Virtue behind the fur

My dogs are virtuous. Smart? Not necessarily. But virtuous? Sure. If you own a dog, you know it, too. 

Just for fun, I'm going to trot out the 12 tenets of the Scout Law, which I grew up with as a Boy Scout. A virtuous person is "trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent."  Those 12 virtues are deeply embedded in my psyche ... forever tatooed in my brain.  

Interestingly, of these 12, most apply to the dogs I know and have known, and certainly our two -- Linus, the mutt-mix terrier on the right who is cute beyond belief; and Riley, our Golden Retriever, who is a bit spacy but loving and loyal both. (Click on the photo to catch Linus's eyes.) 

By my count, only three virtues generally don't apply.  

My dogs, indeed, are trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly and kind. (If you have slobbery dog, like Riley, you'll pass on "courteous." )

Obedient? Sure! (Mostly.) Cheerful? Absolutely. Thrifty? Nope ... they'll gobble food as fast as you give it. So that leaves Brave? Yep! Clean? Ha! Nope. Reverent? Well, I think so. You know ... all dogs go to heaven, etc. Certainly their spirits are righteous. Talk about all-forgiving! 

Nine out of 12 isn't bad. If only us humans could do as well. 

Good dogs! 

And no, it's not time for a biscuit.  

Ho (exhale!) ho

They were dark blue, polyester, with rocket ships, red Saturns, stars that glowed at night and, best of all, non-skid material on the bottom of the feet guaranteed to grip the slickest hardwood floor.

Cindy's were the same, though green with beige dinosaurs -- T-rex, triceratops, brachiosaurus, teradactyl ... all of the most popular dino species.

Problem was, these footed pajamas were a kid's size "10 to 12."

"You gotta go put them on," ordered daughter Meghan, who with son Zach had conspired to package up the garments and leave them at our bedside so that we'd have to open them first thing Christmas morning.

Turnabout is fair play, I guess. Cindy's been getting the kids new sets of sleepwear every Christmas since they were small, this year included.

Except the kids have always welcomed their new threads. Ours clearly were intended to embarrass. They were multiple sizes too small, plus ... rocket ships and dinosaurs?!

"Go put them on!" the kids repeated.

Actually, we were OK with this. We've pulled enough pranks on Meg and Zach that we welcomed the challenge. Plus both Cindy and I are fans of Project Runway. At worst, we could cut the things apart and somehow hook them back together.

I volunteered to go first. I headed to the bathroom, needing some privacy. I held the blue suit up, measured it by sight and thought that I might ... just might ... be able to squeeze into it.

The pajamas were cleverly designed. A zipper stretched from the neck all the way down to the bottom of the left leg. (The right-leg portion of it dangled on its own.) So, to do this right, you had to put your foot into the right leg, then put your foot into the left, then put your arms into the sleeves, then slowly stand up straight while pulling the zipper up to your neck.

I imagined this is what divers with wetsuits must face. Or, actually, those Olympics swimmers with those new $600 bodysuits designed by NASA that envelop you like a second set of skin and take two days to put on. (I'd love to try out one of those.)

But ... it wasn't working. I could only pull the zipper up so far before it threatened to derail, like a train at a fork in the road forced to go both directions. I figured in order to get my arms in the sleeves and the zipper pulled, I'd have to be six inches shorter, double-jointed, and exhale every last molecule of oxygen from my lungs. Oh, plus be severely dehydrated.

Academically, I've never been a "physics" kind of guy. But I've learned by doing enough home projects that everything comes down to spatial relationships.

In this case, I thought that a variation of Einstein's "space-time continuum" might be coming into play: the amount of space in the garment, divided by my body mass, multiplied by the time it would take to shoe-horn me into it, equals its potential to self-destruct in a flash of torn seams, gaping rips and embarrassing after-shocks.

I think on the chalkboard it'd be something like this:

SDp = (v/m) x (t/kaboom)

... though I think a pi sign needs to go in there somewhere.

Time? Certainly, time was short: I wanted breakfast.

But space was the bigger issue. And the solution was obvious: I needed more.

So I called for some scissors and, with two quick snips, lopped off the pajamas' toes. I pushed my own toes through; the pajama's feet slid up to mid-calf. Now the non-skid material looked like low-down, white tail lights. I put my arms in the sleeves, stretched upwards and pulled the zipper home.

It fit!!

Okay, I felt like a Slim Jim still in the wrapper. But there are worse feelings.

Cindy also did her deed, the details of which she'll share on her own terms. She and I, though, posed for photos afterwards, then quickly shed our duds for blue jeans.

After all, you can only be a sausage for so long.

But we'd met the challenge.

I suspect the kids will come up with another surprise next year. And that's absolutely okay.

Because we will, too.  Count on it. 

It's electric!

Okay, so we were out looking at Christmas-light displays and we stopped by Vince & Associates on Metcalf Avenue. The display is an eclectic, electric mix of trees, houses, penguins (huh?), shooting stars, wrapped packages, Santa (of course), snowflakes and wreaths. Check it out. I think it's over the top, but fun to watch once a year.

The best way to view it is by parking high atop the parking lot of Emmanuel Baptist Church, across the street.

You tune in your radio and watch the lights dance to the tunes. Most of the songs are from Mannheim Steamroller, as you'd expect. But there are some non-holiday numbers inserted, too, which is kind of cool. I, for one, was introduced to "Sandstorm" by Darude for the first time. (I know ... where have I been?) Check out the 7 minute remix version ... imagine the lights with this one. 

Happy New Year all!

Get smart

Charles, with pride, poses by his Smart car.

If you've been reading the blog, you know I have an affinity for cars. I especially like to talk about my Beetle.

A week ago Cindy and I dropped by my company's store in Prairie Village to see how it was doing. There, in front, sat a Smart car. It was red-orange, so very bright. Redder than a pumpkin, but not as red as a fire truck. Regardless of the hues, it grabbed your attention.

I guessed the car belonged to Charles Gusewelle, Kansas City Star columnist better known as C.W. Gusewelle. He and the book-publishing group I head, Kansas City Star Books, have had a long, strong relationship over the years. Charles writes the material, we publish his books. (Check out my favorites -- tales of his dog Rufus, tales of his many cats and, his latest, his time spent at an Ozarks cabin.)

He had been waiting for his new car for 16 months. Perhaps it had arrived.

I walked in, saw Charles sneaking a few samples of the toffee we sell -- he was there for a book signing -- and yelled hello.

"That your Smart car out front?" I asked, excited.

He reached into his pocket and, with one fluid motion, underhanded the keys to me. "Go take it for a spin."

We did just that. It was a glorious moment. Ever since gas prices had shot skyward, I'd been nagging Cindy about the need to buy a motor scooter to occasionally sub for my Beetle. Meghan nixed that idea for safety reasons. So I had turned to Smart cars as a green alternative.

Nevermind that gas prices have since turned south. (That won't last.) The idea of test-driving a Smart car that Saturday was nirvana.

We climbed in and marveled at the space inside. Despite the close proximity of the two seats, the vistas through the windows were wide; the sunroof above was huge. The storage area behind the seats was expansive.

First impressions? Good.

I turned the key and the motor rumbled to life. I put it in reverse, backed cautiously out of the parking spot, then headed east. I'd chosen the "automatic" mode, in which the car did the shifting on its own.

It was a tentative start, not like with my turbo Beetle that shoots out of the gate. No, this car befitted its name ... it smartly contemplated the shift from first to second, then debated the shift from second to third, then, finally, judged the shift from third to fourth as worthy and necessary. No rush; why rush?

We made our way around the block, methodically and with purpose. The drive was solid and sure-footed.

A quick note on the interior: It was well designed, befitting its Mercedes engineering. The modular lines were clean and very European; the seats were firm and comfortable. The stereo? Let's just say it was amped well.

We made it back, went inside and I handed the keys back to Charles. I loved it, I told him. And I thought: Officer Badge No. 3534, the subject of a previous post, would never, ever pull me and a Smart car over for speeding.

Which is an interesting notion: Do we speed because we have to, or because we can? I suspect the latter.

Charles and spouse Katie love their new friend, in part because of its economy.

"I got to a quarter tank on fuel, and I filled it up for just $6.75," Charles said, not so much boasting as marveling at the efficiency.

Okay, sure, there are issues of safety. A Smart car weighs 1,800 pounds. A typical SUV will be four times that. A semi truck? Don't ask. But then if you're smart, you'll not drive Smart cars near semis.

Ultimately, safety is relative. If we all downsized, would safety be compromised? No, not in the long term. And the long term is what we're about in this new Obama era. What changes can we make now to benefit us in the long term?

We like to pride ourselves on our American ways, of big cars, big appetites and big spending. The problem is, it's not always smart. We waste fuel, get fat and, lately, get poor.

Charles, wise because of his years, gets this.

Just watch.  So will the smart money on Wall Street.

Paste No. 49

Got my new Paste CD the other day and thought I'd share its bright spots. And there are a few ... always some pleasant surprises! I'll highlight three this month.

It's kind of arbitrary to pigeonhole songs into certain types, but inevitable given all the songs out there.

So maybe I'll offer my own categories. Here goes.

Best song that leaves you scratching your head but in wonder still: It's a tune called "The River" by the band Anathello. This Michigan group is officially classified in the so-called Progressive Art Rock genre. Which could be anything, of course.

But what you hear is both maddening and, eventually, extremely satisfying. There are a lot of ways to dissect this piece. Just know that it begins with so much syncopation and other musical fits and starts that you aren't sure what you're listening to. But soon it all coalesces into a very satisfying whole.

Quite remarkable, really.

Best lyric that smacks your brain and forces you to think deep thoughts: Joan Osborne, who has roots in country but clearly has branched out, recorded this haunting verse. But the song actually belongs to a '90s indie band now disbanded, called Jump, Little Children.

The song is titled "Cathedrals." The verse includes this line, repeated:

In the cathedrals of New York and Rome

There is a feeling that you should just go home

And spend a lifetime finding out just where that is.

What's the point? Maybe that those seeking salvation within a building -- only -- might better find it outside, in the world. But that's probably just me talking.

Regardless, both versions of the song are worth listening to:

• Joan sings.
  
• Jump, Little Children sings.
  

Best jingly tune that you still enjoy despite yourself: Denison Witmer, a Philly indie-rock guy, offers this up -- "Life Before Aesthetics" -- in his album "Carry the Weight."

Listen in. It grows on you.

Here's to waiting a month for more from Paste. (My subscription runs out soon ... time to re-up!)

Oh Tannen-bumble!

We cut down our Christmas tree today. 

It's a ritual we've followed for at least the last 10 years ... driving out south to Bucyrus, a small, rural, Kansas town sliced in half by a single-track railway. We love the drive and the hunt for a tree at the Graubergers' farm. 

This year we found a good one -- not too fat but not too skinny. Cindy, Zach and Meghan were there. Eric, Meghan's friend, joined us. Plus the dogs. All in all, a calm, sane day amid the pines. Check it out. 

Last year? Hardly the case.  We didn't get the reminder card from the Graubergers, so we assumed -- wrongly -- that they were out of business.  A co-worker of Cindy's clued us in to a new tree farm farther north in Kansas.  We gave it a shot.

Who knew what would follow?  

You see, Meghan has a thing for odd trees.  Trees she can name, with personality.  Just a few years ago, we acquired the fattest tree we'd ever seen, and she lovingly called it the "Bumble" -- after the Abominable Snowman character in the animated Rudolf cartoon we'd seen on TV for years. 

Though we, too, loved the Bumble, it was a beast to haul into the house and shoe-horn into the northern corner of what we call "The Fireplace Room."  But we did it and proudly showed it off to friends. 

But last year? Well, fat doesn't begin to describe the tree Meghan picked.  Let's see ... how's this: 

- First, regarding height ... this was not a squat tree.  It towered at least seven feet.

- It certainly was round, like a capitol rotunda is round.  Using a tape measure, we figured its girth at 18 feet. That's just about three times the height of the average man. 

- Even the tree-farm workers cowered at its sight.  "I don't think we'll be able to bag it," said the boss, looking skeptically at the metal contraption that spins nylon netting around the tree, collapsing its branches into a cocoon-like shape. It was a personal defeat for him. No tidy cocoon for this tree.

That was an issue.  Because if the tree is not netted taut, shrunken tight like vegetables in a Seal-A-Meal, it must ride home atop the minivan in full form, branches spread wide, catching the wind like the foresail on a schooner. 

That was the case. With the help of those at the tree farm, we struggled and heaved the tree atop the minivan.  Instantly, what had been a 5 1/2-foot vehicle was now about 12-foot tall. 

I began to worry about those signs on bridge underpasses warning of minimum truck heights.

We roped it down as best we could. (Like Gulliver being roped by the Lilliputians. If you don't recall the fable, check it out.) 

Cindy, Meghan, Zach and Meghan's roommate Tiffiny, laughed at the absurdity of a tree almost fatter than the car is tall. Me?  I began plotting the route home. 

Highway travel was not an option.  No way.  Instead, we'd have to inch through downtown Kansas City, Kansas, to Prairie Village at -- I guessed -- about 25 miles an hour. Otherwise the wind caused by our speed would pull the Lilliputian knots asunder and we'd be, well, tree-less ... and probably cause a car wreck to boot.

As we turtled our way through KCK, we had moments of panic.  A KCK cop pulled behind us -- are we illegal!!? -- then moved past.  A car ahead abruptly stopped, as did we. Yes!  The tree held fast. 

We then noticed people staring ... pointing fingers.  We ignored them.  A 12-foot-tall minivan with a pine-colored shag top?  What's the big deal? Odd things are normal in KCK. 

At last, we arrived home. The tree was intact, as was the car. It took an hour and 20 minutes for what normally would be a 25-minute drive. Relief. 

But oh, the neighbors! We quickly rolled the tree off the car with a massive thump!  I calculated our next step -- how to get it into the house. 

Keep in mind that this tree's circumference is 18 feet. That means, roughly, it was wider than KU football coach Mark Mangino, though not by much. (Okay, apologies to Mark, but jeez ... the guy makes a major visual statement at every game. I assume he accepts that.) 

After a family meeting, we decided to haul the tree through the back door. It was wider, plus it connected directly with the Fireplace Room, where the tree would finally rest.

So, here's the deal:  The tree's diameter is almost 6 feet wide. The door's width? About 3 1/2.

You do the math. Somehow this tree would need to pop through the door, intact, like a newborn. 

Zach and I gave it an early shot ... we pushed and tugged and pulled. After five minutes of hard work, it was wedged tight, a massive green, scratchy, immoveable clog. 

Out of breath, I called for reinforcements. 

"OK, Meghan, come out and help Zach push," I ordered.  I went inside to pull, with Cindy's help.

  

We all gripped branches.  

"OK, one-two-three, pull!!" I yelled.  No effect.  "One-two-three, PULL!!" Again, no movement. "One more time," I yelled, hoping to inspire. "One-Two-Three, PULL!"  

The tree budged an inch.  "ONE-TWO-THREE ... PULL!!" I yelled again, heartened, feeling the rhythm. 

Another inch. 

"ONE! TWO!  THREE!!  PULL!!!" I screamed. 

And then with a huge scratching sound -- its limbs loudly protesting -- it shot through the door, spilling onto the floor. Its massive branches, spring-loaded, swung back and forth, sending its powerful pine scent to all corners.  

Like a babe, delivered!

"Wahhhh!" Zach cried, on cue.  (That's my boy!)  

Interestingly, this year, Meghan seemed less ambitious with her tree selection. Nothing too big, though nothing too small.

I guess giving birth will do that to you. 

Road to Nashville 3

Nashville sweats music.

Sure, as a newbie to Nashville you see the evidence of "Music City" everywhere -- on the roads and highways coming in to town, by the many guitar and sound-equipment shops, on the billboards that tout the music-city connection, by the transients with guitars strapped to their backs. Nashville, on its face, is music.

But it is during nighttime on Broadway, near 2nd Street South deep Downtown, that you see Nashville truly sweat its music. You feel the drive and the rhythm that made this city and transforms it today.

On this night, it's freezing cold. But inside The Stage, Paradise Park, Bluegrass Inn, Full Moon Saloon and other dives, it's hot. The amps pound, the guitars sing, the beer is good and flows. The dripping band members tell of love lost and gained, of tragedy overcome. The music vibrates through the shaking, streetside windows, pummeling those on the sidewalk. It's not just country music you hear ... it's more.

Oddly, while walking Broadway, I remembered when Hollywood ripped into Nashville's political soul in 1975 with the Robert Altman film by the city's name.

"Nashville" was one of Altman's best films and featured a great cast - Ned Beatty, Lily Tomlin, Shelly Duvall, Henry Gibson, Keith Carradine and many more. The plot was complex but basically portrayed most of Nashville's country-music community as simple-minded patriots singing various versions of "My country, love it or leave it."

It was a classic post-Vietnam political film, and though the plot was complicated, the potshot at Nashville was pretty simple-minded, too.

In fact, Nashville was then -- and definitely is, now -- a complicated music community.

Sure, there's white-bread history here. Wander Broadway and you see Ernest Tubb's record shop (including, inside, a "Bargain Tubb" of discounted CDs) next to Paradise Park.

The Tubb-shop sign defiantly, stubbornly shouts above a hanging American flag: "Real country music lives here." (If it could, I imagine it would say, "Real country music lives here" -- as if the music that's followed Tubb's generation is not worthy or even worse.) 

A shop near 5th Street features traditional-country touristy junk, plus an Elvis fortune-telling machine that incessantly shouts at you.

But those shops were nearly empty this night. Time has passed them by. Nashville has changed -- like the rest of America, grown more diverse. More politically diverse, too. (Nashville/Davidson County voted in Obama over McCain by a 3-to-2 margin.)

Altman couldn't make "Nashville" today.

There aren't too many cities that can boast the geographical concentration of live music that Nashville's Broadway provides. South Beach in Miami comes to mind. And of course New Orleans' Bourbon Street.

But to this newbie, Nashville seems to be playing it smart, even in its old haunts like the Broadway strip. It has welcomed the indie movement that's taken root in Music Row. It's moving beyond the predictable "country" and even "modern country" to embrace a variety of genres. Really, it had no choice. The old-style concentration of a few music studios already has imploded under the weight of digital delivery.

In short, Nashville's music still sweats plenty, but not out of worry of changing times. It sweats the pure joy of creation.

A new voice, a new time.

Road to Nashville 2

It sits above Nashville's Music Row, at the Row's south end, like a beacon on a hill.  

Music Row is itself a trip. Drive north along its streets and you see signs boasting record labels you easily recognize -- RCA Studio B, EMI, SESAC -- and others you don't, like Love Monkey.

(For a slide show of what I saw and know, click here.) 

But south of it, high up, sits small Belmont University.  And man, you would swear it's going to burst. Because within Belmont lives a bubbling mass of youthful music talent.  No, I don't mean performers, although there are plenty here. I'm talking young, high-energy, blue-jeaned entrepreneurs who have grown up with Itunes in their ears and see -- just down the street -- that this is where that stuff is born.  And they want a piece of it. 

It's a marriage of interest and intellect:

Music Row is known as country music's Madison Avenue.  But today it's much more, representing an array of musical styles and studios.  It's always on the hunt for business talent. 

Belmont is a historic Baptist school that produced Grand Ole Opry's Minnie Pearl and Vogue Magazine's Clare Booth Luce, among others.  But it, too, is much more.  For starters, it boasts a music-business curriculum considered second to none, and its graduates leverage Music Row internships into full-time jobs.

(Less musical, but ... you may recall that Belmont also hosted the Oct. 7th debate between Obama and McCain. Thus the banner, top.) 

It's not clear that Zach is going to wind up at Belmont.  Mizzou has proven too big and too crowded to satisfy.  So he's on the hunt for an alternative. He thinks Belmont's music-business program might be the ticket. 

Friday, we spent the day checking it out, and Nashville, too. 

Nashville ... wow.  More on that later. 

Belmont?   Quite the place.   What we saw:

- Students absolutely amazed at the networking opportunities given all of the artists and studios nearby.   Riley (left), a friend of a friend to Zach (right), is an ex-KU music student who transferred to Belmont's music-biz program.  He joined us for lunch ... and laid out in much detail the contacts he's made in the trade in just three months.

- Amazing facilities, including the lower floor of the university's business school, which is tricked out with state-of-the-art music-studio space.  (Zach gets a demo, right.) 

- An enthusiasm shared by all of the students that they're in a special place, at a special time in the industry. 

- That bass players -- and Zach is one -- are in high demand among the students who like to play in bands while they pursue their professions. Guitarists are a dime a dozen on campus. Bass players? Coveted like gold. 

Next: Broadway and more. 

Road to Nashville 1

There's always something a bit mysterious and dark about an airport at night.   Tonight we're at Kansas City International, waiting for a flight to Nashville. 

Zach is checking out a school there.  So Zach, Cindy and I sit in airport-style plastic-and-metal chairs -- each welded to the other -- filling time ahead of a 9:15 flight.

This time, though, the airport wait has an even darker, different feel.  It's at the CNBC concession area, where the flat-screen TV blares news of today's stock market, that you feel the difference.  Amid the bright lights shining on books, magazines, small food items and other travel junk, you hear the pundits worry -- and clearly, they are worried -- about yet another 400-point plunge in the Dow. 

Their urgent comments echo beyond the store, spilling into the concourse.  They seem to shout over the few shoppers, who are grabbing a People magazine, or a bag of chips. 

CNBC got its start when the markets were soaring.  It's never experienced this kind of drop -- in either the stock market or the economy as a whole.   

So it's a sobering time ... at the airport, on TV.   Few watch the screen; they already know the news. 

It's not good news.  But life -- and, for now, travel -- goes on. 

My good news:  A new Paste arrived today.  Good listening on the plane.  Very appropriate for a visit to musicland, Nashville. 

Hanging by a thread

Okay ... this is my whine time, when I'll talk about the newspaper industry. I'll move on to cheerier posts after this. Promise.

Twenty-five years ago, I was slaying dragons as a financial reporter at the Springfield, Ill., Journal-Register, writing newspaper stories about how politically connected real estate developers were getting sweetheart deals from the then-governor and his administration.

Today, as a Kansas City newspaperman, I'm making a quilt.  

Huh?

'Tis true. Odd as it seems, me and my department at The Kansas City Star symbolize the sea-change under way with newspapering -- a change that I'm convinced many Americans don't understand nor appreciate in terms of significance or permanence.

The quilt thing? I'm making a quilt to get closer to our quilt-book customers. You can check it out here.

Let me explain: About 10 years ago, I chose to head down a different path at The Star -- to move from daily journalism and launch instead a book-publishing arm of the newsroom. I felt there was a lot of content there that could take different, profitable forms. I guess it was an outgrowth of my business-editor days, plus the MBA I picked up in the mid '90s.

Today, we publish more than 30 books a year -- most by us, some by other newspapers that use our services. We are welcomed as a small source of "non-core" revenue at The Star. That's because "core" revenue -- dollars from the newspaper product itself -- continues to shrink. Most of the books we publish are quilt books. It's a great business to be in, and we're doing quite well with it. (How we got into quilt books is a long story best left for another day.)

Newspapers ... in the news

Last Monday, my employer laid off 50 people -- the third reduction of the year that now totals about 300 positions. All things considered, The Star is financially sound and has lots in its favor. (In fact, combined readership of our newspaper and Web sites is at record levels.) But I predict some of our peer newspapers won't fare as well. I'm betting that one or more major cities in this country will be without a newspaper within the next couple of years.

There are lots of reasons why. Some of the industry's injuries are self-inflicted; others not. It's been a perfect storm for newspapers for awhile, and the recent economic distress only adds another hurricane or two. (If you're really curious, go to the Poynter site that follows the industry daily.)

Readers may be shocked, though, when the big headline in their town is "No More Headlines." And when that happens, I suspect in-depth local news coverage -- including reporting on local government -- will dry up or be replaced by a crop of opinionated blogs. Local news, after all, is the strength of a metro newspaper. Sure, TV will still cover local government ... but with its usual sound bites and its own diminishing news resources.

I'm not one to bemoan the passing of traditions. I love the Internet. Heck, I'm blogging. And newspapers have been moving successfully to the Internet.

But the painful fact is that newspapering's business model will no longer support the vast cadre of professional journalists whose job was to ask uncomfortable questions of our most sacred public and private institutions.

Some people on the far right are celebrating this fact, saying the public and advertisers are leaving newspapers because of our alleged liberal leanings. They say other news sources will fill the gap. Frankly, the "liberal" argument is simple-minded horse-hockey. The reasons for the industry's shift have to do with technology, mainly, and changing demographics.

I'm definitely not convinced, though, that other "news" sources will fill the gap. Will important stories go uncovered? I fear yes. And if so, what wrongs will go unseen?

And don't forget all the good news that is spread through a newspaper. Does the community's fabric fray a bit more as fewer stories are shared?

Among the 50 let go last Monday were some of our most seasoned journalists -- folks with a vast knowledge and love of Kansas City. I don't quarrel with the decision to let them go. This transition is painful but necessary.  And I mourn nonetheless.

Fearing the phone call

On that morning, we all were a bit paranoid. We were aware that layoffs would be announced that day. We knew to fear the phone call asking us to "come upstairs."

While driving to work that morning, I got a message from the publisher's assistant asking me in a serious voice to call her.

In my mind, this is how I knew it would play out: The publisher would call me to his office, talk at length about my 20-plus years of dedication and hard work, then explain my severance and bid me goodbye.

Sweaty, my heart pounding, I called her back. Turns out she was wondering if I'd seen a colleague -- one of those seasoned journalists -- because the publisher had to talk to him and they couldn't reach him. "Do you know where he is?" she asked.

"I don't," I said. "He usually arrives later than I do."

In the end, I survived; he didn't.

Don't get me wrong. I love what I'm doing and find it ironic that something as far left-field as quilt-book publishing is now considered vital revenue. Despite my fears, we get much support from "upstairs." But survivor's guilt accompanies our success.

I've also decided that my goal ahead is to protect those who work for me. And the best insurance there is for us to be successful.

Later that day, a co-worker asked me how I was doing given all the bad news. I joked: "Hanging by a thread!"

By now you know the pun: Quilts ... thread. The sad thing is, it's not a joke.

It is a mighty thread, though. And that counts for somethng.

Paste that sticks

I'd say it was about 10 years ago. I'm not sure how or why it happened. But I swear an angel named Serious came from above and whacked me on the head with a galvanized-steel wand -- "Ba-doinnk!" -- proclaiming:

"Thou Shalt No Longer Listen to New or Original Music but Instead Shall Glue Your Ears Forever to NPR."

From that day on, I listened -- religiously -- to NPR. You know the lineup ... Morning Edition, Day to Day, Fresh Air, All Things Considered. You name it, if it talked in serious tones about the world's events, I listened. And I didn't listen to much else.

I'm a journalist, after all. I guess that's my excuse. And not to disparage NPR. God help us if we didn't have it.

But music? Nah, I didn't listen much. Oh, yeah ... occasionally I'd tune in to old rock songs. Some jazz. Rarely Top 40, though. Indie tunes? Huh?

But maybe a year ago, I swear another angel -- I like to think it was Serious's fun sibling, Lighten Up -- lovingly "ca-thunked!" me on the head with a foam-rubber Star Wars light saber and proclaimed:

"Thou Shalt Lighten Up -- With Music! Go Ye ... Seek Ye Some!"

It was a revelation. After all, I'd observed my kids, ears connected to Ipods, downloading stuff while I stuffily lectured about the illegality of it. I'd snap at them when Hip Hop would surface ... complain about the morals, the language, the gun shots.

To coin a Yoda phrase: "So rigid, I was!"

One of my more thunderous "ca-thunk" moments came during a walk through the woods along nearby Indian Creek. It was a brisk walk for exercise. I was plugged in to my new Nano Ipod, a gift. And I was listening to "Walking Among the Living" by Jon Randall, an artist I discovered when I first dippped my toe into the sea called ITunes. The power of the music and message hit me. Not to get maudlin, but it was so poignant and relevant, it brought tears.

At that moment, I realized that I'd let virtually a decade or more of music pass me by.

No longer. Today, I have a honkin' 8 gigabyte Ipod. And I'm a faithful subscriber of Paste Magazine, which I mentioned in my last post and which Cindy found for me in a bookstore when I started making noise about the lack of music in my soul. Paste takes you deep into today's music world -- past the predictable FM radio lineup to a broader variety of genres.

I've subscribed for eight months now, so I've received nine CDs, each with about 20 tunes on it. (Paste Nos. 40 through 48; No. 41 is missing because it took awhile for my subscription to kick in after getting the first issue from the racks.) It's music I've enjoyed and shared with some of those important to me.

It's not all stuff I like. But much of it I do. What follows is a sampling of one favorite from each disk, with a little explanation as to why. (Some of these song links are the the artists' My Space pages ... you'll click on the song there.)

Paste #48: Hymn #101 by Joe Pug
This 23-year-old songwriter from Chicago is by day a carpenter; by night, he's almost Dylanesque thanks to the complexity of the message and the maturity of his voice. I like this song because it speaks to a young man's search for answers -- about society, justice, God, love and more.
The song

Paste #47: We've Got the Power (Love Letter from America) by the Born Again Floozies.
Here's a politically charged song that's lots of fun ... mixing tubas, tap dancers, guitar and great vocals. By all means, don't miss the message.
The song (video)

Paste #46: How The Day Sounds by Greg Laswell.
Anyone who's experienced a rebirth, big or small, can appreciate the lyrics of this song. Laswell sings of a journey from darkness to light ... and how, once emerging, he "likes how the day sounds, through this new song."
The song

Paste #45: Cler Achel by Tinariwen.
This Paste set featured international music from a range of groups. Tinariwen, an African rock group, calls the Saharan region northeast of Timbuktu home. The music is haunting, rhythmic and hard to forget.
The song (video)

Paste #44: A Dream by Priscilla Ahn.
This work is a compelling and beautiful mix of voice, story and song. It is, at its most basic, the story of a young girl's passage through time. Ahn's voice is splendid and, yes, even perfect.
The song (video)

Paste #43: Late Last Night by Robby Hecht.
Hecht has received much praise for his soulful voice, and this is one of his most popular tracks. The message is obvious: Sometimes we show love by saying good-bye.
The song

Paste #42: Okay by Kaiser Cartel.
This Brooklyn, New York, duo -- Courtney Kaiser and Benjamin Cartel -- blend beautiful harmony around well-crafted lyrics.
The song

Paste #40: A&E by Goldfrapp
This acoustic effort from the British group features Alison Goldfrapp's vocals and a story of love likely lost. Goldfrapp's vocal range is amazing.
The song

Of course, there are plenty of other tunes on the CDs worth savoring. Ultimately, what I love about the magazine is its range and its suggestions of different paths to wander down.

Lighten Up, I think, is pleased. Serious? Well, he should quit his damn scowling.

Texas two-step

There's nothing like driving on a long, straight Texas highway late at night to focus you on music.

First the circumstances: I was driving north Monday night on I-45 in a rented panel truck after wrapping up a trade show in Houston. (See the details at http://www.pickledish.com/.) Once past Houston en route to Dallas, I gave up on public radio. A fund-raiser for a gay-lesbian-transgender show was interesting for awhile given the politics of Texas. But the novelty wore off pretty quick. So it was time for some music.

As I wandered the dial, I found conservative Christian talk radio on the dial's far left -- ironic -- and Latino music on the far right. In the middle? Country music, of various stripes. No rock, though.

I'm a fan of country music, though I prefer the old-timey stuff to the homogenized, slick, modern country of, say, Garth Brooks and Kenny Chesney. One of my favorite soundtracks is to the Coen Brothers' movie, "O Brother Where Art Thou,"

In high school and my early college years, I was a fan of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's legendary album, "Will the Circle Be Unbroken." The multi-record set featured the long-haired, West-Coast Dirt Band, and old-school country legends such as Lester Flatt, Earl Scruggs, Doc Watson, Merle Travis (famed for the "Travis-picking" style on the guitar used by so many guitar artists, past and present), Vasser Clements on the fiddle, and Mother Maybelle Carter.

You can sample this classic on a remastered version.

Among all of the stations on the dial that night in Texas, though, I couldn't find much other than "young country." Not, at least, until I edged closer to Dallas and found refuge in some traditional rock stations.

As I pulled up to my hotel late Monday night, I vowed that on Tuesday I would not be beholden to the truck's AM/FM radio. Instead I would grab my Ipod. And a compatriot, Paste Magazine.

If you don't know, Paste Magazine gives a sampling of new work on a free CD with each issue. The magazine, says its editors, "is for people who still enjoy discovering new music, prize substance and songcraft over fads and manufactured attitude, and appreciate quality music across a broad stylistic spectrum -- indie rock, Triple-A, Americana, folk, blues, jazz, etc."

In short, it's a magazine even Meghan and Zach might read! For me, it's a refreshing look at what's new and vital in music today.

So during the nine hours from Dallas to Kansas City, I decided to sift through eight months of Paste -- saved on my Ipod -- and pick some favorites. Interestingly, none of them is country.

I'll get to that next time.

The Obama circle

The line, north of Liberty Memorial, snakes its way past Union Station.

It's almost come full circle. Really.

It was Feb. 5th, a Tuesday night. We braved the winter's cold as we waited outside the Asbury Methodist Church at 75th and Nall in Prairie Village, a Kansas City suburb in Kansas. The Democratic Caucuses were under way, and the vast line of those waiting to vote circled the brick church.

It was a surreal moment -- this many Democrats lining up for a primary that, in past years, had turned into a joke in this predominantly red state. In fact, that night the line was lengthened by independents and even Republicans who felt the call of the caucus.

The roughly four thousand, stomping their feet, blowing on their hands, were abuzz. "Obama!" There were a few murmurs of "Hillary" now and then. But mainly "Obama!"

Now it's come to this: Last night a second line, vastly larger, snaked around the massive circumference of the Liberty Memorial grounds in downtown Kansas City, where Obama would soon speak. More than 70,000 slowly made the circle, past T-shirt vendors, Fred Phelps hate-mongers, a smattering of conservative dissidents and one musical zealot with a ukelele and a misspelled (I feel) "judgement" on his "Judgment Day" sign.

"Obama!"

I asked Cindy: "When was the last time a single person pulled this kind of crowd in Kansas City?"

We couldn't find an answer. John Kerry drew only 20,000, we knew.

But as security helicopters buzzed above, as SWAT team members peered down from tall buildings, and special black-gloved federal police kept the line corralled, it was clear the ascendancy of Barack Obama was now a reality.

You go to these kinds of events because they're historic, not necessarily for the message. We've heard the message over and over again. In fact, we wouldn't be there had it not been for the message, which started back well ahead of Feb. 5th. (My guess is, if given the chance, the crowd could have finished a few of Barack's lines for him.)

No, you go because he's the first black man likely to be president. You go because, whether you're completely sold on his policies, it seems -- at last -- that the country and even the world are excited about a leader again. You go because you want to be part of it, to show your solidarity.

We heard Barack's speech from a distance ... the turnout was so large, so deep, and flowing over the undulating grounds of Liberty Memorial, that we couldn't see much beyond the crowd except the brightly lit spectator stands towering over the podium.

It was a good speech, with a few good jokes for the locals. And then it was over.

As the crowd parted, we started to head to the car. But then I noticed a wall of folks to the east, not budging an inch. They were three and four deep, hard against a crowd-control fence. About 50 feet beyond was the road upon which Obama's motorcade would make its exit.

It was a chance to actually see the man. We joined the line.

As we waited, I thought about when I was a journalism student at the University of Illinois covering politics for The Daily Illini. I was assigned that day to catch some crowd reaction to a visit by President Gerald Ford to Champaign, Ill.

So I joined the people along his motorcade route. Being the ever-objective journalist, I strongly vowed not to get excited when Jerry drove by -- no yells, waves or anything. I was there to observe, not participate. Soon Ford's long line of black limos appeared, police cars flashing in the lead.

"There he is!" shouted the woman next to me.

And there he was, in the window, looking straight at me with a big smile. And waving.

I waved back.

Last night I was free to wave. So when Obama's entourage rolled by, and cameras flashed in the night, I reached for the sky, both arms. And yelled. I couldn't even see him through the opaque windows. But I waved anyway.

I'm trusting -- really trusting -- that he waved back.

Trilogy

I was heading back from Quiznos on Monday after grabbing some lunch. It was a  cloudy, cool, rainy day in Kansas City. 

I drove by the corner of Truman Boulevard and Main, and there was a guy with a cardboard sign asking for help. 

But not the usual help. 

"LOOKING FOR WORK," the sign said. 

Not "NEED MONEY" or "NEED FOOD." 

No, it was a guy looking for eight hours (or more) of work, pure and simple.

Sure, there are Labor-Ready spots in the city, where the jobless hang out to land a day's pay for a day's work. 

But when it comes to guys hanging on the corner with a sign seeking help, this one's a rarity in downtown Kansas City.  At least it has been. Most with signs are looking for straight handouts. 

This guy, we'll call him Ron, was looking for a day's honest labor.  He agreed to be interviewed, though he didn't want his I.D. or photo shared. I'd say he was in his mid 40s. Had a mustache, a wool jacket and a backpack off to the side. 

Ron has had a string of jobs, he said, the most recent being as a Kirby vacuum salesman up in nearby St. Joseph, Mo.  My "string" reference suggests -- maybe unfairly -- that he's a not a good permanent-hire risk. 

But Ron was a straight talker, with interesting stuff to tell.  We shared his umbrella during 15 minutes of conversation, the cars stopping and starting as the lights flicked from red to green.

"I was making sales, but then we'd run credit checks on the customers.  And they'd come back bad," he said.  He would nail the sale, but the customers presumably couldn't manage the payments.  (If you know anything about Kirbys, you know they're fairly expensive machines ... and that, sometimes, the sales staff can be pretty aggressive.  Ron didn't seem the aggressive type, though.) 

 

Needless to say, Ron's Kirby activities dried up.  So he traveled down to the big city to test his fortunes here.  Thus the sign -- the search for work.

 

We've all heard of the credit crisis, writ large.  Here it is, though, down home. If Kirby won't take the lending risk, it must be bad out there.  

What's interesting to me is the quiet but rapid way the crisis has spread, to grip individuals we know.  I can't sense it as I drive to work (thank you!) each day, because the rush hour seems as busy. But it's the stories you hear.  

Two other quick ones:

- Starting about a week ago, I began getting phone calls from folks in the art and design community who sounded worried, indicating that their freelance work was drying up as their customers cut projects.  "Do you have any kind of work ... be happy to do it!"  Always enthusiastic, always eager ... but definitely worried.

You feel for these guys, because clearly they love their craft -- and now that magic combination of doing something they love and getting paid for it is threatened. 

- And then there's the guy who comes to service our furnace.  Every year we've called him -- he works for a heating/cooling company.  But it's obvious this time that he's worried about money. His salary is contingent on how many calls he handles.  But these days, he has time on his hands.  Lots of time. 

The problem:  A big chunk of his day used to be taken up by developers hiring him to put in heating and cooling systems in new housing developments.  That's come to a virtual halt. 

Instead, he relies on calls like ours ... "Come check the furnace to make sure it's not going to blow up this winter,"  we said. While important and necessary, it's not going to pay all of the bills. 

 

What's ahead?  Personally, I'm encouraged by the recent trends. The credit markets are firming up, the stock market seems to have gotten a grip. But everyone knows we're into a recession. And I've seen enough of those to know it takes awhile to come out of them.  Times will be hard, for a lot of people. 

In the meantime, Ron, my artists and the heating guy will do what they've got to do to get by. Sure, it's a can-do spirit we like to celebrate.  But it's true.

As I watched Ron for a bit from across the street, in the shelter of my Beetle, I was amazed at the number of drivers that would stop, roll down their windows, and give Ron encouragement. A much different treatment than that given the sign-carrier seeking a handout.

But encouragement is free ... there were no job offers.  

Ron stoically weathered on. 

"A fine day, officer!"

Clearly, I need to get my head around this blog thing. Talk about a missed opportunity. 

Last week I was dashing between warehouses where we store stuff related to my job, trying to tie up some loose ends regarding a trade-show trip next week.  I was in my Beetle, which most folks assume is a glamorized golf cart.  

My secret is that my silver Beetle is a turbo, which Volkswagen stopped making a few years back ... I suspect because they were too darn dangerous. 

You see, it can move pretty fast without much coaxing.  I love it. I'm convinced it loves me. 

So Beetle and me, we're shooting across this Kansas highway bridge with the radio cranked, in sure bliss.  Then I hear the siren through my sunroof, see the red lights in my rearview mirror.  Busted.

I quickly pull over, and Officer Badge No. 3534 (his name isn't really relevant here) walks up behind my front-door window and, in that calm way that officers do, politely asks for my driver's license and proof of insurance.

"You were doing 43 in a 30, sir," he says.

I mumble in agreement as I'm fumbling to find my insurance card.  I find last year's, then 2006, 2005, 2004 ... but not this year's.  

"It must be on my desk at home," I stammer.

The cop chuckles.  "OK, be right back."

While I'm waiting I stew over the waste of it all -- at least a couple of hundred bucks down the drain, I tell myself. 

IF, though, I had been on top of my blog game, I would have set that pain aside and turned the tables on Officer No. 3534 -- in a nice way, of course.  I had my camera there.  I could have snapped a quick photo of him posing by his car.

And then I would have asked him, in the best tradition of journalism, for his most interesting stories of handing out tickets.  Surely he must have some doozies.  You can imagine some of the excuses:

• "I wore my heavy shoes today."
  
• "I thought I was going uphill, not down, thus the need to punch it."
  
• "My pet boa constrictor is attacking my cat. I must get home!"
  
• "I'm a Mizzou fan being chased by rabid Jayhawks." 
• "Oh, was that me driving?"
  

Alas, it wasn't to be.  Officer Badge No. 3534 returned with my license and the dreaded yellow ticket ... "Notice to Appear on the 22nd day of October, 2008," it said. And if I can show proof of my insurance then, he added, I can reduce my fine.

"Fine," I meekly replied, missing the irony of my words. "Thank you, officer." 

Of course, it's unlikely he would have sat for an interview.  Official policy and all.  But still, I wonder ...

Only later do I imagine the headline: 

Intrepid reporter, blazing bug caught in speed trap   

And the kicker: 

Says driver: 'I have no excuse'

Addendum:

This ticket is doubly painful because I've lectured both Meghan and Zach on the 9 mph rule -- that is, generally if you keep your speed to no more than 9 miles per hour over the speed limit, you won't get a ticket. 

In my case, I'll let you do the math. 

Dads, children and unmet wishes

It was one of those moments we've all experienced. You look up and, like the snap of a camera, you witness a flash of human emotion.

In this case we were at a wedding reception. A good friend of Meghan's had gotten married. He and Meghan for years were teammates on the Mission, Kansas, swim team. (There's that water again!)

The location was the Hobbs Building in the old West Bottoms area of Kansas City. The "Bottoms" are a storied collection of warehouse buildings, bumpy roads and occasional corner eateries, some of which have existed since Kansas City's industrial beginning.

Only this warehouse had been transformed -- from a stark structure of massive floor-to-ceiling pillars and cold, brick walls to a magical venue of lights, tables and, now, music.

We'd done our toasts and enjoyed the food. Then as the floor dances of the new husband and wife and their dads and moms got under way, I turned back to our table.

I happened then to glance up. And there, so very briefly, one of the younger waitresses -- I'd guess early twenties -- had paused in the bustle of the noise, her tray crowded with empty wine glasses. She had turned toward the dance floor.

And then she began to sway lightly ... back and forth ... to the music. Her eyes were bright; there was a slight smile. A wistful smile. It was one of those purely innocent moments that you covet but rarely see.

Of course, I don't know what she was thinking. But I could imagine -- the most obvious being that, for her, a wedding was a dream not yet realized. (Or, perhaps, she simply missed the one she loved.) She stood that way for, maybe, 10 seconds.

And then, as if a switch had been thrown, her eyes dimmed and she was off again, the smile consumed by the job at hand.

Thirty years ago, I don't think I would have appreciated such a moment. As a dad, though, with my own daughter roughly the same age, it touched all sorts of emotions. The most obvious to me: That I wished this waitress well, and that if she had a wish, that it would come true.

It's a cliche that dads want what's best for their children, though it's true for most of us. In fact, it burns so deep that in moments when those wishes are dashed or even delayed, it can devastate us.

It's also a cliche that dads are more inclined these days to wear their emotions on their sleeve, be in touch with their inner selves and enjoy Oprah as much as football.

Instead, I think dads by and large are still a quiet bunch who are most comfortable keeping their noses down, working very, very hard, grunting occasional hellos to the world while, indeed, wanting the very, very best for their families.

You see, inside these dads, love burns brightly -- like a thousand candles. Occasionally it will spill out, capable of lighting an entire room. But it rarely happens. Which is too bad.

After the wedding, as we were driving home, I thought again about the waitress. And I thought about her dad, wherever he might be. And I wished he could have witnessed her pause, her bright eyes and smile. Witnessed her dream.

Surely his eyes would have been as bright ... and his own smile as wistful.

Ready, set ...

There's a reporter friend of mine who I used to supervise when I was business editor of the metro newspaper where I work. He now works for the World Bank. He was notorious for spending 45 minutes of his 60 minutes before deadline, agonizing over the words he would construct in the first paragraph of his front-page, breaking-news story.

His method was clear: Correctly write the first paragraph -- so that the facts and the nuances all made sense in terms of both truth but also organization -- and all else would flow.

Incredibly, he would nail the paragraph by Minute 45, then zip through the writing of the rest of the story in mind-breaking speed, and hand it to me a minute or two past deadline. The rest of the copy would be immaculate. In hindsight, it's silly now that I would sweat the process. He was consistent, to a fault.

So it is with this blog. Unlike with the reporter, it's not as if there are 1 million newspaper readers waiting for yet another blog to "land on their doorstep." In truth, maybe -- if I'm lucky -- a dozen or so. But, I've felt the need to sweat this first post. Because from that, all else will flow.

So enough introduction. I'm ready to take the plunge.

... go! My first post

The blog's title is Above Water. Huh? you ask.

It's really simple. As a kid I rode my bicycle to swim-team practice in the summer months of the mid '60s. It was quite a ride across town. But my bike was cool -- one of those red big-wheeled Schwinns with the dual baskets on the back. The water was always cold and the coaches loud. The swimmnig? It wasn't easy.

Since then, I've been wedded to water. It's my life blood, a place to retreat and restore. Dare I say a sanctuary. I still love to swim laps -- I love the quiet, rhythmic repetition, the fluid sounds rushing by me. Yoga mantras, I would think, are much similar.

But I also like water's power. If given the chance, I could spend days bouncing off large ocean- or Lake-Michigan waves, crying victory as I bang against each slap! of the crest. Water is pretty remarkable stuff, even setting aside that we need it to survive. It can punish you and nurture you at the same time. Just ask the folks in Galveston, Texas. 

This affinity for water is weird, I know. But that's me. Today, I continue to swim at the pool at the University of Missouri - Kansas City. And, each summer, we visit Glen Lake in Michigan -- the scene at the top of this blog, where dusk is as ethereal and yet settling as a warm embrace on a cold night. And each summer, I plunge in to those clear waters and feel nature's arms welcoming me back.

Ultimately, water to me is like a good friend. As Amos Lee sings in "Black River:"

"whoa, black river, gonna take my cares away ..."

(Check out the video ... a great tune.)

Of course, I'm not nuts. Water is only water. Scientific journals give it a very antiseptic definition -- a mix of hydrogen and oxygen. Even Lee goes on to sing that God and whiskey can also "take your cares away." They can.  And at 70 degrees or less, water can be pretty damn biting.

But -- and at last, the point -- if water is occasional sanctuary, Above Water is where the action is, where real human life unfolds. And so the purpose of this blog.

My goal is to write about what occurs "on shore" -- to me, my family, friends and strangers unmet. I was trained to be an observer and writer; sadly, I'd set aside those skills in recent years to pursue business. No big deal, really. Business has been and continues to be great fun, too. (In fact, I contribute to a blog now tied to our quilt-book business -- PickleDish.com -- which is a whole other story. You'll see that, on occasion, I actually try to be funny there!)

But now that my son and daughter are out on their own, I feel the need to chronicle what's been and what will remain of my life. I think it's part of a personal reawakening for me -- something that actually started about a year ago. Maybe it's a mid-life thing. Maybe it's just me getting back to my journalistic roots. Certainly it's a creative restlessness and curiosity that I haven't felt for years.  

Ultimately, it's about taking risks ... something I've encouraged others very close to me to do, while expecting the same from myself. 

In the end, I hope that my children (and their children?!) and friends and others will know a bit more about Doug's quiet ways and sometimes what goes through his head.

A blog is a powerful way to do all that. The key is to not be too self-absorbed -- the quickest way to be boring!

We'll see how long I keep at it.

For starters, I'll introduce you to my family, pictured here. There's my wife Cindy, daughter Meghan and son Zach. Oh, and we can't forget our dogs ... Linus on the left and Riley on the right. Talk about living on solid ground! My blessings are many.

Though family matters surely will come up, the goal is to reach, stretch and observe outside, too. There are a lot of "solid-grounders" out there. I aim to find them ... but also find those who enjoy slipping from solid-ground status into edgier stuff.

I'm reminded of a guy Cindy and I met on a trip to Rapid City ... Wayne Porter. He and his dad run a sculpture park between Sioux Falls and Rapid City. The park is incredible ... dragons and more! Wayne's got to be a bit out there to create -- and then make a living -- off of prairie sculptures.

So, the edgier the better!  I'm a firm believer that "edgy" keeps "solid ground" cultivated ... porous, richer, ready for new ideas.  

Of course, the solid-grounders are in a lot of places, and all have great stories to tell. Like Bill Shea, below, who runs a very cool Route 66 museum in Springfield, Illinois.

Or Jim Armstrong, who's operated for years a Route 66 motel, the Wagon Wheel, in Cuba, Missouri.

I aim to find these kinds of stories and others in my travels, and around town, too. And I'll throw in some other stuff ... thoughts on music, politics, society and more.

By the way, to some people Above Water suggests a struggling desperation -- barely keeping afloat as currents churn below. Although there's some truth to that given the industry within which I work, that's not the metaphor intended.

Above Water is living a good, fruitful and ever-curious life. Having fun by playing in water? Well, that's the reward.