IT IS ALIVE! AND IT IS GROWING! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES....OR YOUR REMOTE!

Starting Monday, March 3, FirstNews is adding two more hours of news, weather and traffic. Of course, you can find the show on Channel 9 from 5:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m. Then, at seven, make the switch to our sister station, KCWE. (KCWE is, usually, a very nice sister station. Sometimes, she runs to the general manager and whines "KMBC keeps picking on me! Tell KMBC to stop! KMBC's been in the bathroom for TWO hours!") Now, you can find KCWE on Channel 29, if you have an antenna. Each cable system puts KCWE in a different spot. You can find a complete list of KCWE's locations on your dial, here on this web-site. I can, sometimes, tune in the station on my back fillings. So, if you want to press your ear up to my nose, you maybe able to hear the broadcast. Just so you know, there is quite an echo...what with all that empty space up there. On Saturday nights, I use my fillings to tune WSM in Nashville so I can listen to the Grand Old Opry. Little Jimmy Dickens comes through loud and clear.

When FirstNews first went on the air, during the Reagan Administration, Maria Antonia and I started at 6:30 in the morning. FirstNews was the first morning news show in town and some folks didn't think there'd be anyone watching. Soon, Maria and I got the word that the show was going to start at 6...then 5:30....then 5 in the morning! Each time I figured nobody would be up and, if they were, they would not be turning on the tube. Was our target audience made up of new parents and cat burglars? Well, as is almost always the case, I was wrong. It turns out that morning news is the growth area of local viewing. If mornings are becoming increasingly important to local TV stations, it begs the obvious question: When will I, Joel Nichols, lose my job?!

So, find KCWE on your TV this weekend, and make the switch at 7:00 a.m. on Monday. Kris Ketz and Donna Pitman will be part of the show. Dion Lim and Jim Flink will be the anchors. (That's a great pairing. Dion is young, vibrant, on-the-way-up. Then, there's Jim. That's just a joke...soaked in envy and self-pity on my part.) Johnny Rowlands will have the traffic info you need when you need it most. It's really everything you've come to expect from FirstNews at a convenient time. I'm really sounding like a PR flack at this point...but, hey, I've got a mortgage to pay and kids to feed!

The bottom-line is that FirstNews is expanding. Well, I've been expanding for the last 20 years so it's about time the show caught up.

Now, if you want to see a real lounge lizard telling you all about the new show...in song!...hook up to this link: http://www.kmbc.com/video/15438873/index.html.

*A quick hello to the great first-graders at Chinn Elementary, north of the river. We had a terrific time together on Wednesday morning. At one point, I asked the class "When it comes to stormy weather, too much what can be a bad thing? Too much....?" A boy raised his hand and said "Sugar."

Does anyone still call a good friend "My chum?" If you walked up and said "Hello, Old Chum!" would the person being addressed be flattered or furious? I grew up around a river and a lake. When people saw me coming and said "Hey, Chum" they probably meant I smelled like bait or fish-bits. The word "chum" supposedly comes from around 1684. Chum was an alternate spelling for cham. Does that clear it up? It's like when you pull into a gas station and ask "Can you tell me where Stinkleyville is?" "Oh, sure. That's right outside East Nub Township." Cham is short for chamber-mate. That's what they used to call room-mates in the 1600s, I guess. So, an old Cham became an old Chum. Or maybe everybody at school smelled like a carp in the 1600s. I've visited our son's residence hall at college and, frankly, something was fishy there, too.

Well, if that's a chum...what's a chumby? According to the story on Wednesday morning's FirstNews, a Chumby is a tiny device that is part alarm clock and part computer. It has a touchscreen and wireless Internet. You can create your own morning wake-up news program. Speaking as something of an expert on alarm clocks, let me say, this seems like a lot of hullabaloo just to get someone going in the morning. I'm not talking about the dance program from the 60s. I'm talking about an uproar! The word, hullabaloo, comes from old England. Apparently, a rowdy chamber-mate could cause quite a hullabaloo! I just don't think we need all that techno-stuff to wake up in the morning.

I have five alarm clocks. Two are old-fashioned clocks with numbers and hands...which means my children can't use them to tell time. These two go off, first. Then, my clock radio turns on. It is tuned to an oldies station. Well, it used to be oldies. Now, it plays music from my young adulthood which means it can't possibly be "OLDIES!" I barely hear the first note before I hit snooze. Not long after Neil Diamond croons "Cracklin'...." the first of two alarms set on my cell-phone rings. It is set to Merle Haggard singing "No one could steer me right but Mama tried. Mama tried." (Our daughter, Samantha, thought that was the perfect ringer for me.) Finally, some sort of marching music, as played by tiny little flea-like musicians, comes out of my phone. That's what it takes to get me out of bed and into work. Adding a computer screen and on-line capability would be of no help. This Chumby would be no chum of mine.

Maybe Chumby is not a take-off on the word chum, at all. Maybe it's based on Gumby! A friendly, flexible pal. Well, if it's meant to help you get moving first thing in the morning, they'd best not introduce anything based on Gumby's side-kick. The last thing most of us need, in the morning, is an excuse to be Pokey.

Casey and I take a walk everyday. I've mentioned Casey before in this e-spot. He is a Golden Retriever with a very prominent cone-head. It is really pointy. If I could just train him to use his noggin like one of those sharp sticks that folks use cleaning up along the side of the road, I'd have something! Casey is a bit of a wimp, frankly. He's a Retriever who's afraid of water. When we see geese or ducks, Casey actually blushes...not easy to do when your face is covered with fur. If it is just a little drizzly outside and I open the door to let him out, the look he gives me says "You've got to be kidding. I'm not going out in that!" This dog must have a bladder the size of Rhode Island. Yet, when it comes to his daily walk, he'll venture out the door no matter what: cold...rain...snow...ice. He's the Cliff Claven of dogs.

Sometimes Casey doesn't seem like the kind of dog that would be bringing the three-bean-salad to the Canine Mensa Picnic. Still, he is able to tell weekends from weekdays. On weekend mornings, we usually head out the door around seven. We take the same basic route for the first part of the stroll then we come to a decision point. If we go left, Casey gets to run through a field and end up in a wooded, marshy area. If we go straight, it's all neighborhood. Weekends we do the marsh and he knows it. Weekdays we go home quicker...and he knows it. Maybe it's the kids being home that clues him in that it is a marsh day. He knows when it is a weekend day and we DON'T go through the marsh because he strains at the leash and, later in the day, hides the channel changer.

If, for some reason Casey doesn't get his walk right away, he stalks me from room to room...muttering nasty things about me under his dog-breath. Yes, this mutt can mutter. He learned it from his fadder.

We had a story on FirstNews, Tuesday morning, that got me thinking about Casey and his walk. It was about a new GPS deal. I always thought it was GPSS and stood for Gomer Pyle Service Station. I watch way too much of The Andy Griffith Show. When I was a kid, GPS stood for Go Play Somewhere! In the real world, it stands for Global Positioning System. Sort of a compass on steroids. People have it in their cars. I use a different GPS in my vehicle...Get People Shouting. For example, if I'm lost, I roll down my window and scream to someone on the sidewalk "Is this the way to Tightwad, Missouri?" They shout back "No...go south!" Well, now they have this fancy-schmancy GPS for your dog. It uses satellite technology to let you know where your dog is. That makes for one big dog dish!

Anyway, you go on-line and set up an invisible fence for your dog. If the pooch strays across that line, you're immediately notified by an e-mail or text message. I see some problems here.

First of all, just how smart does your dog have to be to know how to send you an e-mail or text message? And, Casey has big hairy paws. How big a keyboard is he going to require on his lap-top...a dog does have a lap but rarely gets to use it...or cell-phone? Also, what makes you think a dog that is making an escape or completely engrossed in a variety of tree and fire hydrant aromas is actually going to take time to send his or her human any kind of message? It all seems a little far-fetched. Oh, and it costs $200 bucks plus ten more each month. That's a lot of Milk-Bones.

I also have some concern that, if this thing works with dogs, it is only a small step before we're setting it up for our spouses.

Actually, if you have a dog that likes to wander, this whole deal is a good option for keeping the pup safe. But, in Casey's case, he just doesn't have the ambition to run away. Plus, he might run into a frightening goose or scary bunny. For Casey, GPS means Good Pup. Stay!

WARNING: This blog-itany includes a ridiculous and offensive amount of whining and self-pity. If you find these qualities offensive or irritating, you may want to avoid reading any further. In fact, try anchor-reporter Jere Gish's e-column, found elsewhere here at KMBC.com. He's coming clean about his torrid relationship with Dr. Quinn-Medicine Woman.

You've been warned, so here goes.

Last Thursday, during FirstNews, as I was walking from the big-shot anchor desk to the weather-board area...which, in the new building, is about a three mile hike...I was talking and walking at the same time. You know, the old joke about not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time? Well, apparently, I can't walk and talk at the same time anymore. Obviously, if I added chewing gum I'd end up in traction. So, I'm babbling about rain or snow or sunshine or clouds or something...even I don't pay much attention to me...as I stepped over the camera cables, empty hair-spray cans and discarded champagne bottles, I bit the inside of my lip. In my head, I screamed "YOWZA!" (Actually, I said a few other things, in my head, but this is a family web-site. Oh, while I have your parenthetical attention, the next portion of this e-whinery is a little graphic.) All of a sudden, the weather portion of the newscast was becoming a major motion picture: There Will Be Blood! and there was. I could taste it. (Hey! I warned you about the graphic nature of this thing!) On the outside, I was talking about making sure you had windshield wiper fluid while, inside my mouth, it was an infomercial for the New Hannibal Lecter Slicer-Dicer. Being a trouper and needing the paycheck, I plunged forward.

As I mentioned, that was back on Thursday. Unfortunately, this story was not over. IT WAS JUST GETTING STARTED! You know what happened. I kept biting the same place...over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...and over. For the next several days, up to and including Monday morning! Why do we do that?!?! My wife says it is because the area gets a little swollen and we chomp on it. (Swollen is one of those words that looks wrong and weird when you write it out. Looks like some sort of fabric. "Oh, is that sweater, cashmere?" "No, no. It's made out of swollen. Pure swollen.") Or, maybe I'm just losing my ability to chew properly! Whatever the reason, it smarts. Frankly, I don't think I received the appropriate amount of sympathy from my family this past weekend. Every time I'd bite the wounded area, I'd wince or howl or jump. My wife and children expressed concern the first time. Smiled, the second. Chuckled, the third. Times four through 23, they just laughed uproariously.

Last year, our oldest son, Alex, had developed a canker sore. He suffered rather loudly. In fact, one of the other kids found a text message on my wife's phone from Alex saying "I got an A on the exam but my canky hurts!" Canky?!?! What?!?! His canky hurts?!?! If he had texted "My aphthous ulcers are acting up" it would've sounded much more dire. My caring, compassionate wife sent him a sympathetic response. The other kids thought it was hilarious. Well, where is that worry and concern now!?!? The inside of my mouth looks like shredded wheat. I'm chewing things like a mouse caught in a cupboard for fear that I'll re-lacerate my inner-lip.

The bottom-line is that I'm in pain. I'm used to being a pain but being in pain is a whole different thing. I have developed chompenchewaphobia. I may need to exist on soup and milkshakes for the next several weeks. You'll know if I bite that same spot yet again because I plan on removing all the teeth on that side of my mouth and replacing them with aloe-dipped foam rubber or see if Jere Gish can put me in touch with Dr. Quinn who can then refer me to Dr. P.L Iers, Frontier Dentist.

You know, if I misspell the last word of that title...say, leave the "e" off...it totally changes the meaning of this e-votional. "Dress cod!?!? It's an outrage!!!" Somewhere, Mrs. Paul and the Gorton's Fisherman are pooling their resources to take me into court over such slander. It wouldn't be the first time fish have gotten my family in trouble. I had a distant cousin who was arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a flounder. That's all I'm saying about that.

No, it's not Dress Cod...it's Dress Code. We had a story on the news, and subsequent FirstNews E-Question of the Day, about a girl who was not allowed to wear pajama bottoms to school. This isn't official, but it seemed like most folks felt wearing PJ's to school was inappropriate. Although, we did get a pile in favor from a sender named "Dr. Denton."

I have to admit, our daughter wore her flannel pajamas to school a few times back in Middle School. I didn't know until after the fact and, even then, they didn't seem too different from sweat pants...I guess the Pink Penguins should have been a tip-off. Needless to say, back in the olden days, when I was a student, nobody wore pajamas to school. As a child, I wore hand-me-down pajamas. I wish my sister hadn't like Strawberry Shortcake so much. Okay, that's a joke because I have all older brothers. Still, that doesn't explain where the Strawberry Shortcake PJs came from.

At school, we didn't have uniforms like the kids down the street at St. Aloysius did. Everyone in town called that church St. Al's. It wasn't in any way disrespectful. Al was, and is, a perfectly admirable name. Sounds like a guy who would know how to catch a fish (what is it with fish, today?) and fix an outboard engine. Stuff you needed to know. Stuff I wish I knew...to this day. Anyway, those kids looked pretty sharp. Our side of the playground was a little more rag-tag. Still, NO pajamas.

There were lots of blue jeans, sweaters, button-shirts. We didn't have a problem with t-shirts with questionable words on them. T-shirts were underwear. UNDERwear. You made sure it was clean and not ripped...like your other underwear...just in case you were in an accident. We also didn't have kids wearing caps indoors. The farm kids had John Deere caps but they took them off when they entered a building. Those of us in town wore stocking caps in the cold...to keep warm...not as a fashion statement. If you want to know what the kids dressed like in my school just look at Opie Taylor. Wow. As I look over this last paragraph, I realize I should be sitting on my front porch yelling at all those young whipper-snappers to "Get Off My Lawn!"

Maybe I should loosen up a little. How about we have a pajama day on FirstNews? I suspect Kris Ketz wears tweed pajamas with a vest...from Brooks Brothers: The Sleeping Titan Collection. Me? I have the ones with the feet in them. Of course, I'd probably have to sew the back flap shut. Maybe PJ Day on FirstNews isn't such a good idea.

So, I'm driving into work this morning and I notice that a thin little layer of ice is forming on my windshield. The streets are okay but seem ready to get slippery. I say to myself "Hey, good-lookin'! Whatcha got cookin'? (That's the way I always start my conversations with myself, otherwise, I tend not to listen to me.) Did you mention this stuff in the weather report yesterday morning? I don't think so, you loser. (I always end my conversations with myself that way, or I don't take myself seriously.)"

Each day, around 9:15 a.m., I go to the fancy-schmancy morning meeting where big-time decisions about the newscasts are discussed. Important decisions are made like what should be the lead story...where should the live reporters be stationed...does Larry's tie clash with Lara's blouse. Well, toward the top of the meeting they ask for a quick weather update. Then, they send me out to change the oil in their cars. Anyway, yesterday, I said the morning (meaning Thursday) would probably be no big deal but from noon into the late afternoon, it could get messy.

Missed it by that much!

Well, by about eight hours. The precip didn't look like much on the radar but it sure messed up the morning for lots of folks. I'm pretty sure I could see Mother Nature twirling her Snidely Whiplash moustache. "Take that!"

Every now and then, people ask me...like a student in the Explorers Home School group on Wednesday..."Do people get mad at you when you're wrong?" Well, the answer is as follows: Most people, after this many years, know that I'm not too bright. They don't really hold it against me if I'm off the beam. Also, being wrong isn't a new thing for me. I have a wife, four kids and a dog. I'm wrong all the time! Just ask 'em.

When I first started to do weather on TV, things were much simpler. I, on the other hand, was about the same level of simple as I am now. The basic routine, during the actual newscast, was as follows:

1. Sit, quietly, in weather area.

2. Walk up to anchor desk.

3. Bow, reverently, to the anchor-people.

4. Sit, quietly, at anchor desk.

5. Do not speak until spoken to.

6. Anchor-person says "Well, it was a (sunny, warm, quiet, snowy, cold, cloudy, active) day."

7. Say "Yes, (Dave, Rick, Mera, Maria, Lara, Larry, Laurie, Jim, Jere, Kris, Donna) it certainly was."

8. Walk over to the big board and talk about the weather.

9. Return to anchor desk.

10. Wait for anchor-person to say "Thank you." Return to weather area and sit, quietly.

In front of the big board, you'd use a rewired garage door opener with one button that would make the different slides show up on the screen. (This was just after the days of Velcro suns and raindrops...days I wish would return.)

It's a totally different deal, these days. The one-button garage door opener has been replaced by a hand-held box with four different buttons and a switch. Each has a distinct function. I am pretty sure, if you press them in the proper sequence, you launch the space shuttle. The switch takes you from radar to maps. One button moves the pictures. One button puts different stuff on the maps. One button clears the pictures away. I'm not sure what the last button really does but I think you can use it to start the newsroom microwave.

In addition to the variety of operations available on the remote control clicker, instead of just having one source for the weather graphics, we now have what seems like 347. For example, we may use the weather graphics like forecast pages or Kansas City Scout Cameras or tower cameras or First Alert Doppler or Storm View Doppler or Zippity-Doo-Dah Doppler. Okay, the last one isn't real but it may as well be. Obviously, when you only had one little old thing to show, you didn't really need to tell anyone else on the crew what you wanted to use. But, with so many possibilities, now you have to let the control room folks know what you want or need. At night, for the 5, 6, and 10, I guess they actually write it down and hand it in. That's one of many reasons they don't let me work at night anymore. In the mornings, we talk about weather a lot. Every 8 seconds. Maybe not that much...but close. For that reason, as well as the fact that my handwriting is not very good...those big thick crayons are great for filling in the coloring books we have in the weather center, but not so good for filling out forms. I usually just tell our illustrious director, Katie, what I would like to use. But, even that has gotten complicated.

Instead of just calling it what it is...they've assigned numbers! I used to be allowed to say "I'd like to use First Alert and K, please." I'm told that K is short for Chroma-Key...meaning the computer that shows forecast pages and other graphics the weather-person builds for each show. I always thought it stood for Kindergarten which was the last time I made as many pictures as I make on a daily basis now. Or, for Katie, our director. Or, the answer to "Would you like to show that map?" "'K, thanks." As for how that big Chroma-Key board works, the little maps I build on the weather computer are made to appear to be on the big green board behind me. They do that through the studio control room. It gets pretty complicated and technical but, I've been told, the process involves a Genie, a particular incantation and magic beans. One way or the other, at home it looks like there is a big map behind the weatherperson. In the studio, it's just a big green wall.

Since I don't write things down, the usual routine in the morning is for Katie the Director, (Yes, it is written that way, much like "Bob the Builder.") right before the weather portion, to ask "What would you like?" She says that into the little earpiece, called an IFB...standing for Interruptible Feedback, I guess. Although, for weather-dorks, it may stand for Is Full of Baloney. Now, I have to say "Weather One (used to be First Alert Radar) or Weather Two (used to be K with all the graphics on it) or Weather Three (used to be Storm View Doppler.)" Because Katie the Director knows I have limited brain-space availability, she has allowed me to say things the old way. I'm not even sure why they have changed things. We move into a new building and everything has to be different? They assigned new titles for all kinds of stuff. We now have a weather monitor...a weather plasma (where I tried to donate blood but was told it wasn't that kind of plasma)...and, my favorite, the weather pod! I did fight their efforts to change my on-air moniker to Sparky the Weather Mule.

Well, the last couple of weeks, I've tried to actually call the various weather sources by their proper names. Weather One. Weather Two. Weather Three. I've also started to refer to the news anchors as Newsperson One and Newsperson Two. As for which is which, I tell them both they are Newsperson One.

Maybe, I'm making this too complicated. Maybe, I have to revert to my childhood.

Katie the Director: "What would you like?"

Me: "I'd like Weather One and Weather Three. Plus, Thing One and Thing Two. Also, a side order of Star-Bellied Sneetch. And, if we have time, a mop-noddled finch, a nink and a nerm, one moth-watching neth, foo-foo the snoo, a lurch, a gack and a north-going zax. Oh, and for the finish, a wump. Thanks."

Now, all I need to do is get Katie to change her name to Dr. Seuss and I'll never be confused...about this anyway...again.

Betty Blast-Part One

If you are a regular reader of this e-piphany, congratulations on your balanced diet and appropriate intake of fiber. However, if by "regular" you mean you look at this baloney fairly often, well, seek help! Anyway, a few weeks back I mentioned that our daughter, Samantha, had gotten a speaking role in her high school's production of Footloose! Part of the reason for her casting success was her skating ability. She was a wonderful ice-skater in elementary school, so, when the director said they needed a girl who would be comfortable on roller-skates, Samantha was ready. She played "Betty Blast," owner of the burger joint.

The play hit the boards...as they say around the theatre world...over this past weekend. Samantha, AKA Betty, skated in with a tray and delivered some goodies to a couple of booths. Then, she skated away. Before continuing, I need to mention that Samantha is petite. They put a big, Dolly-Parton-esque wig on her and some jewel-encrusted glasses. Later in the scene, a fight breaks out in the diner. Little Betty Blast skates in to break it up! She delivered her lines flawlessly and, then, turned around and said, in a perfect Mama's Family accent, to the lead actor: "Now, give me a push" before rolling off the stage! She got applause in each and every performance. Even all of her brothers had to admit she was a scene-stealer. Congratulations to "Betty Blast" and the entire cast!

Betty Blast-Part Two

Friday, February 15, 2008 was the 20th anniversary of FirstNews. As part of the celebration we had a phone interview with a woman who had been a very important part of the program from the get-go: Betty! When the show first went on the air, we didn't have any tower cameras or Scout Cameras or anything like that. Now, we seem to have camera shots available to us from just about anywhere. (You think that old container of french onion dip in the fridge is really something to eat? Think again! We see you!) Well, back in the early days, a couple of the other stations talked about looking at scenes from their tower-cams. We couldn't do that so I started referring to our own in-house camera operator, Betty! She became Betty-Cam. She would set up three of the cameras and then sit behind the fourth one. She read her romance novels while Maria Antonia and I did the show. For viewers, Betty became a beloved part of the program. We used video of Betty to showcase our FirstNews mugs and to lead into the sports segments, among many other things. Betty was on camera almost as much as she was behind it.

A few years ago Betty retired and, frankly, the morning news has never been the same. I still get e-mails from viewers asking about her as well as questions from folks out and about. This past Friday, that curiosity was satisfied with a call from Betty herself. As she mentioned in the conversation, Betty is battling brain cancer. You'd never know it to hear her voice. She was quick, clever and feisty as ever...even promising to come into the new studio one of these days and show off her bald head. As always, this Betty was a Blast!

All-in-all, it was a very Betty-ful weekend!

Here we go again. Valentine's Day. I've read that the day is named in honor of some early religious martyrs. That seems about right. Especially if you're a male who's tried to do the right things on this day only to go down in flames. Last year, I wrote...well, wrote is a big word for what I do in this cyberspot....scribbled, maybe. Can you "scribble" on a keyboard? Frankly, trying to do this without my crayons is a major challenge. But, I digest...I mean, digress. If you go back to the February 14 e-love-letter from last year, you can find some of my romantic efforts. Of course, if you have time, on this day for amore', to actually do that, you're in worse shape than I am when it comes to ooo-la-la. Can I use a phrase like "ooo-la-la" in a family friendly blog? And, is that the correct spelling? Growing up in farm country, I heard "Moo-Baa-Baa" now and then but, not being bilingual and, frankly, just barely unilingual, "ooo-la-la" was rarely uddered or uttered. What about "hanky-panky?" "Making whoopee?" If it wasn't for all those years watching MatchGame I'd have nothing to say.

This morning, Kris Ketz, also known as The Count of Monte Newsto, brought a rose to each of the female members of the FirstNews team. Whatta guy! He also wore several coats so as to have plenty in case any of the women need to walk over a puddle, ala Sir Walter Raleigh. I reminded him that Walter was, eventually, beheaded. Okay, it's great that Mr. Ketz looked like a Rose Bowl Parade Float when he walked in this morning and I am not upset that he didn't bring me anything. (Would a box of Russell Stover been too much?) However, his largess makes the rest of the men on the shift look pretty rotten. In my own defense, let me mention that in the early days of FirstNews, I would come to work dressed as Cupid! Well, I never quite made it into work. I have to say that the state patrol was quite understanding when they pulled me over. Apparently, a grown man in an old Ford Falcon, at three in the morning, dressed in a diaper and carrying a bow and arrow, raises suspicions. By the way, in my research on Cupid, in preparation for the role...I'm a method actor...I found that Cupid's parentage is a question mark and his behavior, not always conducive to true love. What I mean is, if Jerry Springer had a show on Mount Olympus, Cupid would have made a fantastic guest. "Jerry, this little maniac was chasing me all over the woods and I kept saying NO NO NO! Turns out his mama and my mama are first cousins and his daddy and my daddy are brothers. So, naturally, I think I'm in love with him!" As for the Merlin Olsen of the newsroom, Mr. Kris "Rose Petals" Ketz, maybe I can make it up on Monday, President's Day, by sharing my collection of Millard Fillmore spoons with everyone.

This whole Valentine's Day deal really got a kick in the pants from the poet and author, Chaucer, back around 1382. He wrote:

"For this was on seynt Volantynys Day
Whan every bryd cometh there to chese his make."

At first glance, it appears one of three things is going on here:

1. Chaucer's secretary was out sick that day.
2. Chaucer skipped typing class in high school...probably out back with that guy named Canterbury telling tales.
3. Chaucer was wearing oven mitts.

Maybe it's really Old English. But, I've said that verse out loud right to our coffee table and there is still dust and no discernible shine.

I think he was trying to say that something was sent on Valentine's Day and birds were looking to get lucky. ("Chese his make" apparently means "choose his mate." Unless these were Wisconsin birds, in which case, "chese his make" could have a lot to do with actual cheese.)

That was Geoffrey Chaucer, not to be confused with his less-celebrated brother Murray, who also wrote an ode to Valentine's Day:

There once was a young lad named Cupid
Who flew around until he was poop-ed
All about he would scamper
In his extra-large Pamper
No wonder he seemed oh, so stupid.

Have a wonderful Valentine's Day and remember, whoever said "It's the thought that counts" doesn't know the true meaning of this holiday.

Looking for something extra special to do on Valentine's Day, tomorrow? How about a trip to the hospital! I'm not talking about going there in the back of a mini-van holding your head to stop the nose-bleed you have, as a result of being hit by a flying Oreck XL21 Titanium Series Vacuum Cleaner with the 21 year warranty, hypo-allergenic filtration system and free cordless iron that your lovely, and surprisingly strong, wife threw at you. (I'm not saying it was me on the receiving end, but if I ever run into that David Oreck, there's gonna be trouble right here in River City and that starts with T and that rhymes with V and that stands for Valentine's Day...a day when flowers, candy or a gift card would be much more appreciated than, say, an appliance for cleaning the house.) No, I don't mean head for the ER. I mean head for the VA.

February 14, 2008 is the National Salute to Hospitalized Veterans. Each year, the VA here in Kansas City, opens the doors and invites folks to say thank you to the brave men and women who have given so much to keep our country free. Tomorrow, Donna Pitman, Kris Ketz and I will have the great honor of visiting the vets. The word "awesome" is overused these days, but this annual encounter is truly AWE-SOME & AWE-INSPIRING. There are lots of stories...laughs...quiet words of concern...a few tears. Sometimes we get to share greeting cards that area kids have created. We are lucky to be the bridge between the generations.

So, if you'd like to touch some hearts for Valentine's Day, give the VA a call and see how you can be a part of the National Salute to Hospitalized Veterans. Just be warned: You'll walk out of there with an enlarged heart...in the best possible way!

It is Pothole Season in Kansas City! Later today my family and I will head out to find our Pothole Tree and, then, exchange names for gift-giving. Tuesday morning on FirstNews, Michele Rooney reported that there are, already, nearly 300 of those metal plates on the roads covering potholes. And, this is just the beginning. FirstNews co-anchor Kris Ketz told the story of potholes on Broadway shredding two of his car's tires a few years ago. He said it was expensive and annoying. He could barely contain his anger as his driver fixed the tires while Mr. Ketz sat in back of the limo and watched TV. His frustration increased exponentially when he realized he had already seen that particular episode of Designing Women! Sometimes that Delta Burke really gets under his skin!

I've never, knock wood, have had a major pothole encounter. Although I did try to blame a pothole once. My car needed to have a new tire put on so I took it to our favorite garage. They did the job and, as I was pulling away, I took the first corner too close and scraped the new tire on the gutter...so much so that it knocked the tire off and bent the wheel frame. I sheepishly pulled right back in and said, with fake bravado, "You'd better get that pothole out there fixed! Fell right into it! Bad pothole! Bad, bad pothole!" Unfortunately, one of the mechanics had seen me leave and the rest had heard me.

I wonder if we'd like potholes better if we called them "kettles" around here like they do in some parts of the world. "Oh, that darn kettle just knocked my hub-caps clean off!" Yeah, that does sound a little friendlier. In the United Kingdom they use the word pothole to describe a deep cave and folks who like to explore them are called potholers. Is that better than being called a spelunker? Would you rather be accused of spelunking or caving or potholing? Frankly, they all sound like things a third grader shouldn't say in the hall. In the west, by the way, some call a pothole, a "chuckhole." I'm pretty sure Chuck Norris would have a problem with that.

If you really want to see a pothole, I guess you have to head for Archbald, PA. That's where the world's largest pothole is found at Archbald Pothole State Park. It was formed by a glacier and is 38 feet deep. When people in Archbald say "This place is just a big hole in the ground" they mean it in the very best possible way.

By the way, that's how I meant the title of this e-hole-agram, Going to Pot: in the best possible way. If the by-line on this story was "Willie Nelson" or "Woody Harrelson" it probably would've had different connotations. Or, if my mom wrote it. She has long used the phrase "going to pot" or "gone to pot" to indicate something or someone taking a downward slide. Not that she ever used that phrase in reference to me...her favorite son. The word "pot" gets thrown into a lot of illustrative phrases.

For example, growing up in the Lutheran Church, I came to think of Potlucks as nearly sacramental in their importance and any casserole using creamed chicken soup and tuna as necessary elements in becoming a true believer. Add coffee and you're practically an apostle. We had potlucks after weddings and confirmations and baptisms and, especially, after funerals. We're not big into the seven stages of grief where I grew up so we substituted the post-funeral potluck.

1. Shock: "Wow. What a surprise?! He seemed like he was in pretty good shape. Where's the coffee?"
2. Denial: "I keep expecting him to walk in here and, if he does, I hope he'll bring the cinnamon rolls."
3. Anger: "It just makes me so mad to think he's gone when we just put racing stripes on his Arctic Cat. Where are those cheese curds?"
4. Bargaining: "Hey, pass the three bean salad or you're not getting these ham sandwiches."
5. Guilt: This one is a given and exists apart from anything else going on.
6. Depression: "Well, I guess that's about it. Can you scrape anything else out of that crock-pot?"
7. Acceptance: "Hey. Time to go. 'Nuff of this. Wonder who we can find to fill his spot on the bowling team?"

It's a healing process.

There's "He can talk the legs off an iron pot" and "That's like trying to get a quart into a pint pot" and many others that I can't relate here in a family-friendly forum. Of course, an oldie but a goodie is "A watched pot never boils." We changed that a little when we were trying to get the kids out of diapers: "A watched tot never soils."

Go ahead, take your potshots.

The 5th Annual Idiot's Open, to benefit Kansas City Hospice, was a terrific success and a lot of fun for all on a mild, sunny Saturday morning. Thanks to the Idiot-in-Chief, Jim Flink, they raised about $25,000! Congratulations and thanks to everyone who came out, including Jana Corrie who reported for FirstNews weekend edition. As for me, I went to Smiley's Golf Complex early, for a couple reasons:

I tend to get lost driving to Smiley's in Lenexa. It's not their fault. It's mine. Smiley's was one of the first places my wife, Jessica, and I ever visited when we moved here some 20 years ago. It was a broiling hot summer day and I had the bright idea to hit a bucket of golf balls. We didn't have kids at the time and this kind of outing served as a date...sort of. Well, in my mind it was a date. I don't know if Jessica viewed it the same way. As time went by and kids came along, my golfing days, which were always pretty embarrassing, disappeared. For the last several years, I've played the Idiot's Open and that's about it. So, every February, I get in the car and drive to the general area of the golf course, always figuring I'd be able to get there once I got there...if you know what I mean. Last year, I took an extensive tour of the beautiful new neighborhoods in that part of town. The local police probably got several calls about a doofus, driving slowly through the streets at six in the morning.

"Well, ma'am, did he appear to be 'casing' the houses or looking for open garage doors?"

"No, officer, he just appeared to be...well...an idiot. A lost idiot."

"I'll bet it is that ridiculous weatherman searching for that golf tournament, again. Don't worry, ma'am. He's harmless and, if I may say so, not particularly good at golf or weather. There's more "FORE" in his golf game than in his FORE-cast."

So, I leave early.

The other reason I get there before anyone else is to take a practice swing or two...or 57. I know I'm not good at the game so I'm not there with any hope of really hitting the ball well or wisely. I just don't want my clubs to be laughed at. It happened last year. A fellow Idiot approached and, laughingly, said "Oh, those are funny but where are your real ones?" He laughed even harder when I said they were my real ones. I was given my current set of clubs by my wife quite some time ago. I don't have one of those drivers with a head the size of a '64 Rambler. I don't have anything that says "Graphite" on it. I just have a regular set of scuffed-up clubs. This year, however, even the clubs themselves seemed to be in on the joke. On the first green, I leaned on my putter as I bent over to get my golf ball out of the hole...where I had surreptitiously kicked it while Jim Flink was combing his hair. I can't do many things on the course that look professional but this move of leaning on the putter while retrieving the golf ball is one of the few times I don't look completely out of place. Until Saturday. As I leaned, the head of my putter snapped off. Quicker than you can say Lorena Bobbitt, I began to fall over. Now, I can use the shaft of the putter to point at things on the weather map and the head as a paper-weight...if I had any important papers to weigh down.

By the way, my clubs are old and broken down...as am I...but, at least I wasn't swinging clubs imprinted with word DIVA on them like Mr. Flink. That is not a lie...good, bad or otherwise. He claims he "accidentally" grabbed his wife's clubs. Okay. They sure seemed to fit him perfectly. Didn't matter. He beat me soundly. Score one for the Maria Callas of the fairways. (I'm more like the Charlie Callas of the fairways.)

Before the round officially started, the group was having a competition called Hit The Idiot. You'd pay for a small bucket of balls. Then, take aim at the idiot. If you hit the idiot, your name went in a drawing for some great prize. Now, they had a stuffed dummy sitting in a caged tractor about a hundred yards out from the driving range tee boxes. That was the idiot they were supposed to be hitting! That idiot! Not this one! Do you think I am overusing exclamation points!?! Well, have you ever had to run for your life while a bunch of guys fire golf balls your direction the minute they see you?!?! HUH!?!? They saw Hit The Idiot...saw me...put two and two and a Titleist together....

Well, it's another year until the next Idiot's Open. The swelling should go down by then.

The question: What have we had too much of, can't get enough of and know a few of? My apologies to Carnac the Magnificent. I know some of you are thinking "You gave the answer first...then, the question. That's a Jeopardy thing! Shouldn't you be apologizing to Alex Trebek?" Well, ever since Mr. Trebek shaved off his moustache, I just don't feel I really know him anymore. Also, he never returns the sample questions I submit. Like "Russet. Joel Nichols. New Coke." "What are a spud, a stud and a dud, Alex?" Now, the last time I referred to myself as a "stud" one of my brothers strapped me to his snow tires and drove around the block. To be honest, that question/answer combo is a variation of one Johnny Carson used in his Carnac routine. For those who don't remember, Carson would provide the appropriate question to the answer given by Ed McMahon. The answers were "hermetically sealed and kept in a mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnall's porch." For example, Carnac would hold the envelope to his turban and say "Sis. Boom. Bah." McMahon: "Sis. Boom. Bah." Carnac, upon opening the envelope: "Describe the sound made when a sheep explodes." Before Carson, Steve Allen had a character called The Question Man who did much the same thing. When Merv Griffin created Jeopardy, maybe he was remembering that, too. By the way, another reason I don't feel particularly charitable toward Mr. Trebek is that I was the president of the Art Fleming Fan Club and, when Mr. Fleming was unseated by Mr. Trebek it cut me deep. "He stabbed a man of great distinction in the back!" "Who is Alex 'Shiv' Trebek, Alex or Art?" (Okay, I don't know if that's how it happened but what am I supposed to do with all those Art Fleming t-shirts?)

I guess I'd better really explain the title of this blogging before I'm the subject of a new Jeopardy question: "He thought it was funny to poke fun at me and came to dearly regret it." "Who WAS Joel Nichols, Alex?"

First, the idiots: Saturday, February 9, out at Smiley's Golf Complex K-10 in Lenexa, Kansas, is the fifth annual Idiot's Open to benefit Kansas City Hospice. It gets started with a "Hit The Idiot" competition at 8:00 a.m. We do something similar every morning here at KMBC and I have the bruises to prove it. Then, we play golf. It will be sunny and 26 that morning...not bad. We've played in snow and ice and bitter cold, before. It is a lot of fun for a wonderful cause. Naturally, when they called it The Idiot's Open, they thought of Jim Flink and me. Mr. Flink has been the idiot-in-chief for the whole five years. I've got my ancient clubs ready and my Art Fleming Signature Edition Long Underwear ready to go.

Now: The Beatles. On this date, February 7, 1964, The Beatles landed in America. I have a hazy memory of it. At that stage of the game, it would have meant more to me if Captain Kangaroo had left America than anyone arriving here. Anyway, we listen to lots of Beatles around our house. We like the post-Beatles stuff, too. Including Ringo Starr's new cd called Liverpool 8. I've always liked Ringo. He seems like a funny guy...great drummer...doesn't take himself too seriously...very upfront about how great it was being a Beatle. Also, he was on Shining Time Station when our older kids were little and that's a plus.

Finally, the flakes. I came into work Tuesday evening, just to avoid any potential driving problems for our early showtime on Wednesday. Being election night, the newsroom was really buzzing. I got so into the excitement that I decided to caucus all by myself. Unfortunately, I couldn't reach a consensus with me and the meeting disbanded acrimoniously. I hope to be speaking to myself again at some point but, for now, the wounds are too fresh.

At the old studio, I would sometimes stay at the very nice hotel across the street on weather-related nights. It always felt kind of cool to check into a fancy place all by myself. "You've got a room for me? Nichols. Joel Nichols," I'd say, with an air of mystery. The desk clerk would sigh heavily, hand me the key and have a bellman load me onto the luggage cart.

As un-cool as I was checking in alone, it was even worse checking into a place with a bunch of little kids bouncing around. It's not easy to look like Cary Grant or George Clooney with a four-month old sending projectile vomit across the lobby and another kid jumping up and down asking to go to the potty. The first place we stayed with all the kids was the Lawrence Welk Resort in Branson. We have a photograph of the children standing next to a statue of Mr. Welk. At the time, we told them Mr. Welk was a former president of the United States...between Nixon and Carter. It was President Welk who intoned "Our long, national polka is over." Of course, this kind of misinformation may explain some of the notes we've received from the kids' teachers over the years.

Well, there is no hotel handy at the new studio so I hunkered down in the lobby. I had some trouble dozing off due to all the commotion. Finally, I had to ask Larry Moore to sing me one of his news lullabies, melody by Brahms:

Lullaby and good night
A disturbance you're making.
Fall asleep, you weatherman.
Big News maybe breaking.

Please stay out of our way
For we have things to do now
Try counting sheep or a goat
Maybe throw in a moo-cow.

With that, Mr. Moore sneaked out of the lobby, but, I was still awake. I just stared up at the giant ABC mobile over my head, watching Charles Gibson chase Diane Sawyer and the cast from Lost mingle with According To Jim. It wasn't long before I must have sailed away to Sleepy Town. ("This is an incredibly immature way for a man in his 40s to refer to slumber." "What is 'Sleepy Town,' Alex?")

My alarm went off around 12:45 a.m. and I sat in the lobby and ate my dry Cheerios. I've had dry Cheerios since I was a kid. We couldn't afford Alpha-Bits so I'd nibble the oaten circles into various shapes trying to make letters. The best I could do was something you'd see scribbled on a cave wall. Anyway, I still do that today which made it embarrassing when Kris Ketz walked in and saw me trying to spell "Joel Nichols Is Great" on the lobby coffee table, in Cheerios.

So, that's all I have about flakes, Beatles and idiots. I really need to write Alex Trebek a letter of apology, now. Maybe something special, in rhyme like Larry Moore's song. If I can just figure out a way to glue those Cheerios to KMBC stationery....

Two month's salary. An average of $3500 to $4000. Enough to make your back teeth squeak. Those are just three of the estimates I found on-line when I Googled "How much should you spend on an engagement ring?" Okay, the last one about the teeth is my own, but it still applies. I mention these facts and figures because I want it on the record that I did not do that when my wonderful wife, Jessica, and I got engaged way back in the last millennium. I went to a jeweler called Condon's in Madison, Wisconsin, and chose something I could afford to pay for all at once. I don't know why I chose Condon's. There was another store in town called Goodman's that had much better commercials that featured the Goodman brothers, Bob and Irwin. Irwin gave you the facts and Bob provided the warmth. He even sang a little bit in the ads. Maybe I was fearful that, if I went to Goodman's and saw the brothers, I'd be starstruck and lose control of my wallet.

I've noticed that many women have huge diamonds on their fingers. They look like they could support a performance of High School Musical On Ice. The original joke is "That diamond's so big you could skate on it." Or, "That diamond's so big...when do the Ice Capades start?" I substituted High School Musical On Ice, in a desperate attempt to appear hip and "in the know." The point is, I see giant jewels and feel very much the failure in the "ring-on-her-finger" department. Let me make this clear: I notice. Jessica does not! Whenever I would mention this, she would laugh it off and say "I've got the exact ring I want." If I whine often enough about it, she says "I've got the exact ring I want. The husband? Not so sure." I always wondered if she was just being kind then it happened: The diamond fell out!

It was back in October when she accidentally scratched herself, looked down and discovered the diamond was gone as were two of the four prongs holding it in place. She was distressed. It could have been anywhere. Down the drain! In the car! On the sidewalk! In the treadmill gadget at the gym! In Branson! Maybe Shoji Tabuchi found it and glued it to his fiddle! It was gone. Period. I told her not to worry...we'd get it replace....maybe with a bigger, flashier ring. Something with the clarity of spring water! Cut? How about something in the Prime Rib department! The color will make rainbows weep. And, if we're talking carats...not a 1/4 or 1/2 or one or two. How about a garden full of carats? Of course, I can't afford this but it never stopped me before.

This raises an interesting bit of economic rationalization I fall victim to quite often. If I over-spend but it is not for myself, how can that be wrong? A ring for Jessica. Trip to DisneyWorld for the kids. Gourmet chew treats for the dog. It's not like I'm spending it on me! Well, in my more reasonable moments, I realize that all those purchases may say more about me and my selfish confusion between "want" and "need," than about them. Frankly, they never ask for this stuff. Well, the dog does but he's a bit of a dilettante. I know you're also wondering "You mention 'reasonable moments.' When do those actually occur, for you?" Usually, when I'm walking that same upper-crust dog. He's a good listener despite his snobbery.

Along the aforementioned lines, Jessica told me she did not want a bigger diamond. She wasn't all that enthusiastic about any replacement because it would be just that, a replacement. That was the end of the conversation. After that, we didn't talk about it much. Until Christmas Eve day.

Jessica asked our daughter, Samantha, to do a little vacuuming in the living room before we went to church. Samantha grabbed the upright and bounced it out of the laundry room and into the living room. She bounced it. Bounced! That's when Jessica spotted it. A little something trying to glisten in the dust. She walked over and picked it up. Could it be? Her little diamond? She scratched a milk bottle with it. After two months, there it was. Now, you may ask "If it was lodged in your vacuum for two months, does that mean you really should be vacuuming more often?" Actually, we had used that vacuum many times. We have four kids and a dog. But, I think it was Samantha's bouncing of the machine that made the difference.

Well, I put the "little diamond that could," with the empty setting, in a matchbox. Last week, I took it to the jeweler to be repaired as a birthday surprise for Jessica. Of course, the friendly fellow at the store said "We could take this opportunity to upgrade, you know?" I passed.

So, last Saturday, we picked it up. Jessica didn't know it was repaired, shined and ready to wear. In the store, another person mentioned "Trading up." Jessica said "No, thanks. I've got the exact ring I want."

Today is Jessica's birthday and I'm glad she has her ring back on her finger but, clearly, she is the real gem.

It is a great thing to hear from folks who watch FirstNews. This is a very observant audience. For example, this morning I had a message pointing out that someone...who shall remain nameless...tends to SNORT when he or she laughs. It wasn't really a criticism...just a comment. It got me thinking about what a person's laugh may mean about them. If it hasn't been done yet, I hope to apply for a federal grant to study this question. I think a couple million might cover it. After all there are lots of different ways to express one's amusement.

Maybe you giggle or whoop or titter. Actually, those three together sound like a law firm: "At Giggle, Whoop and Titter, your case is never a laughing matter."

I've never actually heard anyone say "TEE-HEE." Except in a restaurant, in answer to the waiter's question about who ordered the peppermint-lotus-deep thought-blend. "Coffee-me. Tea-he."

Sometimes people just give a short burst. "HA!" These are usually very busy people who can only express themselves in a quick manner. They have places to go and people to meet. An extra "ha" and their whole day is off kilter.

That reminds me of the big controversy, this past holiday season, about one shopping center saying that Santa Claus could no longer do his traditional guffaw: "Ho! Ho! Ho!" because some people may find it offensive and insulting. I didn't really understand that story but I certainly never realized that gardeners were so senstive.

Speaking of "guffaw," that word sounds like some people's laughter or the noise created when former president William Howard Taft was suctioned out of the White House bath-tub.

Hee-Haw really does sound like a donkey. We all kind of know that. But did you know that the word "chortle" comes from the sound made when turtles bust-up? Don't feel bad about not knowing that. Turtles don't laugh much. Although, I did see a couple of them, sitting on a tree stump, just dissolved in joy as they recounted the joke about the near-sighted, amorous tortoise and the World War II army helmet. They were chortling all over the place.

While it maybe difficult to know what a laugh means, laugh-lines are another matter. In the art and science of Chinese Face Reading, laugh lines can say a lot. For example, if you are age 40 and you have a faded laugh line, it means you will not be able to advance much further in your career and your professional positions are not ones of power and control. According to that, my laugh lines would have to resemble a piece of the Applebee's To-Go Menu Magellan used when going wherever it was that Magellan went. It is little-known, but in later life Magellan sued Ferdinand the Bull for name-copyright infringement. I believe he used the very able attorneys at Giggle, Whoop and Titter.

If the laugh line starts from the nose and leads directly into the corners of the mouth, that is called a "starved laugh line." Sadly, if you have one of those, bad stuff is waiting for you in your mid 50s. However, if you have another pair of lines leading from your mouth to your chin, you will rebound from any disaster. That's according to Chinese Face Reading. Among the German-Lutheran face-readers in my family, the more lines on your face the better, because that means you're worrying a lot and probably feeling considerable guilt and that is exactly how it should be because, have you taken a good look at your life? What were you thinking? Too big for your britches? Just who do you think you are?

The best laugh line is a long one from the nose to the chin. You'll be smiling and laughing well past your 70s. This is not to be confused with long gas lines which indicated that we were all living well into the endless 70s. Coincidentally, if you have a long line running down your back, from your head to your ankles, it means one of two things: Your best days are behind you or you need to buy a new gorilla suit.

If a long laugh line means long life, a short laugh line means...well, you know. Forget about exercise or eating right, I've taken to using clothes pins to attach two 16 pound canned hams to each side of my face before bedtime in hopes of stretching the lines. Unfortunately, everytime I roll over it sounds like two tug boats smacking into each other.

"Two tug boats smacking together" also describes the laugh of the previously-mentioned person working on FirstNews here at Channel 9 which brings us back to the purpose of his cackling commentary. For the record, I am not the one who rounds off his laugh with the perfect 10-point landing of a snort. Now, I will admit that my mother is a snorter. But, I did not inherit that particular attribute. Still, because of the maternal snort I grew up with...I have no problem with a co-worker snorting when they laugh. However, I do wish they'd quit doing it everytime they look at me.