Every year about this time I make a mental note to myself to take a serious look at the Libertarian Party platform.  If they have a plank that says we should scrap the 60,000 pages of the standard tax code and start over, they may have a convert.  Criminy!

You see, I am one of a dying breed who still does his own taxes.  This is mostly because I want to understand potential credits and deductions to plan for in the future.  My job is in quantitative finance so I really ought to know the tax implications of different investment vehicles, I figure.  Plus, we don’t do anything very complicated that would require an accountant – no home office, real estate investments, S Corporations, etc.  I’ve noticed the last few years, though, that there is supplemental hazing from the IRS.  This extra hoop they want a growing number of unlucky taxpayers to jump through called the Alternative Minimum Tax is a real nuisance, and an expensive one at that. 

I’ve always paid my fair share; that’s not the issue.  The furthest I ever stretch the truth is to say that the chinos Clio donates to the Vietnam Veterans’ Association at their clothes drive are worth 50 cents when the going garage sale rate might really be closer to a quarter.  I don’t even complain too much about the graduated rates, where total tax bills skew higher the more raises I get.

But this year the AMT kicked in with full in-your-face effrontery.  The first time I ever noticed this pig was a few years ago when some line in the 1040 instruction book said to see if you might owe an AMT.  Well of course I owe an amount, I thought, (strange that they abbreviated that word, though).  Then I came to understand it as something that only rich people had to worry about.  Back then, only 1 or 2 percent of those filing did have to pay the AMT.  Now they’re saying that soon a third of all taxpayers will be subject to it.  The editors of The Wall Street Journal, who aren’t exactly fans of the current system, cited figures estimating the deadweight loss due to the complexity of compliance to be $250 billion a year.  That’s almost 20 cents for every dollar collected, they said.

I don’t know about those dollar values, but I do know that when you’re bleary-eyed from flipping through instruction booklets, worksheets, and inefficiently stated formulas and you’re then asked to complete 55 more lines from Form 6251, one of which is:

“If you reported capital gain distributions directly on Form 1040, line 13; you reported qualified dividends on Form 1040, line 9b; or you had a gain on both lines 15 and 16 of Schedule D (Form 1040) (as refigured for the AMT, if necessary), complete Part III on the back and enter the amount from line 55 here,”

you might be tempted to claim a whole dollar on those chinos.

A blog friend whose name I won’t mention referred to herself in a recent post as Sugar Butt.  That struck me as a fresh alternative to Honey Bun.  In fact, it set my twisted, often alliterative mind into motion to draw up a list of other choices to consider.  (I’m not sure Clio will appreciate the credit for serving as my muse, but it’s hers for the taking.) 

1. Bonbon Bottom
2. Caboose Cake
3. Dishy Duff. 
4. Truffle Tush
5. Hostess Haunches
6. Candy Keister
7. Ambrosia Arse
8. Patootie Pie*
9. Bum de Bonne Bouche
10. Cheesecake Cheeks
11. Treacle Tail
12. Flan Fanny
13. Sweet Seat

Given enough time (and dictionary.com) I might have come up with a dulcet derriere accompaniment or a good gluteus maximus match, but I wanted to keep it at a baker’s dozen. 

* Moon Pie might have worked, too, but it wasn’t consistent with the theme.

When I was a snot-nosed, sports-crazed kid I was lucky enough to have Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine in my backyard.  For those of you who aren’t old enough or American enough to know, this was the most dominant team during the 70’s – one that beat the Red Sox and Yankees in consecutive World Series.  When I say they played in my backyard, that’s not literally true (they were actually 50 miles down the road from us), but in my imagination they spent many a summer day taking their swings at our neighbor’s fence.  Even if it was just me hitting fungoes, it could seem pretty realistic since I was always sure to imitate each player’s exact mannerisms at the plate.  I would risk pulled muscles if I attempted Joe Morgan’s wing flap or Tony Perez’s home run swing at this age, but as a kid it all came easily.  (I don’t recall ever trying the head first slide that Pete Rose made famous, but he probably wasn’t the best guy to be emulating anyway.  Right Clio?)

The reverie couldn’t last forever.  Mom was afraid of what people would think if they saw me acting out Don Gullett’s wind-up and delivery without Johnny Bench behind the plate as context.  “You look like you’re having conniptions,” she would say.  I could handle that, but everyone agreed, including me, that the fun had to stop when blasts from the heart of the order started accosting the neighbors’ windows. 

Even as a grown man my thoughts turn to baseball this time of year.  Some people mark the true coming of spring by opening day at the ballpark.  My own definition is even more stringent (we live near Chicago, after all):  It’s when the ivy fills in at Wrigley.  Anyway, the first week of this year’s season could hardly be better.  My boyhood team, the Reds, won 4 of their first 5.  My favorites from the American League, the Red Sox, are 5-1.  Better yet, they’re already 3 games ahead of the fat cat Yankees.  Even my new hometown team is off to a quick start at 4-1.  We Cubs fans are conditioned to know it won’t last, but even false hope can be fun.

I rarely take the time to watch a regular season game any more.  However, through the magic of box scores, I can get a pretty good summary of the drama that played out.  Sometimes I think I went into a quantitative field for my livelihood because of the associated numerical pleasures of box scores.  Of course, there’s an aesthetic to baseball that can’t be captured in a statistical summary.  I can appreciate the history, the connectedness with other fans, and the stories of the game, too.

I’ll leave you with a short tale from the era when better ones were there to be told.  (Doesn’t every generation feel that the stories from their younger days are best?)  This one is about the aforementioned Mssr. Bench.  He’s not only a Hall-of-Famer, but was arguably the best catcher of all time.  He was a great clutch hitter with tremendous power, and was equally renowned for his defensive skills.  Would-be base stealers usually knew better than to even try running on him. 

One game he was behind the plate when Clay Carroll was brought on as a reliever.  A few pitches into the count, Bench had seen enough to realize that the fastball was lacking its customary speed and movement.  When Bench signaled for an off-speed pitch instead, Carroll was either deluded or bull-headed or both and shook off the sign.  Bench flashed for the deuce again only to have Carroll repeat his contrary head shake.  So Bench let him throw the “heater”, but to prove his point, caught it with his bare hand, stood, and whipped it back to Carroll 10 MPH faster than it had come in.  No words or extended glares were needed to convince the humbled man on the mound to defer to Johnny after that.

Around the time The Girl went away to college, I broke out of a rut I’d been in my entire professional life – the 5:15 alarm.  I now give myself an extra half-hour, and even take time for a cherished first cup with Clio.  Since The Girl isn’t around to keep her company, I’m the closest thing she’s got to a creature walking upright if she wants any early morning contact.

During this bonus coffee time she’ll often be zipping through the NY Times crossword while I’m gleaning newsworthy tidbits from the local paper.  The other day, I found a story that I thought might be useful.  Evidently Sylvia Browne is a famous psychic who, for $700, will give you a personal reading over the phone.  The story went on to say, though, that there is a 5 year waiting list for this amazing service.  If you can’t wait that long, consider that her son has also been blessed with the gift and is willing to perform similar magic for $300 less. 

I then began speculating about how the market is able to differentiate the deluxe $700 fortunes from the $10 ones.  With a sudden flash of entrepreneurial inspiration, I imagined a test that we could give these soothsayers to showcase their abilities.  Questions like “Who will win the next Super Bowl?” or “Where will the S&P 500 finish this year?” could test their general abilities in a macro-phenomenological kind of way.  To measure their talent in more human terms, we could ask them to predict things like whether TomKat or Brangelina will be married at the end of the year.  For more personalized data, we could solicit predictions about our own future events.  (Interpreting results may be difficult, though.  If they say you will experience a loss in the coming year and you’re subsequently unable to find your favorite pen in the junk drawer, would that count?)  Anyway, measurement issues aside, the results could then be sold as a service to consumers.

Clio, meanwhile, was wondering if maybe the old wake-up-at-5:15-and-be-out-the-door-in-30-minutes paradigm wasn’t so bad.  After I finished my sales pitch for the psychic evaluation service, she intoned something to humor me and went back to her puzzle.  The very next clue, I swear to God, was: “Sixth sense” – a rare easy one with the answer being “ESP”.  Naturally, this has me wondering if there might be some sort of cosmic/karmic significance.  Might it mean that I, myself, am an Extra Special Person?  (Or might it instead merely suggest that my reputation as a smart-ass is still intact?)

The next story I saw was about how the team putting together a Mother Teresa biopic was considering different actresses for the lead role.  Based on similar facial features, one of the prime candidates was said to be Paris Hilton.  Of course, this story broke close enough to April 1 that I couldn’t verify its validity (though it is in the news).  I didn’t even tell Clio about it.  She’d reached her quota of twisted tidbits as it was.

I should start by saying either “thank you for being a good sport” or “sorry I went too far” depending on how you took my little April Fool’s Day joke.  It started out as just a bit of fun restricted to my own space.  I wasn’t getting any visitors all day, though, and was disappointed to see my gag go to waste.  Then I got up the nerve to post it at a couple of my favorite high-traffic sites.  The ever-ebullient MochaMomma (Kelly) responded right away with encouragement for the book idea, but she may also have wondered just how prominently she might be featured and what the tone of it might be.  (Of course, I’m only speculating about her true reaction.)  Then there were a few visitors to my space, mostly trying to nudge me in a friendlier, less manipulative direction.  They evidently hadn’t read the first comment left by my clever better half who tipped my true intentions with her excellent account of the Sidd Finch saga.

My most audacious invention was the lawyer who took me to task with her caustic remarks in the comment section of MochaMomma’s space.  The attorney tried, clumsily, to endear herself to everyone with coffee rapport, but it was clear that her motivation was to represent Kelly in a lawsuit against me.  SueM, as she called herself, warned that the title of my book revealed my true intentions: To ridicule any and all unlucky enough to be included. 

Well, I couldn’t very well let that stand.  My counter to SueM was that I would be changing names so that everything would be hunky-dory.  Of course, the example I used (MochaMomma becoming MochaMama) didn’t exactly suggest that identities would be obscured.  I then casually mentioned that I wouldn’t be lifting text verbatim; instead I would be making full use of literary license to ensure maximal embarrassment.  My next statement was designed to produce even more squirms.  I argued that the line between actual fiction and purported nonfiction didn’t matter because Oprah, famous debunker that she is, would never get wind of it.  Specious reasoning, yes – but I wasn’t called on it.  (My conceit is that people actually read this, though I don’t really know that they did.)

As for legal arguments, I cited no less an authority than Jackie Chiles.  I had to look up the name, but you may recognize him as the attorney who appeared on Seinfeld.  His imaginary website, http://jackiec.atty/dupimall.net, was supposed to be the definitive source of illumination on such matters.

At the very end of this rebuttal, I spelled out the book title again, reiterating that it was long and that it should go by its initials.  If people did read this and went to the trouble of initializing, they kept any “aha” moments to themselves. 

I finally “exposed” myself (come on, you know what I mean) after I got a constructive comment from CaffeinatedLibrarian who in the nicest possible way was trying to convince me to drop the original concept and focus instead on blog poetry.  My conscience finally kicked in when such earnest, detailed thinking was being done on my behalf.  Plus, I’d have felt bad if anyone suffered genuine discomfort believing that I’d actually write such a nasty book.  So I fessed up, but not before one last set of responses to commenters.  I couldn’t resist telling accomplished bloggers that they were sure to be featured in the book.  For instance, I revealed that for comic effect, I’d be creating a semi-literate character known as CaffinatedLibarian, noting that it’s a plausible misspelling among ignoramuses. 

With a stunt like this, there are a few things you think about after the fact:

• You worry about April Fool’s Day protocol.  Is it OK to keep the joke alive on April 2^nd as long as it originated on the 1^st?
• You would hate for someone to see the set-up, avoid you like toxic waste afterwards, and then never see the punch line.
• You come to realize that some (many?) readers will view you like a crazy guy on a street corner flapping his wings like a chicken.  Children would be told not to point because that may only encourage him or entice him over for more personal attention.  (I might have had more commenters or even scolds if not for that chicken man status.)
• You wonder, if you’ve contemplay’d your audience, might they associate you too much with Ashton Kutcher (of Punk’d fame).
• You would really, really hate if any bloggers you’ve come to enjoy become more inhibited in their writing styles for fear of unkind exposure (even after knowing it was all a ruse). 
• You reflect on what evil may be hiding deep within you for even thinking of a caper like this and then rationalize that with enough winkies applied, maybe it’s not so bad. ;-) ;-) ;-)  Maybe?

I probably ought to come clean.  For the past few months many of you have been participating, though unwittingly, in a writing project.  I’m piecing together what I hope will someday become a book about blogging and the embarrassing stories people tell about themselves.  The working title is

A Publicly Revealed Indiscretion: Lessons From Open, On-Line Spilling

It won’t be Gone With the Wind (or GWTW, as those of us considered literary insiders call it).  However, I do hope that it will have at least some potential for publication.  I’m sure it’s a long shot for success, but then again, maybe someday it, too, will be famous enough to go by its initials.

As the title suggests, there are a lot of ways I could introduce Bob (which, by the way, is not his real name as far as you know).  I could give you the quick summary of how I know him:  He was my roommate at various times in college and grad school.  That doesn’t tell you what makes him distinctive, though.  I suppose I could mention one of the paradoxes of his personality, like his selective embrace of the counter-culture while at the same time protecting his Eagle Scout badges from too much unseemly tarnish.  At least that broadly describes one aspect of this multifaceted guy.  If I want to get someone’s attention, though, I jump right into specific examples.  For instance, as a bored grade-schooler with a willful disregard for protocol, he once shaved off his eyebrows.  (I don’t recall if he ever explained his thought processes.  He was too young to have had a unibrow, though, that much I know.) 

I don’t pretend to understand his complexities, but it occurs to me that Bob’s willingness to shake things up a little comes, in part, from an active mind that enjoys being challenged.  We had similar upbringings.  Both of us were from Ohio where middling is a way of life.  Our dads were both Rotarians and our home lives were stable and supportive – solid citizen stuff all the way.  Even though Bob had much of this permanently ingrained, he also liked to see what would happen if he ventured beyond the periphery.  He was always sure enough that he could justify any of his unusual behavior if pressed.  For instance, he was among the first in the early 80’s to sport an earring.  He didn’t mind the strange looks he got from people at the time.  In fact, he seemed to like them, and would relish any discussion pitting old and meaningless social conventions against the bleeding edge.

Bob liked experimenting with different mental states, too.  He was always high energy so it seemed like his default mode was simply over-caffeinated.  If he wanted, though, he could ratchet up, down, or sideways from there.  With consciousness expanded, he was even more engaging.  Nobody before or since has made temptation and trouble seem so appealing to me.  (So you don’t get the wrong idea, this wasn’t the kind of trouble that would prompt a fair judge or deity to throw the book at us.) 

Bob was the one who talked up the advantages of grad school.  I decided to defer reality (which would have been a job at GE in Cleveland pulling in a then princely sum of $18,000 a year) to join him for more schooling.  Good move as it turned out – I met Clio there a year later.  Our daughter can hardly believe this bit of family lore that has her owing her existence to such a colorful (and, to her, random) character. 

I mentioned the complexities and paradoxes.  There were times when I thought Bob was purposely cryptic or inscrutable to discourage people from even trying to figure him out.  If he couldn’t decipher himself, what made others presume they could?  On the other hand, he once said, “Most of my problems come when I start thinking I’m so different.”  I have a few thoughts about this, though readily admit they could be off base.  He must have known that he was way smarter than the average bear.  His standardized test scores were always 99^th percentile and he had the memory of an elephant.  The first time I ever saw Bob was when he appeared on local TV with his high school quiz team.  His school lost narrowly to mine (because, along with my brightest high school friend, we had one guy who’d actually read Shakespeare), but Bob was one of the stars on his team.  I was in the audience as an alternate.  If 7 people ahead of me suddenly took ill, I’d be there ready to step in and pinch-guess.  Beyond this, Bob also had street smarts.  Anyway, my point is that when he said “so different”, he probably really meant “friggin’ brilliant.”  He undoubtedly recognized that an outward attitude of cranial endowment wasn’t going to win him many friends.  I wonder if he would, at times, slow himself down artificially just to relate better to more normal people. 

One time we visited a friend of Bob’s from high school.  When fun progressed to hijinks, his buddy warned us:  “Watch out, Bob is feeling confident again.”  The guy obviously knew him well.  In a way, Bob needed challenges.  Experiences, even borderline out-of-control ones, are good, he figured – they’re how you grow.  Consistent with that, and as further exercise for his nimble brain, he’d utter some seemingly random line of BS, then snap back into analytic mode and extemporaneously support it.  Maybe someone would ask him what he was doodling, and, Bob, seeing that it was a triangle would then go off on some wild, but surprisingly well-argued tangent about pyramid power and physical laws explaining the apparent mysticism of the phenomenon.

One of Bob’s best friends in college was another interesting guy.  Cheeky, as I’ll call him, was a creative force in our lives.  He had enough NYC bravado in him to make us Midwesterners think he had greater insights into the sublime state of cool.  This buddy was a French Lit major, which suited him well since he lived in Paris during his grade school years.  He was also active in theatre.  Don’t think certain stereotypes applied, though.  “Cherche la femme” was his raison d’etre.  When Cheeky got the lead in Equus (which I didn’t see since I was off-campus, but certainly heard about because of the nude scene), we figured that it was a natural expression for his outré Parisian/New Yorker persona.  The “out-there” aspect of Bob’s own personality was simpatico.

Bob was observant and insightful, and he knew me well.  For instance, he could tell when I was stressed or self-absorbed better than I could myself sometimes, and he gave me space or sat down to talk accordingly.  That’s why whenever I got a little too full of myself, he’d remind me that humility was my saving grace, and I’d have to take it to heart.  He had more than enough ammo to take me down a peg when necessary.  It was easier to take when you saw that he’d give himself the same treatment.

The woman who later became Bob’s first wife popped onto the scene in grad school.  Maybe I was a little like Nigel when David’s girlfriend, Jeanine, showed up to join the Spinal Tap tour.  I never got the sense that she liked me very well.  For instance, if someone says, “You always act like you’ve got something interesting to say, but then you never do,” how would you interpret that?  While her comment might have had a ring of truth, it wasn’t exactly endearing.  She had her good points, too, but that didn’t stop me from coining a spiteful phrase about her.  “She gives people the detriment of the doubt.”  Clio, after getting to know her better, had a more succinct assessment: “Meow.”  Anyway, Bob liked her eyes and even her acerbic style, it seemed, and they got themselves hitched the next summer.

I’ve mentioned a few of Bob’s personality traits, but haven’t really mentioned how we connected as friends.  Along with the wild and crazy streak, and maybe partly because of it, Bob’s intellectual pursuits always appealed to me.  He was naturally curious about a lot of things – a rare polymath.  I liked that he read books across a wide spectrum.  He was not all high-minded about it, though.  His taste for sports and music kept him grounded, as did a world view that was cynical, but not overly serious.  When I think about it, Bob was a prototype for the kind of friend I’ve tended to seek out ever since.

I notice as I read over this that I keep going back and forth between past and present tense.  Maybe I haven’t seen enough of him lately to verify that he’s exactly the same guy I used to know so well.  As it is, this has been a long post.  It’s certainly not the end of Bob’s story, though.  I’ll save the rest for later.

We just recently signed up for Netflix and a few days later our first movie arrived.  It was one our favorite critics liked, so our expectations were dangerously high.  Were we setting it up to fail?  This particular one had the added burden of a Best Supporting Actress nomination to live up to.  Luckily, it cleared the lofty bar with room to spare.

The movie, Junebug, was certainly not a hit at the multiplex.  I don’t think it got much of a play at the art houses either.  It’s a very likable film, though, in its own more subtle way.  (Have you ever noticed how “subtle” is often a euphemism for “boring and sedate”?  Well, that’s not the case here.)  The story begins when a guy and his bride, a city sophisticate, go back to his hometown in North Carolina for the twin purposes of meeting his family and checking out an artist she had an interest in promoting.  The family had been invited to the wedding, but didn’t attend, so this is their first meeting with Madeleine, the new wife.

Down home, several of the southern stereotypes play out, but not to the point of caricature, and always spiced with enough individuality that it feels real.  The Mom is domineering and critical, yet with enough inner depth to be poignant.  When you first see the Dad you might imagine he’s had a stroke.  He moves slowly and barely speaks.  Later, when you get to know him better, you realize he has a gentle, purposeful soul and maybe isn’t half-dead after all.  Johnny is the younger brother.  He’s the device every story needs – the conflict; a consummate jerk.  We’re left to figure out why he hates his brother, George, so intensely.  It probably has something to do with George’s success, his urbane wife, and the high esteem everyone has for him.  There is one scene where they’re all at a church social and George is asked to sing a favorite hymn.  He does so really well and is given a warm round of applause.  When it’s time to go, Johnny is found sitting outside on the curb smoking and scowling.  It isn’t just George that gets under Johnny’s skin, though.  He’s a butthead around everyone except his beer buddies at work.  Even his young pregnant wife, who is as sweet as the tea in those parts, has trouble brightening him.

The Oscar nomination for Amy Adams, who plays the cheery mom-to-be, Ashley, is certainly well-deserved.  She’s so genuine and eager to please.  When she first meets her new sister-in-law, you feel her aching to connect.  Ashley is actually sort of simple, but is also so charmed by the merest hints of exoticism in anyone else that she becomes interesting.

I don’t know if this is the type of movie where you have to say [*SPOILER ALERT*] when talking about the plot, but in case it is, I’ve said it.  The joy in seeing Junebug isn’t driven by the plot, though, but rather by what the story reveals (or leaves you to ponder) about the characters.  For instance, there is a scene where Johnny is watching TV and a segment comes on about meerkats, little creatures Ashley had deemed her favorites.  Seemingly out of character, Johnny rushes over to record it, but can’t get the tape to work.  He’s spitting mad at this point.  When Ashley comes down from her baby shower to investigate and then explains that the tab on the tape has to be in the right position, Johnny gets even madder.  At her.

The most telling scenes, though, involve Ashley’s trip to the delivery room.  One of them focuses on Madeleine who must know that Ashley wants a special bond between them, yet when it comes time to choose between the hospital and the weird folk artist she’s trying to sign to a deal, goes with the artist.  Then there is a moving scene at the hospital between Ashley in her time of need and kind, solid George.  (Johnny should have been there but wasn’t.)  Where are the undercurrents flowing, we’re left to wonder.  One final flare up between George and Johnny occurs when the good son, George, gets back from the hospital.  The exchange, both violent and calm, is revealing, but doesn’t answer all the questions we might have.  The very last line of the movie is also a revelation, but we’re not sure how much to even believe it.  George gives his one-line opinion of the whole trip.  No, I’m not going to spoil it for you – you’ll just have to see it for yourself.  Besides, I wouldn’t be sure how to interpret it even if I did spill the beans.

It’s a good sign when a movie still has you thinking about it days after you’ve seen it.  When you care enough about the people to want to understand their words and actions, it’s got to be good.  To be honest, I can’t say I’ve had that feeling with all that many movies lately. 

Here’s a wee limerick that lovelorn lads may wish to consider before imbibing too freely on the day.

If you must have a beer green as grass,

Enjoy a nice Harp or a Bass.

     But get sloppy with whiskey?

     Well, that’s getting risky.

A smart lass will impasse* your ass.

* For any sticklers out there who object to this increasingly common practice of noun verbification (or word coinification, for that matter), we might have to donnybrook your ass. 

Now where did I put my glass?

I had no idea when I began this blogging enterprise that I’d someday be trotting out oddities like this, but I can’t very well duck a direct challenge.  Kristi has tagged me.  If I understand the rules, I must now reveal 5 strange facts about myself.  My first reaction was that it couldn’t be done.  I’m just not that unusual a guy.  After a moment to ponder, though, I came up with more than enough weird examples – and I’m not even including thought processes.

1. I can usually unscramble the JUMBLE words in about 15 seconds

I’ll get stumped occasionally, but I’m typically done with the 5- and 6-letter foursomes in less than half a minute.  To verify, I timed myself with the last 2 from the funny pages:  IDLAY, PERAP, DEBALF, WAMIDY took 12 seconds and LOOFI, MULPE, VINTAY, YELMIT took 18.  Granted, these are pretty common words, but they seem to pop into place quicker for me than for anyone else I know.  (I don’t go around looking to race, but I see people staring at them on my train commute.)  I realize this not something to feel proud of – it’s probably a strange form of dyslexia more than anything else.  My dad has a related skill.  You can give him any word and a split second later he can tell you what it is backwards.  This was lots of fun when we were kids trolling for silly sounding outcomes.  For example, I randomly threw out “construction worker” and he immediately came back with “rekrow noitcurtsnoc”, much to our delight.

2. I once ate 11 slices of thick-crust pizza

These were good-sized pieces, too – something like 4 by 6 inch rectangles.  This was during college days prior to a Yes concert.  Why 11 seemed like the right number, I don’t know.  This was before Spinal Tap had made the scene, and it certainly had nothing to do with Freud’s theory about little girls and their envy-transferred desire for an eleventh finger.  I guess I was just hungry.

3. I have 9.6 toes.

An evil, flesh-eating lawnmower lopped off the other 0.4.  It laid me up in the hospital for 3 weeks as a youth.  It wasn’t a total loss, though.  I got to read every issue of Mad Magazine ever published.  (Explains a lot, doesn’t it.)

4. I once gave an hour-long presentation on cross-sectional heteroskedasticity and its impact on the efficiency of ordinary least squares estimators.

This is not a boastful statement.  I did, however, manage to keep over half the audience awake, which was no small feat.

5. My sweet wife of 20+ years consistently overestimates me.

How many guys can say that?  As one example, she insists that had it not been for #4 above, I would have been an Olympic runner.  I’ve tried to dispossess her of such wildly extrapolative notions, but she mostly clings to her own versions.  OK, so maybe I could have tried a little harder.

The way it seems to work, it’s the poster’s prerogative to tag others.  I hereby do so, but won’t mention any names in particular.  The only person I’ll single out is one who should not be issued the challenge: Bob.  He’s the master of Top 5 lists and shouldn’t have to stoop to this level.  Come to think of it, I don’t think he’s ever stooped to the level of visiting this space, so it doesn’t really matter.

What follows is a near-exact rendering of how a tired brain gibber-jabbers itself awake, flitting from one random thought to another.

Well, 3:38 – I got the nightly pee out of the way and there’s plenty of time to sleep before the alarm.  No pressure.  Relax the shoulders.  What was it the sleep expert from MSN said to do?  Focus on the details of some pleasant vacation scene?  Ahh, yes, this island is nice.  The tradewinds whistling through the trees along with these slushy drinks make it just cool enough to be comfortable.  Ha, ha, I didn’t notice that monkey in the tree before.  Looks like some kind of chimp.  Maybe it’s one of those Boho … no, that’s not it … 3 syllables and an n in there somewhere … Bonoho?  Can’t remember, but I can google “chimp poachers” to find it, I’m sure.  It’s terrible that they’re in danger of extinction.  I guess it’s their bad luck that they taste good and that they live in a place where poachers can make a living in the black market trafficking such things.  I just read the article – where was that again?  Congo, I think.  Man, it got hot in here.  Africa hot.  [Kicks covers off.]  Those poor little hippie chimps are programmed for peace and I guess they just aren’t conditioned to flee from these profiteering buttheads.  The article alluded to this species' peacemaking through genital handshakes.  That’s different.  Uh oh, am I anthropomorphizing?  And after I wrote such a long-winded entry about that only a week or 2 ago.  On the topic of wandering hands, how did that designer/commentator for E!, Isaac Mizrahi, get away with the boob-grab he did on Scarlett Johansson?  For all I know, E! was thankful for the publicity.  The guy is gay so we’re meant to believe that it wasn’t for any other reason than curiosity about the dress construction that he copped the feel.  Jon Stewart’s line about Capote was pretty funny.  It put forth the notion that “not all gay guys are virile cowboys; some are effete New York intellectuals.”  I don’t usually follow the ceremony very carefully, but poor Clio was missing The Girl, who in years past has been around to share views on the dresses.  I’m fashion-aware enough to know that Larry McMurtry’s ensemble didn’t really work, but beyond that, I was only able to agree that certain bows on gowns looked funny.  Even that much attention to fashion concerns me.  I’m not suppressing something deep inside a closet, am I?  Nah!  How was it Nuke LaLoosh put it?  “This underwear feels kinda sexy.  That don’t make me queer, right?  Right.”  Great line – perfectly in keeping with the knucklehead athlete he portrayed.  And these zealous denials don’t make me homophobic, right?  Right.  Speaking of which, those guys who accepted the award for March of the Penguins seemed a little, you know; but then again, maybe it’s just that they’re French.  (That should be a yellow card for xenophobia, shouldn’t it.)  God, can I think of nothing but clichés?  At least I didn’t think of the Seinfeld line when I was on the gay tangent, not that there’s anything wrong with that.  D’oh!  Oh man, that exclamation is even more tiresome.  Tiresome.  I like that word, but it’s got its own problems.  Not that many people know Metropolitan even though it’s a funny movie; one where phrases like “I’m not tiresome” and “step-mother of untrammeled malevolence” are bandied about in the affected manner that is intended.  How did I get on this topic?  Oh yea, penguins.  Jeez, it’s freezing in here.  [Yanks covers back on.]  Hope I don’t wake Clio.  Cute little wife o’ mine, she sleeps worse than me half the time.  She does like those dresses, but fortunately for me and my tastes, she’s more of a Mary Ann than a Ginger.  At one time that was a relevant and revealing question.  Who do you prefer?  A guy I knew in sixth grade answered Mrs. Howell.  Pretty advanced humor for a kid that age.  Come to think it, though, am I sure he was joking?  [Sudden itching attack ensues.]  Danged dry air.  I wish I had a monkey to scratch those hard-to-reach spots for me.  That don’t make me a … uh, better not go there.  Now where was I?  Oh yea.  Get back in that tree little fella.  Ahh, island paradise – bright sun, cool breeze.  This is a nice, peaceful … BZZZZZZZ!!  Oh Christ, already?  I swear, just when I’m about to…and all for such drivel, too.  Too bad I can’t come up with anything useful while I’m like this.  There are plenty of tweaks to make to my statistical models at work.  It’s even been awhile since I’ve posted anything on that stupid albatross/blog of mine.  [Trudges off to a Tuesday, sleepy, but secure in the knowledge that Clio’s pot of coffee will offer fresh new perspectives.]  Blog posts … hmmm…

1. Bob, of “Top 5” fame, allowed guest bloggers

and I got to be one of them.  Bob himself is something of a smartass, so my ploy for getting selected was to simply follow suit.  The topic, linked here, was Top 5 Fives in Popular Culture.  Our favorite Mocha Queen goaded me into this, by the way.

2. Bumper stickers can be fun

I meandered over to a site from Down Under (some of you know Big Mike in Oz) and his latest post featured a bumper sticker he saw while riding his bike.  It reminded me of a story.  Years ago a popular auto adornment among evangelicals was "Honk if You Love Jesus."  My grandma was a good God-fearing lady so when she came up on a car stopped ahead of her displaying said sticker, she gave her horn a little toot.  The driver then stuck his head out the window and shouted, "What the f*ck do you want, lady -- the light’s still red!"

3. I love my wife with the intensity of a googol suns, but…

we still have a bit of dysfunction to work through.  I’ll explain by way of example.  We were at a Chinese restaurant last week and were trying to decide which 2 entrees to share.  I found a chicken dish – a house special we both liked – so that was one.  Then it was Clio’s turn to decide.  She has a habit of naming several possibilities and then listening to the enthusiasm in my voice as I respond to her.  I’m lucky to have such a considerate mate, I know.  Anyway, she’d identified a couple of them that sounded good, and I told her as much with what I swear was equal zeal for both:  Tofu Country Style and Moo Shu Pork.  I even made a point of saying she should decide because they both sounded great to me.  She ended up choosing the pork because that was the one she did not favor.  I asked her afterwards if she picked it because she assumed that it would be my preference and she confessed that she had.  I told her it really was a toss-up in my mind.  But there is some element of pessimism or self-denial within her that made her think, “Since I want A, Steve would want B, therefore we’ll have B.”  As a side note, the pork was delicious.  Maybe she even knew that’s what I’d think. 

4. I like this format

Shorter, random entries are more in keeping with my scattered, unfocused way of thinking – especially on a Friday.

5. There’s one in the pipeline

I’ve got a longer post in draft form entitled “Profile of a kaleidoscopic friend.”  I found that particular adjective in dictionary.com’s thesaurus, and it’s my favorite part of the piece.  The subject has consented to the sketch, but has not yet seen a draft.  I’m trying to keep any embellishments to a minimum so, for one thing, he’ll need to fact-check.  I’d hate for Oprah to get a hold of it for her Blogography of the Month Club and then have to chew me out when it’s later revealed that I overstepped the bounds.

After my blatant attempt last week to induce any sort of encouragement to continue, a few readers were charitable enough to oblige.  One wrote, “Please don’t stop.”  (I might have forgotten a semicolon after “don’t”, but it was something like that.)  Another said, “You should keep it up – it seems therapeutic for you, and certainly cheaper than sessions on the couch.”  So, by popular demand, I’m now officially back.  Of course, it would be even better if I had anything to say.  Hmm… maybe I could go with a topic I know nothing about.  That shouldn’t be too limiting.

If you don’t mind me slipping out of schlemiel mode and into my mock quasi-curmudgeonly persona, I’ll opine about an issue that’s just now occurred to me:  Equity within the animal kingdom.  What I’m talking about is how in the court of public opinion there are clear winners and losers, but it’s often based on unfair criteria.  I’m reluctant to say what brought this topic to mind since it will seem like I have an axe to grind.  Honestly, I have nothing against Bob Barker (aside from the usual grumble that his 15 minutes of fame didn’t need to extend into a sixth decade, especially after sexual harassment charges were filed).  And I certainly don’t have anything against elephants.  For those of you who don’t usually make it past page 3 of the newspaper, Barker has been an animal rights advocate lobbying on behalf of the elephants in the LA Zoo, saying that their lives have been miserable and that they should be released into a sanctuary.  (At least they didn’t have to watch 34 years of “The Price is Right.”)  Again, for the record, I’m not arguing the merits of this case.  In fact, if these animals are indeed mistreated, then I am truly sad for them.  But I’m not disproportionately sad.  My point is there are other animals out there with worse plights that simply lack the PR that the chosen ones have to grease their skids.

To develop my case, let’s first consider an extreme – bugs.  Most of us, me included, don’t mind squishing an insect for no greater offense than trespassing.  In our house, I’ve always been the designated spider killer and I do it without remorse as long as it lowers the level of shrieking.  So why don’t we have spider advocates?  (We don’t, do we?)  I think the answer is pretty obvious:  bugs just aren’t very smart.  They’re closer to amoebas than they are to man.  Since their nervous systems are not at all highly developed, it’s easy to see that any pain or hardship they might experience must be relatively trivial.  (Just so I don’t have to keep thinking in terms of asides, just assume that every sentence I write in this post is followed with, “I think; I don’t really know.”)  Maybe we can all agree that the intelligence and complexity of an organism should matter.  Even someone who would never hurt a fly can find some level of killing comfort – maybe stepping in a rain puddle with a paramecium in it would be OK for them.  Sorry, I’m rambling now.

By the intelligence criterion, an elephant would have to rank very high.  They’re renowned for their memories, right?  Using the same yardstick, pigs should be revered, as well, for being one of the smartest 4-legged animals around.  They’ve got image problems, though.  Greedy, fat, sloppy … these are not traits to endear them to most humans.  Be that as it may, I don’t think this anti-pig sentiment is fair.  We’re too inclined to judge animals by people standards.  Cuteness is a prime example.  A less fortunate beast by this measure, like, say, a big ol’ hog, just doesn’t garner much sympathy even if he’s feeling down in the dumps.

At the other end of the scale, chimps are always popular, and for good reason.  They’re clever, playful and, well, cute.  We recognize ourselves in their actions and expressions.  How about some of the other primates, though.  Orangutans and baboons are almost as advanced as chimps, but they don’t have that adorable child-like quality and suffer for it in the likeability surveys.

We men are often accused of being too focused on looks, but I think it’s the women who are more often the lookists when it comes to animals.  Contrast how the respective genders might react first to chipmunks and then to rats.  A typical female would describe a chipmunk as cute and furry.  Your average guy (and here I’m excluding anyone on Johnny Weir’s side of the princess scale) is more likely to say, “That stupid thing better not dig a hole under my porch!”  As for rats, and for the sake of argument let’s focus not on the little white ones in labs, but on the nasty, bloated ones that climb up the pipes of toilets in New York City, guys have no special fondness.  At the same time, men don’t share the same depth of loathing for them that most ladies have.  Actually, maybe we do.  They do seem particularly disgusting, especially if we’re the ones who’d have to deal with them if they ever paid a visit.

Beyond the bushiness of the tail, part of the equation seems to relate to size.  Certainly an ROUS or a sewer rat is much worse than a little rodent cousin like a field mouse or a gerbil.  But we’re inconsistent with this criterion, too, it seems.  Again, an elephant is one of our favorites.  One of them feeling constrained is somehow worse than a farm animal feeling the same.  A beached whale can elicit strong mammalian empathy and mobilize great resources to help it.  Is that partly driven by its size and its highly visible suffering?  Sometimes it seems like a beached bum would be so lucky to have the same medical attention.

My dear wife is one of those aforementioned connoisseurs of cuteness.  I actually like this, contrary to my previous tone.  Maybe it was socialization with stuffed animals or perhaps something more instinctual, but those cuddly little creatures that won her affection were good proxies for the cute little child we ultimately had.  Gushing over animal cuteness presaged a very loving mommy.  Anyway, penguins have been her personal favorite since early days.  Of course, they’ve been popularized by March of the Penguins, but she reminds everyone that she’s not just fad-hopping when she avows her passion for them.  She not only likes the formalwear, but also the strength of character and family orientation.  This is certainly laudable, but it’s also anthropomorphism to the max.  We read “strong family values” into their one-season monogamy as though they willfully choose the right moral conduct.

For a flip-side example of anthropomorphic judgment being passed, consider our views on hyenas.  They do have that hideous laugh.  I remember my surprise at how derisive their “taunts” sounded the first time I ever heard them on a nature show.  But that’s adjudicating their whole existence by our own silly standard, isn’t it.

Does it strike anyone else as funny how willing we are to project distinctly human emotions onto animals?  Cat owners seem particularly prone to this. ?!? Some would have you believe that Sophie is suffering from existential angst while fur balls work their way down and up her digestive tract.  Our human tendency, in general, is to view animals through the emotions we imagine them to feel.  Some animals fare better than others with these projections, and I suspect looks are again a factor.  Beady-eyed animals never have noble thoughts, right?

One reason to put a particular species on the black list is if it wants to eat you.  Fair enough.  Actually, we may respect natural born killers like jungle cats, but we hate when they make a meal of some scared and scurrying little morsel.  The law of the jungle, though, says that predators and prey are as Mother Nature intended.  Any aspersions we cast when we see the overdog at the top of the food chain devouring some hapless little critter further down are misguided, I think.  Predators are just out there surviving; they’re not homicidal maniacs.

So am I taking all the fun out of animal fancy?  Maybe so.  I didn’t intend to be cold and analytical, though I can see how one might think that I am.  All I’m really trying to do is write a screenplay featuring a rat, a snake, a warthog, and a hyena as the down-trodden, misunderstood characters that viewers begin to feel for once they get the full story.

A fun survey has been circulating throughout the blogosphere (or at least my own smaller blogocosm) that asks for 7 entries for each of 7 different questions.  The categories are things like favorite books and phrases you often repeat.  One of the questions is particularly relevant to me, especially lately.  It asks, “What attracts you to blogging?”  It’s not that difficult to come up 7 reasons I think this whole exercise of journal writing for public consumption is enjoyable and worthwhile.  Unfortunately, the list of reasons why it’s problematic is easy to construct, too, in my case.

Pros:

1. I write better than I speak, if only because speakers usually don’t have the luxury of presenting third drafts.
2. Creating things can fulfill an inner need.  Even if the creativity involves a big mess to cook up, it can be pretty satisfying when it all comes together.
3. It’s a chance to meet cool people with similar interests, or even people with dissimilar interests who can open your eyes to something new.
4. As memories fade over time, it might be fun to look back some day at earlier posts.  Then again, it might be alarming to see how inane and immature the neophyte was. 
5. Some stories are funny enough to share, and I’ve heard some good ones from friends.
6. Manipulating words rather than numbers is a nice change of pace for a quantitative analyst.
7. On occasion, a blog can bring on a compliment.  Some even seem sincere if they’re not just reflexive responses to kudos I may have given earlier.

 Cons:

1. I can’t ever find the right emoticon.  For example, the winkie doesn’t cut it if there are deeper shades of sarcasm or irony you want to convey.  More generally, it’s often a problem in writing to make the reader hear the tone of voice you intend.
2. It’s all too easy to obsess about your blog.  I’m not talking about just the content either, though that can be a big part.  The balance in your life can be knocked out of whack even by trivial things like checking for comments or viewer traffic.
3. With numbers you can achieve objective truth – perfection.  With words you can’t.  That can be a tough thing for a perfectionist personality to reconcile.  I sometimes lose sleep over stupid stuff, trying to get it “right”.  Along with that, my wife said she’s noticed more gray hairs recently (though she’s sweet enough to use the standard euphemism – they’re “distinguished looking”).
4. The blog takes time.  Time is money.  The boss pays me better than any blog sponsor could and I would do well to remember that.
5. Other writers are really good.  When I look around and see other bloggers who express themselves so well and with so little apparent effort, and then consider journalists and authors who do this for a living also competing for finite readership, it makes me wonder what I’m trying to do here.
6. My sphere extends only so far.  Our daughter is caught up in her new college adventures and prefers to stay in touch by phone, not Dad’s on-line musings.  I put a few teasers out to friends and extended family, too, and haven’t had many nibbles there either.  I don’t feel bad, though.  People have busy lives and prefer to spend reading time with those I mentioned in #5.
7. This has been an exercise in self-indulgence.  Do you need to look any further than this post for evidence?

Again, this is a list that applies to me, and shouldn’t be taken as a statement about all bloggers.  I’m sure most e-diarists don’t suffer from the same bad aspects of it that I do.  Reflecting on these lists, it seems like the scales are tipped in favor of the cons.

So is this post my swan song?  Is this bird bleedin’ demised, bereft of life, shuffled off the mortal coil?  Or is ‘e just pinin’ for the fjords?  Good question.  A week or 2 ago I made what was meant to be a small self-deprecating joke/jab at the sparsity of readers who comment on my posts and that evidently got some of my aforementioned favorite blogfellows to take pity and leave multiple comments.  I don’t want to seem like I’m going to that well again when I ponder whether ‘tis nobler to blog or not to blog.  At the same time, there is enough Tom Sawyer in me to be a little curious about what people might say at the funeral.  (How’s that for a set of classical references?  You don’t often get Monty Python, Shakespeare and Mark Twain all in the same paragraph.)

Anyway, I’d love to hear from any friends out there, on-line or off.  It’s been great getting to know you!  I say that sincerely whether I regain my balance and ultimately post again or not.

With the Winter Games in Torino now underway, fans like me who also appreciate the less heralded sports are given our ration.  I’m not sure why I get caught up in the drama of things like the cross-country skiing relays and whether the Norwegians will defend their title or not, but it somehow draws me in.  It might have something to do with the type of athlete you typically find in these events.  They’ve done the math and know that the chances for Wheaties box honors are remote, but they’re competing anyway for the love of the game.  There’s a healthy international feel to events like these, too.  (I go way back with ABC’s Wide World of Sports, spanning the globe to bring you the constant variety, and all that.)  Another part of the appeal is expressed in their word “variety.”  If these more minor sports were saturating the airwaves all the time, they might not be as interesting.  A spotlight once every 4 years is about right for many of them.

Anyway, this has set a stream of reminiscence into motion that for me starts in Munich in the summer of ’72.  Spielberg has his version of the events – and they’re very important – but I’m going to stick to just the sporting ones.

The biggest headlines went to the dashing young dentist-to-be in the Speedo.  It’s almost hard to look at the pictures now of Spitz with his 7 gold medals (too much of a 70’s style, too much male display), but he was clearly the poster boy of the time.  And it was a remarkable achievement.

In the ahh-ain’t-she-cute-(especially for a Soviet) category we had Olga Korbut.  She wore her emotions on the sleeve of her leotards, and there was plenty of empathy even beyond the iron curtain when she fell during the gymnastics all-around competition.  This plucky little pig-tailed girl came back, though, in the event finals to win gold in Balance Beam and Floor Exercise.

None of us thought the Soviets on the basketball court were cute, especially after the dubiously recurring 3 seconds on the clock allowed them to score the “winning” basket over the US.  This was in the days, of course, when the US fielded a non-professional team.  They seemed more worthy of our hopes and affection than the pampered stars of later years.

I had just completed my first season on the Junior High track team and was very taken by a fellow runner out of Ohio named Dave Wottle.  His event was the 800 meter run – twice around the track.  He was actually kind of a shy guy, but was thought to be colorful because of a golf cap he wore when he ran.  It was easy to pick him out of the crowd.  It was also easy to see that he was in last place after the first lap of his race.  Half a lap beyond that, he was still trailing the field.  Then it happened – his famous kick.  He had saved enough to put on an amazing sprint to the finish, passing his flagging adversaries one by one.  The toughest of them, though, Arzhanov of the Soviet Union and Boit from Kenya were right there with him at the tape.  Boit finished at 1:46.0 and Wottle and Arzhanov were both clocked at 1:45.9.  Wottle just barely got the win with a final lunge at the end.  On the medal stand afterwards, he forgot to take off his hat for the anthem, but it was a simple case of absent-mindedness (which I relate to), not a bigger statement.

Wottle was a huge inspiration to me, but then so was America’s top wrestler that year, Dan Gable.  Any of you who know the sport, know that he reigns supreme.  He’s renowned not only for his dominance on the mat, but also for his coaching.  His Iowa Hawkeye teams won 9 straight NCAA titles with him at the helm.  His record as a participant was even more incredible.  He lost only one time during his entire high school and college career.  The one loss was a strong motivator, though.  I remember an “Up Close and Personal” segment they did on him before they called it that, showing that he spent hours and hours training, thinking all the while that he couldn’t let anyone else outwork him.  Just to supplement a usual day of weight lifting, practicing moves and sparring, he’d go through a deck of cards one at a time and whatever number he turned up, do that many pushups.  As you might have guessed, he dominated the event.  In fact, no one scored a single point on him.

All Olympic Games have memorable performances, but this one was special to me.  I’d be interested to hear what other people have as great Olympic stories to remember.

With a title like that, this post could be about any number of things.  For instance, I could talk about Northwestern’s most recent football season where their stellar offense (493 yards per game) was in large part counterbalanced by their bad defense (483 yards per game – last among Division I teams).  In their bowl game against UCLA, they scored 38; enough to win most games, but they gave up 50.  This could also be about the Belgian women’s soccer club that recently gave up 50 goals in a single game.  Their first-string keeper had gone to a rock concert that day instead, leaving a complete novice to mind the nets in her place.  But no, instead, this is a character profile of a guy I know at work who, for reasons to be revealed, I’m calling Bad D.

The first thing you have to understand about Bad D is that 90% of what he says is with tongue firmly planted in cheek.  You’re not always sure which statements qualify in the 90 and which are in the 10, but that’s what makes him provocative, entertaining and bad.  Here’s an example.  The Big Kahuna who founded our company has a personal assistant, a modest, friendly lady who came into work one morning with a new hairstyle.  Bad D weighed in immediately with, “Nice mullet!”  The fact that it did look a little like a mullet made it funnier, but from her perspective, a jab much harder to deflect.

He’ll often comment on people’s attire in a mocking, satirical way.  It doesn’t seem to matter that he himself may wear a pink striped shirt with an ancient yellow and orange madras tie and khakis that are 2 inches too short.  In warmer weather he’ll go without socks – a noticeably unnatural look with his wingtips.  He’s somehow impervious to any barbs thrown his way despite the apparent truth of the matter:  sartorially speaking he runs right up the side of Love Canal.

One time at an office dinner party a young women we work with bravely introduced her sister to Bad D.  After a brief conversation, he turned to our colleague and said, “It must make you really jealous that Sissy here has all the brains and the beauty in the family.”  We found out the next day that Bad D bruises easily.

The best Bad D story I remember hearing (or should I say the worst?) applied to his own family.  This episode was right after 9/11 when Bad D's poor 10-year-old daughter was genuinely afraid that a plane might crash through their house into her front bedroom.  Most dads at this point would have tried to allay these fears, talking about the nonexistent risk that their cloistered home would be a target.  Instead, Bad D's response was, "Yea, well why do you think Mom and I have our room in the back."  I sincerely hope that this was a case where the 90% classification was both correct and widely acknowledged to be.