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Outta my mind on a weekday moanin'

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I thought I would clear out my head after a vacation that my boss kept telling me was WAY too long and that seemed to me to be just a bit too short. In the format of a columnist I grew up reading, here I go “outta my mind on this weekday moanin'...”

... First things first: Happy Thanksgiving. Merry Christmas. Merry Whatever Holidays You Celebrated since my vacation started and ended.

... Oh, and Happy New Year. (Hmmmm. Maybe that vacation WAS a bit long.)

... A pop quiz: What year is it? Is it twenty eleven or two thousand and eleven? I suppose there is no wrong answer. Well, there are a bunch of wrong answers. If you said, “nineteen seventy five,” for instance, that would be a wrong answer. (And if you really think it is 1975, the bong that you bought that year is probably still playing too large a part in your life.) In any event, which of the two correct answers is going to roll off your tongue this year? Proponents of “twenty eleven” point out that they spent the 1990s saying “nineteen ninety whatever,” so “twenty whatever” makes logical sense. EXCEPT, they didn't start saying “twenty whatever” until the “whatever” got into double digits. I never heard anyone say it was “twenty zero zero” in 2000. And the classic sci-fi movie was never called “Twenty Zero One: A Space Odyssey” by anyone. So this group is logical, but not consistent. I am going the “two thousand eleven” route.

...You're number one: This year you will have the chance to write 1-1-11 and 11-11-11 in the date slot on checks you write. That's pretty cool. Next year, 12-12-12 will mark the last time there will be repeating numerals in a date. Or at least until we add a 13th month to the year.

... Yes, those last two items are the kinds of issues that keep me awake in deep thought at night. You are welcome to feel sorry for me.

... Love Nugget had it in her mind that I am a 12-year-old who would snoop around the house before Christmas to see what presents I would get on the big day. So she hid what she bought me to ensure the sugar plums would keep dancing in my head right up until the morning of unwrapping. Well, guess what? She has yet to find a digital camera she bought for me. She hid it too well. That's got to be one of the funniest Christmas memories in all of my 53 years. Or, should I say, funniest lack of memory.

... I have to plug “NNY Business,” a new publication in the Johnson Newspaper Corporation family. The first issue is a slick-looking magazine with great photos and stories targeting the business community in Northern New York. For instance, the lead story in that issue was, “Restaurant wars: Success in today's restaurant business is sink or swim and, as many have experienced, the water isn't always calm.” Next month's issue is going to examine the economic and business outlook for Northern New York as changes take place in Albany and across the state. Distribution of the magazine is a bit limited in St. Lawrence County at this early stage, but we have some copies you can check out at the Northern New York Newspapers office on Main Street in Canton. You can also get information about subscribing by calling (800) 724-1012. Ken Eysaman is the magazine's editor and welcomes your calls if you have business news you want to share. You can reach him at 661-2399, or by e-mail at keysaman@wdt.net.

... The recent thaw revealed how many dog owners don't pick up after their pooches when they take them on walks. Come on, folks ... it is your duty to pick up your dog's doody. Bring plastic bags and take a route that includes waste baskets every few blocks. It's not a big deal. And it is the right thing to do.

... On a related note: A neighbor who is a doctor with a family practice saw me scooping some poop from his lawn the other day and said, “Man, that's a horrible job.” This from a guy whom I assume regularly performs prostate exams? If he thinks that bending down with a plastic bag to clean up after one of my dogs is horrible, I wonder what he thinks when he asks a patient to bend over and finds himself staring at some old guy's bare hiney as he readies to stick his finger ... oh, never mind. The point is there are lots worse jobs than picking up after your pooch.

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