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See the USA as a small-town journalist.

Sometimes I like to head for places I never been or never even heard of and see what’s making the news there. It’s not that I like to make fun of small-town news. As I have mentioned here before I was a small-town newsman. Some people might call all the papers at which I once worked small-town newspapers. Most were, although three were dailies and the last one I worked for on a full-time basis was a medium-sized newspaper. My first job, though was editor of a daily that had a circulation of about 1,200. I was chief cook and bottlewasher, as my Dad used to say.

Reporters and editors, sales people, printers, circulation managers, delivery folks, all those good salt o’ the Earth people who ply their trade for newspapers in small towns see news up close and personal. The people who are victims of car wrecks are their neighbors, people in their churches, the water rates raised by the town council affect the reporter and the editor, and of course, football ties the town together until a losing coach tears the town apart. So off we go to the hinterland and see what is happening among the salt o’ the Earth:

It’s probably not a mountain lion in Nebraska. Chris Dunker, staff writer of the “Beatrice Daily Sun” in Nebraska, gives a pretty extensive look at whether a big animal people have seen around those parts is a mountain lion, coyote or just your run-of-the-mill unidentified big-ass animal. (UBAA, I guess.)

It ain’t heavy, it’s our neighborhood moose calf. Another animal story. This you have to expect in Alaska, unless Sarah Palin is around. Then you have to expect a dead animal story. Some neighbors in Mud Bay got together to rescue a moose calf from a pond, according to the “Chilkat Valley News.” Their motto is: “Serving Haines and Klukwan since 1966.” And now the can add the lower Sabine-Neches Valley of Southeast Texas. Or not.

This might sound obscene but it’s not. You expect the quaint from Vermont. But somehow this headline from an article written by Stephanie M. Peters in the “Rutland Herald” (Oh stop it! We haven’t even made it to the headline yet,) which is: “County philatelists pull out of state fair.” Rutland was the only place I visited in Vermont. Nice place, but I wonder if the stamp enthusiasts will go to a place more hospitable to their philateling. Maybe Albany or Stockbridge.

Oh no! It’s a … it’s a … empty box. The Hoover (Alabama) police bomb squad was called to investigate a suspicious container that two men in an SUV dropped off in a Food World grocery store parking lot in Pelham, Ala. Food World employees thought the men’s activities were suspicious, as did the Pelham police chief, thus the bomb experts from the nearby bigger city (Hoover, about 70,000 people) were summoned. It turned out to be an empty storage box. There was no indication, according to the “Shelby County Reporter” in Columbiana, whether any littering charges are pending.

Finally, the police beat or blotter or whatever has long been a high-interest section of many newspapers. The little briefs vary from place-to-place. I wrote the briefs at several newspapers and I can attest to the fact they are well read. Some places, where they are still able to pull it off, have a rather humorous take on the police beat or at least a funny headline or two. People seem to get ticked off about the least little thing and since humor seems lost among the righteous bastards more and more funny will likely disappear. But as long as we can still enjoy it, have fun with the Cops brief headlines from one of my favorite newspapers (or at least with a few of my favorite newspaper folks) “The Daily Sentinel” in Nacogdoches, Texas. I will let you read the briefs your ownself.

“How is this my fault? I didn’t put the road here?”

“How I am I going to get extra mints on my pillow now?”

“Fine you can play through.”

Ah such fun. But I don’t miss counting headlines, hot wax, car wrecks at 2 p.m.  on the road next to the big oak by the Johnson’s in Podunk, writing 15 stories a week, election night pizza, school board executive sessions until 2 a.m., “Grip and Grin,” and finally, “Oh, I think I know a little about journalism. I took a journalism class in 1) high school 2) college 3) high school and college.”

But I tell you young whippah snappahs out there who aspire to greatness in journalism, think big by thinking little. If you want to learn about journalism, learn about people. If you want to learn about people, go get yourself down to Podunk, get a job as a reporter or editor of the weekly, and learn journalism. And don’t worry, you won’t starve, the Lion’s Club always got good food as does most Rotary Clubs. Conflict of Interest? Ethics violations? If you can be bought off with a chicken-fried steak, you certainly don’t need to be a journalist.

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Is there a right side of the bed on which to wake?

 Paul from Tokyo, my IT consultant extraordinaire, tried to teach me about tags over the weekend but my feet started swelling and it freaked me out so I didn’t learn a whole lot. Ah Paul, it might be awhile before I can snatch the pebble from your hand. Nonetheless, those red (for now at least) words which are of unequal size on the right sidebar are the tags I am talking about. Give them a poke and see where they take you. Neat huh?

 A product of a couple of middle-aged college friends on a weekend, one in Japan one in Beaumont, Texas. Much zany fun.

 Just a short thought. If I had more time today I would look up the origin of the saying: “He/she woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

 I haven’t ever figured this one out though having gone through relationships which require 1) a bed and 2) a side of a bed, or if it is a really comfortable relationship 3) a bed, a side of a bed and a side of fries, I know what it means to wake up on the wrong side of the bed. It means a lot of unpleasantness.

 This morning I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed exactly. I sleep by myself so the only problem with waking up on the wrong side of the bed is having to decide whether I want to roll back over to get up and go to the bathroom or get up and walk around the bed to go to the bathroom. Because that’s usually what I do when I wake up. I know, I know, too much information.

 This morning I woke up irritated and it wouldn’t matter what side of the bed from which I exited the bed.

 About 5 a.m. I woke up and couldn’t sleep. Probably some time about 6:45 a.m. I drifted off into light slumber when all of a sudden, that phone ring from my T-Mobile — you know that sweet, sickening, bell-like tune, that makes you want to do a Quasimodo — sang out: “De De De De De, De De De De De, Come answer me. F**k you let me be.”

 So I get up. I look at the screen and see no familiar name but I see familiar numbers, which are ones emanating from my part-time job’s home office in Dallas. I answer the phone and it goes: “Screecccchhhh, Squaaaaaannkkk, Deetleleteletlee.” I think: “Why is my office sending my cell phone a fax at 6:57 a.m.?” Actually, the better question is why is my office sending my cell phone a fax at all? I don’t have a fax at home.

 I tried to call my boss’ number. His voice mail said it was Friday and he was in the office. The last part might be true, but I know good and well today is Monday. I try calling his boss. She didn’t say what day it was on her voice mail but she was on voice mail, so… I hung up.

 I got back in bed and “De de de de de De de de de de.” And I thrust my right thumb harshly down upon the little red telephone with the sign of the beast, or whatever that is, above it.

 Back to bed where I had decided to alarm myself at 8:30 instead of 8. If I am a little late to my office, it’s the main office’s fault for faxing my cell phone. I fall asleep about 8:10 and my dying-cow alarm knocks me out of bed, readying me to either birth or bury whatever calf that might be on hand. Thank goodness, like always at least not for some 25 years, no cows.

 Not long after arriving at work our monthly, regional teleconference began. At the end where Q & A are bandied about, I asked my boss who or why tried to fax my cell phone. He said we would talk about it after the conference. It turned out to be no big deal. The main office was trying to fax my colleague who works out of her home. The unanticipated rings really didn’t aggravate me. I  guess maybe if the mistake had been made by someone I despised for some reason that ticked me off I would have been really pissed.

 But there was no one to really get angry with so I am instead just left a little tired after the whole ordeal. I can’t help but wonder what the reaction would have been with a bed-partner? Sheesh. Recalling some of the femme fireballs who at one time staked their claim to a side of my bed, chances are the situation would not have been as mellow as I now feel looking back on the episode.

 Maybe that whole “waking up on the wrong side of the bed” relates to sleeping with someone, as in a relationship. I got to look that whole thing up as it will nag at me like an old girlfriend. But I think I should first take a nap.

Oh and PS, Newton whipped/spanked/beat (sounding a little too S & M here?) Corrigan-Camden Friday night by a score of 40-21

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True confessions: It's Friday night lights

If you have ever watched NBC’s rightfully, hit TV show, “Friday Night Lights,” saw the Peter Berg movie of the same name or read the exceptional Buzz Bissinger book that inspired both shows then you might know why people around my area are excited right now.

This is “Week 0” in Texas. That is all you need to know although it means that it is the first week high school football teams can officially play over an 11-week season. If they played last night or tonight or Saturday they will have to take one week off during that time. Or at least that’s how I understand it. If I am wrong sorry.

One high school game tonight interests me greatly. Had circumstances not been beyond my control I would probably be one my way to watch the game.

It is the classic class 2A battle of the Newton Eagles and the Corrigan-Camden Bulldogs. The game will be played tonight in Corrigan, which is about 90 miles north of Houston.

Now my interest is two-fold but more accurately two-fold times two-fold by something or other square. Please forgive my math. I went to Newton High School. Actually, my poor math is owed more to my disinterest and disdain for arithmetic than the ability of that school’s teachers to teach it.

As an aside, Coach Curtis Barbay, 67, now in his 35th year as Newton head coach — who is the No. 8 winningest HS coach in Texas with a 302-93-6 record and who led his Eagles to three state championships — was my World History teacher during my sophomore year. Coach was less than inspiring as a history teacher and as I mentioned before, he once used his ham-handed fist to power a paddle that beat my ass for talking in class. When the Eagles won their last state championship in 2005, I finally forgave Barbay for that. Nonetheless, he was at least more than 35 years ago a mediocre history teacher — back then and my opinion only — but I eventually came to love the subject and generally excel at it. Although, I will admit I was probably a pretty mediocre if not exceptionally lazy student. I was, afterall, voted Laziest in my school.

With all of the former high school animosity out of the way, I have long been a fan of high school football and as well one of my old high school team. The fact that Barbay was able to win 300-some-odd games over 35 years as well as having few seasons without his team in the playoffs speaks to an exceptional coaching ability. But beyond that, it shows someone who can find raw talent and turn little into lots.

As for the Corrigan end of the equation, I lived there for a couple of years. It was where I had my first newspaper job as editor of the town’s little weekly. Now I must state here that even though I don’t plaster my name all over my blog, I have never made it difficult for those whom I do not know to find out just who the hell I am. So, I still am not going put my full name here there and everywhere just to add a little, imagined at least, mystique.

It was interesting editing the weekly and basically doing everything by myself with the exception of the three different secretaries who worked for me during those two years and my wonderful sales rep and friend who helped me leave that paper a lot better than it was.

The town itself gave me an education and insight into small-town America that my own childhood in an equally small town nor a truckload of Sinclair Lewis novels could have hardly afforded.

My feelings upon being the small-town editor that I often related to my friends was of it seeming as if “I was the full-time mayor though not elected.” When I visited the local grocery store, I was on, I was editor. I remember one old man, a fairly well-educated ne’er do well, sitting outside that store who threatened to whip my ass because I laughed about his indignancy over an error in the paper over which he could not cause me to cower.

And football! Man, was that town crazy over football! They also had a very heavy history of football insanity although I thought my hometown had a better record and didn’t seem quite as deranged about it. The school board meetings I covered at their school didn’t draw headlines over test scores, no it was about something related to football. That is with the exception of a national story on a slow news day when they decided to have a closed basketball game with a neighboring school due to threat of violence after a shooting in that nearby town.

I’ve looked at a couple of pre-season polls this afternoon. TexasHSFootball.com lists Newton as No. 10 in Texas 2A and Corrigan-Camden at No. 32. “Dave Campbell’s Texas Football” only has 25 slots in their preason poll and lists Newton at No. 10. Of course, “Texas Football” is the premiere football publication in the state, not just according to me and not just because I think Dave Campbell is a very knowledgeable fellow and quite the gentleman. Whatever the polls, it’s a long couple of months. During the last few years, schools down here in the southeastern corner of Texas have had their ups and downs due to unexpected guests named Rita, Humberto and Ike. Hopefully, that kind of action will stay away this year.

Let men, women and children see hopefully the best of their schools and their towns, big and small. It’s time for Friday night lights. And it’s time for some football!

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My shrimp tacos soothe the burning feets

Oh my feet, or, feets. I always thought feet should be called feets. It’s kind of like deer.

“I saw a herd of deer. One deer paused to look at another deer. A third deer looked back at me, but not before looking at one or more of the deer in the herd.”

Great awful antlers! Writing that sentence tuckered me out almost as much as thinking it up totally exhausted me. Tuckered exhaust. Exhausted tucker. Forrest Tucker exhausted himself when he saw a deer running from a deer herd. Then he died. Forrest Tucker, (1919-1986) that is. The old dude who played Sgt. Morgan Sylvester O’Rourke in the late 1960s Western sitcom “F Troop,” Tucker also starred in the 50’s hit “Auntie Mame” and was a stage star playing Professor Harold Hill in “The Music Man.” Trouble with a capital T that rhymes with P and that stands for pool.

But I digress.

As I have mentioned here before, I have some kind of feet problem. Certainly not little feet, or “Little Feat,” like one of my favorite bands of the same name. But rather it is burning feet or burning, aching, partially numb, tender-to-the-touch feet (or feets, or feats).

The feet malady has prevented me from what is likely my favorite hobby and exercise all rolled in one. That would be walking and hiking. That is, it prevents me from walking for any decent length of time. Also, it doesn’t take standing for very long on my feet before my feet become extremely uncomfortable and causes quite a lot of pain and numbness in my feet.

My doctors have not yet figured out what is the origin of my feets (sorry, I like to say feets and if I get a little joy saying feets rather than feet when it’s my feet giving me a great deal of hell, well, then … ) problem.

Perhaps the doctors have figured out what is not the etiology of my feet malady. A big one, diabetes, has perhaps been ruled out. I had some recent blood work that show I am at the cusp of diabetes, or as I think sounds more quaint, the “cusp ‘o diabetes.” Manly yes, but I don’t like it too. I weigh now more than I have ever weighed and need to lose it. Perhaps an end is at sight for this post.

I also had, or rather my doctor, or rather my doctor who skipped out on me, had my feets X-rayed. Doctors, especially VA doctors, sometimes work in mysterious ways. What they found in my “pictures?” Hammertoes. MC Hammertoes don’t hurt me! A one-time fractured right, fifth toe. Yes, I remember the hell out of that! Lacy-Lakeview, Texas. 2004-ish. Damn that thing hurt.

But the X-ray showed not what is wrong with my feets today. And my feet, both feet, hurt much worse than my broken pinkie toe did. It drives me up the wall. It gets in the way of my working, living, walking, enjoying life.

If you just get things done until you stop, however, you get things done. Then you can sit down, relax and let your feet really hurt like a a sonofabitch. But while I was getting things done, I made shrimp tacos. They were really quick, really good and really shrimp tacos. I had a side of white hominy. Only a half-can. Try to cut back on the carbs.

What kind of taco sauce or powder did I use? Huh? What you talkin’ ’bout Willis?

Okay. Don’t hate me because I don’t have fresh shrimp. If you do, go f**k yourself. Big freezen (yes I spelled it that way on porpoise) shrimp. Fire up the grill. Unfreezen der shrimpen vit der vater un der sinken. Swish. Swish. Colander if you got ’em. Put the shrimp into an appropriate container, not a container ship unless you have a lot of shrimp and a lot of marinade. In an appropriate amount sprinkle, add, dump:

cilantro, cayenne, black pepper, salt or substitute, lemon juice, olive oil, red wine vinegar, sweet basil, garlic powder, comino, paprika

Whithk. Kind of like “whisk” only with a “thithk.” Dump the shrimp. Put a lid on it. Agitate. That is, agitate the container but don’t get agitated. Once fully agitated, make yourself a cold, adult beverage. Oh, and put the shrimp in the fridge and wait for the coals to coalesce.

Have some chopped up tomatoes, shredded lettuce, some salsa, canned chopped chili peppers, tortillas, cheese if you want but I’m trying to stay away from the C-word.

Cook the shrimp, tail down, for about 7-8 minutes. Remove from the grill. Quickly grill a couple of tortillas. Grab the tortillas with your bare hands and burn the crap out of them so you will forget about your burning feet. Put the shrimp and all the other stuff you want to put on them on them, meaning the tortillas. Eat. Drink. Be merry. Put up your feets. Enjoy. I certainly did.

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A short so long for Ted Kennedy

Since most of my friends and relatives think that my liberal tendencies run just a little to the left of Uncle Joe Stalin, I thought I would surprise them with a very short post noting the death of the “Liberal Lion” Sen. Edward Kennedy.

Ted Kennedy was the second Kennedy brother of John F. who never made it to the coveted presidency. That worked out okay for people on both sides of the political spectrum. The right didn’t get the liberal Kennedy brother as president. The left and center got a pretty damn good legislator and one hell of an orator of the likes one never sees anymore in Congress. Byrd was an old-time orator but he has just become too old to do the job. I’m sorry to say.

Ted Kennedy had his faults like all human beings. He wasn’t a good driver to say the least. But he was a tough old bird who did a lot of good for a lot of people.

If you didn’t like him or can’t find something for which to admire him, I’m sorry. I can find good in even the sorriest individuals on Earth with maybe the exception of Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, Michelle Malkin, Bill O’Reilly, Sean Hannity … Oh, Limbaugh does a good impression of a pig running around with a stick in his mouth when he inserts a cigar. My uncle used to say when he would see someone smoking a cigar: “I guess it’s going to rain. I see a pig running around with a stick in his mouth.” You had to be there.

So there is my short eulogy for Sen. Edward M. Kennedy, D-Mass., the late. Rest in peace.