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Although the Senate has already pulled the plug, I couldn’t help but raise an interested eyebrow at DARPA’s latest proposal. For a second there, it looked like everyone would be able to bet on the likelihood of events in the Middle East. The best part was that bookie would be the US government.

The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency recently proposed a project that would have set up a futures, or idea, market on future events. It’s like any other market, stock or otherwise, except that, in this case, the stocks aren’t anything tangible and we get to talk about Saddam’s head.

Is this funny idea totally out of the question?

Sure, morally this is problematic. It’s like an advanced version of a celebrity death pool. The democrats were quick to point this out. “The idea of a federal betting parlor on atrocities and terrorism is ridiculous and it’s grotesque,” cried Senator Ron Wyden. I can’t disagree.

Politically, it could be a nightmare. I’m sure it would make those late night telephone conversations with the president interesting. Wouldn’t the king of Jordan just love to know the current odds on his assassination? No, no sir. That doesn’t really mean we think you’re screwed. Really.

But what was lost in the very quick and public effort to brush this under the rug was a real analysis of its virtues. After all, a futures market is hardly a new idea. This Wired articles points out a few of them out. The Iowa Electronic Market is used to predict election results. The Hollywood Stock Exchange gives us a peek into the Oscars. These exchanges can produce interesting, if not useful, results.

Discounting the simple dabblers into the dark arts of political betting, serious investors would put their confidence and sources into such a market. It could tell us what people are thinking. More importantly, it could tell us what the money of people is thinking, something with far more weight.

For all my enthusiasm, I’m not convinced it could ever yield any substantial results. It’s much more likely to be a political tool – a running poll, if you will – than an instrument of divination. The potential for misuse is just too great. There’s more than enough red tape floating about the hallowed halls of Washington DC. We need not add the flash of Las Vegas to the parade of government abuse.

It would, however, fascinate the darker fantasies of the public. Hey mom, I’ve got $40 on an unconditional surrender by France.

Update: Here’s a good article on the Slate that takes more of an analytical view, rather than an emotional one. It makes a couple of good points, including one described quite well in the quote below:

The wife and I completed Baldur’s Gate: Dark Alliance, a cooperative role playing game, the other night. I had to jostle her awake to finish off the end boss but that didn’t help the powers of evil. My mage made a final bow during the final battle and her dwarf dealt the killing blow. It was a lot of fun.

The sad thing is that we started our 16 hour adventure many months ago, months before the birth of our son. In the rush to prepare for, and then have, our little baby boy, we’ve left little time for dawdling and little time for gaming. Finding one of us on the couch with copious amounts of free time is a rare sight. Happening upon two concious parents with time to play is an aberration, an aberration that often leads to other things (like cleaning).

Frankly, I’m surprised she not only puts up with my gaming habit but joins in. Most normal men wouldn’t look kindly towards a wife who swings an giant axe and quaffs health potions like there is no tomorrow. I’m no normal man.
Combining one my loves, gaming, with the love of my life is a personal joy. Next up: Grim Fandango. Manny’s going to help us celebrate the Day of the Dead.

I’m feeling a little bit better now. No, I still can’t control the left side of my face. This reality is still very much in my thoughts. I’m just tired of bitching. I’m not done with bitching, mind you. I’m just tired of doing so — for now.

Part of the reason has to do with acceptance. After a while, everyone, including me, stops listening. Part of it has to do with life. I’ve heard it goes on.

It’s certainly going on for my young son. I’ve mentioned his spurts of rapid growth before. The last couple of weeks qualify as a growth spurt and a half.

He sitting up now, although not entirely by himself. He teeters and totters. Anxious parents await the inevitable topple. A shoulder hold is an opportunity to stand on my lap. He rolls both back and forth, combining the two as a new mode of transportation, which the wife has aptly named log rolling. He’s mobile, although still quite slow.

His surroundings are suddenly filled with objects of fascination. Nearby objects are no longer decoration. They are food. The various trinkets that border his crib are given the investigative treatment. Silverware must be pushed to the center of the dinner table. Baby proofing is no longer a future concern. It is a present one.

The transformation from tiny baby to mobile infant is both mesmerizing and startling in its sheer speed — discovery at a wicked pace. Today, he sprinkles my wife’s ears with “mommamamamom”. Tomorrow, I’ll be attending his college graduation.

While I may miss the days when feeding was as simple as a well placed bottle, I’m thrilled to watch him sieze the nipple and discern its use for himself. It’s a good reminder that I’m not totally in control. It’s also a good reminder that these days there’s little time to stop and smell the roses — no matter how good, or bad, their scent. There’s just so much else to do.

I’ve been pretty down this week. Actually, I’ve been a lot down. The Bell’s Palsy that’s affecting the left side of my face is bothering me, both physically and emotionally.

Physically, everything seems harder. Everything is a relative term, of course. Walking certainly isn’t more difficult. Neither is manipulating a fork and a knife. The easy things you take for granted. You don’t miss them unless they are broken. A lot seems broken right about now.

Unmoving lips result in slurred speech. I’ve found myself actually holding my mouth with my hand to help correct this. Eating is a challenge. My lips just won’t get the hell out the way of my teeth, much less serve as a good gatekeeper. Once it’s in, you want it to stay in, a problem that rears its head when drinking too fast.

An partially blinking eye means those long nights in front of the computer screen may become more a thing of the past. Eye drops are an hourly reminder of my problem. The last thing I need is something else to go wrong.

Emotionally, it’s a burden. There are lots of unknowns. How long will this last? Will I ever recover? Questions roam around in my brain like flies in a jar, never escaping, sometimes pausing from the exhaustion of a battered skull.

I’ve become concerned about my appearance but not in the way you expect. I don’t know if I’ve ever really cared how people see me. I’ve always been personally confident. I generally care little about you think. That said, an unresponsive face has made that confidence tumble. I think less of myself. That bothers me much more than any glare from another could.

Embarrassment has become an unwelcome neighbor, frustration a looming giant. It’s all the little things that bug me. Addition in small increments is still addition after all.

My treatment has been laced with sorrow. My prognosis is hope. Still what I really want to do is frown for a while — and do it with gusto.

My poor body is falling apart at the seams. One sickness takes hold ands opens the gate for others. I’ve been to the doctor’s office three times in the past seven days and that doesn’t count the two after hour phone calls I’ve had to make. I’ll get to make it four of nine when I return to see the doctor on Thursday. I’m officially sick of being sick.

It all started last Tuesday when I felt a pain in my left ear. My symptoms persisted into Wednesday. The doctor suggested that I come in for a quick check up and make sure everything is allright. You don’t want to mess with a possible ear infection.

So I did. Apparently there was nothing interesting in there. I was sent home with no medication, except for instructions to apply Selson Blue to an odd loss of pigment to my right thumb and forefinger – a totally unrelated problem.

On Saturday I awoke with a pretty red balloon on the side of my head. My left ear no longer matched my right one in terms of girth. The left side of my face had swelled up. Something was wrong. I got on the phone. Antibiotics were on the menu. Ibuprofen would help with the swelling.

Monday would find me in the doctor’s office again. I had not seen marked improvement and someone in a white coat needed to look at the little megaphone on the side of my head. Sure enough, I had an ear infection. It looks like this one started on the outside and worked its way in. The doctor prescribed ear drops and a liquid to fight a weird, taste bud altering feeling I had in my tongue.

Monday evening gave me something more frightening to worry about. I was losing some control of the left side of my face. The effect was much like an overdose of novocaine. The right side smiles and the left side gives it only a half-hearted try. A grimace makes me look much more like Two-Face than I’d like to admit. I jumped back on the phone.

My third visit to the doctor’s office both confirmed my fears and brought some relief. I have a form of Bell’s palsy, a problem with the 7th cranial nerve in the face. The good news is that it is very likely related to my infected ear, meaning that when my ear is healed it will likely go away.

The idea of having a palsy, or paralysis, is rather frightening. It’s such a strange sensation. You feel like your driving a car that drifts to the right. There is a disconnect between where you hold the wheel and where the car actually goes. I’ll be happy when I can correct the steering.

This bombardment of sickness has me down a bit. It has caught a normally healthy guy off balance. Most of my bottles have 10 days written on them. I can’t wait until I can finish off the drug cocktail the doctors have prepared for me. In the meantime, I’ll think happy thoughts like balloons and clowns. You know, the ones with a full smile.

A reunion of sorts was scheduled for Sunday. For one day, the busy schedules and distances that separate the Wootton men were put aside. We were men. We were alone. No women were allowed.

That’s right. Our women let us out without supervision. We were free for an independent day of manly bonding. The question of what exactly we would do with our time was still very much up in the air when my father’s three boys pulled up at his house.

Many years ago the old ping pong table in the basement was an object of fascination for me. My brothers were the masters, holding tournaments of will and precision. I was the enthusiastic little kid, just aching for someone to chase my mistakes into the dark corners of our basement.

It seems that times have changed a bit. The table was new, despite the fact that some miscellaneous objects it supported attested to its lack of use. I’ve been practicing a bit; I spent about a year of lunches knocking around a little orange ball. Their skills, however, have been left unused since college. I think I gave them enough of a challenge to work the rust off.

The great thing about the table tennis we played is that it gave us a chance to catch up while doing something that felt so natural. We could have been back at the old house chewing the fat for all I knew or cared. It also gave the sun time to warm up for our eventual destination: Gettysburg.

Gettysburg is a place where I spent many a day during my youth. We used to camp nearby. We lived a mere 15 minutes away. The fact that my father was once a tour bus driver in Gettysburg meant we always had a built in guide. I remember the fudge at the corner shop. I remember my father helping me up the walk-up towers as my fear of heights got hold of me. I remember the following the tape tour around the battlefield.

Not much has changed. The fudge is still wonderfully good. My knees still buckle when I get four stories above the earth. The tape is now a CD but sounds much like before.

We turned the two hour tour into a four hour tour. The battlefield was our playground for a bit. We climbed towers, hiked Big Round Top, and listened in on the guides meant for the official tour buses. It was great fun.

We then settled down for dinner in the cozy basement tavern of the Dobbin House. A storm rolled by and we barely noticed. The candlelight of the basement meant a temporary loss of power only added to the ambiance. I couldn’t help but get a bit reflective.

The four gentlemen sitting at the dinner table are now family men. The kids now have kids. Even the baby of the family – me – has a baby of his own at home.

It’s all a little surreal. It’s as if time rushed forward to this point. One day we were tackling each other in the backyard. The next day we were paying taxes and mowing our own lawns.

The trip home proved adventurous. The passing storm had been severe. Debris littered the roadway and we passed one tree blocking half of the roadway before coming to rest by a downed tree and a police car. I started to put the truck in reverse but changed my mind. Surely, there is something we could do about this. The four of hopped out of the car and made our way through the rain to the downed tree. Heave ho, guys. The tree didn’t stop us but the police officer did. Help in the form of a chainsaw was on the way. We were only interfering. We turned the truck around and found another way to my father’s house.

I have to say I won’t forget the day for a while (which is a good thing considering how long I took to write about it). I was unaware how easy it was to revisit my childhood. Sometimes the memories lie just a table tennis game away. The end of our day, which found four men working together to clear a path home, seemed just right. In a way, that’s exactly what we did.

The wife has been pleading for a vacation. Days off have been in short supply since January, when the event of my son’s birth caused me to take more vacation than I had accrued. In the time between then and now, I’ve been working off borrowed time. That doesn’t leave room for many weekdays spent outside of my office.

Still I hear her pleas. While a real vacation won’t become reality for a few more months, that doesn’t mean we can’t compromise. A day trip was on the docket. The only question was where. A dinner time discussion about St. Michaels on Friday filled in that blank. It turned out that a family outing was already planned for the next day. We decided to join in.

The trip to our destination wasn’t notable, which is a blessing when you must cross the Bay Bridge on a Saturday morning. We did, however, stop off for a short lunch at Ruby Tuesdays, an event that was notable only because of the quaint reaction solicited from my mother and stepfather, regular visitors to our destination.

You could see the lost look in their eyes when they realized that THE PLAN has been changed. We never do it this way. We are supposed to pick up some ice cream when we get down there. What are you doing?

It reminds you how set we are in our ways. My wife and I surely have habits such as these, traditions that are marked as much by the events themselves as the ritualistic way we repeat them. Thankfully they were open to change. The baby was hungry.

Speaking of the baby, our worries about the little tike began almost immediately upon arrival. To start it was nasty hot. Stifling humidity was thrown into the mix to create a truly entertaining sweat. I’m sure I would have had a better time if I wasn’t so worried about the child bursting into flames at any moment. I’m not sure which part of mother nature is responsible for the weather in Maryland. All I know is that it is moist and warm.

Our other worry involved the scheduled boat trip. I wasn’t really concerned about the trip itself; I’ve taken this trip before and I always feel quite at home on the water. It was a big vessel, not a rowboat. What really bothered me was any potential contingency plans. What would I do if something went wrong? I can swim. My child isn’t so lucky and, at such a young age, isn’t the best fit for a life jacket.

In the end, we swallowed our fears. The light breeze brought about by our travels was a welcome relief from the heat.

Afterwards we did a little shopping. St Michaels has a bunch of little stores selling a little of this and a little of that. We visited quite a few of them, generally more thankful for the cool breeze of a waiting air conditioner than the wares available for us to peruse. The wife and I picked up some garlic salsa I have yet to taste. My stomach growls at the thought.

Our shopping did not last long. The heat was a cruel companion, no doubt aided by the fact that I was carrying a 16 pound child on my back. I was sure that smoke was rising from my wife’s bottom. I had better get her home before she begins to smolder.

I had fun. While a single day on the shore is sad replacement for the vacation we so sorely need, it was a nice respite from the daily drone. Maybe next time we can go somewhere magnificent, like our neighbor’s soon to be built pool.

The 4th of July is one holiday that is steeped in tradition in my family. It brings me visions of parades and the assorted folks of the Wootton brood sitting around munching on shelled creatures. There’s Pop Pop busily cleaning crabs for Grandmom. Brother Jim is anxiously piling up his crabmeat for a big sandwich at the end. When do we leave for the fireworks?

This year we didn’t stray too far from the path. The wife and I skipped out on the parade, more or less. We didn’t actually witness it first hand. However, we were part of it for a short time at the end, also known as “why is everyone going so damn slow”.

We had new visitors in the form of my brother and his children. The long trip from Idaho had landed them in the middle of a holiday weekend. It was time to do what good Baltimoreans do. We eat crabs.

Crabs are one of those foods that add the cleaning of the carcass to the eating ritual. As a Baltimore native, I don’t even notice or acknowledge this fact. It’s just what you do. The eyes of my brother’s children remind me that this even-headed approach to butchery isn’t universal.

Excuse me. You rip what open? What is the heck is that?

Both children were a little freaked out about the whole process. It probably didn’t help that their father offered to eat an eyeball if they would take the smallest of tastes.

The uniqueness of our meal settled in when I offered to play ball with my nephew after dinner. He ran out front. “I’ll be waiting.” He had no idea just how long he would be doing so.

The evening’s fireworks were preceded by threatening rain clouds and, eventually, more than a couple drops of rain. The family huddled under a nearby tree before a dash to better cover. The rain would pass after a short time and return briefly for a second visit. In the end it gave up, allowing explosives to brightly paint the darkened holiday sky.

Unfortunately, one staple of the day was missing. Grandmom and Pop Pop are no longer around to celebrate; their trademark house along the old parade route sold long ago to unfamiliar owners. I have no doubt they watched from the heavens, though. I bet they had a much better view.

Every once and a while, I come to my blog page and notice an absence of content. This is particularly true in the beginning of the month. My little calendar announces this absence in a fairly unspectacular fashion. The little 1 is blue. Everything else is rather lacking in color.

In this case, it is the fault of a very busy weekend. I spent very little time at home during this week’s bookend days. I’ve spent the days between now and then in a mode that can only be termed recovery. I’m almost done with that now. I could be wrong, however.

I hope to get some details of this weekend up soon. The events are notable – if only to me – and should provide me with some easy content, content that straddles the diary line a little too closely for my manly tastes.

In the meantime, here’s my favorite phrase of the month, courtesy of James Lileks.

Yum. Stew on that one for a while.

I wonder when my son and I will have this conversation. It’s not a matter of if. It’s a matter of when.

I’ve always assumed that my offspring would be inflicted with the technology disease as I carry. You might be able to draw parallels between his interests and mine. You might see him tapping away on a keyboard next to daddy. He might spend time, sword in hand, helping dad to rid the world of digital evil.

Then again, you might not. He might rebel against my computerized lifestyle. He might forego a mouse for a good pair of hiking boots. He might choose a hammer and nail over a joystick. He might look at X-rays instead of an Xbox.

You just don’t know.

In truth, I hope he finds a good middle ground. There’s plenty to discover, on both sides of that glowing screen. I’d hate to see him think of the wonders of the real world as secondary just because of the easy access of fantasy worlds at home. What I do know is that technology will influence his life.

The toys and tools available to him dwarf what was available to me in my childhood years. Cable was a burgeoning concept. Round disks that played music were called records. A computer in the house was something for the rich kids. The internet – heaven forbid – wasn’t even on the radar. All these electrical doodads will do more than just divert his attention. It will change the way the way he looks and experiences the world. His rose colored glasses may be painted with the screens of a PDA.

When he does reach computer age – which should be in about a year or so at this rate – I’ll be there watching, observing. We both have a lot to learn. I’d guess that a laptop in his sandbox may be more realistic than you think.