Journal

It was a wonderful day to play hooky, sunny, breezy and mild. I had a dentist appointment at 12:20, and Jeffrey had court at 2:00, so I took half the day off. J

It’s taken me years to get to the point where I can usually let the small stuff and things outside my control slide. For example, to get from the hospital to the dentist, I had to transfer from the #5 St. Paul to the #10 Dewey. I knew it would be tight. According to the schedules, the #5 arrives at Main and Clinton at 11:32, and the #10 departs at 11:35. Naturally as the #5 pulled up, the #10 roared off.

Not too awfully long ago, this would have sent me into a great big hissy-fit. I’d have been angry with the driver, the traffic, and the elderly couple who took forever to climb the steps into the bus, pay their fare, check with the driver about something and take their seats. Rather, it made me appreciate the new busses the transit service is buying.

The new busses are butt-ugly, seat fewer passengers, and the engines are quite a bit noisier than the units they’re replacing. But, there are no steps at either door. The floor is billiard table flat from door to door. Being able to walk right into the bus rather than climb in takes a bit of getting used to. It still kinda throws me on those mornings when I’m a little partly-cloudy. The benefit is that folks, like that elderly couple, can breeze right on. When boarding people in wheelchairs, instead of the lift taking five minutes or so to extend, lower, lift and retract, the floor extends flat to the curb, and they just wheel right in.

Anyway, back downtown I sat down on the warm black marble by the Liberty Pole and waited for the next bus. Lucky me, the #1 Lake came by only 15 minutes later. In the part of the route I needed, it runs parallel to the #10 now quite a half mile to the east. So it was only a ten-minute walk from Lake Ave. to the dentist’s, during which I shed my jacket and stuffed it into my backpack.

The appointment went well, just a routine cleaning and check-up. No surprises. After the appointment I crossed the street, removed my tie, unbuttoned my collar, rolled up my sleeves and sat down in the lawn to wait for the #10 back downtown. While I waited, I thought about how I’d spent the rest of the afternoon. Jeffrey phoned this morning to say his court date had been moved to 9:30, so I had the entire afternoon to myself.

Arriving downtown, the #1 Park rolled up behind us, so rather than wait for the #18 University, I hopped the Park. My apartment is roughly the same distance from either route, but I commute on the University because I don’t have to transfer. I’d thought about walking from downtown, it’s between 15 and 20 minutes, but I had serious plans for the afternoon.

When I got home, I was glad I’d left the blinds up and the windows open. It was nice, sunny and cool. I glanced through the mail, then got down to the serious business of napping in the sun. Of all the things I could have done this afternoon, why did I choose a nap over everything else? I’d had only three hours sleep last night because I was burning the midnight oil writing this letter for Jeffrey:

Your honor:

I have known Jeffrey for just over 11 months. In this time I’ve seen him at his best, and at his worst.

At his best, Jeffrey is a polite, compassionate, responsible, respectable man, an artist and a poet, who cares deeply for his family and friends, and who strives to give his best to them. At the other extreme, well I’m sure his record speaks for itself.

What causes the difference between these two extremes? Three issues. His alcoholism and drug abuse, his psychiatric issues, and his inability to structure his life and the self-discipline to work within that structure.

In the past 11 months, he has gone to jail four times, and I’ve seen him come out three. Each time it has been the same. He positively flourishes in jail. Given the structure he needs, access to counseling, and the, albeit enforced, abstinence from drugs and alcohol, he’s a changed man. He draws again. He writes again. He becomes focused and centered. While it’s difficult for most people to understand, he becomes happy. He’s not happy that he’s in jail, he’s happy that his life under control.

He comes out of jail full of hope and promise that he’ll never have to return. He also comes out with only a check for the remaining balance in his jail commissary account, and a plastic bag of property. He re-enters society with no job, no income, no place to live except for the homes of friends, no coping skills, no psychiatric treatment and no drug and alcohol counseling.

In short, he comes out of jail with no future, except for that of recidivism. Because whatever rehabilitation he gets in jail, ends when they hand him that check and plastic bag.

He does well for the first week or so, then the long slow downward spiral begins. He becomes frustrated at his inability to cope with life’s slings and arrows, frustrated at having no income, job or job prospects, frustrated that it will be weeks before his Medicaid benefits will start and he can resume his treatment and medication.

The anxiety borne of this frustration, coupled with restlessness, boredom and the need to clear his head of the mood swings of his bi-polar disorder, his paranoid delusions, and other psychoses, lead him to the self-medication of alcohol and street drugs. From there, it doesn’t take long before he’s back in jail and before another judge.

Less than a month ago, he came home from a court-ordered referral for either a Pre-Trial Investigation, or a Pre-Sentence Investigation, (I don’t know which,) completely dejected and despondent. He had requested that following incarceration, his sentence include being released to a halfway-house for alcoholism, drug abuse and psychiatric care, followed by probation. He felt the interviewer thought his request was merely an attempt to manipulate the system in order to receive a reduced sentence. In the vernacular, he felt he’d been blown off.

Certainly the interviewer is not at fault. Seeing dozens of criminals daily who want nothing more than to avoid jail time, I’m sure they are not impressed by a few minutes with someone whose jacket is as long as Jeffrey’s. I’ve had a different opportunity. Mine is one of several addresses he bounces between because he has no home of his own, nor the resources to obtain and maintain one. We’ve spent countless hours together talking, and sometimes crying, late into the night. I’ve had the luxury of time to get to know Jeffrey.

Jeffrey genuinely wants to turn his life around. He is frustrated that he is unable to do it himself. He wants help. He needs help. He needs to learn such basic things as how to keep a regular schedule so he can keep a job, how to manage his money, how to manage the daily assaults to the psyche the rest of us brush off. He needs to learn how to live in a world that’s not nearly as exciting as television portrays it to be, and not as exciting as stealing, drinking and drugging all day and night. And he needs to have practice and confidence in these skills before he has to stand alone.

The four to six week waiting period between his release from jail and his obtaining Medicaid benefits for treatment is too long for him weather without these skills. He needs this help from the very moment the deputies hand him that check and that plastic bag. He needs more help, teaching and supervision than I, or any of his friends or family members can give. He needs the help of trained professionals.

I have no professional qualifications on which to base my opinions. I do, however, have a bit of experience in these matters. I too waged an internal war on, in my case, undiagnosed psychological and psychiatric issues. For just over 20 years, the same as Jeffrey, I too used alcohol and street drugs to self-medicate the symptoms.

I was more fortunate than Jeffrey. I had the income to finance my drug and alcohol abuse so I did not run afoul of the law. And later, I had the income and the health insurance to obtain and finance treatment, which I continue to this day. At the age of 35, Jeffrey’s age now, I began my life again. The past seven years, while not perfect, have been the best of my life. And it’s still a wonder to me that things keep getting better.

This is the opportunity I ask the court to help provide for my friend. The opportunity to begin his life again. The opportunity to become an asset to the community, not a burden upon it. The opportunity to someday, as I have, reach out and help another shed their past and embark on a brighter future.

Just as Jeffrey asked at his court-ordered interview, I ask that following a reasonable period of incarceration, Jeffrey be released to a halfway-house specializing in rehabilitating drug and alcohol abusers and including appropriate psychiatric care and medication, followed by a period of probation.

It is my opinion that this combination will meet the needs of the plaintiffs and of the law to see that punishment is given. It will meet the needs of the community to convert a burden to society into an asset. And it will meet the needs of Jeffrey to break his cycle of recidivism.

And isn’t that what the criminal justice system is all about?

Yours,

The goal was to package all five, (count ‘em) cases and run the whole mess through Drug Court. The whole key was the appearance for sentencing this morning on the charges stemming from the cop-car incident. Judge Pfeiffer was not impressed with my letter. She sentenced him to eight months straight-time. Boo, hiss!

With the possible exception of the petit-larceny charge before Judge Renzi in Henrietta, (the one with the $750 bail), the other sentences will probably be shorter than, and will run concurrently with, Judge Pfeiffer’s.

Knocking a third off a 240 day sentence puts Jeffrey back on the street on September 17^th. And as usual, he’ll be cast out with only a check and a plastic bag. I don’t know how to handle it. If he doesn’t get into some sort of program right away, he’ll be back in jail before the end of the year.

Judge Pfeiffer’s decision confirms my suspicion that the criminal justice system in this country exists only to perpetuate the lifetime employment of those who work within it.

The scheme is simple, bring ‘em in early, (age 14 in Jeffrey’s case) and rather than teach them how to live productive lives, strip them of everything they need to function in society in order to insure their return to the system. Result? Jobs for everyone in the system, bloating tax bills for the general population, and some good lives with plenty of potential lost.

It sickens me.

And worse? Up until a year ago, I bought into all that tough on crime, lock ‘em up forever crap.

When I arrived at the jail, she was already in line for the property desk. Like the next person, with 20 or so behind her. I worked my way to the front of the line just as she stepped up to the counter. I introduced myself, and handed her the gym bag. She blew me off completely!

Just then, the deputy starts to inventory the contents of the gym bag. What was I to do? I put everything through for [Inmate A]. Then the books I brought for Jeffrey, (four Tom Clancy’s, the fifth was also over 900 pages, and I don’t recall what the sixth was. That should keep him busy for a while.)

Meanwhile, the natives were getting restless. I mean really restless. Like verging on a riot because I had cut the line. Naturally the alleged girlfriend was long gone. Then the people in line started calling the deputies over. Just what I needed. Either get the shit kicked out of me by the natives, or have the deputies run my name and find out I’m not allowed to be there in the first place. Did I mention this all takes place in a hallway no more than six feet wide? And I still had to go to the second window to deposit money in his commissary account?

Fortunately, there were no issues with the property I was leaving. I quickly signed my name and high-tailed it in the other direction down the hall towards the Jail Records office, and made my escape through an "Authorized Personnel Only" door. I figured self-preservation was all the authorization I needed.

I stopped for a smoke and to collect myself before walking around the building and back in to the money window. Things had calmed down by then, although I was still sweating bullets. The money line moves more quickly and I was out in about ten minutes without being recognized. I didn’t wait for my bus in front of the jail. Instead I made my way quickly to Main and Clinton to wait there instead. There’s safety in numbers.

Instead, I buried myself in the computer. Jim had e-mailed a couple of photos, and I was working on the page when he stopped by and snapped this picture.

We had made plans for drinks, dinner and a movie. He suggested margaritas and Mexican. Fine by me. Then he noticed I had three leftover drink tickets for Happy Hour at the Forum. It didn’t take long for him to figure that they have tequila at the Forum, and three drink tickets meant considerable savings, and so, it was off to the Forum.

I don’t care for margaritas, so I had my usual Dewar’s and water while Jim went searching for worms in his tequila. And he snapped off a few more pictures in the Forum too.

This is Dan, who was also tending bar the night the police raided the place looking for Jeffrey.

Thank heavens nobody at the Forum has  put it together that Jeffrey and I are best friends. Otherwise I’m sure I’d be barred as well.

There was a new face seating the patrons Saturday night. The guy looks for all the world just like Roger Daltry, although considerably less haggard. Among the crowd there was a Courtney Love twin as well. She also looked considerably less haggard than the original.

Our waitress was Frank. She made the fatal mistake of beginning a sentence with the words "Let me be frank…" one night when Michael-the-ex and I were dining and just a bit tipsy. It’s been Frank ever since. In fact, I’ve been calling her Frank for so long, I’ve forgotten her given name.

In any event, we saved dessert for the movie theater; chocolate-chip cookies still warm and gooey from the oven. Yummy. This was marred however by what Jim reported as the worst latté he had ever had. My bottled water, however, was just fine.

We saw "The Matrix", which has a plot so full of holes you could drain macaroni. On the other hand Keanu Reeves is cute and the special effects are out of this world. It’s certainly worth seeing despite the plot. Did I mention Keanu Reeves is cute? J

Returning home, we found Debbie absorbed in a movie on Lifetime. "Permanent Record", starring who else, but Keanu Reeves. Only much younger. In that movie he acts, and looks, for all the world like Jeffrey, only considerably less haggard. No wonder she was so absorbed in it.

Mark had called on Saturday just after Jim and I went out. He had just gotten his new car, another Saturn four-door, this time in medium red and with a sunroof. I can’t wait for the first sunny day he forgets to wear a hat in the car! I’ve toasted the upper portion of my cranium that way more times than I care to admit.

Anyway, he’d wanted to go to Toronto for the night to "break in the new car" (wink, wink.) Too bad I was already out for the night, and short of funds for such an adventure. It would have been nice weather for Sunday bruch outside at one of the restaurants on Church St.

I’ve been pleased with the experiment of moving the Navigation Bar from the left side of the screen to the right. My goal was to reduce mousing around. It seemed awkward to use the scroll bar on the right, then move across the screen to the Navigation Bar on the left. See? I’m thinking of you. Lemme know whatcha think.

I love sleeping this time of year. It’s just warm enough that I can leave the windows open a bit, the room gets cool and I don’t freeze my ass. Which is what I did this morning waiting for the bus. Man it was cold. The wind was straight out of the north, wind-chill was in the 20s. My apartment’s on the south side of the building, so it was out of the wind. All I saw were sunny blue skies, so I wore only a spring jacket.

Something didn’t seem quite right this morning as I ran through my morning routine. Along with the cold, it hit me as I stepped outside. There was no traffic at all on my street. Zip, zero, nada, nothing. It had been too quiet, and that’s what I’d picked up on sub-consciously. When I got out to the street, I saw that it was cordoned off at both ends of the block.

I couldn’t really see anything other than the police cars and a fire truck. I was glad to see the fire truck because then I knew the police weren’t going through all this to apprehend Jeffrey, or worse, me. Unless they were going to torch us out. Although I’m hardly a David Koresch, the thought did run through my mind. I’ll tell ya, I still wait for that knock on the door when I hear the elevator doors in the middle of the night. Maybe moving is a good thing.

Anyway I didn’t have time to investigate. Burl Ives is on vacation, and the substitute bus driver has had erratic timing. The news crews had started arriving so I let them investigate for me. What had happened was an accident between a city bus and a Ford Bronco, right at the corner. Channel 10 had the only web coverage tonight. I don’t know how long their URLs stay live, so don’t yell at me when the link 404s, okay?

When I reached into the credenza for a pack of cigarettes, it wasn’t quite right. I have a pretty good idea of how much I smoke. Two at home in the morning, one more waiting for the bus. Two on my lunch hour, and another one waiting for the bus come home. I don’t track how many at home at night, but overall, a carton lasts me right around two weeks. There were some missing.

On interrogation a few minutes ago, she admitted to taking them. Now a pack or two of cigarettes isn’t a great deal. But she had to go snooping through things to find them. And quite frankly, I’m tired of having to hide stuff in my own apartment, or carry it all with me in my backpack. And people wonder why my backpack is so heavy.

She and Jeffrey may think I’m stupid, naïve, or forgetful. But I keep a good inventory of my stuff in my head. Ask Vince. I was able to tell him exactly what was in each one of our freezers at any given time. So when things come up missing, like cigarettes or in the case of last week, a roll of quarters, and a pound of ground beef, I know about it. Maybe not until the next time I need it, but I know.

Except for the building manager, I am now the only person in the world with a set of keys to my apartment.

I am tired of my trust being violated. I am tired of this "It’s easier to ask forgiveness than it is to ask permission" bullshit. I’m tired of counting on something to be there when I need it, and then finding it missing.

The following letter from Jeffrey came in the mail today:

Monday April 26^th, 1999 10:30PM

Well bud,… as you well know I was smacked with 8 months. I don’t feel bad or discouraged, nor do I resent or blame the judge/system. I want to be responsible, and I guess suffer to a certain degree for my wrongs. But in the end I’m left with the same repetitious situation, a check and a bag!!! What next à 3½ to 7 à 7 to 15 or 12½ to 25?? I do not know what the future has in store for me.

I would like to thank you once again for your love and support. I would be a liar if I was to deny the fact that you spoil me, … and I fuckin’ love it!! I feel special, I feel loved, and most of all I don’t feel alone. The love and the trust that I have established with you is most profound. I still worry about betrayal or abandonment, but there comes a time when one has no choice but to turn it over.

At any rate, you & Deb are my family and I love you both very much, let’s see if I can pull through this without losing either of you two. Remember this,… time goes by and things they do change,… but my feelings for you and Debbie will not.

W/B soon, Jeffrey

I couldn’t sleep last night. I’d doze a bit then toss and turn some more. By 2:30 I’d had it. I got up and wrote four pages to Jeffrey, 10 point type and one inch margins. I do not waste paper. I wrote until the alarm went off at 5:30. Then I dozed a bit until the last possible second, then quickly got ready for work and caught the bus that runs after my usual one.

I’m not sure what happened or how, but I know when. It was when I escorted Debbie to my door. Something changed in those moments. I wasn’t angry. Hurt had been de-coupled from anger. I could feel it by itself, and so, I could express it by itself.

I took hurt to bed with me, and it was hurt that kept me awake. It was hurt that caused me to write. It was hurt that I wrote about. Frankly, I’m delighted by this change. I take it as a sign of healing. Here’s some of what I wrote:

I have trouble with the transitions between wake to sleep and from sleep to wake. It takes real work and plenty of time for me to change states. Regardless of duration, the better I sleep the harder it is to wake. I slept very deeply last night so this morning was a real struggle. It took well over an hour, with CNN Headline News blaring louder than I normally set it when I’m conscious.

In any event, I had the strangest dream as I was trying to wake this morning. My middle brother was taking dime bags of crack out of his mouth, (Jeffrey’s preferred method of concealment for transport,) and offering them to me. Then, from my grandfather’s toolbox (an inheritance,) I pulled out a selection of stems.

That startled me so much that I woke right up. I could taste the crack smoke, (technically vapor because basically you boil it, not burn it like tobacco or pot.) I lit a Marlboro even before I found my glasses.

When I shared that dream with my friend Norman, (we e-mail almost daily, and usually several times) he wrote back, "So is Jeffrey a substitute brother?"

I had the dubious honor of being not only the first born, but a first born son, (it was the 50s! What can I say?) but also I was the first grandchild in both families. Naturally as an infant, I was spoiled rotten.

So it was a real shock when my middle brother came along. All the love and attention shifted to him. By the time he was a toddler, I was in kindergarten, and at the ripe old age of five, I was thrust into the role of third parent, because my youngest brother was on the way.

See, my parents never took into account that it was the age difference between them and their siblings that made their siblings’ role that of a third parent. In their minds, the oldest child worked with the parents to raise the younger child. In their defense, it was all they’d ever known, and back then family roles and responsibilities were pretty much cut and dried.

With the third son on the scene, parental love and attention shifted even further away from me. And by the time he was a toddler, I was already having trouble in school. Everyone knew I was bright, intelligent, articulate, all that stuff. But I was failing third grade. I was characterized as a lazy daydreamer withdrawing into my own little world. These days, that sends up red flags for ADD, a diagnosis I didn’t get for another thirty years.

At home, with only a six year spread from oldest to youngest, there was a lot of pressure on me as the third parent. As we grew older, the mischief my brothers got into was inevitably my fault for one of two reasons: One, I had led them astray, or two, I had failed in my supervisory role as the third parent. Either way I was screwed, and as we became older still, my brothers took every advantage of it that they could.

My memories of childhood are an endless series of punishments for poor school performance and for the violations committed by my brothers. I was always in the fucking doghouse. As a teenager whenever the opportunity to escape in any form presented itself, I took it. Sleeping, headphones, the school radio station, anything. Then I discovered drugs. Besides the escape of the buzz itself, the drug culture and the acceptance as a peer offered by the druggies was overwhelmingly seductive. I took the bait, as they say, hook, line and sinker.

By then I knew both my sexual orientation, and that it was not acceptable to society. I didn’t know any other gay people even existed, but my druggie friends were also social outcasts, and that was good enough. And I got to hang with and get close (both physically and emotionally) to some really cute guys. To this day I’m still a sucker for guys with long hair.

As our relationship developed, the druggie interaction became dominant. But in those early months we bonded as brothers. There’s bad blood between he and his brother, just as between me and mine. Neither of us had a best friend as far as pals and hanging out goes either. We quickly developed a double-bond of best friends and brothers. Read back to the June and July entries.

The hanging out, best-friends aspect of our relationship was easy for everyone to see. The closeness we had was easy to misinterpret as our being lovers. It wasn’t helped by the fact that we felt like brothers. But it was in that context that the word "love" was introduced into our relationship. And when two guys say they love each other, only one thing comes to mind, even for me.

We frequently discussed how we felt as brothers and the need we each had for that type of relationship. And maybe now you can understand why, although he’s a solid nine in my book, we could sleep together in the same bed for over six months yet never have sex. It felt like incest. That natural aversion we have to sex within the family.

It wasn’t until the day he said he saw me almost as a father figure in his life, that things began to fall apart for me. I know he meant it in the very best sense, that he looked up to me for guidance and as a role model. It was worst thing he could have ever said to me.

How could he know? We had never talked about this. Why has it taken me this long to see it? I remember writing at the time that the reason I did it was to hurt him. But I didn’t know why. But it was those two events that lead us to where we are now. So many things that never made sense to me, to Jeffrey, or to anyone else, become so clear in that context.

On his return, I asked if I could help, or get him anything. Pepto-Bismol, milk and saltines was the request, and off to The Corner Store I went. I guess one can find adventure anywhere if one looks closely enough. I’ve never before owned a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. I’m not sure if this is a life-changing event, but we seldom recognize them when they happen. After downing some of the pink stuff, and wishing it were beige instead, (?) a half-glass of milk and some saltines, he passed out, but not before I let him know it’s not everyone who’s allowed to eat crackers in my bed. J

We had planned to drive out to Naples in the Finger Lakes wine country to go hiking then have a nice dinner, but it looks like that will be tomorrow instead. That’s fine with me too. I was up until around 5:00 this morning writing to concerned friends. I’ll have to check later to see if any of it was coherent.

The deciding factors for lunch were, outdoors, and parking. Jim’s Restaurant was out because there’s no outdoor seating. Jine’s outdoor tables were packed, and as usual, there wasn’t a vacant parking spot for blocks around Park and Berkley. The tables on the sidewalk at Hogan’s Hideaway were in the shade, and although sunny today, it was still a little cool. But since the Parkleigh knocked down the old laundromat and bicycle shop for additional parking next door, Hogan’s had added a new section to the deck in back, and parking was plentiful.

Hogan’s is not known for grits, oatmeal or greasy burgers. In fact, I’ve never seen them on the menu. Jim settled for poached salmon with a tomato sauce and capers, served over rice, and I had the scallops and artichoke hearts in a tomato basil sauce over wild rice. Both dishes were a steal at $7.95. Certainly a more pleasing repast than originally planned.

Considering we each had little sleep last night, and the breeze was perfect for napping, we took full advantage of the opportunity. Greasy burgers seemed the perfect choice this evening and Schaller’s at the lake has perhaps the greasiest and best burgers on the entire North Coast. It’s been there forever and is still as close to the old fashioned drive-ins as you can get in the 90s. And the place was mobbed. This however afforded plenty of waiting time to admire the two dozen or so cute twinks in paper hats behind the counter. J

As long as one’s at the lake, a drive along Edgemere Drive is nearly compulsory. We headed east, through Charlotte, the across the river. Jim was had his signal on and was slowing to turn into the beach parking lot at Durand. I asked him not to because I’ve been thinking about both Jeffrey and Willie far too much lately. And Durand was where we spent every evening together last May and June.

Instead we drove to the Irondequoit Bay outlet. The swing-bridge is open this time of year permitting unrestricted boat traffic between the bay and the lake. It’s the first time I’ve had a good look at the bridge since it was put in two years ago.

It pivots on the western side of the outlet. At first I couldn’t quite figure out how it stayed balanced given that the pivot is less than a third of the way across the span. Closer inspection revealed the secret. The shorter western end, which is always over land has a concrete deck. The longer eastern end, which swings over the outlet connecting to the other side, is open steel grating. So even though the pivot isn’t in the center, the weight is balanced on each side of the pivot. Cool.

A call to Time-Warner solved the mystery. After ages on hold they said there was a problem in this neighborhood. My guess is that a router is out. They have no estimated time to repair, but promised to phone when it’s back up. My first reaction was "I knew I should have kept a dial-up account somewhere." Then again, $25 a month for a backup connection I haven’t needed for nearly a year is a bit extravagant.

I was thinking about how dependent I’ve become on the Internet. E-mail is my primary means of communication with the outside world. Even with friends in-town, I e-mail more than I phone or visit.

I read the paper online instead of on dead trees. In fact I read the newspapers from Rochester, Albuquerque, Phoenix and Las Vegas every day, something I could never do with the dead tree editions. Of those out-of-town papers, only the Sunday edition of  The Las Vegas Review-Journal is available here, and then not until Tuesday or Wednesday.

I’ve let most of my magazine subscriptions expire for basically the same reason. Even as recently as three years ago when I moved here, I subscribed to almost 20 magazines, between the ones I read for pleasure and the ones I read for business. But why should I spend anywhere from $20 to $65 a year for the dead tree version when I can read it for free online?