It’s my 54th birthday. I started to take the day off. But that would be a cop-out. Who uses words like “cop-out” anymore? I mean besides me? Why not cop-in?
For some reason 54 sounds old-er, as opposed to 53. Maybe that is because it is, but only slightly. If you were born at 11:59 p.m. on Oct. 27, 1955 and someone else was born at 12:01 a.m. on Oct. 28, 1955, that wouldn’t really be older by much. But if you were born 11:59 p.m. on October 27, 1955, and someone else was born at 12:01 a.m. on Jan. 1, 1956, that still would only be older by one numeral, even if you were a couple of months older.
Ages seem incogitable sometimes while at other times they appear so insignificant.
A 100-year-old man chases down a 15-year-old thug of a purse snatcher and beats the teen silly. That’s unbelieveable. A 45-year-old kicks a 54-yard field goal in a pro football game. A 28-year-old kicker misses a 20-yard kick in the same game. So what?
Probably the most signficant aspect of age as far as I have experienced it is in terms of times past and the memories that lie therein. Those memories extend from remembering my family’s first TV set, to a seemingly endless parade of DBs (dead bodies) I wish I hadn’t seen, to watching the sun set out at sea to seeing the sun rise from sitting on top of my roof out on the farm.
The most disagreeable part of my aging is pain, although it has been around as a constant companion now since my early 30s. You can kill the pain for awhile, but it always comes back somewhere else ready to strike again at other locations on your body.
What age seems most of all to me is relative. It’s hard to put your finger on some aspects of age. Over the weekend my old high school friends were still talking about the insignifica of our lives 35 years ago and it all seemed as fresh as a daisy. I just remembered a little while ago that it was four years ago and not five that I went to Austin for the Texas Book Fair. It was my 50th birthday. Duh!
I don’t know if that relativity will fade away as more years come and go. I sure hope it doesn’t.
Who will I be rooting for when the World Series opens tomorrow evening in the “House that Steinbrenner Built?”
The answer is: the Houston Texans.
That’s right I am talking about the Houston NFL team that won its first back-to-back game in the franchise’s seven-year history with their triumph Sunday over the San Francisco 49ers. The Texans are no New Orleans. (I never thought I’d ever say any team is “no New Orleans.”) But if they keep things upright they might just have a playoff spot to advance in little baby steps as part of their toddler-esque existence.
But what about the Series? Who cares.
I suppose if you are a Phillies fan or Yankees fan you would care. But I am neither. Oh, I have had my days of Yankee worship, during the times of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. The Yankees have had some incredible talent in their history. As of late, most of that star power is courtesy of ginormous bucks. That’s nothing against Alex Rodriguez, who I saw play as a Ranger, or Rivera or Jeter.
The Phillies have also had some fantastic cattle in the pen over the years as well: Carlton, Schmidt, Sandberg and Rose, the latter in between stints with the Reds and his bookie.
Had the California, Anaheim, Los Angeles Angels been able to pull off the AL crown I might be watching the series starting tomorrow. But the possibility of the Yankees winning their 27th world championship just seems a bit too much, no matter how great their wealthy team may be.
I wish as well I could say that I am too excited to watch the series due to the Astros hiring new manager, Red Sox bench coach Brad Mills, today. But I don’t know who he is or much about him other than he played a few seasons for the Expos and had the dubious distinction of being Nolan Ryan’s 3,509th strikeout victim, thus making Ryan in 1983 the all-time K leader in the major leagues.
But Mills don’t field and Mills don’t hit. So we faithful who keep getting our hopes dashed like Charlie Brown and his elusive football kick will just have to wait and see how goes the ‘Stros. In the meantime, we have the Texans. Will they break our hearts as well?
This weekend at a high school reunion I found myself attempting to encourage an old friend who is a reluctant flyer. Patti said she would like to take a long flight to southern Europe but was uncomfortable with the idea of flying such a long duration. She noted that she didn’t even like to get to get up for a trip to the rest room while flying.
While such a notion might sound silly to most who fly, it certainly strikes a familiar chord within my recent memory. I too was once a reluctant flyer. It was 25 years between the time I took my first airline flight — from Houston to Chicago en route to Navy boot camp — and the next one.
The reason for that next flight in 1999, which was from Waco to St. Louis via Houston, was to spend a week with an old friend and former girlfriend. This friend had racked up the frequent flyer mileage in her work and she paid for my flight that way, so I figured I should “man up” and take the trip.
A television show on one of the Discovery or History channel-type networks ended up largely helping me to eventually conquer my flight reluctance. The show went step-by-step through the investigation of a plane crash that killed a number of passengers and crew though not all. The fact that more and more people — in most instances that is — seem to survive airline crashes was encouraging although not completely convincing. But what gave me more comfort through understanding was that this accident studied on the TV show and most others crashes are eventually found to occur as a culmination of a set of interrelated circumstances that happened prior to the accident.
Although no official report has yet been produced by NTSB, it is likely that this A-to-B-to-C-to-D cause and effect — in reverse if you’d like to think of it that way — had to happen for everything to go right so Capt. Sully Sullenberger could land his US Airways Flight 1549 safely into New York’s Hudson River.
Since 9/11/01and the following month in which an American Airlines Airbus A300 jumbo jet crashed in the Rockaway section of Queens, New York, the U.S. saw one of the lowest numbers of commercial air fatalities in recent years. No commercial carrier deaths were reported in 2007 and 2008.
So both lower numbers of airline crashes both in the U.S. and worldwide remains positive news enough that it might convince my friend Patti to fly across the ocean. Of course, taking an Atavan sometime during the flight might do a world of good as well.
"Hey wait a minute! That doesn't look like Minnesota. I think we missed a turn."
Well, perhaps the crash in Buffalo that killed 50 people including one person in a house couldn’t be helped. It certainly wouldn’t be a surprise to learn that it could be helped though. But the incident in which the pilots on the Northwest flight — perhaps both pilots bearing the name Bozo, but just speculating — thankfully didn’t hurt or kill anyone but it seems more and more likely that their error could have been prevented.
Such incidents not only give more ammunition to reluctant flyers but it also doesn’t instill confidence into the one-time reluctant flyers like myself or even the plain ol’ flyers.
“Hey, we landed the damn thing. What more do you want?”
The good news is that they didn’t overshoot the runway, they just overshot the airport. But one can hardly call that good news either.
For all the Chesley Sullenbergers and all the other sharp and super-competent pilots and air crew out there remains some with both their heads in the clouds as well as up their asses.
These guys got their plane, crew and passengers safely home. But their missing the airport the first time is a seriously bad reflection on the American commercial air industry. Hopefully the pilots of that Northwestern will have time to think about their transgressions during a long vacation.
Oh and as for my conquering my reluctance to fly, it didn’t happen on the flight to St. Louis and it certainly didn’t take place on the way back. We flew back into Waco on a “puddle-jumper” on a windy spring day. As our wings bounced on approach we took a very quick drop that would put carnival rides to shame. The college girl sitting next to me might have wondered if my grip on the seat in front of her was going to break the headrest into.
But I eventually became more comfortable with flying. Not totally — something as huge as airplanes flying still seem somewhat unnatural to me — but with enough comfort to sit back and look at how small the world looks below.
Here is the kind of verdict that leaves me completely flummoxed.
A jury today here in Beaumont, of the Texas variety,sentenced suspended state trooper Jonathan Barnett to six months in jail and fined him $10,000 for running a family business that operates illegal gaming machines. Documents listed Barnett, 32, as president of a family-owned novelty machine company raided by authorities in 2007. The machines owned and leased by the company included so-called “eight-liners.” These are essentially slot machines which businesses award winning customers who play with cash.
Barnett, a trooper since 2001, testified that he began phasing out his oversight of the company to his mother after becoming a highway patrol officer. He also denied knowing the machines had been used for gambling. Jurors found Barnett guilty of engaging in organized criminal activity. Due to the gambling charges involved in the alleged activity, Barnett could have been sentenced to a maximum of two years in prison, according to local media reports.
So why am I flummoxed at this verdict, you might ask? He was found guilty. He was a state trooper he should have known better. Right and right. Thus is the reason for my bewildered state.
Was this man stupid, arrogant, greedy or all the above?
Local and state law enforcement, including Barnett’s soon to be former employer the Texas Department of Public Safety, continually make local headlines with bust of eight-liner arcades across the state. State laws in the mid-1990s provided the so-called “fuzzy animal” exception which allows a machine to pay out a non-cash prize for a play of $5 value or 10 times the cost of play, whichever is less. Most cash prizes awarded illegally are done on the sly, which often necessitates undercover police operations to bust the eight-liner operators and owners.
In short, a Texan can’t walk down the street without being hit on the head by media reports of proud local law enforcers showing off the gambling machines they busted and money seized in the raids. Since I have seen cops of all stripe gambling illegally in all manners perhaps short of slot machines, and have even gambled with cops before, I don’t believe their fervor for busting eight-liners is rooted in religion or moral repugnance. Perhaps it has something to do with the money seized in the raids that go to the various police agencies. Could that be it? Surely not.
What irritates me the most about the Barnett case is the blemish he causes for the agency that employed him. In general terms, I have had more respect for the Texas Highway Patrol than any other law enforcement agency. Maybe he is just a bad apple or an ignoramus. He is not the only one I have seen in the DPS nor will he be the last. But the fact is eight-liner gambling is a very high-profile offense, though hardly the stuff of Baby Face Nelson, and this now convicted and sentenced former state trooper should have steered clear of his family ties to the “novelty” gaming business when he decided to don the gray suit and cowboy hat of the DPS.
I also feel that someday “real” slot machines will be tumbling their fruit in certain sectors of the Lone Star State. That is, if the money bagged folks who want gambling in Texas can outspend and outwit those who already operate casinos in neighboring states. When that happens, and I believe it will, the eight-liners will be a relic of times past. Then, people like former trooper Barnett will be convicted felons despite the diminished nature of the crime.
Talk about your dumb crimes. This one rates way on up there.
