No, really. I think I said we'd have several inches of glow! Not snow! Silly goose! You're not buying that? So, here's the deal: Wednesday morning on FirstNews I said we could have 3-5 inches of snow, the bulk of which would be coming down during the morning hours. We started the show an hour early...4:00 a.m....just to be on top of the situation. Well, there wasn't any snow first thing Thursday morning and, as I write this, the totals look like they will end up closer to an inch or two around town, not the 3-5. Some weather folks take a lot of grief over an out-of-whack forecast like this one. Fortunately, by this time, most viewers realize that when I get a forecast right, it's like a blind pig finding an acorn. My dad used to say that. I never figured out why a pig wanted an acorn.

We get lots of information into the weather center. Sometimes you'll hear weather people say something about what the models say. In the case of this storm, the models didn't agree with each other. And, you simply don't want to get in the middle of a Christie Brinkley-Elle Macpherson argument. Of all the things that are hard to predict in the weather....high temperatures...rain...wind...what color socks I should wear. Snow is the toughest. The track of the storm only needs to drift a matter of miles, and the amounts change dramatically. The timing and track of this bunch of stuff was particularly vexing. I feel I should get extra points for using the word vexing.

Leading up to the holidays, when you forecast snow, many people get excited. If it doesn't happen there is regret. By the end of January, a snow-storm that wimps out is usually greeted more warmly. Emphasis on the warm. Still, I do know there are some out there who wore their pajamas inside out and backwards and slept with a spoon under their pillows...hoping it would lead to a snow day. And, that's just the teachers! My wife and kids were pretty sure they'd have a snow day Thursday based on my forecast. Since when did they start paying any attention to me? Maybe I should have taken advantage of that to ask that someone put gas in my car now and then!

Anyway, if you were hoping for snow and a snow day, I do apologize. Just remember, I have to go home today and face my children. Their eyes will be filled with anger and disappointment as they gaze upon me. The disappointment is always there but the anger hurts. Usually, it's disappointment and pity.

Tuesday morning, when we started FirstNews at 5:00 a.m., it was about 50 degrees around town. By noon, the temps had tumbled into the teens. That led to the following e-mail:

"How cold does it have to get to be colder than a well-digger's aft section and have we made it yet?"

The question comes from the old phrase "It was colder than a well-digger's hinder." The word "hinder" is optional. I looked it up...the phrase, that is. Apparently, in the old days, when wells were dug by hand, about ten feet below the surface, the temperature would hit 53 degrees and stay there. So, it doesn't take much to get colder than that particular part of a well-digger's anatomy. This e-mail got me thinking about other phrases I've heard used in describing ultra-cold weather.

For example, my dad used to refer to brass monkeys to describe the chill. A singer named Yogi Yorgesson did a version of Jingle Bells that included the line "I wouldn't make brass monkeys ride in a one horse open sleigh." You had to know the whole phrase to get the joke. I'm not going to fill in the blanks. It's a little racy. At least, when I was a kid, I thought it was down-right naughty. Times have probably changed.

There are plenty of these phrases out there:

It is so cold...

...that politicians have their hands in their own pockets.

...that hitchhikers are showing photos of their thumbs.

...that streakers are just showing snapshots. (Kids, ask your parents what "streakers" were. Oh, and what "snapshots" were, too.)

...that chickens were actually lining up to get into KFC.

...that Richard Simmons wore long pants.

...that the Tidy-Bowl man was ice-fishing.

...that I saw a robin defrosting his worm.

I'm sure you've heard plenty of them. Sometimes weather dorks like me, start saying the same phrase over and over. For example, during our last cold spell, an e-mailer told me that if I said "bitter cold one more time, I'll take my cat off the TV and throw it at you!" I switched to bone-chilling for awhile. I was going to use "cold as Blue Blazes" but I have no idea what that means. Of course, that never stopped me before.

Before we leave these icy comments, let me mention another e-mail I got after our near-blizzard like conditions on Tuesday. A viewer wanted to tell me about a book called The Children's Blizzard. It is about the killer storm that hit the upper Midwest in the late 1800s. My daughter has read the book and I've read parts of it. It is a very compelling, sad story. Thursday may just be a good day for a good read.

Now, I've got to go find a well-digger and a brass monkey to help me with my forecast.

January 28, 1958. A date which will live in infamy. Okay, that's a little over-the-top. It is a date which will live in toy-famy. (New word: "toy-famy" meaning something important and memorable in the history of playthings. All rights reserved.) It has been a half century since the familiar plastic building block called Lego, was patented. The first Legos were made of wood and created in the workshop of a Danish guy named Ole. Some of my family is originally from Denmark. My grandmother, in fact, was a great Dane. Not the dog, you scamp. I mean a terrific person. Anyway, we honored our Danish heritage by buying several tons of Legos over the years.

I don't want anyone to get all weepy, but I didn't have Legos as a kid. I had Lincoln Logs. (I always thought we should've named a dog Lincoln. That way you could tell the kids to "Go pick up the Lincoln logs" and give it a whole new meaning.) I also had Tinker Toys. One of my older brothers called Tinker Toys "The Erector Set for Wimps." Remnants of an Erector Set were scattered around the house by the time I came along but my dad would never spring for another complete set. In later years, my much, much older brothers would talk about the cool moving bridges and pulley-operated gizmos they had created with that Erector Set. When I got old enough to actually use it, there were two metal brackets and a piece of string left. I could make wind chimes and that was about it. So, that left me with Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs. To be honest, when I was quite young, my mom would just put some measuring cups, empty Butternut coffee cans and our tin, multi-part coffee pot on the floor and let me go at it. (She did that again just last summer when we were visiting and I'd gotten annoying...."Here, Joel, see what you can do with this stuff." It kept me busy for a couple hours.)

For our kids, though, Legos were the thing. Occasionally, they would get those box sets like the Star Wars collection. Based on how they move, the little Lego figures always look like prime candidates for knee and hip replacement. The box sets were fine but the kids really liked the big buckets of assorted Legos. That made all the building and creating, truly theirs. To this day they still will build stuff now and then. The building part of Legos is fun and imaginative. The putting-away part was never greeted with the same enthusiasm.

In my years as a father of Lego fans, I've discovered two things. First of all, while Lego sets do tend to shrink over the years, the actual Legos never disappear. They pop-up between the sofa cushions...under the bed...rattling around inside the dash board of the car...being sucked through the tubes of the vacuum...in the backyard after the dog's been outside, don't ask...just about anywhere and everywhere. That reality leads to the next discovery.

The word Lego is a combination of two Danish words: Leg Godt or Play Good. (The Latin root is thought to mean "I Put Together.") We reported this on FirstNews, Tuesday morning, so it must be true. But, I always figured Lego meant something totally different. If you've ever walked into your own bedroom or bathroom or kitchen or living room...barefoot...and stepped on a couple of the building blocks, you know where I'm going. In those many moments, I've shouted "LEGOOOOO!" at the top of my lungs. Like Kirk yelling "KAAAHHHNNN!" I was not thinking "play good." For me, Lego will always be Danish for words I can't put here in a family-friendly blog.

The new FirstAlert Weather Web-Page is up and running! It is easy to use. Just click the pic and you go there. For example, if you really need to know about the weather team, click there and go there. You can learn about Busby's multiple personalities. Grigsby's southern roots. Teachman's dog. My lack of accomplishments. Of course, you can also find live radar, the most accurate and up-to-date forecast around, any severe weather alerts and so many other great features. You can also customize the site to be most useful to you. It's all about YOU! YOU! YOU!

Now, onto ME! ME! ME!

I have a confession to make. I was a bit apprehensive about the new stuff. I am not much of a modern tech person. If this was the 1800s, I could be one those Luddites. They were a bunch of guys who didn't much care for the Industrial Revolution or, from the pictures, dental hygiene. They tended to take their distrust of progress too far, at times. For example, they got to some of the mechanized looms and smashed them to smithereens. (Now, there's a word you don't see much these days. Perfect for a Linguistic Luddite.) Up north we had Mechanized Loons but there was a serious fine for damaging them.

As is the case in plenty of households, I get pushed into the 20th and, now 21st, century--against my will--by the kids. Back when our oldest was about six, he came home from school convinced that everyone else in the world had a computer. I resisted. He persisted. I resisted. He enlisted...the help of his little brother and sister and, most importantly, his mom. So, I desisted. Thanks to that little computer, which was outdated by the time we got the box open, the kids travelled the Oregon Trail...learned typing from Mavis Beacon...built things in LegoLand...and explored many other cyber sites. Personally, I have to admit I did enjoy Disney's Kitchen where you could create web-tastic recipes with the help of Minnie and Mickey. Of course, the most fun in that kitchen was doing things you'd never do in a real kitchen like putting oranges and hamburger in the corn popper.

After a few years, we moved on to a more modern computer. The old one ended up in pieces in our second son's closet. He used it for parts, I guess. That wouldn't be so painful if I'd actually paid it off, first. It sounds like a tired cliche' but I really do turn to the kids when I have a computer glitch. Frankly, I sound like a tired cliche' most of the time and my more serious glitches have nothing to do with the computer.

Well, enough web-whining. Enjoy the new weather web page and, please, let us know what you think and any suggestions you have. For example, I'm lobbying the gurus to add "Disney Kitchen" to the list of options. So far, they're just barely willing to allow me and this bloggerania on here.

Last week at that Mentoring Conference I mentioned in an earlier bloggerific entry (It was called Where's My Mentor? if you want to read it. If you do read it, thanks. But, the fact that you would actually take time to find it and then make your way through the blog-oney, means you may need a mentor to help you better use your time and brain-power.) there was a speaker who said that, in the thousands of job interviews he has conducted, he's found that his opening request of the applicant is a good one: "Tell me about your first job." Not the first job out of college or first job in a particular career. But the real FIRST JOB! Mowing lawns. Shoveling walks. Grocery store box boy...or girl. It took me back to my first capitalistic venture. It also got me thinking about job interviews but that's nothing new since my boss here at KMBC leaves e-mails all the time urging me to "Hone your job interviewing skills! You never know when you'll need them!"

My dad was not a big believer in allowances. He felt you did the jobs around the house because you lived in the house and were part of the family and that was that. So, for a kid, that meant you had limited opportunities for income. You could save the $5 you got for your birthday from your grandma or go through the sofa cushions or ransack your older brother's room while he was at school or asleep. (I found many interesting things going through my teenage brother's room. In those days before cable, it was pretty eye-opening.) I did all of those things. But, I also got a job! I had done little announcing things for my dad's radio station at age three but there was no pay for that. He felt it was good experience and much less expensive for him than hiring real professionals. Also, I sounded a little bit like Sylvester The Cat after helium at that age so there was the entertainment value, too. Anyway, when I was about nine years old, I started selling flower and vegetable seeds door-to-door. A wee Willy Loman!

Even at age five, while the other kids were playing cops and robbers or shooting marbles, I would put on a little Bing-Crosby-esque hat, grab my red, cardboard suitcase and ring doorbells, pretending to sell insurance. Yes, it's true. I played "Insurance Salesman" at age five. "Hello, little girl! Is your mother home? Oh, you are the mother. Goodness gracious. My name is Joel Nichols and I represent the Nichols Insurance Company. Would you be interested in buying some?" Remember, I'm five. Now, which is weirder: The fact that I would pretend to be an insurance salesman in the first place or my actually using the phrase "goodness gracious?" Anyway, after all this experience, I was primed, by age 9, to knock on doors, for real.

Just how successful I was is a little hazy. I do remember that you had to sell an awful lot of seed packets just to get to five bucks. Five dollars was a lot of dough for me. Remember, a Saturday matinee was a dollar. Candy was in the 25 cent or less category. We didn't have access to toys except for about two weeks around Christmas when the hardware store would open their downstairs toy aisle. To be quite honest, even now, in my 40s, with four kids and a wife, I'd like to actually see and hold a five dollar bill for longer than a half-day.

The seed company gave us salespeople an option when it came to remuneration. We could take the money or we could use a points system and order out of their "Novelties and Magic Tricks Catalog." I must admit that I took that route fairly often. It just seemed like a foam rubber sandwich or X-ray Specs had to be worth more than the five dollars. I mean, a fake ink-stain "So Real Your Mother Will SCREAM!" was worth every footstep through the neighborhood. The best item I ever earned, though, was Fake Doggie Doo! I used that over and over! At home. At school. In the car. As I've gotten older and had to purchase things like washing machines and automobiles, I've come to truly appreciate the craftsmanship of the Fake Doggie Doo I had back then. The attention to detail was amazing. And, best of all, it really worked. Every time!

I sure hope my boss here at KMBC isn't reading this. It might generate some ideas about how best to appropriately pay me for my so-called work as a weatherman. Just to be safe, I think I'll ask someone else to open my pay envelope this week.

Here it is, right from Wednesday morning's FirstNews: Researchers say everyone lies. There are two types of lies, these experts say. Lies to protect other's feelings and lies to protect our own self-image. Did we really need a research study to know that stuff? I'm a father of four. I know about lies.

Now, I know you're thinking "Well, Joel, if your kids are fibbing, maybe they learned that from you!?!" Honestly, there are a multitude of my behaviors our kids should not emulate. However, I have always tried to be up front with them. For example, when Taylor was in Middle School he broke his arm while skateboarding. In the emergency room, the doctor and nurses had to realign things a little bit. They gave him pain-killer but it didn't really take. He tried to tell them that but they were doubtful about his perspective on the matter. I could tell he was telling the truth. Taylor was asking everyone around him "Is this going to hurt?" In their well-intentioned answers, the conscientious ER staff told him "No...not much at all." Taylor looked up at me and asked "Is this going to hurt?" Here was my answer "Yes. It is going to hurt quite a bit." Well, they straightened his arm and it hurt...quite a bit. Ever since, Taylor figures I'll tell him the truth.

Speaking of broken arms and tall tales, our oldest son, Alex, when he was about four, took a pretty tough tackle from another kid in the neighborhood. He immediately claimed his arm was broken. It wasn't. But he insisted. He found a dish towel and wrapped it around his "injury." He walked around with that thing for a couple days. There was no swelling. There was no bruising. He could move it freely when he thought nobody was watching. Was that really lying? Or, was he just being a kid? Of course, now that he's in college, when you ask him to take out the garbage or make the bed or do the dishes, he occasionally claims that his arm is bothering him. He has to be reminded that he never actually broke it. Maybe he was just laying the foundation for future ways of avoiding chores! Diabolical! Truthfully, during that "broken arm" period so many years back, Tully, a fuzzy resident of Sesame Street, also had a broken arm...or whatever a Muppet appendage is called...on the show. We think Alex may have been imitating Tully. Later we found him sitting on a lily-pad catching flies on his tongue. He was crazy about Kermit, at that point.

I don't want to be too hard on the kids, it just seemed like we had a bunch of years when none of them ever took responsibility for anything. Lights left on. TV too loud. Crayon marks on the walls. Mud on the carpet. Aardvark in the VCR. Nobody would admit anything. Finally, I started to say "So, did our invisible fifth child do (insert infraction here)?" That was a mistake on my part. The kids named their new sibling "Toby" and he became the go-to-guy for all dilemmas. "No, Dad, I didn't spill grape juice on the sofa...must have been Toby!" "No, it wasn't me. I think Toby left the bikes outside all night." "The garbage? I told Toby you wanted that done! Oh, that Toby is such a bum!" I tried to claim "Toby" on my taxes that year. The IRS did not think that was funny. I told them it had been Toby's idea.

I think the kids were being mini-theologians to a certain degree. Well, selective mini-theologians. In the Bible, the Book of Proverbs says "A lie is an abomination unto the Lord and a very present help in trouble." Our children focused on the second part of that admonition and warped the truth whenever they were in "trouble" in the "present." Forget Burger King, for awhile it seemed like our place was the true Home Of The Whopper!

Fib. Fish-tale. Fabrication. Terminological inexactitude. Linguistic liquidity. Corker. Weather forecast. They all refer to some sort of inaccuracy. Hey! Who put that last one on the list? "Weather forecast" does, however, remind me of another finding in the research. The study indicated that most of us lie at least once to 38-percent of the people we meet. That number is considerably higher if you do weather on TV. In fact, that's why, at graduation from Weather-Dork School, we are given something special, in addition to a certificate indicating good use of crayons on maps, a thesaurus and collection of wacky ties. Just as a precaution, in case the old rhyme:

Liar.
Liar.
Pants On Fire!

is true, we get a supply of asbestos underwear.

I'm wearing them right now.

No lie.

The above title is dog-talk for "Dog Talk." Okay. That's a lie. Wow! A weatherman just coming right out and admitting telling a fib! That's really amazing. Anyway, I'm just guessing about the meaning of Woof...bow-wow...grrrr. I've always wondered, when we look at a baby and say, "Goo...goo...gaa...gaa...wittle baby-waby...gibbywibbywoowoo?" if the child is thinking "What a moron. Just what drivel is this giant goof-ball trying to express? Please, move along and leave me to my formula and soft-as-a-lamb blanky. Oh, just a mo, would you mind, terribly, changing my rather soiled diaper?" Similarly, I suspect that when we look at a dog and bark or growl or whine, the canine is quite unimpressed. "Oh, good one! You're pretending to be a dog. I get it. Clever! Yep, I'm totally taken in by this amazing imitation. The fact that you're standing on your hind-legs, wearing clothes, is completely lost on my little pea brain. Come on. Give me a break."

Well, according to a story we had on FirstNews, Monday morning, scientists are working on computer software that analyzes dog barks--helping us recognize their moods. (The dog's moods, not the scientists.) By identifying key audio features of each bark, the men in white coats say they will be able to determine when the pup is happy or angry or in need of a walk. Setting aside the fact that there just may be more pressing issues for these smarty-pants guys and gals to tackle, I don't think most of us dog-owners need anymore help figuring out what the dog is thinking.

There are some other problems. If we get to where we understand the dog perfectly, it will ruin such classic jokes as "What did the dog say when it sat on sandpaper? Ruff!" Also, that episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Opie and his pal use a walkie-talkie to make Goober think he's found a talking dog, will become completely unbelievable if talking to dogs is an everyday thing. Then, there are certain questions we ask our dogs that we, as humans, really don't want answers to: "What are you eating?" and "Why are you dragging yourself across our carpet?" and "Get off my leg! What are you thinking?"

For example, if a dog has affixed himself to the seat of your pants, that's a pretty clear sign that he's not too pleased with you. We used to have a chihuahua-dachshund mix named Jingles. Jingles understood us perfectly. As he got older, he really would become agitated when we'd leave him alone...even for just an hour. He didn't need to see us get the jackets out of the closet to get angry. He just sensed it or, maybe, actually understood the words "go" and "away" and "car." In fact, Jingles seemed to have the dog version of telepathy or tele-pawthy. Once my wife, Jessica, was standing in the kitchen just thinking about getting the kids in the car and going to the store. Jingles got up from his pillow, strutted over to Jessica and deposited a little gift on her barefoot. It was a...well, uh...a pile of his discontent. Now, you don't need a computer program to know Jingles was perturbed.

Our current furry room-mate...coincidentally, the same thing my oldest brother's college buddies called him...Casey, is very soft-spoken. He doesn't bark hardly at all. He communicates with his eyes. There are times when his eyebrows get to dancing like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. (I know I should use a more recent dance-team reference. Something from ABC's Dancing With The Stars, for example. However, I've never watched the show. I'm very allergic to sequins. Even on the TV screen, they make me break out in a rash shaped like Liberace and, in extreme cases, his piano.) For example, Casey heads up to bed when I do...long before the rest of the family, most of whom are, apparently, vampires. On a weekend night, when I may stay up a little later...after having fallen asleep on the couch for most of the evening...Casey will lift his heavy head and give me a look that clearly says "Hey. Bed. Now." When we do go up on a weeknight, Casey will occasionally sneak onto the bed. When Jessica comes in and shoos him off, she says his look at her makes it clear that he thinks the disruption is totally unfair. His feeling is: He got there first.

When Casey gets in trouble or just thinks he is or has done something he knows he did but we don't, his eyes become little slits. If Clint Eastwood covered his face in Elmer's Glue and, then, rubbed it on the floor of a busy barbershop it would look like Casey. A hairy Dirty Harry. In addition to the eye-full cower, Casey's body language also makes it plain that he feels guilty. He does all he can to make his tall, gangly 90-pound presence seem smaller. He can only get so small. Maybe doggy-yoga would increase his flexibility. Instead of the Lotus Position they go for the (Canis) Lupus position. Clearly, we do not need a technological way to tell what our dog is thinking. We just look at his face...or read his diary when he's asleep.

After hearing the story Monday morning, I went home and asked Casey what he thought. Frankly, he was not supportive of the idea. "We dogs need to maintain a certain level of mystery, which would be lost if you could just hook us up to some sort of polygraph. I'm also concerned that the Velcro used to attach the thing to us would be very painful to pull off. I mean, really, look at all this fur. Ouch!" he said. "Now, I will grant you that, when it comes to being enigmatic, cats are the champs but even dogs still like to have some things be private and a little bit, what's the word? Inscrutable. Also, if you know what we're really thinking, it will make our weekly poker games totally unfair. So, Joel, I'd have to say I'm against this intrusion of Big Brother into our canine world."

I think that's what he was telling me. Or, he just really had to go out.

One of my favorite treasures at the old KMBC building, downtown, was a stack of big, clunky video tapes called Time Capsule. Now, this was in the days before the Internet and before YouTube. Time Capsule could be considered the grandparent to those cyber-ways of looking backward. You could find grainy old video of just about everything on those tapes from the silly to the serious. Time Capsule was a big step up for me. As a little kid, I would ask Miss Graf, the librarian, for permission to go down in the basement of the library and look through the old magazines and newspapers. In college, I moved up to microfilm and felt a little bit like Flash Gordon as I scrolled through time. Actually putting a tape in a machine and seeing history was a big deal for me. It was easy to get lost in Time Capsule...which probably explains why I got so little work done at the old building. My excuse at the new building is that I get lost trying to find the Weather Center.

I actually used those tapes to fill in the gaps on some of the feature stories I did for the evening news back in those days. But, there was one story that featured video exclusively from those dusty old cartridges. It was for Martin Luther King Junior Day. Taking clips from his life, I set them to music by James Taylor. I'm sure the combination had been done before and I know it has been done since. Still, on this MLK Day, the words of the song ring as true as ever:

Shed A Little Light by James Taylor

Let us turn our thoughts today
To Martin Luther King
And recognize that there are ties between us
All men and women
Living on the earth
Ties of hope and love
Sister and brotherhood
That we are bound together
In our desire to see the world become
A place in which our children
Can grow free and strong
We are bound together
By the task that stands before us
And the road that lies ahead
We are bound and we are bound

Yesterday, Wednesday, I was honored to participate in a day-long conference, sponsored by Rockhurst University Continuing Education Center. It was called Because You Believed In Me-Essential Skills and Timeless Principles. I didn't know it until yesterday, but January is National Mentoring Month and this program featured great keynote speakers and breakout sessions intended to help foster healthy, productive mentoring relationships. Now, I did know that January is National Oatmeal Month. Every January, for years, I've honored oatmeal by dressing up like the guy on the Quaker Oats box and running from house to house in our neighborhood, leaving bowls of hot oat meal, ringing the door bell and running away. It is not easy to carry so many steaming bowls and then race across the lawn while wearing a velvet suit, ruffled shirt and white wig. For one thing, that big hat always comes flying off my head. Anyway, there was no conference in town about oatmeal, at least not that I was aware of, so I attended the one on mentoring.

According to the dictionary, a mentor is a wise and trusted counselor and teacher. Clearly, I am not in any position to be a mentor. After the conference, I approached many co-workers and family members to offer my mentoring services. I was rebuffed and I didn't even know I'd been buffed in the first place. I found that approaching total strangers and saying "Hello, my name is Joel and I'd like to mentor you," was not the way to go. Basically, I have a better chance of being a Mentos than a mentor. I'd prove that, too, if I could figure out a way to squeeze into a soda bottle and be hurled into the air.

As for the other side of the equation, I've never been a mentee, either. Once, when visiting Moonshine Beach in Branson, I was mistaken for a manatee. That's about as close as I've come. Yesterday, one of the great speakers at the conference, mentioned how his mentor had taken such a deep interest in him, that the mentor asked to meet the protege's parents, "To see where you come from." I've had many employers, through the years, ask to meet my parents. Mostly to discuss various damages and where the money for repair and lawsuits would be coming from. In the broadcast world, I had a guy in Madison named Dan Smith who was a PM Magazine host and producer. For awhile, I thought he'd be my mentor but Dan had a big bushy mustache and I am facial hair challenged so I missed my chance for guidance by a whisker. It's not that I haven't tried to cultivate a mentoring situation. For example, I occasionally observe how Kris Ketz or Jim Flink, great broadcast journalists, dress, relate and do what they do. But, I'm getting too old to lug that ladder from house to house anymore, so I think I'll have to forget about that method of finding a role model.

My wife does not consider herself my mentor. More like my keeper. The kids teach me a lot but as soon as they catch me going through their rooms when they're at school, I suspect they'll be changing the locks on their doors. That kind of leaves the dog to be my mentor. He's a good guy. Patient. Gentle. Spends his time eating and sleeping. You know, I think this might be the perfect fit. I just have to remember to walk around the couch three times before I lie down or is that lay down? Well, the dog doesn't seem to know or care, either. Finally, a mentor I can really admire.

In Hollywood they call this the start of "Awards Season." Summer. Spring. Fall. Winter. Glitz. The five seasons of show biz. For example, the other day the Golden Globes were handed out. For me, golden globes always sounds more like a naughty answer from Charles Nelson Reilly on MatchGame '77, than an honor, but I'm not really Mr. Entertainment. I looked at the list of winners and realized I have not seen any of the movies mentioned. And, frankly, I probably won't ever see them. One was called Atonement. I went to a Lutheran church by that name for awhile but I don't think that's what the movie is about. Another winner was Away From Her. Almost exactly what my future father-in-law yelled at me when I first stopped to pick up Jessica for a date. Just add "STAY" and you've got it. There Will Be Blood, another honoree, reminds me of what every one of my wife's relatives whispered to me in the reception line of our wedding: "You do one thing that makes Jessica unhappy and there will be blood!" Another film that was awarded called No Country For Old Men is a paraphrase of what my employers sometimes intimate regarding me and TV, "This is no business for old men. JOEL. WAKE UP!"

All of these awards shows are a little painful for me since I've never won anything. I work with a room full of folks who have Emmy awards and Edward R. Murrow awards and Missouri and Kansas Broadcaster awards. Some have been named Most Popular or as having the Best Hair. I've never won or been named anything.

Well, that's not entirely true.

Back in junior high, I was home from school, supposedly under the weather. The only things on TV in the middle of the day were soap operas on three stations and a test pattern on the fourth. There was no INTERWEB or VIDEO GAMES! We didn't even have an ice-maker in the refrigerator door! We were barbarians and used ice-trays. We didn't have an automatic garage door opener. Of course, for a long time, we didn't have a garage and we didn't need an automatic shed door opener because we weren't allowed to go in the shed because that was where our neighbor, Mr. Dellman, stored his little red Thunderbird. Mr. Dellman was a meek and mild band director but, I always figured, if you so much as looked at his sporty car he'd become the Incredible Hulk. The bottom-line: We were living in the dark ages! So, I spent a big chunk of my afternoon reading, making Creepy Crawlers and listening to the radio.

I didn't choose Top 40 or Country & Western. My station of choice was The Music of Your Life Station. Well, it wasn't called that back then. It was WMAD-AM and featured artists like Ella Fitzgerald and Tony Bennett (before he was cool all over again!) and Bobby Darin and Rosemary Clooney (She sings better than her nephew, George.) I may have been the only pre-teen tuning in and I know I wasn't the station's prime target audience. I really didn't have much use for Geritol...my blood didn't seem all that tired or a subscription to Modern Maturity from AARP. And, honestly, I wasn't really sure what a suppository was. I still am a little hazy on that and happy to be so. Anyway, every week they'd have a Mystery Singer. If you figured it out and called in on Friday, you could win prizes. Well, I was home sick on a Friday. I decided to call in with a blind guess: Frank Sinatra. I was right! The disc jockey asked me my age and why I was home in the middle of the day. I explained that I would love to be in school with all my pals but was ill. I was ailing and only the music of their radio station had brightened my day. I was sick. A sick, sick child. Okay, maybe I spread it on a little thick but the DJ loved it. I seem to recall him saying something along the lines of "Well, little buddy, when you're feeling up to it come on into the station and get your pile of goodies. We'll throw in some extra stuff for you, our brave young friend! Now, Jerry Vale asks the musical question Yes We Have No Bananas."

The next day, Saturday, my dad and I drove into Madison to collect my loot. Here's the list of what I won: a play-pen, a fire extinguisher, a WMAD coffee cup, WMAD pencils, WMAD bumper sticker, a pile of record albums that the station didn't play, for example Hoot Gibson and Slim Pickens Sing The Rolling Stones and With Love from Sheboygan By Snugg Polipsky and the Lederhosen Boys. I also got several A&W gift certificates and a certificate for a free cattle pedicure. Those California cows may think they are hot stuff, but in Wisconsin we have long been proud of our cows' hooves. They also gave me a certificate saying I was that week's winner of the Mystery Singer contest. That was my major prize.

The only other thing I've won was the Pooper Scooper Award for being the most diligent in picking up after my dog when we take walks. I got this honor from our old neighborhood at a summer block party. Then, after an investigation, there was some talk of illegal doggy doping and I had to give back the certificate. We were also forced to move.

Anyway, those are the two things I've won in my life. Whenever the Oscars roll around or my cohorts begin shining their various statuettes I start singing My Way and whip out the Milkbone and blue plastic bag I carry with me wherever I go!

Back during the first weekend of December, when there was a chance of some freezing stuff on the roadways, I was called into work on a Saturday morning. They put me and the fearless photo-journalist, Josh, out in the cold rain along I-35. It never froze. It stayed too warm but we were there, just the same, at five in the morning. Remember, this was when the KU and MU football teams were making big news and the lowly Chiefs were sputtering to the end of their season. Well, around my house, when it comes to winter gear, you grab whatever is handy. That morning, I realized I'd not brought a stocking cap along. KMBC does provide us with nice toppers that say KMBC on them. Also, I have one from a charity golf tournament that tees off in February called, appropriately enough, The Idiot's Open. There is a KC Chiefs cap around the house somewhere. However, none of these were at the ready so I reached under my car-seat and pulled out a plum. I really have to clean out my car. Then, I pulled out a green and gold, Green Bay Packer's cap. I plopped it on my noggin.

As I did so, I just knew that someone out there in TV-Land would take note. Sure, it was five in the morning on a Saturday and the weather was a little questionable and there was big news going on all around the world but I just knew someone would say something about my Packer's cap. Sure enough, that afternoon I had a voice-mail asking what I was thinking with that cap on my head! "I'll buy you a Chief's hat if you need me to...or even MU or KU. But, THE PACKERS? Come on!" I called the guy back and thanked him for his concern and offer of new caps. Years before, while doing a story at Arrowhead in a blue sweater, a group of friendly fans actually bought me my one and only Chief's t-shirt, so, clearly, I am not opposed to being the recipient of a viewer's largess. I also explained that the cap just happened to be handy...or would that be "heady?" Of course, being a native cheesehead, I had to admit that I was not at all unhappy to wear the Green Bay colors. Once a Packer Backer...always a Packer Backer. If you're not, the ghost of Vince Lombardi visits your room at night and makes you do a hundred push-ups with Ray Nitschke sitting on your back.

That brings us up-to-date. Now, I'd like to invite you all to join me in climbing aboard the Packer's Bandwagon! (If you are a Patriots fan or a Chargers fan or a Giants fan, I don't wish you ill, but I would like to make your quarterbacks aware of the new Mexico Cruise, hosted by Jessica Simpson, leaving port the weekend of January 26 and 27...just a little rest before the big game.) As painful as it was to watch the Chiefs this season, it was great fun to watch the Pack. In our house we root for both teams. In fact, when I first started at KMBC I offered the following deal to the news director: If the Chiefs and Packers both make the Super Bowl, I get to attend as a feature reporter or cable puller or bag-carrier...anything. He replied with the following: "Are you the new intern? What's your name again? Let me see some ID."
This was back when neither team looked anywhere close to making the big game.

The 1960s were the glory years, of course, for the Packers and us fans. Then we entered a long, dark, stretch punctuated by very few glimpses of sunshine. The 70s and 80s were rough. Then came the age of Favre. Yes, we have a Brett Favre bobble head, right next to our classic 60s Packer bobble head. Yes, we have a Brett Favre Christmas tree ornament. Yes we have some other Brett Favre action figures. Yes, we like Brett Favre. He led us out of the wilderness!

At the start of the 1995-96 season, Sports Illustrated featured the Packers and the Chiefs on the cover. They were half right. When the Packers made the Super Bowl in January 1996, a very nice viewer sent me that cover ready for hanging. Which was a twist on most viewers' demand that I personally be made ready for hanging. Jessica, all four kids and I appeared in the Kansas City Star, along with Hall of Fame Baseball Broadcaster, Denny Matthews, representing Packer fans across the area. I did a silly little feature story about how to be an honorary cheesehead and then we went to Nashville to watch the big game with grandma and grandpa. It was great. The Packers creamed that version of the New England Patriots. After about 30 years, it was terrific to be back in the win column.

The next year, the Packers made it back to the game but got beat by some young upstart quarterback named Elway. In Packerland we call this "The Lost Episode."

Well, now the Packers and a grayer Brett Favre are back on the Super Bowl doorstep. So, if you'd like to join the fun just load up on cheesecurds, pour some black coffee, learn how to play Euchre, order some of those foam cheeseheads, flatten out your speech pattern and come along. There's always room for more.

It's going to be a cold, raw, rainy, maybe flaky Thursday January 10. The weekend will bring a new chill. We still have a good solid two months or so of winter ahead of us! So, how about this: FIGHT CABIN FEVER WITH THE WARMTH OF A GOOD BOOK! The Johnson County Library and Friends of the Library invite you to their Used Book Sale, through Saturday January 12, at the Antioch branch on Shawnee Mission Parkway. Where else can you travel the world, meet famous folks, think on important issues and be swept away to another time for fifty cents or a buck?

I get the word of these great library events from the library's Community Relations Manager, Marsha Bennett. Marsha's son, Bill, actually took a couple of my broadcasting classes at Johnson County Community College. Then, wisely, after a good look at what the industry has done to me, chose a different path. One of the highlights each subsequent semester has been sharing the mini-newscast that Bill and his group produced for their final class project. Bill was one of the anchors and looked very dapper in a Big Bird tie. He also did a cooking segment creating something called rum cake. By the end he looked more like Mayberry's Otis Campbell than Boston's Julia Child. Don't worry. He was only acting. I think.

Speaking of good books and Elvis Presley...the books are mentioned above, for Elvis you have to go back to yesterday's cyber screed...there's a new book out that takes you behind the scenes of good old rock & roll and show biz in general. It's called Was There A Band Here Tonight? written by local music legend, Lee Dresser. Lee, along with Willie Craig and Freddy Fletcher, make up the Krazy Kats! They have been playing great music for over 50 years now. Lee's book gives you a look at a childhood filled with tragedy transformed into a lifetime of making others smile. He talks about his many brushes with fame...Bob Hope...The Sinatra family...Dean Martin...many, many more. One of the best parts of the book is the backstage view of a working band. You can go to www.krazykats.00band.com for more information about the band and book.

I had the Krazy Kats on after*words quite a few times over the years and they always generated wonderful comments from viewers. Now 17, our son Taylor, took a liking to the group when he was just a kindergartner and fell asleep listening to their cds almost every night. I was honored to introduce them at the 40th and 50th Anniversary concerts. At that last one, number 50, they had to turn people away from the music hall. So many fans!

So, if you're looking for great ways to warm your heart and fill your head, check out the Johnson County Library's Cabin Fever Book Sale through Saturday and track down a copy of Lee Dresser's Was There A Band Here Tonight? As they used to say on the old commercials "You'll be glad you did!"

The title of this e-piphany is an effort to avoid being sued. Yes, the odds of Priscilla Presley being a regular reader of this web-log are next to nothing but why take the chance? (The word web-log always reminds of me of the time our dog ate a Christmas tree ornament. When I went out back the next day to do the "clean-up" job, I found proof. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "Yule-Log.") Elvis & Me is the name of her book so that left Me & Elvis which is too close to another book called Me & A Guy Named Elvis. Also, I didn't want to be pummeled by angry English teachers. That happened enough back when I was in school. Elvis & Myself sounds like something a self-help author would be hawking on an afternoon talk-show. "Well, Oprah, I just think we all have an inner-Elvis with whom we need to be in touch. I also like to call it Hunka-Hunka-Burnin' Me." I & Elvis looks more like an algebraic formula than a title. So, I went with Elvis & I. Not to be confused with the soon-to-be released book by The King's optometrist: Elvis & Eye.

Yesterday, January 8, would have been Elvis Presley's 73rd birthday. Presidential candidate Mike Huckabee even mentioned that in his post-primary speech last night in New Hampshire. I don't think we said much about it on FirstNews. In the old days on the show, we would have played a lot of Elvis' music going into and coming out of commercials. Now, we don't get to do that kind of thing very often because of the expense. Way back when, TV stations paid a lump sum to the music publishers like ASCAP or BMI and were able to use any music, anytime on their newscasts. Then, that figure got a little too pricey and some stations started to pay on an "as-used" basis. So, if we play too many seconds of, say, Heartbreak Hotel, it has to be reported and paid for. In order to get around that kind of thing, lots of TV stations buy libraries of generic music. The songs, if you can really call them that, are divided into categories like happy, serious, rock n' roll. But, really, they all sound pretty much the same. Just think of having Kris Ketz and Donna Pitman riding up and down in an elevator with you delivering the news. That's the way the music strikes me. Muzak without the charm. Anyway, we missed using the King's music and that maybe why it didn't come to mind on the show.

Admittedly, I was a late-comer to the music of Elvis. When it came to old-time rock and roll, I always leaned toward Roy Orbison and the Everly Brothers. In fact, it was at an Everly Brothers concert that Phil Everly reached over and patted our daughter Samantha on the head, telling her she was quite a little dancer. (She'd been dancing in the front row for the whole show.) That made Samantha a big Everly Brothers fan but, ironically, it was also Samantha that made me a true Elvis fan. (Is that the right place for the word "ironically?" Or, should it just be "coincidentally?" I'll ask our college-age son when I get home. The incorrect use of the word "ironic" is one of his pet peeves plus he loves to correct me so this will be the perfectly ironic coincidence for him. Or, the perfectly coincidental irony.) Samantha started listening to Elvis a lot at bedtime. He was her version of a lullaby. Soon, Harrison, before he could even walk, started dancing in his car seat to Suspicious Minds.

As I've mentioned before in this space, Elvis died the same day I attended my first Sinatra concert. The Chairman of the Board paid tribute to the King with a rather obscure song called See The Show Again, written by none other than Barry Manilow. The lyrics were fitting, about a singer whose life becomes unhappy and a bit empty when the spotlight goes out and the curtain comes down.

Later, when I was one of the KMBC hosts of a local radio talk-show, one of the most caller-active shows I had involved a local doctor who insisted that Elvis was still alive. He had a tape of an alleged conversation with Presley and a photo of a frail looking white-haired man on one of those scooter-type things called a "Rascal." Just the idea that there might be more music to come from Elvis Presley got some people pretty excited. But, to be honest, by the end of the radio show, I was completely in line with another Elvis tune: A Little Less Conversation. The doctor's story was interesting and did provoke a response from listeners but it was also a little sad. I got to thinking it was better just to enjoy the legacy than pick at the life.

Elvis appeared in Madison, Wisconsin quite often when I was growing up but, sad to say, I never saw him in person. One visit did make the news, though. He was in his limo when he saw an altercation at a gas station. He made the driver stop. Jumped out of the car and broke up the fight. All while dressed in his rhinestone-covered jump-suit. Elvis was, according to the limo-driver and off-duty policeman providing security, having a pretty good laugh when he got back in the car. "Did you see the looks on their faces?" he said. I can imagine!

As mentioned last week in this cyber-silliness, Curly Neal, the legendary Harlem Globetrotter, was an honored visitor to FirstNews back on Thursday. After his visit, it was only natural that the youngest boy in the house, Harrison, would want to see the big show at The Sprint Center. Also, we knew that, at the Saturday evening show, FirstNews co-anchor, Donna "Three-Pointer" Pitman would be joining the Washington Generals.

Now, of course, going out on a Saturday night is unusual for me. All those years watching Love Boat and Fantasy Island has made my muscle memory refuse to allow me to leave the house. I still have have my "Bernie Kopell as Doc" Lunch Box and full length "Tattoo" poster. Now, last Saturday night, Channel 9 had a full slate of political debates, there was football on another channel and, most importantly, I do believe TVLand was featuring a Beverly Hillbillies marathon! Despite all those enticements, I was a good father and, along with always-ready-for-fun Jessica, took Harrison and one of his best friends to the show.

This was our first visit to the new Sprint Center. In fact, it was my first drive downtown since KMBC moved from the Lyric Opera building to the new digs. Going back after all this time...about four and half months...was quite nostalgic. Everything seemed so much smaller or, just maybe, I've grown a little bit. I ended up parking by the old station...out of force of habit. That reminds me of the summer festival at St. Al's Catholic Church where I grew up. They'd have some of the sisters out in the street directing traffic. You went where the nuns pointed. It was truly...Force of Habit! Anyway, I parked that far away out of cherished memory...not just to save on a parking fee. Really. It was a nice night for a walk. Period.

The Sprint Center is, as you've all heard by now, beautiful. Everything is squeaky clean. In fact, the folks at the door almost refused to let me enter. But, after a quick delousing process, I was granted entry. (That procedure is really nothing out of the ordinary for me. I have to go through it each morning before entering the new hoity-toity KMBC studios. Wait a minute. They made me do it before entering the old building, too! Come on!) My wife bases much of her judgement of a place...restaurant, office, rest-stop by the side of a Georgia road...on what the bathrooms are like. Well, forget about the Rose Bowl or Fiesta Bowl or, even, the Uncle Zeke's Baitshop and Outpatient Surgery Bowl, the new Tidy-Bowl Champion is the Spring Center. By the way, the word "bowl" is one of those that looks weirder and weirder the more you write it. Go ahead...write it on a piece of paper about ten times....I'll wait. Okay. Looks weird, right?

The seats were great and the show took off right on time. Of course, the Globetrotters of my youth don't play anymore...no Curly on the court or Meadowlark in the stands...but there is a Scooter and Mr. Biz and Big Easy and Special K. As fun as the show was, watching the kids in the seats was even better. They laughed hysterically when buckets of water were dumped on the audience. They got quietly concerned when Special K was helped off the court, apparently injured. Their faces expressed worry that just maybe this was the night the Washington Generals would topple the mighty Globetrotters. Just a quick aside: for some reason my wife kept saying Glob-trotters instead of Globe-trotters. There's no joke here but it sure was funny at the time.

The highpoint for our section was when the Generals put in their secret weapon: Donna Pitman! She took the ball down court at one point only to be the victim of a flagrant foul. Now, everyday on the set of FirstNews, there are lots of elbows flying and robust jockeying for position...and that's just from Kris Ketz. But, on the court, Ms. Pitman was given the chance to make some points due to this rough stuff. She approached the free-throw line with great confidence. She bounced the ball like a pro. Despite all the shenanigans going on around her, she took the shot. It bounced off the rim. Not discouraged, she grabbed the ball from the ref and let it fly again. It sailed, wobbily, ("Wobbily" is, apparently, not a real word. It should be.) toward the hoop. It seemed to stop on the rim...as if making up it's air-filled mind about which way to tumble. Almost against its will, it toppled through to the bottom of the net. There was loud, raucous cheering...lots of jumping around...boundless excitement. Special K, knowing a dangerous player when he sees one, grabbed Ms. Pitman by the jersey and escorted her back to the bench...for the remainder of the game.

I give Donna Pitman a great deal of credit for being willing to do this kind of thing. She tripped the light fantastic in the KC version of Dancing With The Stars. She prepared the coffee products at Starbucks over the holidays. And, now, she takes the court under the hot lights of the Sprint Center. I would never try any of those things. I know I'd make a total fool of myself. Okay. I can hear you saying "How's that different from any given day on FirstNews?" I agree but, at least, I don't have to actually see you laughing and pointing at me! Or throwing your bowl (there's that word again) at me or siccing the dog on me. Siccing...odd word, too. Donna Pitman has courage. I do not. But, we also serve who sit and spectate.

I grew up spelling it "ER" not "RE." A theatER was where we went to watch movies, not films. Film was something you took to the drug store to get developed. Film was something that formed on my brother's overly large head on particularly dewy mornings. We went to the theatER to watch MOVIES. But, as I've become a sophisticated man-about-town, I realize that sometimes the word is theatRE. Classy. From now on, I plan on putting money in the parking metRE and, when it's cold, turning on the heatRE and, when asked by aliens, taking them to my leadRE. This isn't really about how to spell with style but, clearly, I've already broken my new year's resolution to NOT DIGRESS! And, for that, I apolgize to the readRE.

Thursday evening, my wife, Jessica, and I were treated to a night out on the town. A very nice couple (they love my wife and tolerate me) let us tag along to the New Theatre Restaurant to see Out Of Order starring Gary Sandy. I interviewed Mr. Sandy a couple of times over the years. He was as nice a guy as he appeared to be on WKRP in Cincinnati. And, yes, his hair is still a little too perfect. Well, we hadn't been to the New Theatre since about 2003 when I tried to play the part of Vince Fontaine in Grease. It was only a two-week deal for me and, based on the response from the audience and other cast-members, that was about 13 performances too long. Of course, in my mind, I was envisioning a whole new career on the stage. After my two weeks came to a close, I waited by the phone for all the other local theatres to call and ask me to be the salesman in Death of a Salesman or the iceman in The Iceman Cometh, which I'm pretty sure is about hockey or about a refrigerator repairman. The phone never rang. Why would it ring? Phones don't ring anymore. They beep like Bozo the Clown with an overactive horn. They chirp like a Yellow Finch who should really dip his beak in some de-caf. They play some classical piece that sounds like Mozart crossed with Alvin the Chipmunk. (Actually, I don't mind that last one too much as it is about as close to culture as I ever...evre...get.) Phones do everything but ring. At KMBC, when someone is about to do a station-wide page, the opening tones sound like something from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. I always expect Larry Moore, dressed in full admiral regalia, to appear on the second floor overlook and holler "DIVE DIVE DIVE!" Anyway, nobody called me about being a stage star.

One other time I was there to throw out the "first pitch" to get a show called Diamonds going. The play was a musical revue about, you guessed it, baseball. Lots of talented local folks on the stage. Coincidentally, I think it was during the last baseball strike. It was an odd little production in some ways but it was the only time I've been asked to throw out the first pitch anywhere, anytime, so I loved it. To be honest, the throw didn't quite make the stage and a couple of the actors ended up flying into the front row trying to make the catch. Dramatic! The understudies bought us dessert.

No, the play didn't give me any renewed acting aspirations. It's hard enough acting like I know what I'm talking about doing the weather and, even in that case, I'll never be compared to Brando or Olivier or Scott. (Willard, not George C.) No, I'll just stick with the ups and downs of TV...the broadcasting teeter-totter. I mean teetRE-tottRE.

Listen! You can still hear...right through this interweb...somebody whistling Sweet Georgia Brown! There was a legend on FirstNews Thursday morning and, for once, I'm not talking about Kris Ketz or Donna Pitman or Johnny Rowlands. Fred "Curly" Neal of the Harlem Globetrotters brought his magical presence to the show. The Globetrotters are doing five shows at the Sprint Center starting Thursday January 3 (KMBC Night, which, if I'm not mistaken, means Larry Moore will actually dribble and slam dunk Kris Ketz at some point during the evening.) and running through Sunday January 6. It was a true honor and a big bunch of fun to have Curly Neal in the studio.

When I was a kid, it seemed like the Globetrotters were on ABC's Wide World of Sports every weekend. I think they were actually a part of each season's opening show. Then, they showed up on Scooby Do! They used Mr. Neal's head as a basketball on that episode. Of course, there were other TV shows featuring the team's antics like The Harlem Globetrotters Popcorn Machine! And, of course, one of the great combo deals of all time The Harlem Globetrotters on Gilligan's Island! I watched them all.

Curly Neal was born in 1941 and played in more than 6000 games from 1963 through 1985, visiting some 97 countries. He played in front of presidents, kings and queens but made...and makes!...every audience member feel like royalty. Now, on Saturday January 5, at the 7:00 p.m. show, FirstNews' own Donna Pitman will be suiting up for the Globetrotter's opponents, the Washington Generals. So, being a good sport, Curly showed Donna a few moves this morning including some fancy dribbles and passes. I attempted the fancy dribble that you're supposed to catch with your knees. It didn't quite work for me but I can now sing the high tenor part in the church choir. Anyway, Donna and Curly made a great pair and it bodes well for the fun of Saturday evening's performance.

We do try to bring energy and good humor to FirstNews everyday but, with Curly Neal in the building, we all got a lesson on how it's really done.

New Year's Eve 2007 was a pretty quiet event around our house. Both older boys were at parties and our daughter...obviously the smartest one of the bunch...was earning big bucks babysitting. Since we have FirstNews on January 1, I hit the the hay early. (Literally. My wife, Jessica, makes me sleep in the barn.) That meant Jessica and the youngest, Harrison, rang in the new year together. In the early years of FirstNews, we didn't do a show on New Year's Day. There was some talk, in those days, of covering Maria Antonia and me in roses, petunias, gladiolas and other blossoms in order to fit in with all the parades. (That idea was shelved when we feared that the later newscasts would develop cases of peonies envy.) We also tried doing the show in four quarters wearing shoulder pads and helmets, in keeping with the bulk of the programming on January 1, but Maria kept decking me when it was supposed to be flag-football NOT tackle! In any case, since 2000, we've been on the air with FirstNews on the first day of the year.

That particular morning, January 1, 2000, we went on the air around 10:00 a.m. There was, as you probably recall, some concern about that turn of the calendar. Would all the computers crash? Would the various power grids get totally confused? Would the cast of Melrose Place survive the millennium? Just what would all those zeroes mean? To be honest, Jim Flink, Lara Moritz and I who were on the show that morning thought our news director was just being cruel by making us come in! Surely, nobody would be watching! Well, just between you and me, he was right. We had a lot of viewers tuning in to make sure they could still tune in, I guess. The night before, Jessica, all the kids and I ushered in 2000 at the newly refurbished Union Station. We listened to the fabulous McFadden Brothers...had some fun in Science City...watched the balloons drop and still made it home in time to hear Neil Diamond sing in the new year from Denver. It was about the only time we've gone out for the celebration.

As I mentioned earlier this year, just a few sentences ago, Jessica and Harrison were the only two creatures awake in our house at midnight. They toasted with Sprite and Ritz Crackers. It reminds me of most of my New Year's Eves as a child. My folks would go over to the neighbors' for several rousing hours of card-playing. This was really not too different from any other Friday or Saturday night, actually. Anyway, they'd be playing Euchre. I've mentioned that card-game before. It is a trick-taking competition with Jacks being the high cards. It is usually played with four people...two teams of two. If you take all five tricks by yourself..."going alone"...you get four points. You also are required to yell, at the top of your lungs, "EUCHRE!!!!" is you achieve this feat. Around our neighborhood, you were more likely to hear "EUCHRE!!!!" then "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" In fact, we had a neighbor named Barney who would stand on his front steps as he went off to work in the morning and holler "EUCHRE!!!!" just for fun. We didn't need a neighborhood rooster. We had Barney.

While my parents were gone my grandma would stay with me. We'd always make a run at midnight. We didn't always make it. At 10:30 p.m., Guy Lombardo and The Royal Canadians would appear on our tiny, black and white TV screen. The orchestra was performing at someplace called The Waldorf-Astoria. As a child, I thought that was a planet in the solar system. Probably made out of lettuce. I wasn't too bright. Since the show was live, that meant they played Auld Lang Syne and showed the big ball dropping in Times Square at 11:00 p.m. Wisconsin time. An hour early! For that next 60 minutes my grandma and I would eat lefse and M&M cookies while playing Yahtzee and Go Fish. If we actually were able to stay awake until the midnight hour, we'd toast each other with Welch's Grape Juice in our best jelly jars. (I liked using the jelly jars because they had Yogi Bear on the sides.) We'd clink the glasses and try to sing Auld Lang Syne without the help of Guy and the guys. It usually came out like this:

Should old acquaintance be forgot (Grandma told me "acquaintance" was like a friend.)
And never brought to mine (My what? I don't know but MINE.)
Should old acquaintance be forgot
And days of old Lang's sign

(We had a great chicken place in town called Lang's and run by a guy named Stub. I don't know why they called him that and I was too afraid to ask. Anyway, I thought that last line had something to do with getting a basket of chicken. As I mentioned before, I wasn't too bright.)

For old Lang's sign, my deer (I was thinking four-legged and furry not romantic.)
For old Lang's sign
We'll drink a cup of Kindness yet (I had no idea where a person could buy a bottle of Kindness or what age you had to be to imbibe.)
For old Lang's sign.

I always thought this was a lot of fuss about a place to eat in a small-town in Wisconsin but I sang anyway.

After the last notes faded, my grandma would send me up to bed where I'd fall asleep instantly looking quite sophisticated in my grape juice moustache. If I'd been thinking, I'd have had grape juice before leaving the house, this morning, to get the same effect. Of course, I'm not a kid anymore and I've discovered there's really no such thing as a Metamucil moustache. How do I know? Mind your own business...and Happy New Year.