A Halloween to Remember

Back in 2002, the Mrs. and I were eagerly anticipating Halloween. This was pre-Olivia and pre-June, and we were celebrating our first Halloween in our first house. In our years of apartment living, we never had trick-or-treaters, so this was going to be a lot of fun for us.

We decorated the house, we lit our jack-o-lanterns, we got a big bowl full of candy, and we settled in for a great evening of kids coming to the door, dressed as all sorts of things, handing them candy, and enjoying the smiles on their faces. We were giddy with anticipation, wondering how many little boys and girls would come to our new house.

It wasn't long until we got our very first trick-or-treater. She was a cute little girl, probably 6 or 7 years old, blonde hair, all dressed up in a 1950's style pink poodle skirt. Her hair, shoes, sweater, bows in her hair.....it was all vintage 1950's. We watched her walk up our driveway, a little nervous about leaving her mother behind at the sidewalk, but with some coaxing from mom, she worked up the courage to approach our front door and ring the doorbell.

Two things I should probably make clear at this point. First, our front door was open, and our storm door is all glass, top to bottom.

Second, we had a dog named Bronson, who we had adopted from a shelter earlier in the year. This was his first Halloween with us, too. He was a Chow mix, weighing in at around 80 lbs. He had the Chow hair and the Chow tongue, but we guessed he was mixed with a Golden Retriever because he stood taller than a Chow and had more of a Golden Retriever snout. He also had a Golden Retriever temperament. Real sweet dog.

He had one bad habit, though. He had a thing about doorbells. If he heard a doorbell--even if it was on TV--he took off, full-bore, toward the front door, barking a ferocious bark and baring teeth. We kind of liked that about him, since burglars and door-to-door salesmen wouldn't know what a good dog he actually was.

We hadn't made the connection yet, though, as to how that would work on Halloween.

So back to the story. Cute little nervous Poodle Skirt Girl, not entirely sure about being about 15 feet away from her mom on the sidewalk, works up all the courage she has in the world to ring our doorbell in hopes of a Tootsie Pop or a little bag of M&M's or something for her cute little purse that was doubling as a candy holder.

DING DONG.

Bronson was in the back bedroom at the time. Simultaneously, as the Mrs. was opening the ceiling-to-floor glass storm door to give Poodle Skirt Girl some candy, Bronson came barreling around the corner, teeth bared, thunderous bark in full force, headed straight for the "intruder" at the front door.

That poor little girl. This is probably all she saw.



I'll give her credit. Poodle Skirt Girl was quick. Her first few steps were in reverse, about as fast as I've ever seen anyone run backwards. A look of absolute terror was plastered on her face, and she was so startled that she jerked her purse up in the air, flinging already-collected candy everywhere. She probably peed herself, but she wasn't sticking around to let anyone see for sure. That little girl's feet probably touched our driveway twice--three times, max--as she set a new world record for the 100-meter dash. Something between a scream and bawling was coming out of her mouth. Her mom flashed us a quick dirty look and then set off to try to catch her daughter.

Bronson, meanwhile, had stopped right at the storm door. He always did. He never shot out the front door. But of course, Poodle Skirt Girl didn't know that. He stopped barking and seemed kind of baffled as to why a potential little playmate was running away so quickly.

The Mrs., feeling awful about what had just happened, scrambled to scoop up some of the girl's lost candy, and then tried to catch up to her about seven houses down the street when the little girl finally stopped running. The Mrs. apologized profusely to the little girl and to her mother, and in an attempt to make amends, dumped our entire supply of candy into a bag for Poodle Skirt Girl to take home.

The Mrs. came home, we shut off our porch light, and pretended we weren't home for the rest of the night.

For each of the following seven years, every Halloween, we'd sit on lawn chairs in the driveway and pass out candy. Bronson stayed inside and watched out the front window, but as long as no one was ringing the doorbell, he didn't really make a fuss. Some years, it was really nice outside, especially for late October in Indiana. Some years, it was really cold. But we bundled up, got under a big thick blanket, and toughed it out. A couple years, it rained on us. Didn't matter. There would be no more little Poodle Skirt Girl incidents.

Bronson went to the big field in the sky this spring. It just recently occurred to me that we can actually stay inside this year and distribute candy like normal people. I don't know if we will, though. I've kind of gotten used to sitting out in the driveway all night.

As for Poodle Skirt Girl, I have no idea what ever became of her. She's probably thousands of dollars into therapy by now. Poor kid. We still feel bad about that night.

Happy Halloween, everyone. Be safe and have fun as you trick-or-treat. But remember as you ring someone's doorbell...they may have a Bronson, too.






Rest in peace, buddy.

A Hair-Raising Turn of Events in the NFL

Seriously?

This guy..............



..........and this guy..............



........might have had a squabble over hairstyles?

And it's news?

Holy crap.

I bet this guy........................



............and this guy...............



.......never had those kinds of arguments.

Maybe the Patriots should have brought this guy in...........



.......as the fashion police to keep the prima donnas separated.

Instead, though, they have this guy..............



.....who isn't all that much different from Bozo, now that I think about it.

So this guy gets traded.........................



.........and now this drama queen is throwing to him (assuming he has a free hand, of course).



Meanwhile, these guys..................



.......will probably be laughing all the way to the playoffs. They kicked Favre out of town a couple years ago, they got Randy Moss out of their division this week, and they just beat the Vikings on Monday Night Football by, of all the delicious fates, picking off a trademark horrible Favre throw when the game was on the line, and running it in for a Jets' TD.

I think I might become a Jets fan now.

This is Why They Play the Games

Our recreational softball team is a true recreational team, made up primarily of 30- and 40-somethings who aren't exactly in their physical prime. We play because we love to play the game. This is our second season together, and we've discovered that only about half the teams in the league are recreational. The others are out to win. That causes us a considerable amount of frustration when those teams have different goals and talent levels than we do, but I suppose that's just part of softball life.

Last year, we finished with a 1-7-1 record, good for seventh place out of seven teams. Our one win was by five runs against another truly recreational team, and then in the rematch, they pounded us by about 20 runs. We put up a spirited fight in the first round of the tournament against our arch-rivals, but we came up a little short.

This year, we had only won one game up until this week. The team we beat was the same team we beat last year. We had just gone through a three-week-long rough patch where we played against (and lost to) the three best teams in the league. We had a game scheduled last week against the worst team in the league, but it was rained out, and it doesn't appear as though it will be made up. So our game this week was against the team that throttled us in the first week of the season, 13-3. They were 4-2, to our 1-5 record. To make matters worse, our opponent had just beaten the last undefeated team in the league. It seemed overwhelmingly likely that we'd finish the season with just one win again, which was particularly frustrating because we are actually a much better team this year. We haven't been getting blown out by 30 runs in 3 innings in every game, as we did on a regular basis last year. We've been losing fairly close games, hanging in there with the best teams until time expired.

So on Wednesday night, we showed up to take our lumps. As usual, our opponents were much younger and more athletic than we are. We joked with them before the game about showing us some mercy and spotting us 20 runs before the game even started, just to keep things interesting for about 10 minutes.

We batted first and put up 4 runs on the scoreboard. Already an improvement over our first game against these guys! But in the bottom of the first inning, they responded with 7 runs. Here we go again, we all thought. The beginning of the end.

I'm not sure what happened next, but I'm pretty sure we were all possessed by aliens or something. We absolutely unloaded on our opponents in the second inning. Several of us batted twice in the inning, and hits and runs piled up faster than losses normally pile up on us. Then we played defense like we've never played defense before. We had none of our trademarked collosally boneheaded errors that normally doom us. We had a handful of minor errors, but none that led to excessive hemmoraging. Everyone kept their spirits up. Everyone played hard. Everything broke our way. Heck, we even had our favorite umpire for this game. Our planets were in alignment.

As a general rule, I don't want to know the score as we play. Obviously, I get a general sense of how a game is going, but I don't like knowing the score because I don't want to get all tensed up if the score is close, nor do I want to slack off if we're up by several runs and let the other team come back. So I knew that we were hanging in there with our opponents, but I didn't know the score. At one point late in the game, Chuck violated my rule and told me the score was 18-11. Not too bad, I thought. We're only down by 7, and we played these guys well.

What I didn't find out until after the game was that we were the ones with 18 runs at that point, not them.

We scored a few more runs in the top of the inning, gave up a couple in the bottom of the inning, and then I saw Chuck talking to the umpire at the end of the inning. I couldn't hear what Chuck was saying, but after their conversation, Chuck threw his glove into the dugout. I figured we must be down by a couple of runs, and the umpire is calling time, thus frustrating Chuck because we didn't get one more chance to win. Then as we approached the other team for the usual post-game sportsmanship-oriented high-fives, I heard Chuck's wife yell from the stands, "Good job, guys! You won!"

WHAT?!

I was stunned, and pretty confused, as we exchanged kind words with the other team. By the time I got back to the dugout, my teammates were jumping up and down with glee. The final score was Us 23, Them 13. The game hadn't been called because time ran out. The game was called because of the mercy rule.

Chuck was roaring with excitement that our two wins this season makes him the "better coach" of the two of us, since I only coached us to one win last season. The jubilation and, to some degree, shock poured out of the dugout as if we had just won Game 7 of the World Series. If we had had a cooler full of Gatorade, it would have been dumped over Chuck's head. I'm sure our opponents thought we were being obnoxious jerks and rubbing it in. Hell, it was just a regular season game.

But to us, it was much much more. We had won a game for only the third time in two seasons. We had beaten a really good team. We had 10-runned them, in fact. Our much improved team had finally put it all together and played up to our potential. As I visited briefly with my parents after the game, I couldn't wipe the ear-to-ear smile off of my face or get the trembling out of my voice. About half of our team went directly to Chuck's house for celebratory beers. The atmosphere was raucous. We gleefully rehashed the entire game in minute detail amongst ourselves for hours. Two days later, I'm still grinning.

We begin tournament play next Wednesday, and we'll be the sixth-seeded team out of eight. We assume we'll be playing against the third-seeded team, so we'll be heavy underdogs again. And depending on how the standings shake out, that third-seeded team could be the same opponent we just beat. If it is, they'll probably want a little revenge. And if they pound us next week, that's okay. Because we turned a corner Wednesday night, and it was oh so sweet. We have hope now. We know we can do it. We're no longer the hapless doormats of the league.

Maybe next year we can win three or four games!

State of Indiana v. David Bisard

A very good suggestion was made recently for me to write about the events and criminal charges surrounding Indianapolis Metro Police Officer David Bisard.

For those outside of central Indiana who may not be aware of recent happenings allegedly involving Officer Bisard, he was responding to a call on August 6, 2010, at 11:20am, when, with lights and siren on, he drove into a group of three motorcycles, killing one rider and critically injuring two others. A blood draw taken about two hours later allegedly indicated a blood-alcohol concentration of .19%, roughly two-and-a-half times the legal limit of .08%, but because the blood draw was conducted by someone who was not certified under Indiana law to do blood work for criminal cases, the blood draw results would likely be inadmissible in Court.

Community outrage ensued when all of the DUI-related charges against Officer Bisard were dropped, as many people came to the conclusion that IMPD intentionally botched the blood draw to protect one of their own officers. This is right on the heels of some other police actions that have resulted in racial tensions in the community (although in the fatal collision, both the deceased and the police officer are white). So IMPD is taking a beating in the local media, deservedly or not.

An article in today's Indianapolis Star sums things up pretty well.

Yesterday, it was revealed that Officer Bisard was the first on the scene of a 2008 mass killing that gained wide publicity around here because the victims were two 24-year-old mothers and their babies: 23 MONTHS old and 5 MONTHS old. They were all hiding behind a bed when they were murdered. Now the attorney for one of the accused murderers is claiming that Bisard and another officer were negligent in the way they responded to those killings, after the 911 caller provided an address that doesn't exist. The question is that since Bisard is accused of a major alcohol-related crime now, did alcohol lead to negligent actions on a case two years ago?

So that got me thinking. I wonder which came first: the alcohol abuse, or being the first on the scene of two young women and their infants being slaughtered?

I also wondered why there is so much outrage against David Bisard. I'm well aware that what he's accused of doing is terrible, but I wonder why so many members of the community are so vehemently spitting out the "murderer" label in reference to him. I haven't seen a shred of speculation that what he did was intentional. It's not like he did what this guy did. Or what this guy did. Or this guy. Or this kid. Those guys were murderers, and I'm especially sensitive to people who murder police officers. Sure, Officer Bisard was accused of drinking before the crash, but that doesn't make the collision intentional. So I don't view him as a murderer, and thus I don't feel the rage toward Officer Bisard that I feel toward cop killers or people who intentionally run over pedestrians.

So why is there so much outrage? Is it because he's a police officer, and "should have known better"? Is it because IMPD's name was already mud, and this incident was the flashpoint? Why is this incident so different from the countless other DUI fatalities that barely make a blip on the social radar? Is it because a legal loophole is allowing him to escape several felony charges and keep his drivers license, just like so many legal loopholes in the past have allowed so many other accused felons to escape charges and keep their drivers licenses?

What, exactly, do people want done with Officer Bisard? What do they deem to be a fair punishment, assuming, of course, that the charges against him can be proven in Court? And would they want that same punishment to be handed out to their father, their son, their brother, their friend, if the situation was different?

I'm curious as to what was going on in Officer Bisard's life that led him to allegedly have that high of a BAC in the late morning. When did he start drinking that day? He ran a couple of other errands that morning, before the collision. Was he drunk at that time? How highly functional of an alcoholic is he that none of his coworkers, who were in close proximity of him for quite some time after the crash, had any idea that he was impaired? I know many people are screaming conspiracy, claiming the thin blue line is leading these other officers to cover for Officer Bisard, but I've had experience with high-functioning alcoholics that leads me to believe this could have happened as the other officers said it did. I remember catching the faintest of whiffs of alcohol on a probationer in my office one time, and almost as an afterthought (because I had no other indications that he was intoxicated), I gave him a portable breath test. He blew a .28% BAC. Three-and-a-half times the legal limit. So I know it's possible to miss the signs, even when you're trained to recognize them.

Then I started wondering why so many IMPD officers are getting in trouble lately. Is it a result of former mayor Bart Peterson and current mayor Greg Ballard's campaign promises to add hundreds more police officers to the streets? Hundreds of previously unacceptable candidates to become police officers, but now they're allowed to wear a badge? Or is it the stress of the job? Low pay? Long hours? Something else entirely?

That got me wondering, how do police officers deal with the stressors they encounter on the job? How do they deal with people resisting them, whether it's verbally, physically, with a vehicle, or with a firearm? How do they deal with being the first on the scene of a grizzly mass murder involving infants? How do they deal with investigating people who have sex with children? How do they deal with high-speed pursuits, and any of the multitude of other events that send an officer from a relaxed state to an adrenaline dump in a heartbeat? How do they deal with political pressure? Community pressure? Social pressure among each other? Do they have more marital or relationship problems than the average person? How do they cope? Is this the kind of stuff that might lead a police officer to become a highly functioning alcoholic? Or a drug abuser? Or a domestic batterer? Or an adulterer?

Then I started working on my Master's Degree in Criminal Justice at IUPUI. And I started taking a Criminal Justice Systems class. And I have to write a 10-12 page paper in that class on a current issue or problem in the field of criminal justice. I have to have 10-15 sources, half of which must be from scholarly journals, and the other half of which may come from government documents, personal interviews, newspapers, and periodicals.

I think I have my topic for my paper already. I want to delve into the police system a little more and find answers to at least some of my questions. I know a lot of police officers (who, I'm sure, are all cringing as they read this) to subject to personal interviews, and I'm sure there have been plenty of scholarly journal articles written about the trials and tribulations of being a police officer.

I truly look forward to discovering whatever I discover as I work on this paper all semester. When I'm done, I'll let you know how it turns out.

Eric is........???

I've been reading about a new ability through smartphones, and now Facebook, to constantly track your location and post it on social networking websites for all to see. I've even noticed a few of my Facebook friends using it. It caught my eye on Facebook because suddenly I was seeing status updates like:

John is.........home.

I found this puzzling, as John usually has something witty to say in his status updates, not that he's.......home.

So I was curious about this, and I read about it, and I've concluded that I'm not going to use the feature.

First off, my life is so boring, would anyone really care to know where I am at any given minute of the day? I seriously doubt it.

Second, I can think of several problems with posting my every location on-line for all to see.

Imagine how some of these location updates would look:

"Eric is.........in the morgue."

This would be bad, unless I was employed as a coroner...and everyone knew it. But if I get a new job and forgot to tell my mom about it..........uh oh.

"Eric is.......on the toilet." (1:37pm)
"Eric is.......on the toilet." (2:07pm)
"Eric is.......on the toilet." (4:56pm)

It wouldn't really matter if I just accidentally left my phone in the bathroom, or if I was really having potty issues. I'd never hear the end of it.

"Eric is.......at the nudie bar."

I guess my boss wouldn't have to wonder where I've been all afternoon anymore.

"Eric is.......at Chuck's house."
"Eric is.......in Chuck's bed."
"Eric is.......in Chuck's bed."
"Eric is.......in Chuck's bed."
"Eric is.......in Chuck's shower."

That'd be just awesome for the Mrs. to see on Facebook, wouldn't it? "Honey! I locked myself out of the house, and Chuck just let me take a nap and grab a shower over at his house before class tonight! I swear! His wife wasn't even home! Come ON! Stop throwing my stuff out the window into the street!"



Of course, it might be good for law enforcement agencies. Imagine a child molester's updates:

"Child Molester is.......at the park."
"Child Molester is.......at the Cub Scouts meeting."
"Child Molester is.......at ABC Daycare."

Yeah, it wouldn't take long for the police to be taking Child Molester to jail.



Or a probationer's status:

"Joe is.........in Maine."

Well, that's funny. I didn't give Joe permission to leave the State of Indiana!



Or:

"Joe is.........at Bubba's Bourbon Bar."

Bummer, dude. I hope that bourbon was good. Enjoy jail.



Or how about in criminal trials?

Defendant: "Your Honor! I'm innocent! I was nowhere near those armed robberies last night!"

Judge: "Oh, really? Let's check out your Facebook page."

"Brutus is............at 7-11." (1:00am)
"Brutus is............at Speedway." (1:22am)
"Brutus is............at Jiffy Mart." (2:02am)
"Brutus is............in the trees behind the Jiffy Mart." (2:05am)
"Brutus is............in jail." (2:30am)

I don't know how pinpoint accurate these things are, but I can envision a softball game:

"Eric is............at first base."
"Eric is............running toward second base."
"Eric is............out."
"Eric is............too slow to try to leg out a double."

Can you think of more reasons why you wouldn't want your every move tracked? Lemme hear your ideas in the comments section!

My MRI Experience

I had an MRI this morning on my shoulder, and I thought I'd give a completely objective description of my experience. I recognize that it's not the worst procedure to have done--I imagine that a colonoscopy would be even more unpleasant--but I can't say that I'm going to rush to the front of the line to repeat this experience anytime soon.

A brief history for those not in the know: my shoulder started hurting in late June. I figured I just slept on it wrong, and it would go away in a couple days. Instead, it's been getting worse and worse for two months now. Any time I move my arm, my shoulder crunches and pops and grinds and shifts. I'm pretty sure that's not supposed to happen.

Oral steroids worked great for a week while I took them, but less than 48 hours after I took my last pill, the pain was back. Then it was off to a sports medicine specialist, who injected my shoulder with cortisone. The pain went away a day or two later, but the crunching, popping, grinding, and shifting continued. It just didn't hurt. Two weeks after the cortisone injection, though, the pain came back with a vengeance. So with the specialist guessing a tear in my labrum or rotator cuff or both, an MRI was the next step.

Now, I'll preface my description of my MRI this morning with the clarification that I am not accusing anyone of malpractice or anything. Throughout my experience, my brain knew that it was all necessary. I never felt like anyone was screwing anything up. I'm not a doctor, but the path that the medical professionals have taken with my shoulder has made perfect sense to me the entire time. The staff at the hospital this morning were all absolutely terrific--very informative, speaking terms I could understand, welcoming questions, showing empathy, and being happy to assist me with even the smallest things, like tying my gown, since I have difficulty raising my arm above mid-chest level. So if anyone from my local hospital is somehow reading this, you guys did a great job, and I sincerely thank you.

Now on to the experience.

My appointment was at 7:00am, but they wanted me there at 6:30am. So I dragged myself out of bed at some ungodly hour this morning and got myself to the hospital on time. I answered their screening questions ("are you claustrophobic?", "do you have any metal in your body?", etc.) and then waited to be called. While I waited, I recalled the MRI I had on this very same shoulder several years ago. It was an open MRI, so it was a rather pleasant experience. I pretty much just slept for about an hour. My current doctor told me that the MRI this morning would take about 45 minutes, so I was looking forward to a little nap, since I had gotten up so early, and then heading in to work just a few minutes after my 8:00am start time.

They called me back and wanted me to change into a gown. I mildly protested, pointing out that I made sure not to wear any clothes with metal anywhere on it. But they insisted on the gown. They were going to have to have access to my shoulder for when they put the contrasting dye in there.

(Sigh). Fine. At least I got to keep my pants on.

After I got a little help tying the strings on the gown, I got my hospital-issued robe on and made my way to the MRI room, where I was met by a very nice technician. I think his name was Ned. Ned cheerfully explained what was going to happen and then got me all strapped in. This wasn't an open MRI, though, like the last time. This one was like being fed into a torpedo tube. I'm not the smallest guy on Earth, but I'm not the biggest guy, either, and I had my good shoulder kind of hiked up one side of the tube, and the edge of my bad shoulder was touching the other side of the tube. So it was a tight squeeze. They had a little light in there, and a fan was blowing a cool breeze on me the whole time, so I was good, despite the cramped quarters.

I dozed off for awhile until Ned told me it was time to get out. The next step was to get the contrasting dye in my shoulder, and then return for another MRI. My doctor had told me about the dye, but I guess I hadn't really thoroughly considered how they were going to get that dye in there.

And I don't like needles.

So I got to the room where the dye procedure was to happen, and a pretty nurse named Samra was there. (Oh, go run and tell the Mrs. I don't care. Every guy likes to converse with a pretty girl.) So in all of her prettiness, she explained what was going to happen. They were going to inject Novocaine into my shoulder to numb me up, and then the doctor, using a live x-ray feed, was going to inject the dye, watching the live x-ray to make sure he got the dye into the right places. Then they were going to move my arm around to get the dye mixed in there real well. As she was talking, my brain gradually moved from enjoying Samra's pretty smile to realizing what she was saying. Suddenly, I didn't like Samra very much. Sure, I was shooting the messenger, but did I mention that I don't like needles?

Samra's shift was over, so she was leaving, but she assured me that her replacement would take good care of me. And in walked April (also pretty, just in case you were wondering). She informed me that there would be a bit of a delay because there was an emergency that the doctor had to attend to, but he'd be back shortly. So I got to lie there on the table, stare at the ceiling, and ponder what was about to happen to me for about 15 minutes.

I was just about to lose my ability to resist the urge to run out of there while no one was looking when the doctor arrived. I don't remember his name, but he seemed very nice. He just wasn't as pretty as Samra or April (see how guys think?), and at this point, I wasn't entirely sure this whole process was going to be worth it, so I was sizing him up to determine if I could knock him down, and if he would be fast enough to catch me before I got to my car. I could probably put up with a little shoulder pain for the rest of my life, right?

But it was too late to back out at that point. The doctor sterilized my shoulder and his hands, got his gloves on, and then explained that he was going to give me the Novocaine now. It would feel like a bee sting, he said. Okay, I can handle that. I've been stung by bees before. No biggie.

What he failed to mention was that it was going to be like being stung by an entire nest of angry hornets, not just a singular bee sting. I'm not sure how many times he shot me with Novocaine, but I'm estimating somewhere around two or three thousand times. Give or take.

Then he waited a few minutes for the "Novocaine" to take effect. I use quotation marks because I'm pretty certain that someone accidentally filled his little jar of Novocaine with tap water.

(Mom, you may want to avert your eyes at this point.)

I wasn't looking at my shoulder while he did all of this because if I see a needle sticking in me, it's pretty much instantly lights out. (Although in retrospect, that might have been a good idea.) All I heard was the doctor instructing Pretty April to give him the 746-gauge needle. I think that's what he said, anyway. I don't know much about needle sizes, but I think the larger the gauge, the bigger the needle. And Pretty April gave it to him. That bitch. Now she was on my shit list, right next to Samra.

I'd equate what happened next to having someone use an auger on the front of my shoulder. Earlier, while Pretty Samra was trying to seduce me, only later to betray me, she asked me where my shoulder hurt the most. I thought she was just concerned for my well-being. Apparently, though, she conveyed that information to the doctor, and that's where he decided to plant that PVC pipe they claimed was a syringe.

And let me tell you, the Novocaine didn't do much for me.

I tried to keep my emotions to myself to save face in front of Pretty April, and I was doing okay until the 982-gauge needle hit bone. I think it was bone. Bone or cartilage. Or something hard in there. Whatever it was, I just about came out of my skin. I kept waiting for the Novocaine to kick in, but it failed me badly.

Then the doctor had Pretty April wheel in a 55-gallon drum of dye, and I swear that doctor injected every last drop of it into my shoulder...one little squeeze at a time. I was mildly surprised at this point that the dye wasn't mixed with hydrochloric acid, or some other substance designed to increase the level of agony I was in. I really wasn't liking Pretty April much at all at this point, since she was an accessory to this torture. With the 1243-gauge needle still firmly in place four inches into my shoulder, the doctor used a garden hose to feed the 55-gallon barrel of dye into my shoulder, frequently checking the live x-ray screen to make sure the dye was going where it was supposed to. About 17 hours later, he let me know that I was done.

That was about the time that the Novocaine started working.

It reminded me of those Wile E. Coyote cartoons, where he falls off a cliff, and as he hurtles toward the ground, he's desperately yanking on the rip cord of a faulty parachute that never opens. Then he hits the ground in a cloud of dust...and his parachute opens.

When I was finally fairly certain that the 2988-gauge needle was out of my shoulder, I tried to sit up, but Pretty April was right there to put her hand on my chest and keep me prone. I told her, "Nice try, Pretty April, trying to seduce me some more by being pretty and now caressing my chest, but I'm on to your game now, you little sadist!"

Or maybe that's just what I was thinking. I'm not really sure. I was still a little woozy from the 19,687-gauge needle being removed in the same fashion that a knight retrieves his sword after impaling someone with it. If I remember correctly, blood was spraying everywhere from my shoulder after the needle was removed, but Pretty April got me patched up with a Band-Aid.

It wasn't even a cool Band-Aid like Batman or SpongeBob SquarePants or anything like that. It was just a plain old boring Band-Aid. Pretty April's evilness knows no bounds!

Then the doctor put some professional wrestling moves on me, forcing my shoulder into positions it's never been in before: yanking, jerking, rotating, bending. I desperately tried to tap out several times, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He claimed this was helping the dye get into every little crack and crevice inside my shoulder. Sure it was, Hulk Hogan.

Finally, the Battery on a Probation Officer was over. As Pretty April helped me sit up and gave me a moment to stop the room from spinning, I noticed the enormous rock on her ring finger and thought to myself, "That poor bastard, Mr. Pretty April. I can only imagine what she puts him through."

Then I had to stagger back to the MRI room where Ned was waiting for me. Apparently, he had been in the break room with Pretty Samra, Pretty April, and Dr. Kevorkian when they all hatched their scheme to inflict as much pain as possible in my shoulder, all in the name of medicine. Because as cool as Ned had been the first time he MRI'd me, he decided this time that it would be hilarious to make me put my bad arm up above my head before he stuffed me back in the torpedo tube.

Six and a half minutes of agony later, he pulled me back out of there, let me put my arm down, and then shoved me back in there for another 15 minutes or so to MRI me some more.

Finally it was over. I stumbled back to the dressing room, eventually got my gown untied and off and my shirt back on (not easy tasks when your shoulder is on fire), and made it out to the car, where it hurt just to dig my keys out of my pocket and lift up the remote to unlock the van. I felt a little light-headed, so I sat there for a few minutes, collecting myself before I headed out into traffic, and I noticed that it was 9:30am. I had been there for three hours.

I think I'm going to have a word with my doctor about how to better prepare his patients for the MRI experience, including a warning not to fall for those damn sirens, Pretty Samra and Pretty April.

They're evil.

What I Learned in School Today

I often ask Olivia and June what they learned in school each day, so I figure it's only fair to tell what I learned during my first day at IUPUI.

I learned that my class is full of all walks of life. We have three probation officers, including me, a corrections officer (prison guard), two police officers, two people who are trying to become police officers, two people who want to work for Homeland Security, three people who want to work for the Drug Enforcement Agency (and two of those are already interning with the DEA), one woman who is the director of an Emergency Response Unit, and several people who don't know what they want to do yet. We have people who just got their Bachelor's Degree in May, and people like me who have taken a roundabout path into grad school. Several students in my class are my age or older.

I learned that there are not many electrical outlets in my classroom. I need to bring my laptop in to class with a fully-charged battery, so it will last through the nearly 3 hours of class time.

I learned that I feel kind of rebellious for checking my fantasy baseball lineup on my laptop while I'm in class.

I learned that I like my professor. He conveys a very relaxed outlook on things. We certainly have a lot of work to do for this class, so this isn't going to be a walk in the park, but he set the tone tonight for a setting that promotes discussion and exchanging of ideas without judgment or excessive pressure. I like that. I feel comfortable in his class.

I learned that this class--and maybe this is the way graduate school is in general--is a lot less lecture and a lot more student participation in discussions and presentations. I like that, too. I learn a lot better that way. And I love to debate.

I learned that my 14 years of experience as a probation officer is going to help me a lot in this class. In the month of November in particular, we'll be covering the police, the Court system, prosecution and defense, and community corrections, such as probation and parole. It's going to be really nice to be able to look back on my own experiences as I absorb the reading materials and participate in the discussions. My work experience won't allow me to simply skate through this class, but in some aspects, I'll have a jump on some of the other students.

I learned that the massive amount of required reading will be my greatest challenge. I'm a slow reader. I always have been. My dad has offered to help me with some tips on more effective reading. I think I'm going to take him up on his offer. Writing a 10-12 page research paper is not going to be a problem. You might have noticed that I kind of like to write. But getting through all of the reading is going to be a huge challenge for me.

I learned that I'm just not comfortable trying to take notes on my laptop. I'm comfortable using a pen and paper. I have my own form of shorthand, and I make a lot of notes in margins and draw arrows and things like that, which I can't quickly duplicate on a computer. So I'm going to take notes in the manner in which I am most comfortable, even if I am 14 years behind the times.

I learned that a lot of other people in my class are likely going to do that, too. I saw a few, but not a whole lot of laptops out today. And none of the other "old-timers" like me had a laptop tonight.

I learned that I fit in just fine at IUPUI. No one cares how old I am. Everyone has their own worries. And there are plenty of other people my age or older who attend class there. No one even gave me a second look today on campus.

I learned that I need to put some money on my student ID, known as a JagTag. You can pretty much pay for anything on campus with your JagTag, much like a pre-paid credit card. Even pop machines accept JagTag payment. So I'm going to put $20 on my JagTag, so I can buy pops and snacks on campus. Then I don't have to worry about carrying cash (which I rarely do, anyway).

I learned that my evening class and, likely, my Saturday class will spare me from a lot of the parking headaches I hear about from other IUPUI students. I had no problem finding a parking spot tonight right across the street from my building.

I learned that being in school at the age of 40 is totally different than being in school at the age of 18. Different things are important to me now, and I'm a hell of a lot more focused. Being married with children, I don't have the distraction of girls at school. I'm not eagerly anticipating the next party or night at the bar anymore. I'm not worried about what my parents are going to think of my grades. I'm not worried about trying to make friends or being cool. I am self-motivated, self-driven, and infinitely more mature than I was way back in 1988 when I took my first crack at college. And having life and work experience to incorporate into readings and lectures is invaluable.

I learned that my days off work will no longer be filled with relaxing on the couch, watching movies all day. I'll be reading, instead.

I learned that graduate school is going to be much more interesting to me than my undergraduate studies. All of my coursework is directly applicable to my life and my career. Even the required core curriculum classes are interesting. There's no requirement for science classes, political science classes, physical education classes, or any other classes I'm not interested in. I understand that the core curriculum classes at the undergrad level are designed to expose students to a multitude of disciplines, but I have a terrible time trying to learn something that I see no use for in my everyday life. Exhibit A: Calculus. Exhibit B: pretty much anything in the scientific world.

Most importantly, I learned that I can do this. I'm not exactly sure what I was fearing the most: sticking out like a sore thumb on campus as "the old guy," not being able to handle the coursework, not being smart enough to earn a Master's Degree, my general fear of failure, or what. But after tonight's class, when the professor went over the syllabus, the course requirements, the requirements of the 10-12 page research paper we have to write, and all of the readings, I realized that I can do this. This is nothing I can't conquer. It might take my brain awhile to get back into college-level shape, but I'm a stubborn SOB, and there is absolutely nothing in this class that I cannot do. That was an enormous weight off my shoulders. It's certainly not going to be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but it's also not going to be impossible.

Hopefully the first day of my other class on Saturday will be as encouraging as tonight was.

Back to School

I'm about to start my second trip through college. Well...to be precise, it's my third trip because I took "the scenic route" through school the first time, majoring in Miller Lite, with a minor in Girls. Not surprisingly, it took a second trip a few years later to finish up a degree that employers actually value.

As a result, I always found this exchange in the movie "Tommy Boy" hilarious:

Tommy: Did you hear I finally graduated?
Richard Hayden: Yeah, and just a shade under a decade too. All right.
Tommy: You know a lot of people go to college for seven years.
Richard Hayden: I know, they're called doctors.

It took me eight years from start to finish. And I'm not a doctor.....

So today's the big day. It's my first day of class at IUPUI as I begin my quest for a Master's Degree in Criminal Justice.

I'm nervous as hell.

It's been 14 years since I last took a college course, and things have changed a little in the last decade and a half, to say the least. I'm still getting used to almost everything being done electronically now. I have my own personalized page on IUPUI's OneStart system, which displays all of my pertinent information in one central location, which is nice, and it's apparently the hub of a lot of information and activity at the university and with my classes. I'm still getting used to the idea of uploading term papers to the website, rather than printing them and handing them in to the professor.

The graduate school environment is taking a little time to adjust to, as well. I got my Bachelor's Degree from Texas A&M University--somewhere north of 40,000 students. Class size--especially at the freshman and sophomore level--often numbered over 100. IUPUI, however, only has 8000 graduate students, and I learned at Orientation last weekend that I'm one of about five people getting my Master's Degree in Criminal Justice. I also learned that this is the first year this program is being offered at IUPUI. So while I was shocked when my advisor recited some information about me from memory, I guess I can't be too surprised that he can remember stuff about five people. Don't get me wrong--I really like the small environment and my advisor knowing not only that I exist but also a little bit about me. It's just strange to me right now.

So this afternoon, I'm going to campus a little early to get my JagTag--IUPUI's clever little name for their student ID's. It apparently holds all sorts of information about me on it, it can be used as a pre-paid credit card at several locations on and off campus, it gets me into the lounge (by way of a swipe pad) at the building where I'll take most of my classes, and who knows...it probably has a GPS tracking system in it. They might as well just microchip me. At A&M, my student ID was my picture and signature laminated on a card. I don't remember ever using it, other than showing it to get a couple bucks knocked off the cover charge at local bars.

Then, I'll have to figure out how to configure my laptop so that I can get wireless internet service on campus. Again, no such thing existed during my A&M days.

Finally, I'll make my way to my classroom (I've already located it) and read from one of my textbooks while I wait for class to begin (that part's still the same). Once class begins, I'll be recording the lecture directly to my laptop (never done that before). I'll be doing that in part because I'll be attempting to take notes on my laptop for the first time ever. I've never done anything but take hand-written notes in class before. This could immediately turn into a disaster, so I'm taking a good ol' fashioned pen and notebook with me, too. The recording is for any part of the lecture that I miss while I'm frantically changing methods of note-taking during the middle of class.

After tonight, it'll just be a matter of knocking the rust off my old brain and getting back into the swing of studying, writing papers, doing presentations, etc. I'm really excited about it, and as I get going, I'm sure the butterflies will go away.

But for now, I feel like I'm going to barf at any second.

At least I won't have to worry about bombing out of school this time from majoring in Miller Lite and minoring in Girls. I switched to Coors Light several years ago, and if I take even a single class in Girls, I'll be getting a degree in Divorce with a minor in Child Support.

My Dynasty Team

I think I mentioned previously that my brother-in-law runs a dynasty fantasy football league that I've played in since its inception five years ago. I've had some success in the 8-team league, finishing 4th, 2nd, 1st, and 2nd in the four previous years. Yes, I've played in the last three consecutive championship games. Sadly, I've only gone 1-2 in those games.

We had our draft last week, so I drafted ten players to add to my ten keepers. My keepers were:

QB - Aaron Rodgers (GB)
QB - Tony Romo (DAL)

RB - Chris Johnson (TEN)
RB - Maurice Jones-Drew (JAX)
RB - Ray Rice (BAL)

WR - Reggie Wayne (IND)
WR - Vincent Jackson (SD)
WR - Mike Wallace (PIT)
WR - Pierre Garcon (IND)

TE - Jermichael Finley (GB)

On any given week, we have to start two QB, three RB, four WR, two TE, a kicker, and a team defense. Scoring is pretty standard in this league, and we get a point per reception.

Being the runner-up in last year's championship game, I had the 7th pick (out of 8 teams) in every round.

So here's how the draft went for my team, the Wolverines:

1.7 - Johnny Knox, WR, Chicago - I was ECSTATIC to get Knox! My WR depth isn't great, especially with Vincent Jackson missing at least three games via suspension and possibly up to ten games, or the entire season, via holdout. So I was looking for an everyday starter. I knew who was going in the first four picks, but I wasn't sure about the fifth and sixth picks. I figured that either of those guys would likely take Knox. The guy with the fifth pick took C.J. Spiller, and then the guy with the sixth pick stunned me by taking Donald Driver (old, and not the #1 WR in Green Bay). Having the #1 WR on a Mike Martz-led offense with a decent QB at the helm drop into my lap was outstanding! I was thrilled!

2.7 - Donald Brown, RB, Indianapolis - I didn't really want to take Brown for a couple of reasons: he probably won't contribute much this season, and he's my third Colt. I don't like having that many players from one team on my roster. But with Joseph Addai likely leaving the Colts after this season, I think he has great keeper value, and I was surprised to see him fall this far. I couldn't let him fall any farther.

3.7 - Demaryius Thomas, WR, Denver - Like Brown, I don't expect Thomas to contribute much this season, but he's more of a long-term prospect. He's a rookie, he's super-talented, and he's been doing well in training camp. I feel like I got him at a good value.

4.1 (via trade) - John Carlson, TE, Seattle - I was targeting him in the draft to complement Finley. I've read a lot of positive things about Carlson from fantasy football prognosticators, sports writers, and even Seattle's QB, Matt Hasselbeck. The fact that he's a Seahawk is an added bonus, since I'm an avid Seahawks fan. I nearly took him at 3.7 but decided to risk it, take Thomas at 3.7, and try for Carlson two picks later at 4.1, instead. It was a close call--the guy picking a few spots before me instantly complained that he almost drafted Carlson but chose Malcom Floyd instead. Interestingly, I had originally targeted Floyd as a fill-in for Vincent Jackson, especially since he's holding down Jackson's WR spot in San Diego while Jackson is out. But since I got Johnny Knox with 1.7, I wasn't going to consider Floyd for another two or three rounds. The fact that I didn't get him because he went in the 3rd round didn't bother me a bit.

4.7 - Vince Young, QB, Tennessee - I only need Young for two weeks this season--weeks 4 and 10 when Rodgers and Romo have their bye weeks. I picked Young because he has fairly decent match-ups in those weeks: vs. Denver in Week 4 and vs. Miami in Week 10. Neither defense is a push-over, but neither is particularly good, either. I nearly took Matt Hasselbeck here because he's a Seahawk and because he plays against St. Louis (HORRIBLE defense) in Week 4 and Arizona (pretty good defense) in Week 10. But I decided on Young because Seattle's offense is in turmoil right now, and they have a new coaching staff to get used to. Young's had his issues, but he's very familiar with the Titans offense, and the head coach has been there for years. I'm thinking that defenses will be stacking the box to protect against Chris Johnson, which would, in theory, leave the receivers a little more breathing room. And while I'll miss out on that sweet Rams match-up, I'll take two mediocre defenses, rather than a terrible one and a very good one.

5.7 - Fred Jackson, RB, Buffalo - Again, I was looking for bye-week filler. Two of my RB are out for Week 9, and one is out for Week 8. I have Donald Brown to help fill in (at home vs. Houston on Monday Night Football in Week 8, and at Philadelphia in Week 9), but I need two fill-in RB in Week 9, especially with Brown going up against a top defense on the road that week. So with Jackson still available, I decided to take a chance. I know C.J. Spiller will be taking his job soon, and they have a horrid offensive line in Buffalo, but I was hoping that he'd still be getting the lion's share of the carries midway through the season while Spiller was learning the ropes. And Jackson had a sweet match-up against the horrible Kansas City defense in Week 8, and against the below-average Chicago defense in Week 9. It was a risk I was willing to take at this point in the draft. Four days after the draft, that risk blew up in my face. Jackson broke his hand in his first preseason game, required surgery to repair the damage, and is expected to miss 4-6 weeks. Should be plenty of time for the insanely talented rookie from Clemson to steal his job. Jackson is now likely waivers fodder as soon as I decide to pick up someone else. Dammit.

6.7 - Philadelphia Defense - The Minnesota defense went in the round prior to this one, so I figured it would set off a run on defenses (it didn't). I was pondering taking Golden Tate in this round, but the guy four picks ahead of me had the same idea. I wasn't real excited about anyone else that was available at that point, so I figured now was as good as time as any to take my defense, and Philly was my top-rated defense. Plus, in the weeks of our playoffs, they play against the Giants (Eli Manning should be imploding by then and committing all kinds of turnovers) and the Vikings at home (Brett Favre is usually good for several interceptions, and if he decides not to play that week, Tarvaris Jackson is horrible).

7.7 - Kenny Britt, WR, Tennessee - I had this guy last season, and he wasn't particularly good. He's very talented on the field, but he's a knucklehead off the field. If he ever gets his head on straight, he'll easily vault into the #1 WR in Tennessee. Or maybe not. If he turns into a great keeper, I stole him near the end of the 7th round. If he tanks again this year, I haven't invested much in him. I did realize, however, after I drafted him that I now have three Titans on my roster. Dammit.

8.7 - Tony Scheffler, TE, Detroit - He's my fill-in TE during Finley and Carlson's bye weeks (Week 10 and Week 5 respectively). He's pretty talented, but he was suffocated by a TE-unfriendly offensive scheme in Denver for a few years. He signed with Detroit this season, and the Lions are trying to utilize him the way the Colts utilize Dallas Clark. Granted, the Lions are no Colts, but if they're TRYING to get the ball to him, he might be good for a couple weeks when I need him. He gets Buffalo's rotten defense in Week 10 and the Rams' sorry excuse for a defense in Week 5 when I need him. I'll take it.

9.7 - Nate Kaeding, K, San Diego - This was my last pick, and nobody else interested me at this point. I often don't draft a kicker and just wait to see how the preseason pans out, grabbing one at the last minute before the season starts. But when no one else interests me here, and the kicker for one of the NFL's better offenses is still there, what the hell. I guess I'll take my damn kicker.

So there you have it. I'm sure I've put everyone to sleep except my brother-in-law, who is probably feverishly taking notes now that he knows what I'm thinking.

Interstate Compact War Stories

I am the Interstate Compact contact person for our county. For the uninitiated, the Interstate Compact is a set of rules and procedures that all probation and parole departments from all states must comply with when transferring supervision of probation from one state to another.

Well, all states are SUPPOSED to comply with the rules and procedures.

The basic set-up for an interstate transfer is this: each state has its own Interstate Compact office. A transfer request goes from the local probation officer to the Interstate Compact office of his/her own state, to the Interstate Compact office of the receiving state, to the local probation officer in the receiving state. Communication from the receiving state takes the reverse path back to the original probation officer. So, for instance, if I want to transfer supervision of probation to Pullman, Washington, my request first goes to the Indiana Interstate Compact Office in Indianapolis, then to the Washington Interstate Compact Office in Olympia, then to the local probation department in Whitman County, Washington.

The whole process is done electronically. There are a whole slew of rules that we have to follow (somewhere around 65 pages, if I remember correctly), full of criteria that make transfers mandatory (the receiving state is required to accept supervision) or discretionary (the receiving state has the option to say, "No, thanks. Keep your probationer in your own state.") and full of deadlines for various procedures. Transferring probation to another state is a rather time-sensitive process. The ladies who work in the Indiana Interstate Compact Office have done a great job emphasizing to all of us that we are subject to massive fines, the wrath of God, and other bad things if we don't comply with the rules and the time deadlines. So I work hard to make sure I'm always in compliance.

That apparently doesn't hold true for other states, however. I am CONSTANTLY frustrated by other states that clearly have no regard for the Interstate Compact rules.

Most recently, I sent a transfer request to California. By rule, they have 45 calendar days to investigate the request and respond. Forty-five days came and went, so I sent a message to California, asking them to respond. No answer. I enlisted the help of the Indiana Interstate Compact Office, who contacted the California Interstate Compact Office, who contacted the local probation officer in California. No answer. More messages went to California, asking them to respond to the transfer request. No answer. Finally, after 104 days--more than twice as long as the Interstate Compact rules allow for--California responded...and rejected my request. After the rejection, I sent a message out there, asking if there was a particular reason that it took 104 days to respond, when the rules only allow for 45 days. You can probably guess how that has worked out. No answer.

Right on the heels of that fiasco, I sent a request for reporting instructions to Georgia. Reporting instructions are who, when, and where the receiving state wants the probationer to report to upon arrival in the receiving state. By rule, states have two (2) business days to respond to a request for reporting instructions. I sent my request on July 29, which gave Georgia until August 2 to respond. August 2 comes and goes, and no response. The Indiana Interstate Compact Office was all over it, and they immediately started sending messages to the Georgia Interstate Compact Office, requesting a response. It took somewhere in the neighborhood of five or six messages for Georgia to finally respond--on August 11. That's nine (9) business days, for those of you scoring at home. Their reasoning for being so slow? They're down three employees right now, so they're really busy. I didn't realize that being busy exempted us from complying with the Interstate Compact rules!

Speaking of Georgia, I transferred someone to them quite some time ago, and when it came time to discharge his probation, I ran his criminal history...only to discover that he had committed a new criminal offense in Georgia that they never told me about. Not only had he been arrested, he had been convicted, placed on probation in the same county that was supervising my case, violated his probation there, and was sent to jail on their case. But for some reason, Georgia never stopped to think that I might want to know about that, too.

And STILL speaking of Georgia, I currently have a probationer I transferred there over a year ago. Interstate Compact rules require that we send annual progress reports to the sending state when supervising one of their probationers. Has Georgia done that? No. But they want to close her case out (two months past her discharge date) because her probation has expired. I sent a message to Georgia, telling them that I won't approve the case closure until they send me a progress report, since I have no idea what she has completed and not completed while on probation. In fact, I had to file a probation violation, alleging that she completed nothing while on probation, because I had no information from Georgia to the contrary. I sent the message to Georgia a week and a half ago. Still waiting on that progress report.

Florida routinely pisses me off. The latest was a probationer of theirs who I was supervising, and he picked up new felony charges here in Indiana. Florida issued a warrant for his arrest as a result, didn't bother to notify me that the warrant was issued for over a month, and then when my probationer was arrested on the warrant, Florida refused to extradite him. So Indiana authorities had to release him. I sent repeated messages to Florida asking them what, exactly, they wanted me to do with him since he's doing nothing on probation, he's not paying any of his fees owed to Indiana, he's committing new felonies here, he has a warrant out of Florida, but Florida won't come and get him. Weeks go by with no response. So I ask them to allow me to close out the case. A month and a half goes by, and no response. The Indiana Interstate Compact Office got involved, and after lots of messages back and forth, Florida finally responded: they denied my request. They still want him to report to me. Why? I have no idea. Absolutely nothing constructive is coming from me wasting my time meeting with him.

Texas has pissed me off several times. So has Kentucky. And New York. Arkansas ignored me when I was having problems with one of their probationers and was asking for their help. My one experience with Utah has been a pain in the ass, trying to get any response of any kind from the Utah probation officer. Ohio is hit or miss--sometimes they're great, and sometimes they're total pricks. I'm not entirely convinced that Virginia has computers, because I routinely send stuff there, never to be heard from again.

Illinois has pissed me off a few times by rejecting various requests before they even send it to the local probation officer to decide. One time, I sent a discretionary transfer through, but it was going to the county where one of my favorite probation officers in the whole wide world works. I was pretty confident that she'd accept supervision, even though she didn't have to, because she understands the concept of doing what's best for the probationer, even if it means more work for her. But the Illinois Interstate Compact Office didn't even let her see the request, much less respond to it. They just denied it. So I contacted her directly, we worked out a little arrangement on the side, and she supervised my probationer for me outside of the rules of the Interstate Compact.

I could go on forever with war stories from the Interstate Compact. I'm not saying that Indiana's poop doesn't stink, but by God, if you transfer a case to my county, you're not going to have any of the above problems.

What sets me off the fastest is when states don't give a damn about what's best for the probationer. All they do is look for a reason not to accept the case, so they don't have to do the additional work.

It also sets me off when probation officers in other states don't respond to requests for communication. We're on the same team, folks! Show a little professional courtesy! Treat others the way you want to be treated!

And it chaps my hide that these offending states never suffer any consequences. No fines, no wrath of God, no sanctions for thumbing their noses at the Compact rules. So what motivation do they have to change their ways? None.

I have had some good experiences with the Interstate Compact. Oklahoma accepted a case from me that they weren't required to. So did Hawaii. I've had mostly good experiences with Michigan. South Dakota is doing a great job with one of my current probationers. West Virginia has communicated well with me on a few cases, and South Carolina has been more good than bad. Arizona was a total pain in the ass before the current automated system went into effect, but now they're pretty good.

And just today, with the help of one of the ladies at the Indiana Interstate Compact Office, Tennessee did me a huge favor and let one of my probationers head their way immediately, when they didn't have to.

So I'm curious. If anyone is still awake after reading this novel, and you have experience with the Interstate Compact, as a state contact person, a local probation officer, or a probationer, post a comment below and share your experiences, good or bad. I'm curious to know if I'm the only person in the country who wants to drive down to Atlanta and smack every one of those people in the Georgia Interstate Compact Office up side of the head, and if my positive experience with Tennessee was an anomaly, or if that's how they normally do business.

Let's trade war stories! It'll make you feel better, and who knows...maybe someone in Georgia will read this and be motivated to get their shit together down there.

What's Been Going On

I feel like writing, but I can't think of anything in particular to write about. I hate that feeling. So I guess I'll just summarize what's been going on my world lately. Because I know you're just hanging on the edge of your seat to find out what's happening in my piddly little existence, right?

Most immediately, I have a fantasy football draft tonight. I play in a dynasty league run by my brother-in-law, RC. If memory serves, this is our fifth year of the league. I have a lot of fun with this league. After each season, we keep 10 of our 20 players, so we can keep the basic core of the team together, while still infusing new blood into our teams through the draft and trading. I've played in the championship game for the past three years in a row, but I've only gone 1-2 in those games, including losing to RC last season. If I keep this up, I'll soon be known as the Buffalo Bills of our league. I have a lot of good keepers, though: Aaron Rodgers (Green Bay) and Tony Romo (Dallas) are the quarterbacks I kept; Chris Johnson (Tennessee), Maurice Jones-Drew (Jacksonville), and Ray Rice (Baltimore) are my keeper running backs; Reggie Wayne (Indianapolis), Vincent Jackson (San Diego), Mike Wallace (Pittsburgh), and Pierre Garcon (Indianapolis) are the wide receivers I kept; and Jermichael Finley (Green Bay) is a tight end that rounds out my keeper list. Those who play fantasy football probably recognize that I'm pretty set at QB and RB for the year, but I need to beef up my WR's, especially with Vincent Jackson missing 3-10 games this season. Our drafts are always a good time, so I'm looking forward to it.

Wednesday night marks the beginning of softball season. Last season ended with a 1-6-1 record and a broken ankle for me. We're hoping to improve on both counts this season. We had our first practice yesterday, which was a blast. I've been having some shoulder issues lately (abbreviated version: I think I have a tear in my rotator cuff of my non-throwing arm), but the doctor shot me up with cortisone on Friday, and it worked great by Sunday. Not even the slightest bit of pain as I batted and fielded. My ankle is completely healed, so I had no issues with it, either. My batting felt good from both sides of the plate (yes, I can switch-hit), except for the screaming line drive that I sent directly into our pitcher's thigh. He seems to have escaped serious injury, but I still feel bad about it. I knew as soon as that thing came off my bat that it was bad news. I was yelling an expletive before the ball even hit our pitcher, but he didn't have any time to react. He was a manly man about it, though, only sobbing uncontrollably for about 20 minutes afterwards. My fielding needs some work, but once I got comfortable with the idea that my shoulder wasn't going to be a problem for me, my fielding improved. Looks like I'll be playing third base on Wednesday night.

I've continued to enjoy coaching t-ball on Saturdays. Our last game is coming up on Saturday, and that's a bummer. It's been a great experience, and I've loved teaching four- and five-year-olds about baseball. Too bad it has to end on Saturday. But I'll coach again next year, and Olivia and June will be on the same team. That ought to be interesting!

I got the tattoo of Lady Justice on my lower leg finished on Friday. I spent 3.5 hours in the chair about a month ago getting most of her done, and the finishing touches were applied in 45 minutes on Friday. I learned that I'm allergic to the red ink that was used about a month ago. And since this is the first tattoo that I've had done over two separate sessions, I learned that the second time around is considerably more painful than the first time. The tattoo artist explained that my skin is still "inflamed and pissed off" from the first round of work, especially where I had the red ink done. All of that aside, Lady Justice turned out absolutely spectacular, and I really like the woman who did the artwork. I'm definitely having her do my future tattoos. I'll post a picture of the final product after Lady Justice is done healing.

I've been watching a bunch of movies lately. The Mrs. and I saw "Despicable Me" in 3-D a few weeks ago. It was terrific! We loved it! I also watched both volumes of "Kill Bill" recently. I had never seen them before, and I was a little skeptical, because I'm not a big fan of Quentin Tarantino's movies. I really enjoyed both movies, though--the first volume slightly more than the second one--as it was an entertaining story with plenty of action. "The Taking of Pelham 123" and "From Paris With Love" were both entertaining (I guess I was in a John Travolta mood), as was "Transsiberian" with Woody Harrelson and Ben Kingsley in it.

I downloaded Buckcherry's new album, "All Night Long", last week. I love Buckcherry, but this album is not my favorite of theirs. I'm pretty disappointed. Another favorite band of mine--Disturbed--has a new album coming out later this month, so I'm hopeful that I'll like it better than Buckcherry's new effort.

Coming up sooner than I'd prefer to think about is my first college class in 14 years. I have orientation on August 21, and then I take the plunge with my first class on the following Tuesday, August 24. The Mrs. and I drove to the campus a couple weeks ago and walked around a little bit so I could get my bearings. She said she'll pack me a lunch in a Snoopy lunchbox, complete with milk in the Thermos, and that I can borrow one of my daughter's backbacks--either Barbie Princess or Dora the Explorer--to fill with my protractor, some pencils, a Trapper Keeper, and a box of crayons. I sure hope I fit in with the other students on campus.

And that about sums up my exciting life of late. Are you still awake?

My First Fan Mail!

I finally managed to write something that stirred up some comments and questions! I'm going to call it "fan mail" because I've always wanted to write a column like I see on-line all the time, where the writer responds to readers' feedback. Now I feel so important! So let's get to it!

Q. Daddy, I have to go potty.

A. That's fine, Olivia. Go use the potty.

Q. In reference to your Addiction is a Monster column, is our addiction to coffee and soda parallel enough to an addiction to drugs and alcohol for us to understand a drug addict's or alcoholic's world?

A. Certainly not. The point I was trying to make there was that the behavior associated with addiction is the same, regardless of what the addiction is. When I'm triggered to use caffeine, my unwillingness to waver from my daily routine of coffee and soda is an addiction. To be separated from my substance of choice would cause me some emotional trauma, make me cranky, and send me on a hunt for a pop machine.

When we start talking about drug and alcohol abuse, the effects on the addict of being separated from his substance of choice can be much more extreme. Depending on the substance and the level of addiction, medical assistance may be needed during the process of detoxification. But the fundamentals of addiction are still the same.

Say, for example, that an addict's drug of choice is Vicodin, instead of caffeine. The addict is triggered by some occurrence or routine or something, and his unwillingness to waver from his routine of popping some Vicodin is an addiction. To be separated from his Vicodin would cause him emotional trauma, make him cranky (as well as some other side effects), and send him on a hunt for more Vicodin.

Unfortunately, though, there are no Vicodin machines, where he can drop in 50 cents and get his fix. So he has to resort to illegal means of obtaining his drug of choice--doctor shopping, buying it off the street, stealing from people to pay for pills, prostituting himself for pills, etc. Another huge difference between an addiction to caffeine and an addiction to Vicodin is that Vicodin addicts have to use more and more of the substance to reach the same level of high that they reached the first time they used. Maybe a 5 mg Vicodin pill got him high as a kite the first time he used, but as his body adapts over time, then it takes a 7.5 mg pill to reach that same high. Then it takes a 10 mg pill. Then two 10 mg pills. Then four. Then eight. So as the addiction grows, the need for more pills and more potent pills grows, and the illegal activity required to obtain that amount and concentration of pills grows.

As a caffeine addict, my need for caffeine doesn't increase over time. I don't have to chug four 2-liters of Diet Mountain Dew to get the same "high" that I got from a 12-ounce can a couple years ago. Nor do I have to add six Red Bulls to my Mountain Dew to increase the concentration of caffeine in order get the same effect. So no, while my addiction to caffeine leads me to the same fundamental behavior as an alcohol or drug abuser, it certainly doesn't allow me to understand the world of an alcoholic or a drug addict, in and of itself.

Q. In reference to the same column, if my child was a drug addict or alcoholic, is there any viable option for me somewhere between enabling and tough love, or are there variations on tough love that aren't so extreme?

A. There are certainly other viable options. I'm not saying that as soon as you catch your 19-year-old with a beer, throw her ass out on the streets. There are plenty of ways a parent can help their addict child without enabling. My #1 recommendation is to get the child professional help. Simple internet searches of substance abuse counselors in your area will give you a number of leads. A parent can call the local probation department, parole office, police department, or hospital for suggestions. Then take your child to counseling. Maybe it takes sitting in the car outside the agency for two hours, three times a week to make sure Junior stays in there, but I'm sure that's a sacrifice that most parents are willing to make for their child. Junior might just be going through the motions in counseling at first, but eventually, something's going to start sinking in. If finances prohibit going to a counselor, there are a number of free twelve-step meetings all over the country for a variety of addictions. There's Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), Narcotics Anonymous (NA), Gamblers Anonymous (GA), and Sex Addicts Anonoymous (SAA), for example. Again, take Junior to meetings yourself and sit outside until the meeting's over.

Parents can also talk to their addict child. It sounds pretty basic, but a surprising number of parents that I deal with don't know how to talk to their kids. I hear plenty of parents saying things to their kids like, "You quit using drugs, or I'll kick your ass!" or "What the hell is WRONG with you?!" That's not helpful. No parent wants their child to be an addict, and discovering that their child is one causes a great deal of shock and anger in parents. But it's important to resist the temptation to constantly yell at the child. Try having calm, private, civil conversations with Junior in a place Junior is comfortable--maybe his bedroom or something. Try to learn why Junior is using, what may be bothering him so much that he feels he has to escape by using alcohol or drugs, what his triggers are, and what his point of view is. Understanding goes a long way toward solving a problem. Chances are real good that Junior already knows it's not right to snort cocaine. He doesn't need his parents screaming that at him every time he turns around. It might take awhile, and several attempts, but eventually Junior will likely respond to a genuinely concerned parent who is trying to understand the situation without criticizing, belittling, or shaming him.

On the flip side of that, saying, "Well, I smoked pot when I was young, so what can I do? I can't really get on him about something I did" doesn't help, either. If you burned your hand touching a hot stove, and you saw your child heading toward a hot stove, would you just say, "Well, I burned my hand when I was young, so what can I do? I can't really get on him about something I did"? No! You do what you can to protect and inform your child. You tell your child that you did the same thing, that it was a mistake, and you don't want your child to experience the same pain.

Help Junior find a healthy guide. Steer Junior toward healthy activities. Spend time with Junior. Show interest in him. Something as simple as shooting hoops with Junior for awhile will go a long ways toward building a comfort level, even if you don't say a word about his addiction while you're shooting hoops.

If you're housing and feeding Junior, make him contribute. If he doesn't have a job, make him work around the house to earn his keep. And help him find a job. If he's working, charge him something like $200 per month for room and board. It's a heck of a lot cheaper than anything he'll find out "in the real world" and yet he's still contributing to his own care. If you're uncomfortable taking money from Junior, start up a savings account for him, without his knowledge, and put everything he pays you into that savings account. When he's ready to get out on his own, he'll have a nice little nest egg of his own making.

The point I was getting at in my original column was that when you've tried everything you know to try, and the addict is still taking you down with him, at some point, you have to draw the line and save yourself and anyone else being adversely affected, especially kids. You can't have Junior leaving his drug paraphernalia laying around the house for his younger siblings to find. You can't have him stealing from you to support his addiction. You can't have him stumbling in drunk at 3:00am every night. You can't have him hosting parties at your house with all of his addict buddies while you're gone. You can't just endlessly wipe Junior's ass. Eventually, as painful as it is, you have to tell Junior that he's no longer welcome in your house until he gets himself straightened out. And then enforce it.

Q. In your column about payment options for college, you made fun of IU - Bloomington, you little smart-ass! I'll have you know that we do have computers at IU Bloomington--we're supposedly the most wired university in the galaxy. Everything is calculated for profit these days because we're no longer really a state university. Twenty percent or less of the budget comes from the state. Guess where the rest comes from? I just bought two tickets to an IU football game, for the privilege of watching IU lose. In addition to the high price of the tickets, I was charged a $10 service fee. I bought the tickets at the IU ticket counter, on campus, in person, at Assembly Hall. By the way, they took my credit card.

A. I suppose I should have added the phrase "for student bursar accounts" to my statement that IU Bloomington doesn't accept credit cards at all. Clearly, a credit card can be used at other locations on campus.

And, of course, I was exaggerating about IUB not having the internet or running water.

That $10 service fee that you were charged for football tickets is just another example of what I was talking about. What "service", exactly, did they provide you that's worth $10, above and beyond the exorbitant ticket prices, after you walked up to their front door and got the tickets yourself? It's infuriating!

That's an interesting statistic about how much funding comes from the state for "state" universities. I did not know that. For a nation that is encouraged by our President to further our education, we sure have a funny way of making that possible for people to do. And for a school that desperately tries to improve attendance at football games, when the team perpetually gets its ass kicked week after week, their exorbitant ticket prices and $10 service fee when no service has been rendered sure seems like the wrong way to go about it.

Q. Daddy, I think June just flushed a towel down the toilet.

A. Be right there, Olivia.

Well, this was fun! I enjoyed it a lot! Keep that fan mail coming!

How Much Does It Cost to Use Sidewalks?

For those who don't know, I'm headed back to college in a few weeks. I'm starting work on a Master of Science degree in Criminal Justice and Public Safety at Indiana University Purdue University Indianapolis (IUPUI) later this month.

I got my bill today for the fall semester, which I obviously knew was coming, and it was the amount I anticipated. No problems there.

But when I started looking into the payment options, I got a little irritated. You see, I had been planning to pay for my tuition and fees with my credit card. We pay our credit card in full every month, so we wouldn't be charged any interest, and the bonus for doing that is that 1% of our purchases on that card go toward our kids' college funds. I thought it would be pretty cool to contribute to my kids' education while paying for my own education.

Well, that's not going to happen. I can pay IUPUI with a credit card, but there is a 2.7% service fee charged by a third-party company! WTF?! This third-party company is going to make $65.00, just off of me! And I'm just going to school part-time! There are about 22,000 undergraduate students at IUPUI, and another 8000 graduate students, so if they all pay with a credit card....... let's see ....... carry the 4 ........ move the decimal point ...... multiply by .027 ....... and ........ holy crap! That company is making a killing off of students! It doesn't take a college degree to know that the 2.7% fee I'm going to be charged is more than the 1% that will go into my kids' college funds, so I guess the credit card is out.

So, I thought, I see that I can divide this amount into four payments throughout the semester. That'd be cool. I have all the money for school in my savings account, so I figured I could make four payments, and meanwhile, some of that school money is still sitting in savings, earning interest.

But no. There is, of course, a service fee for making payments. And what is that service fee? $15.00. PER PAYMENT! Seriously?! It costs the university $60.00 to keep track of one student's payments?! The shit is all automated, I'm sure! I know that virtually every single e-mail I've ever gotten from IUPUI thus far has been automated, so you can't tell me that there is a steamy, smoke-filled warehouse somewhere on campus, full of dirty, malnourished children slaving away for 20 hours a day over an abacus to figure out payments. There are 30,000 students at IUPUI, and if all of them made payments, that's 30,000 x $60 ....... $1.8 million EACH SEMESTER. Even if only half of the students make payments, that's a cool $900,000 per semester, just in service fees! For what I'm virtually certain is an automated service! What a load of shit!

Granted, I haven't had to pay for college in 14 years, so I'm sure there were ludicrous fees back then, too, that I've just forgotten about over the years. And IUPUI points out on their website that other schools do this, too (like that makes it okay). But it still kind of irks me that I'm giving IUPUI $2400.00 for one semester's worth of education, and they want to nickel and dime me to death with asinine fees on services that are commonplace in today's society. I wonder if I'm going to be charged for the oxygen I consume on campus, too. $4.00 per breath. Exhaling is 50 cents extra.

I guess I should feel fortunate that I'm not going to Indiana University - Bloomington--the mother ship of the IU system. They don't even accept credit cards at all. Makes me wonder if they have the internet yet in Bloomington. Or running water.

So I guess I'll scrounge around and see if I have any checks left. I can't remember the last time I paid anything with a check, this being the Computer Age and all. Then I'll have to go buy a stamp, because I know I don't have any of those anymore. How much is a stamp nowadays, anyway? $5.00? Is snail mail even still in existence? I'll write a check for the full amount, and send it by Pony Express or carrier pigeon to IUPUI.

Gosh, now that I think about it, I sure hope they accept checks. Because I'm fresh out of gold bullion, and my horse-drawn carriage is in the shop.