1. Why is it that John Roberts seems to be getting, at worst, gentle mocking that he has apparently been "grooming" himself for a Supreme Court nomination for decades, but John Kerry was pilloried for seeming to have groomed himself for the presidency? I can certainly think of differences between the two men (and perhaps Al Gore is a better example than Kerry), but I just find it curious that we seem to dislike presidential candidates who have been setting themselves up for it since birth, but it's not as if we're appointing any recovering frat-boys to the Supreme Court.

2. I was listening to the Beastie Boys' "Paul's Boutique" album the other day, and it reminded me of something. A friend of mine saw them in concert once, and just before they performed "Eggman," one of the guys said, "This is a song about AIDS." I was pretty sure my friend misheard that, and that what was really said was "This is a song about eggs." But my friend swears it was "AIDS." So I was wondering: Can anybody come up with an interpretation of those lyrics to make "Eggman" a song about AIDS? I'm dubious.

3. I was watching "Mythbusters" the other night on the Discovery Channel. They were busting the Hollywood-inspired myth that a gunshot will blow a shooting victim backwards several feet, through walls, etc. I don't want to debate it here -- you can go to the message boards for that. I buy into the theory that the force of the bullet isn't enough to do it without also knocking the shooter down, and that the backwards-flying victim reacts that way because he's off-balance or is reacting to the pain. But that's not my question, so don't get into it here. My question is this. On the show, the guys set up a target 22 feet away from them. The reason for this distance, they said, was that 70% of fatal shootings happen from that distance. I don't have any reason to doubt that, but I would love to see a source for that. Does anyone know if that's true? What's so special about 22 feet?

Your thoughts are welcome.

I know I've been in kind of a blogging funk lately, but it sure isn't helped when I spend a while working on a post about a current news item, including doing some background reading, only to see another bigger, better blogger blow the subject out of the water with a comprehensive post the likes of which I couldn't come close to writing.

Oh well. Ctrl+A+Del.

(Since I know you're going to ask, the news item was "Rev." Pat Robertson's call for the U.S. to assassinate Hugo Chavez, and I was going to talk a bit about one of my heroes, German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who felt his moral obligations required him to join in a plot to kill Hitler. But Prof. Volokh's great post about Robertson and Chavez took the wind out of my sails.)

Instead, I'll tell you about something weird that happened to me the other night.

I was in a bookstore, browsing through the military history section. This guy comes down the aisle and kind of sidles up near me. I didn't think much of it; I figured, maybe he's into military history. The guy was a few years younger than me, tall, decent-looking, with spiky hair, a dark tan, and a striped shirt. In short, a total metrosexual. I was okay with that -- whatever works for him. But then...he started talking to me.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I hate those involuntary conversations, those awkward encounters where people start chatting with you as if you're interested in whatever they have to say. Forget about peace on earth and an end to all suffering. If I had but one holiday wish, I would never again have to be subjected to one of these maddening demonstrations of the breakdown of the social order. I'm usually a pretty equanimous guy, but man oh man, finding myself in an involuntary conversation just burns me up.

It's not so much the idea of having to talk with a stranger; I'm not quite that anti-social. It's the way these conversations happen. It's always something like me being in a bookstore, quiety browsing and minding my own business, or eating somewhere while I'm reading a magazine, or some other act that gives absolutely no indication to the outside world that it is welcome to join me. And then some nimrod ambles over and starts yammering. And usually it's as if I'm immaterial to the conversation, too -- it's like they start in the middle of wherever the last fool they accosted left them. I was in another bookstore (same chain, so maybe it's a haven) last year, and some guy walks over and starts laughing about how he's moved all the books around. "I put the Rush Limbaugh next to the Al Franken -- it'll blow their minds!" I guess he wanted me to join his little guerilla campaign against alphabetical classification.

Anyway, so the other night I found myself being talked to by the metro. At first, he was saying something like, "Just looking for something good to read..." as if he had discovered a new use for bookstores. I offered a noncommittal grunt or two, while keeping my eyes straight ahead. I didn't want to be a total jerk, in case he suddenly went all roid-rage on me for not talking to him, but nor did I want to give in and join his conversation.

One good thing about finding yourself in an involuntary conversation in a bookstore is that browsing to the next shelf gives you a good reason to take a big step away from the intruder. This I did, but the metro crossed in front of me and started "browsing" the next shelf. "So are you into this history stuff? Yeah? I'm a history buff myself." Then he picked up a book with Hitler on the cover. "You know what, a buddy of mine was reading...whatcacallit...Mein Kampf for a report he had to do." Me, thinking: Oh my lord, I'm being recruited to join the College Nazis! On and on he drones. "Yeah, that guy had some messed-up ideas, but he's a good writer!" Me, not wanting to discuss Hitler's merits as a writer: "Well, I guess he sold a lot of people on it."

This nightmare probably only lasted a minute or so, but it seemed like it went on forever. Finally, the metro turns to face me in the aisle and asks, "Hey, you look familiar -- are you a teacher around here?" Me: "Nope." The metro: "You look really familiar to me. Are you from around here?" Me, still looking straight ahead: "Nope." I really wasn't -- I was about twenty miles from home. The metro, sticking out his hand: "I'm Brian, by the way."

I looked at his hand for a second. (I don't think I ever looked the guy in the face, because involuntary conversation-types take that as a sign you're interested in what they have to say.) I hesitated briefly, and then shook his hand and told him my name. I know, I know: rookie mistake. When I told Fitz this story, he said, "You don't know where that guy's hand has been," to which I responded, "Well, in fairness, he doesn't know where mine has been, either." I guess I figured that not shaking his hand would have caused this train wreck to go on even longer.

In fact, it seems like I made the right call. Apparently, I didn't give him the secret handshake he was looking for, or something, because after that he told me to have a nice day and walked away. I was able to avoid him during the rest of my browsing time.

Whenever people try to give me advice about meeting women, invariably someone suggests chatting up women in bookstores. Superficially, it makes sense: the subject would at least be literate, if not educated, and probably thoughtful and interesting like many well-read people are. And perhaps I could get an idea of her interests or personality based on what books she's browsing. But to me, the specter of the involuntary conversation guys hangs over any attempt to engage in a bookstore chat-up. I hate those guys so, so much that I would do anything to avoid being perceived as one of them. After all, I know how strongly I prefer to browse in peace and would hate to inflict myself on anyone who felt the same. If I tried it, I'd start out with "Are you into this stuff? I'm a history buff, too," and the next thing you know, I'd be singing Hitler's praises.

So I guess I'll end this with a plea to guys to not be the involuntary conversation starters, and to leave the awkward chatting to guys like me.

In response to Centinel's suggestion that I write a story from my past, I am going to reach back, way back into the past, and regale you with tales from my dalliance with a little organization known as Naval ROTC. You will not find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy goofier, nerdier group of aspiring warriors anywhere. My plan is to introduce you to the characters in a short series of posts and then get into the stories in which these characters feature.

I will start this series off with a brief introduction to my freshman-year roommate, John. John was a veteran of the Gulf War, he wore very tight Levi's and sported a porn star mustache. He was high strung and anal in the mode of those military men who are sons of military men who were themselves sons of military men. John logged every mile on his new car, he checked the oil every time he put gas in the car, and he changed his oil every 2,000 miles. He was also very cheap in the frugal military sort of way. Everything he wore other than his Levi's was military issue. Everything. As a college freshman, John didn't exactly blend.

John was not comfortable around people, especially girls. He was "socially awkward" but not in a cute or endearing kind of way (the most accurate term would really have to be "socially retarded" because the 6 years he spent in the military significantly hampered his social development - but some people get offended at any use of the word "retarded" so I will not use it here). He was 24 years old when he went on his first date. And this date was nothing more than a convenient way for another guy's date to bring her friend to the Marine Corps Birthday Ball. She had never met John until the night he picked her up for the Ball. She had no interest in him at all other than as a vehicle for getting her into the Ball. No, she was interested in the hunky Marines who would be in attendance. When she declined John's offer to attend a post-Ball party and asked to be taken home, John was shocked that she would "break up" with him on the first date. He thought they had something really special and could not understand that going to a function together, being nice and polite to one another, and sharing a dance or two does not mean that you and the cute blonde (whose last name you don't know) are dating.

John was a decent guy, but despite our best attempts to ease him into college life, he never really seemed comfortable with the experience. There were too few rules and too many people who enthusiastically ignored them. In the desert he could shoot rulebreakers, but in the dorm all he could do was fume and read hand-loader message boards on this new-fangled thing they called "the Internet."

Questions for discussion: How is it that some men can delude themselves into believing that because a woman (particularly an attractive woman) exhibits politeness, friendliness, or kindness to him, she must like him? Not just like him, though, but like-like him? How does such a man build the facade of a "relationship" or mutual attraction over such thin scaffolding?

(next up: Stefan and his poison-ivy crotch)

(A love poem fully compliant with the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure. I couldn't use all of them, but since most suits don't get to trial anyway, at least I didn't feel too bad about skipping over the trial rules.)


My love for you is comprehensive,
Just, speedy, and inexpensive.
We keep our actions nice and civil,
Our complaints aren't mountains, merely molehills.
You serve me with summons, delivered by hand,
And even on holidays, I understand.
My complaints you answer, and never cross-claim,
You notice my pleading when I say your name.
Accord and satisfaction, that's what we've got,
There's no special pleading for fraud; we have naught.
When we're captioned together, I want to be "et al." with you,
I swear on my license, my averments are true.
You never make a claim I can't grant relief on,
And you omit counterclaims and let bygones be gone.
I won't mention third parties, but you have an open mind,
My love relates back to the beginning of time.
You're my real party in interest, and you have my heart,
I want to join all my claims to you and be never apart.
Our joinder is mandatory, I think you'll agree,
I want our occurrences to happen jointly.
We've been non-joindered for such a long time,
I want to interplead you, please say you'll be mine.
We have commonality, adequacy, typical-ness,
I'll never opt out on you, my heart you possess.
You intervene and help me when life gets me down,
Even when I'm incompetent, you stick around.
You're my greatest discovery, no need to depose me,
I'll stipulate gladly to your interrogatory.
I'll turn my life over for your close inspection,
Call up the doctor, I'm crazy, I reckon.
Do you admit or deny that you love me too?
Don't subject me to sanctions, please say you'll be true.
In summary, I declare, my judgment is this:
We have substantive happiness, and procedural bliss.

Lately the Blogger text box has looked worse than drawing 2 / 7 off suit. I apologize for the lack of content, but I've got nothing in the way of blogging inspiration. I hope this will soon pass. I appreciate your patience (as well as any suggestions for post topics).