Small Fish in a Big Pond

I’m trying something new. I set up a profile with the Yahoo! Contributor Network a few days ago, and I’m going to try submitting some writing for on-line publication. It’s pretty much like blogging, but submissions have to go through editors first, and some of Yahoo!’s corporate partners might pick up an article if it tickles their fancy.

There’s a potential to earn some money doing this, but I can’t imagine that it’s very lucrative. I’m sure it takes somewhere in the neighborhood of 2.3 billion hits to earn a nickel, so I’m not quitting my day job anytime soon. But at the same time, I’m not turning down an extra quarter or two in my pocket every six months.

My main motivator for doing this is to see how my writing stacks up to that of the rest of the world. To be honest, I’m pretty nervous about going through editors. What if they don’t like my stuff? That would be embarrassing. I’ve long considered writing to be one of the few things I’m relatively good at, so for that to be taken away would just leave drinking beer and losing fantasy football championship games as my only talents worth mentioning.

But what if they do like it? That’d be pretty cool.

I’m also motivated by their suggested limit of 300 to 500 words per submission. Brevity has never been a strong suit of mine, so this will be a challenge. Being challenged is something I enjoy.

I submitted a few things yesterday and the day before, and they’re all awaiting review. Well, to be honest, one of them was declined today. After overcoming the debilitating shame of having my worth as a human being reduced in value, I worked up the courage to read the reason why it was declined. There was some problem with the picture I attached to it. The picture wasn’t critical at all to the submission, so I just removed it and resubmitted the article. Whew. I’m not a failure after all. Yet.

They say it could take up to two weeks to get something published, but responses are often much quicker. I hope they’re quicker than that on my first submission. It was the Seahawks bit just below this entry. It’ll look pretty dumb if it’s published sometime after Saturday afternoon.

We’ll see how things go for awhile. School starts back up next Thursday, so that will drastically affect how much time I have for recreational writing until sometime in mid-May, but if you want to check in from time to time to see how it’s going, I encourage you to check out my profile. Every day. Roughly 2.3 billion times a day. And if you’re interested in becoming a Yahoo! Contributor, too, click on the little graphic of the bullhorn in the right-hand column of this blog. For every 9000 people I recruit, I get a free toaster.

Incidentally, this entry is 494 words long. Jackpot.

UPDATE: My first article was published this evening (1/7/11). Check it out here.

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/6190438/online_resource_available_for_parents.html?cat=8

Why the Seahawks Shouldn't Be in the Playoffs...or Should They?

I'm a huge Seahawks fan and have been since their inception in 1976. I grew up in Washington State, so they have always been my home team, regardless of where in the country I have lived. So last night, I was overjoyed when they beat the St. Louis Rams, 16-6, won the NFC West Division, and became the first division champion in NFL history with a losing record (7-9). I've been hearing Chuck's son--an avid New York Giants fan--grumbling for weeks, with growing intensity as the regular season drew to an end, about how his Giants may not make the playoffs, while my Seahawks could.

On Sunday night, his worst nightmare came true.

I imagine that Tampa Bay Buccaneers (10-6) fans had a similar reaction.

And you know what? I can't say that I disagree with either set of fans' frustration. Were the roles reversed, I'd be mad if the Seahawks finished 10-6, but some other team won their division at 7-9 and made the playoffs at the expense of my team. Many readers of sports articles about the Seahawks' improbable playoff berth have expressed emotions varying from frustration to rabid hatred of anything from the playoff system to the NFL Commissioner to the Seahawks to the entire Pacific Northwest.

Some of the comments make no sense, such as the person who stated that the Detroit Lions would have won the NFC West this year, had they been in that division. (Um, no. Detroit finished at 6-10. That would only have been good for third place.) But looking beyond the flawed logic of spurned individuals, the general message is clear: a 7-9 team should not make the NFL Playoffs, and definitely shouldn't host a first-round game.

Their case is easy to make. The Giants finished the season with a 10-6 record, tied for first place in the NFC East. Their problem? They lost both games against the Eagles, who also finished with a 10-6 record, tied for first place in the NFC East. The head-to-head tie-breaker goes to Philly. Chuck's son will be quick to remind me that the Giants pounded the Seahawks, 41-7, back in November. He also likes to argue the point that the NFC West is a much easier division than the NFC East to win because the East teams are better than those in the West. I don't think that argument carries much weight, though. The Giants and Eagles finished atop the division with a 10-6 record, and the Giants were swept by the Eagles. The other two teams, the Cowboys and Redskins, each finished at 6-10. While the Giants swept the Redskins (once handily and once, on Sunday, by a field goal against a Rex Grossman-led team), they barely beat the Cowboys once, and they lost to them the second time. The Giants also lost to the Tennessee Titans (6-10), the Colts (10-6), and the Packers (10-6). Had they beaten either the 6-10 Titans or the 6-10 Cowboys, they'd be in the postseason. Had they beaten the Eagles just once, they'd be in the postseason. Had they done something better than lose two of their last three games, they'd be in the postseason.

I think Buccaneers fans have a much more legitimate beef. Tampa Bay also finished the season with a 10-6 record, but in their division, that was only good for third place out of four teams. (Hey Giants fans, THAT'S a difficult division to win!) Like the Giants, the Bucs pounded the Seahawks a couple weeks ago, 38-15. In fact, they beat every NFC West team this season. Where did Tampa's losses come from? Two of them came from the division champion and #1-overall playoff seed Atlanta Falcons (13-3). One of them came from division-mate and playoff wild card New Orleans (11-5). One came against the AFC North champion Steelers (12-4), and one came against AFC wildcard Baltimore (12-4). The last loss came three weeks ago, at home, against the Detroit Lions (6-10). Despite that embarrassment, though, winning against the Lions wouldn't have gotten them into the playoffs. What would have been an 11-5 record would still have lost out to the Saints by virtue of New Orleans having the better division record.

In the big scheme of things, should the Seahawks be in the playoffs instead of the Giants or Buccaneers? Of course not. Obviously, those two teams each finished with three wins more than the 'Hawks. They also both pounded the Seahawks head-to-head. The only win worth mentioning for Seattle was in Chicago early in the season against the NFC North Champion Bears (11-5), and I'm not really sure how the heck that happened.

But NFL rules state that if you win your division, you not only get into the playoffs, but you also host a first-round game. So by those standards, should the Seahawks be in the playoffs instead of the Giants or Buccaneers? Absolutely. The Seahawks did what neither of those teams could do--they won their division. It's not the Seahawks' fault that the NFL allows for a 7-9 division champion. It's not the Seahawks' fault that they're in the NFC West instead of any other division. I still remember when the NFC East was so bad that they were referred to as the NFC Least. And yet their division champion always made it into the playoffs. And it's not exactly like the NFC South has a long history of winning with their teams being Atlanta, New Orleans, Tampa Bay, and Carolina. At various points in time, all four of those teams have long histories of being god-awful. It also wasn't long ago that critics were griping about how weak the AFC West was.

In fact, it was only two years ago.

New England and New York fans probably felt similarly in 2008 when their 11-5 Patriots and 9-7 Jets missed the playoffs because the San Diego Chargers won the AFC West with an 8-8 record.

A funny thing about those 2008 Playoffs, though: San Diego won their first-round game on the road against the 12-4 Colts before falling to the eventual Super Bowl Champion Steelers (12-4) the next week. Over in the NFC, the Arizona Cardinals won the NFC West that year with a 9-7 record. In the playoffs, they beat Atlanta (11-5), Carolina (12-4), and Philadelphia (9-6-1) before eventually losing by a whisker to the Steelers in the Super Bowl.

So don't hate the Seahawks for getting what they earned. Sure, New Orleans will likely pound them into dust on Saturday, but until the NFL changes its playoffs system, Seattle deserves to be there, and they deserve to host the first round.

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.