I wrote this to post at Bad Samaritan: The Next Generation, but then I couldn't log in this morning, and I didn't want it to go to waste. I think it's a touch more mean spirited than usual for my blog, I try to save that for BS:TNG, but then again, I don't know why the hell I'm worried about offending any of you.

I sometimes feel bad for Easter. Religiously it’s a second banana to that all-mighty feel good hit called Christmas, a piss-poor candy holiday when compared to Halloween, and a gross-ass Easter ham doesn’t come close to equaling the succulent, moist breast on the table at Thanksgiving. (And the turkey’s pretty good then too.)

So, yes, I sometimes feel bad for Easter. Then I realize, I don’t really care. Being a through-and-through agnostic who finds organized religion to be one step down from organized crime -- organized crime gets better TV shows… you wouldn’t find people signing up to get HBO for just four months to watch 7th Heaven -- I only notice holidays with vast societal impact, as told to me by commercials and the decorations in department stores. Easter, to me, is a complete non-holiday.

My fondest memories of Easter? Eating a solid chocolate bunny by dunking it repeatedly into the peanut butter at my grandmother’s house. (Hollow bunnies suck.)

My main memory of Easter: As a child, my parents gave it the ol’ college try to make the day more than just another Sunday. At my house, that means one thing: gifts. Materialism central. And I'm not complaining. Gimme.

Unlike Xmas where you get something and unwrap it, Easter is about hiding things (usually eggs, I’m told) so recipients get that extra bit of stress that they might not find the gift. I remember searching high and low through my house as a kid, looking for my gift, as my parents watched with joyous rapture. Look at the funny child! Finally, they told me where to look: in the clothes dryer.

Actually, I’d already looked in there and only saw laundry. But I looked again. There were no GI Joes. No comic books. No Star Trek Walkie-Talkies with the flip up cover like Shatner used to use. What I’d taken for laundry was actually a brand new pair of Levi’s, just for me.

If that’s the kind of gifts that Easter generates, this holiday can continue to bite me.

Watching Six Feet Under the other night, it was interesting to watch the character of Keith carrying around his sleeping niece, carrying on a conversation while she rested on his shoulder, almost as if she wasn't there. Kids are like dolls when they're tired.

I've never had an opportunity to carry a living child that dead-to-the-world, but I got an inkling of it last night.

Bon had gone to bed around 10:45, unable to stand another second of the Oscar telecast, but always feel the need to know. So I stayed up until the bitter end, using the TiVo to go back and forth between an episode of Mr. Show with Bob and David and the awards, so I could fast forward past all the schmaltzy crap. Not that I find the Oscars that bad – I actually watched the telecast live back in the year that Rob Lowe danced on stage with Disney's Snow White, so I know how bad they can be – I just think Whoopie and whoever comes up with all their various "tributes" wastes too much time. Last year, Steve Martin had that show zipping along. He was the best Oscar host since Letterman.

Yeah, screw you, I thought Letterman was funnier than hell that year. "Oprah – Uma. Uma – Oprah." Still makes me laugh.

Back to the point: When Bon went to bed, Siren and Caper, as usual, went with her, but Kylie the Crap Eater (that's quite literal, sadly... we're trying to break her of it) stayed in the living room with me, dozing on the couch. By the time the Oscar's ended, she wouldn't budge. I tried to get her to move so she'd go up stairs, where she sleeps in her crate, but she wouldn't even open her eyes.

So, I reached under her and gently picked her up in my arms. I nuzzled her soft little head in my cheek for a moment, just smelling her fur. Then I carried her over and managed to turn off the lamp without disturbing her, and got her all the way upstairs.

Of course, I'm assuming that most human children don't wake up out of a sound sleep and start to panic that they're being dropped and thus claw their carrier in the foot with their just-cut toe nails. But other than that, it was just like putting a human kid to bed. As far as I would know.

So apparently now it's okay to just take stuff people post in a blog and paste it into your own blog as if you wrote it yourself without attributing the source. What a load off my mind. Now I can just reprint what everyone else says all day and not worry about being clever or witty or finding words that rhyme with "duck."

I've made the upgrade to Movable Type 2.0 for the blog, and it went flawlessly. Love this program.

So, let's sum up my feelings about serving as a juror with this sentence: We're All Screwed.

The case I was on is over. Due to Massachusetts' beautiful "one-day or one-trial" juror system, I'm done for three months, and had I not been impaneled for this one, I could have gone home the first day. In fact, I had the opportunity, but didn’t take it. Here's what happened.

I made the half hour drive north to Lowell without any issues and was more than a half hour early (we had to report by 8:30am). I and a few other potential jurors gathered by the door at the top of the steps waiting for them to unlock it and let us in. We probably had about 15 people there before someone came up and told us that it wasn't the right door.

"Yeah, they'll want this group of geniuses on a jury," I told the group as we moved down the street.

When we go to the door, the first security guy at the detector was on the phone, saying "You ate my candy! You asshole!" Then he hung up and turned to all of us with a smile.

I got through the metal detector without needing a full body cavity search, but they did confiscate my entire key ring because I had a jack knife attached to it, which I use for opening mail, cutting boxes, and, of course, terrorizing an unsuspecting populace. They gave me a little claim form so I could come get them at the end of the day, as if I'd given my jacket to the coat check girl.

We followed the signs to the juror area, gave the bailiff's our forms, and then were placed in the Juror Pool room. By 8:45 there were 28 people in the room, equally split between men and women give or take, but every single one of us was white as my thighs at the end of winter. So much for a cross section of society.

We all sat quietly and watched the Today Show or read. I was reading the paperback of Candyland by Ed McBain/Evan Hunter (who are the same person, but he wrote the book as if he's two different people. Trust me, he's good. I've been reading his novels since I was 12-years-old.)

By 9am, the bailiff, John, came in and started to give us his spiel. He was good, a funny guy, with material like: "I'm John, my partner's name is John, and if you need them, here's two more johns," he said, pointing to the two guys in the pool who'd solicited prostitutes. No, kidding, he actually indicated the two bathrooms. It wasn't exactly Leno, but it was better than him being some grim, serious jerk-off that makes doing our civic duty feel even worse.

He put in a video tape for us all to watch on the way the Massachusetts law system works. Yawn. Then the judge came in to give us the same exact talk. Then they said to sit tight.

After that, we got our first break. We had to be back by 10:25. I went for a walk around downtown Lowell, saw the canal and the community college and then came back a bit early and read some more of my book. We then all sat for another hour. Apparently the 2nd Session court was downstairs deciding what cases would actually be going to court that day in the 4th Session. If any.

At 11:30, we got the bad news—we were going to court. They took all 28 of us in and had us sit in the spectator section. We were introduced to the assistant district attorney, the defense attorney, and had to look at the defendant, and all six of the registered witnesses for both sides. Then the court clerk asked us an interminable amount of questions: Do you know any of these people? Can you be fair and impartial? Do you smell faintly of limburger?

If anyone answered yes, they had to go up and talk to the judge and attorneys. Four people went up. Then they came back. Then the clerk gave out eight names, including mine – I was on the jury.

This surprised me no end, to be honest. I figured that once they saw my brother was a cop, I wouldn't get picked. Then, once I was seated and the defense had a chance to look at the bios, they called me over to talk to the judge and attorneys.

"Mr. Griffith, I see here your brother is a police officer. Where exactly does he work?" the judge asked.

"In Alfred, New York."

"That's, what, in upstate, is it?"

I personally hate when my part of the state of New York is called "upstate;" that's a bizarro bit of nonsense perpetuated by the denizens of NYC and the like who consider anything north of Yonker's latitude to be "up state".

So I said, "In southern central New York, yes."

"Well, I knew it wasn't around here," said the judge. "So I need to ask, you feel you can be fair and impartial as pertains to this case since police personnel are involved?"

Here's where I should have said, Well, probably not, as I love my brother and think he and other cops are the greatest of all heroes.

Instead, I said, "Yes, I can, your honor."

And I meant it. Because I do love my brother, but just talking to him on a regular basis I know cops aren't really all that nice all the time, and sometimes they rather enjoy it. I just consider it lucky that 90% of the people who incur a cops wrath deserve it for something.

But that's not what court's about – it's about whether they deserved it for the very case in front of us. And I intended to take it seriously. As I walked away, I heard the judge tell the attorneys he was satisfied with my answer.

So I sat down, and watched as two other jurors were excused outright. I figured the defense would get rid of me anyway, just in case, but it didn't happen.

And thus I was impaneled.

The trial was boring, except for the defense attorney. He definitely had the acting bug, and I think he played it well: he looked disgusted at the prosecution witness answers, he put forth a vehement argument for his client. The DA, on the other hand, came off as a greasy shlub.

I was not overly impressed with the cases either of them put forth. The DA was lacking a very key witness—a cop supposedly kicked in the stomach by the defendant -- and the other cops who helped subdue the defendant on the night involved over 10 months ago were not very convincing. Not necessarily because they were lying -- they probably didn't really remember much about that night. They'd been doing the same kinds of things on the same kinds of nights with the same kinds of crimes for months before and since the night in question. Why should this one stand out?

I'd hoped the defense would have some medical witnesses—especially this rumored doctor that had been told by the defendant that the cops had beaten on him – but all we got were two friends and the mother of the defendant. None of them were extremely helpful, but then again, as we were told repeatedly, the defense didn't have to have any witnesses necessarily. The burden of proof was entirely on the DA.

By 3:30 on the first day, the judge sent us home, as he knew they wouldn't get through their summations (AKA closing arguments) by 4, which is when court lets out, at least for jurors. Complain all you want, but the District Court system keeps good hours.

The next morning I was back by 9am, the judge had asked that we be there by 9:15. They didn't take us into the court room until 9:30. The lawyers did their song and dance, and then the judge told us all the rules of law that applied to this case and the six counts against the defendant, including operating under the influence, reckless endangerment on a public way, assault and battery, and assault with a deadly weapon (a "shod foot"). He went on for what seemed like hours.

Keep in mind, at no time in the trial or during his instructions were we told we could take notes. I found out later, we couldn't have even if we'd asked. The judge explicitly told us that we had to rely on our memories of each witness's testimony. Since they audio recorded the trial and don't have a stenographer, we couldn't have re-listened to anything even if we'd wanted.

And then, it didn't matter. I was randomly picked from a cup by the clerk and made into an alternate juror. Because of the eight of us, only six would decide the trial. Alternates don't get to leave – they stay in case a deliberating juror has an emergency. So I was still stuck there.

They took us out of the court room and the six were given the jury room to themselves. I and a gentleman named Chris sat in the hallway by the coat rack and talked to each other for the next 45 minutes about our jobs, network routers, and the case. Chris figured we could talk about it now since the other jurors certainly were talking about it, so he just started in and I didn't say much. He wasn't the type to stop talking anyway.

Then the bell rang. John, the bailiff, called us to go with the jury to the other side of the courthouse since our previous court room was in use for a new trial. We sat waiting in a law library filled with ancient books of jurisprudence while they gathered the lawyers and defendant. Then they brought us in, having to walk directly in front of the defendant's family. I had no idea even then what the verdicts where.

Then it turned out, there was no verdict—the deliberating jurors needed a question answered by the judge. He ended up re-reading the entire set of rules about what to consider before deciding guilt on someone operating under the influence. (Did you know, for example, that drunk driving is not illegal in the fine state of MA? Only driving while you're physically impaired by alcohol! So if I have 10 beers and drive straight and fine, in theory, it's not a crime! Isn't that just great?? I think I'll go have some Smirnoff Ice's before I drive to the mall!)

Chris and I ended up back in the hallway, wondering just how far the jury got before they hit that question, but we didn't wait long. The bell rang again maybe 10 minutes later. They took us, once again, all the way across the court house (which was rough on juror #2, who was an elderly lady who I don't think motored around very well) and again past the defendant's mother, father and sister (who I thought was rather cute by the way – I know I should have paid attention to my duties as a juror, but girl watching stops for nothing) and to our seats.

And it turns out they'd found the guy guilty on all counts.

I was astounded. I think there wasn't much question on most of it (he certainly did run a light and speed through town and didn't give up his license and registration when asked), but the kick to the stomach? No way. The DA didn't prove that worth a damn to my satisfaction. Not at all. Had I been in that room, that charge would have come back not-guilty, because there's no way I would have gone along with the others. (Or would that have made us a hung jury? Not sure.)

By 11:30, we were out the door.

I don't know what sentence the guy received, or how his family took the news, or if this ruins his life or is simply a blemish on it. That's what Chris thought it would amount to – he wasn't worried about punishing the young man at all, though even he admitted doubts about the "shot foot" assault.

But I came out of it feeling like a bunch of people who would rather be elsewhere (myself included, since I wanted to be out so I could take Bonny to her eye surgery) rushed through passing "justice" on kid who was a screw up – but was he that much of a screw up?

I'll never know that either. Here's hoping he got what he deserved. If he didn't, well, I'm sorry.

As of 11:30 this morning, I was officially impaneled on my first jury trial (I'm Juror #5, AKA Panel #1 - Seat #8, AKA "Shecky") at Lowell District Court. The bad news is, I've got to go back for a second day, the good news is they got through all the evidence and tomorrow is just final arguments and deliberations.

More details then, since I'm not legally allowed to talk about the case now. And I don't want to go to jail and become afraid of dropping the soap.

We attended the calling hours for my sister-in-law Jen’s dad, John Crowe today. The crowd of people come to pay their respects was long, with a sort of receiving line of John’s siblings. Jen and her mom and sister sat on the opposite side, receiving frequent hugs from those who they knew, and probably some they didn’t.

Since John was a former cop, and my dad is a former member of the fire department, and my mom’s worked in the same hospital for over 35 years, it was a parade of people they knew or soft of knew, and more than a few that I thought I recognized, but most of the time I really didn’t. The funeral home was opened in a partnership with a guy who used to work with my dad on the ambulance, who died years and years ago, while he was still in his 40s I believe. My dad talked at length with the surviving partner, and dad told me later, they usually always talk about the same thing: how unexpected death can be.

My brother was like a rock today, and I’ve never been prouder of him. He and Jen have a unique relationship that I think generally breaks down into: 10% sex, 20% loving adoration, and 70% sarcastic bickering. They sometimes argue so much over the dumbest shit that my parents will just get up and leave their house if they’re going at it. Today, however, with Jen seeing her late father for the last time, he was where he needed to be all the time, which was usually right at her side, with her and her mother, as they dealt with what has to be the most crushing blow of their lives.

I think about death a lot – there seemed to be a point a year or two ago that I was going to a lot of funerals – and those thoughts frequently turn to how I would deal with the death of either of my folks. I’ve long known to my core exactly what my dad, at the very least, will die of: straight up lung cancer, no question about it. It’s something I usually think I’m well prepared for. If he goes via any other method, it would be because of some sudden and uncontrollable accident like a drunk driver or slip on the ice. Which is something I suppose I wouldn’t be. Jen and her family weren’t. Who would be? If we start living in a way that prepared us for that, we’d constantly live scared and paranoid.

No matter how he goes, I told my dad I’m going to try not to be too weepy about it, and I’d make it a party when we say good-bye to him. A celebration of life. He seemed to think that was really the only reasonable course of action. A friend of ours once had a giant gathering at the death of her mother and asked any and all present to share stories about her parent. I think I’d do the same. I know I have a few doozies to tell, and I’d love to hear some from others.

I was visiting my grandmother yesterday along with my wife and my mother. Bon was looking through a catalog there and laughingly showed me a chemical urinal people can buy for camps, basements, etc., no water needed.

“Cool!” I said. “I should get one for my home office, then I’d never have to leave the basement again.”

This lead into a discussion about the outhouse my grandparents used to have on their farm. The farmhouse, which grandma still owns but doesn’t live (she lives in my other grandmother’s house… don’t ask, it’s complicated) had indoor plumbing, even back then. But, with four adults (my grandparents and one set of great-grandparents) and three kids (my mom and my two uncles) living there, the wait for the toilet was sometimes too much. So, they had an outhouse outside the back door.

Mom told us how she one time had to help my grandpa empty the tray underneath that collected all the outhouse, uh, deposits. Ew.

Apparently, it was a two-seater – picture a shed with a wooden bench inside with two holes cut in it. Grandma said they made two-seaters back then because couples apparently used to go together. See, now we go alone. Is that progress?

And then Grandma told us that she pulled that outhouse down with a chain attached to the tractor.

Now, I love this, and it just goes to show you that kids don’t know what the hell is going on with adults at all. When I was a kid and we went to the farm each weekend, it was usually either to cut wood to keep my grandparents and great-grandmother from hypothermia, or just to hang out, which was the case through most of the summer. But even in the Winter, I hated splitting wood, chopping wood, stacking wood. More often than not, I was reading. I read a lot as a kid and teen. And probably I did 80% of my reading on weekends while laying on my grandma’s couch, while her dog Tipper sat beside me. (I loved that damn stinky dog).

I don’t remember it happening to often, but I can recall at least two occasions where my grandfather started in on me about how I was lazy and should be out helping get wood cut. I don’t recall feeling particularly motivated by his speeches – I was a teen after all – but I probably ended up out there anyway. Or hiding until he split so I could finish my book.

So, my grandmother tells us: she pulled down the outhouse with the tractor because she was sick and tired of Grandpa running off and hiding in there until chores were done.

1. What's your favorite animal? Right this second, a little yellow Labrador named Kylie. After Labrador's, I'd have to say chimps.

2. What pets have you had in your lifetime? Let see…

Before I was old enough to remember him, my parents tell me we had a dog named Rocky (after the flying squirrel). He ran away from home. (Ah, the 70’s, when not only was crate training a dog never heard of, neither were fenced in yards.)

The first dog I remember was a small skinny brown mutt (I think she was a mutt) named Cookie. A car hit her one day at my grandparent’s house (no fences there, but on a farm it seems a touch more reasonable). I believe Cookie’s was the first death I ever had to truly deal with. I think it was even worse for my mom, who always grows hyper-attached to any dog she has (and I’m no better, and my wife makes us both look like pikers).

Our third dog was Whiskers, a poodle/schnauzer/beagle mix. A bright and beautiful and wonderful dog. By 1983, we had a fenced in yard, but we seldom put Whiskers out back, we usually chained him to the front porch – a trend that has died off completely, thank god. But, even that seemed cruel sometimes, so we’d occasionally let Whiskers out the front door for a romp. He always came back, but I remember many a time when we wanted to leave the house to go to my grandparent’s farm and we’d drive all over the neighborhood yelling his name, so we could take him with us.

On one night in September 1983, during the first week I was in the 8th grade now up at Hornell High School, Bradley from across the street came to our front door to tell us that Whiskers was up on the four-lane (the highway that cuts directly through the center of Hornell, one block from my parents house), hit by a car. I still remember running up the street with the blood pounding in my ears, Paul and my Dad right there with me. Mom wasn’t home; she was working nights in the ICU. Whiskers was indeed on the ground on the street. I remember blood, not a lot and I don’t know from where it was coming. And he wasn’t dead.

A woman had stopped her car, she must have hit him, but I don’t remember anything of what she said or did or if she apologized or if she was mean. I don’t remember what Paul did, or Dad. I just remember whispering to Whiskers. I don’t know how long. Then suddenly my Dad was there, with our Jeep and a big cardboard box. We tried to carefully slide Whiskers into the box without too much movement, because we knew he was probably broken up inside (well, Dad probably did).

He put the box with Whiskers in the back seat and I climbed in and stroked his head all the way to our vet in Alfred. By the time we arrived, he was dead.

I remember crying all the way back to the house. Dad sat with us in the living room for a while, probably contemplating how he’d break this to mom, who loved that dog like a child. He told me one of the nicest things ever that night—that Whiskers died knowing we were there and that we loved him, and that made it easier for him. I still believe that’s true.

After that, we never let another dog roam free. In fact, my parent’s next dog, Banjo (who christened our relationship by puking in my lap on the first day we got her as a puppy) lived to the extremely elderly age of 17. That’s 119 in dog years.

3. Is there any specific pet that you've wanted but never had? Why? No. If it’s not a cat or a dog, it’s not a pet. You have to be able to pet a pet.

4. Are you allergic to any animals? Nope.

5. Do you have any 'pet' pet peeves (your pets or others')? Puking at 5am is not high on my list of favorite dog activities, but one I’ve learned to live with.

Later this morning we head on to Hornell to be with my family, specifically my brother and sister-in-law, who’s father died on Wednesday night. There are calling hours at the funeral home on Sunday, and a funeral (mass? Interment? I’m not sure) on Monday. Bon and I will likely miss the Monday ceremony, as we need to be back in Massachusetts on Tuesday so I can go to Jury duty. Not to mention get some work done.

Apparently, calling hours are not a big thing in all parts of the country. I always assumed that’s just how it worked: someone passes away, everyone who might have been even remotely acquainted with the deceased gets a chance to stop by and pay their respects, and then a real funeral ceremony would be held for just family. Maybe calling hours are only for the popular. I suppose there’s nothing worse than having funeral home calling hours and no one shows up. Unless it’s throwing a Tupperware party and no one shows up. That would suck.

The first dead body I ever saw was that of my next-door neighbor, Mr. Prunoske (pronounced pru-nos-key), when I was 11 years old. He was an incredibly nice man who worked nights, so sometimes his wife would yell at us kids for making too much noise while playing during the day when he was trying to sleep (which always made us feel sufficiently guilty, because we liked Mrs. Prunoske a lot, too). Since then, I’ve had many a relative pass away and always found seeing the body to help with some closure. I didn’t get to see my Grandma Griffith after she passed away last October, but I saw her just before and it will have to do.

What the hell is Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century? Why is the 19th Century detective in a flying car? Watson's a robot? And Holmes is still wearing a deer stalker cap??

This could be enough to make me think characters should never go into the public domain, ever.

The week always begins on Saturday for me. That’s because that’s the day TV Guide starts with each week. By the same token, I tend to think of the new year as starting in September, partially because that’s when school used to start, but also because that’s when the new fall TV season traditionally began/begins. Yes, I’m a little bit too in tune with my television.

I’m sitting at my in-laws computer typing this, watching the 6am KidsWB lineup out of NYC, which consists of the 1970’s Batman cartoon that featured the voices of Adam West and Burt Ward of the 60’s live-action TV show. I worshiped that show as a kid, and when this cartoon was on I thought it was amazingly well animated and filled with great versions of the villains. Now I’m getting to see how wrong I was. The voices suck (West and Ward are okay, but now that West is on The Family Guy he’s even harder to take seriously), the animation is terrible, Catwoman’s costume is ridiculous, even the music is generic, and the show features Bat-Mite, one of the dumbest creations in the history of the Dynamic Duo.

They also just ran a commercial proclaiming the upcoming season premiere of the cartoon “The ZETA Project,” which is in fact a spin-off from the Batman Beyond show, which itself was a spin-off of the superior Batman: The Animated Series of the late 90’s.

A season premiere in March? I liked new TV content in the off season as much as the next guy, but premiering a show in March is just wrong.

I promised not to link to lots of other stuff outside of my own fascinating crap, but dammit, why not do it twice in one day?

Everyone should immediately read Kate's "Company Policy" post. Genius.

Everyone should go read my new favorite blog, by my friend Laura Rush, aptly titled HEAD RUSH. No one bitches and complains as well as Laura. (Believe me, I've seen it live).

"You know, sometimes life sucks. Then it makes you eat it."

That's what my brother, Paul, told me this morning when he gave me the news about his father-in-law.

Paul was working last night. He was out in anAlfred Police cruiser around 3am, when he got a call from dispatch telling him to phone his in-law's house because of a family emergency. He didn't have his cell phone with him; it was in his locker at the station house. So, of course, as he drove back to the station his mind was racing with all the types of terrible news that could come from such an early morning call.

When he got through, his wife's aunt answered the phone. She told Paul that his father-in-law, John, had died a few hours before.

John, a former police officer himself in our home town of Hornell, NY, had been working for the last few years as a charter bus driver. He was apparently on a two-driver trip taking a sports team down south. They'd stopped in a motel in Georgia when John began to have chest pain. The other driver with him took him out to the bus to get him to a hospital, but before they even arrived John told the other driver to call 911 apparently. By the time they interfaced with an ambulance and John arrived at the emergency room, an hour had passed since the cardiac arrest had begun. (Paul got all this direct from the ER doctor in Georgia, apparently.)

John was 53.

So this morning at about 4am, my brother got to live out my worst nightmare and tell his wife that her father had died.

I want to blog but have so much work to do. I'm helping plan a conference, I'm trying to database a bunch of reviews for the site into the world's slowest loading database, I'm trying to get products for review, I'm looking for new writers. I'm tired. This getting up early in the morning crap is not as much fun as I'd thought it would be.

Next week should be fun. Saturday I'm going to meet the new CBLDF director for a meeting to see what we can do to improve the site. I have jury duty on Tuesday, maybe more than just Tuesday if they decide I'm not a threat to the system. I'm sure having a cop for a brother will immediately disqualify me for most services, but I'd really love to get on some cool jury for a murder. Sequester me! Please! (Seriously, how cool would that be to hold the fate of some douche-bag murdering scum in my hands? I totally want to be foreman, too.)

Wednesday next week, Bon has her first laser eye surgery (assuming the doctor doesn't screw up the scheduling again). Then Thursday, as Bonny recoups, Kylie goes to the doctor for her womb-ectomy. No puppies allowed. Some where in there, I still am doing the usual crap for work. I'm helping some friends tweak or build Web sites.

Oh, yeah, if you're curious, the last post was a story about how my wife won a $500 bet from me. It was pretty funny. But since it involved the kinds of antics only legally performed by very small children and/or the mentally insane, she requested that I pull it down. She's still trying to get a job, after all.

this blog entry has been deemed too salacious for public viewing. Please tune in later for more laffs and guffaws. If you want to see what was here, IM me or e-mail me.

Leo just said "256 Mega-Hytes of BAM."

I laughed.

We were watching ER last night. I don't think we've missed an episode of the show since it started in 1994. Hey, it's what we do.

At one point in the episode, Dr. Susan Lewis referred to Dr. Mark Green as being like a brother to her. Anyone who's watched the show since the beginning knows that Green loved Lewis secretly for years, and didn't tell her until she was leaving town. Now she's back, but Green is married to a shrewish, shrill surgeon with more hair than sense. So hearing Lewis call Green "like a brother" was horrifying. I'd wanted the two of them to get together since she returned to the show and found this whole flirtation she had with Dr. Carter to be ridiculous (I'm glad that's over now). Lewis and Green were meant to be with each other. So I said so to the TV.

"Brother?" I yelled at the screen. "My god, how can you say that! You were meant for Mark Green from the beginning. You're soul mates! And I don't even believe in soul mates."

Which is true. I don't. But when I said it, I caught a look from Bonny.

"You don't believe in soul mates, do you?" I asked her

"Yes. Yes I do." She said.

"Really? You really think you couldn't have found someone else in the world just like me, someone you would have been just as compatible with, someone you could have married and spent the rest of your life with?" I asked.

"I didn't say you were my soul mate, did I?"

Score:
Bonny = 1
Eric = 0

I'm a curmudgeon and a grouser and carper. I admit it. I try to start out happy with new things and people, but eventually everyone recognizes these things in me and I then stop hiding it.

That said, I also know I'm damned lucky. I especially know it this week.

Earlier this week my mom told me that my friend Brett's brother died. His brother wasn't very old, only 40. He died seven years to the day after he had a heart transplant. His daughters had placed a classified ad in the local paper for him offering his new heart a happy 7th birthday. My thoughts are with Brett. I wish we talked more.

I read in blog's about other siblings passing away. A guy who works for my company and has been in this computer publishing biz for years (Hi, Eric), his sister died after an aggressive illness took her. A woman I used to work with lost her brother to a suicide that must be devastating.

Bonny just told me that a friend of hers from high school, who was in our wedding, just lost her brother this week also. He was only in his late thirties.

Siblings all. Not a one made it to age 50.

All of the above are sad reminders of how lucky I am. I'm okay, my parents are okay (but for how long? Stop smoking, god dammit.), my wife, my dogs, and (especially considering this week) my brother is okay.

Knowing the above probably won't stop my complaints. But know this: No matter what I say, I know I'm lucky. Believe me. I'm damn lucky.

How pathetic is it that I feel guilty for not blogging for three days? Pretty pathetic, considering how many readers I've actually got on this site that would even take the time to vote in my stupid poll. But, the results are in, and of the 24 of you out there, at least 50 % want more tales of my past and stupid crap about my daily life. So be it. I'm happy no one asked for Links to other Stuff, because that seems to be what most blogs are heading toward, and I'm not.

The two of you that voted for more fart/belch/boob jokes, well, email me and we'll exchange pleasantries.

I took the wife out for lunch today and, no lie, I thought of at least six different topics to blog about while we waited for our burgers (Bon's was under done and bled like a quicked nail; mine was overdone, but I like it that way). Now I'm in front of the computer and have no topics in my head at all. I even thought of one in the car tonight driving Kylie to the vet (she got her rabies shot), but then promptly forgot it. When I can blog when behind the wheel, then I'll know technology has reached its zenith.

Tomorrow I'm going into Boston all day to work. There's a conference my company is putting on, and I'll be moderating a panel session. It's not much of a panel, since there's only one guy speaking, but I'm not to worried. Luckily I have no fear of public speaking, and I've done enough other panels and tv appearances to prove it. I fear far more the technical snafus, the hard questions from the audience (luckily here I don't have to be the expert) and potential accidental belching. I'm glad this is all before lunch. I get to meet my boss face to face for the first time. How many other people work without meeting their boss for almost six months? Not too damn many. I still have to prepare questions and an intro for the session, though. Maybe while I'm watching Survivor.

I'm trying to get back into Survivor this time, after being bored by the African adventure. So far, I like it. Back on the island. At least one total babe (who appears to be a bitch, which is cool). They got rid of the new-age freaky guy, so here's hoping there's some good backstabbers in the lot. Say what you will about Rich, the final 2-hour finale of the original Surivor was riveting television all because of the way he played the game.

My former boss now works for a big time magazine at a company that is teetering on the brink of financial ruin. But right now she's out in San Jose attending a party to celebrate the magazine's 20th anniversary. I guess that's the industry standard (get it? Oh, whatever).

I am completely addicted to sleep now. I get up at 5:40 usually to feed the dogs (that's when Siren starts flapping her ears to indicated it's time to get up) but then I get back to bed and I'm usually there until 8:30. Then I lay there with my head on the pillow, hitting the snooze until 8:55. It's pathetic. I mean, my commute to the basement makes it all work out, but still -- I used to stay up at 5:40 and go to work when i was leaving for an office. I could be getting an extra 3 hours of useful, productive time out of each day. Instead, I pray each morning for the alarm to just never go off. That's assume I even set the alarm. Usually Bonny just kicks me out of bed.

Okay, one minute to go and not much of use to say. Time to hit the TiVo and the laptop simultaneously and see how the night progresses.

I'm at a complete loss for anything to say on yea ol' blog for some reason. I frequently see people say on their blogs, "That's it! I'm done! No more blogging, I've got nothing to say." Then it looks like they're going to quit, but the announcement is usually followed by a massive flurry of postings. It's like trying to break up with someone and not think about them or have ex-sex, I would think. I really wouldn't know. Sigh.

Anyway, I'm not going to say that I'm quiting blogging, because we all know it would be a lie. Instead, I'm asking you to provide me with some direction. Click in the vote box at the right and tell me what to say. You can make your write in votes in the comments below. All two of you.

If you don't know it, I'm not just posting here now, I'm also trying to post something cute and pithy (and usually somewhat rude) over at Bad Samaritan: The Next Generation. It's a fun writing exercise to come up with something a little less self-serving than what I post here (where's it's all about the grandness of moi). And the pay is great!

Friday Five

1. What's your favorite vacation spot? Sadly, I confirmed during my last trip to Florida, that it's not a vacation to me unless there's an amusement park involved.

I've been to London—that was like work, trying to see everything. The Adirondacks was fun and relaxing at least. The Cruise we took in 97 was okay, but socially awkward in so many ways (imagine a 27-year-old couple stuck having dinner every night of the week with the same two little old ladies?). To really go on vacation? I need a roller coaster and sore feet.

2. Where do you consider to be the biggest hell-hole on earth? Standing on 6th Avenue in Manhattan on a cold, cold day in March 1992, as wind buffeted my face and cars honked and the smell of piss still continued to waft up from the grates in the ground despite the freezing temperature – that's when I found the definition of hell. Cold, loud, and urine scented.

3. What would be your dream vacation? I've often considered driving around the United States for a month and hitting every single touristy piece of crap attraction you can imagine. The giant ball of twine, giant corn cob, Carhenge, you name it. But six hours in the car can usually drive the wife and I close to trading blows, so that's probably not a great idea. Maybe if we worked in a trip to every cool roller coaster in the nation along the way...

4. If you could go on a road-trip with anyone, who would it be and why? Well, first my wife because as much as we probably annoy each other since we live and work 24/7 in the same house, I'd miss her. Second choice: my dad. He'd take pictures of everything everywhere (he's famous for taking a shot down into the depths of a porta-potty once... I have the shot here somewhere...) and we'd have good talks.

5. What are your plans for this weekend? Friends are coming! Occasionally I feel like a hermit who knows no one outside of house, but Vikki's bringing Casey the wonder pup to cavort my three canine idiots, and we'll have dinner with Jill on Saturday, and perhaps watch Sarah Hughes again crust Michelle Kwan like a bug under her skate blade (I've still got it on the TiVo—I'd taped it for Jill. Really.) Sunday, the house will be invaded by crazy dog ladies for a brunch. I shall hide in the basement after I get my fill of the free grub.