There are two main reasons why people spend the night in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan: to drop off or pick up a kid who attends Central Michigan University, or to shorten their lives and personal worth by spending time at the smoke-filled Soaring Eagle Casino and Resort.  Not many, I suspect, make the trip to the very center of the Mitten to pay their respects at the Michigan Vietnam Memorial.

Honestly, we pulled off Exit 143 from US 127 simply to spend the night during a whirlwind two-day trip up to Cadillac and back. But the small sign posted at the exit noting the memorial with an arrow pointing to the right stuck with us. None of us had ever heard of such a memorial in Mt. Pleasant and before pulling out the next morning we took a five-mile detour to Island Park where we found the site, apart from the ballfields and picnic tables. It was not the sunken V of the national memorial in Washington D.C. It stood as proud and erect as the soldiers once did before they made the sacrifice that qualified their names for inscription on the brick-mounted tablets.

Names such as  Von Der Hoff, Topolinski, Allen and Ball. They were better suited for marriage and fishing licenses, mailboxes and diplomas…and young families.

A few steps down the path the heartbreak of lives lost to a hopeless and foolish cause is slammed home by “War Cry,” a sculpture of a distraught soldier holding, caressing with love and despair the a wounded comrade who just a few hours earlier, may have told of his plans to start a family, buy a sports car, eat a cheeseburger or hug his mom.

Every moment of that era passed before me as my family and I slowly, slowly, took in every name, every flag, every monument dedicated to a time that colored the lives forever of those of us who came of age then.  I recall marching on the Oswego, N.Y. Coast Guard station to protest the mining of Haiphong Harbor. I remember giving up the last month of my freshman year at Oswego State University to the 1970 student strike against Vietnam and spending that time attending seminars and speeches to learn more about that conflict and the history behind it.

The sculpture dedicated to the men and women who paid the same price during the first Gulfwar brought home the idiocy of the fact that humankind hasn’t evolved or learned enough that destroying other people continues to be the choice to settle differences among a so-called modern society.

A prominent place on my bookshelf at home is taken by a thin paperback with the journal kept by reporter Michael Herr during his stint in Vietnam. It’s called “Dispatches.”  I bought it in 1978 at the suggestion of my wonderful professor George Ridge at the University of Arizona Journalism Grad School. After returning home earlier this week I was drawn to pull “Dispatches” from the shelf to search for  just the right way to sum up my feelings sparked by my unexpected visit to Michigan’s Vietnam Memorial. 

It’s this: “Vietnam. Vietnam. Vietnam. We’ve all been there.”  The madness is, we keep returning.

Over the past few weeks I’ve played quite a bit of miniature golf. Maybe you call it putt-putt or mini golf. It’s a perfect family activity but I can’t help but notice the courses have evolved from the cute little obstacles of the 60’s to torture chambers with a hole at the end.

The first miniature golf course I ever played on was part of a little amusement park on Northern Blvd. in Queens called Kiddy City which had, like eight rides including the magnificent Roto Jets and Comet Jr. roller coaster.

The 19-hole course had the requisite windmills and metal loop that took a full swing to get the ball up, around and through. There was also a tunnel that looked like a little barn you had to shoot through to get to the hole. Simple stuff, but challenging and fun.

Not today. Today’s courses have so many bumps, curves, depressions and mesas made of indoor-outdoor carpet they look like a 13-year old’s zit face. I’d take 13 windmills and shooting through the legs of a 100 ceramic heifers over whacking the day-glo orange ball 13 times just to get it up out of the concrete divot and in the same zip code as the hole.  Oh, how about the waterfalls? Refreshing on a hot day, except if the water is treated with the same stuff they’re using to kill Asian carp in Lake Michigan.

I certainly don’t mind some wood block obstacles to circumvent, but I do mind structures that require building permits and aircraft warning lights. 

As you can see from the photo, miniature golf operators have also developed a rather cynical sense of humor. In this case, providing only putters the size of Lilliputians. After my third stroke, my body took on a semi-permanent 90-degree posture from bending so deeply.

Keeping score? Forget about it. I don’t even grab a card anymore. Despite ramping up the cruelty handicap each hole is still rated Par 2. Sure, one stroke to slam against the brick wall with a one-inch hole to navigate, the second to pick up the ball and drop it in the hole so you don’t hold up the family of 17 waiting behind you with a screaming kid who just tossed his cookies in the little fake water trap.

Oh, I guess I could break down and play an actual game of golf but that would only result in losing $30 worth of Titleists along with my mind.

I’ll stick with miniature golf for now. For those of us for whom genetics granted limited physical altitude, life’s always been about the short game anyway.

There’s little that gets under my skin more than people who should be tearing each other’s throats into shards of flesh, bone and becalmed windpipes smiling and chatting and keeping their sharp instruments to themselves.

What’s really set me off over the last few years is the behavior of Major League Baseball players. Here’s the set up. Eric Hosmer, Kansas City’s Royal pain in the ass to the Detroit Tigers, reaches first base. Back in the day, runner and fielder would glare at each other, maybe spit tobacco on each other’s spikes, make rude comments about their mothers and claim each other’s fathers wear silk panties. Yeah..the good old days.

But instead there’s Tigers superstar Miguel Cabrerra, the first baseman, grinning and chatting up Hosmer who’s returning the yuks, the two gazillionaires comparing their portfolios, features on their new Ferarris, or which yacht has the best resale value. Maybe they’re complimenting each other on their swings or the stitching on their spikes or artwork on their tattoos. “Oh Miggy, what wonderful layering on your new haircut. So becoming!” Hosmer should be thinking of how he’s going to try to steal second and Miggy how he and the pitcher can pick off his ass. Miggy should have been trash talking Hosmer to distract and demean him, while Hosmer should have stepped on Miggy’s foot as he reached the bag.

But no. Time after time this scene plays itself out as a guy reaches base and immediately gets into a Barney “I love you, you love me” moment. I like how they do it in hockey. Beat the living hell out of each other during the game and save the handshakes and other friendly nonsense when the game is over.

The bottom line is opponents need to despise each other and wish for their demise in a painful and creative manner. Oh, they can respect each other, sure, but keep it for the postgame show…or sauna.

Being the unbelievably generous father figure that I am, I took my family for a sumptuous lunch at a well-known fast food chain. It turned out to be not fast, but eventual, food, of which its arrival was not guaranteed.

Here’s how it went.

Wife (ordering for herself and son): 3 burgers, milk, small drink, 3 cookies

Me:  For me, chicken combo with nothing on the chicken.

Fast food clerk roughly the same age as a zygote: Uh, like a chicken and just like, the meat?

Me: Not JUST like the meat. The actual Meat!

Fast food clerk in-a-trance takes my money and disappears.

Several more customers surrender their orders to the Stepford Clerk and we all anxiously await our food while cooling our heels to the sound of crunching ice falling into  a paper vessel that will contain sugar or cancer-causing artificially sweetened soft drinks.

Five, six, seven minutes go by and the crowd of waiting customers is growing. Finally one guy steps up and asks for his money back because his starvation has now been replaced by apoplexy.

Our infant clerk turns around and says, “oh here’s your order. I forgot. Giggle giggle.”

“You can’t forget!” shouts the hungry man. “That’s not acceptable! You can’t just forget!” But he gamely takes his now ice cold burger and leaves.

Next guy is told his order is ready and it’s delivered on a tray.

“I told you it was to go!” the beaten down bearded burger orderer whimpers.

“Oh, yeah,” Kid Clerk says in her breathy Millennial voice.

“Well you have to listen!” urges the customer. “Who’s your manager? Oh, never mind. Never mind,” he mutters as he also trudges to his car.

It’s finally my turn, a full 10 minutes after my demanding “just the meat” order. Another clerk, this time a little boy who was even too young for zits just held up the tray and made eye contact with me.

“Yes, that’s mine” I assured him, but believing he’d give it to any schlub who put his hands out to take it off his. My wife’s milk was missing so I had to return to the counter to tell the original package of youthful protoplasm and she just glared at me with vacant eyes while reaching into the fridge for the little container.

As I’m getting some napkins another starving customer just smiled at me and said, “you should go to their other location. It’s really slow.” 

Let’s get the mea culpas out of the way. Two hours before the start of the CNN 35th Reunion, my wife and I made a recon run to check out the ballroom to see what kind of atmosphere we’d be walking into, but most importantly, to spy on the food setup to hopefully decipher what the organizers meant by “heavy appetizers.” That would make the difference between sneaking in a quick meal or taking our chances on the spread. There were enough chafing dishes and serving pieces to gamble on the quality and quantity of what they’d offer.

Feeling confident about the location and the expected comestibles we put on our party duds and returned ready to reunion-ize, or reunite, or drink some Reunite on Ice, so nice.

Before we could smudge the wet marker ink on our name tags I heard the call of “Ed!” I always joked to my mother that anyone with gas could yell my name. She always preferred the less acidic “Edward.” 
So began almost five memorable hours of answering to the call of my gaseous moniker, hugging talented and beautiful women, and shaking hands and hugging several “in touch with themselves” men with whom I’d been privileged to work at CNN over the course of 20 years.

I really never cared to attend reunions for several reasons. For one, I’m secretly quite shy but work hard to hide it. I was never “one of the guys” who kissed ass and slapped the boss on the back partially because of that affliction and partly, mostly, because I always thought those people were assholes covering up for their lack of talent or skills. 

But this was different. I gave it a lot of thought and decided if I’m going to attend a reunion, this would be it.

The word “family” has always been part of the CNN internal lexicon and this night was no different. My time at CNN was up and down and up and up and down and out.  But as anyone who worked there for any appreciable amount of time will tell you, while we were reporting on history we knew we were making it with the world’s first 24 hour television news network. Not a day went by you didn’t tell yourself you’re one lucky sonofabitch, even when you were frustrated about one decision or another.

With each “Ed!”. With each handshake or hug, the family connection we built over time was instantly renewed. Despite not having communicated with some former co-workers for 15-20 years, conversation flowed as naturally warmth in a blanket. The connection is that natural.

More than once I heard someone say our time at CNN, its heyday, was “lightning in a bottle.” But it was also thunder that rocked the status quo and changed the news business forever, with the promise to viewers they didn’t have to wait for third party accounts of major events, through live coverage, whenever it happened, they could be witnesses as well and judge things for themselves. 

No remarks hit home more than those of the great CNN anchor Bernard Shaw who challenged current employees that if they worked hard enough with enough dedication and skill, they could fill the shoes of those assembled at this reunion. Don’t take that as arrogance or ego. Take that as a blunt and accurate assessment of how far the standards have fallen.

My time at CNN ended on January 23, 2001. Wasn’t my choice. I was a victim, along with hundreds of others, of that awesome merger between AOL and Time Warner. I was told there was no longer a “role” for me. Perhaps. I went on to several wonderful and rewarding jobs since then. But I can tell you, the CNN brand on my resume’ helped open those doors. Why wouldn’t you want to reunite with that, and the peerless people who built the brand’s reputation. My active role in CNN ended in 2001, but CNN will always have a role in my life.

I will say, in closing, the bacon-wrapped scallops were sublime.