Happy Halloween to all! Hope you have a fun, safe and pleasantly terrifying day. We've reached a new point in our household's Halloween situation. Not too long ago, the planning for and working on just the right costume started on the day after Halloween...for the next year! Between my wife's amazing imagination...which has allowed her to actually think I resemble George Clooney, from time to time...and my childrens' ideas about how they wish to portray themselves, the kids have been everything from Butterfingers bar to a box of popcorn to a spider with all the legs. With four kids, my wife has come up with an amazing number of aliases for them. Two of the kids, Alex and Samantha, were genuinely interested in wearing something creative and worthy of comment. Taylor wanted to be as gross or frightening as possible. Harrison was and is all about the candy. Whatever fashion would get the most goodies, that would be his choice. As I mentioned, today, only Harrison is still planning to go trick or treating and he's fine with a mask for his face and a pillow case for his bounty!

As a kid, I put together costumes with whatever was around the house. There was no such thing as buying a complete costume down at the store. I was, quite often, a clown thanks to wearing baggy clothes and painting my nose with lipstick. Sometimes, I was an old-fashioned hobo, looking a lot like the aforementioned clown but carrying a stick with a bundle on the end. Other times I was a "business man." This looked a lot like the hobo without the stick and the clown without the nose. I became a little old man once by dressing like the business man but adding a white wig and cane. (Of course, those additions did prevent my Great Aunt Lulu from leaving the house that evening.) One year, I was feeling very creative and went as a pirate, which, looking back, was actually like the clown crossed with the hobo wearing a patch over one eye. READER BEWARE: THE NEXT SENTENCE OR TWO IS A LITTLE UNSEEMLY! One of my brothers always threatened to paint his face red, fill his mouth with mashed potatoes and go door-to-door as a large boil. He wanted me to dress up like a surgical lance. Another time this demented sibling considered shaving his head, painting it blue and portraying a roll-on anti-perspirant.

As a desk clerk at the Sheraton in Madison, Wisconsin, I went as a "Joel-in-the-Box." I wore black tights which were actually quite flattering to my legs, which, as I've mentioned before, are the only part of my body that still look fairly young. If I could enter my personal calves in a state fair, I think I'd place in the top three. Then, I put a big box over my head, with my arms hanging out the sides. I added make-up and a court-jester hat. Now, having my arms sticking straight out, did make waiting on customers a challenge. I was a bit like a big, square Kool-Aid man.

Of course, my dream costume is to dress up like an empty hot-dog with a great, big smile. That way I could say I was a "Happy Hollow-Weenie!"

Tuesday morning on FirstNews, we had a story from Martin Augustine about the over-abundance of deer in parts of the metro. Martin was surrounded by his furry friends. It was as if Snow White had become a news reporter. The wildlife looked very much at ease around Martin. Apparently, they could sense that he is a calm, gentle and decent person. What you didn't see, after they turned off the camera, was that the woodland creatures actually helped Martin put away his equipment. There was a little chipmunk carrying his microphone. A couple of blue-birds lifting the cables. A team of squirrels toting his reporter's notebook. Martin, himself, was singing as they left the scene of his report. Anyway, Martin's antler angle got me thinking of my childhood. Frankly, everything puts me in mind of some aspect of my younger days...before my middle was sagging and my hairline was lagging.

Now, I know there are folks who find the idea of deer hunting a little off-putting, but when I was in school, hunting season was a nearly sacred period of time. Lots of kids would get out of school to hit the woods...extending their Thanksgiving Break. My dad had been a hunter in his early days, but by the time I came along, he had long since stopped. Apparently, having four sons was enough of an adventure. He still used to dress up in his blaze orange coat and insulated pants and go stand in the woods, but that had nothing to do with hunting. I really don't want to get into that right now. Anyway, I stayed in school with the other non-hunters. It worked out pretty well. We didn't do very much because the teachers did not want the missing kids to be left behind. We played games and read a lot. Some of our teachers were hunters but had to be at work, anyway, so, they'd put a salt-lick in the middle of the room and hide behind their branch and brush-covered desks just waiting for us to enter the room. It was a little creepy.
Still, you felt a part of the season since the results of others' hunting were all over town...on top of cars...in the trees...peeking from inside garages and sheds. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, you could easily tell which kid had been hunting: they had day after day after day of evidence in their lunch buckets. Venison sausage. Venison chili. (From a particularly cold morning, apparently.) Venison soup. Cold, leftover venison roast. Venison meatballs. Creamed venison...which seems a little redundant, if you ask me. Venison jerky, which must have come from an obnoxious deer.

You'd also hear lots of talk of "points" as in an eight-point buck or a ten-pointer. I was quite old before I figured out that they were talking about the points on the antlers. For years, I just assumed that, after getting the deer, you'd lift the white-tail and see the number of points awarded. It was confusing for us as we got to driving age and "getting points" became a bad thing. In my case, I've usually missed the "point" so often on so many topics it just becomes totally pointless.

I never got the taste for venison and I never tried hunting. One of my brothers, who shall remain nameless...Craig...had convinced me as a small child that every deer we saw hauled out of the woods in the fall was actually Bambi's mother, father, brother, sister, cousin, aunt, uncle or close personal friend. When you're about three and have made it through the cinematic trauma of watching Bambi, that kind of postscript is troubling. Craig told it like a gruesome Paul Harvey "The Rest of The Story" and it stuck with me.

To this day, when I see the deer out in the fields as I drive to work, I can hear them plotting against me. I roll down my window and yell "I never did the hunting thing! I never ate the venison! Yes, I'm from Wisconsin but I didn't do it! I ate cheese! Lots and lots of cheese." Of course, that exclamation is not acceptable to the cows in the next pasture. This happens every morning. I'm in a rut. But don't say the word "rut" around the deer, either.

For nearly two decades, my family and I have been regular visitors to Branson. We've gone often enough that one of "firefighters" manning the Fire In The Hole ride, at Silver Dollar City, knows us on first sight. When we first went down, there were only two little kids along...then, three...then, four. Now, we are counting backwards and are back down to two kids that can find the time to accompany mom and dad. Next year, it will probably just be Harrison, the youngest.

Speaking of Harrison, he came home with a new favorite star: CHARO! Yes, Charo of "Cuchi-Cuchi" fame. She was appearing with the legendary Andy Williams at his Moon River Theatre. Now, there is much more to Charo than the "Cuchi-Cuchi." She is a world-class classical guitarist. Also, the energy she puts into her performance is second to none. She is all over the stage and, from time to time, off the stage! When Charo closed her show with Love Is In The Air, it was more than just a song for at least one member of the audience. Harrison was smitten. (That word sounds much better, and less actionable, than "obsessed.")

Of course, Andy Williams, himself, was perfect. He sang the hits with some nice surprises thrown in. His voice sounds better than ever and his on-stage manner is the same mid-western friendliness we all remember from his hit TV show. The band is stupendous. The Moon River Theatre is one of prettiest places to see a show anywhere in the country. All-in-all, it was a great Thursday evening.

The next day, for lunch, we went to Andy Williams' Moon River Grill. While there, the waiter, Clint, mentioned that Andy and Charo usually come over to the restaurant after the show to visit with folks. Harrison's eyes lit up. A chance to actually meet Charo. We spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening riding roller coasters. The kids did Powder Keg, ten times in a row and a total of 18 times over the two days. They rode Ozark Wildcat about a dozen times. In the old days, I could make it, too. Now, about three rides and I'm done.

We went back to the hotel around 8:00 p.m. on Friday to get cleaned up a little. I'd like to say that Harrison took a 30 minute shower and applied liberal amounts of after-shave in advance of his potential meeting with the object of his desires. That would make for a funnier story. However, since in just telling this tale I'm running the risk of having him never speak to me again, I'd better not embellish. We meandered down the street to the Moon River Grill, arriving around 9:00 as suggested by Clint. The place was pretty quiet. We got our window-side booth...ordered french fries and desserts. Well, my wife ordered a salad. Her and her annoying will-power. As Harrison and I devoured our chocolate Volcano Cakes, he was murmuring vague threats against Clint..."He'd better be right about this! She'd better show up!" I urged Harrison to get the chocolate off his face just in case. He, naturally, used his shirt sleeve. Harrison was pretty clear that he would have plenty to say if Charo showed up! He was also mentally charting out his dance moves.

Just as we finished up our weird little order, a white SUV pulled up and out stepped Charo. True, she was holding hands with a man but Harrison ignored that. Soon, she was in the room. At this point, let me mention that Andy Williams was also there visiting each table. It had been about 16 years since I was lucky enough to interview him in the dressing room of his then-new theatre. He was gracious enough, this time around, to pretend he remembered that chat. Anyway, you couldn't meet a kinder, gentler superstar than Andy Williams. Meanwhile, back at Charo Watch 2007:

She came over to our table and asked Harrison his name to which he suavely replied "My name is Harumph eokb lkmmm gole siile smxx effghelvel." That is an exact quote. He got a little tongue-tied. Well, not just a little. The fact is he could have earned a merit badge for an entire Scout troop with the knot he created in his taste bud buddy. His helpful sister, Samantha, whipped out her cell-phone to capture this moment for posterity as Charo pulled Harrison in close for the photo-op. It is a great shot and Harrison looks pretty calm, cool and collected, proving the camera does, sometimes, lie. Charo visited for awhile about speaking Spanish and playing the guitar then moved onto the next happy table. It was at that moment that Harrison became coherent again.

Of course, you're thinking that this interest in Charo will eventually run out of steam and you're probably right, but, until then I guess we'd better get used to a 12 year old yelling "Cuchi-Cuchi" at random and whistling Malaguena in his sleep.

Well, I asked for it. Last week, our second oldest son, Taylor, came home from school complaining about how lousy he felt. His throat was scratchy. His head was stuffed up. He sounded pretty rough. Instead of expressing parental empathy, I got cocky. "Oh, quit your (pronounced 'kwitcher') whining (pronounced 'whinin')! I am over twice your age and I haven't gotten sick in years! Ha Ha Ha!" I sneeringly replied. Within minutes, I could feel the "bleeeaaachh" settle in on me.

When the kids were little, I picked up any germ they brought home. They were like Petri dishes carrying Power Ranger back-packs. Whatever the bacteria or is that bacterium...or is the bacterium where the bacteria go for lunch? Anyhow, every little bug eventually attacked my throat. I firmly believe this has been a sign from above that, just maybe, broadcasting is not the true career path for me. In the early days of FirstNews, I'd have to croak my way through the show a couple times a year. This was before e-mail and voice-mail but I'd always get a phone call from the same, kindly, worried woman telling me that my laryngitis was due to some very serious disease. She told me this for five years.

I am sincerely thankful for her concern and for all the remedies that get sent my way when things get froggy. Really, when my voice goes it is not just a frog...it is the whole pond. People have said try tea with honey and lemon...warm, not-yet-firm jello...whiskey (can you imagine how completely unintelligible my forecasts would be if I did that? Okay, not that different.)...Airborne plus Red Hots! That last idea came from some ladies at a Price Chopper in Grandview. The Airborne is good stuff but the Red Hots scare me!

The only real way to get one's voice back, according to medical types I've heard from, is plenty of water plus sleep. Oh, and keep your big yapper closed, for a change! Of course, the producers and co-anchors of FirstNews, as well as the management here at KMBC, are very supportive and encourage me to stay home...even when I'm feeling and sounding okay.

Feeling under the weather really tends to cramp my style. For example, a major part of my parenting technique has to do with raising my voice to a noticeable volume. Known by some children in my house as "yelling." They all love it when my voice is shot because crinkling my brow and furiously snapping my fingers is much easier to ignore.

The upshot of all this is that Taylor, the original "host body" of this particular head-filling sludge, is just fine, now, while I still sound like the poor possessed kid in The Exorcist. At least my head is just stuffed up and not spinning like a top...yet.

Back in the 60s and 70s, in the little Wisconsin town where I grew up, there was a movie house called The Midway Theater. They called it that, I think, because it was almost midway down the main thoroughfare called Water Street. Actually, the original name was "A Little To The Right Of Midway Theater," since we were mostly Germans in town and liked things to be exact but a few of the less rigid Scandinavians among us said we should be a bit flexible. Anyway, one of the great joys of growing up in a small town was the freedom you could have, even as a little kid. It was easy to jump on a bike or just stroll with a group of friends downtown to see a matinee for a buck. This was, after all, Wisconsin, so that meant you actually had to brink a buck...six-point or seven-point, at least. Okay, that's not true. What is true, is that I spent many a happy Saturday afternoon in that theater watching movies...bad, good and so-so. They showed a lot of Jerry Lewis movies which I enjoyed. Although it was always more fun to watch those at home with my brother, Craig, because, without even realizing it, he would perfectly mimic every facial expression Jerry Lewis made on screen. In later years, Craig would start to impersonate the facial looks of Meryl Streep, but that was just weird.

In a slightly earlier age, Saturday matinee kids looked forward to westerns and some science fiction. We had horror flicks! Now, I'm not talking about the extra-gory stuff that passes for "entertainment" now. I mean a slightly more genteel scare-a-rama. The series of frightening films I remember best starred the great Vincent Price as Dr. Phibes. In my head it seems like there was a new Dr. Phibes classic every year but, in doing the vast amount of research necessary for this almost daily bloggerania...yes, I do lots of research...I really need a staff!...I discovered there were only two such films made: The Abominable Dr. Phibes and Dr. Phibes Rises Again. There were supposed to be some others like The Brides of Phibes and The Seven Fates of Phibes but they never got made. I'm still waiting for Dr. Phibes-The Musical...ON ICE! The basic story of Dr. Phibes, a world class organist and Biblical scholar, is that he was supposedly killed in a car accident rushing to the side of his ill wife who, consequently, died on the operating table. Phibes exacts vengeance on the attending surgeons with the Ten Plagues of Egypt from the Old Testament.

Well, the other day as I was looking through the TV listings hoping to find as many educational programs as possible...you're not buying that, are you?...I noticed that The Abominable Dr. Phibes was going to be on the air. I set the DVR deal to tape it. I guess it is not really "taping" anymore but that's what I'm calling it. Some dads want to take their young son to a favorite fishing hole or a storied baseball field. I wanted to share Dr. Phibes with my youngest son, Harrison. Vincent Price was a magnificent actor in all kinds of movies. He was particularly important in bringing lots of Edgar Allen Poe stories to the screen. Some of you may remember him from Hollywood Squares or as the model for the Sesame Street Muppet Vincent Twice Vincent Twice. But, for me, he will always be Dr. Phibes.

So, Friday night, Harrison and I settled in to watch the movie. It was a bit slower paced than I remembered but still creepy from the get-go. (Coincidently, that is the exact phrase my in-laws use to describe me: slow and creepy.) I kept telling Harrison that there was one scene that still bothered me some 30 years later and I wanted to see if he could pick it out. Now, Harrison has watched a lot of old movies with me over the years and is a very patient viewer. He does not need constant action and movement and noise in his cinematic choices. So, he was fine with how Dr. Phibes was unfolding. The British inspectors have some hilarious repartee in between Dr. Phibes' administering of plagues. It wasn't long before the scene that has haunted me since I was younger than Harrison, appeared. Harrison called it. SPOILER ALERT! If you plan on watching the movie at some point based on this sorta-kinda review, STOP reading NOW. Also, if you have any good sense and value your time, STOP READING NOW! Okay, here's the way it plays out: One of the surgeons is a pilot. He gets into his little plane and takes off. While airborne, a herd of mice...a flock? A gaggle? A team? A pod? Anyway, a bunch of mice and rats climb over the back of the guy's seat and start their own in-flight meal. Meanwhile, Dr. Phibes watches from a nearby field as the plane careens into the countryside. It is disturbing. To this day, I look behind me when I fly or, for that matter, get into a car. Also, I don't fully trust all the cute little animated mice of our society. You never know what their true intentions are.

I'm not going to give away any other plot points or scary stuff...it might make for a good Halloween Party movie. But, I will tell you that Harrison loved it. I was still frightened by it and, truth be told, my wife hated it. To be fair, she was reading a magazine more than watching the movie and I really don't think you can mix Dr. Phibes with an article entitled "18 Ways To Know If Your Husband Is A Giant Loser!"

Well, it has happened again. Obviously, people can only work with me for a limited time before they beg for release! Over the years, I've had the honor of sharing the FirstNews anchor desk with Maria Antonia, Lara Moritz, Jim Flink, Jere Gish, Donna Pitman and others. I've also worked with almost every other 'niner as they were recruited to fill in over the years. But, clearly, at a certain point, they all decided they simply could not stand working with me. So, this morning, it was a new almost-dawn on FirstNews...The Kris Ketz Era! Mr. Ketz will be joining Donna while Jere moves to weekend FirstNews with Dion Lim. Both Kris and Jere will continue to report for the evening newscasts.

Actually, this is not really Kris' FirstNews debut. Back in the early days, he filled in on a very regular basis whenever Maria was away. In fact, on December 14, 1992, it was Mr. Ketz on the desk with me when a very important phone call came in. Some of you may remember when the show was done from what looked more like a kitchen table than a news desk. (Between you and me, I kind of miss that more comfortable look.) Also, back then, FirstNews was on for an hour from six to seven. Well, about 6:15 a.m., the phone on the set rang...an odd occurence anyway...and it was my wife, Jessica. She told me that, based on how she was feeling, we would be having our third child that day. She told me that she had called the friend who was heading over to watch the boys and I could come home after the show...no big rush. By the third baby, you understand that, in most cases, you do have some time before the big arrival. I hung up and told Kris, "Well, it's baby time at our house again." He immediately told me to hit the road: "You've got to get going...NOW!" I explained that there was time but Mr. Ketz insisted I hit the bricks. After the commercial break, I told the folks at home that I was heading home for baby duty while Mr. Ketz held down the FirstNews fort. I found out later, that the EMT pros in Johnson County had called the station to offer their assistance. I'm sure that happened for two reasons: 1) The EMTs are terrific people and 2) Kris Ketz reported it which made it a big story!

Kris' news credentials are unassailable. He's been here in KC for every major news story of the last quarter century. But, more important for us on FirstNews, he has a great sense of humor and an infectious laugh. I have also been called "infectious" but I don't think it was meant to be a compliment. On Friday night's 10:00 news, Kris' longtime co-anchor Kelly Eckerman handed Kris a new alarm clock. However, this first morning, he woke up before the alarm. That may change as the days go by. For example, I have five alarms that go off. Then, when Mr. Ketz arrived this morning, Donna handed him some gourmet coffee. Johnny Rowlands let Kris touch Newschopper 9. I'm saving my gift, which will be a wheelbarrow to deliver Mr. Ketz to his limo when the reality of having to work with me...at 5 in the morning...really settles in.

So, get ready for a whole new voice, face and laugh on FirstNews: The Kris Ketz Era is underway!

As you have probably heard or read other places, the last of Frank Sinatra's Rat Pack stepped onto that big stage in the sky this week. Joey Bishop, the resident emcee and comedian of the bunch, was 89 when he passed away on Wednesday. As I've mentioned before in this silly space, I was and remain a big Frank Sinatra fan which, by association, made me a Rat Pack fan. The first Sinatra song I remember latching onto was That's Life. I would walk around the house singing about being "a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king." Of course, the lyrics are a bit less swaggering when delivered by a five year old with an Oreo in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. This was back in the days when radio stations were not so specialized. The local station my dad helped start, for example, was called WVLR-Wisconsin's Very Live Radio! and it had an old-time music show which featured polkas and schottisches and waltzes, a country & western program, a rock n' roll hour, a Swap Shop show. There was also Penny's Patter, hosted by a local woman minister. It was a talk show but not like we endure these days. There was not much political talk or stuff about national issues. Certainly, there were no naughty words unless you count "Doggone it." The issues Pastor Penny covered were usually along the lines of getting kids to do chores around the house or how to macrame' a decorative toilet paper holder that looked like a purple poodle. The most controversial issue that came up from time to time was what to do about the aroma wafting into town from a nearby pig farm. That topic got callers using phrases like "It really stinks!" and "They're just a bunch of pigs!" However, as opposed to today's talk show callers, those words were meant literally not figuratively. But, I digress...I do that an awful lot in these things. If I drove like I write, I'd never get to work. It was on that little, hometown station I first heard Sinatra sing.

I did a documentary about Sinatra when I got to high school. This was back well before digital cameras and computer editing. In fact, my school days came not long after the "Look! Me draw picture on cave wall" era of communication. It was in the making of that special project, that I really started to learn about the other members of the Rat Pack. Robin & The Seven Hoods became a favorite movie about that time. Over the years, I was lucky to see Sinatra perform live a few times. I also got to see Sammy Davis, Jr. and Dean Martin when I lived in Las Vegas. Never saw the other two swingers, Peter Lawford and, the last of the breed, Joey Bishop.

Of course, what goes around comes around. When our now 17 year-old son, Taylor, was in second grade, he and his art teacher would occasionally have little run-ins. This is the same child who, today in high school, is a grand debater and he was honing those skills in elementary school. Once, the teacher said draw a picture of space. Most of the kids drew a bunch of planets and stars. Taylor drew one giant planet with a small moon in orbit around it. The teacher thought he was just being a pill and, maybe he was, but as he ended up arguing in the principal's office, the assignment just said "space" and this was his idea of "space." Not long after that, the instructor gave the class the following assignment: draw a picture of your favorite team. She was probably looking for the Royals or the Chiefs or some other assemblage of athletes. Well, Taylor turned in a picture of three men in suits, ties and fedoras. The teacher thought Taylor was, again, being a bit mischievous and asked "Okay, Taylor, exactly what team is this?" He responded by labelling the three guys with his crayon: "Deano. Frankie. Sammy." His favorite "team" was The Rat Pack.

Be calm! The title of these webby-words has nothing to do with some weird new promotional idea involving KMBC personalities. Anything along that line would probably do more to drive viewers away than entice them. No, I'm referring to the exhibit making its United States debut next year at KC's very own Union Station. It consists of some 250 actual bodies and body parts amazingly preserved. The idea is to see how humans are put together and what the body can do in terms of bones, muscles and, as scientists say "all that other gooey, stringy stuff." I guess it is quite a sight. I'm not sure I'll attend. Just this past weekend I had to scoop up a long-gone possum in our backyard and that maybe about enough life-like, dead stuff for me for awhile. If I'd been thinking, I would have put up a sign in the front saying "Possums Revealed" and charged admission. Extra if you spell possum with an "o."

In Dublin, Ireland at the National Museum, they had an exhibit of Bog Bodies. These are ancient people who somehow, by accident or nefarious means, ended up trapped in the peat bogs. The bogs work their preservative magic and the bodies hold up rather well. It was fascinating even though several observers pointed at me and said "Well, this one here really doesn't look that real."

Actually, the point of this bloggy-poo today is to reiterated what you've heard on our newscasts. TheKansasCityChannel.com is now KMBC.com. What does that have to do with "Bodies Revealed" and bog bodies? Nothing but I thought "Web-site Changes Name" didn't sound as enthralling.

However, just to tie this together, I've heard that, with the new HDTV at Channel 9, all of the anchors will be required to attend Bodies Revealed...for make-up tips.

First, the obvious: Please, watch all the new shows on ABC...KMBC Channel 9. They are all absolutely the best TV has to offer. Okay, now that that's out of the way, let me tell you what I really know about any of the new programs: . Frankly, I have not watched one new show this season. Not one. Part of the reason why has to do with getting up at two in the morning, which makes my personal prime-time viewing fall somewhere in the noon neighborhood. Also, I just don't know if I can make a commitment to another TV show right now. I still have deep feelings for the oldies.

It wasn't always this way. I used to wait with great anticipation for the big thick fall preview issue of the TV Guide. If I had studied my science books as carefully as that little tome, you'd be addressing Dr. Joel Nichols right now. As it is, after watching lots of Medical Center, I do think I could successfully perform an appendectomy. Any takers? No? Okay, your loss as I was offering a free nose-hair clipping at no extra charge this month, not to mention green stamps and the first in my series of Dogs on Water Skis commemorative glasses. Anyway, I would sit down with that steroid-added magazine, which made the regular issues look like pathetic weaklings, and carefully plot out how I was going to see every single new show. It was easier back then with only three networks and no cable. You'd get pretty excited to see a movie that had come out a half dozen years earlier finally coming to the small screen. Instant gratification was a much slower process back then. I would take a magic marker or crayon and plan my tube attack. I probably saw the first episode of more series than was good for me. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that this fall Guide mania stuck with me into adulthood. Then, a couple of things happened...neither being me becoming more mature. First, the official start of the new season became much less defined. Not every show premiered the same week and many didn't make it past a month on the air. So, that created a new season about half way through the first new season. I could sort of tolerate that but, then, TV Guide went and changed its format! It was no longer the little book-like thing that you could page through and pretend it was real literature. No! Now, it looks just like any other magazine and, by necessity, they don't have most listings and they seem to deal with a lot of celebrity news in which I just don't have a great interest.

For awhile, here at KMBC, it was part of my job to be interested in the new season. I would get VHS tapes filled with the new shows which my wife, kids and I would watch. Then, ABC would fly me and about 19 other local TV types out to Hollywood to talk to the stars of the upcoming shows. After the weekend of chatter, I'd come back to Channel 9 and put together previews of the new shows to air on the news.

My wife had a better eye for the shows that had "HIT" potential. She knew, for example, that NYPD Blue would be a big show. I tended to be off the mark. For example, I had high hopes for a show called The Marshal starring Jeff Fahey. What? Who? We watched a show about a genie and the actress who once played Marcia Brady. We watched a show with actor William Devane about a child tennis star called Phenom. It wasn't. We watched a cop show starring Jim Belushi and another with Eric Roberts...or was that the same one? I don't remember. We watched a show that paired Betty White and Marie Osmond and another with George Foreman. Or was that Betty White and George Foreman? We watched Tony Danza in a lot of different programs. Of course, most of the shows would sink like stones by January and, sometimes, during the interviews you could tell the stars knew they were riding a turkey.

The interviews for these shows were set up like a giant Lazy Susan. Except, instead of spinning from salad dressing to celery, you'd spin from celebrity to celebrity to not-quite-a-celebrity. The ABC folks would set up five stations around the pool area with a couple of chairs and cameras at each spot. You'd get your schedule in the morning and proceed to the right area. Each of us got about five minutes to ask questions before being hustled out of the way. It was interesting meeting some of the other local TV people. A couple of brothers from an Oklahoma station always made sure the interview was about them. In fact, on more than one occasion they'd interview each other while the series star just looked on. There was a serious news anchor from DC who had gotten sent on the junket by accident and he had no idea who he was talking to at any given moment. Also, when he tried to get the stars of Lois and Clark to discuss deficit spending, the interview really went down hill. My strategy was to try and make small talk before the interview started by showing off a photo of my kids. I mean, if the star knew I was the father of such adorable little moppets, he or she would certainly be kind and loosen up, right? It really did work.

For example, the picture got Michael J. Fox to talk a little about his family and the fact that he has a son named Sam, the same age as my daughter named Samantha. I used the picture to remind Ellen Degeneres that once, many years before in a satellite interview, she had promised to marry my oldest son who thought she was so funny. Well, that's not going to happen!

Most of the stars were great. Pleasant and friendly. They knew they were there to sell their shows and selves and they probably got pretty tired of all the similar questions, but, for the most part, they were terrific. However, not too many years ago, ABC decided the whole "Let's fly out a bunch of yahoos...put them up in a swanky hotel and buy all their food...plus give them gifts like an ABC bathrobe and slippers" idea was not really cost-effective. It was at that point that I really lost touch with prime-time.

So, over the last few years, when my family mentioned Lost, I figured they were just talking about me. Or, Desperate Housewives: just commenting on my wife's lamentatious life. Now, this new season,when they say Dirty. Sexy. Money. I'm pretty sure it has very little to do with me.

When I was in college, a break of some sort usually meant one of two things: I'd put in extra hours at my job at the Sheraton Inn and Conference Center in Madison, Wisconsin or I'd go wild. I'll save the description of "wild" for a moment. First, at the hotel, I split my time between playing the piano in the dining room and working the front desk. I've always been amazed by the number of diners able to actually keep their meals down despite my keyboard action. Not having much of an ear (musically-speaking...physically, my ears have been named "Most Curvaceous" in a number of nationwide polls) or a very accurate memory, I would have to drag a large yellow suitcase full of music to the hotel every Tuesday through Friday evening. Most of the time, the only request I received was "Would you mind playing someplace else?" To which I'd reply, "Well, hum a few bars and I'll see if I can pick it up." To which the diner would reply by tossing his or her creamed chives at my head.

On Sundays, I put on my other hotel cap, that of front desk clerk. As you probably know, Sunday mornings were the big check-out time. A friend of mine named Bob Fox and I usually handled the early shift. This was in the days before stuff was automated. We still had real keys and real registration cards people had to sign. We'd make the wake-up calls ourselves...sometimes using different accents just for our own amusement. It was during those wake-up call years that I may have subconsciously realized that I should be on TV in the mornings. We had an overnight clerk named Roy. He was in his 60s and wore his shirts opened to his naval so he could show off his gold chains. He was not a slender reed of a man. He had rather greasy hair...oily, really. In fact, representatives of OPEC often followed him from place to place. In some ways, he resembled a heavier, homelier Rodney Dangerfield but without Mr. Dangerfield's humor or charm. If you think my description of Roy has been uncharitable, I apologize and must admit I do have a negative feeling about Roy. At the end of each shift, we had to balance the cash register. One night when I was being relieved by Roy, I did the preliminary balancing and all was well. I stepped away to wait on a customer. When I returned, I double checked the figures and came out short by 50 bucks. Roy had been lurking and now he was smirking. "Problem?" he asked with a sneer. When I told him that, somehow, I'd come up short within a matter of minutes, he said "Too bad...you know you have to make up the difference?" I did know that and I did do that. So, by way of full disclosure, I think my description of his physical presence may be a bit colored by this incident. However, in my defense, I have matured over the years when it comes to describing Roy. For example, I no longer mention his fangs, pointy ears, tail and cloven hooves. Anyway, one morning, Roy was making the wake-up calls. About an hour later, after he had left for the day, a rather attractive woman came down to the front desk and asked if I was the man who'd called her that morning. I said no. She asked if that man was still around and I said, sorry, no. This is what she said, about the previously described Roy: "Oh. Too bad. I just had to see the sexy man behind that sexy voice." As Charlie Brown would say "Aaargh!" If people's judgement is that cloudy first thing in the morning, then, that's the best time of day for me to do anything, including be on TV.

In any case, when on a college break, I'd most likely be working. As for the "wild" side of my breaks. That did not mean beach volleyball and all-night parties. My wild breaks involved driving the 30 miles or so from Madison to Lake Wisconsin and playing euchre, fishing, raking leaves, snowmobiling (sometimes, in Wisconsin, you could do those last two activities within hours of each other) and eating my mom's world famous chewies! (Chocolate, peanut butter, Special K!) Yes. That was how I spent my wilder college breaks.

Now, for the point of this cyber-spewing. I know what you're thinking "A point? Since when did these things ever have a POINT?" Well, the point is that our oldest son, Alex, just experienced his first college break. It was a short one...just a couple of days. He didn't work. He didn't come home. He and a friend rode on a bus all night Wednesday into Thursday, arriving in Chicago bright and early. Alex is a big improv fan and practitioner and Chicago is the place for that. He has already spent time there taking classes and meeting people in the field so this seemed like a perfect time to revisit not-so-old haunts. They stayed with our nephew, Kurt. He holds down about a dozen different jobs...most involving work with children and adults with special needs as well occasionally doing some acting and improv stuff. All-in-all, Kurt is a fine young man who made the important choice, as a child, to ignore everything his Uncle Joel ever did or said. Well, Alex had a great four days before jumping back on a bus for the overnight ride home.

This wasn't just any bus, it was MEGA-BUS! It is a new idea in transit that started in the United Kingdom: A large, well-appointed bus for a low fare. There are video screens. Some are double-decker, the buses not the screens. All have comfy seats. Pretty nice. Alex rolled back into town Monday morning. That's when my job kicked in. I picked him up at 10th and Main...which is as close as I've ever gotten to the new Sprint Center. Alex looked okay for having been sleeping on a floor and in a bus for five nights. More importantly, he didn't really smell too bad. With teenage boys, the sense of sight is not always the first thing that indicates their presence. To his credit, he remembered his family by bringing home the World's Largest Hershey Bar that said "Chicago" on the label...if he ever visits Hershey, Pennsylvania I suppose we'll get a huge bratwurst with "Hershey" emblazoned on the side...and he did NOT, accidentally, leave a pile of dirty laundry in my car when I dropped him off at his college residence. The timing was perfect. I got him back in time to just make his morning calculus session. I'm no math genius or statistics expert, but even I can calculate the odds that he actually went to that class. After all, he needs a break from his break.

As regular readers of this blogerature know, I don't often write of weather-forecast-related issues. After all, I try to keep in mind the old adage about "write what you know." Also, if you are a "regular" reader, that means you are undoubtedly "irregular" in other areas of your life and should seek some sort of help. However, in light of Saturday's morning deluge, I think I need to offer a serious, scientific explanation (also known as "a cry for mercy and understanding!") for why it rained on a morning that was originally forecast to be cool and dry. As of Wednesday of last week, the forecast was for any rain chance to hold off until late Sunday into Monday. So, I was happy to tell folks that the weather for the Jared Coones Pumpkin Run and the Diabetes Walk at the Truman Sports Complex and the Childrens TLC Pumpkin Patch and several other Saturday morning events would be cool and dry. By Thursday morning, I started to hedge my bets a little by saying, "Well, there's a chance for some showers...." By Friday, I just took the morning off completely. Basically, the whole system got speedy on us. With some gusty south winds on Friday, the moisture content in the atmosphere went up and the approaching cold front had plenty of juicy stuff to work with...resulting in the two to four inch rainfall amounts on Saturday.

I heard the rumbles all night leading into Saturday morning. As I drove over to Black Bob Elementary to see what was up with the Pumpkin Run, I went through several disguises...fake nose...mustache...wig...bald-head...Bryan Busby-mask. Then, decided I would be brave and face the music as myself. As I courageously sneaked into the school through an air-conditioning vent, I heard mostly happy voices. After looking over the radar with all the race officials, the tough decision was made to call off the run. It was the first time in nine years that happened. Now, the first year, it was pouring but the lightning didn't start until the run was underway. This time around, the sky was ablaze in addition to the street-flooding downpours. Larry Moore was there to address the crowd and made it clear that he did not know who I was. The Jared Coones Pumpkin Run and Walk is really a family affair. The Coones "Family" of runners and volunteers gets bigger every year. They all would have shown up to support Tom Coones and the wonderful array of causes the run supports regardless of the weather. Maybe next time around we will get back to the kind of weather we have had for most of the Pumpkin Runs: chilly rays of sunshine.

I remember back in college, a meteorology professor once stated that any TV weatherperson who gives you a forecast more than three days out, is just guessing. This was right before he gave me an F on my first class essay, "The Effects Of High Humidity On The Playing Of Jarts In The Backyard While Listening To The Everly Brothers And Eating Hot Dogs." Of course, his comments were made many years ago when much of forecasting depended on tea leaves and your Great Aunt Matilda's left elbow. (Just for the record, I still use those sources of information.) To be fair and honest, which is not always easy for a TV weatherperson, I think the new radars, the high-tech gadgets and gizmos, all work together to keep more people safe and aware than ever before. However, on a day-t0-day basis, forecasting can still be a challenge...like last week. So, to all of you who got rained on, on Saturday morning, I apologize. I could make the excuse that I did start to alter the forecast a little by Thursday, but, really, it was more rain than I'd expected even on Thursday. By Friday, I had updated the forecast on KCMO Talk Radio 710 and, for the "in-my-living-room" weathercasts that I force my kids to watch when I'm on vacation, I got the forecast closer to right. But, unless you were looking in my window, you'd have missed that.

Over the years, people have been very forgiving and understanding about weather that messes up plans. On the other hand, from my point of view, I've become much more likely to hedge my bets. I remember when I first started back in Madison, I got a call, on a Friday, from a father of the bride asking about a Saturday forecast for the outdoor wedding and reception they had planned. I was very confident in telling him how lovely the day was going to be...cocky, in fact. Well, you know the story. It poured on Saturday. I got a call back on Monday in which the aforementioned father of the bride offered to force feed me what was left of the saturated wedding cake...including the little bride and groom on top.

Years later, I completely missed another call on a snowstorm and spent the entire next FirstNews wearing sunglasses and calling myself Sven.

So, this morning, Monday, on FirstNews, the extended forecast calls for the upcoming weekend to be sunny, dry and in the 60s. We'll see. Sincerely, Sven.

It was absolutely beautiful weather on Wednesday morning for the General Services Administration's Combined Federal Campaign Kickoff. Every year the friendly folks at the GSA raise an enormous amount of money to benefit charitable work in Kansas City and around the nation. I was honored to be the emcee of the event...that would probably qualify as the low-light. The highlight was the Singing Bee! Most of you probably know, a Singing Bee is where they play a section of a song up to a particular point, then stop everything, requiring the contestant to correctly sing the next line. I guess there are a couple of TV shows like this on the air, but, considering my prime-time viewing habits still involve The Rockford Files, The Andy Griffith Show and, my most up-to-date show, Seinfeld, I've not seen these new-fangled programs.

When I think of a musical game show, I think of Name That Tune! I loved that program when I was younger. To this day, I will occasionally say "I can name that tune in three notes!" for no apparent reason. Sure, I get some weird looks, especially in the produce aisle of Price Chopper, but I say it anyway. On family road trips, back in the days before in-car videos, hand-held games and lap-top computers when moms, dads, brothers and sisters were forced to converse, we'd play a version of Name That Tune using TV theme songs. Proving my children have watched far too much tube over the years, they almost always got the melody in about a note and a half.

Most of us sort of play the Singing Bee on a daily basis. We get a song in our head and then try to remember the words. Often, we aren't quite right. For example, a kid in my neighborhood thought the words to I Can See Clearly Now were "I can see all the icicles in my way" rather than "I can see all the obstacles in my way." But, we were in Wisconsin, so either word was applicable. When it comes to mangled lyrics, one memory shines very bright. It was a warm, summer Saturday. My mom and I were sitting in the car on Water Street, downtown, waiting for my dad to get out of the drug store. The radio was tuned to a station that was doing a live remote from Crazy TV Lenny's American TV store. Just as the DJ was about to introduce the next record, another voice started to come out of the speaker: "Hey, let me sing my favorite song...hey, let me sing..." The DJ, being a good sport, let this would-be warbler step up to the microphone and she was off. She had good taste in music. Her favorite song was Put Your Hand In The Hand, the big 1971 hit. Now, this singer had a great deal of energy and enthusiasm. Her pitch and intonation were a little shaky. Still, she persevered...and was doing okay until the last line. Instead of "Put your hand in the hand of the man from Galilee," which is a pretty vital bit of musical information given the song's subject matter, this rendition ended with "Put your hand in the hand of the man from the GALAXY."

Now, I guess the word could still be appropriate, spiritually speaking, or, just maybe, the woman singing had a slightly different belief system than most of us in our little country village. But, most likely, she had just been hearing and singing the song wrong through the years. When ET came out in theaters, I thought about that woman singing and how excited she must have been. Her mis-sung lyric did not take anything away from her excitement for and emotion about the song. It just threw a totally different take on the tune for those of us listening. To this day, just reminding my mom about it will lead to laughter.

The moral of this story? The lesson learned at Wednesday morning's GSA party? With a song in your heart, what comes out of your mouth isn't so important.

Wednesday morning on FirstNews, we had a story about a man facing 15 years in prison for allegedly stealing a donut. The possible sentence actually has to do with the alleged assault he committed after being caught. See how often I use the words "alleged" and "allegedly?" I am, after all, a serious journalist with great integrity...allegedly. The story dredged up memories of my own crime spree. That is an unusual phrase, "crime spree." It sounds like something a fun little crook would create. As if Al Capone was singing show tunes and leaving rose petals as he rampaged through Chicago. If Richard Simmons became a car thief...that would be a crime spree! "Your honor, my client is just very enthusiastic and was engaging in a spree. The crime part was purely incidental." Anyway, in my case it was, as the title states A Crime of Passion. Okay, there was no crime. And, I was about ten years old, so the "passion" had to do with M&Ms.

As a disembodied voice from an old movie once intoned: "There are eight million stories in the naked city and this is one of them." In my case, it would be more accurate to say: "There are a couple dozen stories in the snowmobile-suit-clad village and this is just barely one of them." It all started when a friend of mine named Gregg and I decided to walk downtown and buy some snacks. Now, you may think that someone who uses that many "Gs" in his name would be a little stuck-up but Gregg was just as friendly as someone spelling their name with only two "Gs." Anyway, for a kid with some loose coins, there were three choices on Water Street back then: Mueller's Drug Store, A&A Grocery and Luher's Market.

My mom had worked at the drug store off and on, but I wasn't sure I wanted to go in there for our goodies. A couple years before, for Father's Day, I had gone in there and bought my dad a carton of Kents and a girlie magazine as gifts and I was pretty sure my soiled reputation...stained at the tender age of eight!...would follow me through the aisles. Also, there was a woman working there named "Fanny" and I was always afraid I'd start to giggle when I saw her name-tag. (I know that is very immature but I was only a kid. That does not explain why I am chuckling to myself right now as I write this.) Anyway, we skipped the drug store.

Gregg and I went to A&A Grocery. The A&A stood for Art and Arlyn. Their last name was Wedekind and they lived right behind us. A couple of my brothers had worked there as box boys so I sort of leaned toward that store as first choice. In later years, when A&A had become Don and Ellen's Grocery and Butcher Shop, I worked there. I helped stock shelves and, when the solitary cashier would have a fight with Don and walk out for a day or two, even ran the cash register. This was back in the days when a clerk had to know how to count back change because the machine didn't do it for you, so it was quite a responsibility. The worst jobs at Don and Ellen's fell on alternating Saturdays. One Saturday, I would have to clean out the meat freezer. That meant standing in there, surrounded by bloody ice and mountains of frost...like a Sno-Cone for Dracula...scraping the walls and floor clean. Then, washing it out with a very bleach-y bucket of water. I was usually sick to my stomach by the time I was done. Mr. Hamlin, in his pork pie hat, with a Swisher Sweet clenched in his teeth, would chortle a little and say "It's good for ya!" as I stumbled out the door. The next Saturday that came along would mean I could skip the defrosting duties but had to clean the smoke-house. Instead of carving ice chunks off the walls, I was peeling away fat. At first, the aroma of the smoke house was pleasant, but, after spending an extended period in there...reducing more fat than Kirstie Alley and Valerie Bertinelli put together...I would be a little green around the gills, again. And, again, Mr. Hamlin would assure me "It's good for ya!" Looking back it was...because I realized I never wanted to do that stuff again!

Those Don and Ellen days, though, were a few years in the future when I was ten and visiting A&A Grocery. Gregg and I went in and bought our respective snacks. He got a small bag of Fritos and I got a small bag of M&Ms. We left the store and proceeded down the street and around the corner, arriving at the door of Luher's Market. This is where we made our mistake. We shoved our treats in our pockets and went into Luher's. Once inside, we realized we had no more change and couldn't buy anything so we walked right back out. As we did, we both reached into our pockets and pulled out our previously purchased treats. Our feet had barely hit the sidewalk when Mr. Luher swung open the door of his place, fixed us with a withering glare and said "You boys PAY for those?" We stammered and stumbled...explaining that we'd bought the chips and candy at A&A. We hadn't taken it from his store! Really! Honest! Mr. Luher just shook his head and went back inside. Gregg and I were convinced that there was no way Mr. Luher believed us.

We were pretty sure the headline in the Sauk-Prairie Star the next Thursday would be along the lines of "LOCAL HOODLUMS RANSACK MARKET! STEAL FOOD! LIE TO PILLAR OF COMMUNITY!" It seemed a given that Sunday's sermon would touch on on least two of the commandments, stealing and bearing false witness, using us as examples of what NOT to do. The pastor would lean up on the front of the pulpit, stare down at us quivering in the front pew, and say "I am reminded of a story about two boys who had been loved and supported by their parents only to decide that the rules didn't apply to them. (There's another commandment broken...honor your father and mother. Really, when you're a kid, that one's sort of a catch-all.) They just took what they wanted. They didn't care that the way to heaven is narrow but the way to eternal damnation is wide and easy. They only cared about their basest appetites. They may not have meant to do wrong...to sin, but remember, the road to hades is paved with good intentions and Fritos and M&Ms."

This was a very small town so, even as we walked home from our accusatory episode, we were sure everyone in every house already knew what crime we'd allegedly (there's that word again) committed. We could almost see all the blinds being drawn and shutters being shuttered. We were the Clantons running roughshod through Dodge City! True, Gregg and I had not actually done anything wrong but we had been ignorant and receipt-less! We were convinced that this was the end of our bright futures. At that point, Gregg was going to be an NFL quarterback and I was going to be Frank Sinatra, so it was quite a letdown.

At the very least, Mr. Luher would call our parents and tell them he thought we'd walked out without paying. When Gregg got home, he hid in his room. I climbed up into my dilapidated tree house and waited for the shoe to drop. While sitting up there, I decided I would try to get on the kitchen detail at juvenile hall, because that way, maybe, I'd get extra chocolate milk at chow time. I must have been up in that tree for an hour. (I've now been out of my tree for about 35 years.) Nothing happened. No headlines. No sermon. No parental admonishments. Mr. Luher must not have said a word to anybody about his suspicions! Perhaps, he knew, if we'd actually swiped the stuff, our conscience would get the better of us and that our worry about what might happen would be worse than any actual punishment.

Well, that's the story of my checkered youth. I learned to always save my receipts and, to this day, when I walk down the aisle of a grocery store and see Fritos and M&Ms I break out in a cold sweat and begin to confess to just about anything.

Today, I had someone mention that they see me chew gum on the air every now and then. Of course, TV consultants and news directors, not to mention teachers and parents, would say that's unacceptable and rather rude. (Some teachers used to say "Quit chewing your cud! You look like a cow." However, being in America's Dairyland, which means Wisconsin no matter what those California cows say, I always took that admonishment as a compliment which may explain my deep familiarity with the principal's office.) The reason I chew gum is to battle morning breath. It is bad enough that news professionals like Mr. Gish and Ms. Pitman have to deal with me "on the air." They should NOT have to deal with me "in the air." I say "on the air" because, to their great credit, they do not acknowledge my presence "off the air." I'm pretty much invisible to them which makes it quite simple to go through their desks, Donna's purse and Jere's so-called briefcase. (It's really just a big, man-purse.) Anyway, since my performance is odoriferous enough, I don't want my breath to knock them out of their seats. Also, I've been told that in HIGH-DEF, you can actually see bad breath...it appears as a light green cloud, often in the shape of President Millard Filmore, for some reason. Anyway, I chew a little gum to freshen things up. I usually try to remember to discard the gum before show time. In the new building, it is particularly fun because there are plenty of fresh spots under all the shiny, new desks and tables and chairs to stick the wad of chewed material.


I choose to chew, or chews to choo, old-fashioned Wrigley Spearmint. Those gums that give you an "explosion of flavor" scare me. I tried some once and my teeth wouldn't speak to me for a week. My mom was a big Wrigley Doublemint chewer when I was little but switched to Dentyne or Trident at some point. There is still something comforting about seeing those old green packages of Doublemint. In fact, if you ever see me in the gum and candy aisle of the grocery store, staring fondly at the Doublemint, you'll know I'm having a rough day. I know Wrigley also has Juicy Fruit but that always struck me as dangerously close to having a serving of fruit or vegetables.

Growing up, my favorite gum was Black Jack, the licorice flavored stuff. Historically speaking, it was, supposedly, the first flavored gum marketed in America back in 1884. It seems odd that there wasn't flavored gum before that...something like Ben Franklin's Horse Hair Gum or Give Me Peppermint or Give Me Death Gum from Patrick Henry's Ye Olde Confectionery Shoppe.

I didn't really like the flavor of Black Jack but I loved the fact that you could make it look like you were missing your front teeth. The same company that made Black Jack, made other flavors called Clove and Beemans. I guess the clove one was kind of spicy. Not sure what Beemans was like because I knew a Mr. Beeman and didn't want to find out if it really tasted "tweedy with a hint of Copenhagen drool."

Every now and then, I'd switch to Fruit Stripe, which looked like something fun to chew with all the different colors and swirls. Being a slow learner, I was always rather disappointed that it didn't end up being anymore giggle-producing than any other gum. Chiclets, however, did seem sort of laughable. One of my brothers tried to convince me that Chiclets were actually made out of real chicks...cute little baby chickens! He even, surreptitiously, put a feather near my open bag just to drive home his point. He claimed, if you chewed enough Chiclets, you'd eventually grow a beak, start to molt and lay multi-colored eggs. The last part actually seemed kind of appealing, especially around Easter.

My favorite childhood gum, no surprise, was of the bubble variety. I loved Bazooka Joe. I'd pull my sweater up over my chin and spout all the little jokes and riddles found on the inside wrapper. I was never a great bubble blower but I tried. Most of all, I liked the sugary flavor. That brings me back to why, today, I opt for Wrigley's Spearmint.

Somewhere along the way, the makers of bubble gum, must have started to use something different in their formula. Maybe a "healthier" kind of sweetener? Frankly, I don't know who they are trying to kid by making certain snacks "healthier." We pretty much know certain stuff isn't all that good for you...physically. Let the "junk" food be junk. Anyway, the new formula doesn't sit right with my middle aged stomach. So, I briefly chew my one morning stick of gum and move on. Gum-chewing has become utilitarian rather than pleasurable. I guess it is just as well because, if chewing gum on TV is frowned upon, just think what it would do to our society if I started blowing bubbles!

No, the title of this waste of cyber-space is not just what management wants to do to me on a daily basis, it is also the name of a great outdoor kids' game. This past Saturday evening, as my wife and I sat out in the backyard, I began to wax sentimental about my childhood. (Which my wife likes much better than when we sit in the backyard and I wax my shoulder blades and ears.) The three older kids were out and about and the youngest, Harrison, was tearing around the neighborhood with a bunch of his friends, playing flashlight tag. Watching that action put me in a nostalgic mood. As my wife will attest, I can be moody and "nostalgic" is one of the better ones. It sure beats "cranky" or "surly" or "extra crispy."

When you're very little, say five years or younger, being outside in the dark can be a bit scary. From age six through 22, it is exciting! From 22 through about 40, if you're outside and it is dark, you probably have some serious trouble like a broken-down car. When you get older than 40, being outside in the dark gets mostly scary again. But, if you're about 12, being allowed outside at night is great. In my old neighborhood, we'd use those hours to play Kick The Can. Now, there are lots of different versions of the game. In our Sauk-Prairie Wisconsin Cheesy League, the rules were like this: Everyone gathers around an empty Folgers Coffee can. A Butternut Coffee can is acceptable but no Maxwell House! In this day and age, with so much coffee coming in trendy little foil containers, designer bags, and plastic jug-like thing-a-ma-bobs, it would be nearly impossible to get the proper "CLANG" as you actually do the Kick part of the game. It is called KICK the CAN. Not, SWOOSH the AUTUMN HARVEST BLEND FOIL. Anyway, the person who is "IT" kicks the can and everyone scatters, like when your mother starts to talk about whose turn it is to pick up the doggie doo in the backyard. Everyone hides and "IT" has to hunt down each player. Once "IT" sees someone, "IT" runs back to the can, plants a foot on top and yells "1-2-3 on Skippy behind the gas tank that is painted pink with a snout and curly tail like a gargantuan pig!" (Yes, you did need to be specific because just about every back yard had one of those big gas tanks and not all were painted like pigs...some were cows. The one in our yard we left silver and gray and called it a space ship or Orson Welles' cigar case.) If you were caught, you had to sit in "jail" which was the front stoop of whoever's house you were playing in front of. (Attention to all English teachers: I know that is a poorly constructed sentence and, if you tried to diagram it, you may end up needing a chiropractor, but that's just the way it is...of...so, there.) Of course, you could escape from jail if a fellow player, as yet not apprehended, would run up and kick the can before "IT" could get there and call out the approaching liberator's name! The more players, the more fun...unless you were "IT." We played this game as long as our parents would allow. If the folks were playing euchre inside, we could go pretty late, outside.

When I got to high school, I found out there was a big Kick The Can game that took place out in the country at the home of a family named Frudden, which, I believe is German for "Sure come on out and kick the can as late and loud as you wish and you will be rewarded with chocolate chip cookies." Those country-side games were pretty intense and lasted a long time. It may surprise you to know that I was rarely "IT." I was a very good hider. In fact, there were many times that the game apparently ended without me being found. The sun would come up and I'd stagger out from behind a silo to find the remnants of a once-proud civilization. I choose to believe that I was a very good hider and NOT that they never looked in the first place. Although, now that I think about it, when our kids were all little, my wife would encourage me to play hide-&-seek with them. I'd find a great place...like squeezing myself into the dirty clothes hamper (I was thinner and more flexible back then.) and then I'd wait. Hours would go by. Eventually, I'd notice how quiet it had gotten. Coincidentally, my wife and kids saw a lot of movies in those years.

Well, tomorrow morning on FirstNews, if the lead story is about a chubby, middle-aged man with graying hair, being arrested for disorderly conduct for kicking a can, then hiding in a neighbor's shrubbery, don't worry. It's not some sort of weirdo. It's just me.

Okay. It is some sort of weirdo.

This morning, the regular Friday FirstNews Feature called Match-Up Mania! (I get paid by the alliterative phrase.) was at North Kansas City High School where they are celebrating Homecoming. That, naturally, led to an on-air discussion of high school dance experiences. Yes, it opened old wounds! I may not make it through the weekend due to the memories! Okay, that's a bit of an extreme reaction but my wife forces me to watch lots of Lifetime movies so I'm primed to take any little past event and pump it up until it can explain away just about every kind of poor behavior. Anyway, back to high school.

I was president of my Freshman class. I will pause, now, to allow you to comprehend the unlikelihood of that fact. Nobody else ran. Anyway, as president of the class, I was required to attend the Freshman-sponsored dance. I sat in the ticket booth and took the money as students filed in. Several threw softballs at me, on the assumption that it must be one of those carnival dunk tanks. After all were in the gym, I closed the window on the booth and read a book. Yes, I read a book. I had to stay to help with clean-up but there was no way I was going to dance. Or, more importantly, risk rejection in asking a girl to dance. I got most of my book read (turned out Sam I Am did like green eggs and ham!) and discovered that the then-new song Color My World got requested an awful lot.

That was Freshman year. I did not have anything to do with a high school dance, again, until Senior year...and that turned out to be a bad idea. I never cared about attending Homecoming or Prom. Those were Saturday nights. I had all the "romance" I needed from The Love Boat and Fantasy Island. I was such a big Ricardo Montalban fan, I actually had a leisure suit made out of rich, Corinthian leather and named my dog, Cordoba. Sometimes I would watch Austin City Limits on Saturday nights. I recall one Homecoming Saturday, the featured performer in Austin was Roy Orbison. Nothing better to lift one's spirits, than sad, heartfelt songs from a guy in dark glasses.

Now, about that Senior year dance deal, I wasn't going to attempt asking someone for Prom or Homecoming. That would've been ridiculous. Like a new parachuting student going directly from paying the initiation fee to leaping out of 747 across the Grand Canyon while spinning flaming batons and singing The Battle Hymn of the Republic. No, I decided to ask a girl to a Valentine's Day Dance. This was a girl that had a good sense of humor and beautiful singing voice. She looked a little bit like Marie Osmond and, coincidentally, she was a little bit country. We had developed a comfortable brother/sister relationship. Well, that was her view. At that point, I didn't realize how difficult it was to take a sibling-like friendship and turn it into more of a boyfriend/girlfriend situation. Unless you were Caligula.

Well, I decided to do this right. I went across the street to our Bionic Avon Lady and purchased a little heart pendant. Wrapped it in the Sunday comics and, Monday morning, took it to school. I approached "Marie Osmond" in the hall and handed her the gift saying "Happy Valentine's Day!" She opened it, then and there, and said "Thank you so much, Joel! I am going to wear this to the dance this weekend. Dean asked me to go." So, there you have it. The necklace went to the dance. I didn't.

I'm not bitter. I don't wake up crying over it. Unless I've recently watched a movie with Tracey Gold or Melissa Gilbert in it. Then, I wake up crying anyway. I have put it all behind me...until a morning like this. Go ahead and have a fun Homecoming. I'll be at home listening to Roy Orbison and paging through the latest Avon catalog.

What I am about to tell you may well end my tenure in Kansas City television. I know what you're thinking "Well, Joel, what exactly would be the downside of that?" Good point. Anyway, I know that we live in the BBQ Capital of the world. So many famous places to get good ribs and steaks and roasts and chops and other tasty treats. And, this time of the year, The American Royal Barbecue kicks off. Here's the confession: I am not a big fan of the grilled meats. Please, don't aim that cow at me! It maybe loaded!

I love the smell of BBQ. I love watching others enjoy it. All of my kids are major-league carnivores. Taylor, in particular, would have made a fine caveman. (Remember, watch the new ABC show Cavemen! Tuesdays! Sorry for the gratuitous ABC plug but I have many mouths to feed and a mortgage to pay. So, please, watch ABC. Please?!) Anyway, I can envision Taylor lumbering out of his cave, clubbing a mastodon, dragging it back and gorging. All that would be left would be a pile of bones. Taylor is the one in our family that will fire up the grill for anything. He'd roast his morning Eggos, if possible. Just the other day, for his birthday, he grilled steaks for himself. The rest of the family had to sit at the foot of his chair and look pathetic.

I'm not sure why I never developed a big appetite for this kind of good stuff. Maybe it's because it's not chocolate or cheese. As a child, we did grill hot dogs and burgers from time to time but my dad's main BBQ masterpiece was chicken. He would use Sundrop cola...a local version of a Mountain Dew-type of soda. There was a difference which was clear from the commercials: Mountain Dew drinkers were always biking the wilderness, climbing cliffs, diving into a cold, clear lake....moving, bustling, active to the max. For Sundrop, the small-town Wisconsin brand, the commercials featured folks playing cards and bowling. Alright. You caught me. There weren't Sundrop TV commercials. We just barely had TV. (Also, I'm told that Sundrop is actually from Tennessee. But, I grew up thinking it was exclusive to my hometown and I'm sticking with that.) Anyway, my dad would put the chicken on the grill then sprinkle it with Sundrop Cola and paprika.

Paprika, of course, is a spice made from grinding up red peppers. The word is Hungarian derived from the Serbian word "papar," which came from the Latin, "piper," which means "pepper." That translates down to Wisconsinese for "Let's throw some of this red stuff on the chicken and see what happens. " That whole word journey also adds some context and depth to the "Peter Piper Picks A Peck of Pickled Peppers" story. Apparently, Peter Piper was multi-lingual and doing far more than just picking peppers.

So, my dad would make his famous chicken and it was good. In fact, he and his business partners and friends would make a bunch of it for the residents of Bluffview Acres Retirement Village every summer. It was a mark of maturation when you were asked to don the big, thick, heat-resistant gloves and help flip the four foot by four foot grate that held the dozens of pieces of chicken. When I was young, I thought all those legs came from one giant chicken. Maybe the result of some weird experiment that crossed a hen with a millipede...creating a MILLICHICK! Run for your lives! Of course, by the time I was in college I realized there was no such thing. Just the same, I still have nightmares that involve eggs, legs and Colonel Sanders in a tutu. Why a tutu? I don't know and I don't want to know.

My point, such as it is, is that I have been exposed to BBQ all my life and, for the last 20 years or so, have lived in the heart of BBQ heaven. Still, I've yet to go crazy over it. I think it has to do with my fear of looking silly while eating. That's why I don't eat out much and don't eat at work hardly ever. I always figure something will dribble down my chin or get caught in my teeth or smear my cheeks until I look like Emmett Kelly's ugly cousin. I have enough trouble with my appearance without all that. And, add to that, the little incident that occurred on FirstNews Wednesday morning. I had just sat down in my chair next to Donna Pitman when she exclaimed "Yuck! What smells like Lysol? Eeewww. Something's really pungent." I spent the next 24 hours feeling paranoid about smelling like a large can of Lysol in a suit and vocabularily (that's not really a word) inadequate because she used the word "pungent" in an everyday sentence. I know my work habits and my weather forecasts stink it up on a regular basis but I had not worried too much about my personal odor, until now! That has nothing to do with not eating at work but I had to get it off my chest...like the crumbs I would undoubtedly have if I were to eat in front of anyone.

Well, this year, I am going to make every effort to set aside my misgivings about looking silly while eating, ignore my fear of gristle and settle into the BBQ season. A person eating BBQ'd anything can't be reserved! You have to attack the meal like a wolverine at a sheep convention. No restraint whatsoever. You know, like the news media when OJ, Britney and anything involving lead paint enters their collective field of vision. (If Britney was covered in lead-based paint and then stolen by OJ, it would be the story of the year...maybe the century.) I think I can do it. The aroma alone should be a help. Better than smelling like Lysol.

After yesterday's whine-a-rama about scary drivers, it seems appropriate to talk the talk about walking the walk. By way of full disclosure, I must mention that after yesterday's diatribe about how awful other drivers are, I pulled out right smack dab in front of an oncoming car. That driver, rightly, leaned on the horn. So, I start the day taking other drivers to task and, hours later, almost cause an accident. That's "car"-ma. So, today, I'm taking this bloggerania out from behind the wheel, entirely.

Today, Wednesday October 3, is International Walk Your Child To School Day. It is intended to promote the health benefits of walking and encourage a little early morning family togetherness. A few years ago, when we moved from one house to another, I was told, forcefully, that one of the major reasons...maybe, even the main reason...was so that the kids could all walk to school. We've been in the house for about six years now and I think the kids have actually walked to school, on average, once a year. Okay. That maybe a little bit of an exaggeration. The reason given for not walking in the morning has to do with how early they head out and how dark it is many days of the year. Although, our older boys confessed to an unnatural fear of dew. "Our shoesies," said the high-schoolers, "get all soggy!" To be fair, the kids do tend to walk home from school fairly often. Occasionally, Harrison, the youngest, will call home and ask that a car be sent around. Every now and then, he thinks he's Blake Carrington from Dynasty.

In my day...at this point, you have to imagine me leaning way back in my rocking chair, taking a puff on my corn-cob pipe, clearing my throat and fixing you with a wise and knowing look...I walked to school and home again...each and every day! In kindergarten we lived out in the country and I took a bus but from first through 12th grades, I used my feet. I would stop at the Wilkinson house, three doors down, and pick up my friend, Keith and off we'd go. I've mentioned this house before. The Wilkinsons had lots of kids. In fact, in my town, if you had four children, like us, that was a small family. I don't think I ever got an accurate head-count of the Wilkinsons as I stood in the kitchen waiting for Keith. I know there were bodies flying all over the place. Mrs. Wilkinson was always in a chipper mood...fazed by nothing. Eventually, Keith would come rumbling toward the door. As I mentioned, we walked everyday. All the way through high school. Neither one of us had any inclination toward driving to school, even after getting our licenses. We walked through rain and snow and ice and sleet. We should've been delivering the mail.

There have been mornings, when I'm on vacation or get home early enough, that I walk to school with whichever kid is in grade school. I've learned a lot on those walks. Not any big bombshells...just details. Harrison, in particular, will use the time to fabricate amazing stories of intrigue and adventure involving aliens, dinosaurs and, often, Jack Nicholson or James Cagney. He can tell a tale that will last the whole trek from home to school. One of the other children, who shall remain nameless, would sometimes use the very last few steps of the walk to say "Oh, I'll be late getting home tonight because of this little detention thing. Okay. Love you. Bye."

I hope lots of folks get the chance to walk to school with their kids today and all month...maybe all school year. It is time well-spent. Oh, it is also National Vegetarian Awareness Month so, kill two birds with one stone and walk your child to school while carrying a zucchini. (Okay. Okay. I know, a zucchini is really, biologically-speaking, an immature fruit but it sounded funnier than saying "while carrying a carrot.")

Since KMBC moved to the new building over near the zoo, off of I-435, obviously, my route to work has changed. So far, I've yet to get in the car and, absent-mindedly, head downtown. (I have accidentally pulled up to the zoo's monkey house but the similarities between that location and my work area are rather striking.) My drives to work are filled with very few vehicles but that doesn't mean there's no action! Frankly, I lead a rather wild life in the moonlight hours. My new path to Channel 9 keeps me on the side roads and off the interstate a little more. That means I see many more critters. Raccoons, possums, foxes and deer. Lots of deer. Fortunately, the deer seem quite literate and polite, only crossing where the signs permit. Possums, on the other hand, either can't see the proper signs...they are the Mr. Magoo of the animal kingdom...or they simply don't care about society's conventions...which would make them the James Dean of the animal kingdom, Rebel Without No Claws. (Pardon the double negative.)

These furry friends, who share my overnight drive, are, for the most part, pleasant companions. The same can't be said for every two-legged creature on the road by the time I go home. With my hours, I'm often wrapping up my day when some are just getting started, so I understand that people are often in a rush...running late. Again, with the new workplace, I spend more time on the streets and off the highways so I really can see what folks are doing as they drive. Sometimes it seems like everyone is on the phone or drinking coffee or eating breakfast or putting on make-up or shaving or all of the above. Now, I realize that my writing about this situation is like Charlie Gibson doing a special report to announce the invention of the cotton gin. It is not exactly news. I guess I just never experienced it until the new trek.

Monday was a particularly harrowing drive home. As I was tooling down Holmes, going the speed limit and leaving plenty of room between myself and the car ahead of me, (see, mom, I do listen to you) I noticed a rather imposing jet-black muscle car in my rear-view mirror...still a considerable distance back. I moved into the passing lane to go around a garbage truck and the evil twin of Knight Rider did, too. I got back into the right lane as quickly as possible, fully expecting the speeding bullet of an auto to go around me. It did not. It swooped in right behind me. The stoplight I was approaching turned yellow before I got to the intersection so, I stopped. I know some folks take that yellow light to mean "HURRY! YOU CAN MAKE IT!" But, I am more the "DANGER! DANGER! SLOW DOWN AND PREPARE TO STOP!" kind of driver. So, I stopped. The car behind me did not even slow down. It was barrelling my way. Finally, it careened into the other lane, forcing another car to slam on the brakes and sailed through the now-red stoplight. All that was missing was music from The Rockford Files.

I saw this bombing behemoth of a car take a sharp turn into a parking lot just past the intersection. When the light turned green, I slowly passed the lot hoping to get a look at this marauding motorist. Out jumped a petite young woman, cell-phone on one ear, dressed for some sort of corporate job...apparently oblivious to the potential havoc she may well have caused. On the good side, this suburban version of Bullitt, reminded me to tell the young drivers around my house (and myself!) some basic rules: Don't speed. Don't follow too close. Don't do anything but drive the car when you're driving the car. Don't assume anyone else on the road is following these, or any other, rules.

Now, I'm no Marlin Perkins, but, frankly, I'll take my chances with the middle-of-the-night wildlife before the middle-of-the-morning wild-drivers.

Over the years, I've been asked fairly often about my breakfast habits. When you get up around 2:00 a.m., folks sometimes wonder "Do you eat before you go to work?" or "Do you skip breakfast?" or "Does your wife get up and eat breakfast with you at two in the morning?" or "Do you eat, after FirstNews, at the station?" Well, here are the answers to those questions:

1. No.
2. Depends on what you call breakfast.
3. Are you kidding? When I say good-bye to my wife in the morning, she does one of two things: She continues to sleep or she continues to sleep but sits upright in the bed and says something like "You need to get the goats back in the wagon before all the hyenas return wearing tuxedos and singing Sweet Caroline. Hurry!"
4. I've never been one for eating at the station. There is a nice employee lunchroom in the new building but the maitre de requires you wear a jacket and tie. Also, I think you need to make reservations several weeks in advance. I've always been pretty sure that, if I were to eat at the station, certain fellow-workers (oh, I don't know, maybe by the name of GISH!) may contaminate my food. Nothing lethal. Just an eyelash in the yogurt or sour milk in the cereal. You may think I'm paranoid and you may be right but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily wrong. Also, in the new newsroom, eating is verboten. The penalty for being caught with food, anywhere other than the lunchroom, is severe...let's just say it involves bamboo shoots, ants, honey and the musical stylings of Barney the Dinosaur, played on a continuous, loud loop. It reminds me of the time my dad took us to the A&W in our new dark purple Pontiac Le Mans. What was he thinking? All the way there he told us we'd better not spill anything and he'd better not find even one french fry in the backseat. Well, of course, a chocolate shake went down the speaker...maybe I thought Jerry Vale sounded thirsty. Then, there was the Great Hot Dog Stuffing contest to see how many wieners would fit in the backseat ash-trays. Needless to say, none of this kind of monkey-business would be tolerated in the new newsroom. (In an odd twist on the rules, we are allowed to have monkeys in the new newsroom.)

My personal breakfast routine is as follows: the night before, I fill a small plastic cup with Cheerios. I have eaten Cheerios since I was a baby. When I'm feeling extra sporty, I may actually have a bowl with milk on them. If I'm really in a devil-may-care mood, I'll add sugar. Cheerios are just bland enough to make the phrase "you are what you eat" perfectly applicable to me and my food choices. I've always felt Rice Krispies are too chatty first thing in the morning. Cocoa Puffs threaten my mental well-being and I'm just plain scared of that Trix rabbit. I'd eat Wheaties, but I find the box hard to open. Occasionally, when we are out of Cheerios, I'll eat corn flakes. Again, you are what you eat. As a child, my mom tried to get me to eat oatmeal by putting chocolate chips in it. Once I was convinced they really were chocolate chips and not something else, I just ate the chocolate and let the oatmeal go cold. I tried to feed it to our dog but she was more of an bacon and eggs mutt.

So, I bring my dry Cheerios in the car and eat them on the way. I also put in two pieces of candy. Dove Dark Chocolate. My mom insists these are good for you. They supposedly help prevent cancer, lower your blood pressure, thicken your thinning hair, help you lose weight, allow you to smell like rose petals and dance better. My mom can find the Dove Dark Chocolates in any store, anywhere, in a matter of seconds. It's all about good health. As I mentioned, the Cheerios are gone by the time I arrive at the station. I eat the first Dove (the candy, not the bird. I'm not Ozzie Osbourne!) around 4:34 a.m. Then, at 7:34, I eat the second one. As I write this, I'm starting to think I need to see some sort of therapist. Actually, the candy itself may provide some better mental health. After opening the foil around the candy, on the inside, you can find pithy little sayings. (By pithy, I mean "abounding in pith!") For example, this morning's message was "Promise yourself a smile today," which is certainly a better wish than "Promise yourself a root canal, today."

Another I've seen says "Treat yourself to a relaxing bath." Now, I took that to mean "You stink. Please, bathe!" Lately, that one probably applies. The shower in our bathroom is not usable right now due to some caulking issues. You know you've got a problem when the weather report calls for light sprinkles in your living room. Anyway, I'm supposed to be using the bathtub and shower in the boys' bathroom but that room frightens me so I've been taking what my grandma used to call "bird baths." I've been told by my wife that a "bird bath" sounds cute when the one cleaning up is a baby or toddler or, even, little kid. But, when a middle-aged man rejects showering in favor of something called a "bird bath," that simply doesn't cut it. She also doesn't appreciate the fact that when I do a "bird bath" I stand on one foot and cackle. I've also started to molt. But, as usual, I have wandered far from the point of this cyber-screed.

Some of the messages in the candy wrapper are seasonal in nature, "Sit and watch the leaves fall." The next one you open should probably say, "Now, get up off your fat duff and rake them." Another that pops up now and then says "Flirting is mandatory." I'm not even sure what that means but I'd have to alter that to say, if you're a married person, "Flirting is ill-advised and, perhaps, in extreme cases, actionable in court." Most of the sayings are along the lines of "Smile!" "Whistle a happy tune!" "Make your own sunshine!" "Life is about chances!" "Seize the day!" If Norman Vincent Peale and Russell Stover had gone into business together, they'd have come up with something like this.

I know the messages are meant to be uplifting and inspirational but I think I need something a bit more to the point and forceful. "After this treat, lose some weight." "Don't be such a smart aleck." "Wipe that smirk off your face." "Sit up straight." "Pick up your stuff." "Just who do you think you are?" "Is that the best you can do?" "This is life so deal with it." "Quit whining." You know, a little sour with the sweet. I'd also go for a message along the lines of "Here are your winning Powerball numbers...." or "The Mastercard people have misplaced your account information" or "Money can't buy happiness but look under your bed for a stack of unmarked bills and see if you frown."

Well, before I wrap this up, let me open one more and share it with you. Okay, inside the foil it says...uh...well...I can't really make it out...It says nothing at all. No message from the Dove people. Wonder what that's all about. Have they given up on me? Fine. Whatever. I'm still going to eat the chocolate! The true breakfast of champions!