Boys of Summer

Hello World,

Of course, everyone knows how I hate to be an alarmist, but I feel it's only fair to point out that we've arrived at the very last Friday in June, because next Friday will be July 1st, believe it or not. By golly, the year is half over already, and if you're anything like me, you've certainly got nothing to show for it, and that's putting it mildly. The first six months have just flown by in a blur of missed opportunities, dashed hopes, broken dreams and more wasted time than you could shake a stick at. And I don't mind saying, if shaking sticks at things is not a textbook example of wasting time, then I'll eat my proverbial hat, and toss in the rest of the proverbs right along with it. I can tell you that things are going to shape up around here, and pretty darned quick, or I'll know the reason why, and the rest of the year is not going to be a pitiful repeat of the first half, not by a long shot. The scoffers and nay-sayers can think what they like, and please disregard the derisive howls of laughter from our old friends the dinosaurs, who claim to have heard the same thing from me at least once a year, since the time we first roamed the vast unformed land masses amidst the primordial ooze, and down through every subsequent geologic era thereafter. Personally, I think there's something to be said for the hobgoblin of little minds, and here I'm not just talking through my proverbial hat, believe me.

In the local area, it seems our old nemesis Comrade Mischka is up to his old tricks with the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, and you not only don't know what to expect from day to day, but even more often, during the same day, from one moment to the next. People leave the house in the morning in their boots and raincoats, and by the middle of the day, they're out in tank tops and flip-flops, only to be scurrying for cover when bands of thunderstorms suddenly blow in out of nowhere. A person could be forgiven for thinking that we had all been mysteriously transported to Chicago, where the weather is so famously unpredictable that the local slogan is, "Don't like the weather? Wait twenty minutes." I will say that at the times that it was nice, it was beautiful, and when the poets wondered, "What is so rare as a day in June" (if only they had) it was with good reason. But it was interspersed with so much rain, and cold, and fog, and hail, and flooding, and high winds, and lightning, and every other darned thing, that it was impossible to enjoy. It's at times like this, when I'm shivering in my office and wearing socks to bed, that I always find myself bewildered at the idea that I'll be camping in three weeks, and pondering ways to squeeze more long-johns into my luggage. Right now, leaving the tank tops and flip-flops home sounds like a pretty good start.

If we've gotten this far into June, it stands to reason that Father's Day has also come and gone, and indeed it has. Last Sunday was the time to honor the contributions of dear old dad, and all of the father figures in our lives, and give them the recognition that they so richly deserve. The tattered remnant of our cats did not shrink from the challenge, and showered Bill with some practical household items, entertainment and technology, with not a catnip mouse in sight - although I will say that the vote on that was very close and contentious, believe me. The weather was surprisingly nice, so anyone with outdoor plans for the holiday could make the most of it, and treating The King of The Castle to a special day worth remembering. Not so fast! I was off from work on Monday, and all day long, noticed the same pop-up ad showing up on my computer, everywhere I went from morning to night. It was animated, so a person couldn't help but notice it, and it had a cartoon picture identified as Dad, with this arresting announcement:

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Father's Day is Sunday, June 21
SEND YOUR DAD A FREE ECARD
from myfuncards.com
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Now, this is where I simply have to join in with Dave Barry, and say, you just can't make this stuff up. Here it is, the Monday after Father's Day, and these people are trying to convince everyone that the holiday is still in front of us, and the day after Monday the 20th is somehow going to turn into Sunday the 21st. This sounds to me like the imaginary Comrade Mischka's even more illusory cousin, the nefarious Comrade Sergei and his dastardly date machine, trying to throw a Russian monkey wrench into the clock-work chronology of the month that had been running like a fine Swiss watch up to now. Or perhaps he was planning to use his Way-Back Machine to bring us all back to 2009, when Father's Day actually was on Sunday, June 21, or even more interestingly, racing ahead into the future to 2015, or whenever the next time is that Father's Day will once again be on Sunday, June 21. The one thing I do know is that it isn't this year, in spite of what our friends at myfuncards.com want us to believe, and you can tell Comrade Sergei that I said so.

Speaking of notable dates, far from being the repeat of Father's Day from 2009, Tuesday was actually The First Day of Summer, although since it was a bracing 50 degrees and raining at the time, a person could be forgiven for overlooking the occasion. So now we have officially entered that glorious season of hammocks and lemonade, watermelon and barbecues, swimming and soaking up rays. And so what may be new and exciting in the wide world of outdoor furniture and accessories, you may be wondering, and well may you wonder. Luckily, I have the Spring/Summer 2011 catalogue from our friends at Kirby Built Quality Products, and you can feel free to go right ahead and visit their web site at http://www.kirbybuilt.com/ and see for yourself. They offer a wide variety of items including benches and tables, message centers, shelters, signs, trash receptacles, and what they refer to as "Site Amenities," in a vast array of styles and colors to suit the most discriminating tastes. Well, that is to say, if your discriminating tastes are in the market for what they describe as products "Made From The Highest Quality of Recycled Plastic Lumber." Excuse me??? If that's not a red-letter, brass-plated, double-barrel oxymoron, well then, the oxies and morons and the dinosaurs and I simply don't know what it would take, because that's a whopper if ever there was one. I mean, if I was making plastic furniture, I certainly wouldn't blare it across the front of my catalogue to begin with, for all the world to see, as if this was some kind of unique luxury that humanity was clamoring for. But the very last thing I would do would be to call it "plastic lumber," which is criminal misuse of a perfectly good word that already describes what it's made out of. You may as well say, "cement lumber," or "steel lumber," or "seaweed lumber," for all the sense it makes to modify a word for wood with a different substance altogether. Of course, the dinosaurs and I realize that there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, and I don't mind saying (with apologies to Joyce Kilmer) here we thought that only God can make a tree.

Elle

Sugar Babies

Hello World,

So here we are, more than halfway through June, as hard as that may seem to believe, and all sorts of eventful happenings in the local area and also on the wider stage. Of course, Tuesday was Flag Day, and the Flag Brigade leaped into action early in the morning, running up the colors upstairs and downstairs for all the world to oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light and all that. The day started out nice enough, but soon became changeable, and looked like it was on its way to getting even worse. The Flag Brigade was racing across town at the time, and almost made it all the way home before it started raining in earnest, and not looking forward to pulling in wet and bedraggled flags on two floors, besides finding a likely spot to dry them out. Not to worry! Bill, without any prompting, snatched both flags out of harm's way in plenty of time, and brought them safely inside and protected from the elements, long before the panting Flag Brigade pulled up screeching to a halt and ran up the steps. Personally, I would have to say that the ghost of the formidable Barbara Frietchie cannot be ruled out.

In the realm of eventful happenings, the sports scene has certainly been jumping lately, in more ways than one. Although the NBA playoffs started after their counterparts in the NHL, somehow it was the hoops that finished first, while the pucks were still flying. I'm thinking that it must have come as a big surprise in Miami, when the Dallas Mavericks walked off with the Larry O'Brien Trophy in 6 games, in spite of the Heat's highly publicized moves in the off-season to acquire LeBron James, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh, and their plan to trash-talk their way to the title. On the other hand, they don't bother with trash-talk in hockey, they just beat each other up instead, and the battle for Lord Stanley's Cup turned into a tough series that went seven games, all hard played with lots of fights, suspensions, fines and injuries. The Canucks led the league in scoring during the season, but couldn't figure out the Bruins goaltender in the playoffs, and were outscored 23-8 in the series, as Boston brought home their first trophy since the glory days of Bobby Orr in 1972. Meanwhile, Vancouver erupted in riots after losing the final game on home ice, and the disappointed fans took out their frustration in fires, altercations, and a hail of broken glass. Of course, it's early yet, but I can see they'll be in great shape in time for the Waitangi Day riots in February.

In other sports news, there was no joy in Mudville last week, when the Yankees were swept out of their own ballpark by the rival Red Sox, who managed to climb out of the cellar (you remember their woeful 0-6 start to the season) and take over first place, which the Bombers had rightfully considered their own. On a related topic, it seems that the Yank's beloved shortstop is closing in on 3,000 career hits, and the local newspaper has started what they refer to as their "Jeter Meter" to track his progress toward this milestone on a game-by-game basis. I thought that was pretty clever for our paper, where they often have trouble just making the subjects agree with their verbs in the same sentence, or as they might put it: "May king thee sub jetzag re-zither verbenzy say me scent tents."

Meanwhile, the other local franchise has continued to plod along like the .500 team it is, and even when they do a lot of things right, still somehow find a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, which is how you get to be a .500 team in the first place. A recent heart-breaking loss prompted one fan to post this impassioned plea on the team's blog:

========================
Is it too much to ask for the bullpen to try and keep the
ERA for the 7th and 8th innings to 10.00 or less?
========================

Any discussion of sports wouldn't be complete without mentioning the recent Belmont Stakes, the last jewel in the Triple Crown, and the longest of the lot, which usually does the job of separating the men from the boys, as it were. Of course, the ghost of Affirmed had already eliminated any possibility of a Triple Crown winner once again, so the only question was whether Animal Kingdom or Shackleford would win two out of three, or whether there would be three separate horses, each winning only one of the races this year. It was the latter this time around, as Ruler On Ice, a 24-1 long shot, splashed home in first place, with two other unknowns behind him. Derby winner Animal Kingdom stumbled out of the gate, never could catch up, and finished 6th, while Preakness winner Shackleford was never a factor in the race and finished a disappointing 5th. No doubt the muddy conditions played a role in the outcome, as some horses have a decided aversion to slogging through the mud, while others seem to have a positive affinity for it. I admit that I'm no expert on the occult, but I think it's bad enough that the ghost of Affirmed can affect the outcome of horse races, without also being able to control the weather before the race even starts, for heaven's sake.

On the local scene, we took a trip with our friends last weekend, to enjoy the picturesque qualities of Sugarloaf, the artist's colony in the heart of scenic Warwick Valley, which is a world away in the rolling rural countryside, and yet only a little more than an hour from our house in the urban hubbub. Bill and I had been there once before, when a colleague was visiting the area from out of state, but mobility challenges prevented us from seeing everything we wanted, so we were eager to go back and take another shot at it. We started out Saturday morning by meeting up at the Chester Diner, and for the first time ever, all three couples arrived in different cars than the last time we had been together, so there was a great deal of "show-and-tell" going on in the parking lot. We had never been there before, so the diner staff had no reason to quail before the prospect of our materializing in front of them, and seemed more than equal to the task, serving a brunch that was a rousing success. From there, it was just a hop and a skip to Sugarloaf (they encourage visitors to use their address of 1371 Kings Highway, Chester, New York 10918 for the purposes of their GPS devices, if you want to give it a try) which was the reason that we picked that diner in the first place. Our friends found the little shops charming, and pronounced the wooden sidewalks quaint, and I don't mind saying, the President's economic advisers would certainly appreciate all the money we spent there - in fact, I'm expecting to receive a commendation from them in the mail any day now. We were surprised that much had changed in Sugarloaf since we had been there, but even still, there was no lack of jewelry and apparel, soap, candles, pottery, stained glass, artwork, furniture and fashion accessories, all uniquely hand-crafted and miles away from the ordinary. We traipsed around all of the shops, some of them more than once, and enjoyed seeing all the beautiful or unusual objects they had to offer. Finally we crammed ourselves and our newly acquired paraphernalia back into the cars, and hit the road.

Our next stop was the Comfort Inn at Goshen, of all places, and here again, we picked this hotel for its proximity to Sugarloaf, so it took us no time at all to get there. The staff could not have been nicer or more helpful, and they quickly put us in three rooms on the same floor, including one that came with its own hot tub. Unfortunately, we didn't have enough time to make use of it, and the weather was too inclement for the outdoor pool, so that was disappointing. The front desk recommended a nearby tavern for dinner, where hotel guests receive a discount, but we found it too crowded and noisy for our tastes, and instead elected to return to the Chester Diner, which we were already familiar with. For some reason, dinner was not the same rousing success as brunch, in spite of the fact that we are not picky eaters, and had worked up hearty appetites walking around outside all day. We went back to the hotel and settled in for some cinematic entertainment, only to find that was a hit-or-miss proposition, with the hotel's electronic options being inadequate for our purposes. I will say that we had no trouble sleeping, and it was remarkably quiet for a place hosting two weddings, a softball team, a golf association and another commercial client all at the same time. In the morning, we availed ourselves of the breakfast buffet, which was handily located in the lobby so that we didn't have to go out foraging for food on our own.

After that, it was off to Orange County Choppers, of the "American Choppers" TV show, which is a lot more fun than it sounds, and the custom motorcycles are a spectacular sight and not to be missed. We even took a side trip to see the new home of Paul Junior Designs, who has apparently struck off on his own, although the business is not open to the public. All of this sightseeing is hungry work, and of course, there is that Denny's right on the spot in Newburgh, so I guess that anyone could see what direction things were going in here, and they'd be right. We had a wonderful lunch, including their scrumptious new Hawaiian Tropical Smoothie, which is easily one of the most delectable things I've ever put a straw into. We bid a fond farewell to our friends, who had a long trip home in front of them, but since it was still early, we decided to go back to Sugarloaf one more time, and pick up a few more goodies that we hadn't gotten around to the day before. And may I say to the President's economic advisers, "You're welcome." We arrived home without incident, which is our favorite way to travel, and the cats greeted our return with their signature bored indifference, as expected. Heck, they'll never be ready for the Waitangi Day riots at this rate.

Elle

On The Mark

In this season of graduations, commencements, happy endings and new beginnings, here's a little something for all of the youngsters - and all of us oldsters - out there to enjoy!

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"Advice to Youth" Mark Twain, 1882
Satire:a literary tone used to ridicule or make fun of human vice or weakness, often with the intent of correcting or changing the subject of the satiric attack. There's so much more to learn about satire. Reading a master at the art of satire will be your next assignment. Mark Twain (1835-1910) wrote "Advice to Youth" in 1882.
Being told I would be expected to talk here, I inquired what sort of talk I ought to make. They said it should be something suitable to youth -- something didactic, instructive, or something in the nature of good advice. Very well. I have a few things in my mind which I have often longed to say for the instruction of the young; for it is in one’s tender early years that such things will best take root and be most enduring and most valuable. First, then. I will say to you my young friends—and I say it beseechingly, urgingly—
Always obey your parents, when they are present. This is the best policy in the long run, because if you don’t, they will make you. Most parents think they know better than you do, and you can generally make more by humoring that superstition than you can by acting on your own better judgment.
Be respectful to your superiors, if you have any, also to strangers, and sometimes to others. If a person offend you, and you are in doubt as to whether it was intentional or not, do not resort to extreme measures; simply watch your chance and hit him with a brick. That will be sufficient. If you shall find that he had not intended any offense, come out frankly and confess yourself in the wrong when you struck him; acknowledge it like a man and say you didn’t mean to. Yes, always avoid violence; in this age of charity and kindliness, the time has gone by for such things. Leave dynamite to the low and unrefined.
Go to bed early, get up early- this is wise. Some authorities say get up with the sun; some say get up with one thing, others with another. But a lark is really the best thing to get up with. It gives you a splendid reputation with everybody to know that you get up with the lark; and if you get the right kind of lark, and work at him right, you can easily train him to get up at half past nine, every time—it’s no trick at all.
Now as to the matter of lying. You want to be very careful about lying; otherwise you are nearly sure to get caught. Once caught, you can never again be in the eyes to the good and the pure, what you were before. Many a young person has injured himself permanently through a single clumsy and ill finished lie, the result of carelessness born of incomplete training. Some authorities hold that the young ought not to lie at all. That of course, is putting it rather stronger than necessary; still while I cannot go quite so far as that, I do maintain , and I believe I am right, that the young ought to be temperate in the use of this great art until practice and experience shall give them that confidence, elegance, and precision which alone can make the accomplishment graceful and profitable. Patience, diligence, painstaking attention to detail—these are requirements; these in time, will make the student perfect; upon these only, may he rely as the sure foundation for future eminence. Think what tedious years of study, thought, practice, experience, went to the equipment of that peerless old master who was able to impose upon the whole world the lofty and sounding maxim that “Truth is mighty and will prevail”—the most majestic compound fracture of fact which any of woman born has yet achieved. For the history of our race, and each individual’s experience, are sewn thick with evidences that a truth is not hard to kill, and that a lie well told is immortal. There is in Boston a monument of the man who discovered anesthesia; many people are aware, in these latter days, that that man didn’t discover it at all, but stole the discovery from another man. Is this truth mighty, and will it prevail? Ah no, my hearers, the monument is made of hardy material, but the lie it tells will outlast it a million years. An awkward, feeble, leaky lie is a thing which you ought to make it your unceasing study to avoid; such a lie as that has no more real permanence than an average truth. Why, you might as well tell the truth at once and be done with it. A feeble, stupid, preposterous lie will not live two years—except it be a slander upon somebody. It is indestructible, then of course, but that is no merit of yours. A final word: begin your practice of this gracious and beautiful art early—begin now. If I had begun earlier, I could have learned how.
Never handle firearms carelessly. The sorrow and suffering that have been caused through the innocent but heedless handling of firearms by the young! Only four days ago, right in the next farm house to the one where I am spending the summer, a grandmother, old and gray and sweet, one of the loveliest spirits in the land, was sitting at her work, when her young grandson crept in and got down an old, battered, rusty gun which had not been touched for many years and was supposed not to be loaded, and pointed it at her, laughing and threatening to shoot. In her fright she ran screaming and pleading toward the door on the other side of the room; but as she passed him he placed the gun almost against her very breast and pulled the trigger! He had supposed it was not loaded. And he was right—it wasn’t. So there wasn’t any harm done. It is the only case of that kind I ever heard of. Therefore, just the same, don’t you meddle with old unloaded firearms; they are the most deadly and unerring things that have ever been created by man. You don’t have to take any pains at all with them; you don’t have to have a rest, you don’t have to have any sights on the gun, you don’t have to take aim, even. No, you just pick out a relative and bang away, and you are sure to get him. A youth who can’t hit a cathedral at thirty yards with a Gatling gun in three quarters of an hour, can take up an old empty musket and bag his grandmother every time, at a hundred. Think what Waterloo would have been if one of the armies had been boys armed with old muskets supposed not to be loaded, and the other army had been composed of their female relations. The very thought of it makes one shudder.
There are many sorts of books; but good ones are the sort for the young to read, remember that. They are a great, an inestimable, and unspeakable means of improvement. Therefore be careful in your selection, my young friends; be very careful; confine yourselves exclusively to Robertson’s Sermons, Baxter’s Saint’s Rest, The Innocents Abroad, and works of that kind.
But I have said enough. I hope you will treasure up the instructions which I have given you, and make them a guide to your feet and a light to your understanding. Build your character thoughtfully and painstakingly upon these precepts, and by and by, when you have got it built, you will be surprised and gratified to see how nicely and sharply it resembles everybody else’s.
Source: Advice to Youth Mark Twain, 1882

June Bugs

Hello World,

Happy June! It's hard to believe that we've actually entered the sixth month of the year, and no turning back now. Every day brings new joys in the garden, as the mountain laurel has graced us with its dainty pink flowers all over, and the yard is awash with buttercups in earnest, in spite of the landscapers' best efforts. Also the roses are unfolding on every side, and here we have everything from the creamiest pale pink to the deepest velvety maroon, and even a screaming orange called Gingersnap, that we bought in honor of our beloved princess. They've now been joined by the riotous explosion of wild roses, that no amount of landscapers' ministrations will ever tame. All over town, you also see that now is the time for lovely irises, for those people lucky enough to have them, in every color of the rainbow, although purple is still my favorite. We were surprised to see tall stalks of phlox scattered about in our yard, as Bill and I both agree that it's way too early for that, but there's no arguing with that indescribably exquisite fragrance. The rest of us may be complaining about the weather, but apparently the flowers are eating it up. Speaking of weather, all last week, we had the most ridiculously sweltering weather, exactly like the dog days of August, except 3 months too early, and just much too hot, too soon. Fortunately, Bill had a plan, and put in the window air conditioners when it was 90 degrees inside and out, with humidity off the charts, thanks not. Naturally, this did the trick, and the temperature dropped 20 degrees in one fell swoop. In fact, I wonder that it didn't usher in a whole new Ice Age on the spot, so I guess there must be something to this global warming stuff after all.

Last weekend was Memorial Day, of course, the unofficial start of the summer season, with all the transient pleasures it has to offer, of which one is my sister's historic barbecue for hundreds of their far-flung friends and acquaintances, plus the myriad strangers who just get sucked up into the vortex of its gravitational pull. I usually pick up my other sister at the bus station and bring her with me, but this time around she was unable to attend, so Bill was kind enough to fill in for her, and did an admirable job, considering this was his first time at the rodeo, as they say. We left the rodeo clowns behind, and stopped at Denny's on the way home, where they were complaining that there was no air conditioning, but that didn't slow us down a bit. At the time, there was not another living soul in the place besides us, so we got very attentive service, I can tell you that. I wanted to try one of their newly introduced tropical drinks, but we found out that it wasn't available yet, even though it was being advertised right there on their placemats, so that was disappointing. But I don't like to complain because it seems like going to Denny's is getting to be almost an embarrassment of riches for us lately, since we went on Easter at the end of April, again after the grand opening at Shanti-Bithi last month, and here again on Memorial Day. That's the kind of triple threat I can live with, believe me.

I intended to fly the flags on Monday for Memorial Day, which was also coincidentally May 30, traditionally known as Decoration Day, where usually these fall on two different days. But I thought the weather was questionable in the morning, and we were planning to be out all day, so I reluctantly gave up on the idea, because I didn't want to come home to the sight of wet and bedraggled Old Glory, and the sound of the aggrieved gray-headed Barbara Frietchie spinning in her fictional grave. I suppose it was just as well, because everyone know that we can't count on the poor addled brain cells (both of them) of the Flag Brigade anymore, to put the flags out and bring them back in again, even if we just assign one task each to G.I. Joe and Beetle Bailey, so they only have to remember one instead of both. Obviously what I need is for one of those brain cells to be Barbara Frietchie, and the other to be Betsy Ross, and then the Flag Brigade would really be in business, by golly.

If Memorial Day weekend has come and gone, as indeed it has, then that means that the venerable Indy 500 has also, roaring off into the sunset for another year. There was almost a fairy tale finish by a rookie, who practically led the whole way from pole to pole, that is, until fate stepped in. Our friends at Sports Illustrated describe it this way:

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INDIANAPOLIS (AP) -- JR Hildebrand was one turn away from winning the Indianapolis 500 and within sight of the checkered flag when the 23-year-old rookie made the ultimate mistake.

Leading by almost 4 seconds with a lap to go, Hildebrand skidded high into the wall on the final turn, and Dan Wheldon drove past to claim an improbable second Indy 500 win Sunday in his first race of the year.

The first three turns went smoothly. Then Hildebrand moved to the outside and lost control, slamming the wall to a collective gasp from the crowd of 250,000. "I got up in the marbles and that was it,'' Hildebrand said.
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I love that part about the marbles, whatever that means, but actually, my personal favorite account of the race is from our other friends at http://www.bleacherreport.com/

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On the final turn of the final lap in the 2011 Indy 500, rookie J.R. Hildebrand wrecked. Dan Wheldon who had finished second in the race the past two years took advantage of Hildebrand's error to win the race.
The finish was under review to see if Wheldon passed Hildebrand before the yellow flag was waived.
It took hours after the race and no announcement was been made on the winner. They delay made it look like an overturn was possible.
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"Waived?" "Was been?" "They delay?" Do I hear the ghost of Casey Stengel wondering, "Can't anybody here speak this language?" It's beginning to make me think that we may have finally discovered the source for the excerpts in the Best Bets section of our local newspaper's TV listings, where this kind of thing is all too common. Here's one that the spell-checker is never going to help you with:

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"TOY STORY 3"
As Andy leaves for college the toys are
pack and donated to a daycare but when
things get a little too rough they plan a
daring escape so they can go home
======================

Now, I understand that space is at a premium in this section, but leaving out all of the punctuation makes this description almost impossible to understand. And if the punctuation didn't save enough room, they also left the end off of "packed" and whatever the noun was supposed to be that would have been modified by "daycare," that is, if only it was there when the modifier was looking for it, alas. It was another holiday for the spell-checker in this next entry:

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"PARANORMAL STATE"
A mirror inexplicably levitates and
hurdles itself to the ground
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I realize this is paranormal stuff, but I can't even begin to imagine how double-jointed something would have to be in order to "hurdle itself," which might be considered as a new Olympic sport - The 100 Meter Hurdle Yourself - except for the fact that it would be impossible. It shouldn't take paranormal powers to come up with the word "hurtle" in the place of "hurdle," but I admit that the supernatural is not my field of expertise. The spell-checker is also not going to help you with this one:

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"CHASE"
The Marshals track down a prison escapee
who is hoping to find proof of his evidence
===============

I'm thinking it would be more useful for him to find proof of his innocence, rather than his evidence, but here again, law enforcement is not my specialty, so I may be wrong. The puzzling part is these two words aren't even homophones (like cereal and serial, for example) so you can't help but wonder how they still managed to mix them up. Heck, that would be like me mixing up my only two brain cells ..... hmmm, good old whats-his-name ..... uh, you know who I mean ..... oh, it's right here on the tip of my tongue ..... G.I. Frietchie and Beetle Ross, that must be them.

Elle