Thank you for taking time to read this silliness over the last few months and for watching FirstNews. I hope you and yours have a safe, happy and healthy holiday season.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Like a lot of folks...I suspect....this is not turning out to be a particularly productive week for me. I know what you're thinking: How is that different from any other week, for you, noodlehead? Well, in addition to not getting anything done, I find my mind wandering. I lack...jingle bells... focus...reindeer... and mentally...cookies...veer off...Santa... the path. And, most importantly, I find my mind wandering. It just wanders. Wander. Wander. Wander. My mind wanders.

This condition exists in my own home, too. Our youngest children have started their winter breaks already. No, they still have had classes but they're on break. Anything more challenging than a Holiday Word Find Puzzle, and you may as well forget it. For the two high-schoolers, it has been exam week. The oldest boy has not seemed particularly intent on studying. He insisted that he was actually preparing for his physics exam by playing Frisbee football with his pals. At one point, I pointed out the pile of unopened textbooks sitting on the coffee table. It scared him so much, the only way he could regain his composure was by playing Madden 2007 on the Playstation for about six hours. The second high school boy has spent a fair amount of time studying this week pausing only to eat...and eat...and eat...and eat. On Saturday morning he returned home after early morning swim team practice and was horrified to see the kitchen was off-limits! His mother was getting her hair done. She had so much hardware on her noggin she looked like a very pretty Sputnik. It took most of the day for the chemical cloud to dissipate. Anyway, it meant none of us were allowed in the kitchen so our hungry boy had to go out in search of chicken or beef or shrimp or all three. In the midst of our holiday muddles, he was able to focus on food.

The problem, for me, is my mind wanders. Even writing this thing is a challenge. I keep thinking I must have a bunch of cute, touching or funny holiday stories. We have four kids! One of them must have said or done something memorable, sometime, somewhere, somehow. But, for the life of me and this blog, I can't come up with anything.

For most of this week, I felt that, at least, I'd been hiding my holiday-induced lethargy pretty well around the weather center. That is the advantage of not quite being mediocre, even on the best of days. Then, this morning, my boss did approach me with a 2x4 and said "Apply directly to forehead."

I think that's what he said but my mind wandered.

A word of warning: This story involves a biological activity that most of us find a bit revolting- regurgitation. Maybe you're thinking "Well, this pinhead has finally gone too far...he is lowering bloggerfication to an all-time low." But, in my defense, let me say that in yesterday's New York Times they had an article and photograph all about, what they termed, "whale vomit." Apparently, if the stuff is real, it could be worth a lot of money. So, talking about this particular subject does have a journalistic precedent. But, how does that connect to the holidays?

The last time we traveled home to Wisconsin for Christmas was in 2001. After 9/11, it seemed particularly important to be around as much family as you could for the holidays. The trip from here to there is about nine hours. All went well for the first seven. We just pulled into Dickeyville, Wisconsin when things went very sour. (Yes. The town is called Dickeyville. You'd think they'd be famous for being the Home Of The Dickey! You remember that fake turtle-neck sweater thing people used to wear? I used to wear one sometimes. I also proudly wore a clip-on tie, too. So, there! Anyway, as far as I know, Dickeyville is not known for the dickey but it does have a fancy Grotto. It is wrapped around the Holy Ghost Catholic Church and combines religious and patriotic elements. This message brought to you by the Dickeyville Chamber of Commerce.) Anyway, we weren't at the Grotto. We were in the parking lot of Bub's Gas Station. Just as we had crossed the Dickeyville city limits, we heard a troubling, gurgling sound from the backseat. Harrison, age six, had "refunded" his school holiday party treat bag all over himself...and his sister. Talk about your Greensleeves. We got him cleaned up...cracked open the windows, despite the cold Wisconsin air...and continued northward. We convinced ourselves that it was just because Harrison had eaten too much junk and then got strapped into a car for too long a time...it couldn't possibly be some sort of bug! We decided to keep the episode to ourselves. My mom's stomach responds to suggestion quite quickly. All a person has to do is rub his or her own tummy, say "ooh," somewhere within the county and my mom will start to feel a little nauseated. If we showed up saying Harrison had "released the hounds" in the car, the weekend would've been over immediately. Looking back, I think grandma knew something was up before we pulled onto her road. When we went in the house she already had the Lysol sitting by the back door.

The next day we were back in the car to drive about two hours farther north to Tomah, Wisconsin to visit a great-grandma. By this time, Harrison was feeling better but when we entered the great-grandma's apartment, Taylor turned eight shades of green. Green and skinny. If the Incredible Hulk and Nicole Richie had a child, it would look like what Taylor looked like that day. I took him back outside to get some fresh air. We drove over to the grocery store to pick up a few things...well, I went in...Taylor hung out by the dumpsters in the back. Nothing says "Happy Holidays" like having an intimate conversation with a load of rotted fruitcakes. I did have to give Taylor credit for trying to "draw" a wreath with his "inner acrylics."

Now we were at two down and four to go as we approached Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Everyone seemed to be making it until Christmas Morning. That's when this "Oh, it can't be a bug" bug hit my wife and me. There are few things that make a person feel more helpless than being sick, at someone else's house, knowing you have a nine hour drive ahead of you. I loaded up on Gaviscon and Immodium...packed the van...grabbed all the kids and got on the road. Luckily, it was an uneventful trip. Everyone sitting in their seats...plastic bags at the ready....trying to take any little bump in the road as gingerly as possible. Of course, by this time Harrison, the boy who gave the family such a memorable Christmas gift, was feeling pretty chipper. Word of advice: if you're the one that made everyone else sick and then, when everyone else feels awful, you're feeling better...keep it to yourself.

Actually, not everyone got sick. Our daughter and oldest son stayed well throughout the holiday heaving. Obviously, Santa liked them more. Of course, the van held onto the "Eau d' Puke" perfume for quite awhile and Taylor has to enter Tomah, Wisconsin wearing a false nose and mustache, now. But, otherwise, it was The Best Christmas Ever...if you don't think about the smell...the color...the lingering nausea...the mess. Frankly, I think even Tiny Tim would've had serious doubts about being too merry. "Bless us everyone and hand me the Pepto Bismol."

It was 14 years ago today. I was doing FirstNews, with Kris Ketz who was filling in for Maria Antonia. We were nearly halfway through the show when the phone on the set rang, which it very rarely did or does. It was my wonderful and very pregnant wife, Jessica. She told me it was time to head for the hospital. Now, this was our third time on the child-birth merry-go-round so we both realized that we had some time. Jessica said I could finish the program because the friend that was coming over to watch the boys, wouldn't be there for awhile, anyway. I hung up the phone and told Mr. Ketz, "Well, by tonight we'll have three little noodles around the house." Kris got a little excited: "What?! It's time? It's time! Somebody boil some water...call the doctor...hurry...hurry...hurry!" He was just starting to tear his very expensive dress shirt into strips...he'd seen somebody do that in a movie...when I stopped him and said there was plenty of time. Kris has never quite gotten over that morning...even now, when I see him, I am required to become his Lamaze Coach and bring him ice chips. Anyway, he insisted I leave immediately. (Truthfully, every anchor I've ever worked with has said that to me at some point.) So, after the commercial break, I said there was a baby on the way so I'd have to go. I heard later, that, after I'd left, the Johnson County EMT's called to ask if they needed to get to Jessica before I could. Awfully nice of them to think of us!

We named her Samantha Christine. The first name just came to my wife one day...probably all those years watching Bewitched. I always say she was named for an old Cole Porter song from the movie High Society. It sounds classier. She shares her middle name with her great-grandma who was an absolutely marvelous person...optimistic, warm, kind and clever; attributes Samantha inherited. In fact, the whole time Jessica was pregnant it seemed like she was carrying a good-luck charm. Things just seemed to go right.

I could fill many pages with stories about Samantha but one, in particular, seems to be a great example of her special "charmed" status. She was about four and we were taking a walk when she happened to see a ring on the path. It was one of those silver plastic models...like from a Cracker Jack box. It was missing two of the "precious gems." You'd have thought Samantha had discovered Elizabeth Taylor's jewelry box or at least Elizabeth Taylor's left earlobe. She put it on her finger and pranced the rest of the way. She said she couldn't wait to wear it to Sunday School in a few days. Now, it must be said, that of all our daughter's talents, abilities and gifts, neatness and organization do not rise to the top of the list. As a teenager, her bedroom has been assigned a permanent HazMat officer. So, I warned her to put the ring in a safe place so she wouldn't lose it before Sunday rolled around.

Sure enough, come Sunday, the ring was missing. After an intensive search turned up nothing, we piled into the van and headed for church. All the way there, I assumed the Papa-Posture and lectured Samantha about taking responsibility for things and taking better care of her stuff and putting things away properly and on and on and on. Her big brothers enjoyed it since they weren't in the line of fire...for once. As I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror, I could see she had her eyes closed tight. "Ah," I thought to myself. "I'm really getting through to her...look at her concentrate on every pearl of wisdom her amazing father is dropping in her ears. I am certainly father of the year material!" I timed my tirade to end just as we pulled up to the church.

"So, Samantha. Do you understand what I've been telling you?"

"I'm sorry, Daddy. Were you talking to me? I was busy praying that God would help me find my ring."

Naturally, that took the wind out of my sails but not as much as what happened next. She opened the van door and hopped out. Just as her feet hit the ground, she said "Thank you!" Her older brother asked her what she was saying thanks about and to whom. "Well, I was just thanking God because look what I found!" She reached down by her shoe and scooped up another plastic, Cracker Jack, ring. This one had all its precious gems in place and they matched her dress. While she was genuinely grateful, she didn't seem particularly surprised. It was as though she knew it would all turn out just fine.

I stood there looking at her and her new ring. One of my sons walked by me and mumbled "Good speech, though, dad." I'm pretty sure he was being sarcastic.

Happy Birthday, Samantha! You're still our good luck charm.

Yesterday, December 12, would have been Frank Sinatra's 91st birthday. In some ways, thanks to recordings, movies, TV shows, DVDs and the rest, we never really have to say good-bye to talented giants like Old Blue Eyes. That's a good and comforting thing. The first Sinatra song I remember hearing on the radio was That's Life. This was back when radio stations played a wide variety of music...rather than just one particular kind. Today, it is more "Narrow-casting" than "Broad-casting." (Speaking of listening to the radio, one of the selling-points of Ipods and the like, as I understand it, is that you can program your own music list and never hear anything other than what you want, when you want. On the one hand that sounds good but it does eliminate the chance to discover something new. It also feeds into the increasing lack of patience we exhibit as a society. One other thing: when artists like Sinatra, Nat Cole, Ella, and many others made an album, there was a method to their madness. The songs were put in a certain order to achieve a certain mood. So, you kids get away from those pod things before they destroy us all!!! I'm sorry. I get a little carried away...or should be.) Anyway, with That's Life, I was hooked.

It was relatively odd for a kid my age to be a Sinatraphile when almost all my friends were listening to the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan and Simon & Garfunkle. I discovered those acts later, but in the meantime, I started collecting Sinatra albums and news articles and other goodies. In 1977, Sinatra was appearing in East Troy, Wisconsin, of all places so my dad and I drove down there. I paid for the tickets, which set me back a bit. It happened to be the same day Elvis died and Sinatra sang a song in The King's honor. About a year later, I saw Sinatra on stage in Chicago. He was a little surly that night, but still sounded great.

When I lived in Las Vegas, I went to a benefit concert Sinatra was headlining. This was right in the middle of his New York, New York days and the place went crazy when the orchestra started the familiar vamp. Once, when a friend of mine was visiting from Wisconsin, we decided to see if we could actually get backstage and meet Sinatra. We went over to Caesar's Palace...headed through the kitchen, trying to look like we were supposed to be there and ended up backstage. Surprisingly, no one said a word to us for a very long time. I doubt we would be able to get that far in our mission, today. Soon, we heard a group of people coming our way from the wings. Maybe, it would be The Chairman of the Board. Turned out to be a group of musicians and stagehands, one of whom politely told us we had to skedaddle. He didn't use the word skedaddle and, really, he wasn't that polite but he did make his point, so we left.

As it turned out, our only brush with fame when my friend was visiting me in Las Vegas, happened at a local record store. We noticed Rodney Dangerfield talking to the store clerks about why his comedy albums were not more prominently displayed. We thought we should go up to him and ask for a photograph and, assuming he said yes, hand Mr. Dangerfield the camera to take a shot of us. We figured it would fit the whole "I don't get no respect..."schtick. But, by the time we thought of the idea and got up the nerve to do it, he was gone. He who hesitates is lost and, apparently, so is the chance to have a better finish to this story.

In high school, I made an audio-visual project, "audio-visual" is what it was called then...one step above a slide projector...about Sinatra. It took a long time and was only for a few points of extra credit but Mrs. Bierman, the AV lady, and I got it all done. We actually sent a copy of it to Sinatra himself. This was before the days of floppy discs, DVDs or video-attached e-mails. We had to mail two large, bulky reels out to Hollywood. As I think about it, the package probably would look very suspicious and Una-bomber-like, today. Weeks later, a nice little thank-you note arrived...apparently really signed by Sinatra. While I knew better, I did delude myself for awhile that he'd actually sat for 90 minutes and watched our patchwork documentary. I suspect he had other matters to attend to.

The last time I saw Frank Sinatra perform was here in Kansas City, 1990, at Kemper. My very pregnant wife had never seen him live and was excited. I had a feeling this would be the last hurrah for him in town, so I was eager but a little sad. He put on a great show hitting some notes he had no business hitting at his stage of the game. There were times he seemed a little lost but they were few and far between. Sinatra's effect on our yet unborn son was pretty profound. When he was born he was wearing a fedora and smoking a Lucky Strike with a top-coat thrown over his shoulder...his first words were "Ring-A-Ding-Ding." Okay, that part is not true but this particular son did develop a fondness for Sinatra's music early on and fell asleep listening to Sinatra at the Sands for many years.

In our house, we all listen to lots of different kinds of music. I think that comes from having had a dad who ran a radio station and was always bringing home whatever was the latest release and a mom who can play, sing and dance like a pro. Still, when it's all said and done, Sinatra ends up on the turntable more than anyone else. He makes it Nice and Easy to have The World On A String.

Everyone knows there is only one true Santa Claus. I don't think I've ever really seen him but I could swear I've heard him rambling around our house on many Christmas Eves. It was always told to me, as a child, and I still buy it as a so-called adult, that while the real Kris Kringle is laboring at the North Pole, he sends his Christmas Clones to check things out. Most of them do a stellar job of filling the big man's boots and belt. Like the jolly fellow we had on FirstNews this morning talking about The Magic of Christmas show at the Lyric Theatre this Thursday through Saturday. He had all the right merry moves. (I was also told that you never knew, for sure, when the real Santa might decide to show up...just to keep everyone on their toes...so, treat them all like the genuine article!)

The first Santa I ever met lived in a little half trailer on the square in Baraboo, Wisconsin. All of us kids would stand in line...outside the door...waiting for our turn. We have a photo of me sort of sitting on this Santa's lap. I am wearing my tan snowsuit and green stocking cap...he's wearing...well, you know what he's wearing. The look on my face is a combination of uncertainty, a little fear, even a minor trace of disgust and revulsion. Basically, the same look I get from viewers, young and old, when I'm out in public, nowadays.

Another visit from a Sorta-Santa, was right at our front door. We had a local minister who occasionally stepped in for St. Nicholas and would come right to your house...on Christmas Eve, no less! During the summer, this minister's son would ride an ice-cream bike around the neighborhood and sell treats to all us kids. So, the family had both Wisconsin seasons covered: the 11 months, 29 days of winter and the one day of summer. (Two days if it was a leap year.)

Almost all of the Kringle Krew that I've met over the years, have been terrific North Pole Ambassadors. However, there was one duplicate that was a dud. On the Saturday before Christmas, when I was about eight or nine, the Midway Theater put on a free movie for kids as a holiday treat. It was called Hook, Line and Sinker and starred Jerry Lewis. I don't know about you, but I never really associated Jerry Lewis with Christmas. Labor Day, of course. But not Christmas. Maybe Jimmy Stewart or Bing Crosby, but not Jerry Lewis. The storyline involved Jerry's character being told by his best friend, a doctor, that Jerry only had a short time to live. So, Jerry lives it up and spends all his money. Later, the doctor...played by another holiday favorite (?) Peter Lawford, tells Jerry it was all a mistake and it turns out the doctor wants to steal Jerry's wife....etc.etc.etc. Not exactly Miracle on 34th Street. I think the theater had gotten this particular movie for free. Right after the movie, a skinny, pale little guy wearing a jacket that appeared to have been spray-painted red and blaze-orange hunting pants came stumbling down the aisle. He had some sort of cotton-like fuzz glued to his face. You could see a pink outline where the glue was apparently giving him a rather bad rash. As memorable as he was to see, it is his aroma that has truly lingered over the decades. Apparently, this particular Santa-Wannabe, had spent the night sleeping with the reindeer and at least one Clydesdale. As he threw brown paper bags filled with peanuts and gum at us, he would cackle "Ho." That's right. Just one. "Ho." Of course, all of us went crazy with noise and laughter. Sure, he looked more like a doppelganger than a double, but this Santa was about as close as we were going to get to the real deal, this near to the big day, so we wanted to show our appreciation. After all, maybe this was Santa's brother-in-law and the jolly old elf was just doing his wife a favor by letting him have the job .

No matter the appearance, this time of the year, Santa's helpers sure do make it easier to get in the spirit of the season and put aside, for awhile, all the trials and tribulations of life. They are a way to get away...sort of an Escape-Claus.

From time to time over the years, always without prior permission, I've played the piano on Channel 9. For example, sometimes around the holidays, on FirstNews, I would play Christmas songs just before and after commercials. Believe it or not, and, personally, I wouldn't, I've actually gotten a couple of e-mails asking if I'd be doing the same this year. The answer to these poor, misguided and clearly tone-deaf souls, is no. No piano this year. Part of it has to do with station policy and part with just good judgment. As for the station policy, TV stations have to pay a fee when they use more than 15 seconds of a song. In the old days, most stations, including Channel 9, just paid a blanket fee but now it is tune by tune. So, unless I can play that KMBC news theme you hear at the beginning of the newscast...you know: Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-daaaaaah!...with a holiday twist, I won't be tickling the ivories.

The fact is, I'm not much of a pianist. In fact, that particular word, pianist, is a little too high-brow for me. I have always admired those who were good enough to deserve that description. Sometimes I'd even wish I had their talents. Yes, I suffer from pianist envy. No, I'm just a bad piano-player. Part of the reason I easily denigrate my tinkling talents is that I mostly need to be looking at a piece of music to play just about anything. I have tried to learn how to play by ear but always end up with a head-ache.

I did take piano lessons for almost a decade. However, if you add up the amount of time I spent actually practicing and doing the assigned exercises, it comes out to about a month and a half. I went through three teachers during that time. The first was a high school girl who lived in a big, old house just a few blocks away. That family always had a huge jigsaw puzzle going in the piano room. Naturally, my attention was drawn away from Turkey In The Straw, in front of me, and toward the "History of Flight" or whatever puzzle was being worked on at the moment. After that teacher had had more than enough, I moved onto a couple of other older teachers. Looking back, I do regret I didn't practice more...or, more accurately, at all. I also wish I'd paid more attention to the classical composers. I know folks who can hear a classical piece on the radio and know, immediately, who wrote it, when, why and how. "Oh, that's the Etude in G Minor by Schotokofitizkielllerria." The composer's name always reminds me of the sound our dog makes when he's trying to make the Blow-Fish Beany Baby he swallowed, swim upstream.

In fifth grade, my brothers entered me in a local talent show. They had a band called "What's New!" or "What's New?"--I was never clear if it was a declaration or a question--which played Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass kind of music. They were past winners of his talent contest and would be making a guest appearance this particular time around. They thought it would be great if I competed...and won...mostly in their honor. So, knowing I couldn't play by ear,and not trusting my memory, they copied three songs, reduced them to fit on one piece of cardboard, wrote helpful reminders around the edges like "SMILE!" and "HAVE FUN!" and "IF YOU EMBARRASS US WE WILL STUFF YOU IN THE PIANO BENCH!" and pushed me onto the stage. The only song I remember playing was Autumn Leaves. I chose it because it sounded cool when pianist...there's that word, again...Roger Williams played it. He'd do this neat downward arpeggio kind of thing to simulate the falling leaves. I never mastered that but I could sort of do an upward arpeggio so I played that instead. Aside from totally ignoring the laws of physics and nature by making the leaves go up instead of down, it didn't sound too bad. Well, I didn't come in first, second or third. I didn't get one of the several honorable mentions, either. There was one other contestant that didn't get any kind of recognition. He was a guy from out-of-town who did impersonations of famous people doing bird calls: "And, now, always a favorite, the popular actor Cary Grant as he would sound if he were a Great Red Feathered Yellow-bellied Sapsucker." It wasn't a bad act. In fact, I think he'd have won except for his grand finale. He was attempting to portray the Osmond Brothers, as geese, flying south for the winter and singing Up, Up & Away. It got to be too much for him and he had to be transported to the hospital where he was in traction for six weeks.

Well, over the years, despite my clear musical limitations, I was able to recoup some of the dollars and desire my always-hopeful mother had poured into the ill-fated lessons. I played the piano in the high school band...the jazz band. I'd tried the marching band but couldn't find a truss in our school colors. I played to earn some money in college. I've accompanied my daughter when she sings. And, for a few years, as I mentioned, I played a little on Channel 9. Still, each time I try to play, I feel it necessary to say "Sorry, Bartolomeo." You see, Bartolomeo Cristofori of Padua, Italy, is credited with developing the piano and I always imagine him looking down at me, as I play, and muttering "I should have just left that stupid harpsichord alone!"

Here's a quick idea of something to do while you're hopscotching around the InterWeb: visit www.710kcmo.com and help fill the Salvation Army's Cyber Kettle! I do the weather on the KCMO Morning Show with Chris Stigall and Friday morning our illustrious host, Mr. Stigall, was sweating bullets over the $10,000 goal that's been set for this particular kettle. As much fun as it is to see Chris pull what's left of his hair out of his head and worry himself sick, it would really be terrific if we could hit that 10K mark.

Years ago, on my daughter's third birthday, the whole family went down to the Plaza to ring bells for the Salvation Army. My daughter was a bit of a charity commando. If someone dared to walk by without dropping a coin or a buck, she would tear after him or her and insist on a donation. Even the most Scroogiest of souls had trouble saying no to that little blond mop-top. That should have been a big hint to me about how naturally gifted she is in grabbing a person's last dollar. As a teenager, she has perfected the technique of leaving my wallet empty while, at the same time, making me think it was in my best interest to give her that one, five or ten dollar bill. The idea of me actually having a ten dollar bill is pretty unlikely. Every year, my mom sends me $10.00 for my birthday. I squirrel it away in my wallet and feel pretty flush...temporarily. I make a little bet with myself about how long I will have that money before this or that child makes a case for greenback adoption. Whether I win or lose the bet, I'm still out ten bucks.

So, if you have a moment and an extra dollar or two this holiday season, please, visit www.710kcmo.com and help us fill that Internet Kettle and Ring Those Cyber Bells!

Yesterday morning was the third annual Red-Stocking Breakfast to benefit the Kansas Children's Service League. They had the best turn-out yet and raised lots of money for kids while, at the same time, taking care of the morning meal. Last year, I did the FirstNews weather from the breakfast. It started to snow while I was on the air. As folks came in the restaurant, they'd tell me "It's really starting to come down out there." Being the Nostradamus of weather, I assured them it wouldn't amount to much. About eight inches later, the snow stopped. It turned out to be our largest...and, really, only...major snowfall of the year. A few folks reminded me of that turn of events, this year. One said he remembered shoveling about seven inches of "flurries" off his driveway when he got home that day. This year I didn't do the weather from the event and, naturally, it turned out to be a beautiful, sunny, mild morning.

Without weather duties to worry about, I was sure I could excel at my other job of the morning: waiter. After last year, the powers-that-be at the eatery, relegated me to carrying around the water pitcher. No more orange juice chores for me, this year, and don't even think about picking up the coffee pot! (It was probably part of some sort of "settlement.") They tried to tell me that filling water glasses was the most important job of all and required a very special person to do it just right, but I'm not buying it. Most of the time, I did okay on water patrol. I did have some trouble regulating the water vs ice ratio. At one point, a pile of ice cubes came rushing out and made touch-down in a lady's chair just before she did. Had her companion not stopped her from sitting down, she'd have felt the Chill of the Season, first hand. Well, not exactly, first hand but you get the picture. I drifted from table to table offering water and spilling ice cubes. There was so much ice clinking around, it sounded like the Elves' urologist's office at the North Pole. It was amazing to me how many people happened to drop their spoons or napkins on the floor and bent over to get them, just as I approached. Eventually, I just started to pour water into any empty or nearly empty glass. I may have been a little too gung-ho because, by the time my volunteer stint was over, a protest group had formed, carrying signs that read "SAY NO NO NO TO H2O!"

Other than occasions like yesterday morning, I've never been a waiter. I did spend lots of hours in a dining room, however, all through college. I played the piano for diners, four nights a week, at the Sheraton Hotel in Madison, Wisconsin. Now, I wasn't like the piano man in the Billy Joel song because I couldn't just jump into any old song that was requested. I'd lug my suitcase full of music with me and hope nobody asked for something I didn't already have. In fact, very rarely, did anyone come up to me with a request...other than to please, stop. Sometimes I would be asked to play Happy Birthday or Stardust or Just the Way You Are. Since, the way I played them, they all sounded about the same, it was not a big challenge.

One of the big bosses of the hotel came to visit once and I was told he lived in Cape Cod. So, when he came in the dining room I played the song Old Cape Cod. He looked up at me and smiled...then whispered something to our general manager. I figured I was in line for a raise. Turned out he had his hearing aid turned off and was telling the GM he thought "you could fit another couple of tables right over there if you just get rid of that piano." Another time, George "Goober" Lindsey came in with a group and I immediately went into the theme from The Andy Griffith Show. I kept looking over at him as I played...hoping for some recognition from one of the stars of my all-time favorite TV show. He never looked my way but I guess I did make an impression since he requested that he and his party be moved toward the back...as far away from the piano as you could get.

I guess, when it comes to dining rooms and restaurants, I should confine my activities to ordering, eating, paying and tipping. For the record, I did have a tip jar on the piano back in college. At the end of my three years of playing there, it was filled with dust, a candy wrapper and one dead centipede.

Our plan for the holidays is to head north to Wisconsin...and a haircut. Nothing says Happy Holidays like a haircut. Now, I first have to mention that I have a great barber right here in town. He has an old-fashioned shop filled with magazines and smart talk...well, smart-alecky. He is always in a good mood and does a great job...considering it's my head he has to work with. However, as I've mentioned before, my mom is married to a man who has been a world-class barber for more than half a century. When we know we are going to be heading up that way, we tend to put off getting the boys' haircuts. They love to have Grandpa cut their hair and have since they were little. He has a singing fish on the wall and comic books on the table. He hands out Juicy Fruit gum. He also does a great job on their hair. When you're a little kid...or even a big one...you can sort of get a way with being a bit shaggy. It is not as easy when you're a so-called adult. But, I'm trying.

I was really due for a haircut right around Thanksgiving, but I let it slide. Then, I noticed that we were only about a month away from going to Wisconsin and decided to see if I could wait and get my haircut there. As of now, I have about two weeks to go. Years ago, when my hair would get a little long, I would hear from a viewer, telling me I was looking shaggy and I needed a haircut. As I've gotten older, I don't get that call anymore. I think the viewer is amazed I still have any hair at all at this point and doesn't want to make light of it...my folly of follicles or, maybe, just "folly-cles." Also, either my forehead is expanding in an effort to hold my constantly growing brain or my hairline is receding like a bunch of bunnies marching backward. (Get it...Receding Hare-Line....wow, I got to use my one Easter Joke twice this year.) But, whatever the reason, I have been asked by several local billboard companies if they could rent out that space over my eyebrows.

My wife has been helpful in my efforts to not get a haircut. She mentioned that gray, white and silver hair has different qualities than dark brown hair and may require special care as it gets longer. Notice how she was able to draw attention to my advancing age while making it appear to be an effort to help? She has been urging me to use something called pomade. It reminds of the stuff George Clooney's character requires in O Brother, Where Art Thou? That is where the George Clooney comparison ends. Well, I've tried it a couple days now. My wife insists that there is no odor. Yet, my co-workers, Donna Pitman and Jere Gish, arrived at work with gas masks this morning and I'm being pursued by horse flys...in the middle of our cold snap. I don't mean these are flys that usually hang around horses, I mean they are flys as big as horses. Of course, I am also surrounded by dogs and cats when I take a walk but that's probably due to the bacon grease I use on my shoes.

You'd think, being around TV people for over 20 years, I'd have succumbed to their insatiable desire for hair-care products like mousse and gels and hairsprays. But, I've never used that stuff. I grew up being instilled with the fear of looking like I had greasy hair. Now, it seems, that greasy hair is a "look" people go for. I never went in for the pony-tail or mullet rage when I was younger or the super short cut, with it sticking up like a broken picket fence in the front, styles as I got older. I always wanted my hair to look like Rob Petrie on The Dick Van Dyke Show. Since most of my TV viewing consists of old Columbo, Andy Griffith and Rockford Files episodes, I've always felt my hair was in line with the times. But, now, as I'm trying not to get it cut, I am forced to put this foreign material in my hair. I may have overdone the pomade today. It's a little hard. A woodpecker stopped for just a moment this morning before sighing heavily and moving on. I think I also got some on my forehead which makes it feel like I'm wearing an invisible headband.

(I have shown great restraint in this hair-raising tale by not dwelling on what I know is an ever-widening bald spot on the back of my noggin. My wife humors me by saying it is not there. But, I know better. I feel the draft. Al Gore called to ask if he could use my head as an example of the effects of global warming. I told him that the truth about my thinning hair just wasn't convenient.)

So, I will continue to batten down the hairy hatches over the next couple weeks. If the stinky pomade and hairspray don't do the trick, I may move on to Super Glue but I will draw the line at a hair-net. Maybe.

My purple cooler smells like John Barth. How's that for an opening sentence? I guarantee you that there will never be a Letter From Larry, found elsewhere here at TheKansasCityChannel.com, which opens with that sentence or, for that matter, sentiment. Regardless of all that, my purple cooler does smell like John Barth.

When I left my house late Wednesday night, it seemed like a pretty good bet...due to the impending winter storm...that I'd probably not get home again until Friday. So, in between the party she was planning in my absence, my wife packed some goodies in a purple cooler we have. Carrying this thing around certainly did nothing for me in the "George Clooney Cool Guy Sweepstakes." I suspect my dork quotient...already abnormally high...went through the roof when I picked up the purple cooler. If Barney the Dinosaur had a lunch-box, this would be it. Now, I should mention that, in grade school, I always took my lunch with me in a Get Smart lunch-box. Other kids had Superman, Batman, Roy Rogers...I had Don Adams as Maxwell Smart. As that super-agent might say, about my being a cool kid, "missed it by that much."

Here's what was inside the purple cooler: lots of Cheerios, lots of M&Ms, two peanut butter sandwiches, some cheese crackers, some chocolate chip cookies and water bottles. Something about that combination created a very pleasant odor that reminded me, everytime I opened it, of the John and Ann Barth house back in my hometown. John was a hardworking maintenance man at the Bluffview Courts retirement village where I lived as a little boy. He and his wife, Ann, lived in a big, old place in town. Whenever we visited, it was like going to a house in some fairytale. These two little, old folks in this great big house that smelled of good pipe tobacco and cinnamon cookies. It is an aroma that I will never forget...one that brings only good memories. So, somehow, the combination of edibles in that purple cooler, replicated that smell. So, that's why my purple cooler smells like John Barth and that's a good thing.

Researchers say the sense of smell is the most memory-producing of all our senses. For example, when I smell a certain cold, frosty odor, I remember the giant, open-topped freezers at the grocery store where my grandmas worked. As a kid, I would stick my head way down in the refrigerated air and take a big swig of cold. It didn't hurt that the freezer was filled with ice-cream and fudgcicles. I may have actually been placed in one by a big brother at some point. Not because I was being picked on but, rather, to startle one of the grandmas. Whatever the reason, sometimes I get a whiff of that at the grocery store and it takes me back. However, I rarely jump all the way into the unit anymore....ever since I scared the guy stocking the frozen pizzas and he called store security. I just stick my head in there.

There is some mossy, fertile smell I first got when visiting Mount Vernon when I was about six years old. I went back to school and said George Washington smelled good. It was an insight lost on my first-grade companions and my teacher...and, later, the principal. I got a little sniff of that the other day...somewhere...and I was immediately six years old. Made my clothes fit funny, but it was still a great piece of odiferous deja vu.

I think I will spend the rest of this day sniffing around and see where else I can travel in this nasally-based time machine. The nose, knows.