Walking Dogs Hazardous to Health

Oh, wait ... not all dogs. But definitely mine. Whereas the dogs look forward to walkies as the absolute best time of the day, their puppy mama (me) approaches walkies as being led to the gallows. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I definitely have apprehension. After all, it is one of these dogs that I tripped over, breaking my elbow a few years back (and no, I didn't see which one - if I'd seen the dog, I wouldn't have tripped over her).

Now, once I decide to take my dogs for a walk, it's a very real commitment. I put my sneakers on and look up to see the dogs walking in circles of anticipation. They're hopeful, but not yet certain. Next, I put my cell phone in my pocket, followed by my keys. By the time I grab the poop pickup bags, the dogs are in a frantic state that reminds me of a feeding frenzy you would see on a Nat Geo channel special.

I'd love to be able to take both dogs at once, but though I stare jealously at others who mosey along with two or three dogs walking leisurely at their side, that is not my lot in life. Wanting to get the harder walk over with, I take Daphne, the epileptic shepherd mix, first. I attach her breakaway collar (a must if you have multiple dogs that play together, IMO), harness (not easy to put on a manic dog), and choker chain. I'm not a fan of the choker, but little-miss-escape-artist makes it a necessity. I like the security of knowing that if she slips her halter (which she has done in the past), I have the other leash to fall back on. Daphne is so committed to her walk, that once I attach the leashes, nothing short of walking a few blocks will get her back in the house (meaning I'd better not forget anything because there's no turning back once we're through the door).

We step out onto the front step and I have the dog wait while I lock the door. With all of my dog-walking gear and my pup sitting at my side on the top of the steps, I look pro. I take a deep breath and think to myself, "Watch out, Dog Whisperer. Here comes Amy." With that Daphne launches off the stoop. With a death grip on her leash, I fly after her, sometimes achieving a near-horizontal position in mid-air. However, my "Superman" imitation doesn't last long. Gravity takes over and I crash to the ground, still being dragged along behind my impatient dog. You'd think she'd be happy and content, but no sooner do we leave our property when Miss I-have-to-get-out suddenly becomes apprehensive. Her tail drops and she sniffs every inch of the ground, checking for signs of danger as she continues to drag me behind her at a fast clip. The only plus here is that I am finally able to right myself and regain some of my shredded dignity. I am ever vigilant for signs of an impending seizure.

We continue down the block until we arrive at the first house where another dog is in residence. Daphne knows well which houses these are, and starts looking to them when we are still two or three houses away. She loves to play and the only thing that can take her mind off of her walk apprehension is the possibility that one of these dogs will suddenly run out to her. The once tucked-between-her-legs tail is now wagging and she is straining to the end of the leashes with the resistance of me at the other end of the leash causing her to rear up on her hind legs. (As always, my puppy's dream is my nightmare. The one time some loose dogs did run out to her she ran around in circles with them until the leashes were wrapped around my legs, rendering me unable to move.)

The only way to propel her past these homes is to walk briskly ahead of her, tugging on the leash. She gets the hint and runs alongside me, but never takes her eyes off the house. She bends herself into a seemingly impossible 90 degree or greater angle so she can watch the windows. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to understand instructions/words such as "look where you're going", "signpost" or "parked car", which sometimes results in an unfortunate meeting between distracted dog and immovable object. Should we encounter someone else walking a dog, the outcome is much the same. I've got all sorts of tricks to try to deal with those situations, such as waiting on the side of a parked car until the other dog has passed, with varying success.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I finally return home with Daphne, having had no falls or other harrowing experiences. As we get close to the house, my lab mix can be heard. As far as I can tell, she barks for the duration of Daphne's walk, because she starts when I close the door and I hear her from a few houses down when I return. I think she's saying, "You forgot me ... you forgot me ... you forgot me," but that's just a guess.

I attach the leashes to Laney's harness and head out with her. Daphne takes up residence in the bay window to watch our progress, but at least she doesn't bark. Laney is fun to walk. She sits automatically when we reach the curb, doesn't pull and watches where she is going (a big plus).

However, that does not mean that our walks are without the occasional mishap. For starters, Laney is not a fan of trucks. As soon as a truck gets near, she starts running around in circles, spinning me with her. Truthfully, I'm afraid that the trainer who signed Laney's obedience certificate is going to show up during one of these episodes and demand its return.

Then there's the matter of sprinklers. She goes nuts at the feel of one teensy weensy, little drop of water landing on her fur. I though labs were supposed to like water. I try to put her in a nice heel and pass the sprinkler just off the curb where she won't get wet, but she moves her head back and forth nervously between the sprinkler and the road, looking like sped up footage of a spectator at a tennis match.

However, all of that pales in comparison to picking up after her. Laney has perfected that art of the moving poo. The only way to get it all is to stand behind her holding the bag out to catch it. That worked for a time, but she has since decided that I am chasing her and now keeps jumping to the side to keep out of my reach, all the while still conducting her business. This resulted in the ultimate humiliation of having her yank the leash and pull me off balance. As if in slow motion, I was helpless to stop myself from rolling onto my back. And sadly, yes, I think there was at least one witness to my ungraceful, less than coordinated surprise meeting with the sidewalk (which reminded me of the time a boss told me she'd fallen while out jogging and when she returned home all bruised and battered, her daughter exclaimed, "Oh, my God, Mom. Did anyone see you?").

So, my dogs have lots of walkies experience and have both completed obedience training, but it remains much better (and healthier) for me, if we don't encounter strangers or other dogs on our walk. This is why I was very interested to learn about this: Some dogs need space.

Jimmy the Doorman is my Hero

You're probably wondering who Jimmy the doorman is and what he could possibly have done to earn such a lofty position in my eyes. I'll get to that, but a little background is required first. I'm sure most of you have heard about the shooting outside the Empire State Building at the end of August. It was tragic. I don't blame the police officers for firing on the gunman. The man was trying to shoot them. Would you just stand there and not shoot? I doubt it.

Anyway, that's not what this post is about. This post is about my hero, Jimmy the doorman. Now, in New York (I can't speak for anywhere else, I was here), the news reporters preempted all normal programming to bring us breaking news. It was all they showed. For hours. It was as though nothing else was happening anywhere in the world. At four pm, they were still flashing breaking news banners across the screen. I mean ... really? Seven hours after the event and they're still calling it breaking news? Methinks someone needs to learn the definition of that hackneyed expression.

At any rate, I'm not much of a fan of newscasts, but I decided to listen and see if there was any value to these tedious, annoying, overdone reports.

At first, you had your usual, eyewitness-on-the street people. They were sure that multiple people had been shot. One woman even saw the gunman. He was in his twenties and wearing beige pants. The anchor people reported these 'facts' to their viewing audience. A short time later, their reporters were out talking to their sources to get the inside track on what was going on. After a very long hour or two, they were reporting that the shooter was a man in his twenties who had been fired from his job in an office in the Empire State Building who had tried to gain access to the skyscraper but had been refused entry by the security staff inside. The gunman then waited outside for his boss who had fired him the day before to come out so he could confront him. Let's take a look at how well the press did:

News Reports	City Officials
It was a man	Yes, it was a man
... in his twenties	... in his fifties
He'd been fired	He had indeed been fired
... the day before	... the year before
from his job in the Empire State Building	from his job in an office near the Empire State Building
He was wearing beige pants	He was wearing a gray suit
He tried to get into the ESB but had to wait outside for his boss	He waited near the ESB for his boss
Only the gunman and his boss had been shot. The nine other injured had been trampled by the mass of people who had run screaming for their lives when the shooting began	The gunman and his boss had been shot, and nine bystanders had been hit by ricochet bullets

As you can see, despite sending reporters all over the city and interrupting television programming, the news provided very little in the way of useful information. I mean they got that it was a man and he'd been fired. Good job, guys. I'm sooooooo happy that we were subjected to hours of this monotony for a good reason.

Where does Jimmy the doorman fit in to all of this? I'll tell you. When I finally decided that I just couldn't take any more 'breaking news', I started channel surfing in an attempt to find something else to have as background noise while I tried to do some work. I flipped by one station and the anchor (who had just finished interviewing some other 'eyewitness') announced that they had Jimmy the doorman on the line.

Anchor: And what did you see?
Jimmy the doorman: I didn't see nothing!
Anchor: Oh! Uh ...

Jimmy's confusing use of the double negative aside, I laughed my ass off! Sadly, I had already pressed the channel change button and when I rushed to get back to that station, a rather dumbfounded anchorperson was saying "Well, thank you for calling." I wish I'd heard her initial reaction and perhaps anything else that Jimmy the doorman might have had to say, but I'll have to settle for imagining her discomfort. I despise watching reporters talk to people on the street that really have nothing of importance to say. Why can't we just stick to the facts?

I can only think (dream/hope) that Jimmy the doorman called in to teach them a lesson and that's why Jimmy the doorman is my hero.

Learning the German Language

I cannot ever hope to even come close to Mark Twain's awesome observations regarding the study of the German language, but I can offer my own thoughts and experiences. For the record, my favorite Twain quote was something about how he'd rather decline two German beers than one German adjective. I don't know if I'd go that far but ...

In high school, I took Spanish. Then, for the first time, they offered Russian the next year. I jumped at the opportunity. I loved Russian I. Unfortunately, not many of my classmates felt the same and they only offered Russian II on a sort of tutorial-give up your lunch break and we'll let you take this class-working on your own at the back of the Russian I class basis. What can I say? I was hooked. I took the class. You know, eating lunch while ignoring what the teacher was saying and doing my own thing was actually kind of neat.

Then I went to college.

They had no placement exam for Russian (most American schools do NOT offer it!), and I decided if I had to take an introductory language course (I had by then become enamored by all things Cold War related and found Spanish boring), I would take German.

While the other students in the class moaned on hearing there were four different cases, I laughed. Russian had six. A couple of different letters? No problem. I had learned a different alphabet for Russian. Alternate pronunciation? I scoffed. Russian had several sounds that I never learned how to make properly. I accepted my deficiencies in that area (which were - I am certain - ample) and moved on.

I should mention that as a computer science major who really didn't need another language - aside from computer languages, that is - it was a few semesters before I had room in my schedule to take a new language, and I actually tried first to take classical Greek. BIG MISTAKE. I have no idea what my nineteen-year-old brain was thinking when I registered. Several students in the class were Greek and they were as miserable as I was. I already knew the Cyrillic alphabet, so the Greek one wasn't difficult, but almost every word in classical Greek seemed to take up an entire line to write. Not only was I plagued with a constant case of writer's cramp, but I was afraid I would bankrupt myself just buying enough notepaper to do my homework. It didn't take me long to decide that the effort it was taking to learn a DEAD language was not worth it. I dropped the class.

I did sign up for Russian I again along with German I, but it was boring to start over, so I never bothered to go on. Also, it should be noted that our exams were almost always dictated and the professor was very partial to the name Анна (if memory serves correctly on the accent - pronounced Ánna). Guess how you say 'she' in Russian? Она. Pronounced Aná. Guess who constantly got the accent wrong and wrote Анна instead of Она (or vice versa)? In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if I got it wrong just now!

Anyway, back to German. Day one of German one. A delightful professor entered and wrote the words schießen and scheißen on the board. He turned to us and said, "For every vord in German spelled vis an 'ie' zere ist also a vord spelled vis an 'ei'. Schießen und scheißen. One means to shoot, ze ozzer means to shit. Never confuse ze two. End of lesson one." With that he left the room. All I could think was that this guy was awesome (and vaguely reminiscent of a high school Spanish teacher who had taught us to conjugate using a very rude word - but guess who can still conjugate a Spanish verb after all these years?)! Anyway, we were packing up our books when another professor came in. Apparently, Herr Cool Professor had been in the wrong room. Rather than that fun teacher, we had been assigned a linguistics expert who spoke seven languages and was (for some unknown reason) hellbent on getting us to pronounce the word 'nicht' correctly. He would spend countless hours of class time making us repeat words and sentences until he thought our pronunciation was 'up to snuff'. I still remember the day he made us say 'Diese Klasse ist so langweilig'. You know why I still remember that day and that sentence? Because truer words were never spoken in any language!!! (If you don't speak German, it means 'This class is so boring'.)

Additionally, he required us to spend several hours a week in the language lab, supposedly listening to tapes of German pronunciation. Yeah right. I would go to the lab, sign in for the required amount of time and insert my own cassette tape (yes, I know that dates me) in the machine, rather than the one given to me by the monitor. There was no way I was going to sit and listen to 'Wie ist die Suppe heute? Die Suppe ist heiß.' for an hour. Frankly, I didn't give a hoot if the freaking soup was hot. My only concession to his requirement was that I would listen to a German band, such as Accept or the Scorpions and watch carefully for the proctor so I could lower the volume when they passed.

Anyway, when registration time for the next semester came, you can bet your sweet bippy that I looked for Herr Cool Professor's class. I was never so happy in college as when I was in his class. He came from a Russian speaking family in East Berlin and had ridden his bicycle across to the west as the Russian army was stringing chicken wire across Berlin to mark the site of the future wall. How awesome is that? After the careful, well-spoken accent of the linguistics professor, Herr Cool Professor's slangy Russian/East Berlin accent was refreshing. And as long as he could understand what we were saying, he wasn't overly picky about our accent. And we learned.

I never missed one of his classes, despite the fact that the simple dialog sentences of German I quickly gave way to readings about the economics of the Weimar Republic in German II (who comes up with these syllabuses?). I also blew the curve for the rest of the class. What can I say? I was having fun. In school! Sadly, it's been so many years since I used any of my languages (other than Spanish) that I'm afraid my German vocabulary is limited to what I call Goth German (vampires, death, grave, etc.) because of some music I listen to and my Russian vocabulary is almost non-existent. It's true what they say, if you don't use it, you lose it.

But I think the real lesson to be taken from all this is that students will learn when they identify with the material and/or the teacher. My German teacher was probably thirty or forty years older than me, but I adored his class, and (not that I'm advocating or condoning the use of profanity in class - at least by the teachers) that high school Spanish teacher of mine sure taught me how to conjugate verbs in a way that stuck.

I highly recommend Mark Twain's essay "The Awful German Language". Even if you've never studied German, you'll appreciate his wit, but for those who speak and/or have studied German, you'll probably laugh your butt off!

Genealogy Rant

Since I wrote about genealogy in my last post, I figured I might as well add a few rants, as well. If anyone is considering researching their roots, you may want to take note of these things.

• Family Lore/Myths/Legends: Begin with the assumption that these are all FALSE. Approach them as you would a theorem you were trying to disprove. This way, you'll be pleasantly surprised if they're true, but you won't be overly disappointed when your ancestor turns out not to have been: an Indian princess, a Revolutionary War hero, landed on the shores of America on a boat made of banana leaves after their ship was attacked by an infamous pirate, or pretty much anything other than someone trying to persevere through the difficult and trying times humans have faced throughout history.
• Other Researcher's Trees: Don't rely on trees that others have created without verifying the details for yourself. Chances are that your four times great grandmother did not have twenty children from the age of thirteen through fifty-five. I can't believe how many trees I find that attribute children to women who were most likely well past child-bearing age (or in some extreme cases - death). Even if she hadn't gone through menopause yet, the odds of becoming pregnant decreased substantially as she aged (and of course, became impossible after she died), making it unlikely that she had those eight kids while in her forties and fifties. Chances are that some of those late in life or postmortem children were actually grandchildren.
• Spelling: Look, it's more than likely that you have a number of illiterate ancestors in your tree. It doesn't mean they were stupid. Times were tough. Many of them either had no opportunity to get an education or were forced by circumstances to leave school in order to help the family survive by going to work. Keeping this in mind, don't be surprised when the spelling of your family's name changes from one census to another. Your ancestor may have not known how to spell or the census taker may have spelled it wrong (just 'cause they were taking the census didn't mean they were good spellers), particularly in the case of ethnic names that were being pronounced for them by immigrants. If a German pronounced a 'w' as a 'v', your census taker may have transcribed a 'v'. I wouldn't waste time pondering the mystery of why they changed their name. It could just be spelling. And then there's the famous story of lazy immigration officers who changed names to make them easier to spell or pronounce. I'm not sure how much of that I believe; it may have been a contributing factor, but I tend to think a lot of it was due to communication difficulties.
• Census Errors: Census takers were human. They made mistakes. Some were lazy. I found an ancestor who was listed as married (and her husband was there, too) for one year. Her age? Two. Now, maybe it's just me but ... really? Two? I know they married younger back then, but that's just ridiculous. What's worse is that the particular census in question listed both the age and the year and still got it wrong, making me believe the the census taker only asked for ages and then determined year off of that later on. (For the record, she was 21.) Keep a calculator handy and check things out for yourself. Also, keep in mind, that the age could be wrong by at least one year in either direction, depending on the actual birth date of your ancestor and the date on which the census was taken.
• Ethnic Makeup: Be prepared to find an unexpected ethnicity or nationality in your tree, especially in America, where different immigrant groups met and lived in similar areas. Don't bemoan the lack of 'purity' in your line (what a silly concept, we are all human, that is the only thing that matters). Embrace the fact that varying the gene pool makes for healthy babies - and has made you the person you are today!
• Birthplace: I was astonished when I began researching my tree that none of my ancestors seemed to know where they were born! The state/country sometimes changed from one census to another. I chalk most of this up to a mistake by the census taker or the fact that counties/states were still dynamic and being created. Someone may have been born in one state or county, only to have it turn into a different state when the borders changed. As for differing countries, I tend to think it was census taker error or laziness, although imagine what will happen a hundred years from now when people of Eastern European descent try to research their trees. It wasn't too long ago that the walls in former Communist countries came down and countries returned to their original, pre-Soviet influence borders. I can only wonder what the effect of all that will be on future genealogists.
• Your Ancestors May Have Been Liars: I don't mean malicious liars. I had a grandmother that tried to pronounce her Irish name in an Anglican way. Times were tough for the Irish then and she was just trying to help her family survive. Also, keep in mind, that coming to America was a way for many to start over. Stigmas that may have been attached to a certain name could be avoided in America by using a different name, especially if they were living in an Ethnic community that may not have known them, but might know the history of their name. I read once that some Italians changed their names because they emigrated prior to completing mandatory military service (I have no idea if that's true, but it's an example of why your ancestor may have lied).
• Pleasant Surprises: Every once in a while, fate throws you a bone. I found the name of my second great grandfather's mother on his marriage certificate. I was disappointed at first because the spelling and pronunciation was so bizarre that I was certain it was a transcription error by a city clerk. I tried looking up the name I thought it might be with little success. I then tried the actual bizarre spelling from the record and lo and behold there she was! It made it easier to trace her parents' names, as well, since the spelling was so unusual.
• Peripheral Family Members: Don't ignore brothers and sisters of your direct ancestors. Some people only list their direct line, however, I found at least one great-something grandmother's maiden name by finding the grandmother living with my direct ancestor's sibling on a census. If I'd only looked at my direct ancestor's records, I would not have found her.

Enjoy researching your tree. It can give you a great appreciation for certain historical periods and events that you may have cared little before in the past. Plus, it's actually kind of fun - so long as you're not counting on finding a famous general or member of royalty/nobility.

Haunted by Genealogy

I became interested in my family tree about three years ago. Sadly, my father (God rest his soul) was already quite ill and unable to answer my questions. I would give anything to be able to go back and ask him more about his youth.

He was born in the mountains of southwest Virginia and the family moved to coal mining territory in West Virginia when he was very young. I do remember some stories: about the family legend that his grandfather (as a boy back in Virginia) was in his front yard when Jesse James came through the town and shot a bullet into the fence, about how everything in the West Virginia town was coated in a fine layer of coal dust, about he and his brothers would shuck peas by putting them in baskets and rolling them down the mountain - much to his mother's chagrin, and about how he and his brothers were feeding the chickens on a neighboring farm at the same time as an escape from a prison camp nearby and when they went to feed them, heard a noise and called out, "who's there?" only to have a voice say, "nobody but us chickens" causing them to run screaming for the hills (literally). How much of it all is true, I'll never know.

What I do know is that doing his family tree gave me a huge sense of appreciation for what his ancestors did. They settled in the New World before there was a United States. Almost every one of my paternal ancestors from the late 1700s is listed as a patriot on the Daughters of the American Revolution rolls, including at least one or two who actually fought in the military. The family history is filled with Indian massacres, abductions (including at least one direct ancestor who was kidnapped by the Indians in the late 1700s - Cherokee by family accounts but could have been Shawnee, too, and returned to white civilization with her Indian child in tow), railroad accidents, and other trials related to westward expansion.

When I started watching Justified - finally got the DVDs this past year, I was surprised to realize that I had an ancestor born in Harlan, KY, the county where the show takes place. I haven't been back to the mountains of West Virginia in more years than I care to count and I was only ever a visitor, but I still find myself nostalgic for it. For the family bibles with generations of ancestors listed, for the photo albums full of pictures of loved ones in their caskets (something that the Appalachians share with my maternal Irish ancestors), for my grandmother's cooking, for traipsing up the side of a mountain only to step in an ant's nest and have to run screaming back to the house, and for an extended family that spanned generations and I've completely lost touch with. And like many others who came from the coal mining region, Grandpa got his black lung check 'til the day he died, and he and my grandmother made sure they sent all their children to college so they could get out.

My advice to everyone is sit with your grandparents or aging parents now and get all you can from them regarding your family roots. Otherwise, the day you decide you want to know where you come from, it may already be too late.

Life Imitating Art: Why cats make it so hard to write

Do I really need to expand upon that? This is dedicated to anyone who thinks that my cats don't help me write! Actually, I write despite my cats not because of them. They are of the opinion that there's nothing wrong with a "+++6.;l" in the middle of a book. In fact, I probably should have typed all of Mrowley the cat's (from The Lost Mage and The Lightning Caller) dialogue that way. Of course, only other computer users that are also cat lovers would have understood.

It should also be noted that their very cat essence means they must stand, arch their backs in a cat yoga stretch, and spin around several times before laying back down in the SAME EXACT position they were in before they got up. (Two of them did exactly that in the frustratingly long time it took me to type that sentence around their cat antics.)

Someone thought this picture looked good enough to recreate. Actually, this is a daily occurrence, although usually that gray paw is extended off the edge where it rests on the keyboard, adding the occasional 'f' or 'g' to words. I'm not sure what my desk looks like without its 'cat covering' anymore.

Never Thought I'd Miss the East German Judge

Hmm, Olympic competition has changed. I used to love watching the gymnastics. The All-Around was fun, but back in the days of the Cold War, the team competition was the one I liked. Not that the United States ever had much success. We just couldn't compete with a system that took promising young athletes and offered (okay - offered is probably not the right word, but you get the picture) them state-sponsored training. Of course, we in the decadent West spread rumors that their families would be harmed if they didn't do well - that's (probably) an exaggeration, but I'm pretty sure there were plenty of real incentives for them to do well.

Anyway, when the Wall came down, many of the successful coaches and athletes from the sport emigrated to the West, to the benefit of our gymnasts.

All of that aside, though, watching gymnastics today is a completely different animal. The sport has completely changed, and though I love watching them do those big tricks, I miss the days of artistry and expression in the dance, especially on the floor. Too many times these days, it appears that they're just waving their arms around in between tumbling passes and none of it has anything at all to do with the music they've selected. I mean when I'm pretty sure I could dance better, something's wrong.

And then there's the move from team to specialists. So you now have a gymnast who is only really good on one event on the team. I don't know - just doesn't seem to meet the spirit of a team competition. In the good old days, you had six team members and ALL SIX performed on every piece of apparatus. Sure, you dropped the lowest score, but that still meant that five of the six had to hit and do it well to win. As a spectator, I understood what was going on, what was good and what was bad. They even had to do compulsory exercises. That was a true measure of the mastery of basic skills. Everyone did the same routine, and it counted toward the overall team score.

Nowadays, you have only five girls, not all of whom are required to perform on all events. And one day, they drop a score, the next they all count. I don't like it. I feel completely disconnected with the new scoring system. I understand it, I just don't like it. I know they felt the need to distinguish more difficult skills from those doing simpler routines, but frankly, I miss the artistry of a simpler, very clean routine. Heck, I can't even follow some of the moves now. I sit there thinking was that two twists or three? And how many times did they flip?

Now that I've bashed the sport itself, it's time for the coverage. In the 2012 Olympic All Around, the last American went and they showed the team waiting ... waiting ... and waiting. I'm there holding my breath along with the girls. Finally, they announce that the Americans won the gold, but they NEVER showed Alexandra Raisman's score! We actually had to go look it up on-line.

So, why do I miss the East German judge? Because I'm sorry to say I miss Soviet era competition. The perfection of the Communist gymnasts was amazing. Of course, I'm sure that the East Germans knew that beating the Soviets would probably result in the leveling of East Berlin or something, but they tried to beat everyone else (as witnessed by an East German judge getting a half point taken off the American's score in the '88 Olympics, costing them the bronze medal).

I'm still amazed at the effect the Communist Bloc had on everything. I can't help but think that a twenty-year old who watches When Harry Met Sally these days won't have a clue as to what Harry is talking about when he shares his dream in which the East German judge gave him poor marks on his performance based on his dismount (if I'm remembering the dialog correctly).

I also loved reading Cold War novels: LeCarre, Buckley and Deighton ... awesome. And let's not forget one of my favorite movies of all time: Gotcha. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend it. I especially love the civil service workers on both sides of the Wall.

So, gymnastics these days? I can't quite rate it cool beans. Maybe frigid beans, but those are still cold, which is similar to cool. Tell you what, I'll give it cool beans, and we'll add frigid beans to show all of the difficulty, but then there are tons of hot beans for things such as, not allowing us to see all of the top gymnasts in the all-around competition because of limit per country rules, for a scoring system that you need an advanced degree or years of experience to understand, for stealing a silver medal from the British team and for horrible media coverage that makes it nearly impossible to follow what's really going on.

Oh yeah, and someone tell the media to stop televising the agonized faces of athletes that have experienced an injury, a mistake, a lost race, a fall ... whatever. Give them some privacy!