Baby: 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10, 12, 15, 16, 20, 23
Horse: 2, 5, 8, 9, 11, 13, 14, 17, 18, 19, 22
Both: 21

Wondering what to do with that old brick of an obsolete iPhone 3G or 3GS sitting in your desk drawer?  Do you also have a baby in the house who loves white noise?  Download a free white noise app like Sleep Machine Lite, turn on airplane mode to kill the wireless transmissions, add an extension cord and a little velcro and presto, you can trick out your baby’s favorite sleep spot with endless shushing and squeeze an extra hour or two out of nap time.  They don’t teach you that in birthing class.

“I will trade you a wine chiller or a VERY CLEAN down comforter for the LCD you are selling on Craigslist, let me know ASAP if you are interested” Wednesday

Vending Machine Thursday

Bidding War Friday

Full Price Saturday

Pawnshop Sunday

A claims adjuster conducting a very sensitive meeting on the 12th floor stands up and says, “Before we go any further, I’m just going to close this door.”

The building’s window washer receives a mild electric shock, causing him to momentarily lose his balance and do a poor job cleaning my office window.

A door to a hidden room is opened nearby, releasing 3-6 people who will board the elevator just as the doors close and each select different floors.

A flight of white doves is freed from a cage on the roof of the building, inspiring passersby to be peaceful and patient.

“Close The Door” by Teddy Pendergrass begins playing in the lobby cafe.

Several seconds are deducted from my life expectancy.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The night that it happened, when the clocks changed, we were obviously asleep. Some people were sleeping on the cabin floor, soothed by the static snow that fell on screen after the recording of the Valley of the Dolls quit. It was about 25 or 6 to two in the morning then. Someone draped a blanket on the ones on the floor and it could have been any old moment in their dreams, right then, when they felt a little warmer. Maybe they were on a beach in Saint-Tropez when the clocks changed.

I don’t remember where I was when it happened.

A funny thing though. When we woke up the next day, right at first not a single one of us remembered that the clocks had changed. None of us remembered, even though we had talked about it for two days. Instead we looked at our clocks and didn’t feel so bad about our motivations. That’s a gift, you know.

I rolled back over to disappear again until there was chatter downstairs and the smell of a coffee grinder filled a rich brass meal bell that rang like old times. James told a story about how this one time, the entire country of Russia decided not to change the clocks because they worried it would confuse everyone. So the Russians went to sleep that night–quite confident about their Russian time–and when they woke the next morning they discovered that their technology had changed the clocks anyway. All of their technology had been animated by people who believed in changing the clocks. The Russians went crazy, of course, and a couple minutes later our breakfast drifted out of the kitchen right on time.

***

From: Beloved and Respected Commissioner
Subject: Drafting is a science
From his early years, Dear Commissioner has possessed the power of keen observation, the power of clear analysis and extraordinary perspicacity with regard to the identification of “duds and studs” in pre-draft planning. His unusual natural disposition as a child was nurtured by his father who told him of the lofty idea of the Option Offense, cherished by his grandfather, which embedded the perfect understanding of fantasy football draft strategy in his heart. Therefore, to create an atmosphere of reconciliation and unity, the most faithful successor to the cause of the collective will administer tomorrow’s draft. Please do not log in until the Peerless Leader has completed drafting your team.

***

From: Glorious Commissioner Who Descended from Heaven
Subject: On trades and the preservation of the revolutionary results of the draft
Trading between teams is not necessary. Glorious Commissioner has ensured a perfect draft.

***

From: Great Commissioner, Invincible and Iron-Willed
Subject: On some problems of the ideological foundation of the quarterback
The role of a quarterback is the subject of much theoretical debate. Just as the members of the collective contribute to its well-being, each team player must be expected to give selflessly to advance the gloriousness of the season. The delineation of positions, however, is evidence of a hostile class structure that breeds an atmosphere of antagonism and inequality. At the top of this class system is the quarterback. He frequently exhibits the capitalist’s characteristics of individual demand which, when divorced from the needs of the collective, becomes selfish greed. Only through revolution can the once oppressed and lowly lineman realize true joy and freedom in his contribution to the collective. Effective immediately, the position of quarterback has been eliminated from your rosters.

***

From: The Commissioner Who Is A Man of Deeds
Subject: Dues are the life of the league
It is impossible to achieve revolutionary unification of the collective without the financial contribution of all teams in the league. Teams cannot be considered to have joined the collective until they have contributed all of their monthly wages–minus those amounts necessary for the most critical game-day sustenance and shelter–to fund the administration of the league. Additionally if adjustments to a team’s weekly lineups are desired, such as in the case of bye weeks, the team owner must make payment each Saturday in the form of one box of tobacco.

***

From: Supreme Commissioner, Symbol of the League’s Unification
Subject: Abuses of the league collective are intolerable during the playoffs
There is a natural instinct of the independent, creative and conscious team owner to lead a dignified season. Because a team owner receives dignity from his participation in the league collective, he is therefore reliant on the collective for the worth of his season; his season is worthless when he is forsaken by it. A traditional playoff structure is disruptive to the harmony of the collective as each team owner is encouraged to separate himself from the collective by virtue of defeating his comrades. Therefore, following the playoff period all team point totals will be reduced to zero so that every owner may have the benefit of a successful playoff experience. To ensure the continued health of the collective, all team owners will acknowledge its magnificence each morning by singing the anthem, “Our League is A Nice League to Be In.”

***

From: Supreme Commissioner, Symbol of the League’s Unification
Subject: Let us exalt the brilliance of our Commissioner’s command of the league this year and congratulate him on winning the championship
In his triumph, Dear Commissioner has unified the entire league as a revolutionary family. His victory is your victory. Let us pay tribute with 600 push-ups and await instructions for participation next season.

“You want to have a child with me and make it heavy?” I ask.

“No. I want to get fat with you,” she says. “You and I are going to get fat together and then we’ll both have fatbabies on us, jiggly little people around our waists. Twenty pounds should be enough,” and she pokes me a little too hard in the ribs. “What are you going to name yours?”

“I don’t want a fatbaby,” I say. “I’m not financially stable enough and my school district sucks. Some ten year old got stabbed last week at Ockley Green and I don’t know about you, but that’s not the kind of world I want my fatbaby living in.”

“I’m naming mine Riley,” she says flatly.

“Ok, then mine will be called Lyle.”

The hammock stops rocking, so I reach out for a chute from the bamboo that’s been slowly devouring the back of my yard for the last year. I reach across her to grab that chute and she bites my arm without hesitation. I’ve already learned not to react when she does this, because it makes her bite harder and longer, even though I like the way she giggles when she eventually lets go. I grab the chute and it breaks off in my hand, sending me abruptly back onto my side of the hammock. She laughs and says, “Do you think fatbabies are covered by healthcare?”

“Not at first,” I say. “They’re not going to cover the birth, so we’re going to have to buy our own milkshakes and tacos.”

“What about when they get sick?” she asks.

“That’s the beauty of the system,” I say. “They’ll give us anything we need once we’re sick, so you can forget about preventative care.”

“Well I still want to get Shirley her Diptets,” she pouts in a mock Southern accent. “Just to be safe.”

I reach across her once more and hook another bamboo chute between my fingers, guiding it into my palm. She bites my arm again and I whimper a little, blaming it on the razor edge of the bamboo leaves. She laughs because she knows better and she spares me the deeper bite, this irresistible little Attila. I pull and let go the bamboo and we’re suddenly tangled together and swinging again, imagining ourselves the cause of the wind sighing steadily in the fir tree that towers above our hazy, breathless anticipation.