Email Snicker or Two

Forget Rednecks .....here is what Jeff Foxworthy has to say about ...Chicago

If your local Dairy Queen is closed from September through May, you live in Chicago.  Yeah, but if it's in a strip mall it stays open. Not that I go there or anything.

If someone in a Home Depot store offers you assistance and they don't work there, you live in Chicago. Same with Saks Fifth Avenue.

If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same time, you live in Chicago.  I also have polar vests that I have worn with summer skirts. 

If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a wrong number, you live in Chicago. I got asked out once, too.

If "Vacation" means going anywhere south of I - 80 for the weekend, you live in Chicago.  Also anywhere north of Kenosha.

If you measure distance in hours, you live in Chicago. That's because five miles in rush hour takes way longer than five miles at noon.

If you have switched from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day and back again,you live in Chicago. It happened just last week in reverse.

If you can drive 75 mph through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching, you live in Chicago. Samewith parallel parking in a snowdrift.

If you carry jumpers in your car and your wife and daughters know how to use them (and have since before they were able to legally drive), you live in Chicago. Sorel boots and food, too.

If you design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snowsuit, you live in Chicago.  With a poncho over the costume for the sleet.

If the speed limit on the highway is 55 mph -- and you're going 80 (probably heading north on 294 or the Edens and you are also reading the newspaper) and everybody is passing you, you live in Chicago. Reading the newspaper AND illegally making calls on your cell phone.

If driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow, you live in Chicago. Is that what those soft, cushy things are?

If you know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter and road construction, you live in Chicago. There's also a pre-season when it's so hot the tar melts.

If you have more miles on your snow blower than your car, you live in Chicago. As well as if you have to honk the horn to wake the wild animals sleeping on your engine block.

If you find 10 degrees "a little chilly", you live in Chicago. It's just time to wear a light windbreaker over your polar fleece.
 
If you actually understand these jokes, and forward them to all your friends & others, you live in Chicago. Or used to live in Chicago.

I thought I'd just post them instead.

Bureaucracy In Action or Inaction?

A woman working as a delivery person for a pizza place was murdered in a suburb here by a customer a few weeks ago. 

To her credit she didn't trust the guy when she got there and made a call on her cell phone.

But she didn't call the cops.

She called her family lawyer instead. His office was closed but his answering service picked up.

The woman asked the service to hold on..

Here's what followed according to the Chicago Tribune:

The answering service remained on the line as [she] questioned her attacker and pleaded for her life, he [the attorney] said. At some point, [the victim] apparently held the phone up toward the attacker, but it did not have an effect on him, [the attorney] said. [The victim] was then heard being bludgeoned to death.

The service followed company policy and contacted an associate attorney for the firm, who did not listen to the message that night but said he would refer the call to [the lawyer] the next day, [the lawyer] said. The operator tried to call back [the woman's] cell phone a few minutes after the call, [the lawyer] said. Someone did answer, but made no sounds and then hung up, [he] said.

THE SERVICE FOLLOWED COMPANY POLICY? 

Well, guess what? Somebody's mother died while you listened to her being attacked on the phone, carefully following company policy.

Even more frightening,the other attorney didn't even bother listen to the message.  Is that because, according to company policy, he wasn't told that the answering service received a call that sounded like someone was being attacked?

I smell lawsuit.

I also wonder what people are thinking when they call friends, relatives, and their family attorneys instead of the police when their lives are in danger? 

The suspect has been apprehended by the way. And they're debating whether or not to go for the death penalty. 

First Birthday Party

  Cancel

 

OK

Up there is the birthday boy enjoying his first birthday.
Down here is the birthday boy's big sister. 

Wiggles Waggle -- Then One Fell Down

This morning I heard that one of the talented members of the popular group Wiggles has had to step down because of illness.  My kids were too old for the Wiggles' phenomenon, but I understand they have quite the following among the thumbsucking set. 

So I wanted to read about what was wrong with the sick guy, Greg Page. Apparently he has some mysterious ailment they've been trying to diagnose since June. To no avail. He's having fainting spells and feels very lethargic, so his understudy has taken over his part in the Wiggles' shows.

Fainting spells and lethargy? But they can't find anything causing it? Sometimes we have symptoms that aren't caused by bugs that are feeding on our organs. They're caused by something that's eating at our psyches. Fainting and lethargy can be deadly symptoms, but they also fall into the category of psychosomatic symptoms. The result of bad stuff that happened a long time ago. Things you bury deep in the back of your mind's dark closet until you open the door one day and everything starts tumbling down all over you. That's Mrs. Linklater's psych 101 amateur diagnosis of the day. I guess they call it PTSD lately.

I wonder when they'll stop giving him blood tests and x-rays and start looking into the events of his life for the cause of his illness.

On the other hand, when you spend your professional life as an entertainer traveling all over the world, the chances of becoming infected with a mysterious illness nobody has ever seen in the US, or in his case, Australia, are higher than we may like to think.

Then again, why does anybody, especially a talented, attractive, young male singer, choose to become part of a group that only entertains children? Not that entertaining children isn't an acceptable profession. I'm just cogitating here. Any time somebody seems out of place, I wonder why? Like a male teaching pre-school. NOTE: I learned just this minute, right after writing that last sentence, that he had been in school studying early childhood education before joining the Wiggles. 

Or it could be a conflict of medication problem. Shots of tequila don't mix well with chocolate milk for instance. Just covering my ass here, trying to think of all the possibilities. [That's because Mrs. Linklater's cockamammy psychotherapeuticological theories don't usually meet with great acceptance. Plus she doesn't want to rock the boat so much that she falls out.]

I worked with someone who was going through a whole battery of tests for MS when I first met her. She told me about her symptoms and they sounded like conversion hysteria to me, i.e., women who get paralyzed or suffer numbness from the waist down after being molested. Her difficult childhood included times in her life for which she had no memory. Her nightmares put Friday the 13th to shame. Oddly, when she was told she didn't have MS her numbness symptoms went away.

It seems to me that docs have a tendency to decide up front that what they're looking for is either one or the other. They will decide that the symptoms are caused by a bug OR something psychosomatic. They will look for one OR the other. Not both.

Plus, in my experience, if it's a guy, the medicos always seem ready to hunt down and kill bugs. If it's a woman, they assume the symptoms have an emotional etiology. I was once put on tranquilizers for what used to be called a "spastic colon." Now it's irritable bowel syndrome, I think. It went away after three months.

A man I know with the same symptoms I had was hospitalized for a week and checked out for everything from cancer to ulcers. Before he left work for all his tests, I told him he had what I had had. 

That's what he had.

Deciding up front that symptoms are bugs, etc. or emotionally driven can be a deadly decision. I had a friend who was assured that her sinus headaches were from job stress, until she had a seizure and they finally looked for, and found, a brain tumor.

See what happens when there's no one to take my keyboard away from me? We go from some poor guy whose career may be over because of an illness, to contemplating the cause of his illness, to the implication that he may have had something evil happen to him when he was young to a rant about doctors.

No apologies.

Monday Photo -- Something Pretty

A little more than a year ago I was on the Outer Banks of North Carolina vacationing with family. I borrowed my brother's camera and turned it toward the setting sun which created a number of nearly black and white photos. I posted a horizontal one last year. This one is vertical. Next time maybe elliptical.

Are There Mimes Who Do Memes?

I haven't done one of Patrick's memes in awhile. His Sunday Seven yesterday asked you to list the top seven gifts you want this year. I think that's what it said. Sometimes I read fast and get it wrong. As I recall, the gift requests have to be things that cost money. So no World Peace stuff.

Hmmmm. Things that cost money, huh? I can do that.

Here's my list:
1. An airplane, preferably a private jet, to fly me where I want to go when I want to go. The other day I suddenly had the desire to be in Arizona, any place that has DRY HEAT. Not damp cold.

2. My own football team. We'd have red and black uniforms.

3. A heated toilet seat. i got spoiled having one in a hotel room once. I know they aren't as costly as planes and football teams, but I still haven't bought my own, yet, in case anyone is interested.

4. A view of Lake Michigan. You can have the ocean. I'll take the Great Lakes anytime. Oh, and a boat to float on it. I guess that's two things, but they go together.

5. A new Nikon Digital SLR camera. With any lenses I want whenever I want them. And an assistant to carry everything and hand things to me.

6. A personal chef to cook for me in the new kitchen I also want.

7. A dog that walks itself and picks up its own poop or a cat that doesn't need kitty litter.

That was easy. I guess I'll just sit back and wait for the gifts to start rolling in. 

Casino Royale Movie Review

Finally a James Bond whose bones I'd like to jump. The movie is good too. 

The Red and The Black

So far three of the eight teams who have won championships in the Illinois prep football playoffs wear red or black uniforms. Mrs. Linklater's cockamammy theory may be onto something. For those who missed class that day -- red and/or black unforms win. Especially the big games.

Of course, someone recently suggested to me that MOST of the teams wear red or black uniforms. Shut up. That is NOT the point.

The reason I can't tell you the uniform colors of the other teams is that I can't find any pictures yet. They don't make my job easy tracking them down, so those three uniforms are all I've been able to find so far.  No, I did NOT intend to watch all the title games just to see what they were wearing.

The team that beat my high school alma mater in the second round of the playoffs won this year's division title. They beat us 35 to 7. The championship was supposed to be a draw. They won 44 to 20-something. Killed 'em. 

Their uniforms are all black with orange-red helmets. Red AND black karma. The other two title winners wear red with white. One of them beat a team wearing black with white shirts. 

I'm thinking red may be the key color.

Personally, I also think they ought to check the players for steroids. I watched that future championship team roll over -- literally -- some very talented players on my alma mater's team when they played. Like they were cardboard cutouts. From standing upright on the line to knocking them flat on their backs with the first move. I know, sour grapes. They also have running backs who've been clocked at 4.3. Remember Ben Johnson? I overheard some people in the stands saying that anybody could run through the holes that line opened up. I wonder why?

The good news is that Illinois is this close to instituting testing for 'roids. But it will be random. I think that every member of each championship team should have to pee into a cup before and after the game. You can also do random testing during the season, although pre-season is probably the time to start. No warnings for using either. The kid is off the team forever. The coach is gone after the season ends. The team is ineligible for the playoffs until they pass random tests twice.

Either that or the officials can go through the locker rooms and look for guys with tiny wieners and severe acne. I've got a clipboardand I'm here to help.

Chicago To Have Plumbing Soon

My Martha Stewart friend got a great deal on dining room chairs from an interior decorator she knows in Atlanta. She had them shipped to her house in Texas. Then she had them reupholstered and sent to her daughter in Chicago. I guess she thought you couldn't get things like chairs here.

I sat in one of those bargain chairs the other night. It was too low. Even though it was on casters.  No wonder they were on sale. How low is too low?  You could scrape the food off your plate straight into your mouth. It made me wonder whether anybody sat on them before making the purchase. Oh, wait, I've met that interior decorator. She's very short. She probably sat on them and her feet reached the floor so they were good to go.

The next night I was having dinner at another friend's house. I noticed she had the same dining room chairs. Different upholstery. Uh-oh, I wondered how low to the ground they were. They weren't. I could tell because my knees weren't dragging on the floor. Plus I could use my fork to lift the food to my mouth to eat.

So where did you get these chairs, I asked?  Atlanta?  No. A local place. Here in Chicago?  Yes.

Who knew.

Deck the Halls with Balls of Howie

One of the guests at the Thanksgiving dinner I attended yesterday was a doctor. Red or white wine? He said grace, after which we got into a discussion about whether or not each of us believed in a higher being. What kind of rice is this? That conversation segued into the difference between being spiritual versus attending a traditional church. Who's got the gravy please? The doctor said that as a scientist he really believed there was a greater force involved in our lives. This pumpkin bread is good.

After dinner, he got out his iPod and proceeded to play the porn versions of several traditional Christmas songs to much headshaking and not a little laughter.

Do you want some whipped cream on your, uh, pie?

Giving Thanks to the Bird

Today it's going to be so warm here at the end of November, unlike the entire month of October, which was unseasonably chilly, that I could cook a turkey on the outdoor grill. Except I don't have to cook today. Actually, since I don't have to feed people every day any more, the thought of cooking is actually kind of fun. But I'm a guest now. My job is to bring an appetite. And a couple of bottles of wine.

Not having to cook also means I won't have leftovers, either, which is the main reason for Thanksgiving if you ask me. Perhaps I should cook a turkey breast for myself at least, so I can look in the fridge over the next four days and be thrilled by the opportunities to gnosh on post holiday food. Hot turkey sandwiches. Cold turkey sandwiches. A cereal bowl full of dressing slathered in gravy. Standing with the door open, slicing a piece off the bird on my way to watch tv.

I am reminded that I haven't been home for this holiday the past few years. Three years ago, I watched my brother's brother-in-law deep fry an eighteen pound bird in North Carolina on the Outer Banks. The fact that it only took an hour to produce such a moist and tasty turkey with crispy, golden skin was a miracle to me, since rassling turkeys has always been a four to five hour ritual. Basting every fifteen minutes hour after hour part of our American tradition.

Last year we were feasting at my brother's house in D.C.  He's an excellent chef on these occasions, a hobby those of us of the female persuasion have grown to appreciate. I remember taking a photo of my plate which was not visible under the amount of food.

Forty-five years ago I was in North Tarrytown, New York in a house along the Hudson River with my first boyfriend. We were visiting his uncle's family before heading to New York, a town which fills up with college kids this time of year. There were lots of young people for dinner, many bi-lingual, since the family business was mining and a lot of it was done in Peru. I understood none of the jokes. It was my first Thanksgiving away from home which made the memory more indelible I suppose. I even remember an especially tasty slice of cold turkey later that night, brought to me by some handsome young Peruvian who didn't seem to care that I had a boyfriend.

I guess that particular one comes to mind because I discovered that that boyfriend later died in 1982 at his folks' house in California. He'd come home to recover from a virulent strain of malaria he picked up in Africa, while doing something clandestine for our government. I often wonder what would have happened with us if he'd lived. Marriage. Kids. Divorce. The usual probably.

Holidays do that to you. Remind you of times past. And make you wonder what the future might have been. In the nineties the holiday started out with high school football games in New Jersey. I remember standing on the sidelines shooting stills of my college roommate's nephew, playing quarterback in one of the games that would take his team to the state championships. We all thought he would quarterback his college team to a championship, too, but that turned out not to be. His glory days were left in high school. The sky was always so blue on Thanksgiving for those games. Toward the end of the day, the afternoon sunlight framed everything in gold. Like my memories .

One Thanksgiving feast I really enjoyed didn't happen on Thanksigiving. My grown daughters had gone away for the holiday and turkey wasn't served. So on December 23rd that year, I cooked a Thanksgiving dinner at their place. I've managed to forget how I got that turkey up three flights of stairs. They invited some of their friends to help put it away. The best part was whipping the mashed potatoes and making the gravy, two items that no longer make an appearance on any of our daily menus. But they always elicit nostalgia for holidays past.

If I'm thankful for anything today, it's for the good memories. And not having to wash any dishes.

AOL Counter Attack Resumes Again

The AOL counter f**ked up again.

After taking it down a long time ago, I started it up again on July 14, 2006. Unfortunately, when you start it up again it reverts to zero.  Today, after seventeen weeks, it reached 7000.  Then, for no reason, my counter on Firefox reverted to 000000s again. Crapola. I see it has reverted everywhere now. Great.

I guess I wouldn't mind so much if the date posted on the counter would also revert to the day I started it up again. But, nooooo, for some inexplicable reason, it stays on the date I started my journal. And it's not like the counter has kept counting since then, even when I took it down.  Nope, doesn't do that.

So back to zero starting from today, November 22, 2006.  Even though the date says March 17, 2004. No matter what I do.  I just have to remember to add 7000 to the number.

Actually, the journal has been read thousands of more times since it began. Screwing with the numbers is just AOL's way of reminding us not to get too attached to that kind of stuff.  How zen of them.

There's a Who in My What?

This story could reach the TMI saturation point in a heartbeat, so let's see if I can just tell part of it.

Last night I went to use the bathroom. Before sitting down I got a view of the contents, as we all do unless we go to the toilet with our eyes closed. 

There was something floating in the water. Ewwwww. It was a mouse. I was in denial, so I looked at it more closely. Yep.  Mouse. Dead. Drowned apparently. 

Has it been swimming in the toilet when I go to bed at night? How did it get in there anyway? Did it dive off the sink? Where was its towel? Okay enough with the jocularity, How the heck was I going to get the dead mouse out of the toilet so I could use it for the purpose intended. There was a small window of opportunity before I peed in my pants.

Hmmm. If I used a spoon to lift it out, I could never use that spoon for anything else ever again and I'd have to throw it away. So I got a huge garbage bag and opened it up. Then I wadded up a huge blob of teepee and grabbed the mouse by the tail -- ewwww --- and I gingerly carried it to the bag holding it as far away from myself as I could, and put it in. Then I ran back to the toilet because I was out of time, if you catch my drift.

The only thing I remember about mice is that if you see one, that means there are thousands more. So I went out this morning and bought ten very expensive mousetraps. The kind that kill the mice after enticing them to taste the delicious peanut butter I put out for them inside a black plastic box. Afterward all you see is their tail sticking out the back. None of this dead body in public stuff. My kind of trap.

Oh look, you can release the spring, open the front and drop the mouse directly into the garbage and re-use the trap. The directions with accompanying pictures are printed right there on the side of the box. Like that's going to happen. I'm tossing every trap that has a mouse. They're all set out. Here mousey mousey.

When I get home today I'm afraid of how many I'll find.  And how much this is going to cost me in peanut butter and traps.

Going to the bathroom will never be the same. 

The Accidental Racist

Michael Richards. Unless I said he played Kramer on Seinfeld you wouldn't know who he was. Until yesterday.

Two things. 

First, I am sure if this questionably talented actor -- whose character on Seinfeld was probably not an act, but an alter personality -- had any idea that someone in the comedy club audience would use a cellphone to record what he was saying, he wouldn't have said it. I guarantee it.

Also, watching his racist meltdown versus hearing about it made all the difference. What he said was so outrageous that if we only heard about it we could almost dismiss the report as an exaggeration. Watching it eliminates all doubt.

Second, while he insists he's not a racist, he's probably like most white people who say they aren't racist -- they don't realize how much racism permeates their lives. Not on purpose, but as a natural result of being raised white. Oh, sure we'll borrow clothes, slang, and music from the black culture, but we'll lock our car doors and hold on to our purses when we're out. 

Most of us who want to claim we're not racist couldn't prove it if our lives depended on it.  And right now Michael Richards' career depends on it. 

He never would have used the "n" word that way, or any way, if he actually had a single black friend or acquaintance. The lynching reference was an especially nice touch. Referring to blacks as Afro-Americans during the apology is a sure sign that he's not hanging with any brothers.

Technically, the rules are that anyone can make fun of their own ethnic heritage, religion and sexual persuasion. Anyone else better be damn funny. Several people in the audience said they kept waiting for the punchline to his rant but it never came.

So Richards' mea culpa, for me, is more on the lines of, "Holy shit, I got caught doing something that the whole world can view over and over on the internet. If I'd known, I wouldn't have said anything. Who knew this could happen?"

As Paul Rodriguez said, "He committed suicide on stage."  Like OJ, his future plans have been cancelled.

Who's Crazier? OJ Or His Publisher?

Everyone thinks that OJ is deranged for thinking anybody would want to hear him hypothesize about the murders of Nicole and Ron in an interview and a book. But I think the real crazy person is the woman whose idea this was, Judith Regan, the Vassar-educated publisher you might enjoy reading about in her Wikipedia profile. It'll take you to all kinds of stories about her.

One paragraph I especially liked was this one:

According to The Daily Telegraph in London, she is "the enfant terrible of American publishing," with some critics callling her the "angriest woman in the media." Vanity Fair magazine called her a "foul-mouthed tyrant."  A former friend described her as "the highest functioning deranged person I've ever known."

Want To Make The Earth Move On December 22nd?

Anti-War Activists Plan 'Global Orgasm For Peace'

(CBS/AP) SAN FRANCISCO Two peace activists have planned a massive anti-war demonstration for the first day of winter.

But they don't want you marching in the streets. They'd much rather you just stay home.

The Global Orgasm for Peace was conceived by Donna Sheehan, 76, and Paul Reffell, 55, whose immodest goal is for everyone in the world to have an orgasm Dec. 22 while focusing on world peace.

"The orgasm gives out an incredible feeling of peace during it and after it," Reffell said Sunday. "Your mind is like a blank. It's like a meditative state. And mass meditations have been shown to make a change."

The couple are no strangers to sex and social activism. Sheehan, no relation to anti-war activist Cindy Sheehan, brought together nearly 50 women in 2002 who stripped naked and spelled out the word "Peace."

The stunt spawned a mini-movement called Baring Witness that led to similar unclothed demonstrations worldwide.

The couple have studied evolutionary psychology and believe that war is mainly an outgrowth of men trying to impress potential mates, a case of "my missile is bigger than your missile," as Reffell put it.

By promoting what they hope to be a synchronized global orgasm, they hope to get people to channel their sexual energy into something more positive.

The couple said interest appears strong, with 26,000 hits a day to their Web site, www.globalorgasm.org.

"The dream is to have everyone in the world (take part)," Reffell said. "And if that means laying down your gun for a few minutes, then hey, all the better."

This piece of news arrived in my email this morning. From someone I know who lives in L.A. Only in California would this be taken seriously enough to write it up.

How Dangerous Is Your Job?

AOL had a list of the ten most dangerous jobs.  Interestingly, being a fisherman was at the top.  I guess you only have to watch A Perfect Storm to see how that might be possible.  But people in sales are up there too -- since they're on the road a lot.  Apparently they fall asleep more than we realize and drive off the road.  Men mostly, from loggers to steelworkers to construction workers, garbage collectors, and powerline workers round things out, not unexpectedly. But the weirdest statistic was at the bottom of the article:

Homicides, which account for the majority of workplace deaths among executives and supervisors in retail and other business services, continue to decline. Following general national trends, homicide as a cause of workplace death fell to 767 incidents last year, from 822 in 2004 and 1,080 in 1994.

Personally, I think that's a lot of dead people that I didn't think were very much at risk. 

For comparison there were only 48 actual deaths among fishermen last year. It's just that there are not very many of them. So the percentage per 100,000 is high, ranking them at the top.

I don't know about you, but I think I may start wearing Kevlar to my job. Which reminds me, I notice that police weren't on the list. I always thought that was a dangerous line of work. Maybe those guns come in handier than I thought.

Mrs. Linklater's Prep Football Update

Well, they had the semi finals for all eight divisions of the high school football playoffs. One of the two undefeated black uniformed teams in the division that I follow beat a green team. The other black team lost to a team that has maroon, a dark red, in the uniforms. I wonder if that means red beats black in that whole red or black uniforms beat everyone else discussion. Okay, I've been discussing this with myself mostly.

We'll find out next week at the championships. I should point out that the black team now in the finals also has reddish orange helmets. That may be enough red karma, along with the black, to neutralize the maroon uniforms of their opponents.

Can you hardly wait?

The New James Bond

I haven't been to see a James Bond movie in so long I'm not sure I ever went to one. Oddly, I feel like I've seen them all, since 3,098,564 clips have been shown and 4,603 movie critics have weighed in with their opinions. On reflection the movies all seem pretty much the same, although most of the actors have changed.  I think.

Coming of age in the sixties I was not inclined to be attracted to a genre that showcased the cold, calculating, too goodlooking, if I catch you, I'm going to f**k you male.  Probably because I like to shave my legs first.

Sean Connery, the quintessential Bond, as handsome as he is, still, was a throwback, both personally and professionally, to John Wayne in The Quiet Man, that classic fifties --  if I want you I'll take you --  movie hero. I confess it wasn't until I watched that movie by default one rainy Sunday afternoon around St. Patrick's Day, while dozing on the couch, that I realized how insanely sexist it is. The same way I awoke to the undercurrent of racism and cruelty to children in Song of the South when I saw it as an adult with my own kids. Life happens. Those movies stayed the same.

As time has passed and Bonds have evolved, my opinion of the character also changed. For the worse. As much as I like Pierce Brosnan as an actor, he was too effete for the part -- way too refined and effeminate. Any of the Bonds in between are too unremarkable to acknowledge.

Was casting Brosnan an attempt to attract post feminist women to the theaters? Not if the producers had anything to say about it, since most producers I've known would screw anything that wasn't nailed down. or more appropriately, nail anything that wasn't screwed down.

However, today's movies are marketing driven. I can only assume that research wanted them to cast a gay guy and everybody had to compromise. Bond is too sexist, so we have to make him more accessible to women. Apparently that meant Pierce Brosnan. I don't want a man who looks like he gets manis and pedis protecting me from bad guys. No thank you very much. 

Not that I thought Daniel Craig was the solution to the problem. His lack of prettiness seemed almost like a self-conscious choice. One I liked, however. I also liked the shots of him wading in the water in a bathing suit. But, his Bond is blond. Bad hair color. Blond men, as a rule, do nothing for me. Couldn't they call me and ask? Was my aversion to blond just baggage from my childhood? Could I get over it? Enough to actually go see the picture?

Dozens of clips, several talk shows, and many reviews later, I think there's a chance that I will pay money to see this guy. I'm giving him the Mrs. Linklater Good Hunk Seal of Approval. The movie too, based on what I've seen.

Sure the Bond girl looks like she stepped out of a Victoria's Secret catalog. Page 104. But she's not just a receptacle, if you'll pardon an expression. She has a career, albeit unlikely, as an accountant. She has a personality, spent keeping Bone -- sorry that was a typo, but I'll leave it -- out of her panties. Plus, gosh darn it all, she's also dressed in clothes and seems like a real person in a celluloid kind of way.

The good news is that James Bond is back to being masculine and athletic. In a surprise twist, he also seems to have FEELINGS, not just physical needs that must be addressed. Those things are all functions of the script, of course. But the critics are also saying Daniel Craig is the best actor to play the part too. Wow, we're getting a two-fer -- looks good and acts good.

So I'm almost giddy about going to see this Bond movie. Perhaps giddy is not the right word. It doesn't suit the woman over sixty. Another word comes to mind, but I'll leave it to you to figure that one out.

Stop the Presses

Yep,  Einstein was right.  If you read the watered down consumer friendly version of the latest Hubble telescope discovery posted on AOL, it's all there. Einstein's theory about Dark Energy, which he decided was wrong, is actually right.

Apparently in 1998, "astronomers who were using supernova explosions to gauge the expansion of the universe made a shocking observation. It appeared that older supernovae, whose light had traveled a greater distance across space to reach the Hubble telescope, were receding from Earth more slowly than simple big-bang theory would predict. Nearby supernovae were receding more quickly than expected. That could only be true if some mysterious force were causing the expansion of the universe to accelerate over time."

Now the Hubble has actual photographs that show this.

AHA!!! 

But, wait, here is my favorite quote from the story:

"Dark energy makes us nervous," said Sean Carroll, a theoretical physicist at the California Institute of Technology who was not involved in the supernova study. "It fits the data, but it's not what we really expected."

Nervous?  Whaddya mean, "nervous?"

 . . .Dark energy could be some property of space itself, which is what Einstein was thinking of when he proposed it. Or it could be something akin to an electromagnetic field pushing on the universe. And then there's the possibility that the whole thing is caused by some hitherto undiscovered wrinkle in the laws of gravity.

A wrinkle in the laws of gravity?  Estee Lauder makes a great cream for that.

I think I've discovered why so many scientists are men.  Particularly theoretical physicists, those guys who spend years contemplating the possibilities of things, rather than the realities.

Someone else is doing their laundry, heating their food, raising their kids, putting gas in their cars, finding the remote, and reminding them to get a haircut, although Einstein looks like he never kept his appointments.

Forgive me for assuming that "someone else" is a woman, but why else would there be such a dearth of females in scientific endeavors except that somebody has to make the coffee. Not that in our post feminist world she hasn't been encouraged to engage in abstract thinking when her chores are done.

Even those double helix guys Watson and Crick say that a woman really cracked the code before they did.  She just didn't get the credit.  Neither did the babe who invented Mr. McCormick's reaper. Edison was homeschooled by his mother while we're at it.

As far as I'm concerned men can have their fun wondering if the universe is folding in on itself.  I wouldn't trade one snot nosed poopy diaper day for a chance to be at the top of their profession, or mine for that matter. I saw the mountaintop and the view was better from the sandbox. 

Part Three: The Gynecologist Versus The Plumber

Just kidding. 

Mano a Mano Part Two: The Internist Versus The Optometrist

I mentioned I had an eye problem a couple of entries ago. Right eye. Crusty, itchy, watery, bloodshot, ewwwwww.

So yesterday morning I made two phone calls. See a pattern here? If not, see my last entry. 

The first call was to my internist, a medical doctor with a hospital affiliation and all the accoutrements of co-pay convenience.

I was told by the receptionist that my symptoms would be relayed to my doc's NURSE who would call me back. The receptionist said he would give my request for an appointment HIGH PRIORITY. I hate talking to the NURSES. I always ask questions they can't answer and they have to call me back. Not to mention that I have to explain things they should already know. My mother was a nurse and I think she forgot more than these babes ever learned.

The second call was to a commerical venue in my town started by an optometrist who has several places in the Chicago area. They offer eye exams, glasses, even Lasik surgery. Once again, when I was growing up in a medical family, we only went to ophthamologists, the medical docs who specialize in eyes, because opticians and optometrists were considered unqualified.

The optometrist place couldn't see me at my town's location, but they could see me in HALF AN HOUR in a town nearby. They even made the appointment for me so I didn't have to call, I could just get in my car and go.

Once there, I got a thorough eye exam to make sure I didn't have any other perpheral problems. The doctor of optometry said he thought I had an allergic reaction to something and it got out of hand. I agreed. I had been so tired from working that I fell asleep with my makeup on.

He gave me a cleansing regimen to follow along with a prescription for antibiotic eyedrops and a recommendation for a flax oil and omega 3 capsule that helps prevent eye problems like mine. 

All for $40.00. Except for the prescription which cost $90.

If I'd gone to an ophthalmologist -- the full contact medical eye doctor -- I would have paid four times as much for an appointment, assuming I could get an appointment. And I bet there wouldn't have been an eye exam or anything else except a prescription for eyedrops.

Last night around 6:00 PM, I got a call from my internist's NURSE who said that my doctor had called in a prescription for antibiotic drops. So much for a HIGH PRIORITY status appointment. I told her, thanks, but I had already had a prescription since I had taken care of things seven hours earlier with an optometrist.

This morning I got yet another call from his NURSE. I think she forgot she called last night. She asked if I got my prescription.  I reminded her that I had seen someone else and yes, I had a prescription from that person, which I had used three times already. You've seen someone then?  Yes, that means I have seen someone, you twit.

I'm tired of doctors you can't get in to see when you need to and nurses who aren't much help either.

Choosing alternative medicine isn't just about drinking green tea and getting accupuncture.

It's about having a real alternative to what passes for "quality" medical care.

Orthopod vs. Chiropod

Years ago, the first time my back went out on an Easter Sunday -- as in bent-over-so-I-couldn't-stand-up out -- I made two phone calls on Monday. The first was to an orthopod at Northwestern.  The other was to a chiropractor whose name I got from a dentist who raved about him. The dentist said his back went out and he couldn't work again until he started going to the chiropractor.

I could choose the dentist's recommendation or wait to see the orthopods at NU who were team physicians for one of Chicago's pro teams. 

I had been carrying around the chiro's phone number for four years and never called him for my nagging back. Mainly because I'd never been to a chiropod before. My dad was a doc so we were raised that chiros were quacks.  It wasn't until I had several friends who were elite athletes and spent at least one or two days a week at their chiropractor's office that I began to understand the good those "quacks" could do.

So when my back finally went WAY out I made the two calls. And decided I would go to see the doc who could see me first. The orthopod didn't have any time for me until the end of the month. I made the appointment just in case. 

The chiro could fit me in that day. I couldn't drive, so I actually called a limo and rode to his office lying on the backseat like a hooker on her way home. Hey, sitting up was out of the question. 

The chiro took x-rays, then showed me where the disk was thinning and had probably slipped. He even said he wasn't sure he could help me. If I had nerve involvement down my leg, he was going to recommend waiting to see the orthopod.

My lower back was so torqued out of line it looked like a question mark. But no sciatic pain. So, three times a week for a month, he slowly worked the disk back into place, literally separating the vertebra with his fingers and hands. Then I had fifteen minutes of electrical stimulation to reduce the spasms. He never did one of those jerky chiro moves you see and hear about. By the end of the month I was back to normal.

I still had an appointment with the orthopod. So, even though I was back to normal, or my version of it, I went. He looked at the painful x-rays and said he thought I had a birth deformity. I said, no my back was curved in the x-ray because the muscles were in spasm when it was taken. He didn't believe me until he actually looked at my back, which was now straight. He also did a whole bunch of tests to see if the nerves were okay and decided everything really was back to normal.

I told him I'd been to a chiropractor during the month I was waiting to see him. I thought he'd be annoyed or arrogant at least, invoking the gods of orthopods and spewing lots of invective.

He just smiled and said he went to a chiropractor too.

Green Eyes and John Mayer

So many people use their blogs to talk about their families or tell about their day. I've tried that on occasion. But most of what happens to me is boring boring boring. And there are some members of my family who have made it clear that they would prefer to remain anonymous. Or else.

Over time I like to think this journal has become a repository for thoughts that are rolling around in my head with no other place to go. So I dust them off and put them out so people can come around and look at them. Of course, some of the people looking at them give me pause, but this is a public place after all.

For instance, yesterday, two things happened -- I shared the reason I think my high school team lost the play off game -- the color of their uniforms, green, isn't a winning color. If that isn't a loose, useless, thought rolling around, nothing is. Red or black is the way to go if you'll recall.

And someone new went back a year into my archives to comment on an entry I wrote about Marshall Field's.

I have since done some research on the football uniforms and discovered that of the four teams in the semi finals of the state football championship -- the two that are undefeated have black uniforms.  I'll keep you posted.

I'm not sure I want to know why someone was looking in the archives.

Today, something's wrong with my eye. Perhaps I should say ONE of my eyes, to reassure anyone who might wonder whether I have two or not.

I can still see out of it. But it's swollen and crusty and bloodshot. All day yesterday it felt like there was something in it the size of a Buick. The thought that's rolling around my head, besides can I die/go blind/wear makeup with this, is why have my eyes gone from dark brown to hazel to almost green over the years?

Continuing with nothing in particular, John Mayer is singing live on Oprah.  I'm so glad I have a day off, after nine in a row, where I can waste time, not have to be anywhere and watch Oprah.

Serendipitously, I was going to pimp a friend's son today. My friend is one of Chicago's top ad music writers and arrangers. His son, Cody Fry, is also a very talented musician, singer and songwriter. He also happens to have ta-da! a John Mayer-esque sound. Cosmic. He's only sixteen and I'vebeen playing his latest CD in my car driving home from work. On this one he plays all the instruments, did all the writing, arranging, and singing, too. He probably got tired of doing all the harmoney, so now he has a band and performs live at school gigs.

You can read about him and listen to and/or download some of his tunes from the CD here:  www.myspace.com/codyfry

When he's famous you can say you heard hiim here first. I notice that Warren Barfield considers himself one of Cody's friends.

The thought in my head is whether I knew what I wanted to do with my life when I was sixteen? Naaaaaah.

Mrs. Linklater's Football Play-Offs Update Update Update

Well, MY old high school lost in the second round of the playoffs. 35-7. They played the number one seed in the bracket of sixteen. They lost just as I predicted. That number one seed is now in the semi finals. One of the coaches said that we could have won if we had made NO mistakes and the other team had made a couple. But after the first interception, I knew we were in for a long day.

However, the real reason I think we lost wasn't because of the mistakes, the injuries, the coaching, or any of the usual culprits. I'm convinced it was the color of our uniforms. They're green. Green is not tough enough. It's a pussy color for a football team. The schools that win the most are usually wearing red or black. Someone did a study once to prove that theory. No, I can't cite it, but over time I've become a believer. This could be Rutgers' year, since they're the Scarlet Knights and I think their colors are red and black. Oops, I checked. SCARLET and white. But I bet the coaches have figured a way to work some black into their uniforms, too.

THEIR team, not Rutgers, the team that beat MY team, has all black uniforms with orange helmets. They look very intimidating on the field. OUR team looks like Kermit the Frog.

So, armed with this important information, I plan to check out the colors of the teams in the semis and make my predictions of who the winners will be by their uniforms. 

For now, I'm putting my money on the team that beat us, since they wear black. If there's a red team I'll have to weigh all my options. Does black beat red or vice versa? Interesting that the team that beat MY team for the league's conference championship also wears black. With red helmets. They just lost in the quarterfinals of the state championships. I should check out the uniforms of the team that beat them.  Hmmmm.

When Northwestern was being coached by Gary Barnett, one of the first things he did as a new coach was to change the color of their uniforms. Until he arrived, the Wildcats' colors were just purple and white. At one point the team even voted to call themselves The Purple Haze. The vote did not pass.  Considering that before Barnett, NU had spent years in the Big Ten cellar, a change was in order. So Barnett added black to the uniform. Purple became an accent color. And they went to the Rose Bowl for the first time in almost fifty years.

Red won't help MY team. They'll look like Christmas tree ornaments.  But something as simple as black helmets, socks and shoes couldn't hurt.

The good news is MY school just beat THEIR school for the state soccer championship. Green doesn't matter in soccer. Na na na na na.  And MY school has more state championships than any other high school in Illinois, but they've never won one in football. Because football is the only sport where wearing green uniforms can cost you points. And not just style points. 

The Citizen Memorial

Yesterday there was an important and poignant groundbreaking. For the first time in our history, there will be a memorial to an ordinary citizen on the Mall in Washington, D.C.

Jesse Jackson was moved to tears. And not because there won't be a statue for him, you cynical twits.  At the age of twenty-six, Jackson took over Operation Breadbasket for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. He was getting jobs for people.  Finding housing.  Providing food.  What were you doing with your lazy ass?  How many of you know he was on the balcony  talking with Martin Luther King when the civil rights leader was murdered?  Somebody once told me Jackson made that up, until I showed him a picture. 

The day after Dr. King was assassinated in 1968, Bobby Kennedy spoke passionately about his death, but never mentioned his name. Forty years later, excerpts from his remarks still resonate, only now on a more global soundstage.

City Club of Cleveland, Cleveland, Ohio
April 5, 1968
The Mindless Menace of Violence

This is a time of shame and sorrow. . .

. . .What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet.

No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason.

. . . whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.

"Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; andthose who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs."

Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire.

Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. 

Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.

Ballots, not bullets spoke last Tuesday.  Finally. 

Catching Up Quickly

Here at Camp AOL Journals, John Scalzi, our head counselor, keeps us busy with daily things to do.  I've missed a few opportunities to play with the other kids, so I'm going to try to catch up now.

Last Thursday's weekend assignment was to share a favorite childhood book.  At thirteen I was reading From Here to Eternity, everything Leon Uris ever wrote, and Andersonville.  Mothers of my friends told them not to play with me because I was a bad influence. That continues to this day.

Before that I read books about horses. All the Black Stallions, Misty of Chincoteague, King of the Wind, Brighty of Grand Canyon -- okay, a burro, but close, and lots of Marguerite Henry stuff. I started riding when I was seven. My honeymoon was a horse roundup. To this day the smell of horse manure brings back fond memories, in a general, hay bale kind of way. Despite reading as much as I did about ponies, for a long time I thought the Godolphin Arabian was a mythical creature.

Last Monday's photo assignment was to show the origin of one of one's names -- nickname, surname, screenname, whatever.

One of my nicknames has been Big Bird. I don't have to post a photo because you already have a visual.

Okay, two assignments out of the way.  I feel better now that I'm being more social. 

Not Swimming and Wal-Mart Drugs

This entry is like a corn maze. I didn't know where I was going until I got to the end.

On a day like yesterday or today, Sunday, in November, I would usually be playing a racket sport somewhere. For hours. Tennis indoors, or platform tennis outdoors. Now I'm too crippled to play anymore. And it has no longer been weeks or months since I had a racket in my hand, but three years. Not being able to burn off the excess competitive juices has taken its toll.  On my fat ass for sure.  But mostly on my mental state. I'm not a person who likes to sit around for long, but now I have no choice. And I feel like a caged animal. Just ask people around me.

I tried swimming. Not once, but twice, even a third time. BLECH. That water is freaking cold. Even inside. Except during the dog days of summer. And it's a solitary sport -- lap after lap after lap. I tried competing against myself and it wasn't the same as competing against someone I could pretend to hate for a set or two. I mean, when it was just me, I was reduced to wondering how many seconds, okay minutes, could I take off a single lap -- did I mention I'm not very fast?

I even bought all the equipment the lap people wear:. a snorkel so you don't have to turn your head to breathe.  Goggles so my eyes won't turn red. A swim cap so my hair doesn't turn green.  And three Speedos so I can have a dry one to wear while the wet ones are airing out.  Did I mention earplugs?  I didn't get a waterproof iPod or any of the other gadgets -- they'd just weigh me down. It occurred to me that water polo would be fun, but they don't have leagues for women in their sixties.

We have two outdoor swimming extravaganzas in my town and an entire store devoted to the sport, but, despite my best efforts to embrace the opportunity that being crippled has afforded me, swimming is not for me. It's for people who like dry flaky skin, smelling vaguely like chlorine, and permanently bad hair.

Which brings me to Wal-Mart, because not being able to play my sports reminds me that I have to take prescriptions too, which I usually get at Walgreen's.

A long time ago I decided not to shop at Wal-Mart because they seem to be making it impossible for mom and pop stores to exist.  And mom and pop stores are what this country was built on.  So I refused to shop there.  I really do try to patronize my local shops first, from the book places to the restaurants, to the dress stores, even the coffee places, too -- their hot chocolate is better than Starbuck's boiled milk stuff. 

However, when Wal-Mart started offering huge discounts on prescription drugs, I peeked at their prices. The stuff I take costs about thirty dollars a month at Walgreen's. At Wal-Mart, it costs four bucks.  Walgreen's, in an attempt to be competitive, offers a free membership to AARP and a ten dollar card which you get for buying ten dollars worth of Walgreen's branded stuff. Woo-hoo.

Walgreen's is closer. That's about it.  But since I'm not spending money on court fees, membership fees, new equipment or the latest clothing, which used to add up to much more than thirty dollars a month when I was playing, I could still go to Walgreen's and not succumb to Wal-Mart.

I'll think about that today on my way downtown. To work. And not play. 

The Accidental Taste Tester

By accident I've done a taste test.  If I work late I'm usually too tired to tear off the wrapping around the plastic of some Dinty Moore Stew so I can throw it into the microwave. Waiting two minutes for it to cook is out of the question. So I stop at a fast food drive in window on my way home for one of the salads they're passing off as sustenance lately.

However, as much as I remember how I used to like the flamebroiled flavor of a Burger King beef or chicken thing, I have noticed that their salads, on the other hand, just suck. They lack a certain je ne sais quoi --- TASTE -- but mostly they have no STYLE.  The tomatoes are tossed into the plastic container, not placed artfully around the edges like McDonald's. And both of their lettuce based offerings are painfully inadequate compared to the relative gourmet-ness of Wendy's lip smacking good mandarin chicken salad.

BUT -- I was nowhere near a Wendy's last week.  Only McDonald's and Burger King.  So I decided to have chicken nuggets, those round poultry flavored items not found in nature, but so handy while one is driving and a perfect fit in my mouth.

Truthfully I thought all chicken nuggets came from the same bag. Like soup. Have you noticed that there's only one kind of chicken noodle in the whole country no matter where you go?

I was surprised to discover that, no, the chicken nuggets aren't all the same.  McDonald's is different than Burger King. First of all, so you won't confuse them, Burger King has nuggets shaped like a crown. Bad idea. The result is a dry, chewy experience I will never repeat.

The next day I tried MdDonald's. McNuggets kept my children alive for years. Sure enough, they were just like the old days -- slather them in sauce and you don't notice the taste. Even better, they were shaped like nuggets, not crowns.

But today I happened to be near a Wendy's on my way back from a Saturday of work, so, just for grins, I got some of their chicken nuggets for instant gratification, along with my mandarin chicken salad, which I wait to eat at home, because it is too hard to eat at sixty miles an hour.

Like I said, nuggets make perfect car appetizers, the rightsized bite sized food to keep me from chewing the cover off the steering wheel. In desperation, I have also been known to fish for the occasional peanut M and M hiding underneath the passenger side of my car. Finding a Rice Krispies' Treat still in its wrapper was cause for rejoicing once as I recall. Driving home after seven at night is an exercise in staving off the hunger that grows exponentially the moment I get in the car. 

Anyway, I took one bite of my very first Wendy's chicken nuggets, since I originally started going there for the salad, and I did what we call in the ad biz a "BITE AND SMILE."  I bit into the thing and it tasted GOOD. So I actually smiled in surprise and looked at it, just like we ask the actors to do when they're faking it. WOW, golly, that tasted okay. 

I was struck by the fresh, crispy, yet not greasy, outer crust and overjoyed that there actually seemed to be a tender piece of real chicken on the inside. However, I must confess, I'm not sure I know what real chicken tastes like anymore, ever since Perdue got involved.

I have decided to go back to Wendy's tonight for more of their chicken nuggets, because I'm working all weekend and I'll be hungry once again on the way home. 

Life is about having things to look forward to.

Voting Is Too Inconvenient

For the most part we go out of our way to make things convenient, easily accessible and fast in this country. Except voting. You only get thirteen hours on a Tuesday. Why not 24 hours on the weekend? Or a whole week? Absentee ballots require planning. Lately you can vote ahead of time around here at twenty-six designated locations. But just try finding one.

I think I should be able to go anywhere in the country to vote. Use my fingerprint or read my retina, whatever, to identify me so I can vote out of town.  I should be able to vote by computer, by phone, or kiosk in a library or a police station.  My precinct options from hundreds or thousands of miles away would appear on a screen and I could make my choices.

No need for absentee ballots.  No need to worry about whether my vote has been hijacked by local yokels. Everything goes into a single counting location -- not a million different places where it can get lost. 

I know all the many hacker possibilities. And they'll invent more. But you watch, in twenty-five years, this will all come to pass. It always takes a generation.

Yes, I voted today. It was in an overheated school and everything was surpassingly inconvenient, but I did my civic damn duty. 

What will it take to get you to vote?

The first thing a lot of people ask when you want them to do something is "What's in it for me?" When it comes to voting the answer seems to be NOTHING. So they can't be bothered, since another popular argument is that someone else's vote will negate theirs.

As voting percentages slip into the low twenties and nobody has put forth any solution to the diminishing returns, why not put some good old fashioned American know how to work?

So I'm thinking we ought to pursue promoitonal incentives. Treat the elections like a carnival of discount events. 

Ask Starbuck's to offer free coffee to everyone who has proof that they voted.

McDonald's could offer voters fries and a Coke.

Dunkin Donuts could provide a small bag of donut holes.

Gas stations could give you the first gallon for free. Or a Slim Jim.

For lunch we could go to Subway or Quizno's.  Show that proof of purchase, I mean, proof of voting, and you're good for a six incher.  Sandwich.

Free drugs from Walgreen's.

Free Slurpees. Free Ben and Jerry's ice cream.

Ford could give away all the cars that nobody is buying.

Free parking for everyone.

A get out of jail free card for the day.

If you haven't voted in awhile, what would it take to get you to the polls?  Revoking your citizenship? Miss two times and you're on probation? Miss three and you're toast? 

Oompa Oompa

I have two half brothers who are about the same age as my own children. You should see the looks on their friends' faces when I'm introduced as their sister. Next to them I look like I've been rode hard and put up wet. Most of the time we don't bother to explain why I'm clearly old enough to be their mother. And their friends haven't figured out a way to ask politely, come on, she can't be your sister, can she?

When my kids and my half brothers -- my father's second set of kids after my mother died -- were growing up as members of the same generation, there were two things we used to do at family gatherings. The first was to take Polaroid pictures of the holiday. Our need for immediate photo gratification preceded digital pictures so we settled for Polaroids. As a result, we have a huge album of photos that chronicle the years of my hair changing color. Along with a shots of Grandma Tootie holding a huge serving fork over an entire pie or whatever dessert we were having that night. And dozens of pictures of my youngest younger brother with his eyes closed. My daughters always looked lovely, of course.

The second family tradition was to play OOMPA. This was a polka like tune that I would play on the piano while all the kids danced around the room. Suddenly I would stop and they would have to freeze. The winner was the person who did the best job of not moving during the freeze portion of the game. No laughing, either. The music was dumb. The game was silly. And we always had a great time. After Thanksgiving feasts, Christmas dinners, Easter celebrations, and birthdays, there was always a request for a round of OOMPA during the evening.

I know it's been at least twenty years since we last played OOMPA. Over the years, I've introduced it to the children of friends of mine, but it's been so long since we played it at my folks' house that one of my half brothers has a family of his own now. They were in town for the weekend and I thought his daughter might be smart enough to learn to play the family dancing game. She's a fairly precocious two and a half.  So I went tothe piano and started to play, only to discover that I'd forgotten the song, but after a few false starts, I figured it out again and we taught my niece the rules of the game. She got it right away. I started playing. She started dancing. Until I stopped playing. Then she stopped dancing and froze in her tracks, one arm up, one leg out, with that funny wide-eyed look of a little kid who gets the joke. Or knows how to humor her elders. Her grandma got up and played with her, too, posing like she was playing musical Twister, bad knee and all.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I'm glad the tradition continues. Dumb as it is.

I'll Have the Yellow Fin Pizza, Please, Hold the Anchovies

There's a place with two locations in Chicago called Tomato Head. They have my new favorite thing to lunch on -- barbecued chicken pizza.  Boy is it good.  Hmmm mmmm.  Today at work, I popped for one. Since there were a lot of people, I also threw in one of their Gut Busters for the young guys and a plain cheese one too, in case someone female claimed she was "dieting."  I, personally, packed away four pieces.  That's four square pieces, the way we cut pizza here in Chi-town, not those huge soggy pie shaped wedges they give you in New York.  Did I say hmmmm mmmm yet?  Except for one thing.  I'm going out to dinner tonight for a late birthday celebration with my daughters. The pizza was enough to tide me over until Thanksgiving, so I would probably just get a salad after such a big lunch. But we're going out for my most favorite meal of all -- SUSHI. Dead raw fish, could anything be more appetizing? Hmmmm mmmm. Ah, yes, I can hear people in landlocked towns who read this journal heading for the toilet.

I can't wait. For the sushi, not for you to get back from the toilet.

Two of my favorite meals. Both in one day. I also like the entire left side of the menu at Gene and Georgetti's, and the specials at Kiki's. So much food, so little Zantac.

I HATE CHANGE

The older I get, the less I like change. At least the less it seems necessary. Why are they tearing down all the perfectly nice houses on my street to build giant monstrosities? With driveways that have pavers instead of asphalt? Why do people vacation in Belize when we've got a perfectly good beach right here? When did Halloween turn into Christmas?

Change is everywhere. All the time lately. When I started out in advertising, people could draw. Now they "design" on the computer. If the electricity goes out, the creative department is toast.

In my experience with brand managers, I've learned that it doesn't matter how effective an ad campaign is for a particular product. If the brand manager is new on the account, they're going to change the creative. Usually that's the only way they can prove they've done something during the two years they were messing with the "brand." The latest bullshit in marketing is "brand building," an ironic phrase considering that every time an ad agency develops a longterm plan to "build the brand," some short timer comes in to truncate all the effort. How long did The Softer Side of Sears last? Ten, fifteen minutes? It had a great launch. But no time to put down roots. Because SOMEBODY NEW got hired.

Back in the real world, the change that is annoying me today is the new look of our ADD AN ENTRY page. Where the heck did the blue go?  I liked the blue. Now everything is white against off white. Why? Did someone get promoted and want to make his or her mark? Was there a discount on digital white this month?

How often does the new guy [girl, whatever] get hired at a company and decide that nobody knows how to do anything and only they can make things right? Instead of first asking around and figuring out what does work then leaving that stuff alone.

No, they show up, screw things around, and leave.

I was at Walgreen's tonight. They were trying to make a change. A new computer system had been launched and it wouldn't accept charges or checks for purchases. A manager had to be called to punch a bunch of buttons a few times, re-enter the check or card, and punch a few more buttons, delaying everybody standing in line, embarrassing the person trying to make the purchase, and finally, with a shout, YAY, somehow making the transaction transact.

Changing the color of the ADD AN ENTRY section of my journal is a symptom of making change for no other reason than change can be made. I see no difference, nothing of any consequence to take note of, except that the blue in the ADD AN ENTRY section is gone. Why did someone do that?  Because they could? Is that an acceptable reason? That was a rhetorical question. All questions on AOL are rhetorical. They go out into the ether and no answers ever come back. The question of acceptability is not up for discussion. Since there is no discussion.

Of course, anyone who reads this journal who is not on AOL has no idea what I mean about the blue changing to the white, which reduces my whining about this change to the sound of a tempest in a teapot. Or more accurately, a tempest in a tea CUP.

Maybe I just need some camomile tea, a little lemon, a little honey, and an early bedtime under a cozy comforter.  Wait, first I have to CHANGE the sheets. Get out the flannel. But perhaps I'll find some change under the pillow. Change. Change. Change. Change of fools.