I-70 Series II?

If it happens, there will be instant replay, and there won't be D.D.! Here is my Game 6 memory from 1985: It was October 26, 1985, and for a belated birthday present, my friend Robbie got me into Royals Stadium for Game 6 of the World Series … and I do mean IN the stadium. He had a part-time assignment to develop film for the Associated Press, and he got me a job getting the film rolls from the photographers in the extended dugout and taking them to him at the elevator in between innings. During play, I stood in a tunnel with two of Governor John Ashcroft’s bodyguards and watched the game while they watched the Gov. We got there early, and with working press passes, we pretty much had the run of the place. I got to go down to a celebrity room where there were snacks. I remember recognizing McLean Stevenson of M*A*S*H and Sparky Anderson, manager of the Detroit Tigers. We were even on the field for awhile! With the game about to start, we were ushered off the field and down through the dugout tunnel to our jobs. It was there we passed Glen Campbell, who was going to sing the national anthem. He smiled and said, “Hi,” and I distinctly remember replying, “Have a good game!” He gave me a puzzled look. I don’t know why I said that.  The rest of the night is, of course, history. The Cardinals led the Series three games to two and were leading 1-0 going into the bottom of the ninth inning. The first batter, Jorge Orta, hit a slow roller to Jack Clark at first, who tossed it to pitcher Todd Worrell for the easy out. But umpire Don Denkinger called him safe. Here was the call by Jack Buck: “Orta, leading off, swings and hits it to the right side, and the pitcher has to cover he is...SAFE! SAFE! SAFE! And we'll have an argument! Sparky, I think he was out!” A few moments later, Buck added in surprise, “He had the base and he had the ball, man, what else is there? That's the rule isn't it?” Despite the protest, the call stood, and the Royals rallied for a 2-1 victory to tie the seven-game series at three games apiece. Game 7 was a disaster. With the surprise loss fresh in their minds, the man who made the bad call, Denkinger, was behind the plate. The Birds had a meltdown and lost, 11-0. Let's do it again. This time will be different. GO CARDS!

Junk in the Trunk

Grandparents arrested for putting child in trunk JEFFERSON CITY, MO (5/7/2013) — A Fulton couple was arrested this weekend in Jefferson City for putting their grandchild in the trunk of their car. Police reports show at about 12:15 p.m. Saturday, officers were dispatched to Menards, 805 Stone Creek Drive, for a child endangerment call. According to the caller, she heard a voice from within the trunk of a car that had pulled into the lot and what sounded like a child's voice frantically yelling, “Let me out!” The caller observed a couple exit the vehicle then open the trunk, at which point a 5-year-old girl climbed out. Officers responded and made contact with the suspects, Marc and Mary Vaucher of Fulton who admitted purchasing two tables at another location and not having enough room to place the tables in the trunk so they opted to place their granddaughter in the trunk to allow for transport. The Vauchers were arrested for endangering the welfare of a child and the child, who was unharmed, was released to another family member's custody. As of Monday afternoon, formal charges against the Vauchers had not been filed. I feel for that girl, but at least it wasn’t AUGUST! Back in my younger days, as the “one with the car,” I would transport other guys into the drive-in movie in the trunk of my car. If you didn’t have the cash, you rode in the trunk to get in. But my favorite trunk story came at an auto body shop. I was rear-ended, so I took my car out to Eddie Gray’s, a respected Jefferson City shop. I was an all too frequent customer of Eddie, who always did an acceptable job — except once. After a rain, I noticed my trunk was wet, so I took the car back to Eddie’s. “Jimmy, come here,” shouted a man who had just grabbed a water hose from the wall of the garage. A small man approached, saw the hose and the open trunk lid, and began to scowl. He looked right at the man with the hose and said, “This better not be like last time. Or I’ll kick out the taillights and it will come out of your pay!” Apparently being the smallest guy in the body shop automatically makes you the trunk-leak-checker. Jimmy got in my trunk, the lid was closed, water applied, he knocked, the lid was open and he said, “New seal.” All in about five seconds. A very fast diagnosis!

MY Missouri State Fair 2013

Back in August, the Missouri State Fair made national news — for probably the first time in a long time — when Tuffy the rodeo clown put on a mask of the President during his entertainment. As folk who have gone to rodeos know, the clowns are there to entertain. And, more importantly, they are on-dirt guards for the safety of the riders of bulls, horses, etc. And from what I know of them, they’d even help you find the keys you lost in the field/parking lot afterwards if they were lucky enough not to have been carted off in an ambulance that night. Well, in poor Tuffy’s case, somebody put his performance on You Tube and it got blown way out of proportion. Go figure. I’m pro-Tuffy. Dick Dorkey of Florissant is not. He wrote the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, after not being at the rodeo, and after not being at the state fair at all, with these words of wisdom: “The rodeo clown incident simply points out that the time for having a state fair has come to an end. “Annually, the state of Missouri spends millions producing this event, that while pleasant, is an anachronism whose time has come and gone. The state also spends millions in upkeep for a fairgrounds used for a few weeks in the summer.” Wrong, Dorkey. The State of Missouri officially paid $400,000 to support the 2013 state fair. That’s about one dollar for everybody who attended, and that’s less than HALF of ONE million. As far as the “millions” for upkeep, you’ll have to prove it. And the fairgrounds is used year round; I know, because I’ve been there. Dorkey also stated: “Historically, the state fair was a place where farmers could enter their crops and livestock in a competition and be entertained with carnival acts, races and musical performers that they otherwise wouldn’t be able to see. “These days, no farm family is more than a couple of hours away from the entertainment in St. Louis, Kansas City or Branson.” Well, that’s just big-city bias, Mr. Florissant. This state is built on agriculture. And the farmers, young and old, who enter their crops and livestock in competition, are not going to find such opportunities in Mr. Dorkey’s entertainment capitals. The state fair gives some of these folk a chance to show off what they’ve dedicated their lives to, to learn how others do it, to maybe learn some tips and make some business contacts. And even us city folk can learn while being entertained. Unlike Dorkey, I go to the rodeo every year. I’ve even volunteered there. I enjoy the fact that Missourians from across the state can come to Sedalia, see a free show or a paid concert, enjoy carnival food, maybe shake hands with a politician or a fair queen, learn how a pig becomes bacon or where ice cream comes from … and if they are offended by a rodeo clown in a mask, they do what regular folk do: don’t clap, maybe boo, and maybe Pop will yell something while Mama covers Junior’s ears. They don’t You Tube it, and they for sure don’t claim to know all about it when they’ve never even been. I read “Tuffy” was “banned for life” from the Missouri State Fair. That sounds like a Dorkey-like decision. Good, honest fair folk know better. He’ll be back, maybe as “Scruffy” the clown, or he might be the barker for the pig races, or he might be helping to show off the outstanding Charolais his kids raised. That’s the way we do things in Missouri, Dorkey.

Of Moby Dick and the Tigers of Africa

In Chapter XLV of "Moby Dick," Ishmael gives several examples to support his belief that certain whales – legends and giants among their own kind – can be both encountered and receive the harpoon of the same gallant knight twice or more, years apart. (I just read "Moby Dick" for the second time and greatly enjoyed it because it was not required, as it was in college.) In this chapter entitled "The Affidavit," Ishmael tells of a harpooner who, after once striking home on a leviathan that escaped, encountered it again years later. In the interim, said seaman joined a discovery party into the interior of Africa, "where he travelled for a period of nearly two years, often endangered by serpents, savages, tigers, poisonous miasmas, with all the other common perils incident to wandering in the heart of unknown regions." I had to look up "miasmas." Turns out it's a very interesting term meaning "bad air," thought to cause serious diseases like cholera, until it was displaced in the 19th century by the discovery of germs. But it was the tigers that grabbed my interest. Travel back in time with me to college Creative Writing with Professor McIntosh. The assignment: write a short story in character. I could not wait for my turn to read in class. I had chosen to be a British great white hunter seeking his prey in darkest Victorian Africa. I based my voice on some old movies and I was getting a few snickers but good attention as I moved along. My closer was a slight twist on my favorite Groucho Marx joke. I whispered how I, the hunter, was in my tent, when I was awakened by a fierce sound outside in the vast darkness. I grabbed my trusty rifle, leapt to my feet, charged outside, and — BOOM! — dropped the largest tiger I had ever seen. "Yes, I shot a tiger in my pajamas, dear friends — and what he was doing in my pajamas I'll never know!" Guffaws all 'round! Everybody got it. I was in creative writing heaven … until … "There are no tigers in Africa," the until then silent McIntosh stated as he covered my glory in solid ice, bringing the room to complete silence. "Class, write what you know." "I know I'll never take another class with McIntosh," I thought, slumping in my seat. Then, in a story that I hope would make even ol' Mr. Melville smile, there is this memory from the study of his tome in American Novel class. One day, Dr. Gilgun came upon a passage which he convinced us was a measurement that would allow us to get a better idea of how big Moby Dick really was. In the classroom, he said that measurement was about that of a foot, 12 inches, and said the great white whale was about 300 times one of these measurements, which would compute to about 100 yards. This alone would make Moby Dick as long as a football field – more than three times longer than the standard spermaceti whale, which ranges from 52 to 67 feet in length – but who were we to challenge a PhD?! Then came "show and tell." Gilgun took the entire class out into the hall of the classroom building, went to one end, and started stepping off these 300 "measurements" in giant strides, counting "one … two … three …," with all those steps far longer than 12 inches. When he reached the other end of the building, a length of about 100 yards or so, he was no where near his desired count of 300. "There," he exclaimed, somewhat out of breath but most professorially. "Moby Dick was BIGGER than this building!" Oh, it happened. I was there. And just like the icy summation of McIntosh, we took the conclusion in complete silence … which I suppose is the sound made by the African tiger.

The Day I Met Stan Musial

I met Stan Musial on September 12, 2000. I read that he was going to be inducted into the Hall of Famous Missourians at the state capitol, and since I was living in Jefferson City and working as a stringer for a weekly newspaper, I decided to see how far the Power of the Press would get me. Turns out it got me a front row seat for a very casual press conference with The Man. We, reporters and photographers, were ushered into a large side room set up with a bunch of chairs facing a podium. Within just moments, Stan came out with a couple of folk, and one said: "Stan will take your questions now." No big introduction, no mention of limit on time – none of that usual press conference stuff. Then Stan walked past the podium, pulled an empty chair away from a wall, and sat down to face everyone with a big smile. As I recall, he answered every question, good or lame, with the same interest and pleasant tone. Born in 1920, he was a spry 79 on that September morning, and he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as all of us were enjoying being in the presence of The Man. Upon request, he even pulled his harmonica from his sport coat pocket and played us a little tune. After awhile, as the TV folk left after getting their pictures, some of the older print and radio reporters moved closer. I stayed close enough, taking notes, but also having a lot of fun. These guys grew up listening to Stan play baseball. They told him so. He smiled. They would tell him of what they remembered about the game in which he did a certain thing, and he would tell them what he remembered about that game. If lunch had been brought in, I think all of us would have stayed all day. But a man came back and mentoned that The Man had to go meet some legislators, so we let him go. He was born Stanisław Franciszek Musiał on November 21, 1920 in Donora, Pennsylvania. He was the fifth of six children born to Mary, of Czech descent, and Lukasz, an immigrant from Poland. My Polish friend tells me that Musial means "he had to," as in "Musiał zagrać baseball" meaning "He had to play baseball." I think that's about right.

The Good Pirates and the Grinch

I was harvesting articles to read from the New York Times last month when I came across a couple that really threw me into the Christmas spirit — first in a negative way, with ire and bile — but then in a most enjoyable way with the spotlight on my favorite part of the season: giving. Let's get the nastiness over with first, shall we. In "A City Ban Changes the Christmas Scene" (11/19/2012), Ian Lovett reported that after six decades of Nativity scenes in Santa Monica’s Palisades Park, they are gone. A series of 14 Nativity scenes had been in the park since the '50s. But in recent years, Damon "The Grinch" Vix, a local atheist, started objecting to the religious scenes’ presence on public property and put up his own signs in the park with messages like “Religions are all alike — founded upon fables and mythologies,” a quotation from Thomas Jefferson. (Please note that John has nothing against atheists, just like he has nothing against those PETA people, as long as they mind their OWN business - and stay out of his.) Last year, Vix kicked it up a notch and got fellow atheists to apply for a bunch of spaces in the park to set up displays — and that crowded out the Nativity scenes. There was national attention, vandalism to the Vix displays, political pandemonium, and in June, the Santa Monica City Council voted unanimously to ban all unattended private displays from city parks. Per the story, Vix said, “I think the ban has been a good thing for the city. Any time there is an intrusion of religion in government, that’s a bad thing.” Well, everybody has the right to their opinion in this great country, but I believe we have a little thing known as freedom of religion, too. And I think that freedom will inspire the Nativity folk to rally back against Vix and his spirit crushers. That will be my Christmas wish. And now, here's a good story, made even better because it's about giving, and made even better YET because it's about $1 coins and PIRATES! (I loves me pirates!) In the November 19 story "Buried Treasure, Unburied for a Greater Good," reporter James Barron opened with: "In an adventure about buried treasure (real), pirates (made up) and clues (too complicated, it turned out), the temptation is to talk like a matey and tell the world: The cap'n says to quit yer foolish searching because the booty's not there now. The laddies who put it in the ground dug it up and gave it away." And that is the gist of it. It seems that back in 2009, two Brooklyn guys, Vincent Bova and Damien Eckhardt-Jacobi, hid a chest filled with 10,000 one-dollar coins (See, Joe Biden! SOMEBODY is using these coins!) and released eight videos featuring creatures playing pirates who dropped hints about where the loot was, per the story. And the best part? Finders keepers!!! (They wanted to promote their business.) Long story short, some searchers were warm, none got hot, and then came Hurricane Sandy. Messrs. Bova and Eckhardt-Jacobi decided to dig the money up and give it to a good cause — Lava Girl Surf, a surfing school that had turned into a relief group. And here's how Mr. Barron closed his story: "Mr. Bova described his initial call to Davina Greene of Lava Girl Surf. 'I said I want to talk about a donation, but it's kind of bizarre,' he said. "He mentioned $10,000. She told him she was going to cry. "Then he mentioned pirates and said, 'It's a treasure chest bursting with coins.' 'She started laughing hysterically,' Mr. Bova said." Take THAT, Grinch Demon Vix! There is still good in this world, and it will take better than you to stop it.

My newsprint addiction

Let history show that the price of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch increased 50% today, from $1.00 to $1.50. Having worked for a newspaper or two in my time, I have ink in my veins, as the saying goes. I enjoy the look and feel of a newspaper. I'm comfortable that I can scan over all the news that's fit to print at my leisure, can clip and mail some of it to others, and can reuse or recycle the remainder. I can depend on the regular existance of a newspaper to give me a report on the world as a large group of reporters, photographers, artists and editors see it - and want me to see it. And it's not just the Post-Dispatch. When passing through other towns or states, I will pick up any and all available local newspapers and obtain the same enjoyment. I am hooked. I will spend the extra 50 cents per day. I will not be pleased, but I will pay it. But I will challenge newspapers to get a bit more creative in the departments that make what I want possible: advertising and circulation. The Internet has greatly hurt the print newspaper. Classified ("want") ads are quickly taking up less and less space - especially for vehicles. And with all the other options afforded to them, folk find it too easy to pass on a newspaper that regularly nickles and dimes them with rate increases. Newspapers need to sell more ads, and get the paper into more people's hands so they can show the potential advertisers that their ads will be seen. Lots of folk are out of work. I read that in the newspaper. Newspapers need to hire these folk and set them to work selling ads and subscriptions. Let them get creative - give them special deals and let them hit the streets. Plenty of folk thrive on the opportunity to sell for their money, and they will sell. Follow the Benjamins and get more ads and more subscribers - and quit raising rates. We print junkies have to eat, too.

May I have a definition?

If you've never been, you owe it to yourself to attend a spelling bee. It's a very underappreciated spectator event, and it really helps remind you of your place on the gray-matter ladder of evolution.
I have two spelling bee stories - one from years back, and a great one from yesterday.
Years ago when I wrote for the St. Joseph Gazette, I was covering a regional spelling be at the Ramada Inn. The contestants were all seated in chairs on a temporary stage set up in a ballroom, a temporary curtain behind them.
Pretty noticeable in the back row was a kind of big kid who just had "the look" that he wouldn't last two rounds. He was tipping back on the back legs of his chair, resting his elbows on something unseen, making faces and trying to talk with his nervous neighbors.
All of a sudden, there was a quick flash of bright light and the kid was gone!!!
Turns out he was leaning his elbows on the push bar of a fire exit door and he leaned back too far, causing him to take a tumbling exit into the parking lot. He wasn't hurt ... but he didn't win the bee.
Yesterday afternoon at the Columbia Daily Tribune Regional Spelling Bee, 53 contestants from third to eighth grade competed with words like shogun, cantata, langosta and incorruptible; the winner spelled neptunium correctly. (I think the long ones are sometimes the toughest.)
One young man stepped up to the microphone in the second round and was given the word caucus. It's a good word, in the news in this election year, and I thought if he even glanced at the Daily Tribune in preparation, he might know it.
He repeated the word, somewhat with a questioning emphasis. The announcer repeated it for him.
The boy, without asking for definition, language of origin, or any of the other time-extending options spelling bee contestants can use to buy time, began: "Caucus - c - o - c - k" (pause, again looking questionably at the announcer) "a - s - s." Caucus."
He must have thought it strange to be asked to spell a "dirty word(s)" in public, at a spelling bee, but he did his duty.
Deftly supressing a snicker, the announcer said, "I'm sorry, that's incorrect," and spelled the word correctly for the lad, who seemed eased to be removed from further pressure. Afterall, it was an unseasonable 80 and still sunny outside.

Welcome to Wal-mart --- NOT!!!

Rob Walton, Chairman of the Board
Walmart
702 SW 8th Street
Bentonville, Arkansas 72716-8611

Dear Mr. Walton,
Please bring your greeters back.
I just finished reading your father's "Made in America," which gave me a greater appreciation for not only the man, but for the company, and for the Walmart store I visit almost every day.
About the same day I heard greeters would be leaving the front doors from 10 p.m. to 7 a.m., I picked up "Made in America" for 50 cents at a Salvation Army thrift store. (Talk about a low price!)
Since the news broke, at my Supercenter #29, I don't think I remember seeing a greeter at all – at any time – and that disappoints me.
As Sam Walton wrote on Page 217, "… the bigger Wal-Mart gets, the more essential it is that we think small." And went on: "If we ever forget that looking a customer in the eye, greeting him or her, and asking politely if we can be of help … then we ought to go in to a different business because we'll never survive this one."
Walmart is the only place (except Waffle House) where I get greeted at the door, and I really like it. Here I am, going into this great big store, but there's always somebody there to greet me. I always reply. It makes me feel good.
I go to Walmart regularly, here, up in Columbia, or to any I find when I travel, and I always know when I cross the parking lot that I'm going to get that big greeting from the company that thinks "small."
I remember years ago when I lived in Northeast Missouri and patronized the Kirksville Walmart, I wrote the manager and suggested a fishbowl where folk could get a chance at a Walmart gift card for bringing in a shopping cart, and I'll be darned if that store didn't do it! Now, they went big, with a glass aquarium, which broke – but that didn't stop them. They went to a smaller bowl on a stool, and the greeter would give you a slip to put your name and address in for the drawing, and thanked you.
I'm still impressed with the response to my suggestion.
Anyway, I hope you consider bringing back the greeters. I always see the kids smile when they get a sticker placed on them. (Now there's just a big roll up by the entrance, but that's like having to award yourself a medal.)

Sincerely,


John
Loyal Walmart customer

PS: Go Hogs!
PSS: The book I'm reading now? Jules Verne's "Journey to the Center of the Earth." On the cover is a big orange circle that reads, "Wal*mart, 2 for $1." Now that was a great idea!

New Madrid Earthquake Return? Don't Bet on It!

"ST. LOUIS — Just days after the 200th anniversary of a series of massive earthquakes in southeast Missouri, residents woke up Tuesday to a rumbling reminder that they live in one of the continent's most active seismic areas.
"The U.S. Geological Survey said the epicenter of a magnitude-4.0 earthquake at 3:58 a.m. was located near the town of East Prairie, Mo., roughly midway between St. Louis and Memphis. Several people in five states — Missouri, Illinois, Arkansas, Kentucky and Tennessee — felt the quake, along with scattered people in four others, as far away as North Carolina and Georgia, according to responses to the U.S. Geological Survey website.
"Only minor damage was reported, such as items falling from shelves, broken windows, minor cracks in walls and sidewalks, said Amy Vaughan, a geophysicist for the Geological Survey office in Golden, Colo. No injuries were reported." — Associated Press, 2/21/2012

List this Missouri resident in the "Not Concerned" column, please. After attending "It's Your Fault: A Conference Commemorating the 200th Anniversary of the New Madrid Earthquakes" on February 18 at the University of Missouri, I'm confident today's "rumbling reminder" was simply an aftershock from one of the most unusual earthquakes ever recorded.
Allow me to elaborate.
First to the dais at the conference was Walter Schroeder, MU associate professor emeritus of geography, who gave some historical background on the series of massive (8 or more?) earthquake which generated out of the New Madrid area between December 1811 and February 1212.
At the time, the area was a swamp, populated by maybe 1,500 folk. The state's last wild bison were found there in 1847, and bear and elk were there as late at 1867, so there was not a lot of manmade stuff to be damaged.
The folk who did live there had already experienced the arrival of Haley's Comet in September, and the Aurora Borealis was seen a few days before the first quake, so they were primed for "a time of extraordinaries" and "a terrible visitation of Providence."
Per recorded history cited, bottoms of lakes elevated and were later planted with corn. The muddy Mississippi changed to a reddish hue and produced a great deal of foam. Sparks sprung from the earth and whole forests were found fallen flat.
Men who make it their life's business to study earthquakes — Mian Liu, MU professor of geology, and Eric Sandvol, MU assistant professor of geology — made it pretty clear to me that the earth is made up of tectonic plates, along the edges of which most earthquakes occur. New Madrid is in the middle of one of these plates, which makes it unusual.
Unusual, but not exclusive. As Professor Liu pointed out, China has also had earthquakes at locations in the middle of tectonic plates, and they have recorded history of earthquakes that go back 3,000 years. The Chinese actually appoint individuals to record the effects of earthquakes.
For example, the Shaanxi earthquake of 1556 is the deadliest on record, killing 830,000 people and destroying a 520-mile-wide area. The Tangshan quake of 1976 killed a quarter of a million people. And on a lesser scale as far as strength and human loss – but far closer to home and our own time – there was the November 9, 1968 quake that originated in Illinois and was felt in 23 states.
Earthquakes are a fact of life, but another earthquake happening on the New Madrid fault, where the MU professors theorize the trembling like that today may be unique aftershocks 200 years after a most unique earthquake? Well, I put my money with Professor Liu:
"If you bet an earthquake will happen in the same place, the odds of winning are zero."

You're No Gold Dollar, Joe Biden

Quoted in one of his noted ramblings regarding "government waste" and the scaling-back of production of the dollar coins, Vice-President Joe Biden is quoted as saying: "Nobody wants them."
Hello, Mr. Biden. I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Nobody.
As I've blogged previously, I love the gold dollars. I'm not a collector, I'm a distributor. I use them to stimulate the economy with purchases, tips, and as gifts to kids and panhandlers.
Just because the government is afraid to offend the single company that makes the currency paper and a few vending machine folk, we have a true snafu - there is law in place that the coins be produced, but there appears to be little interest in them.
Well, it would help to 1) PROMOTE them and 2) follow Canada's lead and do away with the $1 bill.
We won't be breaking new ground here. Canada has done it. Major European countries have done it. The USA needs to do it, too.
I'm still mad at the frequent-flyer-mile addicts for queering the whole deal with their greed and bringing one of the simple joys of my life before the attention of the HOG that is government that occassionally will do a gas-passing on something they say will "save" the people money ... but I'll survive.
Meanwhile, Mr. Biden, Nobody plans to vote for Anybody but you in November.

Queerin' the Gold-Dollar Deal

Like Roseanne Roseannadanna says, "It's always somethin'!" And for yours truly, it looks like it's the "travel hackers."
Yesterday, Forbes writer John Giuffo reported the story of folk who want to boost their frequent flyer miles are taking advantage of a sweet deal offered by the U.S. Mint. As Mr. Giuffo explains it, "The dollar coin trick involves purchasing large amounts of coins with a frequent flier card, waiting for the Mint to ship the coins (free shipping!), and then taking the coins to the bank, where they are deposited and the money is used to pay the credit card charges. No money is lost, the frequent flier miles rack up, and travelers can use them for upgrades or completely free flights whenever they want."
Dear U.S. Mint, this is John writing, and I am NOT a travel hacker. I LOVE the gold coins! (See my October 2007 blog.) Heck, I'm Johnny Gold-Dollar-Seed! I appreciate your free shipping and I put the coins I purchase from you back into the economy with every-day purchases and an occassional gift to delight a youngster. I never take mine to the bank. I am NOT a travel hacker.
Mr. Giuffo's acticle notes that the Mint has made some adjustments in defense, limiting the amounts of purchase, but I think they could take it one step further so their valuable service remains - because these hackers are queerin' the deal for us law-abiding gold-dollar afficianados who like to share our love of the coins via distribution.
New rule: if you don't have a blog swearing you allegiance to the proper appreciation and use of the gold dollars, you cannot purchase them. The Mint could set up the Gold Dollar Club. I would be honored to be a founding member.
I think these hackers are taking advantage of our government, and I think it's wrong. Presently, my state's attorney general is going after a landlord in tornado-damaged Joplin for raising rates. That's wrong, plain and simple. People should think before they act. I say "Shame on you, travel hackers!" Go find another vine from which to pick the fruit to feed your greed, but stay away from my gold dollars! Don't queer the deal!

The Colonoscopy Cocktail

As a two-time veteran of the procedure, I can truly tell you that a colonoscopy is "not that bad." Truly.
If you are hesitant, Google "colon cancer." After my first, five years ago (I had a couple of noncancerous polyps removed so I had to have another in five years instead of the usual 10), a hospital was giving a free lecture on colon cancer – with snacks! Snacks were tasty, the doctor was entertaining and informative, but when he started that PowerPoint…!
Let's just say this, the anus may not be your favorite orifice, but could you imagine life without it? Don't even try!
Anyway, at my second colonoscopy a couple of days ago, I learned the advances in modern science came after the preparation phase (more on that later) when the anesthesiologist told me that I would be receiving a drug that would give me "temporary amnesia." I think it's called propofol.
Well, last time's drug was fine, made me feel REAL GOOD, and I even chatted with the doctor a bit while he was doing the procedure and he even let me watch on a video screen. And that drug lingered a bit, if you know what I mean.
The anesthesiologist wasn't offering a choice, just telling me I wouldn't even know the colonoscopy happened and that I would feel "back to normal" right after the procedure. I would have rather felt REAL GOOD, but not getting to chose, I went with what was offered.
And it worked. They rolled me in, rolled me on my side, put an oxygen mask on me, there was a little snappy banter during introductions all around, and the next thing you know I'm in the recovering area where Nurse Natasha, when I told her I felt like I needed to release some gas, told me to roll over and "let it go – it's just air from the procedure."
I got the "all clear" and was up and around and out of there!
Okay, the preparation phase is the worst part. Briefly, it's this:
1. Two days before, start cutting back on the food intake. You eat soup, yogurt, etc.
2. Day before, maybe a little juice or soda, then, around 1 p.m. for me, it was time to mix up the ol' colonoscopy cocktail, polyethylene glycol, and cool it in the refrigerator.
3. From 3 to 5 p.m., you drink the polyethylene glycol.
4. And for me, from about 4:30 until 7 p.m., you make sure you have plenty of reading handy at the ol' porcelain throne.
Polyethylene glycol is a laxative, and it has kind of a salty taste. It is not at all appetizing. The pharmacist can give you a "flavor packet," but I tried that once and it doesn't help, so this time, I took it straight. Refrigeration does help, as does drinking through a straw to avoid some of the taste buds. But it still tastes nasty — make that yucky.
There has to be a better way, right? That's what I thought, and what I know I read somewhere, but when I asked my pharmacist about "the pill," he said he'd never heard of it. Well, I'm giving him this website: http://www.tabletprep.com/index.aspx
I don't know why the woman on the page is sitting on a big blue ball with wheels – unless that's the latest in colonoscopy prep "evacuation devices," if you know what I mean – but she IS smiling. And that leads me to believe she either got a nice check to pose like that or she took a OsmoPrep, "The Tablet Prep."
I am so looking forward to that next time!!!
But even if I have to chug the good ol' polyethylene glycol again, I'll be there. I've SEEN the PowerPoint. The anus is my friend.

Coincidence at the Confluence

On May 2, 2011, I awoke in my St. Louis hotel room to hear Osama bin Laden was dead.
I was in St. Louis the day Saddam was captured, too, and was inspired to chalk "You're next, Osama!" on the back window of my pickup. (Got lots of honks.)
And I walked across the empty Arch grounds on 9/11/2001 to volunteer for an international zoo convention, only to be sent home with everyone else after the second plane hit its tower.
Maybe I should visit St. Louis more often so I can help close the book on this story.

Learnin' from Old Folk

On Easter Sunday, as we were waiting for the start of church services, my friend Fred leaned over and said to me, "Sixty-six years ago, I was invading Okinawa."
I'm guessing you don't hear that one every day.
Fred is an 88-year-old Marine - "Once a Marine, always a Marine!" - and he was celebrating his 19th birthday the morning the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.
I've learned a lot about the Marines, World War II, and life in general from Fred. You can learn a lot from old folk.
As for that Easter Sunday in 1945, Fred said our leaders thought it would be a "surprise" to attack on Easter, thinking the Japanese would not expect us to attack on a religious holiday.
But he said he went to church at 4 a.m., on a ship, and the Japanese troops - some 130,000 of them - were far from surprised. We lost more than 12,000 lives in the 82-day-long battle, on land and sea.
As I'm reading "Jungle Ace," the story of Col. Gerald R. Johnson, a U.S. Army Air Force fighter pilot during WW II, I asked Fred about something author John R. Bruning shares from Col. Johnson's letters home - his disgust at workers striking for better pay in the USA while men and women were fighting and dying to protect that right.
Fred said his base pay as a fighting Marine was $30 per month.
Fred said the main carping he heard was in the Red Cross tent. The man there was paid over $500 per month to distribute items sent from home to give a little comfort to our military. That man charged the troop nickels and dimes for coffee and donuts.
Fred said he doesn't think much of the Red Cross. I think that's understandable.
I'm glad Fred made it home from Okinawa. I wouldn't have been at that particular Easter lunch with friends and loved ones if he hadn't.
And that's just an example of what I've learned from old folk. Not all has been about war. There are lots of other things, some useful, some sad, some funny.
And even a few head-scrathers ... but they were all worth my time to obtain.
Old folk are a most valuable resource, and it's worth your time to seek them out, give them a hand or just a listening ear, and get all the learnin' you can.

TRUE CONFESSIONS

Okay, I did it. I took the frozen dinner from the office refrigerator, microwaved it, and ate it. There, I've said it.
Here's the deal: we have 18 inches of snow; I'm here with less than 10 people in a 200+ person office building; because my car is light, I walked home last night - in the snow - and walked back today - in the deeper snow; and none of the nearby restaurants nor the building snack shop are open.
As I hope you can see, it's not my fault.
I read "Alive," about the rugby team from Uruguay whose plane crashed in the Andes Mountains and they were forced to eat their dead fellow passengers to survive. It wasn't their fault, either!
Not that I didn't have guilt. Heck, the Uruguayans had guilt - but the priests said their action was okay because it was for survival. Same with me.
I'm reminded of the time my friend Big M bought some frozen White Castles at lunch at the grocery and stowed them in the fridge. By break time, they were gone. I don't think anybody ate them ... to survive ... or anything like that. They simply stole them.
I didn't steal. I had to survive. There, I've said it.
(By the way, it was turkey and mashed potatoes and it was pretty tasty.)

Here Comes the Judge! BBQ Judge, That Is!

Sugar Creek, Mo. — At about 9:45 on the evening of April 21, 2010, I was sworn in as a Certified Barbeque Judge (CBJ) of the Kansas City Barbeque Society (KCBS). Sworn in? Yes indeed — the barbeque business is serious.
As I learned in the almost 4-hour class, barbeque contest participants will spend a minimum of $500 to compete in a single event, so it is the responsibility of the CBJs to invest our time in serious judging.
"You are here to judge, not to do a buffet," our instructor reminded us.
And there is the rub – no pun intended.
In a normal competition, the CBJ will be presented with four different types of barbeque: chicken, ribs, pork and brisket. (The meats are served in that order based on required cooking time, from least to most.)
Depending on the number of contestant offerings the CBJ will judge, she or he will consume an average minimum of two pounds of meat in a single sitting. And that two pounds is based on our instructor's suggested sampling of just two bites per contestant's offering.
So, imagine this judge-in-training's shock, surprise and disappointment when, after being served three delicious pieces of barbeque chicken, to have to discard – that's right, THROW AWAY! – all but two bites of each. And the same with the ribs, pork and brisket.
No doggie bags. Two bites. Judge. Discard. It's almost criminal is what it is.
We CBJs do blind judging, meaning we rate each offering on its own, not in comparison to others. We rate in three areas: appearance, taste and texture.
Appearance is scored when we first see the contestant's offering. It is brought to us (usually a table of six CBJs) in a box that must include enough meat for all six judges to have a sample. The box can include just the meat, or it can have some regular lettuce underneath. But it can't have any kale or other fancy greens, nor can there be other types of garnish, as they may be considered a hint to a judge of a certain contestant's entry. Illegal garnish is a disqualification (DQ).
The entry's meat can also have sauce – but just on the meat. Any excess, either in the tray or in a container within the tray, is a DQ. Not providing enough samples for all six CBJs is also a DQ.
We experienced all of these in our training, but the last one was my favorite. A tray of what looked like six delicious ribs were passed around. When CBJ #4 picked up one, she got two – they had not been cut through. By the rules, she was not allowed to tear them apart, so she passed the tray to me. I took the last rib, and passed CBJ #6 an empty tray.
Clearly unhappy, CBJ #6 did what was required: he reported the problem to the Table Captain, who declared a DQ. As it was a training event, the Table Captain brought CBJ #6 another rib. (After all, we PAID for the class.)
Taste and texture (also called tenderness) are purely subjective. We rate on a scale of 9 (excellent) to 2 (inedible), with 6 being "average." There are suggestions in our certification program handbook, but as our instructor told us, "Don't ask me what 'average' is, you're the judge."
And that's about it. And the end of the class, we were all – 58 of us – sworn in as official CBJs. Our next step is to review The Bull Sheet, the KCBS official newsletter, and contact competitions we would like to judge. As our instructor said, we ask "if we might have the pleasure of judging at your event," and not to show up to judge until we are accepted and confirmed for the event. (Some CBJs have been "disrobed" for being a bit to pompous.)

I Lost My Knife Sharpener

The headline read, "Missouri man killed in wreck with semi," and that is what happened. The story was brief, and it listed the man's middle initial wrong. I know this for sure - the man was my dad. He kept my pocket knife sharp.
It happened about 11 a.m. on January 28. As near as we can tell, he had made an early stop at the grocery for some potatoes, onions and cookies (he loved his sweets!) and was returning from a circular route when he crossed the center line of the highway. Why? We don't know, probably never will. And that's not important.
More important was one of the "gifts" we received after Pop's death - a story - one he'd never tell, because it was about himself.
After serving in the Korean War (and having to come back to help his Mom during the Elwood flood of, I think, '53), he started work at Seitz packinghouse. He worked at Seitz for 32 years, then took the "buyout."
He tried several different things, kept meticulous notes of job searches and get-rich-schemes in what apparently was a tight economic time at the home in the late 80s, then down to a population of just he and Mom. But like he was always known to say, "Better days are comin'."
As one of the ladies at Baisch & Skinner (which was then Stuppy's) shared, it was a single, memorable action that lead to another 20 years of work for a man who had to be told to take his vacations.
She said there were about 50 men waiting around in the warehouse, hoping for a chance at the one position, and she didn't know how she would choose. Then in came Pop, went right up to the desk, saw the stack of blank applications, and aid, "Well, I guess I better help you hand these out."
A co-worker said, "You better hire that guy!" And the rest is history.
The day Pop died was a cold day. It would have been a nice evening for a big bowl of potato soup.

RIP, Sweet Georgia Brown

When it comes to a certain issue, I think I must be a dinosaur watching the glacier edge my way, or a Model T driver out on the Interstate. The glacier will eventually overtake me when I can no longer out run it, and in this situation, there's no optional vehicle I would find acceptable.
The issue is what I see as a major sign of our moral decline, the increased use and acceptance of profanity.
I try to avoid it where ever and whenever I can. And last night, I made a major avoidance decision. I was settling in for the opening of the annual Blue & Gold Tournament at Fatima High School, Westphalia, Mo. I started following the Lady Comets, home and away, with that very tournament in January of 2000. $3 per night for two games of basketball in a warm gym? You couldn't beat it!
I cut my teeth on small-town basketball while living up north in Memphis, Mo., where high school basketball is a community event. Friday nights usually featured a fundraiser of a soup/chili supper, complete with dessert. Although they didn't have the suppers, I happened upon Fatima and enjoyed a great decade.
In my observation, girls' basketball is a bit like chess: you can see the plays (moves) forming. It can be fast, but it's fast with a purpose – not the racing up and down the court of the boys' game.
I've had a decade of enjoyment with the Lady Comets, but it came to an end last night. During the warm ups for the opening game, the music was loud — I suppose that has to be accepted as the youngsters look up to the adults, and I understand the NBA "entertainment" is almost as much music as sport — and angry. That's how I describe the type of rap/hip hop music where the rappers shout out threats and boasts in a usually hateful, sing-song rhyme.
I can put up with it, usually, and I guess the players like it. But when "Get Buck" by Akon came on, that was it. That one, administrators of Fatima High School, is profane. Shame on you for allowing it. Shame on you players for selecting it to be played in front of your guests, who if you haven't checked the stands, range in age from 8 days to over 80 years.
Maybe I'm a prude, but this dinosaur is packing up his Model T and seeking greener pastures. I won't be expecting "Sweet Georgia Brown," but I'll accept nothing less than a far slower decline in our moral fabric.

Jesse James, My Home Boy

I'm reading The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, a "historical novel" written by Ron Hansen. I'm enjoying it a great deal – a great deal more than I did the movie of the same name featuring Brad Pitt as Jesse.
The book is "historical" because it works in a lot of the facts and reports about Jesse James, because so much was written about him, both in his day and in the years since. And it's "novel" where the writer puts in information – particularly dialog and what people are thinking – that he has to make up based on his research. He has Jesse as quite an interesting fellow.
I've recently passed the part of the day all of us St. Joseph natives know to be so famous: April 3, 1882. The author starts this part with a real quote by Oscar Wilde, from a letter he posted from St. Joseph April 19, 1882:
"Outside my window about a quarter mile to the west stands a little yellow house and a crowd of people are pulling it all down. It is the house of the great train robber and murderer, Jesse James, who was shot by his pal last week, and the people are relic hunters. … The Americans are certainly great hero worshippers, and always take their heroes from the criminal classes."
I think Oscar's got us pegged there.