thousands of sights and knick-knacks overwhelm his senses. We are in (operative phrase coming now) the back of the store, where this book shop displays all its kiddie literature.

The salesperson approaches us (ok, so far) and asks if we need any help. My wife and I answer no. Seth, who was silently sucking on his pacifier, now begins his trademark grunt/yell/cry® for attention. It's not a full "cry," but he's clearly bothered by the salesperson. (Did I mention how much I love this kid?). Melanie and I continue to look at books, debating whether it's better to buy a Berenstain Bears book or a Mercer Meyers' tome. We opt for the Mercer Mayer's "I Was So Mad." As we're considering the merits of children's paperbacks, the salesperson begins tailing us, and, in particular my wife. The biggest clue to us was when he started doing "that book straightening thing."

"That book straightening thing" always occurs under the same circumstances. The bookstore is nearly empty, you're one of the only customers, and the salesperson decides that, at the exact second you're looking at a certain book, he simply must re-arrange a few books less than six inches away from you on that same shelf. This bookstore is not more than 2,000 square feet. And it has at least twenty stacks, not counting the shelves on the walls. You can't convince me that these other shelves don't have a stray book or two that someone needs to re-shuffle. There's also the magazines, near the entrance/exit of the store. But, I can only surmise magazines pose no shoplifting hazard if you're busy tailing a man, a woman and their nine-month-old baby looking for children's books. They might be using the child as a cover, and, God only knows how many copies of "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" they could hide in their stroller, their pants, or, worse, those of the baby!

When we paid for the books we bought, the salesperson acted very nice to us. He tried to engage our baby in conversation. He tried very hard to get Seth to smile. Seth refused. And I could see him thinking:

"You really need to move your magazines to the back of the store and the children's books to the front. Because I bet you somebody lifted a copy of 'Sports Illustrated' while you were busy following my mommy and daddy and me."

March 10, 2004: Frickin’, Frackin, #@$& Fools!

During lunch today, my wife and I talked about a school bus driver who lost her job. As the story goes, the bus encounters an alligator in the middle of the road. Urged by the pleas of several teenagers, the driver stops the bus to allow the students to capture the alligator. Armed with duct tape and the savvy only thirteen-year-olds have, some of the braver students retrieve the gator from the road and move him to the comfort inside the school bus. The driver's employer suspends the bus driver with pay.

I scoured the internet for this story. I also called my wife for the link. She and the baby were sleeping when I called, and, on further reflection, I wish I hadn't bothered her (sorry, hon!). My wife swore she saw the story on CNN, and that the link she had seen for it on the drudgereport had disappeared. It's probably an urban legend.

When I got back to the office, I also saw our local, evening newspaper with the headline that the House of Representatives will likely pass "The Cheeseburger Bill" today. The headline grabbed my interest, (which beat up my short attention span), and, as I stood next to one of the firm's clients sitting three inches from me, I began to read the article.

It astounded me. Fast-food lawsuits have ignited the concern of our Congress. Here's the text from the original draft of the bill from January 27, 2003: [NOTE: If you experience drowsiness while reading the following language (in bold below), you should not panic, assuming you would still have ample energy to panic. Drowsiness is an appropriate and normal reaction. I suggest you skim as much as your brain tolerates or skip the passage until the alarm sounds and you awake. Thank you for your patience and cooperation.]


A BILL


To prevent frivolous lawsuits against the manufacturers, distributors, or sellers of food or non-alcoholic beverage products that comply with applicable statutory and regulatory requirements.

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled,

SECTION 1. SHORT TITLE.

This Act may be cited as the `Personal Responsibility in Food Consumption Act'.

SEC. 2. LITIGATION MANAGEMENT FOR MANUFACTURERS, DISTRIBUTORS, AND SELLERS OF FOOD AND NON-ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE PRODUCTS THAT COMPLY WITH APPLICABLE STATUTORY AND REGULATORY REQUIREMENTS.

(a) PREVENTION OF FRIVOLOUS LAWSUITS- The manufacturer, distributor, or seller of a food or non-alcoholic beverage product intended for human consumption shall not be subject to civil liability, in Federal or State court, whether stated in terms of negligence, strict liability, absolute liability, breach of warranty, or State statutory cause of action, relating to consumption of food or non-alcoholic beverage products unless the plaintiff proves that, at the time of sale, the product was not in compliance with applicable statutory and regulatory requirements.

(b) EFFECTIVE DATE- This Act shall take effect on the date of the enactment of this Act and shall apply to any civil action described in subsection (a), unless a trial or retrial with regard to that civil action has commenced as of that date.


RRRIIIINNNNNGGG!!!!! OK, YOU CAN WAKE UP NOW!!!! RISE AND SHINE!!!!!

Did you get all that? It's "The Personal Responsibility In Food Consumption Act." The local newspaper dubs it "The Cheeseburger Bill." I dub it the "More Ridiculous Than Any Urban Legend I've Heard Bill."

Why should potential fast-food lawsuits prompt such outcry from our elected representatives? Do they really believe fast-food lawsuits pose one of the biggest dangers to America? (And, let me clarify: By danger, I mean something even more important than preventing Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake from working a Superbowl halftime show again.) Doesn't Congress have more pressing matters to address now? Like passing more resolutions supporting Garden Day. Delaying legislation on raising the minimum wage. Drafting amendments prohibiting flag burning and same-sex marriage. Conducting hearings aimed at restriction of broadcasts on radio and television. And, of course, raising their own salaries again?

Man, this Congress has got to get its priorities correct. At this rate, it may take another three years before we even see the draft of "The Responsibility in Reptilian Animal Husbandry and Operations of Minors' Mass Transit Act"--which I would just dub "The Common Sense Bill."

March 9, 2004: Reason No. 18 Why I Love My Mother

Last week, Monday to be exact, I mailed our federal tax return. I know everyone's using e-file now except for my mom, who still has great difficulty loading and using the Turbo Tax® program:

"Mom, it's really simple to use. You take the disc out of the box, you load the disc into the drive and you follow the prompts."

"Huh?" She says. I explain again.

"I can't follow what you said. Just come over here and do the damn taxes for me."

"It's incredibly EASY," I urge, "really, you can do this."

"I can't. It's not easy for a 62-year-old lady. And my back hurts."

She should try telling that to the mouse. Oh, did I not tell you the story about the mouse? My mom's house has mice. For most people, that means you buy a mousetrap, maybe a little peanut butter for the bait, and a garbage bag for disposal of dead mice, right?

WRONG. To kill a mouse, by my mother's method, you don't buy a couple of mouse traps. You buy a dozen "sticky" traps. Sticky (or glue) traps are, in theory, the humane alternative to the traditional, neck-snapping metal mousetrap. Sticky traps are not designed to kill mice. Whoever invented the sticky mousetrap obviously never met anyone like my mother.

My mother arranges these dozen sticky traps side-by-side on the basement floor, leaving no visible tile or space. She then waits for the ill-fated mouse to place all four of its paws on the glue of one of the sticky traps. My mom doesn't make regular trips downstairs, and, if her furry, rodent buddy finds a glue trap, he might be stuck for awhile. If you're my mom, when you discover the ill-fated mouse, which now has its eyes bulging out of its sockets from its two-and-a half-day struggle to remove its four paws from the glue of sticky trap number eight, you now have only one task left to do:

FIND A NEWSPAPER AND THE THREE HEAVIEST, OLD BOOKS IN YOUR HOUSE AND PLACE THE NEWSPAPER OVER THE MOUSE IN THE STICKY TRAP. THEN TAKE THESE BOOKS, HOLD THEM DIRECTLY OVER THE MOUSE AND, WITH YOUR HEAD TURNED TO THE SIDE, DROP THE BOOKS ON THE MOUSE. THEN CALL YOUR SON TO COME DISPOSE OF THE MOUSE AND THE ELEVEN OTHER STICKY TRAPS.

And it wasn't pretty. Have you seen the Road Runner cartoons where Wile E. Coyote gets flattened by an anvil? Well, let me tell you, Chuck Jones accurately animated this effect because that mouse WAS Wile E. Coyote after the anvil.

If anyone builds a better mousetrap, please don't tell my mom.

March 8, 2004: How Many Stamps In A Roll?

The richest man in America thinks you should pay for your e-mail. When I heard this, my initial thought was probably the same as Martha Stewart's when she heard the jury verdict last week: "Holy Shit!" Then, like any good jury does, I took some time to consider the suggestion of paying for e-mail. And, after additional consideration, I have, in fact, determined that paying for e-mail is the most ridiculous thing I've read since this.

I suppose when your net worth fluctuates a couple million on any given weekday that it's not a big whoop to pay for your e-mail. I bet that's what the jury thought about Martha Stewart too. Martha owned about 4,000 shares of Imclone Systems stock and 30 million shares of her own brand. She netted about $239,000 when she sold her Imclone shares. Since her indictment, she's lost hundreds of millions of dollars in her company. She stands to lose millions more as she faces her sentencing.

When you have over one hundred million dollars, making a couple hundred thousand is peanuts. If we assume Martha Stewart's worth is $300 million, then her profit on Imclone accounts for one-tenth of one percent (.001) of her wealth. Let's place this in perspective.

Bill Gates, a man, whose company Microsoft does not have a "monopoly" over any software operating system, has a net worth of approximately $32 billion. If Bill makes a stock profit that results in wealth worth .001 of his net worth, he pockets a cool $32 million. "Holy Shit," I say (but not near the baby, we don't say shit where the baby can hear). That's a lot more money than the $229,000 Martha Stewart made. Yes, but, before you go, please consider one more incredibly boring math exercise.

Imagine a person who earns $30,000 a year. (It's easy if you try.) Before you do the math, what would you guess is .001 of $30,000? If you thought $30.00, please send me your calculator, because you obviously don't need it.

These days, thirty bucks will barely cover the price of a full tank of gas. It's not enough for a roll of stamps for snail mail. (Bonus question: How many stamps are in a roll? The answer is at the end of this column.) But why should you bother sending snail mail when you can send your e-mail for free? Sounds good to me. Now I can use the money I saved to pay for my $1.749-a-gallon gasoline.

But the free e-mail concept isn't working well for Bill Gates. Gas must be cheap in Seattle, I guess, or he really receives too much spam. Gates believes if we make people pay for e-mail, spammers will reduce their activity. The objective is noble. The ends are not.

I receive too much spam. Most of it is, ironically, devoted to the three things that's its not politic to discuss: Politics, Sex and Religion. I'm tired of receiving these e-mails. I don't need any spam requesting me to send fourteen copies of a list with happy thoughts to my friends. I don't even have fourteen friends and I want to keep the three friends I have. Nor do I want any e-mails updating me on your campaign for Governor of West Virginia. I'm also happy with my appearance and my credit line and my penis, thank you.

Spam is a hassle and that's why we have a delete button on our computer and a trash file on Windows®. It's not difficult for someone to develop a program that blocks and removes spam. Gates' suggestion of paying for e-mail, therefore, is as insensitive as it is ridiculous. You don't need Pareto to figure out that paying for e-mail imposes a greater burden on those with less wealth. Requiring the consumer to pay for e-mail to prevent spam abuse is tantamount to passing the costs of doing business to the consumer--or the party less able to bear the burden than big business.

Before Gates raises the price on the next version of Windows® to subsidize his hassles of dealing with spam, I suggest his company develop solutions to more pressing problems. In particular, I'd like Microsoft to solve the problem I encountered with our media system, which crashed late last year. Nobody (except for my wife's genius brother) could post an answer for this dilemma. Thankfully, my brother-in-law understands computers better than most people, and I can now record television when I want to read. But, as ignorant as I am about programming, I know how to use the delete button and I will happily delete my spam rather than pay for the privilege of sending an e-mail.

BONUS QUESTION ANSWER: A roll of one hundred stamps costs $37.00 at your local post office.

March 5, 2004: Apologies To William Petersen

FADE IN:


INT.-OUR BEDROOM-6:01:17 a.m.


SETH's cries sound across the house and awake HOYT and MELANIE, who are in bed. MELANIE gets out of the bed, followed by HOYT. They open the door to SETH's ROOM and enter. SETH stands in his crib and holds onto its railing. SETH continues to cry as MELANIE picks him up and holds him.


MELANIE


Good morning, Seth!


SETH's cries continue, but grow slower and softer.


HOYT


Hey, Seth! Hi, buddy! Who's that baby?


HOYT and MELANIE continue to talk to SETH. SETH stops crying and begins laughing. HOYT and MELANIE play with SETH. Then HOYT leaves room and enters the HALLWAY. He walks to the COMPUTER ROOM to check his baseball team on the internet.


CUT TO:


INT.-THE FLOOR OF THE COMPUTER ROOM-6:10:44 a.m.


A small, orange viscous circle lies on the room's floor near a red bean bag chair, pillow, and a Sesame Street® Atom. A loud cry now strongly sounds across the house from the COMPUTER ROOM. HOYT flees the room.


CUT TO:


INT.-THE HALLWAY BESIDE THE FRONT ROOM-6:10:52 a.m.


HOYT now stands still in the HALLWAY. The camera pans back from him and slowly reveals HOYT as he stares in horror across the FRONT ROOM. Large trails of clumps colored "burnt sienna" rest on the room's floor. Another round viscous splotch, this one colored "raw umber," and about three inches in diameter, lies a couple feet away. Several random splotches of varying orange, sienna and umber hues dot the floor. HOYT looks toward the ceiling.


HOYT


Kitties!


FADE OUT: "Who Are You" by THE WHO plays over the credits of "CSI: Cat Scenes Indoors." The credits begin with individual close-ups of each cat, Daphne and Dorian. As the song's crescendo continues, the next shots depict the kitties running across the living room, jumping on the kitchen countertops, eating spilled Cheerios® and sleeping on the dining room table. The final shots reveals Daphne and Dorian wrestling. THE END.

I'm sorry if my graphic descriptions of cat vomitus offend anyone. But I had to use the Crayola® colors to describe the barf because, quite frankly, I've never seen such "barfy" colors anywhere else and we even got a four megapixel camera for Christmas. The way I figure it, however, if a dramatic depiction of kitty vomit offends you, then you obviously don't have any cats as pets and you probably haven't changed any baby diapers either.

For me, cleaning cat barf and poop ranks as one of the most vile tasks I have done, and, consider this: I must deal with corporate defense lawyers five days a week. Try cleaning random cat barfs off the carpet and "de-pooping" a litter box a few times and you'll be begging to change a baby's diaper AND engage in a tête-a-tête with a defense lawyer. I much prefer changing a baby diaper to de-pooping, as we call it in our house. Cat lovers, I'm sure, will challenge me on this last one.

During the gift exchange at my wife's grandmother's house last December, as I took several billion pictures of the babies with our new 4 megapixel camera, I made the grievious mistake of remarking how preferable it was to change Seth's diaper in comparison with de-pooping the cats. My wife's cousin made the sharp reply that a baby can't handle its own waste removal process, as cats can. Well, duh! (Do I need to mention who owns a cat?) I resisted the urge to expose the logical flaw in her sarcasm, which, thankfully, I can address now in this blog.

Seth needs assistance with most everything except being incredibly cute, eating Cheerios®, crawling, crying, pulling Melanie's hair, signing "light" and saying da-da. He can also get a pretty good groove going when I sing "Just Once" to him in his highchair. I've been a step-dad to the cats for over four years and I've NEVER seen Daphne or Dorian groove to any of my songs. They're cats and, although they surely have the ability to shake their groove thing when I sing, they prefer not to. Cats have the ability to learn like babies. But cats don't care. That's why they choose purring over talking.

It's especially frustrating knowing that cats don't care when I clean up their barf or poop. Dorian, in particular, likes to watch me as I scoop up his regurgitated Meow Mix®, some of which still has whole little fishes visible in it. (Does this cat not CHEW?) I feel like Nick Stokes on CSI, and Dorian is Gil Grissom. And I can feel Grissom's glare as he silently critiques my ability to investigate a messy crime scene. I can hear Grissom's saying "Hey, Stokes, you missed a spot over near the couch. See, that little regurgitated crumb of a Meow Mix® fish tail? I might have to give your promotion to Sidle!"

This season, CSI has featured several episodes involving cats. I liked them all and none of them were as gross as the mess our cats make.

March 4, 2004: “C” Is For Cookie, That’s Good Enough For Me

The Girl Scout Cookies are here. As I have for the last several years, I ordered two boxes of Thin Mints.

After I took the Thin Mints home, I remembered we had two boxes of the Keebler Grasshopper® cookies in the snack cabinet. "Hmmm," my brain hummed internally, "I wonder if there's any difference between the Grasshoppers® and the Girl Scout cookies." I then asked my wife if she would be willing to engage in a cookie tasting after we finished our stir fry. Like any reasonable fan of cookies, she readily agreed.

Before beginning the formal cookie tasting, we first compared the packaging of the cookies. (This must result from our subscribing to "Consumer Reports.") Both the Grasshopper® and Thin Mints come in ten ounce containers. Keebler's carton design has the obligatory, smiling elf with a large vat of fudge. He sincerely looks happy with his work and his sincerity clearly beckons you to buy his cookies. That contrasts with the obligatory, staged photograph of nearly a dozen Girl Scouts on the Thin Mint box. The smiles of the girls belie their exhaustion of having peddled thousands of cookies door-to-door. My wife and I agree: Advantage Elves on the packaging.

Time to compare the cookies. At first glance, the Grasshoppers® and Thin Mints appear similar in size. Closer examination, however, reveals a Thin Mint is slightly larger than a Grasshopper®. The Thin Mint is also slightly darker than the Grasshopper®, which must result from the difference in the Elves' magic fudge sauce. Advantage goes to the Girl Scouts on the cookie design.

The taste test finally begins. I open each package, take a cookie from each box, and gingerly break a small piece from each cookie. I then hand a piece of the first cookie to my wife. She eats the cookie. It's good. I give her a piece of the second cookie. It's good. But, she says, the second one is slightly more tasty. The second time, we repeat the test with my wife assuming the role of the cookie breaker/feeder. Both cookies, I agree, are good. But the first one is better.

Our taste test is now unanimous and official. The Girl Scouts make a better mint cookie than the Elves.

March 3, 2004: Talkin’ Baseball

Last year, Marvin Benard (pronounced buh-nard) batted .197 with 0 home runs (hr), 4 runs batted in (rbi) and 14 hits (h) in only 71 at-bats (ab). In the same year, Mr. Bernard's teammate, Barry Bonds (pronounced bonds) batted .341 with 45 hr, 90 rbi and 133 hits in only 390 at-bats.

You may not watch baseball, or, you may be a casual observer of the game. You probably don't recall Marvin Benard. I'm an avid follower of baseball and I only knew he was, at his best, a marginal player who played with the San Francisco Giants. I also play fantasy baseball online, and, last year I had Barry Bonds on my team. I didn't have Marvin Benard on my team. I'm positive he wasn't on your or anyone else's roster either.

Nobody wanted Marvin Benard on their team because, like 99.99864% of us, he doesn't hit like Barry Bonds. Most major league players don't hit like Barry Bonds either. That's why he's Barry Bonds.

Lately, it looks like even Barry Bonds doesn't hit like Barry Bonds. Between 1986 (his rookie year) and 2000, Bonds averaged about 33 hr per season. His low total, 16, occurred in his first season, and, his high total, 49 was, interestingly, in 2000. Yes, that's the year before 2001--when Bonds went on a rampage and knocked 73 home runs and broke Mark McGwire's record of 70, established in 1998. Bonds didn't receive the same accolades as McGwire, however, because Bonds doesn't like the press, the press doesn't like Bonds, and to top it off, the tragedy of 9/11 dampened the fires of any remaining passion people had for baseball that season.

McGwire, I should mention, acknowledged he used androstenedione. At the time, the NFL, NCAA and the Olympics banned "andro." MLB didn't. The press likes McGwire, McGwire likes the press, and to top it off, the dot-com boom of 1998 inspired most of us to dream of becoming millionaires as we watched our favorite slugger chase the home run record. We wanted a hero, and andro or not, we were going to get one in McGwire. So any controversy over his andro use ended as quickly as it began.

Bonds' recent prodigious home run output has generated continued controversy. Allegations target Bonds, and several other MLB players, as having received performance- enhancing drugs, or, in the vernacular of our culture of soundbites, steroids (please cue your favorite ominous music here). You've probably heard of some of the players mentioned in the probe. Jason Giambi, all-star first baseman. Gary Sheffield, all-star outfielder. Benito Santiago, all-star catcher. And Marvin Benard, the guy who batted .197 with no home runs and, of course, a teammate of Barry Bonds.

If nobody wanted Marvin Benard on their team last year, it wasn't because they suspected he received steroids (cue ominous music again). Quite frankly, I can't imagine Benard having taken anything illegal. His batting statistics are just too pathetic to generate any suspicion. And that's what I'd argue if I were his lawyer:

Your honor, Mr. Benard batted below the Mendoza line last year. He has never hit more than 16 home runs in a season in his entire major league career. In fact, Mr. Benard's never hit over .300. His career home run total is 54. That's fewer than the number of homers Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, Hank Greenburg, and Roger Maris hit in one season. And you know I could mention Barry Bonds. Marvin Benard is no Barry Bonds. If you ask me, he's more of Merv Rettenmund-type player. He couldn't possibly have received any illegal performance-enhancing drugs, and, I submit your Honor, that if he received any legal performance-enhancing drugs that he should be entitled to a full refund for his expenditures, an apology from whomever gave them to him, and, of course, payment of my legal fees, which are pretty substantial. I rest my case.

Of course, I would never actually say "I rest my case," when I make an argument. But that's what people expect lawyers to say, and perception is reality. The reality here is Barry Bonds was always a superstar player and he is a better player than Mark McGwire ever was. (Both are Hall of Fame worthy players). But Bonds does not endear himself to the public, like McGwire, and, with a recession and an increasingly angry public, Bonds has not acted to quell any suspicions about his amazing-even-for-him performance. Or as Jules says to Vincent in "Pulp Fiction," "Personality goes a long way."

I wonder about the allegations against Bonds. Would they have reached the same pitch against him (no pun intended, really) had Bonds presented a more amiable, gregarious persona? Or are we really more cynical about our athletes now than we were seven years ago? I don't know.

Personality or not, Marvin Benard, I know, will not be on my fantasy baseball roster this year.

All material ©2004-2007 by HEG.