Must-hear albums?

Critics can be funny people. And by “funny” I mean “completely out of touch with humanity.” That point was driven home for me this week when I stumbled across “1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die.” This book is a list of one critic's most important musical releases since 1955. Of course, I was stuck on the title. Are there really 1001 albums I really MUST hear? I am a music lover, so I've listened to well over 1001 albums in my life, but there weren't that many of them that I considered worthy of everyone's attention before death. And I'm still not sure WHY I have to hear them all. Is it so I have a more rounded musical experience? Is it so I'll look cool at parties? Is it so some of these albums will sell more copies and funnel money back to the guy who wrote the book?

Then I looked through the list. There are some great albums on there. In the 50's section, there are picks from Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly & the Crickets, Frank Sinatra, and Billie Holliday. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix and the Who made the 60's section with the Doors, Steely Dan and Stevie Wonder in with the 70's, and so forth. But what really got me scratching my noggin were some of the other albums listed as “MUST BE HEARD” by the author. Like the album “Don't Stand Me Down” by Dexy's Midnight Runners. You remember the tune “Come on Eileen” right? That band. (Sorry if the tune is stuck in your head now.) Why in the name of all that is good would I need to listen to an entire album from a forgettable 80's one-hit wonder band? And “Come On Eileen” isn't even on that album! There are plenty more questionable selections for a “must hear” list from every decade. A “must hear” list wouldn't include albums from the Electric Prunes, Quicksilver Messenger Service, or Haircut One Hundred. Not even if I had to struggle to come up with 1001 albums, would I pull out Blue Cheer or the Incredible Bongo Band!

So, you're surely asking yourself, what albums are the ones I MUST hear? First of all, there are no albums you absolutely must hear, but if you want a list of albums that would give you a well-rounded musical background, maybe I can help. I've taken care to introduce my kids to some music from before they were born, and this might be a good opportunity to work through some of those. With that in mind, here are some albums you should probably listen to if you want knowledge about popular music.

From the 50's - Chuck Berry “After School Session” (or any early Chuck Berry record). I like Elvis as much as the next guy, but Chuck Berry is the real King of Rock and Roll. That signature guitar riff is what it's all about. Also toss in any album by Hank Williams (Senior), Ray Charles “The Genius of Ray Charles,” Miles Davis “Birth of the Cool,” and Elvis' “Elvis Presley.”

From the 60's - Beatles “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.” This is the obvious choice from the psychedelic era because it influenced so many artists. (Almost as many as Chuck Berry!) Add to that the Beach Boys “Pet Sounds,” B.B. King “Live at the Regal,” Johnny Cash “Live at Folsum Prison,” and Bob Dylan “Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.”

From the 70's - Bruce Springsteen’s “Born To Run.” The New Jersey sound that The Boss and his band brought to America was incredibly different than anything else on the radio at the time, but became commonplace soon afterward. Then throw in David Bowie “Changesbowie,” Boston “Boston,” Willie Nelson “Red Headed Stranger,” and the soundtrack to “Saturday Night Fever.”

From the 80's - Prince & the Revolution “Purple Rain.” This was the mid-1980s. The music was a remix of a watered-down Jimi Hendrix sound with a dance groove. Then check out Michael Jackson “Thriller,” Stevie Ray Vaughn “Texas Flood,” George Strait “Does Fort Worth Ever Cross Your Mind,” and Van Halen “1984.”

From the 90's - Nirvana “Nevermind.” The commercially-successful beginning of grunge rock came from this Seattle band's landmark album. From there, try U2 “Actung Baby,” TLC “CrazySexyCool,” Alanis Morissette “Jagged Little Pill,” and Garth Brooks “No Fences.”

These are not necessarily the best albums, but the ones that will fill out your musical knowledge. Now, go and educate yourself. But if you feel the need to argue my selections, email me. But I'm not budging on the Dexy's Midnight Runners album. Deal with it.

Weather: The Great Equalizer

Mark Twain is credited with saying, "Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it." Some people over the years have found that sentence humorous, probably because Twain is associated with it. But it is either an obvious statement or a foolish one. It's obvious we don't do anything that will either make it rain or make the rain stop, unless some sinister accusations about the Russians are actually true. And it's obvious that we are constantly doing things because of the weather. We add another layer of clothes and a coat. We peel off as many clothes as we legally dare. We build houses to keep ourselves out of the elements. We invent and build artificial cooling machines and artificial heating machines. We put up an umbrella, install windshield wipers, build drains, plow snow, put on snow tires, but that's about all we can do. When it comes to weather, we're pretty much all in the same boat because weather is The Great Equalizer.

For a couple of weeks, much of the midwest was stuck in a heat wave. Highs in the 90s, heat index values (whatever they are) in the 100s and 110s... nasty stuff. But we couldn't cool it off. Why? We can't do anything about it. Same in the winter when the snow keeps falling. We can't do anything about it. Same in the spring when the rain never seems to stop. We can't do anything about it. It's obvious. We just try to make ourselves comfortable.

As far as everyone talking about the weather, again this is obvious. We talk about the weather because it is something we all have in common. If it's raining we can used the tired old question, "Is it wet enough for you?" when we feel the urge to converse. We all have to deal with it. Now of course the weather here is not often the same as in the more southern states or the more northern ones either. And we make special note of that. Does this happen to you? When my friends or family take a trip south during the cold winter months, they seem to be required by law to call me and tell me the temperature where they are staying. Almost always it's 70 or more degrees hotter than the frozen tundra I'm walking around in. So I have to chuckle and sound envious even if it's 45 and fairly comfortable here in the thawed tundra.

Weather also immediately makes us wish conditions were different. Now, Thursday was just a banner day in Van Wert County with the puffy clouds, the blue sky, Mr. Sun playing hide-and-seek in the sky, and a nice breeze. It was a day to file away and remember on those days when no one wants to venture outside. But mostly, any day's weather makes people wish for something different. If it's dry, we want wet. If it's wet, we want dry. If it's 50 degrees, we want 75. If it's winter, we want summer. You get the idea. But I'm sure that even on that banner weather day, had I looked more extensively, I would have found someone whining that it was too hot and someone else whining that it was too cold, and a third person praying for rain.

And don't blame the weatherman! People complain that forecasters are never right yet get to keep their jobs. Of course most of the rest of us aren't asked to predict the future either. And persons coming up with sales projections or trying to get a handle on the stock market aren't that accurate either. In truth, it's amazing that meteorologists can predict storms, severe weather, heat, and cold as accurately as they do. Maybe we should all stop whining about them and appreciate the advanced warning we get. We're all in this together. And until we can actually cause rain to start or stop or get the temperature to everyone's ideal, we can't do anything about the weather. Except talk.

Have Another Drink!

After waxing nostalgic last week... alright, I told stories of a long-forgotten era like an old man, about refreshing beverages. But since that time, my memory banks have been overflowing with all the drinks of yesterday and today that have graced my refrigerator and my cupboards in days gone by.

In the cupboard was that jar of Tang. You remember, it was what the astronauts drank! Well, eventually the astronauts drank it. At first the stuff mostly sat on grocery shelves until it got packed into John Glenn's space capsule. I'm not sure how Glenn mixed the little freeze-dried orange granules with water to make an imitation orange juice drink, but apparently he did. Then anyone in the 1960s who wanted to be hip or groovy or whatever we were back then would drink Tang for breakfast. Fewer people remember Tang's less-popular family member -- grape flavored Tang. To be honest, I like the grape hundreds of times better than the orange. And just to reveal how odd I was, my favorite way to drink Tang was not ice cold, but hot. Dad could drink his hot coffee while I would drink hot grape Tang. And, no, I didn't take cream or sugar.

I did drink a lot of soft drinks when I was young, and being a chubby, young boy, I was required to drink “diet” soft drinks. My drink of choice, because it was a lot cheaper, was Diet Rite Cola. Diet Rite was the no-calorie version of RC Cola. We bought them in the 8-pack of 16 ounce returnable bottles. That was back when bottle recycling was enforced with a nickel or dime deposit for each bottle. If you paid a nickel a bottle, or 40 cents a pack, the bottles usually made it back for recycling (which may have just been running them through a car wash and refilling them, I really don't remember.) But anyway, Diet Rite is still around as Diet Rite Pure Zero and it comes in flavors as appetizing as Green Apple Splatter, which sounds more like a summertime apple-throwing fight at the orchard than a refreshing beverage.

The other popular diet drink was Tab (or TaB as it appeared on the can). Tab was Coca-Cola's answer to Diet Rite, and eventually when the FDA decided which artificial sweeteners wouldn't kill you as quickly, Tab gave way to Diet Coke. Tab's ugly cousin was Fresca, but aside from a line in the movie “Caddyshack” when Ted Knight offers the kid a Fresca, I really can't remember anything about the stuff. I think it was supposed to be lemon-lime or something. Plenty of lemon-lime all over the market then, too, with 7-Up and Sprite and Mountain Dew. I wonder who was the person who first mixed the lemon and the lime? Probably some Polynesian who never got credit, I'm guessing.

The obscure soft drink I used to love in the early 80s was called Rondo. It was a lemony-limey-citrusy soda too, but it didn't have as much carbonation. That meant you could drink it faster, and presumably, burp less. The commercials were of a guy grass-skiing, which is pretty much what you think it is -- a guy skiing with no snow and no water, just a hill with long grass. My friends and I drank a few hundred gallons of this in college before it disappeared. Come to think of it, I haven't seen anyone grass skiing lately either.

When I think about all the beverages over the years, my head starts to spin. I drank Crystal Pepsi. Remember that clear Pepsi that no one drank because it tasted like Pepsi but didn't look right? I also tried the Pepsi Blue, but it reminded me too much of Ty-D-Bol. I've drank my Ovaltine and my Quik, but always opted for liquid chocolate for my milk whenever possible. There has been Hi-C and “How 'bout a nice Hawaiian Punch,” and about three ka-jillion other drinks. But the king of them all was the worst of them all. Jolt Cola was said to have “all the sugar and twice the caffeine,” so this morning radio DJ who couldn't stand waking up in the morning became quickly dependent upon his morning bottle of Jolt.

Now, certainly I could have been drinking water all this time instead of these artificially-made chemical concoctions, but what kind of memories would I have then?

How about a cool drink?

I don't need to remind you that it's still hot outside. It's summer. It's supposed to be hot, although not quite this hot yet. But it's not unusual to see triple-digit temperatures in the summer, and because of that we've learned the best ways to cool off. Besides looking for an air-conditioner or a swimming pool, most of those ways revolved around finding something cold to drink.

Water is the typical choice these days. Stay hydrated. We drank water back a few decades ago, but we didn't pay a buck and a half for a small bottle of it. For fun, try to imagine your grandfather being asked to pay any amount of money for a bottle of water. Go ahead. Is your grandfather slamming his hands on the counter and yelling words we can't print too? Yeah, kind of funny, isn't it? Anyway, if you're going to pay money for something cool to drink, why not try something with flavor? Lemonade? Iced tea?

Personally, I still have a soft spot for Kool-Aid. Even the "off-brand" versions made for some good cool refreshment. I will note that the best Kool-Aid flavor is black cherry. Sure most of the other flavors are good (except for blue stuff), but black cherry is the Cadillac of Kool-Aid flavors.
In spite of common wisdom, I drink a lot of carbonated sodas ('pop' to us real Americans). But these things supposedly make you more thirsty. So you can look for some alternative. When I was a kid, I remember sometimes getting a cold bottle of Choc-ola from the vending machine. If you are unfamiliar with Choc-ola (or it's cousin Yoo-hoo), it is an imitation of chocolate milk. It was fantastic to seven-year-old tastebuds. And I wasn't the only one who thought so. All us kids were into Choc-ola for cool refreshment. Years later, as high school students, two friends and I were on a trip with our baseball team somewhere around Cincinnati. We stopped at a gas station that sold Choc-ola! We were ecstatic! It had been close to a decade (half our lives) since we had downed a cold Choc-ola! The three of us each purchased a frosty bottle and took it outside. Once they were open, we stood facing each other, gripping our glass bottles of nostalgic goodness. At the nod of a head, we all tipped back our heads and took a gulp. Approximately 1.5 seconds later, all three of us turned away from each other and spit the mouthful on the asphalt parking lot! It was not the chocolately good drink of our childhood. It was some imitation milk product with chocolate flavoring. So not every option is a good option.

My kids have grown up with sports drinks like Gatorade. Playing sports almost requires commitment to Gatorade. For years, my boys would emerge from the dugout between innings, look my direction, and tip an imaginary drink to his lips twice. This of course is the international sign for "I'm very thirsty, Father. Please go purchase a sports beverage for me so that my thirst might be quenched. Oh, and make it the blue kind."

Ice cream drinks are good for cooling off. Even the ones with coffee in them. However, coffee should never be truly classified as a drink consumed while cold, so I'm taking them right out of the discussion. Still shakes and sodas and root beer floats and the like can really hit the hot spot on a sweltering day. But the best coolant and thirst quencher is a slush. A Hawaiian ice is pretty much in the same category -- you're drinking ice! You can test me on this one. A slush will cool you faster than any other drink. But drink it slowly or you'll be holding your head in pain for about an hour, and that's no better than simply sweating through the heat.

So best of luck cooling off this weekend. And remember my advice: Don't pay for water, black cherry is the best Kool-Aid, Choc-ola is not as good as you remember, and don't down your slush too quickly. Now drink responsibly.

Hair I am again

“Give me a head with hair. Long beautiful hair. Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen...” - The Cowsills

Let me preface this my saying that I am in the post-follicular stage of my life. Yes, I am bald. In a world where hair turns heads, I am left on the sideline. Now of course, it does have it's advantages. I don't spend a lot of time and money trying to make it look good with combs, sprays, dyes and various appliances. It is an easier way to go about things.

Back in 1964, the traditional world gasped when four mop-topped men from Liverpool, England invaded this country making it fashionable to grow hair longer. (Look at the pictures of the Beatles today and you wonder what all the fuss was about.) When the Cowsills and company tried to push for hair that made grown men look like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family, fashion gladly opened its arms to the trend. Since that time, men’s hair has been shorter, longer... whatever. But only a few brave pioneers went without. Yul Brynner brought bald to the movies. Telly Savalas brought bald (and lollipops for grown-ups) to television. But after that, the list of hairless heroes is really pretty sparse.

For women, the trend goes the other way. Rebellion for men was to grow hair longer, while women wanting to protest their oppressed lifestyle began to cut their hair shorter. Soon we were faced with females with crew cuts, and eventually Sinead O'Connor, the Irish singer-songwriter, who found she could get more attention for herself by shaving her head (and by ripping up pictures of the Pope on live television). But the point is, the world is attracted, enthralled, and overstimulated by hair.

As a boy, my hair was blond. That color lasted until kindergarten when for unknown reasons my hair darkened to a dark brown. And it was thick. Very thick. The barber always had to “thin” my hair to get it to lay down correctly. Oh what I wouldn't give to have some of those thinnings back now! In high school, I began to experiment with facial hair. Except for baseball season, I had a full beard throughout my senior year. And hair down to my collar. It was that way through college and into the work world. I shaved my beard for the first time after high school about six years after graduation. Then I started growing it longer. I can remember fashioning a crude ponytail for it one morning when it was particularly unruly.

Then something happened shortly after I got married. (Not that it's my wife's fault. I'm sure it's just coincidence.) My hair started to thin even when I wasn't in a barber's chair. After a few years of trying every hairstyle imaginable to make me look a little hairier, I gave up and got it all cut short. Then gradually over the course of time, what hair remained got shorter and shorter until one day while shaving my face, I decided not to stop at the top of the ears. By that time, a ka-jillion other guys with the same situation decided to do the same thing too -- shave the head and grow a goatee. So now, ironically, I look like a ka-jillion other guys (only infinitely more handsome). The crowd of people with long hair has become the crowd of people with shiny heads. It's like the circle of life for hair.

I will also add that I have rejected the school of thought to “grow what you can” or to trim hair down so there is a semi-circle around my dome. Bless you, sir, if that's you. I just have too many memories snickering at people wearing toupees, or having the “toilet seat” haircut, or the long locks in the back with nothing on top a la Hulk Hogan. And don't get me started on the comb-over. But in the end, it's all superficial anyway. True beauty is not found in a do like Fabio or a cut like Farrah or Jennifer or whoever-is-in-style-today. Hair is window dressing. True beauty is in one's character. But hair does keep you warmer in the winter. And for now, I'm glad it's summer.

In praise of sugar

I stumbled across a website last week that predicted something that almost broke my heart. The site, called 24/7 Wall St., looked into its crystal ball and predicted the demise of ten brands in the upcoming year. While I recognized a few, the one that lept from the page was the prognostication that the cereal Kellogg's Corn Pops would be discontinued! NO! Citing figures that Corn Pops sales have dropped 18 percent and that the price of corn is making the stuff too expensive, the financial gurus claimed it would be cut by the cereal-maker in 2012. As a lover of cold cereal, I was more than a little distressed by this. I refuse to believe it, but if it did happen, I would still lay the blame on the trend of the late 70s when the word "sugar" was removed from cereal names. Hey, it was Kellogg's Sugar Pops. for years before the word police hushed all the sugar talk and pointed to corn. Sugar became a bad thing at that point when previously it was a selling point.

In 1949, Post put out a product called Sugar Crisp. With it, was a mascot who represented the cereal. He was simply named Sugar Bear. And Sugar Bear was on the cereal boxes and in the commercials. When the name was changed to Super Sugar Crisp in the 60s (because un-super sugar is nowhere near as wonderful as super sugar), Sugar Bear used to sing, "Can't get enough of Super Sugar Crisp." But when the sugar-haters got their way, these sugar-coated puffs of wheat became Super Golden Crisp, and eventually the 'super' was dropped (since super golden isn't all that special). Interestingly, the bear is still in some of the advertising and is still named Sugar Bear. Sugar is good enough for animals, but not for the breakfast table, I guess.

But I'll be honest. When the cereal was called Sugar Crisp, it was 50 percent sugar! That's right, half of it was sugar. It still is 50 percent sugar, as is it's Kellogg's cousin, Honey Smacks. Yes, Honey Smacks used to be Sugar Smacks. Kellogg's and Post need to keep up with one another, you know.

It's a shame that sugar takes such a bad rap. Sure, you don't want to overdose on sugar, but it isn't to be completely avoided. Over the past couple of years, the southern favorite sweet tea has become popular all over the country, even up here in Yankee states. What's so special about sweet tea? Well, there are all kinds of answers, but the correct response is obvious. SUGAR!

Sugar is a carbohydrate, and our bodies need carbohydrates. Sugar is tasty, and as Mary Poppins tried to tell everyone, just a spoonful of the white granular stuff will indeed help the icky-tasting medicine go down. There is a point to using real sugar. Meanwhile, how many sugar substitutes have been blacklisted by well-meaning agencies as being bad for you? I remember cyclamates. I've read about dulcin and P-4000, neither of which could be sold after 1950. And there are all sorts of claims about the problems with saccharin and aspartame and neotame and other stuff that I can't spell. If I'm going to eat something with warning labels, it might as well be the real thing.

So, with an eye on the traditional Independence Day picnic, I won't be sprinkling anything out of a pink, blue or yellow packet onto fresh fruit. I refuse to have a slice of sugar-free pie. And I may just take a black marker to a box of Corn Pops and label the thing correctly.

Criminal Masterminds Aplenty

Back when I was a radio star (meaning: I had at least two fans), I used to do a feature called Stupid Criminal of the Week. During that time, I would highlight the exploits of someone who didn't think that big effort at crime all the way through. You know, like the bank robber who wrote the holdup note on the back of one of his own deposit slips with his name and address printed right there, or the guy who broke into a home and fell asleep on the couch. People like that. They were the highlight of my week.

This was back in the 1980s, when information wasn't nearly as plentiful as now when the Information Superhighway opened for business. So, these stories were occasional, cute and out-of-the-ordinary. Then, I started finding more and more, and most weeks there was not only a winner, but a runner-up, and sometimes an honorable mention in the contest to take the weekly prize. Soon, the award became the Stupid Criminal of the Day. Today, there is information flying around in digital form at breakneck speed, and it is hard to keep up with some of the lame-brained moves of certain people on the other side of the law. So I thought I'd make you feel a little better about yourself today.

There's the guy around Buffalo, New York who was riding around on the Interstate with the upper half of his body sticking out of the sunroof of the car. (I'm assuming he wasn't driving, although the account really doesn't rule that out.) Anyway, when the state police trooper pulled up behind the car and turned on the flashing lights, the dude in the sunroof found he had another problem. He had a bag of pot that he didn't want to be caught holding, so he decided to ditch the drugs by throwing it over his shoulder as the car was pulling over. The baggie of marijuana flew through the air and landed on the hood of the state police cruiser. He was charged with possession of drugs and not wearing a seatbelt. A more intelligent criminal would have kept his upper torso and head inside the car.

Or how about the three guys (note: it took three persons to be this stupid) who walked into a doughnut shop with knifes and hatchets and wanted the money from the store. It didn't take long for one of the trio of geniuses to notice a paper bag with a lump inside sitting in one of the workers' opened purses. The three grabbed the bag and took off, figuring they had just made off with the day's receipts from the cash drawer which was ready to be taken to the bank. Sometime later, they opened the bag to see how much dough they had stolen only to find that it was really dough. Fried dough. Doughnuts, to be precise. Apparently one of the workers was going to take a few crullers home at the end of the day, but the robbers grabbed the goods instead of the loot. Always check your order before you leave -- that works for robberies and for getting food from a drive-through window.

That reminded me of a case where a guy walked into a doughnut shop (doughnut shops obviously attract all kinds of people) and slipped the clerk a note that said he had a gun and a bomb and would use both if he didn't get the cash. Then the robber reached over the counter and grabbed the cash register and took off running out of the shop... only it wasn't the cash register. Mr. Holdup had grabbed a large adding machine that had no cash drawer. Instead of a drawer full of money, he had an outdated piece of office equipment. Sheer brilliance.

Police officers have always told me that criminals are not the smartest bunch in the world, which is fine by them because that quality makes them easier to catch. And with some of these idiots, it's like shooting fish in a barrel.

Live in concert

I'm one of those people who really likes to have a tune playing in the background or the foreground while I work or drive or eat, so music is important to me. It's been that way as long as I remember. I grew up with a limited variety -- mostly whatever was on WOWO radio, but by the time music hit the FM band (that's right, kids, AM used to be the place for music!) there was a little more variety than just “safe” pop songs and the so-called beautiful music versions of “safe” pop songs. In subsequent years I discovered at least 153 different varieties of rock music, as well as country, jazz, blues, big band, electronic, bluegrass, reggae, and a few other genres that escape me at the moment. And for the most part, I can appreciate most any type of music. The orchestral majesty of classical music can truly inspire. The rhythmic poetry of rap can actually get me moving. And the sound of a mariachi band can really make me hungry. Yes, it usually comes back to food!

But I was thinking about all this as I looked through the upcoming performance schedule at the Niswonger Performing Arts Center. This city is blessed to have so many chances to hear good music. Besides the impressive list of talent that will be showing up at that magnificent venue, we are also treated to other shows. Visionary Promotions put on a string of great shows over the past couple of years with some lesser-known, but just-as-talented performers. Local and regional bands take to various stages around the area. It's a wonderful thing to have a musical soundtrack while remaining in this area.

I was reading on the Internet of the memories of some locals who were thinking back on some of the concerts they had seen right here in Van Wert. In 1966, the Kingsmen (”Louie Louie”) and Freddy “Boom Boom” Cannon (Palisades Park) each held shows at the Junior Fair Building at the Van Wert County Fairgrounds. That one stunned me. I realize that the music industry has changed a great deal in the past 40-plus years, but that still seems like quite the coup for this little town. I think the modern equivalent might be having a Ke$ha concert (Adults, have a kid explain Ke$ha to you) at the Junior Fair Building. Just can't see it happening!

There have also been plenty of great shows as part of the Van Wert County Fair over the years. I am half-amused and half-saddened when I hear people give their suggestions of who they want to see at the fair. Usually the acts are far too pricey or far too pickey to play in front of the local grandstand, but somehow that thought never occurs to these helpful suggestors. I would like to see the Rolling Stones without having to drive three hours too, but I can't see Mick and the boys playing the fair. Besides, at their ages, the Stones would probably have to wear some sort of air filtration system to keep the racetrack dust from bringing them to their knees.

I've attended some great concerts over the years. It started with a Pat Benatar show in Fort Wayne in late 70s, and moved through all sorts of shows, including the good and the bad. My wife of 22 years (today) once refused to attend a John Mellencamp show with me because she wanted to change into “concert clothes,” whatever that means. While I can say I saw Bruce Springsteen, George Strait and Michael Jackson in large arena shows, I also sat through Air Supply and the immensely forgettable Jack Wagner. (The latter two I was actually paid to attend. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

These days, I like seeing musicians of all types sharing their craft with an audience. Be it a Southern Gospel quartet or a guy with a guitar and a fistful of songs, there's nothing like live music. So I encourage local folks to take advantage of the numerous shows around the area this year, even if the music isn't usually your taste. Unless it's Jack Wagner. Then you have my permission to go home and sing yourself to sleep.

An embarrassing job, but someone's gotta do it

As the father of three, it has been my privilege, nay my honor, to in fact fulfill the duties of parenthood. Offering instruction and correction, providing for them, hauling them to various and sundry sporting events and activities -- yes, the previous two decades or so have been packed full of trying to live up to what a father should be. One area where I think I could have been better was in the necessary realm of embarrassing my kids in front of their friends. I just haven't done enough.

I wasn't the parent at the little league games screaming at my boys to “just hit the ball” or the one dragging out baby photos when my son started bringing dates home. I haven't attended school dances only to join in when “Solja Boy” gets played. Quite frankly, I'm a failure in this area. But I have a new hero.

His name is Dale Price. Dale found out this year that his 16-year-old son's bus route had changed at the beginning of the school year, and that each school day, his boy would ride past the house once again. So Dale took action. He decided he would stand outside the house and wave at the bus when it went by. Every day. Oh, but not just that. That wouldn't be embarrassing enough. This is the part that makes Dale my new hero. For each of the 170 days his son rode the bus to school, Dale dressed for the occasion. On the second day, he stood outside in a San Diego Chargers helmet and jersey waving to the bus. On the third day, he donned an Anakin Skywalker helmet. The next day it was swim trunks and a snorkel. You're starting to get the picture now, right? For 170 days, Dale didn't reuse a costume, taking on identities as varied as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz to Ariel of The Little Mermaid. He wore bunny costumes, cowboy gear, an orange prison jumpsuit, and even a lampshade, all in the name of embarrassing his teenage son. Bravo, Sir Dale! Bravo!

I was also amazed that Dale spent less than $50 for the costumes and props. Most were borrowed. He pointed out that it's amazing what your neighbors have in their closets. I'd rather not ask. You can see pictures from each day of the odyssey at waveatthebus.blogspot.com if you need some ideas for possibly creating some red faces in your own family.

Have you seen the Toyota commercial where the cool kid is next to the unfortunate kid at a stoplight? The poor embarrassed boy tells his friend, “They've been singing the same song for the last three hours!” Cut to Mom and Dad loudly indulging in another chorus of “Angel of the Morning” as the boy continues to cringe. That's some fine work, right there.

But let's be realistic: Some kids are embarrassed just by the mere existence of parents. They like to think of themselves as independent agents -- in their 20s with their own place and lifestyle, not as dependent on people who are, well, OLD! And the thought that these parents were once kids too, engaged in stuff that would get them in trouble, well, that is almost too much to bear.

I think I have been relatively unembarrassing for my kids. Now, they may well argue that point. I am who I am, but I have resisted the urge to purposely find ways to cause them to slink down in their seats. Perhaps that means I have fallen down in my parental duties. I would have likely been mortified if my friends had to listen to my Dad sing, “I'm an Old Cowhand (From the Rio Grande)” as we rode along, but he was usually considerate along those lines.

And I have a hunch that Dale's 16-year-old son has come to appreciate his Dad over the past 170 mornings on the bus. Not everyone's parent cares enough to do something, no matter how foolish, for him every school day for a year. And I'm sure the kids on the bus got more than a good chuckle seeing Dale dressed as a pirate or a house painter or a superhero each day. I'm betting the kid got a few chuckles himself as well. So maybe embarrassment isn't such a horrible thing for a teenager. And so perhaps I'll accompany my daughter to her first day of fourth grade next year wearing a hula skirt, singing, “I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts.” Do you think she'll mind?

Celebrating June. All of it.

It's June. Finally. We've lived through five months of this year, turned the corner and turned up the air conditioning. That's right, June. It's the month when summer begins officially (June 20) and unofficially (whenever school lets out). But June is more than just the month when we joyfully finally put those winter coats and hats away half-expecting to have to retrieve them again in a week or so. (This is the midwest, after all!) But there are actual celebrations this month that we certainly should not miss.

According to the never-wrong Internet, June is National Safety Month. Celebrating National Safety Month must surely be boring. I mean, surely we should all be wearing a helmet. No wind blowing through your hair (or in my case, my scalp), put on a helmet and observe all safety instructions. That means check out the warnings on that new hair dryer you just bought so you'll know not to use it while sleeping or while in the shower. If you wish you can try to figure out why someone would think about using a DRYER while they are getting WET. I'll just skip National Safety Month. And I know that's probably a bad idea because June is also Hernia Awareness Month, and maybe if I had been more safety-minded, I wouldn't have that hernia! I'll just wrap myself in bubble wrap. At least that way I'll have something to do since there will always be more bubbles to pop!

June is also National Scleroderma Awareness Month. I'm guessing this is the first time for this celebration or else Headquarters hasn't done much of a job making me aware of scleroderma up to this time. For the record, I looked it up and scleroderma is a chronic connective tissue disease. There. Now we're both somewhat aware.

This month is also National Camping Month and Great Outdoors Month. Now, there's cooperation! Someone was thinking ahead to get them both the same month. Unless of course your idea of camping is using sheets with a thread count of less than 450. Then you're on your own.

Other grand celebrations set for June include National Headache Awareness Week (June 5-11). Personally, when I have a headache, I'm pretty much aware of it. Also National Mosquito Control Awareness Week comes up June 26 - July 1, and if it helps the fight, I'm in! I'm thinking no-pest strips instead of crepe paper streamers. June 21 is Baby Boomers Recognition Day and National Daylight Appreciation Day. Both parties are sure to be long ones since that day is the longest day of the year. Hope the refreshments hold out! The month finishes with National Prevention of Eye Injuries Awareness Week (June 27 - July 4). My nomination for a party activity is to practice the Three Stooges Eye Gouge Block -- you know, place your flattened hand edgewise along your nose so the two-fingered eye poke cannot reach your pupils. That of course ties right in with the National Safety Month Celebration which is already going on. My other suggestion is to somehow use a recording of Ralphie's mother from A Christmas Story saying, "You'll shoot your eye out with that thing!" I'm still working on how to fit that in.

But my two favorite parties this month will be the ones celebrating National Accordion Awareness Month and Goat Trauma Awareness Month. Two two, like all the others I've mentioned, are legitimate observances according to various places on the world wide web. I found out about the accordion month designation by stumbling across the website www.ladyofspain.com, named for the most popular song ever played on the accordion (which is a little bit like being the tallest cockroach). At that site I found this impressive claim: "A blue-ribbon panel of experts recently named the accordion as the instrument most likely to put a smile on your face." Somebody needs to repossess those blue ribbons.

The other observance was found at the website belonging to the Childhood Goat Trauma Foundation. That group is hosting a whirlwind tour of several U.S. cities with special programs dealing with avoiding goat trauma and what to do if you are a victim of goat trauma at someplace like a petting zoo. The website states "Counselors will be on hand to help anyone who has already been a victim." I never considered being a goat trauma counselor for a career choice, but I guess there's a call for them.

It's June. Enjoy yourself, however you choose to celebrate.

A 500-mile common thread

Where has the year gone? It's the end of May already. Perhaps at least a month of 2011 washed away in the rains without me noticing. But now that May has arrived and has almost departed, I can take a little reflection time.

For as long as I can remember, the Indianapolis 500 has been a part of my month of May. Is it mere coincidence that The Greatest Spectacle in Racing is celebrating its 100th anniversary the same year as I celebrate my 50th? Well, yes, probably it is. But I'm going to ignore that fact. You see, I grew up in Indiana, and the Indy 500 was "our race." So when Jim Nabors sings "Back Home Again in Indiana" on the Sunday before Memorial Day, it's kind of like a family reunion.

One of my earliest childhood memories is rooting for Parnelli Jones to win the 1967 race. I was thrilled because I heard my driver was ahead so much of the race. My parents had to explain that Parnelli had car problems in the last five laps and did not win. My next favorite driver, Al Unser, took up the slack for me, winning in both 1970 and 1971. How did I get these drivers as my favorites? I'm not sure. I'm thinking I probably just liked the name Parnelli, and since I had a cousin named Al, that was probably the determining factor. Childhood decisions don't require a lengthy thought process.

The race in 1973 was a mess. I remember listening to the race when it finally was run on Tuesday after two rainy days. Art Pollard was killed earlier in the month in a crash, then at the start of the race on Sunday, a huge fiery crash almost killed driver Salt Walther. The images of his legs sticking out of the bare remnants of what had been a race car are still burned in my mind.

The next year, my parents took me to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway for the first time. The cars, the colors, the crowd, the pageantry -- and this was just for qualifications! I saw many things I had never seen before, and in the stands I saw things I probably shouldn't have seen. But life goes on. I made the trip to the brickyard whenever I could after that, even getting free reign to the media center as a college student since one of my professors was a long-time announcer for the race network.

Twenty-five years after I first visited the speedway, I took my own boys to the track for the first time. After sitting around watching the track dry for close to three hours, my elementary-aged sons finally got their first taste of real racing. We were sitting near the pits when the first two cars went out to warm up. The boys had seemed fairly disinterested up to that point. About 45 seconds after the cars had pulled out, I got their attention, pointed to the north, and said, "Boys, watch this." Five seconds later the two cars came screaming by at around 210 mph making a terrific noise and almost blurring my vision as I tried to watch. I looked at my boys to see them jumping up and down, cheering and screaming in utter excitement. I understood exactly how they felt as I smiled.

I think most people have something that warms the heart, reminding them that there is a common thread in our lives from childhood to adulthood, from innocence to cynicism. It could be a love of baseball or the familiarity of an old building or an often-played song. Family traditions and favorite places keep a sense of home in our lives. For me, it's a 2.5 mile oval track in Speedway, Indiana and a race that brings me "back home again" no matter where I am. Our family won't be attending this year, but you can bet we'll be sharing the race experience. And the common thread of my life will continue to run much farther than 500 miles, all the way to the next generation. I hope each of you have a thread to share that leads you back home again.

Wind opinion up in the air

One of the things about having my job is that I tend to have a lot of information about almost every local subject either in my head or scattered somewhere on my desk. I have to learn new things, then translate the information and retell the story. In the past couple of years, I have had a crash course in wind energy and wind turbines. My editor and I joke that we've had to learn more about wind energy than most people in the state, and that's probably not far from the truth.

But being in the news media, everything I write is to be done without bias. Sometimes that is tough to do. After all, I have opinions just like everyone else. Lock 12 Van Wert County residents in a room and ask them a question, and you're sure to come out with no less than 15-20 different opinions. That's the way we're wired. But with wind energy, being impartial is easy for me because I'm really still up in the air on the whole thing.

I hear objections to having a couple hundred wind turbines in the county from time to time. Actually, they aren't as frequent as they used to be. But I've heard some of the typical complaints which sound more like the usual “Not In My Back Yard” (NIMBY) arguments. “They might catch on fire!” Or “Birds will get killed by spinning blades” or “They'll be noisy or cause shadows” or whatever convenient excuses come to mind. While I can sympathize to some extent, I really don't pay much attention to NIMBY objections. Since I bought my house in the 90s, I now have a couple of large hog farms, a dairy farm, and electrical plant, and who knows what else -- all within a couple of miles. I know about NIMBY. We just have to deal with that.

I also hear real objections, like whether or not wind energy is going to be a real answer for the electrical needs of the country. Since wind energy can't be stored, a wind farm can't take the place of a coal-burning power plant. So it's not a final answer. I'm not sure it's money well-spent by the government, but at least we're seeing the results around here. Usually I have to drive to a far-off state to see what bridge or useless museum my tax money has purchased.

But you know, the objection I hear the most is that some people think they are ugly. I don't get that. Apparently other people don't either since there seem to be plenty of cars pulled to the side of Paulding County roads with eyes glued to the tall white towers. I've taken the drive numerous times with my kids, counting the number of completed turbines and looking at the sites where one or two vertical pieces are in place -- stumps, I call them. The blades reach high in the sky above us as we drive along, looking like overgrown white mosquitoes at times, or as my wife observed, like a fighter jet flying sideways when viewed from one angle. I could sit and watch them for hours, much in the same way I could stare at a campfire. It just sucks you in. Ugly is just not a word that comes to mind when I see them.

“Well, that's because you don't have to look at them all day, idiot!” (I'm sure someone just said that as they read... hope they don't mind me cleaning up their language!) Actually I don't have to look at them, but I can. Even though the turbines completed thus far are all in Paulding County, I can see about a half-dozen from my backyard. At night, the red lights atop the nacelle (the part the blades appear to be attached) shine brightly, blinking in unison at me. Even though the closest turbine is more than five miles away, they are still part of my landscape... part of my backyard.

Will these turbines and the ones still to be erected in Van Wert County always be pleasing to my eyes? Hard to say. There could come a time when they become as outdated as the farmhouse windmills that are just now starting to vanish from the countryside. But for now, they are bringing in a much-needed economic boost. And for that we should be thankful.

Deciphering the dress code

Today, it's a polo shirt and a pair of khaki pants. Yesterday I dressed up a bit more with dress slacks and a button-up shirt. The day before that, I wore jeans. Consistency is not a hallmark of my wardrobe. But let's face it, you have to be prepared for anything. This is especially true for me, where my week often includes attending a banquet and taking pictures of farm animals.

Dress codes have always mystified me. Granted, I don't keep a wide variety of clothing in my makeshift closet, but I don't think I could fit in everywhere. There's something called “smart casual” (as opposed to “dumb casual, I suppose) which includes a blazer or sports jacket. Now to me, a blazer suggests perhaps becoming a TV anchorman, but not really casual. And “informal” includes “business attire” which requires a business suit and a tie. Maybe my rural midwestern upbringing has messed me up, but how does anything involving the wearing of a suit and tie fit into “informal” wear?

I started thinking about all this when I ran across a story about a Swiss bank and its dress code. The bank is UBS and the dress code is 44 pages long. OK, not exactly. Until January it was 44 pages long. Then the bank officials got tired of being made fun of by people all across the world, so they decided to whittle it down to a small booklet. It seemed that the bank wanted to control how all of their employees looked and smelled right down to the color of their underwear (skin-tone). And having run my own business, I do understand that looking “professional” means something very different to certain employees. But these folks were getting pickier than the father of a teenage girl.

How we dress has certainly changed over the years. When I was a child, few men would even think about attending church without a necktie. (That could be why fewer men attended services.) Women wouldn't dream of wearing slacks to sit in the pews. We were taught to dress out of respect to God. Of course for many, they dressed to attract attention with their new clothes, but you get the idea. Now many churches stress the condition of the heart rather than the condition of the wardrobe.

In business, the dress code depends on the type of outlet. In factories, safety equipment is the main concern, but elsewhere these codes dictate how people dress. I worked in radio for ten years back in the 1980s. Now you would think if there was one business where it wouldn't matter what you wear it would be radio, right? PEOPLE CAN'T SEE YOU. However, there was usually a business office attached to the studio complex at radio stations, so management always wanted these young disc jockeys to look “professional” if they were on the job during any business hours. Which meant that if I worked from 4 p.m. until midnight, I would have to dress appropriately because someone might see me during that one hour that my schedule overlapped with the business folks.

At some point my laundry didn't get finished, and I faced having to go to work with no clean dress pants. Rather than wearing dirty pants, I slipped on a pair of jeans with my dress shirt and put on a tie. I was a little nervous going into work in jeans, but I soon found that no one noticed my jeans because everyone was impressed I had worn a tie. I got more compliments on my attire that day than in the previous six months combined. So when I was in management, I passed this little trick onto other young men with a limited number of dress pants. No one ever noticed the jeans. It worked every time.

So perhaps the secret to proper dress is not skin-tone underwear, but delivering a good focus -- a tie, a beautiful hat, or whatever is kicking around in your closet. Make sure it's tasteful to more than just people your own age, then strut your stuff with pride. Just be careful around the farm animals.

Tornado Watch-ing

For a second straight week, Van Wert County survived a tornado warning this week. Sirens blared, half-dressed people ran instinctively to shelter, and all over the region there were people nibbling on fingernails or in all-out panic mode. Tornadoes scare people. I get that, especially in Van Wert County. That November day in 2002 was one of the few days I had my entire family in the basement. I even joined them there for a minute after I saw the high winds suddenly switch the direction they were pushing the trees. But for the most part, if there's a tornado watch, I go out and try to watch.

I've been caught out in many storms, but I've never actually seen a tornado. My wife would love to be a storm chaser and watch these giant funnels. Ironically the day a tornado hit our neighbor's house, our whole family was away. We saw nothing but the aftermath. The one time we had a reserved ringside seat, and we were ten miles away. Figures.

I do have a healthy respect for tornadoes. I know people who were directly involved in the F-4 that rumbled through here almost a decade ago, and suffered great loss. I watched news accounts on the Internet and on television of places like Tuscaloosa, Alabama and Ringgold, Georgia, which were blasted by twisters on Wednesday. For years I've heard the stories of chickens having their feathers stripped away, stalks of corn being driven through tree trunks, and personal items being carried hundreds of miles by the tornadic winds. The destructive power boggles the mind.

When I was a child growing up in Indiana, I had a few brushes with tornadoes, or at least the effects of tornadoes -- both physical and emotional. One storm tore through a town of a couple hundred people, ripping the roof off the gymnasium of the old school building. I still remember riding in the car past the permanently retracted roof, and further down the path of the tornado, staring at trees that were freshly bent at a 45 degree angle. Those trees continued to lean for years afterward.

I also remember the panic that overtook my aunt when I was very small. The story was always that a tornado headed at you sounded like a freight train. We were discussing that during a particularly bad storm back in the 60s. We had gathered at my grandmother's house because she had a basement and we did not. My aunt was particularly nervous that night, having heard that tornadoes sound like freight trains and hearing the mighty winds blowing outside. Suddenly, she heard that sound that made her scream, certain that destruction was seconds away. What was the sound? A freight train sound? Sort of. It was a train whistle. I remember she almost had to be pulled off the ceiling and reminded that tornadoes don't have train whistles!

People today will, at times, become unnecessarily panicked over the threat of a tornado. Some of that panic can be avoided with a little education. A little study of twisters can tell you what sorts of things to expect when a storm threatens. You should know that a tornado watch just means that the conditions could allow tornadoes to form and a warning means there is a rotating storm somewhere. Information during a storm also can reassure a person when it isn't necessary to grab Toto and run to the storm cellar with Auntie Em. With the Internet, weather radios, and even television, it is possible to find out most everything that is happening as it happens.

But perhaps the greatest education one needs is basic geography. I'm continually amused by people who cannot seem to grasp that a storm traveling east from, say, Willshire, is not endangering Grover Hill or Scott. Now I could chalk it up to people not being able to read a map or knowing which direction is east, or it could be that storm panic has set in and no amount of information can penetrate the brain until a meteorologist shows up at the front door giving the All Clear signal.

So my tornado season advice is simple: (1) Respect storms, but don't let your mind glaze over in panic, (2) Gather information from as many reliable sources as possible, (3) Learn the basic geography of places in the region, especially to the south and west, and (4) If you hear a train whistle, it's just a train.

The Thrill Is Gone

Blues singer B.B. King sang, “The Thrill Is Gone” about a relationship that took a nose dive. In the song, B.B.'s lady apparently did something wrong, and now the relationship wasn't the same as it used to be. While I can't be as brief as Mr. King with this one, I think the thrill wears off far too quickly in many things, and I'm not even talking about relationships.

It was 50 years ago yesterday that Americans first entered space. Alan Shepard climbed inside his Mercury-Redstone rocket dubbed Freedom 7 and took a 15-minute sub-orbital flight that made people in this country take notice of space flight. That is, if they hadn't noticed Yuri Gagarin become the first person in space just three weeks earlier. But in 1961 and for that entire decade, people were aware of space flight. Sometimes they were skeptical. Sometimes they were proud. But when there was a scheduled liftoff, people paid attention.

The drama continued through the Apollo missions, then the launch of the first space shuttle in 1981. Then after a while the shuttle launches became routine. We didn't gather to watch as before. On a January day in 1986, a radio announcer complained that he had to stop his show so the station could carry yet another broadcast of a space shuttle liftoff. After all, no one really listened to those anymore. He changed his tune about 73 seconds after liftoff when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded, killing seven astronauts and stunning this nation and the world.

But after a couple more successful missions the disinterest was back. The thrill was gone. Even the 2003 Columbia disaster didn't keep interest in the shuttle missions. Let's face it, if we weren't down to the last two shuttle missions, the apathy over a space shuttle launch would be deafening. Even the thrill of sending human beings into space can't keep us riveted anymore. And for as long as it has been, we can't truly describe what it was like when the entire country would put life on pause while the countdown marched toward liftoff. The newness, even for those of us who remember, has worn off.

I was thinking about all this while driving around, flipping through the stations on my radio. When I stumbled across an old Beatles song, I realized that a majority of people today don't have a true appreciation for the uniqueness of the music of that Liverpool quartet. The sound was new and different -- unlike tunes that had been revolving on turntables up until that time. Today, introducing someone to the early sound of the Beatles is not that impressive because all kinds of music sounds like that now. Someone growing up in this century cannot truly appreciate what a shock it was when the opening guitar riff of The Kinks' “You Really Got Me” hit the radio or the psychedelic guitar of Jimi Hendrix's “Purple Haze” or the folk-rock guitar and nasal vocals of Bob Dylan's “Like a Rolling Stone.” It's not necessarily that the thrill is gone. Some of us still remember that thrill and realize how groundbreaking these records were. It's just that the thrill can't be brought back.

One of my favorite firsts was the first time my son laughed at something he saw. He was a fairly quiet baby, not speaking until after his first birthday. But one night as I held him on the couch with the television on, I heard him start to laugh. Not just a giggle to himself, but he was laughing at the show on TV. I turned to see what had tickled my baby's funny bone and smiled. He was watching an old Three Stooges film. I couldn't have been prouder. My son had good taste in comedy.

It's a shame that various thrills can't be bottled or framed or pickled or whatever else preserves something. First date, first job, first baby, first kiss, (you can continue that line of thinking on your own time) -- they all have their own unique place in our hearts and memories. But the feeling can't really be shared or recaptured. So I believe that we should truly enjoy those firsts that come our way. That even goes for the firsts we might rather never experience. Each new day is a gift and an experience. And maybe, just maybe, each new day will bring an ever-so-brief thrill that will help you remember all the thrills that have gone before.

History in the buff

I've always been a history buff. I've always been that way, preferring to spend time reading and studying the past over dealing with more contemporary subjects. In college, I took nearly as many history classes as I did classes in my declared minor. Frankly, history fascinated me more than marketing. But even I knew that high-paying jobs in history are mighty scarce. (Little did I realize that I naturally have an aversion to jobs that pay highly anyway!) So I took a different route, but still kept an eye on the past and what I could learn.

My eyes have especially been drawn to history over the past two weeks, as the nation remembered the 150th anniversary of the start of the Civil War. The bombing of Fort Sumter in South Carolina was really kind of pathetic as far as battles go. The fort, located on a man-made island in the middle of the entrance to Charleston Harbor, was commanded by U.S. Major Robert Anderson, who tried his best to hold the island from Confederate forces demanding the evacuation of the garrison. The Union men were outgunned and outmanned and were severely low on supplies.

The firing by the rebels began at 4:30 a.m. on April 12, 1861. After 34 hours, Anderson agreed to surrender. The number of casualties? Zero. Nine were wounded, four of those on the Confederate side. The bloodiest part of the battle was the surrender ceremonies when a gun exploded killing two Union soldiers. The first casualties of the American Civil War came not as the result of a battle, but a ceremony.

The characters always seem larger-than-life in history. That's probably because the same-size-as-life characters didn't make the history books while the volumes are full of George Washingtons and Teddy Roosevelts and Platos and Napoleons. And since history is written by the winners, we can probably assume that for every favorable story there is likely another tale told from the opposite camp. But that's what makes history fun.

I know a man in town who will have nothing to do with the Internet or computers, claiming proudly that he lives in the past. I've told him on more than one occasion that there is more history on the Internet than he will ever dig up in person. For instance, I found a site called simply, historybuff.com where copies of historic newspapers are viewable for free. The idea is that you can see how newspapers reported the famous events of history. I pulled up a copy of the New York Herald from April 13, 1861 to read the account of the bombing of Fort Sumter. Included are a map of the Charleston area, descriptions of the fort (”a modern truncated pentagonal fort, built upon an artificial island at the mouth of Charleston Harbor, three and three-eights miles from the city of Charleston”), and copies of letters sent between Maj. Anderson of the Union and Gen. P.G.T. Beauregard of the Confederates. Fascinating stuff.

There are advantages to being a history lover nowadays. Research is fast and easy with the Internet. Books on various subjects from the past are published seemingly every day. (There may be more books written on Lincoln's assassination than Stephen King has sold in his lifetime.) And there is a group of television channels supposedly dedicated to history. I say 'supposedly' because it seems the programmers define 'history' rather broadly. The Thursday night lineup on the History Channel consisted of a show where men hunt for alligators in a swamp, a program about a taxidermy shop in Alaska, and a reality show where contestants compete to determine the best shot using various firearms and weapons. I'm sure they're all wonderful shows, but that's not history.

The writer George Santayana is credited with penning the words, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” If he's right and my memory holds up, I should be set for the rest of my life.

The April 15th holiday

It's April 15. Why am I not running around like an idiot trying to make sure my taxes are all figured, packaged, and stuffed into a postal worker's sack? Is it because I got around at the beginning of February and got the nonsense out of the way early? Sadly, no. Mostly it's because we procrastinating American taxpayers were blessed with an extra weekend to mop things up. This year (and this year only), taxes only need to be postmarked by Monday, April 18. We should probably celebrate, as that's the most mercy I've seen ever from the Internal Revenue Service.

I had to look up the reason for the delay, as nothing much seemed like a good excuse to push back the day when the I.R.S. agents all begin to salivate. It turns out that the District of Columbia is celebrating Emancipation Day today. The holiday commemorates the end of slavery and is usually observed on April 16. However as we all know, you can never correctly celebrate a holiday on a Saturday. So it's been moved to Friday, and we all get an extra weekend of trying to find more deductions. I'm assuming that the residents of D.C. are today proudly remembering the emancipation of slaves in some solemn way. I'm sure it's as classy as the way we remember the former chief executives of the country -- with a President's Day mattress sale.

Actually, I'm not in a panic because the taxes are done, thanks to a professional. I gave up long ago trying to do them for fear that I wasn't properly completing Schedule 666 or whatever needs to accompany all my W-2s, 1099s, 1040s, and Form E-I-E-I-Os that I have to stuff into those envelopes. It's just way too complicated unless you file the form with the EZ at the end of it. I think everyone seems to like it that way, and by everybody, I mean the I.R.S. and every accountant and tax service in the nation. The rest of us could stand a break from the complicated machinations of the tax code.

There are movements to replace the current system with a flat tax of say, 17 percent of all income. No deductions or exemptions. No complicated tax forms. Just three or four lines and a place for a signature. That sounds like a good idea on the surface. I'm sure there are catches I haven't thought of yet. What we sometimes forget is the tax code has become complicated because we as a nation have looked to reward certain behavior. Want to encourage charitable giving? Offer a tax deduction! Want everyone to learn the tango? Give a deduction for tango lessons. You get the idea.

Think of what a huge change that would be, though. Dismantling the current tax system would be almost like making gravity optional. Or even like celebrating holidays on Saturday -- we're talking massive change! I'm all for change, but I do want some kind of plan as to what the change is going to be. Change for change's sake is usually a stupid idea. Just when we start thinking things can't get any worse, we realize we were wrong and that we have no business trying to do the job of a psychic.

The government isn't good at change though, unless you count raising taxes. Cutting things isn't a strong point for those chaps. They can't stand to make people mad. (Something about wanting votes or some such nonsense.) Truthfully, most people are in favor of government cuts as long as the cuts have nothing to do with them. “Don't touch my pension!” or “Don't cut funds for my subsidy!” or “Don't you dare cut funding for my precious snail darters!” Some day we'll have to get over that or else we'll all have to learn the hard way. We're already $14 trillion in the hole. That's something that could stand changing.

And so, those of you who can't change the habit of waiting until the last minute to plaster a stamp on the envelope and sending Uncle Sam more money to play with, take a deep confident breath, knowing you have a couple of extra days. Happy Emancipation Day.

Candy-coated memories

In just over two weeks, we will be celebrating Easter Sunday, or Resurrection Sunday as some call it. During these last few days before the holiday, I seem to notice, more than other times, all the candy. It's in stores, at gas stations, in vending machines... it's everywhere. The holiday just makes it more prevalent with the chocolate rabbits and jellybeans and marshmallow critters, and candy eggs of all types. And this year my wife decided to give up sweets for Lent, so we haven't seen many of the goodies sitting around the house in bright anticipation of a colored basket filled with plastic grass.

I like candy. Always have. One look at my waist size should tell you that. But candy has changed over the years. Sure, the price has changed. I remember the ten-cent candy bars suddenly costing 15 cents. Now, I really don't know if there is a standard price. I haven't spotted a 50-cent bar in a few years, that I know.

But beyond that, it seems like we've lost a lot of the old candy and it's been replaced by, well, not a whole lot. However, candy makers seem to cling to their franchise names. Let's take the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Everyone is at least familiar with the standard two-per-pack round beauties with chocolate outside and peanut butter inside. At last count these gems were also made in miniature cups, in oversized cups, with dark chocolate, with white chocolate, a version with more peanut butter, a version with more chocolate, a version with the peanut butter on the outside and chocolate inside, a cup with caramel added, a cup with marshmallow added, a cup with honey roasted peanut butter, a cup with hazelnut cream, a thicker, darker chocolate cup, and the double crunch cup with a peanut and nougat filling. That doesn't count the special crunchy cookie cup which was a layered cup with crushed cookies and peanut butter that hasn't been made in a decade, or the Elvis-inspired peanut butter and banana creme from a few years ago. Oh, and the peanut butter and banana version was available in standard, miniature, and big cup size. Of course the big cups are also available with white chocolate, with peanuts, mixed nuts, and with a nut and caramel combination. And now, they've introduced the Minis, which are smaller than miniatures and unwrapped (which is good for folks like me who hate wasting time wrapping those little suckers).

Then, you have the other candy bars that the Reese's name has gone on. Certainly you've seen the Fast Break Bar or the Peanut Butter Squares or the Nutrageous or another dozen or so that have hit the shelves. And that doesn't even count the peanut butter eggs or rabbits at this time of year!

So instead of inventing a new candy bar, a familiar name goes on the wrapper every time they stuff something new into an M & M. And in the meantime, some candy bars go missing. As a middle schooler, I remember selling candy bars at a school concession stand. The big favorite among the kids was a Marathon bar. As I recall (I was not a fan of these), it was a thin, stretched-out bar which I believe was chocolate covering some sort of shoe leather. The kids who liked it claimed it was caramel. All I know is, we sold a ton of those at a quarter a pop. And now, the Marathon bar isn't even being sold by nostalgic candy makers who specialize in old candy bars.

And why is it that many of the flavors you get in those Valentine's Day boxes of chocolates don't come in bars? Ever have a candy bar with that orange cream inside? Me either. Even the vanilla creams and maple creams are hard to find. The closest I can get is a Bun candy bar with the maple cream and peanuts. Those used to be made in Fort Wayne, but now the brand belongs to another candy company. It's also about half the size it used to be. Or I'm twice as hungry. I can't be sure.

Once, the bunny drops his bundle of chocolatey goodness on the 24th, I'll see if this year's crop of candy is as good as it used to be. And if by chance my basket contains a Chunky or a Bounty or a Sugar Daddy, I'll let you know.

Wrecked trains and opera

Believe me, I ain't highbrow. I am truly closer to Dr. Pepper and Velveeta than I am to wine and cheese. So news from the world of opera regularly escapes my notice. But imagine my surprise when I read the review of the newest opera to grace the stage in merry old England. The subject matter was not new -- a rags-to-riches tale that ends in tragedy. The main character was definitely new in opera circles. Anna Nicole Smith.

You remember her, right? The rather, um, buxom woman who married millionaire J. Howard Marshall who was a mere 62 years older that Smith. Besides her physical attributes and the marriage to the 89-year-old Marshall, Smith is best remembered from her reality show where she usually appeared mentally altered by some unknown substance or substances. The suspicions about her drug use were more or less confirmed when Smith died of a drug overdose in 1999.

Anyway, some opera writer who is always in the market for a little controversy (and a little publicity) has Anna Nicole - the Opera running in London, and the initial reviews were actually mostly good. After all, operas don't have happy endings, do they? (I'm really asking. I don't have season tickets to the Met.) So a tragic star with a tragic end makes for a good story, opera-wise. Of course, when the subject of your opera is a former Playboy Playmate of the Year (so I'm told), then the presentation itself may just steam up a pair of opera glasses. But controversy sells tickets, and opera's creator seems to be a man who enjoys money.

And what a surprise to me that this guy is not only capitalizing on the trainwreck that was Anna Nicole Smith, but he also was a co-creator of an opera in the early 1990s about former Cincinnati mayor and talk show host, Jerry Springer! No word on whether or not members of the upper crust in the theater began chanting, "Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry!' during the libretto.

With this trend already setting the opera world on it's collective ear, I think the high class crowd may be ready for my idea -- Charlie Sheen - the Opera. Picture the 'Two and a Half Men' co-star setting his views on curing oneself from alcoholism and his need to stop pretending he isn't a total rock star all to music. Not just any music, my friends. Opera. Imagine the operatic version of Sheen and his two female co-leads running amok through scene after scene of parties, strippers and car chases. (I'm not exactly sure how to stage the chase scenes just yet.) Imagine the delight of the audience as the many rants that have been a part of nearly every television interview show over the past two weeks are turned to melodic interpretations of classical themes. (Either that or have him sing 'Smoke on the Water.' Be patient with me. I'm still developing this idea.)

But as the creator of an opera about Charlie Sheen, the problem comes at the end. How does the story end? Where am I going to find a fat lady in Sheen's life to do some singing? And does the trainwreck that is Charlie Sheen end in total disaster or in redemption? I guess I'll have to keep my television on and find out.

Any questions?

In the mid-1960s, a 24-year-old leader of the Free Speech Movement named Jack Weinberg uttered the famous phrase, "Don't trust anyone over 30!" The quote became a theme for the decade among those young adults who suspected that the powers-that-be were manipulating things in order to keep their power. Weinberg later admitted that he didn't really believe that sentiment, but that he was trying to get rid of a reporter who was asking him questions. The point for many of his generation -- the hippies, mostly -- was to avoid blind acceptance of whatever was being taught. "Question authority," is attributed to Weinberg's fellow radical Timothy Leary, but the lesson was the same -- don't just accept what people tell you, even if those people are important.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've seen plenty of images that have disturbed me. The protests in far-off places like Egypt, Libya, and even Wisconsin have displayed some of the worst human behavior. Mob rule isn't pretty, no matter how you slice it. And when people get in an unruly group, well let's just say they don't usually end up on their best behavior. Mostly, they simply accept what has been told to them and behave like those around them.

I watched a video of a woman yelling at someone she perceives to be a Tea Party member, calling him -- get this -- uneducated and "emoral." Now I'm hardly uneducated. I have a Master's for crying out loud, but I've never heard of the word "emoral" nor would I think about calling someone that when I don't know them at all. I've seen video of journalists who were attacked because they are Americans and America is the reason the world isn't perfect. I've listened to people complain that all union members are thugs. Now none of these people would fit into the 'genius' category, obviously. But could they really be that stupid? My theory: They merely accept what they hear.

If I were some kind of tyrant or an organization leader or anyone with a shred of power, I'll admit it would be tempting to require blind allegiance from my followers. That way I wouldn't have to put up with those who don't trust me because I'm over 30 or those who want to question me because I have authority. It's easy when no one challenges you.

But as a follower, shouldn't I at least be keeping an eye on those who are supposedly in charge of me? I realize that is probably tough at most jobs or at school, but whatever happened to checking to see if what someone says is actually true? Those of us who spend a great deal of time on the Internet realize that some sources simply cannot be trusted. And, when it comes down to it, even those we claim to trust may not be all that trustworthy. Yet I've been given false information by people who didn't bother to verify what they heard (or often misheard). If a speaker on the radio declares something as fact, why shouldn't I question him? If some television preacher states that something is true, why should I believe him without verifying what he says? If my doctor diagnoses me with something serious, shouldn't I seek out a second opinion?

The sad fact is that no one bothers to verify or even question assertions because it takes actual work to do so. Too many of us are too lazy or too busy to seek out the real truth. It's easier to accept what the television talking head or the preacher or the union leader or the lady down the street says. So the mistruths and outright lies flourish right beside real truth. We'll trust anyone whether they are over 30 or not. And the result is too often name-calling, violence, hatred, and foolishness. If this trend continues, and people continue to accept and act upon whatever somebody told them to be true, I fear for this country. I guess that makes me an old hippie.