Death of the obituary

AT MY FIRST daily newspaperi, one of the jobs of a fledgling reporter was taking obituary information from the local funeral homes. In fact, it was the responsibility of anyone getting the call – cub reporter, desk editor, sports department or any one else not answering the phone call in our smoky, coffee-soaked squalid quarters at the Mount Vernon Democrat building in southwestern Indiana.

As a newly hired reporter back in the Gutenberg press days of journalism, that call often came to me from any our local funeral homes. Initially, I felt my education in the military and GI bill-financed trip through the sheepskin factory put me above such mundane matters. But I was blessed to have received a more important secondary education.

Bill Brooks, the editor and general manager of our humble and aggressive little rag, gently gave me a good education one afternoon while listening to me bitch about the “so whats” of writing an obituary and making mistakes in doing so.

A conversation with two presidential candidates

And two more candidates have tossed their hats into the ring, making a bid for a run at the U.S. presidency in 2012. Both are independent candidates who have refused to align themselves with the Democratic and Republican parties, nor with the surging Tea Party and so-called “Occupy Movement.”

Karl Childers hails from a small Arkansas town and admits having no previous political experience, though he admits he has an admirable track record in repairing lawnmowers and sharpening cutting devices.

Forrest Gump is a lifelong resident of Greenbow, Ala., had a stunning football career at the University of Alabama and then shipped off to the Army, where he later received the Medal of Honor for heroic actions in Vietnam. He amassed a fortune in the shrimp industry, which he largely credits to an Army buddy named “Bubba.”

We thank Misters Childers and Gump for joining us here tonight on CNN News to discuss their views and why they are seeking the White House. Let’s begin with our friend from Alabama…


Q:  Mr. Gump, why did you decide to enter this campaign? More specifically, why are delving into a race of such a high level?
GUMP:  Well, my Mama always said “politics is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Q: Mr. Childers, in the past you’ve shown little or no interest in politics or issues facing this nation. In fact, we have it on record you have never voted. Why are you in this race?
CHILDERS: Mm-huh. There were these two fellars standin' on a bridge, a-goin' to the bathroom. One fellar said, "The water's cold,” and the other fellar said, “The water's deep.”  I believe one fella come from Arkansas. Get it?

A Stroll Among Stones

WE STROLLED along the Indiana Government Center and walked past Fire Station 13. The firefighters apparently had just returned from a call and that immediately caught the attention of my 6-year-old grandson Jack.

He was feeling somewhat jaunty and adult-like, wearing the green Army combat green fatigue shirt I had worn decades ago and had given him the night before . It didn’t matter that my last name was above the breast pocket.

Just don’t say anything about our names and maybe they’ll think I’m an Army guy, Grandpa!

Fair enough.

A few more steps and we were standing on the apron of the Indianapolis 911 Memorial, a small plaza overlooking the fountains of the Downtown Canal. It was an early quiet Saturday morning, less than a week after a special dedication ceremony marked a place to honor the memories of the lives lost on that horrible day a decade ago.  Stone benches on which to sit and reflect.  Stone markers recalling the timeline of that day in New York City, the Pentagon and a field in Shanksville, Pa.

And two miniature towers loom overhead  – two support I-beams which tumbled when the World Trade Center collapsed.

A trickle of hope for a thirsty world

So much angst, anger, disappointment and despair in the world these days. The global economy teeters; terrorism in its many ugly forms killing in the name of God or any warped secular persuasion ; gangster warlords fostering famine in poor nations;  and politicians in every nation more focused on preserving their cancerous careers and their goose-stepping  agenda than serving the publics they have sworn to represent.

Well, every now and then us so-called mentors of future generations need to take a step back, keep our mouths shut and observe from those whose lives are just beginning. Want to talk about real profiles in courage, consider Rachel Beckwith.

Some time ago, this Seattle girl embarked on a mission to celebrate her June birthday: Forget the cards and presents and all that. She wanted people to contribute to her quest to provide clean and safe drinking water in those desperate niches of the world, places where people die because they don’t have it.  And that death toll continues to rise.

Rachel did her homework. She urged contributors to donate to www.charitywater.org, which locates and drills for freshwater in needy places.

Growing Kids in a Backyard

RECENTLY, I TRAVELED TO MY BOYHOOD TOWN in southern Indiana for a long-overdue visit with my Mom, daughter and sister and their families. It felt good to be back in terra cognito, spending the weekend in the home where I grew up from the time I was five. Familiar turf, by and large, surrounded by a changing neighborhood once elegantly dubbed “Country Club Meadows” by an enterprising developer named Guthrie May, who transformed Evansville’s north-side in the post World War II years by building affordable housing for veterans able to buy homesteads for their growing young families. 

My Mom supplemented my Dad’s income from the late 1960s and continued the work until only a few years ago with baby-sitting. Today, we are a far too-sophisticated folk to call it that; we now call it child care services. Hundreds of people in Evansville owe part of their mothering and upbringing to my Mom. Sometimes, she runs into some former grey-haired youngster in public and they recognize her loudly and proudly.

Just take a look at that backyard, son, she told me one evening. This yard has never had that much grass!  It was plush, straight and as green as the brightest emerald. Indeed, the turf never looked this way in the 50-something years the Stutevilles staked claim to the property. And for good reason: kids at play for generations, even long after my brother, sister and I moved on.

Got me to thinking about something a neighbor once remarked to my late Dad. You have to understand that Gerhard Frenz (the adults called him “Gary”) ironically had immigrated and resettled at no expense in our  ex-GI subdivision after serving in the German army during “The Big One.”

Buck, why do you let all of those kids come over there and trample down your grass?, he asked, gesturing to a lawn as pristine as Hitler’s flower garden at his Eagle’s Nest retreat in Berchtesgaden. Truth is, no kids – even his own – were allowed to play in the Frenz backyard, much to the chagrin of his children.

My old man never was one to delay replies, especially those which irked him.  Well Gary, I’m busy growing kids right now. And when that’s done – maybe  I’ll grow me some grass.

Mr. Frenz just walked away shaking his head not really understanding. To this day, I wonder if he ever knew that his youngest son Frankie was one of the best Kraut-killers in our juvenile reenactments of our dads’ grim work.

AND SO FOR A FEW MOMENTS AT TWILIGHT, I walked out onto the back patio of my Mom’s well-kept home on Kensington Avenue and fired up a Macanudo. There was a waft of meat on a grill drifting through the neighborhood. A couple of loud-mouth mutts were barking their conversation back and forth while a few lightning bugs’ butts were beaming with that neon, summer yellow. The air was a dense as the collective brain power of Obama’s board of economic advisors; a thickening humid haze slumping.

Road rage at a Speedway

I GUESS THE EVER-ESCALATING and unpredictable prices at the gas pumps is not only exasperating to most of us, but a phenomenon that spurs some of the worst in us.

I recently made that observation while pulling into a Speedway gas station on Indy’s south side. As I nosed into the area from a side entrance a couple of fellows nearly stepped into my path. I made the slick decision to proceed, judging that they were not in imminent danger of any kind. I mouthed a quick “sorry” to them, gave them both a gentle wave of contrition, and eased into a spot .

As I started to walk into the building to pre-pay my several pounds of flesh for petroleum, I heard some twangy voice behind me in a redneck loudly sputtering in angry Daffy Duck sort of way.

Stoopeed sumbitch wach’ya think ya doin? Ya cudda kilt us back there you dumbazz!  I gazed back and looked my accuser.  

Faith, future and adios, enemigo

FOR MORE THAN A DECADE, his countenance has been circulated widely in the news. A tall, gaunt fellow wearing robes whose face could have been a model for an El Greco painting: A somewhat wistful and gentle look on his long face, a flowing prophetic beard and an ambivalent eye gazing back at the world. He almost always accessorized for these images with an automatic weapon cradled lovingly in his arms.

We are still learning of the particulars and while for a long time coming never will, but there’s a global sigh today that there his living visage will appear. Well, perhaps, for those zany folks who believe there’s a conspiracy in every haystack? He is gone and good riddance. And I am not in a position to offer any judgment suggesting his soul rest in peace.

When I heard the news late last night on NPR’s coverage of our president’s speech while lying in bed and slouching toward sleep, I could only mumble, Good!

After many intelligence-gathering and high level meetings a decision was made several hours before. He’s likely in this fortress bordered by allied Pakistan friends. Let’s get him.

And so it happened and swift. A team of Navy SEALs assembled and the procedure began with nonpareil surgical precision. I’m an Army vet, but I give the “swabbies” their due: In the end, the murderer and a few of his accomplices – including one”braveheart” who forced a woman ahead of him who took the first bullet – all died. A fair fight, far more than these thugs have plotted.

Then I finally fell into sleep slipped into a gentler realm.

Early in the morning I did my patriotic duty and entered a few snarky comments on Facebook. Then let it go.

A Rock Named Matthew

I WIELD AN AX AT LEAST ONCE A WEEK. Not the kind you see lumberjacks slinging to bring down timber, or what Mr. Lincoln would swing to hone his rail-splitting skills. We’re talking a piece of wood with polymer pieces, whose only metal are six, thin strings – and when finely tuned and my fingers and wrists are not screeching with hints of arthritis allow me to play guitar in my church’s praise band, Upon This Rock.

Three of us out of our eight-member troupe have been at this for more than 11 years. . The band’s longevity outlives the work of such giants as the Bay City Rollers, Dino, Desi and Billy or any group featuring Boy George. We’ve even been featured on two professionally produce CDs with other local contemporary praise groups. You can’t buy them, but I would be glad to pirate you a copy if you’re so inclined.

We’ve had many venues within our faith house: in the sanctuary, the narthex (fellowship entry area) and today inside a spacious community life center; Sunday evenings, Saturday nights and now a service that parallels our traditional 10:30 a.m. traditional service.

And it’s been a fun, exhilarating and fulfilling ride. There’s no bigger kick than sawing those strings or playing the occasional lead on songs geared to make you think, to feel and to tune into your faith or some aspects of your beliefs.

A Baby in Every Bottle

… Mrs. Jones she had no children,

And she loved them very dear.

She took three bottles of Pinkham’s,

Now she has twins every year…

I WAS HAVING ONE OF MY TWICE-WEEKLY phone conversations with my Mama the other night when she shared with me a story of near-miraculous science and marriage from nearly six decades ago.

Ever since the day she exchanged wedding vows with my Dad back in December 1949, she wanted children. Not in just a few years after they had settled into marital bliss or when things were more established. No, sir – she wanted to be a mother from the day things their marriage became legal and proper and with the appropriate paperwork in place.

My old man was a bit more reserved for such wishes and obviously willing to put off such plans as long as possible. I suspect his desire was fueled by the fact he was the oldest of 12 siblings in a family scrambling to survive during the Great Depression. Mom had other plans.

“Son, I have to admit I was jealous of my friends and your Dad’s sisters having babies,” she told me. “I had my heart set on it and that was that. I spent a lot of time crying and worrying over it.”

Never doubt the ambitions and the dreams of a young wife. She sought the best medical advice of the day.

Of fate, cosmic comeuppance and a chuckling Creator

SEVEN NEW YORK STATE WORKERS today (March 31) stepped into the limelight to collect their share of hitting a $319 million lottery, said to be the fifth largest Mega Millions prize in the history of the game.

The winners each take home $19 million after taxes. These seven are among a group of 12 at their workplace who regularly participate in a group buy, but five decided to opt out when the tickets were purchased late last week. It’s reported that some of the so-called “Albany Seven” are considering sharing some of their coins with those who didn’t play.

One of winners says she plans to buy a dishwasher for starters. I like that. A practical purchase and the realization of a simple desire. I’m sure there’s much more on her shopping list. And she uttered that cliché which rings so true when she showed up at the press conference. Hey, you gotta play to win, right?

Morning Assignment

LATE LAST FALL, I was tossing back shots from steamy mugs of coffee with a few old chums, who, like me, are former members of the Fourth Estate. Just chatting and strolling down Geezer Lane, trying to outdo one another on stories we had covered and the quirky reporters and editors we had worked with in our previous lives.

 

The talk somehow got around to great American writers and authors and the predictable lament about how there few or none anymore. Such subjective snobs we can sometimes be. So, we focused on the past: All of us agreed, in general, about the undeniable greats: Poe, Melville, Twain, Harper Lee, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Alcott, and so forth and so many.

As the discussion winded down, it came down to one question: Who is the best American author you have ever read? When it was posed to me, I had an immediate answer. The fellow I had in mind was no novelist. He was real writer.

Joe Aaron.

He was the author of giant works such as A Pig In The Gray Panel Truck, A Dandelion in Winter, Day of a President, Just a 100 Miles From Home and The Journey in the Red Jalopy. I have them all in my library, each signed by him, thanks to my Mama – one of his greatest fans. All were collective works and vignettes from the body of his works.

Rodgers' last stand

BEGRUDGE AN OLD ARMY VETERAN of the long-ago “New Army” – who served  in the early 1970s as our nation gradually shifted from a draft to an all-volunteer status – to recall a few snippets of my transition from a lowly civilian puke to an exalted soldier of STRAC status. The latter reference being slang for any raw recruit with acceptable spit-polished boots, pressed uniform and reasonable knowledge of when to salute an officer and make the fast transition from the position of attention to at ease.

In that early winter of my great expectations and discontent at Fort Jackson, S.C., I learned right away – from arrival at the reception station and having my head shorn like a forlorn sheep and getting our uniforms and initial gear – the best course of action was to fly under the radar. Do what you have to and avoid having the drill sergeants remember your name because of some misstep or screw-up. The true mark of success was measured by graduating and your drill sergeant not knowing your name.

And for good reason: If you weren’t measuring up in a particular way during the first three weeks, you didn’t always get a pat-on-the-back and a bus ticket home.

Life, imagination and a toy truck

WAS JAWING ON THE PHONE the other night with my daughter JoAnna about our unique, mundane matters of the day such as work and this, that and the other. In the background, I heard the staccato chatter of my 3-year-old grandson John in the background. He wanted to get in on the action and tell me about his day. Or at least the latest moments of it.

Playin’ with my truck! Papaw! he proclaimed after his Mama handed him the cell. It go weeeeeeeeeel fast – see!!!!

Obviously, I couldn’t see it since our common technology didn’t connect us that way. But when your grinning toddler greets you with such news there’s only one response: Course, I do, buddy. Wow! That truck is really flying!

A day or so later I recalled and chuckled about that brief conversation with John, as I have in similar instances with my other grandchildren and my now-adult daughters when they were younger. He was sharing a moment with me and assumed I could see it as clearly as he could, and it wasn’t necessary for me to be there.

Imagination: How soon the world does its best to pound and stomp it of you at such an early age.  Even that most-revered Einstein, a giant of science that still baffles us once said, Imagination is everything. It’s the preview of life’s coming attractions.

Born to be mild?

SHE SLIPPED INTO THE ROOM, made her way to my Dad’s bedside and stealthily took his vitals. He stirred a bit and an eyelid strained open a bit to observe this early morning invader, recognizing her beyond the haze of his sedation and a smile weakly blossomed on his face.

Sorry to bother you, George – I mean Buck – but I gotta get this information for the charts. What can I do for you? she asked, gently touching his forehead and peering into that sliver of an eye looking back at her. Okay, let’s move you a bit and let you get a look outside, okay. It’s cold but it’s a pretty day outside coming your way?

A shift of a few centimeters gave the man a glimmer of a salmon-colored sunrise erupting beyond his window. His visitor reached for his hand; she smiled and winked at me as she left the room. Other cases to evaluate; other patients to see. And I suspect each received the same respect and level of care, and the depth of comfort that my Dad had received.

About a week later, he was gone. Just like that on a late Sunday night. It was a few days before Thanksgiving, and I was grateful my Dad finally was at peace.

But I recall most clearly those final few weeks when he drifted between this world and the next marking time in his room with my Mama, sibs and close family and friends. It didn’t occur to me then as it does now. Curing disease often doesn’t happen in this dimension, but it always does in the next. The human body comes only with a limited warranty. That is why the Manufacturer installs us with souls, I believe.

Stretching the bounds of kidhood

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME, back in the summer of 1964. One afternoon, my older brother and I didn’t have much on our itinerary, so we decided to play that time-honored game called “Stretch.” A rather ordinary diversion for boys in our neighborhood.

 

Here’s how it works: You borrow a steak knife from the utensil drawer in the kitchen and go find a decent piece of turf to begin. Then you and the other player take turns throwing the blade to alternate sides of both feet. Perhaps a few inches or maybe a foot. The goal, of course, is to make the other spread their stance to the point where they topple over. If you fall first, you loose. But there was another strategy; alternate the distances between long and short. Really gets into your opponents head.

If you were a true gladiator, you played “Stretch” barefoot. I have a few scars on the top of both feet to prove it.

Our game was going fine until one of us speared the knife into a hard surface and the blade broke. Uh-oh. We got some serious explaining to do now.

Words on words

THE PARTY WILL BE OVER IN A FEW HOURS. Mardi Gras will wind down and transform into the sobering observance of Lent. A 40-day journey of Christianity leading up to the betrayal, execution and resurrection of a humble carpenter's son.  Earlier this morning as I slugged down my first much-needed cup of coffee, I pondered briefly on what this season means. For some, it's a time to give up some pleasure or pledge some temporary sacrifice geared walking a more focused path to the Creator.

After my routine scanning of news sites and the wires, it occurred to me how powerful words can be. In myriad ways, words can encourage, build others up, inspire and energize us to strive to be better folks. In other ways, words can tear down, hurt and devastate. 

And then there are those seemingly innocent words all of us use; the quietly delivered unsubstantiated "secrets" we share from time to time: Gossip.

Got me to thinking about an old Hebrew bit of advice I once read: What you don't see with your eyes, don't witness with your mouth. Suffice it to say that Mosaic memo about bearing false witness against your neighbor was not a suggestion.

Mid-way through John Patrick Shanley's play "Doubt," one of the lead characters, Father Brendan Flynn, is delivering his Sunday homily. It comes at a time when the affable priest's church and community are caught in the swirl of change of the early1960s. The good padre, too, finds himself under suspicion and attack by the disciplinarian principal of the church's school, Sister Aloysius. The harsh headmistress suspects him -- without any shred of evidence -- of having an inappropriate relationship with the school's newly admitted and first African-American boy.

The music of garages

BLACK FRIDAY – THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING.

 I’d rather eat my pancreas and climb Mount Everest naked than venture near to any shopping center or mall on that day. But there I was in Greenwood, Ind., with Robyn hitting a fabric store for gifts she would make for Christmas 2010. Knowing there was a slight possibility of escape, I took the rational course of action and ducked into the Guitar Center next door.

Love that place, and I go there from time to time. Mostly to dream.  It’s like stepping into a Holy Sepulchre of Telecasters, Strats, Martins, Gibsons and other Excaliburs for any squire shouldering a guitar.  Not to mention myriad accessories that any self-respecting ax-swinger seeks to stuff into his or her gig bag. And if you’re a non-musician without talent – say a person who plays keys or drums – it’s a pretty fascinating place, too. The GC caters to all.

On that dismal, dark November day a few months ago, I sought refuge. I did my usual entry, walking past the advertised specials and made my way over to the amp area, all surrounded by wall-mounted well-strung cornucopia.
The seduction is made easy: Select a guitar, plug it in and do your thing. And the store is wise enough to leave out picks.


Strum, play, -- do whatever Muse might strike you. Then move on and try more.

Where History and Hysteria Converge...

Take a brief slideshow tour of Central State
http://www.kizoa.com/slideshow/d1504922k5834261o1/where-history-and-hysteria-converge

'Please to no come back again ever!'

BEEN FOLLOWING THE EVENTS unfolding in Cairo and other Egyptian cities the last few weeks, all of the demonstrations, rallies, riots and clashes between the government and protesters. And that includes the harsh crackdown on professional journalists and amateurs able to get their word out through blogs and Facebook. There hasn’t been this much calamity in that country since Moses commandeered an uprising, leading his folks on an exodus away that thick-headed Pharaoh, who couldn’t get the hint after some fairly dramatic plagues.

Sadly, people wielding tremendous power so often are unable to read the handwriting on the wall. I don’t know enough to know whether President Mubarak should pull a Nixon, but it seems at this point he has no ttrump card in the hand he’s playing.

All of this has gotten me to remembering about my own brief time near that part of the world during the winter of 1991. You see, the magazine I worked for had bought my pitch to send me and staff photographer John Simon to Saudi Arabia to cover the unfolding Desert Storm war. Remember that? Saddam Hussein’s troops rumbled into oil-rich Kuwait in August 1990 and occupied its capital and other key places. Kuwait’s ruling class was able to get the hell out of Dodge into safer havens while the lower and largely imported hired hands were forced to hang on nearly eight months under a brutal force.

A sweet song and a dead leaf

During last week’s ice storm I was fortunate to have the flexibility to work from home for two days, thanks to the Internet and ability to tap into my company’s internal server. It was a good opportunity for a variety of reasons: I could wear my battered Grateful Dead sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms, not have to scrape the whiskers from my face, drink endless cups of Cuisinart-crushed fresh coffee, and do what I do most days when I am not wearing the button-down uniform of the typical day.

I was working the “Operation Snowflake” beat in the Frozen City, wondering why Al Gore and the other zanies were noticeably absent for interviews during this assault, and I was providing updates on closings and delays about our hospitals and other pedestrian communications. While refilling my “I Love Grandpa” coffee mug at one point, I could hear the creaking of sagging tree limbs, similar to the sounds of my knees and elbows when I get up each morning. 

And then I heard a faint sound of a bird – singing its blessed heart out against that cold chorus. It was the sweetest sound of optimism I ever have heard.

With profound apologies to Walt Whitman

 I Hear America Bitching

I hear America bitching, the varied noises today I hear,

Those of media commentators of every chordless type, each singing and underestimating the good sense of folks who don’t see the world and its myriad issues splattered against a black-and-white canvas,

The well-paid extremists who swarm in to condemn a drunk-driving cop who kills an innocent biker, yet remain light years away and mute when a decent officer is gunned down dead,

The minions of a Kansas maniac professing God’s hate of gays, Catholics, Jews [for that matter everybody] and who show up at service members’ funerals merely to grab sound bites for the news media,

The benign bleatings of career politicians, whose melodies of promise and pledges are shorn swiftly with such sheepish ease,

The warped arias of pin-striped, corporate cowboys on whom so many livelihoods depend, falling safely and richly beneath canopies of gold in the aftermath of their misdeeds and mismanagement,

The song of the lazy and those who don’t give a damn, whose misguided measures with many rest signs seek full harvest without sowing one seed,

Perhaps soon we shall hear new tunes, each measure robust and hopeful,

Singing with open mouths a similar lyric echoing 1776 and stretching for future harmony.

The Wacky Maniac Resurfaces



The Arabic Al Jazeera news network today aired a videotaped message from Osama Bin Laden where he threatened "dire consequences" if judges failed to select him as a contestant for American Idol. U.S. intelligence analysts have confirmed that the likeness is genuine, adding that they have been pursuing leads that the maniacal terrorist has infiltrated a popular ventriloquist's comedy tour.



A star is reborn

I am here -- somewhere.

I remember a few days before my good Dad died back in November 1990, I had this fleeting dream of him. For whatever reason, he was wearing the tattered clothes that were the uniform-of-the-day for boys of the Great Depression. A skinny, red-haired lad in a large, hardscrabble family near Yankeetown, Ind. But there he was, amidst all of the misery of those days, scampering through a field and then suddenly hopping around the stars you still can see in back-country Hoosierland on a clear night.

That wonderful dream has clung to me for two decades. I think of the Creator, the profound philosophers and even the great scientists who, in their different ways, say we all come from the stars and are destined to return to them. I like that; I believe it.

To this day I recall those three Magi who followed that Star to Bethlehem that is one symbol of my faith. And I recall the great explorers who navigated their way through this planet and into outer space. What wondrous journeys we are capable of, eh?

Meal ticket

"Well, fellas I gotta tell ya, the only da Vinci code here is the mystery of who's gonna pick up the tab for this dinner. But I hear Judas has just come into some extra cash."

Trash talking on a Wednesday

IT WAS AN EARLY WEDNESDAY EVENING. I know this to be a fact because I was preparing to snake up my snow-glazed driveway into the garage and was prepared to do so in what has become a routine at this time of day.  Neither snow nor sunshine is not a factor. Either edge my tired Mercury to the side of the road, or make an S-shaped maneuver around the obstacle and nose into the garage.

Trash day in Indianapolis. Today, the heavy-duty container stood as upright as Patton reviewing an Army parade right in the center and entrance of my 100-foot gravel driveway. I sighed some choice “Blood-and-Guts” words as I reconnoitered around it, parked the car and did my solemn duty. Retrieve the empty canister and drag it back toward the house.

Giving back from 'the next life'

God bless IMPD Officer David Moore and his parents Jo and Spencer Moore. He passed this morning after being removed from life support.

Click on   David Moore.

News with no silly advertising to get in the way...

Isn't this what cable TV promised when it first got started?  Check out Ongo.

Art of Communication: Never Hit the 'Reply-All' Button

Things I have learned about communicating and interacting with others...
When they've sounded "Taps" in Army boot camp ending the training day -- it's not really a good idea to strut up and down the barracks hallway and impersonate your drill sergeant when you think he's gone for the day.

Suppose you're in the fifth grade and in the school spelling bee in a crowded gym with your Mom looking on. You misspell a word and they "ding" you out of competition. And you react into the microphone with a certain four-letter word that you've heard your Dad say a gazillion times before when he's angry.

When you get an e-mail from a "friend" in your office asking for your opinion about the boss's "latest and greatest idea"… never, ever hit the Reply All button.

If you're visiting a foreign country, say, like Nicaragua, your Spanish-speaking skills won't necessarily work if the stranger you're trying to speak to turns out to be Egyptian.

Message from the Creator

Howdy, y'all --

As the architect of the universe and creator of life, I thought I’d drop you a few lines. I just finished reading this interesting little study, America’s Four Gods: What We Say About God – And What That Says About Us. It was based on two fellows’ 2008 survey of adults trying to take measure how you perceive my personality and behavior.

You can order it off Amazon or your buy it at your local Borders or Barnes and Noble. If you’re willing to wait and spend fewer bucks, you can find it at Half Price Books. Or catch it on Kindle if that’s more convenient. If you really want to go out on a limb, visit a local library and borrow it, if you can find one that’s still open.

On balance, I was glad to hear that 90 percent of you still believe in me. Not surprisingly, I was interested to learn how your views of me shape your attitudes about justice, morality, war, politics, science, love and other topics. Similar surveys have come up quite often since your ancestors drew their first breaths. They frequently touch my heart in good ways and bad.

And these surveys and studies always amuse me. It's like that sweet, Southern expression you hear old ladies say, "Well bless your little heart!"  That's just another way of saying, "Nice try, buck-o, but you don't really have a clue, d'ya?"

Cremains of the Day

Snort 'em if you got 'em -- bum 'em if you don't. Further proof that the Mayan calendar and the spirit of Hunter Thompson are running a parallel course.
http://www.examiner.com/strange-news-in-national/florida-teens-arrested-for-stealing-and-snorting-human-remains

A summer 'Ode to Joy'

I WAS DRIVING to my office and listening to the news on the radio, slumping deeper in my seat with each report. Another murder in Indy. A Greenwood toddler clinging to life at Riley Hospital while his mother’s boyfriend was behind bars awaiting beating charges. National unemployment expected to go up. Idiotic politicians and sign-carrying citizens, recklessly spreading their disinformation about health care reform and calling each other Nazis.

Some news you don’t have to summarize, just say a name and you know the story -- or punchline: Lindsay Lohan.So there it is.
 
Then I came to a stop sign on McFarland Road. Ordinarily, I would look in all directions and make sure it was my turn before moving on, but something caught my eye that kept me in place. There was a white-haired woman on a porch swing – not just sitting there slightly moving back and forth, but really pushing and swinging the same way a youngster does on a playground.

Not covered by national health care reform

Artemus Taylor was pretty sure he was well-informed about government-approved medical coverage, but he had some reservations about the way his Lasik procedure was being conducted.

Cutting-edge cliches and other gibberish

TO BEGIN WITH, I work in the world of media and public relations. My duties in that realm essentially have been playing pitch-and-catch with the news media. In 199, I paddled my way across the Styx waving goodbye to many years as a journalist to the shore of that place where I am now at.

What I do can pretty much be summed up as a game, of sorts: Pitch and catch. Specifically, I pitch stories that have some measure of news value to reporters and editors. And I catch stories from the media, seeking some unique perspective or localized angle to bigger stories.  

One aspect of pitching comes in the form of news releases. In the old days of ink and smoke-stained newsrooms, they arrived daily in the mail. Bundles of them. Every conceivable source with a word-generating machine mailed. Saturation bombing via the U.S. Postal Service. In today’s dizzying world of communications technology, they can be sent to multiple sources and locations merely by hitting the “send” button.

To say that Lionel Lattimore had become a basket case was putting it quite accurately.

Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill...

“[Diane says] ... Baby you ain’t missing a thing…"

SHE PEERS through the kitchen window, which is just starting to reflect the salmon-colored shadows of dawn. In the background on the radio that old Mellencamp tune – back when he was called “Cougar” – sings about a couple sucking on chili dogs outside the Tastee Freeze.

Behind her is a sink full of spaghetti-stained plates bobbing in a greasy sea of cereal that must be washed. The baby sits in the booster chair wearing a lop-sided grin. The older boy flops in the blue haze of the living room, soaking in the prime-time world of cable cartoons.

“Gotta get cracking,” she thinks, grabbing a washcloth and swiping it over the toddler’s face. She hustles the other boy up from his TV-induced trance after the show ends and gets them ready for day care.
Use to be that tears would come at that point; now it was just a long, drawn-out sigh and be done with it.

Get up again tomorrow and start all over again.

Slip-slidin' away

I WAS STOPPED AT A TRAFFIC LIGHT on Indy’s south side and doing my best to recon away from apparent hill-jack motorists during our most recent snowblast. Off to the side, I saw a couple of youngsters fancying  some kind of faux skating routine in the parking lot of St. Mark Catholic School. One of the kids lost his footing and went spread-eagle down onto the pavement – then immediately bounced right back up and continue on with his pals.

Many years ago, some time between an era when T. Rexes roamed the planet and a few millennia after the last Ice Age, I made the bold decision to cave into pleas to my then-spouse and our blended-kid household to visit the Pan Am skating arena, now dubbed the Indiana/World Skating Academy.

I had never been on ice skates; in fact, my distant experiences on roller skates would have gotten me annihilated in roller derby for 3-year-olds. I remembered Peggy Fleming from the 1968 Winter Olympics and a more recent speed-skate sensation named Eric Heiden. I had visions of being a fast learner. How tough could it really be? Winter Olympians aren't real athletes.