The Eyes Have it! So Do The Ears!

Flirtatious: "Why don't we paint our initials on that big heart shaped rock over there?"

Real Mood: Absorbant

Prediction: The human population in this metroplex will not decrease in 2006.

I've found a place in this two million person metropolis where I can sit outside all alone.  From my perch I can see three hundred miles of mountain range. I can take in over 300 hundred degrees of horizon. With my telephoto lens I can pick out every building over ten stories in a 50 mile radius.  I can see all the major bodies of water. Give me some coordinates and I can probably pick you out. No more hints.

Several years ago photographer Jim Weis and satellite engineer Bruce Binns and I got close to this spot.  We were trying to visually demonstrate urban growth with a live shot.

When we first discovered it,  I was blown away. I raved about it so much I think Jim and Bruce were wondering if  they should try to get me some oxygen. 

Well guys I've settled down since then. Besides this new spot is even better. I'm thinking about bringing my broadcast journalism TV class up here and let life lecture to them.

Sure, I want them to see the best "wide shot" you're going to find in this state.  But you know what?

You can't really tell a very good TV story with just a Wide Angle lens.  A good TV story is going to need some tight and medium shots from that Telephoto. And if it's a story of any significant merit it'll need some extreme close ups.  So bring along the Macro, too.

A TV story without any ambient or natural sound should never make air.

Like TV life needs all those perspectives to make sense.

Let's go exploring.

From this perch a prevailing wind whistles through high grass and a few trees.  Geese flying overhead blast through the silence with their honking horns. Occassionally a Detroit designed horn from miles away joins the chorus.

The cooing of a couple hiking almost a mile away reaches my ear. They'd blush to know how well sound carries.

Just down the hill roofers and carpenters have started a rhythmic banging and sawing composition.

Then comes the blare of a catering truck's horn. It silences the hammer and saw symphony. 

On the other side of the hill I hear a child's, "Wheeee!"  A woman  ispushing that child on a swing in a backyard.

A family dog is barking with glee chasing the swing back and forth in it's arc.  

All our heads are lifted upward when we hear the racing roar of  F-16 jet engines. Even the home builders take breaks from their burritos.  It takes a few seconds, but now we all see the jets.  Now they're gone. Back to the burritos.

I can hear the soft "Clip Clop" of horses somewhere on the trail that brought me here. Now I see them just over the hill. Oh, listen to that "WHINNIE!" I'm not suprised they're in the neighborhood. They'd left some equine evidence I nearly stepped in.

I'm taking pictures but haven't decided yet if they'll make air. No I won't use the Macro.  But you know,  if I do,  I could pick up the "BZZZ" of the flies?  They've stopped by to nibble on their own form of burrito..

There is a minute of near silence. (The wind in the grass is always there.) Then I think I'm about to be crushed by a "thundering  herd of antelope". No, it's just a gang of sweating runners prancing in their licra.  There must be a big "something K"  coming up.

You know there's a story here somewhere. A TV story. I'm thinking! How about.....

"Nature Looks for A Niche in Man's Map?

As seen through the EYES of a LEAFLET?

On a slow news day?

On the noon show?

Maybe on a weekend?

I'm telling you I can make this work.

You wanna pass me that oxygen?

Enero no es mas! Or something like that."

Rhinos Don't Float

Flirtatious: " Like the view up here in the penthouse?"

Real Mood: Collectively both Impish and Oafish..

Prediction: Lladro will never sculpt a Rhinoceros.

I suppose there are some serious things going on in the World I ought to be reflecting on.  But when I catch this Rhino climbing our lamp shade? Nope! There'll be no serious pondering here today, the next to last day of January.

The Rhino reminds me of an exercise we're doing in Announcing Class. To get students loose with the copy they are reading aloud? I give them a stereotype persona to hide behind.  

"Okay BillyBob, while you are reading your article on glaciation? I want you to read it as a vegetarian."

Now I've got a stereotype picture of a "vegan" in MY brain. So why is BillyBob struggling with finding a prototype vegetarian to imitate?

Well a RHINO is a VEGAN, isn't it? That sort of skews the profile boundaries. I'm not going to gently ask a rhino if I can share his lemongrass.

The star today is Evan, who is sharing his academic treatise on the rare "Elephant Shrew" in the persona of a Bavarian Winter Olympic Athlete. ( His Austrian Slalom master could be a voice twin to Governor Arnold.)   Should you ever be in desperate need of a humungous belly laugh? I'll loan Evan out to you as his agent.  We may have to take his act on the road this summer.

Evan is just the star. Everyone lets loose of some constraints. I wonder if I just hang on to this exercise for my own amusement?

I don't think so? But you never know. A side benefit is it appears to be a back handed way to blow up some of those stereotypes.

It's been my experience that very few GREAT lessons are planned.  They just happen! Some social scientist comes along later and defines them for us. THEN we put them in the text book.

When I was in Peace Corps training a billion years ago, a staff mission was to find ways to put all of us under SOME form of extreme pressure. Believe it or not, that's no mean task.

Take a guy who graduates Cum Laude from the University of Montana.  He's a hardened cowboy, and a Division II All American tight end on the football team. He is annoyingly polite. His second language facility is impressive.  He treats women like the porcelain dolls of Lladro. He drinks beer and never gets inebriated.

How do you rattle his cage?

Well they DO find a way.  And I'm pretty sure they find it by accident. 

They teach us all a swimming pool floating technique they call "Drown Proofing."

I mean you never know when you'll be captured by rebels in Columbia, tossed into a submarine, and then unloaded in the middle of the sea and told, "Drown you Yankee Pig!" Right?  

Meanwhile back at the pool. To test our proficiency in this skill they tie our hands and feet behind us. Then they throw us in the pool. They casually walk away telling us they HOPE to be back in about a half hour.

I'm sure you've all noticed that women tend to float better than men? That's the case at sea or in a pool. The PRESSURE gradient from Drown Proofing for women? It's not particularly high.

Men do float as well, but not as easily. They do it with the aid of a little body fat. I mean we all have some body fat, right?

"Cum Laude" tight ends from Montana do not have any body fat.  They do not float. They sink in water at the speed of a meteorite. 

And that's the speed with which the staff reappears to rescue the All American. They do not wait the suggested thirty minutes.

Hauled to the surface, spitting buckets of chlorinated water from his lungs,  the tight end mutters something akin to, "so that's what you call  &^$#!$$ pressure?"

I'm pretty confident someone quickly jotted down a reminder that likely read:

"Memo to self. Get this Drown Proof thing into training manual. Make sure it's used on any trainees who happen to be tight ends from Montana. Keep life raft close by!"

OUR tight end starts employing a new language facility. All of sudden he's using some new foreign words. These are words seldom heard in front of any Lladro dolls.

All of a sudden beer starts to have an impact on our Montanan. 

Over time he's backed off the weight training  and added at least enough body fat to float.

Memo maybe pinned to Peace Corps training officer's bulletin board?

" Do not tie hands , and or feet,  of any trainees who are Rhinos. Do not throw Rhinos into pool or sea.  Rhinos do not float! Rhinos can not be lifted by hand. But I've heard they can jump."

February? What's that? A Month You Say?

Flirtatious: "Will you join me in a whole month's worth of Pagan Celebrations?"

Real Mood: Pre-Exhausted

Prediction: Bode Miller will moon the IOC.

Well, we're about to wrap up January, arn't we? Then we'll just slip into that boring old month February. THE HOLIDAYS are over, the trees are down, the Menorah is wrapped and stored, the ornaments packed away, everybody is back to work or in school. Ramadan is history, Kwanza has run it's course. Even the Chinese New Year has come and gone. (What's this the year of, anyway?The Dog?) February! Blah! Right?

Hold your ponies people.  Take a closer look at old February. It's a little more eventful than you might remember. And this February is going to be a cage rattler. I thought maybe we should discuss it and get prepared before we get overwhelmed.

First we need to understand that February is the first big TV rating period of the year. Some News rooms are going to be going crazy looking for an audience. Normally we at home would be going crazy too as we watch all the promotions and "Chicken Little" news. But we've been thrown some curves this February.

Well let's get this one out of the way. We have to face Groundhog Day. I'm guessing the cable movie channels are going to innundate us with Bill Murray re-runs this week. (Get the irony?)  He thinks he was bored!

Out here we think Punxsutawney Phil is a fraud.  We tend to rely on the abominable snowpack man and a local prarie dog for our length of winter predictions. Far more reliable.

This year, 2006, we aren't going to get much of a break. Just as soon as "Phil" crawls back in his hole? We're going to be awash in Superbowl hype.  Before it's over, if you're paying attention, we're going to know how Shaun Alexander felt when his mother took away his training wheels.

And of course we'll get the "Billion Dollar" commercials dribbled out to us all week.  They'll save a few for game day. They, this year, is ABC.  The local ABC affiliate sales people will be out looking for property and speedboats through Sunday.

However, ABC affiliate financial joy will be short lived.  This February the Superbowl will flow right into the Winter Olympics, where NBC has cornered the market. The games will hit February 11th, and run through the 26th.  On the 27th I know where the NBC affiliate sales people can pick up some cheap property and boats.

Let us not  forget our neighbor Mexico has two holidays notched in between Groundhog Day and the start of the Superbowl. We should also acknowledge a New Zealand Maori celebration called Waitangi Day.  And don't forget Japan's Foundation Day. I got all those off my Rhino Calendar.

That calendar also reminds me of the silly February thing we did a long time ago. Instead of celebrating individual birthdays of two of our key Presidents? Well let's just combine them into one and call it President's Day. Fine, but the Lincoln and Washington People have never been happy about that.  So now instead of one day devoted to honoring our executive branch?  We've got three.  All in February. (Lincoln has to share his with Chinese Lantern Day.)  I know we all know this but sometimes you just got to scream it out, don't ya?

Now don't spend all your energy on what we've already talked about 'cause there's a lot more.

You'll need a good hunk of your energy for Valentine's Day on the 14th.  There are a lot of people who are going to need some lovin'. Just think of the fans on the losing Superbowl team. You folks in Seattle and Pittsburgh  ought to have a bunch ready to go just in case. And there will have been quite a few Silver and Bronze medals handed out by the 14th.

I know you think you're out of the woods, but not so! Mexico has the Dia de la Bandera on the 24th, and then on the 28th there's Shrove Tuesday, AKA Fat Tuesday, AKA Mardi Gras, Aka Carnaval (PARTEEE TIME). That should just about do us in don't you think?

You think you got it tough.  February is also the month my late mother and baby sister were born. ( If I forget to call this year Brenda, please understand.) 

I don't know how common it is, but did you notice the New Moon comes on the last day of February this year?

We might all consider sending St. Valentine cards to the affiliate sales people at CBS, FOX and WB. They got nothin'.

Walker's High

Flirtatious:"Look at this little bauble I got for you at Tiffanys."

Real Mood: Anti-Supercilious

Prediction: Some day "Dollar Stores" will give way to "Two Dollar Stores." ( Remember dime stores?) 

Sometimes the shadows are more enchanting than the reality.

You can think about things like that when your endorphins are activated.  

That's one of the nice things about living in this part of the country.  You can get a "runner's high" walking to the grocery store.

(For those of you of more recent birth that's where you walk out the front door. Then you put one foot in front of the other until you reach the market. After shopping you carry your groceries home as a pedestrian. No, really!)

So while I'm out walking this morning I get to thinking about things I've seen lately that are incongruous. Isn't incongruity just a challenge of our expectations?  But even within that definition I think there must be some relativity to incongruity.  And it's my BLOGGY declaration that REAL incongruity must be supported by a set of circumstances beyond all normal imagination.

For instance, the enchanting dancing shadows in the picture above are reflections of a very decayed, colorless, thistle plant. Strange, but so what? Incongruous? I don't think so.

In an earlier BLOG entry I talked about being penned in by a Mercedes in a COSTCO parking lot. A little weird, but I can live with that.

I can top that now.  We're in a parking lot of a strip mall in California.  I park as close to the front door of a drugstore as I can. I don't want my mother-in-law to have to walk far.  We had forgotten her Handicap placard. 

So right next to my spot is the big old wide marked out handicap area.

In that painted grid is a Lincoln Town Car parked at an angle. (No doubt the owner of the vehicle doesn't want any of us "common folk" to get  close enough to scratch his surface.)  It's a little odd, but once again, so what?

I clearly notice the vehicle has no indication it is authorized to be positioned at ANY angle inside a handicap spot. But could he have maybe just left his placard at home like we did? If so, so what? That's still way short of qualifying as a classic incongruity.

Well there's a little more to the story. The fellow driving the town car finally steps out of the conveyance and stretchs up to his full 6 foot 4 inch height. You can tell this is a fit man.  It is also clear he frequents tanning salons. Parked in a handicap spot? 

Well maybe he stayed under the sunlamp too long? Maybe he's having trouble walking? That's almost understandable. I've had bad sunburns. They can really hurt. So let's have some empathy here. And who really cares, huh?

His demeanor and posture indicate this is likely an economically successful, confident man. But that in and of itself shouldn't require he be banned from handicap parking spots.

And this is a dapper man. I'm no expert but I'd say he's put at least a grand into the suit he is currently wrapped in. Parked in a handicap spot? Oh, come on, they've got handicap spots on Rodeo Drive? Don't they?

I AM a LITTLE nonplussed as this guy starts furtively looking around 360 degrees. Then he pulls out his wallet and starts thumbing through it.  I'm thinking maybe there's a major drug buy getting ready to go down. Right here in front of me? But you know these kinds of things happen? It's maybe a little bit out of the ordinary for me, but classically incongruous? I don't think so.

So we head into the drugstore and I instinctively look back over my shoulder. I can see him, but I'm pretty sure that's not mutual. I say that because he does one of those quick eye things in each direction?  He's clearly making sure it's safe to make his next move?  I can still be an apologist for the guy. We're still just hinting at possible incongruity because we are not accustomed to some of his overt behavior.

Brace yourself. 

Hiding behind a pilar in the drugstore I continue my surveillance. The subject is no longer standing in one place.  He is on the move.  He has not given up his careful surveying of his surroundings. He pauses just briefly before entering the establishment in front of him.  And then IN he goes. 

What could be going on? I look up quickly to see just what kind of storefront we're dealing with here.  Whoa!   

This cross between Sean Connery and George Hamilton is going shopping at a "THRIFT STORE."

He has illegally parked  his LINCOLN TOWN CAR, at an angle, IN a HANDICAP SPOT, so he can go SHOPPING at a "THRIFT STORE?" For SHAME! I vow right then and there to always use this story when someone asks me to give them an example of INCONGRUITY. What a jerk!

Then on the way home from my walk I see this building that advertises it's a BANK on one side? HEIDI'S DELI on the other? That's a little strange, but by comparison, no longer applicable as an incongruity. And that dying thistle plant is starting to look pretty good.

"NOW HEAR THIS!"

Flirtatious: "I think your beautiful voice would tame a tapir!"

Real Mood: Negative Ion Induced Extrospective

Prediction: After reading this someone will say, "HUH?"

If you ever purposely want to get into a similar mood, go listen to a Harry Nilsson album.

"Everybody's talkin' at me. I don't hear a word they're sayin'. Only the echos of my mind."

You tell 'em Harry.

Make sure you look at all the pictures before you judge me.

So tommorrow Mozart will be 250 years old.  NPR, National Public Radio tells me so as I'm driving to the store? Right after they tell me that? They play this really upbeat piece from Rossinni?  How do I remember that? Well as I am listening to it?  I look up and see about three different flocks of birds (all different species) dancing to the music? I mean in the wind?  That has me mesmerized?  Then  another flock of birds shows up? All white, probably pigeons or doves? No it turns out to be a bunch of plastic bags? The kind used for sandwiches? Do you think some business left it's trash bin unhinged? You know what? That has me wondering if Mozart was on the Royal "Keep Salzburg Tidy" committee, maybe 240 years ago?  I know that would mean he was only 10, but gosh he was a child prodigy? 

If you don't stop to think, or feel bad? You know everything and everyone seems connected? Push logic, inhibition, anger, fear, and jealousy out of the way?  Boy the World starts making sense. It gets interesting. But most importantly it's incredible what you see, hear and feel.

Yesterday I took my announcing class down to the creek by campus to honor Demosthenes. Why for heaven's sake?  He's the Greek Guy who allegedly put rocks in his mouth so he'd be more articulate? While that has been questioned historically, it's pretty much a given he took his speeches down to the Aegean Sea. There he is said to have developed unbelievable breath control by delivering his speeches while running on the sand.  And his projection range is said to have rivaled microphones as he fought to make himself heard over the roar of the surf.

Now history and hyperbole tend to be dancing partners. But you know something? Even if it's just a pencil between your teeth? Instead of rocks? Even if you are jogging on a concrete bike path instead of sand? Even if you are bellowing to be heard over a man made waterfall instead of the surf?  It works.

Oh, and did you see the ducks that let you get within a few feet of them? Did you see those two women doing step aerobics on the creek wall? Did you feel the negative ions coming off the moving water? Did you see Mount Evans over the top of Invesco Field? Did you see how mad the cyclists were 'cause we were in their way on the bike path?

Well that's just what I absorbed.  You probably got a whole bunch of other interesting stuff.  But wasn't that fun? And weren't you impressed at how well you could be heard when you got back?

GO DEMOSTHENES! 

Say it, See it!

Flirtatious: "So how would you like to lead the newscast tonight?"

Real Mood: Pedagogic

Prediction: Somewhere tommorrow wind will flap a flag, and the hardware on the flag's rope will bang on the metal flagpole.

I've been having discussions with my Broadcast Journalism class about the importance of finding video and sound for Television news stories.

For that to happen? Eyes and ears need to be working overtime without pay. It's a little strange to try to sell skill development that will in time become second nature.

They'll all get it in time.  I just plan to shorten the learning curve.

Perhaps if I put it in the context of, "I want MY story to play a prominent role in the newscast!"

"Okay," says the show producer, "your story is about dying elm trees.  What pictures (video) do you have?"

"Just a couple of healthy trees I think are elms?  I can't find any dying ones."

"Any vid (video)  and nat (natural sound) of somebody working a chain saw?"

"No. Just a man walking by a pretty large tree trunk.  I don't know yet if it's an elm."

"What sots (soundbites...or sound on tape) ya got? Anything dramatic or compelling? Anybody crying over the loss of "Andy the Elm tree?"

"Got the state arborist saying he thinks it's a problem."

"Isn't he the guy with the really monotone voice who looks like he's going to go to sleep on camera?"

"Yeah, I guess you could describe him that way."

"So how big a deal is this elm issue anyway?"

"The arborist says we can expect a thousand trees to be dead in six months."

"But you've got no good video, no good natural sound, no compelling sound bites? "

"I guess not."

"Well I'll give you a ten second reader in the bottom of the 'A' block."

"But this is a big deal!"

"Uh, Huh! And this is TV."

In print you can paint word pictures. No one will ever know if a quoted source is animated, compelling. 

In TV you get just one shot. Then what you've reported is in the ether. No time for absorption. To grab viewers and hold them you need: Great Video, Great Natural Sound, Great Sound bites.

And the only way you get those elements is to look for them. And that needs to become second nature.  In your crowd? You are the first one to hear a flag whipping in the wind, the train blowing it's whistle, the glass breaking, the door squeaking.

You are the one to see the pickup going by with a dead horse in the back. It's legs are sticking straight up in the air.  You see the window washers precariously hanging from their ropes.  You see a grown man break into tears because his home has  been destroyed in a natural gas explosion. ( these are all real observations by reporters and photographers that got their stories to the top of the 'A' block.)

It was you who got an interview with a homeless guy about homeless murders.  (The guy later turns out to be a prime suspect.) You get the soundbite from the woman right after she clobbers her attacker with her purse. You are rolling when an activist and the Secretary of State are yelling at each other with just inches seperating their noses. You find an arborist who sings folk songs while he trims trees.

You get all this suff  'cause you're paying attention. You are always looking and listening. You're doing that because you don't want your story to be a ten second reader at the bottom of the 'A' block.

 

No Steak Dinner

Flirtatious: "Want to join me for a braised filet?"

Real Mood: Hopeful

Prediction: The Sun will make an appearance in Denver tommorrow.

I was told at a local steakhouse, "Del Friscos," that whenever the Broncos win? The next day team owner Pat Bowlen brings the coach and some key players in for the biggest steak they can digest.

Well, there'll be extra tables at Del Friscos tommorrow night. The team digestive systems probably wouldn't be working very well anyway. 

Pittsburgh won the game and the gut check. And for all the teams that get to this level? These are losses it takes more than a massage to get over.  It's an unfortunate reality that there will be a least one case of domestic abuse involving a player on one of the two losing teams today.  I'd love to be wrong on that.  But I can't remember a year when that wans't the case.  Make a liar out of me. Please!

On a not so understandable level, it's the same case with the fans.

On one plane a loss is a good thing for the town in mourning. Fans will not get high on every thing from glue to cocaine and hit the streets. There won't be any cars turned over and set on fire. There won't  be any gunshots fired randomly in the air. Liquor store windows will remain unbroken.

Yet too large a percentage of us attach our self worth to the success or failure of our favorite sports teams. It must be a tough choice for cops. 

[SQUAWK]

"All units respond to riot in lower downtown."

[SQUAWK]

"All units, DISTRICT ONE, respond to report of domestic violence, 9th and Adams."

I suppose I'm letting those of you who are students know that this is something you can expect. You as journalists will be expected to cover it. It's not fun for anyone.  I feel for you.

I'm just afraid we'll never be able to return philosophically to the idea, "It's just a Game."  I'm not a pessimist.  I have high hopes for future generations. I love people.  But I don't love what winning and losing BIG GAMES seens to do to us.

I think I've been critical in the past of people who point out "problems" and offer no "solutions."

Lets try this. 

Win? Everybody forms a circle around the stadium, hold hands, and blurts out just one, "YEA TEAM." Then we go home.

Lose? We all meet in the middle of the field for a group hug. Just don't squeeze too hard.  Then we go home.

Don Meredith had the right idea.  The party's over, but life is not. There really is "always next year."

GO __________!(FILL IN THE BLANK)

Flirtatious. "You guys win this game and I'll buy you all a steak dinner at Elway's Steakhouse."

Real Mood: Sooooo Thankful

Prediction.  Someone will win.

Years ago I did a story about a dog named "Jake" who was elected mayor of the town of Erie. Years after that I covered the safe return of a dog named "Jake" who'd been kidnapped and taken to Texas from Colorado Springs. So?  Well if you are a reporter in Denver you'd better start remembering those things.  If the Broncos win the AFC championship tommorrow you're going to need to fill a "gazillion minutes" of air time about the Broncos going to the Superbowl. (Reporters covering the Seahawks, Steelers, and Panthers should also start scratching their noggins.)

I bring up the Jake stories because of the vague connection to Broncos Quarterback Jake "The Snake" Plumber. Oh, if you're the Weather person you'll get to maybe do one story on typical February weather in Detroit.  But maybe not,  since their stadium is covered. 

The rest of the time? You'll join the rest of your colleagues in the pursuit of goofy fan stories.  I don't care who you are or how your contract reads, you are going to be doing insane stories about your team and it's fans.  Yes you, the investigative reporter.  Yes you, the medical specialist.  Yes you, the education guru. You the consumer reporter. Start your goofy engines.

You'll be looking for those "INTERESTING" fan stories.   So far I haven't seen anybody's story on the guy who really is a plumber and just happens to be called Snake.  Surely that "Snake" can get his "Warhol minutes" of fame. Hey, maybe he'll get a reserved seat at the corner bar to watch the game?

There will be at least one person who'll paint his or her house team colors in advance of the game.  In the case of the Broncos, blue and orange, that's never a very pretty sight.

One of my students blurted out in class, "if they win on Sunday people will be running naked in the streets."

Oddly, the first year the Broncos went to the BIG GAME a radio station was offering free tickets to those who showed up downtown with the wildest Bronco outfits.  To all our surprise who were dutifully covering the insanity, enter a  naked lady painted mostly orange, riding a Bronco,  bareback.

( Look for it because that video usually gets recycled when the team returns to the playoffs.)

I've already seen and heard some good connection stories just for the the AFC championship game.  Kudos to the CBS affiliate for finding the brother of a Steeler's player who married a Denver woman who is a die hard Bronco fan. 

One of the dailies found the daughter of  former Pittsburgh quarterback Terry Hanratty who is now living here in Denver. The poor woman is SO conflicted.

On  somebody's air I saw a NUN wearing a "Bronco Head" hat.

Here is a convuluted one I haven't seen yet.  It'll be my little contribution. Somebody should go and get the perspective of Chad Brown. For the uninitiated?  Chad Brown was an all pro linebacker for the Seattle Seahawks.  He also came out of semi-retirement to play for New England this year.  But more importanly Chad lives just south of  Denver.  Even more importantly his real life work is breeding, raising and selling SNAKES.  (He started his career with a team in the East. It wasn't Pittsburgh was it? I'll go check when I get done here.)

Here's a few more.  Somewhere in town there is the mother of a former NFL lineman who paints Bronco emblems on your nails. There is a barber who shuts down his operation early on Saturday, his busiest day. He does that so he and his dog that does back flips when it hears "Go Broncos", can get prepared for the game.

There is the limo driver who has painted his vehicle orange. There is the "porno" cake decorating guy who offers player profiles of an adult nature.

Don't tell God about this.  There is a church in town that changed the hour of it's worship service because it conflicted with THE GAME.

Once I had planned to do a piece comparing a Bronco with a competing team's mascot name (you know? Lion, Bear, Seahawk, etc?) Well none of those teams won. Instead it was the Bills. What's a "BILL" and how do you compare it to a BRONCO? Well, not to be discouraged,  I just compared apples and oranges.

"Okay, let's see.  The Bills are from Buffalo. Ergo I'll just compare a Bronco and a Buffalo.  (By the way a Bronco is faster and can jump higher.  A Buffalo is bigger and can hit harder)

I suppose that idea is still a possible if the Broncos win tommorrow.  They'd be taking on a Seahawk or a Panther? Be my guest. I think that could be a good one for the medical specialist.

I'm sorry former colleagues.  Don't pray for a blizzard, a declaration of peace, an earth visit from Martians.  You're still going to have to do these stories.  They are more important than anything. 

GO BRONCOS! GO STEELERS! GO SEAHAWKS! GO PANTHERS!

I know the answer but it's still fun to ask, "WHAT'S A STEELER?"

Rod Smith and former Bronco Terrell Davis also have a steak restaurant. It doesn't have the visibility of Elway's yet.  Maybe they'd get more publicity if they put SNAKE on the menu?

Whoa! It was the Steelers Chad Brown first played for. If somebody doesn't have him on their story plate they're crazy. And I've done a story with him and his snakes.  He's a funny guy.

"You heard the one about Jake? You know the mayor of Erie?"

Just one more.  About a year ago Peggy and I stopped into a New Deli (not to be confused with New Dehli) and ordered a sandwich. The owner approached us and we're expecting a, " so how are you liking that sandwich sir?"  No, that's not what he said.

He said, "did you know that just an hour ago Jake Plumber was sitting on the very same chair you're sitting on? He loves our pastrami!"

We never returned to the new deli, and I noticed it's out of business a year later. And I do not go around saying, " I sat where Jake sat."

And I'm sorry fan. I have no idea where he's getting his pastrami these days.

"Crunch, Crunch, Drip, Drip"

Flirtatious: "Here! Why don't I put this blanket of snow around your shoulders.  It'll warm you right up."

Real Mood? Zen

Prediction: There will be SOME flooding this summer.

This entry is dedicated to "Sighlemaccaba" wherever she is.  She rightfully, and gently, slapped my wrist about a month ago when I groused about some of the pains of winter. Today I feel fully chastised and reformed.

We got about an inch and a half of snow overnight.  Had I been working for some news room I'd be up and standing at some icy intersection suffering through endless live shots reporting the obvious. 

But I'm not working in a news room.  In fact I didn't even know it snowed until I rolled out of bed about 10 A.M.?

By now the guy with the diesel SUV has departed the neighborhood.  The elementary school gangs leave their marks in the snow, but are now quietly at their "itty bitty" desks. There is tire tread evidence there'd been a morning rush hour.  But nothing is rushing right now.

(Well, maybe the birds.  They are clamoring to get to the easy pickin's bird feed I've got out for them.  They are splashing around in the heated bird bath I provide.)

I walk with my camera to the park.  You can see the tracks in the snow. Rabbit, child, cross country ski?  It's all a guess 'cause they're gone.  Only a spirit sits on the wet park bench. And that spirit isn't talking. The playground is silent. Maybe with the help of the sun, some toddlers in their parkas will be on the slide this afternoon. But not now.

Paul Simon's lyrics in "Sounds of Silence" don't relate, but the title sure does. Back at the house I step out into the driveway to get the paper.

"Crunch, Crunch, Crunch."  It's a distinct sound of silence only those who live where it snows recognize. When it's the only sound around, it resonates for blocks.

Quietly bending over to get the paper I discover "Crunch" is just one of many sounds of silence.  I can hear the "Cracks" of my knee joints. And a gentle breeze has set off the tinkle of wind chimes.  We are starting to get a symphony here.

Beneath the melody of the chimes comes the steady rhythm of the snow melting.  "Drip, Drip, Drip, Drip!" And there is the rolling tympani section comprised of balls of packed snow. The snow balls periodically sling themselves off the roof, silent for a second, and then hit the blanket of snow with a dramatic crescendo "Thud."

That's what I hear. My sounds of silence.  It is so peaceful, so comforting, so mind clearing, so rejuvenating. I feel empowered. It's as if I finally asked for something and actually got it.

But journalists and educators should never stray too far from clamor of total reality.  It's only happening 'cause I got Friday off. So if I really am endowed with some cosmic power?

"I hereby decree that snow will only fall on Thursday nights.  The snow will be no more than two inches in depth. There will be no wind to speak of.  And Paul doesn't even have to get out of bed on Friday until 10 A.M."

"So Be It!"

"Gentlemen, Ladies, Start Your W's"

Flirtatious: "Can I interest you in a sunrise walk along the river?"

Real Mood: Curious!

Prediction: A crime will occur along an L.A. Basin river bed every single day of 2006. 

Well, I think I've effectively dried out my brain. I take a little "photo jaunt" along the San Gabriel River east of Los Angeles.  And I get a lot of help and stimulus from family and friends. .

Peggy and I zip off to California for my mother-in-law's birthday. We spend time with Esther, my sister-in-law Nancy, and my step daughter Rhonda. Nancy always comes up with a Rhinoceros souvenier for us.  This time it's a "Rhino and Hippo Calendar." Esther is really getting around great after some surgery. Rhonda is so full of intellectual energy she happily exhausts me. And the woman remembers everything. You need to have your story straight if you're going to have a discussion involving detail.

I also get to have lunch with my old media buddy Casey Bauer.  She is about to have a baby boy.  Casey, once a CBS producer in L.A, and a bureau chief for CNN in Denver, is now a free lance producer working mostly for the Food Channel.

We discuss and share our mutual reaction to people saying, "Don't you miss it?"

For both of us, sitting back in a easy chair watching someone else report the details of a snow storm? That my friends is a nostalgia killer.

You know the older you get the smaller the world gets? I remember that one of my students once dated Casey's brother. They aren't an item anymore, but Casey keeps track of Leigh. Now I know where Leigh is and what she's doing.

And here I am having coffee in Burbank with a former student inching her way into TV production. Tasha Orr is working with the production company that's producing that cable channel Motorcycle reality show. Something about CHOPPERS? (You know for at least one demographic that's all about false teeth?)  She says just you wait. They'll soon be producing a reality show that will "knock the socks" off all other reality shows. I think I'm sworn to secrecy for the moment.

Somehow I remain connected to students attached in some way to  "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," "Martha Stewart," "Wife Swap," that "ESPN become a sportscaster" series, and I think a couple more of the reality genre shows.

"WHERE DID I GO WRONG?"  

I also develop a friendly relationship with Tasha's dog, Tom or Jack?  Now I'm in trouble.

So I'm not done yet. I get a last minute chance to have coffee with my elder sister, Theda and my niece Dale. Instead of coffee we drive out to a new Orange County University built exclusively for an Asian community we've yet to identify.

I Get a great shot of  a bird on campus that's either an Egret or Blue Heron. I'm looking it up now.

Dale is a Paralegal with this firm I think is about the same size and makeup of the one employing Erin Brockovich.  And If I'm not mistaken I think Erin's company is located in the same area. I only bring that up cause I think Dale is brighter and much better lookin' than Erin, AND Julia Roberts.  (Can you be sued for Assault and Flattery?)

I mention to Peggy on the phone that I'm in need of a shot of testosterone. Maybe I should hook up with some guys and go watch "Ultimate Fighting."

She suggests we all make our own choices.

Well I did spend some quality time with Tasha's dog, Jack or Tom or what ever his dog tag reads?

But, here's my point and I hope you missed it.  It will have greater impact.

The frame above is my week's highlight. How did that shirt get up there in the tree? So many questions! So many stories from fantasy to fiction to faction to news it inspires.  It's where art and intellect connect. What a stimulus! And it's where good journalism begins. What on earth happened? Don't you want to find out?

Speaking of finding out?  It's a Grey Heron...and it's picture number 8 if you want to see it slightly out of focus. Didn't get a good picture of Nancy.

Sauteed Brain

Flirtatious: "You look like you could use a little break?"

Real Mood: "I think so!"

Prediction: Modest Musings will take a short break to plan for classes and refuel.

See you in a couple of days.

You Know..Those Whatchamacallits!

Flirtatious: "Will you look at those big cow eyes?"

Real Mood: Self Effacing

Prediction: There will be a culture clash somewhere today.

I remember hearing a story while working in Kansas about a hunter from New Orleans shooting a farmer's prize bull.  He shoots it, he says, 'cause he thinks it's a rabbit. Uh, huh!

I remember pitching a story in a community south of here where there was a horse "tack store," right next door to a "health food" restaurant.  One of them went out of business before I got the go ahead. I can't remember which one. I was expecting to witness some wonderful communication clashes.

Point is that as populations explode, and the line between urban and rural gets harder to define, we are all going to suffer from "hoof and mouth" disease (aka sticking one's foot into one's mouth).

So a few postings ago I mention the stock show is in town. What that means to local TV reporters is they are doing a lot of liveshots around livestock. This is not familiar territory. Well this was bound to happen, and I'm glad I was in front of the "tube" to catch it.  (Are there any tubes left inside a TV set?}

The reporter is in front of a pen of Longhorn cattle. He's getting ready to chat with the cowperson in charge of the odd looking cattle.  He says, "those are quite some ANTLERS they've got."

Oh, he catches his mistake. And there's not an honest reporter or anchor on the planet that hasn't blurted out a "faux pas" of equal ignorance.

I share some of my own slips of brain and tongue with some of my classes. But for sake of the PG 13 rating I claim, I'll leave them in the classroom for now.

Still it is nostalgic, and I'm sorry to say, amusing to see the cowperson's jaw drop on TV. He is speechless and just staring at the reporter. It brings back memories of how it feels to screw up on the air and know it as you do it.  Oh, what a sinking sensation!

It also reminds me of some of the cardinal guidelines of announcing live on air.  

Do not correct yourself! Do not apologize!

A viewer is thinking, "Did he say antlers? Nah, that's not possible."

And right about then you, with your face bright red, say, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say Antlers."

And then that viewer says, "My God! He did say Antlers. How stupid?" 

In truth the only thing close to stupid he did was draw attention to his error.  Now he'll forever be known as the guy who doesn't know his antler from his horn.  There are, of course, far worse reputations one might attain.

Parting thought? None of us should define ourselves, or let others define us, by the stupid little things we do along the way.  None of us are pure.  None of us are immune. And if anyone ever comes up with an antidote for the disease? What a boring World we would be living in. 

Penny Postcards

Flirtatious: "You let me have your place in that STAMP line, and you just might get yourself a big old fat kiss."

Real Mood: Revolutionarily Rancorous

Prediction: Someone will go "Postal" this week.

In every class I teach, I preach: "Be observant. Know what's going on around you.  See what other people don't bother to see. Hear what other people don't bother to hear. That's what will make you a real journalist."

Well, nobody is perfect, are they?  We're paying the bills today and just happen to hear a little itty bitty blurb on TV that says something like,

 "oh yeah, don't forget stamps go up to 39 cents today." 

I don't know why, but I missed the whole thing. I missed the proposal. I missed the debate. I missed the final approval. I missed all the warnings. If we don't catch this little announcement our "checks in the mail" will be there for weeks. 

At first it reminds me of an incredibly red faced moment when I was working in radio.

 The great thing about news jobs ( even when you're just reading the hits ) is you walk around with this impressive bag of details to floor your friends.

This was a time in my life when I was proudly jogging at least two miles a day.  On weekends I would extend the distance to five miles.  So on this crisp Saturday morning I slip on my shorts and sweats, do a little stretching, and head out. 

It's early and there is no one on the parkway as I slowly extend my stride.  I come to a light at the Boulevard and run in place. Green shoots me across the street like a  rock from a sling shot.  I make a sharp left in front of the Museum. From there I take my little private route through some trees and bushes enroute to the bike path.

All of a sudden, just as I reach the bike path, the peaceful Saturday morning turns into what feels like a war zone.  Helicopters appear out of nowhere, photographers rush towards me at a full run.  I hear shouts of:

"Is that him?"

"There he is. Roll.  Get a shot of him."

"How'd he get so far in the lead?"

And then I hear thunderous footsteps coming up behind me. I think I'm being chased by a Bison herd.   As my pulse rate hits about 180,  I turn and look over my shoulder and nearly faint.

Somehow I have made my way into the lead of the Mile High Marathon.

Sorry Andy Warhol, my fame didn't even last a minute. I went from first to last in flash.  And happily.

But here's the punch line. I'm doing stories on the return of the Mile High Marathon for a week.  I'm saying it's really a big deal with some elite runners, big sponsors, blah, blah, blah. I know where it starts. I'm sharing with listeners the exact route so they can cheer on the athletes.  I know what time it starts. I know what the weather is going to be. Still, there I was. In the lead......

Okay, so I should have known all about the stamp price hike. But that's enough self flagellation. It's time to shift from humility to angst. I'm ticked. 

First of all the mail person is late delivering mail. That makes us late racing to the post office to satiate our debtors. Late means we are arriving at the post office at rush hour. Rush hour means there are no parking places.  Everyone is just in a long line waiting for a parking spot to open up.  Except the guy behind me.  I can go nowhere, but he is honking at me. Is it defined as road rage if you fantasize beheading someone in a parking lot?

Well, we get a spot and head in to what we think is going to be "easy street." We put some coins in the automated machine. We quickly learn the new machines won't dispense two cent stamps to make up the difference. 

"No problem sugar. I'll just put this twenty in there and we'll get all new 39 cent stamps and start over."

It took the "twenty" and then the light emiting diode informs me it can't change a twenty. That's when we look behind us and see the line from "hell."  Or is is the line to "hell."  No doubt they'd all tried the machine first too.

Only one clerk is assigned the duty of selling the two cent stamps. We are starting to get to know each other.  We are cracking "nasty sarcasm" postal jokes. We quickly develop fierce group scowls aimed at those even thinking about cutting in line.

So we suffer. We inch our way to the front of the line. We curse those who not only want stamps, but stay to ask questions.  We want our two cent stamps. Only one more person in front of us. Who is this man?  A second clerk? What is he saying?

"Anyone with correct change just come on up front."

I mean you are not even here, and you can feel the pain. Right?

Well we get our two cent stamps. And while we're here? 

"Let's get a roll of the new 39 cent stamps."

"Here you go!"

"Well wait a minute. These stamps don't say 39 cents on them. They don't say anything."

"They're just temporary sir."

"Temporary? How long have you known they were going to be thirty nine cents.?"

"NEXT!"  

I guess the silver lining is the experience motivates one to have a Margarita and pot roast at "The Blackeyed Pea." I feel a lot better now.

It's true. Postcards were a penny. Stamped letters?  Three pennies!

Peggy thinks I might have told the Marathon story recently. If so? Sorry. Checks in the mail. 

Thanks, Really!

Flirtatious:"Dad, will you please buy me that Bronco hat?"

Real Mood: Just Delighted

Prediction: A "Tart" working the Stock Show this week will finally come up with a down payment for that little spread she's been wanting to settle down on in Nevada.

Had a brief visit from my Niece Donna, her husband Matt and the girls.  I have some immensely proud things I can utter about Donna and Matt.  When I get the right combination of words together some day, I'll do just that.

But today I'm going to focus on the girls and what they bring into a "mature" person's life, if only for a day.

It is so refreshing to hear honesty all day long. Sure there is politicking going on, but it's way out front.  There is no squirming, no hiding a position.  When one of the girls is hungry? 

"Hey, I'm hungry. Let's stop and eat now."

You don't have to wait until somebody's tummy starts growling. No throat clearing, no scheming. It's time to eat.

Oh, the pure search for knowledge and understanding.

"Will those birds come up and sit on my hand? Is that a pet rabbit? Where does it live?"

"Mom, can I have the camera quick?  I want to take a picture of the geese. "

"Can I sit in the helicopter?"

"What's a BLOG?"

"Can we go to the zoo, please?"

"I'm hungry. Can we eat now?"

"I have to pee!"

Oh, wait a minute.  I think that's a quote from Matt.  Oh, the pace.  The running, the chattering, the passion to absorb everything around them.  What a delight.    And the secret communication.  The nod of a head, a pinch, a gentle punch on the arm. Ten group decisions made in seconds. The rest of us would still be forming a committee to study the veracity of the point  that needs to be deliberated on before we proceed to the broader issue.

What's happened to us? Why aren't we getting that much out of life? Why aren't we living like that every day? Oh, do I envy what must be the most peaceful sleep on the planet.  When those heads hit the pillow, the day's complications are over. The learning has taken place. The arguments have been settled. The basic human needs have been met. Why do we ever give that up?

When I was giving Donna and Matt my imposing and mandatory tour, they expressed amazement at the number of cops out on the highways.

I scratch my head a minute and then it hits  me.

This is an interesting time for this metropolitan area.  It's a throwback to the days when the trappers and native Americans would gather in the winter and swap stories and goods. Well, now we call it the Stock Show. 

Cops on highways? Stock show?  Well you know it's kind of interesting to see Mercedes and Cadillac SUV's mix in with horse trailers and pick 'em up trucks.  The blend isn't natural.  And there can be some real language barrier issues out there on the highway.

And, lets face it.  History does repeat itself.  Some of the BillyBobs coming to town want to sow their "wild oats." (For the younger of you who might read this, "Wild Oats" are not a new high fiber cereal.  Ask your folks.)

I have no false belief that I can help anybody by telling you this part of the Stock Show story. This will never change.

"Cowboys coming to town?  Girls let's make hay. And I'm not talking straw."

If there is any meeting space left in town they could easily hold a Hooker's convention.  Their subtle ads are in every newspaper.  They make their way here from all all parts of the country. For the next two weeks?  "Big Money" for the world's oldest profession.

I doubt I'm performing a public service by telling you this.  You'll see it on somebody's TV news this coming week anyway.  All those ads in the paper? Some of the ads are written by the Vice Bureau at the local P.D.  There is always a token crack down during the Stock Show.  You'll be playing the odds.  And, in case you haven't heard, some jurisdictions do print the pictures of the BillyBobs (AKA Johns)  and offer them to newspapers.  Sure hate to see your picture show up in the Wichita Eagle Beacon, or the Hugoton Hermes. But it's going to happen to somebody.

Okay, girls. You can uncover your eyes now

You may have heard me spout off about media contributions to urban legends. This week some anchor or reporter or, God Forbid", weather anchor will shout out, "can you believe this weather during the Stock Show? 60 degrees? We're supposed to have two feet of  snow on the ground with blizzard conditions."

True, it's been that way a few times in history. But a search of weather history will tell you the truth is somewhere in between. If nothing else, January is not a big snow month around here. 

Matt and Donna have talked about moving here someday. I wouldn't want them to think they couldn't get to the Stock Show because of the weather.

 .

"Gore Wins! Dewey Wins!"

"Great news! All twelve of the trapped miners have been found alive."

"What! Now you are saying only one of the miners survived?"

Flirtatious: "Flirting with the Truth?"

Real Mood: Painfully Reflective

Prediction: All the mistakes made reporting the "Sago" mine disaster will be made again.

One of my concerns about BLOGGING (long before I decide to jump into the fray) is playing itself out in Tallmansville, West Virginia.   Without policing,  how are we, bloggers, going to keep from starting harmful rumors? But as we are seeing, the media doesn't need BLOGGERS to blow it. This is a very sad opportunity for me to preach to students. I really don't want to preach.  But it would clearly be negligent to just ignore it.

In case it's not obvious, my tongue is coming out of my cheek for this posting.  It may seem odd, but this story will likely catch my eyes and ears even if it's a mere mention on the obit page.

Reasons? First, one of the most fascinating tales I was ever able to tell on TV was about living a mile under ground in mine tunnels.  Second, West Virginia is the last of the 50 states I visited. While trivial by comparison to victim's families, I have a vested interest. I think that's lesson ONE coming out of this "Media Mess."

1.) Ask yourself! Who am I talking to?

The lesson is simple. Without capitulation, without compromising the facts or the story, without "walking on egg shells," ask the question, " Who am I talking to?" The people most interested in what you have to say are those closest involved. They are your active audience. What you say will have the greatest impact on them.

Lesson Two?

2.) There is no "I" or "Me" in media.

Orthographically that's clearly not true. But if we going to be responsible about what we report, it has to be true. I remember an early day experience in radio where we are reporting on the aftermath of a nightclub riot. We have a reporter just outside the crime scene tape at the command post.  The anchor asks the reporter if there is anything new? The reporter comes on air and relates what I recall to be a suspect confession.

"Wow, we've got an exclusive."

I know we report the story most of the day, and finally someone in the newsroom says, "Wow, I wonder how BillyBob got that story? "

"Hey BillyBob, how'd you get that story?"

"I read his lips." 

He reads his lips from an estimated 100 yards away. No, he is not trained to read lips.

Yeah, it is BillyBob who comes up with the story? But it is the whole newsroom that fails to ask him how he gets it. And for the sake of lesson, let's expand the scenario.   Suppose the reporter "overhears" a police officer joking about an alleged  confession? The reporter passes it on. Does that officer shoulder any portion of the blame for a false report?  Suppose you are in your car driving to work. While  you are thinking about that board meeting you're headed to, you hear the tail end of the story.  As you are sitting down around the mahogany table, you say, " hey, you guys hear about that idiot who starts that night club riot?" If the suspect is innocent, are you then part of media? Just askin'?

The passion to be first with the story is ingrained in all of us. What we in the media (all of us) must force upon ourselves?  "Who says so? Who can I call to get this verified?  Are we sure she's credible? I'm going to do my best to make sure I've got this right before I tell anybody about it."

Lesson three?

3.) Don't waste time pointing fingers.

I am watching a lot of that in this scenario. Mine company officials, reporters, anchors, searchers are running around saying in essence, " well, he said it first, and that's why I said it, etc." Strange, but if we exhibit that same behavior in life's normal circumstances we are said to be what? Childish? Uh, huh.

Fourth lesson?

4.) Don't get caught up in the emotions of the event. I'll wrap my own knuckles on this one.  I was out driving around in a news car many years ago when I hear commotion on the police scanner.  Turns out I'm just a few blocks away from a barricaded suspect.   I'm so close that when I get there they've yet to set up a perimiter.  So I'm standing about fifty feet from the front door of the suspect's house.  He is reported to be drunk and threatening to shoot anyone that gets near him.

I have a man walk up to me shaking. He is just standing there shaking and staring.

"You know the guy?"

"He's my brother.  He can be a real jerk when he drinks, but he's a nice guy when he's sober."

"These guys arn't going to hurt your brother. They are just going to take their time and wait him out.  They'll talk to him on the phone, get him to settle down. It's going to be alright."

Seconds later the man comes out the front door holding a rifle at what I would say is about 15 degrees up from the ground. He is told to drop it, but instead inches it up to about 20 degrees. The officers then do what they are trained to do. The man has more than thirty bullet wounds. Paramedics work on him, but it is clearly for show.

The suspect is quickly tossed into the back of an ambulance, and driven away. There I am standing next to a brother I just told in essence, "everything's going to be okay!"

Fortunately I hadn't said that on the air yet.

I'm going to stop here before lessons from experience start sounding like points of pomposity. Our human nature will always drive us to tell the story before it's ready.  But looking back with some perspecitve on this event, this day may help diminish some future victim's pain, and renew a passion for responsible journalism. Remember, no "ME" and no "I" in media. As I'm want to say, "They is us."

Rain on my parade

Flirtatious: "Can I buy you a drink? Oh, I forgot. It's Sunday. How about a cup of coffee?"

Real Mood: Modestly Miffed

Prediction: Either Texas or USC will be BCS champions. You're going to have a wait a few days to find out.

"Never on a Sunday," is sung by a fictional hooker who, by her own rules and choice, decides Sunday will be a day of rest.  Now that makes sense.

But not everything having to do with Sunday choices  makes sense.

When I was working in Kansas there were all kinds of dangling liquor laws that were (in my mind) kind of silly. I say dangling because I don't think the majority of Kansans in the latter half of the 20th century expected them to still be around.

Vern Miller, the Attorney General at the time, was having a lot of fun with those laws.  He was personally hiding in car trunks and and popping out at critical moments to arrest people. I can't remember whether it was threat or reality, but I know he WANTED to arrest people drinking on airplanes on Sunday while flying over Kansas. Those were interesting times since the Governor in those years? He was known to enjoy an occassional stimulating imbibement. ( I think one the exciting things about BLOGGING is the unfettered opportunity to experiment with word form invention) Anytime someone tells you Kansas is boring, send them to me.  I've got some stories for you.

Okay, on to other Blue Laws.  Here in this state, Colorado,  you can go to a bar on Sunday, drink to and past your body's capacity. If nobody catches you? You can drive home.  But you cannot  walk into a liquor store and buy a beer you could safely drink at home. I don't get it. I don't think most people get it. And then you go to the Grocery store  where it's illegal to sell alchoholic beverages of full potentcy. But you can buy what they have (3.2 percent alcohol conent on the beer), even on Sunday. That just means you need to drink more volume to get the same affect.  None of this makes any sense. But no one seems brave enough to challenge a Blue Law.  Point Coming!

I know a lot of people who live in Pasadena, California. (There's Tanya, who has lived there forever. There's Casey who just moved there. And there's a whole bunch in between.) Maybe a tenth of them regularly attend a house of worship on Sunday. Okay, here it comes.

Not paying the appropriate amount of attention, I wake up this Sunday morning, January 1st, preparing to do what I do every January 1st.  What's that?

PEGGY AND I HIT THE REMOTE BUTTON THAT WILL PULL UP THE ROSE PARADE. Then we hear the promo on HGTV.

"Looking for the Rose Parade?  Well it's going to be tommorrow, January 2nd, right here on the Garden Channel."

Huh? Peggy and I launch into our own speculation.

Peggy:

"Well, since Monday's a holiday, maybe they need to save a few bowl games and THE PARADE so people will have something to do."

Paul:

"Maybe since they moved the Rose Bowl  game to Wednesday...?"

Peggy:

"Wait a Pasadena minute here. They moved the Rose Bowl to January Fourth? Why for God's sake?"

Paul:

"No, God had nothing to do with it. It has something to do with the BCS, and the National Championship, and the NCAA."

Peggy:

"What in heaven's name is the BCS?"

Paul:

"You don't want to know."

But we both still want to know why the parade ISN'T being marched on January first.  So Peggy calls her California daughter Rhonda, and her California sister Nancy who help us fill in the blanks. (Nancy practically lives on the parade route.)  

Here's what we learned. Many of you may already know this, but it's going to be fun writing it anyway.  Pasadena has an ordinance that says there can be no large gatherings of people on Sunday, in town, unless it's a church gathering. 

Ever been on the Pasadena freeway, or the 210 freeway on a Sunday? Now those are some gatherings. And from the language I'm hearing from the road rage, these folks arn't likely headed for church. Let's get Vern Miller out there to arrest them all.

While often in sympathy with their cause, I'm no Libertarian.  I believe we have common interests and therefore should have some common laws. But I am a clear opponent of any law that smacks of "Holier than Thou."

Pasadena, you are being stupid!

NCAA, you are being stupid!

Baby boomers who are the economic power base of this country, want the Rose Bowl game played on January first.

Now Peggy likes watching football.  I like to listen to the parade bands. But I don't think we're typical.  I know it's a bit of "throw back sexism," but you 20 something decision makers need to know this about baby boomers.  Most men get up on Januaryfirst and watch their Significant Other watch the parade? Then the Significant Other politely watches HIM watch the game. That's just the way it is. You can't just yank those things out from under a powerful generation without ample warning. And do it because of some Arcane ordinance written by a church deacon on 1880?  ( I made that up.)

Let's face it. The NCAA is just too big to fight.  But I think we can make a real statement to Pasadena by threatening to move the Parade to Encino.

We have a friend, Duane Laursen, who does rope tricks during the parade every year.   It's raining so hard this year I doubt we'll get to see him. But that reminds me of just how big a deal this is for a lot of people.  The Rose Parade was where, if you were lucky, you got lassoed by Monte Montana as he rode by on his horse.  It's a event that stays with you for life.

So NCAA and Pasadena. Are you looking for a sign from a Supreme Being? It hasn't rained on your parade in more than 50 years. Hmmm! If fewer of us baby boomers decide to watch the game on Wednesday?  Could that affect the TV fees paid to the colleges?

Maybe it's time to say what needs to be said about these decisions. I think we can do that by just taking the 'C' out of 'BCS.'

Paul:

"Parade's over. Now what do I do?"

Peggy:

"Well, you could always watch....."

Paul:

"I could care less about the Sugar Bowl."

 

I See Spots

Flirtatious: Arn't you somethin'? You know I SPOTTED you right away.

Real Mood: Bold beyond good sense.

Prediction: The creators of some spots will forever be anonymous.

I resolve that in 2006 and beyond I will be even more whimsical. (Somebody Stop Him!)

No resolution just pops up from the floor, right? Wrong! But first let me digress.

Many years ago on a day like today when there seems to be no news on the planet? Hmmm? How to fill up that air time? What's this on the back page of the newspaper? A woman in Springfield (Southern Plains, Population 800) sees a likeness of the holy virgin in her bedroom?  At night she (the virgin) cries? People are coming from far and wide to see the oozing image?

Okay, show it to the desperate producer without trying to sell it.

"You might want to look at this?"

"Holy _____! We gotta go. What are you waiting for?"

"You know it's a four and a half hour drive.  We may not get back in time to get it in your show."

" Yes you will. Take the chopper and go."

"But there was the memo about using the chopper like a taxi?"

"I didn't see that memo. Now, go!" 

That's just a little tip for you budding journalists.  Don't over sell the stories you really want to do.  Let your producers and editors think it's their idea. On a slow news day, the ploy almost never fails. Then once out the door turn off your pager, sit on your cell phone and fake static on the two way radio.  As quickly as you can, get out of range before they regain their senses.

We also don't tell the producer this town has an itty bitty airport about 5 miles outside of town with no services.  We know we are going to have to get imaginative in finding transporation into town. I won't dwell on the details, but we make it.

We arrive at this tiny adobe-like dwelling. There is a handmade sign that says something like "Home Of the Virgin, Come On In."

There is a wire fence with a beat up,  and loose on it's hinges, gate. As we open it, it screams for a shot of WD40. A  "long in the tooth" dog with fat rolls, does a slow 180 in the dusty yard (no grass). The beast is clearly no threat.

 It is fairly early in the day so the inspired throngs have not yet arrived. But the woman of the house graciously invites us and our lumps of  gear into the home. (For space reasons, we almost left the light kit back at the staiton.  It is a good thing we didn't.) We are pretty much swallowing up all of the habitable space in the living room as we are being briefed.

Finally the recipient of this sacred visit invites us into her bedroom. It's here we see the visage that is filling up the donation jars. It is here our jaws unlock and form "I can't believe it expressions." What do we see?

You ever been out to a small farming community on the plains? Ever been inside a room with  80 year old plaster walls that havn't seen a lick of paint?  Ever seen what happens when  a little bit of moisture gets inside the wall?

If your answers to all these questions  are no, let me give you a hand.  You get this rusty little stain on the wall that was probably covered by wallpaper at one time. It looks a bit like a Rorschach block. It's open to a wide range of interpretations, especially if you've been  sampling the local brew out on the dusty plain.  If I'm not already told what I'm looking at?  I might envision a stagecoach, or maybe Amy Carter, or Chelsey Clinton, or Laura Bush.

How big is this sobbing virgin? Four by five I'd say.  Inches that is.

"Lady this is TV. Don't you have anything bigger?"

I don't really say that.  I want to say that.

I sing the praises of photographers all the time. I think this one is Mike  LeClaire or Gary Barkley. Sorry if it's someone else. (It's a long time ago.) Whoever it is manages to light this splotch, and get enough angles in this dinky little bedroom, to make the story work.  We get a few more soundbites, a compressed shot of about ten people standing around (the compression makes ten look like a thousand). We get a no comment from local authorities, including the local priest.  Then we get the the heck out of "Dodge" (aka Springfield).  *

Another word to budding journalists.  It's pretty easy for that print reporter to sit there on the phone and get the whole story. Anymore the lady who was visited could even email a picture of "The Madonna" to the newsroom, and the deed is done.

But if you are in TV, or Internet Streaming Video Mode, make sure your virgin is more that 4 inches by 5 inches. Make sure you've got a "TV" story before hiring out the chopper for the day.

So anyway all this is background for my whimsy of the day. We have this little spot on the carpet in the bathroom.  It will not come up.  Peggy swears it's not her work.  I swear it's not mine. 

We've had these little debates throughout married life.  We used to blame unclaimed spots on the Menehuenes, Hawaiian Gnomes that show up in the dark and do things. We were introduced to them by our friend Larry Ramos when we were in Kuaii. (Everyone should have a Menehuene. The little guy solves a lot of mysteries and settles many a dispute.)

Anyway, nothing seems to want to pull this stain up from the carpet.  So I've been staring at it a little harder.  I suppose you could make a case for it being  a "broken in half "  horseshoe. But in my quest to give it some human quality, I see a bent over woman. I think she is on her knees praying for peace.  She is weeping at the sorrows of the World.  No matter how hard I try I can't improve her posture. She is clearly an elderly "Virgin" with a bad case of scoliosis.

Okay, that's enough whimsy for the day.  Just one question. Would you pay 5 dollars to come and see the stain on my carpet?  I'm not sure I'd let you anyway.  I'm just curious.

You know we might have been able to witness the "Springfield Virgin" cry. But that would have required spending the night.

* As the crow flies, Springfield is about 150 miles from Dodge.