Yesterday I was in the mall having a watch battery installed. I was in a store that sells a lot of watches, but I don't want to mention which store because it's a nice place and I don't want to get them in trouble. Anyway as I was knifing my way through this store whose name and other products I don't want to mention, I noticed a sign on the counter. It said that the store was not responsible for any damage that occurred to a watch that was left with them.

I noticed the sign just after I left my watch with them.

Fifteen minutes later I returned and found my watch, intact, a new battery causing the mechanism to whirr along nicely. But if I had returned to find the watch in a dust bin, having been swept there by the person who had just dropped an anvil on it, that person would not have been responsible? Then who is?

Scooting

Let's not go nuts over Bush's commuting of Scooter Libby's prison sentence. The president did the right thing as always, and he did it because he is, after all, a student of history—a man with a keen grasp of how the past affects the present, with an acute awareness that if we don't study history, we're doomed...blah, blah, blah.

And Bush knows (because he is so very incisive) how poorly previous Scooters have fared in prison. If it were only one, we could overlook it; but the history of felons named Scooter—convicted felons, that is—languishing and having a just-not-fun time behind bars is too obvious to ignore.

In the thirties there was Al "Scooter" Capone, criminal extraordinaire. One would have thought that if anyone was cut out for the prison life, it was a tough hombre like him—bootlegger, murderer, crime boss. And yet in prison he spent most of his time ducking attempts on his life, including a very famous incident in which someone tried spiking his coffee with lye. Even in a federal penitentiary—in the thirties!—there were demented baristas scrounging for tips—they're not just at Starbucks. Scooter Capone—tough on the outside; kind of a misfit behind those walls.

In the nineties we had Jeffrey "Scooter" Dahmer, a different case entirely. We've all heard of unwanted guests eating people out of house and home. Dahmer simplified the task to simply eating people. And yet in prison, among murderers and rapists and child molesters, Dahmer had trouble "connecting." Even the hardest core convicts—the ones who saw little wrong with chopping up people and saving their remains in Ziploc bags—even they balked at the idea of actually eating those remains. One day one of his disconnected peers, taking the moral high road, inflicted some lethal head trauma on Scooter , thus denying him the good fortune of Scooter Capone: a parole and a lingering death from syphilis.

Actually Scooter Libby isn't not even the first Scooter of the century. That honor belongs to Paris "Scooter" Hilton. Love her or hate her (or simply download her sex tapes) everyone has to admit that jail and Scooter Hilton do not mix, and for a judge to incarcerate a claustrophobe like her was unconscionable. Only through her tremendous strength of character—her ability to envision herself somewhere else—was she able to survive with her sanity intact. Of course, unlike Ms. Hilton I wouldn't have envisioned myself in a coal mine, but it seemed to worked for her.

The point is this: the nickname Scooter doesn't work well in prison; and instead of continuing to make the same error over and over, let's follow the lead of our president and start dismissing cases against all Scooters.

Two caveats: The nickname cannot be grandfathered. That ploy did not work for Scooter Kevorkian and, along the same lines, I wouldn't expect to see Michael "Scooter" Peterson out looking for a new wife any time soon.

And finally, don't worry: there aren't any Scooters at Gitmo. I checked.

I feel better this morning because there are some really stupid dolphins in the world.

All the ones you see leaping and twisting and gavotting at Sea World? Those are the exceptions—the valedictorians of their schools, or pods. The real world of dolphins comprises a lot more average types. I didn't know that. You know when one of them plows through the water with a human more or less riding its snout? The average dolphin can't do that. I didn't know that either. And that little bit of business when they wave bye-bye with their tails? Same thing.

Some of those more typical dolphins at Sea World actually wash out of the program. (Insert stupid smiley-faced emoticon after "wash out"—I refuse.) I guess I wouldn't have known that either except for the transcript from Chippy vs. Sea World that I found online. Chippy, you may remember, passed the written section but failed stunts? Every once in a while pieces of the court transcript make it to the Internet, and I found this one a few days ago— a verbatim reading of the final interview between Chippy and the Personnel Officer at Sea World.

Personnel Officer: I just wanted to thank you for your application and for coming to the tryouts.

Chippy: [series of clicks and squeals.]

P.O. I'm glad you made new friends. That's what we're all about here at Sea World: making new friends.

Chippy: [one click and a few squeals.]

P.O. I know you'd love to work here and make more friends. I just don't think we're going to be able to use you at this juncture.

Chippy: [one click, one squeal, one click]

P.O. Yes I understand jobs are scarce, but we're pretty filled up right now and we want our working dolphins to live in non-crowded conditions. That's what we're all about here at Sea World: having dolphins live in non-crowded conditions.

Chippy: [series of clicks and squeals.]

P.O. And making new friend, right.

Chippy: [series of clicks and one squeal.]

P.O. I understand. I like to eat fish too, but sometimes it's fun to go out in the ocean and snag a mouthful instead of having them thrown to you from a pail. Anyway, we'll keep your name on file...

Chippy: [one loud clicks and two squeals.]

P.O. Actually your tryout was fine. Believe me, no one thinks you intentionally severed that woman's finger.

Chippy: [a very subdued click and a loud whimper.]

P.O. Well see, that's the problem. If her finger looked like a fish, maybe next time it'll be a leg, or a handler. It certainly is a black mark on your visual acuity.

Chippy: [one click and two winks]

P.O. Maybe you don't claim to have it, but Wikipedia says you do. Anyway, they've reattached the finger and she's going to make a full recovery.

Chippy: [series of squeals.]

P.O. I'm sure it was very hurtful when she screamed at you, especially with your superior sense of hearing. You do have that, don't you?

Chippy: [morose click]

P.O. You have to remember that her ring finger was bobbing in the water. Imagine the heartbreak were she ever to get engaged...

Chippy: [series of squeals.]

P.O. No, I don't think she's interested in an apology.

Chippy: [two squeals.]

P.O. You want the apology...she cost you the job. Actually she's not the reason. Let me ask you this—when you were growing up, did the other dolphins seem, oh I don't know, smarter?

Chippy: [two clicks, no squeals.]

P.O. No the bathing suit is a total loss. You ate it, remember? Now forget about her for a minute. When you were younger, did you need everything explained twice, three times?

Chippy: [two clicks, no squeals.]

P.O. No, we're not going to make you pay for the bathing suit. If we had known pink enrages you we certainly would have opted for a different color. Getting back to you for a minute...

Chippy: [a squeak and a squeal]

P.O. Sure, if you'd rather not discuss it. I will say this—your transcripts were not impressive but we took the chance anyway. It just didn't work out.

Chippy: [a squeak, and a squeal, a click, and a pop]

P.O. Of course I remembered: here's the recommendation I promised. And remember, if there's anything you ever need, let us know. That's what we're all about here at Sea World.

Chippy: [dubious clicks.]

P.O. Yes, and making friends.

Is Paris Bumming?

My goodness, can we just leave poor Paris Hilton alone? I mean, first she was behind bars fighting for her freedom; now she's busy trying to maintain her hard-earned integrity. With her occupied the way she is, who's left to speak for all of us who record ourselves having sex and then post it on the Internet? Without Ms Hilton as our spokesperson--without her to show us the way (and the how and the when and the camera angles) we're floundering here. My latest videos have been awful, rendering me old and decrepit and completely bereft of any sex appeal. I can hardly watch them myself, let alone share them with other fans of what I like to call noirotica. (It's all in the lighting--I don't use any.)

Oh I suppose the world could return to those dark ages when making love was more of a private act between two consenting adults, but then what? Do we go back to TVs with channel selectors way across the room? Minivans without DVD players? Video games without bleeding corpses and seizure warnings? Cameras with that stuff in them...you know, that stuff that looked all orange-y and filmy when it came out but somehow turned into pictures? Come on, you know what it's called! Never mind, I'll think of it.

Paris Hilton has taken us into the future, and you know, once there, you can't go back. We won't go back!

Oh yeah, film.

Buying Hopper

There's a painting by Edward Hopper, East Wind over Weehawken, that I always found evocative; but as with many of his paintings, I'm not quite sure what feelings it actually brings to mind or what the source of those feelings is. The painting itself, an oil from 1934 (just for reference, the widely known Nighthawks was done eight years later) is archetypal Hopper—untended houses on a deserted street, oddly mixed architectural styles, lawns overgrown and dried a pale yellow, cirrus and cirrostratus obscuring the blue sky, and an obvious lack of human life, save for some insignificant creatures barely entering the frame in the lower left. In the immense canon of his work, this particular piece garners very little attention; in fact, the exhibit currently at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston does not include it, though it does include Apartment Houses, its partner in residence (usually) at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in Philadelphia.

I saw that Boston exhibit yesterday and it was spectacular beyond description. I realize that there is a glaring weakness about describing anything as being beyond description, but I really didn't come here to describe anything. The MFA website will suit you better—with pictures! I will say this: ordinarily I love to see the Monets and to just idle through the rest of the collection. But the Hopper exhibit was so exciting that, afterwards, the rest of the museum seemed dreary, dark, and uninspiring. If you've ever been there, you know that's not true.

But I really wanted to talk about merchandising. Now I'm not going to lament the commercialization of a fine artist or the degradation of art when it is placed on a refrigerator magnet or a bookmark or a dish towel. I just wonder if the artist himself—if Edward Hopper, who died forty years ago and who, for the most part, finished his active career nearly fifty years ago—could ever have envisioned a day when people would gladly part with $30.00 for a tote bag emblazoned with a Maine lighthouse. I don't think he was a humorless man, despite the starkness of so much of his work. But even such an incisive chronicler of the human condition would have been astounded at the money his paintings are earning past their basic sale and exhibition values.

Apparently Hopper hated commercial art, though he earned a living from it until his genius was recognized. That's why I wondered yesterday if the commercialization of pieces like Nighthawks and Chop Suey, as well as his numerous lighthouse studies, would have offended him, or if he would have simply bucked up, taken the millions, and run. And as I pondered those and other ultimate questions in that special gift shop devoted solely to the Hopper exhibit, I went for the bookmark, t-shirt, and hat; my wife, the tote bag. We'll share the book.

Number 75, part II

In "Number 75" I lamented—no, actually I bitched and moaned—about the local Social Security Office. Follow-ups are important, though, and I did in fact receive my new Social Security card in the mail, not even ten days after my appearance—that was, you may remember, my second appearance. And because I'm a learner, albeit a slow one, I have not yet laminated it, nor have I even thought of carrying it with me because, as per instructions, I'm keeping it in a safe place.

In my previous post, though, I neglected to add one important element of that second visit. While I sat in that mausoleum waiting for my number 75 be called, someone's cell phone rang. I still use the word "rang" to describe that sound, though those phones seldom ring in the Alexander Graham Bellian sense of the word. This particular device played, what seemed to be a synthesized and perfectly awful version of "We Are Family," one that would have caused Sly and the entire Stone Family very little joy. I could hear only half of the ensuing conversation, but I did take note of the word tornado when it spilled into the room. I should add that the weather forecast had included the threat of thundershowers, and while tornadoes are rare in central Connecticut, they are not unheard of.

A few minutes later, my cell phone, which does not play "We Are Family" or any other butchered piece of music, "rang." It was my wife: a tornado warning had, in fact, just been issued for Waterbury, a city about twenty miles to the southwest. She was not panicking, but I knew that twisters generally move from southwest to northeast—a fact that would place us in the line of fire, so to speak. Of course I also knew, with my years of weather savvy, that tornadoes in this area seldom hold together that long. (This observation will come as little consolation to the 1989 victims of the Bantam tornado which also struck Hamden, about fifty miles to the south.)

Now I faced a dilemma. My spot in line, hard-won by an hour of surly waiting, would be jeopardized if I raced home to the rescue. Of course I wasn't sure how to rescue anyone from a tornado anyway other than to hide in the basement until it's safe to go back upstairs and sort out the rubble. And my wife did not seem panicky, despite the blackness of the western sky and the gusting winds.

"It'll never make it over the mountain," I said, hoping that there was a mountain between Waterbury and us. I know there are some hills—they're sort of like mountains.

I could have added some suggestion about the basement, but that would have been an intimation of danger, and there was the matter of my place in line.

In the end the tornado came nowhere near us; in fact, we saw little lightning or thunder until an hour or two later when another storm—much more violent—blew through and sent most of the dead branches in our trees hurtling into our lawn. I was home for that one. I was in the basement.

Life is filled with moral dilemmas, and I'm afraid my decision to retain my place in line is going to cost me. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow. But come the final reckoning someone guarding the gates of the heaven that I'm pretty sure doesn't exist is going to ask me to explain myself, and my only recourse will be to produce my nice new unlaminated Social Security card, which, of course, I will not be able to produce because it's in a safe place.

The squirrels are not feral—yet

Walkers in the park where I run (and sometimes on more injury-riddled days walk) have taken to feeding squirrels. At first it seemed a quaint pastime, harmless and benign. After all, they're cute little balls of energy—I'm talking about the squirrels now—and giving them an occasional handout seemed positively humane. But now that the balls of energy have transmogrified into panhandling rodents, maybe it's time to reevaluate the pastime.

First off, the squirrels are everywhere—in the trees, on the ground, in the space between the ground and the trees (sometimes referred to as the trunks) and on virtually every square foot of grass in that park. They exist in superfluity. If there is an opposite of an endangered species, they are it. There may be famines in several third-world countries, but these squirrels are in the midst of no such hardship. They are fat, healthy, and did I mention, EVERYWHERE? If ever an animal did not need human support to continue its species, it's the squirrel—especially the park squirrel.

The park squirrel, you see, is quite different from the backyard, bird-feeder-raiding squirrel to which you have grown accustomed. The backyard squirrel will run for its life if a human being treads in the same time zone. They're afraid of us, I guess because we're bigger, and so they forage with one eye on any human in the area. The park squirrel keeps both eyes on the human because one of those humans may very well have a bag of peanuts that he is willing to share. Foraging has become for the park squirrel, a quaint tradition, someone to tell the little squirrelings about while they're sitting around a bag of roasted peanuts on a winter night.

I know that no matter what I say here, I am not going to disabuse people of the habit of squirrel-feeding. So allow me to make a counter offer: I would like to introduce the gray wolf into the park's ecosystem, just as in Yellowstone a decade ago. Not only would these animals reduce the squirrel population, but since they don't much care for peanuts, walkers and runners would be less likely to carry bags of rewards with them. For one thing, the food would weigh them down, and they may have to walk or run fast in certain situations.

Wolves, as you know, are different from squirrels.