Gifts Only One Part Of The Christmas Spirit

"Jesus is the reason for the season." This message has been seen plastered on pins and building banners with growing regularity as Christmas approaches.

It is a reminder that, for Christians, the holiday season is supposed to commemorate the birth of Christ, rather than be an all-out shopping spree.

What's sad is that the message needs to be placed so prominently. Sadder yet, no one seems to pay attention. The commercialization factor keeps eroding at the foundation.

Christmas is supposed to be the second-most religious holiday in the Christian faith. Only Easter ranks above it. However, the ratio of religious significance to religious observation is not equal.

It seems that, here in the United States, Easter retains a greater share of its sense of religious significance, while Christmas continue to deteriorate into a frenzy of commercialized pomp and little circumstance.

Yes, despite the bunny, Easter is still synonymous with the religious experience. Peter Cottontail offers Santa Claus no competition in the commercialization category. With growing regularity, Christmas appears to be nothing more than a superficial opportunity to hit the stores.

Opening wrapped packages. Is this what the holiday season is all about?

Yes.

And it bothers me.

I'm not the first, and I won't be the last, to take a skeptical look at the holiday season. This is not the first time I have felt this way about the setting of Christmas.

Not that it's any different for Halloween, George Washington's Birthday or the Fourth of July.

But Christmas is THE BIG ONE. Nothing is sacred.

This shouldn't matter to me. Because of my own personal religious beliefs, I don't celebrate Christmas. To me, Christmas Day is nothing more than a paid day off, a chance to sleep in and maybe clean up the homestead.

So how can I be affected so adversely by a celebration which, in theory, I should not care about?

Two reasons. The first is that many people across Ogemaw County and Michigan are struggling to make ends meet. Welfare has been cut off. Jobs are scarce. Money is tight.

Yet, there seems to be this obligation, this unseen law, that tells us we have to buy hundreds of dollars of dolls and toys just because it's Christmas.

Why?

Human survival, not buying a toy because "everyone else" is doing it, should be Priority No. 1. If you can't afford the rent, how on earth can you justify shelling out money for Nintendo?

The second reason is the commercial syndrome.

If the advertising was any indication as to what Santa does the other 11 months of the year, it's obvious he's been making commercials and posing for ad campaigns. How else do you explain him riding around in an electric razor? Or checking out the latest in home electronics?

Next thing you know, the Swedish Bikini Team will be riding in St. Nick's sleigh. Ho, ho, ho.

If there's anything good that comes out of these advertising blitzes, it's the creativity of the people who make the sales campaigns. The ads can be funny, they can be fun to watch.

And this, like buying things - whether for ourselves or for others - helps us cope with life, helps us put problems in the back of our minds - if only for the moment.

We like to forget our dilemmas, not just during the holiday season. We would give anything to forget that drunken drivers kill innocent people. That an alleged rape victim in Palm Beach might have been wronged by the system, by the prosecuting attorney. That "average" baseball players are getting $5 million contracts while other individuals starve.

It would be nice if this Christmas day these things did not exist, did not affect us.

But we must put this in perspective. The problems won't go away just because a tree is lit and colorful lights are placed along house frames. To put Barbie dolls, Ninja Turtle weapons and compact discs above religious spirit and human survival is ludicrous and disgusting.

Don't misinterpret this commentary. I appreciate receiving gifts as much as the next person. It is only human nature. And there is nothing in the world like seeing a wide-eyed child thrilled at the site of her new dollhouse, or his new baseball mitt.

But these gifts should be frosting on the cake, not the main ingredients.

I hope Ogemaw residents have a truly happy, safe holiday. Just keep it in perspective. What you might want is fine; what you need is of the essence. If you don't have your needs in place, the "wants" will not matter.

No amount of advertising can change that.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Florida: Fantasyland, No Matter The Type

The flamingo pink neon stood out against the sunset and a backdrop of palm trees along Interstate 75.

vacation had taken me to Florida - the land of spring breaks, surf and tan lines. And, as I quickly discovered, of billboard wars.

Now, the Battle of the Boards was not in and of itself a surprise. The Sunshine State is a battleground for the travel dollar.

But in this case, it was like watching a boxing match unfold. Two businesses - at face value, quite different - fought sign for sign, blink for blink.

You could almost hear the announcer, standing in the center of the ring, a 10-foot stogie sticking out of the corner of his mouth, a heavy Boston accent filtering through his words.

"In this corner, wearing the red trunks, the defending Florida tourist champion, from Orlando, Walt Disney World!"

The crowd goes wild. Kids scream. "Daddy, daddy! I wanna go to Disney World! I wanna see Mickey! I wanna do Space Mountain! I wanna ..."

The announcer continues.

"And in this corner, champion of the male hormone drive, wearing a lot less than the other fighter, from Gainesville, The Cafe Risque!"

The men go wild. They shout such ingenious and creative phrases as, "TAKE IT ALL OFF!"

Let the match begin.

Everywhere on the southbound interstate, these two giants beg and plead for attention. Well, this might not be accurate. It's more like, they flex their muscles and command attention.

Mickey's crew does it more subtly than the Cafe. Large eyes stare at you from the bottom of the billboard, the Mouse King's oversize black ears standing out against a sea of yellow. They are, indeed, the 1990s rendition of "Kilroy Was Here" signs.

Dizzy World is more subtle because, let's face it: the Magic Kingdom has been around a long time. It has the groundwork already laid out. We grew up with Mickey and Pluto, Annette and Cubby, Herbie the Love Bug and 101 Dalmatians.

Because of this track record of pandering to the child at heart, Uncle Walter's dynasty creates fantasies.

Dizzy World is acre upon acre of fantasy, grabbing the soul of our youth and taking us away from the everyday pain and pressure we face.

While Mickey caters to the youth movement, the Cafe gratifies the older generations. In particular, the male portion.

It is the Cafe's larger-than-life advertisements which grab your attention like a comet streaking across the sky. The classic cheesecake blonde, barely dressed, framed by hot pink and lime-green neon, with huge letters screaming, "WE DARE TO BARE ... ALL!"

And not just once or twice. No way. The Cafe has billboards up every half-mile, or so it seems. All heavy on the cleavage. All with the same underlying message.

Located near the University of Florida, located about two hours north of Tampa, the Cafe is open 24 hours and offers a complete menu. You can read whatever you want into that.

The more "righteous" might find it ironic and immoral that these two businesses can be compared so callously. Ironically, both are mentioned in the most recent edition of Playboy - Disney World for being so conservative, it air-brushed cleavage out of a promotional ad; the Cafe, for being ... well, the way it is.

But the truth is, both Mickey and Blondie ultimately use the same tools to sell their wares - fantasies. Even if Annette did her dancing fully clothed.

In this billboard war, both sides are winner.

This article originally appeared in The Ogemaw County Herald.

Not A Magical End To Johnson's NBA Career

Everywhere you turned, people were shaking their heads in disbelief. "Can you believe it?" "Oh, my God ..." "Man, if it can happen to him ..."

The focal point of this amazement was the sight of America's Biggest Smile, in the form of Earvin Johnson Jr., sitting behind a microphone telling the world he will no longer be using his gifted talent to make magic on the hardwood of the National Basketball Association.

Just the thought of the Magic Man retiring was shock enough. But the reason for his departure was even more moving: Johnson has contracted the HIV virus, usually the first stop along the path to what is perhaps the most feared and misunderstood disease of the 80s and 90s: AIDS.

I am trying to comprehend this. I am not doing a very good job. My friend, a disc jockey in Ohio, called me when he first heard about it. We did a live telephone interview shortly after the press conference.

I'm not sure I was the best choice for an interview. Then, like now, I was mystified and depressed about the news. When I was first told the news - about 45 minutes before Johnson met the media - I thought someone was pulling my leg.

Shock.

He's only 32. I'm only 27. This disease, this curse, can lie dormant for 10 years or more before it's discovered.

No one is safe.

Johnson is not the first athlete who's personal struggle against a deadly disease has been well-published. Was it so long ago that San Francisco pitcher Dave Dravecky had to retire after cancer surgery and an eventual amputation of his pitching arm?

Or that J.R. Richard, the flame-throwing Houston Astros pitcher, had to call it a career after a blood clot led to a stroke?

Even former Kansas City Royals manager Dick Howser was stricken while involved with his team, the victim of a brain tumor.

But these cases, while difficult to cope with, are considered in some sick fashion a part of life.

AIDS?

Not even close. The disease, most closely associated with homosexuals and intravenous drug abusers, has been the topic of jokes and innuendo for 10 years. Despite the outcries calling for more information, more research, the closet ridicule remained.

Until November 7, when Johnson explained to a thousand popping light bulbs and millions of television viewers why he was abdicating the throne of his beloved kingdom.

Because Johnson is a celebrity, an athletic Goliath at the top of his game, the spotlight in the nation's media is shining brightly. And Johnson, the former Lansing Everett High School and Michigan State star, has assumed full responsibility for educating the world. "I will become a spokesman for the disease. Sometimes you're a little naive about things. You always think it will never happen to you. "But it has happened to me. Magic Johnson. That's what I'm going to preach from now on."

For years, Johnson has stood among the greatest ambassadors the NBA had to offer. Not just because he's a winner (Michigan's Class A title in 1975-76, State's NCAA championship in 1979, five NBA crowns), either. But because he is likable, caring, honest, a true sportsman.

A symbol. A real role model in this skeptical world, where pseudo-role models are a dime a dozen.

Many people - including myself - probably would have hidden from the world if we quantum leaped into Johnson's body. AIDS? HIV? An embarrassment. A stigma.

But Johnson rose above the possible repercussions, rose above the common, the easy way out. He rose above carrying out a charade of his affliction. Instead, he chose to cope with the disease immediately, impressively, head-on.

And through it all, sitting next to his bride of two months, flanked by his physician, his friends, his bosses, he kept smiling. A healthy smile, stretching from Los Angeles to East Lansing and back.

"This ends a big part of my life," Johnson said. "But my wife is healthy, and life goes on."

And then he left the podium, slipping behind a curtain, and the world looked on in shock. Soul-searching began. We can no longer treat AIDS as a disease "other" people get. No longer is it a "curse from God," as some religious groups would lead us to believe, that afflicts homosexuals for their supposed sins.

It is something more. Something dreadfully more. It leaves us numb with confusion.

And Johnson might be the only man in the world who can smile through it all.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Everyone Shares Blame In Whittemore-Prescott Football Loss

One of Bob Dylan's lesser-known, but more powerful, pieces is a song called "Who Killed Davey Moore?"

Its lyrics detail the aftermath of a death in the boxing ring, and how everyone associated with the fight - the fans, referee, sports writer, manager and other fighter - all refused to take the blame.

If one took the message to heart, and used it to describe the football follies which have taken place at Whittemore-Prescott this year, it would probably sound something like this:

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said the football player, after putting up with peer nay-sayers.
"I was out there on the field, playing with pain, refusing to yield.
Until we lost too many guys; to continue would have been suicide.
By nature, I am not a quitter - to be labeled as such is rather bitter.
But it wasn't me who made it fall. You can't blame me at all."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said the football fan, who would pepper the team with verbal slams.
"I'm a Cardinal, through and through. Sure, I knock them at times - what else is there to do?
These guys are my friends, they know I'm kidding. You know I'd be cheering them if they were winning.
It wasn't me who made them fall. You can't blame me at all.."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not us," said the football mom and dad, who cheered good plays made by their lad.
"We supported him through and through. It's what all good parents are supposed to do.
It's Cardinals spirit that's the key. Homecoming - that's for all to see.
Let them crown the king and queen during halftime - the way it's supposed to be.
It wasn't us who made it fall. You can't blame us at all."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said another father. "I played football without any bother
To pain, or sleet, or snow or rain. I played no matter what kind of weather came.
He might get injured, that's for sure. But it's part of the game, he will endure.
If he wants to play, he knows the risks. And so do I - I signed that waiver slip.
You can't blame me at all. It wasn't me who made it fall."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said another fan, who left the team by his own command.
"I played enough before this year. It's not opponents or pain I fear.
I was just tired of the game. I'm not going to holler or complain.
They could have used me on the team - but I had bigger, better dreams.
I didn't want to play no more," he said.
"I'd rather sit around with my dreams and be bored.
No, it wasn't me who made it fall. You can't blame me at all."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not us," said the School Board, which had heard the arguments two weeks before,
And decided it was worth the chance to keep the program as its Friday night dance.
"We listened to what everyone had to say, and we think it's OK to play.
Of course, we saw this coming down, but we stayed 'status quo' - after all, Friday football is a good show.
But it wasn't us who made it fall. No, you can't blame us at all."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said the football coach who saw the problems rapidly approach.
"We were small in numbers, yes, it's true. But you learn to cope. That's all you can do.
Could I have stopped this from taking place? I suppose. But now, that doesn't matter. It's too late.
The buck stops here, I realize. But it's not as if we didn't try.
Still, we didn't have backup prepared at all. But it wasn't me who made it fall."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Ernie And Paul Gave Us Plenty Of Memories

"I would rather be lucky than good." Lefty Gomez said it, Bobby Thomson showed it and Ernie Harwell lived by it.

October 3, 1951. Thomson strode to the plate, his heart as big as an ocean. The game, and a World Series berth, were on the line. His New York Giants were one out away from losing to their much-hated rivals from across the river, the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Facing Thomson on the Polo Grounds mound was Ralph Branca, wearing No. 13. And in the booth, on the first live, coast-to-coast television sports broadcast ever, was a young announcer named Ernie Harwell.

The TV opportunity went to Ernie over fellow Giants announced Russ Hodges. Ernie thought he was lucky.

But when Thomson launched the most famous home run in baseball history - creating "The Miracle of Coogan's Bluff" - it was Hodges who was lucky.

Television had no instant replay in those days. It is Hodges we hear screaming, "The Giants win the pennant!" over and over, not Harwell, who was, in retrospect, not lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.

Timing, and what you do with it, is everything. You cannot say Ernie stood there like the house by the side of the road, watching that one go by. He's been very busy since that day.

So perhaps it is ironic that, 40 years to the day of "The Shot Heard 'Round the World," Ernie is preparing for his last game for the Detroit Tigers. Not by his choice, mind you. He thinks - and most people agree - that his time in the booth is not up.

But thanks to this new age of "superhype" announcers, the Tigers are saying au revoir to Motown's laid-back, informative and even-keeled announcer. The man who has symbolized Tigers baseball for 32 years.

They are butchering the sacred cow.

Paul Carey, his broadcast partner of 19 years, immediately announced his retirement after the news on Ernie came out last December. With all the success of the 1991 Tigers, it has been impossible to forget that their two most beloved sons have been lame-duck ambassadors this year.

Everyone who is a Tigers fan has some fond memory of Ernie and Paul. For some, it is a warm handshake. Others may have been at one of their speaking engagements. Or maybe it's not just one recollection; maybe it's the knowledge that these two warm, friendly voices have been part of their lives for years.

For me, it was April 11, 1986. I was interning at an educational radio station in the Detroit area, and had sent Ernie and Paul a letter on a whim. I asked about interviewing them for the station.

To my shock, and pleasure, they agreed to the request. We sent April 11 because it was a Friday after a day off. That way, they would be well rested after flying in from Chicago. Ernie, in the morning. At his house. Paul, that afternoon. At his house.

So I prepared questions. Important questions. Questions ranging from the current to the past. Why announcing? What's the worst thing about the job? Who are your favorite players? What was your biggest game? How does Ernie know that foul ball was caught by a young man from Battle Creek?

Then came the interviews. As I drove to Ernie's Farmington Hills house, my heart was pounding. My stomach was wound up tighter than grandma's knitting. I prayed that (a) the tape recorder didn't break down; (b) the tape didn't become garbled; (c) I didn't pass out from the excitement; (d) I didn't come across as a foolish, young college student who didn't have a clue what he was doing; and (e) my 1979 Chevette didn't pop a gasket on the way.

Ernie was most kind. The scheduled day off was scrapped when that Wednesday night's game was rained out. Make up on Thursday night. He had called his wife, Lulu, informing her to tell me the interview was still a go.

So there he was, on his couch, decked out in a t-shirt and faded lime-green shorts. With me, the novice, in a three-piece suit.

The interview didn't begin for at least 45 minutes. Why? Because he was asking me questions at the beginning, making me feel more at ease. He could see my nervousness. He asked about the station, about my background in broadcasting, about life in general.

Despite living on four hours of sleep, he was extremely cheery and made me right at home, right away. His crisp, Georgian accent was comfortable and warm.

The interview lasted an hour. His candor was typical Ernie. We talked about the 1984 World Champion Tigers. About how he got started in broadcasting. he threw in several baseball anecdotes, a Harwell staple. And, of course, Thomson's blast.

I interviewed Carey later that day, at his house. Still on a natural high. It was the same basic line of questions. We discussed what it was like broadcasting the 1984 World Series, his first one. And his chagrin over a Detroit Free Press columnist's comment that, if he spoke to God, His voice would be that of Paul Carey.

That night, I went to Tiger Stadium. Spent an inning in the broadcast booth, sitting with Ernie and Paul. Not just a fan of the game anymore, but a part of the game.

The booth. The fans. In his Hall of Fame address in 1981, Ernie thanked Tiger followers for being so supportive of him through the years.

"You've given me so much warmth, so much affection and love," he said. "I know this is an award that is supposed to be for my contribution to baseball. But let me say this: I have given a lot less to baseball than it's given to me. And the greatest gift I've received from baseball is the way that the people ... have responded to me with their warmth and their friendship."

April 11, 1986. That entire day, spent discussing and observing the art of baseball announcing, were the most challenging I've ever spent. Nothing has come remotely close since then.

I was lucky, You don't know what you have until it's gone. Thanks for the wonderful memories, guys. And I am still forever grateful to both of you for giving a 22-year-old college kid with a lump in his throat the size of an ocean the chance of a lifetime.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

It's A Tough Job, But Best Man Gets To Do It

I see we have a Friday the 13th this week. Tradition says this day carries a bad omen, the fear of evil and the worry of the release of another stupid slasher film starring a masked maniac named Jason.

Scary.

For my friend Amy, all of these paranoias will be by the wayside. The is happy. She is beyond worry of black cats, broken mirrors and all that other schlock which permeates our nightmares.

Friday the 13th is the Aimless One's 27th birthday. She gets to join a not-so-elite group who are at this milestone already. This list includes myself and her boyfriend - one of my best friends - Randy.

Except I can no longer use the phrase "boyfriend" when talking about the two of them. The news came to me via my telephone recording machine last week that Randy and Amy are advancing their relationship beyond being merely "boyfriend" and "girlfriend."

They are getting married.

Next November.

And they asked me to be the best man.

Scary.

I am an untested rookie. New to the game. Prone to rookie mistakes, I am sure.

But already I'm excited. Cautious, but excited. I k now what the worst man is supposed to do - show up drunk, wearing one of those tacky tuxedo T-shirts, carrying plastic flowers. He objects to the wedding, shouting from the rafters like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate.

Being best man won't be as easy.

I've been told to write HELP ME! in huge black letters on the bottom of the groom's shoes, or tape a sign with the same plea on the back of his jacket. But that really doesn't seem like something the best man should do. Maybe a dunk in a tuxedo T-shirt, not the best man.

I have, however, been at wedding ceremonies where the best man goaded the rest of the bridal party to hood up cardboard "Rate the Kiss" cards. Another best man, when reciting "The Lord's Prayer," bobbed his head to the tune of Prince's "Controversy," where His Royal Badness puts the prayer to a funky beat.

I probably won't be doing any of this. I'll be too busy with two items: (1) the bachelor party, and (2) my toast at the reception.

Randy would probably feel at home playing drums for the Canadian rock band Rush during his bachelor party. Or during any other party. Unfortunately, I doubt I can get the group to "drop by" for a couple of hours, so that's probably out of the question.

(Of course, if they actually show up, we've gotten ourselves a pretty decent band for the reception. But that's another story altogether.)

So we probably have to do something different. Something in good taste. Maybe a Red Wings game.

This is important. It merges me into the funniest reception toast I've ever heard in my life.

According to the best man, the groom in question was at a Wings game with some friends, depressed about his social life. Or maybe about the way the Wings were playing. Whatever.

The best man "just happened" to have a copy of 101 Pick-Up Lines That Work with him, and loaned it to the groom ... who turned around, tried one out, and now was getting married.

So while 13 might be an unlucky number for many people, the 13th is looking like a wonderful day for Amy. It's also a good way to prepare for the wedding, which is slated for Saturday, November 14, 1992.

The day after another Friday the 13th. Scary.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Trademarks-As-Jargon Not Proper English Use

Words.

"I'm sending you an Xerox copy of that story you wanted to see," Chuck said to me.

"Whoa," I responded. "You can't send me a Xerox copy!"

"Why not?"

"Well," I explained, "Xerox is a brand name. It's not the correct phrase. If you had that in print, Xerox might sue you for using its name without permission. What you really want to do is send me a photographic reproduction of the story, perhaps using a Xerox machine."

We both laughed over that little exchange, which took place a few weeks ago. Chuck thought I was being a little technical. "It's the same thing," he said.

I disagree, and I told him as much. Maybe it was technical. Maybe it comes down to context. But making a photostatic copy and making a Xerox copy are not the same thing. You can't use the trademark in this way.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that making Xerox copies might not even be the most misused trademark or brand name.

Nor is Kleenex.

Or Q-Tip.

No, as far as this writer is concerned, that honor goes to the trademark name Styrofoam, which is a brand of plastic foam. Rarely do you hear someone at the supermarket ask, "Where are the plastic foam cups?"

But that's OK. The market stockers are far too busy stocking the aisles with Jell-O, Kool-Aid, Band-Aids, Vaseline, Magic Markers and Coke (which can be drunk from those plastic foam cups).

Words.

The use and misuse of trade and brand names goes deep. Suppose you need a new window for your house, but don't want to put in glass. If you decide to replace the pane with plexiglass, you're doing fine. But if you choose Plexiglas, you're messing with a trademark.

And that new movie you wanted to see? You know, Teenage Ninja Rambos Have a Total Recall and Die Harder With a Lethal Weapon XVI? I understand it was filmed in Technicolor, which is also a trademark.

When the media referred to President Ronald Reagan's inability to grasp reality, they termed him the Teflon Man. Whoops, there's another trademark. Better, he should broadcast an All-Star Game played on AstroTurf (yep, there's another one).

All of these names come to mind because of a political rip session being waged on the television airwaves recently.

The hate campaign which brought the use of language to mind is being waged in Illinois. The issue, of course, is taxes. And one word, in one ad, could cause an uproar.

I noticed on WGN-TV last week that a political advertisement from the campaign of Jim Edgar, a Republican candidate for governor of Illinois, lashes back at his Democratic mud-slinging mate, Neil Hartigan, on the tax issue.

In an ad several weeks ago, Hartigan ripped Edgar for supporting higher taxes. In Edgar's reply, he points out that Hartigan and his "cronies" in the Illinois legislature supported th ehighest tax increase in state history.

My eyebrows raised at the word "cronies," which - to me - has that subtle implication of seediness, rather than friendship. In fact, in college I learned that "cronyism" was one of those so-called "red-flag" words which could lead to, among other things, a slander or libel suit.

Of course, how one perceives the word will decide whether "cronyism" is an attack on character or just making light of connections. As a reporter from The Chicago Tribune told me, the word crony "is a common term in Illinois politics."

Is Hartigan surrounded by corruptness, or just by a bunch of good ol' boys who back him up time and time again in the Illinois legislature?

Words.

If there were a slander suit, it would not involve WGN, or any other television or radio station. Broadcast outfits are covered by Section 315 of the Communications Act of 1934, which says stations may not alter the script in political advertisements. This was for two reasons: (a) to prevent station owners and executives from changing the words of candidates they might not find attractive, and (b) to prevent the stations from being sued if the possibility of slander existed.

Words. At least Edgar didn't try to Xerox anything.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Serious Changes Needed In Downtown, Hill Area

The voice came from the heavens, sounding like a divine mixture of Jack Nicholson and Darth Vader. Scratchy, yet powerful.

"If you write it, they will understand."

I looked up, trying to comprehend the words. And a vision appeared before my eyes. Well, not really a vision. An angel.

"Hi there," the hovering angel said. "I'm Bruce. Bruce the Angel."

I stared at this image, this mirage dressed in pseudo-Victorian clothes. Then I rubbed my eyes. Man, this is one bad dream. Maybe it's Heritage Days II. Maybe I was being zoned into by Sam as part of a Quantum Leap episode.

No such luck.

What do you want? Is my time up? Am I going ... well, wherever I'm supposed to go in the afterworld?

"No, no." Bruce smiled. "Nothing like that. I'm not that kind of angel."

Something about his smile made me trust him.

So tell me, Bruce. What's up?

"I'm here to advise you. To give you a message for West Branch merchants."

Come on, Bruce. I don't own a store. What makes you think business owners in West Branch will listen to me?

"I'm willing to give it a shot. Do you think they'll listen to me? Get real."

Great. A psycho angel.

"I'm not psycho ... can I have a seat? My wings are getting pretty tired up here."

Sure.

"How about a smoke?"

I stared at him. Sorry, no smoking allowed. Now tell me. What are you talking about?

"It's the strip, Paul. Businesses. Downtown. Victorian theme. The works. And the traffic problem, too. West Branch is at a turning point, and it's up to you to help them out."

Right. What do I look like, the messiah?

"I'm serious, you geek. Hear me out. You've go this new mall, the Tanger Center. Right? And now this amphitheater, this Palace of Auburn Hills ..."

Garden of Ogemaw Hills.

"Whatever. This summer concert thing, it's a go. The city is growing. The area is expanding. And now, West Branch is stuck in the middle. Caught in a vortex of changes and transformation."

Will you stop babbling! What do you mean? And can you take your feet off the coffee table?

"Oh. Sorry. What do I mean? West Branch wants to keep this small-town, Victorian-era theme. But it also wants to be one of the 'big boys.' Well, it can't work both ways. Not without some changes."

He leaned back. "First thing businesses here gotta learn is, get some reasonable hours."

I know what you mean, Bruce. I'm working when all the downtown stores are open. By the time I get off work, they're closed. And I can't go shopping.

"And you're not alone, Paul. If stores were open till, say, 9 p.m., you'd have the chance to do some shopping. If the stores would stay open later, they'd make a killing!"

OK. What else?

"Well, they're putting in a turn lane by the Tanger Center, but I doubt it will be enough. Even if they put in one traffic light, it wouldn't really help out the stores up there. Or the traffic problems. The only thing it would do is keep most cars from darting onto the business loop.

"But cars, trucks and the like will be backed up beyond I-75, maybe even worse than right now, because Cook Road traffic will have to stop for a while."

So, what's the answer?

"I think a service drive would solve all the problems. Set up two traffic lights - in front of Tanger's and out by Arby's - and have that one drive go behind all the businesses on the north side. Connect all the parking lots to that loop, and close the current drives onto the business loop. Voila! You've got less congestion and a safer situation."

I still can't believe no one saw all this coming down when Tanger was proposed in the first place, Bruce. It would have made life on the Hill a lot easier for everyone. There must have been someone at Tanger who knew there would be this huge traffic influx. After all, West Branch isn't the first complex they've built.

"True."

You'd think someone in charge - whether in the county's zoning department, or the Tanger architects, or MDOT or whomever - would have said, when this project was first conceived, "Hey - why don't we make a service drive part of the deal?"

"You'd think so."

Why don't you send a zoning angel down to talk to the county boys about planning? Maybe when Tanger expands, the officials will require them to handle the traffic problems before issuing a building permit.

"Sorry, Paul, the zoning angels are all busy with that Tiger Stadium project in Detroit."

So what you're saying is we're stuck with this traffic problem which is causing thousands of drivers havoc on the road.

"Now you're getting it ... it is your job to show business owners the light. Let them know how important it is to have a service drive down there."

We've been through this already, Bruce ... these business people ain't gonna listen to me - not when it means spending money.

"If you write it, they will understand. They are not going to let the bottom line be that they're willing to live with dangerous situations along Hamburger Hill."

You know, Bruce, you could be right. I'll write it ... they will understand. Thanks.

"Hey, no problem." He glanced at his watch. "I'm running late. Sorry, Paul. That's all I got time for now. Good luck with it."

Thanks, Bruce. Fly safely out there.

"No problem."

And he left, ascending into the heavens, that stupid smile still on his face.

I wonder if anyone will take his words seriously.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Drivers Dodge Death On Hamburger Hill

Ah, the joy of a Sunday afternoon drive. How can one ignore the delicious smell of fresh burgers saturating the air? Or the chance to go shopping at a local store for some clothes?

How? Take one trip through "Hamburger Hill" on any given Sunday, and you'll quickly see how much nicer it is to spend the afternoon at home, watching baseball on TV and popping three-day-old Doritos in your mouth.

Well, maybe not "nicer." But certainly safer.

Sunday is Church Day and many church-goers believe in miracles. But the only miracle I've seen as of late is that no one has been killed or seriously injured in the traffic congestion near the Tanger Factory Outlet Center Drivers Training Course.

Yet.

If you do not use Exit 212 on a regular basis, you might not be aware of what I'm talking about. You're also a lot smarter than most of us drivers, who have to battle with one of the most wicked stretches of road I've ever had the misfortune to travel.

Every weekend, I pass through this area. Or, at least, i used to. Now, if I want to hit I-75, I often go through downtown West Branch and catch Exit 215. For three extra miles, of highway, it's worth the trip.

Why? Simple. Exit 212 is a death trap waiting to happen. It is unorganized. It is crowded. It is dangerous. Combining these factors with some of the most insanely stupid driving possible is nothing less than moronic.

You have a mall and a handful of businesses with parking lot that basically empty out into one spot in the road. Nearby are I-75's exit and entrance ramps.

Add thousands of cars - many pulling boats and trailers - and you get the picture of what it is like to travel this stretch.

With all of this traffic - especially on weekends - you would think maybe, just maybe, someone would have figured a traffic light or two might have been a good idea.

Well, that idea is in the works. Finally, We have Cook Road being repaved and repainted, giving area drivers three lanes along the Hill - one each westbound and eastbound, and a center lane for left-handed turns into any of the stores or restaurants in the area.

Now, this doesn't mean we have more roadway to work with. It just means that (a) we don't have to wait 15 minutes while the most defensive drivers wait for an opening larger than an 18-wheeler to appear, and (b) there will hopefully be fewer maniac drivers sliding into the shoulder to pass said defensive drivers.

But what about a traffic light? Well, the Michigan Department of Transportation recently conducted an intensive survey, which could result in a traffic light.

By next July. Maybe.

The survey took place during mid-week traffic, which is like estimating the Detroit Lions' Super Bowl potential after watching them gang up on the pathetic new England Patriots during one drive of a pre-season game. It's lousy, backward timing.

Someone should have known traffic would be this bad. Why do a survey, when it was obvious from Day One that a traffic light would be needed?

Actions speak louder than surveys. I realize there are guidelines and requirements and all that other stuff. Numbers are needed. But at the same time, we're left with a time bomb ticking away in West Branch Township.

It's enough to ruin a Sunday afternoon drive.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Julia, Kiefer Keeping Tabloids Hard At Work

Unless you've been hiding underneath a rock or are oblivious to today's major national news stories, you are probably keeping an eye on the biggest, most important and extremely controversial headline-making story of the decade: Julia Roberts leaving Kiefer Sutherland high and dry at the altar.

Yes, this emotionally depressing saga of a Hollywood lust story gone awry has kept tabloid journalists - both print and broadcast - quite busy.

In fact, if Julia hadn't told Kiefer to blow their relationship out his ear, we'd be more concerned with real news stories, like Detroit Piston Dennis Rodman being sued for jumping on top of a fan during a basketball game while chasing a loose ball, or Cher not having sex for 10 months.

But Julia had to dump Kiefer on the eve of their wedding, and because of that, tabloid newspapers and programs are going ga-ga, spreading five-inch-tall headlines and 15-minute blurbs about this couple.

Not to mention the cast of rogues who have made life miserable for the duo: A sexy Canadian disc jockey who used to be close pals (in the truest sense of the word) with Kiefer; Kiefer's best friend, who supposedly took off with the elusive Miss J; a stripper named Raven; and a reporter at a weekly newspaper in West Branch.

Yes, the somber details are beginning to leak, but the whole story has not been told. Left alone, almost obscured from the national limelight, is how this reporter is really the cause of the Julia-Kiefer breakup.

The National Enquirer has not yet picked up this bit of information, which surprises me, being that they are a tabloid of such high standards and morals. Nor have The Sun, Star, People Magazine or even Soap Opera Digest. This is depressing.

It's not fun to be ignored when such a newsworthy story involves you, but no one seems to notice.

So I am coming out with my side of the story. It is time to set the record straight, before the jumbo headlines scream words such as, "JOURNALIST WINS JULIA'S ETERNAL LOVE; HEARTBROKEN KIEFER THREATENS TO EITHER COMMIT SUICIDE OR PLAY BINGO," or "GABA: 'JULIA'S MINE, AND THAT GEEK KIEFER CAN GO CRY IN HIS ROOT BEER.'"

Let me begin by telling you that I have never actually met any of the parties involved. At least, not knowingly. Although I did spend a week in New York City a few years back, and may have seen Julia walking down the street, humming a Roy Orbison song. At least, it looked like her.

It was about that same time that the movie The Lost Boys came out, starring (among a cast of 10s) Kiefer, as a sort of modern-day Batman (the bloodsucker, not the Caped Crusader).

I thought nothing of it until about a year ago, after catching Julia in her triple-platinum selling movie, Pretty Woman, the epic about a girl who walks down the street (literally), the type of girl you like to meet (hardly). It starred Julia, her hair, Richard Gere and that same Orbison song. The irony was uncanny.

Anyway, I didn't especially like the film. Too predictable. I wanted a more believable ending to the movie, like Gere leaving for France with some swanky bimboesque Canadian disc jockey who stripped on the air while Julia sniveled in despair. You know, reality.

So i wrote her, telling her that, while I thought she did a marvelous job, and that her hair looked great, and that she was probably the best-looking and sexiest silver-screen hooker since Rebecca deMornay in Risky Business, the ending was a bit tepid. (For that matter, the entire plot was rather lame, but that's another story.)

She didn't write back, but her most recent film, Dying Young, is a little more believable. (She loses the guy to leukemia, rather than to a stripper. I think.) Even if the class difference is still as proclaimed as in Pretty Woman (ultra-rich dude, struggling, poor dudette). At least it's not like Beaches, with Bette Midler and Barbara Hershey's ultra-huge fake wax lips.

However, I think she really took the "realism" suggestion to heart when dealing with Kiefer. This was, for him, probably the lousiest movie ending he's ever had thrown in front of him. Talk about ad-libbing lines, these guys aren't even reading scripts. The best writers in hollywood can't come up with story plots this deep, this realistic.

So my involvement with this whole affair has been kept in the dark. Which is good, because I don't need the hassle of nosy tabloid reporters phoning me in the middle of the night, asking if it was true that I fathered Julia's two-headed love child.

Now THAT would be a major story.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Commercial Slogans Part Of The Language

"NICE SHOES!"

The comment caught me by surprise. I was standing in front of one of those automated money machines, depositing a paycheck which was spent three years ago on one of my credit cards, when I saw this sharply-dressed guy out of the corner of my eye.

He sauntered my way, arms waving wildly, like an oversized pigeon trying to fly. And then he stopped, no more than five feet away from me, and stared into my face.

Then he glanced down at my feet, looked back into my stare, and proclaimed, proudly, those immortal words:

"NICE SHOES!"

And off he went, leaving me scratching my head, clueless as to the meaning of his exhibition.

Where he got this concept, of course, is from television. In particular, commercials. The reference to my shoes came from a Nike commercial, first aired last year, starring Bo Jackson. Never mind that I was wearing Reebok's at the time; that fact never came into play (obviously).

The "nice shoes" line has become one of many commercial-quipped bits which are an integral part of civilization. Nike is the uncontested, unofficial leader, thanks to sports gods Bo ("Bo knows shoe endorsements"), David Robinson (as in "Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood"), and the tandem performance of Spike Lee and Air Jordan ("Doyaknow? Doyaknow?" and "It's gotta be the shoes!" are the two most prominent).

Of course, Nike is not alone in well-known commercial quotes. Bud Light hit the big time with its "Gimme a light" campaign a few years ago. Wendy's "Where's the beef?" spawned a billion imitations (not to mention sales; no, let's not mention them).

Furthermore, to be well-quoted, a comment does not even need to be an ad. "Read my lips." "A thousand points of light." "Mother of all wars." "Cowabunga, dude!" and "Go ahead, make my day" are some of the more obvious catch-phrases of late. But commercials use the same line on a continual basis, making them even more memorable.

Jingles are also making a comeback. These musical snippets were big in the 1970s and early 1980s, and include several all-time classics: the Oscar Mayer wiener song and "I'd like to buy the world a Coke."

Lately, jingle wars have been fought between soft drinks, which spawned Billy Joel's line a few years ago, "Rock 'n roller cola wars, I can't take it anymore!"

The biggest battle has been the diet drink duel between Diet Pepsi's Ray Charles and Diet Coke's team of Paula Abdul and Elton John. They're cute, catchy and make some people agree with Joel's line.

Of courser jingles were hardly new in the 1970s. One of my mom's favorite commercial memories dates back to the 1950s, when a majority of the ads were still on radio.

It was a Pepsi commercial which mom remembers the best. The sing-song plug went something like this: "Pepsi Cola hits the spot; twelve full ounces - that's a lot; twice as much for a nickel, too; Pepsi Cola is the drink for you." The ad would close with the singers spewing the word "nickel" quickly and repeatedly.

(In case you're wondering about part of that slogan, Pepsi was then sold in 12-ounce bottles for five cents, while Coke was, apparently, sold at the same cost but in six-ounce bottles.)

But the youth of the 1950s were as adept at remembering slogans then as today's youth. And, as is the case of today, my mom and her friends reworked the song, with a slightly different twist:

"Pepsi Cola is the drink; pour it down your kitchen sink; tastes like vinegar, looks like ink; Pepsi Cola is a stinking drink!"

I have no idea what they repeated at the end of the commercial. I am, however, quite positive it was not "NICE SHOES!"

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

High School Grads Show Freedom Of Choice

One of the great things about living in the United States is the freedom of choice. You can be Democratic, Republican or Socialist in your political backings. You can be pro-choice or pro-life. You can wear bikinis or one-piece bathing suits.

There are many areas of society where the youth have two, three, or more choices. Invariably, their decisions - for example, buying a Chicago Cubs baseball cap instead of a Cincinnati Reds cap - can be seen as a vote. In this case, mark one ballot in favor of the Cubs.

I was hit by a sudden inspiration while driving home from Whittemore last week (while dodging deer on M-55, no less). I decided to take a non-scientific, informal survey of today's youth.

I posed questions to members of the Whittemore-Prescott and Ogemaw Heights graduating classes. These queries were distributed by instructors at the schools, and seniors had the option of filling them out. (Ah, freedom of choice.)

Of the 246 seniors attending the two schools, 103 responded (that's 41 percent, for you aspiring math majors). Actually, there were 104, but one guy filled out the survey twice.

What is this, Chicago politics?

Seniors were asked: "Settle the debate: Which is better?" And some of the answers may surprise you.

Then again, I could be wrong.

(1) Michigan or Michigan State?

When choosing a university, students should look at what that school has to offer, not their sports programs. But image is everything, and as Zero Mostel said to Gene Wilder in The Producers, "If you got it, flaunt it!" And flaunting is what U-M does best.

State is like Michigan's kid brother, the one who always wants to be as good as the big guy, but never can catch quite up. This is pathetic. Even when MSU actually does edge out Michigan, the Wolverines manage to find a way to put State back in its place.

When making their decision, seniors chose Michigan over the Spartans, 66-35, once again proving their dominance. But I've heard rumors that a Whittemore teacher told seniors they had to vote for Michigan, because he was a U-M grad. (In some situations, freedom f choice may take a back seat to practicality.)

(2) Nike, Reebok or adidas?

Nike, on the strength of Air Jordan, David Robinson and Spike "Mars Blackmon" Lee, nipped Reebok by a 47-37 count. adidas, once the king of the foot market, stumbles along with 16 votes.

(3) "Old Kids On The Block" (aka/The Traveling Wilburys) or New Kids On The Block?

If that amphitheater ever gets built in the area, I can only give the owners one piece of advice: DON'T BOOK THE NEW KIDS.

The Wilburys easily outdistanced the boys from Boston, 73-9. Of course, 21 respondents chose neither, but that's beside the point.

(4) Coke or Pepsi?

This one surprised me, not only because of the final count (Pepsi, 56-43), but because of the diversity between schools.

Whittemore-Prescott was pro-Pepsi. The Cardinals chose The Right One by a 2-1 margin, 39-18. Must have been those neon cans they came up with a few months ago, which, when stacked in a certain order, spelled out the word "sex." (No, I am not making this up.)

At Ogemaw, though, Coke proved to be the real thing, winning 25-17.

(5) McDonald's, Burger King or Wendy's

I didn't put Taco Bell or Arby's on the list, because I wanted to stick to burger places. (Also, Taco Bell is my favorite, but I didn't want to show any bias.)

With TB out of the way, Mickey D's cruised to victory, outdistancing the BK Lounge, 61-30. Wedy's had 11 votes.

Ogemaw proved to make a close race not so tight, McVoting by a 32-8 count.

(6) Danielle Steele, Stephen King, Jackie Collins or George Orwell?

This King had more success. The master writer of terror scored 88 votes, while Collins was a close second with six. George "1984" Orwell scored three votes, nipping Steele, who had two.

Orwell would have scored better seven years ago, I think.

(7) War or Peace?

The object of war is to win - like America and the rest of the world did in Iraq. But peace beat war, 86-14. Go tell Stormin' Norman and the rest of the Scud Patrol that one.

(8) The Cosby Show, L.A. Law, ESPN Sportscenter or M*A*S*H?

With Michigan's win in Question No. 1, you could almost see the sports fans sharpening their pencils on this one. ESPN gathered 30 votes, just barely in front of the Cosby Clan's 28. Law scored 23, while M*A*S*H had 18 votes (not bad for a rerun).

Murphy Brown got a token vote.

When it comes down to it, I have no idea what all these numbers mean. But at least you know where today's graduates stand on the important issues.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

1991 Baseball History No Shock To One Fan

So the Ryan Express threw another no-hitter.

Yawn.

And that Rickey guy out in Oakland? Stole another base, I hear.

No biggie.

"Why so passive?" you might ask. (Go ahead, ask. I've got all day.)

Good question. Glad you asked. And I've got a logical answer, one quipped by Yogi Berra several years ago:

Just a case of 'deja vu' all over again.

What's that mean? Well, in a nutshell, it implies that these are events which should not have surprised anyone. Nor should have the responses from the two baseball stars.

Rickey Henderson's quest for Lou Brock's all-time stolen base record has been the subject of a thousand-plus stories in the papers, television and radio. He opened the year a few shy of the mark, and there was no doubt he would get SB No. 939 sometime during the year.

After all, when you average something like 80 steals a season, it would be a pretty lousy year if Rickey swiped only one or two by October 6.

So Rickey's pursuit of Brock's achievement was no surprise. Nor was his response on the field, when he grasped third base (the one he stole for the record), held it over his head, and exclaimed, much like a combination of Muhammed Ali and Mars Blackmon, "I am the greatest!"

That leads us to R. Nolan Ryan (or "Mr. Ryan" to the rest of you), the greatest strikeout machine baseball has ever seen. Unlike Rickey, Nolan handled his brush with greatness as professionally as anyone I've ever seen.

Nolan'd tale is legendary. A lot of people anticipated him going up against the Detroit Tigers last weekend, because he could very well strike out 27 batters. The Tigers whiff crew of Cecil Fielder, Mickey Tettleton, Pete Incaviglia (a former teammate of Ryan's) and Rob Deer was expected to turn Tiger Stadium into a wind machine more powerful than a Lansing politician in the middle of a campaign swing.

But Detroit missed out. And the Toronto batters missed everything.

When the Express hit Toronto (not the other way around, obviously) May 1, it hit with a fury. Sixteen strikeouts. No hits.

No major shock.

But even more impressive was Nolan's response. Instead of insulting the intelligence of everyone in the stands, his teammates, the other team and the television audience - as Henderson did - Ryan spoke calmly and collectively into the microphone, giving words of appreciation to everyone around him for their hard work, his laidf-back Texas drawl commanding the moment. Indeed, if he had been any more relaxed and composed, I would have sworn he had taken too many Valium after the game.

Yes, it was history. When this 44-year-old Texan throws a no-hitter, it's an historic event.

But it's not unprecedented. Let's face it. This was Nolan's seventh no-no. That's almost twice as many as Sandy Koufax, second on the list. Whenever Ryan goes out on the mound, you can almost expect a no-hitter.

No, the act itself is not surprising. It seems to happen every year. If you want a no-hit surprise, put me on the mound. Then you'll be in shock if there's a no-hitter.

How long will he keep it up? Who knows? Nolan could be throwing peas past his own grandson before he retires.

Yes, this will be a season of records and milestones in the major leagues. Rickey should steal No. 1,000 by the end of the year. And Ryan should have three or four more no-hitters by then, too.

When they happen, they won't surprise me. Not a bit.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Tax Time Offers Plenty Of Questions, Sweating

I am on the phone, sweat forming profusely on my brow, preparing to talk to the most powerful organization in the world.

The Mafia? Wimps, all of them. Joh Gotti? Get real.

The staff of 60 Minutes? Not even close. They might put you on the spot, but you know they can splice you right out of the segment.

The military leaders who directed Desert Storm? C'mon. Give me a break. Even military might can't compare.

No, this is one powerful group. They make strong men wince. Women shake. Accountants busy.

They are ... the IRS.

Ye,s they are the original Bad Boys. Long before the Detroit Pistons began elbowing their way to back-to-back NBA crowns, they were there, imposing on hundreds of thousands of people, many innocent, with the single-scariest word in the English language:

Audit.

This isn't about an audit. But it is about fear. Who do you fear more - Clint Eastwood, Mike Tyson, or the voice that says, in an ever-so-pleasing, yet terrifying, tone, "Hello, Internal Revenue Service. How may I help you?"

How can you help? Hmmm. Maybe by TAXING THE RICH INSTEAD OF THE MIDDLE CLASS!!!

Sorry. Lost my cool.

I am checking on other technical questions, the ones which all of us, at one time or another, must deal with.

For example:

"If the Pentagon thinks a paper clip costs $750, can I send you one in lieu of a check and get a partial refund?"

"If I form my own religion (such as, The Church of the Almighty Paul, Inc.), do i have to pay taxes?"

"Can a goldfish named Boris be considered a deduction? How about a car named Christine?"

"Are monies lost in failed S&Ls considered a business expense, or a stupidity expense?"

The line is busy. I'm not the only one with fears. I'll try again. One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingies. Three ringy-dingies.

Connection.

I am sweating and the IRS person hasn't even started to speak. Not that a delay is imminent. I ...

Oh. It's a recorded message. The next available IRS representative will be with me shortly.

Like it really matter.

I'm going over my notes. It's always a good thing to have notes with you when talking to the IRS. Even if the ink I use smears when sweat dribbles from my forehead onto the page.

A live assistant comes on the line. "Hi, this is Monique. How may I help you?"

(Haven't we been down this path before? Hmmm.) Listen, Monique, I got a problem, and I'm hoping you can answer it for me.

"Sure, what is it?"

Well ... uh ...

(I begin to look over my notes, squinting to read words which are now, literally, in a pool of water.

... OK. Here we go. Let's say that I can't pay all of my taxes that I still owe by April 15? What will happen?

(I picture her lips turning into an evil, diabolical smirk. The smile. The villainous laugh. The fangs sticking out of the corners of her mouth. Boy, eating late-night pizzas with sesame seed crusts whole watching Arsenio Hall can cause nightmares like this.)

She is quick to respond, and my fears come true. "Well, first you'll be slapped with a five percent penalty on the existing balance, which will continue to increase over a six-month period until it reaches 200 percent. And there's also an 11 percent interest charge which starts April 16 at 12:01 a.m., and is incurred on a daily basis. In other words, YOU BETTER PAY US NOW, MISTER, WHILE YOU STILL HAVE THE SHIRT ON YOUR BACK! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

"Hope I answered your question. Have a nice day."

Click. Dial tone.

I pull out my calculator (boy, hope the sweat pool hasn't fried the circuits). I begin to calculate. My $100 still owed on April 15 would turn into $547,982.33 by May 1.

Looks like I'll have to send a whole box of paper clips instead.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Baseball Fans, Arise! Spring Is Finally Here!

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. Undoubtedly, a sale was going on at some appliance store.

My body's alarm clock s out of whack, the result of jumping an hour ahead this week.

It must be spring.

That means my beloved Detroit Tigers are tearing up the turf at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. And my friend Oly's lovable Cubbies are blasting horsehide onto Waveland Avenue.

(In case you're wondering, Oly is the biggest chicago Cubs fan in the world. He eats, sleeps and breathes Cubs. He says he wants to be cremated and sprinkled along the first-base foul line after he dies. In another life, he might have been Hack Wilson or Grover Cleveland Alexander. Or even Ernie Banks, although since Mr. Cub is still living, that might be a bit difficult.)

It's been a long winter. Too much snow. Too many stupid million-dollar contracts. A war. Too many other distractions. As Tom petty sang, "The waiting is the hardest part."

No more. The calendar said spring began March 20. I know otherwise. Spring began April 8, when the first pitch was thrown and thousands of baseball-hungry fans screamed with delight.

Home plate has been dusted off. The tarp neatly rolled up in foul territory. The aroma of lukewarm hot dogs, even warmer beer, and mustard-slopped jumbo pretzels filled the nostrils of people luckier than me, who were able to catch the Tigers home opener in person.

Baseball.

It's box scores and errors, doubles up the gap and "standing by the side of the road and watching that one go by."

Baseball is Hammerin' Hank, The Babe, Stan the Man, Stormin' Norman, Daffy and Dizzy. It's Oil Can and The Ryan Express, Bam Bam and The Bash Brothers.

It's Ryno, The Hawk, and "Tram to Lou for Two."

It's bleacher seats and beach balls, tortilla wars in Anaheim, blowing up disco 45s in old Comiskey Park, the Green Monster and The Big Red Machine.

Baseball

Bo knows baseball. Bo knows football. Bo also knows hip injuries. Now, Bo knows Chicago (the White Sox, not the Cubs). Hmmm.

The "other" Bo - Schembechler - also knows baseball and football. One wonders which Bo knows more at times, though. Detroiters are still perplexingly perplexed with Bo's baseball knowledge; after all, in baseball, there's a tendency to do a lot of throwing of the ball.

Baseball is a field of dreams (sounds like a pretty good title for a movie, don't you think?), a vast wonderland of grass vs. turf, designated hitter vs. pitcher in the nine hole, good vs. The New York Yankees.

(As Tigers and Cubs fans, Oly and I tend to do a lot of dreaming. More often than not, mine takes place at work, which draws the wrath of my managing editor. There's the dream that the two teams will meet - finally - in the World Series, like they did in 1945, and like they should have done in 1984. There's the dream that Pittsburgh Pirate Barry Bonds will sit out the season, too upset because his contract is "only" $500 million [poor baby, where's my violin?]. There's the dream that I can become the next Ernie Harwell, even without changing my name. And there's the fantasy that Sports Illustrated swimsuit goddess Kathy Ireland will walk into the Herald's editorial department and say, "Gosh, baseball-loving columnists/reporters really turn me on!")

Like I said, a lot of dreaming.

There's plenty of other sports going on right now. The playoffs are approaching in basketball. They're already here for professional hockey. Tennis, golf and bowling are saturated on the television.

And, of course, the new World League of American Football, with its fancy helmet-cams and insipid team monikers (if Bart Simpson were quarterbacking the Birmingham Fire, what would he be? A spark? A match? Smokey the Bear?), it's all glitz and no substance.

Yawn.

But I have baseball now. Forever young, baseball is still the purest game in town. Foul lines stretch to infinite dimensions; in theory, a baseball game can last forever, since no set time limit controls its fate.

It's springtime. The Boys of Summer are back in action. And, by the way, as I am writing this, the Tigers are undefeated.

Save Oly and me a few seats in the front row.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

War's Commercialism Is Too Depressing

One of the most depressing things about Operation Desert Storm was the commercialization which went on back home.

It never dawned on me that the war would spark the amount of sheer hucksterism which took place at every store and business in the United States.

Just color me naive.

It seems to have started within minutes after bombs were dropped. Shirts, flags, yellow ribbons, keychains, magnets, decals, stickers and, yes, condoms, all begging me to reach out and BUY, BUY, BUY!!!

C'mon, Gaba. It's for a good cause. Only $10. It's for life, liberty and the pursuit of BIG BUCKS.

Well, I don't need to buy some cheap red, white and blue thingamajig to show the world I'm an American. And given the permeation of this "these colors don't run" mentality across the board, I'm pretty proud to have NOT bought anything.

So goodbye and good riddance to this shameless exploitation. I was getting pretty sick of this whole "patriotism" thing, which got more overkill than either Michael Jackson's Thriller, Bo Jackson's two-sports status or Mike Tyson's hype ever did. Thank God it's over.

Or is it?

I see blatant, brazen commercials on television, showing off the Armed Forces. "Freedom isn't free," they exclaim.

They're right. The freedom our country gave to a no-vote-needed monarchy in Kuwait, just because we didn't like Saddam Hussein, sure wasn't free. We saw that every time we went to the gas pumps. We're still seeing it today.

Speaking of gas pumps, there are plenty of reaction-style ads for Big Oil. "Let's put our energy into saving it," one fuel company shouts at me.

See? No escape from the Storm.

Now, of course, we have a problem. Lots of money - including MY TAX MONEY - was spent. And the government needs more aid, because of the debts it incurred overseas.

So, here's a not-so-novel idea. How about the oil companies paying for the freedom they received to wipe out my paycheck for another day? Then, maybe, I'll buy a new bicycle. And save PLENTY of energy, if not frustration.

But even this I can live with. It's not the same as having an inner feeling of being cheated in life. Which I do.

See, I've always had this fascination with the Vietnam era. Not the war, per se. But the anti-war movement and civil rights actions that took place in the 1960s and early 1970s.

I wish I could take pare in a quantum leap, jumping back to Selma, Alabama, or Woodstock, or Kent State. Just to experience it. To be a part of it.

I wonder what it would be like to be involved with Flower Power, The British Revolution and "Make Love, Not War."

But I can't. I'm trapped in the 1990s, a castoff from a previous generation. I'll never be able to fully experience an era which, at times, I think I would have fit into much better.

What happened to all the great anti-war protests and songs?

This year, we were slapped across the ears with Whitney Houston doing a glitzy lip-synch version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" at the Super Bowl, and Bette Midler's wishful-thinking saga "From A Distance."

How about that inept all-star cover of John Lennon's "Give Peace A Chance"? The multi-voice choir should have given their efforts a break. Leave the original alone.

The radio was saturated with Lee Greenwood ("God Bless the USA") and Dennis DeYoung (lead singer of the popular rock band Styx), forced by local radio stations to share time with crying children, hysterical spouses and George Bush on an overly-dubbed version of "Show Me The Way," which, as far as I can tell from the lyrics, has NOTHING to do with Desert Storm.

I want some REAL patriotic music. How about songs like "This Land Is Your Land" by Woody Guthrie? Or the Jefferson Airplane's "Volunteers"?

What about classics like Edwin Starr's "War," Bob Dylan's "Masters of War" and Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth"?

Where's the lyrical spiritualism of a Dylan, a Pete Seeger? What happened to Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Arlo Guthrie and Country Joe & The Fish?

Where are the great protest singers of today?

I don't know.

And that's the most depressing part.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Chanticleers, Emus Are Names To Reckon With

I am consistently fascinated by the naming of things.

For example, West Branch is south of South Branch, but north of North Branch, which is located far south of here, near Lapeer.

It's a pity there's no East Branch, because if there were, it would probably be located way north, near Harbor Springs. Nothing like keeping my directions straight on the state map.

On the map of the NCAA Basketball Tournament, you may have noticed a school called Coastal Carolina, which is nicknamed the Chanticleers.

The what?

The Chanticleers. After the rooster in Geoffrey Chaucer's "The Nun's Priest's Tail" in The Canterbury Tales.

Coastal Carolina was not the only team with a unique nickname. There were the Richmond Spiders, Murray State Racers, Wisconsin-Green Bay Fighting Phoenix and Wake Forest Demon Deacons.

And, of course, there's Eastern Michigan University, which has no official nickname. They used to be known as the Hurons, but that was before school officials decided that Native American tribes do not make suitable nicknames.

Just for the record, and not really meaning to harp on directional misnomers, but the Hurons are a tribe that the dictionary says come from west of Lake Huron. Ypsilanti, last time I checked, was not west of Lake Huron.

Anyway, the lack of a nickname left people calling Eastern the Emus - which is an ostrich-like bird as native to Ypsilanti as the Huron tribe.

I should note here that commentators on Cable News Network, ESPN and several radio stations broadcasting tournament games chose to keep calling Eastern the Hurons. They probably just didn't feel right about saying "Emus" on national broadcasts.

The last nickname-less team in the Big Show was Siena College, in 1989. They had dropped the moniker "Indians," but no one called them the Emus, either. They were dubbed the Measlemen, though, since there was a measles outbreak at the New York campus.

What's in a name? Well, names are a big part of schools today. And one of the things which has come up recently in the West Branch-Rose City School District is a change of name.

The thrust of this argument is that, having a two-sivyt, hyphenated name produces a division among the two cities within the district.

Maybe there's some merit in the idea to change the name. Suggestions I heard at a recent school board meeting included:

Ogemaw Consolidated Schools.

Ogemaw Hills Schools.

Ogemaw Area Schools.

If it would help ease whatever tensions exist between some residents in Rose City and West Branch, a name change would be great.

But then some people started talking about changing school nicknames. And colors. Somebody suggested making them uniform throughout the school district.

Well, hold on. Let's not get carried away.

Even if the district name is changed, there's no need to start messing with individual school nicknames. Surline can still be the Patriots, even though there's no team locally called the Scuds.

Rose City can remain the Wolverines. However, maybe the colors should be maize and blue. Just a thought.

Whatever. Just don't mess with the nicknames. You might end up having to dress some poor student up like an ostrich at sporting events.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Sometimes Patriots Can Be A Nasty Bunch

His name is Marko Lokar. His stance on the Middle East war became the focal point of perceived patriotism this month.

Lokar is a 21-year-old sophomore at Seton Hall. Rather, he was at Seton Hall. Now, he's back home, in Italy, with his wife, having quit the Pirates' basketball team under death threats, jeers, boos and other gestures of disgust and loathing.

Why?

Because of a decision on a topic which, at any other time, could appear frivolous or even petty.
He refused to wear the American flag on his uniform.

I call this petty because before this war to free Kuwait broke out, there was no call to wear the red, white and blue. Indeed, when this war is through, I'm quite sure the ribbons and flags will be put away again, never to be seen until another war - or hostage situation - takes place.

But the flag - as with yellow ribbons and other shows of support for the U.S. troops in Saudi Arabia - is a symbol of patriotism. Virtually every sports team in America, it seems, has a U.S. flag sewn on its uniform.

His decision did not come from a viewpoint of patriotism, or the supposed lack thereof, though. Lokar's statement stood with his personal, religious convictions as a Christian.

As a Christian, he said, he cannot support war in any form. And supporting the troops, he added, is the same as approving of war - the troops are doing the fighting.

Now, i can understand this viewpoint. If you don't support war in general, how can you support the troops? There's a fine line between the two, and in Lokar's case, he knows where that line is.

But this isn't a column about one man's religious convictions versus supporting troops.

This is about freedom - the freedom to express yourself, politically or religiously, verbally or silent.
We, the American people, should be ashamed of ourselves for this violation of the most basic, unalienable right - the right to express our opinions.

Or not to.

It was Lokar's decision not to wear a flag on his uniform. So what? A flag is a symbol, an icon of our country, and the freedom it offers to old and young, black and white, unbiased and bigoted.

What gives any of us the right to impose on anyone else what - if any - symbol we should wear?

By not wearing an American flag, does the pride I have in my country wane?

By not wearing a yellow ribbon, am I any less patriotic than I was before Desert Storm began?

I don't think so.

This radical wave of "patriotism" has become an obsession, in many cases an insult to what the word is supposed to mean.

A patriot is someone who loves his or her country and passionately guards its welfare.

A patriot is not required to wear that support of country on his sleeve, chest, jacket or hat. Or force it on others.

This is exactly what the lunch-mob mentality crowds at Seton Hall basketball games were vigorously implying, however.

Through their freedom of speech, they were telling Lokar - and the rest of the nation - that there were no choices on patriotic showings anymore. That it is now mandatory.

If everyone else in a group is showing so-called support by wearing a certain patch, then the decision should be unanimous.

This is wrong.

Lokar's stance was also one of freedom. It, too, was a form of freedom of speech. It is not against the law in this country.

At least, it's not supposed to be.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

League Will Regret Not Bringing In Glenn

With blindfold on and cigarette in mouth, the soon-to-be executed soul was placed on exhibition one final time.

"All I wanted," John Glenn said, "was to be one of the gang. To have some fun. Shucks, all I wanted was a little ... company.

But the two executioners, Mr. Gladwin and Mr. Standish-Sterling, laughed and pulled the trigger, walking away from a bleeding John Glenn, of Bay City.

John Glenn promised hope and growth for the North East Michigan Conference, and received a shallow, "Thanks, but no thanks," instead.

Not everyone in the NEMC felt this way. Ogemaw Heights was all in favor of bringing in some fresh blood, even if it meant the Falcons would no longer be the biggest kid on the block.

OHHS Athletic Director Jamie Richards pointed out to the West Branch-Rose City Board of Education the many benefits adding the Bay City school would offer.

Options such as better scheduling, additional financial backing for the league and the "Bay City media connection" would prove beneficial to the league.

Ogemaw was not alone in looking at John Glenn favorably. Tawas, Oscoda and Pinconning also voted to bring Glenn in to the league.

But in this ballroom, it takes five to tango. And neither Gladwin nor Standish-Dterling were willing to become a dance partner.

Gladwin made its stance known immediately: We don't play John Glenn now, and we aren't about to, either.

But while Gladwin's response was predictable - the G's have never been a big fan of facing off against the Bobcats - Standish-Sterling's was quite the reverse.

The NENC's lone "hyphenated" school used poor logic in explaining how Glenn's admission would bring the league to its knees.

According to Standish-Sterling's athletic director, the school's coaches are afraid of playing the larger John Glenn because their sports programs would suffer.

Uh-huh. This from a school which traveled downstate to take on the defending Class B football champions, Farmington Hills Harrison, last year - a move based in the theory that you improve by taking on bigger, new challenges.

One might also assume this quest for improvement would be a daily ritual, that Standish-Sterling didn't get thrashed by Harrison and say, "Well, that's the best we can do, time to pack up the bags and head to Bermuda for a while."

One game does not continual improvement make.

And, gee, don't the Panthers already play Glenn in a couple of sports? Yes.

Now, if you already face the Bobcats,how can you justify that putting them in your league would make things worse? Does playing a team twice in a season instead of once a season shoot down your entire program? Methinks not.

But even these excuses, as wishy-washy and pathetic as they are, do not compare to the King Solomon decision rendered by the school. And this is what's really got my stomach turning.

There's a line Danny Glover's character had in Lethal Weapon which applies here: "If she's gonna die, she'll die my way - not your."

At least Gladwin's decision, though officially stated by the Board of Education, came from the athletic department's head honcho. As did the four "yes" votes. The athletic directors at these schools had the chutzpah, whether right or wrong, to make what could have been a difficult decision.

But Standish-Sterling played by a different set of rules.

The Panthers' athletic director, Jim Markle, wanted his school to accept Glenn. But the coaches, looking at the Bobcats as a threat to their very being, wanted no part of it.

So what does Markle do? Does he side with the coaches? Or does he make a stand and say, "Bigger competition makes us a better school, and the NEMC a better league."?

He does neither. Instead, he forms a three-membert panel to weigh the options and make its recommendation to the board.

Now, committees have their time and place, And, on occasion, they even live up to their promise.

This was not one of those times.

So the NEMC remains a six-team league, while those around it are merging and growing.

John Glenn was executed. But it is the NEMC that will suffer for it.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Beard Sparks Friends To "Name That Gaba"

It's been something I've been meaning to do since 1986 - the last time I attempted such a venture.

So one morning, about a month ago, I stared at my face in the mirror, a bloodshot gaze that came from not enough sleep after catching an episode of The Equalizer on late-night television.

"Your problem," I told myself, "is that you're lazy."

And so, right then and there, I decided to take advantage of my lethargic approach toward shaving.

And let the beard grow out.

The last time I had a beard was over four years ago, and if there's anything that can be said about that bout without the razor, it's that the comments overheard were often humorous.

There was the wedding I played DJ at, for example. One of the bridesmaids commented to another that, at least if the pastor hadn't shown up, we would have had a replacement rabbi at the reception. Me being the rabbi, I guess. Obviously, this was a lady who watched Fiddler on the Roof about 30,000 times too often for her own good.

This, of course, was nothing compared to the "standard" references to bearded men of note throughout history - Abraham Lincoln, Moses and the rock band ZZ Top. One of my friends went so far as to call em "Honest Gabe," partially because of Mr. Lincoln, to a degree because of my last name.

I had grown a beard for the first time while in college in 1984, starting three weeks before the Tigers-Padres World Series matchup. So I had already heard a lot of the same types of commentary about my facial feature.

A former college roommate dubbed me The Neanderthal Man, because I resembled one of the lead characters in the movie, The Clan of the Cave Bear. Another ex-roomie started a betting pool on how long my beard would be by the end of the semester.

What you have to understand about these references is that, by the time the jokes and comments were in full swing. I had a pretty healthy beard. The rabbinical reference was probably accurate in terms of internal appearance, except I didn't grow the sideburn curls like the ultra-religious Orthodox Jews did. By comparison's sake, what I have right now is but a mere babe in the woods, a puppy in need of growing up.

Still, this time around, the silly statements are getting any sillier. The beard was entering its second week at the time Operation Desert Storm took effect, an done of my friends thought my infantile-stage growth made me look like Saddam Hussein.

Right. I didn't even know Saddam had a beard. Maybe she meant Fidel Castro, or Yassir Arafat. You know, evil, domineering leaders with beards.

By the next week, another acquaintance thought I looked like a priest.

No, I thought, there's a contradiction in terms. By the time Valentine's Day rolls along, I'll probably be the second coming of Cupid (a bearded one, at that). Or Ringo Starr.

How long will it stay? Who knows? Probably at least until it warms up a bit more.

Or until I'm just too lazy to keep being lazy in the morning.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Palestinian Issue Has God Shaking His Head

Former journalist I.F. Stone once said that if God is dead, He died trying to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict.

The conflict is alive and kicking - this time in the limelight because of unprovoked attacks by Iraq against Israel.

Iraq's Saddam hussein says he is fighting a holy war, with God on his side. If God is dead, He's probably turning in His grave.

After being bombed two successive nights, Israel has acted most un-Israeli by not sending her air force to retaliate against Iraq.

And this amazes me, as it does most everyone I know. We all expected Israel to respond immediately; a few figured she woudl strike before Hussein did.

Hussein wanted nothing better than to bring Israel in, for two reasons: (1) to break up the allied coalition; and (2) to bring the Israeli-Palestinian issue to the front.

And wouldn't that make for interesting fodder in the fodder file?

Since 1948, when a territory called Palestine was divided between Palestinian Arabs and Jews, the Middle East has been one big discord: four ArabIsraeli wars and more battles, bombings, terrorist attacks, political upheavals, assassinations and military coups than the rest of the world combined.

God, what a mess.

The war that led to the breakup of Palestine uprooted more than 500,000 Arabs from their homes. These people - Palestinians - sought refuge in Jordan, Syria or Lebanon - all Arab nations.

Now, this isn't really as mild as, say, an eviction notice. The comparison is rather moderate, truth be known.

But logic would seem to dictate that if someone is evicted from their house, a sibling might be inclined to take that person in for a while, assist in some way.

However, logic does not always prevail in the Middle East. Incredibly, no Arab nation looked after the Palestinians, shunning them like they had the plague.

Not all the refugees set up camp in the bordering Arab countries; 150,000 remained in the new nation of Israel. And while life for them could be difficult, they were allowed some political rights - something unimaginable in an Arab monarchy or dictatorship (are you listening, Saddam?).

An eventual culmination of these tensions was the formation of the Palestinian Liberation Organization, which served as an umbrella organization for all clubs, societies, and parliamentary groups serving the Palestinians.

The PLO was created in 1964 and has been a wonderful school for anyone who ever dreamed of becoming a professional terrorist.

Another branch thrown on the Palestinian refugee fire was the Six-Day War of 1967, sparked by Egypt's blockade of the Gulf of Aqaba. Israel saw this as illegal and proceeded to raid Egyptian, Jordanian, Syrian and Iraqi airfields.

When the sand had settled, Israel owned Egypt's Sinai Peninsula and Gaza Strep, Jordan's West Bank of the Jordan River (also known as Judea and Samaria), and the Golan Heights portion of Syria. The taking of the Occupied Territories brought almost one million Palestinians under Israeli rule, something nobody had anticipated.

It's almost 24 years later, and the problem is still there. Unrest is still an everyday occurrence in Israel, for the in-state Palestinians demand more freedoms, and tensions grow.

I don't know what will happen regarding the Palestinian issue after the war against Hussein ends. If God isn't dead, maybe He's been trying to figure out a solution.

Then again, maybe even God doesn't have that answer.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Oil's Not A Reason To Slide Into War

Several years ago, a newspaper political cartoonist drew up then-Israeli leader Menachim Begin's "Peaceful Withdrawal of America" scenario.

As you may well remember, the United States was asking Israel to return portions of land it had won in war to her Arab neighbors. And the cartoonist, playing off this request, made some light of a "what-if-we-turned-the-tables" spoof.

What if the United States were forced to return all its previously-conquered territory?

Would we give back lands to France, Spain, Mexico? Would we dance with wolves and return parts of this country to the Native Americans?

This cartoon comes to mind in light of the current Persian Gulf situation, where we are imposing that Iraq leave its conquered territory and let the Kuwaiti government - currently in exile - return to power.

As I write this, the United States and Iraq are preparing to become larger-than-life versions of the World Wrestling Federation. You know, "In this corner, Uncle Sam 'The Ultimate Warrior' America, and in this corner, 'Hulk' Hussein."

But even as I joke about the Persian Gulf crisis, it is important to realize that the events taking place are shaping our lives this very minute.

Let's face it: War is no joke. We saw that in Vietnam and we're seeing it again now.

And as I sit here, punching out these words, I am filled with confusion and rage.

Most of my confusion regards the reason we've stuck our butts in the sand of Saudi Arabia in the first place.

I'd like to believe it has something to do with freedom, which is what this great and wonderful country is supposed to stand for. I'd like to believe the United States is trying to right a wrong which has been committed by a volatile, untrustworthy Arabic leader.

I'd like to presume our interests have nothing - not a thing - to do with big business, or oil reserves, or politics, or whatever else comes to mind.

I'd like to assume it;s because we, as America, are doing the right thing. That for once we haven't placed ourselves in a Catch-22 situation.

But I cannot. My confusion over the reasons leaves me numb and angry.

I am not a supporter of war. When the battle cries of hawks and doves are heard, my megaphone will be on the side of peace.

Every time I think of why we've sent thousands of soldiers and millions of tax dollars to the Gulf area, my mind tells me it's oil.

We could be sending our monies to assisting the homeless, not to the Gulf.

But instead, we send it overseas.

Oil rules. Oil commands. Oil is like a god that drives us, because it drives our automobiles.

It's not freedom of people we're interested in. It's freedom of business.

I wish I didn't feel so. I wish I could watch the news or see President George Bush's lips move with words like "freedom" and "democracy" and not tie in the big business factor so quickly, so presumptuously.

But I do.

And I'm not alone. Across the nation this past weekend, there were peace vigils. Protests stated. Flags burned.

And to those of you who are opposed to that last part, let me say that I'd rather we be burning flags in protest of a questionable war, than laying that same flag over a casket of a soldier who was killed in battle.

And that's the prospect a war would give us.

Again.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

What's In A Name? In This Case, Everything

For the first six months of my employment at the Ogemaw County Herald, this column was called "Thoughts at Small."

Call it that no more.

"Thoughts at Small" is dead. Long live "The Gift of Gaba."

The new title of this column is, of course, a play on my last name ... and my ability to talk up a storm.

The old title was a play on the phrase "thoughts at large," which a couple thousand readers did not quite comprehend. (A common problem with the kind of humor that lives in my slightly deranged left-wing brain.)

More on that later. Right now, back to the new column name. On more than one occasion, I have been reminded that my last name sure lives up to my ability to gab.

Oh, well. That's the price I have to pay for being the way I am. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out the correlation between "Gaba" and "gab." At least, not from a linguistic standpoint.

This moniker was most recently suggested by my Grandma Sally - also a Gaba - who lives in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale. She thought it would be a pretty original, cute and funny title for the column.

Well, she was right - at least, in the "cute" and "funny" arena, I suppose. My mom loved the idea. My sister loved the idea. Even my managing editor thought it was a pretty good idea, proving that, gee, maybe I had something good here.

But it is hardly original.

What these four people have in common, if they didn't know before, is that it brings to about 750 the number of people who have told me, during the last 12 years of so, that I have this gift. The Gift of Gaba.

Like I said, you don't have to be a rocket scientist. Spend 10 seconds with me and it will be obvious that I'll never win any awards for being shy and reserved.

"The Gift of Gaba" is a new name for this column. But The Gift has been with me for years.

I can remember it clearly being around as far back as 1979, when I was a violinist in high school. Like most young musicians, I hated to practice.

In orchestra, my conductor, Mrs. Palmieri, would often turn to me and, in her even-toned, calm manner, ask me to KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT! To this, the rest of the class would invariably being to laugh.

Herb Isaac, our top cellist, was another excessive talker. He could sympathize with my plight, although having The Gift of Isaac seemed biblical, rather than vocal. After Mrs. P. would get through with her five-minute tirade, Herbie would turn to me and say, "I talk just as much as you, Paul, but I never get chewed out. It must be The Gift of Gaba."

Hmmm.

Having The Gift of Gaba is especially helpful each week when it comes to putting down the words that fill this column space on the opinion page.

And the replacement of "Thoughts at Small" now means you don't need to be a rocket scientist to understand the play on words that hovers over this rambling, left-wing lunacy each week.

Thank my grandma if you happen to be in the Fort Lauderdale area. She's easy to find ... just look for an older lady gabbing endlessly about her grandson, the writer.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.