Merry Christmas!

You can tell that Michelle is getting over a cold.

This Week in History – King Herod’s popularity dips below 50 percent

KING HEROD - parents of newborn boys
have been none too pleased by his actions.

December 24, 3 B.C. – For the first time in his reign, more citizens now disapprove of Judean King Herod’s performance than approve. Local wise men say a rash of unpopular decisions by the monarch are contributing to the decline.

“Yeah the whole ‘infanticide of newborn boys’ thing probably hasn’t helped his public standing much,” said philosopher Zacharias the Obvious, “especially among the crucial 'parents who oppose having their babies wantonly slaughtered by the government’ demographic.”

from the The Wacky Deli

The Death of Facebook

(The following is a canned obituary for when the announcement is made.)

Facebook is dead. Almost. Facebook for adults is dead.

A few archeologists are looking over the excavation and anthropologists are studying the remaining older indigenous natives and trying to figure out exactly how they fit into the Empire when it was at the pinnacle of its glory. But this is on the old site. The new site is still thriving and bustling with new teenage angst statuses quoting bad R&B songs and college witticisms. But where the old folks used to be – that's a ghost town. Facebook has become eerily reminiscent of Logan's Run. Nobody over 30 can be found.

For a while there were funny status updates that for the most part only the more experienced fb members would find funny.

- Joe Smoe is for eliminating, getting rid of, disposing of, and abolishing redundancy – and this time he means it!

- Joe Smoe's waistline is expanding faster than the universe.

- Joe Smoe is trying to recall a famous German philosopher but he Kant.

- Joe Smoe's chances are disappearing faster than a hairline near his forehead.

In the interest of confession – these were all posted by some guy named Rick. I eventually had to unfriend that guy.

The Unfriend: This is Facebook's greatest contribution to society. You could become friends with total strangers, and remain total strangers. You wouldn't even know a thing about them. You couldn't vouch for them on any verification. If you ran into each other on the street there would be no recognition. There weren't even complimentary Christmas cards. But they were a friend. It said so right on the list. And the list would grow. Some people added as many friends as they could. Friends and more friends; the number of friends said something about you. You were popular. You were in demand. You were special. You had lots and lots of friends. I always imagined that this could come up poorly for me at some point.

"But Mr. Doray, this…this…gentleman who sits before you, systematically crippled the entire banking network by deliberate and repeated overdrafts, ruined the environment by driving a gas-guzzling carbon-emitting clunker, consorted with known fans of MC Hammer, and he gave away unneutered puppies to small children. You had extensive electronic communications with him. He was your friend, SIr! Are we to understand that you knew nothing of this? How do you explain this?"

"I confirmed his request on Facebook, but when I found out about all this I unfriended him. "

"Oh I see, well, that is a different story. Wait a minute! Isn't he also your brother?"

And yes, you could unfriend them. Click the mouse and Poof! They were off of your friend list. And here is the genius of it. Facebook wouldn't notify them that they had been unfriended. They didn't have a clue. If you felt like sniping off a few people it was easy. Click. Unfriend. Click. Unfriend. Absolute power giving way to absolute corruption. The only setback – it didn't apply to real life. That would be sweet. Click. Unboss. Click. Unbrother-in-law. Click. Unstupid driver who cut me-off. Click. Unlady in the checkout line in front of me who is now searching in her purse for her checkbook only after all her items were bagged and loaded into the cart and the cashier waiting.

Some of the social networking sites have kept stats on their growth. In August Facebook claimed to have over 370,000 people joining every day. 360,000 sent me friend requests. Or was it that I sent 360,000 requests and got 3 confirmations. I can't remember now. But I do remember that the feed was hopping. People were a status-posting, comment-leaving, quiz-taking, game-playing and photo-snooping. Now it seems like hardly anybody is on there anymore. I think yesterday two people from the Michigan UP joined but one of them immediately forgot their password. The other forgot to turn the crank on the side of the computer and Windows 3.0 froze up. "Say yah to da U.P., eh!"

The whole craze was a tidal wave of older travelers on the global information superhighway checking out the latest digital tourist stop. Finding it cute for awhile, they soon got bored with it. The over-30 crowd having finally gained the wall after laying siege to the famous college social networking site, looted, pillaged and then – they left. Nobody is on there anymore. Their fb pages are still up - a testament to a generation who have perfected digital narcissism. But the city of Troy has more evidence of life then the ruins of the "I love Michael Bublé" group. They just couldn't come up with 25 more random things to say about each other now that everyone knows their pimp name. Farmville looks like the dust bowl part deux. Right now everybody is going tweet, tweet. But I expect that canary will soon be in the bottom of the cage, too. Maybe not though, it feels like texting and that could give it staying power.

A Quick Little History of My Dental Week (with creative license)

Dec 18, 2009.

My tongue is crazy killin'. That's for sure.

Tuesday night I'm eating a few leftover chicken strips. I wasn't home for dinner and so now I get the scraps left by the ravenous hoard I call my children. Surprisingly, when I got home there are a few chicken strips left over. I'm grateful. The stars correctly aligned for a rare confluence of events which provided this rare providence. On Tuesday afternoon there weren't any dinner groceries in the house and Gailyn was too busy to go shopping. So Stephanie went to the store with Gailyn's debit card. Stephanie has two consistent purchasing traits. Stephanie buys items as close to bar food as she can, and Stephanie overbuys. She came home with enough chicken strips to feed a party of 25. There are 9 of us in the household – though one of them is 16 months old. Actually, Stephanie got it about right because there were only 3 strips left. If she had bought enough for a party of 24 then I wouldn't have gotten any. This is bad for the grocery budget, but quite good for the "ravenous hoard" that I call my children; and this is also a plus for the breadwinner who is absent when the bread is served.

I like chicken. There are many ways to prepare a good hen. I am amenable to most of them. Chicken strips are okay with me. These strips were breaded, not the best way to do chicken but the kids like them, and with a little left over MickeyD's barbeque sauce they are just like giant nuggets. They were a little cold and a little hard but I rejected Gailyn's offer to warm them up for me. A few chomps in and I got a little crunch over on the right side of my mouth. There is this really hard piece and it feels like maybe a chicken bone got pressed in with the meat, but the strips are cold and it could be just hardened from sitting around. A few more grinding chews and I am convinced that it really is more than gristle or hardened breading. I try but I can't dislodge it from the rest of the chicken, so I pull the disgusting wad out of my mouth and mine for the offender. What do ya know – it's a bone after all, sort of. It's a tooth.  Since chickens don't have teeth (right?), I'm thinking, what the ….is this mine?

Sure was. I had cracked apart a wisdom tooth.  It hurt a little.  Like a child with a bug I hold my prize out to my wife. Looky at what I have? Gailyn is just looking at me like, Oh, My Gosh!  She immediately goes into nurse mode, "Which tooth is THAT? Are you okay?"  Sure I am.  I grin and inform her that, of course, I'm okay. I am a super tough, testosterone secretin', funky gym sock smellin', toolbox carryin', big truck ownin', red-meat eatin' macho type of guy.  Where's the Tylenol? AND, I ask, just what does the Tooth Fairy (hereafter known as TF) give a 44 year old for a 24 year old tooth? My certified dental assistant of a wife tells me to forget about that – she knows TF and there isn't a payoff for broken off pieces. My night is ruined. I'm depressed. If TF has no time for me, then I won't clap for fairies anymore. My childhood has completely disoriented my perception of fairies anyway. My mother told me that the TF is a woman. My father said TF was a guy. They both had anecdotal stories to prove their assertions. TF taught me that one of my parents is delusional.

Wednesday sucked!  Literally.  The tooth had split right where my tongue hits when I chew or talk.  The new edge constantly stabbed my tongue with a peaked and jagged spike.  Pain; I don't like it. I kept sucking and rolling back my tongue so it wouldn't hit against my tooth.  You just don't realize how unstable your tongue is until the unruly member hurts every time you talk. I don't have to speak much on Wednesday – so it's kind of okay. But the tooth is throbbing. I can count my pulse by the waves throbbing through my tooth. I have raided the medicine cabinet for abandoned pain medications. Malyn's Darvocet from her same day surgery is now in my lunch bag. I'm probably breaking a few federal statutes by having it, but I figure what the hey, if they take me into custody I can get free dental in the slammer. Even so I'm not real comfortable taking the Darvocet. I decide to that it is time for proactive measures. I'm going to break off the spiked top and pack the thing with Anbesol until I can see the dentist or the nerve settles down.

On Wednesday night I find the hardest thing to chew that I can find (dinner) and start chewing on that side.  Pretty soon, clink.  Part 2 breaks off.  Instantly it feels so much better in there.  The pressure is gone. The throbbing is gone. I take a few happy bites. I can live with this. Then this burning sensation runs up the side of my tongue. Did I make a mistake? Now there is a sharp edge along the side of the tooth, not on top like it was before. I touch it with my fingers. Wow, it is sharp like a piece of glass. The sharp edge is laying flat against my tongue.  My tongue isn't impaling itself on the top of my tooth anymore, now it is constantly rubbing against it.  Out of the frying pan and into the fire, my tongue isn't being poked anymore, it is being flayed. Eating is painful, swallowing is painful, talking is murderous. 

Thursday, I call the dentist office.  I should have already done this. But my intense dread of the dentist can only be overridden by my intense dread of pain. We have reached the tipping point. The receptionist asks:

Do you have tooth pain?

                You mean, in my tooth? Not really that much.  But I have pain because of my tooth.  My tongue is getting cut up on the jagged edge where the tooth broke off.

I see, so this isn't a dental emergency.

No, it's not really an emergency.  (Because to me – emergencies involve shock paddles and the "jaws of life") The tooth itself doesn't hurt (this response is one of the biggest mistakes of my life.  Besides, what the heck is the definition of a dental emergency anyway?)

Soonest we can get you in is end of January.

                Nothing sooner? 

No, but if we have an opening you're on the priority list.

                Priority list? 

If you have any earaches let us know and we'll prescribe antibiotics.

                I have a sore throat now. 

Yeah, it is flu season. 

               The flu? So it's not the tooth that has acutely broken off and is causing trauma to my tongue. 

Oh, probably not.  But you can call us back in a few days if you still have a sore throat.  Have a nice day, sir.   

Thursday at work they called security to check my blood alcohol.  I'm slurring my words too much.  When that comes up zero, I'm sent to neurology for a screening.  I finally make them understand that it is my tooth that is doing it.  By the way, the three words are apple, pencil, river.  No dementia presenting yet, but I'm going back next week, they want to be sure.  Wendy up in the executive suite shoots me a message, can we meet today?  I'm a little fearful about what she needs so urgently that she wants a meeting today.  I can just imagine her saying, Sorry, but you're freaking out the staff and the patients.  We're sending you home until this weird tic thing goes away.  But she doesn't mention it at all. She has normal business to take care of. During the opening small talk she asks, "Why weren't you at the staff party?" I try to explain, "Acuz my toot iz urtin my tung."   "What?" "Acuz my toot iz urtin my tung."  "What?"  "I wuz bizzy."  "Oh."

Friday I was eating a piece of bread. I was eating on the left side to avoid getting on the tooth. But that wasn't working because it was pushing my tongue over onto the right side and scraping the wisdom tooth. The tooth itself didn't hurt much so I figured whatever, I'll eat on that side and keep my tongue over on the non-traumatized side. The bread actually packed down in the hole in the tooth and created a soft little bumper on the sharp edge. It was wonderful. My tongue wasn't hitting the sharp edge. The problem was – the bread dissolved and I couldn't keep a wad in there. So I decided to try gum, but that wouldn't stay put. Would a mouth-guard work? Dental wax? An idea began to form in my mind. Fix the tooth yourself, dummy! But how?

I'd had it. Something had to happen. Saturday I went into the garage and started hunting for primitive dentistry tools. I was ready to go all Tom Hanks in Cast Away. If I had a rock and coconut we would have been golden. I could have turned all the Wilson basketball, soccer balls, baseball gloves and golf stuff toward the far wall and just done the deed. Unfortunately I didn't have a coconut. So I grabbed some pliers and tried to yank the tooth out. The pliers only slipped and nearly knocked me out when it hit my palate. Head spinning and dizzy I made another attempt. But the first try had taught me a lesson and I was too shy to really yank again. I tried to use the pliers to break the edge of the tooth. Maybe chip off some of the edge. It wasn't working. The pliers slide and I hit myself in the lip. It started to feel fat immediately. I obviously wasn't coordinated enough for frontier dentistry.

Putting the pliers down and having no success with its brothers and sisters, I moved on down the shelf. The dremel spoke to me. A dremel is a small power tool used for burnishing and sanding rough edges. It can also be used to cut small objects like screws. nails, and, though not specifically mentioned in the user's manual, the inside of someone's mouth. I figured that any attempt to use the dremel would probably go awry. Just one slip using a burnishing pad would rip the side of tongue off, open my gums and wrap the inside of my cheeks around the burnisher.  I'd be on the list for the 2009 Darwin Award Winners. The Darwin Awards are given to those "who improve the species...by accidentally removing themselves from it!"

I don't crave fame in that fashion. Comedy is not funny when they are laughing at you.

I spotted some sandpaper on the shelf. Perhaps the burnishing principle would be the same but safer on a more manual level. I had gritty sandpaper and fine sandpaper. Neither seemed appropriate for primitive dentistry. I didn't have a file that would work either, so Saturday night I went to Wal-Mart to look for a small file.  The only thing they had was this 18 inch tool file.  I would have had to be a sword swallower to use it.  Inspiration met ingenuity and I went over to cosmetics.  I bought a small foot callus remover and a metal nail file.  I was armed and ready.

At 1:30 in the morning I was sitting on the family couch, watching a History channel program with Hannibal slicing off Roman heads at Lake Trasimene. I had the foot scrapper in my mouth trying to round off the sharp edges of my tooth.  It was a snapshot across time.  Almost two and half millennia separated us but we were brothers in arms. Just me and the Barcas, wielding the power of steel to control our destinies – or whatever metal the callus scrapper was made of. I worked it this way and that but I couldn't get the callus file deep enough into my mouth to get a sawing action on it.  So I gave up.

I opened the nail file and found that it was a workable tool. I watched Ducarius catch Flaminius and slay the impetuous general as I felt little gritty particles began to fill my mouth.  YES!  Go! GO! GO! I kept up the sawing.  Back and forth, back and forth, relief would be so sweet.  And the whole operation wasn't even that painful.  I pulled the file out of my mouth and reached back there to check the progress. I wanted to feel how dull the edge had already become.  Wow! It was still sharp.  I scratched the back of my fingernail on the tooth.  It actually cut a grease in the nail plate.  Evidently, enamel is harder than keratin.  That was odd. The tooth should have been rounded off more than that by now. So, if there is no change in the sharp little pike in my mouth, what was all that grit in my mouth? I looked at the file and saw that the little metal etching, the file part of the file, was worn off.  Evidently, enamel is harder than nail file metal.  Unbelievable!  Who knew? 

On the screen Hannibal betrayed the surrendering legions and marched them off the screen to be sold into Carthaginian slavery.  I conclude that you actually do retain knowledge better when it is coupled with pain. Abandoning Hannibal to history, I sadly shook my head at the L'Oreal file, flipped it onto the coffee table and went to bed.  For the next several hours I kept spitting out little micrometer size pellets of metal; none of it enamel. In the half conscious state between sleep and awake I ponder the problem. Diamonds are the hardest substance; do I want to sacrifice my wife's wedding ring? Even half alert I realize that choice could cause me more pain than my current situation.    

Today at work, I'm meeting with Sarah, our PR rep, because Renee has successfully *delegated* a committee assignment to me.  They want me to help with the employee newsletter. Sarah keeps saying "What?" every time I speak.
Tho, 'is tis owen obe a 'lossy? (So, is this going be a glossy?)
                What? 
'is tis owen obe a 'lossy? (Is this going to be a glossy?)
                I don't get what you're saying
Ta nuethletta, r 'ewe 'oing to ooze signy papah? (The newsletter, are we going to use shiny paper?)
                I like the way he thinks. If I could only figure out what he is saying.  

I'm calling the dental office receptionist back. I'm telling her that I have more pain than she can imagine. On a scale of 1 to 10 I'm at a 15. It's time to break out the jaws of life.

Really Bad Timing…

Just look at the article tease banner.

Tiger, Tiger, Tiger…

The End…

What do you want to be remembered for when your life is over?

This was a weekly essay assignment in a Psychology of Adulthood and Aging class I took a little while ago. The topic intrigued me. I thought I might want to save it for my children. This is the way it was turned in. Hopefully, I will revise this later. But we all know how good intentions usually go.

Of the billions of people who have lived on the planet, very few are remembered past the immediate couple generations that succeed them. For most of us, the concern is more about what's coming than about what has been. That changes as we get old. There is a paradox in preparing for death. We get ready for the next step by looking at our past journeys. For the most part, it is almost universally common for older people to stop and reflect on their past. They search for meaning to their lives. They struggle with the quality and the quantity of contributions they have made to the world. In psychological terms they wrestle with life reflection issues raised in the appraisal of generativity versus stagnation. It is a hard audit to analyze.

In 1994, America was introduced to Morrie Schwartz when Ted Koppel interviewed him for a Nightline feature. Morrie, a Brandeis University professor of sociology, was suffering with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), better known as Lou Gehrig's disease. Morrie was going to die soon. And he knew it. Koppel asked Morrie several times about death. Did he fear it? Did he think much about it? Was it peaceful acceptance or was it raging against the dying of the light? One time Morrie responded by telling a fable:

"Okay. The story is about a little wave, bobbing along in the ocean, having a grand old time. He's enjoying the wind and the fresh air-until he notices the other waves in front of him, crashing against the shore. "My God, this is terrible," the wave says. "Look what's going to happen to me!"
Then along comes another wave. It sees the first wave, looking grim, and it says to him, "Why do you look so sad?"
The first wave says, "You don't understand! We're all going to crash! All of us waves are going to be nothing! Isn't it terrible?"
The second wave says, "No, you don't understand. You're not a wave; you're part of the ocean."

I don't exactly know why, but the telling caught me off-guard, and I found it to be very profound and thought provoking on several levels. A little wave, frantic and desperate, about to be dashed on the shore rings true for me. On one level we can fret and worry because the ride will soon be over or we can enjoy it while it lasts. On another, the little wave sees the big broad shoreline and wonders if anything will be accomplished or changed for it having broken on the beach. Except for the tsunamis that roll in and unforgettably change the landscape most of us end up as just another in a countless series that is forgotten as soon as next group hits the beach. We crash and roll and dissipate across the sands and quietly roll back beneath the next wave as it spends itself in the same dance. For some people that may be a depressing way to think of it. But like Morrie said, we never really go away; we are part of the ocean forever. Maybe that's too Zen for a nihilistic minded generation to embrace. Maybe it is just consolation for the soul who doesn't want to leave the party.

In what feels like a lifetime ago, an assignment was given in my freshman college writing course for us to write our own epitaphs. I remember struggling to think of what good things I could do to be remembered for. Would I give to the needy, would I help feed the hungry? Would I write great literature or practice compassionate medicine? Would I be politically active and help solve the world's ills? I already knew that sports record books would be free from my encroachment. Would I be a great family man and a good neighbor? How would I be remembered? I listed all generalities without specifics. Life was full of too many possibilities to even attempt a sane stab at prophecy.

My answer in my 40s is different from the one I would have given in my 20s. And I'm sure that it will be different with each passing mile marker on this life journey. Life is finite and we are the waves breaking on the shore. It is hard to create statues or monuments to ourselves in the sand. Even if we manage it, they will crumble and rust to nothing in the passing of time. Even mighty Ozymandias lies as decay, boundless and bare.

What I want to leave is a legacy in my children much more than a legacy of stuff left to them. I want them to have good things from their father even if they don't realize how they acquired them. I'm still going to school in my 40s. Education is important. Keep learning. Don't be discouraged if you start after most people are finished; it is never too late. Be fair to people, give them the benefit of the doubt. At times, people will disappoint you but the alternative is to live a life without joy and trust. Find what you love and give it your best effort. Don't live in the shadows of what could have been. You can only fly if you decide to leap.

Every contestant in the arena is booed and cheered, usually simultaneously. It's the love of the game that makes it worthwhile. Recently, the great tennis player André Agassi admitted that he didn't really enjoy playing tennis. He wrote in his autobiography, "I play tennis for a living even though I hate tennis, hate it with a dark and secret passion and always have." How sad. What would it be like to continuously do something you had come to hate just for money? But André isn't the only one who spent years in misery simply because he could get rich from it. These people are all around us. And they have lost their joy in life. Sometimes there is no choice and we do what we have to. But never let superficial things take precedence over what is important to you. Follow your passion and work will never be a thing you hate. Don't be like André Agassi doing something you dread for decades of your life just because it gets you fame or wealth or anything else that is simply sand running through your fingers.

Never forget that no matter how lonely you are someone loves you. It is never as dark as it seems when our eyes are clouded by life's tragedies. We don't always get to choose what happens to us but we get to choose who we are. I think this is life's greatest secret. It is true, genetics, environment, politics, luck; it may all seem to gang up against you, but you decide how you will respond. You get to make the choice, in any situation, of who you will be. Remember Tom in Uncle Tom's Cabin. Simon Legree could put him in chains, beat him with whips and take away all that Tom had. But Legree couldn't break his spirit or make Tom into being something he didn't consent to being. Our choice, no matter what happens, is what we are at any moment. It is what makes us accountable. And it is the property of the human soul that allows us to be noble.

This is the legacy I want to leave. And if I can leave this behind then I'm not afraid to subordinate beneath the waves that crash on top of me and melt into the ocean of humanity of what was and what will soon follow.

Finally, I don't really care that much concerning what is said about me at my funeral. I've been to enough of them to know that the remarks don't always follow reality. Sometimes the one doing the eulogy doesn't even know the deceased that well. I would rather have my remembrances on my death-bed, to look back on life and have a minimum of regrets. We are such wonderfully complex creatures. Who can know us but God, and, possibly, ourselves? I want to judge my life for myself and decide if it was well-lived or foolishly wasted. As long as I am square with myself and my Maker, I want to breathe my last knowing that in all things important I didn't let go too soon, nor did I hold on too long.

Yippee

Dead Men Don’t Wear Jogging Sneakers

I'm accessing an outside record on a Veteran.  As his chart loads there is a note:

Patient died on Mar **, 2009, do you want to continue?

Yes, I do.  So I enter the necessary data in the required fields.  Then the chart gives me a note:

Patient is ineligible to travel.

You think?  Maybe with a court order?

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

You know you’re from Erie when…

• You take your girl friend to the public dock to make out
• The words 'to be' are not used in sentence structure, e.g., the Car needs washed or the grass needs mowed
• Been bar-hopping, visited 32 bars and never left the block
• Think it's normal for the citizen to pizza shop ratio to be 4:1
• Know what a davenport is
• You think going to NorthEast is a long drive
• You know that NorthEast is in the Northwest corner of the state
• "Pop" has everything to do with beverages and nothing to do with your Dad
• You have three choices - Browns, Bills or Steelers that's it.
• It's completely normal to see people you've known since kindergarten every weekend
• Perch is on the menu
• You think greek sauce and pepperoni balls are available everywhere
• You keep an ice scrapper in your car for 10 months out of the year, because you never know
• You've heard "it's a horse apiece" and know what it means
• Two feet of snow does not mean a snow day
• There are drive-through beer distributors in your neighborhood
• You find zero degrees "a bit chilly"
• You don't care to go to the Peninsula, but 100,000 people from Pittsburgh do
• Peach jam refers to traffic problems
• You know several people who have hit at least six deer with their car
• Vacation means going south past Pittsburgh for the weekend
• You carry jumper cables in your car and your girlfriend knows how to use them
• Driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow
• You measure distance in hours
• You know all four seasons as: almost winter, winter, still winter, and road construction
• Otters are a hockey team and the Seawolves play baseball
• When choosing a pumpkin for Halloween, you often have to dig through snow to find one
• Every time you hear "Carol of the Bells" you start singing "Star Mobile Home, Star Mobile Home..."
• You know all the lyrics to the "Brandel Painting" jingle
• "80s hair" isn't a thing of the past

• It wouldn't be summer, it wouldn't be fun without ice Cream from Sara's
• Your weekend plans include a stag and drag and a diaper party
• You've ever bought a beer for a quarter
• You really DID walk uphill, both ways in two feet of snow to school every day
• A register is something that heat comes out of
• You've yelled at your kids to go red up their rooms- NOW!
• You go to a beach and comment on the "good" sand
• You've ever gone to a "prep dance"
• You've been to a "Save-An-Eye"game
• You remember the Pop Man at Jerry Uht Park
• Going 30 mph is speeding
• If it's not a Smith dog, you don't want it.
• You know what Ox Roast is
• You know it is your lucky day when you get all of the green lights on West 12th St
• You know what sponge candy is
• When you eat out, you get a side of ranch dressing for your french fries
• You've tried to leave and Erie just keeps sucking you back in

One Space or Two

One of the most important and burning questions of our day is: When you end a sentence, is there one space after the period before the next sentence or are there two spaces? Wars could be fought over this. Not because the space or lack of it really matters so much but because, either way, somebody's paradigm is being shaken. People don't like it when you mess with their paradigms. It makes them feel like the world is an uncertain place. They need their space(s).

Back in the day before keyboarding (i.e. computer keyboards), schools provided typing classes where 25 to 30 pupils sat in rows and rhythmically wore out their fingers banging away on Underwood Fives or IBM Selectrics. Those manual typewriters were better than fingertip pushups to build up the muscles in the forearm. If you were there, you remember being solemnly taught that you always put two character spaces between a period and the first word of a new sentence. Always. It was a law of nature and nature's God. Points were docked if you didn't. I had to be careful and make sure I got in that extra space. It was easy to skip one when I was typing as fast as I could. That, and I constantly mistyped and as "nad." I still do that. But Word knows my tendency so it autocorrects for me. I love technology.

Mrs. Gonnaretiresoon taught us that the reason for the two space rule was to improve the readability of the text. It provided a visual break which helped the reader to group the ideas in a sentence more efficiently before moving on to the next one. Typewriters used a monospace font, the character I takes as much space on the page as the character M. So you typed two spaces at the end of the sentence to create a visual break. The little gap was a comprehension aid.

That made sense. We bought it completely. Then along came the word processor and its proportionally spaced fonts. The fonts were now spaced to accommodate character width, position in the word, and space AFTER the period (or the Full Stop for any Brits out there). Two spaces were no longer needed after the period. This little magical feat was brought to us by a word processing miracle called kerning.

That didn't matter. Mrs. G had drilled it into us. It was a fact of life. It was dogma. And we were trained to do it that way. Our brains didn't accept that we were writing a new sentence until our thumbs actually hit the spacebar twice. And that was the way it had always been done.

Except, it wasn't.

I also learned the two space rule because I, too, was a student of Mrs. G. But when I submitted my first manuscript for publication it came back with a polite request from the publishing house to remove the double spaces between sentences and then resubmit. Publishers have always used one character space in books and magazines. I went back to newspapers and periodicals from 1888 to 2000 to prove this to myself. I looked through books and documents. A Gutenberg Bible wasn't available to personally handle but from a jpeg on the internet it looked like Johannes was a one space publisher as well. They all, with few exceptions, used a single character space between sentences. A core formatting guide prepared by a publishing expert with a parvenu occupational designation of Typographic Consultant has all but assured that this rule is THE rule.

Now we turn to the newest research paid for by your hard-earned tax dollar…double character spacing between sentences is actually bad for you. Okay, not you, the writer – but bad for the person who ends up reading your document. I'm sure there are plenty of people who wanted to go out and hang themselves after reading something I wrote. But the actual problem is that it puts a strain on your vision. Take a full page of text from a document containing double spaces between sentences and hold it out a few feet from your face. Now squint. You will see rivers of white space going up and down the page. Studies have shown that the rivers of white space cause headaches and eyestrain in many readers. They lead the eye away from the text. This is hardly noticeable to the reader because they are concentrating on the meaning. But over time this constant readjusting of focus causes strain and fatigue.

This eye fatigue happens at a much slower rate when tested on documents with a single space after the period. That's why you can read a novel all afternoon, even though the type can be much smaller and condensed, compared to a much lesser duration for memorandum and SOPs. And all along you thought it was just the content material. It's as much a matter of readability as it is appeal and engagement. Trapped white space can make you woozy. Just tell the employee health nurse that you are suffering from White Space Wooze. There may even be a code for it.

We've covered tradition, best practices and medicine. Let's look at the recognized authorities on grammar and format. The Chicago Manual of Style, The APA Style book and the Modern Language Association (MLA) all recommend using one space after a period. And to emphasis the point, the Chicago Manual of Style declares this not once, but three times:

• A period marks the end of a declarative or an imperative sentence. It is followed by a single space.
• A single character space, not two spaces, should be left after periods at the ends of sentences (both in manuscript and in final, published form).
• In typeset matter, one space, not two (in other words, a regular word space), follows any mark of punctuation that ends a sentence, whether a period, a colon, a question mark, an exclamation point, or closing quotation marks.

Ironically, as well as coincidently, the grammar guide provided at my workplace on the Erie VAMC Support Our Staff SharePoint site states that for the use of a period [.] you should "use one space between the period and the first letter of the next sentence. This goes against the grain for people using the typography instilled by generations of old-fashioned typewriter users, but modern word-processors nicely accommodate the spacing after a period, and double-spacing after a period can only serve to discombobulate the good intentions of one's software." (http://grammar.ccc.commnet.edu/grammar/)

So Mrs. G was wrong. But don't blame her. She learned it from her typing teacher, Miss Slaghoople, who taught back when typists would have to hit the font bar with a rock to typeset. Which is ironic (or is it coincidental?), because ancient languages were written without any breaks between words. Then again, they didn't use punctuation at all; a species tendency that is resurfacing with the popularity of texts and tweets. Nobody knows when or why the double space myth set in to the common knowledge base. Typing instructors taught it religiously while all the while oblivious to the magnitude of the single spaced material around them. But that's societal nature. Conventional wisdom is hard to change – after all, we still believe George Bush ran to the Supreme Court in the 2000 election (Gore did), that tomatoes are vegetables (scientifically classified as a fruit) and that caviar actually tastes good (blech!).

Today, technical material is single spaced. I mean go ahead and try and get two spaces to show on a browser address or while creating an HTML webpage. Can't do it unless you know the cheats. But many non-technical writers still author documents with two spaces. Even with writing convention against it they do it anyway. Why? Because they really do believe their documents look better. So maybe it is ultimately a style choice. Using one space is now the most widely proscribed style, but ultimately it is really about communication and design. Is the design of the document (spacing, font, justification, etc) effective? Does it look the way YOU want it to look?

The Gregg Reference has this to say about it:

Now that the standards of desktop publishing typically apply to all documents produced by computer, the use of one space is recommended after the punctuation that occurs at the end of a sentence. Yet this standard should not be mechanically applied.

In all cases, the deciding factor should be the appearance of the breaks between sentences in a given document. If the use of one space does not provide enough of a visual break, use two spaces instead.

Style manuals are good guidelines but they are not the law. Ultimately the style choice is left to the writer or the publisher. And just in case you didn't notice, I wrote this whole thing with 2 spaces between sentences. But you couldn't, could you? The layout won't allow it. White space is not allowed.

Now, just don't tell a secretary that the QWERTY keyboard was actually designed to slow the typist down so they didn't jam up the keys with their speed. But that's another story…

Megacards

How do you know you are getting old? When out-of-the-blue your brain suddenly speaks up and goes, hey dude do you remember that one time when…? That happened to me recently. My aging brain cells decided to do a data dump and I suddenly had a synaptic recall of an incident back in '87. That was back in the olden days. In 1987 I had recently returned from two years in Brazil. I was working for a living while trying to save for my next run at a college education.  In 1987, Erie PA just wasn't the place to find a good job. In 2010 it isn't a good place to find a job – period. But this is a rambling reminiscence, let's just stay in 1987.

A couple of the jobs I held were typical minimum wage jobs.  I was a bread-slicer.  Did you ever wonder how all those loaves of bread in the bags get so uniformly sliced? Nah, neither did I – knowledge isn't always comforting. I did that very late at night and very early into the morning at SuperDuper on W. 26^th St. I was an Arby's Roast Beef slicer. I did that late in the evening at the brand new restaurant at E. 38^th and Pine. The owner's wife would come in and go through the garbage to make sure we weren't wasting good product. Let me tell you, there are stories to tell. That's why I never ate there unless I prepared my own food. And I was a Laundry delivery driver. I did that early in the morning.

The laundry job wasn't so bad. I got to drive all over NorthWestern PA. The radio was my friend and the labor was light. I was lucky to have the position. I only had it because there was an emergency opening. The usual driver was named Tim. He was what you would call soberness-challenged. He got drunk one night and drove his car into another vehicle and lost his license for six months. I say he got drunk one night. But I am not sure he ever was completely sober. The company put him on one of the big washers and he spent his days dropping heavily loaded nets of laundry into the machines. He didn't like it. His eyes were always bloodshot red and he looked like he had fought all night with the demons from the pit.

One day a complaint came in that I had been rude to one of the clients at an Edinboro Country Club. Though I swore my innocence the boss fired me within 10 minutes of the phone call. He couldn't afford to lose clients. Tim had just gotten his license restored and he was only too happy to take his old job back. It didn't matter much. The laundry went under soon after. I found out later that it wasn't me the country club had a problem with – it was another driver. Laundry owner man had too much pride to call me back. That would mean he had to apologize. Besides, Tim had resumed control as his wheel man.

A few months later I was lucky to hear of a new place that needed people badly. It was a company called Megacards.  It was in an old warehouse near 26th and Cherry.  Trucks could barely back into the dock because there was no room to manuever.  In fact, drivers usually had to call the shop and get directions because they had driven back and forth on 26th street several times and still didn't have a clue where the place was.  I always thought it would be a great place to leave a body in one of those crime drama shows.  "Over here, Detective. The body was found by a homeless guy going through the dumpster beside this rundown old shop."  "Poor fellow.  The victim's decision to stop and take a pee in this part of town was the last bad decision he'll ever make."

All I did all day long for most of my sentence there was to stand at a big table and sort baseball and football cards.  When we got in a batch of hockey cards it was cause for celebration because there was at least some variety.  It was so mind-numbing that I remember the stockboys spending a full day arguing over the bra size of the girl who brought the insurance papers.  Which, come to think of it, is a full day's worth of discussion for 18-20 yr old guys.  The fact that these guys were in their 40s and 50s was disturbing to me.  Now I know that some guys are perpetually 18 years old when it comes to bra sizes. Even so, Megacards was a job you could only dread because the days were tedious and interminable. 

A bunch of my former co-workers from the laundry were already employed there, including the owner who fired me and Tim the tipsy wheelman. They worked the overnight shift.  They just stared at me through bleary eyes the first morning I walked in. They were all hunched over one of the big tables and sorting cards into piles. When enough of us had gathered to the side they just put their cards down and walked past us. We simply took up a spot and resumed the sorting. A 10 minute break in the morning, a half hour for lunch and another 10 minute break before quitting time. We were staggered for break times even though there was no moving machinery at the tables to keep running.  We were the machine. The production had to keep moving. I guess the boss never did figure out that the total man-hours were the same whether he staggered us or let us all break at once.  Maybe he thought that if there was no movement then he was losing money.  Or maybe he just tried to keep us from planning a jailhouse riot.  It could have been either. 

The boss was a tartar named Ed. He had been the mechanic at the laundry. Now he was the boss at the sportscard shop. He had managed to pocket enough laundry money to buy a piece of ownership in this new venture.  Ed was one of the meanest cusses I have ever met.  Even if he didn't growl at you for some imagined misstep, he would stare you down like he was the alpha lion in the pride.  If you didn't avert your eyes in deference fast enough he would find an excuse to yell at you.  His eyes were usually bloodshot red, too.  Many assumed it was from too many late nights at the bar. But I think it was because he didn't sleep much. Or maybe it is something that just happens to people who work for years at an industrial laundry.

Ed was always at work at 5 in the morning.  He left late too.  The job was his life, and pity the fool who didn't make it their primary priority as well.  Sports memorabilia was right next to cancer research and world peace in global importance. You can make a good living on any of them.  Except for the peons who worked the sorting tables.  One plus about the job was that you could earn a little extra scratch at Megacards.  We were allowed to work extra hours if we wanted; encouraged to, in fact.  But there was no overtime because we weren't required to work OT.  We got the regular wage whether it was a 40 hour week or an 80 hour week.  Another way to make extra dough was to sneak a high value card out of the shop.  Legend has it that Joe V. smuggled out a box of 100 Bo Jackson rookie series cards.  I have no idea if this is true or not.  How do you sell 100 of them?  I'm suspicious of the claim.  But knowing Joe, it could have happened.

One day I got the nod to work on the cutter.  The sportscard sheet-cutter sat in a prominent position in the shop.  It was front and center. All peasant activity was in the hinterlands that surrounded the cutter kingdom. We all passed around it daily like pilgrims circling the black stone on a Hajj.  Any annointed enough to be assigned work on the cutter was also called a cutter.  The cutter had a very precise job because the cards needed to be cut at exact specs as to edge and margin. The margins were measured to 1/100 of an inch. If you messed up a lot of money went down the drain.  A Bo Jackson rookie card could pull fifty bucks.  One bad cut through fifty stacked sheets could potentially cost the company several grand.  If you got a shot at being the cutter it meant that someone noticed your work was careful and errorless.  It was actually a more physically demanding job, but it had an air of trust in the assignment.  We were starved for recognition and thought the job of cutter to be a gift of selection from the gods.  The cutter was a potentially dangerous tool.  It sliced through stacks of sheets of cardboard like a hot knife through room temperature margarine.  Thinking back now, being promoted to cutter was probably like being the native girl chosen to be thrown into the volcano to appease the island deity.  It might hurt you, but there was honor in being chosen.  Not that Ed would try to hurt you by putting you on the cutter.  The cards were too precious to stain them with the blood of such common and jejune employees as us.  He could always find other ways to punish you. He could send you back to hours and hours of sorting cards.

The cutter took a little time to get used to, but we developed a rhythm.  Soon, my co-workers and I had it moving along pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.  As the day wore on, we ran out of boxes to place the cards.  Every card was sorted out by player and year and placed in boxes of 500.  Like Oliver Twist, I was the unlucky fellow chosen to go up front and ask Ed for some more.  It wasn't really as scary to me as the other guys thought it would be.  It wasn't our fault, I thought.   We simply needed more boxes. 

So I went up to Ed, and I looked him in the eye and said, "We need some more bosicks."  He looked at me like, "What the…?"  I tried again, "We need more bockes, bosix."  My tongue was completely tied.  I just couldn't say the word boxes.  I tried again, "I mean we're out of bosses."  At this point his glare turned to genuine concern.  I could see his mind starting to analyze the situation before him.  I had this flash of insight.  Ed thinks I have lost my ever-loving mind.  He's probably been dreading this moment for months.  He's waiting for me to pull a weapon and shoot him and half the joint up.  Two months of brainless rote and repetitive toil has turned me postal.  In frustration I pointed to a pile of packed boxes.  "We need more of those."  The recognition crept back into his eyes as he comprehended the jist of my petition.  His understanding returned.  So did the meanness.  "So why the hell didn't you say so?  What are you, some kind of moron?  There are more on the dock around the flats.  Go get 'em yourself."  And with that, he strutted back into his office and slammed the door.  His office was equipped with a private bathroom.  I can only hope that I scared him bad enough that just then he had to use it. 

And thus I temporarily became the company idiot.  The next day I was back at the sorting tables shuffling cards.  But the look on Ed's face was worth it.

No Spanking Zone

I needed to borrow my parent-in-laws' car. There was only one slight little problem; they were out of town. But we have a spare key to their house and I know where they hang the spare car keys. So I went over to, as the younguns say, "jack" the car key. My in-laws always let us borrow it before. I knew they would have let us borrow the car again but they weren't home to officially ask. Still, I felt a little nervous taking the car without asking. The key rack is under a cutesy wooden plaque that says GRANDPARENT'S PLACE. And dangling off the plaque, right next to the car key was a little painted piece of wood that reads NO SPANKING ZONE. Well that was a relief because I did feel a little naughty at that moment. But not to fear; this was a no spanking zone. The car keys were just hanging there – waiting for me to reach out and grab them. That's like the on-your-honor goodies tray. You're probably going to pay for your candy bar, but there isn't going to be any recrimination if you don't. You are on your honor. I looked at the keys. It was all good except for that little nagging problem of guilt. I'm part of generation that knows inculcated guilt. We received consequences for our actions. We lived in a spanking zone.

According to statistics, 98% of kids in my parents' generation ('40s and '50s) were spanked. When I was growing up that number was supposedly down to just below 90%. But I don't know if I believe those stats. I think the number was higher. Pop culture showed us that it was a required family practice. On TV alone; Andy spanked Opie, Laura spanked Ritchie, Mrs. Brady spanked Cindy, Samantha spanked Tabitha, Ricky spanked Lucy – well, maybe that one was different. Did Little Ricky ever get it? And can we talk cartoons and comics? And what about action shows like Bonanza and Wagon Train? Full grown women being spanked by rugged cowboys – but that's back to the Ricky and Lucy thing. Even as a little kid I suspected there was something else going on there. But I digress.

Sure, there were some kids who never seemed to get it. But that wasn't always good either. Being spanked is certainly better than the fear that Beaver Cleaver lived with. His father never touched him but the Beav seemed to live in fear that "Dad's going to kill me." I believe that same psychological abuse made him the supermarket opening celebrity that he is today. Contrast Mr. Cleaver (Mathers) with Sara Blakely, the creator of Spanx underwear. She claims that when she was a kid and about to be spanked she would go and put on all her day-of-the-week panties at once; a less detectable version of the board-in-the-pants. Today she is an underwear maven. You never know where inspiration will take you. Granted, her line of underwear will not protect you from assault, but if you wear enough of them…

Anti-spanking advocates claim that the prisons are filled with convicts who were spanked as children. They claim cause and effect. I claim correlation. They were spanked, and they are in jail, because they are bad people. If we want to believe in cause and effect then I better start walloping my kids because now we know, according to a study published in USA Today, that the nation's top CEOs were spanked as children. Just ask Sara Blakely. Then again, maybe spankings instill a desire to have a lot of money and acquire stuff. Whether you end up in the big office on the top floor or a little cell on the jail-block is just a consequence of career path. Both are after the same thing. AND just by the demographics alone you have to conclude that it would be odd if you could find convicts, CEOs, landscapers, truck drivers, presidents or astronauts who weren't. You could just as effectively argue that spanking makes you older.

Which is another point; today you have all these post-modern granola moms screaming that they can't stand by and watch this child abuse. When did spanking become abuse? Until last Tuesday it was never considered abuse. It was institutional. It was part of education. I started school in 1970. The elementary school where I attended handed paddles out to the volunteer lunch monitors. The cafeteria staff gathered the paddles up after lunch and stored them in a closet until the next lunch shift. The volunteers kept us little heathens in line while the teachers recouped in their lounge observing a deserved respite from their own toils and labor. They spent the days striving to mold us into productive individuals by applying stimuli to us on both ends. I have my own encounter-with-a-lunch-volunteer tale to tell, but that is for another time.

I attended first grade in a small village in Western Pennsylvania. We were a tough bunch to reach. At least weekly some fellow first-grade urchin was taken over the knee of our exasperated schoolmarm and given six good whacks or so. The rules demanded it. It was required to encourage better study habits and classroom deportment. The guilty party only hoped that no letter would be sent home or the operation would be repeated in the privacy of home. Looking back, domestically and institutionally, after the licks, neither the crime nor the punishment was ever brought up again. The slate was clean. Except for this, you weren't really accepted by the other boys until you went through your own proper orientation. There were two ways to undergo the rite of passage. Either suffer under Mrs. Shydow's paddle or be kicked in the butt by the gym teacher – without crying. I never was properly initiated. I think this was because my great-aunt taught at the school. She and my teacher didn't get along so well. Mrs. Shydow probably figured why stir the pot? So I had a modicum of protection. You really shouldn't mess with either side of my family. I believe that they are secret Sicilians. Even so, I think it a good thing we moved after my first year - the second grade teacher's paddle had holes in it.

But I didn't escape. We moved to South Carolina. You would think that the South would be worse. That is its reputation. In actuality, there was less corporal punishment, but that may have been because we attended school on Federal Property as the dependents of U.S. Servicemen. And most occurrences happened in the privacy of the Principal's office. But it could still happen from the teachers if they felt the necessity. I know because I have my own encounter-with-a-teacher to tell, but that is for another time. I can say that the dominant party to that encounter was my 4^th grade teacher, Miss Allen. I think she was my first real crush. She was young and nice and pretty and single. And then she had to go and spank me in front of the whole class including Katie Francis (who I hated). And thus the imprinting for my love life was solidified. Like Lucy and Ricky it could have worked out for me if I were older, but at 9 years old it's a deal killer. Someday I'll tell the whole story – the facts are different than you may think.

For story-time, Miss Allen would sit on her chair with us gathered around on the floor. She would read classics. Tom Sawyer opens with Aunt Polly catching the hero in the act and about to give him a lickin' for getting into the jam. Not one to let a prime teaching opportunity pass, Miss Allen expounded on the plot by commenting that children need a good spanking every now and then or they would become spoiled. None of us really knew what would be so bad about being spoiled. But according to her proscribed cure, I had no fear that I would ever become spoiled. She asked us, "How many of you are spanked at home when you've been naughty?" There were close to 30 kids in the class and everybody raised their hands, except for Katie Francis and Michael Lee.

I suppose that some of the kids who raised their hands weren't really raised that way at home. They could have been caving in to peer pressure and just saying they got spanked so they would be like everyone else. Who wants to be different from your friends when you are in elementary school? Maybe they were just lying. After all, they never got spanked for it. All of us noticed which children had their hands down. Michael Lee was sickly with thick glasses and a perpetual sniffle. He was too fragile to handle without care. Only a cruel adult would lay a hand on him. But Katie was a prime example to us that being spoiled was indeed an awful thing. We weren't like Katie. We almost wanted to write thank you letters to our parents. But we were afraid it would only serve to encourage them to redouble their efforts in our behalf. It would be more prudent to wait and express our gratitude to them when we were grown-up.

Back in the kitchen of my wife's parents, I looked at the sign on the wall. Why didn't they have these No Spanking Zones when I was a kid? Admittedly, I believe that through my parents' ministrations I did have improved behavior, but at the same time they may have inadvertently stifled some of my natural genius. Take for example my innate curiosity for the natural sciences. One unsupervised hour I was bouncing a marble against the sliding glass door to our patio while playing solitaire catch. The game was only challenging if I could toss the marble at sharper angles and at higher velocities. The glass was extremely thick and nothing bad could possibly happen. At some point a sniper decided to take a shot at me and a small bubble appeared on the other side of the glass. It had to be a sniper because the other side of the glass door was where the bubble was. Obviously, IF I HAD broken the glass then the hole would be on my side of the door.

I searched cautiously for the sniper's location. I considered that a friend may have come and seen my game and threw a rock at the door to mess with my head. But there was nobody out there. Curiosity began to get the best of me as a healthy skepticism dispelled my initial supposition. Could I have been the one to break the sliding glass door? Maybe, it slowly dawned on me, the other side of the glass had the bubble hole because the marble had blown out the fractured glass by the force. I decided to test this hypothesis. Instinctively knowing that methodology needed to be exact in order to prove repeatability of results I threw my marble at the other sliding glass door. Harder and harder I bounced it. Soon I was chucking it against the companion glass the way you throw a baseball against a barn wall. Whack, whack, whack – I tested the laws of physics with my little marble. Then, CRACK, it happened. There was a companion bubble hole on the second sliding glass door.

Wow! What do you know – it was me who had done it the whole time! I left my marble and the two rippled and bubbled holes in the patio doors (at right about adult eye level) satisfied in knowing that scientific methodology can discover the truth of the most baffling of puzzles. My enthusiasm was short-lived however. My mother discovered the remains of my experiment and, need I even say it, methodically conducted her own little trial testing the laws of physics; whack, whack, whack... I believe that this disapproval de rigueur discouraged my quest for empirical knowledge and killed my scientific career.

This pattern was repeated throughout my formative years. Seemingly innocent and innocuous incidents in my childhood led my parents to instill the inhibitions that I suffer with today. Painting our fading green Chevy Impala with a can of black spray paint possibly killed my artistic career, not to mention any interest in the auto body business. Studying pyrotechnics behind the house, aka playing with matches, killed my anthropological interest and proved that fire is not necessary to generate heat. Getting caught borrowing the neighbor's darts off his patio put an end to my sense of communal pride through shared ownership. I believe it's why I am not a democrat today. Actually, I'm not a republican either – and I'm sure someday I will find out how my parents ruined that for me too.

Through corporal punishment I learned lots of other important things as well. Hitting mom in the head with a slush ball on her way to a meeting – is not a good idea. Filling the toothpaste tube with Noxzema to trick your siblings but having it discovered by a parent is not a good idea. Filching goodies that were reserved for a visit from company is not a good idea. Well, not unless you wanted to sit on a pillow for dinner. Truthfully, did anybody ever have to do this?

In all honesty, I wasn't exactly traumatized by the experience. There were worse things. Being grounded was way, way worse. This was before TV's in bedrooms, video game consoles, iPods, cell phones and cable. Being kept in was practically the same as being put in solitary confinement. When mom gave the choice between grounded for the rest of the day or a spanking, we took the lickin'. It was easier on her, too. 30 seconds and she was done. She didn't have to enforce a penalty for the rest of the day. We were back outside trying to not do again what got us called inside in the first place. Anecdotally I can testify to the efficacy of a spanking. But as the aforementioned Thomas Sawyer philosophized, "Shucks, what's a licking!"

You can't blame our predecessors for observing this practice. Culture is cruel and society is fickle. Back then you were a bad parent if you didn't spank, they could take your kids away from you. Today, the same nosey busybody types claim you are a bad parent if you do, they could take your kids away from you. It's just so confusing. Which brings us back again to the No Spanking plaque in the kitchen. I guess traditional parents can find absolution if they forsake its use on their grandchildren.

I called my wife to let her know the keys were there. And I told her about the sign, "Looks like a free pass, Babe." Wisely, she reminded me that the plaque reads Grandparent's Place. It didn't apply to their children. She is in the same 90% that I am and knows that by experience. The sign was not there when she was growing up. Her conclusion (one in which I mentally stretched for a loophole), I wasn't a grandchild so the contractual obligation on the wall was null and void as far as my person. Aside: Please tell me why the small print in a contract always works against me?

I stood hesitantly in the kitchen and stared at the sign. Suddenly inspiration hit me. A loophole appeared. Then, in the interest of self preservation and personal security, I let my daughter – their grandchild - take the keys. I also let her drive. I congratulated myself; if you are smart you can usually find a way. However, my wife, the tattletale, in a move reminiscent of Katie Francis, casually told her parents on the phone that, "Rick borrowed your car while you were gone." Her ulterior motive is still suspect. OK, sure my in-laws said that it was fine and everything was okay. Even so, I was tempted to wear a board in my pants the next time we went over to visit. Just in case.