Another Ticket

I got another ticket. Sheesh. This time a new fangled parking meter in front of a sushi joint in Chicago took advantage of me.  I actually had a free space on a side street and left it for a spot right in front of the restaurant where I was going. Never again.

In Chicago a new fangled parking meter means that there's one meter for two parking spaces. You have to push a button to indicate which side of the meter you're parked on. I was on the right side. So I pushed the putton that said "RIGHT" and started putting in quarters. Usually when you do that there is some indication of how much time you've bought.  But I got nothing. So I pushed "RIGHT" again. And put in another quarter. This time I got a flashing "46." Hmmm. Another quarter and another push on the "RIGHT" button again -- from the when in doubt keep pushing buttons school of thought. Soon the meter was switching back from "16" to "46" -- back and forth back and forth. Luckily I had someone with me who said, "I think this meter is broken. If you get a ticket, I'll be your witness."

As we all know, I got the ticket. So did the person behind me who probably had the same experience I did, since we shared the same (#@*$&#@(*$& meter. 

Determined to fight for my rights, I followed the directions on the ticket for protesting by mail. This process is a test of reading small type. But I not only wrote up my protest, I printed it out with the name, address and phone number of my witness and sent it in today. The whole thing took about an hour of my ever so precious time along with the price of a stamp. Plus the 75 cents I lost in the meter. Anything to keep from paying $30.00.  In a couple of weeks I'm sure to get another notice -- this time for $60.00. 

That ticket reminded me of another parking ticket I got in Chicago. I had to run into an ad agency to drop something off, so I parked illegally, left my lights flashing and ran in.  When I came out a cop was writing me a ticket. Rats. I told him I'd only been gone five minutes, blah blah blah. I had heard that once they start writing a ticket, you're SOL, but I gave it a try.  And it worked!!  He stopped writing, put his pad away and got back into his truck with his partner. I remember him only because he wasn't a regular cop -- he was a horse cop. He was towing two horses in a trailer.  His partner was driving.  I should have checked out his badge, the license on the truck, anything. But I didn't think I had to.

So I never got an actual ticket. But I did get a second notice from the City of Chicago saying that now I owed twice as much because I didn't pay the first time. But, wait, the cop never gave me a ticket. Well, yes and no. He didn't hand it to me. But he did turn it in. I bet he thought I got so many tickets I wouldn't notice another one. I don't get a lot of tickets, so I noticed. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Another time I had a permit in my window which allows you to park after six on the crowded neighborhood streets especially around Wrigley Field. The problem was the permit I had wasn't signed by the people I was visiting. They forgot when they gave it to me, and I didn't check before I stuck it up. Fifty bucks. If I protested that ticket I would have had to send in the unsigned permit to prove that I had posted a permit, but it just wasn't signed. But I could have sent in any unsigned permit.

I soon realized that it would be me saying "See -- I did so have a permit. It just wasn't signed." And someone at City Hall would just say, "But how do we know that THIS is the permit that wasn't signed, not just another unsigned permit you got to try to beat this ticket?"

Why do I live here?

The Lance Dance

Somebody left a seriously wrecked $400,000 Lamborghini by the side of the highway the other night. That was after it first hit a concrete abutment and left several yards of tread marks leading up to the point of impact.

Apparently whoever was driving didn't think anyone would notice a car wreck so they just left the crumpled heap where it was and went home. I know that's what I would do. Maybe with a note on the windshield. Who wants to bother the cops in the middle of the night?

Turns out the vehicle is registered to Lance Briggs, one of the Chicago Bears. But even though the car is technically his, was he the person driving when it crashed?

Gee, let me think about this. One scenario would be that he lent one of the most expensive automobiles in the entire world to a friend who had been clubbing with him all night long. The other scenario would be -- not.

Do you think it possible that the driving skills of a self indulgent, overpaid, pampered professional athlete might have been impaired by alcohol so he abandoned his car because he was trying to cover his ass?

Speaking of ass, do you think Senator Larry Craig is gay or was he just asking for more toilet paper?

We may never know the truth. At least we'll never hear it from those guys. Nevertheless, there was a mystery and inquiring minds wanted to know, so reporters began calling Lance's house, but they had to settle for his voicemail while he slept it off.

Apparently, it turns out one of the first things Lance did following the accident was what any responsible citizen would do: he reported his car stolen. Soon after, visions of Michael Vick began dancing in his head, so, following practice the next afternoon, he claimed that he called right back and fessed up to being behind the wheel himself. From time to time the rusty wheels of integrity get greased.

He got ticketed for a bunch of traffic related things, including leaving the scene and improper lane change, but there were no charges for the one thing that might have messed with his seven million dollar franchise player paycheck, given the new commissioner's zero tolerance policies.

Lance Briggs managed to avoid being labeled stupid and shitfaced on the road.

His legion of fans are no doubt relieved.

Yesterday And Today, But Not Tomorrow

As I was about to wax philosophical about the events of my weekend, another idea for an entry intruded. But, for those who get vicarious thrills from my tiny little life, here are some highlights to feed your insatiable curiosity before I expound on today's topic:

I partied on Friday night with a bunch of out of town friends of friends. It was the yearly big pot of jambalaya gathering before the first high school football game. We had our choice of spicy or not so spicy. Beforehand, I filled up on pitted kalamata olives, chunks of cheese and table water crackers sitting out on the big ol' porch, so I couldn't eat my usual training table bowl. But my efforts to empty the pot did not go unnoticed. However, the cheesecake dessert was out of the question.

Turns out there was no football game because of the "inclement" weather that went through here like bitch out of Midol. The Friday contest was rescheduled for Saturday on artificial turf because all the natural grass fields were submerged after the storm. You may have seen us on the news. How did we look in rubber boots pumping out our basements?

For some stupid reason, I got into a big discussion about the legal drinking age in Illinois -- how it was lowered in the seventies and then raised again.  I was married in those days and didn't get the memo. I had no idea this age change went on, so like most people who think the world revolves around themselves, I said it didn't happen. But Google laughed at me last night when I got home. Quelle embarrassment.

Saturday morning I joined the hoards who were huddled at the laundromat drying out their rugs. Then I met one of my brothers and my stepmom at a Japanese restaurant for tempura and a tasty, rice free crab roll that was wrapped in cucumbers instead of seaweed and served with rice wine vinegar instead of soy sauce. More about my brother later. That cucumber roll was a nice, light alternative to my usual sushi pigfest.

After a previous week of horrid weather, Saturday was bright, sunny, and seventy-five degrees. Perfect for a non-conference high school football game. Replete with tailgate food and shooting video of the game.

NFL Films usually has three cameras on a ballgame -- the up close and personal shots on the field, the 50 yard shots from upstairs and someone who gets all the details -- the fat, painted people in the crowd, the injured and/or dejected players on the bench, the refs, the irritated coaches, stuff like that.

In our little group at SMF Video [Suburban Moms Football pronounced SMURF], we have often had four cameras on our games in the past. Yesterday, because one of our shooters is getting married, and another one doesn't have a kid on the team anymore, we only had two. I was up at the top of the stands on the 50 yard line. Thanks in part to the restraining order that keeps me 100 yards from all men in uniform.

After a play ended, I didn't stop shooting until the announcer told us who did what to whom. Kids like to hear their names called. I also shot [videoed, in case you're worried] the referee giving the signals for penalties. You never know when this stuff will come in handy when you're doing an edit. I also try to get shots of the boys with their helmets off so their moms know that's really their kid wearing that jersey. 

My friends' son, the tailback, had on a pair of brand spanking new black turf shoes, tricked out with a shiny white trim and white laces. He racked up about eighty yards on the first series, but suddenly took himself out of the game at one point, limping. He wasn't injured. The new shoes hurt his feet. Haaa. So much for stylin'.

My favorite play of the game was a punt return. One of the players on the team is the last of four brothers who played for the high school  Their dad was an All-America from Purdue, a running back who set some high school records of his own. His last son, the runt of the litter, wears his number. This kid is solid muscle. With his head shaved he looks like a miniature version of one of the brothers in Prison Break. He's listed at 5'8", but he's 5'6" at most.

I've watched him play offense, defense, and special teams for four years. He's got great moves and wonderful speed.  But despite his quickness and agility, I've never seen him break one for a touchdown. Not on a kick off, not on a punt return, and not on an interception. He's so small that when he gets into traffic he can't get out. Everybody I talked to was worried that his lack of size would be a liability this year.

Not that anyone could tell yesterday. He took a punt on the fifteen yard line and ran 85 yards into the end zone. I haven't had a chance to review the footage, but somebody must have made a great block for him early on. I also figured he's heard the naysayers and he is on a mission to prove everybody wrong.

I also think it helps that the Chicago Bears have a tiny little guy who tied the NFL season record for punt and kick off returns last year. Big Bad Brian Urlacher might be a roll model for every overweight kid who harbors dreams of playing in the NFL. But Devon Hester is the go-to guy for the little players who have dreams too. Although Mike Ditka would probably say people with those dreams have exactly two chances -- slim and none.

After the game I joined my brother and stepmom for a second gustation at a very nice restaurant called MICHAEL. You know it's fancy because there's no apostrophe "s".  I got there in time for dessert and I had something that's hard to explain and or remember the name of. My brother had a Trio of Chocolate and my stepmom had a creme brulee. The dessert I chose had Chambord in the name a couple of times. Bascially, that means raspberry sauce, which was artistically arranged in a crisscross pattern underneath everything. There was a tiny, perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. In between the ice cream and the sauce was a piece of cake, sweetened and flavored in a way that was indescribable. So I won't try. I didn't think I would like it because it wasn't chocolate. I was so wrong.

Okay, enough about my life and food. Now to the subject of this ramble, which is now reduced to a postscript. My previously mentioned brother flew into Chicago yesterday morning. He left his pregnant wife and two toddlers at home alone to come here for 24 hours. He brought a new computer for his mom [my stepmom, who is young enough to be my sister by the way] which he set up and showed her how to use. This morning he flew home.

I am convinced that only a son would do something like that for his mother. No other parent-child combination gets that kind of attention in my opinion.

For years I was offended by women who wished for sons instead of daughters. Or by women who openly expressed so much gratitude when they finally gave birth to a boy. "I've got my son." As the feminist mother of two females, I found that appalling. Same with dads who ask their wives to keep having children until they had one with a Y chromosome.

But now I am beginning to understand. Sons and mothers can have a bond that's greater than the sum of its parts. Greater than the bond between fathers and daughters. Mothers and daughters. Fathers and sons.
Maybe I'm reading too much into this. Because my brother is not only a great son, he's a great brother and a great husband and father. Besides having a great relationship with his mother. So it just may be his gift. But still, it got me thinking and that always leads to making broad, sweeping generalizations with nothing to back them up.

You were expecting more?

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night

Yep, eighteen hours without power with a side order of tornadoes and flash flood alerts. So I did what I usually do in bad weather -- I drove around to see what was going on. Sleeping is another option. I hear people even get pregnant during blackouts. I waited, but nothing.

Luckily, I like being out and about in bad weather. Snow storms are my favorite, but a bad rain will do in a pinch. As a suburban storm tracker I can also work up an appetite. So I stopped wherever there was power on at a fast food place. I didn't know when I would get a chance to eat again, so I used the chance to stock up at the drive thru. I was going to have plenty of cold fries, warm salads, and melted sundaes to provide sustenance during the siege.

I saw that the little creek going through my town was spilling over its banks, rolling down the hill and taking refuge under the viaduct where it could cuddle up with stalled cars.  The lightning was spectacular. The big bolts that pile drive from sky to ground were nothing compared to the ones that crackled from cloud to cloud to cloud to cloud. Watching a traffic helicopter negotiate its way through the bolts was entertaining. I kept wondering, What are they thinking? I also reached for my camera, hoping things could get ugly. Not on my watch.

The wind started it all in the middle of the afternoon -- only about fifteen minutes of it, but trees were down everywhere after it passed. The wind was followed by the rain which was punctuated by simultaneous lightning and thunder.

During a break in the mayhem I went out to my car and noticed that a huge branch from one of my trees was blocking my exit from the driveway. Hmmm. Not wanting to risk death from lightning by running back inside, I decided to get around the tree limb. I was able to pull forward far enough to get up some speed to back over and around it. With just a little tire mark on my neighbor's lawn. Eensy beensy.

The power outages were so capricious. The north side of a street might be out, but not the south. In those neighborhoods there were orange wires snaked across from one house to another as one family helped another family keep their sump pumps going.

I noticed one block of houses had power, but every other block around it was out. Usually the above ground wires in the old neighborhoods get hit before the below ground wires in the newer subdivisions. This time, it didn't matter. Ah, justice.

My street flooded. Not because the sewers were full. Twenty years ago they put in giant pipes about six feet in diameter to move the water.  But they didn't change the size of the grates in the streets. So they can move lots of water now, but it still has to get through a pinhole. And the pinhole gets blocked with debris.

My favorite was some guy driving around in a village pick up truck with his yellow lights on checking to see where the problems were.  He drove through my flooded street and never tried to unclog the grates. The contractor building the new house across the street braved the weather to do it. He also discovered his basement was full of water. Later he brought a generator to pump it out all night long. It sounded like a the warm and friendly hum of 500 lawnmowers.

When I returned home after my foray into the world of wetness, he was still at it. I went inside, went to sleep and woke up three hours later with a start. Why? Because all of a sudden it got quiet. The only sound I could hear was the noise of a lone cricket, chirping.

I don't know why, but that cricket singing in the flood made think of water skiing by the Titanic as it was going down.

Girls' Night Out

I missed my girls' night out dinner. There are about six of us -- I'm the oldest of course, by twenty years in one case. Everybody's married but me. I just seem married. I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not.

We started getting together about once a month just because it's nice to have an excuse to hang with your girlfriends without the smell of testosterone. I think it started out as a way to celebrate all our birthdays and then we just decided to keep it going even without an excuse to party.

One of us is an architect who has renovated two of our houses, making them worthy of inclusion in a magazine. One was a Victorian, the other a brick and clapboard ranch that was completely transformed when she finished. I remember being amazed that she was an architect maven who has transformed some ordinary houses into extraordinary homes. All the architects I've known have been guys with a penchant for unusual shoes, ties or jackets with illusions of being the next Frank Lloyd Wright. Or Frank Gehry.

She also reminds me of an Italian Rachael Ray, full of energy, down to earth and very funny. She also dresses with the fashion flair of a soccer mom, since she does that too. Wish I had a house worth renovating and the money to do it. She did her own place, too. One of these days I'll take some pictures.

For one of our girls' nights out a couple of years ago she created a salad that included an array of colorful designer tomatoes and a dressing I'd never tasted before. She has yet to repeat herself and every salad has been something unusual and muy tasty. The problem is she just kind of wings it, so after they're gone, they're gone.

Also in attendance was my friend who has her own ad agency. And a bunch of other marketing and creative peeps like myself. One of the marketing bunch is working for me on a project and got so pissed off today that she hung up on me. That's because I was interrupting her too much. The reason I was interrupting her was because I knew what she was going to say. That pissed her off even more.

We were insulting each other so much that she started complaining about the way I write my emails, claiming that I send them in all caps like I'm screaming at her. Do not. Do too. Do not. Do too. You are so in denial. You are so wrong. 

I have been sending them in boldface type forever. Not caps. NA NA NA NA NA. So when I proved she was mistaken, I sent her a final email that said, "You are SO busted." It was straight out of kindergarten.

Even with a day like that we were still going to go hear Aretha Franklin at Ravinia Festival, the outdoor summer music venue near here. It's only ten bucks to sit out on the lawn, so we planned to have a nice pot luck supper, listen to the Queen of Soul and call it a night.  But it's been raining so much that nobody wanted to sit on the wet grass in the heat and humidity, especially when you never know when it's going to rain again. So we decided to go to a tapas place instead and do the little-twenty-dollar-dishes-you-can-share thing.

Except I ended up not going. I had a good excuse though -- pick one:  I just went to the dermatologist for Botox and my face doesn't move yet.  I was pumping water out of my basement, thanks to all the torential rain and the construction across the street when I struck oil. I had a date with an old boyfriend who wanted to rekindle what we had forty years ago with Viagra. I'm dieting so I can get into my thong bikini. None of the above. All the above.

Whatever. I didn't go. Ironically, it didn't rain again so we could have gone to Ravinia. Meanwhile the girls are probably still at the tapas place talking about me.


P.S. Before I had all the ivy taken off the east and north sides of my house I took a picture of some of it framing my back door. I thought it was kind of quaint, like an English cottage. A hairy English cottage.

 

The Mouse That Roared

Parking on the sidewalk -- gimme a break

The town I grew up in has about 16,000 people. It's on the fashionable side of the expressway. The town I live in now has about 30,000 people. It's on the casual side of the expressway. In between, squeezed into a little pocket next to the forest preserve and the golf course on one side of the expressway and a high school on the other side is a third, pocket-sized town of about 4,000 people. Along with an equal number of cops.

To get from where I grew up to where I now live, the most direct route is to go through the little town that's in between. To get to the highway from either direction the fastest way is through that same little town. To get to the tollway from the highway -- you know the drill.

For the most part getting from one of those places to any of the others can only be accomplished by using the one main road through the little town.

On my side of the little town the road is usually four lanes wide. Same with the other side. But when it goes through the little town itself, the road shrinks to only two lanes. If someone wants to turn left into a neighborhood, the road gets backed up for freaking ever. And woe to those who try to go around by using the gravel shoulder. Or those who try to hurry up to gain any lost time. The cops are waiting for you. Always waiting.

For some reason, the people who live in the little town refuse to make their part of the road wider. I've heard that's because they want to preserve that small town feeling. The only town that comes to mind is Las Vegas. Especially late at night on the weekends, when the road is lit up like a stripper convention with all the flashing red and blue lights.

Personally I think they just want to annoy everybody who has to drive through their charming little road to revenue. Never mind the inconvenience to a multi-national company that employs hundreds of people right outside the city limits. Or the extra time it takes to get to the high school. 

On the other hand, based on their reputation for writing more tickets than any other town in the area, the police seem to like the arrangement.

Friday night there was a varsity scrimmage at the high school previously mentioned. I have lived in the area long enough to know how to take back routes to avoid going through the main drag where most ticketing takes place. But this time they had a surprise for me.

Most of the parents who came to watch their kids at the scrimmage parked in the parking lot about a block from the field. I parked on the apron of a driveway that no longer went anywhere, next to a short sidewalk that leads to the high school tennis courts. I had stuff to carry and that location was much closer to the field. Besides there were no signs that said I couldn't park there. So I parked there.

$25 tickets for everyone. Even the parents who parked in the parking lot. Payable within ten days. I was cited for parking on a sidewalk, even though, except for the bumper of my car, I was on the apron. I don't know what the other parents got their tickets for, since they were actually parked in what has always been a parking lot, but I'm sure the town fathers have something on the books to prove that parking in a parking lot is illegal.

So I went to the police station the next day. Not to pay my ticket -- no no no -- but to request a court date. They don't even give you that option on the ticket. You have to go in and request it.

I then drove around the little town and took photos of all the people parking like I did or worse, blocking the entire sidewalk. I finally stopped taking pictures and just started writing down addresses. Now I have to figure out a way to tell the judge to give me a break. Without calling the cop an overzealous jerkwad.

The parents who parked in the parking lot were more ticked off than I. Shocked, dismayed. Bitter. But I bet they'll just pay the fine to be done with it.  Not me, of course, that would be WAY too easy.
 
September 5th, 10:30 AM. Room 306. Be there or be square.

Dribs and Drabs

My sump pump isn't pumping. Needless to say, the timing of this unfortunate lack of pumpage isn't so good. We are having one of those long, slow, endless rains that lasts a couple of days. Usually I take this opportunity to add to my home's personal collection of ground water and send it over to my neighbor's yard.

This time Murphy's Law is in effect. Breakdowns only happen on Sundays, a sign of the Apocalypse, or in my case, double time plumbing charges for water related events.  I think I'll be at the hardware store when it opens up this morning to get myself some sandbags.  I wonder if they have any you can plug in.   

What are my grandchildren going to play with now that all their toys have been recalled? Wait, I don't have any grandchildren. For once in my life I don't feel left out. I feel lucky. No little kids to poison with lead paint and swallowed magnets. Maybe for the rest of you, this is a chance for families to do more things together. Take walks, play catch, look up at the sky and count the stars, or sit around the campfire and roast marshmallows.  Marshmallows aren't made in China, are they?

Speaking of China, I know nothing about Chinese numerology. I only know that knowledgeable people add up the letters in your name and say things like --"You're an eight. Eight is a donkey. Donkeys can't float."

I think Jim Carey's movie 23 was based on the way the Chinese count numbers or something. Everything in his life always added up to twenty-three. Twenty-three letters in his name, the Pope's name, JFK's name, Lincoln's name. That plus 23 squares of toilet paper will wipe your butt.

In my case, when it comes to numbers, it seems like a lot of phone numbers and zip codes belonging to my friends are the same, or close.

For instance, one of my frequent flyer numbers is 57248. The zip code of a good friend is 75248. Amazing, no? I also have three sets of friends who have matching phone numbers. Well, the last four at least.  Two with 1947. Two with 6799. What's the third? Oh yes, an old boyfriend and my girlfriend's mother also have the same last four digits. Two people I know with different area codes in different states have the same prefix -- 784. I know, remarkable isn't it? Another friend lived at an 822 address, moved to another state, and now the last four digits of her work phone number are 8122. I can hear the shock and awe rippling through the internet.

My home phone was once 5732. My work phone was 4587. They both have 5 and 7 in them. Maybe I'm not doing this right.

Chicago Bears' Superbowl Punky QB Jim McMahon has a kid who is the starting quarterback on my town's high school football team this year. He's only a junior and he's getting lots of attention before he's even thrown a ball. The good news is that he's 6'1" 215 lbs., not 5"7, 160, so he might actually have a future.

What's more interesting is that he's playing for a school that has only 2500 kids in a league where most of their competition weighs in at around 4000 students. But they always win their share of state championships against the bigger schools. Most recently in basketball. Maybe a couple of other sports. There's a sign posted as you come into town, with everything from the winners of the High School Math Challenge to the National Cheerleading champs. Maybe I'll read it more closely the next time I'm waiting for the light to change.

I do know that in 1974 the baseball team won the state title in the spring and a lot of those same boys were on the football team that won the state championship that fall. Scott Sanderson who starred on the baseball team and went on to pitch for the Cubs was one of those guys. He didn't win Best Athlete though. That class was so loaded with jocks that he got beaten out by a fellow pitcher who played two other sports. Don't ask why I know this.

Now those guys are getting to an age when people begin to realize that high school was probably the pinnacle of their lives. You have to get a few yearsunder your belt to realize you peaked early. Those of us on the downhill side of that slippery slope just try to keep our butts away from sharp sticks and pebbles as we pick up speed on the way to the bottom.

The Thunderbirds are in town this weekend for the largest lakefront water show in the country, according to people who make this stuff up. They're the Air Force aces who fly an inch apart. Today they would be flying into buildings. It rained yesterday. It's raining today. Maybe we can watch re-runs.

Meanwhile I am beginning to have a taste for a powdered donut. Yesterday I was invited to a party at somebody's home overlooking the lake. I didn't jump for joy when I got the invite until someone said -- "There's going to be food, Mrs. Linklater."

The Big Shift

Every year around the middle of August there is a shift in the weather here. When I was young and spent my summers on the beach every day, I noticed the change immediately. Amazing how Mother Nature gets your attention when you're spending ten to twelve hours outdoors in a bathing suit, with the sky for a roof, the sand for a rug, and nothing between you and the breeze blowing off an ocean of lake water.

The shift never seemed subtle to me. It suddenly announced its presence one day on the wind. Like a tap on my shoulder. Hey, time to think about saying goodbye to all this. Technically the beaches are open until Labor Day. But summer was always packing up a good two weeks before that.

One day the breeze would blow warm, humid and slightly fragrant, the next day there was a river of coolness underneath the heat and a different smell. Nothing obvious, just different. The freshness was no longer there. The light seemed to change too, becoming slightly bluer, more urgent, not quite as bright and white. Lazy and languid.

This year, I noticed the change when I walked outside on Monday. The breeze had a definite edge to it. Summer is having symptoms of menopause. She's past her prime. What's the date today, I remember thinking. Monday was August 13th. The shift came a couple of days early this year.

But it's here. We may have more hot and humid days, but the wind won't smell or feel quite the same. I always wondered if it had to do with the leaves on the trees. Maybe the middle of August is when they stop doing whatever it is they do and start going dormant before giving it all up for fall.

Maybe my modern, 21st century self is just getting in touch with my inner primordial self. For a short period at least.

Maybe I’m just hungry for pumpkin pie.  

Out Damned Spot!

I was standing in front of the mirror the other day putting on a favorite blouse, so I could decide whether anyone would notice the grease spots down the front. As I was putting on one of the sleeves, I noticed a thumb-sized growth on my torso when I raised my arm. Hey, that wasn't there the last time I looked in the mirror. After sixty some years one becomes very familiar with the landmarks that define one's geography. I was looking at the body equivalent of a UFO.

The first thing I did was try to wipe the thing, the spot, off, like it was a bit of dirt. But it wasn't going anywhere. Then I tried to get a better look at it, but I couldn't twist myself around far enough to see it well at all. The spot is in a weird place by the lower edge of my ribs on the right side. I had to contort myself to see it. So I decided it would be easier if I just went back to the mirror to get an up close and personal gander. The kind where you get so close to the mirror you leave breath stains. Like the times I go prospecting in and around my chin for recalcitrant hairs. 

There it was, evil, dark and round, with irregular edges. Oh, great, skin cancer. I'm dead. They'll have to operate. I'll need a new robe. At least the cancer is not in a place where the scar will show. But I'll have to have chemo and radiation. Scarves? Or a wig? Should I have my farewell party catered or make it pot luck?

Before sending out the invitations to my death, I made a courtesy appointment with the dermatologist. Might as well let him have first crack. Funny how quickly you can get in to see the doc when you invoke the magic word: melanoma. I only had to wait a week. That's like two seconds in real life.

The first three or four days after the discovery, I checked the spot a lot to see if it was growing. There's a sense of being invaded by an alien when you find something like that.

Since it showed up so quickly I figured it would grow to the size of a quarter by the time I saw the doc. But it was staying pretty much the same. Somehow that made me feel better and I stopped being so vigilant.

I got busy with work and didn't look at the invader for the last three days. It's not like the thing was located anywhere in plain sight constantly reminding me of my impending death.

After brushing my teeth last night I was looking in the mirror sharpening my left incisor, when I remembered that I hadn't checked out the doomsday spot in a few days.  And I couldn't find it.  Oh, wait -- there it is, or, well, kind of is.  It seems to be fading away. Like a bruise. It was a bruise.

But I'll got to the derm anyway. Don't they do botox too?

The 80% Solution

I've learned that 80% of all the toys you buy in the US are made in China.

I also learned, while istening to an interview with the editor of the Chicago Tribune's China bureau, that there was nothing in the contract agreements with the Chinese that specified NO LEAD in the paint they used to make the toys. Why? Mainly because nobody familiar with lead paint over here thought that the Chinese would use lead paint over there. Why? Because they were stupid, that's why.

I've learned that product recalls are voluntary. Which is why the head of a company over here in the US didn't tell anybody who purchased one of their Chinese lead toys that there was a problem. They simply replaced the offending painted wood piece with plastic. And kept on distributing them. No warning. No recall. No nothing.

I've learned that the consumer oversight commission or something like it with a similar name received a mere 63 million last year to be the watchdog over the safety of products coming into the country. That's half the money it got back in the 1970's.

It goes on and on and on.

The only good news in all this is that the head of one of the big Chinese companies involved in this scandal committed suicide. The east Asians have a culture that says causing humiliation and shame requires an extreme makeover.

But the suicide wasn't because the guy was distraught over the number of children put at risk because of the lead used to paint the toys. Nope. He just couldn't bear the shame of heaping so much embarrassment on his company. 

I wish more American businesses would embrace that philosophy. If upper management has managed to humiliate themselves by endangering the lives of innocent children in their need to satisfy their greed, then they should be required to commit suicide when they get caught in a screw up.

It ought to be in their contracts. Suicide is included as part of the deal to get those 50 million dollar checks they take home each year. If you do anything to mess with our kids, you must die.

I realize that asking people to commit suicide seems kind of harsh. But we now have an entire generation of children who may well be retarded because of lead poisoning. That's a lot of special ed classes to fund. And just think of how many caretakers we're going to have to hire when these kids get old and even stupider. Don't forget, lead never leaves the body, it just piles up.

So in a magnanimous gesture on my part, let just say, because only 80% of the toys sold here are made in China, only 80% of upper management has to off themselves. And I think the guy from Mattel should go first.

I'm here to help.

Car Wash

Yesterday I went to the high school football car wash. With a video camera. Yep, we start shooting for the football video early in the season. The process started out harmlessly enough, a bunch of boys hosing down your car, soaping it up, rinsing it off, and drying it.  For ten bucks. Ack. Unless you want to give them more money! Good cause and all that. Haaaa.

Because there were so many kids it took them less than five minutes for each car, even with giant SUVs. There was a production line quality to the effort. Like being swarmed by ants, if ants wore cut off t-s and basketball shorts.

The difference between a boys' carwash and a girls' carwash is the difference between butterflies and gorillas. Although dozens of bulls in a china shop also came to mind. Things went pretty well for the most part. Except when one of the guys in the wash cycle accidentally sprayed a fresh, dry car, which meant they had to rinse and repeat a few extra times.

Within an hour they were all wet, and then one of the linemen showed up on roller blades, which have no socially redeeming value at a carwash. But he was funny. So was one of the tight ends who performed a very elaborate marshall arts drill with one of the hoses.

There was something amusing about another freshly minted 6'4" 200+ lb male athlete, turning to the woman next to him and whining, "But I don't want to go home yet, Mom!" 

Of course, there was also a slow period, before all the girlfriends showed up to get their cars washed, which meant that the boys holding up the carwash signs and directing people into the cleansing area were joined by a bunch of their bored, water-soaked comrades.

That's when people driving by weren't just encouraged to get their cars washed, they were now being assaulted by fifteen to twenty football players running into the street, yelling and screaming at them to GET IN HERE AND GET YOUR CARS WASHED!!!

After an hour and a half of shooting video of hilarious hose fights, stupid soap tricks, and interviewing satisfied customers about their carwash experience, I realized I hadn't had breakfast and decided to get something to eat. I had shot enough footage for the day and my appetite was calling me.

As I left the area, I had to run a gauntlet of giant boys who were now strewn across four lanes of road pretty much terrorizing traffic. I smelled sirens.

I gave that behavior a maximum of one half hour before the cops came.

P.S. I was wrong. According to my sources, the cops held off for almost two more hours. And then, instead of closing them down, they put the seniors in charge of keeping order or they'd ALL get arrested. That's the suburbs. In the city they would have just rounded them up and taken them down to the station. Or shot them where they stood.

I AM MUGGY, YOU ARE MUGGY, IT IS MUGGY

MUGGY:
Warm and extremely humid.

Origins:

1731, from mugen "to drizzle" (c.1390), from O.N. mugga "drizzle, mist," related to mjukr "soft," or O.N. mygla "mold," which is cognate with L. mucus "snot."

EXAMPLE: It feels muggy in here.

BETTER EXAMPLE: The air feels like soft, moldy, snot.

Happy Birthday Daughter Numero Dos

Today is my younger daughter's birthday!!!  The one who lives across the pond, as they say. She actually does live across from a pond over there, across the pond.

The nice thing about living there, as opposed to here, is that you get to spend your birthday over there too -- without all the fuss of a long plane ride. Because you're already over there. Know what I mean? Although since you're already there, is it as much fun when you don't have to get there any more?

On the other hand, if you're in London where she is and you want to go to Paris, it's like going to Milwaukee from Chicago. With much better sightseeing. Going to Italy is like a trip to New Jersey, with much better food. Better wine. And a whole lot better shoes. Or, in the case of Venice, better boat rides. Sure, we have boat rides here in Chicago down the Chicago River and on the lake. But we don't have gondoliers. Actually we did have some a couple of summers ago, but that didn't last. Something about floating between fifty story office buildings that takes the romance out of a ride in a gondola.

My daughter and her husband may have planned a trip somewhere, since her birthday is on the weekend. Frankfort is just an hour or so away. In fact, almost all the exotic European cities are just a short commute. She could hit ten different, countries easy. The same distance over here would get me to Tennessee, Arkansas, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Iowa. Okay, maybe Canada, too. But, let's face it, Canada is not wine country in France. Although wine country in France is redundant, since the whole country is wine country.

Meanwhile I will spend five hours this morning reliving that memorable day when she was born. From the intern who laughed at me sucking on lollipops while I was doing my Lamaze breathing, to the resident I kicked out of the labor room for cranking the bed down. Happy happy moments. That's the good news about having babies without any anesthesia. The experience has stayed so vivid for me. I can still give you a running commentary on each funfilled hour. 7 pounds 8 ounces. 21 inches long.

What's that I hear? The sound of exasperation?  Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-m!!!! Please!!!

Suburban Police -- An Oxymoron?

Well, it looks like there's a hostage situation brewing about five miles from me. Here's the problem:  this is the suburbs. We're not used to crime committed by criminals. Usually we have to worry more about the cops -- at least I do.

Speaking of which -- I guess they called in a SWAT team to evacuate an Extended Stay Suites hotel. I heard they even brought in a sniper who is preparing to take out some disgruntled sales rep who didn't get his extra towels soon enough.

I don't want to accuse the news folks of not getting their stories straight, but, frankly, it's not really clear right now what's happening. There's a news helicopter circling around the scene giving us shots of people standing around, but that's about it.  Somebody found a car near a retention pond with a note inside that some guy was holed up in a hotel room with a gun. Aren't most people holed up in their hotel rooms with a gun? Oh, wait that's in the movies.

Meanwhile, I can understand SWAT teams in the city, but how do SWAT teams practice in the 'burbs? By charging into the homes of women over sixty?

After the success of the recent well being check at my place, I can only assume that local law enforcement now feels emboldened to take out bigger fish, like innocent bystanders and people who live in corporate hotels.

They're interviewing the commander in the town where the hostage situation, which may not have a hostage, is taking place. He's using words and phrases like "perimeter" and "we have not made contact" and "we're treating this as a barricaded subject"  Apparently, there was a note on the door of the room, not in the car, saying the occupant had a weapon.

Sometimes maid service ignores those DO NOT DISTURB signs and you have to be firm with them.

I guess they found the car by the pond, which is by the hotel, did a license plate check, found the guy at the hotel, looked up his room, saw the note on the door, and called the SWAT boys. Sounds like someone was going to commit suicide and chickened out. Now he's hoping the cops will do it for him. You watch a little Law and Order you pick these things up.

In the city, this would not makenews. It's only news because it's happening in the suburbs and people are curious about how the cops are going to deal with something that isn't traffic related.

They could ask me. Maybe I should drive over there and get interviewed.

Breakfast of Champions

John Daly, whose distinctive profile makes him easy to confuse with the Goodyear blimp, is playing in a major tournament on the golf tour. I thought he had a permanent ticket to re-hab somewhere. But here he is back again. In fact, he finds himself in second place, two strokes behind the leader in the midst of the PGA championship. Okay, it's only the start of the second day, but still, not bad for a guy who has been the poster boy for addiction and self destructive behavior.

This is usually where Mrs. Linklater invokes the "he was probably molested/abused in his youth" mantra -- by a [take your pick]: priest, scoutmaster, teacher, relative. Consider it invoked.

Ever the conscientious athlete, Daly practiced for the event by playing the slots at a local casino. To keep his edge over the long hot course yesterday, he's been smoking cigarettes and drinking diet Cokes. Alcoholics usually hit the caffeine and nicotine pretty hard trying stay off the sauce. Obviously, he's also been raiding the refrigerator too. And let's not forget the gambling.

Luckily, I don't live in a glass house. I just throw stones.

Just Waiting For The Other Shoe To Drop

This was too easy. I went to Just Tires to take care of my flat tire, using my road hazard warrantee.

I told them I would prefer having a new tire instead of fixing the old one -- haaaaaaaa -- but we all know the warrantee has gobbledegook language that lets them fix the tire if they think it's fixable. Of course I could always BUY a new tire. Meanwhile, the fixed tire does retain its warrantee. I just have to be patient. When the patch fails on the old tire and I run off the road, I can finally get a new tire for free.

Just Tires said they would rotate the tires [for free] and check to see if I needed a wheel alignment [about $80]. I didn't tell them that I had marked the tires so I could tell if they had been rotated. Funny, nobody asked what all the white chalk Roman numerals were. The flat was marked with a IV. The others with I, II, III. I asked where the fixed flat was going to go. Left front. Sure enough, that's where they put it. And they switched all the other ones too.

Then I was braced for a wheel alignment charge, but they said, no, the car doesn't need one.

Total cost:  $0. That's the good news.

The bad news is that I had a run in with one of the construction dudes today. Each morning it's a crap shoot who is going to show up to make noise and leave construction poop on the road.

Some guy pulls up in a HUGE dump truck and parks it in the middle of the street, almost blocking my driveway, but not quite. Today they're removing dirt for a new driveway.

I back out, slowly, because I have to dodge the front end of a an electric blue and chrome truck cab so large that the tires are almost as high as the roof of my Jeep. With giant treads that eat small children.

I continued to creep slowly, slowly, slowly, because I didn't want to hit something the size of a T. Rex that could dent my car with just the sound of its engine.

I don't remember being that careful leaving my driveway since the flood of '87, when people floated in boats down the street. Careful. Careful. Tap. I touched the truck. Touched it. I didn't hit it. I didn't bang into it. I literally touched it -- *tap* as opposed to *TAP.* In fact, as taps go, this one didn't even begin to qualify as a no harm, no foul parallel parking tap.

So I put my car in drive. BUT WAIT!! OUT OF NOWHERE, HERE COMES THE TRUCK DRIVER!! HEY HEY HEY HEY!!  Irolled about five feet and stopped. He comes running up to my window. 

Yes? You hit my truck. No, I barely touched your truck. You have no damage. Well, be more careful next time. No, next time you be more careful and don't park your rig in front of my driveway.

Honest to goodness the guy was smiling. There will be nine inch nails on my driveway tonight.

What's Barry Bonds Got To Do With Kerry Wood?

Barry Bonds hasn't ever been caught using steroids via a drug test. Okay he's confessed to using something that turned out to be steroids. But he claimed he thought it was something else. Liar liar pants on fire.

I just heard Bob Costas' assessment of Bonds' possible guilt, based on circumstantial evidence. It's pretty strong. Blood test or not.

He went from a lifetime average in the high two hundreds to something in the high threes when he was well into his thirties. In the history of baseball no one has done that. Not that he didn't already have a Hall of Fame career. But nobody makes the leaps of improvement heading into his forties the way Bonds did. Without help.

His on base percentage was in the three hundreds and it jumped to the eight hundreds. That's ridiculous. He had to buy shoes three sizes larger. And there's that whole thing about how big his head got. Literally. Not just his big, fat swelled head attitude. 

The guy is juiced. Just like Sosa and McGuire. Any of the big guys. The ones we know about like Canseco. And the ones we don't.  I'd throw Frank Thomas in there. On reflection, maybe I'd include even the Cubs' beloved Kerry Wood. Because the rumor is that the pitchers are as juiced as the hitters.

Makes me wonder if any of those Tommy John surgeries we've read about over the years were because of pitchers on steroids. Nolan Ryan was throwing 90+ mph smoke well into his forties, pitching two of his record seven no hitters. I wonder.

Frank Thomas ripped his triceps muscle a few years ago -- a classic steroid injury. A power lifter I knew ripped his biceps muscle at the health club one day. It rolled up just like a shade. He said the problem is that steroids help your muscles grow but the tendons don't change and eventually something has got to give.

But nobody really cares about Frank Thomas. He's been under the radar during his career for the most part, never really challenging any of the records. 

Let's look at Kerry Wood's career. He was forty pounds heavier when he started. Steroids? Back then he just muscled the ball by everybody, foregoing any opportunity to develop good mechanics. Then he started spending more time on the disabled list than in the rotation. Poor coaching? Bad managing? Steroid injuries? I have no proof obviously, just contemplating.

Each year when he's tried to rehab he's come back slimmer and trimmer. But he doesn't have the magic he used to have. The power isn't there anymore. There's no real movement on the ball like ten years ago. His 20K day has come and gone. He hasn't even got enough to hold hitters at bay for an inning or two in his new role in relief.

I'm reminded of Tony Mandarich, drafted by the Green Bay Packers years ago. He was a 'roid boy from college who went off the stuff so he could pass the drug tests and morphed from a monster into a mouse with man boobs.

I think Kerry Wood was juiced in the beginning and now he is trying to resurrect his career without the steroids. Not very successfully. The difference between him and Barry Bonds is that I can't think of a single person in Chicago who doesn't wish him well. 

The People Next Door

The house on my right has been empty since October. According to the previous occupants, who returned home to Sweden, a nice young couple with a small child supposedly bought the place. But nobody ever moved in. Somebody hung up some curtains and put a flower in the window. Since spring a guy with a mower does the lawn, but other than that, the only evidence of people is a white panel truck that backs into the driveway on the weekends for about half an hour and then leaves.

I found out that the water hasn't been turned on, which usually means a tear down or they're going to pee on the lawn, but then again, no building permits have been requested either, which you need for construction.

This week I saw a forty-ish woman drive a small gray car into the driveway, get out and go in. A few minutes later she left. The last two nights the panel truck has arrived around midnight and left in the morning. The guy driving it is in his twenties. He's the same guy who mows the lawn. I haven't seen a little kid at all. I wonder if the water has been turned on.

I'm about to look into the windows to see if they're growing marijuana or using the place to store dead bodies. Supposedly they live in another part of town and they're making repairs before they move in. That's B.S. from what I can see.

On the left side of my house, the new neighbors moved in last week. They're more like regular people. For example, THEY ACTUALLY LIVE THERE. I stopped by to say hello, mainly so they wouldn't think I was a recluse who hasn't been seen in months because I'm busy spying on the other neighbors. They have a little kid named Logan. Along with Cooper, Cody and Hunter, I think Logan is the new Mike or Joe.

I suppose I should bake a cake or something to welcome them to the neighborhood. Or buy a cake. Or send them a coupon for a cake. Or tell them there's a bakery where they can buy a cake.

The contractor for one of the new houses going up across the street has tried to be nice to me. But he's an idiot about it.

Once I got out of my car and didn't close the door all the way. I left it because I was just going in the house for a second. He comes running from all the way across the street to ask if I want him to close it tight. Like I couldn't do it myself. It wasn't like the door was wide open or anything. So I looked at him and said, No. And my expression said, Go away, you annoy me.

The other day he saw me backing out of my driveway slowly because there are so many trucks to dodge, thanks to his ugly new house going up. He comes running over like I'm going to hit something, so I stop to keep from running him down. Be careful he says. I don't want you to hit MY car. I have been dodging construction traffic successfully since last fall without his help, so I looked at him and said, Give me a break. To which he says, I'm just trying to be nice. To which I say, Huh? You come running over because you don't want me to hit YOUR car and you're trying to be nice? The problem is that English is his second language -- the first being something Polish or Russian. So he screwed up his pronouns. He didn't want me to scratch MY car. Too late. He pissed me off.

But after all these pretend moments of concern he showed his true colors the other day. He saw that I had a flat tire when he showed up to supervise the work on his house. No doubt thanks to something metallic his people probably dropped on the street. Instead of running over to offer to change it, he turned around and walked the other way. I should have yelled out to him to ask if he wanted to be nice to me. And change my tire. The best part was that he saw me see him see my flat tire.

I'll mention it the next time he makes a fake attempt to be neighborly.

Now I have to pick up that Italian dinner I had to forego the other night when my tire went flat. Think it's still warm?

Just Gimme A Break

Last night I was heading out to pick up my dinner from the local Italian eatery. But after half a block, my car was making one hell of a noise and galumphing along like it only had three wheels.

I stopped, got out, and VOI -- FREAKING -- LA!!! Flat tire.  @#(_)%)(($&@#($*)(#$%&)(@#$%)(&^$%)(#*$)(#*@%)!!!

So I turned around and drove back to my driveway. Boy did I hate cancelling that order for shrimp whatever it was. Maybe they put it in the fridge and saved it.

I bought my car from one of my daughters when she left to live in another country. She had put new tires on from Just Tires, also known as Just Gimme All Your Money. She also got a warranty to replace them any time, anywhere for the next 36,000 miles or five years. Luckily for me she'd only put six thousand miles on them when I got the car.

Twenty thousand or so miles later I got a flat tire. Somehow the computer lost all evidence of the warranty. I didn't have it with me and you have to carry your paperwork or you're SOL.

But they can fix tires as long as the tire doesn't have a hole in the side. I was with the mechanic when he inspected the tire. He couldn't find evidence of any hole, but I'd heard the SSHOOOSH of air escaping when it went flat. So we knew there was one somewhere.

Interestingly, after taking the tire from me, the helpful folks at Just Gimme All Your Money came back and announced there was not only one hole but two, and one was on the side, so they couldn't fix it.  I should have asked for the tire back. But Oprah was on TV in the waiting room and I didn't want to miss any of her favorite things.

So I just paid for a new tire. And didn't pay to have it covered by a warranty. Although I think if you have a warranty the replacement for the replacement is supposed to be covered too. But the point was moot when I couldn't find the warranty.

Fast forward another ten thousand miles, give or take. And the new tire starts losing air and going flat all the time. I began to wonder if I'd really paid for a new tire or they'd just fixed the flat tire and SAID it was new.

I went back to Just Gimme All Your Money and said, hey, the newest tire is losing air.

They didn't even bother to say that they could fix the tire. Instead, they said that the other three tires were getting low on tread and starting to show dangerous signs of wear. I should probably replace all of them.

I said, well, I NOW HAVE MY WARRANTY with me!!! [I found it and kept it in the car].  The folks at Just Gimme All Your Money looked on the computer and found the warranty they couldn't find last time. They just smiled and said, Oh, look you're ten minutes past the five year deadline on the warranty. Sorry.

But! It just so happens we're having a sale on -- tires! So for the low low price of just under six hundred dollars you can have four new tires. And yet another warranty.

So fifteen thousand miles ago I bought four new tires from Just  Gimme All Your Money. When all I planned to do was fix the one that was leaking.

If you're counting -- during the last two or three years I've had ten tires. And three flats. I'm thinking there's an inherent weakness is big tread tires. Stuff gets in between the cracks and there's no resistance. Or something like that.

That's why last night's flat tire is really going to be interesting.

I carry the warranty on these new tires in the glove box . In fact, when I bought the tires I checked my car mileage with the mileage they had on my receipt. They'd gypped me out of almost five hundred miles. So the 36,000 warranty was down to 35,500. I called them on it and made them change it. They kept saying, it's only five hundred miles. And I said, I paid for that 500 miles. For some reason I just don't trust the Just Tires people.

So, tomorrow when I go in there, they have to replace this latest flat tire for free. That's what it says on the warranty. FREE FREE FREE. I don't want a patch.

Also, I'm not going to let them have the old tire until the new one is on the car. So they can't take it away and fix it then say that it's new. Paranoid? Me? The problem is that all the tires still look new. They have all their bright white lettering still on them, so they could try to fool me. AGAIN. Unless I put a big X in blue paint on it. Hmmm. Right now I've got the spare on the car and the flat tire is in the way back.

We'll see what they'll try to sell me tomorrow. I may be blond, but that doesn't mean I'm too smart for my britches.

Possessions that Inspire to Rise Above Themselves or Something

Judth Heartsong has revived her Artsy Essay contest. [See Other Journals for her link. The winning essay is on her sidebar]

I didn't enter the inaugural edition, because, frankly, I wasn't in the mood. I did however know who was going to win as soon as I saw that he had entered -- Jon the Faux Cowboy [See Lone Star Concerto in Other Journals]. I didn't even have to read the other essays to figure this out, but I managed to wade through about half of them. No contest, even before I read his.

Jon will win every writing competition he enters, so I will go on record as saying that he has to agree to retire after he takes the trophy a fifth time.

Meanwhile, lacking any of my own subjects to write about lately, because nothing seems funny to me since early in June, I thought I would steal the subject for the artsy essay to use as an entry: What is my favorite or most inspiring possession?

Oddly, for a long time I've tried to be more zen about my possessions. I guess in eastern thought you don't own them, they tend to own you. The idea is to be able to live without them and not notice their absence. But, truth be told, I consume as conspicuously as the next person, so I actually have many favorite possessions from microfiber underwear to ThorLo socks to Scott's new soft toilet paper to Nexxus shampoo. It's just that they're not the kinds of things most people would put into a category worthy of contemplating for an essay contest.

On the other hand I do have many things other people might consider more suitable favorite possessions, because they're of the jewelry or statue variety, but while I like baubles and cement angels as much as the next person, I don't feel an attachment to them or any appreciation that borders on favoritism, let alone inspiration.

Certainly not in the way I feel about things I rely on and use every day. Like when I was still playing all my sports and found a shoe that felt like a cloud on my feet. Or socks that kept me from getting blisters when I ran. Or a pair of sunglasses that helped me see the ball better. They inspired a WOW factor in my life, but not say, in yours.

Already you can see the reason I didn't enter the essay contest -- my tastes are too plebian. Plus in order to win I'd have to describe my favorite things using multiple fifty dollar words and I've spent a lifetime paring my writing style down. I tend towrite like a woman without her make up on. Whereas Jon, who won the contest, writes like he's wearing a tuxedo and smells faintly of citrus aftershave --

The sudden streak of a shooting star ignites the vast darkness with celestial light, then vanishes more quickly than an eyewink, never to be seen again. A minuscule blink in a fathomless universe, like the fleeting lives of all those whom I have lost - once so real and animate, now gone forever in the unreachable distance of the past.

See what I mean? I don't have time to write like that. Jon, on the other hand, writes that way effortlessly. And lays it out on a silver platter. My stuff is like cold pizza on a paper towel.

Jon's essay inspired me to look up at the sky last night through the open sunroof on my car, although I guess when the sun goes down it's a moon roof. I see the same sky that Jon sees, only mine is full of light pollution. My reaction to seeing the four stars that broke through the haze of the city's golden glow? Wow, stars!! When was the last time I saw one? Oh, wait, that one over there is moving. Holy crap, that's a satellite and it's the brightest light in the sky! 

Clearly he and I do not share the same world view when we look up to the heavens.

I don't think in descriptive phrases. Thinking of enough words to string together in a lyrical combination is like pulling teeth through my brain. It's painful and I feel so tired afterward. The best I can do is think in similes and metaphors because they're easier.

As I mentioned earlier, the artsy essay topic was not only about favorite things but also INSPIRING ones. For some reason I can't wrap my head around the idea of a possession that provides inspiration.

Of course, as soon as I wrote that sentence, I thought of one.

My piano was an inspiration for many years, but I'd messed up the ring finger on my right hand so much from sports that I had to tape it up just to play. Load up on Advil too. Eventually the discomfort affected any inspiration I experienced playing Chopin or Rachmaninoff, my two favorite piano boys. Late in life I also realized that my technique was terrible, uneven and harsh. But when my finger didn'tlock up playing the big chords, I still got a rush playing loud and fast.

I had a boss who brought in a baby grand for his office when he started to take lessons. I loved going in there at the end of the day to play. In less than two years he was playing the same pieces I'd worked on for years, with an emotional finesse that left a lasting impression on me. He had a natural gift. It was the first time I really noticed there could be a difference in the way people played a piano. I figured hitting a key was hitting a key. What a cluck I was.

Despite my shortcomings, I got tremendous personal satisfaction from spending an hour or two practicing. The same way I enjoyed a good tennis match or long bike ride. It's not the destination, but the journey.

I haven't played the piano in years. It just sits there unused, the bench filled with unplayed tunes. Same with my tennis and paddle rackets, baseball cleats, and my road bike. Relics of a life I can no longer live.

Too bad knives and forks couldn't become relics of food I no longer eat. Like that will ever happen.

Dumb and Dumber

Well, it looks like only five people may be dead because of the bridge collapse in Minneapolis. Darn. I'm expecting the news vultures to apologize for not bringing us more carnage. This morning one anchor actually seemed disappointed by the low number of deaths. After the collapse, when they didn't have the hundreds of bodies they were hoping for, I noticed the newsies tried another tactic. There's still danger!!! Maybe the divers who are checking out submerged cars might be impaled on the sharp metal girders that are now underwater. So stick around, death and dismemberment are just a commercial away.

If bridge collapses aren't feeding your jones for mayhem, we're having a lot of sexual assaults on young women lately in Chicago. A pattern has emerged which may help other women avoid a similar fate.

Every single one of these females was walking around alone after midnight. Only a couple weren't drunk. That smell of paint? It's a target on your ass honey. Nobody deserves to be attacked, but didn't your mother tell you that being out alone late at night might be DANGEROUS to your health?

One woman who was attacked works late as a bartender. She escaped because she had pepper spray on her key chain and gave the guy a good jolt. She might want to invest in some career counseling.

Another was out with friends partying, but she was alone at 4:30 AM when she was dragged into a gangway right next to where she lives. Being drunk didn't help. She could use a few more IQ points.

A couple escaped by screaming. Too bad they can't be grounded for being a danger to themselves.

One woman had her three year old child with her. She was actually standing on a street waiting to catch a bus around midnight, no doubt to be first in line at a sale somewhere. But she said the bus didn't come. Hello -- lots of buses stop running late at night. Did you check? And the reason you and your child weren't home in bed is?

When the bus didn't come she and the boy started walking. That's when she was accosted by two men, one of whom held onto her child while the other one raped her.

Isn't there a test you can take to see if you're smart enough have children?

This morning took the cake. In the middle of the night some people driving on a major street saw a toddler in a diaper and a t-shirt walking around alone. Apparently the kid's mom had driven into the city to fight with her boyfriend -- that's what the cops told the reporter -- and she left the little boy in the car asleep. He wakes up, doesn't see his mom, and being a clever child, opens the door and decides to go find her.

I think she was arrested for having shit for brains.