Alyssa, Dan and Me

Today is December 5th, the 339th day of the year. It's 20 days from Christmas. Martin Van Buren, Christina Rossetti and Little Richard were born on this day; Mozart and Shoeless Joe Jackson died on it. On Dec. 5, Christopher Columbus set foot upon what is now the Dominican Republic and Haiti. On Dec. 5, future Roman emperor Charlemagne ascended the throne as king of the Franks.

These are random facts, connected only by the fact that they took place on December 5.

December 5, 2001 had its own set of random facts that greatly affected myself and my family. This story is not about me. But I did play a very minor role in it, and so the details of my involvement are relevant and part of my remembrance of a man I never met, but consider a hero; his family, who did me a great kindness in a desperate hour; and my 10-year-old goddaughter.

It was the day my first and oldest niece was to be born. And I should have been at the hospital with the rest of the family, supporting my wife's sister as she was giving birth to the little girl we would soon be calling “Peanut” because she was such a tiny baby. (She's not small anymore. Not a bit.)

Instead, I was somewhere on Mass. Route 8 northbound, abruptly called into work on a day off for The Associated Press and headed to Cheshire, Massachusetts.

Eighty-five days earlier, two jet airliners had been flown into a pair of skyscrapers in New York City and a third into the Pentagon. That, in turn, led to a “war on terror,” which, in turn, led Sgt. 1st Class Dan Petithory of Cheshire, Mass., to Afghanistan with the U.S. Army Special Forces, to root out and kill members of the organization that had planned and executed the events of that horrible day.

Berkshire County, Massachusetts, the place where I grew up and still call home, might be a small place, but I didn't know Dan Petithory.

But Michelle Maher had gone to Hoosac Valley Regional High School with him.

Michelle Maher and I had gotten married 102 days before Dec. 5, 2001, when Sgt. 1st Class Dan Petithory was killed along with two other members of the U.S. Army Special Forces, north of Kandahar, Afghanistan, when a U.S. bomb carrying 2,000 pounds of explosives missed its target and landed 100 yards from the soldiers' position.

And Michelle Maher's sister Kim was giving birth on Dec. 5, 2001 in nearby Pittsfield. Thus connecting a random set of unrelated facts and leading me north on Route 8, full of guilt and dread.

Guilt, because someone else's misery was all but certain to result in a national byline, and because I had just told Michelle that one of her friends from high school had been killed. Dread, because it was all but certain to result in a national byline.

Hoping to put a grieving family at ease at a moment they would have been completely justified in telling me and any other reporter to go to hell -- and knowing that I had to make this happen, because my bosses would not readily take no for an answer -- I had been able to tell them, as I informed them I was a reporter for The Associated Press in Boston, that I was Michelle Maher's husband (which, to this day, I am still not certain was the right thing to do), that I used to work for The Berkshire Eagle, that I was in Pittsfield and could I please come talk to you?

In the very worst of circumstances, Dan Petithory's family graciously allowed me to sit on their porch and told me who he was, how much he loved what he did and that he had indeed given his life for his country. They took the time to make sure I understood and had the facts right, which is the most important thing. And most importantly, they trusted me. (I might have been Michelle's husband but I was also a member of the media. Our reputation rightly precedes itself.)

I don't remember the experience as well as I should; it's kind of a blur to me now. So I hope that I properly conveyed at the time how very grateful I was that they shared Dan's story with me. And I want them to know I am still very grateful for that trust and kindness. I will remember it as long as I live. And I will always remember Dan, even though I never met him.

After I was done with the assignment, I got in the car, turned off the radio as I tried to make sense of it all and drove back to Berkshire Medical Center to find my niece Alyssa, just a few hours old, in the nursery.

A series of random, unconnected facts, most of them far beyond my control and comprehension, had become a circle because on this day, Alyssa had come into the world.

There was no way I could ever see her birth as anything less than a part of the story.

It had been 85 days full of death and destruction. A "war on terror" with no obvious endpoint and the unsettling likelihood that it would somehow extend to Iraq and who else knows where.

And yet here was a brand-new little someone. As if to remind us that even amid such fighting and hatred, even when that fighting and hatred touches our lives directly, life offers us hope that things will be better.

It bears mentioning that three years later, on the exact same day, my wife's cousin – also a graduate of Hoosac Valley High School – gave birth to a daughter.

So Dec. 5 is not just another day on the calendar. It's a day to celebrate a birthday. A day to remember the sacrifice that one of our own made on our behalf in an uncertain hour. And a day to reflect upon how connected we all are.

A 10-day visit to the 19th Century

"It could be a few cold, dark days to come in North Stepford Falls."

- Me, Oct. 29, 2011

If only that were true. That would have been easy compared with what really happened.

Saturday, the power went out at about 2:30, just as some dude was about to sell us double-pane replacement windows (which we do need).

It took all of about 90 minutes for enough wet snow to fall on the trees, most of them full of leaves, to start cracking and falling.

When a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, it most definitely does make a sound. And when branches and limbs snap and tumble, the sound is like a rifle going off --crack! -- and then the rush of leaves through the air as it falls to the earth.

There were so many limbs snapping, it sounded like a rifle range.

We lit candles and fetched our storm preparedness goods -- which had gone largely unused during Irene -- and watched darkness slowly fall upon the neighborhood, with no lights anywhere to fend it off.

And then we happened to be looking out the kitchen window when a tree in the back lot went down.

A sick feeling washed over me. True, in the spring, we had cut down four or so trees that were threatening the house -- including one that hung over the house and definitely would have caused major, serious damage. But there were still lots of trees around the house. And any number of them falling could be a catastrophe.

I put on my bike helmet -- how ridiculous is that? -- and ran outside to start the generator. No more second guesses about that purchase. So at least the fridge and a space heater were running.

With no other alternatives and too scared to sleep upstairs should a tree truly come crashing down upon us, we all camped out in the living room: Me and Sofia on the lumpy futon on the floor, Michelle in her barcalounger.

But I barely slept at all. Because it was so quiet and dark (except when trees fell), any noise or light grabbed my attention. I saw the beams of light across the street from our neighbors inspecting the tree damage. I wondered if someone would try to steal our generator.

At about 4:30, the generator went off. I ran outside as a fresh band of snow had come along, and the trees were falling again. I could swear I heard one cracking over my head as I poured gasoline into the generator. I did that as long as I had the nerve to stay there, and then when i was done, i pulled the starter and sprinted back into the bulkhead.

Back under the covers, I did three laps of my grandfather's rosary.

When the light came, I awoke -- having had about 2-3 hours sleep -- and went outside to see what had happened.

Destruction.

The treetops that were still standing in the neighborhood were weighed down with wet snow. Those that weren't were on the ground -- many on top of the power lines they had pulled down, others resting on the lines like some naturalistic Alexander Calder mobile.

There were two or three treetops in our driveway, too big to pull to the side. They'd have to be sawed apart if I wanted to shovel the driveway -- or leave. Not that I imagined there was any businesses open anywhere.

There were treetops down all over the property, to the right and the left of the house. Part of a tree had landed between our house and the vacant house to the south and it took hours for me to realize where it had come from.

I am usually not one to talk about my faith in public; it's my business and not my place to preach. But looking at the branches down everywhere but on our house or our utility supply lines or our cars, and seeing trees scattered through yards and on wires up and down the street, I realized my desperate laps around the rosary, in which I begged for protection for my family, had been heard. Believe what you like; I know what I know. And what I knew was I needed to count blessings.

We had no electricity or hot water. The house was about 59 degrees, but felt cooler. Nothing to do but work.

I boiled some water on the side burner of the gas grill and got sawing. My boots and gloves soon became waterlogged; I put on work gloves underneath and they soaked through, too. (Three days later, those gloves were still waterlogged; wet things don't dry in 50-degree temperatures, even when they're next to a space heater.

I thought about the woodsmen who had labored so hard in northern New Hampshire, where I used to work, Back In The Day. I looked like one, too, in my plaid woolen jacket. Sawing and hauling by hand was hard work and by the time the driveway had been plowed, I was exhausted and sore.

A cold sandwich and a hot cup of tea was my reward. I would have loved a hot shower, but that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

I ventured out in search of gasoline, hoping that the BJs two towns over would have some. I came upon two traffic jams, each a good quarter-mile from gas stations that were still open.Luckily, the wait was not long at BJs and I came home with a new space heater and a new, working carbon monoxide monitor in case we got desperate enough to use the fireplace. (It's too shallow to really be of any use heating the house; what it does do well is make the living room smell like a barbecue pit, which seems ideal until it does so for two weeks.)

Driving around showed me something else: Just how much damage there was for miles and miles around. State roads had been reduced to slalom courses; side roads were closed. Trees were down across roads, on wires, or had just missed houses.

In our neighborhood, trees had hauled power lines right off the houses or ripped them from the utility poles. It would be days before our grid was fixed, and no one had seen a CL&P truck anywhere, or even a rumor of one.

When they said power would be out for days as a result of the damage from this storm, this is what they meant -- and I realized that it could be a solid week or more before the electricity came back.

When night fell, we went to bed in the living room once more and hooked up the generator to the fridge and the space heater.

Monday came and I got another five gallons of gas at BJ's in the morning. At 10:30 I set off for work and proceeded directly to the gym, where I would get my first hot shower in three days. I had no idea how much I appreciated indoor plumbing and available hot water; it was as much an emotional release as it was invigorating to have hot water and soap on my skin and feel and smell clean afterwards.

That afternoon, we got word that school was going to likely be canceled the rest of the week, and so my wife and daughter bagged up their things and headed north to the Berkshires, which got way more snow but somehow had electricity. I didn't want to send them away, but it made no sense for them to stay here and freeze for my benefit.

I came home after work and instead of going to my friend's house, I bundled up in a sleeping bag and comforter, turned on the space heater and went to sleep.

When I awoke, the house was 54 degrees and I could see my own breath. And as I tried to get warm, I realized a few things:

_ There was no way I could keep the house warm.
_ Spending 90 minutes to two hours daily getting gasoline was a poor use of time and resources, considering that it could not keep the house warm.
_ It was cold, dark and lonely here.

So I abandoned ship. For the next four nights, I slept at my friend Matt's house (they never lost power), coming back to check on the cat, clean out the fridge and freezer (good thing we didn't spring for the "big buy" of filet mignon) and see how cold it was inside.

Roberto the $40 free guppy (he was free from school; the stuff for him to live with was $40) made it to Wednesday. He now sleeps with the fishes.

By Friday it was 49 degrees and warmer outside than it was inside. That was lucky. If there had been a sudden cold snap, I would have needed to drain the heating system -- which, as I learned, is not as easy as it sounds.

And by Friday, there was serious mental strain to go around.

And as the Nutmeg State gradually turned the lights back on, North Stepford Falls remained in the dark. On CL&P's color-coded map of ineptitude, my town remained in the black -- 90 percent of customers or more without power. And every night, I would pass the lit-up streets of the neighboring town, then turn left to head home -- and into the darkness. That left-hand turn and drive back home became more and more depressing as the week ground on.

The CEO of the company was being raked over the coals at every news conference and it didn't matter. The town selectmen held a news conference to essentially say "CL&P sucks' and it didn't matter. And what could they do, really? Could they have done a better job preparing? Maybe had some storm crews on call? Sure, but with this level of damage, it still would have been days.

And it's worth noting here that a couple weeks before the storm, a report in the Courant said according to a study, a Category 3 hurricane would devastate Connecticut. That's a lot easier to understand now. And scary.

As for me: It was like being back in Maine and New Hampshire: It was pitch-dark at night and I was technically homeless and living on my friends' couches. At least I wasn't earning $17,000 a year anymore. There was another similarity -- no wife, no kid. I don't do so well for long stretches without them. And I could hear the strain in my wife's voice over the phone.

The statement "We have no power" never meant more. If you want to get picky about it, the more precise phrase would be "We have no electricity." But both were true. In this situation, there was nothing anyone could do but wait. Even if you had many useful resources at your disposal, as we did. And that feeling of powerlessness -- the sense that my life is not normal and I don't know when it's going to be normal again -- brings depression and anxiety with it. Even if you know that in the grand scheme of things, you got off easy. (And we did.)

Saturday, I was home to try to get some work done around the place when I saw my first utility truck. That's a full WEEK, friends. They were from South Carolina. So we couldn't even get a repair crew from the United States of America. It turns out they had been in the neighborhood for two days -- just not where we could see them, but along the transmission right-of-way, trying to put the grid back together.

Despite being from a place that once declared war on the United States and bombed a U.S. Army fort, they were nice enough to be straight with us. CL&P had unwisely promised that 99 percent of North Stepford Falls would be back on the grid by midnight on Sunday, but the foreman for our foreign utility workers told us "I'm not sure we'll have your power back by midnight." And they were upfront and told us at 2 p.m. that they had suddenly been ordered off the job and ordered to report somewhere else. (They did come back.)

And bad as it was, they said they usually saw much more extensive damage to the grid in their part of the world -- which, after all, sees hurricanes. "There's usually nothing left. Usually we'd be coming through with bulldozers, clearing everything out and putting up new poles and wires."

I asked one more question: Tigers (Clemson) or Gamecocks (U. of South Carolina)?

"GAMECOCKS," came the forceful reply. So that detail was settled.

Around this time, my friend Matt came over and helped saw apart and stack some of the insane amount of fallen treetops in the yard and the back 40 to the street for eventual disposal/chipping. (Note: despite the town saying this was going to happen, it hasn't yet.)

At 3:30 I headed out of the neighborhood to go to church. There were at least five utility trucks trying to reassemble the neighborhood power grid, which lifted my spirits.

It took another two days for the power to be restored. TEN DAYS without electricity or hot water in the house. And eight of those days without my wife and daughter.

But by that point, I knew it was finally an eventuality. And really, it was a minor crisis, truth be told, albeit a really inconvenient and draining minor crisis. And I was already aware, as I drove to Hartford, that it was going to be over soon, that it had brought people together and strengthened friendships. At work, the only question you heard anyone ask was "got power?" And depending on the answer, you heard offers of food and shelter and words of support.

So the blessings were not limited to keeping trees off my roof; really, in spite of the darkness, cold, isolation and depression that comes with wondering when everything is going to be normal again, they were everywhere.

Storm Warning

We got through Irene pretty easily, all things being equal -- we were without power for a day, but the generator kept the sump pump running. We were luckier than folks along the coast, who were without power for nearly a week. And a lot luckier than folks in Vermont, which we had visited the week before.

And now, on Oct. 29th, it's snowing. Before the trees have had a chance to shed their leaves. It wasn't supposed to really start coming down until late tonight, but here we are in the afternoon and it's falling fast and thick and I can see some tree limbs out my window are already weighed down.

Think I'm glad to have cut down the oak that was hanging over the house?

Funny, Irene had days of advance warning and though it did a lot of damage, it came here as a tropical storm, not a hurricane. This storm comparatively came out of nowhere and the results could be as bad, if not worse (though the threat of flooding inland isn't quite as high).

The generator and snow thrower are both gassed and ready, the pantry is loaded up with food. And so we wait and see.

It could be a few cold, dark days to come in North Stepford Falls.

Guilty as charged ... but now what?

So the second suspect in the Cheshire home invasion murders has been found guilty. My only question to the jury: What took you so long? Was the free food that good?

This has naturally kicked off discussion in the Nutmeg State about the death penalty, as since his co-conspirator has already been found guilty and sentenced to death, it's not a tremendous leap to extrapolate that he, too, will be condemned.

You'll note that I haven't given you their names. That's on purpose. Human beings who deserve dignity and respect get names. So they're clearly not eligible.

My initial thought when these crimes were committed (and if you're curious and/or you don't know, please go look it up somewhere else; I refuse to disrespect the victims by recounting or linking to the details of their deaths) is that the guilty deserve to die for what they did. Why? Because their crimes not only disrespected and ended three lives. They terrorized and scarred the entire state, your humble correspondent included. It was a sucker punch that left 3 million people dazed, frightened and sickened.

But before we schedule the execution tailgate party at MacDougall-Walker Correctional Institution, there's this nagging little question: If they killed, and they are criminals and sinners for killing, what does make us for killing them?

As previously recounted in this space, the commandment does not offer a list of exceptions in which the taking of human life is acceptable. There's no wiggle room in "thou shalt not kill."

And it gets more difficult: Jesus directs to forgive not once or 7 times, but 70 times 7 times. And here I fall miserably short of the standard: I have serious doubts that I could forgive such creatures even once for committing such a crime against people I care about, never mind the remaining 139.

So what's my answer?

No. I won't lower myself to their bacterial level. Even though I truly believe they deserve it. Let them rot instead -- and then let an authority higher than the State of Connecticut determine the outcome. My guess? Where they're going, it's going to be very hot. All of the time.

As for the temporal realm: I'd be satisfied if they spent the rest of their lives in prison, but on one crucial condition -- that they remain in general population, with the worst and most sadistic murderers and gangsters, and not afforded any special status or protection from the guards.

After all, prisoners doing hard time have their own ways of meting out punishment.

This is a song about a Whale ... No!!!

It's been 14 NHL opening nights since the Mighty Whale was stolen from Hartford and taken to ... Raleigh, North Carolina?

The injustice of it all still boggles the mind.

It's not that I have any fondness for the Mighty Whale, even though they didn't have much of a rivalry with the Sabres until they got to their new home (and the less said of that, the better).

I've got nothing against the fine people of Raleigh, except for the knowledge that it is against the laws of nature for a hockey team to have cheerleaders.

Nor am I sure that Hartford is worthy of a major-league sports franchise. Um, I don't know how to break this to you, but, well ... No.

But any fan with a heart and a soul knows the way the Whalers were taken away was simply wrong.

They survived an arena collapse and playing most of a season in an AHL rink in Springfield until the Civic Center could be fixed. They survived years of mediocrity, losing the shortest playoff overtime game ever and enduring the shame of playing a major sport in a shopping mall. And for a brief time in the WHA days, they belonged to West Springfield ... if only I could have seen them play at Eastern States Coliseum, an edifice which defines "glorious old barn."

And so, to honor the Nutmeg State and the memories of Ronnie Franchise, Kevin Dineen and the great Peter Sidorkiewicz, I present Your Song, in all it's goofy, upbeat glory.

Now you're talking

For those who didn't know: I generally dislike the comment sections in stories on the Internet.

Me and the First Amendment get along fine. But the overwhelming majority of comments sections I have seen have forgotten that rights come with responsibilities and that freedom of speech is not absolute. So people are allowed to say outrageously hateful things, slander and libel with impunity, make unsubstantiated allegations and worst of all, write in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS.

And yes, sunshine is a fine disinfectant -- and these sorts of statements, out in the open, let us all know what a bunch of morons we can be. (And racists, sadly.) But they also have a chilling effect on a free and open exchange of ideas, because who wants to subject themselves to that kind of abuse? there's no shades of gray anywhere. All Republicans are wealthy jack-booted thugs; all Democrats are socialist atheist anti-gun hippies; all Tea Party members wear hats lined with Reynolds Wrap; and so on and so forth, can't we all just get along, blah blah blah ...

It all makes Mark Twain's view of the human race in his wickedly brilliant "Letters From The Earth" that much more sympathetic: "Man is a marvelous curiosity. When he is at his very, very best he is a sort of low grade nickel-plated angel; at his worst he is unspeakable, unimaginable; and first and last and all the time he is a sarcasm."

But if I'm going to replace my facebook experience with old-school media like blogs, then there needs to be some interactivity. That's just how it works.

So I've decided, for now, to enable comments on my blog. I am going to moderate them, to be sure, but comments there will be.

And this is your first chance. Got a comment about comments? Feel free to comment.

* Greg Sukiennik is not listening to "Maggie's Farm" by Bob Dylan on Spotify.

You might see more of me here in the coming days and weeks.

Now, I've said that before, and it didn't happen, did it? Nooooo. So I haven't suddenly gotten religion about writing in this space on a regular basis.

But I did quit Facebook. Cold turkey with cucumbers, tomato and cranberry mayo. So I will need a place to write regularly ... and this is the place. Glad to be back.

I hear you. Quit Facebook? Now why'd he go and do a thing like that? Next thing you know, he'll say he's not on Twitter. Luddite!

Well first of all, it was becoming apparent to me that I was tuning into Facebook too much. It was becoming a distraction. No, check that, it had already become a distraction and if there's one thing I don't need in my life, it's more distractions. So I simplified. (Thoreau might be pleased. But then he'd hit me up for five bucks.)

Second, I read a fair amount last week about what Mark Zuckerberg has in mind for the place.

For those of you with experience with corporate takeovers or change in landlords, you know how this goes. New boss comes in, kicks the tires, thinks "Ya know, I need a return on my investment" and suddenly, the yearly bonus and the holiday party disappear, the laundry machines now cost $2.00 per load, whispers about outsourcing and layoffs start making the rounds, the rent jumps by $50 but the snow never gets shoveled off the sidewalk, the co-pay shoots up, and so it goes...

When I first signed up for Facebook, I thought "cool. One-stop shopping to connect with family and friends." And yes there were spammy applications and targeted ads, and yes there were cautionary tales about what to share and not share, but for the most part, if you were smart, you could ignore the nonsense and use the thing as you wanted: To communicate and stay in touch. And it was pretty cool.

But now, like the new landlord, MZ has decided he needs to monetize his assets even more. And with the latest changes, the intent is now clearer than ever before: MZ sees me and every other user as an unpaid advertising research monkey and unwitting marketing assistant. And it's all on that damned ticker on the right, because you know your friends want to know you're listening to that great new album or that funny online video. Who knows where that ends.

And MZ knows it's addictive and MZ knows you don't want to leave because your friends and relatives and photos are all there and MZ knows if he can get you to stay, he can keep you not only in front of all that nifty content, but generating more content for their machinery. And if you've used the new app to create this "timeline" of your life, MZ can hone in on your life experiences to create an even more exact picture of who you are so he can sell even more stuff to you, which you will turn and sell to people who share your interests, university, ideology, DNA or some or all of the above.

" ... and now you do what they told ya! ... and now you do what they told ya!"

Not me. And you and the FCC know how that song ends.

I hear you again, At length.

"Sukiennik, for crying out loud, you work in the media. You've spent nearly 20 years there. And you work not in just any part of the media, but for a very, very, very large multimedia giant. And your little corner of said multimedia giant consists of six domestic cable networks, 41 international networks, a radio network and the most awesome website ever (non-dancing hamster division), all of which can be accessed on phones, handheld devices and tablets. Your little corner of said multimedia giant enjoys outrageous brand recognition and brand loyalty worldwide. You can pay your mortgage, drive a newish car, eat well, stay warm and afford school string lessons for your child because the content you help generate is used to sell advertising across multiple platforms. You can't honestly criticize this as if it's some new outrage."

Well, OK. All that is true.

But here's my reply.

When you don't to watch or listen to television or radio advertising, what do you do? You turn the channel or turn it off.

When you see ads in the newspaper, no one makes you read them. You can turn the page.

In none of those examples are you tuning in or turning the page thinking you won't find advertising. (Even those pre- and post-show sponsor messages on NPR and PBS.) You know the deal when you turn the switch. Sure, facebook always had advertising, but it was off to the side and largely avoidable.

And in none of those above examples are you and your virtual friends actually being used to create the market research and targeted advertising. In real time.

So, forget that. (And I mean forget in the Cee-Lo Green radio edit sense of the word.)

And no, you won't find me on Twitter or Google +. (I tried Twitter. It banned me after six hours, claiming -- falsely -- that I "created serial accounts." I have somehow managed to live without it since.)

But you will hopefully find more of me here, in North Stepford Falls, Connecticut.

* Because I haven't subscribed to Spotify. And I already own "Bringing It All Back Home," anyway.

From The Archives: Emotional Fescue

Dear reader -- Here's another in a series of essays and stories, published and unpublished, that I'm finally allowing to see the light of day via this here blog. This is, more or less, the first chapter of "Emotional Fescue," a book idea that got to nearly 13,000 words before it was abandoned and became weed-infested and overgrown. I offer it here in honor of Father's Day and in the interest of sharing some thoughts I should have shared a long time ago.

From Emotional Fescue
Copyright 2011 Sukiennik Industries. All rights reserved.
"And then it was, that suddenly sweeping his sickle-shaped lower jaw beneath him, Moby Dick had reaped away Ahab's leg, as a mower a blade of grass in the field."
- Herman Melville

My dad, in his old age, has this thing about collecting lawn mowers. Why, I don’t know. And it wasn’t always like that: When my brother and I were growing up, we had just the one beast of a mower in the garage, a self-propelled Snapper of indeterminate age, Jurassic, perhaps, that ran loud and fast, like a sprint car and just as dangerous. When we were small and he was mowing, we weren’t allowed outside. So I used to look out the second-floor windows at the back yard and watch him turn laps on our half-acre, one concentric square at a time, as the dull roar of its engine grew louder or softer with its distance from the house. I could smell the gasoline and freshly-cut grass perfuming the air.

It looked like such a grown-up and important thing to do.

When it finally came time for my brother and I to help Dad cut the grass, he taught us how to start and stop that mower and use it safely. And at the end of the lesson he gave us the following last piece of safety advice: “If it gets away from you, run like hell.”

Then he damn near killed himself fixing the thing.

I don’t know if the old motor was dying or if he simply had to have a brand new 4HP Briggs and Stratton engine to cut grass, but one day, with the patient still on the operating table, he set off on his yellow 10-speed bike to fetch some fuel. Except that on the way to the gas station he hit a storm grate coming down a pretty steep hill and went head over heels, right in front of the church, twisting his left wrist a good 180 degrees. The doctors were able to put everything back together and we eventually fixed the mower and the bike, too. Good as new. But he still has the metal pin in his left arm.

That was when the collection started. Mower number two came east from my grandfather’s house near Buffalo soon after the accident. Grandpa had taken the opportunity to get himself a new mower and send his old one off to us. It was a Snapper, too, but not nearly as scary to handle. It had a dead man’s switch; it only engaged the drivetrain if the handlebar was lifted up. It cut the grass just fine, it ran more efficiently and the clipping bag was much easier to remove and replace.

It wasn’t nearly as loud or powerful or rugged or dangerous. I didn’t like it half as much.

As my brother and I grew we became the landscape staff for the family home. We stopped mowing in concentric circles and started making patterns, trying to duplicate the look of big-league ballparks. (We didn’t know we needed a roller attachment that would leave the pretty checkerboard patterns we wanted.) We got pretty good at it and it became less of a chore and more of a pastime, to a certain degree at least.

But as much pride as we took in the appearance of the place, well, they say it’s better to be lucky than good, and we were mostly lucky. My dad didn’t fertilize the grass much, if ever. He didn’t water it much, either – we were along a downhill slope and in the percolation zone of a really large lake so it didn’t need a lot of water. In fact, the back was often unmowable for long stretches of the spring if it had been a wet winter. It was plain, basic grass maintenance – it grows, you cut it, and when it grows again, you cut it again. Easy.

Then I moved away. To college, first, then to apartments since I could not afford a house. And all the while my dad kept collecting mowers, from his dad, from yard sales, from co-workers who were transferring out of town, until there were six of them in the garage, including two riding mowers.

As a newspaper writer I didn’t make the kind of money one needs to save up for and purchase a place to call my own. In those unfortunate situations when I had to write a business story and I was interviewing a real estate agent or someone in the business of owning or developing commercial property, I would seek explanations of how things worked with a self-depreciating wisecrack: “All I know about real estate is that I can’t afford it.”

That fact gnawed at my psyche, a little at first because no one likes to be poor, let alone working poor, but more profoundly after I had a wife and family. I started to actively dislike living near Boston and everything about it, because I could not afford a house there. I started having a hard time sleeping and coping. I applied for jobs I really didn’t want because of where they were, not what they were.

And why? I didn’t want a McMansion or a Victorian or a McVictorian. I didn’t care about a garage or a bonus room or a kitchen with granite counters and a gas stove. What I really wanted was a back yard. A back yard where my daughter could run around and play. A back yard where I could grill steaks and chicken and salmon and throw a Frisbee or a football or horseshoes.

A yard I could mow. Like my dad.

I knew something. My dad wasn’t just some nutty lawn mower collector. He had six lawn mowers in his garage because he was waiting to give his boys mowers when they finally bought houses, just like his dad had done. I wanted that moment and I was willing to trade upward mobility in my chosen field for it. I was willing to trade fields for it. I applied for jobs in out-of-the way locales that paid a fraction of what I was making in greater Boston based on the real estate listings rather than whether it was a job I wanted. Rutland, Vermont. Waterville, Maine. North Adams, Mass. Anywhere there was a patch of green grass I could afford.

But life takes turns, and I actually got myself a good job working for a large media company as an editor. It was less sheer effort and more dumb luck, but I finally was able to afford it: A 1,400 square foot cape in North Stepford Falls, Conn. (Don’t bother looking for it on a map of the Nutmeg State; it’s both everywhere and nowhere.) With a nice front yard and lots of shade in the back.

The day the moving truck came with our stuff, there was my dad, in the pickup truck, not far behind. In the back was the present I had long hoped for: A gently-used Troy-Bilt with adjustable deck height, variable drivetrain speeds and a 4.5 HP Briggs and Stratton.

Sweet.

We loaded it off the truck together and rolled it into the back yard.

“Remember that old Snapper?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s parts now,” he replied. “It’s taking up room in the garage. I ought to get rid of it.”

He walked back to the truck and returned with a resealable plastic bag containing the instruction manual.

“Dad, I think I know how to run a lawn mower,” I said.

"Here's the instruction manual. Put it somewhere you can find it,” he said, back in his Dad element, if only briefly. “I’ve also brought you a spare sharpened blade and some gas-oil mix for the trimmer.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Guess we’d better get to work on those shrubs in the front.”

I never told him about the rest -- about how I had watched him from the window of my upstairs bedroom, mowing laps around the yard in concentric squares, each smaller than the last, and thinking he was the biggest and most important person I knew to be able to handle such a noisy and dangerous machine. Or that the gift of a lawn mower meant more than any other gift because it was the continuation of a family tradition that must have started when he bought his own first house 30-something years ago. I don’t know why I didn’t tell him. Maybe I supposed he knew all the same.

And then I waited for the grass to get long enough to mow.

The mower sat in the shed for a few weeks after we moved into our little cape in North Stepford Falls. It was a dry summer, the grass was growing slowly and my new editing job and getting the new house in order was keeping me pretty busy.

In the meantime I was noticing a few things about my neighbors and their yards.

“Hey sweetie,” I told my wife after returning from a neighborhood bike ride, “you know, I think I’ve figured out why the yards around here are so green despite the lack of rain. They’re all using the Lawn Wranglers,” I said, referring to the fictional lawn care service from the movie Bottle Rocket. “I noticed while I was bringing Sofia to school. You see the trucks everywhere. Doesn’t anyone here mow their own lawn?”

“Mr. Jensen does,” I replied. “Since we moved here he’s mowed it three times already.”

(Dear reader: I have never had a neighbor named Mr. Jensen. In the interest of maintaining positive relations with neighbors past and present, Mr. Jensen is a composite character. Any similarities to actual neighbors are utterly coincidental.)

Mr. Jensen: The lawn enthusiast next door. Maybe you know him, too, or someone just like him. Growing up, it was the neighbor two houses from our house, and the one three houses from our house, too. They mowed their yards at least weekly, if not more. They were so often seen in their Bermuda shorts and golf hats, watering or fertilizing or raking the grass, that it was presumed they did nothing else with their days.

What makes the lawn enthusiast tick? Is he merely a proud homeowner? Does he just want to get out of the house and away from the wife and kids? Or is it some kind of mania? What makes a man spend hours a day and hundreds of dollars a year on grass? It’s not even a flower, doesn’t give fruit, only smells when you cut it. The water wasted on keeping it growing could meet the clean water needs of the developing world. It's a cash crop that you can't eat unless you have hooves. It’s grass, for crying out loud. Grass!

I never knew, except that my brother and I noticed when the lawn enthusiasts’ yards didn’t do so well – maybe they were overmowed, maybe they were overfed or underwatered, who knows. Sadly we felt superior in a smug sort of way that our minimal-care lawn was greener, despite backyard athletics, minimal care and a dog that didn’t have the common decency to poop on someone else’s property.

“Do you think I should have mowed the yard by now?” I asked Michelle. “I mean, it looks good ... it’s a little long but it seems to do better than the short-mowed lawn down the street. That thing’s brown. Have you seen it? I mean, it’s dead. Funniest thing I ever saw was the guy who lives there mowing it the other day. You could barely see through the cloud of dust. They say insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different...”

“The yard looks fine,” Michelle said. “But if you think you should mow it, mow it.”

It was time.

I pulled the Troy-Bilt out of the shed, wheeled it to the front yard and surveyed the scene. The previous owner had told me he cut the grass high so it wouldn’t get burned in the summer heat, so I set the deck at about two inches.

I poured some gasoline in the tank, checked the oil, set the throttle on choke and made sure the drive was disengaged. Simple enough, right? There was no magic to this. It’s a mower.

Pull. Nothing. Pull. Nothing. Pull. Nothing. Pull. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!

What do I do in situations like this? The same thing my father always did: Call Dad.

“You didn’t read the instructions, did you,” he said. “Why don’t you have a look.”

With him still on the phone, I opened the bag, scanned the manual and came to the section about starting the mower:

“Set the throttle to choke and extend the cord until you meet resistance. Then pull the cord,” it read.

I did.

With one satisfying pull, the Briggs and Stratton engine sparked, coughed and grew to a dull roar, kicking up dust from under the deck from the wash of the steel blade.

"Thanks, Dad!" I shouted over the din.

“Now, read the instructions," he repeated.

I hung up, put the phone down, angled the front wheels downhill and across the yard at a 45 degree angle and engaged the drivetrain, turning my John Deere hat around backwards as I stepped off into a sacred rite of home ownership which I had dreamed of for years.

I was finally mowing my own lawn.

I wonder if Michelle heard my evil laughter over the din of the motor. She’s perfect for me in that she understands my quirks and silliness and shares my bizarre outlook on life. She knew what she was in for when she said “yes” that fall day at Mount Greylock. I'm not sure if that included a silly man who could get excited about piloting a lawn mower across a quarter acre of perennial Kentucky bluegrass and was already daydreaming about where to put the edging, what flowers to plant and when to spread grub killer as the fresh clippings turned his white sneakers green, but what the heck. For richer, for poorer, for grassier.

She must have thought something of the occasion, because when I finished the front and back and came to the kitchen door, she was there with a tall glass of limeade. It felt good cascading down my throat and I wiped the wet, cold glass on my forehead.

“Thanks, Sweetie,” I said, pleased by the nice surprise.

“Thought you could use a drink,” she said. “Man, that thing is loud.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Did you hear me laughing?”

“Can’t say I did,” she replied. “But you sure looked like you were having fun.”

I'm back

Sorry I've been away. More writing to come. Much more.

Here's what's new:

_ North Stepford Falls voted no, then voted yes, on the same budget, with the second vote preventing school layoffs and assuring that the bullies and misers lose again. There aren't that many regular voters in this town, but those who do vote are closely divided -- by a few hundred votes, give or take -- on whether our town is a community or just a zip code where people park their SUVs.

_ I have a book idea. An excellent book idea. I hope to be discussing it at length here in the near future, but for now, I won't jinx myself. Also: More essays are forthcoming in the next weeks. Some greatest hits, some new material.

_ We have again attempted to grow things in our yard, hoping that we're not just feeding the chipmunks and squirrels. Wish us luck.

_ Tornadoes within 50 miles are too damned close.

40 for 40

ESPN's got 30 for 30. I've got 40 for 40. Forty things I've learned in my 40th year.

1. Just when you think you've maxed out the love for the people you care about most, they will surprise you -- or you'll surprise yourself -- by how much more you can love them and how much more they can love you.

2. Stick up for yourself. You are worth it.

3. Don't discuss politics on Facebook. Your friendships are not worth your attempts at clever turns of phrase and rhetoric.

4. That being said, Mark Twain was right about the human race.

5. There is no better place to celebrate your birthday than at the Third Ward Social Club and Klimek's Tavern in North Tonawanda, N.Y.

6. When in doubt, trade in the Subaru. NOT the Toyota. Though if you had, the Toyota would have needed as many repairs as the Subaru.

7. I don't mind gray hair and whiskers.

8. Anxiety is for suckers.

9. Buy a drum set. It's more fun than humans should be allowed to have.

10. Play guitar every day.

11. Play bass every day, too.

12. The Bills will do just enough to make you think they're finally going to beat a good team and turn the corner, then kick you squarely in the groin.

13. When you let your kid try something new and a little scary -- to you, at least -- the rewards are not just hers alone. You realize that you can let go at the same time she learns that she can fly.

14. Growing in faith reminds you of the stuff in life that really matters and brings out the better person you were meant to be.

15. You play the regular season so you can have Game 7 at home. It matters.

16. It's not easy to stick to your principles when everyone else is discarding theirs. But in the end, whether your argument carries the day or is ignored, it's a lot easier to look in the mirror, sleep, eat, etc.

17. It's not healthy to hold grudges. They will eat you from the inside out.

18. Don't dwell on things in the past you can't change. It's a waste of time.

19. Next time, buy the Neko Case tickets and stop being so darned responsible.

20. Trust the people you love the most and who love you the most.

21. Don't be afraid of yourself or your own ability.

22. Regrets are a crappy way to live your life. Don't do it.

23. Eat less. You're not missing anything.

24. You are not your job and your job is not you. That paradigm might have worked for your immigrant ancestors trying to carve out a niche in this country, but that was then and this is now -- and it's not good for you.

25. When you turn 40, your metabolism slows to a crawl but the hair on your ear and in your nose grows like kudzu.

26. Listen to your daughter and buy a real Christmas tree.

27. Make the effort to connect (or re-connect) with your extended family. You'll realize you're not alone in the world and learn more about yourself.

28. You don't have to "take your talents to South Beach" to be happy.

29. Some clever ideas were not meant to be implemented.

30. It's startling how someone you never met can affect your life and perspective in ways you never realized until he or she was suddenly gone. RIP George M. Parks

31. Every recipe turns out better when Sofia helps. Even if the pie looks homely or the pasta turns out funny, it's so worth it.

32. If you don't want the hot water to come out cold and the cold water to come out hot, hire a plumber.

33. Don't ride a waterslide head-first if you don't want to re-injure your thumb.

34. Next time, cut out the middle man and bring the stuff to Goodwill instead of holding a tag sale at which everyone touches your stuff, but no one buys it.

35. Don't be surprised when your six-year-old daughter screams the name of her friend-who-is-a-boy and runs past you without so much as a "bye, dad." I knew it was coming ... but so soon?

36. I love going out to dinner with Sofia -- just her and me.

37. It's a beautiful thing to realize, when Sofia does the right thing by a friend or family member and makes us truly proud, that we've actually done OK so far as parents.

38. Everything they've told you about Mexican Coca-Cola is true.

39. Don't mess with supermarket chicken salad.

40. Dinner tastes better when you get to watch it catch fire right in front of you.

armies of the road

If you live just about anywhere in this country, you have seen them.

Men and women waiting for you at train stations, on city streets and busy highway intersections and offramps. Their clothes and faces wear the strain of nights spent in the cold. They're as frayed about the edges as the cardboard signs that spell out the circumstances of their lives.

The odd thing is, those signs are usually not easy to read from your car window, or from a distance on the street. But the point isn't to guide you to an exit or a coffee shop. It's a life story in magic marker, written by someone who wants you to understand.

They wait, with a hand out or a coffee can, hoping you'll take pity.

Maybe you've given a quarter or a dollar to one of these people once in a while.

Maybe you haven't.

Perhaps, you were once suckered by someone's sob story – you know the one, about the wallet that got locked in the car that got towed and he needs whatever you can afford for a bus or train home? And five minutes later, when you saw that same person buying cigarettes or making a cell phone call or trying the same heartfelt, desperate story on a tourist, you decided: No more. And so you folded the con artists and phonies in with the drug addicts and drunks – recovering or otherwise – who were appealing to you for your money.

After all, who are you to be judge and jury of their lives? How can you tell the frauds from the genuine hard-luck cases? Who's really sober and who's lying so convincingly that even he or she believes it?

Maybe you've said it, maybe you've heard it and maybe you believe it: They're just lazy. They would not be out here if they really wanted to get better and get a grip on life. They wouldn't be living under the expressway or an abandoned building or spending days on the street and nights in shelters and ATM vestibules. They'd go to AA, take their meds, summon the willpower to give up the bottle or the pipe, whatever it takes. But they don't. So they're here. Day after miserable day.

So you don't believe anyone. You keep your head down and your hands in your pockets and you don't make eye contact as you cross the street or drive by, windows up and doors locked.

You're hardly alone in this regard. And it's not like you were their only hope, right? There are people in this country willing to help them help themselves.

But there's a question to which you don't know the answer.

Who was it you passed on your way to the office this morning?

Was she a bank teller or an account executive? Did he teach, write or fix cars? Have their families given up all hope and forgotten them? Did their friends write them off? Do they have children?

Maybe he was Ted Williams, an ex-radio announcer who somehow wound up begging for change and a clean start in life at a highway ramp in Columbus, Ohio. Maybe he got sobedr after problems with alcohol and drugs, but after all those years of damaging his own life and damaging relationships, there really was nowhere to go, no one to believe in him and no other options.

Until someone wanted to hear his story.

I hope that story's true - and ends well this time.

Dried Nutmeg

We haven't gotten significant rainfall around here in a long, long time.

Here's some statistical proof. And some more.

The current rainfall for September in North Stepford Falls? 0.44 inches.

The monthly historical average for the month? 4.80 inches.

Funny, when we moved here five years ago, our first fall was marked by seven straight days of rain that wound up flooding the basement and having to call the North Stepford Falls Volunteer FD to pump the water out.

The front yard doesn't look completely brown ... not yet at least. The ground's pretty dry, though. The ground where we live is pretty sandy, which is great when it gets enough water. Too much or too little, not so good. Too much and it drains too slowly and it floods. Too little ... well it looks like it does now.

Meanwhile, despite the fact UConn is on a Stage II Drought Watch, the neighbors' sprinklers click on every day, keeping their lawn lush and green -- and this is not to single them out, because they're hardly alone in that regard.

Does this make me want sprinklers? No.

The lawn care industry is a multi-billion dollar industry. But stop and think about that for a minute: How much water, fertilizer and labor is spent on a cash crop that only animals with hooves can eat?

Not wishing for a hurricane, but some rain would be nice.

Good thing climate change is a myth, eh?

News tidbits from the Conn. 5th District, Volume 1

So Republican challenger Sam Caliguri wants 41 debates in 41 towns with the incumbent, Chris Murphy.

This is crazy. But not for the reasons you think I think it's crazy.

If an alien from another planet -- say, Massachusetts? -- visited the district, he or she would think Sam Caliguri is the incumbent and running unopposed.

Chris Murphy might be the second-term incumbent but right now he might as well be in hiding. I have not seen a bumper sticker, a lawn sign, a canvasser, a TV ad (though apparently one just started airing), and certainly not the Congressman.

All I have seen are Sam's signs, and plenty of them. Sam's people came through the neighborhood during the primary. Sam beat two GOP opponents to get here. He's got momentum and a ground game and as any football fan will tell you, those things make for a tough playoff contender come late fall.

As for said Murphy TV ad, I'm not impressed. Heck, Bllly Mays runs TV ads. And he's been dead for a year.

So why extend Murph 41 shots at free publicity? Why would you give a guy who beat Nancy Johnson -- when she was an 11-term incumbent -- an easy way to win points off you in every town in the district? Why not make him spend some of that million-dollar war chest?

You voted how you voted, Murph; if you want to go back to DC in January, you need to get out there and stand behind it, and firmly. Waiting until the fall and running ads showing you riding your bike isn't going to make all that anger go away.

So no, Sam, 41 debates, one for every town in the 5th, are a Very Bad Idea. Keep doing what you're doing and let people forget that your party caused the recession. It seems to be working.

something to remember

Noticing a lot of people remembering Sept. 11 today.

I've been spending the last nine years trying to forget it. Not the folks who were murdered, mind you -- they are much remembered. I'd prefer to forget the horror of the day (I saw the whole damned thing from my desk at AP) and the anxiety and paranoia and war that followed.

But this year, for some reason, some really hateful people really seem to be trying to use the memory of that day to divide us as a nation for their own political agenda rather than solemnize it as an honest day of remembrance.

Now I'm about to touch the third rail of religion, so if you don't care what I honestly believe, I'm not going to make you read it and this is a good place for you to stop.

If you're still with me...

To those folks who would use today to divide us: If we really want to make this divided country whole again and a better place to live, then we need a whole lot less Sept. 11 as a war cry and a whole lot more Luke 6:27 and Matthew 5:44.

Poll Position

The phone rang.

It was that number again: "Out of Area/No Data."

They'd been calling for a week. And I was sick of it. So I finally answered, ready to inform the telemarketer on the other line that I'm on the do not call registry and the secretary of state's going to hear about this, friend.

But the nice Southern lady on the other end of the line explained she was conducting some polling research and wanted just a few minutes of my time, are you a likely voter? Hey, what the heck, why not, I thought. This could be fun.

It wasn't painful. But it wasn't the Quinnipiac poll or the AP, either.

She said she was from a firm whose name I do not recall, but I'm pretty sure they're Republican pollsters. Though I figured that part out without the assistance of the Interweb, given the content of the questions. Not the South part; could have been Bangalore for all I know.

The topic was the governor's race here in the Nutmeg State. While my friendly Southern pollster didn't bash the Democrat, Daniel Malloy, she pumped up the GOP nominee, Tom Foley, in the phrasing of several questions -- i.e. "...or do you want someone like Tom Foley who's a political outsider who knows how to create jobs and will take on the special interests in Hartford?"

(On a side note, when I think of special interests in Hartford, I think of wealthy white guys and corporations seeking tax breaks rather than public employee unions. But that's the great thing about special interests -- it's not just a loaded phrase, it's more versatile than a KitchenAid. You never have to identify them, and as if by magic, whatever you're against, they're for!)

Now, Foley took some bruising in the GOP primary -- past criminal charges against him, allegations he outsourced jobs and ruined a Georgia textile mill town as a venture capitalist, rumors he once yelled at a puppy and doesn't like Jim Croce or Jimmy Buffett -- and my friendly Southern pollster asked me about all those things and whether I believed his opponents or I believed his explanations.

So what did I do with those batting-practice fastballs?

A): "He's a downsizing SOB and he's so slimy, slugs pour salt on him."
B): "Just because he got security clearance to be ambassador to Ireland doesn't mean he didn't allegedly use his car as a weapon."
C): "I'm aware of those accusations, but I'm going to investigate for myself and make up my own mind."

If you answered A or B, you know me well ... and you're WRONG! Yes, I answered C.

Now why would a decent, fair-minded, God-fearing progressive like me do a thing like that? The explanations were lame! Why would I take those pitches for strikes?

Well, for starters, it's true. I'll do the research and make up my own mind. Not that he's likely to get my vote, but if you believe claims made by political ads, I've got some nice swampland in Florida that may interest you.

Then, there's this: I once had to make cold calls, when I was working a temp job before my first paying gig in the Eastern Liberal Media Conspiracy. (In that case, working for a fan of Richard Nixon, "Liberal" didn't apply quite so much. Though Nixon did impose price controls! You could look it up.) That temp job was no rock and roll fun. And so I've been there and I figured this lady was A) reading from the script and B) probably making minimum wage with no sick time or health care benefits and C) didn't need my attitude.

So I just gave my answers. They were disappointing enough, I'm certain. And hey, there's always the inevitable Linda McMahon push poll.

But that leads me to the larger topic of any political operation using tricks widely esteemed to be dirty.

I've long had a strong hunch that a Democratic congressman, whom I won't name because I can't even begin to prove this, ran a fake Republican push poll late in a close race - and not just any push poll, but a really aggressive one targeting senior citizens! - so he could blame the GOP candidate for dirty tricks. He won.

Having finally been the recipient of a push poll, I think it's sort of like listening to cult recruiters, or what I have oft imagined cult recruiters would be like, albeit in this case without the pamphlets or wearing a Snuggie. (Think the cover of Fire Of Unknown Origin.) They stick to the script, building up their charming visionary sociopath and conveniently excusing any flaws or doubts. If you listen with both ears, it's plainly evident what's going on and you ignore it, or tell 'em to take a hike. But if you don't and you hear enough of it and you're on the fence -- or worse, hear what you want to hear -- you potentially fall in line with the program(ing).

I've always wondered what it would be like to run a campaign or to be a candidate. I wonder if I'd do something like that. It's easy to sit on the sidelines and say "oh no, of course not, that's dastardly and scummy."

But I know this about candidates for public office -- they get a bad case of tunnel vision. So when the pressure gets turned up and the party consultants tell you "this is how it's done in the big time, don't ask questions" and you want to win, after all, and the polls say you're behind and the other candidate just annoys the heck out of you -- well I suppose it becomes easier to do things of which you're not proud. It's probably even been done by politicians you like as well as the ones you dislike. (And it's one or the other these days. Who knew Eddie Vedder was a prophet when he caterwauled "There ain't gonna be any middle any more"?)

In sports, where I spend most of my time, there's cliches about preferring losing with class to winning with dishonor. When it's the team you don't like that's caught cheating, this is an easy position to take; sometimes, if they're really, really good then you can speculate out of thin air that they must be cheating (as many NASCAR fans claimed when Ray Evernham was Jeff Gordon's crew chief and no one could beat him).

But when it's your team -- Patriots fans, you might be familiar with this one -- that gets caught with its hand in the cookie jar, it's not as easy to stick with the high ground. "Everyone was doing it." Or "It's not a big deal, it didn't give them an unfair advantage," or "It's a witch hunt!"

As the song goes, "You just want to be on the side that's winning."

I'd like to think candidates -- any candidates, mind you, donkeys and elephants inclusive -- could run on their records, the issues and their vision for the future. And if they did any of those things, then tactics that set apart your record from the opponents are just slightly less onerous.

But when all anyone's got anymore is platitudes, empty suits and buzzwords, it just comes off as another come-on.

So yes, I would have preferred a telemarketer. At least it's clear from "hello" that they're trying to sell me something I don't want to buy.

Excerpts: "Porch" by Pearl Jam; "Positively 4th Street." by Bob Dylan.

The Lessons of Jack Tatum

I've been thinking about grudges and forgiveness -- seeking it and giving it.

A couple of weeks ago, Jack Tatum died. For those who don't know: Tatum was a defensive safety for the Oakland Raiders in the 1970s. He was one of the hardest and most feared hitters in the game. But a play in a meaningless preseason game changed his life and how he would be remembered.

On Aug. 12, 1978 in Oakland, Patriots wide receiver Darryl Stingley came over the middle on a crossing pattern. He went for the ball; Tatum went for Stingley.

But Stingley didn't get up. He was paralyzed from the chest down and spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

It was, by the rules of the game, a clean hit; no flag was thrown and no fines or admonitions from Pete Rozelle followed.

Tatum never apologized or contacted Stingley to show any remorse for what had happened. By his own reckoning, it was a clean hit in a violent game and he had done nothing wrong.

"It could have happened to anybody," Tatum once said. "People are always saying, 'He didn't apologize.' I don't think I did anything wrong that I need to apologize for. It was a clean hit."

Still, Tatum wrote an autobiography when his career was over titled "They Call Me Assassin," playing up his tough-guy image. Two more books along the same lines followed. And he never talked to Stingley about what happened between Aug. 12, 1978 and April 5, 2007, when Stingley died.

But life after football wasn't good for Tatum. He lost one leg at the knee and the toes on the other to diabetes. And he was remembered not as one of the all-time greats, part of the Raiders "Soul Patrol" defensive backfield and one the most feared defensive backs to ever play the game, but as the guy whose hit paralyzed Darryl Stingley in a game that didn't even count.

Tatum's coach, John Madden, was deeply shaken by the incident and visited Stingley in the hospital regularly. He told his players that from that moment on, they should think of him as a Raider. And Stingley wrote in his autobiography that he was convinced what happened to him contributed to Madden's decision to abruptly leave coaching while he was on top.

Tatum didn't exactly treat Stingley like a Raider. He never reached out. Never expressed regret, even if it might not have been his fault. Never lost the tough guy facade. He was just playing football. He'd done nothing wrong.

But Madden knew better.

"He never talked about things, and you couldn’t get him to talk about it," Madden told the Los Angeles Times after Tatum died. "It was something that ate on him for his whole life."

On performance alone, Jack Tatum should probably be in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. But even in a game where big hits are celebrated and replayed endlessly in highlight reels, Tatum's role in one of the sport's ugliest moments left him a pariah. In a sport that glorifies violence, he was just too violent. He did what he was supposed to do and did it too well. And in a society that demands apologies from the heroes it builds up and knocks down, his lack of regret in the aftermath broke an unwritten rule.

At the time and for a long time, I hated Jack Tatum for refusing to apologize – what kind of monster puts someone in a wheelchair, on purpose or not, and won't even say he's sorry? I hated that he capitalized financially on it by writing a book. I hated that on an incomplete pass in a meaningless preseason game, he lined up and laid out a defenseless receiver.

So when Steve Grogan, when asked if he could say anything nice about Jack Tatum, said "I just can't do it," I understood.

"I have a hard time trying to find something nice to say," Grogan told ESPN.com. "That bothers me because I'm not like that normally. You may talk to guys that played with him, and they might tell you he was greatest teammate in the world and everybody loved him.

"The circumstance that we were involved with, just the way he handled it, that will never come out of any of our mouths or minds."

But Darryl Stingley forgave Jack Tatum. Even though Tatum never reached out.

"It's hard to articulate," Stingley said in 2003, according to The Boston Globe. "It was a test of my faith. The entire story. In who, and how much, do you believe, Darryl? In my heart and in my mind I forgave Jack Tatum a long time ago."

I thought about all this a couple of days later, when a judge on Connecticut rejected a motion by one of the two "men" accused of three murders in a brutal home invasion to remove the death penalty as a possible punishment for his crimes.

Those two "men" terrorized, sexually assaulted and killed a woman and two girls in the midst of their bid to steal the family's savings. Their unspeakable and violent crimes truly terrified and horrified the entire state and left a good man with only memories of his wife and daughters – and nightmares of how they were tortured and murdered after his attempts to defend his family were overpowered.

When I saw that news, I thought, "Good."

I'm not for capital punishment in most cases; I don't believe it to be an effective deterrent or a means to closure. And there's no wiggle room in "Thou shalt not kill" – it means what it says. Yet I have not for a second felt any pangs of regret that those two "men" will likely put to death by the State of Connecicut when they're found guilty as charged, because they went so far beyond the pale of human decency.

That's admittedly a double standard. Executions are bad but some are OK when you think they really deserve it? Yeah, not my clearest, most logical thinking.

But if Darryl Stingley could forgive the man whose hit took away the use of his legs the last 29 years of his life ... well, if he can forgive, shouldn't anyone be able to forgive? Or is there a line beyond which we can forget about forgiveness and seek revenge with impunity? Can even people who seem beyond redemption and repair, like the two facing execution for home invasion, rape and murder, be forgiven?

That's a big question and a bigger challenge.

I've seen the harm grudges can do, first-hand. I must admit that I've held a few, too. And I've been thinking that maybe it's time those grudges got let go.

And not because Darryl Stingley forgave, but because Jack Tatum didn't ask.

Let me explain.

Jack Tatum was probably not the monster he was made out to be, by the media or, somewhat unwisely, by himself. In the blink of an eye, he made a decision informed by years of practice and training at the highest level of his profession – he saw the ball, he saw the receiver, he made a play.

Football players all live with the possibility that every time they step on the field, they might not walk off. And yet they have to put that out of their minds in order to play at the highest level. It's why you see huge men who could bench press a city bus drop to their knees and pray when a member of their warrior society – even on an opposing team – goes down with what could be a spinal cord injury. It's also why they go right back out there and start hitting each other again after the injured player is taken off the field.

It's the cognitive dissonance inherent in the game. If you have to stop and think about making a play because you're scared you might get hurt or hurt someone else, you can't make the play fast enough. And in that case, you're done as a pro and can only hope you cracked open a book in your five years at State U.

So players act tough and they talk about serious injuries in measured tones, but not very often, because to acknowledge the wheelchair in the room or the EMTs on the sidelines is to acknowledge they are there and why.

I don't think it's a great logical leap to suppose Jack Tatum's apparent lack of empathy for Darryl Stingley had everything to do with that. If I can't be tough, I can't play this game. So I've gotta be even harder. Maybe call myself "assassin," even if no one ever called me that.

Thing was, even if it wasn't his fault, it was a preseason game and a man never walked again. There was ample time for him to put aside the game's macho bravado and the Raider mystique for a moment and embrace humanity – his own and Stingley's. He didn't even have to apologize if he truly believed that it wasn't his fault; "I'm sorry that this happened to you, I never meant for it to happen" would have been enough. And he simply wouldn't or couldn't do it.

So when he lost one leg at the knee and five toes on the other? The medical science says that's diabetes. But I see a metaphor there. I see the anger he built up to make himself an even harder competitor, the feelings he wouldn't talk about after the Stingley play, literally consuming him. Again, as Madden said, "It was something that ate on him for his whole life."

In the gospels, Jesus tells us to forgive. He tells us to love our enemies and to forgive not 7 times but 7 times 70. He accepts the cross and forgives his executioners. It's not offered as an optional exercise; it's what we're asked to do.

Jesus also tells us in the gospels that by seeking forgiveness, we set ourselves free. But Jesus doesn't say "only forgive those who ask." He tells us to turn the other cheek and when they take your cloak, give them your coat, too. It's one of the most pervasive themes in the gospels - and maybe the hardest for humans to heed, given our continuing penchant for shunning, hating and killing each other for slights real and imagined.

So what about those grudges? Can I learn anything from any of this? Maybe fall a little less short of that standard?

It would be poetic if I sat here and said "I've decided to let everyone off the hook who really hurt me or a friend." It would also be a lie. I'm just not there yet.

But Jack Tatum, of all people, has me thinking about it.

A Modest Proposal on immigration

Much has been made lately about the issue of illegal immigrants in our country. One lawmaker recently went so far as to call the children of illegal immigrants "terror babies," and as I have never seen the footage of heavily-armed 6-month-olds completing an Al-Qaida obstacle training course, I can only presume that the children of recent arrivals in our country are more prone to waking up their parents and neighbors at 3 a.m. with hunger, colic or needing a diaper change.

But I'm not deaf to the concerns of my fellow Americans, and I just may have reached a solution that honors honest citizenship and prevents the horror of innocent Americans being drooled on by agents from the Axis of Evil disguised as helpless infants.

To address the issue of Who Belongs Here And Who Doesn't and bring this long-simmering debate to a logical conclusion on which we can all agree, we need to base our thinking on some important legal precedents widely recognized by both the right and the left in this debate (we're all about consensus here):

1). I was here first.
2). Possession is 9/10s of the law.
3). Finders, keepers; losers, weepers.

Now, anyone who has taken part in or watched even the most simplistic Thanksgiving school pageant knows the native Americans were, in fact, here first. We only mention this at Thanksgiving, and just long enough to feel vaguely mindful about the centuries of land stealing, genocide, broken promises, reservations and racism. (But not long enough to keep ourselves from gorging on turkey, potatoes, stuffing and green bean casserole -- you know, the one with the cream of mushroom soup and frizzled onions on top? -- and reclining on the sofa to watch the Lions lose again.) But mention it we do, because it's the truth.

And if we take this line of thinking to its logical conclusion, we simply must evict everyone who is not a truly native American. Can't have folks living off taxes paid by people who actually belong in this country, now, can we?

A quick look at the most recent available census data, as of July 1, 2009, there were 307,006,550 people living in the United States of America. (The current "population clock" on the census bureau website says 309,983,727 -- perhaps 2.9 million terror babies have infiltrated our cities in just over a year? -- but we'll stick to the 7/1/09 figures.)

Using the July 1, 2009 "race alone or in combination" figures to account for the most Americans possible, we come up with:

White: 248,919,247
Black: 41,804,073
Asian: 15,989,876
American Indian/Alaska Native: 4,960,643
Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander: 1,137,473

So if we take this argument to its inevitable logical conclusion -- that only the people who have a legitimate right to be here should be here -- then ...

... hang on, math was never my strong suit ...

OK, got it. And, um, well, no one said doing the right thing was easy, but here goes.

306,713,196 of the 307,006,550 people in the United States -- 99.9 percent of the population, if my math is correct -- are not native Americans, Alaskans or Hawaiians.

That means 306,713,196 of you are illegal aliens. And you all need to pack your bags and get the hell out, right now.

Don't thank me all at once. Just glad I could help.

From The Archives:In Memory of Leonard Stephenson, 1944-2007

Dear Reader:
This is the first in a series of pieces from my past writing -- some of it published, some of it, like this essay, written out of necessity rather than assignment. It's offered in the interest of, well, frankly I don't know what, but it seems like a good idea so I'm doing it.

This particular essay gets to be the first installment for a number of reasons. First: We've recently passed the third anniversary of Steve's death. Second: I met an ex-Marine today and it reminded me that Steve was extremely proud of his service to his country in the Corps, in Vietnam and in the military judicial system. Third: He was my friend and my friend Caroline's very best friend and we miss him.

*** *** ***

AUG. 3, 2007

PLAYER: There’s a design at work in all art -- surely you know that? Events must play themselves out to aesthetic, moral and logical conclusion.
- From Act Two, "Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead" by Tom Stoppard.

Steve was always full of wisdom -- and always willing to share.

So I wonder what he would tell me now about how to hold on to my more treasured memories of him as a friend, an actor/producer and a source of wisdom -- the sort of wisdom one can only find by living the life he lived -- and how to somehow come to grips with the sight of him in pain and struggling to breathe in a nursing home bed, just six hours before he went to his rest.

We all know that wasn’t Leonard Stephenson. Couldn’t be. Here is a man who survived the meat grinder of Vietnam, took control of military courtrooms and commanded the stage as Uhry’s Hoke Colburn and Fugard’s Mr. M and O’Neill’s Emperor Brutus Jones. Brutus Jones, for crying out loud! This was not the Steve who was my friend and mentor, here wasting away in Room 112 of Fairview Commons, his eyes still sharp and his grip still firm, but laboring to breathe like someone tied a 300-pound weight to his chest.

No, give me the Steve who, quite frankly, frightened me the first time I visited the little house in East Lee, looking for this Caroline woman who was going to show me a studio apartment. I was early and he came to the door in his blue bathrobe, holding a coffee mug. "Hello," he said in that lion’s purr of a voice -- at once welcoming and intimidating, whether he meant to be or not. I’m sure he saw the cartoon light bulb shorting out over my head as I thought "uhhh, that’s not Caroline ... who is this guy and will he kill me for waking him up? ... Do I even have the right house?" I hope he got a chuckle out of that.

No, give me the Steve who was always out in the yard, almost gleefully impaling dandelions with his dandelion impaling tool, smoking a cigarette -- a bad foreshadowing, that, but who was I to tell a grown man 30 years my senior to quit? -- and giving the word on the issues of the day. The Steve who increasingly used the word "doggone" as a modifier the more animated he became about a given subject.

Better yet, give me the Steve who had a voice, on stage and in everyday life, that doubled as a musical instrument -- smooth and disarming like Miles Davis one minute, furious like Charlie Parker the next, inventing new language like Coltrane the third. Give me the Steve who absolutely brought the house down at my wedding with his regal reading of Herman Melville’s thoughts on love in a passage from Pierre, a performance that made that forgotten 150-year-old book as vital as the blood running through my veins.

Because I had some interest in drama -- Shakespeare and O’Neill, mainly -- we often talked about his productions and plays I had read and he had performed. To my delight, he told me he had once been the Player in Tom Stoppard’s brilliant existentialist take on Shakespeare’s very own Beavis and Butthead, "Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead," one of my very favorite plays.

Previously, I had imagined myself speaking the Player’s lines; I liked his wise-ass attitude. But after learning Steve had performed that role, the Player was forevermore Steve, and I heard his voice as I read the character’s lines. Which makes perfect sense if you think about it -- here’s a man who was born to be on stage, relished it and took it on the road with his own troupe of actors, trying to impart some greater truth in the process of entertaining an audience. And here was a character doing the same doggone thing…

PLAYER: Naturally -- we didn’t get paid, owing to circumstances ever so slightly beyond our control, and all the money we had lost betting on certainties. Life is a gamble, at terrible odds -- if it was a bet you wouldn’t take it. Did you know that any number doubled is even?

ROSENCRANTZ: It is?

PLAYER: We learn something every day, to our cost. But we troupers just go on and on. Do you know what happens to old actors?

ROSENCRANTZ: What?

PLAYER: Nothing. They’re still acting. Surprised, then?

GUILDENSTERN: What?

PLAYER: Surprised to see us?

GUILDENSTERN: I knew it wasn’t the end.

But back to Room 112. Since that’s what’s been keeping me up at night of late.

I had seen this before with my great grandmother, the matriarch of the Polish side of my family. But she was 97 and had been in a long decline from the moment she broke her hip. Steve? I had seen him a year prior. He was in his early 60s, healthy as far as I could tell, and still very much himself. And now, here he was, an oxygen mask covering his face, looking tired and in pain. Oddly, I noticed he looked good with white hair and a beard -- it gave him an additional look of distinction. Oddly, because I knew this was it.

The thing is, I don’t want to entirely forget that moment. It was my goodbye to him, after all, and that counts for something.

Soon after I walked in I held his hand and looked him square in the eye. I am still trying to comprehend exactly what I saw there -- I saw more than I know, I think, perhaps more than I can understand.

Later during our short time with him, I said "Well, this is hell of a thing, isn’t it?"

He reached a hand out and wrapped it around my shoulder as I sat at bedside.

That was about it. He was tired.

The last thing I did was snap him off a good salute.

And I said "I’ll see you again," though how I could possibly say that or why, I know not. Maybe it’s because the last thing my grandfather said to my brother Justin, a day and a half before he was gone, was "I’ll see you again someday." Maybe it was my way of trying to lean on the wisdom of one hero to say goodbye to another.

And then Rick and his friend Jerry and I walked out and found ourselves a bar. Because after what we had just been through, we needed a shot and a beer. Badly.

PLAYER: Between "just desserts" and "tragic irony" we are given quite a lot of scope for our particular talent. Generally speaking, things have gone about as far as they can possibly go when things have got about as bad as they reasonably get. (He switches on a smile.)

GUILDENSTERN: Who decides?

PLAYER: (switching off his smile) Decides? It is written.

He turns away. Guildenstern grabs him and spins him back violently.

(Unflustered.) Now if you’re going to be subtle, we’ll miss each other in the dark. I’m referring to oral tradition. So to speak.

Guildenstern releases him.

We’re tragedians, see. We follow directions -- there is no choice involved. The bad end unhappily, the good unluckily. That is what tragedy means. (Calling.) Positions!

So now what?

The sorrow that I feel for Caroline, who is as dear a friend to me as Steve was, is immeasurable. She was the love of his life, and he, hers, and they deserved to grow old together. It is horribly unfair. But I take some solace in the fact she’s a strong and intelligent woman, and that she’s surrounded by great friends who appreciate her honesty and strength and independence and will support her no matter what.

The sorrow I feel for myself is not so hot, either.

A year ago Steve had given me a project to write. He asked me for a play about Agrippa Hull, a free black man who served in the Revolutionary War and lived in Stockbridge. He crossed paths with a Who’s Who of the 18th Century: Jonathan Edwards, Tadeusz Kosciuszko, George Washington, Theodore and Catherine Maria Sedgwick and the Marquis de Lafayette. But like every other serious writing project I ever set out to start on my own, I did not finish. My ideas never seemed right on paper, or on screen.

And then it was too late…

Maybe if I still lived nearby and Steve was cajoling me to finish, the play would have gotten written and he would have put it on the stage. He likely would have helped me smooth over the rough parts and work out dialogue that didn’t make me cringe.

But life takes turns. It took me from that little house in East Lee to Boston and then to Connecticut and brought me a family to love with my whole heart. So there are trade-offs and I suppose I have excuses. But I don’t feel so good about the excuses right now.

But I do have strong feelings about that little house in East Lee. It was the place where the hard lessons about life really got learned and where the rewards for learning those lessons were first truly realized. And I have Caroline and Steve to thank for that. Maybe that’s why the moment I put my apartment key in an envelope, slipped it under their door and closed the screen door behind me in May of 2000, I cried like a baby, the gravity of what I had just done taking me quite by surprise. They were so much more than the landlady and her husband. They were surrogate parents and dear friends to whom I happened to cut a check for $475 every month. And one of them is gone now.

PLAYER: So there’s an end to that -- it’s commonplace; light goes with life, and in the winter of your years the dark comes early…

So what would Steve suggest, gently or otherwise, in this crappy Steveless situation in which we, the Friends Of Steve, now find ourselves?

Would he bark like a gunnery sergeant and kick my tail to stop dawdling and making lame excuses about writing something other than what I’m paid to write at work?

Maybe. But more likely, he would ask a few questions and then offer some timely advice -- directions, really -- and continue to hold forth on similar situations in his life, that voice holding my attention and holding my "yes, but" questions and counterpoint at bay.

If I might presume to be so bold, he’d want to be remembered as he was first and foremost - and then, if you must, the ending, because plays have beginnings and endings.

So I’ll go with the last time I saw him as I knew him, in 2006. My daughter Sofia, then two, flirted with him incessantly, because she is a ham and does that sort of thing. And he was completely pleased and tickled by the attention -- the actor in his element, perhaps.

That’s a performance I would have liked to have seen again.

Excerpts from “Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead,” Copyright 1967 by Tom Stoppard. All rights reserved.

Hitting the reset button

SO here's the dealio.

I am a writer. It's what I was born to do and what I do better than anything else -- better than my mad Iron Chef skillz, my jumpshot or my electric guitar tone. And the more I vent about not being a full-time writer, the more I realize that duh, there's nothing stopping you from writing on your own, friend.

Then a former colleague of mine started a blog despite the fact she finds time to be a Ph.D candidate despite a full-time job and a family.

Hey, I thought, I should do that.

And then it dawned on me: Hey, dummy, you already have a blog. In fact, you have three. One for the girl, one for writing about music and one catch-all "observations and musings from the Nutmeg State" scratchpad, all three of which have been collecting cobwebs for years while you frittered and wasted the hours in an offhand way.

So what will I try to do? After all, this has been tried before. And it didn't get far. No, it didn't get far.

Because for a writer, I've grown pretty adept at either NOT writing or starting writing and not finishing. I've got one 50,000-word start of a manuscript about the inner lives of Seussian characters done and waiting for copious edits and needed improvements, 25,000 words of career-inspired early 90s rant collecting dust, a third idea waiting for NaNoWriMo in November and a fourth and a fifth kicking about in my brain.

The answer? Just write, really.

In his brilliant work on getting to work, "The War Of Art," Steven Pressfield gives the inability to do things you've always wanted to do a name: Resistance. And how do we overcome resistance? By sitting down and getting to work, he says. Stop procrastinating and waiting for tomorrow; do it today.

I've oversimplified a great deal. But here's a quick excerpt that gets to the heart of it:

Have you ever brought home a treadmill and let it gather dust in the attic? Ever resolved on a diet, a course of yoga, a meditation practice? Have you ever felt a call to embark upon a spiritual practice, dedicate yourself to a humanitarian calling, commit your life to the service of others? Have you ever wanted to be a mother, a doctor, an advocate for the weak and helpless; to run for office, crusade for the planet, campaign for world peace or to preserve the environment? Late at night have you experienced a vision of the person you might become, the work you could accomplish, the realized being you were meant to be? Are you a writer who doesn't write, a painter who doesn't paint, an entrepreneur who never starts a venture? Then you know what Resistance is.

So I'm going to just write.

Here, I think I'll write about pretty much anything Nutmeggy, and some things that are not limited to this state -- even "third rail" topics like politics and faith. Whatever crosses my path or my mind. Connecticut is a strange and confusing state and if you asked me 10 years ago, I would have told you I never expected to live here. But here I am. As the first entry in this blog years ago noted, the state motto is Qui transtulit sustinet, translated from Latin as "he who is transplanted still sustains," and Connecticut has sustained us for the past five years. It's an interesting place. And it's home.

As for the art on top of this page: No, it's not real. North Stepford Falls is not on any map, not any more than its more wealthy and troubled neighbor; it's everywhere and nowhere, simultaneously. Maybe I can show you where to find it...

Excerpt: Pressfield, Steven. The War Of Art. New York: Grand Central Publishing, 2003.

stuff I don't get

So we're relaunching this here blog. Ain't she purty? I had some inspiration.

A few things I just don't understand:

_ At the Stop & Rob Dunkies I ordered an unsweetened iced tea with lemon.
"Um, we don't have any lemon," the clerk said.
"How could you not have lemon? They're three for $2 down the hall," I replied, trying to sound helpful.
I ordered iced decaf instead. I think she left out the Splenda on purpose. Or maybe they ran out of that, too.

_ Why do political candidates plaster polling places with signs? Here in the Nutmeggiest state, unlike Massachusetts, signs are allowed practically right up to the polling place door. I suppose folks want to show just how doggone much they love their candidate, just in case you're wavering on your decision because you haven't seen enough lawn signs for your candidate of choice. But it smacks of impulse purchase marketing -- the same reason they put candy bars, soda, batteries, tabloids, gift cards and subprime mortgages in the checkout aisle.
I would hope -- *hope* -- that voters don't choose candidates for higher office the way they choose fast food at the drive-up window. "Hmm, who do I want for attorney general? Oooh! Baconator! ... and a diet soda."

_ Why would you put your sign in the exit lane of the access road to the polling place? That was the situation outside North Stepford Falls High School. Just in case maybe you didn't select a nominee for governor, here's a helpful reminder of who you should have voted for. "There's still time .. turn around and vote for Tom Foley!"
Not that I'd vote for Tom Foley under any circumstance whatsoever.

_ Half of our fair state chose the wrasslin' promoter as its nominee to be U.S. senator. To which I offer the following list: Owen Hart, Chris Benoit and his wife and children, Eddie Guerrero, The Ultimate Warrior, Rick Rude, Davey Boy Smith, Curt Henning ("Mr. Perfect"), Miss Elizabeth, Crash Holly, Big Boss Man, Bam Bam Bigelow. Just sayin'.