I'm the proud owner of a brand new baby boy

He's not always quite this peaceful,
but we like him anyway.

My chosen career just got more interesting?

In the course of my job as a financial journalist and in following my oft-nerdy curiosity, I found myself reading a financial column today with this headline on top: "General Electric: Genuine risk of collapse?"

It was interesting and discussed a possibility I had not read about elsewhere. The writer pointed out that the gigantic corporation has more to do with banking and financial services than it does with innovation of earth-friendly technologies -- or "ecomagination" as the TV ads say. So, like any financial services company right now, GE could be in a bit of trouble.

The signs point to a company that's at least a little concerned about its cash position and very heavy on debt, and so the writer of the column concludes that GE could be on the verge of a collapse.

Or, uh, I think that's what he concludes.

Actually, maybe he doesn't conclude anything. He just suggests a lot of things and tops them off with a question.

Don't get me wrong: it's a valid discussion and an interesting read. But after reading it, I began to notice just how many of the "news" headlines I saw online ended in question marks today.

I spotted headlines such as "Is Citigroup for sale?" and "An Obama New Deal?" and "Pam Anderson: Pinhead or Patriot?"

Granted, the Obama article is obviously a commentary and speculation piece, and the Pam Anderson bit is Fox News dribble. But how about this one: "CNN Ticker: Obama picks national security advisor?" First of all, the very notion of a ticker is that it delivers breaking news. I'm not sure how it can be breaking news if you have a question mark at the end. Secondly, the headline is clearly a declarative sentence, designed to state a fact. It's totally illogical to end it in a question mark.

Among my favorites of the day: "Does Mars photo prove aliens exist?" At least this sentence is actually a question.

I have mixed feelings about this barrage of skeptically punctuated headlines. First, as a curious reader who wants to know about the important events of the day, I fear it is going to get even harder for me to keep tabs on the news that matters. If news organizations steadily increase the amount of forward-looking speculation in their reporting (which is not a new concept, I realize), readers will have to spend extra time and thought filtering out which ideas are worth consideration and which ones have been weakly imagined by reporters and editors as a way to fill the "news hole".

As if information overload wasn't enough.

On the other hand, as a writer who likes both journalism and creative writing, I think this could really open up new possibilities for my career. See, the great thing about writing speculation is that you don't have to do so much damn fact-checking. Writers are free to look at a situation, think up possible scenarios that could result, and then write about that possibility, leaning heavily on words like "could" and "might" -- and of course, ending the headline with a question mark.

(Honestly, this sounds painfully similar to my job now, but at least in this case my company's subscribers are investment professionals who know they're paying for speculation, not mass-media consumers who are prone to confuse the articles with affirmative announcements of breaking news.)

At the extreme of this trend, I can envision a new offshoot of the narrative journalism genre -- creative journalism. You know: reporters take real-world people and events and create interesting subplots or side-stories to go along with the news of the day. Part of the fun for the readers would be trying to figure out what's real and what's totally made up.

I'm kidding? Good journalists would never do that?

They certainly aren't already doing it now? At the New York Times, for example?

I know, enough already.

(?)

If you all could just stay home a couple days, that'd be great

Funny how our brains work. Every day, we wake up for work and think, "Man, I wish I could just stay in bed and take the day off." What? Is that just me? Oh no, there, I see some hands in the back.

But then, when you and few thousand co-workers get a company memo suggesting you consider a brief vacation -- unpaid, that is -- in order to potentially help prevent more layoffs at the company... well, it just doesn't bring the satisfaction you might have hoped. That's the letter that employees at computer maker Dell recently received, as the company struggles with soft consumer spending on big-ticket items like computers.

Of course, I suppose when your company is in the final stages of an 8,900-person layoff, a memo proposing a five-day break doesn't seem so scary, relatively speaking. If nothing else, the break would give employees a little free time to look for different jobs.

Unfortunately, Dell employees aren't the only folks a little nervous about their paychecks these days. A private report estimated US companies eliminated 157,000 jobs in October, the largest single-month drop since 2002. I've been reading of layoffs and/or bankruptcies among restaurants, auto dealers, pharmaceutical companies, retail chains, and manufacturers, to name a few. And, in particular, I've seen announcements by some major manufacturing companies planning more major layoffs and plant closures in the fourth quarter this year, in preparation for what they expect to be a tough 2009.

Why am I getting all business-and-economic-newsy on you? Mostly because it freaks me out a little bit. It's a rather scary time to be having a baby. Knowing that my paycheck comes from those big banks and investment banks that keep making headlines for their failures, I get a little uneasy at times. If I were to lose my job, the fact is I have few if any marketable skills beyond writing and editing, and I'm afraid those aren't the types of jobs that companies consider indispensable when budgets are tight.

I'm not asking you to lose any sleep over me and the fam, though. My company keeps reporting decent sales numbers, including 13% growth over 2007, so far this year. And I haven't heard any buzz of layoffs -- although I don't work in an office, so I probably wouldn't hear it if there were any.

It's all just a little weird to me. At age 28, this is the first time I've ever heard people talk about being in a recession and looked around me and seen how it could very well impact me directly, without much warning. Let's hope not.

And good luck to the Dell folks. Enjoy your days off, but I'd recommend you spend at least a couple of them sending out resumes.

The Palin prank -- what the others haven't told you

News outlets have widely reported on the prank phone call recently made to vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin. A Montreal radio personality called and spoke to Palin, claiming to be French President Nicolas Sarkozy. Speaking in an exaggerated French accent, the interviewer sneakily jabbed at Palin about Joe the Plumber, her comments on seeing Russia from her home and a porno made to spoof her. Palin responded with hesitant, polite conversation until the prankster revealed himself as such, and a campaign aide took the phone to end the call.

Hysterical.

OK, well, a little funny.

Actually, it was mostly dumb, but I give the interviewer an E for effort (which is naturally right between D and F on the standard U.S. grading scale).

Palin's camp has appeared largely undisturbed by the prank, at least in its public statements. One spokesperson described Palin as "mildly amused" by the incident -- although I contend that "mildly amused" is her natural, default demeanor.

In reality, there's another reason why Palin and her people are purportedly passive about the prickly pranksters (conclusion of gratuitous alliteration). It's because Palin is just moments away from revealing a much bigger, more impressive prank.

This blogger has learned that at 9 p.m. Eastern standard time, in a presidential election special of "Saturday Night Live," Palin and her accomplices will reveal that her candidacy for VP has been a carefully executed prank on the people of the United States.

While I have not been able to obtain an exact script of the sketch, SNL insiders say the revelation will occur midway through the program as the real Palin and the Tina Fey version engage in a mock debate, during which they apparently compete to see who can make the most over-the-top idiotic statements. After the real Palin blurts out a serious of comments so ridiculous and offensive to human reasoning that even the staunchest GOP voters in the audience will reconsider their choice, Ashton Kutcher will rush out onto the stage and shout: "America, you've been Punk'd!"

Campaign insiders tell us that a new vice presidential nominee will then be introduced. They wouldn't name him for fear of spoiling the surprise, but they did hint they he was older, whiter and better endowed (in the penis department) than Palin.

The stated motives for the Palin stunt vary widely depending whom we ask. GOP campaign insiders describe the intent as two-fold: A) The party wanted to appear hip and in touch with the young, TV/Internet generation by dropping a major news item for some last-minute publicity, and B) They couldn't get a real candidate to agree to join the ticket in time for a traditional announcement.

However, people close to Kutcher and Fey (who were both instrumental in the prank since its beginning) say the TV stars will describe the prank as one carried out strictly for entertainment purposes. Meanwhile, there's chatter that the liberal Hollywood types have been secretly steering the plan in a direction that would discourage voters from electing the GOP ticket.

Whatever the case, this hoax obviously took a lot of cunning and coordination. One insider suggested that McCain himself hasn't been told yet that Palin is not his real running mate. The same source also said Barack Obama was even in on the prank: "Think of him as the hedge fund short-seller to the plan -- betting on failure by the GOP."

Well, McCain/Palin, it's been a zany ride. Boy, do we all feel silly now.

BofA's NASCAR Banking: The financial markets are saved!!!

You've all heard the painful news from the world financial markets: Major banks and investment banks have failed. Stock prices have plummeted (and taken down retirement accounts with them). The credit markets are tight and getting tighter, which means some businesses lack the working capital to effectively operate and pay their employees.

It's bad news. People have thrown around doom-and-gloom words like "depression" and "bread lines." And while I can't deny that there are some fundamental economic problems that will take time to work out, I also think the average consumer and investor needs to try not to panic. What we need is a little confidence, to keep at least a reasonable amount of spending and investing alive.

Well, today, I found the confidence that I needed in the form of a radio ad. Today I learned about Bank of America's NASCAR Banking program.

Thank heaven. We are saved.

Before, I might have been a little concerned that banks were unstable and maybe I should consider stuffing a little cash and maybe a jar of Nutella into my mattress, just to be safe. But now I've found something that makes all that precaution unnecessary. What could possibly be more secure than a free, no-minimum-balance Dale Earnhardt Jr. checking account? (Also available in Jeff Gordon, Mark Martin and about a dozen other varieties.)

Seriously, Earnhardt has been the rock of a multi-generational racing family ever since his father's untimely demise in 2001. The guy has ranked in the top 10 in four out of the last six NASCAR seasons. Plus, his success has naturally bolstered his finances, as he's averaged about $5 million a year in winnings since 2001.

I think it's safe to assume that my Dale Earnhardt Jr. checking account will be just as sturdy, reliable and lucrative as its namesake driver. I'm moving all my money over there today. Nevermind that Bank of America had to cut in half its quarterly dividend and raise $10 billion in capital last week to keep racing through this series of yellow-flag laps. This NASCAR Banking program should be just the thing to keep BofA leading the pack of US banks, and hopefully let the rest of the financial system draft off its success.

Some might say I'm being overly optimistic. I say: those people have never met Jr.

OK, so I've never met Jr. either, but he seems pretty cool.

At any rate, if this plan doesn't work and the financial markets truly do collapse, we can always go back to a bartering system.

I couldn't say it any better

On the day after a terrible anniversary for our nation, I found an article in my e-mail that I think is worth sharing.

The following letter was drafted by a handful of religious leaders including Jim Wallis, founder of the progressive Christian organization Sojourners, shortly after the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001. About 4,000 of the nation's religious leaders (from a number of faiths) endorsed the letter and it was soon printed in the New York Times as an advertisement.

I hope everyone can appreciate the sentiments of these words, regardless of your own religious beliefs. I can only wish that the nation's political leaders had heeded them over these past seven years:

"Deny Them Their Victory: A Religious Response to Terrorism

We, American religious leaders, share the broken hearts of our fellow citizens. The worst terrorist attack in history that assaulted New York City, Washington, D.C., and Pennsylvania has been felt in every American community. Each life lost was of unique and sacred value in the eyes of God, and the connections Americans feel to those lives run very deep. In the face of such a cruel catastrophe, it is a time to look to God and to each other for the strength we need and the response we will make. We must dig deep to the roots of our faith for sustenance, solace and wisdom.

First, we must find a word of consolation for the untold pain and suffering of our people. Our congregations will offer their practical and pastoral resources to bind up the wounds of the nation. We can become safe places to weep and secure places to begin rebuilding our shattered lives and communities. Our houses of worship should become public arenas for common prayer, community discussion, eventual healing, and forgiveness.

Second, we offer a word of sober restraint as our nation discerns what its response will be. We share the deep anger toward those who so callously and massively destroy innocent lives, no matter what the grievances or injustices invoked. In the name of God, we too demand that those responsible for these utterly evil acts be found and brought to justice. Those culpable must not escape accountability. But we must not, out of anger and vengeance, indiscriminately retaliate in ways that bring on even more loss of innocent life. We pray that President Bush and members of Congress will seek the wisdom of God as they decide upon the appropriate response.

Third, we face deep and profound questions of what this attack on America will do to us as a nation. The terrorists have offered us a stark view of the world they would create, where the remedy to every human grievance and injustice is a resort to the random and cowardly violence of revenge -- even against the most innocent. Having taken thousands of our lives, attacked our national symbols, forced our political leaders to flee their chambers of governance, disrupted our work and families, and struck fear into the hearts of our children, the terrorists must feel victorious.

But we can deny them their victory by refusing to submit to a world created in their image. Terrorism inflicts not only death and destruction but also emotional oppression to further its aims. We must not allow this terror to drive us away from being the people God has called us to be. We assert the vision of community, tolerance, compassion, justice, and the sacredness of human life, which lies at the heart of all our religious traditions. America must be a safe place for all our citizens in all their diversity. It is especially important that our citizens who share national origins, ethnicity, or religion with whoever attacked us are, themselves, protected among us.

Our American illusion of invulnerability has been shattered. From now on, we will look at the world in a different way, and this attack on our life as a nation will become a test of our national character. Let us make the right choices in this crisis -- to pray, act, and unite against the bitter fruits of division, hatred and violence. Let us rededicate ourselves to global peace, human dignity, and the eradication of the injustice that breeds rage and vengeance.

As we gather in our houses of worship, let us begin a process of seeking the healing and grace of God."

September is a new day: A personal pep talk in five stanzas

September is a new day, and I shall be a new man. I shall water the ferns more regularly and walk the dogs at least every other day. I shall read more and work fewer crossword puzzles. I shall comb my hair and brush my teeth first thing each morning, even though I do not plan to leave the house. I shall whistle while I work.

I shall eat less fast food and exercise more. I shall finally buy life insurance and e-mail the photos to my uncle that I promised him months ago. I shall clean my floors twice weekly.

I shall spend more of my work hours working. I shall spend any free work hours pursuing the freelance writing opportunities I have long claimed to want. I shall more frequently foster creativity through blogging, which shall mean bettering my recent average of three to four posts per month. I shall spend far less time playing this game and this game, and for goodness sake I shall not play any more of this game.

I shall be more content and less restless, yet I shall boldly go where no man has gone before. I shall try something new in bed. I shall not pay anyone $1,500 to $2,000 to paint the exterior trimwork of my house, the scoundrels.

I shall resist evil and seek justice. I shall give to charity. I shall stand my ground against the neighborhood cats who defecate in my yard. I shall be a new man.

A lifetime of learning

As much as I value the knowledge I gained through formal education, sometimes life's most important lessons are learned through day-to-day experiences. So, to help you and me both avoid work and productivity for a little while, here is a quick list of lessons I've recently learned:

1. August is not the time of year to do home-improvement projects inside your attic. This sounds like common sense, I know, but yet I have been (and continue to be) determined to complete a radiant barrier project in my attic before Georgia's sweltering summer ends. The idea here is to see whether and how well the radiant barrier works, as its mission is to deflect away some of the sun's heat energy, cooling down the attic on hot summer days and then cooling down the upstairs rooms.

Despite knowing that the attic temperatures easily top 100 degrees on sunny days, I attempted to work in the space two days straight a couple of weekends ago. It was very slow-moving work (applying the radiant barrier mixed with paint by roller), and my clothes were entirely drenched with sweat, as if I had jumped into a pool. I knew I had to call it a day at about 1:00 on Saturday afternoon, when I found myself sitting on a plank between two ceiling joists feeling so sluggish that I considered taking a nap inside the attic.

I'll be back attic, and I'll defeat you. But on rainy days when the sun has not baked through the roof all morning.

2. My best solution in the what-baby-stuff-to-register-for crisis (See prior post) is this: Register for almost everything and then return to the store the things you don't use. Seriously, it was really hurting my head for a while, trying to figure out a way to be a minimalist at the whole raising a baby thing. Trouble is: I've never raised a baby. I've only seen other people do it, and I've never seen anyone else do it in a way that I would consider even close to minimalist. Plus, I know many family and friends are going to buy us lots of stuff, whether we register for it or not. So I've decided (and I think Meaghan agrees) that we're going to err on the side of getting things, and then when we see what we are not using we'll take that stuff back to the store.

That's not so much a lesson learned from day-to-day experience as a decision to escape my usual indecisiveness.

3. In any garden or area of self-installed landscaping, the most expensive plants always die first. This is a repeat lesson, exactly the same as the one nature taught us last summer, but we had hoped this time it would be different. Of the various flowers, bushes and ferns we set out this year (not an overall expensive lot, mind you), the only ones making any effort to continue flourishing are the absolutely cheapest white flowers in the garden. There is one fern on the front porch that continues to do well, looking like its own miniature rainforest, while its counterpart (which received the exact same watering treatment) is the equivalent of Charlie Brown's twig of a Christmas tree.

I suppose maybe the real lesson here should be: Plants die without water. We are pitifully neglectful about watering our plants. If I do go to the trouble of ever planting a vegetable garden in my yard, I will most certainly have to install some of those drip-irrigation hoses to keep it watered.

4. Wherever there's a hole in a fence that you're pretty sure your dog can't get out, the dog will most certainly get out. Maybe two days in a row. Especially if that dog is Jewels.

No worries; we got her back. She had just gone next door to visit another dog. And the hole is officially repaired now. She's not getting out at that spot again unless she learns to use a pry bar and pop the nails loose. I'm pretty sure.

5. Gently jogging a couple times a week on an indoor track is poor preparation for running a very hilly 5K road race. Seriously. Some of you may be familiar with a certain hill topped by a tower topped by a clock. Well, try running up that hill in the middle of a 5-kilometer footrace. It hurts. I haven't been that sore in a long time.

That's pretty much all. I hope that, deep down, I have learned much more valuable lessons than these in the last several weeks, but they're escaping my mind at the moment.

Is it sad that I'm excited about diapers?

A quick prologue here: I realize it will be tempting to comment on this post with a simple, "Yes. Yes, it is." Resist that temptation, or risk having your comment deleted by the administrator (that's me). I'm looking for something a little more thoughtful, despite the forbidden yes/no-question title.

The wife and I have recently discovered that there's a whole lot of crap out there for babies. Mostly plastic crap.

Crap for them to sit in, sleep in, ride in, drink out of, eat out of, pee in, vomit on, swing from, make noise with, chew on, and of course crap for them to crap in. I shouldn't really say we've "discovered" this abundance, because we kind of already knew about it. We had been to stores before and seen much of this crap in passing, but the reality sank in hard when we recently visited an area megalo-store (whose name started with a "Tar" in case anyone is wondering) to begin creating a baby gift registry.

Apparently some kind, generous people whom we know and in some cases share DNA markers with are planning to buy gifts for us to be used for the baby's benefit. (In reality, probably just a few of them are kind and generous, while many others will feel obligated by some ancient tribal tradition to buy tiny baby outfits by the case-full, complete with cute shoes that the child will never wear. Regardless, the point is: we'll get stuff.)

So, to help them select this stuff to get us... well, we select it for them, walking around the store(s) with a little barcode-scanning gun to compile an electronic list.

The point of all my rambling is that we, as first-time parents and wanna-be environmentalists, had no idea how to distinguish the stuff that we'll really need from the stuff that Gerber just really wants to sell us. (Good environmentalists don't buy stuff just because Gerber tells them to.)

Meaghan did find several articles on the Internet on the subject --- the general theme of which was the baby mostly just wants to eat, sleep and be loved, so don't stress about the stuff. It was morale-boosting advice, but didn't really get us any closer to deciding whether to buy one car seat with two snap-on bases (one for each car), or two car seats, or a car seat-stroller "travel system", or a car seat that's adjustable for all stages of baby-toddler-young childhood.

The good news is -- and this is the uber-dorky variety of excitement of which you were warned -- we have found an earth-friendly alternative in the diaper category that I can feel really good about as a parent-to-be. (Do I need to stick the word "advertisement" in tiny print at the top of this post? Cause that last sentence sounded like one of those "advertorial" letters in a cheap magazine -- you know, you get halfway through the letter and then realize it's about how some nutritional supplement changed this woman's life and saved her marriage.)

We have decided we're going to use gDiapers. (Cue the dramatic music.)

This crowd can immediately see the problem with standard disposable diapers, I'm sure. You do an awful lot of disposing, not to mention the ills of the plastic manufacturing process. I read that diapers are something like the No. 3 single largest contributor to U.S. landfill waste, an annual dump of 3.5 million tons of poop and plastic (but that came from the gDiapers website, so the data might be skewed for impact).

gDiapers look to be an excellent alternative to the disposables (says the guy who really has no idea how much work this whole diapering process will require). As explained on the website, though, it looks like the changing process is not much different from disposables.

The gDiapers are outer cotton pants, with an inner protective liner and then a refill liner. The refill liner is meant to catch all the pee and poop, in most cases. (Sometimes there's leakage or squishing, as with any diaper. A gross truth of child-rearing that I somehow already know.)

So at each changing, you just tear out the refill liner and flush it down your toilet. The main liner stays put (unless there was leakage or squishing) and you just put in a new refill liner. You wash the outer pants and main liner as needed; the frequency of washings will depend on how many pairs of the pants you have.

There's nothing to throw away! It's fantastic! It's earth-friendly. It's... it's... greentastic!

OK, calming down...

The refill liners actually are made of fluffed wood pulp with some standard absorbent material, so they can be flushed or thrown away if you've got old plumbing that gets clogged easily. We'll see what works at our place, which does have old plumbing, I'm afraid. But, even if you do have to throw the refills away, they're biodegradable, so much so that you can actually compost the wet ones in your own home compost pile. (Not the poopy ones. Don't compost the poop of any being that eats meat or dairy.)

Not only do we escape the guilt of producing a lot of waste this way (and hopefully keep a lot of stink out of our trash cans), but the materials are safer for baby's health. No plastic, no bleaching used in manufacturing, and so on.

I suspect these gDiapers will end up costing us a little more than disposables, but probably not much more in the long run, since the flushable refill liners are the only piece that we'll have to keep buying over and over. The cotton pants seems somewhat expensive, at $17 to $19 a pair, although we can get a little break by buying the "starter kit".

Regardless, the cost won't be exorbitant (any more so than other diaper options) and I'm happy to be going with this option. I hope the concept will catch on quickly in the U.S. Apparently gDiapers originated in Australia, where they're already fairly popular.

It will be great peace of mind for me that Mickey, my environmental conscience, won't be scolding me in my head every time I change a diaper.

So, if you come across any other marvelous green innovations (how about greenovations? yes? no?) in baby-raising equipment, send them my way.

Guess what's growing in my wife's uterus

Some (if not all) of you have already read about this over at Whatever Happened to Schoolhouse Rock, but just for the record: we're having a boy.

We took this as good news, since now the lone nephew on my side of the family will have another boy to play with at family gatherings as he grows up. Also we had already settled on a name for a boy, whereas we were still debating girl names. (Logan Matthew, by the way. You already know all this. There's no suspense here.) Plus, Meaghan confessed she was a little nervous at the prospect of raising a girl, especially through the teenage years, and she's even more excited than I am about traditional boy things like Little League.

More "for the record" stuff: we would have been happy about a girl too, probably for slightly different reasons. Most importantly, the baby appears to have all his parts in all the right places.

It's amazing what you can see on the most basic "level 1" ultrasound. The technician verified a beating heart, with four properly divided chambers. She pointed out specific parts of the brain, the names of which I've forgotten now. She showed us that the spine has appropriately formed inside the skin.

And, of course, he's got the usual twig and berries that make him a him, and he was not a bit shy about showing them off for the "camera".

So, I think this officially puts us in the second half of the pregnancy. Roughly 20 weeks (give or take a week) down and roughly 20 more to go.

Then, it's on to the easy part -- raising the child.

Who knew ants like metal?

Learned something new today. It cost me and the (pregnant) wife a night spent in a really hot, un-air-conditioned house, plus about a $120 repair bill. But hey, education is priceless, right?

Apparently, ants like to swarm on metal, and that's not my clever way of describing their behavior at loud music festivals. I'm talking about thousands (a careful guesstimate) piling onto the metal contacts inside electrical equipment until their little corpses clog up said contacts and the device in question stops working.

Exhibit A is at right. It's not a great picture, but if you look closely you can see a lot of little ant bodies packed inside this contraption, an electrical contact that the repairman just removed from my outdoor A/C unit.

Now, I don't know whether the ants in my air conditioning unit technically qualify as crazy ants. The repairman didn't say, and I did not conduct a psychiatric evaluation. But apparently my electrical equipment is not the only enticing variety. Even NASA's Johnson Space Center is reported to be watching out for the little twits.

Allegedly, there is an odor created when the silver electrical contacts arc, and the scent appeals to the ants' pheromones. This is according to the A/C repairman, so it must be true.

Moral of the story: when you're looking for ant beds to poison around your house, check for little troops marching around and into your air conditioning unit. Then, kill them. Also, the repairman warns me, you'll need to keep going back and killing them over and over.

The good news is: The cold air, she's a blowin, Brother John, Brother John. That's an old Appalachian spiritual, isn't it? Yes, I'm confident it is.

Dream-aholics anonymous

A businessman told me last week, as I interviewed him about possibly buying competing businesses to grow his company: "Getting bigger isn't all it's cracked up to be."

In his line of business, combining two medium to large companies would not create a lot of "synergies" or economies of scale, he said. The whole process would likely not be worth the trouble. Nevertheless, his company has bought competitors in the past.

Funny how ambition can tempt us to pursue things that in our logical mind we strongly suspect to be unwise. It's true for businesses that spend all the money they have plus as much as a bank will lend them to expand, expand, expand, as if a rainy day will never come or the trendiness of their crazily overpriced coffee will never fade. It's true for cheating spouses who want to prove to themselves they are still sexually marketable to the general public, or at least some tiny fraction of it.

It's true for young writers who have a good-paying job with ample benefits and flexibility of schedule -- not to mention a loving wife, nice home and an all-around happy, hearty lifestyle -- yet struggle to commit wholeheartedly and with full mental attention to all of the above because of the constant distraction of dreaming of some more meaningful or fulfilling or broadly-impacting life's work.

Stupid young writers, whoever they may be.

Well, I have sworn off ambition more than once (albeit never on the Internet, I don't think), and I am here again today to repeat said swearing off. I swear: no more ambition for me.

Life is good, and I really ought to consider the possibility that I'm having all the impact and fulfilling all the purposes that I am meant to right here and now --- or, more likely, that all of those opportunities are right here in front of me if only I would pay attention to them instead of living a constant daydream about some bigger, more important occupation for which I must keep constant vigil.

I'm not making my point well, I'm afraid. This is really better-suited to a diary entry than a blog. But, this is the closest thing to a diary that I keep. (Imagine how infrequently I would write in an actual diary, if I had one.)

I think my message here (to myself, primarily, so sorry if I've lost everyone else) is that I can and should devote my life to savoring and doing my best with the people and tasks in front of me right now -- and not feel like that will amount to a selfish kind of life, because I haven't done some great project to change the world or impact thousands of people, as I'm afraid my subconscious is prone to think.

Mother Teresa made the point much better and more concisely than I. During her acceptance of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979, when asked what people could do to promote world peace, she responded, "Go home and love your family."

Sorry for such a squishy return to my blog. I'll try to serve up some of my usual mindless entertainment real soon-like.

Boo

Discuss.

It's no one's fault but my own

On my infinitely long list of careers/projects that I would like to try, comedy writer has made appearances in a number of variations.

For example, there was a time when I thought being a writer for "Saturday Night Live" would be the coolest job I could ever have. I have known, of course, for several years that I stood less than zero chance (something like negative 25% chance, I calculated) of ever getting this job. More importantly, I've known for several years that the quality of the show has deteriorated to the point that I couldn't take pride in my work there, if by some freak accident I ended up there.

(I imagine it would be similar to the deflated feeling suffered by President Bush's speech writers each time he butchers one of their carefully crafted works -- guys and gals who probably grew up dreaming of one day being a presidential speech writer, only to realize that precise dream at the worst possible moment in American history. Fate, these writers learned, has a demented sense of humor.)

But my dreams of legendary late-night sketch comedy aside, a career in humor writing has escaped me even in its less grandiose forms (e.g. self-publishing collections of comedic essays that I could sell at lightly attended book signings at the local library; I'd give away a free funny-looking bookmark with each book sold to drum up business).

My unachieved dream, however, cannot be blamed on a lack of material, as I was reminded yesterday.

I had one of those surreal moments while mowing the lawn -- the kind of moment that makes you think, "If I ever produce a plotless independent film, I will include this exact same scene somewhere in the middle third of it." I have accumulated a number of those scenes in my head, if only I could find some connective theme to loosely yet artistically string them together, plus figure out what to do in the first and last thirds of the flick.

So the scene was this: A woman, who I estimated to be 4' 6" tall and about 175 pounds, rides past me on a small electric scooter wearing a blue and red one-piece bathing suit, traveling at about 12 mph. She reaches the stop sign at the corner by my house, turns around and rides back up the street. Running along beside her is a boy, who I estimated to be 6' 0" and about 225 pounds, wearing khaki shorts, flip-flops and no shirt.

This is the part of the post where I really should be including a video, or at least a photograph. Unfortunately, I was not quick enough nor daring enough to capture either one. I have no good excuse, because the lady made at least three trips last night, sometimes with and sometimes without the boy. And it wasn't the first time I've seen her.

In fact, Mickey and Courtney were lucky enough to be present for our very first sighting a couple of weekends ago. Meaghan, of course, has seen this as well.

But let's keep moving: Immediately following this scene, I witness the neighbors' 3-year-old Mexican boy standing on the front step of his house, peeing through the railing into the bushes. Also, not the first time I've seen this.

I couldn't shake the sense that I was watching some kind of avant-garde Vaudeville show. Like maybe next I was going to see a bear riding a tricycle, and he would turn out to be the neighborhood ice cream vendor, pulling a wheeled ice box behind him. And the neighborhood kids would come running out and buy ice cream from him, as if nothing were out of the ordinary (i.e. as if he were not a bear on a tricycle).

Even without the bear, the scene gave me a good laugh. I am no closer to a comedy writing career, however. I'll probably become a firefighter or termite inspector or something.

You'd think I've been really busy

But I haven't. I have been pitifully unproductive at both work and play, on my weekdays at least, yet I have not managed to write a post on this blog in a full three weeks.

To be clear, I have not written a post on any blog in three weeks, in case you were wondering. And the fact I have nothing to write about is exactly what I came here to write about today. So it's good to know that most of my regular readers do have other ways to waste time on the Internet, because I have been providing precious little fodder.

May I suggest some ways to extend the pleasure and time-wasting capacity of this blog even when its author runs into frequent non-writing ruts:

-Start a vicious comment war on the latest post. I mean, not with me, because I'm a passive personality and only know how to defuse hostile situations. The war would not rage on very long if I were your chosen enemy. In that same spirit, I'll decline to suggest any particular enemy combatants, but let's just say Jacob spends an awful lot of time on the Internet. Also, Mickey is never afraid to speak his mind, although his comments are generally short and to the point. Just depends on what style of war you want to wage, really.

-Go back and re-read previous posts. For fun, you should randomly hop back to November or March or something. And don't just breeze through it. Read a paragraph at a time. Take bathroom breaks and water breaks in between. Because reading makes you thirsty, and drinking water makes you piss. Roll the words around in your head until you derive far more meaning from them than was ever intended.

-Hack into my blog and write a post for me. Seriously, that would be pretty awesome. If I liked it enough, I'd just leave it there forever. But don't get smart, because if you just tried to make me look like a racist or something, then I would delete the post and you'd have nothing to show for it.

Go on, then. Amuse yourselves.

I suspect I may be able to help keep another, smaller human being alive

As you might have heard, I seem to have fathered offspring. The developing life form is now about the size of a lima bean and is on schedule to join us in this non-amniotic outer world in mid to late December. A Christmas baby, perhaps.

So I've started to think about how it will be to share the responsibility of feeding a baby, keeping it safe and comfortable, eventually teaching it not to crap itself and maybe showing it how to partake in a few recreational pastimes, like darts or bocce ball.

I have been expecting and waiting for a rush of freaked-out-ness or giddy excitement or paralyzing fear or uncontrollable laughter or... something. Cause it's a big deal, right? Well, you may (or may not) be surprised to hear that none of these has come.

OK, there was one spell of uncontrollable laughter, but I'm confident it was unrelated.

So, I'm left with my usual dull-spirited self, taking my usual uber-dorky pleasures in things like reading and balancing the household budget. And oh the budgeting that is to be done in preparation for this young lima bean.

But this is not to say I have been without my own miniature emotions. I feel a sort of distant gladness and warmth toward the little developing human.

I've also noticed a mildly renewed ambition for household projects. There is a room to be repainted and decorated. Just last weekend I finally replaced the old grungy electrical outlets upstairs and put covers on them. (They had been coverless for the vast majority of our three years in this house.) And I've still got work to do toward creating a tolerable climate upstairs, since it currently feels a lot like a greenhouse on hot, sunny days -- and the nights that follow them.

I guess I'm not too terrified, is what I'm saying. I know raising a baby will be a lot of work, but I'm beginning to feel drawn to the idea of expanding our family beyond just me, the wife and the dogs. Let's face it, I've always been a more effective/productive person when given responsibilities -- versus being left with lots of idle time to try to fill.

I'm also hopeful about the idea of contributing a conscientious, useful citizen into society -- by which I mean someone who is not wasteful but cares about preserving the environment, someone who is generous to people who are less fortunate, someone eager to learn new ideas and also new skills to be better able to provide for himself or herself, etc. Unfortunately, we all know plenty of people bringing new babies into the world who have no such aspirations for them.

I won't get my hopes too high, though, because I know a parent only has so much control over how the child turns out. Parents are often disappointed. But nevertheless, these are some of my hopes for the little reptilian cluster of cells. (If I understand correctly, its arm and leg buds look kind of like tiny flippers right now.)

Now I've just gotten plain gooey, haven't I? Who knows, maybe someday I'll even become soft enough to let a boy wear argyle sweater vests.

Uh, no, never mind. That's not going to happen.

The Farce Side

If I could draw and decided to draw a comic strip for a living (or even just for fun), that's what I would call it: "The Farce Side".

I would labor on with badly-scrawled (as opposed to well-scrawled?) cartoons, begging small-town newspapers to publish my work, until one day I caught a features syndicate editor with an odd sense of humor in just the right mood and got myself a trial in 30 or so major newspapers across North America.

Then, the lawyers for a much more famous cartoonist would spot my work and notice the near-thievery of my title, and they would carefully weigh their options for suing me or not (or just writing me a threatening letter with a mysterious white powder in the envelope; I hear that's how copyright lawyers operate these days). In the end, though, my cartoon would never make it past its glorious three-month trial run, and so the lawyers would save themselves any further trouble by just watching it die under the weight of its own mediocrity.

That's why I'll never be a cartoonist. Lawyers. They screw up everything.

I really didn't have anything to write about today, but I was so sick of that Nutella jar photo sitting at the top of my page. I should have made some advertising revenue off of that. But I didn't. I'm sorry you guys had to look at that jar for almost two full weeks, and none of us has anything to show for it.

So, so sorry.

Darn you, Nutella, I'm a yuppie after all

I've been a peanut butter man for some time now.

Peanut butter on toast. Peanut butter on bagels. Peanut butter on bananas. Or apples. Or pickles, if I'm feeling wild.

It's a respectable spread. Hearty. Salty (and/or sweet, depending on the type you buy). And high on both protein and unsaturated (good) fats. It's a working man's spread, yet still acceptable and enjoyable for the college-educated crowd.

But -- there's always a "but" -- I've discovered a new love. There's another jar in the cabinet, right beside the peanut butter. Sometimes sitting on top of it, even.

This chocolatey, creamy, "spreadably delicious" stuff called Nutella.

Up until two weeks ago, I had only heard talk of a hazelnut-based goop that was apparently quite popular among Euro-snobs, who thought themselves too classy for lesser, legume-based spreads.

And I dismissed it as superfluous to my edible spread needs. It sounded unappetizing, expensive, perhaps even un-American.

But on a recent spring day -- giddy with weekend recreation and forgetful of my prior conclusions, drawn years earlier -- Meaghan and I bought a jar. One harmless 13-ounce jar (371 grams). It was not terribly expensive, and we were shopping at an all-natural, organic food store, so we were feeling rather hippie-dippy already.

I figured Meaghan would try it and occasionally labor to find something to spread it on as the jar collected dust over six months in our cupboard.

I. Was. Wrong.

It was I who tore the seal off the jar's top. It was I who first spread it onto a bagel in our kitchen.

I introduced our toast to the stuff. I dipped a graham cracker stick into the jar and scooped up a blob to place on my forked tongue.

It has been I who has devoured nearly all of the one-third of a jar (4 ounces, give or take) that has already vanished.

So with this it has become clear to me: As if driving a Corolla weren't sign enough, or I couldn't discern this from the fact that I write for a website subscribed to by investment bankers, or from my taking my dogs on vacation with me ---

Plainly, despite my better judgment, I have become a yuppie.

I fear I am doomed to a lifetime of penance -- taking on home improvement projects at which I am neither skilled nor experienced -- to try to preserve some allegiance to my working class roots.

And I promise, peanut butter, I have not altogether forgotten you. Perhaps this is just a fling, and this will be the last Nutella jar with which you'll ever have to share cabinet space. Or, at worst, I will soon return you to your rightful prominence in the spread corner, sitting either in front of or on top of that squatty, white-topped container.

Either way, I will not become a Euro-snob. (But they sure are smart for driving so many small, diesel-powered cars.)

My conscience(s)

The voices in my head have become louder lately. Or other things around me have gotten quieter.

Either way, the point is I have become more aware recently of the personalities that embody my conscience. What I mean is: the people who cross my mind when I'm taking some action or making some decision of which they would or would not be proud.

For example, Mickey is my latest environmental conscience. Both in his blog and in person, he often preaches the gospel of environmental responsibility, whether it be through using less gasoline to reduce emissions or fighting the waste of bottled water.

So now, when I do or don't recycle something, or I do or don't use those anti-Earth plastic bags at the grocery store checkout, I briefly imagine Mickey's approval or disapproval. I actually confessed this to him over the weekend. May he not abuse this power.

But, lest he suffer an enlarged ego, I'll tell you that Mickey is not the only voice in my head. In fact, he's not even the only environmental conscience up there.

I'm still occasionally haunted by an incident during my freshman year of college, in which I was emptying out a semester's worth of class notes into a trash can. An upperclassman in the room with me glared up from the paper he was studying to chide, "Do you have something against recycling?" I murmured something about there being multi-colored paper in my notebook and the recycling box calling for white paper only. But he won, and I recycled it anyway. (I don't recall whether I sorted out the colored paper or just disregarded the label on the recycling bin.)

The internal prodding of other people's expectations extends beyond environmental responsibility. I'm sure I've mentioned before that my dad is a Baptist minister, and so he remains the voice in my head related to minor issues of morality -- e.g. profanity, lewd TV shows and movies, etc. Actually, he's more like a look of disapproval in my head than a voice; that's more his style.

Luckily, he's always been a reasonable guy and not too prudish, so I don't have to feel guilty every time I watch Family Guy. (Hi Dad. I love you. You're not supposed to be reading my blog :) )

There are other voices, I'm sure, but these are my major ones. I suppose Meaghan could be one in some cases; for example if I wash the dishes because I don't want her to get mad about having to do them all the time. That's kind of different, though, because hers would be an actual voice in my ear in that case, not an imagined one in my mind. Plus, I generally just do the dishes and other household tasks because I want my house to be clean almost as much as she wants it. (Seriously, she's not a nag and I try not to give her any reason to be.)

I hope all of this doesn't mean I'm too easily influenced by the people around me -- or at least that I'm only influenced by positive messages with which I'm already inclined to agree. As of yet, there are no voices in my head advocating violence, anarchy, drug abuse and the like (well, maybe a little anarchy). I hope to keep it that way.

So 'fess up readers, who are the voices of your conscience and what do they tell you to do (or not do)?

What's in my FBI file

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a card-carrying member of the Communist Party. I haven't even had a socialist-leaning work of fiction published, so I doubt Sen. McCarthy would bother calling me to testify before Congress if he were still alive and still conducting his famed hearings.

Nevertheless, I wonder if the FBI keeps a file on me and, if so, what they've got in there. A list of books I've checked out from the library, maybe? I have read a lot of public copies of John Steinbeck novels, so that might nominate me for some sort of red-scare watchlist, if such a thing still exists.

But, no, I suspect the FBI has moved on to focus on other kinds of affiliations these days -- potential links to Islamic terrorism mostly. My world religion professor in college was about the closest I've ever come to interacting with a Muslim of Middle Eastern descent. And if this guy was a radical, he certainly hid it well.

So the logical conclusion is: the FBI guy assigned to fill my file is probably bored to the point of playing Family Feud online. (Go ahead. Just one game. I'll wait.) Even this blog -- though providing possible insight into my political leanings -- is so "maddeningly infrequent," as one dear reader put it, that it could hardly keep the junior intelligence gatherer (or whatever they call themselves) busy.

Well, I'm feeling generous, so I'm going to suggest some possible additions to my file. I'm not saying they'll be easy to obtain, but at least this will give the guy something to do:

1. A handwriting sample. I hear you can tell a lot about someone's personality through careful analysis of his or her handwriting. I'll go ahead and give you the summary for mine -- there's plainly some sick stuff going on in my head that even I am unaware of. Seriously, my scribbles look less and less like the modern English alphabet every time I write. Maybe I'm reverting to some earlier form of writing, through knowledge passed genetically down from my Anglo ancestors. Does it work that way?

2. The April Fools editions of my college newspaper. As many of my readers (who were fellow college newspaper staff members) can confirm, nothing reveals my twisted psyche quite like this annual gag edition of the student paper that we produced. Part of the tradition involved creating a crude, cardboard/paper replica of some building on campus and then setting fire to it for a front page April Fools photo (or photo montage, in some cases). Ah, good times.

3. The detailed diary I've been keeping about planning a hypothetical revolution. It's got a lot of names, phone numbers, schematics. I'm just saying, might be interesting reading.

4. A print of one of the Dogs Playing Poker paintings. I don't know what this would tell the FBI about me. I just think it would be a cool thing to have in my file. I think I like Bold Bluff best.

5. A photo of me. Not because I'm vain, just that it seems like a standard item to have on file. But give me a little credit and don't use any of those from the college yearbook. They made me look so pale. All right, fine, I'll give you one. My friend caught me off guard while I was working out, so it's a little embarrassing, but at least you'll know what I look like.

I'm sure there's plenty more to dig up on me, but this should be a good start.

By the way, can I get a copy of the file, just for fun?

Senility sets in

Maybe it's silly of me to share bizarre news that I read and comment on it, since you all are probably reading the same things already. But here again, I can't help myself.

Ted Turner got all Nostradamus on us in an interview published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution today.

His great prediction for the future: The fallout of global warming will lead to most of the human population being cannibals in 30 to 40 years.

I laughed at first when I read the headline, but then I thought, "No, no. Ted is a bright guy. Reasonable and well-grounded. He must know what he's talking about."

He even said himself (in this same article): "I've gotten a lot better... It's been a long time since anybody caught me saying something stupid."

Good gravy, the reporter must have wet his pants when Turner said that. Really? A "long time"? Cause you just said... oh never mind. Thanks for taking my call, Ted.

Apparently, Ted's thorough scientific research (all performed inside his own rectum) has revealed that unchecked global warming will cause a worldwide temperature rise of 8 degrees in 30 to 40 years. Because of this, crops will cease to grow, governments will collapse, and the few surviving humans will have resorted to eating each other for lack of any other food source. (He's even produced a video about the grim future.)

Geez. There is so much that we non-billionaires don't know about the world.

Thanks, Ted, for sharing your wealth of knowledge. (Read the full article, if you haven't had enough.)

Perhaps the most important lesson I learned today, thanks to a commenter on this AJC article, was what it means to get RickRoll'd. Some of you just learned that, too. I promise I won't do it again.

Well, I don't promise, but I'll try to refrain.

A four-letter word for impartial? Anybody?

I've only recently taken an interest in crossword puzzles. Up until the last year or two, I never particularly enjoyed them, probably because I was very bad at them, probably because I had never done them before, which was (you guessed it) probably because I never particularly enjoyed them.

But that has all changed of late, as I've taken up routinely attempting the puzzle in my hometown newspaper. And I find it rather stimulating (mentally, perverts). It may be because I have become old and boring, or...

No, I'm confident that's it. No need speculating on other possible reasons.

The trouble is, I'm still fairly bad at the puzzles. I consider myself moderately well educated. But apparently I have a below-average ability to memorize intellectual trivia, which seems to be the sort of knowledge required for crossword puzzle proficiency.

In the puzzles that I frequent, the clues often relate to literature, classical music, movies, historical figures, geography, foreign languages, and so on. There are also vocabulary-related clues, which tend to be the ones I fill in first.

Notwithstanding my weakness, I attempt to solve these puzzles. It gives me something to do while eating breakfast and/or sitting on the porcelain throne. (You may recall this doozy of post, which inspired a lengthier discussion of toilet-time activities among my readers.)

Occasionally, I will actually finish an entire puzzle, sometimes with Meaghan's help, other times with Mr. Webster's or Mr. Wikipedia's help. Once every blue waning moon, I'll solve a whole puzzle all by myself.

On my best day, I doubt I've ever finished a puzzle in less than 20 minutes.

So you can imagine my disgust at reading about this guy, 23-year-old Tyler Hinman, the four-time American Crossword Puzzle Tournament champion, who routinely works the New York Times puzzle in less than five minutes. Watch him go.

Notice in the video the camera doesn't zoom in close enough to actually read the puzzle. He's probably not even writing real words, just scribbling on the page.

Ah well, he's given me something to aspire to. If I study late enough and train hard enough and do enough mental wind-sprints, I too one day can finish a puzzle in less time than it takes me to eat a piece of toast.

I don't know, then, what I'll do while eating my second piece of toast, but I can figure that out when the day comes. Maybe I'll take up the Celebrity Cipher.

A bunch of musical geniuses

I was pleased (and maybe surprised, I forget) at how well my handful of readers did on the song lyrics contest. Only two of the 10 lines totally stumped you, and I kind of thought they might.

It was a close contest (if Jacob is to be believed about having known five answers, after he read Courtney's responses) but ultimately Courtney was the big winner, swooping in with 5.5 correct responses only about an hour after the post went live. (The 0.5 is for a correct artist in Everclear but the wrong song title. It should have been "Santa Monica," which Jacob professes to have been his personal theme song during high school.)

I kind of thought Jacob would be the one to guess #2 and #4 correctly, since they both fall into the old-time country category that he and I have boldly admitted to enjoying. Alas, he did not.

The answer for #2 should be "Flowers on the Wall," originally recorded by the Statler Brother, but later covered by a long list of folks, including Johnny Cash and young whipper-snapper Eric Heatherly, who scored a #6 on the country charts with it in 2000. Allegedly the song also makes an appearance in the movie "Pulp Fiction," which I have never seen.

The other stumper, #4, was Willie Nelson's "Me and Paul," written by Willie about his time on the road with drummer Paul English (or so the Internets tell me). Meaghan did correctly guess this as Willie Nelson song, so I guess it was only a half-stumper. She was also right in thinking the song was about being "on the road," so maybe she should get three-quarters of a point for this. But in a contest with no tangible prize, is it really worth the debate?

My apologies to Julie for designing a contest so unreasonably stacked against her personal abilities and knowledge base. Perhaps next time we'll do fill-in-the-blank song lyrics.

So, in case any doubts or confusion remain, here is the full answer key:

1. "I wish I was like you, easily amused" -- Nirvana, All Apologies

2. "Playing Solitaire till dawn with a deck of 51, smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo, so don't tell me I've nothing to do" -- Statler Brothers (and many others), Flowers on the Wall

3. "I need a photo opportunity. I want a shot at redemption. Don't want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard" -- Paul Simon, You Can Call Me Al -- (and yes, Courtney, it is a great song)

4. "It's been rough and rocky travelin' but I'm finally standing upright on the ground. And after takin' several readings, I'm surprised to find my mind still fairly sound." -- Willie Nelson, Me and Paul

5. "You, I thought I knew you. You, I cannot judge." -- REM, Nightswimming

6. "We can live beside the ocean, leave the fire behind, swim out past the breakers, watch the world die." -- Everclear, Santa Monica

7. "And the reaching of the steeple felt like one more expensive ad for something cheap. This was not the way it looked on the billboard, smiling family beaming down on the interstate." (sorry, this is totally self-indulgent. only one of you will know it.) -- Caedmon's Call, Expectations -- (and yes, Meaghan was the one I expected to know it)

8. "So shave your face with some mace in the dark. Savin' all your food stamps and burnin' down the trailer park." -- Beck, Loser

9. "Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? It took me years to write. Will you take a look?" -- Beatles, Paperback Writer

10. "I don't cry when my dog runs away. I don't get angry at the bills I have to pay. I don't get angry when my mom smokes pot." -- Sublime, What I Got

To avoid this crowd's harsh judgment (or that of my legions of silent readers), I'll clarify that these are not my favorite songs, just some songs that periodically pop into my head. Meaghan asked why I did not include any Jack Johnson, whom I listen to more frequently than any of the above. Good question, and I don't know (other than the suspicion that no one would have known the answer).

In some cases, I had to look up the titles myself before assembling the contest. Is that wholly unfair or what?

Either way, thanks for playing.

Did somebody say contest?

My fellow bloggers have entertained their readerships lately with a variety of contests, and what am I if not a lemming, mindlessly following the pack?

So here I go: offering a contest for my own dear readers. In the grand tradition of those before me, the only prize to be offered shall be the pride and personal satisfaction that you'll enjoy from having won. (By the way, I'm giving song lyrics and you've got to guess the artist and song. Most correct answers wins.)

There's no connective theme or particular genre to these songs, only that they periodically roll about inside my head (and I sometimes listen to actual, audible recordings of them as well). That these are the songs that spring to mind for me probably says something about my psyche (skeptical? drawn to escapism?), but there will be no extra points awarded for accurate psycho-analyses.

Of course you could Google all these lyrics and get every answer correct, but what fun would that be? Besides, cheaters never win (except sometimes in pro sports, politics, business and academia, if you don't get caught).

By the way, I'll wait a few days to post the correct answers, since my readers are probably not accustomed to reading my blog every single day. So all you lurky-loos (I do have lurky-loos, don't I?) please leave a comment with your guesses, even if you only kind of know a couple of them.

On with it, then:

1. "I wish I was like you, easily amused"

2. "Playing Solitaire till dawn with a deck of 51, smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo, so don't tell me I've nothing to do"

3. "I need a photo opportunity. I want a shot at redemption. Don't want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard"

4. "It's been rough and rocky travelin' but I'm finally standing upright on the ground. And after takin' several readings, I'm surprised to find my mind still fairly sound."

5. "You, I thought I knew you. You, I cannot judge."

6. "We can live beside the ocean, leave the fire behind, swim out past the breakers, watch the world die."

7. "And the reaching of the steeple felt like one more expensive ad for something cheap. This was not the way it looked on the billboard, smiling family beaming down on the interstate." (sorry, this is totally self-indulgent. only one of you will know it.)

8. "So shave your face with some mace in the dark. Savin' all your food stamps and burnin' down the trailer park."

9. "Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? It took me years to write. Will you take a look?"

10. "I don't cry when my dog runs away. I don't get angry at the bills I have to pay. I don't get angry when my mom smokes pot."

Good luck everybody!

I did not go to the bank today

I did not go to the bank today

As yesterday and days before,

Nor did I call

The oral surgeon's office

To schedule a consultation.

The unused ticket for an airport shuttle

Likewise remains deskside

Awaiting its own return trip to Orlando,

Accompanied by a terse note demanding refund,

Due to

shoddy

and slow

service.

The endless procrastination.

(Height of procrastination,

That I meant to embody it in poetic form

Two days before.

And now finally

I write these words

On the day

When I actually did go to the bank.)

But I shall.

I shall do these things and more, much more,

To cross off my mindless to-do list

Like vacuuming my car to rid it of piss-scented dog odor

Or getting a haircut

Or cleaning

My

Desk.

Stacked notebooks and papers

Await the urge to topple onto me,

Delayed only by

Their own

Procrastination.

Memory lane

First let me apologize that I constantly insist on using cliched phrases for the titles of my blog posts -- and often ones that having nothing to do at all with the subject of the post.

It's been suggested that I participate in some sort of meme. I do not know what a meme is, and therefore I decline.

Oh, I'm just kidding. While I really don't know what a meme is (I assume it's one of those made-up words like "blog" or "INSERT JOKE WORD HERE"), I gather that I'm being asked to write a post following the formula of those who participated before me.

So imitate, I shall. Well, sort of. The originators of this idea offered a list of five of their own previous blog posts on various topics -- family, friends, about me, about something I love, wild card -- to provide readers a refresher course in the blogger's personal thoughts and/or a sampling of favorite posts.

The blogger who tagged me for this, Meaghan, altered the list a bit to suit her own sinister purposes, and I, being sinisterer still, shall further alter the categories.

Seriously, I can't seem to find any previous posts in which I focus on family or friends, and so I'm just making up all new categories. If you don't like it, call the meme police on me.

Here are some of the various services I see this blog providing to its readers:

1. Guiding your spiritual journeys: In December, this blog broke the news to you early about the discovery of the literal road to salvation. (It was Interstate 35 heading north out of Texas, in case you missed it.) And for those of you who made legally binding commitments to travel with me on my upcoming march up the I-35 corridor, I haven't forgotten, and the trip is still on. I'm just working out a few logistical details and growing out my hair and beard.

2. Listing things: While they don't represent a regular feature on this blog, I do occasionally like to treat my readers to a nice list of things -- whether they be writing tips, favorites posts of mine (what you're reading now) or just, you know, things. Some people pay good money for a list, so you should be grateful to me for providing these free of charge (although, as always, donations are accepted).

3. Encouraging creativity: Knowing how much my readers all like to flex their creative muscles (is that a cliche yet?), I will from time to time spark a brainstorming session, such as this post, in which I praised the efforts of clever, alliterative spammers who sent me a friendly e-mail about "two tawdry tarts." You all responded with your suggestions for clever subject lines on unsolicited e-mail porn, and that's when this blog came to be blocked by a number of Internet filters, thanks very much.

4. Writing business plans: Because I have been so crushed by the weight of my own career success, I figure I should offer (again, free of charge) any further money-making ideas I have to my loyal readers, as I did in this post. Seriously, you could basically print out this post and take it into any venture capital firm's office, and they'd be like, "That's incredible. Why haven't we thought of this?" and give you a $10 million check for startup costs. Try it if you don't believe me.

5. Warning you of little-known diseases and disorders: The Web is filled with medical information and advice these days -- some valid, some questionable -- yet most sites focus on the big-name diseases such as cancer and heart disease. I've realized since the beginning of this blog that my readers also need to know about the less-talked-about health dangers lurking about us, such as premenstrual schizophrenia. Knowing is half the battle, folks.

And... scene.

Cold calls

For those of you who have never taken a job that involved making lots of cold calls, let me offer this piece of advice: Don't.

As a journalist, I quite enjoy the writing aspect of my job. And despite fancying myself to be an aspiring creative writer, I also enjoy the fact that I don't have to make up any of the information or subject matter for my writings in this line of work. I simple write a summary of what people tell me in interviews.

Furthermore (that's a very writerish word, so I thought I'd use it), I enjoy the process of interviewing executives about their businesses, learning their goals and what value they see their company adding to the world -- which is not to say I don't sometimes doubt said value.

But what I do not enjoy about my job is calling these people out of the clear bloody blue to try to convince them to tell me these things over the telephone, because I've never met these people and most of the time they've never even heard of me, nor the publication for which I write. And so here I am, leaving voicemails for people, trying to sound like the kind of swell fellow they might enjoy speaking with on the phone. I do this in the hope that these people I've never met will call back and share some of the most confidential information and thoughts I could possibly ask for about their business -- with me, the guy they've never heard of who writes for a publication they've also never heard of.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that so many people never call back. The real miracle here is that anybody does call back.

There's a reason I didn't go into sales. Actually a number of reasons. For one, I am naturally filled with self-doubt. For example, I write infrequently on my blog and am slow to speak up in group conversations because I question whether I have anything unique enough or interesting enough to contribute. In the case of cold calls, this means it's difficult to persuade people to share sensitive information with me (or call me back, for that matter) when I really can't see any good reason for them to do so.

Also, I didn't go into sales because I HATE COLD CALLS. Both making and receiving them, apparently. When telemarketers call me, I try to be polite and wait for a small break in their monologue before saying 'I'm not interested' and hanging up. But if they catch me in the wrong mood, I'll probably just hang up mid-sentence.

At least I don't think any one has hung up on me mid-sentence so far. But quite a number of executives have forwarded my voicemail message along to the company's PR rep, which is almost as bad.

Well, it's a good job all in all, aside from this frustration -- plus my nagging guilt over using my skills to serve an investment community I suspect to already be quite high on wealth and low on scruples, but that's another post.

So I won't complain too much. I just figured I might warn my readers away from jobs such as telemarketing, which I know would otherwise represent a highly appealing career opportunity.

Apparently, that was his real hand

Whatever happened to Texas Hold 'Em?

Remember when it was wildly popular and sports networks were constantly airing reruns of old poker world championship tournaments (cause poker is a sport, you know)?

People were always playing little friendly games on their kitchen tables, which week by week progressed into larger, less-friendly games until some guy got shot and the police found out the wife was running a high-dollar brothel upstairs to accompany the husband's poker den. The whole thing was a bit incestuous, too, because the hookers were just the wives of the poker players, and the poker players were the only johns (or punters, in the case of those two British guys). It was more like an expensive swingers party, with a card table.

That's how it went down at my house, anyway, I mean, at my friend's house. No, I mean, I heard about a house like that, but I didn't know those people.

Actually I think the game is still poking along just fine, except that I don't have cable TV and don't play in the neighborhood games anymore. So it's pretty much out of my life.

Even the little handheld electronic game I used to play on the crapper is dead. Probably just the battery, but it's one of those special batteries you can't buy just anywhere.

Same thing for church-league and industrial-league softball. I used to know a lot of adults who played in softball leagues in the town where I grew up, but now I don't know any. Maybe I'm just not hanging out with the right people. Or maybe this town has an anti-softball bias -- danged yuppie-fied tennis town is what this is.

I'd like to play some poker again -- but less expensive than the games I know of, and without my wife whoring herself out to the other players upstairs. Also, softball would be fun. Or basketball. It's easier to get a group of people together for basketball, because you don't need as many players. But then you've got to get access to a basketball court somewhere.

And how about cow-tipping? People around here don't tip cows like they did back home. Meaghan and I used to tip a cow every afternoon on the way home from school, just to listen to it moo. I suppose this is more of chicken-farmer town, but what fun can you have with chickens?

p.s. you're correct that this post isn't about anything. very observant. i suspect i may be starved for entertainment, which is entirely my own fault. but i'm just warning you folks, you may have to organize an intervention soon. otherwise, you're going to be reading a lot more nonsensical tripe like this and last week's post from now on.

p.s.s. the title isn't about anything either.

A day to remember

The pale, puny youth blew the hottest breath he could muster into his chilled hands, as he worked dutifully to oil the axles and polish the wheels of the chariots before the start of the races.

It was a cold day and dreary, but the crowds were optimistic that spring was near and with it the official start of racing season. Today's contests would be mere exhibition, but with all the gods in attendance, no racer should take the event lightly.

The Roman chariot racers, though, were all around an unreliable lot (not nearly so dependable as the Greek racers, who all produced weekly top-notch performances, so long as their pubescent male lovers did not require extra attention that day).

Each showed up for his first contest of the day. Thick-chested young men with hearty laughs dared death as they chased each other around tricky turns behind horses running at full sprint.

December, a grizzled competitor with thick beard and back hair to match, growled at the speedy but less experienced May while he drove him into the outer wall of the track. Meanwhile, a cool, expressionless July --- well-tanned and bearing his signature sunglasses --- cruised to the inside track to take the lead.

Similar scenes played out throughout the afternoon, as competitors were defeated and downgraded to the losers' bracket. The Romans gods cheered raucously each time a competitor's chariot spun out of control, and each time eagerly watched to see if he would revive from the ground or lie prostrate to be trampled.

Eventually the hot-tempered August took top prize for the day in a bloody final matchup with December, and all that was left to see was the consolation race among the losers. The gods waited impatiently for the final race, as spectators began to slowly filter out of the seats to head home.

As the pale, puny helper lined up the horses and chariots for the losers-bracket finale, the gods grew restless, noticing that no competitors were in sight to drive the chariots. Race organizers scrambled.

April had gone missing, allegedly nursing a hangover from partying the previous night in the ancient coastal town of Panama City. July was being tended to by the medics for heat exhaustion, and January had gone home to sleep through his seasonal depressed state.

Not a racer remained in sight, save the recently triumphant August, who was still pounding his chest and taunting hecklers in the crowd who accused him of cheating against December.

In desperation, one race organizer whispered to his supervisor, "What about that kid?"

"Who? Which kid?" the supervisor looked around, puzzled.

"There, standing by the chariots," the organizer said.

The supervisor gasped at the idea when he saw whom the organizer had suggested. The organizer shrugged and motioned toward the gods, who silently demanded entertainment from their upper-deck suites.

Reluctantly, the supervisor approached the runt. "You, boy, what is your name?"

The runt looked up, terrified. "Me? Oh, it's February, sir."

"Have you ever driven a chariot, February?" the supervisor asked, leaning into the boy's face with an intimidating glare.

"Well, not officially, sir. But I drive to warm up the horses before the races every week."

"We seem to be a bit short of drivers for the losers bracket," the supervisor said. "Why don't you select a chariot and prepare to race?"

"Oh. Well, I'd be glad to, sir. But you don't think the other racers will be angry with me, do you?"

"I'll deal with them. For now, this crowd is waiting to see one last race."

"Yes, sir," February said with dutiful excitement.

The supervisor turned and walked back to the other organizers. "Poor boy doesn't stand a chance," he muttered. "He'll be killed before the first turn."

February took his stance in one of the vacant chariots and waited while no competition arrived. The organizers continued looking for other racers, until at last the hot-headed champion August stomped his way over to the starting line.

"What? This infant wants to race?" August shouted toward the gods' skybox. "I'll give him a race!" And the champion climbed atop the chariot platform beside February's chariot, leaning over to whisper to his small opponent, "Why don't you take a little headstart, sweetie pie? HA HA HA!"

February squinted against the spewing spittle from his overgrown competitor and shook his head slightly. With that, August aimed his whip and started February's horse off down the track. February stumbled about on the platform, not being prepared for the start, and grabbed the handles to regain his balance.

After giving his opponent a five second headstart, August shouted, "I'm coming for you, my dear," laughed a maniacal laugh toward the gods, and made a throat-slitting motion with his thumb as he whip-started his own horse.

February drove as fast as his beast would run, repeatedly checking over his shoulder for the murderous August. After about 30 seconds, he approached the first turn and looked back to find August had nearly completely closed the gap between them. February whipped the horse and held off his opponent until the start of the next straightaway.

Entering the back straightaway, August pulled even with the boy and again showed him his maniacal laugh, whipping February's horse in the front legs and steering his chariot to ram February into the inner wall.

February's chariot rattled, skidded out of control and tipped over, but managed to settle back upright and facing straight ahead. The boy watched his opponent speeding away, looking over his shoulder with a growl and a prominent display of his middle finger (despite its having no apparent meaning in ancient Rome).

February took a deep breath, leaned forward and whispered something to his horse. The horse stood quietly for a moment, before responding with a defiant "neigh" and raising up on its back legs. The beast hit an immediate full sprint and began to close in again on August and his chariot.

The crowd roared and the gods stood to their feet, trying to comprehend what they were witnessing.

"Ah, just in time," August shouted over his shoulder, as the competitors
entered the last turn nearly even. August growled and steered to ram his young competitor again, but at the precise moment February's horse sped up even faster and escaped the swipe.

"A little more," February shouted to his horse, which was pulling in front of the opponent inch by inch. Just as February passed the front of his opponent's chariot, August drew his whip and struck a lash across the boy's back.

February cried out and nearly crumpled under the pain of the blow. The crowd spotted the attack and responded with loud boos and cheers.

Holding on with the little strength he had left, February sized up the position of his opponent's horse and chariot. "A little more," he shouted again to his horse, and a short moment later added, "Now!"

Upon command, February's horse whipped its hindquarters to the right, steering the chariot sharply into the front legs of the opposing horse, which stumbled, fell and sent its chariot and rider crashing to the earth.

August bounced forward out of his crashing chariot with the heft of an oaf, avoiding a broken neck by the narrowest of margins. His momentary relief ended, however, when he looked back to see the chariot speeding toward him. As he scrambled, he managed to move every body part out of the way except one, which had flopped out from under his racing garb in the midst of the hub-bub and found itself castrated by a spoke of the wheel.

The crowd and the gods leapt in the air and cheered wildly as young February crossed the finish line, defeating the champion himself.

Rays of sunshine burst through the late-winter clouds and lit upon February as he waved happily to his new fans.

The race organizers hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him back and forth in front of the crowd shouting, "Hip hip, hooray."

Pretty girls waved coyly at him from the crowd.

The gods smiled.

August cried angrily in the background, as he searched the dust for his dismembered member.

Victorious-sounding music played.

And when all that requisite celebratory procedure was finished, the gods called young February up to their skybox and rewarded his valor in mindless, bloody entertainment with this time-honored declaration:

"30 days hath November, April, June and September. You, lad, may never grow to be a full 30-day month, much less a 31-day titan such as this you have just defeated. But you shall always be the reliable bridge between cold, depressed January and March's promise of springtime.

"And in honor of your valor here today, you shall receive an extra day, a 29th day that is, once every fourth year --- except not on the 100th year unless that's the 400th, yadda yadda yadda, you can read the fine print for yourself kid."

Congratulations, February. It's your big day.

Oh. They weren't joking?

Fellow Georgia residents and those with close ties to the state might have heard a bit of this news already: some Georgia state legislators have devised the ingenious idea to move the state border a mile north so that the state (and its behemoth capital metro area) will have access to the waters of the Tennessee River.

When the proposal first hit the floor of the General Assembly a couple of weeks ago, the article from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution quoted a number of Tennessee political figures making wisecracks about the idea, warning that a group of Volunteers would ascend Lookout Mountain with their rifles and defend their fair land if need be. The Chattanooga mayor (if I remember the source correctly) compared Georgia Gov. Sonny Perdue to Don Quixote, going on a quest and tilting at windmills, rather than addressing Georgia's water shortage through serious measures such as conservation.

Well, guess what Tennessee? Joke's on you, because Perdue and his pals in the state legislature are absolutely serious.

This snippet of an article from the Atlanta Business Chronicle details the plans of Georgia's leaders, which have been months or maybe years in the making, to build a pipeline from the Tennessee River to the metro Atlanta area. According to the article, a possible path for the pipeline has already been laid out.

The news out today: the Georgia state Senate unanimously passed a resolution proposing that the state border be moved about a mile north --- to the 35th parallel as originally intended before some surveyor screwed it up in 1818.

Of course, that doesn't make it so. The state House will look at a similar resolution. Oh, and then we have to talk to our northern neighbors, Tennessee and North Carolina, to see what they think about the idea.

Hm, I wonder what they'll say?


Georgia: "Gentlemen, I have called this meeting to claim what's rightly mine. Please deed over all property north of the current border extending approximately 1 mile to the 35th parallel."

Tennessee: (snickering) "Yeah, whatever you say champ."

(Tennessee and North Carolina whisper to each other. More snickering)

Georgia: (in stern tone) "What's so funny?"

Tennessee: "Huh? Oh, no, nothing. Nothing's funny."

N.C.: "Nope. Not a thing."

Georgia: (shouting now) "Then why are you laughing?"

Tennessee: "What? We're not..." (bursts into uncontrolled laughter along with N.C.)

(Tennessee and N.C. stand to leave the room.)

Tennessee: (fighting back more laughter and looking at his watch) "I'm sorry. We, uh, we've got a lunch date with Florida. We'll see you later."

Georgia: "Wait just a minute. We're not finished here."

N.C.: "You take care, all right pal?"

(Tennessee and N.C. leave the room)

You know, that's just one of many possible scenarios.

And eventually, if Georgia is serious enough about the idea, the state leaders will probably get the U.S. Congress and/or the federal courts involved.

So, we'll see what happens I guess. Who knows? If Gov. Perdue gets tapped as a vice presidential candidate (as some terrifying news reports have speculated) and then the elephants win back the White House, this plan could really have legs.

Personally, I hope not. For one thing, it seems a little like a cop-out for Atlanta in terms of managing its limited water supply. Plus, I've grown fond of the idea of metro Atlanta now having a real, tangible roadblock to slow its growth before it swallows up all of northern Georgia.

That's not to mention the fact that the Tennessee politician's remarks about ascending Lookout Mountain with rifles also might not have been a joke.

Faking it

Perverts. I'm not writing about that kind of faking it.

I'm referring to the way I felt on Monday and Tuesday, when I dressed up in a nice business suit (actually two different suits, one for each day) and drove to a high-dollar hotel and conference center for an investor conference.

I do this periodically, in different cities, different hotel/conference centers and with different investment themes (although constantly rotating through the same three suits). In case you're wondering, I attend these conferences as part of my job as a financial journalist, not just for fun.

But no matter where it is or which suit I'm wearing, I always get the distinct sense that I am entirely out of place and wonder how long it will take for someone else to notice. I keep expecting someone to walk up and say, "Excuse me. Who are you and why are you here?"

Of course they don't do that, partly because I'm in a suit like the rest of them and partly because I'm wearing the same style name tag from the same conference registration table as the rest of them.

I just can't shake the sense that I'm faking it --- surrounded by white guys in suits who seem genuinely fascinated by the particular investment theme, and perhaps even convinced that their participation in this investment world serves some greater good in society.

I share neither sentiment, beyond a general intellectual curiosity that prevents me from being bored to the verge of suicide, and of course the understanding that my livelihood requires me to pay close attention to the subject matter at hand and talk with as many of these suits as possible. Actually, that general curiosity usually manages to make my mildly interested in the topic.

We eat dainty pastries with sliced up melon and berries for breakfast and make polite, mindless conversation over lunch. At the end of it all, we're invited to "network" over cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

Ugh. I'm usually too exhausted by this point to exercise any of my networking abilities, which are in rather short supply even at full strength.

Most likely, these feelings are the result of my quasi-blue collar upbringing. I never knew anyone wealthy growing up. I certainly didn't know any investment bankers or CEOs. And call me stereotypical, but I'm pretty sure most of the investment bankers and CEOs I mingled among earlier this week would have turned their noses pretty high if they walked past the kinds of people I spent my time with as a child and teenager.

I just can't seem to feel at home in this crowd. Beyond the stuck-up snob stereotype, I've got no good reason to dislike them. They generally come across as friendly and accommodating, even the CEOs when I'm asking them questions they would rather not answer.

I guess I just prefer 'salt of the earth,' working class personalities over 'money makes the world go round' attitudes. And I worry a little that if I spend too much time around the latter type then I'll lose my ability to relate to the former.

Ah well, ultimately I do think people are people, and we're not all that different deep down --- in our desires, hopes, needs and so on. Thus, I get by, even when forced to hang out with filthy rich old white guys.

That concludes today's session of self-psychoanalysis. I owe myself $100.