Breaking News: We are getting a new bed. That's Covers You Can Count On! Seriously, we are having a new bed delivered on Thursday. It's not really new...it's an old bed that is sort of new to us. I'll explain in a minute. I know you just can't wait!

A number of years ago, when all four of our kids were still at the age that thunder or nightmares or a soggy bed of their own could and would chase them into our room, we bought a king-sized bed. I didn't really need Storm Call Alert System or a weather radio. I could tell the severity of the storm by how many kids ended up in our bed. Sometimes we'd hit that four kid level. Add a dog, and it would get a little crowded. Especially, with a dog who believes the bed is his and sleeps diagonally plus a couple of our kids, who shall remain nameless, who do all the dance numbers from West Side Story in their sleep. But, things change. While the dog still gives us a dirty look when we try to move him over...he's about 80 pounds awake...160, asleep...all but one of the kids makes it through the night in his or her own bed. And, that straggler will be away at college in a few months. Good luck, roommates. So, we're "down"-sizing. That's a bedding joke.

Many years ago, my mom generously gave me her old bedroom set. Despite being purchased in the 1950s, it still looked like new. I used it all through college and, when it came time to move to KC, passed it onto my in-laws for use in their guest room. Since then, it has traveled from Wisconsin to Oregon to Tennessee. I'm not sure what kind of wood the dresser, bureau, headboard and nightstand are...maybe it's called almond or something but it has a neat, well-cared-for retro look to it. The bed itself is a double. Now, after about 19 years, we are getting the whole kit and caboodle back. (How many times do you actually see "kit and caboodle" spelled out, like that?) My wife's parents are moving and have decided to have the bed delivered to our house as part of the move. I fully expect, once I sleep in that "bedroom" again, my second childhood will be officially underway.

In preparation for the movers, my wife and kids decided to save me the work, and move the box spring, frame and very 80s headboard into the basement. The headboard is so 1980s it has a mullet, wears pale pastel sports jackets and likes the music of WHAM...especially Wake Me Up Before You Go Go. That's also request we used to make of our kids when they were little and would crawl into bed with us. Anyway, when I got home last evening and headed for the bedroom, there was just a mattress on the floor. All I needed was a tin cup and a harmonica and I could be Cool Hand Luke. The dog was completely offended. Sleeping on a mattress on the floor is just a little too close to actually sleeping on the floor, for him. He adapted. Other than having to reach about four feet over and three feet up to turn off the plethora of alarm clocks I use in the morning, it wasn't too bad. However, I have to admit when those bells started ringing and I swung my legs over the dog and off the bed, they landed with a clunk. My feet were expecting about a three foot drop and got about six inches instead. For a brief moment I thought I was in The Twilight Zone. Maybe I'd grown into a giant overnight!?! Where's my golden harp? Where's that goose? Who's this punk Jack? Probably I'd be some kind of ogre...without Shrek's charm or writers. Or, was this a scene out of one of those Honey I Shrunk or Blew Up the Kids movies? After a moment of looking at my toes stretched nearly straight out in front of me...all the little piggies looking startled...I remembered: most of the bed is down in the basement. I'm not going to complain, though, because, I think it was a close call for my wife as to whether or not I'd be joining it.

It's back-to-school time in the weather department this week. In an effort to bring you the latest and most accurate information...especially during severe weather season...weather folks are constantly being re-educated in the ways of technology. The company KMBC buys its equipment from has sent us a trainer to get us completely up-to-speed on what all the gadgets can do. It is a very expensive pile of stuff and, naturally, the people spending the money want those of us using the toys to use them to their utmost. Having said all that, let me be clear: I am a dinosaur. I am almost a Luddite. I know that sounds like a kind of flooring used in model homes but it really refers to someone not too crazy about modern technology.

I started doing weather not too long after the days of Velcro suns and Magic Marker cold fronts. (Did you know that there is an entire generation of youngsters that has no idea what you're talking about when you say "Magic Marker?") The first of the fancy-schmancy weather computers arrived about when I did. The goal is to make the graphics look bold and easy to understand. Tell the weather story in an engaging (always a good idea), exciting (even when it's not), and accurate (a relative term, in my personal case) manner. Back in the days of watching The Jetsons, it looked like computers and robots would be making our lives easier...give us a little more time for fun. Of course, that is not the way things are working out. I suspect that even if we all had a Rosie the Robot doing the chores around the house, somehow it would just mean more headaches and work for the human residents. In weather, the more complicated the weather computers get, the more time it takes to put a forecast together. That's where our training comes in.

The trainer is young, tall and thin. All three adjectives make me dislike him. By the way, when I say tall I mean nearly structurally unsound. I warned him many months ago, when the new system was first put in place that I was not well-versed in computer stuff. Well-worst, maybe, but not well-versed. This trainer races through stuff that he assumes I know. I probably didn't impress him with my ability to pull up the computer solitaire game or Jigzone.com--where you can put together puzzles of kitties and puppies and bridges and stuff. He demonstrated how to "trouble-shoot." I've never liked that phrase because it just assumes you are going to have problems. I've decided you could use that hyphenated word to describe my first inclination with a computer: if there is TROUBLE, SHOOT it. Anyway, the trainer said we should use that "trouble-shooting" page rather than "bother" them with our silly questions. Forget that old adage about there being no stupid questions. I get the strong sense that, to the trainer, all questions are stupid and, in my case, so is the questioner. A big part of the new computer systems you see weather folks using on TV now, is the ability of appearing to put a big blue H, for high pressure, or big red L, for low pressure on the map with the touch of a finger. Or, actually draw the fronts on with our fingers, too. Basically, it is a combination of John Madden's telestrator, minus the "DOINKS!" and "BAMM!" with the Magic Drawing Board from Captain Kangaroo. Some of the folks in the offices where TV decisions are made, believe that all you viewers will like all of us better if we can do tricks like those. Forget Willard Scott, we want David Copperfield! It won't be long and they'll have us doing weather as we escape from a tank filled with jello hanging high above the Country Club Plaza, ala David Blaine. (It is now, obviously, required by the Magician's Union, that you must be named David and date models to be a true man of mystery.)

In the old days, that little clicker you see weather people holding in their hands had one button. You pressed it and the maps you made earlier, appeared. Now, the clicker has four buttons and a switch on top. You must also be able to rub your tummy and pat your head at the same time for maximum results. You are supposed to be able to press one button to make something appear, another to set it in place and another to move to the next graphic. The fourth one is for clearing away the mess you just made by not pressing the other three in the proper order. If you press them all at the same time, NORAD is alerted. It could be worse. I've seen some stations that have the weather expert hold something in each hand to get through the weathercast. I'm waiting for the day they get handed a bulletin and have to hold it between their knees. Anyway, the trainer was very disappointed in me yesterday because I've not mastered all these buttons. There are a lot of reasons for this: I'm not too bright. I'm not too coordinated. I'm not much for actually practicing. (Just ask my old piano teachers.) Anyway, the trainer smacked me in the head with a virtual ruler. A real ruler would work better but he's not of that era.

It seems that, as a society, we are losing what little patience and attention-span we once had. As a little boy, I remember Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Rogers and the lady on Romper Room all taking their time with things. Being quiet and still were okay now and then. Today, on the tube, everything, including the weather, has to be jumping and moving and filled with color and excitement, even if there is none. (I watched a news show the other day that had Senator Joe Biden being interviewed in one part of the screen, scenes from the war in another, weather maps in yet another quadrant and, I'm almost certain, a game of PONG in the remaining screen space. I think the Senator was talking about the war...or the weather...or PONG.) We may well be dangerously close to what author and social commentator Neil Postman calls Amusing Ourselves to Death.

I accept the fact that some of the weather technology we use is great. It even saves lives in true severe weather situations but I hope we never get to the point that the gadgets are more important than the presenter. Maybe that's what The Jetson's Rosie will really become: a weatherperson! Add to this the prospect of High-Definition TV, and, for old-fashioned broadcasters like me, the end may really be near. Put my ugly mug on High-Def, and I look like the dark side of the moon. Wrinkles become craters. I have a little bumpy thing on my forehead. It isn't all that noticeable but, with the extra precise look of High-Def, it will become something you'll need a Sherpa to climb.

So, if the future gets the best of me...or worst of me, as the case may be...let me say it's been fun and interesting and an honor to come into your homes and.... Wait a minute! I just thought of the way they'll get rid of me when the time comes! They will simply add another button to the weather clicker, then, have the trainer urge me (DEMAND, really) to use it immediately to enhance my forecast. The second I press it: poof. I'll be gone.

Later, in the darkened streets someone will gasp: "Soylent Green is...old, washed-up weathermen!"

The Oscars aired on KMBC last evening. That's the Hollywood part of that title. Now, for the whine part: I can never stay up to see the really big awards...not that "Best Use of A Rabid Aardvark" isn't important, and, even if I did, I haven't seen hardly any of the movies. This year my wife and I did see Little Miss Sunshine, which has turned into one of our all-time favorites. But, as for the rest,we just haven't made it to the theater.

It was easier when I was a kid. We had a little movie-house down on Water Street that was called the Midway Theater. Didn't matter what was playing on a Saturday afternoon. If you were a kid and had a couple dollars, you'd go. It was upstairs from the bowling alley and you could quite often hear the strikes and spares during the movie. If it was a war picture, it just sounded like a battle scene. But, in a comedy or drama or musical, it could be distracting. Like the opening scene of The Sound of Music when Julie Andrews comes tearing across that mountain top, just as she opened her mouth to sing, someone must have rolled a turkey downstairs because it sounded like "Maria" belched. Maybe too many Austrian sausages. Most of the movies that came through town had already been out for quite awhile or had not done very well. I remember seeing every Dr. Phibes (starring Vincent Price) movie ever made, there, and most of the post-Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis movies, as well. The first movie I ever saw in a theater was Mary Poppins. I loved it...especially when Dick Van Dyke danced with the penguin waiters. However, for some reason that never was clear to me, my dad never liked Julie Andrews. Maybe he thought she really had let one rip at the start of that other movie. He always thought she acted a little too nice...a little too sweet. I'd like to imagine that he and Miss Andrews had been through some torrid romance during World War II which ended badly...he traipsed back to the north woods of Wisconsin while she went onto stardom. The trouble there is, the only accurate part of the story is that he did traipse back to the north woods of Wisconsin. No matter, he just never warmed up to Julie Andrews.

If you ask my mom the latest movie she saw in the theater that she really liked, her answer would be Cactus Flower, starring Goldie Hawn and Walter Matthau...circa 1969. It is a funny movie...but, 1969? It had been awhile before that since she had been to the movies. I seem to remember her being amazed by the Technicolor and, saying, with reverence, "It was a talkie!" Okay, I may be overdoing that but she was not and is not a real movie-goer. When I was about eight years old, we were on a family trip up north in Chetek, Wisconsin and, due to a rainy day which kept us off the lake, we all went to a movie. It was set in the 1930's and was supposed to be about dancing and big-band music. Seemed right up my parent's alley. Well, we all settled into the darkened row. My dad on the outside, then a brother, then my mom, then another brother, then me and then another brother. Instead of a happy, upbeat pastiche of good fun and great music it turned out to be a real downer. The title should have tipped us off: They Shoot Horses Don't They? It starred Jane Fonda and Gig Young and was about dance marathons. Very sad and gloomy. We would've been happier outside in the rain. The only thing I really remember is that there was a shower scene. That's about all I can tell you as, just as the water started running and the camera focused in on the scrubbing bubbles, a hand swooped in over my eyes. It was my mom's hand. Now, she is not a tall person. How she got her short, little arm stretched all the way past my other brother and over my eyes, is still a physical feat I don't quite comprehend. All of sudden she was Inspector Gadget.

There are a few other movies I remember from those years like Oliver. My brothers all thought that musicals were unintentionally hilarious...after all, how often does someone just burst into song while waiting for a taxi or buying a pair of shoes? Sometimes, after seeing a film like Oliver, my brothers would, for several days sing things like "I'm going to the bathroom now. Then I will take a bow. Just remember, if you go, don't smirk. It's not over 'til you're done with the paperwork!" Always, at the top of their lungs. They wanted me to sit through that movie because the kid playing the Artful Dodger reminded them of me. Maybe his looks or, more likely, his questionable character.

As I mentioned earlier, most of this year's contenders slipped by us. We usually see an ad or trailer and think we'd like to see a certain movie but, if we wait long enough, our interest wanes and we save the ticket money. As a kid, it was a big deal when a theatrical release finally made it to one of the three networks. Now, it seems like just a matter of moments before you can be watching the hits in your own home. Even then, we often miss them. Although, this past Saturday the 11 year old, Harrison, and I did watch a great movie. A big hit. It was called The Public Enemy starring James Cagney. From about 1931 or so. It was terrific, although, now, we have to break Harrison from rubbing grapefruit in his sister's face and falling, like a mummy, in the front door and scaring his mother half to death. That's entertainment!

Yesterday was T-Day for me. Taxes. Actually, I did our old sons' taxes a couple weeks back. It was almost a nostalgic experience because I could use the easiest forms and they got a complete refund. Aaahhh. The good old days. Really, their taxes were so simple, you could almost just send the IRS a postcard: "Hi! Hope you are fine. We are fine. It would be fine if you could just send back all the money we sent your way this past year. Thanks and take care!"

My dad, Ron, always did our family taxes. He had a desk in the foyer of our second floor. ("Foyer" sounds pretty fancy but really just means "room where the stairs led to." Somewhere, all the English teachers I have ever had are grimacing over that horrible last sentence. If you tried to diagram that sentence, you could end up in traction.) On a cold Saturday morning in February, he would hunker down with a pile of forms, well-sharpened pencils, a cup of coffee (The real stuff with caffeine...no milk, no cream, no sugar...no frou-frou names. Back then, Starbuck was still hunting down whales. We were a Butternut household.) and cigarettes. All he needed was one of those green visors. I think my dad got a lot of satisfaction doing the taxes. He went right into World War II out of high school and never made it to college. Yet, he worked with and even supervised, a lot of bright, young college grads. While most of them were taking their taxes to an expert, Ron did it himself. It was a morning that demanded quiet around the house. Soon, the only noise you'd hear was the tapping and whirring of the adding machine. The cigarette smoke around his head spinning into dollar signs He had a very precise hand when it came to penmanship. That's an old-fashioned word in today's universe of keyboards and touch-pads. My dad's hand-writing is one of my most vivid memories. Even as an adult, you might receive a letter, written with a black felt-tip marker on a yellow, legal-sized piece of paper with every T crossed and every I dotted. Regardless of the message, you had to admire the presentation: "Joel, You have been a major disappointment to me. Sincerely, R." Now, before I break into that Streisand song from Yentl, I'd better get back to the taxes. Ron usually finished up with both state and federal stuff by early afternoon, majestically placing the Manila envelopes on the dining room table for delivery.

I continue this family tradition of doing my own taxes for a number reasons: It is, I suppose, a minor homage to Ron...minus the cigarettes, coffee and precision. I don't like the idea of paying someone else to tell me how much I am going to have to pay another someone else. And, it is a quiet protest about how complicated the whole ordeal has become. So, yesterday, after walking the dog and consulting him about possible deductions, I sat down at the desk to get some work done. There are so many forms and "schedules" and publications to use, it gets confusing. I spent 20 minutes trying figure out what "10th and Broadway--6:15" meant before I realized I was using a Bus Schedule instead of Schedule A. Of course, that one is for itemizing deductions. I always feel pretty petty when I notice how small the charitable deduction line is...if only they had a slot for "Intended to Give." There's SE and C and C-EZ and Pub. 6851 and on and on and on. You have to multiply this number by that percentage to get this figure which then indicates you didn't need to fill out the form after all. You have worksheets to determine which forms you need. I wish the worksheets were more like elementary school with story problems. "Farmer Brown has six chickens and four sheep. If Farmer Brown drives into town going 50 miles per hour while wearing a red cap, and a train, going the opposite direction, passes Farmer Brown at a speed of 75 mph, how many of the chickens and sheep will it take to rummage through Farmer Brown's closet and find his well-read copies of National Geographic? Bonus Points: Name the sheep and chickens." (I may not be remembering the problem exactly right.) Even if you blew the problem, you could get extra credit for coloring in the accompanying picture of Farmer Brown and the livestock. Why couldn't the government give you a few extra deductions if you do a good job coloring in the drawing of the head of the IRS standing in front of their building in Washington?
"Use bold colors and stay within the lines and you may save hundreds in taxes!"

At one point, the figures got so out of hand it appeared I would have to trade one of our children, plus the dog, for a future exemption to be named later. I also wasted considerable time trying to withdraw money from one of those automated tellers because the instructions said "You may need to use the ATM." Finally, the eight people waiting behind me in line, pointed out that it was AMT (Alternative Minimum Tax) not ATM.

After several hours, I wrapped things up as I usually do: Got all the schedules and forms and W-2's, W-4's and WD-40, packed them into box of chocolate chip cookies and potpourri, along with several pictures of our children holding up signs saying "Please, Be Nice To Our Dad. He's Not Too Bright But He Tried!" and shipped it off to the IRS. Somewhere down the line I will probably receive this reply "Joel, You have been a major disappointment to us. IRS."

The Johnson County Home & Garden Show is going on this coming weekend at the Overland Park Convention Center. We've been giving folks the chance to win free tickets to the big event on FirstNews. One of the many experts appearing, will be Channel 9's Larry Moore. As many of you know, Larry is a master gardener. He even wrote a book all about making things grow. It must have been difficult to hold the pencil with two large green thumbs. Anyway, his presentation is on Sunday at 2:30 p.m. and is entitled "On Growing Bigger, Better Tomatoes." I can vouch for how big these things get. Larry is very generous about sharing the bounty of his garden. Some of the tomatoes are so large they have their own gravitational pull. Some have their own zip codes. They are so big you have to pick them in sections. These tomatoes are so huge that when they sit around the house, they sit AROUND the house. You may not be laughing right now or evening smiling but, I have to tell you, this routine absolutely kills when I do it standing in the middle of Powell Gardens.

When I was a little kid, I had a small garden. Our next-door neighbors, The Moely's, had moved into town after years on the farm. Since he could not imagine not being in the growing business, Mr. Moely used part of their lot for a very big garden. When we moved in next door, Mr. Moely carved out a square of soil for six-year-old me. I grew radishes, onions, sweet corn, peas and carrots. I kept the garden going for several years. I also sold seeds door-to-door as a way to make a little money. Although, I usually skipped the dough and traded the points you'd earn for novelty products like a foam rubber ham sandwich or fake spilled milk or, best of all, "So Real Even Fido Will Be Confused!" doggie doo. Looking back, I really should have taken the money. I've found that our mortgage company refuses to accept fake food or fraudulent but "incredibly real"--I apologize in advance-- vomit. In any case, those few years from age six until about 12 were very fulfilling. The idea of putting something in the ground...weeding, watering, watching...and, then, being able to actually contribute to the family table was pretty cool stuff. Unfortunately, that was my first and last successful business venture.

My wife tried to do a little landscaping at our last house. It was intended to be a fabulous rock garden. After the poor woman dragged stones and rocks and boulders of every size, shape and design into the backyard, she went to work. She also got a little bench to put in the middle of it all to allow for "deep thoughts and meditation." It was like watching a great artist at work. The thing is, when you are creating something like a backyard rock garden, you hope the artist is Norman Rockwell and not Dali. Yes, it ended up looking rather bizarre. It resembled a training facility for the builders of Stonehenge. "Well, Murray, keep rolling that stone around and one day we'll move you to the first string to work on the big project across the pond." To be fair, I did use that meditation bench. I sat there staring at all the pebbles and pondering other ways we could have spent that money. Maybe we should have used the moolah to visit those giant rock heads on Easter Island. Now, that's a rock garden!

Honestly, even our indoor plants have to struggle. I've come home to find them all slowly inching their way toward the sink. "Please...just a little drink...." It is especially hard for those plants that get put on top of the fridge. That jump to the counter is a doozy. The last real gardening success we had was with some sunflowers a few years ago. We just threw them out there and they went crazy. One grew so tall, all you needed was Jack and a giant and you'd have a real story. Of course, the roots of these mammoth flowers probably did some damage to the foundation of the house.

Looking back, I suspect that my childhood garden was a thriving success due to some quiet intercession. Mr. Moely had the touch. It's true, I'm all thumbs. None of them, green.

That is a double-duty title. First, it is a credo I've lived by for most of my life. Secondly, it gives you a hint about the subject of this bloggerania. Today, Tuesday, is Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday. I have always thought that Fat Tuesday sounded like a character on some cartoon. "Hello kids! I'm FAAATTTT TUUUUESDAAAY! We're going to have fun today as we body-slam Wimpy Wednesday right into Thin Thursday. Then, we will hear a story from Friendly Friday. Of course, Sassy Saturday and Sweetie-Pie Sunday will be along to give us a lesson in good behavior before Moldy Monday pops in..." Now, you know why my resume to Barney the Dinosaur was sent back with an accompanying restraining order. Whatever you call Tuesday, I know that tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of the church season, Lent. When I was very young, I thought that meant you had to return anything you may have borrowed from someone else over the course of the previous year.

As a kid, I didn't know much about Mardi Gras but I knew that Ash Wednesday meant we'd be going to church on Wednesday, as well as Sunday, for a few weeks. Growing up a Lutheran, we didn't put ashes on our foreheads although many do nowadays, including the church we attend. But, back then, only the Catholic kids got to come to school with ashes on their foreheads. The rest of us thought that was pretty cool. Forgetting about the serious and important symbolism, we just thought that permission to have a "dirty face" was alright. As I mentioned, now, the church we attend does place the ashes on your forehead but, frankly, that has taken some getting used to for me. In my childhood church, we didn't usually go in for much physical contact...apart from a quick handshake as you were exiting. Experts say we all need about two or three feet of personal space to feel comfortable. In my town, that personal space approached 11 or 12 feet. To this day, I am just fine with that. I have already mentioned, some time ago in this space, that even the "sharing of the peace" part of church is a little off-putting for me. Here I am, a Bozo who talks about little or nothing for a living and, when it's time to shake hands and greet your fellow parishioner, I try not to make eye contact as I keep the handshake brief while mumbling "Yeah...peace....good morning...hrummph....bless... thanks...(cough)...." and then sit back down. The first few times the pastor tried to put the ashes on my forehead, I dodged and weaved and said "What are you doing?" The ashes would get a little smeared and, depending on the pastor's aim, I'd return to my pew looking like a very distraught Joan Crawford or very lecherous Groucho Marx.

I don't think Miss Crawford or Groucho probably gave up anything for Lent but that was always the strongly suggested behavior for us. My mom usually gives up chocolate which, according to surveys, is a very popular item to do without until Easter. Giving that sweet treat up for 40 days or so, is not easy for her. Now, my mom is a petite person...the same small size today as she was in high school. She is not a big eater and is very active. Having said all of that, it is still a fact that she not only has a sweet tooth...she has sweet teeth! For as long as I can remember, I would wake up on Saturday mornings to the smell of chocolate cake or brownies and, upon first glance into the pan, notice a tasty corner missing. "Just wanted to make sure it was okay, " my mom, head baker and quality control expert, would say. If you brought home a box of Russell Stover candy for Mother's Day or her birthday you were given "favorite son" status immediately. She can walk into a Wal-Mart she's never before seen and, instinctively, know where the Dove Dark Chocolate Candies are located. So, for her to walk away from the cocoa bean is a major act of self-denial. I have, on a couple of occasions, tried to do the same thing...since I, too, suffer from CADBMYOBS...that is: Chocolate Addiction Disorder But Mind Your Own Business Syndrome. Since I do not burn off my caloric intake as efficiently as my mom, I thought saying no to chocolate would also result in some weight loss. I made a startling scientific discovery. If you replace chocolate with powdered donuts, animal crackers, lots of smoked string cheese and Doritos, you will NOT...I repeat NOT lose any weight. I hope to publish my findings in the respected medical journal, DUH!, at some point in the near future. I have quit trying to give up chocolate, in part because of recent findings that dark chocolate, in particular, may actually be good for you. Of course, the scientists always add "in moderation" but I think they're just being killjoys.

My dad used to give up golf. Not really such a sacrifice in Wisconsin in February. My brothers would choose things like "throwing dead carp at cars" and "running backwards, at full speed, into doorknobs." Things they were unlikely to be engaged in anyway.

Lately, I've heard pastors say that, for Lent, instead of giving up a bad habit, maybe put a positive spin on it, and try to cultivate a good habit. Be more patient. Read more. Smile at strangers. Find opportunities to give of one's time, talent and treasure. I think I'll give that angle a try. It's either that kind of stuff or I'll have to resort to my list: quit snacking...quit watching so much TV...quit chewing fingernails (my own and others')...keep my fingers at least a foot away my nostrils at all times...don't refer to my children as "Hey, you" or "Pinhead" or "Noodlenoggin" or "Dipstick"...don't pretend to be asleep when my lovely wife gets home with a van full of groceries to be put away...don't show up to get my children from school wearing my Sponge Bob pajama bottoms...don't smoke (now, I don't mean cigarettes or anything like that, just, sometimes, I spontaneously start smoking like characters in a Dickens novel)...don't get up to manually change the channel rather than use the clicker and call it a "workout"....well, the list can go on and on and on but you get the idea. In the words of that, until now, unknown verse:

Between Christmas and tax-time, your money's all spent
What a perfect chance to go without
Just settle in for Lent.

You know who first said that? The beloved children's character: Fat Tuesday.

I looked it up before writing this blogitany. I saw it written both ways: President's and Presidents'. So, I guess we can take our pick. Maybe we should just go with Presidents Day...meaning a day we honor our presidents but not necessarily a day belonging to any one or group of Chief Executives. Anyhow, it is the day for presidents. Used to be we honored Lincoln on the 12th and Washington on the 22nd. Now it is a combo deal. In some ways it seems a little unfair to those two guys. Why should they be thrown in with the likes of Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan and Mumford T. Jellybottom? Okay, the last one may or may not have been a president. There was some weird stuff happening in the administration of Millard Fillmore and, one rumor says that Mumford T. Jellybottom won the chance to be President-For-A-Day in a card game. Please, if you are a student, studying for your President's Exam, disregard anything you read here. This is similar to the warnings I give parents and children when they call or e-mail about science questions. My personal grades were enough of a problem without taking responsibility for others. I find it a troubling coincidence that all the news about American kids falling behind the world in the study of science seemed to increase when I started doing weather and visiting schools. I have a long-standing fear that somewhere in a dusty old filing cabinet in the basement of the Kremlin a memo exists stating special gratitude to "Comrade Joel Nichols for doing his best to undermine the learning of science and, in particular, weather material, by the young people of America. We have had to do nothing to encourage this behavior. It is just good luck!" In the words of Mumford T. Jellybottom: "Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do to relieve this pain in my lower back." Jellybottom was not very inspiring or relevant.

The fact is that, as a kid, I had a great interest in presidents. Previously, in this space, I mentioned writing to every president between Johnson (Lyndon, not Andrew, smarty-pants) and Reagan. Also, I had a couple of presidential spoons and a poster with all the presidents displayed. My bedroom was, to be honest, a little odd. On the one side, I had my presidential stuff and on the other a tribute to Avon. Not the river where Shakespeare went skinny-dipping but the "Ding-Dong. Avon Calling" type. As I've mentioned, our bionic Avon lady lived right across the street and would, from time to time, have front porch sales where she would sell discontinued products. So, I bought a cowboy on horseback decanter once...then a barber pole decanter...then a German Shepard decanter...then a bunch of chess piece decanters. There were others, too. I didn't use much of the cologne but I liked the little statuettes. So, one side of my room had this shrine to Avon. I'd like to say it was a phase I went through in my pre-teen years, but, truth be told, I still had the items on display when I met my wife-to-be, Jessica. I think it says much more about her judgment than mine, that she married me anyway. Perhaps she thought that one day these tributes to smelling good would be replaced by multiple broadcasting awards like Emmy's. Didn't happen.

Back to the presidency...I thought my room had a nice patriotic flair but was still lacking something. The walls of my room were a pale blue...nice enough but a little bland. That's when it hit me: I needed to have a red, white and blue bedroom. It was around the bicentennial so it seemed completely appropriate. I enlisted the help of my sister-in-law, Mary Jo, and we went to work. The walls were bright red. The slants up to the ceiling were white and the ceiling itself was blue. We did the whole room in about a day. Looking back we really should have had the window open since we both got a little loopy before we were done. In fact, I'm pretty sure that all those presidents on that poster started talking to us. As it turned out Taft was particularly helpful about where we had missed a spot or two. Grover Cleveland said we should stop for a day and then start in again later...mirroring his two terms in office. Benjamin Harrison accused us of getting paint in his beard and, surprisingly, Chester A. Arthur turned out to have a great singing voice, although Hang On Sloopy seemed an odd choice for him to croon. I think Mary Jo and I eventually had to turn over the paint brushes to my mom before we could finish. Out of self-preservation. Later Benjamin Moore and Sherwin and Williams all confronted my sister-in-law and I as part of a paint-fumes intervention.

My mom bought some star-spangled bedding and red, white and blue rugs as final touches. It was quite spectacular. I fully expected it to get onto some list of "must-see" patriotic places: "Gotta see the White House, the Liberty Bell, Gettysburg and that kid's bedroom in Wisconsin." To this day, when I see red, white and blue or the picture of a president, I think, warmly, of that bedroom. And, when I get a whiff of fresh paint, I immediately see Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln doing the Macarena.

I leave for work around 2:30 in the morning. Sometimes a little earlier...well, rarely, a little earlier and sometimes a little later. But, whenever the departure time, the voices I hear are about the same. Now, before you call Dr. Phil or that "voices-from-the-great-beyond" guy, John Edward or, for that matter presidential candidate John Edwards or the old-time great preacher Jonathan Edwards, let me make clear that I am talking, primarily, about the voices coming from my radio. This is not to say I don't hear other voices in my head. For example, there are times that the voice is my mother's, saying "Randy, Craig, Mark, Joel. (Sometimes she goes through the whole list of sons before landing on the one she means. I understand completely as I do the same thing with our four kids. Sometimes I include the dog. Other times I just ask the one I'm looking at what his or her name is before proceeding. Now, back to my mother's voice in my head:)Don't follow that car ahead of you too closely...slow down...when you get home, take a nap." Sound advice. Occasionally, I will hear my father saying "Hey, you, do you know you're weaving and why is there only a quarter tank of gas in the car? If you run out of gas, it's your own fault, you know." I hear my wife and kids and, every other Tuesday for some reason, my dog talking to me as I head in to the station.

When I first hit the road, I don't even have the radio on. I use that quiet time to go through what I have to get done that day. For example, I will say to myself, after quieting mom, dad, wife, kids and dog (every other Tuesday): "Okay...do FirstNews with Donna Pitman and Jere Gish from 5-7 on KMBC-- Coverage You Can Count On...do the KCMO radio stuff with Chris Stigall on the new KCMO Morning Show with Chris Stigall, 5-9 in the morning on 710 KCMO...(Yes, I say the entire little promotional blurb...it is not just a sneaky way to get plugs into this story.)...finish the day's crossword puzzle, trying not to use random words this time but actually reading the clues...do a jigsaw puzzle at Jigzone.com...do it twice if the puzzle features cute, little ducks...walk the dog, walk him twice if we encounter cute little ducks...pretend to read the paper with eyes closed...consider getting started on our taxes...disregard previous thought...watch Rockford Files...just before the kids start to get home, take laundry out of dryer and be pretending to fold it when they come in the door...eat...go to sleep." After I have done this litany, I turn the radio on.

I don't tend to listen to music stations very much. First of all, I am deeply offended that the oldies station now considers my recent young adulthood as "nostalgic." I liked it much better when they played songs that had been recorded before I was born. If we had a "Music of Your Life" station around here featuring Sinatra and Ella and Bing and Rosemary, I'd listen. Or, a classic country station with Roger Miller, Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins and Merle Haggard. Every now and then, I turn on the classical station just for the culture of it but, eventually, the highly educated announcer will say "Please, Joel, who are you trying to kid? Move to a different frequency as you are driving our audience's overall IQ and SQ (that's Sophistication Quotient) way down." Last Christmas, my family gave me a portable cd player that you can plug into the car radio so, on longer trips like to school visits, I can play some music. Right now, I have The Greatest Hits of Perry Como on there. I'm pretty sure there is some hidden message in the lyrics of Hot Diggity Dog Diggity Boom What You Do To Me. My oldest brother, Randy, used to tell kids in grade school that Perry Como was his uncle. That has nothing to do with the rest of this story but I find it interesting.

However, in the morning, as I mentioned, I don't listen to music. Mostly, I turn on the radio, briefly, to hear some news and weather. It is in those short moments that I hear other voices that, frankly, make me uneasy. There's always a guy with a very high-pitched voice scolding me about not having a better mortgage and indicating that, by having such a horrible interest rate, my children are most likely going to be selling apples and pencils on the street corner to support me and themselves at some point. Then, another voice comes on saying "DEBT IS ALL AROUND YOU!" First of all, how does he know me so well and, secondly, does he have to be so scary? After being chided for my financial foibles, I get told that I'm a little heavy around the middle, my skin isn't up to snuff and how about that ever-widening bald spot? It is right about there that some woman starts harping at me "Are you wondering how you're going to make it through the day? What happened to you? You used to be fun. You used to have dreams. You used to have friends. Now, Joel Nichols, you're a mess." Okay, she probably doesn't really call me out by name, but it sure seems like it. Eventually, she wants all of us with high stress and anxiety to use her course. But I never get to the end of that commercial because I become so distraught, I turn the radio off.

All of these little spots come at me in about a two minute time-span and it can be enough to cast a pall over the day if one isn't careful. Usually, after I turn the radio off, I seek comfort in the smooth voice of Mr. Perry Como telling me to "Catch a Falling Star and put it in your pocket. Never let it fade away..." and listen for my mom's voice to return, telling me "Oh, don't listen to all those people. You're perfect. You're my favorite son. Now, slow down, don't follow the car ahead so close and, when you get home, take a nap."

If you are expecting a gushy, mushy story about romance and love and hearts and flowers, you need to go elsewhere. Maybe the Letter From Larry here at thekansascitychannel.com would be a better choice. I know for a fact, for example, that Larry can make pancakes shaped like hearts and grow tomatoes that, when squeezed, actually sound like Johnny Mathis singing Chances Are. As for me, I'm not very good at the whole Valentine's Day deal. Part of the problem is that it falls very close to my wife's birthday. This year, a couple of little gifts were late in arriving for her big day and, instead of being smart and holding onto them for today, I handed them over. I considered re-wrapping them this morning but decided that would be pushing my luck. Now, my wife had a giant chocolate treat waiting for me this morning when I left for work around 2:00 or so and, yesterday, created a heart-shaped M&M cookie for the whole family. So, I'd better come up with something.

It's not as though I haven't tried in the past. Once I bought her a ruby-like ring but it made her finger break out in some sort of rash. I tried to say that's what was supposed to happen since the rash was red and looked a little like an American Beauty Rose. She used the bag of conversation hearts, I'd also given her, to tell me what she thought of that gift. I have to hand it to her, though, because it had to take some serious time with an Exacto knife to get some of those words into the sentence.

Of course, for kids, Valentine's Day is like Halloween's second-cousin. They make "mail-boxes" out of cereal or shoe boxes and then have a party. Last year, Harrison, then in 4th grade, decorated a box out of green and yellow paper to make it look like a monster from Green Bay. The monster's mouth was where you put the cards. He was very proud of it and expected to win the prize for most creative. Well, he didn't. So, this year, he just slapped some red tissue paper on a Cheerios box, scrawled "HARRY" on it and took it to class...living up to the long-held Nichols family motto: "If at first you don't succeed. Quit." Actually, he's mostly interested in the candy which will be just as tasty out of this container as last year's.

In the olden times, also known as my childhood, you usually made the Valentines out of construction paper. I actually enjoyed that, since folding a piece of red paper in half and then making the half-a-heart cut is about the only craft-like ability I had then or have today. (Although, the last time I tried to do it, it came out looking more like an infected spleen than a heart.) Anyway, you'd make them yourself and didn't include any candy....just the card. Nowadays, the kids get candy and pencils and erasers and stickers and, in more affluent districts, keys to a new Accura. Also, there is no lack of variety when it comes to the themes of the cards available for kids to give one another. From Peanuts to Looney Tunes and Puppies to Hello Kitty, just about anything is available. For example, Harrison chose some cards with an NBA theme when he couldn't find any that said "You Should Have Voted For My Card Box Last Year But You Can Make Amends By Giving Me Extra Candy!" Our 17 year old son used Mighty Morphin Power Ranger cards one time. I think it was last year. Our daughter has used horses, figure skaters and, one year, figure skaters on horseback. That was odd enough, but how they ever got those horses to wear skates and do the triple Axel's is beyond me. Our 16 year old son has been interested in politics since he was little so it came as no surprise that his favorite cards to give were the Officials of The Reagan Administration set. Attorney General Ed Meese actually looked kind of cute all done up like Cupid with his arrows of justice.

Anyway, back to my dilemma. This morning the friendly folks at the Russell Stover store in Merriam dropped off a heart-shaped container of chocolates. Assuming my wife missed the show...a pretty safe assumption...I could give her that. Or, on Thursday, we're getting the carpet cleaned. Would that count as a sign of my love? I could always go from desk to desk in the newsroom and swipe the roses and carnations from the anchors and reporters. However, I did promise not to do that anymore...according the signed letter in my personnel file. I'll think of something before I get home. Wait a minute, maybe Larry has one of those singing tomatoes in his file drawer.

Every year, the Kansas City VA Medical Center invites folks to visit during Valentine's Day week as part of the National Salute to Hospitalized Veterans. This year, the main day will be Wednesday, but Donna Pitman, Jere Gish and I got a head start by spending a little time there on Monday. As always, it was our great honor to visit with these heroes. And, by heroes, I also include the staff and volunteers at the VA!

We chatted with men and women who gave of themselves in just about every branch of the service. Navy, Air Force, Army (which one Vet calls simply "The Best!"), the Marines and Coast Guard all were represented. One of the World War II guys told us about his service in the Pacific Theatre of Operations including Iwo Jima. He saw the movie Flags of Our Fathers because a friend made him go. He said it was pretty good but, like Saving Private Ryan, maybe a little too real and graphic. He lived it once. Doesn't really want to see it again. Our Coast Guard buddy from the Vietnam era is one of the most positive and happy people you could ever meet, despite some very serious health challenges. Frankly, he was like one big smile! Another Vietnam Veteran told us about his two tours of duty...one in place of his little brother. He said it was a four letter word that saw him through the war and the aftermath: HOPE.

Smiles and hope. May not be what comes to mind when you think of visiting a hospital but it does describe what you will see if you take time to visit this week as part of the National Salute to Veterans. Thank you to all the patients, families, staff and volunteers for letting us be a small part of your day.

Saturday morning the temperature was around 15 degrees with a wind chill of 5. Naturally, I was at a golf course. Why, naturally? Because the name of the event was The Idiot's Open...now, it all makes sense, doesn't it? It was the annual round of golf to support Kansas City Hospice, held at Smiley's Golf Complex, and, as has been the case for the last couple years, a Channel Nine team made the cut. Jim Flink, Jere Gish and I, along with a KC Hospice board member who must have drawn the short straw, hit the links at 9:00 a.m. along with dozens of other lunatic linksters. Now, Mr. Flink and Mr. Gish are excellent golfers. So good, in fact, that, were I their boss, I'd wonder how they found the time to get so good. I don't want to get anyone in trouble, but I'd be looking back over their sick days and see how many happened to be perfect for golf. Or their story choices. Just how many "consumer reports" can Flink do about the latest in big-headed drivers. And, as for Gish, why does every story he works on end up with the suspects being tracked across some fairway somewhere? As it turned out, I also did the morning weather from Smiley's while Michelle Rooney reported on the event in her live segments during FirstNews weekend edition. She showcased the fluid, Tiger-like swing of Jim Flink. She also captured my attempts at whacking the ball. I am not Tiger-like, more aardvark-like. Frankly, I got off to a bad start as several of the other golfers burst out laughing when they saw my equipment...my golf equipment, you sick, sick blog readers. About 18 years ago, these were pretty good clubs. Now, they look like something Fred Flintstone would reject as outmoded. Of course, Flink and Gish have all the graphite and titanium stuff, and that was just what they were wearing. One guy on the driving range thought the clubs were just for comic effect. Like I could bend them or throw them up a tree and not mind. So, I started the round feeling more like Ziggy than Zoeller...more like Mookie than Mickelson...more like Twerpie than Trevino...more like Hagar than Hogan....more like Wimpy than Watson...more like...well, you get the idea.

I have a checkered past when it comes to golf...or most any other part of my life. In grade school, a friend of mine, named Gregg Brewer and I would head out to Lake Wisconsin Country Club to play. He would pretend to be pro golfer Gay Brewer and I would pretend to be pro golfer Bobby Nichols. He was pretty good and I was pretty lousy. I did perfect, at that tender age, the art of surreptitiously kicking my ball out from behind trees and other inconvenient truths out on the course. As we got older, we would ride our bikes out to the course and play on summer mornings. You could get a junior golf pass, good all summer, for about $25 and that was, often, my birthday present. For that price, I played a lot through high school. I was never good enough to be on the golf team, but it was fun just to play. Imagine my dismay when I was no longer eligible for the junior golf pass! All of a sudden, in college, the game became very expensive. So, all of a sudden, in college, I became an ex-golfer.

After moving to Kansas City, there was a period of time when a group of us from FirstNews would play fairly often. Eventually it became too time consuming and expensive to play very much so I put the clubs away and courses around the area declared a holiday. Over the last many years, I've played very little. One of my sons likes the game, so we've gone out a few times, but most of my time on the greens has been during the Idiot's Open. It is the perfect golf outing for me, as every possible excuse can be utilized. Also, since the ponds were frozen, it meant you could skip the ball across. Because the greens were so hard, shots that may have been okay in May bounced into orbit in February. You really could almost use your putter the whole way...just keep the ball rolling over the frozen tundra. I didn't even have to use my patented "Oh, here's my ball...it wasn't in the lake/sewer/bush/tree/cart of the party ahead of us...after all" routine where I let a totally different ball slide out of my sleeve onto the fairway.

It was a fun morning for a wonderful cause and, thanks to the conditions, I didn't look nearly as inept as I really am. It made me proud to be an Idiot.

We are bombarded by news. Everywhere you look there seems to be a TV or computer screen or radio telling you what's going on everywhere...at all times! Everything is BREAKING NEWS which just might mean that nothing is BREAKING NEWS anymore. Then, there are those little tickers that run on the bottom of the screen telling us just enough of the story to make us worry.

When I was growing up we really only had two and a half networks. ABC was not much to look at in the early days of TV news. So, that meant you either got your news from Walter Cronkite on CBS or NBC's Huntley-Brinkley Report. Watching the evening news was a communal experience and most of my friends' families would tune in to see what had happened that day. You couldn't just flip on the TV or computer and get your news whenever you wanted it so, if you wanted to be informed, you read the morning paper and watched the evening news. We were a Huntley-Brinkley household because my dad thought David Brinkley was funny. Our dinner was pretty well-timed to be on the table as soon as we heard "Goodnight, Chet. Goodnight, David."

Today it is a different story. Everybody is, potentially, a photo-journalist. Home-made phone pictures and video show up on the news more and more often. With so much air-time devoted to news, on the local and national level, things pop-up that never would've made it before. On the national cable news outlets, I've seen a car-fire on an interstate in Ohio...it wasn't holding up traffic and the car's owner was standing in the ditch watching it, but there was helicopter video available and time to fill, so there it was. I've seen phone-recorded video of high school kids having a fight. Now, that's an unfortunate thing, but is it really news? Naturally, the news channel used the video to lead into a discussion about violence among teens; a worthy enough topic but I think they only did the "scholarly" post-discussion to give them an excuse to use the video over and over and over....and over. I've even seen stories about cats caught up in trees on the national news shows. It makes you wonder which came first: all this "news" which then absolutely had to be reported, making 24/7 news-channels a necessity or the 24/7 news-channels which makes everything newsworthy? My guess is the latter. When I hear someone on the TV say "you must see this" or "you won't believe this amazing video" my reaction usually is "No, I don't have to see it and it probably isn't that amazing but, regardless, why wouldn't I believe it?" Not everything is really "must-see" and "amazing" or, frankly, deathly dangerous which describes another oft-used idea to grab our attention. Maybe I should try to work more of that drama into my weather "Snow Flurries: They Look Pretty But Are They Trying to Kill YOU!" or, during spring-storm season "Is There A Predator Living in Your Basement? Now, Where Will You And Your Children Go To Be Safe In The STORM?!?" The great singer/songwriter John Hiatt has a song called Uncommon Connection that talks about stuff "flying in my head from every direction." That seems about right, nowadays.

I do understand the argument that we are better off with more news sources and that it gives alternative voices a chance to be heard. (Although, if we look closely at who owns what, we might be surprised about the small number of hands into which we entrust the news.) Still, sometimes it seems we are so overwhelmed by all the information, good and bad, coming our way that we tune out and become less engaged than in the old days. Personally, I have always been interested in current events. I read the papers everyday, read Newsweek and Time, watch the Sunday morning news shows and, of course, see and hear FirstNews. I use the Internet to access papers and news sources from all over the world. So, I'm not a "head-in-the-sand" advocate. But, sometimes, it is a good idea to pull back from the constant swirl.

So, Wednesday, I didn't have any news on in the car or at home. How did I find out about the news of the day...the chemical plant explosion and fire? Not from the Internet or TV or radio or text-message on the cellphone. Nope. My main news source was my mom. She had heard about the situation on the radio and called me. A woman in a cottage on a lake in Wisconsin kept me in the Kansas City news loop! Now, that's coverage you can count on!

Over the last couple of blogamanias, I alluded to the fact that we've had a little bug floating around our house since last week. (Since this is a blog about a bug, would it make this a "blug?") It started with our daughter, Samantha, waking up with a 103 fever and feeling pretty out of it for about three days. Then, Taylor started to feel the effects. He stayed home last Thursday, despite not feeling too bad, in hopes of kicking the malady before Friday so he could go to school on Friday so he would be able to compete in the forensics meet on Saturday. (For my kids, it seems so many things are interconnected and convoluted, that you never quite know why they're doing what they're doing and to what ultimate end. Everyday is like a life-size version of the old board game, Mousetrap. This knocks over that which, then, rolls into this, which ends up causing BOING!) Well, Taylor was knocked out for about three and half days. Again, a fever and general feeling of "icky" and "blah" or "blicky." Thursday night, Harrison got the fever...and it wasn't nearly as much fun as the kind Peggy Lee used to sing about. It was his bug that made that house call on his stomach which resulted in our sofa problem. (Please see "Paul Bunyan Versus Couch-zilla.)

All three of these young people had fevers, aches, pains, stuffiness and that glassy look in their eyes that says "I am not fully comprehending anything you are saying but this time it's because I'm sick and not, as is usually the case, just because you are my father." They watched TV and ate crackers and drank 7UP. The normal routine. Having kids home during the day does tend to cramp my style. It is hard to tell a little, weak and waifish boy who looks like an extra from Oliver, that he can't watch King Kong because daddy must see that episode of The Rockford Files that daddy has seen 400 times before. Meanwhile, their oldest brother, Alex, didn't get sick at all. This has happened before and it is the very definition of ironic.

You see, of all the kids, Alex is the one most likely to worry about getting sick. He is the one who had the "Tully-from-Sesame-Street-induced" fake broken arm. (Please, see "Red, Blue and Furry" from last week.) He doesn't eat more vegetables than the rest. In fact, the two youngest are the best when it comes to a varied and healthy diet. He gets less exercise than the rest...unless you count "mousercise" which is a highly aerobic version of using your computer. He tends to stay up too late. Yet, he rarely picks up whatever is "going around." Maybe the bacteria get a good look at his side of the bedroom and decide they just aren't up to the task. Or, maybe the half-eaten junk food trapped between his bed and the wall, combined with the aroma wafting from clothes that need to visit the laundry, have rendered Alex immune to all types of contaminants. Whatever the reason, he was the only one not knocked over by this latest bug.

Our periods of sickness have gotten fewer and farther between over the years. At first, your kids are like Petri dishes wearing tennies...dragging home every little sniffle, cough or urp. Getting older has meant getting better at fighting this stuff off before it can take a firm grip. The good news is that everyone is back at school now. While there are still some drippy noses and the occasional loud, chest and head clearing cough, everyone is bouncing back. Perhaps most importantly, I get to watch The Rockford Files, again.

My wonderful wife, Jessica, celebrated her birthday over the weekend. Being a gentleman, and, having grown accustomed to sleeping indoors, I will not tell you her age. As she likes to point out, no matter how old she gets, she will always be younger than her rapidly aging husband. She does not approve of how I mark a person's age. For example, instead of saying a person is turning 35, I say, they're starting their 36th year. A person in his or her 40s, is into his or her fifth decade! My dad always referred to age in this way and I picked it up from him. He claimed it was more accurate but really did it just to be aggravating. I do not claim accuracy as my main motivation (not unlike my weather forecasts!) I do this strictly to irritate my wife. Then, again, her birthday signals the Season of Jessica, which runs until Mother's Day in May so I don't feel too bad about it.

Yesterday, in this space, I recounted how we spent part of her birthday weekend, wrestling and, eventually, bludgeoning a defenseless davenport. (You don't hear that word, davenport, very often anymore. When I was kid I heard it a lot, as in "Quit jumping on the davenport." I remember being very disappointed the first time we drove through the Iowa town of the same name, as I had envisioned it as a wonderland of sofas. I suspect that among furniture aficionados, there are differences between a sofa, a couch and a davenport...don't even mention a love-seat or a divan or a settee or a chesterfield. As long as you can become horizontal, still see the TV, balance a bowl of Cheetos and glass of chocolate milk on the armrest, it will be just fine.) In addition to the couchicide, we had planned on going to a movie. However, as has been the case for many of her birthdays, there was a child-related situation to be rectified. This time it involved being available to pick one up and take him somewhere else. Let me be clear, we love these child-people, but their timing is not always great. When the big boys were little, they always reminded me of those sheepdogs in the cartoons who pass each other as they punch their time-cards. Sometimes, it seemed like Alexander and Taylor actually had worked out separate shifts with one another so that one was always testing the limits of our patience. In the last 11 years, with four of them, I think they sometimes feel they are holding an intervention with us. "Okay, we know you two planned to go out to a movie and dinner but we simply can't let that happen...at least, not without a fight. You mean too much to us just to let you gallivant out in public and appear carefree. So, mom, dad, we've decided to: a) have a major fight among ourselves right before you leave; b) have one or more of us throw up; c) make you think we don't know enough not to stick a fork in a plugged-in toaster to get the toast out; d) break an arm; e) tell you at the last minute about an event we just have to be present at and need a ride to; f) all of the above. Now, just to be fair, we'll let you pick the dilemma that will sabotage your plans. Go ahead and good luck." Anyway, the movie didn't happen so we rented something instead that turned out to be lousy. We both fell asleep halfway through. Now, that's an exciting Saturday night!

On Sunday, still a part of the birthday weekend, just the two of us went to church. That was something of a gift from me to her as it meant she didn't have to listen to me bellow at the kids about getting out of bed, finding their socks and shoes, brushing their hair and teeth, getting in the car on time etc, etc, etc. After church we all went out for lunch. This almost didn't happen as a couple of the kids were still fighting a bug our daughter had brought home last week. (See the intervention paragraph, above!) To be honest, I am starting to get paranoid about when we eat out as a family. I wonder if the Department of Homeland Security has a special code it issues when we make a reservation or enter a restaurant. The reason for my concern is that we always seem to be the only people in the place...like it is a set up in some sort of gangster movie. Now, admittedly, sometimes we happen to be eating at an off time...or a shift change, which, based on experience and the fact that our older sons work in a restaurant, seems to be a bad time to eat. But, on Sunday, it was NOON! The place is nice and pretty well-known in town but, when we were there, it was a ghost town. The food was good and the service was excellent but it was rather creepy. I have a feeling that within minutes of our departure a signal was given and the place filled up. I am pretty sure I saw one of the waiters doing Morse Code with the blinds as we pulled away.

After the meal, we had cake...that I made! From scratch. Well, it was from a box and only required a cup of water but that's pretty close to scratch. (Again, accuracy is not my strong suit...and I seem to remember having an itch that required scratching as I prepared the mix so that counts.) Then, the gifts and, then, just plain relaxation.

In my head, I always plan these elaborate birthday parties for Jessica with live entertainment from Asleep at the Wheel, Neil Diamond, Cat Stevens, James Taylor and a lesser known but great singer/songwriter named Paul Thorn. (Look him up on the Internet sometime. He's terrific.) It is preceded by a gourmet meal and huge cake. Earlier in the day there is a special birthday 5K race, which she wins by a mile. After the meal, presents and all-star concert, the whole family jets off to Switzerland. Well, that hasn't happened yet. Maybe in 2008...which will be the start of her (censored) year in the midst of her (censored) decade.

This won't take long. It is a short and ridiculous story. A word of warning: certain acts of violence described here maybe unsettling to the faint of heart and lovers of furniture. I was going to say "children" but, frankly, they'll probably find it hilarious. Many years ago, we bought a sofa-bed/sectional. It gave all six of us a place to sit and, when necessary, an extra bed...albeit a very uncomfortable bed. Sleeping there was almost a religious experience since the mattress was as thin as a communion wafer and the next morning you felt like you'd had too much wine. As you might imagine, over the years with four kids and a couple dogs, the poor sofa had met with many an indignity. Several of these incidents, including last Thursday night, were in sort-of liquid form. I don't want to get too graphic, but we've had a little bug floating around the house and last Thursday night it made a tummy attack on one of the kids. Now, we've had the sofa cleaned a couple times over the years and my wife has become a wizard when it comes to getting stains and smells out of fabric. Her talent is the result of having the aforementioned kids and dogs, but also because she and her father are genetically predisposed to carrying and spilling coffee. There is really no chance of either of them ever being completely lost as all you'd have to do is trace the coffee drips. Juan Valdez...and his donkey...spill less java coming down from the mountains than these two do walking from the kitchen to the living room. If you connect all the dots on our carpet, you actually get a picture of "Mr. Coffee," Joe DiMaggio.

Meanwhile, back at the couch: The fact is, this well-used piece of furniture was looking pretty ratty and smelling like the inside of the Jolly Green Giant's post-marathon running shoes. So, on Saturday my lovely wife had an idea. Up until her idea, it had been a pleasant, quiet, uneventful day. There was a paper waiting to be read and M&Ms waiting to be eaten. My wife suggested we remove the old sectional and replace it with a smaller but cleaner couch that had been sitting rather awkwardly where a kitchen table should really be placed. Now, in her defense, it was my bright idea to put the old one in the basement. Our second oldest son told us that he didn't think it would actually fit down the stairwell and, even if it did, make the sharp corner through the basement door. Naturally, since he is 16 and it was a Saturday and he was still wrapped in a blanket from his bed...at 1:00 in the afternoon...I assumed he just didn't want to be pressed into service or, more specifically, be forced to get off the sofa we wanted to move. I insisted we give it a try.

With me on the bottom of the sofa and my wife and son at the top, we started to slide the behemoth down the staircase. I am pretty sure the sofa increased in size as we moved it. We had trouble making the first corner out of the entry way but, after taking a nice-sized gouge out of the wall, we did it! Now, we had the sofa sitting on the steps. Again, the teenager said "I really don't think we can make it go around the corner and we're about four inches off as far as setting it up on it's end to make it that way and I really..." At that point, I interrupted and insisted that we would make it fit. After what seemed like hours...it was only minutes, really...of twisting and turning and moving and lifting it was clear that, the punk was right and we wouldn't be getting this thing in the basement. So, I gave up and said "Slide it back up the stairs." We did. That's when this story takes a very bad turn. Actually, the problem was that the sofa would not make a turn, good or bad! Yes, it was stuck. Again, my physicist son said that going down we had room on the top end to twist and turn the thing but, coming back up, there was no such space. So, there we were with a sofa on the stairs. At one point, the dog stretched out on it looking very content. Our youngest thought we should just leave it there and, then, they could leap onto it on their way downstairs.

I took off the little stubby legs but that didn't help. I tried to find any other detachable piece but had no luck. It was stuck. Somewhere Lucy and Ethel, Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Laverne and Shirley were all laughing hysterically. My wife helped by pointing out that she had not said we should take it downstairs. At that point, I asked for the hatchet. I began flailing at this evil, stinky, filthy piece of fabric and wood. With each wallop you could hear the thousands of Legos that had somehow become trapped inside jump up and down. I was making no progress until our daughter pointed to an area she thought made the most sense...a good chop and the arm-rest could be collapsed. I took her advice and it worked. It made it possible for us to get it back up through the door and out into the garage where it sits today. Much worse for wear but, I am certain, laughing at me.

By the way, the other piece of the sectional, the side with the bed, did go downstairs easily and the living room looks much cleaner and bigger with the smaller sofa in place. But, there were moments when I imagined that sofa being on the steps forever. "Oh, that? That's just a sofa. On the steps. A sofa on the steps. You just kind of slide down it to get to the basement. Yeah, quite a conversation piece. Sort of avantgarde in terms of home decorating but we are creative risk-takers, in this family."

All-in-all, it was a learning experience. I learned that a tape measure does, sometimes, have a very real purpose. I learned that, despite what I'd been told as a child, not everything can fit through everywhere just by lifting and twisting. I learned that sometimes a 16 year old boy does know what he's talking about and that our daughter has a better eye for effective demolition than one would think. I learned that, sometimes, when my wife has a "great idea," I should just say "Oh, interesting. We'll see." And, not being a camper or wood-chopper, the whole episode gave me the opportunity to use a hatchet and live out my long-secret dream of being a lumberjack. I also have to say, after seeing what I did to that old couch, all the other pieces of furniture and even appliances, in the house seem to be treating me with new-found respect...or fear...either one is fine with me. Hey, coffee table! Are you looking at me? And, you, ottoman, pipe down.

No, the title of this e-rticle (that's inter-web talk for an article on-line, an e-rticle. Clever, huh?) does not necessarily refer to things I've found when going through our kids' dirty laundry. Although, it could. Just the other day, our second oldest did his own laundry and it came out dirtier than it went in because of a piece of chocolate in a pocket that melted in the dryer. It made everything look like something worn by members of The A-Team. But, I digress. Red, blue and furry describes our special guests on FirstNews Thursday morning: Elmo and Cookie Monster from Sesame Street! They are in town for the big Elmo Makes Music show at Kemper Arena, now through Sunday. Cookie Monster came up with the forecast. Elmo did the pointing-at-the-maps bit. Not surprisingly, their efforts showed more accuracy, scholarship and credibility than usually demonstrated on the program. At one point, I tried to play the Sesame Street theme song while the dynamic duo danced. Sort of a Monster's Ball.

Pounding out that tune on the black and whites, took me back about 30 years. I have lots of nieces and nephews. They're all grown up now. Amazingly, some are now older than I am...or at least that's my story. Anyway, when they were little, I would play that song just to get them to run all over the house...imitating the opening of the show itself. It was automatic. In fact, just a couple years ago, at one nephew's wedding, I sneaked into the choir loft and started to play the song during the recessional. Sure enough, he took off in full gallop all over the church. Pavlov and his dogs would have been proud!

I was a little old for Sesame Street by the time it started but I do remember the first time I saw it. I was home from school. Sick. As usual, I was stretched out on the living room sofa with 7-Up and soda crackers. (There was also a little hard-plastic basin by the side of the couch. I don't mean to be too graphic but, to this day, when I smell plastic and Lysol, I feel queasy.) I had already had the same nightmare I had everytime I was sick. I'm trapped in a Tootsie Roll factory that is about to explode. I try to save as many Tootsies as possible but then I hear a large KABOOM and wake up in a cold sweat. Anyway, as I was coming to grips with reality, I looked up at our new color TV and saw it! A television show...in color...on PBS! In those near-caveman days, we had a grand total of four stations to watch. Sometimes only one of those actually came in clearly. First thing in the morning, you could watch Captain Kangaroo. I wish some cable station would air those old episodes. I liked Magic Drawing Board and Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit. For years, I thought ping-pong balls were actually moose droppings and vice-versa. The Captain was always taking a shoe box and turning it into a boat or robot or something cool. I would occasionally try to replicate his creation but mine always ended up looking like a 1963 Rambler with no wheels and too many windows. After a visit with the Captain and Mr. Green Jeans, I was ready for the day. Now, I had some friends who were a little bothered by Mr. Green Jeans for some reason. They thought it was weird that he appeared to actually live in the barn. I wasn't troubled by it until I learned that his real name was Lumpy Barnum. That name has haunted me for years, now. If you pour a vat of split-pea soup into Mr. Green Jeans' overalls and make him run a marathon on a hot July day, I think you actually create a new substance called Lumpy Barnum. And, for the health conscious, Lumpy Barnum Lite!

Anyway, after the Captain, a kid could watch a couple game shows and then it was soap operas until noon. One of our stations had a noon news that was mostly filled with talk of barrows and gilts and a visit from the Home Ec lady from the county extension office talking about getting your immunizations. Later in the show, a woman named Fern Fowler, would show you how to create a lovely centerpiece using a toilet paper roll, left-over Christmas wrapping paper, Elmer's Glue, pipe-cleaners and melted crayons. A dignified man named Jerry Dean would appear and do weather which consisted of the following: "Cloudy today with flurries. Temperature of 13. Thank you for being with us. Good day." Ahhh, those were the days! Then, more daytime dramas.

The PBS station didn't even come on the air until about 3:00 in the afternoon and then it was a series of men in white shirts, skinny ties, severe horn-rim glasses, standing behind lecterns and discussing geometry or ancient civilizations or how ancient civilizations used geometry. It was into that grainy, black and white land of big brains that Sesame Street first appeared when I was home from school, sick, that one day.

Years later, only our oldest son, Alex, really watched the show very much. He identified closely with Tully the monster. One of the lesser known, I guess. In one storyline, Tully, had a broken arm. So, Alex, decided he had a broken arm. He walked around with a white cloth over this "damaged" limb for several days. In real life, one of his brothers and his sister have actually had broken arms, but his Tully-induced affliction seems just as real, in his memory. He has a very vivid imagination and chameleon-like tendencies when it comes to TV shows. It was only a couple years ago that we convinced him he could not write "Red Power Ranger" in the "Goals" section of college applications. We made the mistake of letting him watch 24 one time and he ended up going from house to house "rescuing" the neighbors.

Anyway, if you are in the mood to recapture some childhood memories or create some for your kids, head over to Kemper this weekend. I know that having Elmo and Cookie Monster on FirstNews, made it a "sunny day....everything's a-okay" start for us. The only downside is that our news director has asked both monsters for their resumes. I knew I should have never let them in the weather center!