You're surrounded by talented people who love you like crazy. Who will treat you right — the way you deserve. You're going to go on, and be bigger and better than ever.

My apologies, Ma'am. But I actually meant it as the highest form of respect. Nerds do their homework. Nerds are ridiculously dependable. Nerds pay attention to details. Nerds are obsessed with getting it right.

The bottom line increasingly influences what is covered and how it is covered. This is the drama of being a journalist these days: What can we afford to report? Where should we focus our resources?

September: A longshoreman is found guilty of squishing 189 seagulls with a motor vehicle. Two neighborhood groups who want/don't want a casino nearby start a rumble. The mayor institutes a take-no-prisoners tax collection program; later he's found to owe $5,000 in back taxes.

We all have a greater purpose than just playing Pass the Dutchie with strands of deoxyribonucleic acid. And there are more important things to pass along to subsequent generations. And far more meaningful ways to do it.

I've just received a piece of mail from Alan Butkovitz, our city controller, that put me in the holiday spirit. This past Monday, Butkovitz delivered

I wish I could tell you that, in that very moment, I knew exactly what to do. But I'll admit it: I was a little flummoxed. It wasn't as if the sender was threatening the newspaper, or anyone in specific. Was this something I should bother the police about?

Mr. Roach would not be daunted; he upped his game. And somehow, quite amazingly, his seventh-period class became the most riveting 50 minutes of the day. At some point during the year, Mr. Roach taught the story that blew the top of my skull off: Richard Connell's The Most Dangerous Game.

I love reading fiction and nonfiction; it's my twin nerdly passion. At any given moment, I'm reading a novel and a nonfiction book — usually, a biography or a book about Philly history. What bugs me, though, is when some author tries to mix both.

Halloween makes me nostalgic %u2014 mostly because, while growing up, my father would constantly try to scare the living crap out of us.