There's an old saying along the lines of "If, at the end of life, you have six good friends to carry you to your final resting place, your life has been well-lived." How's that for a real Friday pick-me-up? Reminds me of an ad I saw in a little newspaper awhile back that advertised cemetery plots with "a lake view!" A little less morbid way of thinking about it comes at the conclustion of It's A Wonderful Life, when George Bailey is told that no man is poor who has so many good friends. Back in my school days, I think I had several good friends although I've never gone back for a reunion on the chance that my memory is faulty. The bottom-line is that my wonderful wife has lots of good friends, my kids all have wide circles of pals, even the dog seems to have relationships with other canines in the neighborhood. By comparison, I fear I may be a little light in the buddy department. I'm not alone in thinking this. The wife, kids and dog I just mentioned seem to believe it, too. Now, they fully understand the obvious reasons I would have trouble making friends, but it still seems to worry them. In light of that concern, they have started to make a list of people I get along with that they would consider inviting to some big party given in my honor. Here's some of that group.

All The Greeters At Wal-Mart: I always have a good time talking to the folks at the door. Over the years, in addition to the weather, I have discussed politics, history, TV and, more often than you'd think, exactly where the 60 watt light bulbs are located in the store. You're probably thinking "Come on, Joel, those folks are nice to everybody." But, I prefer to think we have an extra-special relationship. They just can't fake those smiles.

My Optometrist: I went a long time before making my latest appointment but, over the last few weeks, trying to adjust to these new multi-focal, "you're getting old and your eyesight is failing", contact lenses, I've seen quite a lot of this fine professional. We have very cordial conversations. My fear here is that the whole relationship is based upon my sitting in a fancy, motorized chair with my chin up on the machine where he changes the lens' strength. I suspect, if he didn't have a reason to say "A or B? This one or the last one? That or this?" we may have a lot of awkward pauses. Still, he stays on the imaginary party list as long as he promises not to give me those dilation drops.

One Of The Firemen at the Fire In The Hole Ride at Silver Dollar City: We've seen this character down there for about 15 years. He always says "Hey, dad!" when he sees us come in. Now, I like that Fire In The Hole ride. As a family, we can recite just about every word of the journey and usually do, which may explain why all the other folks on board bail out just after we yell "I ain't got no pants no more. Dang baldknobbers stole 'em." As fun as the ride is, the fireman who loads us into the little train is the main reason I insist on riding. He's just a great guy. He would easily make it past the sign outside the party hall that says "Must be this folksy to enter party."

Parent of Other Kid at School Function: There is a dad who has been at just about every school related event I've been to over the last 12 years or so. He is always pleasant, easy-going, funny. We have excellent conversations as we are leaving the building. It just wouldn't be a party without this "parent of other kid at school functions. "

You maybe wondering where all the Channel Niners are on this make-believe guest list. Well, I've invited them to get-togethers in the past with little success. I never knew so many of them had regular electrolysis appointments or attended Trekkie conventions or were only allowed to drive to and from work. But, live and learn.

Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my mostly vacant noggin, I think one of my brothers had an invisible friend. When anything bad happened, he would blame "Clifford." It was kind of cute despite the fact my brother was 34 at the time. Of course, another brother thought he was a chicken. We would have told him the truth but we needed the eggs.

As for me, when I was a child, instead of pretending to be a policeman or cowboy or football star, I would take my little red cardboard suitcase, put on a beaten up fedora and pretend to be a door-to-door salesman. I would knock on the neighbors' doors and make my pitch...I don't remember what I was pretending to sell...and then, take their order. It was during this period that I had, not an invisible friend, but an invisible boss. I called him Mr. Smith...because, even then, my creativity knew no bounds. Eventually Mr. Smith had to let me go. Talk about humiliation, being fired by a figment of your own imagination. In addition to make-believing I was a pint-sized Harold Hill, I also used to imitate Mitch Miller. He was a music producer and choral director with a goatee, that's hair on his chin not a pocket-sized goat...that is called a "goatette", who had his own TV show where he would encourage you to "follow the bouncing ball" and sing. It was called Sing-A-Long With Mitch...again, very creative. When we were living out at Bluffview Courts Retirement Village, I, about age 4 at the time, would drink chocolate milk, for the mustache and goatee, then round up a bunch of the retirees and lead them in song. They all thought it was hilarious. Unfortunately, it marked the highpoint of my performing career.

Anyway, for this never-going-to-happen gala, in addition to all the other "friends" I think I will invite Clifford, Mitch Miller, the Bluffview Courts Chorale, and,what the heck, my old boss Mr. Smith. We'll all sing Auld Lang Syne and, then, we'll hear a little tinkle. It probably won't mean "every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings." It will probably mean we should've let the dog out before the party got started.

Razor blades. When I was a kid we had razor blades around the house. Of course, for shaving...more on that later. But also for scraping stuff off the floors or windows. Another use: splicing audio tape together. Now, just about everything is digitized. In fact, I'm pretty sure, when KMBC moves into the new building, they are planning to use a digital version of a certain morning weatherman. But, back in the olden days, when people said things like "olden," you could take one of those big spools of audio tape and, using a razor blade, make it sound like Captain Kangaroo actually told your big brother he had "moose breath and a head full of ping pong balls now, please, change your green jeans." Those were the days.

But, mostly, razor blades were used for shaving. They came in cool little futuristic containers. Even the razor was neat...it opened like the doors on a tiny DeLorean. It was a sharp edge! There was an element of danger! Now, with the quintuple blade technology, automatically dispensing industrial strength aloe, as needed, you can't hardly get a nick. All over America there are Styptic pencils using themselves to write down the phone number Sally Struthers is giving out so they can learn some other trade. Half the fun of watching my older brothers shave for the first time was seeing them walk out of the one and only bathroom with toilet paper stuck all over their faces...trying to stop the bleeding. They looked like chickens in mid-molt. Sure, there were electric razors but, as soon as it became clear that you really couldn't use them for sledding down a hill like Santa in the TV commercial, I lost interest.

Like many, if not most, little boys of my generation, I would occasionally stand at the sink and pretend to shave using an empty razor, dreaming of the day I could actually grow a real whisker. I've never had a particularly heavy beard. I didn't need to shave everyday in high school like some kids. One of my friends woke up on his thirteenth birthday looking like a yeti, for example. I don't remember our dad ever having much in the facial hair department. Although, as I've mentioned before, he had more hair on his chin than his shin. He had the skinniest, whitest, hairlessiest legs known to humankind. When he'd stretch out on a lounge chair in shorts, his legs looked like string cheese wearing a babushka.

My oldest brother had a beard for awhile. He may have been in the witness protection program at the time or at least his upper lip was. Another brother had a mustache for a long time. He played the trumpet and, perhaps, thought it made him look like Herb Alpert. Or, maybe, the hair protected his embouchure, which either has something to do with a horn player's facial muscles or is that tangy cheese spread I like on saltines. The other brother also had a mustache for a little while...he resembled a young Wilfrid Brimley. I never have had much luck even considering such facial hair growth. In fact, it's only been in the last few years that, if I skip a few days of shaving, I can make out what would, possibly...on a good day...be a beard. It's really more of an outline...as though Orson Welles' beard jumped from his face and the authorities drew that chalk line around it before hauling it to the hair morgue. Naturally, it appears, it would come in mostly white and gray. I finally reach a point where I could go through my mid-life crisis by growing a beard and I wind up looking like Kris Kringle.

At this point, our older sons have started down the long and shaggy road. They don't shave as often as I think they should. Our oldest son, Alex, appeared to be letting the hair under his nose grow on purpose. I tried to explain that what he had there were not really whiskers. More like peach fuzz on steroids. He and his brother are at the age where the pseudo-growth is pretty spotty. Like our front lawn. They don't have five o'clock shadows...more like, oh, about a quarter to three. They can use the Aqua but don't quite need the Velva.

If I could find an old-fashioned razor with the old-fashioned blades, I'd show them what it really means to shave...and bleed...like a man.

Since our kids have been in school, I've been lucky enough to get their spring break off from work. Yes, it is pushing things to refer to what I do, on a daily basis, as "work." (That last sentence was brought to you by my employer, KMBC-TV...and my union. Leave it to me to bring them together on this issue.) Just the same, I am off when the kids are, and, as they would point out, I am off, period. When they were all very little, I always felt a responsibility to DO something. Sometimes that meant going to a museum in town or bowling or miniature golfing. Occasionally all at the same time which explains my family's permanent suspension from the Nelson Art Gallery. As mentioned in the previous e-pistle, it also might mean a trip to Wisconsin. Having grown up there, I really think they should consider changing the name of the month from March to Slog, since that is what you tend to do...slog through the mud and slush and lingering patches of dirty snow. Sometimes, in parking lots, where the snow has been plowed into giant mountains, with the help of a Sherpa, you can find gloves, hats, purses, small goats, as the piles start to melt away. These messy monuments to winter are usually entirely gone no later than Labor Day.

As the kids have gotten older, the pressure to DO something has lessened. This is due in part to the fact that the kids all have their own friends, jobs, responsibilities that demand their attention. Also, especially for the 16 and 17 year old sons, staying in bed until noonish...then, staying in what they wore to bed for the rest of the day seems to qualify as prime use of vacation time. They were able to sort of accomplish that at grandma's house. When they were little they would all sleep in the same fold-out sofa bed downstairs there. Back then they looked all cute and cuddly. Now, Samantha sleeps upstairs in her own room. Harrison curls up just about anywhere and the big boys take over the lower level. After a couple days, their area smells like the Jolly Green Giant's Nikes, after a long, vigorously contested tennis match held on the hottest, muggiest July day.

This year, after heading home from Wisconsin, the two little kids, my wife and I decided to spend the tail-end of the break at Silver Dollar City in Branson. The big boys had to work so they stayed put. The house was in one piece when we got back but the dog did hand me a list of rules infractions which I am still taking under advisement. By the way, speaking of the dog. He is an absolutely excellent rider in the van. He actually is a great navigator...truly gifted at reading maps. Although, we do seem to end up at a lot of fire hydrants and he insists we drive around the block three times before parking.

Saturday night, in Branson, there was smoke in the air from a controlled burn in Arkansas. It was probably unhealthy to breathe but it smelled nice and added to the beauty of the sunset. I mention this "controlled burn" mainly because I'm pretty sure there is a joke in there somewhere...involving Preparation H...but it would probably be too naughty to use even if I could think of it. Like the one about the guy who accidentally grabbed the wrong tube to brush his teeth. His gums shrunk and they all fell out.

The little kids had the usual fun at the park. The big kids had the usual fun of not having parents hovering. My wife had the usual fun watching the kids have fun. As for me, I feel I was driving for a week. Up to Wisconsin...back and forth from town to lake to town and back...return to Kansas City...down to Branson...to the park...to the room...to the Landing downtown...back to the room ...back to the park....back to downtown....back to the room...return trip to Kansas City. I really don't mind it. It does give me time to ponder important things. Like how to make a joke out of the phrase "controlled burn."

Well, you knew it couldn't last. I'm back on FirstNews and here at Blogger Central. Your spring break, from me, is over. As always, thanks for all the e-mails wishing me a happy retirement but I returned, anyway.

We, as a family, enjoyed the warm beaches of Lodi, Wisconsin. Keeping with a family tradition established by my father, we left home in the middle of the night. He did that so he could smoke and listen to Charley Pride without being interrupted. I do it because I am most awake and used to driving at those hours. I just pretend I'm driving to work about 17 times. You know the trip was a success when the passengers say it was an easy two hour trip after nine hours in the vehicle. I had decided we would not tell grandma and grandpa we were coming. You may be thinking that it was for the surprise factor...actually, it meant they wouldn't have the opportunity to be "out-of-town." It wouldn't have been the first time we caught them hiding behind trees until they thought we were safely out of sight. We parked so they couldn't see the van and sent the two youngest down to the door, alone. They knocked on the door and told grandma they had run away from Sunday School.

The lake was still mostly frozen and there was a little left-over snow on the hill so the sled came out for a few trips. The boys also got their grandpa-special haircuts right off the bat. Much of the week, though, was spent playing cards. Our two middle kids have developed into master euchre players. Euchre is a game that involves using Jacks as high cards and, with your partner, taking at least three out of five tricks. That's for four-handed. When you expand to six-handed you have to add a Joker and a two of diamonds...and, every third hand, run around the house in your underwear singing On Top of Old Smokey. Okay, the last one is not true...at least not for family-friendly games.

We made a stop at the post office to see if we could catch my brother at work. He retired from the Air Force last year and has moved into his second career. Our kids were hoping he would be there so they could say "Hello, Newman." It's little known fact, but my brother much prefers comparisons to Cliff from Cheers. Instead we found him at home where he mentioned that he figured I was off since I had not written a blog for Monday. So, having been reminded that he does read this thing from time to time, let me say, for the record, that he is a great person who served his country with honor for a quarter of a century and now brings that same devotion to his job as a postal worker. (There. I said it. Now, would you please tell your dog to release my pant leg? It made driving home a real challenge.)

The other hot-spot to visit back home is the beautiful, new St. Vincent De Paul store. The women who work there are fastidious and exacting so the merchandise is like new even when it's old. When you're a kid with a five dollar bill, a place like this can make you feel like Bill Gates. For example, our youngest found a framed poster of the Olympics basketball dream team from the Jordan/Barkley era...bought it and still had plenty of money left. Our daughter is the grand champion discount shopper. She always walks out with a bag full of goodies...mostly for other people. She got grandma a little bear figurine, a couple of books for me and an Easter pin for her mom. She also toyed with the idea of getting another book for herself, entitled Caring For Your Aging Parents. Funny girl.

It was a great way to spend the first half of spring break week. Tomorrow: Part Two!!! It doesn't really merit three exclamation points or even one, but, after all these years in broadcasting, I can't help the hype!!!!!!!!

Thanks to all of you who take time, now and then, to read this silliness. You deserve a break!

Have a wonderful St. Patrick's Day this coming weekend and great first day of Spring, next week.

F. Scott Fitzgerald said it: "The rich are different from you and me" and, Thursday morning on FirstNews, we had three different stories that would seem to support his sentiment. First there was the piece about the extra-special mattress. It is made of latex, flax, memory foam, silk, cashmere, lambswool and horse hair...hand-tufted, whatever that means. The cost for this overstuffed people pillow is 50 thousand dollars. For that price, my dreams better be pretty upscale. That memory foam better not only contour to my flabby old body perfectly but it better also tell me I look great, despite my flabby old body. When you snore on this thing, it doesn't come out ZZZZZZZ, it comes out $$$$$$$$. Now, I've slept on decent mattresses and floors and sofas and, every now and then, sitting upright in a chair in the weather center. I just can't believe I'm going to rest better on a 50 grand surface than a 5 dollar futon from a garage sale. In fact, I think I would sleep worse...knowing I'd just eliminated several semesters of college from my children's' futures just so I could know the pleasure of hand-tufted horse hair. Something tells me the horse didn't like it very much. Frankly, since the dog spends more time sleeping on our bed than anyone else...and he would drink out of the toilet if he could...I think he can get by with a regular mattress.

Then, once you're out of the $50 grand bed, it's time for a cup of coffee. Not just any old cup will do...you need some brew from an $11,000.00 coffee-maker. Somewhere Joe DiMaggio just dropped his sugar spoon! This thing-a-ma-bob is called A Clover and controls the grind of the bean...the size of the cup...something called steep time (Perhaps, meaning the hours you'll devote to how "steep" the price was for this thing)...and temperature. Again, does anyone really need a cup of coffee that costs that much money to create? Would it be discernibly different from the gourmet stuff at the gas station, where I can also buy a lottery ticket and a Butterfinger? My wife loves coffee and I love my wife but if I bought her an $11,ooo.oo coffee maker, she'd insist I get psychological help where I would refuse to lie down on the doctor's ratty sofa and insist on bringing my $50,000 mattress.

Well, that ultra-rich cup of coffee will only hold you so long before you need some real food. How about a pizza? How about a thousand dollar pizza? It is available in New York and includes caviar, lobster and top of the line cheeses. If it was delivery, you'd need a Brinks truck. Maybe, if you cut it into 1000 pieces, it wouldn't seem so expensive... per slice. Since I feel we are indulging ourselves when we get the stuffed-crust pie, I don't think I could stomach this costly concoction.

So, there you go. Three items that would indicate you have too much money. Fitzgerald was right. But, so was Hemingway, who replied to F. Scott's assertion with "Yes. They are. They have more money." At these prices, not for long.

Tuesday morning, I had a wonderful visit with the terrific second graders at Trailwood Elementary in Overland Park. They were very attentive and had great questions and stories to share, as well. They are doing some cool things at Trailwood...even using robots! As I usually do, I ended my babbling with a video clip from many years ago that gets trotted out whenever the Crown Center Ice Rink opens for the season. It's the one where I'm doing the weather from mid-rink and a kid slides into me and I end up on my best side. Mixed in with the kids' laughter, I thought I heard someone say "Oh, I remember that from when I was little." As I was leaving, I asked one of the teachers if she had made that remark and she said yes...she saw it when she was a kid and thought it was hilarious. Now, in the past, I've noticed that teachers are getting younger and younger but this time it really hit home. It wasn't as though a student said it or even a student teacher...this was a teacher reminiscing about her childhood and the klutzy, old weatherman. I was not in the least offended or hurt. But I do think it maybe a sign from above that I should quit making school visits.

It reminded me of one of the Match-Up Manias we did last fall from Park Hill High School when I was interviewing the cheerleader's dance coach who proceeded to tell me she had been on the kids' show I used to host, Jellybeans, when she was little. When I replied by saying "Well, now I am feeling old." She tried to recover gracefully by stammering "Oh, no...you're...uh...uh...hot!" I know that "hot" is used to describe attractive people these days but, at my age, looking "hot" means I'm probably running a high fever and should increase my meds. She said it with the same tone in her voice that you use when you tell someone they "look great for a person in his 60s." Only to find out the subject of your compliment is 45.

Well, I'd like to whine more about being made to feel a little less than spry...that's another word, "spry," you use to make an older person feel good about themselves...who ever has called a young person "spry?"...anyway, I'd like to complain some more but I'm having trouble adjusting to the new bi-focal contacts I was fitted with yesterday. They take some work and fine-tuning. For example, I can, for the first time in a long time, read smallish print with the contacts in, as I proved yesterday when the doctor asked me to read the smallest line on a card and I responded with "Acme Eye Chart. All rights reserved. Reg. Pat. 10092-1998." However, when asked to read the letters at a distance, it just looked like cream of wheat. The idea, as I understand it, is that the contacts are sort of gradated from distance vision in the middle to reading vision on the edges. Your brain eventually learns where to direct your eyeball to use the appropriate part of the lens. Unfortunately, my brain is still working on "Who Shot JR?" from the 80s.

You know, as I am writing this, I just heard a report about more research indicating that exercise helps keep your brain young and active. Maybe I should quit complaining about adults mentioning to me that they have watched me all their lives and how my vision is a blur and how all of my brothers are much, much, much older than I am and, instead, focus on working out more...or, more accurately, at all. I think I'm going to give that some serious consideration right after this afternoon's episodes of Murder She Wrote and Matlock.

Has this ever happened to you? You're having a nice conversation with a friend and, suddenly, you notice his or her eyes are watering like Emeril shoved an onion down their boxers. Or, you get approached by the producers of This Old House to assist them in stripping the varnish off the bannisters in Nathan Hale's outhouse. (Hale had a very elaborate outhouse.) Maybe your dog has been offering you a rawhide chew stick with "Extra Tartar Control." Yes, it is that time of the year. The fifth season that nobody wants to talk about. Right between Winter and Spring, here comes Bad Breath. As we mentioned on FirstNews, Tuesday morning, according to researchers, this is the worst time of the year for exhaling stuff that maybe doing damage to the ozone layer. Mostly because of folks having colds and flu which can lead to nasal drainage and mucous build-up and I hope you are not eating right now. Of course, bad breath comes from bacteria in the mouth which can be combated by brushing and flossing. However, in rare instances, the breath may be so atrocious that the brush and floss may refuse to enter. "I'm not going in there no matter how much Crest you pile on my bristles. You tell the ADA to come and see me, personally, if they have a problem. I'd rather you use me to get the gunk out of your grout. By the way, floss is stringing along with me on this decision."

I had a friend in high school who had beyond-bad, bad breath. He knew it. Let's call him "Hal." Short for Hal-itosis. Hal had been told his breath smelled like a variety of things over the years. Like chickens...not the delicious aroma of BBQ or baked...but like real, live chickens. He'd had fishermen ask to drop a line down his throat because "there has to be a carp in there somewhere." His breath actually had a range of odor from just a little stale, on the low end, to the inside of Orson Welles' penny loafers, in the middle, to the waiting room of an elephant proctologist on the far end, no pun intended. No one had actually lived to talk about that end of things, again, no pun intended. It was based on "Hal's" self-reporting and he insisted that on his worst days his breath was, in terms of pungency, all it was cracked up to be, this time, pun intended.

On Saturday nights, when we'd cruise our little town...which took about seven minutes, going 11 miles per hour, three times around...we'd go in separate cars with the windows rolled down, hollering across the median in order to have a conversation. Forget about girls. From afar, they liked him okay. But, up close...well, they never actually got up close. Eventually, "Hal" went to the doctor who, once he came to, prescribed some sort of heavy-duty mouthwash. Listerine on steroids. The last I heard, "Hal" was required to register with the Department of Homeland Security as a "PWMDIMIO." That stands for "Possible Weapon of Mass Destruction If Mouth Is Open."

Still, if I could talk to "Hal," I would assure him that his was not the worst breath I've ever been overwhelmed by. That distinction belongs to my children. There is nothing like the smell of strep throat breath. Not even teenager breath. When the kids were little and would get strep throat, they'd feel just awful and want to cuddle up on my lap to rest. They looked kind of pathetically cute until they would open their mouths and all the demons from every underworld would pounce on the nostrils. There was one time when all four had this condition within days of each other. It was in that period that my hair turned gray, my eyesight took a turn for the worse and I developed a small limp. I guess "Strep Throat Breath" supports what the researchers say about this time of the year.

Just the same, I'll never hear or think of the phrase "Breath of Spring" the same way again.

This coming Saturday is Saint Patrick's Day, of course, and KMBC will be bringing you the big parade starting at 11:00 a.m. It is also a good time to remind everyone about the trip to Ireland that my wife and I will be hosting, along with Holiday Vacations, from August 27 through September 5. You can get more information by calling 1-800-826-2266. Another great way to learn more about the adventure is by attending one of the informational meetings set up for next week. Here's the info:

Tuesday March 20 at 10:00 a.m., 2:00 p.m., and 7:00 p.m.
Holiday Inn Sports Complex
4011 Blue Ridge Cutoff
KCMO

Wednesday March 21 at 10:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.
Holiday Inn Mission-Overland Park
7240 Shawnee Mission Parkway
Overland Park, KS

At the get-togethers, you will see a great multi-media presentation about the trip and get your questions answered by the experts...the friendly tour directors. (Rest assured, you will not have to depend on me for anything important on the trip itself!)

Speaking of St. Patrick and Ireland, I plan on wearing the same tie everyday this week. I know what you're thinking: "So what?" Well, you might be surprised how many folks watching actually notice such things. Frankly, it is much more of a test for the female journalists on the air. If they change their hair-style or wear the same outfit too close together, the e-mails and voice-mails do come rolling in. Anyway, I have a great Disney/St. Patrick's tie to wear this year thanks to a viewer named Don Nelson. Back, just after the holidays, Don sent me several fun ties which he had worn when teaching Sunday School and to entertain his children. Now, according to Don, he doesn't have the same opportunities to show off his fun ties anymore but he wanted to find a way that they would still get used. Over the years, he has noticed some of the other unusual ties I've worn and he knows I visit lots of school so, in his great generosity, he sent them to me. I've worn a number of them already and, this week, I get to use the Mickey Mouse as St. Patrick tie!

That tie is probably a better way to celebrate than what I used to do back in grade school. This was during a period when I was convinced we were, as a family, really Irish. (There is a great-grandmother with the name of Hennigan, but that is about it.) As I've mentioned before, I am, basically, a mutt. A little Swedish...some German...Danish...French...English...that bit of Irish...possible sliver of Native American...and, for all I know, a pinch of Golden Retriever. But, in grade school, I went all out for that small dash of Irish heritage and dyed my hair green. Having dark hair and using food coloring, you could only see the green tint if I stood in direct sunlight and pointed at my head. I was no Dean Stockwell. (He was in a movie called The Boy With Green Hair back in the 1948.) This was in the days before you could by those aerosol cans of hair-paint. Today, if a person wanted to, they could really go for the green.

So, unless someone forwards me a can of the green spray stuff, the tie will do just fine! Please, if you are interested in taking your St. Patrick's Day celebration to the real starting point, attend one of the meetings next week. Any country with a Blarney Stone is perfect for a weatherman.

The other day I was looking at an on-line version of the Madison, Wisconsin newspaper I used to read when I lived up north. One column that caught my eye was an interview with the CEO of a major Wisconsin-based company. It was called "Talking With The CEO" or something. Don't you think they could dress that title up a little? Maybe "Banter With The Biggies" or "How's It Going, Headcheese?" or "Boss Bites" or "Nothing But Nice." Wait a minute. That last one was one of the phrases I used for a forecast page the other day. See what happens when work gets in the way of reading the paper? Anyway, this particular day, the Honcho in question had a very familiar name. It turned out to be a kid I went to school with all through junior and senior high. We were actually fairly good friends. In fact, now that he is a highly-paid, well-respected mover and shaker, I think it is more accurate to say we were very, very, very bestest friends.


He was always an extremely smart person with a great, dry wit. When we graduated he went right into college. Did well. Got a good job and worked his way up to running the place. (I moved to Las Vegas and was a front desk clerk in one of the few hotels that didn't have gambling or a restaurant or entertainment. It was not the kind of place where The Rat Pack would have hung out ...not even their elderly aunts would've hung out there.) As I read about my former classmate's success, I thought back to an episode from junior high. The spring play was going to be You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown. Now, the lead role had already been pretty well promised to another friend of mine because he really did have a nearly perfectly round head and a shirt with a stripe on it. Also, he could make his lips do that squiggly stuff the Peanuts characters could do. The part of Snoopy was being played by another kid who always walked around his desk three times before sitting down and had fleas. That left Linus to be cast. I talked my bestest friend...one day to be a corporate titan...into auditioning with me. The truth be told, I figured he didn't have a chance. He really wasn't interested in show biz. He was rather quiet and reserved. Frankly, I assumed I would look that much better by comparison. We both read the lines and sang a song. I walked out of the cafeteria feeling quite sure I would be Linus! Well, the cast-list came out and there it was: He was Linus. I was listed as "chorus." I told myself it was because he just looked more natural carrying a blanket. I was too manly and macho to be believable as quiet, cerebral Linus. Of course, that excuse lost some of it's punch when I was asked to be the understudy for the girl playing Lucy.

I'd like to say that the night of the performance, all the lead characters got stage-fright and the obviously incompetent director turned, with tears in her eyes, to me "Can you ever forgive me for not casting you in the first place? We need you now. Please, carry us to the final curtain!" Being a charitable sort, I played all the roles myself. Then, toward the end of the play, when the crowd wanted more, segued smoothly into my version of the one-man show Mark Twain Tonight, which was heralded by Hal Holbrook as "much better than my sorry efforts!" Well, I'd like to say all of that...but it would be a lie. The show went off without a hitch. Everyone did a great job. I sat, with the other six kids in the "chorus" out in the hall next to the cafeteria. It was the first and last time the kid who played Linus ever went out for a play. Obviously, he had bigger fish to fry involving things like trig, calculus, chemistry, business, world domination.

Now, decades later, "Linus" is the head of a billion-dollar telecommunications company that employs thousands in nearly 30 states. He is on the cutting edge of the very technology I find frightening. Still, I can't help but think that he never would've made it without the confidence- boosting experience of playing Linus back in junior high and he never would've had that chance without his very, very, very bestest friend, Joel Nichols there to encourage him. It seems to me that may be worth some sort of on-going consultant position or lump-some payment or, at least, some free cell-phone minutes.

This weekend we are all supposed to set our clocks ahead one hour so there is more daylight later in the day. Yes, it is an early start to Daylight Saving Time. I do seem to recall, back during the energy crisis of the 1970s, having this start as early as January and February, but, in the last few years, it was more likely to occur in April. No matter when it starts, I'm not sure I'm for it. I've read that Ben Franklin liked the idea way back when--maybe he just wanted more light for carousing in the evening and dark for sleeping in the morning, who needs "early to bed, early to rise?"-- and that it can be helpful to farmers as they can work later into the evening. Kids like it because it extends their outdoor playtime. It always seemed kind of cool to be outside at 9:00 p.m. and still have some light. Although, when I was little, it did tend to push the starting time for our Kick-the-Can games back quite significantly. Kick-the-Can, or KtC for the true aficionados, was the game of choice in our neighborhood. It had everything: the loud, obnoxious sound of a tin can being launched down the sidewalk...the stealthy movements necessary to sneak up and kick it again without getting nabbed...the always-present possibility that the person who is "It" will never, ever not be "It"...best of all, the fact that the best time to play was in the dark, so it had the feel of being something naughty. One kid, who was subsequently banned from KtC for life, was naughty and, surreptitiously put a large brick in the can when he turned it over...you could still kick it out of place but not without major pain to your foot. Dr. Scholl, apparently, never encountered this particular distress to your dogs. That "Brick in the Can" episode was our sport's equivalent of baseball's steroids scandal. Although, on the plus side, it did lead to an environmentally-friendly, water-saving technique applied in the toilets of America. Regardless, I really loved that game. To this day, I have to be restrained when walking through the coffee aisle at the grocery store.

Over the years, I've had people tell me that they figure the springing ahead of DST is hard on somebody who has to get up around 2:00 a.m. With it staying light later, getting to sleep would be more problematic and, consequently, waking up would be harder. I can see the logic of that but, frankly, after this many years of being up in the middle of the night with the skunks and possums, the time change doesn't make much of a difference. (This morning, for example, I saw a skunk cross the road and he wasn't even wearing a watch. After seeing me, he immediately jumped into a basin of tomato soup to get the stench of "weatherman" off!) The only conflict I have with the time change is self-induced because I go around and change most of our clocks early on Saturday...not Sunday....which then drives my wonderful wife to distraction. I always leave one clock on the real time but I don't tell her which. It's just a little game I play. Of course, Monday morning rolls around and I can't find any of my socks and underwear.

My mom always says she will be tired for the next six months, until the time goes back to "normal." Maybe we should just set a time and go with it. However, if we do that what would TV folks babble about leading up to this weekend? As for me, all this talk about the time change has me feeling inspired. My wife is always encouraging me to be more neighborly so I think it is time for a neighborhood-wide Kick The Can Tournament. A whole new kind of March Madness! Now, all I need to do is find a can and my old brick.

We had a story, Tuesday morning, about a pair of women in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, who go bowling every week. The thing that makes this a story is their ages. Audrey is 90 and Bea is 93. They are a part of a team and say they will keep rolling along until they get kicked off, something the other team members say will never happen because, as long as Bea and Audrey are on the team, the others will not be the oldest! The story had me pining for pins...longing for lanes...aching for alleys...strikes and spares dancing in my head. Yes, bowling--a sport where a Turkey is a good thing-- is the perfect endeavor for me.

I actually bowled in a league for awhile when I lived in Las Vegas. The competition was on Sunday nights at the famous Showboat Lanes. I'd seen the place a lot on TV, growing up, because we always watched the Pro Bowler's Tour on ABC with Chris Schenkel. As with most families in our town, bowling was important. For a long time, I thought Dick Weber was one of the Apostles. I was not a very good bowler, but for a kid from Wisconsin to enter a place like the Showboat, with what seemed like a 1000 lanes, it was well worth the humiliation.

Today, places for bowling are called "family fun centers" or "Indoor Entertainment Complexes" or, at the very least, "bowling lanes." When I was a kid it was a bowling alley. Norb's Bowling Alley. I think the owner's first name was Norbert, which, coincidentally, is the technical name for the sound made when your slightly-too-chubby thumb pops out of the bowling ball at release: "norberrrrrt." Norb's was in the basement of the movie theater. There were four lanes. It was an inexpensive place to have some fun. When I was in school, people didn't seem to travel as much during Spring and Winter breaks. So, after a couple days sledding or skating--both of which you could usually do at Spring break as well as Winter break-- or just hanging around outdoors, most of us kids would end up at the bowling alley. We didn't have those bumpers that you can use now. If you threw all gutter balls, that was that. I guess, in this day and age, we fear our children may be crushed for all time if they don't knock down a few pins. There was a story in the news last week about a study that seems to indicate that all this concern about "self-esteem" may really just make people self-centered and unwilling to help others, so, maybe, a gutter ball now and then would be better for the world at large.

My grandma lived at a retirement village called Bluffview Courts that had a bowling team. She was in her 70s and 80s when she bowled for the "Pepper Pots." I'm not sure who came up with that name but I know my brother called the vehicle that took the team into town, the "Varicose Van." My grandma was an integral part of the team despite the fact that her ball didn't exactly zoom down the lane. It kind of kerplunk--kerplunk--kerplunked down the lane. You could almost see the pins laughing at the other end. Once the ball left my grandma's hand, you could go to the refreshment stand, get a soda and a bratwurst, catch up on whatever game was on the one TV in the corner, play a game of pool, visit the restroom, finish your taxes, wash and wax your car, get into an argument about whether or not Richard Nixon should resign, order and eat a chocolate sundae for dessert, watch President Nixon's resignation speech, walk the dog, see Gerald Ford sworn in as president, get your teeth cleaned and change your socks before the ball hit the pins. No matter, she loved to bowl and, more often than not, notched a pretty decent score.

At a certain point, a couple of guys decided to put a new bowling alley in town. They called it Mar-A-Kay Lanes. Not just an "alley" anymore. I think it was named after their wives, perhaps, in hopes that if it was named for them, the wives wouldn't mind all the time the husbands were spending at the bowling alley...I mean lanes. It had 12 lanes and was bright and well-lit. Part of the charm of Norb's had been how dark and claustrophobic it was. In Wisconsin, especially in the dead of winter, the less clearly you can see your neighbors, the better. After awhile, the name changed from Mar-A-Kay to Riviera Bowl. It's on the Wisconsin River but, from what I hear, that's a lot like the Riviera.

Anyway, after seeing that story Tuesday morning, I think it might be time to shine up the old ball, stretch out the shoes and hit the lanes. If you see me, stop and say hello. I'll be the gray-headed, paunchy, middle-aged man on lane 9...using the bumpers.

The title of this piece of puffery sounds like that old Sesame Street song One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others. Except for the fact that none of them seem to have an obvious relationship with the others. The thing that ties them all together is this past weekend...actually just the 24 hour period from Friday night through Saturday night.

Friday Night: My wonderful wife and I went to a big concert. It was there that I learned I am too old to go to a big concert. I can understand enthusiasm and having a good time, I think, and most of the folks in our particular section were well-behaved in their revelry. But, a few just took the party attitude to a new party altitude. I've never quite understood why you'd pay good money to hear someone sing and, then, sing along to every song...off key. Or, pay the money and then talk and talk and talk and talk. You can do both of those things for free in your car. Then, there was the screaming. After about six songs by the headliner, we just had to leave. I was just recovering my hearing from an Aaron Carter concert I had taken our daughter to about five years ago when the high-pitched hooting set in. We, and others around us, tried the half-turn but got nowhere. A few even did a full-turn with serious glare, attempting to moderate the overly-boisterous behavior. Nothing. No response except louder screaming and singing. As for actually saying something directly, I admit I am a little gun-shy on that point. Years ago, at a movie, I turned around to ask a couple if they could please quit talking and, before I could open my mouth, one of them said "Oh, you're our favorite weatherman. We watch you all the time." Well, I need all the viewers I can fool, so I just smiled. Anyway, I think my concert going days may be behind me. The traffic. The full-body frisk at the door...necessary, I guess, but a sad commentary on the times. The lack of self-control on the part of a very few others in the crowd. I think, from now on, I'll just hunker down with a glass of milk and a pile of Oreos and put an old Sinatra concert on the VCR. I should've listened to my mom who called Friday afternoon and told me I needed to go to bed early because I don't get enough sleep. She is 500 miles away and still knows best.

Saturday Morning: A couple years ago, our optometrist told me that it wouldn't be long before I'd probably need bifocals. Within hours of the visit, his prediction seemed to come true. But, being stubborn, I put off a return visit until now. I told him I was pretty sure he'd done something nefarious to my peepers in order to make his prognosis accurate. Well, I now need to get something for my eyes that will allow me to see far away and read, too. Lately, for public appearances, I've had to ask the folks doing the preparations to please make sure the printing on whatever I'm supposed to read is nice and big. By now, it requires printing on the side of cardboard taken from refrigerator boxes. Also, the contact lenses I have feel like they're made of Velcro. I've had them since well before the turn of the century. Of course, the good doctor used those drops to dilate my pupils. When I walked outside the sunshine knocked me on my fanny. The rest of the day I looked like a frightened meerkat.

Saturday Afternoon: As I mentioned a few days back, we had a new-old bed delivered. It has required a bit of a make-over for the bedroom. With a real bedroom set for the first time in nearly 20 years, it became necessary to straighten things up including getting all the books that had stacked up off the floor...all the potential E-Bay treasures either sold or just donated...all the gifts and goodies put in better places. To accomplish this, my wife brought home three cheap little bookshelves that I was instructed to assemble. It had one of those diagrams indicating that the only tools needed were a hammer and a screwdriver. Well, I put the first two together in fairly short order when it hit me that I had made a major blunder. The extra piece of pseudo-wood left over from each shelf should have tipped me off. I had put the bottom shelf in upside-down. So, the "hidden" connectors weren't hidden at all and the extra piece meant to act as a "skirt" wouldn't fit. I took both completed shelves apart, flipped the bottom, then did the third shelf. One of the shelves already had books on it and, in my hurried frustration, I just tilted the thing to dump the books out....without thinking that the two interior shelves were just sitting on pegs so they fell out as well, directly on my big toe. After a rather spirited litany of displeasure directed at the inanimate object, I finished my task. The instructions said the assembly of the shelf would be about a 15 minute job. I could have read most the books on the floor in the time it took me to get these things together. Well, the room looks better. The books are off the floor. My wife is happy and my big toe has almost stopped throbbing.

Saturday Night: It was my great honor to serve as co-host of the Miss Wooded Hills and Miss Leavenworth County competition in Basehor, Kansas. It is part of the Miss America system. The real host of the event was former Miss Kansas Teen USA, Sarah Jump. She did a great job keeping everything on track. The ten contestants were terrific, as were the hard-working judges. The two winners, who will compete for Miss Kansas this summer, are Lindsay Hoover named Miss Wooded Hills and Paula Prosser crowned Miss Leavenworth County. If you go to the Miss Wooded Hills website you can see their smiling faces. They have one photo there with me standing between the two winners. The caption could easily read "Local Girls Help Grandpa To His Seat." Congratulations to all who competed as well as those volunteers who made it such a fun night.

So, now I will listen to a CD of the performer we couldn't really hear on Friday night while getting used to my new bifocal lenses from Saturday morning as I page through a book from the shelves I assembled on Saturday afternoon before putting on the extra crown I sneaked home after the pageant Saturday night.

No doubt about it. For the Kansas City area, March came in like a LION. A rather agitated lion, at that. And, of course, keeping up the long and fine tradition of weather-folks using as many tired and unsurprising turns-of-phrase as possible, I said just that on FirstNews, this morning. If the saying holds true, then we should have a quiet finish to the month. On the other hand, sometimes March stays kind of lion-esque for the whole 31 days. (Now I've engaged in another long-standing tradition of weather-people by equivocating...staying nicely on the fence...giving myself plenty of leeway. An entire course at weather-person school is devoted to how to do this kind of "maybe this...maybe that" stuff. I got an "A.") In Wisconsin, March seems to hang on forever. Cold. Damp. Gray. Garrison Keillor once said that God created March so that people who don't drink will know what a hangover is like.

Years ago, I did a story about the origin of that "In like a lion, out like a lamb" adage. I wanted to go back and look at it again for this bloggolio but discovered that the TV station has transferred all my old feature stories to highly flammable film and then stored them near the furnace. I do remember that in that particular story, I used our little Dachshund-Chihuahua mix, Jingles. Although Jingles has long since gone to that giant fire hydrant in the sky, I still have folks mention him every now and then. Anyway, for the story, my talented wife, Jessica, used cardboard to create a lion's mane and a lamb's woolly head to slip onto Jingles' noggin as a visual aid. You could see the loathing and embarrassment in the dog's eyes. For many nights after that, I would wake up to find Jingles staring at me and muttering. I'm just lucky he couldn't reach the silverware drawer. Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't figure out some way to get to the sharp objects. Once he had worked his way up onto the kitchen table and ate his weight in Easter ham before we discovered him.

If I remember correctly, I found a reference to March and lions and lambs in Shakespeare and other information indicating it has to do with the constellations in the sky as the month starts and ends. The real saying has March coming in like a lion because, still being winter, it is usually cold and nasty, and going out like a lamb, because spring has arrived and it should be sunny and warmer. We tend to turn it topsy-turvy and say coming in one way results in going out another. Over the years, if we have a snowy beginning I've said "March is coming in like a polar bear." Clever, huh? I also like to use animals like aardvarks and platypussessesses or platypi...not to be confuse with "plate of pie," which sounds pretty good about now. A couple days ago I said the first day of March would be cool and soggy...like Fonzie in a bathtub. That has turned out to be partially true but it is actually coming in more like a weather guy: Windy and All Wet!