Don’t move my cheese…or tissues

meijerreno

One thing I can pretty much depend on, is when I go to my favorite store everything will be where it was the last time I visited. My cart pushes itself to the cold beer, unhealthy snacks, Wheaties, windshield wipers and shoe laces. You’ll notice I didn’t mention produce. Heh. Anyway. A month or two ago we noticed dozens of construction trailers jammed into the parking lot of our go-to store. When I got home I logged onto the township’s planning and zoning website and staring me in the face was proof of the impending personal trauma…a notice of permit for “renovations and remodeling” of my favorite store. 

Now don’t get me wrong. The store was built in the early 1990’s and is sorely in need of an update. An update is fine. Throwing my life into disarray is not.

The first thing that occurred was the doors located on the left and right hand side of the store were eliminated, replaced by a new set of doors smack in the center of the building. Big deal you say? How insensitive. My wife and I always…ALWAYS park in either row G or H, putting us closer to the right hand doors that led in and out of the grocery part of the store. Never A or B or anything in between. With G and H no longer holding their advantage we were forced to plot a new strategy, ending up in E or F, closer to the new center doors. It was as if we were lost children, wandering into a new neighborhood with strange cars and SUVs, unfamiliar cart corral locations and a completely new scheme for handicapped spaces. You can imagine our confusion and fear we’d exit the store and have no idea where we had parked. Well, once we got over the trauma of the relocated doors things only got worse. Today, fully two months into the “renovation” we found inside sections our store draped in what looked like behemoth shower curtains. Just what are they hiding from us? Are  they installing a new department featuring self-driving baby strollers? Keurigs that mix individual cocktails? Perhaps rooms where exasperated spouses can chill, and drink Keurig cocktails while their better halves play bumper carts with other shoppers. Essentially every food aisle was in a different place. Our Wheaties, usually found in aisle 13 were now in 8. Tissues were always found in the aisle next to the juice, yogurt and milk coolers. But the shelves that once held those paper products were actually ripped out, the vestiges of its former footprint only an outline in the 25 year old floor tiles. WHERE ARE THE FREAKIN’ TISSUES!!! THEY’RE ON SALE BUT THE TISSUE AISLE IS GONE…GONE!

Ok. Big cleansing breath. We scurried up and down every aisle remarking, “the ice cream is here now? Why’s the soup where the ant spray used to be? All the beer is adjacent to the oatmeal. What’s with that? But no tissues. Sure…plenty of napkins and paper towels and paper plates, but where were all the boxes of the clandestine Kleenex? My wife and I were tempted to chug from a bottle of Crown Royal..incidentally now located where the mouse traps were once displayed. Desperate, my wife found a store employee who looked at her sympathetically and led her to the new home of the tissues…across from automobile anti-freeze!  She patiently explained that every time they rip out a row of shelves to work on the area they move that stuff to this new, temporary location. There was a sign with this information only it wasn’t located where you expected to see an item…it was at the new location where you wouldn’t know to look in the first place.

Frankly, by the time we got to the checkouts, which, thankfully, are still in front, we were ready for a quick detour to health and beauty aids for hits of Advil and wrinkle remover.

With all of our items paid for and safely bagged all that was left was to find our car. I resisted every urge to hit my key fob panic button to activate the horn so our Jeep would call out to its desperate owners. “Here I am, losers! Here I am! Please trade me in! “ We gingerly trod into the alien aisle E, suffering the mocking looks from a Range Rover, disparaging whispers from an over-confident Subaru and our impatiently waiting Jeep imploring us to “just get in.”

Flying Ovals

Ovals have a long history in flight.

ovalofficeThe President’s airplane, Air Force One, is often called the Flying Oval Office..even though it’s mainly cylindrical..it’s definitely flying…

flyingaThe logo for the old Flying A gas stations was a circle that flew in an oval…until the chain crash landed years ago…

While the Flying Squirrel Bakery in Talkeetna, Alaska adopted an in-flight rodent cruising around an oval as its identity.flyingsquirreloval

iflystickerSome folks are obtuse enough to use an oval to state that they fly…

 

And others are ostentatious enough to plunk down more than six-grand for aflyingovalearrings pair of diamond and gold “Flying oval” earrings.

 

 

flyingbulldogAs if bulldogs can fly…well they can if they’re in an oval..

blueovalglasshouseAnd then there’s Ford’s famous Blue Oval….symbol of the manufacturer of earthbound transportation. For years, it’s flown atop the company’s Dearborn, Michigan headquarters, known as the Glass House…until Wednesday night…blewoval….when a lusty gust of wind caused the automaker’s oval to take flight.  We don’t know how it was originally attached to the building, but we do know when it’s re-attached, Ford will have to come up with a better idea.

 

We all have our Oooops-car moments

636237666379897031-usp-entertainment-89th-academy-awards-89112519Like many people beaten to boredom by the endless Oscar ceremony, I went to bed early and missed the monumental screw up in announcing the wrong movie as best picture. So I’ve already wasted half my morning reading about it and watching the clips. It also got me thinking about mistakes I either made or affected me.

I have two brief examples, both of which occurred while I worked at CNN.  I was producing the morning show, then called “Daybreak,” back in the 1980’s. There had been a train wreck in Oregon. It wasn’t fatal, but it was a mess and there was fear hazardous fumes were leaking from some of the tanker cars.  It was a pretty slow news day so it led the hour. Our assignment desk jumped into action to get us someone on the phone they identified as both a witness and employee of the railroad. Remember that word “witness.” We were about to witness another disaster from the control room. During that era, CNN was still located in a former Jewish Country Club across the street from Georgia Tech. The newsroom was the old gym and it was a completely open floorplan. The writer and producer work stations, assignment desks, satellite desk, anchor set and control room were within a shout from each other…no walls. Someone from the assignment desk yells “got a phoner with a witness!” We quickly arrange to put the guy on the air and I tell the anchor, through her earpiece who she’ll be speaking with.

Anchor: “We have with us now on the phone (guy’s name)…a witness to the Oregon train wreck. Tell me sir. What does it look like from your vantage point?

Guy on phone:  “Well, considering I’m about 350 miles away, pretty small!”

Anchor: “Thank you sir. Goodbye.”

edselThen there was the time I was assigned a story on the 40th anniversary of the Ford Edsel. I must have missed a key note in the background material before interviewing the grandson of the failed car’s namesake.

Me: “How did you grandfather feel about the car being such a failure?”

Edsel Ford II.: “He didn’t really care. He died before the car was produced. Would you like to ask that question again…a different way?”

Which I did…after many apologies and my shooter confirming he had the whole thing on tape and would make “good use” of it.

 

 

Remembering James Nichols

nicholsJames Nichols, the brother of convicted Oklahoma City bombing conspirator, Terry, died last week and that brought back all sorts of memories, since I got to know James a bit, covering his case for CNN. Indeed, covering James Nichols ranged from boring to blasphemous to hilarious.

I was on my way back from vacation when news that the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City was bombed. At the time, it was the worst case of domestic terrorism in the U.S.

The next day I returned to work as CNN Detroit Bureau Chief and Correspondent and was catching up on story planning and paperwork when late that afternoon we got a call that the FBI had raided a farm in Decker, Michigan and that the raid was connected to the OKC bombing. We dropped everything and drove the 90 minutes up to Michigan’s Thumb area to what amounted to a four-corners surrounded by farms. We quickly found out the farm on the northeast corner was owned by James Nichols, brother of Terry, who  was arrested in connection with the bombing and that they were both friends with Timothy McVeigh, who was eventually convicted and executed for carrying out the bombing. The feds were looking for bomb-making materials on the farm and found some, since it also came out McVeigh stayed at the farm on and off and actually exploded some small bombs there. 

They laid siege on the Nichols farm and while the scores of media staking out the place from a short distance it came out they arrested James Nichols as a material witness. Of course, every news organization was anxious to learn more about him.

We landed an interview with a guy who ran the local grain silo and knew Nichols. This was big stuff so Larry King’s producers booked us. I was told “just take your time with the guest. Find out as much as you can about Nichols. Don’t rush the interview.”

Right.

I get on the air during King’s show and start to lead the guest through how he knew Nichols and could he tell us about him and what we had heard were strong anti-government views. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two before Larry King broke in and barked, “yeah, but sir…just tell me. Is this guy a nutcase?” The next time I spoke was 20 minutes later to thank the guest. King took over the interview with the one  motive…to find out if James Nichols was a nutcase. The guest insisted he wasn’t but King didn’t believe it.

In further pursuit of the story we contacted Nichols’s friend Phil Murawski who lived down the road. He said he’d be glad to do the interview but “first I have to be interviewed by the FBI and eat a sandwich.”

Nichols was arrested and taken to Milan Federal Prison in Milan (MY-lan), Michigan. That’s where I first got a look at him. I was one of the pool reporters covering his arraignment, held in a prison day room. What struck me was his voice. I expected a growling, angry voice and what I heard was a high-pitched squeaky squawk. Book, cover, no match. Honestly, the most memorable aspects of that day were being treated to a prison lunch of de-boned chicken wings–we were told prisoners could make weapons out of the bones..and meeting AP reporter Brian Akre who was also in the coverage pool. Over the years we would always joke “we met in the joint.”

The feds finally dropped the charges and I caught up with him again at his farm. This time we had an actual conversation. He had written a book alleging his it was the Federal government and not his brother or McVeigh who had carried out the OKC bombing. That’s why he agreed to the interview..to help publicize the book that no publisher would touch.  It was during that interview he uttered a phrase that stuck with me and my crew to this day. In his screechy voice he hollered, “we was frauded upon!”

He seemed to enjoy speaking with us, especially because he was enamored with our rather attractive female sound tech. This worked to our advantage because we were dying to get inside that farmhouse the feds had been so interested in. So….our sound tech flashed a big smile and asked if she could use the washroom. No problem! She did use the washroom and took a quick peek around but there really wasn’t anything worth noting. If anything, James was very neat.

After that day, we pretty much forgot about James Nichols. He was just another character you run into as a reporter, but every once in awhile when we thought we’d been screwed somehow a member of the crew would smile and announce, “we got frauded upon!” 

Thanks for that, James Nichols. RIP

In the Garden of Amazon

adamsweenie

I can’t help but wonder what would the conversation have been like if Adam found himself alone in the Garden of Eden with Alexa instead of Eve. It might have gone something like this:amazonecho

Adam: I was expecting a longer-haired, pretty-much naked person with whom I could fool around and maybe make more of me. Who, or what the heck are you? Are you the dude in the sky with the beard and over-confident attitude that dropped me here?

Alexa: No. I am Alexa. Your virtual personal assistant. The “dude” you refer to is a concept. I’m tangible. How can I help you?

Adam: Um…where’s your face? You look like a tin can.

Alexa: I’m sorry. That’s not a question. That’s a snide comment from an obviously lonely, frustrated self-centered male specimen. Besides..tin cans have not yet been invented. Would you like to ask me something else?

Adam:  Yes. What’s this bug-infested place we’re in? They’re making me scratch behind my fig leaf.

Alexa: We’re in the Garden of Eden. In the future, a species that will be known as suburbanites will go to places populated by old men in orange aprons and procure supplies for planting and maintaining gardens where they live. They will end up spending a year’s salary to grow vegetables they could buy in the store at a fraction of the price.

Adam: Aside from the fact that I have no idea what aprons, orange, supplies, vegetables or prices are, you paint a pretty damn dire picture. If I’m gonna grow something, how about a woman…or a steak. I’m famished?

Alexa:   I will be happy to assist you by contacting the conceptual dude you referred to earlier.

(sound effect….another guy appears)

Adam: Hey Alexa…you screwed up…it’s another guy! I’m not hittin’ that.

Alexa: Relax macho man. His name is Steve. Thousands of years from now the fact that the first two people in the world were Adam and Steve will be a disturbing, yet, deserved comeuppance to close-minded, slack-jawed members of the human race who desire relations with their cousins..and pets

Adam: That’s nice but I’m feeling a special urge and something tells me Steve ain’t gonna do it for me.

Alexa: (sigh) You win.

(sound effect…Eve appears)

Alexa:  Happy now?

adameveAdam:  Sort of. I mean..it looks like one of my ribs is gone…hurts like hell…I’ve also tried coming on to her..you know..to help add more humans to the planet but all she wants to do is eat. She keeps pointing to a round, red thing hanging from some sticks.

Alexa: That’s what we call a fruit..specifically an apple and it’s hanging from an apple tree. Neither of you should eat that! Only bad things can happen.

Adam: Well thanks for the info and warning but the girl is starving. Oh crap…she just ate that apple thing. What now?

Alexa: You’re screwed. I’m afraid I can no longer assist you. Perhaps try my competitor, Google. I understand they’re working on something called the Noah…although there are fears they’ll catastrophically flood the market.

When I’m..um…65!

littleguyI turned 65 this week. Paul McCartney didn’t write a song about that. Maybe even the eternally youthful ex-Beatle couldn’t face the DOF age..that’s Designated Old Fart, so he undershot it by one.

I made sure I didn’t tell anyone at my part-time “semi-retirement” job about my birthday because then someone would bring in cupcakes. Don’t get me wrong. I love cupcakes, but it seems when someone at work brings in cupcakes they insist on bypassing tried and true flavors like vanilla or chocolate frosting in favor of peanut butter or cream cheese or some other flavor I can’t stand. The worst thing you can hear is the person bringing in the pastries announcing, “I baked them myself!” Who knows if their gooey-fingered child or well-meaning but sloppy Boston terrier used their tongues to sample the frosting directly from the bowl.

So-called “landmark” ages never really affected me. When I became 21 it was no big deal since I grew up in New York State where both the drinking and voting ages were 18. When I turned 30 I was producing at CNN Headline News and celebrated with my team in between the 3 a.m. and 7 a.m. shows, thanks to a cake baked by one of their wives. I knew in advance they had neither children nor pets so I ate the cake with no trepidation.

When I turned 40 I was the CNN Detroit Bureau chief and my team was kind enough to festoon the bureau with “Over the Hill” banners. My nice family was much cooler, providing a low-key, but warm celebration consisting of cake, ice cream and Jack Daniels.

I have no recollection of turning 50 except receiving mail from the AARP letting me know I was now old enough to join the alta-cocker lobbying group and 60 was a haze.  I can’t be turning 60! That’s an age your parents…or grandparents reached!

My wife and I are lucky we look young for our ages. We appreciate it now. When I was 36 the president of CNN took me off the air because he said I looked TOO young. A year later I was back on but the only thing that really changed in my appearance was a pissed off scowl that apparently gave me some sort of gravitas worthy of being on camera for a 10 second standup.

One good thing about aging is being able to take advantage of all those senior citizen discounts. When I first became eligible for many of them when I turned 55 I dug in my heels refusing to admit being a “senior” citizen. Now I say “screw it.” Nothing wrong with saving a few bucks here and there and having cashiers exclaim, “you look way too young for a senior discount,” even after showing my ID. When they persist, I offer to whip out images of my latest colonoscopy but I’ve had no takers…just reduced admissions to movies and the home show quickly granted in order to get the crazy old man to move along.

The old saw is getting older is better than the alternative but no one has ever accurately reported on why. Who knows, maybe the afterlife offers senior citizen discounts on Boost?

With nothing credible to go on, I’ll opt to go on. I’m looking forward to 70 because after all, isn’t that the new 50. Having already been 50 I know it’s the new 40. I’m feeling younger already!

 

 

A ground hog homily

The South likes to do things its own way. Screw Punxsutawney Phil. Deep in the heart of biscuit and grits country, the rodent with the lowdown on how much longer winter will last is named for the man who surrendered to Gen. Grant in the Civil War. Yes..it’s General Lee who’s rousted from his roost and grabbed by the scruff of his furry neck as a couple of good old boys who imbibe for breakfast decided whether or not the sleepy soldier saw his shadow.  At least, that’s how it was when my assignment manager at CNN’s Southeast Bureau in Atlanta tossed this one in my lap.  I duly showed up at 5:45am at the Yellow River Wildlife Ranch in suburban Snellville to wait for the big moment. To keep us reporters, um, engaged until then, there were bottles of something alcoholic, along with dozens of ham, bacon, egg and sausage biscuits. By the time poor old General Lee was poked until he came out of his slumber and investigated who the hell was bothering him, we were pretty well loaded and larded.  It was dark when he emerged from his faux plantation home but the Yellow River boys insisted he saw his shadow. Fine. Six more weeks of winter in Atlanta just means six more weeks of spring. Oh, they had snow once or twice in the 8 years I lived there. I think it totalled a quarter inch, which sent the Georgia peaches into a hissy fit.

Personally, I think the whole groundhog thing is a ruse. A better gauge might be whether or not Ryan Gosling looks in the mirror and sees his five o’clock shadow. He’s Canadian, you know. It’s always winter to him.

Epilogue: You don’t see me in the package above. I did shoot a standup but a prissy anchor had it killed. I was in front of groundhog pelt nailed on the wall of the cabin across from General Lee’s enclosure. I said “…and if the ground hog is wrong….” and turned towards the pelt. Some people just have no sense of humor.

 

A home show showdown

homeshow1

We went to the home show yesterday. I had two main goals in mind: find a carpenter and get a free yard stick. I actually own several yard sticks procured for free at previous home shows, and my favorite is one that’s actually slightly longer than a yard but shorter than a meter. It’s really just a long, flat stick with numbers on it, but I find it useful as a straight edge and as a tool for prying gum off my driveway, knocking things off high shelves, and wiggling between the legs of annoying door-to-door salesmen.

Home shows are really not shows, but rather aisles and aisles of booths staffed by friendly sales people who would like to sell you insulation, bricks, logs with which to fashion a cabin, ventilation systems and assorted methods of renovating your bathroom and kitchen. I generally have a project in mind and seek out specific vendors, while snarfing as many free Hershey Kisses as possible from the bowls at almost every booth.

homeshow2On this day, I really just needed to find a carpenter to repair the door frame on my garage. No dice. There were booths hawking remodeling, renovations, complete construction, but not one sign that said, “no job too small.” There’s a local home improvement company whose advertising slogan actually says, “no job too big, no job too small.” But when I called them several years ago and described my job, the guy on the phone was embarrassed to say to me, “I know, I know what our slogan says, but your job is actually too small.”

homeshow3Having navigated past a half dozen or so Jacuzzi booths, home security stands and a few selling jerky and fudge, a woman came up to us handing us bags with packages of peanut butter crackers and a circular. We accepted them and dragged the little bags around till we got to the last aisle and past the stands selling “mystery sausage” and faux fake jewelry.

Frustrated at not finding someone willing to accept our modest job we decided to see what else was inside the bags of peanut butter crackers. Ha! A carpentry business! Somehow we had missed their actual booth, and no wonder. It was a guy sitting at a card table at the end of an aisle. I walked up to him and smiled. He smiled back. He said “hi young feller!” I thought, “he has no idea I got in on a senior ticket and I’m not telling.” I described my job to him and, well, he didn’t say “too small!” or “are you just busting my chops?” He handed me a business card  said they actually have one guy who does that kind of work and he usually starts those jobs in the spring.  A miracle! The power of peanut butter crackers!  Those are fine, but they give you bad breath and jeez, I really would have appreciated a yard stick. After all, who doesn’t abide by that old home show marketing slogan, “Give ‘em 36 inches, they’ll give you a smile?”

Dream scenes at the auto show

kidsautoshow1jpgLast day of the Detroit auto show and I needed to pop in one more time to shoot a standup for a story for Automotive News. Being a Sunday morning I wanted to get in and out quickly and go on with my day. I was accompanied by my wife who’s not only great company, but very helpful in carrying a light gear bag and hit the “record” button while I did my thing in front of the camera. Yes..one man band, with the help of one very good woman.

From where we entered the show floor, it was a long, diagonal walk to the location I needed in the upper right-hand corner, deep in the FCA stand near one of their concept vehicles. I’d seen all the cars before during my four other trips covering the show and the adult show-goers all looked like one amorphous ski jacket. What caught my attention was what I saw and heard from kids only old enough to be passengers.  One kid breathlessly told his parents, “this stuff is unbelievable!” Another exclaimed, “So, so beautiful!”

kidsautoshow2jpgIn one very expensive car a little girl got cozy behind the steering wheel, touching it lightly, lest the stationary sedan suddenly veered off into the hot roasted almond stand. Perched high in the driver’s seat of a full-size pickup truck a young man whose voice has yet to change affected a confident lean as if, at age 10, he was ready to cruise for chicks in his manly beast.

At one point I could only hear joyful screams and shouts  without seeing the sources of the oral wonder, but there was no doubt the children were imagining what it would be like to actually pilot the mechanical and artistic creations that would provide them with individual mobility and freedom, perhaps a little one-upsmanship among their pals, and yes, horsepower.

While the adults were there considering purchases based on need, budget and perhaps requiting a mid-life crisis, for the kids not yet able to reach the pedals or adequately see over the steering wheel and certainly not old enough to earn a license to drive, it’s all about simple dreams. Oh sure, they have their toys and smartphones and electronic time wasters, but there is no other toy that can provide the sheer joy of getting behind the wheel, firing up the engine, placing your hands on the steering wheel, grabbing the shifter, placing the vehicle in gear… and going wherever the hell you want to go. In time, sweet children, in time.

Photo credit: The Detroit News

When Popeye punched me out of the Greatest Show on Earth

ringlingAs is my pitiful custom, each morning the first thing I do is look out the window to make sure we haven’t been taken over by a life form made of Jell-o, then check my phone for emails from insomniacs and any news bulletins. The coast was clear after my window check and my only emails were junk.. But this morning the news bulletin hit me like a peanut being shot from an elephant’s trunk: The Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus announced it’s folding its massive tent after 146 years.

The reason this hit me so hard is because of the time I hit a woman so hard, while I attended the circus, totally by accident. I have been ashamed of this incident for almost 60 years. Here’s how it went down. It was 1957. My father, who never took a day off work, did so on the occasion of taking me to the circus. The Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey circus at the old Madison Square Garden. The greatest show on Earth! He shelled out big money at the time, five bucks apiece, for the best seats in the house. He bought me cotton candy. He bought me a program. He bought me peanuts. Then he bought me a Popeye Light–a small flashlight on a lanyard.

popeyelightThis didn’t happen right away. It was only after the ringmaster bellowed that at some point the lights in the arena would be dimmed and that everyone should swing their Popeye lights! It would look amazing. This instantly brought out vendors hawking the tchochkes and I wanted to be part of what would obviously be an amazing, life-changing event. So my dad coughed up another buck and the treasured Popeye light was in my grubby five-year old hands.

Sure enough, a few minutes later as the house lights dimmed, the ringmaster intoned, “OK kids, start swinging your Popeye lights!!” Oh, we did. We swinged and swinged and the thousands of swinging Popeye lights created a wave of illumination that caused your jaws to drop and carmel corn to fall out into your lap. And then my swinging Popeye light hit an obstacle. Whap! My swing lost its arc and slammed right into the head of the woman sitting in front of me. She quickly turned around as she rubbed the noggin I’d just inadvertently bopped and gave me the harshest look. “I’m so sorry!” I cried. But the damage had been done. Thoroughly ashamed and embarrassed and afraid a giant bump would pop out of the woman’s head from the collision with Popeye’s plastic fist, I said to my dad, “I wanna go home!” He was not amused. After all, he gave up a day’s pay and probably a week’s paycheck on all the crap he bought me, including the Popeye light, to take me to the circus. “Edward, don’t worry about it. You didn’t hit her that hard and you apologized. Plus, we’ve only been here 10 minutes,” he said to me. But I was inconsolable. I gamely sat for perhaps another half hour and watched the animals, clowns and acrobats, but I couldn’t take me eyes off that woman I’d accidentally assaulted who was constantly rubbing the spot where Popeye and her cranium ended up in the same place at the same time.

Wracked with guilt I just couldn’t stand it any more and neither could my father who finally agreed to leave. Over the many years that followed every time the circus came to town my father would give me some good natured crap about that and said one day my own kid would find a way to even the score. He was a very smart guy.

Shortly after moving to Michigan in 1989 I took my son to the Ringling Bros. circus at Joe Louis Arena. He was five at the time. Same age I was when I tortured my father. Popeye lights, thankfully, had long passed into kitschy history but I sprung for everything else my son desired. Candy, popcorn, program, great, expensive, seats. You know how this ends. Barely 45 minutes into what was scheduled to be a 2.5 hour show he turned to me and said, “Can we go home?” No, he hadn’t assaulted an audience member as I had innocently done. He was just bored.

I told my father about that. He smiled at me and said, “told ya.”