Fratricide

Test over. It’s time for the report. We have a protocol that you cannot test a design that you helped develop. This means that my test’s final report will be written up and presented by the people who conducted it.

They’re a good crew. The facilitator, SR, appears a bit casual - but they are a whiz at avoiding leading questions and practicing self-restraint. A person who knows the answer has to work hard not to hint to a participant who is struggling – SR is an ace at just responding minimally and getting the participant to explain their thought process.

SR is paired up with a serious usability pro, KR, so the report is sure to be airtight and professional. They are offsite, so we’ve scheduled a videoconference so the clients and developers can hear the report and ask questions.

Given the fact that my test plan has missed a key objective – I’m expecting to get tagged on the report. SR and KR won’t ding me for my plan – but a public reading of their findings can only highlight the gap in what I’d asked them to find out. I’m genuinely sweating it.

It’s the last item of the day, and all my other meetings cancel – so I’ve got all day to imagine the myriad ways SR will say “we don’t have much data on X.”

I ping SR twice about the report. “Make sure you hit the main test objectives first, the clients won’t want to hear about ancillary stuff until they have the big stuff.” I ask about a finding they mentioned in passing. I’m wondering if this finding will re-open old arguments with the Client. I get some assurances and go to lunch.

At work, I’ve been ever the optimist – but I just can’t relax. I hit one of the few decent restaurants near work and tell myself I might as well eat first.

Last time we used KR and SR, there were some communication errors that resulted in findings that were beyond the scope of the project, or made it look like my department didn’t understand the project they were working on. I’ve tried to minimize this risk as much as I can – but there’s so much information to get across. I’m afraid that SR will say something that will make us lose cred.

My department, we’re a latecomer to most projects, and we are generally regarded as just another mouth to feed. I’m convinced half the time that the Client would happily be rid of us – but somebody above them is forcing them to work with us.

The history of this project has been tumultuous – I smoke-jumped in just as people were getting canned. The timeline and scope keep getting changed in threatening ways – and we’ve been at loggerheads in design because the culture is “don’t change anything.” It’s the classic usability problem. Developers want the UI to look like the back-end code, the SME’s assume that everyone using the system eats and sleeps the operations manual, just like they do – it’s a mess.
I’ve gone out on a limb countless times, just to see if I can provoke discussions that lead us away from “do it the way we do now.” I’ve been shot down so many times, I’ve stopped noticing - but I’m determined to at least try to make things better.

Very rarely, one of our ideas gets approved, and my team celebrates. Sure, the whole design is a Frankenstein’s monster – but there’s this little part (call it function X) that we got into the project. We think it’s neat – we hope it lives until go-live.

It’s been a real struggle – and patience on some issues has worn so thin that we’ve abandoned all discussion of them. We’re just hoping that once things have cooled off, we can revisit them in better times.

So, here we are – having amassed a modest amount of cred – and I’m waiting for this presentation to highlight my test’s poor design.

I’ve told SR that he should plow through the biggies and expect interruptions. My group prefers the piranha method of discussion, so any suggestion that we hold questions is just a waste.

And we start.

---

SR starts on the part of the UI that I failed to evaluate against a previous design. Participants encountering the new design failed to see and interact with it 100% of the time.

No biggie, we just prompt them to look at it and observe their reactions to it with a prompt. Having seen most of the sessions – I know that most people were able to use the UI with a prompt. This is not ideal, but it means that our problem is likely one of visibility and labeling rather than actual function.

Except SR didn’t see it that way. SR details failure after failure in this UI even after prompts. This I do not recall, but I wasn’t at all the sessions. I’m a bit surprised, because this is a key piece of UI that two projects were waiting for. I’d thought (and unfortunately, said) that the issues with it were cosmetic and we could probably fix it easily. SR details a series of convincing issues that say otherwise. One of the project managers, short on time, expresses alarm and then leaves.

SR continues into another section I thought went well and proceeds to document why it is unadulterated crap. I’m really not liking where this is going.

Questions? The room is dead quiet. Everybody’s here, project managers, the Client, my boss – nobody says a thing.

It’s my show on this end, so I just tell SR to plow onward and they do. Right into a pet issue of mine. One of those little victories that I’d endured weeks of abuse to get into the design is now being held up as a cautionary tale. The Client and I were on opposite sides of this one and I’d carried the day mainly on persistence. Now, SR is basically listing all the same complaints the Client gave me when I first came up with the design.

The Client and the rest of the dev team go quiet – they remember the same discussions. They thought I was nuts – and SR is telling them all they were right to say so.

Now, normally, stuff like this – I don’t care. A design dies, but you make a better one out of the ashes. Everybody’s design takes a pounding, everyone gets a turn. But with this crowd, there will be people who will use this moment to discount any future input from me.

Remember that one thing? How you insisted it was better? Well, you were wrong, so shaddup!

SR’s report plows onward, ripping on two other items that I’ll take the fall for, before finally winding down on issues that were too minor for the team to care much about.

It’s dead quiet. SR’s clearly a bit surprised by this, and tries to liven things up. He addresses me directly “You look like you have something intelligent to say.”

I’m about to reply when I’m cut off –

“No, he doesn’t” says the Client, scoffing.

We have a few pro forma questions and then it’s time to go.

---

SR’s report was honest and accurate – yet it managed to hit every issue where the Client had doubts about us and strengthen them. I’m absolutely stunned.

My boss is gone. No chance to debrief. One of the more sympathetic types comes up and says “Back to the drawing board, eh?” I’m looking over at the Client, who is in a huddle with the people they still have respect for.

I can’t even get my head around this. Every discussion after this will be uphill times ten.

Next meeting, all my suggestions will be stillborn – the Client may want me off their project and my boss, too for all I know.

I don’t blame SR at all – these were honest conclusions, but what are the odds that all the stuff singled out for abuse would be mine? Yeah, I know law of averages, but did it have to frickin' happen now??!!

All this fighting for a place at the table, some respect and now –

Shit. Square one if I’m lucky.

Rockstar

Like most jobs, mine has its share of drudgery. But one thing I do (that I have to do) I truly enjoy.

I get to test software on people.

Yeah, I know - that doesn't sound like much, but in my line of work - it’s the Superbowl. Testing a design with typical users and seeing how the software can be made better.

There is considerable debate as to whether or not this is science, art, or outright chicanery - but I think anyone who has participated in a lab test would agree - it gets your attention.

Having spent months in design, hashing out what an application needs to do - then spending more months designing a good way to do it - you finally put a prototype in front of someone and see what they think of it.

I may be mentally ill, but to me, it's a hell of a good time.

The doomsday project has stabilized to the point that it almost doesn't deserve the name, and I've spent the past month or so putting together testing scenarios and trying to find the best way to get a user to interact with the interface in ways that will give us useful feedback.

This is not easy. The first rule of user testing is that the participants will always surprise you. A task you are sure will be simple will prove maddeningly difficult for them. Participants will fly through your thorniest scenario with ease, only to fail on task because you made a bad choice in labeling the final "commit" button.

The ideal is to give users tasks that they would perform in real life. Then, maybe they'll act like it's real - and then maybe they'll even tell you what they really think. My scenarios are (to my mind) real-world, hands-off - but touch on all the design elements we care about. Trying to find the right mix of organic observation and manipulation can drive you nuts.

That said, testing week is like a carnival. AV setups - recording software - network connections, scheduling people, blah blah blah. I have to run a meeting tomorrow, I owe project work for other things - everything gets benched. People want the test results, they'll just have to deal.

Our prototype is (at least to my mind) a miracle of JavaScript posing as a live system. We have a design that would probably be easier to code as a working system than to simulate with script - but it's ready.

I start cataloging a list of all the things that could go wrong.

One by one, they don't.

The participants show up - despite subzero temperatures and crappy roads.
Inevitable shortcomings of a prototype do not break our test.
People tell us what they think.
The videoconference works.
IMing remote questions proves useful.
Our new screen capture software not only works, but is pretty damn cool.

Me and my team are loving it. We toast our prototyper.

Rockstar!

This becomes our chosen word of congratulations.

When the facilitator deftly handles a test snag, or when the notetaker pulls off the always-elusive "How do I ask this without telling them the answer?" question, over and over.

Rockstar!

We're getting really great comments - people are tanking on one task, but we know why - so we can fix it. All sorts of side comments are pointing out the vast difference between how our users actually work - and how our developers think they do. I'm drafting a list of follow up issues for other projects that are just starting up - so we can head off some really bad choices.

Living the life.

My boss comes in. They love the prototype, shower the team with praise. Rockstar!

The Client walks in. Wow.

This is a good thing. Most times, we can't get dev types or clients in the room to see what we see. The mere possibility that a client could actually watch a participant is great for us.

Assumptions are made in corp-world that have no basis in reality. Seeing a participant struggle with someone's pet design will usually trump business politics and get needed improvements a shot in the arm.

Participants aren't shy. They loudly announce that the corporate types have no idea what their needs are, point out workflow shortcomings and highlight obvious improvements that have somehow remained undone for years.

Our team has fought tooth and nail for credibility on this project. Lord knows, the H situation cost us heavily. We can really gain some corp-cred - if nothing goes wrong for this session.

I know what you're thinking, but nothing does go wrong. Aside from being overly talkative, the session goes much like previous sessions. Problems on the known issue, A/B testing results about the same. A few choice comments about the interface, and fade to black.

Me and my team are smug - cracking wise and cutting up on the IM.

I'm jazzed. I turn to the Client. "I can see some obvious improvements to this area of the design, but once people understand what it is trying to do - they do it easily."

The Client is un-moved. "This new design is replacing a prior one. There is nothing in this test that will allow me to compare the new design to the old. I still don't know which design is more successful."

I start with my list of proposed improvements to the new design. Our prototyper starts to chime in.

Client addresses the prototyper like I'm not even there. "We started with two options, we still have them - and we get nothing definitive about them from this test. I saw that as soon as the test started."

All the air goes out of the room. Client's right. I've put together this whole thing and I've missed one of the main goals. Client could care less about my list of findings, our list of issues, much less our ideas for future projects.

Three weeks delay, two huge projects waiting for the results of this test - and here we are, right back at a guessing game because I didn't force my participants to make a choice.

Client spells out what they would have done to get this answer - and I'm just sitting there taking it.

About the time they're done, my laptop fires off a warning shot - my boss has invited me to a meeting about some other project on the other side of campus in about three minutes.

I'm ten minutes late if I hurry.

I grab my things and bail - I've lost all cred with the Client, and now they get to watch me scramble to get my things and dash off to a meeting I've forgotten.

The whole way there, I'm just projecting the fallout. "Hey, nice test! Looked like fun! Complete waste of time, though." I'm too spent to even start on damage control. The benched work is rushing up in my mind - that roomful of people in tomorrow's meeting (that I haven't prepped for), I'm envisioning a really fun Q & A session...

And just like that, it's doomsday again.

Pulling the plug

Can Congress force the President to pull out of Iraq?

Well, they've done it before - and by "they" I mean the very people who claim it can't be done.

Not that I wouldn't put it past the Dems to have arguing the reverse of their current position, either - but it shows you how fickle the GOP can be when their policy is on the chopping block.

Glenn Greenwald has them by the short hairs.

Stand up if you hate Man U

A few years back, in the game they call football, my chosen team had a nemesis. My team were likable underachievers. Their rivals were the media darlings - dynastic, marketable: "America's Team."

Among their numerous loathsome qualities, one stood out above all others.

They kept winning.

Each undeserved victory made them more arrogant, more insufferable. To the point when you felt that surely - were there a God in heaven - he would make them suffer just to restore the faith of people like me.

But this didn't happen. They changed coaches and were champions again. They changed players, and still managed to cruise to victory.

Their players were criminals, their owner, the king of all assholes, but their fans didn't care so long as they could be part of a winning side.

Just thinking of the times they crushed my team over and over again still rankles.

---

So it is with Manchester United - in the game that they actually play with their feet - they are the bazillion-pound gorilla squatting atop the league table, spitting out the bones of lesser teams and giving the "up yours" to anyone not wearing their colors.

They've won the championship fifteen times, they've won the double, the triple - and damn near everything in sight.

They were purchased for 1.5 Billion dollars, they field one of the largest payrolls in Europe. Their wealth gives them access to anyone and they gobble up talent anywhere they find it. Any player who does well at the Euro championships will likely play for Man U the following season. Their bench could make a solid showing in any league in the world.

And I hate them. Because they win. Because their fans are insufferable when they win. But mostly because they are usually to blame for my teams not going home with the trophy.

Truth be told, there are a number of Man U players I'd respect, I just wish they'd come to their senses and play for a likable side.

Giggs, for example, is just quality all the time. His play is always impressive and his work ethic hasn't been affected by the fact that most everyone around him is a raging jerkwad.

You see Giggs get mad, but it's usually for a very good reason. You never see him fly off the handle and whine about a non-call the way you would see C. Ronaldo do a few seasons ago.

Ronaldo. Any year but this past one, I'd say he was the biggest waste of talent in the league. All that speed, buckets of talent and he'd spend most of his time diving to the ground and whining about being fouled. His playacting was especially pathetic when he played for Portugal in the last World Cup - I think even his countrymen were mad at him after that one. All this showboating and nothing to show for it.

This year, Ronaldo seems to have put his head down and do what he does best - make defenders look foolish. So I can't bitch about him being the personification of what I hate about Man U.

That honor falls to Wayne Rooney - a thick-bodied bully of a striker who was England's false hope in the last World Cup - A man who is the prototypical boorish, hotheaded thug that Man U haters like me conjure up just to stoke their seething hatred of the Red Devils.

Rooney's got skills, no question - but when he isn't doing terribly well, you can tell he's looking for someone else to blame: the ref, the defender, his teammates, or the imaginary foul that stopped his breakaway.

Whatever it is - it sure as hell isn't the fact that Rooney has been playing for shit lately. That couldn't be it.

So, I've been enjoying watching Rooney have an off year, even if Man U had surged ahead of everyone in the league. It was nice to see that Rooney was getting pissed off and handling it badly - like watching McEnroe or Nastassi self-destruct - it was fun.

Today Man U played my team - Arsenal. In the Gunner's new digs - and I'm hoping for a repeat of Arsenal's dazzling form against other teams. Man U is the evil empire, but surely God has them due for a comeuppance. Right? He wouldn't just be toying with me, right?

Kickoff.

Right off the bat, Arsenal isn't playing well. Man U blasts a few at the net and dominates the early possession. Worse - there's this really shameful playacting by Eboue to fool the ref into carding a Man U player. Disgusting.

Arsenal's on their heels for a good part of the first half, but show some signs of life here and there. They just aren't combining well, and Henry (while finally back from injury) is in lurk mode.

Fabregas, the Spanish phenom, is scrambling for all he's worth, but just isn't getting any traction. He's showing a lot of heart, chasing no-hope balls that show you he's trying, but he's wasting a lot of energy and looking rather young.

A scoreless half ends - Man U has the upper hand, but maybe Arsenal can start fresh after the half. I can hope right? How cruel can the universe be?

Second half.

Arsenal does come out with a bit more flare - and Man U gets pushed back and suddenly I'm getting hopeful.

Then Rooney does something he hasn't done in awhile: he scores.

Arsenal is down 0-1 to the forces of darkness, scored on by the foulest Red Devil of them all.

Man U's fans are in the house and they go ape. Arsenal tries to respond with a quick equalizer, but they are more desperate than skilled. Rosicky has made it his personal mission to whiff on as many easy ones as he can - three or four good chances will fall at his feet, and he'll blow them.

Twenty-two minutes in, Wenger sends in Van Persie- who is not in top shape. This smacks of desperation to me, but I'm looking for any hope I can get.

Twenty minutes to go, Arsenal are struggling hard, but long balls aren't going their way - passes that could be brilliant moves are intercepted and turned into counterattacks. Ronaldo is increasingly dangerous.

Eighty one minutes in, it looks like Man U has started the stall. They sub in Saha, and people are taking their time.

Adebayor keeps displaying more drive than sense by charging Van de Saar before every goal kick - like he's going to slip up. Yeah, Van de Saar. Screw up. Never gonna happen.

And Fabregas, he's just too young to know that this is going nowhere - he's sliding and diving and charging balls that are meaningless. Wild passes, wild shots - it's practically embarrassing.

He and Rosicky get into a scrum with two Man U defenders, and it looks like one of those basketball plays where the players keep falling over and you're just waiting to see who will get tagged with the foul.

--and then Fabregas gets the ball and nicely slips it to Rosicky-

--Rosicky jets into the box and crosses to Henry-

--who does an amazing backheel pass to

--Van Persie who blasts it past a diving Van de Saar.

Tied. Son of a bitch! Seven minutes from time and Arsenal gets to salvage a point in front of the faithful. Awesome. More than could be expected. Honor is served.

And then things get strange. Arsenal starts surging into attack mode - there's blood in the water, and you get the feeling that - time permitting - they may not be done.

Two good chances go nowhere, but Man U is clearly out of it now. Lots of hard work, but nothing approaching their earlier dominance.

Four minutes of injury time - and you know the Man U fans are sweating it. They're on the chopping block and it's clear - only the clock will save them.

And then there's a wild sequence of passing - Fabregas again, then away, then Eboue curls a cross into the pack and -

Henry soars up to head the cross into the net.

Pandemonium.

It'll go down as minute 90, but it's 92 and change. Man U has no time to salvage a point, although they try.

A driving shot goes to Lehmann, who almost stalls himself into a yellow card for delay. He boots the ball to midfield and the whistle blows.

Scoreline - January 23, 2007
Arsenal: 2
Manchester United: 1
Rooney 53, Van Persie 83, Henry 90

God is in his heaven.

Who's that throwing the President under the bus?

Mystery pundit, would you agree that this administration waited to make changes until after the election?

"Well, I do think they knew there had to be a change before the election. And they just waited until after the election to announce it.

I found -- one of answers I found interesting was on, again, going back to this issue of 17,500 troops in Baghdad. You asked him, will that be enough? And he said, I'll do what the generals tell me to do basically.

Well, that was his answer for three years when they told him they didn't commit enough troops, as he now acknowledges. So why should we believe him now? And which generals are these?


And what he's trying to do is absolve himself from having to make a judgment and give us the reasons for the judgment, because there are all different generals and colonels and everybody else giving different analyses of how many troops it will take.
And he doesn't give us any military reason. And when pressed, he always gives you a personal reason. "Well, I trust this guy, General Casey. I like that guy, General Abizaid." Well, they're good guys, but the president has to have made -- has to have heard the different arguments and have a substantive reason why this number of troops will work and that number of troops won't work.


And he never really answers on that. He just says, "I defer to the generals." Again, that's not good enough anymore. I haven't heard that many other plausible arguments. And I'm willing to give this policy a chance, as other people who know more about the military situation, more than me, are willing to give it a chance.


But you've got to ease the skepticism based on three years of failure. And, again, that involves granularity; that involves evidence; that involves treating people like adults and not talking down to them."

Give up?

That was David Brooks, in-house conservative for the NYT appearing on Newshour.

Yeah, it's that bad.

A visibly-embarrassed-for-his-colleague, Mark Shields followed this with, "I can't argue with anything that David said there."

I could. But the fact that high-vis conservatives like Brooks are calling the President on his baseless confidence sure saves me a lot of effort.

Thanks David - now just start recanting all the crap you've shoveled out for the past six years and we'll call it even.

Role reversal

Weekends are pretty much freefall around here. E’s betting we don’t get out of the house before noon. I don’t take the bet. Good thing, too. We pull out of the driveway at 1:04.

On the list is post office, shopping and generally getting out of the damn house. We’re a bit frazzled, and kid logistics has the two of us way back on our heels. E was going to get a haircut, but that fell through. We need to mail some things we should have sent weeks ago, but we don’t know if the post office will even be open.

I’m betting it won’t. E’s not taking the bet.

Incredibly, we’re both wrong. A federal office building is open on a weekend until 4pm. Rather than unhook both kids, I drop E off and orbit. By the time she’s done – both kids are unconscious.

Which puts a crimp in the next agenda item. No biggie. E knows what she wants to get, storage stuff and a replacement bowl for the one our neighbor loaned us (that we broke). I go on a sightseeing tour of the fascinating industrial park, and E goes to work.

E bats about .500, but we’re thinking we can hit another store and get everything in one trip. I’m thinking about the next place when E yells out-

“Stop!”

The car ahead of me has stopped and I’m rolling right up on them. I slam on the brakes, and stop less than two feet from the car ahead of me.

Almost a complete duplicate of last time. My head was off somewhere, and I’d almost plowed into someone with our new van.

I exhale slowly. “That was-“

-And then we get creamed by someone else from behind.

-And then we get pushed into the car in front of us.

Dammit. Dammit.

A blue Honda has mushed itself against our back end, and we’ve rebounded off the back of a plum-colored Corolla.

In the way that people do following accidents, all three cars slowly drift over to the side of the road.

Everybody’s okay in the van. No airbags in sight. E’s checking on the Girl, the Boy’s fine, he’s chirping away and wondering why we’ve stopped.

The Corolla lady is out of her car, she looks okay. Honda woman is as well. Honda’s seen fit to come up and ask why we stopped. E and Honda lock horns for a moment – and it’s clear that Honda hasn’t yet done the math and realized that she’s plowed into a vehicle that wasn’t moving.

I’m on the cell calling the cops, Honda’s asking E who I’m calling – I can tell this is a person I do not want to speak to.

With everybody fine and the cops en route, I just stay strapped in. Nothing to do now but wait. Corolla lady gets that and goes back into her car where it’s warm. Honda lady is a little more worked up. Having done the accident thing two months ago, I’m already getting out my license and proof of insurance.

Honda does the “I should stand outside for awhile” thing that seems sensible after an accident. Since its snowing, we stay inside and wait.

The cop shows up and starts with Honda. I can relate to that moment. Last time, I’d blown it. I knew I’d blown it. There wasn’t much to say.

Honda woman clearly has a lot to say. Not that it will do her any good at all. You rear end a stopped vehicle, you get written up. This I know.

Our turn, I’m worried that the cop is on the driver’s side of our car, next to the traffic. I offer to get out and do the interview on the sidewalk. She’s okay with standing next to moving cars.

Okay. So I give her my cards, tell her what happened, tell her we’re okay – and she goes around to the safe side of the car to get the names of everyone else in the car.

Good thing, too. Right after she gets all the names, another accident happens right next to us.

Same damn thing. One car misses the fact that the car in front of them has stopped and-

Bam! They hit and-

Bam! Push that car into a third.

Our cop calls it in and runs over to the third car, where a distraught looking mom is getting out and crawling into the backseat to retrieve her baby.

The driver of the car that started this new mess gets out, some young girl, and they start doing what we just got through: “you okay?”

An ambulance arrives almost immediately – apparently the baby got splashed with hot coffee in the impact, along with another passenger. No impact injuries.

The other three vehicles now pull in front of our three. Six cars in a line, flanked by a debris field of taillights and headlights.

It’s starting to sink in – this van has 15,000 miles on it and I’ve owned it for less than two months. Hell, less than one month – I think. And now it’s been rear-ended.

I get out and finally look at the back end. Our bumper’s hanging off like a drag chute, but we’re drivable.

Cop apologizes for the delay, but it’s easy to understand. Two accidents at once is a bit of a deal. After awhile, she comes back and gives me my cards back, and tells me the same stuff the last cop did. Honda lady is being cited – just like last time, only last time was me. I ask if this intersection has a lot of this kind of thing. Cop lady says “This is a terrible intersection, people come over the hill and suddenly they have to stop. This happens a lot.”

We hit urgent care to have the kids checked up on – and they both appear to be fine. We decide to have dinner out, since we’ve missed lunch and most of us are starving.

So, we go to our usual place. I’m coming down the hill towards a stop sign where we’ll be turning left. I start to slow down –

-except I don’t. The van maintains its speed, and I feel the staccato of the ABS kick in.

We’re on ice, cruising towards an intersection, and there’s there is no way we will stop. I reflexively take my foot off the brake and hit it again.

No change in speed, we’re going through this stop sign. I look up to see what to expect. Fortunately, at this intersection, we only have to worry about traffic from the left.

I can see one car heading towards us. The only way they hit us is if we slow down.

I speed up.

We blow through the stop sign, and are immediately rewarded with clean pavement.

I don’t even know if the oncoming car noticed us – but I’m replaying that in my mind, using different scenarios. I was coming down the hill too fast. It’s snowing.

I’m an idiot. Two hours after getting rear-ended, I almost get us broadsided.

We hit the restaurant, and I do the insurance tango. My at-fault cost us $100 more a year, no telling what a no-fault within two months will do to us.

Plus deductible, plus replacing child seats, plus…

Un-be-effing-lievable.

We should have stayed in bed.

Oh my freaking God...

Give me one of these. Now.

Malfunction

Something is wrong. With me.

I’ve suspected it for awhile, although as it turns out, not nearly long enough. The persistence of other people, E and my doctor, are the reason I’m driving through an industrial park on a weekday evening.

It’s not the kind of place you’d expect to go for anything health-related. There’s a print shop, a computer recycling center, lots of those businesses made out of corrugated metal. I’m wondering if I’ve misread the directions.

The directions came in the mail a few days ago. I hadn’t bothered to even look at them - this appointment wasn't supposed to happen for two weeks. Some other unfortunate cancelled, and I jumped at the chance to get it over with.

My suspicions weren’t very deep – and prior to opening their mailed instructions, I’d half-imagined that this would all be a colossal waste of time. Reading through their pre-appointment questionnaire changed my mind.

Have you ever woken up choking?

Has your blood pressure been increasing?

Do you often feel depressed?

Do you find it difficult to concentrate?

Question after question that I have to answer ‘yes’ to. I started thinking the test would be a waste of my time, halfway through the questions I’m thinking I’ll be wasting the clinic’s time.

Their questions described me precisely – my last two years, anyway.

I finally see the sign I’ve been looking for, and pull into the parking lot. In contrast to the industrial surroundings, it has a foyer with pillars and a domestic appearance. I get my bag, my papers and head for the lobby.

Inside, there are about a half-dozen other bleary-eyed people sitting on chairs. One man is watching the Spider-Man sequel on the TV, but most are slumped in chairs, staring at nothing.

There’s no one at the desk and the lights are out. I stand next to where I think the receptionist would be for about ten minutes before moving over to the wall. I’m early, and I guess this place isn’t run like most clinics.

At precisely 9pm, a woman emerges from an official-looking door and reads off our names to make sure we’re all here. We are.

We all go in at once, and she begins assigning rooms – “A technologist will be with you shortly.”

She’s right. Mine is named Dave, and he’s a decent sort. He talks like he’s been saying the same thing so often that he’s forgotten what the words mean. No inflection, just like a bored stewardess.

Somewhere in the stream of words, I gather that setup will take an hour. I’ve had EEGs and EKGs before, so this is no big thing. There’s actually a few more wires and steps and by the time he’s finally finished gluing wires to me, drawing on my head, and plugging in the garden-hose-thick bundle of wires - I realize I'm not going to have time to read my book before going to sleep.
Dave gets philosophical with me. "I ask all my subjects this: Why are you here?"

"Because I have to know if there's a reason why I feel this lousy."

This seems to satisfy him. He launches into another recitation about sleep. Stages of sleep, purposes of sleep stages, and finally - sleep disorders.

He explains how they will monitor me while I sleep to see how I sleep normally. - Then, if it looks like I need it - they'll put me on the machine.

The machine is not terribly encouraging: A pump, a hose, and a humidifier. I try it out. I feel and sound like Darth Vader.

Luke...I'm your father.

The room is surprisingly comfortable, and as soon as Dave leaves, I'm ready to pass out.
I wonder a little about strangling myself accidentally with the wires, but I'm on video and Dave's supposed to be paying attention. He seems a good sort.

I go to sleep.

-And Dave wakes me up. About that fast, although it's actually been a little over two hours. I'm groggy as all hell, so I only vaguely remember him saying, "We're going to put you on the machine."

- and I'm out again.

At some point, the damned hose is in my way so I wake up. It's morning.

Dave strolls in and proudly exclaims, "We fixed you!"

He explains that by 'fixed,' he means that I have responded well to the machine. This is Dave's overly upbeat way of informing me that, at least for the foreseeable future, I will have to spend my nights hooked up to an appliance.

He then breaks out graphs and charts and begins jabbering incoherently about things called 'this-pops' and 'that-pops.' Then he shows me that, during the two hours of the night when I was sans-hose machine, my airflow was reduced or blocked completely 177 times.

I'm absorbing this when he puts another chart in front of me. "See there?" he asks, "On this one you stopped breathing for just under a minute. Your blood oxygen was down to 76."

This, apparently in his subculture, is something almost worthy of a high-five.

Dave leaves me alone to get ready for work - he's made an appointment with a nice man who will give me my machine and explain its features and maintenance regimen. I'm still absorbing things.

It's pretty hard to know which way to go with this.

On the one hand - I will sleep hooked up to a motorized snorkel, possibly for the rest of my life.
But on the other hand, I am awake.

Really awake. For the first time in, hell, a year or two. The literature tells me that the headaches, sinus infections, and numerous other symptoms will all go away.

I'll dream again. I can't remember the last time I had a dream.

I get my things and go see the appliance man. He talks for a half an hour, makes me sign a bunch of things and hands me my box. He smiles, "Your kids will make fun of you, but at least you'll be able to sleep."

I'm in the car driving to work and I can't believe how different I feel.

At work, I can focus and get things done. I'm not drowsy in the afternoon.

I can't even express how amazing that first day was - and the literature says that I won't really get back to normal for a week or so. I'll feel better than I do now, and now is pretty damn good.

I marvel that the way I had felt two days ago seemed normal. I was walking through fog every day. Headaches, sinus pain - all the damn time. I felt like total crap most days. Sure, I could rise to the occasion and function. But some days it was just barely functioning.

That first night at home, I don't even hesitate with the machine. There's no resentment, no shame. At this point, it's the price of being myself again - I'm not going back to how I was this past year.

Shut-in

It's only after getting the minivan that I realize what a hit we took going down to one car. Not so much because the van is four times the size of our commuter car, but because absent a second vehicle, E stays home.

We'd done this before - when the boy was born, we had a single car and managed to go almost two winters before buying the commuter. I say we, but the bulk of the inconvenience fell on E. In summer, being without a car was somewhat mitigated by our being within walking distance of parks, a library and a slew of stores and restaurants. Absent bad weather, E could take the boy places and get out and see people.

Of course, winter messes that up royally. The daunting logistics of getting an infant out the door compound when you have to winterize a stroller. Not to mention dealing with people who don't shovel, ice, crossing slippery roads and, oh yeah, it sucks to be outside when it's cold.

When I would watch the boy by myself, it was part of my regular sanity ritual to get out of the house. Maybe this is just my personal hang up - but staying inside the same structure with an infant/toddler just makes me claustrophobic. A lot like the feeling of spending two days sick in my bedroom: soon as I'm able, I want to get out.

E's been dealing pretty well overall, but it has got to wear a person down. I caught a window into this when E told me that with the boy she was on the phone with her mom every day.

We all need a way to get out of the house.

---

We took the van on its shakedown cruise up to see Grandma. She's seen pictures of baby e, but we'd really like to stop by and show her the real thing.

Jen and her family are going up with us in their van, which is a year younger than ours. Mom will be driving up in her rental car. Oddly enough, all our vehicles are the same color - we go to Grandmas looking like a motorcade.

Grandma's been living in a small apartment, so the thinking is that all of us descending on her at once is a bad idea. Mom's booked some hotel rooms for us on the edge of town. We'll be using the hotel as home base and popping over in shifts.

Unfortunately, the shifts never really happen. Grandma had a car accident and really isn't up for running around with her relatives. For three days, the routine revolves around keeping the kids occupied in a strange hotel.

The outdoors decidedly do not beckon. Overcast, rain and snow. Like mars with all the colors set to grey.

This leaves us with indoor distractions. Fortunately, our hotel has a free waffle bar and a pool. Three pools and a hot tub, two water slides, and a partridge in a pear tree. Wake up, waffle, get swim gear, hit pool. The boy is beyond happy. The adult lot of the pool experience is limited to staying ahead of possible dangers, but its still fun to watch the boy experience these things for the first time.

E's got baby e in the room, in the lobby, in the pool room for awhile. We lunch and dinner out in mechanical fashion, the days pass with not a lot of variety. I'm starting to get way too used to the layout of the place. It was New Years, so we got to hear every decibel of the New Year's Eve party below us - and we went out to IMHO, the nicest place in town for dinner.

Like I said, you gotta get out sometime.

---

The final act of the weekend was popping in to see Grandma in the hospital. She'd fallen in her house and it was decided that she should be admitted so they can get her meds right. She's on Coumadin, among other things, and for some reason the level never seems to get quite right. Too little, you get clots and worse. Too much, you can become weak, bruise easily, or even bleed internally. Grandma has had the minor strokes that indicated she wasn't getting enough. Now, she's getting the other end of the equation. The car accident was relatively minor - but she's already decided that she will no longer drive.

We'd seen her briefly the day after we'd arrived, and she'd had a major bruise on her face that just appeared overnight. Mom says she's clearly not happy that people are seeing her like this, and I can hardly blame her. She's been so independent for so long, and now the time she gets to see her family - she has to do it from a wheelchair looking like she has a black eye.

We motorcade over to the hospital and mom checks her room before we all barge in to make sure she's ready to see people. She is, but things are worse. Her bruising is on both eyes now, and one side of her face is so swollen she hardly resembles herself. She's never one to complain, and she says hi to everyone. The boy gives her a big hug. Almost as soon as we get there, the hospital staff informs us we have to get out so they can give her a CAT scan.

While we're waiting for her to come back, my aunt and uncle - Grandma's two children that are mercifully local - let the other shoe drop. The original thinking was that Grandma had fallen on the back of her head - that's what she'd said. It looks like what really happened was that she'd fallen forward, hit the front of her face on something hard, passed out, then fell onto her back, where she'd woken up. The nurse describes the facial bruising as "classic" indication of hitting her nose hard.

She'll recover from the bruising, and the Coumadin level will ultimately get sorted out - but the upshot is that Grandma will be going into a nursing home. The level of care she needs and the consequences of her not getting it have all but made this decision. It's a terrible realization. Grandma has been so independent, so outgoing - she'd lived alone in a house and maintained it for years by herself. She'd proudly said that the two flights of stairs between her bedroom and her washing machine kept her in shape (and I bet she's right). Calling Grandma used to be wondering if she was home, or if she was out running around with her friends - her regular Wednesday night dinners, she had a social schedule most people her age would envy. She certainly had health virtually anyone her age would envy. She did things, she got outta the damn house and lived life.

All of that stops with a bad stretch in her Coumadin regimen. The car accident means no driving, the fall, means no independence.

She goes into a building, and she doesn't come out.

It just breaks the heart.

Eighteen Large

So, I'm in the market for a minivan. 'bout time, E's stuck at home and frankly - we need a vehicle that can haul cargo. I noncommittally browse the local web listings, and start organizing the funds.

Thinking myself clever, I'd shoveled the family cash into an ING direct account. Better interest, I figure - and I'd thought it would be awhile before I actually found a car. ING orange accounts are basically money market funds linked to your bank accounts. Any time you want to move money to and fro your linked accounts, you log onto their website and, presto! Handy. And they have good UI.

A week after I do this, I find the perfect van. Miracles of miracles - it's in good shape, has low miles and the price is right.

Since all my cash is being authenticated in cyber land right now, my ING transfer is looking like a bit of a bummer. ING requires that funds in a new account sit for ten business days before they become available. Since I'd started the account on a Friday - this meant that I'd have three weekends (plus a holiday) before I'd be able to pull the cash out.

The net delay to my car transaction will be at least one week. I tell the seller this, and he's okay with it. I needed to get his car inspected anyway, so that ate up a day and there was Christmas right smack in the middle - so no biggie.

Dec 26 should be the first day I can pull the money. ING says it should post in two days, they assure me that I will be able to withdraw the money on the day it posts. "It's like a cash deposit, or a cashier's check."

'kay. So, 12:01am on Dec 26 - I log on and (whaddaya know?) I can move my money.

The next day, I see the funds disappear out of ING. The day after that, they show up in my checking account.

'kay. The buy is on. I talk to the seller. He wants to have all the money available to him on the day of the purchase. He wants a wire transfer.

Now, wire transfers are well and good, but they typically cost more money and they are not (in my experience) instant. I tell him this, but he's pretty convinced. I offer to talk to my bank and see what's up.

My bank tells me that wire transfers will cost us about $40, and that a cashier's check is free. Further, the bank guy says "Heck, if your seller's bank is local, you can run the cashier's check over to his bank and he'll be able to draw on that deposit the same day. A wire transfer just doesn't make sense if the receiving bank is local."

'kay. I tell the seller this, and he's happy to avoid fees. We agree to meet at his bank, I'll have the cashier's check, he'll have the title, and all will be well. Time permitting - I might even be able to squeeze in time to hit the DMV to get my tags so we can road trip this weekend.

---

Game time. I roll into the bank, hand him the check and he goes up to the teller. I sit down to kill time on some magazines - and it becomes clear that things are not well.

Seller motions me over. "They won't allow me access to the funds for several days."

I look at the teller. "It's a cashier's check. These are guaranteed funds."

She's unimpressed "You could have stopped payment on this check; we need time to make sure it's still a valid check."

Okay, I'm ticked. I tell her what my bank guy said, she just rolls her eyes. Seller's getting nervous, he either REALLY needs the dough today, or he's thinking this is all part of some master plan to rip him off.

I do the back and forth for awhile, but it's pretty clear I'm going to lose this one. We ask if there is a way I can pay the Seller so he can draw the money today.

Teller thinks a moment. "Cash?"

Screw that, I'm not driving across town will all my money in a sack. Somehow, my expression conveys this to her.

"A wire transfer would be same day."

"There's no delay to authenticate? He'll be able to get access to the money today?"

"Yep."

'kay. Seller and I pile into my car, I apologize for the mix up - and we tool into my bank fifteen minutes later.

I'm up to here with this, trying not to look like a dork in front of the Seller.

Hi. Void my cashier's check. Wire some money to this man.

My bank is nicer. My teller explains that most banks will take a cashier's check and allow withdrawals on it the same day, but the Seller's bank is an exception. She used to work there. So, each bank has its own rules. Nice to know. Now.

We're in the middle of doing the transfer when my teller thinks to verify that these funds will hit today and be available today. Three phone calls and much bank-speak later, it's clear that the wire transfer isn't a sure thing either.

"It could post today, it could post tomorrow - it depends on the bank."

Seller's really agitated now. I'm not willing to trust Seller's bank to take the funds same day. One option left.

"Give us cash."

The bank manager says it's going to take some time, they need to open the vault - we need to fill out some forms. My bank being nice, they give us coffee. An Account Rep tells us to meet us in her office, where she has eighteen stacks of Benjamins.

I'm looking at my watch. I'd planned on hitting the DMV or at least going back to work. How long is this going to take?

She counts out all the bills. Twice.

Then there's the "The Feds have to be told that you took more than ten grand out in cash" form - that seems to take an interminable amount of time.

Finally, it's done. The Account Rep leaves and I'm sitting there with the Seller. And this is the scenario I was trying to avoid.

Mind you, not because I truly believe that brigands roam the roads looking for people with large amounts of cash on them - but in exchanges of this type - people are typically agitated. The imagination is looking out for things that could cost you your money, or your property. You start looking for ways to stay out of trouble.

When you have a fat wad of bills in your lap, right after the teller has announced how much money you wanted and that you need it in CASH, you start to see trouble everywhere.

We go straight to the car. I'm picturing the Seller as some master scammer, who's going to use a stun gun on me and hop into a waiting van. He's checking behind us for masked gunmen.

Predictably, we get to his bank with no harm done. His teller seems exasperated that she has to count the bills, and I'm like- "Don't. Even."

Money in, Seller asks me to sign a receipt for him (which makes no sense) and wants a photocopy of the title (for whatever reason). He's nervous, and probably would ask the tellers for affidavits, if he thought they'd comply.

I check the title and I have what I need. He gives me the keys and I agree to drop him off at the rental car place. On the way he's decompressing. Chatting me up about this and that. He's a nice guy. Just having that much moolah up in the air got us both in a twist.

The fact that it took two banks over an hour to decide the fastest way to get my money across town was in a paper bag starts to bother me less and less.

I got to see bank people get nervous. I got to be irrationally nervous myself, and I got to fan a huge wad of Benjamins in my hands.

Plus, I got a minivan. I guess that's not too bad of a day.

What the hell are 'Deathly Hallows?'

Beats me, but J.K. Rowling is apparently going to tell us.

Spoiler alert: the article discusses a big aspect of box 6. A retroactive sorry.

Embarrassment of riches

Been awhile since I've come up for air – between trying to stay above water at work, doing the same at home, and just being unconscious - there hasn't been a lot of time for much else.

Putting together a decent meal is a time crunch most days – I doubt we’ve managed it on our own since baby E showed up. First, my mom was in town and she helped us out. Then we were on leftovers.

Then we were out of leftovers, and we’re dreading what we have in the cupboard – and trips to the grocery store have turned into quite the logistical feat.

So, I’m coming out of the garage, and who is coming up my driveway buy Ms. No-H, and she’s carrying pizza. Lots of pizza.

And not your schlock pizza, either – but the yummy kind. I’m way sick, so I munch and flop down somewhere outta the way, while E socializes.

It’s a great night. Some days, crossing off a seemingly simple thing like dinner is just the best thing in the world. So, thanks, Ms. No-H. Perfect timing. What a marvelous thing to do.

---

Rewind to the day after baby E is born.

A friend of ours, KB, asks if we like lasagna. “I’d make you some if you do.”

In my head, this triggers a brief, internal Q & A session:

Do I like lasagna?

I think so.

You think?

Okay, I’ll check its ranking…Got it! It was in the “Love more than life itself” folder, right next to sauerkraut pizza.

Y'know, I should eat more lasagna...

Damn right.

So, I say, “Um, yes.” and forget all about the discussion.

A few days later, I’m getting lunch at an Italian deli when-

Hey! I should eat more lasagna.

So, I go to the freezer and buy a massive pan of ready-to-bake lasagna. A pan I need to set down because my arm starts hurting while I’m getting out my cash at the register.

Fast forward to that night. Zagne’s in the fridge, cued up for tomorrow and then KB calls to tell us she’s coming over with lasagna tomorrow.

Hey! I should eat more lasagna.

Sure, we’re game – the deli 'zagne goes in the freezer, and we get ready for homemade Italian goodness.

Poof. It’s tomorrow night, and KB and family drop off the yummy. We bake, we scarf, we scarf some more.

That part of my brain that had been nagging me is now gloating:

Ya see, I told you…

Despite our best efforts, there’s half a pan left – which we’ll kill off tomorrow.

Next day, our neighbor, MG comes over with bread, salad and – lasagna!

Hey! I should eat more lasagna.

So, we’ve got two in the fridge, one in the freezer – that part of me that has been craving zagne will finally be sated.

---

And then, next day-

Mr. and Ms. U send us a box of cookies – and not your ho-hum sugar cookies with sprinkles, but exotic cookies you see on the food channel. The kind where every ingredient doesn’t have a brand name in front of it.

Bags and bags of them – and they are yummy. And I vacillate between hiding the box for myself, and setting them out for the family. As a compromise measure – I eat all the chocolate chip cookies.

Yum

---

Which brings us to yesterday.

I walk in and there in the middle of the floor is a large box with Styrofoam lining and plastic pouring out of it.

E’s sitting on the couch, big smile on her face. “G and T sent us some sausage.”

I look at the box. It dwarfs her statement. “Some…?”

“That’s just the box I left out so you could see it. The other one was just as big.”

My mind performs some rapid calculations. “Is there room in the fridge?”

“Not really, but we’ve got plenty to eat!”

---

So, thanks to everyone for everything – our cholesterol count is sure to spike this month – but it’s the holidays and it was headed that way anyway. The stuff we’ve munched already was way yummy – and the stuff we’ve got in the queue looks at least as good.

You people are great.

That's my girl...

 

Angel mine

Just in case the grapevine hasn't gotten to you yet:

Baby E was born, happy and healthy via c-section. Eight pounds, five ounces and twenty and a half inches long.

Mom and baby are doing well.

Circling the wagons

No baby yet (as of 8:30AM on 11/20/2006, that is), but we're likely to be doing more runs to the hospitals. E's miserable - but according to the docs, not quite miserable enough.

And now we wait.

The law of unintended consequences, as applied to ambulance chasing...

TO:
Atty. Brian Peter Mularski
Atty. Emmanuel L. Muwonge
Atty. John Kenyatta Riley
Atty. Christopher L. Zimmerman

OF:
Eisenberg, Riley & Muwonge SC
2228 W Wells St
Milwaukee, WI 53233-1919

Gentlemen,

I wanted to let you know that while we have received the materials you sent my son regarding his recent traffic accident – my son will not be retaining your services as his legal counsel in the foreseeable future.

I want to stress that this should in no way imply that my son has a negative assessment of your firm. Indeed, my son is usually happy to receive mail of any sort – however his being two years old poses a substantial barrier to his making an informed judgment in this matter.

I was a driver in the accident you referenced in your letter, and I feel uncomfortable making the decision for my son. So, I have read your letter to him repeatedly, each time stressing the importance of its contents.

Thus far, his responses to your offer of legal representation can only be described as ambiguous. My son is a bright boy, and I have every confidence that he will one day comprehend your offer enough to respond definitively.

I am unclear as to whether or not his response must be in written form. If this is in fact the case, I must tell you he will not be able to write on his own for a few years. When I know his feelings on this matter, perhaps I will have him call you.

Yours, etc.

/name & address withheld/

P.S. Please take my address off your mailing lists.

...and with charity toward none?

"We will mete out to [them] the measure, and more than the measure, they have meted out to us!"
-Winston Churchill, July 14, 1941

Imagine you are the incoming Speaker of the House this coming January.

A majority of voters across the country has voiced their opinion that the previous Congress has done its job poorly, when it has bothered to do it at all.

As the new speaker, you will be assuming a position whose power has, for the past six years, been used to crap all over you and your followers.

Some items of note:

• Being muzzled by the "super-majority rule." The former speaker ruled that he would not allow legislation to the floor unless a majority of the republicans favored it. This meant your legislation (even if you have a majority of House members in favor of it) did not make it to the floor unless your majority included most of the GOP.
• Being excluded from hearings, with your fellow Dems being told to their face "Why are you [even discussing this bill]? You won't be in the room when the decisions are made."
• Being given copies of legislation at midnight and being told you will be voting on it the following morning. When you attempt to delay the vote so you can get time to read the bill, the Capitol Police are called to evict you from the premises.
• Bi-partisan "Hearings" that last only long enough for the photos to be taken, before being swiftly gaveled so the real hearing can be held off-camera and without the presence of the minority party.
• Being asked to participate in the drafting of the Patriot Act - getting headlines as you vote your bi-partisan work product out of committee, only to learn it was discarded in favor of one written in secret by the majority party alone.
• Blatant re-writing, side-stepping or ignoring Judiciary Committee rules on nominations to maximize the power of the majority party.

And on, and on, and on...

So now, here you are. Holding the gavel of your former oppressors.

You have been charged with: drafting tougher ethical standards and enforcement protocols; investigating government activity on pre-war intelligence, Katrina, Iraq contracts, wiretapping and a host of other issues.

The question is: do you use the tactics of your predecessors to get this done?

Before you reflexively say "No, I'll be big about this," think about these items carefully:

1. The members of the GOP who you invite into your oversight hearings may very well try to sabotage your actions in the hope of protecting their own misdeeds or those of their party or financial backers.
2. Minority party members given free reign to amend bills can poison-pill needed legislation, denying you the ability to draft the bills you were sent to Congress to write.
3. Embracing the GOP in the spirit of bi-partisanship will essentially compound the advantage their strong arm tactics gave them. For six years, they have brushed you aside and took what they wanted. Now, as your party begins to try and undo some of the harm, you're going to set them up with the access and power they denied you for six years and hope they act responsibly?

Then again, if you adapt the tactics of your opponents - do you run the risk of becoming just like them?

What do you do?

The sound of the other shoe dropping...

And there it is... AP and NBC call Virginia for Jim Webb.

The Dems own the Senate folks. All over but the concession speech.

Waterworld

Of the three items that were waiting in the wings to go wrong - the water heater stepped up to the plate a few days ago.

Last year, one of the valves started dripping - then stopped.

The day after I got the sewer straightened out, E noticed a puddle of water near the water heater. I'm thinking it is just water from where I mopped up - but it's still there a day later.

Plus, it's bigger.

So we call the plumber. In my decidedly-out-of-synch-with-recent-events mind, I'm thinking we're replacing the bad valve. I dry up the water and put a bucket under the spigot to see how fast the water is coming out.

Next day, the water is on the floor, not in the bucket. It's obvious that the water isn't coming out of the spigot, it's flowing out of the bottom of the water heater itself.

This is a bad sign. A sign that reads: "Hello, I am your hot water heater - and I am now dead."

So, here we go. E waits for the plumber who charges us eight bills to get the old one out, the new one in, and a few fees just because he's got us over the barrel.

I know. You're saying, "You got rolled."

Yeah, but we're not in a position to shop around. Time is short and this needs to get done. Like, now. We still have to get the furnace looked at, and buy meteor insurance.

I'm over it. I'm already bracing for the next thing.

A margarita and a police state…

"You may be looking at four or five public polls a week that talk about attitudes nationally, but that do not impact the outcome... [the polls] add up to a Republican Senate and a Republican House.

You may end up with a different math, but you're entitled to your math, I'm entitled to the math."
--Karl Rove, October 24, 2006

A former co-worker of mine had bet a margarita that there wouldn't be elections this fall.

She'd said, "if I win, I get a margarita and a police state!"

(It's just one of those lines that is destined for greatness.)

Well, the results are flowing in and she'll owe somebody a margarita, but all things considered - I think she'll gladly pay up. Hell, I'd reimburse her.

MSNBC is predicting the dems get the house 233-202, and even factoring in their margin of error, it means that the White House can start practicing saying, "Speaker Pelosi," right about now.

VA, MO, TN, and MT senate races are still up in the air. The odds don't favor the dems, and there's still the possibility that DINO Lieberman will jump ship if the senate splits down the middle.

Even so, a worthy result from a country that seems seriously pissed off.

I don't expect the Dems to be brilliant, virtuous, and pure - but I do expect them to be adversarial and conduct oversight - something the current rubber stamp majorities seem to have forgotten how to do.

Rock on.

R.I.P. Max

It's official: The Maxima is totaled.

We'll be looking for vehicle number two as soon as we figure out:

1) How much we're getting for dead Max.
2) What the heck we want to replace it with.

Slippery slope

If you think that the GOP-controlled congress didn't invent partisan railroading of legislation, you're right. They've just perfected it. So says Rolling Stone's Matt Taibbi:

In 1977, when Democrats held a majority in the House, eighty-five percent of all bills were open to amendment. But by 1994, the last year Democrats ran the House, that number had dropped to thirty percent -- and Republicans were seriously pissed. "You know what the closed rule means," Rep. Lincoln Diaz-Balart of Florida thundered on the House floor. "It means no discussion, no amendments. That is profoundly undemocratic." When Republicans took control of the House, they vowed to throw off the gag rules imposed by Democrats. On opening day of the 104th Congress, then-Rules Committee chairman Gerald Solomon announced his intention to institute free debate on the floor. "Instead of having seventy percent closed rules," he declared, "we are going to have seventy percent open and unrestricted rules."

How has Solomon fared? Of the 111 rules introduced in the first session of this Congress, only twelve were open. Of those, eleven were appropriations bills, which are traditionally open. That left just one open vote -- H. Res. 255, the Federal Deposit Insurance Reform Act of 2005.

In the second session of this Congress? Not a single open rule, outside of appropriation votes. Under the Republicans, amendable bills have been a genuine Washington rarity, the upside-down eight-leafed clover of legislative politics.

Irrespective of who runs Congress, we can't let this trend continue.

Flat tire karma

On at least three occasions, I've been driving along - lost in my own head when I see some other driver, honking and waving.

What's your problem, buddy?

Then I'll see them pointing downward and mouthing a word. They'll start rolling down the window - and it's evident that this isn't road rage - they're genuinely trying to get something across to me.

So, I roll down the window.

"Hey, your tire's low!"

Snapped out of driving coma, I'd thumbs up and pull over and stare at the latest manifestation of neglecting my car.

The simple act of flagging me down saved me some dollars and possibly worse.
These people were nice.

I'd like to thank them - but, of course, they're just gone.

---

It was this spirit of indebtedness that got me typing today - at home on Friday afternoon.

Rewind. 7:48 am. Taking the boy to day care.

I swing onto Hwy 51, southbound and I'm behind some guy in a sedan. His car is throwing a lot of white smoke, but this is a cold day and that's what cars do when they've just started up in cold weather.

Then I notice that sedan guy's car is smoking on the left, away from his tailpipe. I'm right behind him so I just keep watching his car. It looks like the smoke is coming from his wheel.

I look closer. It is. His car is leaning heavily towards his left rear tire. I see a chunk of rubber come off and roll onto the shoulder.

Sedan guy is blissfully unaware.

I'm coming up on my turn, so I pull into the left turn lane. Sedan guy is slowing up, still smoking - still clueless.

I'm just about pulling even with him, trying to think of what's the fastest way to tell him about his tire. I reach for the horn and-

-and I plow right into a Ford Focus in my left turn lane.

Ford goes forward to smack into a pickup. I turn to see the boy's okay. "What was that?!" he asks.

No airbags popped, so I can see our hood is pushed up like a bubble. The guy in the Ford gets out. I try to do the same and the damn door is jammed. I kick it open and ask if he's okay. He is. So's the driver of the truck.

Ford says "Wow, that was fast."

I start to ask what was fast when I see the cop. It's been less than thirty seconds since impact. Yeah, that was fast.

I fork over my drivers license, and get back in the car with the boy. He's good, just wondering what happened. "I want this car to move," he says. I explain as best I can.

He asks to hear Tchaikovsky, so I fire up the iPod. So long as he has music, he's good.

I stay in the car. No point talking with the other drivers. What would you say, anyway? The cop writes me a citation, and is generally a nice guy.

My front end is ruined - but the car will move. Never fails, does it - just yesterday Jen was telling me how nice this car rode. Kiss of death.

I call into work and tell them I won't be in. The car limps to day care, and I go home to deal with the insurance types.

---

So here we are, at home. The car's off to the garage - no word on if it's totaled or not.

We're a one car family again.

Dammit.

Electric Eel

It sounds stupid, but one of my favorite memories involves snaking a sewer pipe.

No, you read that right.

Two years ago, my dad had come up from Mississippi to help me finish my basement before my son was born.

*****

There – you see what I just did? I described what happened the way dad would have. “I helped my son finish his basement.” Yeah, anyone who knows me knows that’s a load. Fact is, I’m pretty much useless when it comes to tools. Dad didn’t help me. I tried to help him.

The basement project pretty much followed a lifelong pattern of home and auto repair with my dad. He’d invite me to help him work on something, and I’d spend the next few hours holding the light while dad did everything. I know my dad was trying to instill in me the same fascination he had with fixing things – but the fact is, he’d never let you do the work.

You’d start turning a bolt, and he’d finish it. Before you pounded a nail, he’d “get you started.” He didn’t mean anything by it, but dad couldn’t bear to see things done badly, so letting me learn by screwing things up wasn’t much of an option. No second chances, just the certain knowledge that as soon as things started getting close to difficult – dad would take over.

Most of my life, I really hated going into the garage.

*****

Anyway, back to two years ago. Dad’s decided that we need more room in our house before the baby is born, so he takes it on himself to load up his truck with hardware and drives across the country to spend two weeks in my basement putting in a guest bedroom, a second bathroom, and the office I’m sitting in now.

Me being me, I didn’t manage to get time off from work, so dad’s working alone in the day while I’m at work.

*****

There, did it again – didn’t I? My last job, I had boatloads of time off. I could get out of work practically whenever I wanted. Fact is, given the choice of being a hero at work, or holding the light for dad at home, I chose work.

*****

Back in the basement, two years ago. I’m at work and dad calls me.

“Son?”

“Yeah?”

“I hate to bother you, but I did something… I can hardly believe I did something so stupid. Can you give me directions to the hospital?”

I’m like – well, what do you think I’m like? “You want me to call an ambulance?”

“No. No. I shot myself in the hand with the nailgun.”

At that moment, I have a vision of my dad, hand nailed to the wall, straining to reach the phone. It turns out dad, being my dad, has managed to fire a nail through the center of his left hand and miss every bone. He’s back to work in less than three hours. And if it hadn’t been for the VA hospital being such a collection point for useless people, he’d have been back in less than two.

Dad didn’t quit. Ever.

Where was I? So, I get a Friday off so dad and I can work on the big project – the plumbing for the second bathroom. E’s sister and brother in law are stopping by, so it’s going to be a busy few days.

The original plan was to find the main sewer pipe, then expose it by cutting out sections of the concrete floor with a special saw. We’d break up the cut sections and then make trenches to lay the new pipes for the toilet, sink, and shower drains.

At first, things went well.

The concrete saw was a Sears POS electric saw with a special blade to cut ‘crete. Dad figured you could wet a sponge and hold it against the side of the blade while it turned to keep it from overheating and (better still) keep the concrete dust from filling the entire basement.

Works like a charm. Loud as hell, but zero dust. Dad’s cutting a section out over where we’re going to tie into the main drain pipe, I’m keeping the sponge on the blade.

Four cuts later, we heave a square section of floor up and start looking for the drain pipe. I scoop out a few buckets of fill gravel and we get our first disappointment:

A second concrete floor six inches below the floor we just cut through.

So, we widen the hole we just cut, to make room for using the saw on the floor we just found. Enter disappointment number two.

The saw dies. Sparks. Smoke. Fire.

Great.

Dad only brought the damn thing as an experiment, he’d left his good saws at home. So, we’re back to the jackhammer and the sledge. This is a helluva lot more work. Dad pounds through the second floor, and we start digging for the drain pipe again.

Disappointment number three arrives: No drain pipe.

We’d drawn a straight line between the stack and the cleanout valve and assumed the pipe would continue on that straight line. Wrong.

Now we’ve cut through two floors and have nothing to show for it. Dad goes route one and begins to cut two holes right next to the cleanout valve to find the angle that the drain pipe takes from there.

Two jackhammer sessions later – we find the pipe. Instead of the straight line we’d originally assumed, the drain takes a thirty degree bend towards our neighbor’s house. Our first hole was off by about four feet.

To tie in, we need to buy more pipe, pound two more holes through the floors, and dig through about two feet of clay.

Dad’s unfazed and gets started. Jackhammers being imprecise tools we soon have cut a huge pit in our basement floor – that leads to a smaller pit in the second floor.

Assloads of work later, we tie into the drain pipe using a single y-connector. We’re bushed, but happy. It is now time for the fifth disappointment.

*****

They say you usually have problems with plumbing when you have company over. This isn’t mere irony at work – a slow drain might be able to cope with the water output of your family, but have a few people over and suddenly your water output spikes and your slow drain suddenly can’t cope with the volume. Things back up – just when you’re entertaining your guests.

Now, I told you that E’s sister and brother in law were visiting, right?

I’m helping dad in some menial way when we notice that there is water in the lower pit. At first, we assume that this is just seeping out of the ground. Then we realize that the water is rising, and the surrounding ground is clay.

Cue disappointment number five, and it’s a doozy. The y-connector that we’ll be tying into the new basement has a temporary cap on it, so we can still run water in the rest of the house.

To see if the water is coming out of the ground, or out of the pipe, we take off the cap. Out pours gallons of water. Gallons of the previously mentioned “after” water. Any hope that this might have been a fluke vanishes when, upstairs, I can hear E flushing the toilet, and we get to see that water make its way into the pit.

The main drain we just tied into is plugged, and we are seriously screwed.

*****

Wait a minute? This is a good memory? Yeah, it is. Not because my dad and I are standing in a pit of sewerage, but because of what came next.

At this moment – the whole project is up against it. If something we did collapsed the main drain pipe – we’re done, and the professionals can start charging by the hour.

We do a few tests to get a feel of what we’re dealing with.

At this point, I do in fact mean “we.” Dad’s in scramble mode, and isn’t worried about running the show. He needs this to work and so do I. We’re bouncing ideas off each other, testing this, testing that. From here on out, we’re a team.

Overnight, the water level goes down. We rent a 50’ plumbing snake from Home Depot and go to town. As the only male in my family to actually read directions, I discover a number of gotchas in using this particular device. Dad grunts his approval and we get started. We tag team on the snake and run it out. Twenty feet. Thirty feet. Forty feet. Fifty.

No breakthrough. Disappointment number six, right on time. Whatever is stopping the water, it’s more than fifty feet from the cleanout valve.

We take back the 50’ plumbing snake and get a 100’ snake made by Electric Eel. It’s a beast, and we dent the wall getting it downstairs. I get the bit on and we go to town again. We trade off leading the snake and running the motor but we’re both swapping glances between the water in the pit and the amount of snake we have left on the coil.
Fifty feet left, forty, thirty…

..with just over twenty feet left, we see the water in the pit move, then drain out. Dad and I just look at each other and cheer. And there it is: that moment of being on a winning team with my dad. Having actually contributed to a winning effort – with my dad. He’s high-fiving me and we’re yukking it up. For once, dad’s saying ‘thanks for the help’ and meaning it. For once, I got to be useful and not just hold the damn light.

Unprecedented. Just thinking of it makes me smile. We won.

*****

That was two years ago. The current drain debacle is, I am fervently praying, more of the same. Roots in the pipe snarling things up. Seen it before. This, I can handle.

The complications start when I realize that I don’t have dad or dad’s truck. M volunteers his SUV, Ms. No-H hers, and Jen offers the minivan.

Problem solved, I hit the depot. I go right to the beast I remember and check out.
The guy’s like “need some help loading that?” I say no, I’ve done it before.

Wheeling the snake out to the van I realize this was a mistake. Picture an object that, because of its mass, you are physically unable to budge.

Reduce the weight of that object by one pound, and you’re right where I was that evening. It weighs a fricking ton. I blow out some vertebrae and get it into the van, and bounce it down the stairs to start all over again.

I get out the operating instructions the rental guy gave me. Might as well be sure. They turn out to be instructions for using a buff sander. Thanks for nothing, Home Depot.

I get the uber-mag light from upstairs so I can check the water level in the cleanout. First thing you do with a flashlight is flip it on when you pick it up, right? It’s working. I snap it off and go downstairs.

I point the flashlight into the cleanout and flip it on. It goes on, then dies almost instantly. I go to the bucket of batteries I keep for such emergencies and (wonder of wonders!) I have enough D cells to fill up an uber-mag.

Small problem. Unscrewing the battery cap, I find that the old and dead batteries have leaked and aren’t coming out of the flashlight without a fight. Two screwdrivers and a dangerous amount of pounding later, I give up and throw the hunk of junk onto the downstairs guest bed.

I fit the bit on the snake and get started. The snake with one person is more of a hassle. Think of a motorized garden hose reel in reverse. You feed out the snake using a foot pedal, but if you get too much slack out you can have it whip around like a dropped fire hose. It’s tearing into my office hands, so I look for work gloves and strike out. E loans me some latex gloves – which at first seem like a good idea.

Then the latex catches in the spinning snake. It peels off my hand and loops around to cinch down on my fingers like a slipknot. This happens to both my hands in about as much time as it takes to say it. I tear the gloves to shreds and let their scraps go down into the cleanout – still snagged on the snake.

I run out about fifty feet of the snake and wonder if I’ve made any headway. The water in the cleanout valve seems lower (thanks to a working micro-mag) and I decide to try flushing the downstairs toilet to see if the water level rises to the same level as yesterday.

Soon as I flush, I know I’ve made a bad mistake – the downstairs toilet is backing up and is just about to overflow. I whip off the tank cover and reach for the float to stop the water flow-

-and accidentally grab the flush chain instead. The toilet now has flushed a second time, and two bowls of filthy water still have nowhere to go but over the sides and onto the floor.

I get the wet vac (another Sears POS) and try to salvage things, but it gets the rugs, the baseboards it’s a disaster.

I check the cleanout, no change in the water level. This wasn’t from a backup in the main line – this was just a clogged toilet. Nice.

Without a working main drain – I’ve got a wet vac full of disgusting water in the basement. No way I’m taking this up a flight of stairs, so it has to sit here until I break through.

If I break through.

Back to the snake.
It’s around 9pm, and I’m beat. I’ve run out fifty feet of snake and have nothing to show for it but a foul mess in the bathroom.

I start the snake up.
Sixty feet out.

There’s still standing water in the cleanout.

Seventy feet.

Here I’m hopeful, since this is where we broke through last time. No change in the water line.

Eighty feet. No change.

Ninety.

I’m looking at the few remaining coils of the snake, thinking this is it. The water level’s maddeningly unchanged, and there’s nothing left to do but press on.

Bam!
The snake hits its end. One hundred feet played out, and still no change in the water level.

That’s it. I’m screwed. I’m out the rental, I’m beat, my hands are worn raw, I’m covered with filth, and I still have to call a plumber. Plus, no shower, no bathroom until this gets done.

Son of a bitch.

Now, I don’t want to get too maudlin about this, but right about then, I was comparing the previous experience with the snake with this one. After everything going wrong, dad and I were able to beat this damn thing.
– Yet here I am, two years later, alone – having succeeded only in making things worse.

I sat down on the stairs, and just stared at the snake.

I thought about all sorts of things. Like what dad would do. What he would think of his son just sitting on the damn stairs. What he’d think about him going into his own head instead of getting busy doing something useful.

Screw it. I thought. What else is there to do? There’s no more goddamned cable.

True, but - when you operate the snake, you typically stand between the drain and the coil of snake cable. I’m not a big guy, but I do have a pretty big wingspan.

Like a sleepwalker, I got up and pushed the snake cart until it was right next to the cleanout. That gave me about five more feet to run down the drain.

I ran it out. What the hell?

And, swear to God – the water level dropped.

I just sat down again and smiled. Then I reeled it in and did it two more times with larger bits – just to make sure.

I’m not my dad, and I will never be my dad – but every once in awhile I can be a glimpse of the man. And I can be proud of that moment.

Baby wipes and hand sanitizer

So.

Main sewer pipe is backed up. This I can cope with. Most times the drain isn't totally plugged, and so long as you send no more water down the pipe - you can maintain the situation until you have time to snake out the pipe and really solve things.

My completely unscientific measurements make it seem like we've got just about enough room for a single toilet flush. So, no showers in the am - but, at least we've got enough breathing room to go to bed.

We do.

---

A lot of people don't think about their water softeners much. Give them salt once in awhile, but other than that - they're pretty much just another tube shaped object in the basement gathering dust.

We don't pay them much attention, because they usually don't demand any. Most are on timers to run at 3am, so most folks aren't even awake to hear them when they do their only job.

A propo of nothing, it's 3:43 am as I write this. 'kay?

For the uninitiated, water softeners pass your hard water over these nifty little things called zeolite pellets to remove dissolved minerals by reverse osmosis. I know this only because I just looked it up.

Why did I look this up at 3 in the Goddamned morning?

Because of this little item at the end of end of the howstuffworks.com entry:

"The remaining brine plus all of the calcium and magnesium is flushed out through a drain pipe. Regeneration can create a lot of salty water, by the way -- something like 25 gallons (95 liters)."

Yeah. 25 gallons, and my drain has enough room for one toilet flush.

Softener runs, brine flows, basement cleanout valve barfs out gallons of what I'd charitably call "after" water.

Luckily, E got up in the night and noticed this whole debacle, or we'd have woken up to an even bigger mess.

Which brings us to now.

The water main is shut off to stop the water softener from dutifully sending the rest of its 25 gallons of brine down the drain. There is no water, and I'm typing this only because I've been using the Baby wipes and hand sanitizer that E gave me.

Frick, Frick, Frack.

Fright night

So it's time for the Boy's first Halloween - and I'm thinking: This will not be fun. After a howler of a ride home from work, I'm expecting his mood to spiral down. He doesn't want dinner, he just wants the candy from day care. He doesn't want to go home, he wants to go the the restaurant. He doesn't really know what the night is about, so I'm expecting him to get all nervous and cold as soon as we go out the door.

In my head, this will be dragging a cranky two-year old from door to door.

Wrong.
The Boy's into it. Big time.

"Trick or Treat!" he's yelling before we get to the first house. "Thank you, very much!" he says after getting the goods.

"I want 'nother HOUSE!" he declares after each stop. He's asking questions, meeting the neighbors - just generally being the charming ball of fun he usually is.

What was (I thought) going to be a hasty lap around the nearest few houses, turns into our block, the next block and the next block. The boy's hooked.

"Does this house have candy?" he asks.

"I think so, they have pumpkins out front-" I start.

"I see more pumpkins!" and he's pulling me forward, swinging his candy basket like a speed walker.

We start home and I'm asking him if he's cold. "I'm okay! More pumpkins! I see Jack-O-lanterns!" and soon we're passing our house and off down the street again.

It's only when the pumpkins run out that we start heading back.

Home. The the boy's tearing into his candy like an addict. What was I thinking? This was a great night out - the boy's still wearing his costume and smiling ear to ear. If more people weren't such fuddy-duddies - we'd probably still be out there.

---

The windout was less cool. I'm headed downstairs for a quick internet fix and I can see the area rugs are soaking wet.

What the?

I can hear *glub* *glub* from the downstairs bathroom, and then I see water all the way down the middle of the hall. Not deep, just enough to cover the floor - but it reeks.

Bathroom. Floor dry. WTH? I'm looking for the edges of the water. No way this came in from outside.

Baseboard are dry, room carpets dry. So where...?

I see the water trailing over by the water heater. No. Nonono...

I move the basement junk out of the way. Good. Not the heater. The big area rug has a dark spot in the middle of it - soaked. Right over the -

Cleanout valve.

I pick up the rug, and bingo. The small pit with the cleanout valve is overflowing with water. I get the wet/dry vac (a great invention - although the model I have from Sears would have to go down as one of the worst designed POS's in recorded history) and I'm clearing out the water.

Water gone, I crack the cleanout valve open and sure enough - Houston, this is the problem.

Two summers ago - Dad and I snaked this very cleanout valve because roots had grown into the main pipe out.

It's baaaaaaaaaAAAAAACK!

So, eight o' clock on a worknight - I gotta figure what the next steps are.

Last time, this clog took a 100' snake to clear. Last time, I had Dad's truck.

Mental list:
1) Rent 100' snake from the extortionists at Home Depot. Easy.
2) Find some way to transport said snake to my house. In the Honda? HA! Or on the Nissan's leather seats? Double HA!

Add to this I'm in the middle of user testing at work, so I have to be there if I'm walking in on bloody stumps.

Pretty sneaky there, Halloween... had me all mellowed out before you went in for the kill.

Plan B is to hit up Jen for the minivan and find some way to swap vehicles.

As if in mocking answer, I can hear the downstairs toilet bubbling up.

*glub* *glub*

Ah, Hell.

It's about freakin' time

...Finally, public debate about Iraq policy on a major network:

Gotta hand it to Letterman.

Election watching for fun and profit

The Washington Post is running a game where you pick the winners and losers of the midterm election.

It's called Midterm Madness, and the best guesser stands to win... well, a measly $100 bucks (Jeez guys, you'd think you could spring for something a little jazzier. Hell, even shoe stores give away iPod Nanos these days... )

Anyway, make yer picks, take yer chances. It may be the only fun you get out of the midterms.

Recharge

Okay, it's been awhile since I've just put something up for fun.

So here goes:

Scoreline - October 22, 2006
Reading: 0
Arsenal: 4
Henry 1, 70 (pen), Hleb 39, Van Persie 49

Oh, this was a beautiful thing.

1) My TiVo picked this game up when there's virtually no chance I'd have spotted it myself. Christmas in October!
2) Arsenal were in fine form and beat the stuffing out of Reading without really trying that hard.

Henry and the Spanish boy-wonder Fabregas teamed up for an early back-breaker. Reading staggered around punch-drunk before deciding to fight on.
Sadly for them, at that moment the Spaniard teamed up with Hleb and Rosicky to pull off a clinical give and go: two nothing - Gunners.

Halftime.

At this point, Arsenal's crusing - the announcer is singing their praises - talking about how young this team is, how fluid their passing was, how Man U. had better be looking behind them -

-and then Henry, Hleb and Van Persie just score on an outrageous series of through passing and teamwork. Perfection - flat out. Reading's keeper is just standing there telling God that, if he had to end the world, now would be a good time.

-But it doesn't end. Fabregas is a holy terror, and charges into the box ony to be cut down by the now hoplessly demoralized keeper.

Penalty. Henry. Goal.

Four nothing and I swear Arsenal just spent the last ten minutes playing keep away. Reading had a few swipes at net - but it was written: Today Reading shall sucketh.

I know - the world says, who cares. A top of the table team buries a first time visitor to the Premiership - but hey - they did it with style. And they enjoyed themselves doing it.

Great to see.

The right level of outrage

In reviewing the past few weeks of posts, I'm more than a little conscious that I'm beating a drum most of us are tired of hearing.

I'm aware that better blogs are doing this, and doing it better in front of a vastly larger segment of the population - and still I just can't stop.

These are the conversations I don't get to have - and by putting them here I hope to spare the people I know in some small way, as well as simply get these thoughts out of my head.

Things are bad, and it's worth saying so.

I'm not up to saying all the things that are cruising around in my head, but thankfully many others are doing so.

First, Keith Olbermann - has once again demonstrated the right level of disgust with the current state of a county he clearly loves. I'd referred to it below, but here's the video of the full comment: "Beginning of the End of America."

Second, a statement by Kevin Tillman, surviving brother of Pat Tillman - who was killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan in 2004.

"Somehow America has become a country that projects everything that it is not and condemns everything that it is.

Somehow the most reasonable, trusted and respected country in the world has become one of the most irrational, belligerent, feared, and distrusted countries in the world."

Read the full piece, After Pat's birthday. Raw and direct, just like a soldier.

These people get it. They are, to varying degrees, on the outside looking in. I'm just hoping that their message finds its way to all people who need to hear it.

Things gotta change.

"Not with a bang, but with a whimper"

I've been trying to sift through the coverage of the Military Commissions Act of 2006, to determine if it truly was the end of habeas corpus - or if there was just an ad absurdum argument taking place.

A literal reading of the act makes it sound as if the Military Commissions only apply to alien unlawful combatants. Defenders of the law would stress this as a protection of the rights of U.S. citizens.

As it happens, that's beside the point.

Let's assume the full force of this law applies only to aliens (i.e. non-citizens), who have been declared 'unlawful combatants' by Donald Rumsfeld, President Bush - or competent tribunals they establish. What then, is the risk to you or I?

E got it immediately, but I took awhile. Here's a clue, the relevant language from the act:

1) No court, justice, or judge shall have jurisdiction to hear or consider an application for a writ of habeas corpus filed by or on behalf of an alien detained by the United States who has been determined by the United States to have been properly detained as an enemy combatant or is awaiting such determination.

Do you see the weak spot?

Think for a minute.

If you're still scratching your head, Keith Olbermann spells it out in his commentary "Beginning of the End of America."

"And if you somehow think habeas corpus has not been suspended for American citizens but only for everybody else, ask yourself this: If you are pulled off the street tomorrow, and they call you an alien or an undocumented immigrant or an “unlawful enemy combatant”—exactly how are you going to convince them to give you a court hearing to prove you are not? Do you think this attorney general is going to help you?"

Yeah. Let's say a 'competent tribunal' decides you are an 'alien unlawful combatant.' Shortly thereafter, you're nabbed and thrown into a cell. What are your options?

I'd call my lawyer, my family...

You get no calls, no contact with the outside world.

My friends and family, they'd get lawyers - they'd sue!

How? How would they even know you were being held? The Government doesn't have to admit they even have you, since habeas corpus doesn't apply.

After all, you're an alien unlawful combatant.

But I'm not!

And you can tell your captors that, over and over again.

But nobody's listening. They don't have to.