So Sue Me

In case you're wondering, I wrote a long entry about the local high school boys sectional bowling tournament sometime last weekend. It was riveting. No, really. But AOL ate it and I haven't felt like writing AGAIN about watching a seventeen year old kid pick up a difficult 4-10 split. Or anything else, for that matter. I did find my old state championship bowling patch however. Maybe I'll have it bronzed while you're waiting for me to get back here.

Drugs and Alcohol 1 -- Heath Ledger 0

Just a reminder -- mixing drugs and alcohol can kill you. And you don't need a tray of watermelon shots mixed with the nasty stuff cooked up by your friendly neighborhood dope peddler. A couple of beers and a pretty pink prescription pill from your smiling pharmacist can off you too. It doesn't take much.

A year ago a friend of mine started taking a prescription opiate to help stop the chronic diarrhea he suffered from a disease called amyloidosis. I guess opiates can make you constipated, which can be a good thing if you've got the runs all the time. But opiates also slow your breathing and he had severe sleep apnea, which means his breathing would STOP for a long period when he slept.  Guess whose breathing finally stopped for good in his sleep after starting the opiate?  I bet the doc who prescribed the opiate didn't know he had sleep apnea. What I wonder is why his sleep apnea doc didn't think he needed an alarm on his machine at home, since he set the alarm off all the time at the hospital?

So, I bet we'll find out that Heath Ledger died after a night of drinking followed by taking something to help him get to sleep, like Ambien or an anti anxiety drug. Instead of telling him he should never drink and combine those drugs, I bet the doc who prescribed them suggested not drinking "too much" before taking them.
 
Well, it sure won't happen again.

Dr. Phil's Mustache

I have always been a fan of all things Dr. Phil, except for his mustache. Readers who have managed to follow this blog and still remain awake may recall Mrs. Linklater's philosophy of male facial hair: guys who wear it are hiding something -- from pedophilia to repressed emotions to family/personal secrets. Except when wives or girlfriends request it. Or there's a medical reason.

In case you're wondering, she has yet to formulate a philosophy about female facial hair.

Needless to say Mrs. L has long been curious about what Dr. Phil's stash is hiding, besides most of his face. He has gone on record that he refuses to shave it, despite requests, even though photos of him without it reveal a much better looking man. Mrs. Linklater wonders if he thinks he looks like Tom Selleck. NOTE TO DR. PHIL: You don't.

So, she was happy to learn a couple of years ago that he had been married once before. Aha, that was a secret most people didn't know about. But as secrets go, it wasn't much. Especially since his second marriage had lasted for freaking ever and seems so happy it's sickening. He also fessed up to having an alcoholic father. Not particularly earthshaking, but something a mustache could be hiding. Meanwhile, Mrs. L has been waiting, like Madame DuFarge, for a really big shoe to drop.

Here comes this Britney Spears thing. Turns out the good doc is not licensed to practice psychology in California. BFD. First inflammatory media reports accused him of not even being a psychologist, but he is a trained clinical psychologist with a doctorate, who had a private practice in Texas for a long time. No secret there.

Psychologists are like attorneys in that you have to meet certain licensing requirements to practice in each state. You can't just hang out your shingle anywhere.

The general opinion seems to be that Dr. Phil didn't actually practice psychology when he went to visit the little tartlette because he didn't get paid for going to see her. I guess California has  a specific defintion for practicing psychology and it includes the exchange of money for services.

The reason Brit's family is pissed is because he said stuff to the media afterward. Doctor-patient privilege stuff. But he didn't really say anything except that she was in trouble and Dr. Drew, the ubiquitous celebrity re-hab psychiatrist who also has his own show, said pretty much the same thing a couple of weeks ago -- and nobody is suing him.

The good news for Mrs. Linklater's mustache theory is that in the midst of all this tumult, another secret has been revealed. Apparently a former patient reported Dr. Phil to the board of examiners or whoever oversees Texas psychologists. He was supposedly "inappropriate" with this patient. One account said that after providing psychological services, Dr. Phil hired his former patient to work for him, which is not considered kosher doctor/patient relationship behavior. O-o-o-o-o. Heck, I know a psychoanalyst who divorced his wife and married the mother of one of his teen patients who divorced her husband, and that shrink wasn't excommunicated.

Apparently the Philmeister was sanctioned for this transgression, but instead of enduring the punishment and continuing with his privqte practice, Dr. Phil just shut it down. So he's not licensed to practice in Texas anymore either. His show gets around all the licensing stuff because it is considered entertainment, not therapy.

I don't know whether he went into jury consulting before or after closing his practice, but it doesn't matter. He met Oprah and the rest is history.

But now with "inappropriate behavior" hiding under his mustache, he's looking like a charlatan and a showboat, which is unbecoming at the very least. But, there must be more secrets, because he's still determined to keep that ridiculous mustache. Is it just me, or does it make him look like Mr. Potato Head?

Time to start getting real, Dr. Phil.

Yep, January Sucks

Statistically, January sucks for marriages and old people. They announced as much on tv so it must be true. I can attest to some of that, since I recall asking for my divorce in January many years ago. Apparently, people get through the holidays and either die/get hurt/need surgery or ask for a get out of jail card.

My 86 year old aunt just fell and broke her hip and wrist. At least she's already sitting up after surgery on Friday. My girlfriend's 85 year old mother, who still bowls, had to have a shot into her eye for a burst blood vessel last week. Another girlfriend's 90 year old mom just had surgery on her back. Of course, she's already asking when she can resume her cycling and badminton. The bad news is they all got hurt. The good news is they're already up and at 'em.

Somebody else I know just got his marriage put on notice. A little something that came out of left field. Maybe D-Day should be rescheduled for some time in January.

To top everything off, yesterday Brett Favre found out he won't be going to Arizona, so I can already chalk up this January as a total bust.

How's yours going?

Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs v. the Other Mike Rowe

UPDATE: I changed the headline on this entry because it was getting too many hits. And now back to our previously written rant:

Why don't people just do a teeny tiny bit of research before forwarding rumors they find on the internet?

I have mentioned before that I think Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs should be considered for People Mag's Sexiest Man Alive. Sexiest Heterosexual Man Alive while we're at it. Not that Sexiest Homosexual Man Alive wouldn't be a perfectly acceptable alternative, if I were a guy, but I'm not. [UPDATE: He has since been included in the most recent annual issue -- even though the picture is teeny tiny.]

For some reason, there is a rumor on the internet that Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel is gay. Someone even commented that he was gay in an entry I wrote several months ago about my crush on the guy.

This person derided my obsession, which I share with many women. Didn't I know he was gay? Didn't I realize he was unmarried and 46, lives in San Francisco, and always talks about his mother? Naturally, since I'm old enough to be his mother, I found this encouraging. If I were younger and had other designs on the guy, perhaps not so much. 

Meanwhile, I told that particular misinformed commenter that I felt there was no way Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs would be shilling for Ford Trucks if they had any inkling he was a homosexual. Those extremely homophobic trucker types, especially the ones in marketing, would probably have a heart attack. Besides, when you are hanging around advertising/TV talent, you learn who's gay way before the rest of the world has a clue. That's because the guys on the video crews know everything and they don't keep secrets.   

The world's dirtiest guy cleans up pretty good, too. Did you know he can sing opera? Yep. Mike Rowe, the guy who is to jeans what Marilyn Monroe was to white panties, can bring it. YouTube even has him singing the national anthem at a ballgame. Not gay. 

Just for grins, I Googled "Mike Rowe Gay" to see what came up.  And what came up on the second page was a website about a writer in Canada named Mike Rowe who IS gay. 

But that Mike Rowe is NOT the Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs. He's a different Mike Rowe.

You can check out the gay Mike Rowe here if you're interested [I'm here to help]:
http://andrejkoymasky.com/liv/fam/bior3/rowe2.html

So shut up about Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs being gay. At least until he tells us himself. And, frankly, even then, it won't matter. 

For Lack Of Anything Else To Write

I've lost my favorite sweatpants, the ones that have the strange logo from the 1998 Platform Tennis National Championships on the right thigh. That was the year the nationals were held in Chicago and I loaded up on hats, jackets, vests, and sweats. I was also hanging out with a tennis pro who mainlined caffeine all day, apparently to counteract all the alcohol he consumed at night. Anyhoo, I liked those sweats because they were really loose fitting and plenty long enough for sleeping. Nothing worse than sweats which aren't long enough. The elastic band on the bottom rides high and cuts off the circulation above your ankles, leaving a purplish mark that can only be described as not flattering. Too short also means the legs of the sweats are pulled so tight you can't bend your knees without a buttcrack sighting on your backside. Time for a new pair I guess. Of course as soon as I get the new pair out of the bag the old pair will appear, as if by magic

I saw the movie Juno. Not an action flick. Unless watching up close and very personal crotch shots of high school boys in their running shorts qualifies. By comparison, the "action" between the teens is carefully edited to expose bare skin only below the knees and above the neck. Ellen Page, who plays the teen who gets pregnant, deserves any nominations she gets. The script does too, because it was written by a former stripper who can write hip and lively, youthful and cynical dialog. The story, however, is muy ho-hum. Bored teen girl gets preggers having sex with supremely unattractive boy she knows. Abortion or adoption? Based on the father's looks alone I would have picked abortion. But the movie would have been much shorter. Girl finds adoptive family for baby to be. Add a couple of twisty, somewhat lame, plot elements. Baby gets adopted. Teen mother and father still friends in the end. *YAWN*.

Starbuck's has a couple of drive up window stores around these parts. I thought I would find them convenient on the way downtown. I can get fresh oj and a real English muffin with an egg and melted cheese for only twice as much as McDonald's and I don't have to leave my car. But I may go back to Mickey D's and settle for one sausage burrito and a Fruitopia soon. Even though I've been told it's harder to get a job at Starbuck's than other food chains, every time I use the drive-thru my order has been screwed up by one of their college educated, upper middleclass, white people. Every single time. Not at McDonald's, however, even though there is always that language barrier moment or two. Over the weekend I stopped at the Starbuck's college prep drive thru to get a hot caramel apple cider WITHOUT whipped cream. Plus a milk chocolate covered graham cracker or two. But, instead, I got a caramel apple cider WITH whipped cream and DARK chocolate grahams. [By the way, putting whipped cream on cider is like having a scoop of ice cream on your orange juice, so no thanks.]  Another time I ordered hot tea sweetened with honey. And I got plain. Or the tea comes sweetened with Equal or sugar or Splenda. Or I ask for camomile and I get wild orange. Not to mention that the customers at Starbuck's have a sense of entitlement you don't see at other places. One diva in an Escalade ahead of me took her drink, then handed it back to the barista with a wave of her hand, then took it back, then handed it back to the barista again, then she paid for it and took it back another time, then took the change and handed the drink back to the barista one final time. When she drove away the barista just rolled her eyes as I pulled up. The good news is that I got a discount for having to wait so long. Which was nice, since my order was screwed up. Again.

I got an email from one of my brothers who is in Mexico. He was concerned because he was drinking the water. I guess he never got the memo. I said not to worry because he was probably at a place that had its own filtration system. But I warned him that even if the water was okay, he better not eat any lettuce. I haven't heard back.

2008 Bloggie Nominations Already Underway

Well, it's too late to submit nominees for 2008, but there's a panel deciding on the nominees for each category even as we speak, just in case you have an interest in voting in a week or so.

http://2008.bloggies.com/

2007 Bloggie Winners

It must be time for the 2008 Bloggie awards -- where the most creative, well written,  etc., etc., blogs are given their due. You'll note that not one AOL journal was in the running. There's a shock.

Here's a link to last year's winners, along with all the rules and regs for playing the game. You won't be disappointed.

http://2007.bloggies.com/

Will the Real You Please Stand Up

I think there are two things that help to reveal more about who you really are -- more than anything else.

1. How you drive your car.

2. How your dog behaves.

I can't tell you the number of people I know who are quiet, unassuming and almost shy, but turn into monsters behind the wheel of a car. I'm overstating things, but I have been surprised more than once by this car personality change. Speeding and shouting at other drivers at the two most obvious differences that leave me shaking my head.

On the other hand, most people assume that I'm an aggressive, take no prisoners driver, based on my, um, take no prisoners personality. Nope. I couldn't be more bland behind the wheel of a car. In fact, the horn on my old Audi broke and I didn't bother to get it fixed because I never had to use it. Most of the time people use the horn for punishment anyway. Beep Beep -- you're an idiot!!! 

Same thing with a lawyer I knew who was a former marine commando in Vietnam. He was very intimidating both professionally and personally. I just assumed he would also be a scary dude behind the wheel of a car. Imagine my surprise when he offered me a ride one day. Instead of speeding or driving recklessly, he drove slowly and politely like a little old man. Weird.

Pets, especially dogs, are a little different. I think a dog's breed and behavior reflect an owner's management style more than anything else. If I had an interview with someone I would ask them if they had any pets. I'd also want to know what the pets were like.  If this person was going to be my boss, I would think twice about someone who had pit bulls because they were tough. No thanks. But if they'd resuced a pit bull and it's behavior was sweet and gentle, I would be more impressed.

"We can't control him," is not something I would want to hear from a boss who has a dog. Not a good management style. Someone I know, who is kind and thoughtful and willing to do anything for people, surprised me as a pet owner. I thought she would have uncontrollable dogs, since she was so mild and meek. But they were very obedient, friendly, too, because she was able to exert control without breaking theirspirits.

The Vietnam vet had a huge black dog who only obeyed his master, deferring to him when he was home. But when the dog was left in charge he was very fierce while guarding the family. Pure commando -- willing to die for their friends. A little over the top for me. But not unexpected.

You might wonder why I didn't include cats in this seat of the pants revelation of true character.  I can only assume you've never had one.

Are the Voters Lying or Are The Voting Machines No Damn Good?

Lots of discussion today about why the polls were so wrong.  Even Hillary's internal scorekeepers thought she was going to lose.

Without going into detail, a report has come out suggesting that the new voting machines which replaced the old ones that cost Al Gore the election in 2000 don't work very well. To put it mildly. In fact, the state of the art computer-driven top of the line technology that should prevent "chads" and hackers and who knows what else just DON'T.

So it was suggested that maybe the reason the polls and pundits were so off in their New Hampshire predictions is that the vote was screwed up by the machines.

Or, when pollsters asked people who they had voted for, they lied.  Apparently people do that.  Who knew?

And we're just getting started.                              

He's Not Dead, He's My Neighbor

You may have heard the story this week about the two old farts whose friend died before he could cash his social security check.  His buddies decided to do it for him. So they propped him up in an office chair and let his corpse sit outside the currency exchange while they went in to try to cash his check. "Look, we're doing him a favor. He's sitting right outside there -- taking a little nap."

I guess there was an off duty cop eating at a local restaurant nearby. He noticed the two mopes pushing the office chair with the dead guy in it. Trying to pass him off as a sleeping guy I guess. That made the cop get suspicious.

Needless to say the two pals got arrested for fraud. And the dead guy got a free ride to the undertaker.

But here's the kicker: The reporter on the story said that if the dead guy's two pals had been smart enough to put him in a wheelchair instead, probably nobody would have noticed. No doubt somebody who looks like he's asleep in a wheelchair on a sidewalk is not that unusual in NYC. It's only when you put him in an office chair that alarms go off.

Makes sense.
                                                                                        

To Hillary or Not To Hillary

I wanted to write a cogent dissection of the recent New Hampshire primaries with my personal breakdown of the real reasons why Hillary beat Barack, instead of losing to him again as all the pundits and polls had predicted.

On reflection, I realized I couldn't. So I just settled for writing an opening sentence about it. Truthfully, I don't give a rat's do-dah about the New Hampshire primary. And vice versa.

A little closer to home, I spent an hour in a meeting room at the high school with thirty or so of the most high powered women in the area, most of whom have retired their MBAs or left important positions in corporate America to be stay at home moms.

Even though the meeting was scheduled early, most were stylishly well-dressed, in a casual way, some even wearing designer suit jackets with their jeans. There was only one woman who didn't look like she could have walked out of a board meeting in a downtown office. Okay, maybe with some nicer shoes I could have.

The meeting was called to order. Introductions were made. Without much discussion, the heads of various committees gave their reports. Toward the end, an important creative presentation was made to much applause. The date of their next meeting was scheduled and this gathering of the high school graduation party committee was adjourned.

Times have changed.

Back when I had high school kids, meetings like this were held in someone's home a couple of months before the date. Some mom baked cookies. There was lots of meeting foreplay -- the wasted time spent just chatting about kids and family. Other moms went on and on about great coupons they saw in the paper. 

In the 21st century version I witnessed yesterday, nobody baked any cookies. Or bought them for that matter. There was no coffee or tea, except what you brought for yourself. The meeting was at the high school, not someone's home. Everything was managed efficiently and in an extremely businesslike manner. Which got me thinking.

I'm not sure whether Hillary will be our first female president. I do know that I see a key difference among a growing number of female voters that could very well make a female president possible.

There was a time, not too long ago, when females wouldn't vote for Hillary because they couldn't imagine a woman doing what they were raised to believe was only a man's job. Geraldine Ferraro as VP was a sideshow. But Hillary rode  the coattails of her husband's popular presidency and went on to do a good job in the Senate.

Now women look at Hillary and think, "I could do that." So if they don't vote for her, it's not because they think a woman shouldn't be president, it's because they think they could do a better job themselves.

They also understand why she teared up recently. Any professional woman juggling a career, husband, and family has found herself in the exact same emotional state at the end of a long, hard day.

Of course, right now these former business execs are all busy managing their own families, so they're perfectly happy to let Hillary take the lead on this one.

It's no longer a question of if a woman will be elected president, it's just a question of when.

Toothiness

William "the Refrigerator" Perry, who played on the Chicago Bears' 1985 Super Bowl team, was famous for his gap-toothed smile. Apparently, over time, his smile was getting more gaps because he wasn't too fond of going to the dentist. Recently a dental practice in the Chicago area offered to replace his famous missing tooth and any other teeth he needed with dental implants, as long as he would agree to be a spokesperson for the procedure. So now he has $60,000 worth of implants and a brand new smile, which he is showing off around town.

I mentioned this to my 86 year old aunt out East who allowed as how she has all her teeth except one. Wait a minute -- all your teeth? Yep. Did you brush five times a day or something? Nope.

I guess she had cavities like everyone else. Perhaps even more. Back during WWII all the dentists were packed off to the Army so regular dental care wasn't possible, because the drill docs were all overseas. When the war was over and they came home, she found out she had nineteen cavities.

Here's where my aunt thinks a key decision was made. The dentist she went to filled the cavities with gold instead of silver. Back then gold didn't cost an arm and a leg like it does now. Gold was and still is a better option for teeth because it's a softer metal and tends to go with the flow. Over time, gold won't develop the cracks and fizzures that the more rigid silver fillings do. In fact, I don't think they use "silver" anymore.

Of course, I'm never sure what the dentist is doing in my mouth these days, ever since he and his assistant started dressing in Hazmat suits and giving me goggles to wear. 

I did the math and realized that my aunt has fillings that are sixty years old and still counting. She even remembered her dentist's name -- Dr. Raffle. Wait a minute, he was my dentist too when I was a kid.

In fact, until ten years ago when I opted for porcelain crowns in my back teeth, I had several silver fillings in my molars that had also been around since the early fifties. When they started to crack and break, crowns were the recommended replacement option. I remember my current dentist commenting on how lucky I was that they lasted so long. Almost fifty years. I can only imagine how much mercury vapor I inhaled over those five decades.

On reflection, I think the key to my aunt keeping her teeth was Dr. Raffle. Arnold Raffle. It might have been Raffel. I remember he had a Howdy Doody grin and tried to make a day in his chair as painless as possible for a kid who didn't want to be there.

I wonder if dental societies keep track of things like who has the oldest known gold fillings in active use. Like a Hall of Fame for Fillings.

Probably not.

In the end I think the real reason my aunt has kept all her teeth for such a long time, no matter what kind of fillings she got, is that Dr. Raffle was a damn good dentist.

It didn't hurt that gold was cheap.

Mrs. Linklater Is Here To Help

I have a solution to the teen pregnancy problem, which has recently notched up its numbers after years of gradual decline. While many have pointed out that federal funding to teach only sexual abstinence and not provide information about condoms, the pill, or any number of pregnancy prevention inventions may be partly to blame, I think a better translation of the Korean instruction manual kids are using couldn't hurt.

However, no need to introduce drastic measures such as female circumcision yet, which won't stop pregnancy, but may scare the crap out of young girls long enough to keep the barn door closed until they are 21. Nor would I want to embrace any of the punishment options offered to parents of young girls who live in Muslim and Hindu countries. Death by stoning or setting her on fire seems so final.

This week People Magazine steps up to the plate with poignant personal accounts of what happens to American teens when pregnancy puts a crimp in their social lives. Here is a capsule summary of what they wrote: Girl gets pregnant. Girl gets stuck with all the responsibility. The more things change the more things stay the same.

There wasn't one photo of an expectant father. Or a name to go with the DNA he donated to the event. So here are my suggestions to help young men understand that there's no free hootchie cootchie.

While we hardly expect males to stop dipping their unprotected wicks wherever they want, we have to draw the line at porking underage teen girls. However, in a magnanimous gesture, it's only when they actually produce an eating peeping pooping screaming machine that young men will have to pay for their lapse in judgment. So in an effort to discourage impregnating girls under 18, we suggest the punishment of:
    a. a lifetime listing on the national register as a sexual predator, plus
    b. an automatic $500 a month payable to the teen mother to use as she sees fit, adjusted for inflation until the baby is 18, plus
    c. his name, address, and picture in the local paper as the father of an unnamed baby, when it is born.

Or to avoid the financial, social, and personal embarrassment of a, b, and c, the father can also opt to have one or more offending parts of his anatomy removed and kept on display in a jar as a reminder to any testosterone poisoned male who thinks that ten minutes offull contact noogie is worth leaving a teenage girl with a lifetime of low income jobs, insurmountable debt, neglected children, unfinished education, and overwhelming responsibility. 

Trust me, once the fathers have to face real consequences, teen pregnancies would become extinct.

Ah, there's nothing like the warm and fuzzy feeling I get when I can make the world a better place.

Insanity Defense

Just so's ya know -- I made the mistake of uploading an entire entry about craving macaroni and cheese today, only to have it disappear because I wasn't paying attention. That's about five months' work in dog years. I even went into the reason for the craving, which was partly because I had spent the week consuming gallons of tea and honey to combat laryngitis and bronchitis. The doc had suggested I avoid anything that would build up excess [NAUSEATING WORD ALERT] phlegm. No milk, no cheese, no ice cream, no bagels and schmear, no anything I like to eat. Don't want to encourage the [HERE'S THAT WORD AGAIN] phlegm.

But I digress. Losing entries happens when you're so cheap you don't upgrade from dial up. Actually I downgraded from cable. Wasn't worth it. The only times I noticed the diff between dial up and faster than a speeding bullet was the amount of porn spam that appeared. That and the size of my phone/cable bill.

Unfortunately, the Russian Roulette version of AOL dial up I have can dial itself OFF when you're not looking. And it isn't until you click SAVE that you realize you are no longer online and whatever you just wrote is now GONE BABY GONE!!. It happens with the high speed stuff too. Only different.

Yes I was so po'd that I just left the building for the day. Those were my words you took, you freaking freaker.

Out Out Brief Candle

In a country where the popular vote in a presidential election can be rendered moot by the machinations of the Electoral College, the abuse of a Supreme Court ruling and a candidate who, in the end, just didn't have the balls to fight for a final count, last night's show of hands in Iowa, big picture-wise, was utterly meaningless.

To paraphrase MacBeth:

[THE IOWA CAUCUSES ARE] but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Remember: Bill Clinton didn't win in Iowa OR New Hampshire.

A John By Any Other Name

A good friend's daughter had her very first baby yesterday, January first. Not only did he arrive after a mere seven hours of labor, but he came in the middle of the afternoon, during visiting hours, which was also thoughtful and considerate on his part.

So what do I find so amusing about the blessed event, given that his parents lucked out in so many ways -- an easy birthday to remember, a short labor, and a daylight arrival?

His name.

His folks didn't tell anybody what his name would be ahead of time. They insisted we would all have to wait. So I was expecting a kid with a moniker he'd have to defend every day on his way to school. Like Fauntleroy. Or Euphemia, which is a girl's name, but there are already several Euphemias in the family, so it could happen. Or they could step outside the box and call him Arabica Bean, after his parents' favorite coffee. Or Stone Harbor, a favorite family vacation spot -- an actual suggestion from one of his grandmas. As possible names go, it wasn't looking good.

Luckily, he will be called something safe -- Evan, which I happen to know is the Welsh version of JOHN. After digesting this middle of the road, easy to live with designation, I realized what his mom and dad had done.

Evan, which, to review, is the Welsh version of JOHN, joins his father, Sean, which is the Irish version of JOHN, and his uncle, Ian, which is Scottish for JOHN, and his grandfather, JOHN, which is English for, um, JOHN.

Very funny. What's next? Gianni, Johann, Juan? Or will they take "john" in a men's room direction and call the next boy any one of hundreds of options hanging on the doorways of bathrooms around the world: Gent, Guy, Monsieur, Hombre, Stallion. . .