The thought of terrorists armed with hand-held surface to air missiles has many people justifiably nervous as hell. The Laughing Wolf, who is no stranger to flying and writing about things aeronautic, has some interesting thoughts on the subject of anti-missile defenses, including the undeniable importance of a vigilant and engaged public.

Amidst its budget woes, which are spawning pink slips and closed firehouses, New York City has funded a study to determine just how fat its residents are. Hey, it’s New York. Go figure.

Anyway, the study revealed that 53% of New Yorkers are either overweight or obese, with the Bronx (home of the Yankees) having the most folks classified as obese (24%,). By contrast, Manhattan (home of many high-powered, salad-eating beautiful people) has the lowest rate (13%). In between were Brooklyn (21%), Staten Island (18%), and Queens (16%).

Before you get the idea that more than half the people in New York City walk around looking like Haystacks Calhoun (I wonder how many of you recognize that name?), “overweight” was defined as a body mass index between 25 and 30. If your body mass exceeds 30, welcome to the world of obesity. (Body mass index equals body weight divided by height in inches squared, and then multiplied by 703.)

What that boils down to is this. According to the study criteria, if you are a 5’9” male, and you weigh more than 170 pounds, you are overweight, and if you weigh more than 204 pounds, you are obese.

I’d like to find the shithook who came up with those criteria and smack him up side his farookin’ head with a pepperoni pizza.

I have added the following two blogs to my blogroll. They are there because I read them regularly, and I trust that you will like them as well. Please give them a look.

Serenity’s Journal. I found this blog via Sgt. Hook, a gentleman of discriminating taste, whose reading suggestions are always on the money. Serenity’s Journal, authored by a military brat who is also a vet, is funny, often fiery and pulls no punches.

My So-Called Blog. I am personally acquainted with the author of this excellent blog, as he is a friend of daughter TJ and her husband. In fact, My So-Called Blog was the first blog I ever read, back when I would have guessed that a “blogger” is something that is lodged in one’s nostril. The author, an American who for the past couple years has been blogging from the former Soviet Union (in Azerbaijan and Georgia), where his job was to teach our Russian friends how to “do” democracy. Having left that gig, he is currently wandering around Russia, taking in the scenery, looking for another equally offbeat gig, and sharing his thoughts with the world in his blog, which clearly deserves a wider audience.

This is a must read. Besides, how can you not read a blog written by a guy who sometimes actually wears a monocle?

Cousin Jack, my blogfather, has new digs. Please check it out, and adjust your links accordingly.

Wow. New domain, spiffy look, and Movable Type power.

Can a farookin’ logo be far behind?

At 8:28 PM, Eastern Daylight Time, this site received its 20,000th visit. I am somewhat at a loss for words to describe how nice it makes me feel to see that people actually stop by and spend a bit of their valuable time reading the things I write here. What really knocks me out is the reach of this medium. People visit from all parts of the U.S. and from foreign countries as well. In fact, the 20,000th visitor to the site came in from Australia via loudcloud.com. For him/her, it was 8:28 in the morning. Thanks for stopping by, mate.

Even more gratifying than the number of visits are the many interesting, talented, and just-plain-nice people I have come to know, many of whom are listed over there on the left. Their writings inspire, inform, challenge, and amuse me every day, and their friendship is something I value greatly.

Thank you all very, very much.

I was out of the loop last week, so I just saw at Right We Are that Johnny Cochran has signed onto the defense of the “Sniper Case.” Cochran’s position thus far is that the defendants in the case were, in fact, victims. Yes, victims – either of a set up or downright racism.

He also intends to use the “The-evidence-is-all-circumstantial” nonsensical, smokescreen defense. He stated, “”Thus far, all the evidence I’ve seen is purely circumstantial, no eye-witnesses, nothing at all to put this man and a child at the scene of these events, nothing at all.” This load of horseshit sounds good as long as one doesn’t know that virtually all evidence is circumstantial, except for eyewitness testimony, such as “I saw Tom shoot Mary,” and that most people serving time in prison are serving time based on circumstantial evidence either presented at trial, or about to be presented, thereby leading to a guilty plea.

Please indulge me for a moment while I take a brief digression here to try to clear up the Perry Mason – Matlock “It’s all circumstantial” baloney. It is ambitious of me to think that a couple of paragraphs can properly deal with this long-held misconception, but I’ll give it a go anyway.

There are two types of evidence – direct evidence and circumstantial evidence.

Direct evidence requires only that the fact finder believe the testimony of the witness in order to come to the ultimate conclusion as to the ultimate facts at issue. So, if the witness testifies, “I saw Tom shoot Mary,” the fact finder can come to the ultimate conclusion as to whether Tom, in fact, shot Mary based solely on whether the fact finder believes the testimony. Of course, there are numerous ways to challenge the weight that ought to be given to such testimony (e.g. The witness’s ability to properly perceive the event; The witness’s bias, etc.). However, the distinguishing characteristic of direct evidence is that the fact finder needs not make any inferences based on the evidence presented to come to the ultimate conclusion that Tom did, in fact, shoot Mary. The fact finder need only believe the testimony.

By contrast, circumstantial evidence does require that the fact finder make one or more inferences based on the evidence in the testimony to come to the ultimate conclusion that Tom shot Mary. For example, the testimony might be, “I heard three gunshots in the next room. I immediately opened the door to the room, and I saw Mary lying on the floor with half her head shot off and two bullet wounds in her chest. There were no other doors in the room, and Tom almost knocked me over as he ran from the room with a gun in his hand.”

I think it is fair to say that this constitutes pretty convincing evidence that Tom shot Mary. However, because the witness did not actually see Tom shoot Mary, it is circumstantial evidence. And, as such, it still requires the fact finder to make the inferences from the evidence presented (i.e. the gunshots, the number of wounds, the lack of any other exit or entrance to the room and Tom’s fleeing with a gun in his hand immediately after the shooting) to come to the ultimate conclusion that Tom, in fact, shot Mary.

It should be apparent that the issue is the weight of the evidence, rather than whether it is direct or circumstantial evidence. Some direct evidence is hardly worthy of any weight at all, given the well-known problems with the reliability of eyewitness testimony, while some circumstantial evidence (as in the hypothetical example above) is virtually damning.

Johnny Cochran knows all this, but he banks heavily on being able to mislead a jury into believing that “circumstantial evidence” is the equivalent of bad evidence or no evidence at all.

One particular type of “circumstantial evidence” Cochran intends to attack is the ballistic evidence that showed that the bullets taken from the victims were fired from the defendants’ rifle. He stated, that “ballistic evidence has its drawbacks, just like DNA,” and that he has “acquired the countries [sic] foremost authority on ballistic evidence for the defense team.”

He apparently also intends to make much of the now-infamous white van that some people reported leaving the area of some of the shootings. In an interview with Larry King, Cochran stated, “Larry, in every attack, witnesses indicated a suspicious White Van was noticed leaving the scene”. “Where is the White Van Larry, Where is it”?

How putridly familiar does all this sound?

Can Leo Terrell be far behind?

One of the striking things about taking a cruise is the quantity and quality of the food that is available on board. It amounts to a week of grazing, and after each meal making a promise that you will make more sensible choices for the next meal – a promise that, in most cases (certainly in my case) was invariably broken.

You know you are in trouble when after eating three delicious meals and drinking all day and evening, you find yourself saying “yes, please” to the gourmet bites that are handed out all over the ship at midnight. Rock bottom came when, after eating three meals and the gourmet bites at midnight, we schlepped off to the ass-end (excuse me – the “aft”) of the ship for a “couple slices” (of pizza).

It’s a veritable food orgy that has most people aboard lamenting that their clothes seem to have shrunk and making solemn salad vows to take effect immediately post-cruise. I took the salad pledge after a week of demonstrating beyond doubt that all my digestive systems still can function in high gear. The refrigerator in the house by the Parkway is now chockfull of green leafy things and lots and lots of fruit. French fries, cheese and snacks are no longer our friends.

To give you an idea of just how much food is taken aboard the ship for a typical seven day cruise for the 1,589 passengers and 670 crew aboard the Zenith, here are the numbers made available by Celebrity Cruise Lines:

7,480 pounds of beef
1,350 pounds of lamb
3,561 pounds of pork
1,200 pounds of veal
1,175 pounds of sausage
4,080 pounds of chicken
2,050 pounds of turkey
1,060 pounds of duck
6,050 pounds of fish and seafood
660 pounds of lobster tails
23,400 pounds of fresh vegetables
5,700 pounds of potatoes
19,400 pounds of fresh fruit
900 gallons of milk
240 quarts of cream
450 gallons of ice cream
1.050 dozen eggs
2,800 pounds of sugar
2,050 pounds of rice
4,800 pounds of cereal
700 pounds of jelly
1,350 pounds of coffee
1,700 pounds of cookies
40,000 tea bags
28 pounds of herbs and spices
2,700 bottles of assorted wines
160 bottles of champagne
185 bottles of gin
245 bottles of vodka
270 bottles of whiskey
119 bottles of rum
25 bottles of brandy
11 bottles of sherry
450 bottles of assorted liqueurs
8,200 bottles/cans of beer

Tums anyone?

My archives have completely vanished, and the standard fix is not working. Perhaps it is time to move on. What a shame. Blogger was first out of the chute, and it appears to be squandering that priceless advantage.

As some of you know, I was away on vacation last week. We were aboard the Zenith for a cruise to Bermuda. I’ll have more to share about the trip later. However, I wanted to take just a couple minutes to add my thought to those of Jack and TJ on the occasion of my Uncle Bill’s passing last week.

I learned about Uncle Bill’s death when I opened the note that a crewmember had slipped under my stateroom door while we were somewhere on the ship most likely eating (there was plenty of that) or drinking (there was really plenty of that). The note was taken down by the modern day equivalent of a radio operator who received the call from TJ. It was very carefully worded so as not to scare hell out of me. Ultimately, however, there was no way to avoid the point of the message. Uncle Bill had passed away.

I had only seen Uncle Bill a couple times over the past twenty or so years, and it was clear that no one expected me to leave the ship to fly back to New Jersey for the wake. However, being aboard the ship provided me with a bit of quiet time to gaze into the ocean and think about Uncle Bill and to picture him with the ever present cigar (pronounced SEE-gar) in his mouth, which was only sometimes lit.

Uncle Bill was married to my mother’s sister, Eleanor. We lived in a two family house in Kearny, New Jersey. Uncle Bill, Aunt Eleanor and my cousin Michael, nine years my junior, lived on the second floor, and my parents and I lived on the first floor. However, because of the closeness of the families (they owned the house together), it was more like a crazy one-family house, connected by a back hallway and a front hallway (although no one ever used the front door or front hallway). The doors were never locked, and Uncle Bill, Aunt Eleanor and Mike were “downstairs” as often as we were “upstairs.”

Growing up in an extended family had many benefits, not the least of which was that each of the adults in my childhood imparted to me their own particular brand of wisdom. For example, my mother taught me how to laugh hysterically at life’s follies, how not to take shit from anyone, and to always remember that children, are little people with very large feelings, which always were to be handled with the utmost care. My dad’s gift to me was his love for history, the importance of education (he wasn’t fortunate enough to have been formally educated, but was wise beyond description), and the magic of music. Aunt Eleanor taught me the importance of kindness and a clear head when things sometimes got a little squirrelly. Uncle Bill taught me about the world in which there are plenty of people not quite like my mother, father or Aunt Eleanor.

He loved to play the horses. I recall being only about ten years old and regularly going to the corner drug store to pick up an Armstrong Daily (a horse racing sheet for serious horse players) for Uncle Bill. Every night at six o’clock, no one would dare speak “upstairs” because we knew that’s when Uncle Bill listened to every word of the daily race results on the radio. I think by the time I was eleven, I knew more than any other eleven year old about “the track,” about bookmakers, and about horse players in general.

I specifically recall Uncle Bill asking me if I wanted to take a ride with him “Down Neck” (the Ironbound Section of Newark) to run some errands and to “talk with a couple a guys.” I always looked forward to these trips, because it gave me a chance to see some of Uncle Bill’s colorful friends. They all had interesting nicknames, not unlike the names one hears on the Sopranos. Uncle Bill was known to them as “Harp.”

“Hey Harp. Who’s da kid?”

“He’s my sister-in-law’s son. I’m just showin’ him around. Jimmy, say hello to Doo-Doo.”

“Hi, Doo-Doo. Nice to meet ya.”

“Hey, Jimmy. Nice to meet you. Good kid there, Harp. Yo, Jimmy. When’s Harp gonna take you to da track?”

“When he gets a little older. Right now I’m just showin’ him the ropes.”

They also all talked exactly like him in a kind of New Jersey English spoken, to my knowledge, exclusively Down Neck. So, in “Down Neckese” the word “follow” was pronounced “folee,” and “swallow” was “swalee.” The word “ate” was pronounced “et,” most often heard as “No, nothing for me, thanks. I already et.” A “thief” was a “teef” and a “tooth” was a “toot.” One went to the dentist to get you “teet” fixed or because you had a “tootache.”

One day when I was 14 years old, he and my mother were headed off to the track and, true to Uncle Bill’s word, they decided to take me along for the day. I can recall being a bit worried that the minimum age for admittance to the track was 16 and that the trip would be a bust for Uncle Bill and my mother, if I were not permitted to enter. As we were walking from the car to the entrance, my mother lit a cigarette, handed it to me, and said “Put this in your mouth as we go through the entrance. It’ll make you look 16.” Uncle Bill got a kick out of that, and cigarette thing worked. I was finally at the track.

Once inside, the first lesson Uncle Bill taught me was the “law of the newspaper,” which is that, once you put your newspaper on a seat, it was yours for the day. No self-respecting horse player would dream of taking a seat on which someone had placed “his paper.” I also learned that when a certain jockey, named Walter Blum, ran out of the money with a favorite, the thing to do was to stand by the paddock after the race and wait for the jockeys to walk by for a chance to call Walter Blum a “bannana-nosed teef.”

Another time he took me to the track, and he had a particularly good day. He had won money on four or five races and parlayed it all on a horse in the ninth and final race. Amazingly, after he placed the bet, we left the track before the start of the race in order to “beat the traffic.” The next morning, he opened the newspaper to the section that contained the race results. He was sitting across the table from me, so all I could see was the front and back pages of the opened newspaper. After a frustrating period of silence, all he said was, “That horse came in.” I knew that etiquette dictated that one never asked how much money someone won (or lost), but knowing that he had put the proceeds of five winning races on the horse, I could not resist, so I asked, “How much did you win?”

He lowered the newspaper from his face, smiled and said, “Boxcar numbers, Jimmy. Boxcar numbers.”

What a wonderful education.

Uncle Bill. May he rest in peace and enjoy an eternity of SEE-gars, fast tracks and winning horses that pay boxcar numbers.

I will be away for a week, taking some badly needed R&R. Now that I have been at this regularly for damned near the gestation period of a human being, I am a little worried about going through blogging withdrawal while I’m away. However, if plenty of booze helps, I should be OK.

In the meantime, please feel free to talk about me after I leave the room.

Also, please read the great things written in the places listed over there on the left. You can start be checking out TJ’s story of a guy in her college German class whose German was extremely creative if not ganz fliessend. I also would appreciate it if you would keep an eye on Cousin Jack, as I am a bit worried about him. He is extolling the wonders of worm shit! I think maybe it’s time for Jack to return to Jersey for a bit of retooling.

Oh, yeah. One more thing. I promised Tiger (the King of too many annoying footnotes) a spot on my Blogroll, so there it is. I get a kick out of Tiger. Go take a look. Yeah. I know. Another lawyer on the blogroll. Pretty soon people are going to realize that lawyers have a secret handshake.

So, please mind the store. I’ll see you all in a week.