My vote seems to have been cast without my knowing it

Moments ago I got a call from a serious sounding John Kerry. He asked for my support in the primaries. Then he asked to please press “1” if I would vote for him. Multi-tasking is useful when you’re listening to calls from parents and politicians and so I leaned on the receiver and picked up my laptop. I heard a “beep,” and then an exalted Kerry telling me “great! I am so glad we can count on your support….. bla.. bla..” Oh no! That was a mistake! Please don’t count that in your score logs – I didn’t mean it! I mean, I’m not saying I’m NOT going to lend my support – anything can happen, we’re still a week away, bribes could start pouring in (see earlier post).

There’s no going back. I’m sure I’ll get all the letters, the calls, the solicitations; tomorrow I expect a Kerry sign in the front yard, and my name will probably appear on some massive ad taken out in the NYT. A technological snafu with a dose of human error has taken away my right to cast an educated vote.

Let them eat contracts..

GWBush has taken an idle comment heard on a plane ride and turned it into a political tool. Apparently he still wants the moderate vote badly enough to offer an alternative for gay couples: make a contract and then you can have all those nifty little rights like hospital visits, insurance, inheritance --that come with marriage.

But it's not that simple, even forgetting the intended slap in the face for the couples occupying this lesser status of "cohabitants." For one, those nifty little rights like social security or federal benefits cannot be passed on to even those occupying the Vermont category of ‘civil unions,’ thanks to the federal Defense of Marriage Act, which, as we know now, is routinely being passed also by state legislatures (not Wisconsin: one vote short of a veto override).

And perhaps GWB should read a case or two coming from Illinois, or from a number of other states where courts have been extremely unhappy about enforcing cohabitation agreements (CAs), even between heteroseual partners, let alone between same-sex partners. Why? What else: for policy reasons. Because enforcing CAs is like giving a nod of approval to the unions. And because there are problems with CAs in general: when do they click into being? Commitment ceremonies. Okay. But when do they terminate? If there is no “divorce” does that mean that they are in place until the sexual relationship ends? And so are they really sort of like in exchange for sex? Meaning – when the sexual relations end, so do a partner's rights to shared property? Tricky tricky. You can write one, and many do. Then hope you’ll find a sympathetic court if there is a challenge. Not a family court – family courts have no jurisdiction over these private contracts. A regular court. Good luck!

Do your homework, GWB. Or at least call a family law prof. Wait til you get the bill!

Who IS the fat lady and why must we wait til she sings?

With respect to this question, posed in my Sunday blog on letting Wisconsin seal the fate of Dean, I can now some clarifications:

Thanks to the reader who, in answer to who she is, pointed me to viable contenders. In the first, I see the clear indication that girth may add oomph to a crescendo in a Wagnerian opera. In the second, I see that Brunhilde's girth may actually overwhelm anything and anyone who threatens to come close. I understand that both would indeed give finality to a crucial moment – be it in opera or politics.

Thanks also to the reader who suggested that I look to baseball for answers. Apparently the phrase itself is attributed to the great Yankee baseball catcher Yogi Berra, who likened a baseball game to an opera, noting, "It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings..."

All very helpful. I did vaguely recall that the phrase got to be associated somehow with baseball, but I couldn't imagine why the game would be over at the end of the singing of the National Anthem, nor why the person singing it had to be of a large frame.

Oh ho the Wells Fargo Wagon..

A package from California came in the mail today. It was a book, along with the following note (literal transcription):

“Hi. I hope you take the trouble to vote in the primaries – for DEAN. Very important. He deserves every bit of support. He was first to oppose the war and was rewarded with a kick in the pants [I know her, she’s referring to the primaries]. That’s politics for you. Kerry has now shifted gears and blasts Bush but he’s been in Washington 19 years and has accomplished nothing [she’s listening well to the Dean ads]. I’m not enamored with him but, of course, I’ll vote for anyone against that maniac from Texas [for Berkeley, this is not strong language]. Love, H. P.S. Enclosed is a delightful book as a bribe for your vote.”

Well now, is this the same California that said “it ain’t over until?!” There are quite a number of voting members in this household. Any other bribes from readers in the Pacific time zone?

Herd animals

I know that some people go to see movies purely based on their assessment of the films’ worth. I know that. But the rest of us, the huge majority, maybe 99% of the viewing public doesn’t even consider a movie until it has something on its resume: like a credible review, or a recommendation from a friend, or an Oscar nomination. The NYT writes about this today in the context of nominations in the “foreign film” category. The nomination isn’t a guarantee of success, but it sure makes people wake up and take note.

People like success and they sniff it out and herd out to the movie showing the colors of victory. We move in packs, from one crowded movie house to another [and we’re disappointed when we go to see a movie and the cinema is empty, as in “hey, this is weird. Why isn’t anyone else seeing this? They’re all so stupid and unsophisticated! Or, maybe I’m stupid? WHERE IS EVERYONE??].

Of course, like others, I instantly became interested in all the films listed in the foreign film category when the nominations were posted. I mean, suddenly even the “Twilight Samurai” sounded just excellent, even though anyone who knows me would immediately say that this is the last film in the world that I would ever choose to see. And “Twin Sisters”? Sounds so great that I’m thinking, maybe we’re overdue for a week-end in NY – you know, fly out, visit the daughters, go see a movie – THAT movie, fly home… I mean, it’s not going to happen, but you can see my escalating desires: pick out the winners, get the tickets early online, because it’s SURE TO BE CROWDED when it opens, Yeah!, pack animals, following the herd to the next success, having our own opinion of it, but following the herd nonetheless..

Pink birds in the snow

The children from our block built a snow mountain in the front yard across the street. What’s a snow mountain? Just that: a hill-like structure made of snow. Perhaps it wouldn’t get top billing in a snow sculpture competition, but it is a remarkable piece of work, if only for its simplicity. I can see it at this second: it’s a bit lumpy, and some of the younger guys have placed destructive foot prints up one side. It also has a dozen of those plastic flamingos mounted in all manner of repose, one with a head and neck buried in the snow and the legs jutting in the air.

I watched them yesterday (from the warmth of our LR): they were having such fun with the project, much more fun than I was having with my stack of 60 Law School applications to read, a trip to the incredibly boring gym to look forward to, and some form of week-end house tidying to attend to. What the heck is the matter with us? What would it take to get a group of multi-age (discreetly stated, don’t you think..) people out there to build a snow mountain (lacking imagination, we might as well copy the kids)? Just to slap together some snow to resemble one of those burial mounds, and then stick in some flamingos, without order or purpose?

The kid mountain is unfinished: it’s a work in progress. It’s so brilliant in its imperfection, what with that upside-down pink bird, truly making me smile every time I see it. So who had the richer Sunday, me or them?

Sunday is….blog feedback day

A reader who had not been reading the blog got back to me tonight after spending a while looking over the posts. Me: “so, were you amused or entertained by any of them?” Reader: “Uh, yeah, I liked the one about California.” “What about California?” “It was cute.” “Cute?!!” “Yeah. I got kind of tired reading about that Bukowski person in the other posts.” “That was just a subplot; see it wasn’t really about Bukowski, it got more complicated..” “Yeah, but it was kind of like ‘enough already.’” “Like, I crossed the line?” “Hey, I didn’t say that!”

This was, n.b., not my mother. Had she read the blog, our conversation would have proceeded thus: Me: “so, where you amused or entertained by any of the posts?” Mom: ”Yes, well, I was wondering, are you sure you have the time for this?” Me “You know I tend to find time for things..” Mom: “Well, if you’re sure. I’d hate to think you’re not getting your work done. You know it would be terrible if something happened to your job right now.” Me “I’m still employed. So, which post did you find most amusing?” Mom: “ I found it interesting what you wrote about California.” [my mom lives in Berkeley] “Okay, California. Anything else?” Mom: “Well, I’m surprised that you assume Kerry will get the nomination. I just don’t like the looks of him. He’s not someone I would enjoy having dinner with.. And I’m worried that you’re neglecting things. Are you sure your family’s okay?” Maybe that’s just a touch too predictable.

A colleague reported that one of his students was writing a comment to the prof’s blog at the very moment that the prof was lecturing. This was, according to the colleague, a sign of the times: a GOOD sing of the times. Perhaps, my colleague speculated, blogging posts and responses will replace the need for some of the lectures. A win-win situation.

Sunday is a good day to mull over reader’s notes and comments. Please do send them along. It’ll be “cute” to address them here (without names, of course) or via email.

On to the next week.

Yet another Sunday of disenfranchisement

It’s bad enough to have just had a Sunday of Super Bowl [so what's an offensive pass interference?]. Now tonight I have to confront the Grammy Awards.

There was a time when music was more important to me than anything I’d see in the movies. I was the quintessential Beatle nut: I could sing all their songs backwards, I could make my voice SOUND like a Beatle – just ask me to do “Fool on a Hill.” And I was one of the 72 million that tuned in to the Ed Sullivan show 40 years ago. I was just 10, but I cried through it, I was that worked up.

I tried to keep current in music. Even when I returned to Poland in the late 60s, I found ways to tune in. And I was one of the lucky few to get tickets to the Rolling Stones when they “broke through” the “Iron Curtain” and traveled to Warsaw in March of 1967. I threw a bunch of flowers on the stage with a note for Mick: “call me: I speak English.” I was 13 and very naïve.

Then I lost it. I started experimenting with classical stuff, with women vocalists, with jazz, but any fool on the hill could tell that I was in the hinterlands and would never catch up. And now? Anyone who gets happy that Clinton won a Grammy because she wants to hear a familiar name does not deserve to watch the Awards.

Still, one Sunday on the margins is enough. I bought the Norah Jones CD, I know who the Sting is, and U2, and the sensual Celine, and my colleague keeps blogging about the Dave Matthews Band.. Sooo, I’m with the NYT reader from today (see post below) –it ain’t over til the fat lady sings (who is the fat lady, BTW?)!

P.S. Does Justin Timberlake always wear a suit and tie?

Give Wisconsin a day in the bleak winter sun

First they take the cheese, now they’re scoffing at Wisconsin’s role as the “sealer” state in the primaries (we seal the deal: Kerry in, Dean out). California wants it all. This from a reader of the Times:

“Re ‘Dean Says He’ll Quit if He Doesn’t Win Wisconsin’: For those of us on the Left Coast intent on keeping this democratic process alive, I’d just like to say it ain’t over until the fat lady sings – and that fat lady is California.”

You know, that just shows how it’s never enough. California: the state with the largest number of electoral votes BY FAR (55, compared to next largest Texas with 34, and Wisconsin at 10, and going down…), the state that is determined to snatch the cheese title from Wisconsin [the California Milk Advisory Board claims that California will surpass Wisconsin as the top cheese maker by 2005; California already is the No. 1 milk-producing state and California also has the most cows of any state in the nation], the state that has the wine, the avocados, the old trees, the ocean, the filmmakers, the Richard Nixon Library [hey, I’m looking at a list of 50 important assets—not my choice of “important”]. In other words, the state that has it all. Still not enough? A momentary spotlight for Wisconsin, a flicker, really. Dean sees it as defining the race. Let it go, California. One man, one race. You don’t need to have the last voice in everything.

Can’t shake this Rumsfeld thing

As Colin Powell met with the French foreign minister in NY yesterday over lunch, newspapers immediately picked up on the cordial nature of the encounter. Indeed, Powell and de Villepin appeared to go out of their way to emphasize their long-standing friendship and their desire to bring the two countries in closer political alignment.

Flip the channel, and we are in Munich, where Rumsfeld is at this very moment, facing the French and German delegations. The NYTimes reports: “Mr. Rumsfeld (answers)..a question, his voice rising, his hands chopping the air for emphasis… ‘There were prominent people from representative countries in this room that opined that they really didn’t think it made a hell of a lot of difference who won..[this is where he is ‘almost shouting’].. Shocking. Absolutely shocking.’”

Back at the Waldorf Towers, Powell and de Villepin beam at each other. In this story, buried more deeply in the paper, the Times reports: “(Powell) noted that Secretary of Defense Donald H. Rumsfeld was in Munich talking to European leaders at the same time that Mr. Powell was meeting with Mr. de Villepin in New York. "So," Mr. Powell said, "we're reaching out."”

A hand shake here, a punch there, a reach is a reach.

Where Howard went, Nina soon followed

Well who would think that both Dean and I would lose it over Iowa? I want to appear on Diane Sawyer too, though like for Dean, I think it’s too late. Dean yowled, I commented on (okay, questioned, though inadvertantly) the pairing of a state license plate with the poet-writer Bukowski (see post, February 5, and many thereafter). I have a feeling if Bukowski wasn’t already dead, he’d die laughing at me. He’s the type who’d probably find humor in life’s bleak realities.

No apology on my part will suffice, I do understand that, even as a fellow blogger from across Bascom Mall writes stoically that Iowans are a resilient bunch and have learnt to adapt to the hostile words of their neighbors and countrymen and women.

But wait a minute – who is coming at this from a position of power? Suffering and down-trodden? Hardly. Iowa has single-handedly picked the democratic candidate for the presidential race this year. The Iowa Office of Tourism reports that 17 million people visit Iowa each year. In the first two months alone, I’m sure double that amount (candidates and press entourage) crossed the border into the hawkeye state.

Now Poland, there’s a country raised on suffering. Maybe I should save that one for another time though. One fall per week is enough.

Does anybody really like Rumsfeld?

It’s hard to believe that Dean the candidate got knocked down for his howl of enthusiasm, while Rumsfeld can get away with displays of anger on a fairly regular basis. The NYT describes Rumsfeld’s speech at the Security Meetings in Munich yesterday as “an impassioned defense of the American-led war against Iraq.” Impassioned? The man is terrifying when he loses his cool. Would you leave your children (let alone the national interest) in his care for even a minute? He sounds like he’d tear their hair out for not finishing their toast.

Only at the bottom of p.10 of this front-page article does the Times acknowledge that in his accusatory rant against those who continue to oppose the war in Iraq, Rumsfeld was “nearly shouting.” Oh, he was shouting alright, ending his comments with a lovely display of national pride: “I know in my heart and my brain that America ain’t what’s wrong in the world.” It’s people like Rumsfeld that make many countries think otherwise.

Late viewing of “Japan through the eyes of Sofia Coppola”

If Bill Murray gets an Oscar for Lost in Translation, it will be because the Academy likes him personally, or likes watching an actor having a good time keeping a lid on emotion, or because it dislikes the fact that Sean Penn (Mystic R) never shows up to claim awards. All good reasons.

But how would you explain a win for Ms. Coppola? I’m not saying it’s going to happen. But what if? Would it be to finally recognize that there are credible women directors out there? Or to offer a personal word of encouragement to SCoppola and reassure her that this has nothing to do with her father? Or to try and convince people about the pleasures of staying home and not crossing any borders except those between states? A hint that we all should forget about flying an endless amount of hours to odd places where we’ll be so freaked and jet-lagged that we’ll hardly ever be able to leave our American hotel or the American bar within?

I’ve become an almost annual traveler to Japan for work reasons, and each time it confounds me, more so than any other country. Pico Iyer (see post below) lived for a year in Kyoto and managed to actually say profound things about people he met there. And me? By the end of each trip I’m not saying anything profound about anyone, but I am talking to myself rather loudly on the streets and getting really anxious over the absence of raw fish on Starbucks coffee lists (figure that one out). I listen to professors of law sing Elvis songs in Karaoke bars while women in kimonos refill plates of nuts and sea weed chips (it isn’t really a sing-along, it’s a listen-along). I never meet their wives. Even when I whisper and use a lot of question marks, I know I am speaking too forcefully and that the questions are too intrusive. I carry a towel with me, as does everyone else, and I wash my face all the time along with everyone else, and I drink the tea, and I interview countless judges and I don’t really understand a word they’re saying, even though I always have at least two translators. Only later, when I am back home can I begin to pull out something useful. In Japan, everyone around me – all millions and millions of everyone -- fades into one ocean of well-intentioned faces, smiling, encouraging, always polite, always sympathetic, always incomprehensible.

It’s interesting that the Japanese took this movie in stride. Last I heard you could book a “Lost in T” stay at the Tokyo Park Hyatt, where you would be taken on a tour of places where Bill hung out, shown the room where much of the “action” took place, and charged a whopping small fortune for it.

But why was this movie rated R?

Following the fish

I’ve been a fan of Pico Iyer’s essays for a while now, in part because he is one of the most talented travel writers around (I think one of my first blogs was about him). He has a meandering, thoughtful style with words, and a history of travel of the sort where he becomes a resident, not just a visitor to a new place.
Reading his piece in the Magazine this Sunday (Net time is oddly out of sync with real time), I’m drawn into the speculative proposition that American movies have completely abandoned the happy ending in their portrayal of daily life, at the same time that politicians, in their speechmaking, campaigning, prognosticating, have embraced it.

He has, this year, lots of support for this, Mystic River being just one of a multitude of movies where bestiality gets compounded, never resolved, and no one is spared in the end. Contrast this, Iyer says, with the campaigning in Democratic primaries, or even speechmaking coming from the White House.

Okay, but has Hollywood gotten an accurate read on the American pulse? Or has it just been a momentary letting go of the cliché, almost as a eulogy to the tragedy that was September 11th, because at the time, who could even think of a favorable outcome?

The feel-good movie is, these days, not a very good movie (though the Academy is pretending that DKeaton really was superb in her role as the aging lover). And it remains cool to speak well of movies that offer a spiraling disintegration rather than a good resolution. Personally, I thought Mystic River was outstanding, but I also thoroughly enjoyed “Runaway Jury,” even though I admit, it was a bit of a packaged deal. I was pleased when a law prof, soon to be Dean at a top law school in the country showed it to his Civil Procedure class and said enthusiastically “wasn’t that great? I just loved that movie!” or words to that effect.

While we’re all trying to stay so cool and display our astute levels of awareness, Hollywood is watching. The good dramas that offer no hope have always been there, and they’ll continue. What’s missing now is the proliferation of antidote movies – ones that hold out the possibility of resolution, at least for that moment, while they have our attention. The politicians have long figured out that deep down, in the larger scheme of things, we are believers in justice, equality, love, fairness even if we’ve managed to encounter just the opposite in our lives.

It’s interesting that the one movie not dismissed by critics this year that offered hope, was one that took 90 minutes of anxiety and worry before it got there. Of course, the movie was “Finding Nemo,” brilliantly executed, down to the last flip of the fin. But only in animation is the best of the best backing exuberance over defeat, happiness over depression. I’m hoping Nemo will not be an anomaly. Great movies should span the range of emotions we’re capable of living with.

Nicknames for cities

Doug Moe (Cap Times today) has had it with the “Mad Town” nickname for Madison. He likens it to the days of calling San Francisco “Frisco,” or “Berserkley” for.. okay, how obvious can you get. He writes: “-- Can we knock it off? Madison doesn't need a nickname. Slogans and nicknames are for the Beaver Dams of the world. ‘Beaver Dam: Home of 15,000 Busy Beavers.’ No doubt.”

Moe says that only outsiders give cities bizarre labels and nicknames (he claims no one here would say “I live in Mad City”). But I think it’s the imagery that disturbs him most. He recalls the following exchange he had: "Where you from?" "Madison, Wisconsin." "Mad Town, huh? Man, I got knee-walking drunk there one time."

He’s wrong in thinking, though, that locals don't use city nicknames. I lived in the “windy city” for 6 years and heard those words over and over again. I had moved there from the “big apple.” Another city with pride. Perhaps a touch too much pride. Now I’m in the “cheese state,” logging in years in “Mad City…” The nicknames are not cool sounding. But face it, they’re kind of fitting.

What is a hamburger?

Any child can tell you a hamburger has nothing to do with ham. Most think it originated in Hamburg. It stands to reason. But at least two places in the States claim that they invented the classic hamburger: Louis' joint in New Haven, CT (it's still there), and the County Fair at Seymour, WI. The latter even has a “Hamburger Hall of Fame”.

We understand the hamburger to be ground beef, typically chuck, rarely sirloin or top round or top anything. Cheap, predictable, ubiquitous, served with a dollop of slow moving ketchup and snuggled into a white bread bun (let’s be purists here).

None of these descriptors can be applied to chef Michel Trama’s specialty: a foie gras hamburger with a cèpe mushroom-based catsup called "Ketcèpes" (c’est original!). Trama is chef at Les Loges in France. Today, the Red Michelin Guide released its ratings for 2004, and Les Loges (along with two other restaurants in France) joined the elite 24 eateries that are members of the three-star club. How significant is that? Last year, when it was rumored that the 3-star La Cote d’Or may have a star taken away, the chef committed suicide.

But what exactly is the definition of a foie gras hamburger? Is there a white bread bun? Does the Ketcepes pour slowly, just like the Heinz counterpart? Is it cheap? Served with fries that are “liberte”? Was McDonald’s even consulted?

Crossing the line

A day in the life of a wired person: a handful of quick email messages, a quick post, and another – the opportunities to say something stupid and potentially offensive are endless.

A London-based office of an American law firm is taking the rap for an email sent by one of its partners, where, in response to a request to adopt a puppy, the lawyer wrote “don’t let that dog go to a Chinese restaurant.” The firm and the partner are still apologizing. The Asian Pacific American Law Student Association and a large, wired legal community (the incident was posted on a blog) responded quickly, with anger and a determination not to let the matter go unnoticed.

I have heard many in other countries mock the American “obsession with political correctness.” It seems, however, that PC is only an unleashing of a freedom to finally underscore grievances that had been festering for years. There is the hope that truly offensive speech is going to be put to rest, and that by reacting to the “somewhat” offensive speech (representing perhaps buried feelings of racism or sexism or any other –isms), we will instill greater vigilance over what we say and do to others.

In my first blog post, I worried that what would seem an okay post at the time of publishing would not appear okay to the reader, and that I’d regret publishing it. Yesterday, I posted two things that I later decided were potentially offensive. Toward the end of the day, I pulled one off, just in case (and thanked the stars that only one reader had had the opportunity to read it), and left the other because the damage was done, and I already apologized to the slightly offended person.

Just in the last week, I have taken pot shots at Iowa, Fed Ex, Wisconsin, my mother, and countless people in government. I’m still not sure which of those, if any, might have touched a raw nerve. Clearly Laura Bush would have been offended (see post, February 6). Leno can test his jokes, a blogger cannot. That’s the down-side of self-publishing. And the fact is, sometimes you’re so focused on a theme [Bukowski was one weird dude], or on spelling [why doesn’t literati have two t’s?], and always, always on the clock [like right now: this is taking too long, I need to get back to work] that you completely don’t notice potentially offensive peripherals. After more than a month of blogging, I am still worried. But I remain cautiously optimistic that I can be sensitive to the known and unknown reader. And if I fail, I’m sure you’ll let me know.

For the “Pole” in you..

What historical circumstances account for the stereotypical caricature of the “dumb Pole?” I imagine much of it can be attributed to the large wave of immigrants that came to the States in the first half of the twentieth century. They were disproportionately from the south (every mountain family in Poland has a cousin in Chicago), disproportionately uneducated, deeply religious, and of course, poor.
If you ever pick up a thread with Polish jokes, they will always be of this type:

In America, they say it's 10:00 do you know where your children are?
In England, they say it's 10:00 do you know where your husband is?
In Paris, they say it's 10:00 do you know where your wife is?
And in Poland, they say it's 10:00 do you know what time it is?

The format almost never varies. There is a Pole, and there are others. The others act with logic and common sense, the Pole isn’t quite wired right.

Three guys are crossing the desert (or, “dessert,” as the “smart” English writer recorded). The Englishman brings a fan, the Italian brings a squirt bottle, the Pole brings a car door. When asked why, the Englishman says “when it gets hot, I can fan myself.” The Italian answers “when it gets hot, I can squirt water on myself.” The Pole smiles and says “when it gets hot, I can roll down the window!”

Or:

Three construction workers are eating lunch. The first takes out his ham sandwich and says “if my wife packs me a ham sandwich again, I’ll go out on a ledge and jump off!” The second one takes out his ham sandwich, groans in disgust and says “me too: if she packs me ham again, I’ll do the same.” The Pole takes out his ham sandwich and says “yeah, I’m with you guys.” Next day they’re out eating lunch on the site again. The first one takes out his sandwich, opens it up and finds chicken. He smiles and eats with relish. The second unwraps his sandwich, finds roast beef, grins and eats it up. The Pole opens up his, finds ham, gets up, walks to the ledge and jumps. “I feel sorry for him” says his buddy. “Why?” asks the other. “Because he packs his own lunch.”

And so on.

Even though the immigrant pool from Poland changed completely after the Second World War, the impact of this second wave on American humor was marginal. In Poland, on the other hand, humor absolutely burgeoned in this post-war period. But only for a while. Recently, Urban, a respected Polish journalist, observed that “free speech marks the death of humor.” He goes on to say that 30 years ago, all you had to do was stand up in a cabaret, do some imitations of a Russian, and you’d have the whole room rolling on the floor. These days, laughter doesn’t come easy. I’d have to agree with that. Jay Leno has a staff pulling out several hundred jokes each day for the Tonight Show. Leno picks out those he thinks have potential to amuse. Many are then coaxed to the max, yet they hardly produce even a ripple. I gave Leno a chance the other day. Here’s one from this past week:

Did you hear that Wisconsin has just passed a law giving a tax break to those who donate an organ [this is true, btw]? An organ? From Wisconsin? The cheese state? We want to use hearts with all those clogged arteries? That’s just what I would want if I needed a transplant!”

Like I said, humor meted out on a daily basis is a challenge.

Hello, Poland? Are you there?

One of the odd pieces of information available to the blogger is the language used by visitors. In other words, I can tell if a person using a Chinese program (for example) logs on. (That is, I can sort of tell: the stats have an error rate of I'd say 50%). It used to be that the Polish contingency was right up there, keepin’ up with the English and the Italian (the Berlusconi factor – see January blogs), with an occasional nod toward Hungarian (I have no idea where the Hungarian comes in). But lately – it’s as if all that bla bla bla about Kerry this and Dean that really was over the top. Either the Poles all went on a vacation last week, or they switched their computers to English (Hungarian?) programming.

It’s been a rough week here in Wisconsin, but tomorrow – I promise a snippet of something for the Pole in each and every one of you.

Such stuff as dreams are made on

A former student and a current good friend wrote today asking if I was okay. Apparently she dreamt that I was down in the dumps. She was also concerned that no man in my family should go near any church because she dreamt that a church had crumbled, taking my man (husband? father? brother? no, there’s no brother) down with the rubble.

I assured her that the men I knew were not likely to step into holy territory in the next 24 hours (so far as I know), though I admitted to staying up until 3:30 last night staring at a computer screen and reading movie reviews of films I’d never in my life want to see. I think she must have read that blog yesterday about the squeaky shoes and saw great meaning in it (I’m not denying that there was such meaning).

I’m one of those persons that is only very marginally interested in dreams. I have yawned my way through many a dream story told by pointlessly excited dreamers on the next day. I just can’t take the stuff seriously. But my friend reminded me of a dream in the past that had elements of reality and so brushing it off made no sense.

I’d be remiss not to suggest that if you’re a guy who is even half-way a good acquaintance of mine with some organized religion in your life, and you’re reading this blog, skip church this week-end. I mean, why mess with the heavens?