"If I be Waspish, Best Beware my Sting," From Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew."

Don't FLIRT with a Wasp seems a simple taste of wisdom. While Petruchio overcame it, it hardly seems worth the effort for the rest of us.

Real Moods? Terrified, puzzlefied.

One of the great benefits of being alive is learning something new every day. Sometimes we learn new things by chance.  But to make the most of our moments on The Planet we can learn more by being aware, by being brave when asking questions, by not shrinking from the stress of the moment, by not letting the pressure of the moment overwhelm our curiosity, our passion to know.

So there is no totally polite way to get into this but I'm still going to keep it "PG-13."  Let's lay out the players and the scenario for this life question which, by the way, I don't yet have an answer. (Make this interactive and help me out when we're done.)

Okay, this poser begins with me. Then there is a fan. Add to that a porcelain convenience. Toss in a light. Kick in some glasses, a pen and a crossword puzzle.  Place me on that porcelain convenience. For obvious reasons turn on the fan. Put my glasses on and turn on the light so I can get the clue to one down.  This is all a fairly common at least once a day scenario. But out of nowhere my life is changed forever. I have a visitor. Whilst I take care of my private business a WASP decides to stop by for a chat.

In calmer moments I consider myself to be one of the more "tolerant of all life" people around. But none of us exist without prejudice.  And that prejudice can be colored with intense anger and fear if some past experience is recalled.

So about 20 years ago I'm painting the exterior of our house. I'm doing my circus act where I climb the ladder to the roof holding a paint bucket in one hand, and a paint brush in the other. I'd become so good at that balancing act that I must have been bored with it. I say that because for some reason I yawned as a wasp decided to pay my uvula a visit. My autonomic defense mechanism was to close my mouth. It's reactive synapse told it to bite my tongue (is that where the expression came from?). Then I did the right thing and opened my mouth and screamed like a three year old. That sent the little devil off to look for a new victim.    

My tongue soon doubled in size. That might have been fine if the poison simply led to pain and embarrassment. But most of my of my life I've made my living announcing in one form or another, and this point in history was no exception.  

So any way I'm now sitting here on the convenience and I think you can imagine the weaving of my emotional and sensory memory centers. To put it mildly I no longer needed to be where I was planted.

 "Just swat it with the newspaper you say?"  I tried that once and missed. Wasps remember who took a swing at them, and I think they invented retribution.

I know you think this story is going to have this horrible, disgusting result, and on some plane that's true.

The wasp began its circling motion, seemingly looking for the tenderist spot to insert it's weapon. Already my eyes had doubled in size, and it seemed as if my head was doing 360's like a possessed child.  Then the unthinkable, the unimaginable happened. The winged thing just went into a brief glide, hit the floor with a thud, and rolled over with it's feet, or whatever you call those appendanges, sticking straight up. It was dead!

Why? That's where I need your help.  I already went through the canary in the mine thing. But this wasp had an easy escape route and to the best of my knowledge the air mixture at that moment was healthy. I'd hate to think it died of shock over the look of fear on my face. That's a possibility. I don't really know how to assess the age of a wasp. Maybe it's time had come. I don't want to believe this particular location is where wasps go when they are about to give up the ghost.

If you know anything, share it with me, will you?  I'll learn other things today, but if you have the answer to this question it will stay with me forever or at least until I forget.

 

Thanksgiving in June

Four winged creatures you never want to Flirt with? A Turkey, a Goose, an Eagle, or an Ostrich. I've watched some pretty tough men try and get the snot knocked out of them. (nor would I mess with the cousins of the Ostrich, the Emu, the Rhea or the Cassowary. If you want to tame your Pit Bull, place him in a ring with a Cassowary.)

Real Moods? Memorious, nostalgic, patriotic, thankful.

Three things happened to inspire today's entry. One, Peggy thought my first BLOG entry was about some fish we used to have as pets. Two, thinking about the fish,  I remembered the fish story was part of an earlier journal I'd started before this one. Three,  I was looking at  one of the Spider plants in the house and remembered the fish tank that used to be there. So what the heck? Let's ressurect the entry of Thanksgiving day, 2004.

November 25, 2004

   Thanksgiving.  Our normal ritual on this last Thursday in November is to look around, watch families stress over the preparation of a feast that requires a month of fasting and six months with a personal trainer to recover from.  With no really close family in town, we go out.   This year we invited our friend Cheri.

   It was my fear that my journal would be reduced to a light hearted description of the fare we would ingest.  In short, I feared ennui, both mine and yours.

   My bride Peggy altered that reality.  She had determined the first part of our day would include the scouring of the fish tank.  It had been looking a little cloudy, maybe a lot cloudy.  Well we brought in all the cleaning accoutrements from the garage. The normal routine for this operation is to draw water down, change or clean the filter, wash the growth off glass, suck some of the gunk out of the pebbles.  Peggy had a bigger vision.  We would take the fish out of the tank, put them in a bucket, take the tank outside, wash the pebbles out with a hose, scrub everything down, and then put everything back together like new.  Peggy lithely fashioned a net out of things around the garage, pulled the fish from their environment, and we went to work.  Right away we noticed that one of the bigger fish was bent in the middle.  Really odd shape.  We decided to speed up the cleaning process hoping to save the poor guy.  Within just a few minutes he was a goner.  We are working as fast as we can, but Peggy looks down and two more are swimming sideways, and then upside down.   We work even faster.  We see them wiggle a little, quickly put them back into their known quarters, one floats to the top, one turns upside down.  I’ll tell you that net came in handy.  Now we are down to just one fish left.  For a few minutes he darted around really healthy like.  I mean he was home, it was clean, the filter was cleaned out, and the chlorination had been adjusted.  Still he must have been lonely.  He tipped to his side, rolled over; nose dove, and then seemed to have lost all sense of direction and gave up the ghost.  Peggy felt horrible guilt.

 

 I can be a compassionate guy.  All forms of life intrigue me, but somehow I can rationalize the great fish massacre of Thanksgiving 2004. They were my fish, a gift.  I fed them, I looked at them, and I watched them pick out their pecking order, their duties.  Still, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get close to them.They had no names. Don’t know if I’ll try it again.  But I am going to keep the tank. It looks really cool clean.  It can be a conversation piece as guests desperately look for inhabitants.  I may just create some in my mind to keep the hunt alive.   

  Somewhere in here we watched Indianapolis immasculate Detroit on Detroit's home turf. That Manning kid, what a showboat.

      Okay, to dinner.  At Cheri’s request we do Le Central, affordable French Turkey. They do do a nice job.  And Crème Brule rivals pumpkin pie as the pies de resistance.

       Our wine waiter, and our waitress, both from France are wrestling with the English language. But since the fare was Turkey, and the meal was  prix fix,  there didn’t need to be a whole lot of intelligent exchange.   We did throw the waitress a curve asking her to translate Pepe Le Pues’ common phrase, “Sacra Bleu.”  Turns out our guess was as good as hers. Two glasses of wine, 10 pounds of Faux French food (only because it was thanksgiving), and Crème Brule causes one to pose such deep queries.

 

Epilogue: Cheri has since gotten married and moved to Ireland where no one speaks french. And let's see, Ostrich, Cartoon Skunk, Wine, Spider Plant, Fish, Creme Brule, Thanksgiving, June 28th? There must be a connection  here somewhere.

 

Cigars, Cigarettes, Spider Plant Baskets?

Flirtatious, as in "flirting with disaster."

Real Mood? Threatened, paranoid, perniciously perceptive.

[Disclaimer. This BLOG entry was conceived and typed without the use of steroids or any plant-like or artificial stimulant. These are not the thoughts, feelings, or seemingly insane visions of AOL.]

Well my sister Theda reminds me that  Spider plants in her neighborhood, Southern California, can live outside, where in my opinon, they belong (outside I mean).   Well, at first report, I thought what a great way to avoid becoming a basket weaver. But apparently Spider plants get even more insidious when put outdoors and left to their own devices.

You need to understand that Theda lives on a lush hillside with an acre and a half of almost all garden. She picks the fruit for her morning cereal right off the tree, works in some fresh Avocado on Toast for lunch, and may top off the evening meal  with some home made Pomegranate Ice Cream. Well interpreting her late report, I'm having to surmise she is now making more trips to the grocery store than should be necessary. With some mild exaggeration it sounds as if she is in the middle of a horror film, "Revenge of The Spider Plants." 

In her own blood curdling words, "Holy Cow, they've become prolific, overbearing weeds. I am re-thinking their existence."

Was that a threat? I'm not sure you want to say something like that in public? Right now those evil plants are probably just choking the vegetable garden ( this speculating business inside a blog is a blast) and a few fruit tree seedlings.  But who knows what will happen when Theda's threat is translated into Flora.  I mean haven't we already established that plants have feelings too? You really need minds to have feelings? There is this song, " I talk to the trees," and I think they are watching us. I think ( if I were doing this for a living someone would say, "who cares what you think?") they've got little minicams attached to the ends of those freaky tentacles they send out.  Somewhere underground some super plant, Queen Flora lets call her,  is watching a giant monitor, making a list and checking it twice to see how many human existences it can disrupt. Many of you are too young to remember the movie, "Little Shop of Horrors." Rent it some day and you won't think I'm so far off base.

You know we all have these comfort zones where we talk about potential natural disasters that can't, in theory, happen where we are. They are someone else's problem. That's where I am at the moment.  I'm glad any Spider plant in this zone is going to be an annual at best. But can we really rest with that knowledge? Mighten a cute little female annual Spider plant seduce some hardy perennial, and then what happens when they reproduce?  We could be in for it.

So for once, let's start thinking ahead. Let's keep our Spider Plants indoors and weave them into baskets. Lets clip their fronds before they start fooling around. Let's make them believe they will be the handsomest and prettiest baskets around, and that's how they should abound. Green is out, beige is in. We'll quote Kermit the Frog on that, "It's not easy being green." We must take action now. I don't want to even think about the alternative.

So here's my rate card:

Spider Plant Frond Cutting:          $10 an hour. $50 minimum

Spider Plant Frond Weaving Lessons: $100 an hour $500 dollar minimum.

Finished Spider Plant Baskets with your materials $1,000 to $10,000.

I'm available for small group seminars and workshops with my minimum fee of $20,000 dollars.

My fees may seem a little steep, but as I said, consider the alternative. Spider plants everywhere choking to death every living thing we hold tasty and precious.  Well I guess some of us wouldn't miss the dandelions.

Sometimes I read these to Peggy and ask her how I should end them. I'll need to describe her response this time. Not many words involved. Maybe you can help me interpret. There is a very slow movement of the head horizontally rotating at the neck across 180 degrees. Her eyes are rolled up behind her eyelids so that I can only see the "whites" of those eyes. She rises from her perch and starts a slow walk away from me. At first I can only see the back of her head. Then there is a pause, a turn towards me. This time the full force of her pupils are boring in, peering as it seemed into my soul. Then she again began that 180 degree horizontal rotating arc of her head on her shoulders, finally uttering, "whoa!"

I'm getting the feeling she is in no mood to give me a hand tonight, applause or otherwise. So how do you think I should end it?

Tangled Web We Weave

Flirtatious: Let's break the word down a bit. FLIR, the name brand and optical system that relates to both infrared and non-vibration video Systems. TAT, a weaving system that in essence results in lace doilies. IOUS, statements of debts. In a sentence, " I ous an explantation. When I'm not trying to tat me a basket, I like to be up in a helicopter lookin' at the world through a FLIR lens." Flirtatious. Warning: Thinking like this may be hazardous to your acceptance in polite society.

Real Mood? Delighted, driven, dogged, determined.

Well my tennis was a little better today, but the score was worse. Next time is forever. I wonder if I could convince anybody that I was just being polite to the ladies. Not at this time in history, I'm thinking.

Let's see, before tennis we went to breakfast where we introduced John and Kathy to our good friend Stephenie Davis. Stephenie is the wait person who asks if we want the "usual."  Stephenie, who just graduated, has just returned from down under and so she, Kathy and John had a pretty good "chat" about "Aussie"and "Kiwi" athletic teams.

Then we did tennis, Then we went to Wildlife Experience, Then we watched Iwerks (Imax) movie, Then we went for short walk (stopping to take pics in front of animal sculptures) Then we went shopping at Health Food Store, Then Kathy cooks up delicious  Mexican "Tea," Then to my delight we cut up several spider plants so I'll have material for weaving basket, Then we have dessert,  Then we (meaning me with Kathy's appropriate interference) wove our first basket.  (See Photo) (It's not a pretty thing but it may get framed.  We'll see how it does as it cures).  Oh, "what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."

In this lengthly prelude there was a high point to the day.  I wonder if within my deceptive prose you picked it up? Dessert? No! Weaving basket? No!  I'll spare you and end the suspense. It was the destruction of two of about 50 spider plants hanging out around the house. I hate spider plants. They grow like weeds at the equator. They send out their hairy little tentacles to invade every space in your home.  They are in the way when you close a cupboard door, they are in the way when you reach for your socks, they tickle your neck while you sit in the tub, they plop down in front of your TV screen with the bases loaded in the bottom of the 9th, theycamouflage the book you've been looking for, for a month, they inspire conflict between you and your mate when you treat them roughly. So imagine my delight when Kathy suggested spider plants might work as a source of fuel for my weaving folly. Peggy broke under the pressure, and I didn't even have to get involved, although I was quick to volunteer both the scissors and my labor to dismantle two spider plants.

You need to know that by reputation and scientific observation I'm not that good with small motor skills.  But I got to tell you it's funny what you can do when you are REALLY motivated. I could become World Renown as weaver of Spider Plant baskets. At their rate of growth, and Peggy allowing them to procreate right here in the house, I'm expecting I'll be busy with the local supply for about six months.  Then, and I expect I'm talking mostly to the testosterone crowd here, I'll need more material. Like my fine motor skills, my entrepeneurial skills have seldom won praise. But I am smart enough under these cirumstances to know you're going to have to pay ME to take those spider plants off your hands.  Your other option may be the weaving lessons I'll be offering at some exorbitant professional fee.

It sure helps to have a friend like Kathy Ing.

"One Man's Meat"

Flirtatious: In Kiwi, the result of having a fancy for.

Real Mood? Primed for Pain.

Remember I asked you to look up some New Zealand expressions? Wasn't the definition of "bunfight" interesting?

Okay, I know you didn't look it up.  In Kiwi a "bunfight" is a social gathering with a meal.

We easily got through a day with our New Zealand friends John and Kathy finding common linguistic ground and moving on. But there was one other minor cultural clash. We are standing at Tony's meat market trying to decide which cut of beef to throw on the "barby" and John asks what my choice would be among the slabs of beef displayed. So I point to the Top Sirloin.  John gets this real puzzled look and says, "now isn't that going to be a little dry."

Well first of all you can't get a bad steak at Tony's. But secondly, and I'm sure I've very unsophisticated and uneducated about this, but as far back as I can remember (some days that's yesterday) if someone did a word association with me, and they said, "Big Fat Juicy Steak," I'd say, " Top sirloin." Well after "tea", we both learned something. Typically the steak was juicy and a corker (very good ) and John was impressed. I learned that when in Rome or New Zealand, the top sirloin is none of the above.

It was a fun, and as is always the case with the Ing's, an active day. We played two sets of tennis at which time Peggy and I bowed out, while the "Kiwis" played on, well beyond any appropriate activity level for people of their age. While we were on the court it was the boys against the girls. Peggy and Kathy have all the trophies from banging the little fuzzy ball around, and while we gave them a "Go" (decent effort) the ladies humbled us. I was the weak link, but won a few service games. I'd vow to do better next time, but that's not going to happen.  

The Ings, for most of their 30 some years in New Zealand, have survived through the creativity of their minds and hands. Their primary source of revenue for a long time had been the designing, throwing, distribution and sale of pottery. But they always have these little hidden talents you find out about over "tea."

Let's step back for the setup here. When Peggy and I planted our garden 13 years ago, I demanded there be a section devoted to exotic grasses. Along with liking the marsh like appearance they give, I have long envisioned, but never really acted on, weaving that grass into baskets. As fate would have it this was the first year, that  when I cut all the old grass down?  I kept it. Well guess what Kathy has been doing lately. Did you say, "weaving baskets?"

But, ah, life is seldom the smooth ride we want it to be. As impressive as my pampas grass can look, it apparently does not have a good structure for weaving. And contradicting fate here, you apparently do not weave with the old dried out grass.  It needs to be fresh. Still, I got my first lesson in basketweaving and didn't have to pay a few thousand dollars to get academic credit for it. 

Come to find out from Kathy, flax grass makes the best baskets. So if you have any growing in your backyard, don't be shy about inviting me over to take some cuttings.

Gotta get some rest, they want us out on the court again tommorrow. Our next communication may come from a physical therapist's table.

I should get one little break in the day while the Ings are making their "Top Sirloin" sandwiches for the road. When in Rome or Parker.

As for the rest of you, YOU are "guts for garters" for not looking up "bunfight."

"Ta." 

Kiwi College

Flirtatious: The act of flirting in Kiwi can best be expressed as "chatting one up."

Real Mood? Anticipatory (It's a mood to me.)

 

I'd like to think there is something on earth, an idea, a discovery, some art, a location, an undiscovered language that is not already on the internet. 'Fraid not.

So we have some friends, John and Kathy Ing, arriving this afternoon. They live in New Zealand, and have most of their adult lives. While we all claim to express ourselves with Mother English, there are some decided differences in how we use that language. When you don't see each other for a few years you forget, for instance, that "hottie" in the northern hemisphere might mean a woman of extraordinary beauty exuding copius amounts of sensuality. In "Kiwi" a "hottie" is a hot water bottle. How do I know this?  On the internet I went to my favorite search engine, Dogpile, and typed in New Zealand Expressions. If I'd copied them all I'd be here for a week. So I went with the short list and will now communicate with you in "Kiwi," which for the most part has very different expressions  than the native New Zealand Language, Maori.  Here goes.

"Rattle your dags so we can take the tiki tour to Paul and Peggy. It's been yonks since we shared some stubbies, eh? Did you ring 'em up, eh?"

"No Wuckas!"

"Did you check under the bomb bonnet, and load up the boot?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist." 

"Sorry, just got the collywobbles from staying here in Ekatahuna. Might as well be in Waikikamukau (why kick a moo cow). I'll get the chilly bin and pop in the wobbly pop and fizzies."

"I'll get the chook, chips and biscuits."

"I think you'd need big bickies to want to live around here."

"Cor Blimey, did you see the price of petrol?"

"Nothing to do but get plonked, eh?"

"Strewth."

"Let's leave this wop wops and get back on the motorway, eh?"

"No Wuckas. I just need to hit the tinkle-tank." 

"I better choose the loo, too."

"Let's go. Ugh, watch the judder bar."

"Pretty soon we should ring them up on the mobile and plan tea."

"We're off and I'm just a box of birds."

Okay, for dialogue purposes I've changed what their real attitudes would likely be, but what you just read was an alleged conversation between John and Kathy before they left Moab, Utah this morning heading for I-70 and then East.

"Hurry up so we can take the scenic route to Paul and Peggy's. It's been a long time since we sat down and had a beer with them, hasn't it? Did you call them?"

"Yup!"

"Did you check under the hood, and load the trunk?"

"Don't get all out of sorts. Of course I did."

"Sorry, I'm just feeling queezy from being in this little town. Might as well be in hicksville. I'll get the cooler and put in the beer and pop."

"I'll get the chicken, fries and cookies."

"I think you'd need a lot of money to want to live around here."

"Did you see the price of gas? Wow!"

"I think if you lived here? You'd want to be drunk all the time."

"That's the truth."

"Well let's leave this back road  town and get back on the interstate. What do you think?"

"Yeah, I just need to hit the John first."

"Me, too."

"Here we go! Oooh, watch out for that speed bump."

"In about an hour why don't you call them on the cell phone, and see what we want to do for dinner."

"Well we're off and I couldn't be happier."

Okay, I think I'm ready now. I'll let you know how the bun-fight goes. At least we'll be home and hosed.   (Look it up! Everything is on the internet.)

Did you hear the one about?

Flirtatious: Adj: Like a coquette. (Is that anything like a baguette.)

Real Mood? Proud, Doting

I'm going to be half serious this time and talk about former student Robert Dominguez. I think Robert has more guts than most of us can ever hope to have. When he was leaving school he said he wasn't sure he could handle small market radio or TV. He needed the Big City.  So he picked the biggest one, The Big Apple. The only advice I had to give him was to walk in every door and say I'm here to help. He did just that and the result is that for over a year now he has been working, in one form or another, in some of the hottest TV reality series.  He just finished up a project on the new Martha Stewart show. 

But working on those shows was not Robert's dream. He has been sitting in the wings waiting for a test of the dream he's had lurking in his soul. That test arrived on Monday Night.

"Ladies and Gentlemen,and I use that term loosely, LIVE, for the first time on our stage here at Caroline's, Give it Up for Robert Dominguez. [applause]"

He'd been working for months on this opportunity, writing, testing his material on mirrors and friends like Mindy. Friends have flown in from around the country, and were among those applauding. Robert was in the Green Room (where you go to put on makeup and wait your turn). Like the other first time performers at one of the Nation's top comedy clubs, Robert was pacing, getting rid of all the negative energy. This was a dream come true. But as Robert stepped out there on the stage, it happened. He went blank. There was nothing there. He couldn't remember his own name. He was alone. There was no one there to feed him a line, no one to pat him on the back and say, "It's okay Robert."

 After giving it what he thought was an eternity for his memory to return, he left the stage, went back to the Green Room and pretty much curled up into the fetal position. "I've failed the audience, my friends and myself," he thought.

Well as fate would have it, the first timers who followed didn't use up all their time. Words from the MC: 

"Well Robert, you're not the first, first timer that froze on stage. We've got some time left. Want to give it another shot?"

I just think most of us would already be on our way back to Iowa. But something inside him, including a shot of something a friend contributed, told Robert he didn't want to do that. He unraveled himself from the fetal position, stood tall, made sure he had some notes handy this time, and headed back out there.

They laughed, they applauded, they cheered. Now Robert wants to be on stage every night.

Robert is part of a growing number of students and former students in a support group we've formed. It's made up of people  just getting started in what they hope will be life careers, helping each other along the way.

Among the group are three athletes, Blake Eager, 95 mph fast ball pitcher, working his way up the ladder with the Mets, Mark Worthington, who will be playing for the professional basketball team in Sydney, Australia, and Stephenie Davis, who left school a champion. I like to use athletics to illustrate some things in life because athletics often mirror life.

I've watched Blake pitch a game where home plate was a foreign country and he didn't have a passport or visa.  I've watched Mark put up a total of three points and foul out early in the game. I missed the game where Stephenie broke some bones in her hand in her Junior year, a year when her team was in the conference cellar. ( there was fear, and some real concern from her coach, that Stephenie would never play the game again.)

Well let's move on down the road.  Blake gets drafted by the Mets. Mark becomes conference and division player of the year and ends up with a bunch of professional opportunities. And Stephenie?  She comes back her senior year and leads that last place team to the conference title, and gets loaded up with accolades and trophies.

I don't live with a notion that sports are life. They are if that's where you make your living. But lessons of life are easily illustrated though games.

What the three of our athletes knew, and now Robert joins their fraternity, is that one failure does not have to define you. It can, but it doesn't have to. We get second, third, fourth, fifth chances in life. We just need to have the guts to take them if they are the stepping stones to our dreams.

"Ladies and Germs, and I use those terms loosely, let's hear it ONCE AGAIN for the very funny, the very brave, the very talented, ROBERT DOMINGUEZ."

"Hey Robert, can we get some coffee over here!"

You learn that too.

By the way my neice Donna, who has been battling very aggressive breast cancer, just got a report she's cancer free. "Yee,Haw!"

"How would you like that wrapped?"

Flirtatious is layered with context.

My real moods are aroused, energized, enigmatic.

I suspect the Dorito's people are thinking, "how can we turn this to our advantage?"  

 

I'm going to talk a lot about this over time, because I think we have to collectively take action to overturn what I think, in general,  is one of the major blunders of the post industrial world. We've all been weak, and accepted this bourgeois imposition on our lives without adequate resistence, or in my thinking, out right radical protest. We need to be out in the streets, standing at the front gates of major industry, shouting our demands, calling on Thor and Zeus and Jimmy Carter to aide us in our war for relief. I don't believe in protest for protest sake. But if the cause is Universal, and the suffering Global, we really have little choice. If we don't take a stand now, this abuse of our sanity and the sanctity of our pantries will continue towards a total domination of our lives. By now you've guessed my concern.  PACKAGING.

This is not a new concern. My wife Peggy still bemoans her desperate but unsucessful attempt to open a box a cracker jacks by pushing with her thumb where they tell her to push. That frustation, she tells me, started when she was 8 and continues to this day. She asks I not reveal the then to now time frame, but let's just say she is old enough to be married to me.

As sad as her plaintive cry, packaging today puts the Cracker Jack Crisis on the back burner.

We've spent decades blaming Carpal Tunnel Syndrome on computers. We've designed all kinds of supportive aids for those who must use repetitive motion on a keyboard.  But how many of us slip on our braces before we think about opening the inside plastic wrap on a box of cereal. Focus next time and you can hear the tendons grinding and stretching as your thumbs and index fingers fight to seperate the bound plastic. I remember a time in my history when it was a major feat of strength to tear a major metropolitan phone book in half with one's bare hands. Well that's nothing compared to just seperating these super-glued transparent titanium sheets so you can free up some Raisin Bran.  That's one problem. Here comes another.

We were out to breakfast this morning and I like to top my meal off with a piece of sourdough toast and a little Jelly or Jam on top. There was a day when that Jam or Jelly could be spooned out of a small jar and gently spread on your crispy grain.  For some time now we've been innundated with these little rectangular plastic dosages of preserves piled on top of each other in a wire basket.  They always make it look like you are going to have lots of choice. But that choice usually consists of one strawberry or grape on top and nothing but the one's nobody will ever eat underneath.  I always seem to end up with a stack of apple butter, which I hate.

There seem to be two main suppliers across the country, Smuckers and Knott's Berry Farm. At first blush their products seem to have arrived from the same bourgeois industrialist. They come in  little hard plastic cups with narrow lips around them. Then there are the micrometer thin sheets sealing in the goodies, and in some cases sealing them in for good. Only the brand names appears to distinguish them apart.  Ah, but look closer. Some of them are peeled off by finding a spot on the short end of the rectangle where the harder plastic is cut out in a half moon shape. Now if you have a glove size of ONE, you might be able to then grab the thin top layer, peel it off,  revealing your apple butter. It's not enough, however, to spend a good portion of your life developing that micro-skill, because the other producer had to be different. In the other case the hard plastic basin is scored. There is no half moon. If you are lucky enough to bend the scored section upward cleanly, you will neatly reveal your preserve. I've never been so lucky. I usually get a small piece of the scored area and yank. Then I'm only able to peel off about a third of the thin top layer, making it necessary to dig down into the apple butter with a spoon that won't fit.  I typically get the stuff all over the place.

 Have any of you figured out why the packaging people have brought us to this? It can't be cost effective? With jam and jelly all over place it can't be sanitary?

Come on people, this is no fun.  We're the consumers. Consumers are supposed to rule. Maybe we can get the Hilton family to sit down together at the breakfast table in a reality show where they all ladle their preserves from a crystal goblet? It would be a start.

Later on I want to talk about  the incredible packaging overkill when you order ink for your printer through the mail. Phew!

On Hair and Hare

Bored with Flirtatious Yet?

My real moods are introspective, probing, caring. Heh, Heh!

There is not much sense in getting older if you can't  turn around and hand out advice to those who are younger.  That's going to be the case today.

In what will probably be a vain attempt to keep rabbits out from under our porch, we've surrounded it with chicken wire. In the process we raked up about four bags of old leaves and junk. So during the final cleanup process of the project, I strategically place the full bags of etc. where I can swing by and pick them up later.  Now if you pay careful attention from this point on I'll be saving you a great deal of pain and suffering in your later years.

Okay. Now first of all you've always been told that if you are going to bend down and lift something, to do it at the knees. That precaution will likely save you lower back injuries over time.  But sooner or later time becomes your enemy and bending at the knees is not always practical or possible. Some days you'll need a forklift to return to the Homo Sapien erect position if you bend at the knees. Unfortunately on those days you'll need to bend at the waist.

That was the case with me yesterday, and I would like to help you avoid the mishap I incurred because of it.

Well first of all (SEE PHOTO 1) I like to lean my full bags against a hard surface like the rock wall of the garage. I do that so the bag won't fall into a horizontal position making it even more difficult to reach bending at the waist.

Here you'll want to take some notes. It's very important that you get the diameter of your bag in it's full condition. Had I followed my own directions that would have been 20 inches. Next you'll want to get the approximate vertical reach of the full bag and jot that down somewhere. In my case it was 35 inches.

Then you'll need to check the records from you last annual physical checkup to see how tall you were. In my case I had been 6 foot 1 inch.   That's 73 inches. Now if it's been almost a year,  you'll want to subtract 2 tenths of an inch. (Sorry but sooner or later you get shorter.)

OKAY now get out your abacus.

Subtract 35 inches from 73 inches and you get 38 inches.

So here is your test question. If your trash bag is sitting up against a sharp, hard, projecting corner of a gararge wall, and that bag extends 20 inches out into the driveway, and your head to toe dimension is more than twice the elevation of the bag, and almost three times the diameter of the bag, and you bend at the waist instead of the knees to retrieve the bag?

How many units of blood will you lose in 30 seconds after banging your forehead right into sharpest rock on the garage facing? (SEE PHOTO 2)  ( remember to factor in the higher flow rate because of the aspirin a day you take to keep your heart healthy.) Bonus Question: How many seconds before you start cursing and whining. (factor in and/or use mild concussion as the cause of this abberant behavior.)

If you're not good at math, take this shortcut.  Just move the bag out away from the wall (SEE PHOTO 3) so that the distance from your waist to your head is equal to the distance from the wall to the outer diameter point of the bag. And if you're off just a little bit, at least you'll hit the top of your head where the scar can be hidden by any amount of hair you have left to work with.(SEE PHOTO 2 BUT TAKE A CLOSER LOOK)

 That result, however, will not save you from the minor concussion that may induce you  to share all of this with your aquaintances, friends and the BLOG Universe in general.

On the up side we haven't seen a rabbit in two days now.

 

Hand with Glass and Pitcher

I think I'm just going to use flirtatious until someone says, "Stop It!" Today I'm really CRANKY from the heat.

By the way did anybody notice they did change the magnitude of that Northern California quake to 7.2? Now isn't that the number I gave you before the quake hit? Just tossin' that out for discusssion.

Thirteen years ago my wife broke my 35 mm camera, and guess what she got me for Father's Day 2005? I'm delighted with the sentiment, but I've been in a "digital dilemma" since we got home with it. We've spent most of an entire day struggling with settings, and memory cards, and digital this and digital that.  I'm beat.  I hope you're impressed with the composition, focus and depth of field of my first work. That's decaf Iced Tea if you're curious.

You know we just finished mowing the lawn.  I'm all sweaty.  I'm just hot and irritable. And I'm digitally done in. I don't mean to be impolite, but I'm out of here.   

"The Abominal Snowpack Man"

I just don't think I'd used flirtatious yet. Real mood? Bemused and mildly perturbed.

With all this shaking going on west of here, it got me to thinking about some of my on-going  broadcast journalism pet peeves. I'm going to focus on the media's role in perpetuating  myths. Some of the perpetuation is purposeful and harmless. Some of it is a little scary because it isn't purposeful.

Okay, earthquakes. Whenever there is an earthquake you go to one of three places in the U.S. to get your official information and measurements. One is a lab in Berkeley, another is Cal Tech in Pasadena and the third is the National Earthquake Information Center at the School of Mines in Golden, Colorado. Whoever the scientist or spokesperson  in front of camera is? He or she is standing in front of this big old paper drum with this huge needle sketching out a graph of the earth's movement. For the record it's called a seismograph. What we see, without understanding it, we relate to earthquakes.

Well about ten years ago I'm in Golden and the earth is shaking big time somewhere,and scientist-spokesperson Waverly Persons is standing in front of one of about 20 of these drums. I glanced around and noticed none of the other scientists were even peeking at any of the drums during a major world event? Instead they were all watching computer screens like it was the last quarter of the Super Bowl. Sometimes slow to get the point I ask Waverly if we couldn't explain to people at home how these seismographs work?

"Well we could Paul, but to tell you the truth we haven't used them in ten years."

Do the math and that comes out 20 years ago from now.

"Why are they here, then," I query.

"For you guys," says Waverly.

Apparently we guys hadn't noticed they'd gone to computer links, microprocessing, global positioning, fiber optics, etc. The scientists were "state of the art"  watching their computer screens, while we were, and still are, in buggies being pulled by horses. I don't think anybody has been trying to fool anyone on this one. More than anything I just think some group of us along the communication line is just too lazy to make the switch. For the record "Polygraphs" and  "Life Support Graphs" have gone through some changes of their own.

Let's move on to one of my favorite rants. This state feeds water to eleven states and Mexico. Other than  a  5 mile loop of the North Platte, Colorado gets no water from any of the other guys. So water is a big deal. And that water mostly comes from snowpack on the state's mountain peaks, more than 50 of which are higher than 14 thousand feet.

So there's this governmental body called the Natural Resource Conservation Service which has as part of its responsibilty the duty of keeping track of snowpack in 11 western states. There is a guy who works for them named Mike Gillespe, and I'm pretty sure Mike worked for a few other organzations or maybe the same one with different names. Anyway, every year for at least the past 25 years, on a day convenient to him, in the end of December or the first of January, he calls all the media together at the top of Berthoud Pass, elevation 11,307 ft.

Once there we  all put on snow shoes (provided by Mike Gillespe), most for the first time, and hike about a quarter of  a mile (maybe a little more)  in what is usually about 3 feet of snow. For those of you who are mostly flat landers a quarter of mile in steep terrain at 11 thousand feet is more than a quarter of  a mile.   And if it's your first time on snow shoes its more than five miles. And if you are lugging a camera and tripod with you,  we're talking half marathon.  But there is a reward at the end.

At the end you get to gather around in a circle, sopping wet and miserable, and watch Mike Gillespe stick this big long pole into the snow. But that's not all thrill seekers. We also get to watch him pull it out of the snow and then speak.

"Well folks it says we have three feet of snowpack, and let's see here, the moisture content is blah, blah, blah percent."

In near unison we scream with anticipation, "What does that mean Mike?"

Here is his direct verbatim response reported in the Rocky Mountain News the end of December 2004.

"It's good news, but it could be a lot better."

"Get to your cell phones, find an uplink, we've got to get this on the air. Tell the farmers, tell the water police, tell Mexico, the news may be good."

Those who've been on the journey know there is very little exaggeration employed here. So I hate to bust another balloon but the only snowpack measurements that count come in May when that snow starts to melt. That's not true for a ski area but the skihill manager can pretty much tell by looking how much snowpack he has.  But let's get to my real gripe.

Do you really think with today's technology we need to put on snowshoes and get miserable to measure snowpack?  The very organization Gillespe works for,  has more than 600 monitoring positions all over eleven states in the west. There are close to a hundred in Colorado. They are read by sattellites around the clock.  If you're ever interested the system is called Snotell and the web site is there for your perusal at any time.

I don't know what numbers Mike Gillespe would use to justify his January Jaunt pitting his winter prediction against summer reality? But I can tell you he wouldn't want to see my numbers. Yes I was ornery enough to keep a running list.

Isn't it obvious from just having me tell the story? Mike Gillespe likes to snow shoe. Mike Gillespe also harbors some deep resentment for the media and gets great pleasure from watching reporters and photographers writhe in pain.

You'd think I might be a hero in the industry for blowing Gillespe's scam wide open. But I can tell you from past attempts at an expose,  I've been shouted down by my peers.

"Let's see. Do I want to go to mountains for the day away from the station, or do I want to run around town shooting murders, New Year's celebration cleanups, the fire that burned down the only home the family had ever had, and destroyed all there holiday gifts. And do I want the assignment editor, and the producer yelling at me all day to hurry up and get that stuff back in house."

Mike Gillespe is not the only one who likes to snow shoe!

"Lusty Lingo"

My friend Kim Nguyen was on TV this morning passing on the news that some big time employers have fired employees who were a little TOO candid in their BLOGS. I'm paraphrasing and so was she, so the cause of the effect will remain a bit of a mystery. For constitutional and other legal reasons, and a rational fear of image, I would hope those fired were close to comitting treasonous acts. I'd do this anyway even beyond a passion for the freedom of speech.  As it turns out it's just such a great mental and emotional enema. It's like slamming your fist into a concrete wall without the physical repurcussions. How cool is that?

To be honest with you I've tried to BLOG at a PG-13 level. That's not because of a fear of getting fired or permanently retired.  It's because I want teens to tune in. And I'd just as soon the CIA Tuned Out. (unless of course we are talking about the  Colorado, California or Chinese-Canadian Institutes of Art "CIA's". I'd welcome members of all three organizations.) I actually get a little amused at all the corporate and bureaucratic paranoia on one end, and the drive to shock on the other end.

At some level the old folk prhase, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words (names) will never hurt me" ought to apply. We've let 9/11 distractingly affect us in too many ways. I was a babe when  the Mc Carthy hearings were going on, but I later read about and met a few of the people really hurt by the nation's mass hysteria. Please let's don't go there over BLOGS.

And on the other end it always amazes me that some amongst us think we are the only ones who know "Those" words. It reminds me of a folktale about by maternal grandmother, a devout bible belt Christian who devoutly raised nine children, and lived well into her 90's.  We were led to believe she'd never been exposed to or expressed a profane word in all her years on Earth. Well, she gets in a serious car wreck at about the age of 93.  (from here on its myth) She is unconscious with a concussion, lying in a hospital bed when one of my mother's sisters visits Grandma in the hospital. She is reportedly "non compes mentes." My aunt reportedly asks the old what do I say to my dying mother question, " how are you feeling?"

Well, to hear it told, Grandma Murell lets loose with enough vile, obscene, sacreligious and seditious language to fill the Bible, the Torah, the Koran and a book of Confusious Sayings together. (she recovered and lived at least another five years.)

Where did she hear all those words? Who could have exposed her to such depravity? Was the woman possessed? Ah my friends who want to shock and dismay. The answer is she just happened to have lived on the planet for 90 plus years.

I'm always befuddled that there are those amongst us who believe either they are someone they knew invented the language. I've worked with men who fought in World War II who not only knew all those words, they knew how to translate them into five languages.  I worked with one WW II vet who used his battlefield education to compose smut lymrics he etched on the side of boxcars in German, French and Russian. Keep  your eyes peeled when the next freight train flies by.

Here's one on the other end of the spectrum for you.  I'm teaching a beginning high school drama class.  I've assigned all the students the same scene to memorize and later perform. The next day I'm called to the office to talk to a parent who is furious about this new fangled education that would expose his daughter to such foul language. Well, I asked and he answered, "it's where the husband says to his wife, 'Damn it Vinnie.' "

Well for you younger folk that's a line from "Life With Father," which would clearly get a 'G' rating just about anywhere it played today. At the same time in that class some advanced students were doing a William Shakespeare scene from "Taming of the Shrew." This father had no objection to that assignment.  For your own titillating amusement its the scene where Petruchio first meets up with Kathryn. Let me make this perfectly clear. Nobody is telling you you have to read it.

Don't get me wrong shockers. I really think there is room in our life behaviors for the prolific use of this language. If you are underneath a car turning a ratchet and your hand slips, and you bang your knuckles against a hot manifold, "Dang" is not going to get it done.

I worked with a psychologist in a reading clinic who'd used a goodly amount of our "basic" nouns, verbs and adjectives to help remedial students bridge some cultural learning gaps. Using her very own words, " look at the grafitti. Ever see anyone misspell or mispronounce the F word?"   I don't think so.

Grandma Murell outlived three husbands. One was a school teacher who knew Shakespeare, another one was a farmer who'd worked on a lot of hot manifolds. Or maybe she was possessed? We"ll never know for sure, dadgumit!

Sexy Tsunami

Once again expanding AOL's mood list, I'm in a combination rankerous-smug-self-indulgent mood.

 

Okay, why aren't you all calling me and offering money and gifts to act out my predictive skills? On one day I predict that within the next 60 years there will be a 7.2 richter scale earthquake somewhere between San Diego and Portland, Oregon.  The very next day there is a 7.0 earthquake in Crescent City, California? For the geographically challenged Cresent City, while closer to Portland than San Diego, is in fact situated between those two cities.  Now you can argue over the .2 difference, but it's been my experience that the exact reading takes a few days, sometimes a week to surface. Anyway, what am I supposed to do now for the next 59.9345 years?

So while I'm sitting here patting myself on the back I decide to read up a little bit on the quake. It turns out that Crescent City is a unique spot on the globe where three tectonic plates come together, and that a 7.0 takes place there about once a decade.  I'd hate to think that I made that prediction because of some knowledge lying dormant in my subconscious. That's where most of it (knowledge) remains these days.

Oddly my ego remains fully intact and it has nothing to do with my extra natural skills. I've had ample feedback from many of you for using the word "scrotum" in my last entry.  And I've had a delayed request for a copy of the entry concerning the gross rest stop that Gary Barkley and I "shut down." Is this a reflection on you, me or society as a whole? Will we remain adolescent until we depart the planet? I'm actually comfortable with that notion as long as we can still get rid of acne.

So anyway something always reminds me of something. So I'm working the assignment desk back in '80 something. The News Director is Roger Bell, who'd spent a good bit of his professional life getting jaded at KABC in Los Angeles. Well we are nearing the end of the BOOK ( the rating period). We are sitting at number three in the market and with just one little nudge we can be number two. For those of you not connected in anyway to broadcast media, that little jump translates into millions of dollars even in 80's something.   So Roger comes to the desk and in an almost subdued tone, says, " send somebody out to do a story on Playboy."

"Is somebody local on the cover?"

"No."

"Is Hefner building a house in town?"

"No."

"Is Safeway taking it off the stands?"

"No."

"Well what's our hook? Why are we doing a story on Playboy? We can't really put the pictures on T.V.?"

"Just have someone go do a story on Playboy."

Sometimes you just have to do what your told. I know the reporter was a woman, and I think I remember who it was. But since I'm not sure I'll bow to journalistic tactics and call her "an unamed reporter."

Well the minute she is assigned the story, the promotions people show up with a copy of the latest playboy.  They start putting tease copy together with minute portions of Playboy anatomy on tape. Within 20 minutes the teases are on the air and stay there for 8 hours until "SHOWTIME" The story is put in the "C" block, or about half way into the newscast. But the story is teased in the pre-show, in the intro, at the end of the "A" block, at the beginning of the "B" block, and then a live tease with the reporter at the end of the "B" block.  So when the story finally and mercifully makes air, it's about 45 seconds long, shows no skin, and I think has some produced statistics on how well it sells in this market. If that wasn't it, it was something equally innocuous.

So I'm shaking my cynical head back and forth, full of dismay that we would stoop to such chicanery, knowing full well it wasn't going to work in this market.

Well not only did we become number two in the market for that newscast, we became number two with a bullet. A couple of months later new police scanners, new phone equipment, a new assignment board showed up. I think, but I'm not sure, I even got a raise.  Still it would have been nice if the story could have been about something.

How about this?

" Local Playmate survives 7.2 earthquake and tsunami by living a thousand miles away! Don't miss this earthshaking expose tonight at 10."

Scrotum, scrotum, scrotum, scrotum!   

Polar Bare

I didn't do well in Physics, but I remember enough about centrifugual and centripedal force that what I saw on my way home tonight didn't make any sense. There was a six car accident on the highway, a clear prototype of the  "fender bender pile up." But what was really odd was that all six cars were still in a perfect line in their lane, as if they were just frozen in time. Hoods were scrunched, air bags inflated, fenders hung by single bolts, wheels redesigned for roulette but all six cars were still in that perfect line. Maybe that's why all the drivers stood outside their vehicles just staring rather than getting off the highway during drive time. Those stuck behind them didn't seem interested, or the least bit amused by this fluke of nature.  I luckily was going the opposite direction and had more time to reflect on what I saw. I'm going to have to remember this incident to share with my journalism classes.

I have this little list of sayings I've coined I arrogantly call Paul's Proverbs.  This straight line fender bender fits right in with, "The Real News is Always at least a  Block Away."  Anybody could jump in to the "5 W's" and factually report the six car accident on the highway.  But the real news was a block away where, first of all,  the huge back up manifested itself. And the real news from my perspective was this scientific anomoly with the straight line.  That's what's going to make the story memorable.

My advice is sure, go to the news conference. But get out of there as fast as you can, get at least a block away, and then talk to the people who have some special perspective or are truly affected by what's being said at that news conference. That's going to be the real news. 

One of my favorite illustrative stories takes place every New Years Day. Every media outlet within a hundred mile radius shows up at this reservoir where some crazy people looking for their 15 minutes of fame, dress up in predictable minimalist outfits, cut a hole in the ice, and jump in.  They shake, they shutter, they splash water on each other, and then they all get out and run and jump into a provided hot tub. Every photographer, every reporter, every journalist shows the same pictures, tells the same story, year in and year out. There are so many journalists most of them end up in each others video, or still shots.  I'm really not being critical. None of us want to be working on New Years day. "Let's get it done and get out of here."

 But the second year I got assigned to the "Polar Bear Club" event I just wanted to do something different. The photographer and I looked around for something that would give us a little different perspective. A little over a block away? There they were, five ice fisherman, all bundled up, looking incredulous at these near naked humans jumping into ice water. That's where we took our camera. That's where we placed our microphones. That's where we got soundbites like, " I wonder if those people know what ice water does to your scrotum." I think we actually somehow got that soundbite on the air. If I were to give the story a theme that day I would steal from Scottish Poet Robert Burns who wrote a bit of an ode to a "Louse"( singular of Lice if you've lost track).  Let me toy with his Scottish Phraseology a bit, and translate his words in that poem to, "Ah to see ourselves as others see us."

I wouldn't say the Ice Fisherman story would or should change the world of journalism as we know it today.  But I will say to anyone already in this business, and pining to start enjoying it again?  Look at least a block away. It's always (I've tested it) there.  It's really fun.  And it gives you something to do if you're stuck in traffic.

"A Vat of What"

My sister drew my attention to the fact my treatise on natural phenomena, and earthquakes in particular, was timely because of  the 5.6. richter scale quake in the California Desert the next day. That will make up for my flooding prediction that came a week late, and from an opposite direction. I actually think these kinds of prognostications take place with all of us, but we do a quiet denial to maintain our sanity.  The relative success of t.v. series about these talents would indicate we are at least interested on some level.  And fiction seldom precedes fact. Sure odds play a role. Sure coincidence is a player. Folklore gets its licks into the fray. But sometimes, with absolutely no background, scientific or otherwise, we just blurt out something profound that is seemingly correct.  How'd we do it? Where did it come from? Why were we the conduit? What does it mean?

Here's an example. I was in my senior year of college with a little Honda '55 motorcycle as my sole transportation. Most days it was adequate. If it rained, my 6 mile trip to campus was a wet uncomfortable ride, but I could live with that. Then one day I pulled into a major intersection where a recent rain left puddles and a slickness that grabbed my front tire and sent me sliding along the asphalt.  I wasn't seriously hurt, but it got me to thinking.

 My Dad had this '57 Chevy mostly sitting in the garage because his commute to work was half a block. So I'm thinkin' maybe he wouldn't mind trading for 6 months until I graduated.  I felt really guilty even considering it, but then looked down at the scrapes on my arms and legs and made the call.  It went like this:

"Hi Dad! I uh...."

"Hey Paul,  how would you like to trade the Chevy for the Honda."

I didn't say anything but mischievously thought maybe I should play hardball. "Gosh, I don't know dad. I've really gotten used to it. "

Wisely I kept my mouth shut and just uttered, "Okay."

He didn't know about my slide through traffic. We had never before discussed the idea of a trade. Where did that come from?

I'm sure by asking the question a host of religious, cultural and scientific explanations will arrive airmail overnight. But I have some thoughts of my own.  I think there is just this big ol' huge vat of itty bits of ideas and feelings floating in some vacuum that we all have access to. We all go to it every day looking for something to make sense. And for all of us there are probably no more than a hundred times in a life time where we get a positive hit.  Most of us just keep our mouths shut not wanting to spend  some time in  the "happy place."

Other's see an opportunity. They take their act on the road as a nightclub act, or go to work solving major crimes for the FBI.

I have to admit that when something like the Honda incident occurs, you experience some sense of grandeur.  Did I actually think my dad into making that offer?

That grandeur typically clears itself up in time. In the case of the Honda it did. I can show you a picture of my dad sitting on that machine with a big smile on his face. Every once in a while he would put my mother on the back and ride around the block. I have that picture too. He didn't have enough hair by then to have wind blow through it, and the '55 didn't go fast enough to have bugs splatter all over his teeth and reading glasses. Still my dad wanted that Honda '55 cause he was having his version of a mid-life crisis. He loved it.

So that was one case of each of us just dipping into the vat and happening to hit paydirt on our own self serving agendas. The odds are never in our favor in dipping into the vat, but if we live normal length lives?  We are all going to hit the nail on the head by accident some time.

Look for a 7.2 richter scale quake somewhere between San Diego and Portland, Oregon, some time within the next 60 years.

Allegorically Speaking

We watched three blackbirds harrass a Red Tailed Hawk this afternoon. I don't get it. The Hawk could whip out his talons and take out one of the crows in a milli-second. Yet he lets them chase him all over the sky. It's fun to watch, but puzzling. I've been sitting here trying to turn it into some Eastern Religion Metaphor. I'm not quite there yet. Let's see.

The hawk is a juvenile out on his first bachelor adventure.

 

Awesome Dude

Well, AOL, hopeful isn't even close. Let's go with Thunderstruck. Is that one word?

 

A bright sunny day, not a cloud in the sky, no wind to speak of. How boring! There are a few of those kinds of days around here, but thank goodness not many.  I like a day with some character, and this one is certainly jumping into that category. This area ranks second to South Florida in Lightning Strikes. I'll bet we beat out ol' Lake Okeechobee today. Starting about 10 a.m. there were some beauties, the kind you actually see drilling holes into the ground. Huge roars of echoing thunder follow. I get the chills when I hear and feel them. I know you are supposed to run for cover when lightning gets close, but I get mesmerized. And its not just lightning that puts me in a stupor.

We are on the edge of tornado alley here. On more than one occasion it's been my job to stand in front of a camera near a tornado and tell people to take cover. I've chased them in news cars and helicopters. I've covered the destructive aftermath, and sad circumstances imposed on the victims. But I also have a framed still picture of a tornado that touched down less than a mile from my house. I was supposed to be in the basement when that picture was taken, but there I was engrossed with the power of nature. I didn't want to miss a beat. 

A former student, Michelle Gutierrez has a daughter, Amaya, who wants to go to Disneyland but not Disneyworld. That's because Amaya saw on television what damage a hurricane can do. Amaya should know that the only reason she knows that is because some unfocused, irrational, gibbering  news person (like me) was stupidly standing there in that hurricane talking about how dangerous it was. One hundred ten mile per hour winds are a bad hair day guarantee.

Most of the time reporters are assigned those stories without free will being an issue. But many a journalist will be out there voluntarily defying good sense. 

Growing up on the West Coast we had many a relative refuse to visit because they'd heard an earthquake could hit, and California would fall into the ocean. Fresh from a college geology class I used to remark, " the San Andreas Fault is a slip fault which means the land is moving horizontally, not vertically.  Instead of falling into the ocean, Los Angeles will some day be adjacent to San Francisco which many feel will be a worse fate than falling into the ocean."

That's a little more meaningful if you know the competing cultures of the two cities.

I like earthquakes because they are the most frightful, awe inspiring, humility producing events on the planet.  You cannot run from an earthquake. If you ever need a definition of fate, stand in an earthquake. If you just lose a few dishes the experience is exhilirating, and you don't need an "E" ticket to get on the ride. If you ever want to see a mass of strangers instantly  become intimate soulmates, stand where there is an earthquake.

I've not been in a Tsunami, and like that earthquake, if I am some day,  I just want to lose a few dishes. But I don't know if you caught this. I didn't right away.  Did you notice that the warring factions in Sri Lanka, and Indonesia kind of took a break to reassess their missions?   Nature becomes the common enemy, and we are all at her mercy. We are powerless. Our ambitions are fruitless. Envy, and hate, and lust for power become moot. We are all put in our place. We might just as well get along for a while.

Amaya, don't be afraid. No place is perfect. And no matter where you are, in the words of that great 20th century philosoher Jerry Lee Lewis, " there's a whole lot of shakin' goin' on! "

And I think that beats a bright, sunny, cloudless, windless day, any day.

Brother Chuck

I lost a friend two days ago. Yesterday I found out about it. Today it's hitting me. Chuck Luther died of a heart attack. It's hard to believe Chuck had a weak heart.  He didn't live that way. I think Chuck was 12 when he moved from South Central L.A. to Bell. He lived four doors down, but it might as well have been next door. There might have been some days when we didn't make contact over the ten years that followed, but not many. We were the charter members of the Pine Street gang.

I learned some things from Chuck.  Maybe the most important thing was it was alright for a man to cry as long as it was over the score of a football game. I learned from Chuck that no matter how tough the odds, go for your dreams. I'm sure to this day Chuck remains the only pigeon toed quarterback of the Bell High School football team. And who can forget the guy up there on the stage with Larry Ramos singing Chuck's creation, "Sippin Lemonade on a Hot Summer Day." 

Another thing I learned from Chuck, which he says he learned in South Central, was that everybody had to have a nickname. Mine became Rhino, oddly not directly related to my last name, Reinertson. Chuck started calling me Rhino because of the clumsy way I went up for rebounds on the basketball court. Typically when I went up for a rebound three or four players would fall to the hardwood, a whistle would blow, and someone would say, "Geez Rhino." My older sister already had a nickname, but Chuck took care of the rest of the family. My parents became Mama and Papa Rhino, and my sister Baby Rhino. It wasn't fair. None of them played basketball.

One of the other things I learned from Chuck is you play until you win. There is no quitting.  We had a ping pong table in the garage and there would be some summer days where we  would start hitting the ball about 9 in the morning and not stop until 9 at night. We'd have running game scores of  something like 100 to 85. I guess you could say it paid off because we took second in doubles in the L.A. rec league. And it left us both proficient enough to compete at East Los Angeles Junior College at lunch time. I'm sure it's meaningless to him, but one of my biggest thrills was beating Tony Lorick two out of three games. It has nothing to do with anything, but Tony went on to play running back for the Baltimore Colts.  Bottom line is I learned to be competitive from Chuck Luther.

One thing I didn't learn from Chuck was his miraculous capacity for remembering sports statistics.  I think all of us who were close to Chuck felt sure he would some day be doing play by play.

I wasn't around but there is this Chuck Luther "The Legend" story that has Chuck sitting at a bar, I think in San Juan Capistrano. Some big guy saunters in and sits down next to Chuck looking really down on himself. The guy orders something like ten boiler makers, and Chuck knows his guess is right. Chuck never shied from striking up a conversation.  "You doing alright buddy?"

"No not really?"

"Want to talk about it?" Chuck would have been a good bartender too.

"Ah, I just got cut from the Chargers."

"Yeah, what's your name?"

"Oh, you wouldn't have heard of me. I'm no big name."

"Try Me," says Chuck.

"Billy Lugnut."

"Billy Lugnut. You played three years with the Montana Muskrats. You had over a hundred tackles each year. You were all conference in the Antelope league two years in a row and would probably have made it three in a row if you hadn't pulled that hamstring. And you mother's name is June."

The story goes the guy cheered right up and started sharing those boiler makers with Chuck.

Chuck and I didn't always get along. For two years we worked together off and on in General Mills Warehouse in Vernon. Our job was to unload boxcars full of 100 pound flour sacks. You had to work as a team swinging the sacks on to pallets twelve high. Typically it took four men four hours to get one boxcar emptied. Well I doubt either one of us could have told you the next day what the argument was about, but to put it mildly we were not getting along. Rather than swing at each other, we started swinging those flour sacks. We emptied that boxcar on our own in less than an hour.  Funny thing was you'd have thought management would have been thrilled and used us as an example of what a General Mills worker should strive  for. Truth is they were scared ____less that some union boss would hear about it. They got us aside when we'd calmed down and whispered, "Don't you guys ever do that again."  I got to tell you its a great way to work through anger.

Chuck and I certainly drifted away from each other geographically over the years.  There was usually a decade in between meetings. Usually in the re-connect conversation comes, "want to play some ping pong?" 

Miles are one thing, time is another. They can help you or let you forget. But I never wanted to forget Chuck.You never forget somebody who gives you your first nickname.

"Be seeing you Chuck. Oh, who you takin in the finals, Detroit or San Antonio?  Do you think Brown will put Lugnut in if Billups gets into foul trouble?" 

To Each His Own Ocean

So today AOL my real mood is Melancholy mixed with Mischief.

 

I don't like red. My favorite shades of color are pastels, earth tones. But if there has been enough moisture, a modicum of hail, and no winds over 60 mph? Then this time of year my favorite color is green. The grass on the hill behind me is about three feet tall and yes, GREEN. With a breeze the entire hill is being transformed into a green sea, an ocean on the prarie, choppy waves made of tall green reeds with beige tassles playing the role of foam.

Well, there are a few things missing. Where's  the rythmic banging of the waves against the side of the boat? Where is the high pitched squeal of the reel as the fisherman casts his line. Where are the circling seagulls, the diving pelicans begging their share of the take. Where is the "zinggggg" of the 10 pound test line as the barricuda takes the bait and sprints for home? Where is the "Krak...Phizz" of the beer can pull tab? Where is the eirie soft  fog muffling the creaking planks of the boat, and the "flap,flap,flap,flap" of the chatty waves. A person could get homesick.

Where is the blister from fighting the barricuda? Where is the three day old coffee made of equal measurements of grounds and water? Where is the chill and the sting of salt water as the boat battles the swells? Where is the persistent and innescapable odor of  fish guts yanked from their functions? Where are  the rounds of competitive belches from the beer and candy bars?  Where are the convulsive heaving noises of fisherman leaning over the rails, leaving their lunch for Davy Jones? Where is the combination sun and wind burn that will last a week? Where is the fifty dollars I lost in the biggest fish pool.

So now back to the tall green grass on the hill behind me. Please?

Clara Net

Hey AOL, my real mood was "Enigmated."

 

I'm going to jump around today. An open thanks to my radio workshop class. I gave you the task of writing a public service announcement on a National Public Radio station of your choice. The mission was to raise funds for the retired oboist society, or as  you May Riggs called it,  the "R-O-S." I won't even try to recreate your work, but it was great. I'm still laughing. I'll name drop. Kimmy, Andrea, Angela, May, Lainey, both Jeffs, Mariana you pushed all my buttons. Your gray matter is very convoluted, and I think that's a good thing.

I heard from graduate Shaira Madera today. She hosts a Latino entertainment show in town.  She's been a real aid and inspiration to bilingual media students.  I've worried about Shaira ever since I assigned her the mission of finding out what was in the Giant Golf Balls at Buckley Air Force Base. She took the head on approach and just asked the security force at the gate that very question. This was attempted the day after we invaded Iraq?  Poor Shaira. They shut down the base, hauled she and her sister in to a little room, and questioned them for four hours. Shaira is from the Dominican Republic and a few details short of  U.S. citizenship.  I had to tell her later she could have found the answers by calling the local Chamber of Commerce. Of course she got an 'A' on the assignment? Shaira has some good news but I'm waiting for her permission to pass it on. It sure was great hearing from her.

So I'm asking for some participation feedback on this next branch of babble. I've always been fearful of shopping at Costco. I know I should shop there, and maybe twice a year I do. You do save money, they've got some pretty good stuff, and its fun to cool off in the produce room.  But I hate shopping. I hate it because its a constant battle to get a parking place. At Costco you wait in line to get in, you wait in line to pay, you wait in line to leave. I just get grumpy and I'm not fun to be around.

Well a few months ago I'm telling that to one of my students, Nicole, who works at Costco. ( my wife wants to know if I have any male students) Nicole says come on Tuesday. Well its been 6 months since she passed on that advice?  Nicole is right. Go on Tuesday!  Plenty of parking places. You practically have to wake up  the guy who checks your card at the entry.  I didn't see anybody bump into anybody.  The staff, including Nicole, were walking around helping people. Now don't laugh. I mean this. The checkout clerks were friendly and smiling. No, they really were. 

Nothing is perfect. The guy who grimaces, looks you up and down, and then matches your receipt with your basket of goodies showed no change in behavior. Well perhaps he appeared even angrier and more suspicious than normal. I resist stereotyping, but I'm wondering if these Costco door guards are recruited from the "R-O-S," Retired Oboist Society. Oboists, even when they are active, seldom get their due. It's always the strings, or the keyboard or the horns that get the glory. But need a really cool special effect? Who do you call on? "The Oboist."  Anyway he wasn't going to spoil my first Tuesday at COSTCO.

Here's where I need your help. How are Tuesdays at your COSTCO?  Is this just an anomoly at Nicole's COSTCO? Is there a reason, economical, political, religious, superstitious that would warrant this phenomenon? Is it the same at SAM's club? This may be worthy of some research grant money.

They (generic they) could just skim some of that money off their planned contribution to the R-O-S to fund the research.

Well he shouldn't have been so mean to me. 

Too Real

Once again my mood is not truly represented in AOL's list. My real mood was Shocked. Surprised won't get it done.

This is way out of context, but this has to be reported. What kind of  idiot, caught behind an Ice Cream Truck on a two lane neighborhood street, honks. It was a female idiot, about 35 I'd say. I'm thinking the man sitting next to her in the front seat agreed on my assessment. When I shook my head in her direction pretty much non-verbally calling her an idiot, the man shrugs his shoulders and then buries his head in his chest. If you are driving an ambulance with Paris Hilton in the back complaining of chest pains, you don't honk at the Ice Cream Man. I can't imagine a scenario where it would be appropriate to honk at this musical purveyor of cool confections. It would be sacrilege.

This all happened in front of the Real Estate office where we went today to close on the sale of our rental property. Wow has the experience changed since the first closing I muddled through some ???? years ago. Then everyone sat around a table meanly and attorney like staring at each other, pretending to read every paragraph before anyone signed anything.

Well today the Title Guy walks in with a friendly smile on his face? He is really good at explaining things? Sure they are advertising gimics, but he gives us all the pens we could count  to take home?

Then our Agents want to know if they can get us something to drink? Something to munch on?  Stop it. I can't take it.

The Sellers these days have fewer lines to sign, so our Agents suggest, and the Title Guy agrees, "no sense you guys sitting here for the next half hour, forty five minutes. Why not take a walk and enjoy this beautiful day? We'll wait for you to get back."

 Stop it! What's going on here? Where's the pain? Where's the anger, the suffering?

 We walked the typical distance to find a Starbucks. That would be one block. We slowly downed some Mochas and then sauntered, and I mean sauntered back to the realty office. 

We were graciously welcomed as the buyer was wrapping up his end of the carpal tunnel test. There was some mysterious shuffling going on among our agents. Okay, here's where they are going drop the old hidden seller fees on us, right?

Instead they unveil packets of two dozen roses for Us, the Buyer, and the Buyer's agent.  This is getting out of hand. Something has to be up because the Agents still have these sneaky little grins on their faces. Well the Roses came with cards. Inside the envelope housing our card was a new surprise. Here we found  a restaurant gift card in an amount great enough to actually eat at that restaurant.

Even we got into the act, handing a patched up screen to the buyer he didn't even know was missing. Well come on, the thought was there.

Everybody is shaking hands, everybody is smiling, no evidence of buyer or seller remorse. What the heck is going on? How long has this been going on? If we'd known, we'd have been buyng and selling houses all the time. This is fun.

Life sure has its interesting flip flops. When did selling or buying a house become more fun than driving an Ice Cream Truck?  

Racquet Wars

I watched the French Open Finals this morning. I'm often amazed and amused that fans of football, basketball, hockey, soccer, baseball, cricket, golf and maybe rugby  have no idea what the French Open contests. A gourmet chef cookoff, maybe? Oh, no. It must be a warm up race for the big bike race in the mountains thing. No, The French Open is where they play tennis in the dirt.

Today would have been a good day for a novice fan to tune in. The tennis game is evolving into a rough and tumble arena battle that might have earned its way into Rome's Coliseum. If you saw the final match today, you're getting my drift. What happened to the polite skinny kids who whine and quit if they chip a toenail.  They were not out there today. Who are these guys?

 The Argentenian Mariano Puerta recently had his knuckles wrapped for steroid use. He has a neck like a pit bull and thighs that took a whole roll of tape to wrap. Peggy was pretending not to notice.

His opponent? Rafael Nadal of Mallorca. This guy looks like a cross between Tarzan and Junior Seau. And he moves like Junior. He has arms like Shannon Sharpe.  Even the commentators left their tender talk to equate his appearance and play to that of a linebacker. Picture Bill Romanowski with a racket in his hand. Scary.  The guy plays tennis in "pedal pushers" but no one is making fun of him. I think from this point on a lot of tough guys are going to be shopping for slacks in the Women's Department at Nordstroms.

There was no need to "mic" these guys like the NFL does these days. You could hear their masculine groans clear out on the Champs Elyse. That's another thing that's changed about Tennis if you haven't been around it for a while.  It's noisy.

Monica Celes really got it going in her prime. She would reach down on each shot and pull up this blood curdling scream, sort of a "high C" without resonance. She used the high tense vowel EEEE, like in "teeth."  In time other women followed suit with variations on the EEEE.

But the guys, with their thicker laryngi, have been shooting for a more masculine grunt. They sound very much like shot putters or hammer throwers at the moment of release. Today's warriors make very distinct vocal vibrations.  Puerta's aural emanations are of the EEHHH variety, like as in "Head." It is a little grating to those of us listening, and I'm guessing to his own reception as well.

Nadal on the other hand is likely preserving  some energy by using the mid-lingual position producing the far less stressful noise AAHH. Doctor's ask us to say AAHH because it's relaxing, opens the throat and allows respiration to take place with ease.

These guys are all over the place on the court, moving laterally, horizontally, vertically. They dive for balls with no concern for their safety. Let's grab a cliche here. "They are leaving nothing on the court."  

This is no "Androcles and the Lion" match. These guys don't kiss and make up. Someone has to be victorious. And no one votes. On this day Rafael Nadal holds the cup high and plants a kiss on  the Spanish King. I'm no professional tennis analyst, but I think I know what gave Nadal the edge.  

 If we could vote?  All those in favor of Puerta say EEHHH. All those in favor of Nadal say AAHHH. Alright then, the AAAHH's have it.

A mumble heard from Puerta, "Back to the weight room." Response from Nadal? "See you there."

 

Say Cheese!

So just a quick follow up on yesterday's entry. I meet with Laura at the Vegan store. She already has a huge Jamba Juice and is not hungry, so the whole Vegan compromise issue is a bust.  We chat and re-arrange the world and I'm not even thinking about food.  And then up walks Lainey Irwin, a student from my Radio Class. She too is stopping off for a Jamba Juice before she heads to work at Papa Murphy's. You may know what Papa Murphy sells. Pizza! I should stop by, she says, and get a pizza. Well I did, and yeah it had some Vegan stuff on it, some tomatoes, some green onion and some cheese which I think is okay in some Vegan circles.  But it was also loaded with Chicken.   Well I took it home, gave Peggy one piece and then I pretty much absorbed the rest. I topped it off with a natural rasberry, pistacio, chocolate cookie. But, hey, I downed that with some decaf green tea?  But you are right. I'm a weak man. My heart is not heavy with guilt. I tried.  But my stomach is heavy with pain. I'm going to bed and sleep on it.

You're a What?

I had lunch with my wife today at "The Great Indoors" where she works. They have a Starbucks( Duh) with a deli attached. They have this great chili I like to match up with a half sandwich. The problem is it usually works out that I'm able to join her on Friday? When are we going to get over this? Tuna is big on Friday, meat is not. I even know Catholics who think that's silly. I'm sure the fish industry is happy. But this is small potatoes ( small potatoes, I gotta giggle knowing what's coming) compared with what I'm going to face tommorrow.

There was an oft used, obnoxious and not very appreciated by minorities phrase uttered typically  in the 60's and 70's. The words typically came from a WASP  (White Anglo Saxon Protestant) of a liberal bent, hoping to show off his or her tolerance of all peoples.  It went, "some of my best friends are____________. " Yeah, fill in the blank. It was never a big phrase for me because to tell you the truth, to this day, I've never heard anyone fill in the blank with "Norwegian."

Despite all that,  I'm going to revive the phrase with little danger it will become big again. Here goes.  "Some of my best friends are (here it comes) VEGANS." I'm having lunch with one of them tommorrow. If you've been around you've already met her. Laura is her name, public speaking is now her game. So I'm thinking how do Vegans order? Is there some jargon I should be familiar with  before I pick up the menu?  What's the small talk going to be like? "Boy, I could really sink my teeth into a big fat rutabaga right now!" "Uhm, uhm, will you look at that okra?" "How's the groundnut with garlic mustard here? You know I like mine a little tart."  " You'll love the asparagus rings here. They're to die for. And the rhubarb custard with shepherd's purse? Oh, you'll be tasting it for three days."

I mean it could really be an embarrassing lunch if I'd not been exposed at all. But like I said, "some of my best friends are VEGANS."

One of those friends is Jennifer (Jenn) Ross-Castor. I worked with Jenn a lot doing news (me the reporter, she the photographer). We were often put in the position of having to eat all three meals together. Luckily I'm not a total meat and potatoes man, and she's not a VEGAN purist.  But sometimes compromise was tough. I once begged her, and she relented, and we drove through Mc Donalds where she ordered a Big Mac without everything except the pickle.  I'm sorry. I couldn't live like that. It's not that I don't like pickles, but have you seen that little itty bitty slice of badly seasoned cucumber they put in there? I felt really guilty. I ate tofu and sprouts a few times, and she nibbled on some fish once or twice. I'm pretty sure her husband Dave bites into a steak now and then, and I haven't  seen them on Dr. Phil yet. So the compromise must be working.

One thing I learned from hanging out with Jenn was, don't mess with a Vegan. Don't tell her your going to serve her some green chili without pork, and then just toss in a teeny weeny bit of meat for flavor. VEGANS, my friends, know their stuff. Jenn is normally a gentle,  caring, polite soul. But not so when you try to sneak in some chunks of porky.  Let me help you picture the scene. You know the Seinfeld episode where the soup Nazi violently cuts off Elaine because she wouldn't obey the rules? Well reverse that and picture the chef running for his life out the back door, screaming for help, as this 5 ft. 8in.  115 pound woman is chasing him with a vegetable cleaver.

Alright I'm not above the use of hyperbole to make a point. But I have to tell you, from that day on,  I knew who I wanted on my side should I ever be surrounded by the enemy on the battlefield. And a warning to the soup nazi. If she asks for the split pea, without ham? Give it to her without ham.

So you can learn to appreciate VEGANS without becoming one. You can actually sit down and have a meal with one. As long as you don't flaunt it you can usually work a little animal protein on to your plate. I don't know if I'm going to try that with Laura. On a first lunch that might be a little bold. VEGANS are typically lean and wiry. Don't let that fool you. Lean and wiry does not equate to weak. Before risking my nutritional health I want to survey any possible harm that might come to me from the other side of the table.  I want to make sure she is not carrying one of those vegetable cleavors. I may let you know how it turns out.

Help!

Let loose. Point it. Let It carve It's own path. Give It water. Give It seed. Apply manure. Then step back. Let It find shape, develop sense, see reflection. Watch It mature. Watch It complicate, cast a shadow. Hope, but don't step in. Protect, but not too much.  Post clues but don't connect the dots. Pull weeds, but leave some stickers. Give praise without grade. Hug with no agenda. Love with no leash.  If It turns out okay? Take all the credit. If not? Blame your gardener.

I don't know where any of that came from. Let me put words in your mouth. "Thank heaven it's all gone."

Aye Matey, Education is it?

Well my first summer class is underway. I had them do some audience analysis exercises where they wrote up a list of products they wanted to sell. I then had them pick one from their list, and then I provided the selected audience. I think I'm going to market it as a party game.  Try selling plastic surgery to a professional athlete. How about pushing a power drink to Kindergartners about to take a nap. I liked pumpkin aroma therapy for football players. Oh, and I loved a back pack for farmers riding in their tractors. And then flip flops for one of those groups? I just remember it was REALLY funny.  It's a joy to watch minds freely explore, and then create. Why are we always trying to bind those minds and force them into a well defined comfortable direction? Arn't all of our own best memories related to sometime where we just "let er rip?"

I had a summer announcing class two years ago where one of the culminating activities was to act out an event where a reporter could do a live shot. With no other prompting or urging  from me they came up with a labor strike, and picket of Crispy Creme. They gathered amongst themselves on the lawn and came up with a picket chant. It was, "No Dough? No Dough!" They really got into it and started marching up and down an alley way shouting, "No Dough? No Dough!"

The reporter jumped into the fray with a fake microphone in her hand yelling at the apparent organizer, "What do you people want?"

The organizer looks right looks right into the camera lens.

" I don't think the viewers understand the sticky situation were in here."

No one left character. They were dead serious.

Well their creativity and enthusiasm caught the eye of a campus police officer eating his lunch nearby. Before he could approach us, one of the students walked over to him asking, "can we get you and your car in the shot, like you're here to keep order?" Well he just got this funny look on his face and quietly left his vehicle, and the scene.

We did a couple of other fun things and then dispersed. I didn't get very far before I got a message the Department Chair wanted to talk to me.  On the phone he says, "The registrar wants to know what's going on outside her building. Was that your class?"

"Yeah, we were just havin' a little demonstration. Problem?"

"Are you done?

"Yep."

"Then Nope!"

All this takes me back to a day when I was teaching Parliamentary Procedure to a high school class. I was well passed teaching them, and testing them on Robert's Rules of Order. They were in the stage where I was to watch them put it all into practice. They were debating a resolution of some sort about cafeteria food I think.  It was a hot sticky June day. There was no air conditioning. Even I was getting cranky. Then from the back of the room.

"Mr. Chairman?"

"The Chair Recognizes Bob Stoddard."

"I move we adjourn."

I didn't verbalize it, but I'm sure you know that I thought that time worn prhase that begins, "Oh_____!"

"Is there a second to that motion?"

"I second it Mr. Chairman."

" We have a motion to adjourn from Bob Stoddard, seconded by Jerry Vaughn. Is there any discussion?"

Silence.

"No discussion noted. Unless there are objections we will proceed with a voice vote.  All those in favor of adjournment say AYE!"

The response was eardrum shattering. You couldn't even hear my panicked breathing.

"All those opposed say NAY!"

I waited and waited. There was not a sound. Then I really did utter 'soto voce,' "Oh______!"

"The Ayes have it. The rules are suspended ( yeah, me too, I'm thinking). We will adjourn (they knew they had me) and re-convene in the shade by the Library."

You're not supposed to like being the butt of a joke. At that moment I loved being the butt of their joke, and not for what you might think. You can always get another job. But its not very often you know every single student in your class will be able to go out into the world and know how to adjourn. That's education.

Oh, by the way the Librarian threw a big unjustified fit. Fortunately the Principal told her so.  He didn't tell me about her complaint until a week later.

And today I learned how to sell "pumpkin aroma therapy to tight ends." I love this job.