Oh, the commercialization of the holidays! It's just awful! OOOHHH, I just can't stand it. Okay, now that I've said all the stuff we think we should say, let me be honest. (How often do you hear a weatherman say that? And, mean it?!?) I like many of the holiday commercials that pop up on the air this time of the year. The Hershey Kisses that ring in the season, for example, are neat. (Can a man in his increasingly white-headed 40s use the word "neat" and not risk being snickered at or chased down and pummeled? At least I refrained for adding the "o" and making it "neato." I would've have done just that but this blog's letter budget is just about all used up and I need to make the various vowels last through Dec mb r 31. Uh-oh...am I alr ady running low on "e's?" Bad n ws!) There was a commercial for Amazon, I think it was, a few years back that looked like it was straight from the 50s...lots of cardigans. It was great. Also, my dad used to get all teary when the Clydesdale Horses trotted through that Currier and Ives scenery. He wasn't a beer drinker and he wasn't a horse guy. However, he did have a strange attraction to Ed McMahon. One "HIII-YO!" and my dad was a basket case.

There are three specific holiday commercials that, more than the others, warm the cockles of my heart. And, you don't want to go around with cold cockles. Actually, what are cockles...which are little mollusk kind of things sung about by that Irish "tart with a cart," Molly Malone...doing in one's chest cavity in the first place. You'd need a cardiologist with a degree in fly-fishing to treat your "sea-rrhythmia." Anyway, I have warm cockles this time of the year.

1. Santa on the Norelco! I loved seeing Jolly Old Saint Nick gliding on his three-headed machine. Obviously, he didn't need it to shave so why not ride it! He always looked very happy sailing across the frozen tundra. My dad had one of those triple-floating head deals so, as a child, I decided to test the commercial. We didn't have a stuffed little Santa around the house but we did have these weird elf guys that sat on the window sill. I took one and strapped it to my dad's Norelco and sent it down the hill in our backyard. It didn't really slide but it did fly. The elf was traumatized but not quite as animated in his response as my father. I believe his less-than-supportive response to my inquiry is one of main reasons I never did well in Science from that day forward. At least that's what I told all my science teachers as we were trying to put out the various Bunsen burner fires I accidentally started through the years.

2. The college kid making coffee! I think I may be thinking of two separate commercials here. One I mentioned the other day in this space: a kid sneaks in the door and starts to sing O Holy Night, reducing everyone to tears. But, there's another one, where he gets home early before anyone else is up and starts to make coffee only to be discovered by his little brother. Coffee as a religious experience! Rang very true for a kid growing up in a German-Scandinavian-Lutheran household. In our house, my wife almost has two of the four kids drinking coffee so there is a chance we could live this commercial at some point in the future.

3. Kraft Food Commercials! The reason I always loved these was the voice behind the pictures. Ed Herlihy. He had been Jack Paar's announcer and the voice of newsreels but it was his descriptions of the things you could do with Velveeta Cheese that made me pay attention. His voice was so friendly. Even if everyone else was mad at me, I knew Little Ol' Ed Herlihy would be my pal and he'd bring food. My dad used to wax emotional about the colors and camera shots of the commercials. How great the food looked! This was in the days before the Food Channel so, other than Julia Child, in black and white then, you didn't see much fancy food on the tube. As the camera lovingly caressed this casserole and that basket of buttery rolls, my dad would get misty. He wasn't a big eater. In fact, he was skinny. His best Halloween costume was to stand side-ways, stick out his tongue and say he was a zipper. If he wore all black, he looked like clarinet. He was once man-handled by Pete Fountain. My dad just loved the pictures of all that food. Frankly, if the voice behind the food had been Ed McMahon instead of Ed Herlihy, my dad would have been so overwhelmed with pleasure some sort of medical attention may have been necessary.

So, on the outside I will rail against crass commercialization but in the quiet of my room, I will look for that soothing glow from the TV screen. Forget sugarplums, I'll be all snug in my bed with visions of shavers and coffee cups dancing in my head...narrated by Ed Herlihy.

I was a ding-a-ling for the Salvation Army. Okay, so it's not as dramatic as "I was a COMMUNIST for the FBI!" But, it's true. There I was, on Tuesday, standing in front of a Wal-Mart SuperCenter, in my little red apron, ringing my leather strap of bells. Just to brag a little: I have an apron with my name stitched right at the top. (My wife has also stitched my name in most of my other clothing but that is more of a precautionary measure.) I also have my own personal bell but I left it at home because I hate to cause a case of clapper envy on the part of any other ringer.

It was a perfect day for ringing. Warm sunshine everywhere. Several generous folks...and there were many like the family of eight who each put something good in the kettle or the woman who unfolded a fiver...commented on the good weather: "Oh, sure! You'd show up outside on this kind of day but where will you be this weekend when it gets slick and cold?" Well, to be honest, I'll be hiding under my bed at home. But, it does point up the fact that the real volunteers for the Salvation Army are out there in all kinds of conditions. They can take the same oath as my brother the mailman!

We were serenaded by the Salvation Army Band, which sounded great, despite my pathetic attempts at rhythmic ringing. My bells sounded a little bit like one of Santa's reindeer doing the merengue while wearing clogs. Captain Kettle was also on hand. He...or she?...was a big hit with the little kids who came by the bell-stand. One mom asked her little one, as they approached, "Do you want to shake hands with the big, round, odd-looking thing in red?" And her toddler came directly to me with hand outstretched.

Last year, I was ringing the bells with the Kansas City icon Carl DiCapo at a donut shop. Carl pulled in the crowds. Years before, I had the fun of bells on the Plaza with my kids when they were all on the small side and still too young to be embarrassed to be seen with me. I'd ring. They'd chase! If someone dared stroll by without making the kettle clang, the kids would run them down like an episode of COPS!--Munchkin Land!

So, I've had my chances to make nice noise but it's those volunteers who are out there each and everyday, year in and year out, who really make the difference. Thanks to all of you Ring-a-Lings from a once-in-awhile Ding-A-Ling.

The stagehands in New York maybe striking, keeping some of the stages dark but it is Theatre Season at our house! A couple weeks ago we saw our oldest son in The Music Man. He played one of the salesmen in that famous opening number on the train. He was reading a paper and not seeming to pay any attention to what was going on around him. Then, out of the blue, he'd pipe up with some smarty-pants rejoinder. It was a part made for him...except for the mutton chops. Now, it's our daughter's turn. Samantha tried out for her school's play. They are doing Footloose! I know that was a big movie hit but I never saw it. I think the only movie I saw that year was Ghostbusters. Anyway, I know it has to do with dancing and I know Kevin Bacon is in it. Of course, you could say "and I know Kevin Bacon is in it" about almost every movie made since talkies came in.

Well, Samantha, a Freshman, tried out and got in the chorus. That was pretty exciting for her. She is one of those people that needs to stay busy. With volleyball season over, she really wanted something to do for the next several months and the musical is it. Even when she was little, Samantha needed projects. In grade school, when there was a break, she'd still write stories and essays...do research...create experiments. Her big brothers thought she was nuts. A break from school meant you never got out of your pajamas...ate Cheetohs for breakfast...watched too much TV and played video games. When Samantha is not busy, all her energy starts to bubble over. It is one of those cases of using her powers for good rather than evil...well, evil is a little strong...let's say using her powers for good versus naughtiness. The bottom line is that Samantha got in the play. That was not the end of things, however.

Apparently, at least in the stage version, there is a character who roller skates. At the first rehearsal, Monday-yesterday, it was announced that they would have try-outs for that last character on Tuesday...that means today. The director said the person would have to be a pretty good skater, in order to skate safely and "poorly" on stage. Samantha's ears perked up big time. All of a sudden she was back in a blizzard of axels and lutzes and twirls and spins. You see, for a number of years, Samantha was a winning wizard (wizardess?) on the ice. She got in kind of late but excelled. She won a few competitions. It was hard work. Lonely work. Early mornings and late evenings. This was in elementary school and the first part of middle school. Being a very social person, Samantha decided that, while she loved skating, she really wanted to do things that involved a team and being with friends. So, the Olympic Dreams were put on hold. Then, came the big announcement on Monday. She heard "skating" and "speaking role" in the same sentence.

We have ice-skates and blades and glittery dresses stuffed into many nooks and crannies...as opposed to crooks and nannies. (Reminds me of the time my oldest brother was doing radio play-by-play of a high school wrestling match and said the match was "tip and nuck" instead of "nip and tuck." It's been about 40 years. Do you think any of us brothers have let him forget it? Nah.) We had some old in-line roller skates out in the garage. We even could have dug up some plastic Fisher-Price double-wheeled roller skates. (Those are actually mine which I still use to get from the anchor desk to the big green weather board. This is such a huge building!) However, we did not have any old-fashioned skates anywhere. So, a trip to the store was necessary. A place my poor wife...suffering from shopper's overload...did not want to go for what felt like the 113th day in a row. But, being THE MOM, she did.

So, now Samantha has roller skates and an audition. She believes her ice skating experiences will come back to her and be adaptable to wheels instead of blades. I wish her all the best but I'd be less than honest if I didn't express some mild concern. I can just see Samantha deciding to add a little flourish to her performance and attempt a triple lutz, quadruple axel, super Hamil Camel entrance from stage left which ends up exiting stage right onto the first three rows of audience members. Forget about Footloose...we're talking FEET-loose...and flying!

Okay, I know what you've been wondering all weekend long: What did Joel do for the holiday? It's the question of the day, right? Well, I don't want to disappoint you, so here goes:

Tuesday Evening: Our holiday weekend actually started when Alexander arrived home from college for the weekend. In my head, I always pictured a moment like this resembling a Folger's Coffee commercial. Alex would come in, loaded down with goodies for his family, singing O Holy Night while the rich aroma of coffee filled the air. Well, we didn't have any coffee brewing. Alex was loaded down...with dirty laundry. His song, sung to the O Holy Night melody, would've been more along the lines of:

O Dirty Socks
The smell is wafting upward
These are the socks
I've not washed
In three months

How 'bout these pants
And shirts with stains a-plenty
Yes that's ketchup
And chocolate ice cream

I will not talk
All about my skivvies
They are too rank
For such a family time

Fall on your knees
O take this laundry from me

O please wash my clothes
And let me return smelling
Divine

Anyway, he was home. In the old days, he roomed with Harrison. But, on this trip, in an amazing example of a three-way-psychic connection that would make Dionne Warwick and Kreskin both very proud, Alex and Harrison and their ever-loving mom, all knew that the college boy should bunk in the basement and let Harrison keep his bachelor pad to himself. Of course, that meant the basement became a bit of a bear's den...a downstairs dorm room...a cave...scary and foreboding.

Wednesday: Alex and Harrison went to Bee Movie. They gave it a thumbs-sideways. Taylor practiced with his pseudo-band...now named after his debate teacher and coach. Homage or bribery? You be the judge. Samantha was out with a friend all day. Jessica worked out at the gym. The dog and I sat and stared at the refrigerator.

Thanksgiving! I got up early and headed into work. We had some holiday fun on FirstNews. I had the chance to wear my turkey apron and gobble top hat. The ensemble was sent to me by a kind viewer. Once I get all the regalia on, I am quite a sight. Interestingly, the gobble top hat and apron with a stuffed turkey sticking out of it actually increases my credibility, according to focus groups. No word on whether or not these particular focus groups have feathers and wattles.

When I got home, the dog and I took a walk. We watched the Packers beat the Lions. Then, we ate...and ate...and ate. Turkey...rolls...potatoes...pies....stuffing. After the meal, we started to drag some of the Christmas decorations upstairs. As in the past, I made everyone put on their winter coats to walk down into the basement. We pretended to be looking at trees before seeing the perfect one...in pieces in a box. We dragged it upstairs to assemble. This year, since the college boy was using the basement as his place, it had a more authentically forest-musk odor.

I went to bed soon after this.

Friday: What a nice surprise! When I got up at 2:00 a.m. to head off to work, the house was all decked out in the Christmas stuff! The tree was up and lit. (As was our college-age son. Well, he was up but not lit. Not really dim...just not shiny.) That was a big job done! Friday night everyone but Harrison disappeared. Samantha was earning money babysitting. Taylor was playing the guitar with his friends. Alexander was with a bunch of friends. Of course, before they all vanished, they ate the pizza we ordered. My wife, Jessica, had a check ready for the guy who politely and efficiently delivered the goodies. But, in true "I'm-just-the-dad" fashion, I didn't have any money on me for a tip. I looked around for one of the kids...as they always seem to have some money on them...but they were all hiding somewhere. Who knows where my wife went at the moment of truth. The guy wished me a Happy Thanksgiving and drove away. I suspect he was wishing me other things under his breath. Maybe some new ideas about what I could do with the left-over turkey. (The next day my wife dropped off a tip with his name on it...so she looks great. As for me, I can never show my face at the door of a pizza place again. That's the law.)

By the way, Jessica was up at 4:00 a.m. and hit the stores. She went to two places for a few very specific items. Then worked out and had coffee with a friend. I know she got some great deals but the total receipt still looked the the gross national product of Latvia. She did some more on Saturday. By Sunday, it had become such a habit that we found her wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart just handing money to anyone wearing one of the smiley face buttons and a blue vest.

Saturday: The dog and I took a great early morning walk through the pretty little snowfall we got in our neck of the woods. (As I write this, I realize that I spent most of my holiday weekend with the dog.) As I mentioned a few blogs ago, one of my lighting jobs is to hang something from the windows above the garage. It took me three days to remember where I had put the brand new "Dancing Stars" deal from last year. Then, after I found it, only two of the eight stars still worked. I jostled the bulbs and even changed those little fuses in the plug but with no success. Later, my wonderful wife brought home a giant lighted star to replace the little stars. It required an engineering background to get this thing unfolded and reattached to look like a star. At one point, it resembled a rhino wearing knickers. With the help of my wife, who has a great facility with those little plastic thingamabobs that you push through and then pull to tighten...police restraints for crickets...we got it looking like a star. I plugged it in and it worked. So, I hung it out the second-story window and started to hammer in the nails. I only dropped about a half dozen nails onto the driveway. Once it was up and fairly-well centered, I plugged it in and only half the star glowed. Great.

I ended up running into our local hardware store and buying a blinky snowman and one of those little projectors for 75% off. Both were in the "Lighting For Idiots" aisle. Both worked. After the holidays, I plan on using the projector to do major shadow puppet productions on the garage door.

The big deal for today was lefse. Lefse is a Norwegian delicacy. There are two words that don't go together easily. It is a thin, tortilla-like treat made with potatoes. Some people put butter on it. Some roll it around lutefisk...a very stinky fish. Some just eat it plain. Personally, I like the plain or butter versions. Wrapping a fish in it seems like a spiteful thing to do to a perfectly innocent piece of lefse. Anyway, Jessica made lefse and it was great. Extra great because the only kid that likes it is Taylor. That means, more for me! I was in a little bit of Scandinavian heaven by Saturday evening.

Alex went to a KU-MU watch party. Taylor did homework. Samantha earned some more money babysitting. (She's rolling in dough!) Harrison watched the game with us...well, with his mom. I fell asleep. I was in a lefse stupor. I am a party animal.

Sunday: Alex hit the road for school with a bag of clean clothes. The basement started to look more like a basement and less like Marvel Cave. The other kids focused on getting ready for school. Except Harrison, who believes he is already on holiday break until January sometime. We watched the Chiefs. It was sad. Oh, well. There was still lefse left.

So, there's the windy answer to your persistent question about how I spent the holiday weekend. I hope yours was wonderful. Just keep your hands off my lefse.

This is the day for food. Too much food in some cases, but enough about me. Not too many years back, a viewer was kind enough to share a menu that her husband had enjoyed when he was serving our country on the USS Sierra on Thanksgiving Day, 1944. Here's what those heroes were served:

Cream of Tomato Soup
Ripe Olives
Saltines
Chow Chow Pickles
Roast Young Tom Turkey
Baked Virginia Candied Ham
Giblet Gravy
Apricot Dressing
Cream Whipped Potatoes
French Peas
Buttered Whole Kernel Corn
Parker House Rolls
Mince Meat Pie
Pumpkin Pie
Vanilla Ice Cream
Bread
Butter
Lemonade

After all those food were listed, at the bottom, were three more items:

Cigars
Mixed Nuts
Cigarettes

While most of those tasty treats are familiar to us, a few may raise a question. For example, Chow Chow Pickles. To the best of my understanding it has nothing to do with a breed of dog. I believe it is a kind of relish. Listen to me. Pretending to just know that off the top of my pointy head. Who do I think I am? Alex Trebek? I looked it up. A Parker House roll gets its name from the Parker House Hotel in Boston...half an oval of flaky goodness. As for mince meat pie...well, I know cartoon characters used to say "I'll make mince meat outtaya!" In reality, it is a mixture of meat and fruit and spices.

The last three things on the list are, to me, the most interesting. I know a very humble man who served in the Navy during World War II. He doesn't talk about it. In fact, if he ever attended a show in Branson where they ask all the veterans to stand and be recognized, I'm not at all sure he would do that. He saw action at Okinawa and many other places when he was just barely out of high school. I think of him and how excited he would've been to have a handful of mixed nuts and a smoke as he drifted over the waves, thousands of miles away from home. As the old song from that era put it "Little Things Mean A Lot."

The menu is a fascinating bit of history but it is also a reminder to use part of our Thanksgiving to say thanks to all this country's veterans as well as today's generation of men and women serving in faraway lands. Just a prayerful thought or two in the middle of all the food and football and lighting ceremonies. It may not seem like much but...well, you know the song.

When I drive into work around 2:30 in the morning, I share the road with semis and a few cars, but on the day before Thanksgiving, the early morning road warriors take on a slightly different make-up. I see family sedans, loaded down with goodies and kiddies. The dad or mom, intent behind the wheel and assorted snoring children in the backseat. Nowadays, I can also make out the greenish glow of hand-held video games and the light shining from the on-board TV screen. (I was almost late for work one such morning when I got so engrossed in Toy Story being shown in the mini-van ahead of me, I missed my exit. That darn Mr. Potato Head!) Yes, this is a morning when families are on the move.

In our house, we don't travel for Thanksgiving. In television, November is considered an important month for the ratings and nobody is allowed to take a vacation. You'd think Channel 9 would be urging me to be gone, but they've yet to catch on, I guess. As a kid, we only had to drive about eight miles to our grandma's apartment for the meal and football ritual. The minute we walked in, my brothers would start saying "Okay, Grandma, is it ready?" "When are we going to eat?" "Is it done, yet?" They did this more for the irritation value than because they were really hungry. Eventually, we'd all crowd around her little table and gobble up the gobbler. Of course, after the gorging, my brothers and dad would collapse on the floor, sofa and chairs to watch football. Being significantly younger than all of them, I was ready to do something! And the something I wanted to do was drive! My oldest brother, Randy, had a Corvair and it was just perfect for a kid my size to drive. As we got closer to half-time in the game, I would begin to pester my brothers about letting me drive. It was a timing thing. If I started to beg too early, they'd just get angry and stuff me in the pantry. If I started too late, they'd be in turkey-induced comas and not able to stand, let alone ride in a car driven by a third-grader. So, when the game clock showed five minutes to half-time, I would start in: "You know, it sure would be fun to drive the Corvair...don't you want to get a little fresh air...in the Corvair?" (Rhyming didn't help.) It was usually my mom who would tell my brother, Randy, to take me out for a spin. Now, I should explain that my grandma lived in a little retirement village and nobody was moving around outside on Thanksgiving. There were no other cars to avoid. No curbs to hit. No big turns or busy intersections. It was really like an elaborate Go-Kart track in Branson or as if you'd been shrunk (shrank? shrinked? shronked?) down and placed in a great model train village. Eventually, Randy would take me out and let me drive. Take that, Ralph Nader! When I was behind the wheel, that Corvair really was Unsafe At Any Speed!

When I see folks on the road to grandma's or other points, so early in the morning, it does take me back to other family trips. My dad loved to drive at night. It went back to when he was driving a truck for Skelgas. We'd leave for a trip at one in the morning. He'd be fortified with black coffee and Kents. I'd doze off in the backseat. This was in the dangerous days of intermittent seat-belt use. When my brothers weren't along, I'd stretch out across the backseat. Even when my brothers were along, I'd stretch out on top of them. Unless, I was wide awake and then I'd sit on that little built-in booster seat, armrest deal some cars had in the middle of the front seat. Not the safest perch, in retrospect. How did any of us survive?

I remember waking up one time and looking out the window to see my dad leaning against the car sucking in the cool air. Turns out we were on some road in Canada and he needed a wake-up stop. If this had been a movie on the Sci-Fi channel, some monster would have jumped out of the darkness and devoured my dad...leaving me and my mom to make it through the alien invasion. If it had been a movie on Lifetime, Markie Post or Tracey Gold would have jumped out of the darkness and accused my dad of any number of horrid things that had led to Markie's or Tracey's medical condition/eating disorder/unloved baby/emotionally devastated childhood/gambling addiction--please, pick one or more. I was about 11 at this time so UFOs were my major fear in the middle of the night. Of course, being in Canada, I'm sure the creatures would have been very polite.

It's funny what you remember from car-trips. For example, on one trip to Washington DC, when I was six, in addition to all the historic sites, I vividly remember a toddler playing between the curtain and sliding glass door of the family's motel room. My whole family thought she was so cute that we watched her for many minutes. I think we even took a photograph of her. Again, in this day and age, that action would have been a major red-flag! This all means she must have been one mighty adorable little kid or we needed to get out of the house more often.

From the same trip, I remember seeing a rather heavy-set, balding man get out of his car at a rest stop and the wind blowing his wide, striped tie directly into his chubby face. When my tie blows into my chubby face, I think to myself: Well, now I'm that guy. It's weird to remember such things and yet I get my kids' names confused. (Lately, I just call them all the dog's name, when I can remember that.)

If you are heading out in the next couple of days, be careful and have fun. Who knows what little things you'll remember or, just maybe, you will be someone else's hard-to-forget memory and you probably won't even know it!

READER ALERT: I am going to whine! Okay, now that you've been warned, here goes. My head hurts. (And my nose is running...which is the most exercise I've gotten in many months.) When I was a punk, my dad used to get sinus headaches. He didn't say much but you knew when they hit. His face would actually contort. If he looked like one of those evil trees from the Wizard of Oz, you knew to avoid contact. If he started throwing apples at you, well, it was time to leave home. What goes around, comes around. Now, I get the same kind of headaches and I know many of you do, too.

The weather affects this stuff. Once I had somebody tell me that saying what the barometric pressure is, is a waste of time since nobody can really use that info the way they can use temperature and wind direction, for example. Usually, I would agree. Frankly, the less actual weather information I impart during a weathercast, the less chance I have of being completely off the beam. Also, I am trying to minimize the scientific stuff and leave time for more song medleys and dance routines. But, back to the barometer...which is not a way of rating taverns...as the pressure falls, headaches and joint pain increases. I often get e-mails from folks reminding me to mention the pressure reading because it can intensify migraines and sinus troubles and arthritis, among other ailments. Just this morning, a viewer named Pat, sent word that when the pressure goes below 30.00 inches, Pat knows pain is on the way.

Our second oldest son, Taylor, broke his arm skateboarding...twice...in about a nine month period. Ever since, he can feel the rain coming. Interestingly, it doesn't seem to help him know that he should wear a jacket. I keep hoping his bones will eventually tell him to clean his room, drive slower and put his clothes away. Our old...I mean, former...camera operator, Betty, could also tell, by her bones, when rain or chilly air was on the way. Who needs all this fancy, schmancy computer equipment?!?

Back on Sunday, when I was walking the dog, we both noticed that the birds were going crazy! My grandma used to say that busy birds meant a storm was on the way. So, between the hyper-feathered forecasters and the pounding prognostication in my pea-brain, I know the weather pattern is about to change in a big way. Also, if the forecast is off or my on-air presentation is even less compelling than usual. Just remember: My nose is running and my head hurts.

The title of this WorldWideWebWordiness is a tribute to Quinn Martin. You may not recognize the name but I'll bet you remember his contributions to TV-dom: The Fugitive...The FBI...The Streets of San Francisco...Cannon...Barnaby Jones...etc etc etc. He was the producer of all those great shows. I watched them all. I liked all the program's stars. David Janssen who always looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He also did commercials for Excedrin which seemed very appropriate since Mr. Janssen looked like a headache. Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. His name reminded me of an eye chart at the optometrist. Karl Malden, the Oscar-winning actor who also did the American Express commercials: "You're trapped in a drunk tank with an amorous platypus and no way to make your bail. What will you do? What will you do?" Perhaps, the stars of Cannon and Barnaby Jones were my all-time favorite Quinn Martin guys. William Conrad showed you could spend a little too much time at the buffet table and still catch the bad guys. Buddy Ebsen was a fine example of how getting older needn't slow you down. Although, it did take me awhile to understand why Jed Clampett had lost all his millions and turned into a private eye. After all, it was Jethro who had wanted to be the "double-naught" spy. Anyway, in all of Quinn Martin's shows they had an Act I, Act II, Act III, Act IV and EPILOGUE. For a kid watching too much tube, it made me think I was actually doing something rather highbrow. Almost like reading a book. Well, this epilogue has to do last Friday's little e-blurb about putting up the holiday lights. So, consider this true literature...almost Shakespearesque. (The writer. Not the rod and reel. Despite the fishy smell.)

On our sunny, warm Saturday I headed out the door to do my part of the decorating. I was wearing shorts which attracted the attention of my neighbors who asked me to go back inside and put on some long pants. Apparently, being exposed to skinny white legs, as we approach Thanksgiving, is not part of their idea of a great start to the holiday. As I mentioned on Friday, I am allowed to put all the lights outside for my wife, Jessica, and whatever child is home to use. I am also allowed to hang the fake greenery over the garage because it doesn't matter if it is a little off-kilter. It took me about a half dozen trips back and forth in front of the garage and up and down the ladder to get the holiday garland even. I'd have had better luck if I'd been try to balance Judy Garland and Beverly Garland. To our neighbors I must have looked like a big, ugly duck in an arcade game. That would explain the loud pops and occasional ricocheting BBs. Finally, I got it close to even. As my father always said, "If at first you don't succeed. Quit."

The rest of the job was accomplished by Jessica, Taylor, Harrison and Samantha. They made me stay indoors...with the dog, who's never been very good at climbing ladders or stringing lights, either. But, he does have a great eye for greenery. That puts him a leg-up on me...figuratively speaking.

I know this will shock you BUT I am going to offer a little weather info right here as part of this blog-iphany. When the web-master general asked if I would be at all interested in adding to the plethora of good stuff here at KMBC.com, I'm pretty sure she thought I would use this space to talk about school visits, community events AND weather stuff. Boy, is the cyber-boss ever disappointed and disillusioned! So, in order to make amends, let me put on my weather-dork hat...really, I have to put on my hat to do weather...and tell you that this coming weekend is the time to get your outdoor decorations done! It is going to be sunny and near 60 everyday. In our house, the outdoor stuff goes up the weekend after Thanksgiving. However, this coming holiday week will mean much colder, blusterier (more blustery?) and, just maybe, soggier or flakier conditions! Of course, this forecast is a long way down the pike and could easily change. (I learned that technique in weatherdork school...Hedging 101.) The cold, windy part of the tale looks like a sure thing. The rain is at about a 40% chance. The odds of it mixing with a bit of snow by Thanksgiving morning are less than that. Now, I will take my weather dork hat off and put on my goof-ball knickers.

We have one house in the neighborhood that is already all lighted-up. They had one of those "We-String-Your-Lights" companies come out and get it done. It looks great...if you like those perfectly straight lines with all the lights clear and symmetrical sort of things. Everybody in our neighborhood got a holiday poem in our mailboxes last weekend urging us to put lights on the trees by the streets. We also got one that said "Please refrain from getting your mail without a shirt on and quit walking your dog after feeding him the left-over beans and sauerkraut." I think that second notice was NOT left for just everybody.

My dad put up the outdoor lights when I was a kid. They were almost always all blue. No, not in honor of K-Mart and their blue-light specials, but because blue is the color of the liturgical season of Advent in the Lutheran church. He would string them all around the windows and front porch while my mom hung a shiny, white wreath on the front door. She had that wreath for years and years. Finally, she was ready for a change and sold it in a garage sale. Well, our next door neighbor bought it so my mom had to stare at it for many more years. Tis' the season!

When my wife and I were first married, referred to by her family as The Dark Ages, I did the manly thing and put up the lights. They always looked horrible. They were crooked. They were not reliable. Before dragging them up the ladder, I actually would do the smart thing and plug them in to see if the string worked. Invariably, they would look lovely on the ground only to go totally dark as I looped them over the nails under the eaves. Maybe we got acrophobic lights, on sale. Anyway, my lighting job always looked like the neon sign of some flea-bag hotel and diner outside East Cowpile, Nevada. So, pretty soon my lovely and artistic wife, Jessica, took over. As the kids got older, they have chipped in, as well.

I still have the job of digging all the lights out from the spider-ravaged corner of the garage and giving them the plug-in check. Oh, she let's me do a few things like drape the fake greenery which doesn't need to be super straight. Also, she let's me lean out the second floor window to put the "Happy Holidays" sign over the garage. In fact, she encourages me to get way...way...way out that window. Meanwhile, she puts the beautiful lights on the trees and bushes. She pushes in the lighted candy-canes. She hammers the big, red ribbons on the front porch.

This year she says she has a surprise. A live Santa standing on our roof. I'm not sure what she has in mind, although I did notice a purchase from E-Bay for an all-weather Santa suit...in my size.

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We have three birch trees in our front yard. In the spring, they are slowpokes. It takes forever for the first leaves to actually appear. Then, because these trees are slackers, the late-appearing leaves turn yellow early and start to fall off. By Thanksgiving, the leaves are pretty much all gone. Well, not gone. They're all over the ground. That is what leads me to the internal conversation I have each and every year...if it wasn't for my internal conversations I'd hardly have anyone to talk to who would really listen and even I don't really listen to me, but don't tell me that, because I'd be heart-broken if I ever found out that I'm not listening to me. The question of the season: Should I rake or not?

Most lawn experts advise that a good raking is healthy for your lawn. It opens things up and lets the air into the soil. On the other, more lazy, hand, I've heard that sometimes leaves can act as a natural mulch. I have always leaned toward the natural mulch idea. In fact, I plan on using natural mulch to cover my soon-to-be obvious bald spot. Now, I know you're thinking that I am just plain lazy. I can't really deny that. However, I have to say that my hesitancy to rake is based on several important principles. First, I am anti-bagging. Rabidly anti-bagging. Just a few blogs ago, I mentioned my fond memories of burning leaves in the fall. If I knew I could burn the leaves, I'd be much more likely to rake them into a pile. But, due to safety and environmental concerns, that is not allowed. So, as President Calvin Coolidge said when told the White House lawn needed attention: "I choose not to rake."

Another thing that slows me down when it comes to raking is what kind of rake to use. We don't have one of those really wide, wooden rakes but we do have a couple of those highly-flexible, fan-like metal ones. Frankly, I am anti-highly-flexible, fan-like rakes. Rabidly anti-highly-flexible, fan-like rakes. I want one of those old-fashioned, straight-iron rakes. A heavy-duty deal you could use for gathering rocks. Why? Is it because I really want to dig deep? Or because I believe they do a better job? No. I want one because you can't do the old "stepped-on-the-rake-and-hit-myself-in-the-head" routine with one of those wimpy, soft rakes. All the years of watching Tom & Jerry cartoons become meaningless if you can't reenact some of those moments.

Then, there's this: In his great song, Autumn Leaves, the legendary Johnny Mercer describes the scene this way: "The falling leaves drift by my window...the autumn leaves of red and gold." There is NOTHING in the song about raking. NOTHING. By the way, the original French title of that classic tune is Les Fevilles Mortes, or Dead Leaves. Those French are so romantic. Frankly, or should that be Francophile-ly, if it was really called Dead Leaves, I actually may do the lawn work.

Also, if I rake, then I eliminate the following parental threat: "Hey, if you do/don't (insert infraction or duty here) I'll make you rake the lawn!" And, the leaves help cover the brown spots that we have to look at all through the spring and summer! AND, they (the leaves) look pretty as they swirl around the driveway! AND, did I mention I am rabidly anti-bagging and anti-highly-flexible, fan-like rakes? You see, there are so many reasons NOT to rake.

In fact, I can only think of one good reason to rake the leaves: So that when my employer or wife or children or random stranger on the street tells me to "Go take a flying leap" I will have a nice soft place to land. At the house we lived in when the kids were all very little, we didn't have many trees so the leaf production was quite limited. Still, being a dutiful dad, I would rake them into a jumping pile for the kids. They were small so the heap didn't have to be huge. Now, however, the big boys are bigger than me and the little kids are gaining fast, so we'd really need a mound! And, since the kids are all much busier than I am, I just know that nobody would be home so I'd end up playing all by myself and that would open up all those old childhood wounds. The next thing you know, I'd be sobbing my eyes out to Dr. Phil.

Well, I hope you won't judge my lack of raking too harshly. The neighbors are supportive of anything that keeps me indoors and out or sight. Also, I believe I've given a fair number of compelling reasons for my lack of rake-thusiasm. Still, the idea of jumping into a big pile of leaves is starting to sound pretty cool. So what if no one else is around! A grown man leaping happily into a big pile of autumn leaves...why, that behavior could be described as jaunty...dashing...sporty...in a word: RAKISH!

Chris Stigall is the host of the morning show on KCMO Talk Radio 710. I provide weather forecasts for the program. Well, on Tuesday, Mr. Stigall (I am required, contractually, to address him in that formal manner. That's actually something of an improvement. Initially, I was mandated to say "Your royal talkmeister, Stigall the Magnificent.") was expressing worry about his upcoming wisdom teeth EXTRACTION! That is a great word. Sounds really awful. EXTRACTION! EXTRACTION! EXTRACTION! "In a world where everyone's mouth is a potential weapon of mass destruction, no one is safe from EXTRACTION. Starring Meryl Streep and Carrot Top. Opening this Friday in selected cities." Anyway, he was concerned. After all, in his line of work, he really puts his money where his mouth is!

I wanted to extend Mr. Stigall some personal reassurance although, I do kind of hate it when people chime in with their lives as I am trying to be self-absorbed! You know, you'll say something like "Oh, I stubbed my toe and I think it is broken" and then a co-worker or neighbor or total stranger will step up and say "Well, one time I rammed my toe into an antique armoire at a flea market and started a chain reaction that completely destroyed the entire stock of the place which cost me several thousand dollars AND my toe bone was jammed all the way into my upper thigh which caused me the most excruciating pain. They had to use morphine just to move me to the trauma center. To this day, I can't wear sandals and my pants still don't fit quite right. But, anyway, what about your finger or toe or whatever?" But, in this case, I can relate to the wisdom teeth deal.

At the time of my EXTRACTION! I was working for a state legislator in Wisconsin. I had pretty good health benefits at the time so I went to the dentist. Turned out I needed to have all four of my impacted wisdom teeth yanked. Now, I know I am getting on in years...a bit long in the wisdom tooth, if you wish. Just the other day, for example, a woman approached me and told me how much her son had enjoyed being on the KMBC kids' show JELLYBEANS! that I used to host. He's 26 now and probably has his own wisdom teeth issues. Well, I'm sure the methodology used in wisdom tooth EXTRACTION is better now. It wasn't bad even way back when. (This was just about three months after barbers quit offering a leeching with your shave and a trim.) I got home after the procedure and slept. Every now and then, I'd wake up to see Phil Donahue on the TV. I mean really ON my TV. Sitting up there. Like a cat with glasses. Those were very strong pain-killers.

Later in the day, my mom appeared at my door. I think she was real. She and her husband dropped off a chocolate milk shake and french fries, just in case I could eat anything. Of course, after the EXTRACTION, a person's mouth is filled with cotton and gauze and it's not pretty. Still, I tried to use a straw to enjoy the shake. That was a mistake. It was totally my fault. The oral surgeon had warned me not to do anything to dislodge the clots forming in the now empty space between my years...not THAT empty space, the one in my mouth. The surgeon's exact words, as I recall through the haze of years and heavy meds, were "Whatever you do, don't suck!" Perhaps she was giving me advice for my life, in general, and, if so, she would be deeply disappointed today, but, I think she just meant don't use a straw because that effort, with the changes in the oral cavity air pressure, may lead to the dreaded DRY SOCKET! Did I pay attention? No. Part of that was because I don't always listen. Part of that may have been because, by evening when my mom brought the goodies, I was really getting hungry. But, the main reason the advice didn't sink in, was because, when the doctor told me this, she looked like a giant Gila Monster wearing white tie and tails and speaking Esperanto. Did I mention the pain-killers were quite potent?

Well, I got the dry socket. It made my recovery much longer. I went from looking a little bit like Marlon Brando in The Godfather to Alvin the Chipmunk on steroids. Finally, after several weeks, I thought I'd made it through the ordeal only to get a late-stage infection. Maybe it was just as well that I NOT share this story with KCMO's Chris Stigall. It wouldn't exactly be reassuring.

You know, according to some sources, they call them Wisdom Teeth because when they actually do come in, it's a little later than the rest of the choppers. When you are "no longer a child but wiser." So, it makes perfect sense that mine would have been impacted. Not quite making it out. Sort of describes my personal level of wisdom. I really should have seen it coming but my tongue got wrapped around my eye teeth and that was that. Well, good luck to Mr. Stigall and the rest of you folks who may be heading in for Wisdom Tooth EXTRACTION! Remember, don't suck.

Over the weekend, our second-oldest son, Taylor, engaged in a time-honored tradition. No, not watching every episode of The Andy Griffith Show while eating a stack of Oreos. That's just my personal tradition for weekends. No, I mean playing in his own band. Of all our kids, Taylor would've been the least likely to take up an instrument. Alex and Samantha are lucky enough to have been born with a natural musical sense and very nice singing voices. Of course, in another type of tradition, they never sing. Meanwhile, the youngest, Harrison, does do something he calls "Funky Dance # 5." He can also sing just about every commercial jingle you can imagine. If he can make a living dancing while, at the same time, singing "Less of you...more of life. Weight Loss Surgical Center," he's got it made. But, as it turns out, it is Taylor who loves music most.

A few years ago, he expressed an interest in playing the bass. His mother was delighted since she had played bass in the Wisconsin Youth Symphony. I was excited because I thought we were going to purchase one of those singing fish that hang on the wall. But, it wasn't that kind of bass. Or my wife's kind of bass. It was an electric bass Taylor requested. He played it a lot. Then, for my birthday I got an acoustic guitar. I had always imagined myself getting the family to settle in around a campfire while I whipped out my guitar and led everyone in a round of cowboy songs. I did take piano lessons but found that carrying even a spinet in my backpack did not lead to music, but muscle strain. More hernia than happiness. Well, as things turned out, Taylor kidnapped the guitar and has been playing it ever since. He has added an electric lead guitar to his collection. (He also has a ukulele but I have refused to wear the grass skirt, so that doesn't get strummed very often.) Anyway, Taylor plays his guitars almost all the time. You might think that would get annoying but, most of the time, it is great. In fact, when he has been out of town at various events, we miss the music.

Well, some of his friends...about a half dozen...decided they'd form a band. It's nothing super serious. Just for fun. Saturday night they met for the first time and worked out three songs. Taylor is a big Bob Dylan fan, so that makes up most of their repertoire. We were very excited about this seven piece orchestra of guitars and drums and, not only because they rehearsed at someone else's house. We've had some disagreement about what the name of this band should be. For awhile they were toying with some line of dialogue from Spiderman as the name. Something about pie. I forget. Then, they were going for something "angry" like "Days of Rage." But that just doesn't fit. These are pretty laid-back kids. Maybe "We're A Little Miffed" would be more appropriate. This morning on the weather I used the phrase Waves Of Cool. There's a name for them! Of course, I'd want to be paid for the usage of the term. Just check the fine print of your birth certificate, Taylor.

It took me back to my brothers' garage band days. Now, they weren't playing rock and roll. This was back when Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass were big and The Baja Marimba Band was cranking out hits. One brother, Craig, played the trumpet. Another, Mark, was on drums. They added a couple of trombones, another trumpet, a pianist and bass. Craig's big moment was playing the opening solo on Lonely Bull. When they recorded the song, a bunch of us got to be in the studio, cheering and yelling "Ole." Being in Wisconsin, it took us all awhile to say that word as a cheer and not some guy's name like Ole Hanson. The record these high school age kids made was called What's New and it was great. To this day, I pull it out of the rack and give it a spin. Back when I did goofy news stories, I used their music quite a bit. For example, they had a song called Frenchy Brown that was perfect for any story featuring pigs. I remember the band playing outside and the whole neighborhood, in fact, several neighborhoods, crowding the street to listen. They won every talent show they were in and, eventually, made a pretty good extra amount of dough playing all over the area.

After a time, they added some vocals to their show. One trombonist sang This Guy's in Love. The girls would go crazy. Then, the bass player started singing Where Is Love from the musical, Oliver. He sang it in an odd breathy way. I thought it sounded like he needed his inhaler but, again, females swooned. (Remember, everything is relative. This was Wisconsin, after all, where Ray Nitschke was our state's version of Justin Timberlake.) Frankly, I thought my brother Mark was the best singer in the bunch and he finally got his chance with a song called Never Ending Song of Love.

The only downside of this whole musical escapade was the pressure it put on me. Now, our oldest brother, Randy, was not in the band but he was an all-state wrestler, a great dancer and the world's nicest person so his place in the hierarchy was secure. For a punk like me, however, there was some tension. When I was in fifth-grade, my brothers were making a triumphant return to our local talent show. They were not competing. They were the special guest stars. Well, unbeknownst to me, they had signed me up to play the piano in the competition. I am not being modest when I say that I had no business competing. I couldn't memorize anything so my dad took the three songs I was going to play and copied them small enough to fit on one piece of cardboard. Then, he wrote reminders on the edges like "SMILE" and "HAVE FUN" and "YOU ARE A DORK." I think that last one was from one of my brothers. Anyway, I didn't even get an honorable mention. It was the end of an era. The Nichols Family, who one of my grade school teachers had once compared to the OSMONDS!, no longer ruled the AFS Talent Show. I've been dealing with that humiliation ever since.

I don't think Taylor will face that kind of trouble. My personal professional achievements have set the bar so incredibly low, all of the kids will do much better. Who am I kidding? They already have. Even Funky Dance # 5 is light years beyond my reach.

It was Auction Action on Saturday night at Indian Hills Country Club to benefit one of the great resources our area offers: Community LINC. They provide housing to the homeless all over the metro. Kansas City music legend, Mama Ray was there to keep toes tapping. For one number she was joined by some very special back-up singers: The Children of LINC. In addition to music, there was also good food, good conversation and, of course, the auction.

One of the silent auction items was a visit to KMBC to watch FirstNews. There is no real KMBC Tour procedure in place. In fact, at the former building, tours were discouraged because of safety issues. Now, with our brand-spanking new facility, I wouldn't be too surprised if some real process is set up for tours. Maybe we could erect a tram or moving walk-way. A Hall of Former Anchors. A "It's A Dangerous Small World" ride. Better yet, set up one of the zip-lines for people to go from the second floor of the complex right into the studio itself. Eventually, we'd set up little food and beverage booths and a few craft exhibits. I do know that if they start having people dressed up in big, heavy, hot costumes, I'll be the guinea pig. They'll have me wearing a giant TV screen for a head. "Hello, kids! I'm Mr. High-Def! Welcome to Channel 9...hey, punk, quit pulling on my antenna."

PHRASE ALERT: What's the deal with brand-spanking? Well, apparently, the use of the word spanking, has to do with "large or exceptionally fine" and NOT "paddled with one's hand." When I see the word spanking, I think of my childhood. No, I was not paddled very often...which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake...but, I do remember one particular incident. I must have been around five years old. I watched an episode of Little Rascals on TV and saw Alfalfa contemplating an upcoming paddling. He took a thick book and put it in his drawers. When his father swatted him...well, you know what happened. I thought that was a great idea. So, I took a hardcover book and placed it strategically in my knickers. Unfortunately, the book was rather large. It was not inconspicuous. I looked like Sponge Bob Square Pants. But, at age five, it was good enough. Then, I tried to make my dad angry enough to spank me. On a normal day, that would not have been all that difficult. It was a case of my bad timing, that I caught him on a day when he had just gotten the latest Norman Vincent Peale booklet in the mail. It was entitled something like "Your Kids ARE Good!" My dad liked all that optimistic stuff but he was also a big fan of old-fashioned "you broke my heart...I lost my job...my truck won't start and the dog just got hit by the Midnight Express" country-western music. Depending on what day you caught him, he could be very upbeat and happy with a smile for everyone or, on those Grand Ol' Opry days, he could be extra-glum and gloomy. It was that second persona I really needed for my practical joke attempt but, instead, I got Mr. Happy. I walked up to him and threw a tantrum. He chuckled. I dumped my milk on the kitchen table. He smiled. I said I was never going to clean my room again. He winked at me. What could I do to get a rise out of him? Finally, I hit on the right thing...or wrong thing...to say: "I just drew pictures all over your copy of The Power of Positive Thinking. That Norman guy looks like a pirate, now." That got him. He took me over his knee and gave me a spank. His hand hit the book...but not very hard. Like I said, it was not exactly invisible! Being a good sport, he pretended to hurt his hand. Luckily, he didn't discover I really had marked up his book until much later. And, by then, he was back to Conway Twitty.

See how one word, like "spanking" can make me veer completely off course?

Back to the auctioneering. Like I mentioned, Channel 9, as far as I know, does not offer formal tours of the facility. For one thing, there is concern that the public will throw marshmallows to the anchors and that will only spoil them for their real meal-time. Also, if you have a mild allergy to hair-care products you could be headed for the ICU just walking past Jim Flink's desk. So, when wonderful groups like LINC, ask about auctioning off a tour, I always have to give them the bad news: If they want someone to be able to visit, it would have to be at 4:45 in the morning for FirstNews. That way, since I'm here (which is NOT a selling point) I can let them in and show off the place. Over the years, I've tried this a few times and have NEVER, I mean NEVER, had anyone actually show up for the tour. At the LINC event, a woman approached and asked if it really meant A.M. on the bidding sheet. Yes, I had to inform her, it did. She wasn't sure she could get her 12 year olds up at that hour for such a thing. Who could blame them?

I think what happens is that the generous attendees at these events, stroll by the silent auction tables, past the luxurious bottles of wine and the high-dollar gift certificates and the glittering jewelry and then come upon this sad little index card that says you can visit FirstNews in the middle of the night. Eventually, someone feels sad that nobody else has bid, so he or she writes down the minimum bid...around five bucks or so...and moseys on down the line. Well, that first bid is the last bid and the person bidding bids any thought of actually following through, bye-bye. Once, the item was for Breakfast With The FirstNews Crew! The so-called winners didn't have to get up super early or come into the station. We went to meet them at a nice place for morning vittles. When all of us found out that someone had actually bid on this thing, we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. Then, we discovered that the bidder was the person who had first asked us to participate and he got it for the minimum bid. So, I suspect I won't hear from anyone at the LINC auction about visiting FirstNews but, I hope, someone did make a bid and a couple more dollars can go to support LINC's great work.

In any case, congratulations and thank you to everyone who made Saturday night so special. Your generosity will make everyday better for so many of our neighbors.

This morning I wore a tie that I've had in the closet for many years. It has a little horsey on it. I think it's a guy playing polo which means it must be a Polo tie. I'm not a fashionista so, to me, Polo is a neat community north of the river in Missouri. Anyway, I wore this tie once...many years ago. An engineer walked through the weather center that day, took one look at the tie and said "That's an ugly tie. Don't wear it again." Well, memories of being stuffed in my middle school locker by bigger, stronger classmates...often they were girls...came flooding back and I didn't dare wear the red, black and yellow plaid tie again...until this morning.

You may think that I was being oversensitive by not wearing it again for so long and you'd be right. One other time, I wore a gray (or grey, if you prefer) sweater vest under my suit-jacket. It was "the look" at the time. I'd seen people like Kris Ketz and Bryan Busby wear such an ensemble. They are widely regarded as well-turned-out. Well, the morning I wore it, none other than Jim Flink said he thought it made me look rather pompous and full of myself. Now, that was just the effect I was hoping for...but, his pointed comments made me throw that sweater in the corner when I got home. You see, Flink is one of these guys that, in the words of my mother, "wears his clothes well" or in the words of my grandmother "looks natty" or in the words of my Uncle Lemur, "needs a good swift kick in his Versace." Mr. Flink is a fashion plate. I've always been more of a fashion gravy boat. Well, I took his words to heart and never returned to my vested interest.

Then, there was the time I tried to go a little casual on the news. When I started at Channel 9, the news director said the look he wanted in his on-air folks was "friendly professionals." Nothing too out there. Conservative. Warm. Dependable. Then, it happened. Sports people decided they were too cool for ties. They started wearing turtle necks and open collars. Feeling a bit sartorially spunky, I came in one morning wearing a maroon turtle neck under my sport coat. It was a mock turtle neck. Yes, it did seem to mock me. All the way into work that morning, it was taunting me: "Who do you think you are? You can't wear me! I'm made for hip, cool dudes. Not pasty-faced duds. You will never go through with this. Nannee-Nannee-Boo-Boo." The shirt was right. I had it on and ready to go but as soon as I saw the anchor people looking at me with a combination of horror and glee, I decided I didn't have the nerve to go casual. I looked a little like a paunchy Carl Sagan...with "billions and billions" of flabby rolls trying to escape around my middle. Quickly, I grabbed a dress shirt hanging there in the weather center and a tie. Neither belonged to me. Based on the size of the shirt, a former Channel 9 weather-person must have moonlighted as a Keebler Elf. The tie featured a hand-painted, scantily-clad female hula dancer. But, I figured if I kept my jacket buttoned, the FCC wouldn't be offended. Unfortunately, by doing so, all you could see were two beady eyes. Weather became a scene from Alien.

After those ridiculous failures at changing my style, I decided just to stick to regular old business suits. But, in order to release my inner Haute Couture, I started changing up the ties. By the way, Haute Couture is French for "high sewing" and refers to fancy fashions but it always sounds to me like something you'd need surgery for..."Yes, Mr. Nichols, it looks like you ruptured your haute couture. Probably when you tried to lift that 149th spoonful of chocolate ice cream. We're going to have to realign your haute and stitch up your couture. Then, you'll be almost as good as new...of course, your days as a flamenco dancer are probably over." But, I fashionably digress.

For me, it has become all about ties. Even in this category I play it relatively safe. For example, I try not to make an ascot of myself. I avoid bow ties for a couple reasons: 1. I can't tie them and 2. I'm afraid of being mugged by Tucker Carlson, George Will and Jerry Mahoney. And, I would not be caught wearing a Bola Tie. There was a guy that worked at Channel 9 for years who wore Bola Ties and he looked like a hip cowpoke. If I wore one, it would make viewers wretch...making it an E-Bola Tie. So, I just stick to regular ties in my little Half-Windsor knot. That's the only one I know how to do. Years ago, in high school gym class, I got my Half-Windsor confused with my Half-Nelson and ended up in traction.

I have a blue and red striped tie and another one that is gray (or grey) with dark blue circles that I wear if I think I'm going to get yelled at at work. I guess they're called "power ties." I figure if I can't defend my poor performance, maybe my tie will do the talking for me. I have ties for just about every holiday from Valentine's Day to St. Patrick's to Christmas and New Year's. I have golf ties. I have musical ties...like the one that looks like a keyboard which was a cute idea until a bunch of little kids who'd learned to play piano by the Suzuki method beat the high C out of me. Of course, I have weather-related ties. Many of these ties were purchased for me by my loving family who feel I need all the help I can get dressing myself. Some came from schools. About a half dozen were gifts from a viewer who used to teach Sunday School to little kids and wore a variety of ties as part of that responsibility.

According to what I've read, the idea of men wearing ties may date back to Roman times when orators used them to keep their vocal cords nice and toasty. So, with regard to my little horsey tie I got out of the stable this morning, let me say to the engineer that poo-pooed it all those years ago: Et tu, Brute? Which, I think, is Roman-talk for "AAH-HAA. Turns out some people do like this tie! So take that!"

We get lots of great feature photos from viewers. Some are of lovely sunrises and sunsets. Some show breath-taking looks at wonders of nature. Some take us around the world. Some take us into the backyard garden. All are greatly appreciated. There are many times that the only "pretty" part of the forecast is the Weather Picture. In addition to all those types of entries, we also get some cool pictures of peoples' furry friends. They may not make it into the annual Weather Calendar, but you can see many of them, in a slide show, right here at http://www.kmbc.com/. You'll notice that several dogs and cats...mostly the dogs...are decked out in fancy duds. I've never owned a cat, but I get the sense from most felines that they would simply not stand for such foolishness. It is a sign of my own insecurities that I like the "I Love You No Matter What" attention a dog gives versus the "May I Help You?" look I get from most cats. It's not the kitties. It's me.

Over the years, I must admit, I've dressed a dog or two. When I was a kid, we had a French Poodle named Mimi. Mimi didn't act or look like a French Poodle named Mimi. She was more like a mutt named Max. In the summers we would have her curls cut but, being Wisconsin, we still had our share of chilly mornings so we bought her a warm jacket. It was a blue and red plaid number and she looked pretty sharp. A little overcoat for a little pooch makes sense. (I like wearing a little overcoat to cover my little paunch, as a matter of fact.) But, I will confess, a later canine in my household suffered far greater indignities.

Jingles was a black and tan dachshund-chihuahua mix. I had him when I moved to Kansas City and used him in several feature stories over the years. (Later, when the kids started to come along, I shifted gears and exploited...ahem...I mean, offered them the chance to be on TV.) I did a story for PM Magazine once about a dog that played the piano. For the TV Guide ad promoting that story, we put a little tuxedo collar and bow-tie on Jingles and made him put his paw on a toy piano. He looked like half of Ferrante and Teicher...the hairier one...Furr-ante. Jingles felt that picture preserved his dignity.

Then, for a story about Halloween, I tried to make him look like a black cat. That case of cross-species experimentation sent him straight into therapy. He really needed Dr. Phil...or, at least, a rest on Marlin Perkin's couch. The next year, to demonstrate March coming in like a lion or a lamb, my wife conspired to create little lion and lamb disguises for him to wear. This was the last straw. He refused to ever appear in another TV piece. His attorney got a court order and I was only allowed to come within ten feet of Jingles during feeding time. Jingles then turned to the ACLU...The American Canine Liberties Union. As he got older and didn't like the cold, my wife would put him in a sweater. He looked like a chunky tube sock with legs. Eventually, all the shame and embarrassment was too much for him and I woke up to find myself dressed like Joan Crawford with Jingles smearing lipstick all over my face.

Checkers, the Animal Haven refugee, was very camera shy. She hid whenever there was talk of a story shoot. Frankly, I wouldn't have had the heart to dress her funny. She was too refined and reserved. It would have been like putting Grandma Moses in a purple leisure suit.

Our latest pooch, Casey, has let the kids put Green Bay Packer shirts on him and sunglasses. He has endured the occasional hat. He always looked at me with very sad eyes when this was occurring but, unlike Jingles, it hasn't made Casey bitter. For awhile, our daughter thought Casey should always wear one of those little bandanna deals but, when nobody was looking he'd take it off and eat it. Even at this late stage, he still indulges in his appetite for odd things. Just the other day we were treated to an early morning appearance of a long missing mini-lion Beanie Baby. I'm going to spare you the details of how this happened. Let's just say it was like watching The Human Cannonball at the circus. Fortunately for Casey, the kids have grown out of the "let's dress up the dog" phase and I don't do many feature stories anymore. He can enjoy his golden years without fear of fashion faux pas...or is that paws?

The public library of Kansas City, Kansas is celebrating the worst of Hollywood with its annual Bad Movie Festival! Now, when my wife and I first moved to Kansas City, we didn't have any little ones yet which meant we still had some ones...and fives...and tens in our hands. We also had some more time. So, we did go to quite a few movies. In the last, oh, 18 years or so, my level of movie attendance has dropped precipitously. By precipitously, I mean "to a great degree" not that it was raining and that prevented me from going out. Although, I do hate to get my toupee soggy. It looks like a wet aardvark nesting on my noggin. That's bad enough but I really get perturbed when kids come up and want to pet it. Okay, I don't really wear a hair-piece but, along those lines, the last time we were in Branson, the mirrors in the hotel room bath lined up perfectly to give me the best view I've ever had of my increasingly thinning hair on top The hair that was trying, vainly, to cover the widening expanse was mostly white. I've got a snow-globe up there. Luckily, we were on our way to hear Charo and that took my mind off my head. Okay, I digress. Forget my hair issues. Just sweep it under my rug. Let's talk movies. Bad movies.

One of my family's favorite TV shows was Mystery Science Theater 3000 or MST3K. It revolved around a guy stranded in space forced to watch bad movies with his robot buddies. As they watched, they made wise-cracks. It was great and, in a way, a little sad. Just thinking of all the effort and passion poured into a film (when you're serious about movies you call it "film." Personally, I prefer "movin' pictures.") like Hands of Manos, only to have it be an object of hilarious scorn is unsettling. (Of course, in these days of YouTube, just about any of us can end up with our bumpiest efforts being preserved and accessible for all time. For example, in the KMBC section of YouTube, you can find me wearing a red wig and cheerleader outfit, getting what's left of my hair painted blue, talking about art made of elephant droppings and falling on my hinder at the Ice Terrace.) Well, it is not the cinema stinke' of MST3K they are talking about at the KCK Library Bad Movie Festival. They mean movies that, at first glance, maybe rated R or G or PG but also got the rating of P-yeeewww!

Just the other day, my youngest son, Harrison, and I watched what is often thought to be the worst movie ever made: Plan 9 From Outer Space. Frankly, I didn't think it was all that bad. Of course, I'm predisposed to love anything that has the number 9 in it. Harrison had a ball watching the poor production quality and wooden acting...and, especially, commenting on it. Of course, Harrison also genuinely enjoyed the John Travolta movie Battlefield Earth. Years ago, I took the older boys to see Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie, fully expecting to be bored to tears. It was surprisingly fun. The villain is a cross between a Star Trek-type Klingon and Paul Lynde.

The movies that I've, personally, found to be disappointing are often those that get pretty decent reviews. Now, what follows, represents only my low-brow opinion so, please, don't take offense if you loved one of these. After all, you need only tune into my work on KMBC to realize that I have little or no judgement. Anyway, here are just four movies that didn't quite do it for me:

*Ironweed* This was a movie that had a lot going for it. Based on the Pulitzer Prize winning novel of the same name, it starred Meryl Streep and, one of my favorites, Jack Nicholson. When I walked into the theater with my soon-to-be wife on my arm, I was whistling a happy tune and had a spring in my step. By the time we came out, I felt totally defeated and practically required an IV just to make it to the car. Talk about a depressing couple of hours. This was definitely NOT a date movie unless you were trying to make time with a Prozac salesperson. Even today, more than 20 years later, when someone gets moody around the house, my wife or I will say "What is this? A scene from Ironweed?


*Remains of the Day* My wife and I rented this one to watch at home. It starred Anthony Hopkins and earned a pile of Oscar nominations. Well, maybe my wife and I are just not classy enough but this one put us to sleep. We kept hoping Hopkins would shift back into Hannibal Lechter mode and search the cellar for a bottle of Chianti. It just dragged on and on and on. If you ever think life is moving too fast, put in this movie. We may not be alone in our view of this movie. I just noticed on the movie site where I refreshed my memory of this thing, one of the "site sponsors" is for Ambien...a sleep aid. Is this some kind of joke? Anyway, we just didn't get into this one and never really cared about the characters. It was not Silence of the Lambs. It was just Silence. That other Anthony Hopkins offering, Silence of the Lambs was much more exciting even though my tender-hearted wife couldn't stand it. The day after we watched it, we went to Animal Haven and got a bigger dog.

*American Beauty* Here's another one that my country bumpkin wife and I just didn't find very entertaining or enlightening. We must have been in the minority since it won a bunch of Oscars. But, we thought the whole thing was really depressing. Like Ironweed but with a better wardrobe.

Of course, these three films were well-acted and had high production values so they weren't bad in that "let's make fun of them" sort of way. They just left us feeling deflated and wishing we could get those two hours back and use them for something more enjoyable like root canal.

For really good bad movies, you need to tune into The Lifetime Movies Channel. My kids and I have gotten sucked into some doozies that my wife was watching. There are lots of titles like Seduced By Madness, Borrowed Hearts, Ultimate Deception (everything is the Ultimate something on this channel,) Before He Wakes and Obsessed. Melissa Gilbert, Tracey Gold, Markie Post and Jaclyn Smith show up a lot...usually on the arm of a young Barry Bostwick or middle-aged Scott Bakula. Currently, the best, bad Lifetime movie my family and I have indulged in was called Voyage of Terror, a made for TV concoction from 1998. It had a an impressive cast including Lindsay Wagner, Martin Sheen and Brian Dennehy as "The President." Lindsay Wagner plays Dr. Stephanie Tauber, an infectious disease researcher taking a cruise with her daughter in an effort to "reconnect." Well, as luck would have it, an ebola-type virus attacks the crew and passengers. The captain of the ship keeps changing his accent. The "Oval Office" of President Brian Dennehy looks like it was decorated by college freshmen on a very tight budget. Martin Sheen spoke his lines with great authority but the little thought bubble over his head said "I am doing this strictly for the money...you never know when my son Charlie may need to make bail. Please, have my limo warmed up and ready to head for the West Wing."

There were little fake news updates throughout the movie that were, sadly, very close to the real thing. "Voyage of terror. Death on the high seas. Will it dock in your town? All that and today's weather. Tonight at 11:00." This movie provided my family with our own little episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000! In fact, our oldest son, Alex, taped it and shows it to his friends for their amusement and smart-alecky asides.

I know I am treading on dangerous ground by making fun of movies. After all, once they start a Bad TV Festival, I'll probably be in my own category.

Sunday morning there was an event in Olathe that was truly For The Birds! To be specific: for the Ravens and Eagles and Falcons and Hawks! Those feathered mascots, representing each Olathe high school were on hand or is that on wing, for the race. It was the second annual Run With The Birds 5k run and one-mile walk, at beautiful Olathe Northwest High School to benefit Project Graduation. Project Graduation is a marvelous program designed to encourage safe, drug and alcohol-free ways to celebrate that important step. Speaking of steps, there were lots of happy faces and feet out on the Sunday morning pavement, under the bright sunshine and blue sky, in the crisp fall air...if I wax anymore poetic I'll slip and fall down. The bottom line is that it was a great morning for a great cause. Thanks to everyone who showed up to make it a success.

I should have said "showed up ON TIME to make it a success." Yes, the night before was the annual Fall Back. Every year, on FirstNews, we remind folks of this event and, using a stuffed Energizer Bunny, urge a change in smoke detector batteries at the same time. The big change came a little later than usual this year. Now, I have a habit that drives my lovely wife crazy. (More than one, actually, but this is the one I'm talking about today.) Most people reset their clocks right before bedtime. I do not do it that way. I start to change the clocks right away on Saturday morning...one clock at a time. That means, depending on what room you're in or what clock you're glancing at, it maybe an hour earlier or later. So, if you have things to get done, just go into the hour earlier room. If you're ready to hit the hay, the hour later room maybe better. Yes, it's weird but I do it every year. Both for the Spring Ahead and the Fall Back!

My mom insists she is only now feeling fully rested. At Spring Back time, she loses that hour of sleep and is tired for six months. For me, on my particular schedule with the 2:00 a.m. wake-up call, I have found that neither time change makes much of a difference. I'm kind of tired either way and not particularly good at my job...either way.

I don't want to be a whiner. Well, any more than usual. But, this is a difficult time of the year for me. I lie awake at night, filled with worry. I stare out the windows...full of anxiety and confusion. What should I do? How should I respond? What is the right direction to pursue? I really should get a hold of Dr. Phil and see if he can help me cope. (I would do just that except for that restraining order the good doctor has out on me from back when I used do a weak impersonation of him on FirstNews.) What has me twisted in knots? The Green, Green Grass of Home!

This is the time of year when I argue with myself about whether I should mow the lawn again..one more time. Growing up in Wisconsin, the mowing season was much shorter and more obvious. For example, when I was eight, the mowing season fell on a Tuesday in July. Actually, I remember usually mowing from around Memorial Day until Labor Day. When my brothers were in charge of mowing and raking, they used a non-motorized, push mower and old-fashioned rake. There were a couple of years that fell between when my older...much, much older...brothers were out of the house and before I was old enough to be trusted, that our dad had to do the work himself. It was at that point that he opened his moth-house, also known as his wallet, and purchased a power mower and a lawn-sweeper. The lawn-sweeper was an awesome piece of machinery. There was no motor so all you heard were the bristles on the grass. Of course, it did not dig into the lawn the way a good raking would do, but it did make the lawn look pretty. It was really all about perception not reality...which may have influenced my decision to go into television. This was before we lost all the elm trees in our yard and leaves were everywhere. The sweeper was very wide...once I think we found we'd picked up an AMC Pacer, by accident. My dad would push that contraption all over the lawn and then dump the leaves in the gutter. We could burn them back in those days. I know it is probably environmentally suspect but I sure miss that smell. Don't tell anyone, but I used to light one little leaf in the backyard in memory of those days. I can't anymore because my wife doesn't let me near the matches. It all goes back to the time I tried to light our gas-burning fireplace and started the gas way before lighting the match. It could have been very, very bad. As it turned out, I was blown backward about three feet and singed my eyebrows. Since then, no matches or lighters for me. In fact, when my wife sees me carrying two sticks around, she gets nervous.

Enough with the smokey nostalgia...back to the problematic present. I have trouble with mowing this late in the year. My Wisconsin roots make it seem wrong, even sinful, to crank up the mower after Labor Day. Over the years, I've pushed myself, and occasionally my sons, to mow all through October, but then I hit the first part of November and I'm in a quandary. Intellectually, a word I rarely can apply to myself, I realize that if I don't mow in November, the lawn will be extra unwieldy by spring. But, emotionally, it feels like I'm cheating on the season. My brain says MOW MOW MOW. My heart says NO NO NO.

Yesterday, I though I'd figured out a way around this. I would NOT mow...thereby keeping my sod-based ethics intact but I would strongly suggest to our 17 year old, Taylor, that the lawn could use a trim. Let the sins of the father be visited upon the son! "Gee, Taylor, look at that grass blowing in the wind!" All that comment did was send him running for his guitar, harmonica and Bob Dylan wig. "Hey, Taylor, is that the lawn mower over there?" I tried. "Yeah, it is. Right by my old skateboard. Remember, about five years back, how I broke my arm on that thing...twice?! Wow. You know it still kinda hurts. I'd better go take a nap," he said as he turned and left the garage.

Finally, I tried something subliminal: "Taylor (mow) would you (the) like to share some of the Halloween candy (lawn) your little brother brought (now) home (mow) last (mow) night?"

"Thanks. I'll take the Butterfingers and, Dad, you really should see someone about that mumbling problem you've developed. It was like you were speaking in parentheses or something!" said he.

Well, it appears I may have to do the mowing myself. Unless, I can hold out for the first snowfall. After all, the Crown Center Ice Terrace opened Friday...a local radio station is playing Christmas music...stores are having holiday sales...snow can't be too far away. But it has to be enough to totally cover the grass because if it is just a dusting and I see grass poking up through the flakes, it will just make me totally out of whack. "See how long that grass is!? I knew I should have mowed! The spring is going to be horrible chore!" Winter whine tastes bitter!

In the TV news business, a "soundbite" is a pithy comment from someone involved in the story. Sometimes you will hear people say that an interview subject "speaks in soundbites" which means he or she gives the reporter or interviewer perfect, short, right-to-the-point words and phrases that tell the story in a meaningful, emotional and/or entertaining way. A "soundbite" is obviously different from a SOUND BITE. That would be something like carrots as opposed to a pile of chocolate chips smothered in whipped cream. Or, a SOUND BITE may refer to perfectly aligned teeth. In the case of this silly little waste of the e-universe, Sound Bites just means a few items that have little or nothing to do with each other...like me and an accurate weather forecast.

*Thank you to the fine students, faculty and parents of Westridge Elementary School. Yesterday was the kick-off to their annual Reading Is Fun-damental event and I was lucky enough to be a small part by reading a book with the 400+ in the school's gym. I say "with" rather than "to" because they all helped get the story told. The book I shared is a favorite called Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs. Just before moving to Kansas City, I visited a small school in rural Wisconsin. This was a school with K-12 in the same building. They presented me with the book, having all signed it. Today, a lot of those names are attached to full-grown human beings with little kids of their own. It is a sign of how good things, like this book, last. It is a sign that a book is a gift that keeps on giving. It is a sign that I am getting very old. They pasted a picture in front, too. There is snow on the ground in the photograph which means I may have been visiting anytime from early September through late May.

I love being a part of these reading events because I really do love to read. When I was about the age of the Westridge students, I came as close to actually winning a competition as I've ever done. In second grade, Miss Bawden, had us all keep track of the books we'd read by creating "Reading Worms," adding multi-colored, round stickers as we sent along. It should have been called "Reading Caterpillars" or something cute. "Reading Worms" sounds like a condition brought on by actually eating books that have gone bad. Anyway, I had a decent sized worm going and growing when another student, named Scott...sort of my Lex Luthor all through grade school...spent an entire weekend at the library and created something more like the Loch Ness monster than a cute little book-worm! I'm not bitter. It would be silly and a sign of stunted emotional development for me to obsess over something like this so many years later. Let's just say, I hope Scott is happy that he won. He had the longest reading worm. He prevented me from actually winning something. I'm not saying it's his fault, but, frankly, I've never been able to stoke any competitive fire since. Still, I'm not obsessed or anything. I barely think about it at all, anymore. Maybe every couple days but that doesn't mean I'm not past it. Good, Scott. Good for you...and your lousy, stinking, three and half foot reading worm.

After the reading was over, it was time for a little Q&A. I got a question I don't believe I've ever had before in all the school visits I've made. It was a simple little query: "What do you eat for breakfast?" I know that breakfast is still considered the most important meal of the day but, when your day starts around 2:00 a.m., a hearty meal is not very likely. Back in college, breakfast meant a glass of chocolate milk and a half dozen Oreos. Today, it means a half cup of dry Cheerios that I eat on the way into Channel 9. Not very impressive. Not a very good example for growing minds. Still, at least I didn't have to 'fess up to wolfing down pastries...that would have made me a roll model instead of a role model.

*We had plenty of trick-or-treaters on Halloween. I did not do much in the way of door duty. As I mentioned yesterday, the kids were all headed different directions. My hauntingly lovely wife, Jessica, answered most of the costumed kids. The one time I did, I encountered a guy with a pillow case. He must have been about 43 years old. He just stood there with the bag held open. "Well?" I said. "What?" he replied. "No candy without the proper expression. That's the law," I stated. He looked at me dully before mumbling: "Uh. Um. Oh, Trick or treat?" Now, maybe he wasn't really 43 years old. Maybe it was just a great costume, but how many kids are going to dress up like Willy Loman?

*Finally, on a sad note, you've all heard of the passing of Robert Goulet. My mom liked watching him on the Ed Sullivan show back in the 60s. About 20 years ago, when Mr. Goulet was in Kansas City, as the star of South Pacific, I had the honor and pleasure of doing a brief interview with the golden-throated star. He could not have been more friendly. Every now and then, you encounter a performer who completely shuts down once the on-air part of the encounter is over. They rush for the exit or cloister themselves with their "people." Not, Robert Goulet. He was as relaxed, funny and warm off camera, as on. He asked me if I'd be able to see his weekend performances. I had to tell him that, unfortunately, I'd be out of town...getting married! After he expressed congratulations, I, not knowing when to shut up, asked if he'd like to drive up north with me and sing at the wedding. I made it clear that I was willing to pay up to 20 dollars. A laughing Mr. Goulet expressed regret at not being able to make it. He was one of the good guys.