Malt Shop Logic

... that, until very recently, almost inconceivable to think that I'd ever find myself in the business of censoring penises.

In fact, I always thought of myself as one of the more avant-garde thinkers in the field.

But then:

take a moment to cut-paste-and-visit

www.pandora.com

Welcome to the only place I have ever heard Guttermouth's version of "April 29, 1992" broadcast by means other than out my car windows.

Listen to it, bitches.

Josh, this doesn't apply to you (yet), but for the rest of you...am I the only one who's noticed the following:

lately, when I'm in a store -- grocery, department, whatever...I notice that as I walk around, I recognize nearly every song playing on the in-store PA -- there's a lot of Counting Crows, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, etc. I especially notice it at a grocery store known as "Big Y". There are several of them in Connecticut, and one just opened nearby. Every time I walk in, there's an early-to-mid 90s rock/pop song playing on the in-store sound system -- which tells me two things:

1. Those stores are all using the same demographic research and marketing firms, which are handing them a list of songs that should be played to appeal to 30-somethings who are shopping for themselves -- and their children. .

2. I'm getting old, because I fit the demographic..........

So Chris, moved in yet?

And I will be staying here during the last week of September. Pays to have a partner who gets to attend conferences in fun places :-)

Early yesterday afternoon, just about the time Tiger Woods was arriving at Southern Hills to limber up before surviving the ridiculous heat to pocket his 13th major professional golf tournament victory, my 10 month-old daughter announced with a sharp cry that she was awake and in need of attention.

Like I've done many (100? 500?) times before, I ran upstairs, scooped her from the crib, deposited her on the floor, and followed her down the hallway as she speed-crawled from the nursery to our master bedroom to find her momma.

As usual, she showed no interest in the stairs opposite our bedroom. Stopping just short of our doorway, her eyes alighted on a copy of the Economist laying on the floor. I'd brought it upstairs the night before to read before drifting off to sleep. I had then and have now no recollection of how the magazine had migrated from my nightstand to the floor in the hallway. She picked it up and opened it. As she pulled the open magazine toward her, the wide spread of her arms and their backward movement unbalanced her, and she toppled over backward.

It was the one thing I wasn't expecting.

It was the one time I was not between her and the stairs.

It was the one time I'd left the gate open after coming up the stairs to grab her.

And she fell -- right down the stairs.

As she tumbled through a couple of backward somersaults, off the edge of the carpeted landing at the top of the stairs, into open space above the 14 bare, wooden stairs and tile floor below her, I thought, "Oh. No!" And then I thought, "I just killed my daughter."

Audrey's tiny body bounced down from step to step. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I instinctively dove headfirst down the stairs after her. I remember crying out, "Noooooo!" I remember thinking that if I reached her, I would find a crumpled, defenseless, lifeless body, and that for all my striving to be a good father, after 10+ months of hard work every day, her life would be snuffed out by one moment of inattention. I remember thinking that seemed terribly unfair. I remember thinking, "I'm so sorry, Audrey, I'm so, so sorry."

Time seemed to stretch out in front of me, as did the distance between my clutching fingers and Audrey's frail body. At last I was at the bottom of the stairs, and I had managed to catch Audrey between the last wooden stair and the hard, unforgiving ceramic tile floor below it.

She was in my arms, and she was screaming in pain. I wish I could write that I was strong then, but I was not. I was shaking, and I was a damn mess. As I sat there cradling her in my arms, I thought over and over about the fractures she must have suffered -- arms, legs, head. I thought about her neck and head -- were they badly injured? They MUST be badly injured! Is she dying? She MUST be dying!

Cherie, who'd been cleaning in the bedroom, only to hear her daughter fall and her partner cry out in anguished disbelief, raced downstairs and took command of the situation. She got me up and hunting for our car keys, got Audrey bundled into the car, got me thinking. "Hospital's only 5 miles away. I can be there faster than an ambulance can get here and back." I jumped into the driver's seat, punched the gas on the Passat, and ran every stoplight I could between our house and the hospital. Cherie yelled at me several times to slow down, but I heard her only as distant chatter. She would forgive me for speeding as long as we reached the hospital quickly and safely. Cherie called ahead to let them know we were coming. I gunned the engine again.

Less than 5 minutes after leaving the hospital, we arrived at the entrance to the Emergency Department. Nurse after nurse, PA after PA, doctor after doctor checked her -- temperature, pulse, heartbeat, blood pressure, blood oxygen, lung sounds, reflexes, awareness, wakefulness, reaction to visual and audio stimuli, test after test after test, all with the same result:

Audrey was perfectly, unbelievably, inexplicably fine.

Aside from one bump in the middle of her forehead, she had survived plunging down 14 bare, wooden stairs unscathed. Not one more scratch. Not one more bruise. Not one more unseen injury. By the time the testing and observation periods were over, she was crying -- not because she was still in pain -- a little liquid Tylenol from a nurse had cured that -- but because the hospital trip had caused her to miss lunch. She was starving, and she wanted a bottle, damnit!

While Cherie fed her, I tallied up my injuries: two severely bruised knees, a chipped bone on the inside of my left elbow, and bruised ribs, all from flinging myself unthinkingly down a flight of stairs. Oh, and one wounded heart. I had let down my little girl, and it was only by the grace of God that she had survived.

Near as I can tell, Audrey's survival and near freedom from injury were owed to one factor. As she toppled off the landing, her body turned sideways. Instead of tumbling head over heels, smacking her head and neck with every revolution, she rolled down the stairs sideways like a giddy 10 year-old rolling down a steep, grassy hill. More often than not, she rolled in mid-air, and when she hit a stair, she hit it with her hands and feet instead of her face or head. I thank God for that wonderful bit of fortune. If not for that sideways roll, this story might have a very different conclusion.

As it is, it will be years before I can erase these images from my mind, and before I can forgive myself for what could have been a fatal accident.

Snyder, Paul, Matt -- hug your kids for me.

...there is an interesting article in the New York Times today about the City Council's attempts to ban bitch and ho from the lexicon of NYC residents, and the resistance they're encountering, particularly because of the popularity of the word, "bitch". Turns out that in some instances (as used by Mr. Close), it is a term of "camaraderie". So to the Council I say, "Close, but no cigar, bitches."

Watched Cubs from rooftop on Sheffield for first time ever:

Watched Cubs move into first place, first time since 2003: