Granted, there’s no "i" in team, but there is an “m” and an “e.” So there.

I’ll celebrate Opening Day in my usual fashion – keep up a steady patter of infield chatter all day, scratch myself inappropriately in public, spit tobacco juice all over and brush someone back with a stapler thrown behind his ear, starting a benches-clearing brawl in the breakroom. And tonight, screw it, I’m gonna rebroadcast without the express written consent of Major League Baseball. Play ball! And go Cubbies!

This seems like a good day to point out that I’d take a bullet for any of you, with three exceptions – and you know who you are, and why.

I read the other day that a plea deal is likely in Willie Nelson’s latest pot bust. While I’m agnostic on the question of legalizing marijuana, I would heartily support legislation to allow Willie to smoke as much of it as he wants. Of course, I'd probably look the other way if Willie felt like he had to kill a couple of people, too, because, you know, it’s Willie, and I’m sure he’d have his reasons.

Suits me -- but not so fine

My son is getting married this summer, and I need to buy a new suit. I dread this, naturally, as I live by Henry David Thoreau's words: "Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes." At the risk of being presumptuous, I might amend Thoreau's quote by adding the phrase, "especially those that involve a stranger measuring your body."

But my son and future daughter-in-law have told me I need a new suit for the big day, and while I’m prepared to ignore my son, I am eager to keep his bride-to-be happy, as she's taking him off my hands and I don't want to give her any reason to change her mind. I'd wear a Lady Gaga meat suit if she asked me to.

So, anyway, I’m going suit shopping, which, did I mention, I hate. It’s been awhile. I have a life and a career that rarely requires me to wear a suit. In fact, were I to show up at work in one, my colleagues likely would offer condolences and perhaps deposit a funeral casserole or ham on my desk.

Most of the time I'm pleased I’m not a suit-and-tie guy, but occasionally it occurs to me that this probably should be a source of embarrassment for a guy my age. I mean, I could show up at work in shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and bolo tie and flip-flops and probably make it through a day or two before someone questioned my garb. Either that, or others would start copying me, assuming I knew something they didn't, though I never do.

Although it's been awhile, I do recall how unpleasant suit shopping is. On one occasion, a suit salesman used the word Crisco to describe my build. "Crisco, what does that mean?," I asked, ill-advisedly. "Fat in the can," said he.

I already know my inseam-to-waist ratio runs opposite the direction I'd like, putting me solidly in the Short and Fat Demographic, and I don't need some dude measuring me to confirm it. And while I'm at peace with the fact that my waist certainly has grown since my last suit purchase, I'm terrified that my inseam may have shrunk. I mean, for some reason, I've just felt closer to the ground lately. Either I’m being beaten down, or the ground is rising – maybe from all this recent seismic activity.

And, Lord, surely they’ve come up with a digital way to measure the inseam by now, haven't they?

Shopping for new clothes -- especially nice ones -- is an unwelcome reminder that the middle-aged body is in a losing war against gravity, appetite, the recliner chair and other inexorable forces of nature. I do what I can. I work out several times a week and try, with mixed success, to control my intake. Like most at my age, I’m long past vanity. I'd just like to be around to dance at my son's son's wedding someday -- or at least to be wheeled in by my hot, young, live-in nurse and have her wipe wedding cake and drool off my chin and shoo children off my oxygen tube when I begin turning blue.

I did make an initial foray into a local men’s clothing story over the weekend and looked around for the fat salesmen. But, no, the salesmen were all glib, slim young men who are of no real assistance to me, for they’ve never felt the strain of the jacket across the midsection, or heard that faint ripping sound from the seam between the cheeks when they bend over to pick up a fork from the floor at the buffet and face that choice: Do I slink back to my table, back against the wall, now, or hope the pants hold together long enough for me to walk over to fill my plate with one last serving of fried chicken first?

Presumably, it was after a visit to a suit shop that Thoreau made his aforementioned observation -- and then headed out to Walden Pond to live the rest of his days in shorts, Hawaiian shirts and bolo ties and flip-flops.

There’s another Thoreau line worth noting: “I stand in awe of my body,” but I suspect that was transcribed incorrectly.

What he meant was: “I stand. Aaaagh, my body!”

South Carolina lawmakers are stickin’ it to those dim bulbs in D.C. with a bill to allow incandescent bulbs to be made in the state, despite a federal law mandating a move to more energy-efficient fluorescents. Not to be outdone, Mississippi will require all lamps – even nightlights -- to use three 100-watt bulbs. And Arizona is installing in all state buildings whale-blubber-burning lamps. States’ rights live!

A workplace tip: It's not covered in Robert's Rules, but when it reaches the 2-hour mark, an office meeting legally becomes a hostage situation. Text 911 to send a SWAT team out to toss a couple of concussion grenades into the conference room and adjourn the damn thing. And they'll even Tase those two jackwagons without whose incessant yammering on every agenda item the meeting would have ended 75 minutes earlier.

Go ahead, steal my identity. After a week, two tops, you'll bring it back.

Say, did you hear the one about the dumb blonde fashionista who was persuaded to join the U.S. Marines by a clever recruiter? She was plenty steamed when she got down to Parris Island and discovered boot camp was not at all what she'd been led to believe.

Another workweek. C’mon, let’s touch base, get on the same page, think outside the box, bring our A-game, put our heads together, hit the ground running, keep each other in the loop, get on the cutting edge, interface, run the numbers and see how they look, get our ducks in a row, keep this on our radar, expand our knowledge base, push the envelope, synergize, monetize and, last but not least, make the logo bigger.

My daughter is home from a spring break "nun run" -- a breakneck trip from here to NY with stops along the way to do community work with Catholic sisters. Yeah, it was a new one on me, too. I assumed "nun runs" meant gastrointestinal distress at convents. Oh, come now, you knew where this was headed from the first sentence, and yet you read on anyway. So, don't act all aggrieved now; you're an enabler of this stuff.

To know me is to barely tolerate me.

Let's see, there's the short-fingered vulgarian with the gravity-defying comb-over; Mewt and Nitt; Palindrone; Cain Ain't Able; the Huckster; the guy with two first names -- Paul Ron? and two Minnesotans -- Bachmann Turn Her Over Jive and Pawlenty O' Nothin'. So, the question for the GOP 10 months from Iowa is the one Orioles manager Earl Weaver used to ask umpires: “Are you going to get any better, or is this it?”

An observation in listening to March Madness interviews: Losing coaches invariably have more interesting things to say than winners. Is it because loss offers a more revealing glimpse into the human soul than victory? Is it that in losing we discover and reveal our basic humanity, come face to face with our vulnerability? Or is it just that we love hearing that nasally sadness in Coach K's voice after a bitter defeat?

Sometimes, maybe, the crazy at your job feels like floodwaters -- rising a little higher each day; snakes and other ominous critters brushing by you in the brackish, scummy water; a coworker occasionally getting sucked under with one last, awful gurgling sound, never to be seen again. Well, grab your seat cushion -- remember, it can be used as a flotation device -- and head for the top floor and pray for a helicopter.

People warned me that if I voted for John McCain, we’d end up in another damn, ill-defined war, and they were right.

Perhaps you're new to this area and you're understandably perplexed this morning at the mercurial nature of the weather, given that just a couple of days after 70-degree temps there is a fresh coat of snow on the ground. Well, wait five minutes and someone will say, "if you don't like the weather in Nebraska, just wait five minutes."

The rising gas prices are bad enough, but, damn, there’s just no call for adding insult to injury. I slipped my debit card into the slot at the pump this morning and dutifully made my way through the usual prompts: “Enter PIN.” “Would you like a car wash?” “Do you want a receipt?” Finally, after “Approved” was this final instruction: “Bend over and insert nozzle." C'mon, is that really necessary?

I'm a sensitive, modern guy, so, yes, I have a pretty finely attuned gaydar, but it's nothing compared to my chocodar, which can sense the presence of chocolate in my office building anytime, anywhere and, on a clear, windless day, can pick up the signal from a building or two away.

Elvis never sang about them, but just down the street from Heartbreak Hotel were Melancholy Motel, Lugubrious Lodge, Hostile Hostel, Remorseful Rooming House and Bitterness Bed and Breakfast. Talk about a blighted neighborhood. Thank God it was so much fun to stay at the YMCA.

Granted, what you do may not be brain surgery, but given the sort of people and situations you deal with, there are days it could be likened to proctology.

I was That Guy today, the guy I promised I’d never be, the guy I once mocked. Yes, I was That Guy who took potato chips to the office potluck. They were the cheap store brand, too. And no dip. I did take two bags, but I know that doesn’t make it right. Next time, I promise, I’ll plan farther ahead and maybe make some Crepes Suzettes or Coq au Vin. Or at least take Lay’s.

There’s an outfit traveling the country claiming Judgment Day is May 21. You know the drill: Those who are saved go straight to heaven, the rest of us have until Oct. 21; in the interim we will endure 153 days of death and horror. That's on top of having no NFL, mind you, so this is one vengeful Old Testament God we’re dealing with here. I don’t buy it, but, just in case, I’m gonna hold off on cleaning the garage.

Yes, the woes in the Mideast and North Africa underscore need to move from foreign oil to alternative energy. But let's not kid ourselves. We humans will go to war over harnessing and controlling solar and wind power, too. The Pentagon probably already has plans for the inevitable war with Canada over those bastards trying to keep their Chinook winds north of the border. And, yes, it already has a name: Operation Blow Us.

CIA is at work on some covert ops to depose Gadhafi. I know what you’re thinking, but they’ve come a long way from the old exploding cigar trick. For example, they managed to inject the colonel with a potent mix of March Madness and Bieber Fever, and it’s working: his bracket got blown to hell this weekend, and he was spotted doodling “MG + JB” in his notebook. They’re keeping a watch for any radical hairdo change.

Grocery stores have special parking for disabled patrons and families with small children. How about a specially designated stall or two close to the door for shoppers who are just making a quick stop, in and out, for that one last ingredient that, dammit, they thought they had but got halfway through a recipe and realized they didn't? Signage could show the silhouette of a guy running with a spice jar in his hand.

Bummer, a Hummer

There's a new red Hummer in my part of town. I've seen the vehicle about 10 times in the last couple of weeks in a handful of the parking lots I frequent.

I haven't seen the driver yet, though it's not for lack of trying. The last few times, I've parked near it, hoping we might return to our vehicles about the same time -- you know, so I can see what kind of guy buys a big red Hummer and so I can give him the stinkeye. Once, I was pretty sure there was someone actually in the Hummer as it sat in the lot, but it has tinted windows so I couldn't tell for certain. I sat and watched the windows a few seconds and briefly considered following him when he left the lot, but, as it occurred to me I might be getting uncomfortably close to my state's legal definition of stalking, I decided to cease and desist before someone knocked on my window to serve me with a restraining order and perhaps Tased me for good measure.

Although I don't know the driver, naturally I despise him and everything he stands for. Not just a Hummer, mind you, but a bright red one -- a means of transport that essentially serves as a big, fat F-you to every other living thing on the planet. I presume when I do get a glimpse of him opening his door, a couple of dozen Styrofoam cups and a half barrel of crude oil will spill out on the ground, along with the corpse of a baby seal and a nest full of broken bald-eagle eggs. He'll jack a round into the chamber of his concealed handgun -- because, you know, you can't be too careful in the produce section of the Super Saver grocery store -- and empty his ashtray on the woman in the Celica underneath that he crushed and dragged for a couple of miles.

Yes, we do tend to stereotype people based on the vehicles they drive, don't we? In particular, some theorize that men -- like the guy in the red Hummer whose guts I hate -- see their vehicles as an expression of their manhood, as in the bigger and showier, the better. Some amateur psychoanalysts go so far as to intimate that some men tend to overcompensate with their vehicle choice -- as in the larger their car, the smaller their crankshaft, if you know what I mean.

I don't know about that, though it is reported that shortly after the guy invented the first wheel, a second guy rolled out of his cave a much larger wheel, and then a third guy, said, "look here" and produced four of them along with a bitchin' sound system, a pine-tree air-freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror and mud flaps with nekkid cavewomen on 'em -- whereupon the first guy went off with his club on the third dude, in the first instance of road rage, albeit before the first road had even been built. Moments later, OPEC formed, McDonald's established the first drive-through window, the first birds were flipped between drivers, and the automotive age was off and running.

My own vehicles, in case you're wondering, have included a Chevy Impala station wagon, Citation and Malibu; a Nissan Stanza; a Ford Festiva; a GMC Sonoma pickup truck; Nissan Quest, Voyager and Caravan minivans; and a Saturn. I might be in the market for one of the Smartcars, though I'm waiting for them to add the option of a handle on top so if it breaks down you can just carry it home.

I don't know what sort of statement, if any, I'm making with those vehicles -- and, no, I'm not inviting suggestions from readers. I would point out, however, that if you're looking for truly virile, manly men, never mind the Hummers, sportscars and half-block-long pickup trucks. Check out us guys in the minivans -- you know, the ones from which children spill out of every door and, it seems, even from underneath.

I won't know what to think if I finally catch up with the red Hummer, and, instead of some guy, out steps a woman who, it turns out, has been eyeing with concern that grubby green Sonoma that keeps showing up near her in parking lots -- the one filled with old newspapers and fast-food wrappers and being driven by a schlubby, middle-aged dude who, for some reason, is always scowling in her direction. Somehow, she's jumped to the conclusion that the driver of such a vehicle must be a pathetic, yet maybe dangerous, loser.

I just hope I get a chance to explain myself before I get a face full of pepper spray.

I just finished my last home-improvement project of the winter -- "accidentally" breaking every kitchen item that wasn't microwave- or dishwasher-safe. Kudos to Pampered Chef, BTW: that baking dish really IS almost indestructible. After dropping it on the floor several times, I took 10 whacks with a sledgehammer before it succumbed. Now, I hope hammer is dishwasher safe as I need to get paint chips off before wife sees it.

I've never cried over spilled milk, though I did once sob uncontrollably when my last beer tipped over and soaked my last serving of nachos.

You’ve heard of the Peter Principle: In a hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence. Less-known is the Paul and Mary Principle, which is: In a hierarchy that fetishizes team-based work, it’s inevitable you’ll be tapped to lead the office’s most complex, critical project and get stuck with the two laziest, most worthless colleagues on your team. Let’s call these nimrods “Paul” and “Mary.”

March is National Women's History Month. Guys, guys, I know what you're thinking. But, c'mon now, EVERY month is National Men's History Month.

Look, I tried on my one green shirt this morning; it probably last fit me 150 servings of Irish stew ago. In fact, I looked like a huge green M&M, and I had serious doubts about the structural integrity of the buttons and seams. So, no, I’m not wearing green today. By all means, go ahead and pinch me if you must, but you might want to make sure you have an excellent sexual-harassment defense lawyer on standby.

I don't do green beer anymore, but I did find something green to eat in the very back of the fridge this morning.

About 90% of success in life is attitude, agree legions of motivational jabberers and pillow cross-stitchers. For example, there’s a huge difference in how you carry yourself when going commando because you think it’s sexy compared to when you’re just out of clean clothes. Not that I’m speaking from personal experience -- well, at the former, anyway. Besides, I carry myself like this because my shorts are too tight.

I just threw the red flag -- need to have the replay booth take another look at this day and try to figure out exactly where in the hell it all went wrong.

It's the Ides of March. You know the drill -- beware of guys in tunics. Come to think of it, that's just good advice every day, though, isn't it?

A pox on both the optimist and the pessimist with their pointless philosophical debate. What we need around here is someone to grab a pitcher and just refill the damn glass so we can get on with it.

Spring springs

Our annual Spring Break revelers showed up today.

No, no wet T-shirt contests or drunken frat boys passed out on our lawn. Our Spring Breakers are a duck couple that's appeared every year about this time for the last five years or so. They spend three or four weeks hanging out in and around our tiny backyard pond, swimming little laps and plundering our ground birdfeeder, before they disappear until we see them a year later.

We've grown accustomed to each other. Their first spring here, they were very skittish and would bolt to the skies at the first sign of life on our upstairs deck. Now, I'm able to walk by them, a mere 10 feet away. They scold me -- I don't speak duck, but I know a four-letter quack when I hear one -- and they waddle about indignantly, but they stay put.

I don't know where they were before they showed up or where they go when they leave. I'm sure I could do some research on duck migration patterns in our part of the country and figure it out, but I don't have to know everything. I'm just happy that our yard is a quiet little stopover between their winter and summer quarters. A chance for them to spend a little alone time together, get themselves in a row, if you will, before they repair on to that whole crazy duck scene on one of the nearby lakes.

Mid-March begins my favorite two months or so in this part of the country. Conditions are still tenuous, Lord knows, with 60-degree days yielding to 30-degree days and vice versa, and with another winter storm or two (or more) possible. But such storms come and go quickly and, meantime, there will be a few -- though never enough -- purely perfect days in late April and early May. The first will arrive after a day of rain, with an absolute explosion of green and the realization, "damn, I need to mow the lawn already."

See, we earn spring around these parts, and so we enjoy it.

Another sign of the season: While walking early in the morning a couple of days ago, earbuds piping music into my head, I noticed some other sound in the lulls between songs -- robins and cardinals singing in the trees. I took my earbuds out and enjoyed listening to their bold pickup lines: "Hey, baby, give me your user name; I'm gonna tweet you." "Don't forget, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." "C'mon, doll, I'm goin' out on a limb for you." "Baby, you could knock me over with a feather." (Yeah, I don't know how they get any action with those lines, either.)

Heck, even our football coach is in his spring plumage -- Spittle Bo P is seen on today's sports page with an actual smile on his face, pronouncing his satisfaction with the first day of spring practice. This sends a thrill across Husker Nation, which carefully monitors Pelini's emotional temperature for cues on whether to feel hope or despair. Another day or two of good practices, and he'll be mugging around in a sweater vest and coke-bottle glasses in homage to a couple of his new Big 10 colleagues, and maybe even grabbing Taylor Martinez's cell phone and exchanging some good-natured texts with the QB's old man.

The smiles will come fewer and farther between as summer and fall proceed, of course, and by mid-November Bo will be stroking out on the sidelines and chewing up and spitting out referees and disobedient quarterbacks again.

Similarly, spring's hope and promise will fade for my duck tenants crowded on the lakefront, who will come to be reminded that ducks really are kind of disgusting, crapping every which where they please, and the robins and cardinals, who will grow sick of their love nests after they're transformed into nurseries, filled with that constant, infernal cheep-cheep-cheep.

But for now, Spring Fever dawns -- for ducks, robins and cardinals and even grouchy football coaches.

I grit my teeth when journalists fall back on tired, lazy cliches. I saw one of my least favorites the other day -- "freak accident." Please, the term should be reserved for, say, a mishap on circus grounds between the sword swallower and bearded lady, or maybe an interstate rollover featuring George Clinton's tour bus. I suppose we also could accept its use in describing a fender bender between Gary Busey and Charlie Sheen.

So it turns out, much to my embarrassment and much to the annoyance of the people behind me in line, that when the debit-card reader at the grocery store checkout flashes the message "is this amount OK?", it's not an invitation to negotiate. So why does it ask me then?

Waking, dreaming and dreamless sleep -- in Sanskrit, known as Jagrata, Swapna and Sushupti -- are long-known states of consciousness. Newly identified is Reclinta -- a state of suspended consciousness attained in a recliner lasting 1-4 hours, ending when someone tries to slip the remote control from your hand -- "hey, no, I'm watching that," you yell as you tighten your grip, though you have no idea what's on anymore.

How bad a Catholic am I if, on a Lenten Friday, as I pick desultorily at my salmon patty or Tuna Helper, I wonder longingly what the Methodists, or Unitarians, or, God forbid (literally), the atheists are eating?

I've completed writing my response play to "The Vagina Monologues." It's called "The Penis Harangues." Not for the faint of heart -- two hours of largely incoherent shrieking and howling, stomping of feet, petulant pouting, etc. Reviews have been especially mixed for the edgy, unconventional intermission, in which actors follow playgoers into the lobby and continue screaming, pushing and shoving them for attention.

CNN is reporting that a methed-up, crazed, naked man just shot up a liquor store in L.A. Yep, you guessed it -- Jon Cryer. That dumbass show is down to just half a man now.

I’m thinking of starting a chain of paired clothing stores for parents who are afflicted with that typical middle-aged spread. The men’s clothing store would be right next door to the women’s. I’d call them Father Figure and The Motherload. Whaddya think?

I don't know that my family quite qualifies as dysfunctional, but it's certainly clear we're not dat functional.

Nobody's making a fool out of me this year. I'll gladly lift my shirt, but I wanna see the beads first.

Say, did you hear the one about the struggling student who handed mom and dad a pair of weird glasses before they went to his parent-teacher conferences? "You'll probably need these," he said. "It's a 3D show."

So, you say you can read me like a book? Big deal. I ain't exactly "Ulysses." Closer to Danielle Steel, though with considerably less sex.

I really resent it when people say I have a sophomoric sense of humor. I'm shooting for freshmanic, dammit.

Freedom's just another word for somethin' left in ooze

As the proud holder of a bachelor's degree in journalism and political science, I cannot help but be a hardcore First Amendment absolutist. It's an occupational hazard. So, yes, I welcomed the Supreme Court's ruling this week that Phred Felps and company are free to spew their bile wherever they wish, even at funerals of soldiers who die in the service of a country way too good for those Topekretins.

Besides, the Supreme Court presumably will be there for me when I and my own cult -- comprising gays, soldiers, atheists, Jews, Muslims and Christians of all denominations -- march outside the Westboro Baptist Church with signs proclaiming "You know, God's really not in the business of hating, though He's considering maybe carving out a few exceptions. On the other hand, Satan's a big fan of your work."

Yeah, I know it's a bit much, but it'll just be one sign, held aloft by about 20 of us.

In any case, I love freedom of speech and the whole Bill of Rights. I put it with the Ten Commandments, 1 Corinthians 13: 1-13 and John "Bluto" Blutarsky's motivational speech in "Animal House" as the most meaningful and inspirational words ever penned.

Still, there's no denying the First Amendment has become the refuge of all manner of idiocy, pointless offensiveness and just plain douchebaggery. If Voltaire had lived to see our age, he no doubt would have amended his famous free-speech defense to something like: "I may not agree with what you say, in fact I really can't believe you're saying something so stupid, but I will defend your right to say it. Not to the death, of course, because how embarrassing would it be to die for some hate-mongering jackwagon's right to say 'God hates fags' or a gangsta rapper's right to threaten to kill his m-f'ing bitches? In fact, not only would I not defend it to the death, but I don't think I'd take a punch, or even a pinch, for it. But go ahead, say it; what do I care if you make a fool of yourself?"

Not very pithy. It's probably just as well Voltaire isn't around anymore.

So, a modest proposal: Perhaps it's time for a Constitutional Convention to tweak the Bill of Rights just a bit. What we need is a series of subamendments. As a working title, let's call them the Yeah, But What the Hell, Dude, Seriously, That's Where You're Going With This? amendments.

Here's how it might work:

Amendment 1: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

a. Yeah, But What the Hell, Dude, Seriously, That's Where You're Going With This? You think freedom of speech should protect you from being disciplined for bitching about your employer on Facebook? I mean, c'mon, having the "right" to do something doesn't excuse you from the consequences of being an idiot.

b. YBWTHDSTWYGWT? Don't get your panties in a bunch with every mention of God in the public square. At the same time, though, quit insisting Christianity be waved in everyone's faces everywhere. As the book of Matthew tells us: “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven ... When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others ... when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father." Capice? (Matthew didn't say that; I did.)

c. YBWTHDSTWYGWT? The right to peaceably assemble is all well and good, but the moment you play the Hitler card, or accuse your government of either socialism or fascism, you probably could use a trip to Libya or Myonmar for a little perspective, or at least a bop on the head with your picket sign.

Amendment 2: A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

a. YBWTHDSTWYGWT? This is awkward. A clerk actually made a terrible mistake when transcribing James Madison's scrawl, a mistake from which this country has suffered dearly. Madison intended to guarantee the right to "bare arms," as there was great persecution in that time of those who dared go sleeveless. Even Ben Franklin once was nearly lynched when he showed up in a tavern wearing a tank top.

You get the idea. The amendments would still be in full effect. This is merely an attempt to provide a little modern context to account for the general asininity of our time.

Finally, how about naming this Constitutional Convention after the late John Blutarsky, who, you'll recall, went on to be elected to the U.S. Senate, where he was legendary for the Pearl Harbor Day speech he gave every Dec. 7.