"Daddy, what is New Year's?"

I tried my best to give an answer. It's when the earth makes a full rotation around the sun -- people call that a year. And there are lots of things that happen only once a year -- Christmas, Easter, your birthday.

Tonight at midnight, the old year ends and a new one starts. People stay up late and party. The years get numbers -- the old one is 2005, and the new one is going to be 2006.

A good enough answer as a first approximation. Left out for now were the parts about taking stock, remembering the good and the bad, setting out hopes and plans and goals for the future. Besides, I'm not sure it's the best time of the year for any of that. You had better do those things more than once a year, anyway.

Whatever this time is for you, dear reader, I wish you a happy night and day, and lots of healthy, safe and prosperous times as we roll around the sun yet another time.

Gloria, a grey patched tabby cat who lived with us since she was a few months old, left this world today. She was almost 10 years old. She had been ill for about six months, but not in visible discomfort until just before Christmas.

We brought Gloria home from a farm down Estacada or Molalla way in the spring of 1996, when she was just a baby. We needed a couple of mousers for our house in the Buckman neighborhood, and we were especially looking for an orange boy kitty. Gloria was part of a litter of six or so, who were living in the woods and being fed by a small family in an old farmhouse. They had put up an ad in the window of the Cat's Meow store on Hawthorne Boulevard, and we responded. As we drove down the road toward the cutoff for the house, several kittens ran across the road, all part of the new family.

Gloria had a biological orange brother, whom a young member of the host farm family was calling "Awnjie," but he was so wild that he drew blood from the Mrs. when she got too close. Awnjie dashed away. But Gloria, then unnamed, was the most people-friendly member of the litter, and we boxed her up and took her home (stopping at Bower's Bakery for sandwiches on the way -- we were hungry).

When we opened the box in our kitchen, she ran straight for the back door, and finding it closed, she climbed up to the top of the screen, screaming her bloody head off and holding on for dear life. The only way I could get her off the screen was to get outside and whack it with a broom. That eventually got her down, but she quickly ran to the basement, where she hid herself so capably that we couldn't find her for the better part of a couple of days. Meanwhile, a neighbor came over to see whether animal torture was being practiced. I must admit, it certainly sounded like it.

When Gloria finally came up the stairs, it was only for the very shortest interludes -- long enough to look around, and maybe get some food and water, before heading back to wherever she was hiding (among the empty suitcases, we later learned). It took a couple of weeks of brief "kitty love sessions" up in the people quarters to get her to spend more than a few minutes with us. She was especially spooked by anything that was happening above her, such as on the stairs, and she didn't particularly like any movement of human legs. Not surprising -- she was borderline feral. But she soon proved to be quite the climber -- she could do a fine tightrope walk on top of banister leading to our second floor.

What really changed the dynamics was when her brother showed up -- Ralph, an orange boy from the Humane Society whom we adopted a few weeks after Gloria's arrival. Ralphie, apparently born indoors, was very much a people kitty, and he took to us right away, especially after we cleared up a couple of infections he had. Gloria sensed that she was missing out on lots of fun interaction, and her retreats to her basement hideaway pretty much ceased shortly after her brother's appearance. Ralph, a real handful but a wonderful character, is still with us.

Gloria hissed at Ralph for a couple of weeks. She was quite indignant that another feline had intruded on her good thing with the doting humans. But a truce gradually worked itself out, and in a month or two they had become brother and sister.

Gloria's name was the product of a pre-emptive strike. I loved that name, and had mentioned to the Mrs. that it would be a great one for a daughter, if ever we had one. She loathed that prospect, and it was her idea to give the name to the cat, thus ensuring that it would never be attached to a human child of ours.

The judge in the Portland Catholic archdiocese bankruptcy ruled today that the victims of child sex abuse by priests can recover their damages from all of the assets in the archbishop's name, including those affiliated with area parishes.

The archdiocese's argument -- that church law trumps civil law in such matters, and therefore the assets all belong to the individual parishes -- has never impressed me at all. When I first heard it, I gave it about a 20 percent chance of prevailing, and it hasn't. The same outcome was recently reached in a similar case in Spokane.

It's gratifying to see that, eventually, the claimants in these cases are likely going to have their day in open court. And if they prove their claims, they'll likely be fully compensated; if they don't, they'll get nothing. It's called the rule of law -- a wonderful thing.

What now? The church can either drop its unorthodox legal theories and get the matter behind it relatively quickly, or it can drag the proceedings out through multiple layers of appeal. I think the smarter move would be to give it up, and face the music. We'll soon see if the archbishop agrees.

The Willamette River through Portland has turned that wicked brown color again -- the one that signals flood season. We're smack dab in the middle of a series of deluges that have us living up to our soggy reputation. I hope Vera told somebody where she stashed the sandbags when the water went back down in '96.

Mainstream media outlets can't resist "best of" lists. These features sell magazines and newspapers galore. How they're compiled differs from outlet to outlet. Some take polls; others appoint panels of in-house staffers; and I suspect some ask their advertising departments what's best.

But the surest way to find out what's the finest of Portland is to live here for a while. Sometimes you encounter the city's best in the course of an ordinary day.

Today was such a day for me. I had a problem with a replacement quartz bulb in a fancy desk lamp, and so off I schlepped to Larry's Lighting Repair at 33rd and Division. You walk in, and there's Larry -- nobody else but, and surrounded by a forest of floor lamps entrusted to his care. He had the problem fixed in about three minutes, for 10 bucks cash. For free, Larry threw in some advice about where to procure hard-to-find replacement bulbs for a somewhat exotic outdoor fixture we installed on the side of our garage earlier this year.

Next on the errand list was to drop off a return of a Christmas present that didn't quite fit. It was all set to go via UPS; my beautiful bride had sweet-talked the vendor into free return shipping. There are a ton of nice, small mailing service offices around town, including the one on the north side of Division in the 4100 block. Friendly counter guy, free Christmas cookie. I missed the cutoff for today's outgoing, but the package will depart from there tomorrow. Fine with us.

Next up: coffee, for which this town has few rivals. The original Stumptown Coffee Grinders at 45th and Division is always a great stop. Picked up a pound of their house decaf -- as the knowledgable counter man explained, a water processed decaf, but not the Swiss water process, which robs the beans of flavor. We also chatted about our favorite coffee ever, the Panama Esmerelda we recently scored at Peet's. Turns out, Stumptown has it, too, along with the 411 that it's been the top coffee in Panama for two years running. Quite the distinction, apparently. For the road, we purchased a beautiful decaf latte, with an exotic pattern etched in the foam. I'm not a latte guy normally, but this was worth it.

Bread for the leftover (from Christmas dinner) turkey noodle soup? No place else to go but Grand Central Bakery on Hawthorne. Just another loaf of como from heaven, but with 15 percent off under a Chinook Book coupon that had only three days left on it. The tightwad inside me squealed with glee.

For an impulse buy, we scored a fine early-winter grapefruit and a lime from Uncle Paul's Produce Market, the year-'round outdoor fruit and veggie station under the tent, just east of Grand Central. Ideal conditions there today -- upper 40s, no wind.

From there (crossing Hawthorne extra carefully -- alas, someone else is going to get killed there one of these days), we headed home, with a rosy glow and a renewed faith in the Rose City. No matter how badly our city, county, state and federal governments screw things up, there are still some great days and nights to be had in the shadow of Mount Hood. Especially if you're not really looking for them.

A reminder of some unpleasant year-end business that could save you a few bucks -- payment of your 2005 state and local taxes. If you itemize your deductions on your 2005 federal income tax return, and you're not subject to the federal alternative minimum tax (AMT), you'll be eligible to deduct whatever you paid in 2005 in state and local taxes. That means that if you pay your state and local taxes by the end of 2005, they'll be available as deductions on your 2005 federal return. If you wait until April to pay, you won't be able to deduct them until your 2006 federal return, which is more than a year away at this point.

So if you expect to owe, say, Oregon income tax for the year, and you won't owe federal AMT, get your estimated tax return and check in the mail, postmarked no later than Saturday. The form is here. And of course, all of us who live in Multnomah County will be paying county income tax again. If you itemize deductions on your federal return and don't owe AMT, now's the time to pungle up to the county. Form MC ES (pictured above) is the form you use to pay now, and it's available on page 17 of this pdf file.

I suspect that's the last we'll see of that form, and that particular tax, for a good long while.

UPDATE, 11:28 p.m.: An alert reader correctly points out that the early-payment gambit won't make much sense if you're subject to the federal alternative minimum tax (AMT), which affects many upper-middle- and high-income taxpayers. If you know you're going to be subject to AMT, don't pay your state and local taxes any earlier than the state or locality requires. I've revised the orignal post above to make that distinction.

Much of the debate currently raging about George Bush's wiretapping excesses comes quickly around to the point that our nation is "at war." During "wartime," it is argued, the President has powers that he doesn't have when there is no "war" going on.

In the mindset of the last two millennia, these arguments have strong logical appeal, and lots of precedent. But given that a whole new brand of "warfare" has now been invented and executed repeatedly against our country, I'm wondering if the old "war emergency" logic is worth relying on.

Specifically, if we are to sacrifice civil liberties now, because it's "wartime," we have a right to know when, if ever, the "war" will be considered over. The President's constant references to a "war on terror" (a word he can hardly pronounce), and lately, to "victory" in that "war," beg the question of when "victory" will be achieved.

Will it be when angry Muslims no longer desire and plan to attack American civilians with suicide bombs on U.S. soil? Is that going to be our final "victory"?

If so, then let's face it, folks, we will be "at war" forever.

A different approach to the same issue is to ask, "war" against whom? Iraq? We've already stopped fighting the government of Iraq. Indeed, now we're fully supportive of that government. Against the rebels in Iraq? Can we be "at war" with those rebelling against another country? I suppose so. But when will our "victory" against that group come? Two years after the recent Iraqi elections? Two years after the last car bombing in Iraq? Five? Ten? Will we be forever "at war" until Iraq is permanently "in peace"?

Or is our "war" being waged against terrorists generally -- unnamed individuals and groups scattered throughout the globe, including on our own soil? Can we be "at war" with people whom we cannot even name?

Only Congress has the power to declare "war." Perhaps it's time for Congress to think about rescinding whatever declaration of "war" currently exists, if only for the purpose of salvaging the last bits of our privacy from a national government run amok. At the very least, Congress ought to consider setting some criteria for determining when the "war" will eventually be declared over, and the violations of people's privacy rights will cease.

In the meantime, the rest of us had better educate ourselves on the scope of, and justification for, the warrantless eavesdropping. There are some truly frightening propositions being floated out there right now by supporters of the intrusions. For example, two major apologists for allowing the Bush folks to monitor your e-mail and phone calls without a warrant made these arguments in the Times yesterday:

In an effort to control counterintelligence activities in the United States during the cold war, the surveillance act established a special court, known as the FISA court, with authority to issue wiretapping warrants. Instead of having to show that it has "probable cause" to believe criminal activity is taking place (which is required to obtain a warrant in an ordinary investigation), the government can get a warrant from the FISA court when there is probable cause to believe the target of surveillance is a foreign power or its agent.

Although the administration could have sought such warrants, it chose not to for good reasons. The procedures under the surveillance act are streamlined, but nevertheless involve a number of bureaucratic steps. Furthermore, the FISA court is not a rubber stamp and may well decline to issue warrants even when wartime necessity compels surveillance. More to the point, the surveillance act was designed for the intricate "spy versus spy" world of the cold war, where move and countermove could be counted in days and hours, rather than minutes and seconds. It was not drafted to deal with the collection of intelligence involving the enemy's military operations in wartime, when information must be put to immediate use.

Indeed, it is highly doubtful whether individuals involved in a conflict have any "reasonable expectation of privacy" in their communications, which is the touchstone of protection under both the Fourth Amendment and the surveillance act itself - any more than a tank commander has a reasonable expectation of privacy in his communications with his commanders on the battlefield. The same goes for noncombatants swept up in the hostilities.

Can we expect the Supreme Court to cut through this fog and protect us against the eternal "wartime"? I'm looking at the roster: Scalia, Thomas, Roberts, Alito... Never mind.

In their attack on our freedoms, the terrorists appear to have won. Of course, in the administration's view, we're all potential terrorists. Maybe that makes us all winners.

December 26 as a Monday was a fairly sleepy day all around. No posts on this blog during the 24-hour period proper, for example. And when I ventured out of the house a couple of times during the day, I found a downright profound quiet on Portland's streets. No mail carriers, no commuters, no delivery people. It felt a little like a Sunday, but in fact it was less than a Sunday, because the churchgoers could stay home, and it looked as though they did.

The south side of Lloyd Center was seeing some action -- the day-after mallgoers and the holiday movie crowd converging on the place. But cars were zipping right through.

An evening run down to the gym was interesting. Next week at this time, you won't be able to squeeze yourself in among the new year's resolution set and the lapsed fitness buffs reawakening from a long, late fall layoff. But on Monday the 26th the place was a ghost town. No waiting, no jockeying for position. Only a handful of folks working off the weekend.

Perhaps it was just as well that there was no one to look over my shoulder as I stepped onto the scale in the men's locker room. Egad. Well, at least I was there trying to do something about it. And when I came home to a 2,000-calorie plate of out-of-this-world Christmas dinner leftovers, I skipped the gravy.

By far the highlight of the day was a brilliant rainbow that appeared in the northeastern sky in late afternoon. The kids and I pulled aside the shade and drank it in for a good, long while. Nothing better.

My brother is 15 months younger than I. Like many siblings close in age and of the same gender, we bickered constantly about belongings. This went on for the better part of 20 years, as we shared a bedroom the whole time.

By the time we reached the ages of 4 and 5, my parents figured out that a good way to keep the peace was to have two of everything. Two cowboy holsters with matching cap pistols. Two sets of shoulder pads for football. Two baseball uniforms. Two cash register banks to save up for the annual trip down the shore.

It might have been the year we were 6 and 7. We had been physically duking it out a fair amount -- so much so that we each got two lumps of coal at the bottom of our Christmas stocking instead of the usual one each. Since the four-plex we lived in was heated by coal -- four separate coal furnaces, one for each apartment -- it was easy for Santa to find a few pieces to stick in the stockings, just under the tangerines.

Given our propensity for fisticuffs, our parents decided one year to buy us a punching bag and boxing gloves for Christmas. They figured we could take out our frustrations on the bag, instead of on each other. And to prevent squabbling over the gloves, of course, they bought two pairs.

The punching bag was fun. We each hit it a couple of times. We were taking turns.

Until one of us decided to take an extra turn without the other's permission.

Whereupon many blows were struck, but none of them on the punching bag. I will never forget that on the morning of December 26, the bag and the gloves were stored away deep in the cellar, next to the coal bins. We never saw them again.

Growing up Catholic, I rose through the ranks of the kids who got to go up by the altar -- boys only, in those days. I was an altar boy for many years, after which I served as a lector at Sunday Mass, and I even did a short stint one summer helping out the ladies of the Altar Society.

But before altar boy, there were two groups a lucky male youth could be part of, and I was in both of those, too. In third and fourth grade, there were the "red boys," a choir group that warmed up the crowd at Christmas midnight Mass. I did two hilarious tours of duty with that group -- even singing a solo one year.

But before the red boys, down in the ranks of the six- and seven-year-olds, there were the torchbearers. And that is where I made my debut on the holy side of the altar rail.

There were six torchbearers appointed for Christmas every year (who knows how they were selected), and the job was fairly simple. At midnight Mass, we bore lit candles on the ends of brass poles to lead the procession, right behind the older kid with the crucifix. We ended up in the sanctuary, where we stayed, candles lit, throughout most, if not all, of the service. It was what they called a "solemn high" Mass in those days -- all three of the parish priests celebrating, with just about all of it being sung, not spoken. We torchbearers got a close-up view of the placement of the statue of the infant Jesus in the manger, and of all the hocus pocus surrounding the sprinkling of the holy water and the burning of the incense. They were very big on the incense in those days.

Our garb that night was Pope-like: floor-length white robes, with a red sash around our waist and a red beanie on our head. There may have been a short cape around our shoulders, too, but it wasn't as fancy as what the red boys wore.

Although our routine was not complicated, it wasn't easy, either. The whole torch contraption we carried was maybe 40 inches long, and it wasn't made of today's light aluminum, by any means. When you got to your spot, you could rest the bottom of the pole on the floor, at which point the flame of the candle might have been at eye level or slightly higher. At one point -- I'm guessing the consecration -- we had to kneel on the edge of the large area rug in front of the altar, torches lit, and take off our cap with one hand while we held onto the torch with the other. You had to fold the little beanie in half with one hand, and tuck it into your sash.

Did I mention that we were six or seven years old, and dressed in unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and highly flammable outfits that were just waiting to trip us up either on the way down to that kneel or on the way back up? (There were a couple or three steps we had to climb and descend on our way in and out of the sanctuary, too.) Did I mention that it was pushing 1:00 in the morning, about five hours past our normal bedtimes, by the time the service was over? Six little boys with six sets of parents in the congregation (or maybe just the moms, if the dads didn't show), and every parent among them thinking "Fire."

We all made it through all right -- maybe a drop or two of hot wax in somebody's hair, melding with the Brylcreem on a crewcut, was the worst that happened. I guess we added to the pageantry and beauty of the service. And it whetted our appetite for the more important positions occupied by the senior altar boys. But I'm sure our folks were relieved to get us home in one piece to try to knock us out so that Santa could do his work.

There's a nice young gal from Ashland selling it on the sidewalk at 37th and Hawthorne (northeast corner). Three bucks a sprig (with red ribbon); two for $5.

The possibilities include: (1) You read this blog only at work. (2) You're leaving work early today, along with everyone else. If both of those are true, then it's time to wish you a merry Christmas (in an apolitical, non-Lars Larson sort of way)!

It's Friday, so stay up tonight and see Darlene Love sing "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" on Letterman. The lady can still tear the house down with that one, as she has every Christmas for more than 40 years. By the time she hits "If there was a way / I'd hold back these tears," I've always got goosebumps.

And here you thought this blog was bad.

It's been a season of discussion (mostly civil) and reflection (mostly serious) about the spiritual world, and how it should intersect with the secular world. I've tried to tune out most of the arguing. Taking a cue from one of my spiritual advisors, I've tried instead to watch for the divine in our midst.

I didn't have far to look. I met this person, and viewed some of her work. Glory be.

Here's a great singing Christmas card, passed on to me last night by none other than Fireman Randy.

(And God bless the Drifters.)

There's a hole in our Christmas shopping list where my dad used to be. I was feeling a little misty about that, but then I read this post on Cousin Jim's blog and realized that he's still with us, laughing it up and having a good time.

"Guitar Shop" -- today at 4 p.m.

I've been reading with bemused interest about the flap over former State Sen. Neil Bryant (R-Bend)'s wisecrack that cost him an appointment to the state medical school board. When filling out the application form for the position, in the space marked "Disability," Bryant entered "white/male." That blew his chances for the appointment, as Governor Ted refused to give him the directorship on account of that entry.

Today Bryant's in the paper apologizing to everyone -- he let them down, should have known better, was trying to be funny, didn't realize the hurt it would cause, sincerely, profoundly, mea maxima culpa, etc.

Then you've got the PC set jumping all over the guy. State Sen. Jackie Winters (R-Salem), fresh from getting her head handed to her in the congressional race, is quoted in the O as saying: "I'm really speechless because you don't expect that kind of response. Certainly, it's not appropriate. It's not humorous."

Really? Come on, now, Sen. Winters. We can argue about whether it was appropriate, but you've got to admit, it was funny. Outspoken and funny.

Let's dissect what Bryant was saying with his remark. As I read it, it was a complaint that as a white male (not to mention middle-aged), he feels that he is at a disadvantage when competing for public positions. American society is very conscious of race and gender, and sometimes perfectly qualified white males are passed over for posts in favor of minority or female applicants with otherwise equivalent (or even lesser) qualifications. When this happens, the affected white males are unhappy (although many are understanding and gracious about it).

Is that such an offensive message? Granted, Bryant might have conveyed it in some other way than the one he chose, but should he lose the job for making that statement?

Perhaps the real problem is that Governor Ted is already in hot water because, indeed, not enough of his appointees are women and people of color. In that climate, even someone far less politically savvy than Bryant would have been expected to be smart enough to resist making a joke about the subject.

Bottom line: I guess Bryant shouldn't get the job, but I'm having a hard time sharing the outrage and "speechlessness." And Sen. Bryant, don't feel too bad. You screwed up, but I'm sure you'll find other, worthier ways to volunteer your time.

What better way to celebrate solstice than to hibernate through it? Our family of four just broke our record for longest combined uninterrupted sleep -- well over 40 hours, and counting!

Good thing, too. The wildest weekend of the year is just ahead.

Picture this: You're an executive in the accounting firm employed by shock jock Howard Stern. You hear through the office grapevine that Howard's negotiating a deal with Sirius satellite radio. At this point, it's not public knowledge. Hey, I've got an idea! Why not pick up some shares of Sirius stock? If Howard does the deal, they're bound to go up.

Bad idea.

No Christmas would be complete without checking in on Misterblue's Christmas tree. He's got a cam hooked up in the living room, and you can see what's happening in the kitchen, too. It's looking a lot like the holidays over there.

The O crossed the line of poor journalistic judgment this morning with its prominent photo of the least secure link in Portland's water supply system. You almost expect them to make a three-part series out of it. Tomorrow, a map with driving directions; Thursday, "Making a truck bomb easier than you might think."

Now I'm all for covering the vulnerabilities of the system as a way of prompting reasoned debate about security measures. But hey, Sandy, did we really need the picture?

In a week in which the nation debates how many civil liberties we should surrender in the name of public safety and national security, you would think the mainstream media would be on its best behavior. You would expect it to refrain from worsening security problems. Not in this town, apparently.

We didn't make it to as many Christmas parties as we could have this year, but we were smart enough to hit a couple that featured some excellent home cooking. And we weren't too shy to ask for doggie bags on our way out at the end, which has made for some terrific leftovers. Last night we put them all together for a wonderful trip down memory lane. Heather's lamb stew, Arville's ribs, and that Irish oatmeal cake that Molly brought home from her neighborhood bakery -- you couldn't get better grub anywhere. Life is good.

Just a footnote to our Blazer outing of a week ago: The Houston Rockets went on to post an impressive 5-1 record during their long road trip, and they picked up a fine from the league for going to Las Vegas rather than enduring three boring nights in Portland when they played here.

The Rockets are a good team if they stay healthy, but now that superstar Tracy McGrady's able to play, everyone else's body has fallen apart. No news to Blazer fans, Derek Anderson's glass physique has cracked again. Yao Ming's got a toe problem that's caused him to miss a game -- a rare occurrence -- and backup Dikembe Mutombo both dislocated and badly gashed a finger filling in for him last night. As I say, they're a playoff team, but they'll have some challenges as they get back home.

Funny thing, I mentioned last week that every time he made a mistake on the floor in Portland, McGrady followed it up with a spectacular comeback. That's just what he did last night as his team beat the Lakers -- a driving T-Mac posterizing a defender with a layup with 0.3 seconds to go. That guy can play.