The Next Generation
If I may make a suggestion to all of you who, like me, do not yet have children: when your kids are born, it might be advisable to wait a few weeks before inviting all your relatives to come see the baby. Taking care of a newborn is stressful enough without having to welcome guests into your home. Word to the wise.

My nephew Teddy is, well, a monkey. I met him on Saturday, his fourth day of life, and I had never before with my own two eyes seen a baby that young or that small. I've seen newborns on television, both in fictional portrayals and non-fictional documentaries, but never before in real life. He's ridiculously small, his eyes are closed most of the time, and he almost never straightens his limbs, though he moves them all quite regularly, writhing in a way that confirms he is none other than my brother's son, for even unto the present age my brother still loves to lie on the floor and writhe in precisely the same manner. So, between his diminutive size, scrunched posture, and penchant for huddling on his stomach on his reclined mother's chest, the impression Teddy conveys is for all the world simian. He looks like a pink little monkey.

But, being only four and later five days old, Teddy most certainly confirms my previous supposition that babies aren't really people yet. He's human, he's a grand addition to the lethal glory that is Home sapiens sapiens all right, but he's not yet a person. He doesn't yet laugh, he doesn't play, the only thing specifically human he does is explore his surroundings with his mouth; of course, at this stage that means he primarily ends up sucking on his own arm. It's exceedingly curious because I love that little monkey to pieces, but what exactly is it I love? His squished little face? His elongated head? His dark, wispy hair? He's yet to manifest a real personality, he's simply too young to have established any individuality; so, what it is I love about Teddy? I think most of all I love the idea of Teddy, with the details to be filled in as they develop.

I was allowed to hold him only once, and only very briefly, in part because his mother despises me. When her brother, sister, and brother-in-law-to-be arrived late on Sunday, she could not wait to have each of them hold Teddy in turn and at length. I suppose she thought I might infect Teddy with the Wilson cooties; she must live in mortal terror that he will be a Wilson in habit and temperament, not merely in name. Despite this, I was glad to meet Teddy, and however much it pains me to have anything to do with his parents it will be fascinating watching him grow up. I will next see him when he sojourns to Grand Blanc for the celebration of my thirtieth birthday, though we all know that my birthday will play third or fourth fiddle to his family's visit that weekend. Happy birthday, Mike, now get lost.

Objective ZED ALPHA
First things first, don't ask me how I did at the Jeopardy! audition because I do not know. I have an inkling, but objectively I do not know. There are three possible outcomes of this past Friday's audition: (a) I did not pass. (b) I passed and will be entered into the contestant pool, but I will not be invited to appear on the show. (c) I passed and will be invited to appear on the show. In the cases of both (a) and (b), I will hear nothing from the Jeopardy! contestant wranglers in the next eighteen months; in the case of (c), I will receive a telephone call several weeks before I am to report to Los Angeles "to test my intellect" in the immortal words of Alfred Yankovic.

In the case of (c), I will almost certainly impose upon the hospitality of K. Steeze and The Professor and board at B.T.WesTwo (pronounced "Bee-Tee-Double-U West 2"). In the cases of (a) and (b), I will suffer some degree of anxiety as to whether I failed (a) or passed and was simply conspired against by cruel fate (b), but in either event if eighteen months pass without word from the contestant wranglers, I will screw up my courage and watch for the next opportunity to take the online examination that would signal the beginning of Objective ZED BRAVO.

But for the nonce there is naught to do but keep my agile mind agile, hone my already sharpened skill for trivia to a razor's edge, and await the call. I could be summoned to Hollywood anytime in the next eighteen months. Filming resumes again in July and will continue through February; so, at the earliest I will not receive any word for at least several weeks yet. They are seeking four hundred contestants for the new series of episodes, and the good news, as the wranglers told us repeatedly, is that at this point no contestants have yet been selected; there are still four hundred slots available. And, I add editorially, one of them will be mine.

Next time: the curious adventure of Friday, 29 May 2009.

Believe: Penguins 4-2 Red Wings
Fourteen down, two to go. Best of seven: Detroit 2-1 Pittsburgh.

Our play was rubbish in the first period, our play was rubbish in the third period, and we were outhustled and outworked all night. Rest, refocus, and if we play at all like the Detroit Red Wings we'll prevail in Game 4 and put these little punks on the ropes. Prediction for Thursday: Marian Hossa will score two goals. Red Wings in five.

Believe.

Sunday
Believe: Red Wings 3-1 Penguins
Fourteen down, two to go. Best of seven: Detroit 2-0 Pittsburgh.

I left suburban Columbus far later than I'd intended, but drove within range of 97.1 in time to listen via Lumi's radio to the second half of the third period and a good deal of the post game interviews and analysis. Good times. Driving in excess of two hundred miles a day for four consecutive days takes a lot of you, but quite paradoxically I love, absolutely love, a long, solitary drive. I remember the first time I drove up to the Sleeping Bear Dunes for The Guy and The Gal's Memorial Day Camping Bonanza; it was going to be the farthest I'd even driven by myself and I was quite apprehensive about the journey, but once I hit the road all that fear evaporated, and I arrived in Traverse City all too soon. I'd love to have driven in the grand old days of 50,000 watt A.M. radio, when you could listen to the same station from coast to coast, including to the third coast of the Great Lakes.

But I digress.

Playing back-to-back games on Saturday and Sunday was hogwash, a cheap and cynical move by the N.H.L. and N.B.C. to try and guarantee Sidney Crosby Lord Stanley's Cup, the theory being that the young, hungry Penguins would get the better of the old, tired Red Wings. Even for that scum-sucking shyster Gary Bettman this was a crooked move. Fortunately, craven knavish guile was no match for the determination of the reigning Stanley Cup champions. Take that, foul blackguards!

Saturday
Believe: Red Wings 3-1 Penguins
Thirteen down, three to go. Best of seven: Detroit 1-0 Pittsburgh.

My dad asked me if I wanted to watch the game, but I told him that I didn't, that'd I'd be unsociable and prone to loud and very likely profane verbal ejaculations were I to watch the game, not at all suitable company for a guest in a house with a brand-new baby. Nevertheless, after Primeval he tuned the television to N.B.C. and I watched the third period in tense and strictly contained excitement. I thrust both fists into the air upon Abdelkader's goal, but I emitted no sound, and wee Teddy kept snoozing a few feet from me, nuzzled on his mother's chest.