There was a pot luck lunch in my office today. I brought a sandwich. For myself. I don’t participate in pot luck meals. Crock pots containing mysterious substances intimidate me. Whatever is laying in repose in those aluminum pans may, in fact, taste good, but they appear to me like yet to be identified tissue samples. Some baked goods seem acceptable until I’m informed they are topped with cream cheese rather than frosting. Someone thoughtfully brought in a bag of Doritos, which proved to be a worthy accompaniment to the turkey and swiss cheese sandwich I made with my own hands. I won’t even get into the ridiculous number of condiments perched on the table ready to do battle with my senses. No, when it comes to pot luck lunches, I’m not gambling. But man, those brownies looked good. Crap! They were made with sour cream. The bastards! I’m out.

Lost to some in the tragi-comedy-farce that is the U.S. Presidential race, and the sudden death of music magician Prince, was the death of Father Daniel J. Berrigan. For those of you much younger than my contemporaries, a short history lesson. Father Berrigan, along with his brother Phillip, defiantly, forcefully and demonstrably, led demonstrations and acts of civil disobedience to protest the Vietnam War, racism, capitalism and other social injustice. Perhaps the Berrigan brother’s most enduring image is the burning of Selective Service draft records in Catonsville, MD, for which they were arrested and were among what were known as the Catonsville Nine, tried and convicted for the action. Over the years Father Daniel Berrigan was arrested many more times for standing up for his convictions.

I bring this up not just to remember the late Father Berrigan, but to create a contrast with the protesters we now see demonstrating against Donald Trump and other causes. In this world of quick hits, 140 characters, Snapchat and Facebook, protests are mainly conducted by taps, clicks and swipes. Anything in person is just as ephemeral and utterly without passion. TV cameras gone? So are we. Get arrested? Inconvenienced? Uh, no. Gotta be somewhere else at 7 where I can check in. Where the likes of the Berrigan Brothers had actual followers, today the act of following is as benign as clicking an icon and waiting for updates to pop up on screen.

You can laugh off this comparison by scoffing that I’m an aging Baby Boomer stuck in the 60’s and early 70’s. But what I have found in the workplace and in society, is a paradox, where the older members of the group are much more open to change, risk and invention and they are not shy about vocalizing and acting to make it happen.

I was a freshman in college during the student strike against the Vietnam War in the spring on 1970. We didn’t use that time to screw off. We marched, we protested, history and political science professors at our university gave their time to hold seminars and deliver lectures so we could learn more about the history and roots of the war against which we were protesting. You see, it wasn’t just about hollering and marching and carrying signs. It was about education and self-improvement while standing together for a common cause that we now better understood.

During the first Gulfwar in 1991, as a correspondent for CNN, we covered a class at Michigan State University where students were taught how to protest. We had no lessons. We listened to our hearts and conscience. At an attempted protest again the war, those marching started humming when they forgot the words to “We Shall Overcome.” Somehow, we were able to figure it out, led by those who instilled passion. I suppose today you could just read the lyrics on your smartphone without really knowing what they mean.

Have I come across as a crotchety old fart, lost in time? I don’t care. Father Berrigan died at age 94 and never stopped standing up for what he believed was right and never once concerned about the risks of doing so.

In my life, I’ve taken plenty of crap for coloring outside the lines, especially at work, and despite suffering indignities from co-workers who are cowards, jealous or scared, growing up with brave leaders of dissent like Father Berrigan has given me the strength  and will to always stand up for my beliefs. If you don’t agree…get up and protest.

The passing of Prince and the strong feeling of loss among his fans reminds of the day Elvis Presley died. I was working morning drive at a 1000-watter in Auburn, New York, about 25 miles west of Syracuse. Each morning our newsman, Rich Stewart, picked me up in his little Datsun pickup truck and we stopped at Mister Donut for fortification before our shift. On that day, August 17, 1977, as I climbed into the truck, Rich didn’t say “good morning.” He said, “did you hear, the King is dead.” Hmm..King Who? King Kong? Sky King? I had no idea. Incredulously he implored me, “the KING! Elvis Presley! He died yesterday!” Oh. While a normal human being might feel sad, all I could think about was what a lousy collection of Elvis records the station had and how I would be inundated with requests.

Sure enough, my phone didn’t stop ringing with Elvis requests. Sure enough, we had only 2 Elvis albums, one of them a Christmas LP. I was told by the program director to play nothing but Elvis. It was gonna be a long 4-hour shift. After the fourth time I played “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog,” and the seventh time I played “Blue Christmas” the audience rebelled. “Please, for the love of everything sacred in this world, could you play something else?” one caller pleaded. Auburn being a small-ish town of about 40-thousand people, the stores weren’t open yet, which thwarted my idea of sending someone to buy any and all Elvis records they find.  So I was stuck with those two albums and in August, Christmas songs just don’t go over very well, even if they were sung by the now-dead King.

To kill time and avoid repeating the same 20 Elvis songs over and over again I decided to take calls on the air where fans could express their feelings about their idol who died on the toilet seat. I ended up with mostly blubbering spinsters who claimed their lives couldn’t go on without Elvis and they didn’t appreciate me informing them their lives and Elvis’s really never crossed paths, so take a moment to mourn then go bowling .

Those in the business know that DJ’s are very competitive so as my shift mercifully wound to a close I thought it might be helpful to promote the announcer who followed me, and one whom I despised because he and his girlfriend with her very large lips would eat greasy subs then French kiss in the studio. So I dutifully told the audience that Roger K would play nothing but Elvis for the next four hours. Not much French kissing that day for Roger and Big Lips. He was taking it on his double chin from his audience.

Since it’s a sunny day and there’s no snow in Michigan my seasonal alarm clock rang, rousted me out of bed and sent me directly to Home Depot to buy substances in big plastic bags that I must fling to the ground around my house, soak them in then wear a complacent smirk because I am sure the premises surrounding my house will warrant a cover photo in Architectural Digest.

This is a tougher task than it sounds. First on my shopping list is a bag of dirt. Oh, the store calls it “soil” but honestly, it’s just dirt. There’s planting soil, garden soil, organic soil, organic planting soil for the garden, topsoil, potting soil and….soil. I desire dirt with which to plant plants in my garden. What’s the difference between planting soil and garden soil? Oh, about 3 bucks a bag. I saw one bag of organic soil that cost $7.98 for about 25 pounds, and another of planting soil for about 4 bucks.  That $7.98 stuff must be like steroids for stems. The last thing I’d want is to be busted for juicing my geraniums. The 3 buck bag is either half-strength or they’ve mixed in crushed Cheerios like filler in a meatloaf.

I was drawn to one pallet that was almost empty.  Maybe 4 bags remained. Consumers aren’t dumb. That pallet held 25 pound bags of…..soil, at a rock bottom $1.79 per. Score. I loaded my cart with dirt cheap dirt.

Regardless of how much I chose to spend for dirt, soil, planting medium, whatever you prefer to call it, my expectations for success would be minimal anyway. Being brought up in the concrete jungle of New York City, the only way you end up with a green thumb is if you stuck it in a jar of pickles in the Carnegie Deli.

When the kids were small, we converted a dog run the previous owners of our house had erected, and turned it into a vegetable garden. I don’t remember what kind of soil we used but it didn’t matter, the radishes, squash and peas we grew all smelled like sheepdog shit.

Right now I’m just hoping that sack of soil I bought for $1.79 will yield a few blades of grass to fill in some bare spots on my lawn. If it works, I may just slap some on my emerging scalp…then they can charge $125 for it and call the dirt, “Hairline Humus.”

It was 2010. Fox Sports Detroit ran a contest to write and record an original song to celebrate “April in the D”..the time when the Pistons, Wings and Tigers seasons all intersected. My wife and I cobbled a tune. My colleagues Betty Newman and Holly Hyslop were brave enough to record the song and a quickie videoThe original recording and video were quickly produced and pretty rough in order for us to make the contest deadline and we didn’t win. It was just the 3 of us and my old Fender Stratocaster. But six years later I decided to edit, remix and add a new instrumental open with a new Fender Telecaster, a bass line and drums. Today the Tigers play their first game..in Miami…but now it’s April and all three teams are in the game. Here we go…”April in the D 2016.”