Ethanol from corn is an idea that needs rethinking

From April 2008


Now, I'm not a farmer and I don't even play one on TV, so much of what I understand is from, well, shall we call it observation. Some of it is close observation, mind you, as I did spend a few years of my youth on the unforgiving end of a seat on a scatter rake. I know who John Deere is, trust me.

There might only be a dozen people who amble through this column that would even know what a scatter rake was used for and it would take me about 600 words to explain, but suffice to say that, by and large, I kind of "get" this whole farming supply and demand equation. Most of us understand how the circle of life begins with the hope of a seed and ends up on our dinner plates.

And also having a vague understanding of how a butterfly in Japan flaps his wing and a whirlwind in Oklahoma is the result, I was skeptical from Day One about biofuels in general and producing ethanol from corn in particular.

You don't need to be a rocket scientist -- or a farmer -- to see that the amount of actual product (corn) and effort (energy or fuel) needed to reconstitute corn into a usable fuel or replacement for gasoline is probably more than the value of the end product.

Would it be great if we weren't paying $110 a barrel for oil? Would it be great if gasoline were only $1.25 a gallon again? Do we need to find ways to make the oil companies more competitive, to make our vehicles and users of petroleum more efficient? Do we need more fuel sources than one, so we are not vulnerable to blackmail or inordinate fluctuations in the supply and demand curve?

Certainly.

But as one pundit put it, corn may turn out to be a con job.

So, the butterfly flaps his wing and now I hear something about this circle of life that I can't quite believe. So I went to my neighborhood grocery store to check it out for myself -- there is, indeed, a national wheat storage.Sacks of flour at many Utah grocery stores are being rationed. You can only buy x-number or pounds of flour at a time. Flour!

If you're not into this whole global game of bio-dominoes, check out last week's Time magazine. Here's just a few random facts in a nutshell, or in a cornhusk, in this case:

• If 100 percent -- a total depletion -- of soybean crops and corn harvests in the United States (and we lead the world in both categories) were turned into biofuel, it would only be enough to offset about 20 percent of fuel consumption of cars alone (not counting jets, trains, etc.).

• When many soybean farmers in the United States switched to corn, hoping for a biofuel profit, soybean prices rose (and supplies diminished), causing enterprising farms in Brazil to expand into their treasured rain forests. And — are you sitting down? — the acreage of Brazilian rain forest lost to soy and corn production in the last six months alone is equal to the area of Rhode Island (750,000 acres). Worried about global warming? Forget your car's emissions and start pointing your finger toward the loss of rain forests.

• Corn-based ethanol is not any cleaner than gasoline. In fact, when its use is combined with the emissions caused by its production, corn isn't considered "green" fuel by any stretch.

• One person could be fed for 365 days on the corn needed to fill up one ethanol-fueled SUV.

Now, back to your neighborhood store and your Western Family flour. Wasn't it only a dozen years ago or so when wheat farmers were being paid to not grow wheat? This almost panic-like dash to biofuels needs more thought, more planning and more coordination. Butterflies are flapping like crazy.

So what's the answer? Currently U.S. gasoline consumption is 320,500,000 gallons per day or about 3,700 gallons per second. Thus, there is no easy answer.

The American consumer and those that represent them in Washington need to lean on Detroit to get more serious about hybrid and more efficient automobiles. Get out of the box — it's going to take new thinking to reduce a 3,700 per second appetite.

We have to use mass transit, and that includes the soon-to-be Frontrunner. We have to get out of our boxes. We need to even rethink how much meat we eat and how that impacts the entire chain. If corn continues to go out of food production, I guarantee you that you'll be rethinking your meat eating.

We need to urge appropriate biofuel production. Take switchgrass, for example, which can also produce ethanol, but does not disrupt the food chain and can actually be grown in areas generally considered "unfarmable." Algae as fuel shows some hope. We need to come up with ways to develop oil fields within U.S. borders that satisfy the many concerns over such development, and that includes arctic fields.

We need to get our nose out of Middle East politics and do whatever it takes to change the label of aggressor to that of equal partner on the planet.

But, unless you like dipping into your food storage for the next several years, this whole corn plan needs to be popped.

D-Day lessons must continue to be taught

July 2009

I couldn't help but pay attention to the several televised specials and news reports this past month regarding the 65th anniversary of the D-Day landing at Normandy. Not having lived through that event, I can only feel peripherally the enormity of that event. But I do feel. I'm one of those that bawls like a babe at the ending of "Saving Private Ryan" — edited version, of course — and you should, too.

I find the statistics regarding D-Day itself almost staggering:

On D-Day, the Allies landed around 156,000 troops in Normandy. The American forces landed numbered 73,000: 23,250 on Utah Beach, 34,250 on Omaha Beach, and 15,500 airborne troops. British and Canadian troops numbered 83,115 (61,715 of them British): 24,970 on Gold Beach, 21,400 on Juno Beach, 28,845 on Sword Beach, and 7,900 airborne troops.

Just over 11,550 aircraft were available to support the landings. In the airborne landings on both flanks of the beaches, 2,395 aircraft and 867 gliders of the RAF and US Army Air Corps were used on D-Day.

Naval forces included 6,939 vessels: 1,213 naval combat ships, 4,126 landing ships and landing craft, 736 ancillary craft and 864 merchant vessels.

By the end of the day June 11 (D-Day plus 5, as it is known by historians), 326,547 troops, 54,186 vehicles and 104,428 tons of supplies had been landed on the beaches.

The exact number of casualties (defined as dead, wounded, captured or missing in action) may never be known. The National D-Day Memorial Foundation puts the figure of US casualties at 1,465 dead, 3,184 wounded, 1,928 missing and 26 captured. The US 1st and 29th Divisions together suffered around 2,000 casualties at Omaha Beach.

Staggering, is it not?

D-Day truly was a tipping point in the history of the world. Had it been delayed, Hilter may have had time to more fully develop jet airplanes, for example. Had it been unsuccessful, London might have been the capital of North Germany.

Did you know that there is a memorial in Bedford, Va., to give tribute to the valor of just the D-Day forces, in addition to the World War II memorial on the Washington, D.C., mall? Why Bedford, Va.? It has been determined that this community suffered the highest per capita losses of soldiers on D-Day.

As I watched these special reports — including Pres. Obama's visit to the Normandy beach and cemetery — I could not help asking myself: "Would our nation have this same resolve and commitment today? If asked to 'man up' and come together in a World War II or D-Day-type effort, would American citizens of 2010 do it?"

It worries me. I wonder if the Greatest Generation really has passed us by. I don't see that kind of resolve today. And I suspect there are several cultural reasons for that.

Again, not having lived through it, but I feel one reason that makes resolve and unity in 2010 different than 1942 is the lack of a defined enemy. I think the specter of Adolph Hilter, the knowledge of what he was doing and the firm understanding that he fully intended to eventually rule the world, was a powerful bonding agent. The War on Terrorism doesn't seem to have a fully developed, easily understood, here-I-am-look-at-me enemy. Don't get me wrong. There is an enemy, but is it a person or a hard-to-understand philosophy? Fanatical extremists, many of them currently of the Islamic ilk, don't seem to project Hilter-like panic or are not reacted to in that same way.

I also feel the country is more divisive than in the World War II era. Yes, there were those who didn't vote for Roosevelt or those who promoted this cause over that 65 years ago. But the rancor and discord over every social and political issue — beginning with and especially with Congress and spilling right down to the local school board — seems so much more pronounced than what I see of WWII history. Be it red versus blue, immigration or gay this or that, being loud seems to be more important than being united. Common bonds are getting rarer by the year, it seems. We look at how we are different today, not how we are alike.

I wonder if greed — seemingly rampant in corporate America currently — would actually allow the American manufacturing machine to stop and retool, to take a hit on profits for the sake of the common good, like had to happen in World War II.

I wonder if we have become so accustomed to immediate gratification that rationing would be laughed at today.

Yes, times change and today's culture is what it is. We can't go back and transfix former attitudes on the current scene.

But we can make sure the rising generation understands what a staggering commitment this was. We can insist that history lessons spend more time digging into the enormity of the sacrifice given by Allied forces during WWII. We cannot allow this history lesson to be hurried in any curriculum at any level. We can honor those who were in the European and Pacific conflicts until 14-year-olds finally take out their earplugs and ask, "Why is he so important?" Then we can teach.

And maybe, maybe some of it will rub off. I suspect that's the only way my worries will be alleviated. Even when the final D-Day veteran is laid to rest, we still cannot forget.

Here’s someone that should have carried the torch

From February 2002

If you were like me, you were a little surprised how much hub-bub the Olympic torch run caused. The following of the Olympic flame -- surprising to me -- was not just a "Utah thing," but spawned positive interest and results wherever it went. As it drew closer and closer to the opening ceremonies, I found myself picking up on all the stories about those chosen to carry the flame. Even if it was only one sentence in passing by commentators -- "In Tucson, the flame was carried by this person who has overcome this great thing or accomplished this marvelous thing" -- the honor of being a torch bearer become heightened.

Today I grit my teeth and exhale an "Oh darn" kind of sigh for not nominating someone to be a carrier of the flame. You may be like me and have slapped your forehead and said, "Boy, why didn't I nominate someone? Why didn’t I think fast enough?" Who would you have nominated?

Here's my too-late nomination: Joann Autry.

If the name sounds vaguely familiar, you will likely recall her daughter’s name first. Trisha Autry is Joann's daughter. Trisha was a popular Mountain Crest High School student who, at 16, was reported missing by her parents in June of 2000. A Hyrum man is currently in jail, after being found competent to stand trial on charges related to her death.

2001 was not a good year for Joann. After enduring months of agony and efforts to find her missing teen, Joann put her husband to rest in April 2001, after a lingering illness. Just a couple of weeks later, law enforcement officials would ask Joann to identify two pieces of clothing found in the foothills near Hyrum. A facial bone was also found and it soon became apparent that her daughter was not coming home. She admits that her family has, at times, been angry and nearly overcome with grief, “but we never became bitter. We have been strengthened.” It only takes a sentence of dialogue with Joann for her to emphasize that the pain she has experienced can has only been overcome by faith in a redeeming hereafter.

“People don’t have a clue of the horror of this thing,” she said just last week in her south Cache County home, “and we know only some it. But there are times when it comes back and the only thing that drives those thoughts from our minds is to picture Trisha in our Savior’s arms. You get to the point where you are almost inconsolable, but you know what the promise is.”

Joann says her emotions, and those of her four remaining family members, are best described as “roller coaster.” She says she tries to “stay in the middle, because we have to keep moving,” but some days are tougher than others. The most poignant days recently? When she shoveled two feet of snow off Trisha’s memorial headstone after a snowstorm. Or when she sees Trisha’s friends drive by in a car, “and I think that she never got that chance.”

“It’s like a song cut short and it seems so unfair,” she said. “Without faith, we can’t understand that this is only part of the song, that there are more verses, other stanzas that will be played out.”

Joann’s whole life has been reaching out to others. She is currently the Drug and Alcohol Prevention and Education director at the Student Wellness Center of Utah State University. She wants to take Trisha's memory and continue to reach out to others. She said she is forming a foundation in her daughter’s name to increase her efforts of warning parents about dangers that can reach their families.

“Parents need to be aware that the world is not always a safe place for children,” she said. “That’s what we are doing with our foundation. We want to educate and be an advocate for parents of missing kids.” She said her family will be part of support efforts to help parents in this situation work through their frustrations and explain ways to better work with law enforcement officials. She said a similar group, Team Hope, gave her ideas and a listening ear when she needed it most.

I'm sure there wasn't a bad person in the thousands chosen to touch, walk, wheel or jog with the flame along the entire route that brought "the fire within" to Utah. But there are few more deserving than Joann and you can bet your favorite Olympic pin on that.

Meanwhile, I get the gold medal in a new Olympic sport: Kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner.

Kobe’s rape case finally exposes a little secret

August 2003


Part of me wants this space to be devoted to an open letter to Arby’s Corp., with a passionate plea to please end the “talking oven mitt” advertising campaign. It’s not working. End it soon, Arby’s. I will swear on piles of thin-sliced roast beef that this nonsense leads to fewer sales, not more.

But, alas, I suspect there are more important issues to be looked at than oven mitts without noses. The Kobe Bryant sexual assault case, for example.

And the dirty little secret no one seems to be talking about.

I tuned to a sports talk radio station soon after the charges were filed and heard a smattering of interesting opinions. There was a bundle of folks – OK, mostly guys – saying that we shouldn’t convict Kobe until more information comes in. Others saying that we need to know why the girl was going to his room (as if that mattered) and if she went to his room, she must have known what would happen. One person even used the term “gold digger” to describe the 19-year-old victim.

But no one was talking about the dirty little secret.

Since the day Bryant was charged, most media outlets have refrained from publishing the victim’s name, as is the norm. Some, however, have gotten rather specific in their efforts to avoid listing her identity, pointing out that she is a blonde who was a cheerleader in the small town, who lives in a cul-de-sac who is well-known from her singing voice … and lives in the white and yellow house next to the tall beech tree one mile west of the cattle guard. Now, I made that last part up, but those in the media who have justified their actions by saying, “We didn’t name her,” well, they should be spanked. Don’t these reporters have daughters?

One radio caller on a show I was listening to even said that he felt the case will likely be settled out of court – as many such high-profile athlete-in-trouble cases have been – and, he said, it looks like the girl “will now be set for life.” A sociologist type on the other end of the radio transmission suggested that it is more likely that she will be traumatized for life. Slam dunk for the sociologist.

Gold digger? Naïve? Had a motive in mind? Seeking an autograph or seeking something else? I don’t care.

I don’t care if she was after money. I don’t care if she was of evil intent. I don’t care if she understood fully what NBA players do in their rooms. I don’t care how she was dressed -- or undressed -- when Kobe opened the door. I don’t care if she blatantly asked for trouble (which I don’t believe, by the way).

I don’t care if all that’s true. It was still his fault. It’s always the man’s fault.

That’s the little secret that never seems to come out. It is always the male’s purgative to stop the sex act. Period. It is always the male’s decision to say “this far and no further.” It is always the responsibility of the male – some would say burden, some might say duty – to control the sex act. Always. Regardless of the time of day or night, regardless of dress or undress, or music in the background, or presence of alcohol or whether you work in the NBA or the AFL-CIO. Always. That’s part of being a man. It comes with the scratchy beard and deeper voice.

And don’t go telling me about some obscure case where handcuffs and 300-pound accomplices conducted a sexual assault where the male was not in charge. That’s about as rare as a lightning hitting a lottery winner. A left-handed one, to boot.

Mr. Bryant has labeled the incident “adultery,” which is true. But that softens the blow, makes it sound like an affair with an old friend. It wasn’t. This was a classic one-night stand. It wasn’t anything approaching a “relationship.” This was a stranger and a situation that screamed “End this. Now.” And he could have. Any male could have, and any man should have.

That’s the secret. Kobe had the physical ability and the responsibility to end it. He’s the one that extended the activity, not her. And he’s the one that should pay the price for the rest of his life. But he won’t. A 19-year-old desk clerk who lives in a quiet cul-de-sac will. Kobe may yet find a way around the assault charge; he may yet pass the legal test.

But he failed the manhood test.

And if you can convince me otherwise, I’ll buy you lunch. Anywhere but Arby’s.

Closing the door on 2002

December 2002.


Another year is crawling to a close and as we pull ourselves away from stores open 24 hours in order to more fully celebrate a religious holiday, one thing stands above the rest, something that I'm sure we can all agree on:

There are some really bad Christmas carols out there.

Stuck in a doctor's office for a couple of hours with all-Christmas-all-the-time being piped in, I decided the following: Neil Diamond should be arrested for what he does to a good Christmas carol, with "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" standing as prime evidence; the In 'Sync carol I heard was way, way out of whack; if I would have heard one more country-western killing of "Jingle Bell Rock," I would have taken a hostage.

But we all survived and can now look back on 2002 with a forced tear in our eye. Personally, I'm ready for a new year, a new chance at things, but let's close the door on the last 12 months with these reminiscent thoughts:

2002 Event most likely to bring Utahns together in one voice: The Olympics, duh.

2002 activity most likely to bring Utahns together in two voices: Main Street Plaza. My, what an interesting sausage to watch being made. I thought it interesting that it was the shrill voices that both initiated and brought to an end the "controversy." It seems some free speech advocates took to shouting "Whores of Babylon" and other such compliments -- perhaps phrases first heard at their own weddings -- at brides and grooms near the plaza. Even ACLU-bred Rocky the Squirrel said that it was such mismanagement of vocal chords that caused him to decide that "time and place restrictions" for such behavior will probably not work. So, another idea fails due to the Wingnut Principle ("For every dozen well-thought-out arguments, there will always be one Wingnut").

I'm an advocate of the First Amendment, believe me, but even I know when to keep my mouth shut.

2002 Kudos Korner: It should not go unnoticed how well things continue to work at Salt Lake International Airport even in the wake of ever-changing post-Sept. 11 efforts to keep things "safe."

2002 quote that made me go, "Huh?": An animal rights activists said a television campaign showing talking cows in California being contented and pleased to service the dairy industry was "unrealistic." Talking cows unrealistic? Go on. She said the advertising campaign unrealistically portrayed the pain and suffering cows suffer at the hands -- pun intended -- of man.

This comment came on the heels of another such activist's assertion, coming midway in a speech I attended. She said killing domestic animals for food was cruel and unusual punishment because pigs, for example, have no understanding of an afterlife, and having no hope for an afterlife, their impending doom is even more devastating and painful for them.

I like vegetarianism. I like many aspects of what it might offer me. But tell me about how red meat clogs my veins, how vegetarian culinary habits will keep my heart ticking longer. Tell me how much less damaging to the environment and cost-effective vegetarian harvesting is compared to cattle ranching. But please don't use arguments that reside in another solar system. I can't grasp those.

2002 movie that was surprise: Changing Lanes

Most surprising meal I had in 2002: Everybody in the world has eaten there, so maybe it is no real surprise to you, no real surprise here, but I had a Spicy Sirloin Steak (medium, if you're curious) at Maddox Restaurant that was marvelous. Not a big steak eater, myself, but I was rewarded by the waitress's suggestion and found a piece of meat that matched their rolls and clam chowder.

Biggest geopolitical surprise of 2002: That we aren't at war in Iraq yet. I don't doubt that Saddam is an unbalanced jerk, but what bothers me is that George W. won't show all the evidence he claims to have. He keeps saying in speech after speech that he has evidence of the production of big, bad. So let's see it. We all have TVs. We are bright people. Show it on the big screen at the U.N. Let's see trucks moving stuff from the back of the palace in the middle of the night. Let's see night-vision photos of the inside of a powdered milk factory with Scud missiles being loaded up with plutonium or whatever.

Was the evidenced gathered illegally or something? (Is anything illegal in a war?) Will it let out secrets about how advanced our spy system is? Or is the evidence kind of wishy-washy? The more Dubya and Tony Blair scream about the evidence they have in their briefcase but wont' show, well, the more I am thankful for Colin Powell and get nervous when I see Dick Cheney.
See you next year….

Here's an idea to save ourselves from ourselves

The recent anti-smoking advertising campaign that showed the irony of our 20-20 hindsight got it right. 

When we look back at commercials promoting cigarettes or see old video clips of doctors and professionals puffing away, trying to do their work and look cool with a dumb ol' cigarette hanging off their lip, well, we shake our head and ask ourselves, "How could they be so stupid?"

Well, let me toss this idea at you -- and I hope you are sitting down: Wouldn't it be great if 15 or 20 years down the road we see an old  Mountain Dew commercial from, oh, say, 2008, and we slap our foreheads and say, "How could they think we would have fallen for that?"

Pretty radical, eh? Or is it?

Now, I'm probably a little like you. I've heard and watched cliched stories about childhood obesity and the fattening of America on the tail end of the 5 o'clock news for years and they have pretty well rolled right over me, never making a dent. Then I recently heard a couple of statistics that, well, made a dent.     

  The Center for Disease Control estimates that 33 percent of the children born after the year 2000 will become diabetic in their lifetime. One in three. And that  number, shocking as it is, is even higher for Latino and African-American children, approaching 50 percent.

Now this isn't some high school science fair project or a fly-by-night university researcher doing a master's project that spits out this number. This is the Center for Disease Control (CDC, the nation's top think-thank for disease analysis and prevention.

Next, a study concluded back in 2001 but recently brushed off for public distribution, found that 21 percent of the population of Georgia -- now, this isn't a middle school in Georgia, or an obscure town in Georgia, but the whole dang cornbread-eatin' peach-lovin' state of Georgia -- is obese.

Of the two statistics, the first one worries me more. 

Me and you --  well, we are what we are. We are not exactly clay on the potter's wheel anymore, if you know what I mean. And, no, I'm not the picture of sinewy, six-pack-abs health. Ken, of Barbie fame, I am not; spongy, I am. But it doesn't take a weightlifter to figure out the single most obvious ingredient in the recipe of an obese youth is soda pop. There are -- and again I hope you are sitting down -- about 15 teaspoons of sugar in a 20-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. Somewhere around 13 or so in Pepsi. About half that in Vitamin Water (which is owned by Coca-Cola, mind you.) 

We've got to convince kids that walking around with a 64-ounce personal Thermos of sugar water is not going to be in their best interest. Type 2 Diabetes used to be called "adult onset diabetes" until so many kids starting getting it that the moniker no longer applied. Onset diabetes is generally preventable, so why not start preventing it?

In the United States, the average teen male drinks 868 cans of soda pop. In a year. One can a day can add up to 50 pounds of sugar -- that's like one leg of sugar. Soda consumption has passed both milk and bottled water. Milk! When's the last time you saw an exciting commercial for milk? Overall, Americans are consuming twice as much soda pop as they did 25 years ago. And they’re spending $54 billion a year on it.
Does your school have soda pop vending machines? There's a start. Every legislative session it seems like someone proposes restriction of junk food -- including sugar water -- in schools. "But we get x-number of pennies from each vending sale and we need the money and blah blah wah wah," comes the response.

And 33 percent of the next generation will find themselves looking back in regret.

Cola companies are often co-sponsors of school events and activities. Surely we have enough creativity to figure out other ways of getting money besides through the kidneys and pancreases of our children. Is sugar the only problem? Well, of course not. School lunch programs have long been dumping grounds for excess cheese, butter, overly refined grains and such. But Coke machines would be a good start, an easy fix.

Deep thinkers are looking at a myriad of reasons why American's in general are becoming thicker -- in the middle, I mean. Some suggest it is because of inadequate sleep. Sleep patterns have become less regular in the past 20 years and studies confirm that some hormones and other triggers for hunger and fat retention are affected by lack of sleep.

The size of portions has increased in the past 20 years. A medium drink at some outlets is now 32 ounces and small fries may not exist at some restaurants. Some point to smoking cessation as a cause -- those who give up smoking, which is happening with more regularity, often gain weight. Some claim that living in environments that are excessively cold or warm tends to burn calories, thus, living with air conditioning and ambient temperatures adds the pounds.

But despite these edgy findings, the same old thing we have been hearing for a generation now remain the two silver bullets of success: diet needs to managed and exercise needs to be increased.

With that said, then, I hope you're not sitting down.

Pioneer Day warms this Utahn

I like Pioneer Day.

I like pioneer stories. I like little red wagons covered with white butcher paper being pulled around the block by great-great-great grandkids of pioneers. I like that song about pushing and pulling handcarts. I like DUP museums, large and small — I've never been to one that didn't smell musty and rewarding; never been to one that didn't teach me something I didn't know and remind me of something I needed to prick in my memory.

I don't like hurrying through Huntsville. Or Ephraim. Or Willard. I don't like litter. I don't like people who have never bothered to see Zion's Canyon or Dinosaur Land.

I like Monte Cristo and McKinnon Peak, Duck Creek and Daniel's Canyon and the Henry's Fork drainage. I used to like stopping at Rick's Spring for a cold drink and a stretch, before people got all nervous about the possibility of germs. I like the highway loop that takes you to Mirror Lake. I like seeing a good farmer's tan on a good farmer. I like to see kids catching frogs along ditches and marshes. I like seeing kids making sand castles at Bear Lake. I like family reunions.

I don't like magazines from Salt Lake City that act like the world ends at Davis County and try to pretend the state's roots aren't, in reality, rural. I don't like boarded up windows in downtown districts. I don't like the idea of damming up the Virgin River and changing The Narrows. I don't like hay fever and feel sorry for those who have it in a bad way. I don't like moving sprinklers in grain.

I like rodeo queens. And rodeo announcers. And parades that turn around and come back down Main Street a second time. I like Mom-and-Pop-type fast food shops and specials of the day that really are special. I like fresh home-cut fries. I like ice cream that comes out of a barrel loaded with ice and a hand-cranked cylinder filled with a homespun recipe. I like driveway basketball games. I like the smell of Lava soap.

I don't like people who think Utahns are all just hayseeds, to be tolerated for a couple of years before moving on. I don't like the fuss people make about Idaho lottery tickets all being purchased by Utahns. I don't like people passing along stereotypes about me and my state just to get a laugh or snicker. I don't like blogs that are nothing but snide.

I like overgrown lilacs and fireworks shows, and post offices in the center of towns. I like hearing how some people pronounce Tooele and Scipio and Juab. I like knowing that Levan gets its name from navel spelled backwards. I like knowing what's unique about the Uintah Mountain range. I like that we named a street after John Stockton. I used to like Stars Avenue.

I like Hyrum's town slogan. I like the blue spruce and the elk and the rainbow trout and the status they have achieved. I like hearing about Raspberry Days and Peach Days and Strawberry Days and Onion Days and I like knowing where and why they are celebrated. I like knowing why towns are named Paragonah and Parowan, Hatch and Joseph.

I don't like mosquitoes, but I tolerate them because without them, hay can't grow — or at least that's the story my grandma used to spin from the porch of her farm. I like outdoor cooking. I like living where there are four seasons. I wish we had a longer spring and more summer thunderstorms.

I don't like watching film of fires, even if it is "only" a hayfield or "just" a sidehill covered with scrub oak. I don't people who complain about the heat, even when it is more oppressive than usual. I think about walking a couple thousand miles in the heat and cold and mosquitoes so others could enjoy the Jazz and fireworks and home-cut fries.

Yeah, I like Pioneer Day.

War and wind -- two things you can't control

August 2005



An old saying says we talk a lot about the weather because we can't do anything about it. I'm starting to think the same is true of war. Weather and war-- maybe the two most popular topics that are good for conversation but mostly out of our control.

            Also, the two most common "lead stories" on television news broadcasts, I should think. I'll bet if you check the tapes since, oh, say, the first of March, you will find that either weather or war has been the lead story more times than any other single topic on the local news. I have never seen a spring and summer when weather was such a hot topic in Utah. I pick up on weather stories because being born and raised in Randolph, weather is a big deal. We don't just talk about it there, we live it. Eleven months of winter and one month of rough sledding.

            We can talk about the weather any time. Let's talk war. I jotted down some odd little news items about war I heard on the radio just last week as I was knocking around the Tetons. (Spouse hit the big 5-0, you see, and wanted to commiserate/celebrate.) These little news blips are odd in that I can't get a good handle on them or I thought them unusual.

            A Muslim group is protesting -- making a fuss in some way -- that they are being "unfairly represented" by the news media and popular media. That is, they feel their image is being tainted by the way media and movies portray Muslims and those from the Middle East.

            This one's not so hard to get a handle on after all, I guess. If Muslims want to see their image improve on the evening news, they might want to start a housecleaning -- inside first, then out. As long as Iraqis kill and maim their own and take refuge in mosques; as long as terrorists hide behind religious rhetoric and recruit suicide bombers in the name of their god, yeah, their image is going to take some hits. Being portrayed unfairly in the movies? Get in line.

            The average American understands that the average Muslim in not involved in hand-to-hand combat and is not to be feared. We understand the war is not against a religion or culture. But to ask the media to avoid the obvious because someone's feelings are getting hurt over how others within that culture are portrayed is nonsense. Thinking Americans can sift through all of the images, positive and negative, as they formulate opinions, including this one.

            On a related subject, the day after a bomb ripped through an Egyptian resort hotel killing 88 people, two extremist groups battled over who should take credit for it. More than one (dare I say) Islamic terrorist organization wanted to be recognized for this act. Is there a double-dog dare thing going on between oddball militant organizations? Is there a pecking order? Will more recruits will be impressed if they hear who did it? Are scholarships involved? This competition, I admit, I don't get.

            I also don't understand the thinking of militant Palestinians this past week. For a generation, they have been pleading and fighting and killing to get Israelis out of the Gaza Strip. Ariel Sharon overcame resistance from his own people and began a pullout of Israel residents from settlements in the Gaza, the first step in perhaps returning the land to the Palestinians. And what the Palestinians do? They harass those pulling out by lofting bombs at them, angering Sharon and slowing down the entire pullout process.

            Does the heat over there slow down clear thinking or something?
            A few more miles down the picturesque highway, I then heard this quick radio report of the  funeral of Gen. William Westmoreland. The reporter said that the funeral ended with a "17-gun salute." Spouse and I both looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Isn't a 21-gun salute the proper memorial marking for military personnel? Surely a four-star general rates the full 21, doesn't he, or do they eliminate one shot for every star on the shoulder?

            Turns out I'm the dummy on this one, which surprises no one.
       
        Military salutes -- which some say have root in the Elizabethan era of English history -- are not always 21 guns. Shakespeare even alluded to the practice in Hamlet: "Go, bid the soldiers shoot," in reference to a funeral. There is even some mystery as to why gun salutes are always odd numbers, with some historians suggesting they are luckier than even numbers. There is a full compliment of salutes, all with different meanings. While the 21-gun salute (sometimes called the royal salute) is the most common and often heard on holidays, there is a salute featuring 19, 17, 15 and down to five guns. The 17-gun salute is used to honor admirals, generals and governors.

        War is a lot like the weather, I guess, in another way -- there is usually a lot of wind involved. Wind was a big deal in Randolph, too. It blows plenty there. I never bothered to comb my hair until I was 17. In fact, one year I remember it blew so hard all winter than one morning in April (April 22, 1969, as I recall), it stopped blowing.
        And everyone in town fell down.

Thinking about all these drugs is giving me a headache

September 2005
       

There used to be a retired Scotsman that lived down the street from me. He came to Logan from Glasgow, where he had been a plumber. He said he wanted to try being an American for a while and liked the looks of Cache Valley.

        I once asked him what was one of the most obvious differences between everyday culture and life in Logan from that he had left in Scotland. "Everyone here has a headache," he said. "Huh," said I, and asked for further explanation.

  "Everyone must have a headache because there are so many headache remedies being peddled on the telly. I never imagined there were so many ways to fix aches and pains."

        He makes a point. It's a point that I have been milling around in my empty head for several months. It's a point that I feel a bit hypocritical about but feel the need to discuss anyway.

        After his suggestion that we have more aches and pains that the rest of the world, I began noticing the number and type of pharmaceutical advertising, specifically on the telly. Have you counted how many personal health, pharmaceutical and "remedy" commercials there are? During three recent days of NBC's "Evening News," shown locally at 5:30 p.m., eight of every 10 paid advertisements were for personal health aids and remedies. Asthma, reflux, diabetes testing troubles, and arthritis pain were all attacked with slogans and pretty people telling me I need to get better. Eighty percent. I dare you to watch the evening news and CNN (mid-day and evening) with a notepad sometime, as the number and overwhelming percentage of drug ads will astound you.

        Now, I have some theories as to why pharmaceutical companies pinpoint news channels for their promotions: News is painful and causes many a thinking American to run for the Tums; and the only ones who care about news anymore are those old enough to feel aches and pains. (We could examine the long-term problems inherent with Theory 2, but we'll save that for another time, deal?)

    A Berkely study confirms that the United States, with only 5 percent of the world's population, is paying close to 55 percent of all the world's money spent on pharmaceuticals. My neighbor was right -- we do have more headaches, or we spend more on them. Which?

   Interwoven in this discussion is the very recent trend of direct-to-consumer drug advertising. This is now so commonplace and so confusing to the issue that it has its own acronym in the medical world (DTC) and a bag-full of opponents. DTC drug advertising is banned in many Western countries and is allowed only with specific restrictions in Canada. We have become far too accustomed to adverts that suggest viewers should "ask your doctor if you need" Pill X or Elixir Y. Drug companies no longer just send salesmen with briefcases to sneak in the private doors at the back of the clinic in order to promote new drugs to physicians. The new tactic is to force patients to force doctors to prescribe. Physicians are reluctant to tell patients no. Study after study shows physicians are influenced by patients dropping brand name requests on them. The new DTC drugs are high-end in cost, with catchy brand names, and they make piles and piles of money for drug companies.

    DTC drug ads are also challenged because of their misleading nature, that is, that their benefit is overstated. A Paxil ad shows a housewife so lonely and depressed we are heartbroken. One pill and 20 seconds later she is as happy as a pig in mud. And we are then told to make sure our doctor knows we want a Paxil.

     While I rail against drugs being pushed on us, I will go home tonight and take two little pills and one big one before hitting the sack. But I can sleep peacefully and without hypocrisy knowing the doctor made the decision to try them independent of my insistence or an actor's portrayal of a better life. I believe it would be in all of our best interests if that were universally the case.

My friend the Scot also used to have a favorite saying that popped to mind this past week: "There's no such thing as a small leak."

     As I watched -- as you did -- pictures originating in New Orleans, I heard a CNN talking head suggest, in his words, that it was OK for a family "to take food and bottled water from a 7-11 because of the horrendous nature of the tragedy." In his next breath he reported that thousands of National Guard troops were on their way to the city in an  attempt to control the lawlessness and looting.

      Yup. My friend was right again. There is no such thing as a small leak.

Disasters best handled close to home

October 2005




        It's like the elephant in the front room -- you just can't ignore it. You have to talk about it and so -- even though it sometimes seems like it has been talked to death -- can we dredge a few more thoughts, maybe tie up some loose ends about Katrina?

     Before we examine the trivial, let's look at the, well, political, starting at the top: What good is FEMA?

      Seriously. What good is a bloated, slow, distant federal agency when it comes to responding to local disasters? Couldn't state agencies do a better job of quickly assisting in overnight natural disasters? Couldn't one person at the state level be given authority to direct National Guard, law enforcement and emergency personnel, as well as volunteer and welfare agencies and do so with more understanding -- and more speed -- than a Washington-based bureaucracy?

Couldn't someone in the middle of the mess be better equipped to understand and respond to the needs than someone in a 14-story building in Washington, D.C.? Couldn't the money currently going to FEMA be redistributed to states (according to an easily developed actuary table on likelihood or history of natural disaster) and wouldn't the elimination of the federal oversight trim millions and losing nothing in terms of what is needed?

    OK, fine. You can still have a couple of guys in Washington -- let's call them the Office of Insurance and Disaster Dispatch -- who would still make the "disaster area" designation for funding and insurance purposes. That function is best made from a more distant, objective office. But try as I might, I can't think of another function that couldn't be handled better, more efficiently, and would be more accountable at the state level.

   I also wonder if some of the rush to rebuild New Orleans is based more on nostalgia than good sense. Even Pres. Bush got caught up in it -- holding a news conference in front of a lighted Jackson Square, declaring "New Orleans will rise again." To which I say,"Why?" Granted, I am not a Louisiana native; I'm not feeling pain to the same degree someone born and raised on crawfish and dirty rice might. But I have visited New Orleans on a couple of occasions -- conventions and such -- and I'm not so sure that throwing money at a project that will end up being the same as it was before is good government.

        Will half the city still be under sea level, for crying out loud, after billions are allocated there? Will the city still be protected by dirt levees and dikes holding back the second-largest body of sea water in the United States? (We Utahns still have claim to the largest.) Will the city still have one of the highest levels of poverty in the country? Let's solve some problems before we rush to make things just as they were. Just as they were wasn't all that great.

  I even question the nostalgia. The city was famous for purple beads and weekend wet t-shirt contests. It's finest landmark was a street named after alcohol ... and it lived up to that reputation. A cultural mecca it is not, or at least should not be. Before the Hurricane of 1900, Galveston was one of the major cities of the United States, destined to be one of, if not the, major Southern Coast city. While still an important location in the country, natural evolution caused by the hurricane brought things into balance. Maybe a hundred years from now New Orleans will be a better city because of the careful -- not haphazard and irresponsible -- rebuilding and planning that went into its reconstruction. We can only hope.

  Hurricanes such as the Galveston storm of 1900 -- still the worst natural disaster in the country's history, with more than 8,000 killed -- were unnamed, did you know? We didn't start naming hurricanes until 1953 (only women's names, remember?) and then in 1979 the list was expanded to include both genders. I assumed the list of names was endless, that any name was eligible and one of these days there might even be a Hurricane Jay. But I guess my mother is the only one that lived through Hurricane Jay, because as it turns out, there is a set six lists of names, a rotating list that bring the same names up every seven years. The only time that there is a change in the list is if a storm is so deadly or costly that the future use of its name on a different storm would be inappropriate for reasons of sensitivity. Some of the names on the list for the 2006 hurricane season include Leslie, Ernesto, Michael and Tony, but no more Katrina, no more Rita, no more Hugo.

   As is my nature, I followed closely the use of some the words frequently used during the hurricane coverage. Did you notice some of the flip-flopping by the media between "refugee" and "evacuee"? Some of the national media started out using the R-word but before it was over all had committed themselves to using only the word "evacuee" to describe displaced Southerners. And rightly so, as refugee is inaccurate, though one analysis of international media indicates that global media -- not based in the United States --  reporting on Katrina continued to use the word "refugee" throughout the crisis with varying speculation as to why. One international report I saw was kind of wild: a German newspaper suggesting that through Katrina America reaped what it had sown, blaming the disaster on years of pollution and global warming spawned by American industry.

  And check this international reporting effort out: "The Terrorist Katrina is one of the soldiers of Allah," written by a high-ranking official in the Kuwaiti Ministry of Research.

    I guess a hurricane is never just another storm.

Helping Santa with his naughty and nice lists

November 2005


        I just heard my first obnoxious country-western version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree," so it must be time to make a couple of lists.

   No, not lists of bad carols or of what I want for Christmas, but naughty and nice lists. Santa needs to know who's been naughty and who's been nice this past year. Let's toss the jolly elf a couple of ideas, shall we?

        Nice. Not that I drive in that area every day and not that I had a day-to-day interest in the seemingly endless squabble over the first few years of its life, but the compromise and result of the Legacy Highway looks like a nice thing. Nice in that a parkway and it's "restrictions" is not a bad thing but a good thing; nice in that alternative forms of commuting -- rail -- can still be pursued; nice in that many with strong, opposing views went in a room and came out without shooting one another; nice that the governor signed off on it and got it going before another dollar was squandered.

        Nice. Richard Davis. I have admired how quietly and powerfully, how honestly and sincerely the father of Kiplyn Davis has handled the recent upsurge in police activity and media attention regarding his daughter's disappearance and likely death. For 10 gut-wrenching years he has gone to bed with more pain than most of us can understand. But he is still able to deliver a perfectly appropriate plea for other parents to get the truth out of their sons, and a wish that his daughter can be properly buried "before the snow flies."

       Naughty. Pinheads who turned in a mother for what she called "creative discipline." A mother had her daughter hold a sign on a busy street corner near their home. The sign said things like, "I have missed school and won't do it again," and such. It was a couple of hours. It worked. She was a teenager, not a toddler. There was no danger, physical or emotional. It was a family thing, something to talk about around, heck, Thanksgiving dinner for years to come. But someone turned the mom into social service investigators for possible child abuse.

    Naughty. People who wear cell phone head sets and use them as they walk merrily down the street or in the mall or where ever. We have finally excused and exonerated talking to one's self.

        Naughty. Big Oil, whoever that is. And if you have stock in "big oil," maybe it is you. Profits of U.S. oil companies in the quarter following Hurricane Katrina were the largest they have ever been. Ever. Exxon alone made more than $10 billion ("b") profit in three months. That's profit, not sales or money run through the system, but profit. As an industry, it was almost $50 billion. Where's Schooner Tuna when you need it? Granted that's an obscure reference to the old "Mr. Mom" movie, but you remember the company willing to make less money "until we get through these tough times." No such luck here.

        Naughty. Tom Cruise. Forget the stupidity of jumping on couches and slamming other actors for using prescription drugs or pushing his self-help anti-religion agenda. But consider the impact it has on teens and those who -- unfortunately -- look to him as an icon as he legitimizes having children out of wedlock. And shame on the tabloid television types who hype accepted adultery as news.

  Nice. Melvin Dummar. It was nice to see him make the front page again. Where has he been? For those of us who thought all along that the jury in the Howard Hughes' will case was bought off, thanks for taking the lumps that others heaped upon you in such a positive way.

   Naughty. Pres. Bush for even trying to push that Harriet Meirs gal past us as a Supreme Court justice. He said she was "the best person I could find for the job." Holy cow, he didn't look very hard. With the half-a-zillion judges and lawyers in the country, we couldn't get outside of our own office to find someone?

        Nice. The Clinton-Bush (former president, that is) tag team diplomacy efforts. It's kind of neat to see these two wise veterans serving as ambassadors and investigators and front men, both in domestic and international situations. Proof we can all get along.

        Naughty. Well, maybe just odd: Scott Stevens, the Pocatello, Idaho, TV weatherman that had an obsession with the conspiracy theory that the Russians and Japanese caused Hurricane Katrina with a electromagnetic generator that could actually manipulate weather. He based this on patterns and odd formations of hurricane this past year.

        Naughty and nice. This is likely where most of us fall. If you are leaning more to the nice side, well, good for you -- that's all we can ask. I'm not sure which way Santa Spouse will see me leaning, but if I make the nice list, I need a watchband and would love that "Ben Hur" DVD package. If I made the bad list, I guess it's country-western carols for me.

I thought we were through with holidays

December 2005


++++++++++++++++++++++++++



        Well you made it through the idiocy of Halloween, lovingly eased your way through a grateful and bounteous Thanksgiving, and today you find yourself right in the middle of the final holiday of the year.

      Boxing Day.

     Ha! Fooled you!

        Even though it usually is about as noticeable as one more made-for-TV Christmas "special,"  in much of the world Dec. 26th is a big -- well, a semi-big -- deal. In Britain, Australia, Canada and other areas of the world that were once colonized by England (Hey, that is us!), today is a day off, an official state holiday.

        Ask someone what Boxing Day is all about and the most common response is that it has something to do with cleaning up after Christmas -- you know, getting rid of excess wrapping paper and boxes and such. But, believe it or not, Christmas has not always been as commercialized and ultra-excess-oriented as it is now. Boxing Day has nothing to do with unused Barbie and Battle-Bot boxes and piles of half-used ribbons and bows.

       Don't worry about the word "box" for a moment, and consider this day's honorable roots.
For centuries, this day was set aside for those in the well-to-do class to take care of those in less-fortunate circumstances. This was a day that owners of large estates would give presents to their servants -- to their extended families, so to speak. After concentrating a day of sharing with one's own family on Christmas Day, Boxing Day gave the giver a chance to extend to those who either were less fortunate or were in a service-related position.  

        This is the day that gifts of appreciation were shared with trades people and that feasts were held for the needy.

      In fact, on many calendars, the 26th is often listed as St. Stephen's Day or it might be listed both ways. In the carol about Good King Wenceslas, note that he was looking down at the Feast of Stephen. This, then, was a Boxing Day/St. Stephen-type celebration of service provided by the good king. He was feeding the less fortunate. The carol is an extension of that concept.

        Why boxes or boxing? Here the holiday origins get a bit mushy, but the name seems to be an extension of using plain boxes to distribute the goods from the more-wealthy to the less fortunate; setting a box of goodies aside for the tradesman; no fancy wrapping, just a simple box. Also, there is some reference to the alms boxes that were always open and promoted in churches on this day, to be given to the poor. Either way, the idea of using boxes to extend the Christmas spirit into another day turned into the expression "boxing day."

        Now, if you're saying to yourself, "My Christmas is hectic enough, expensive enough, chaotic enough that I don't want to extend it another day," well, you've got a problem.

        The first problem is that you need to shut down the greed machine. You need to get back to a time when Christmas was about peace and joy and not about Target and Dillards. You need to burn a few lists. You may have to rethink gift giving and the reasons behind it. You are never going to be able to change how others celebrate Christmas (it's fully out of control, I grant you), but you can change how you and your family celebrates Christmas.

        Extending it to Boxing Day would be a good start. Give the newspaper boy/girl a gift on Boxing Day. Treat the UPS man during this week (a plate of cookies only, though. I'm told UPS reps cannot accept money, as many such service personnel cannot). Mailman, milkman, grocery bagger, that poor secretary at the front office down at the junior high -- let's make Boxing Day a chance to give them a little boost.

        Plan a service project with your family. Use this day to visit a care center or some other less-obvious corner of the community. Decorated sugar cookies given by your child will taste just as good on Boxing Day as the week before Christmas.

        Organize a low-key potluck lunch or dinner and invite some of the folks in the neighborhood you donÕt normally invite. Stretch, extend. Let Christmas Day be for those close to you and the day after for those that could be closer.

        Find an alms box -- or a reasonable facsimile -- and drop something in. If you haven't got enough to drop in, go back up and re-read that paragraph about the greed machine.

      See, your holiday is getting better already.
   

March Madness is good time for underappreciated films

March 2006

        It's March Madness time, which is good for some, and not so good for others. And I don't mean just the collegiate teams, but families sitting at home. If you are not into basketball, this is a tough time to battle for the remote.

   Now, no doubt I watch too many videos. Or DVDs, depending on the age of the movie or my mood. Why else would I compile little lists in my head, like the five most interesting movies with a moral dilemma ... or the five best Anthony Hopkins movies ... or the five best Nazi war criminal movies.

   I have got to get a life.

       When I casually described to an associate a movie on a cable channel -- Encore, I suspect -- as one of the most "underappreciated movies of recent memory," it was suggested that might be an interesting list. With the Ides of March Madness upon upon us, I share just such a list, just in case tossing cheerleaders and listening to Dick Vitale is not your thing.

        What makes an "underappreciated movie" just that? Well it's not that it wasn't important or popular -- it may have been, but only for a moment. It's life was short in the public's mind. It fell from favor much too rapidly. More important, it's a movie that deserves a second look. It may be a movie that you remembering seeing, but it's been a while. Or one whose technique or message, intricacies or lingering warmth suggest that a first -- or second -- look is justified.

       "Searching for Bobby Fischer." Who knew chess could be exciting? Who knew chess could be the center core of an examination of family relationships. Great performances, great kids and a great 110 minutes.

     "Michael." After Nora Ephron hit gold with "Sleepless in Seattle," proving that a bouncy, loud soundtrack can drive a story, her second effort was this jewel. John Travolta dons angel's wings and mingles with regular ol' humans in a touching, funny, light and meaningful romantic comedy. Oh, yeah, the soundtrack is great, too.

"Music Box." Jessica Lange is an attorney who agrees to represent her father, who is facing charges he is a Nazi war criminal. No music whatsoever, just gripping drama that forces you to listen close.

        "Shine." An "Amadeus"-like examination of a genius-level musical mind. Part family drama, part biography, it's easy to see why Geoffrey Rush was nominated for an Oscar.

        "Moonlight Mile." Admit it. You've never heard of it. Can I tempt you with Dustin Hoffman, Susan Sarandon, Jake Gyllenhall and a layered look at a family wrestling with the untimely death of a daughter about to married? Don't predispose it as a downer. It's more than that.

       "Ordinary People." A profound understated examination of a family under pressure. Yes, it's getting close to that "classic" genre. I mean, Mary Tyler Moore looks sort of young, so you know it's not a new movie. But it is still a great one.

"Changing Lanes." Yes, I know it is Ben Affleck, and, yes, I know he's made some stinkers. But watch this one with a remote control. Stop it every time a character in the film has to make a decision -- will he, won't he, yes or no, good or bad, which way will it turn now? -- and try to outguess the characters. A moral Gordian knot-kind of movie. One character in one scene does love that one R-rated Hollywood word, so look for the edited version if you want to.

        "The Verdict." A generation from now when someone asks, "Who was Paul Newman and why did people make a fuss?,"  they will pull out this movie. If you want to see a real actor, and if you want to feel pain and despair and long for a lucky break, right along with a down-and-out lawyer, who's down to his last hair-thin opportunity, here's your video. This is why they made a fuss.

     "Finding Forrester." You've already forgotten how much you liked it. See it again and ask yourself if you can keep a promise to a friend.

      And finally, here's one that's not out on DVD yet. When it comes, you'll want to find a good time to sit down and dim the lights. Be quiet. This is not a party movie, not even one you'll want to watch with more than one other significant person in the room. Forget what the first half of the movie was titled. That was a major mistake. You didn't see this one because of the first one, I know. But a major player on the underappreciated list is "God's Army 2: States of Grace." A look at grace and forgiveness and the need for forgiveness on a variety of levels. Maybe it will be out by Easter. That would be good.

  There's 10. Oh, by the way, none of these are at Redbox. You might have to look for them, but that's half the fun.

Maybe you can run find a couple during haftime.
--

Collecting is difficult since losing baseball cards

April 2006
        I don't want to talk about it.

  I heard the other day what some of the vintage baseball cards, of which I had a bazilion when I was a kid, are worth. Here I was, happy and stupid as an 11-year-old could be, with a collection of Rod Carew rookie cards, Pete Rose rookie cards, Sandy Koufax in his prime, Roberto (Quick! Someone call 9-1-1! His blood pressure is going through the roof!) Clemente. Stan Musi-- I can't go on. My heart can't take it.

  I don't want to talk about it.

  I heard not just what they are worth, but what just the duplicates that I had are worth. How was I to know? After three, four years of once-a-week (OK, twice, maybe three times a week, depending on the number of pop bottles I could find) purchases, my friend and I had a nice little cache of cards.

      That was cache, not cash. And I don't want to talk about it.

    In a fit of forgetfulness combined with generosity, I left those cards in someone else's care and they got away from me. I can still smell the cardboard and pink gum mixed scent that permeated my complete Dodgers collection.

        Sigh.

   Examining my life closely -- which heaven and Spouse both know I do about as often as wolverines smile --- that may be the only "collection" I have ever had. I'm just not a collector; not really a hobbyist. I tried to collect children -- got the collection up to four --  but they got away before I coluld see the final product. I hope they come back and show me a  blue ribbon.

      Stamps? Not a chance. Coins? Never could keep those around. Postcards? Jeez, do I look like a geek? Butterflies? That would take patience, wouldn't it? Jokes, quotes? Homer and Jethro songs? Now you're getting warm. But even those are probably not organized enough and I'm not passionate enough about it to be a true collection. A mish-mash, maybe.

    I think collectors have to have some sort of passion, misguided or not. Clean freaks and cynics would say that anything you have three of is a collection. But a true collector has to go overboard. Like the guy who has the world's largest collection of air sick bags (Steven J. Silberberg, 1,821). Or backscratchers (Gordon Weiss, at least 215). Handcuffs (Joseph W. Lauher, about 300).

        I'm trying not to go overboard and get to the weird stage, but I have caught myself collecting a few things recently, like news articles and studies and think pieces discussing the literacy of the rising generation. If you think your grandkids will be as well-read, informed, willing and able in reading and writing as you are, well, you're mistaking being high-tech with being highly intelligent. They will be wired and wireless at the same, that's for sure, but that's not necessarily a good thing. Yes, you should be concerned.

        I'm trying to come up with a collection of candidates (heck, either party, no party, I don't care) that can lead this country, and I'm coming up empty. Look ahead a half dozen years. Do you see anyone -- man or woman, donkey or elephant -- that toots your horn? Anyone who can rub salve on the internal divisiveness, increase our stature in the world and still make hard decisions that serve the common good? Thought so.

    As spring has sprung, I am trying to collect home-remedy-type methods for eliminating morning glory. Nothing seems to work for me. Do you have a sure-fire killer? Let me know. Quick.

  I have been collecting stories of people who are "lucky," for lack of a better term. One story I have tells of a golfer who was robbed and shot while on the course, but survived the attack. I have the picture of the golf ball that absorbed the bullet fired on him, complete with bullet. He was carrying it in his pocket. Send me your favorites.

        I have been trying to come up with a collection of reasons we are still in Iraq. I understand the concept of "if you break it, it's yours," but I have to tell you that this collection is getting pretty thin.

I'm keeping track of reasons to have light rail options up and down the Wasatch Front. That collection grows every day and every time I fill up my gas tank. Yes, there is a point where people will park their cars. And trucks. And semi-trailers. You might want to start a collection of reasons why the acceleration of domestic oil production is an imperative idea. I think the dominos have already started to fall.

   Come to think of it, though, I do have another collection that's been with me for decades:  a collection of silver fillings, from the cavities caused by the gum in scores of baseball card packs.

      And I don't want to talk about it.

Trying to find ways to measure life's oddities

I love visiting the Hill Air Force Aerospace Museum. I really enjoy seeing the vintage aircraft and pondering how in the heck these behemoth results of someone's imagination got/get off the ground.

        I try to imagine my uncle's plight, as he considered his life expectancy toiling as a tail gunner in a Flying Fortress. He would later be shot down over Germany, be taken prisoner and rarely speak of it again. It takes me quite a while to make my way through the museum displays.

Visiting there earlier this month, though, I heard a bit of trivia from my minutia-master son, as I was reading the biographical sketch of several of the airmen in the Hall of Fame. Pointing to our former senator and one-time astronaut, my offspring noted that space sickness is now measured in "garns," that his name is actually a unit of measurement, in this case, how ill you can become due to space travel.

      Odd, I thought, to have your legacy be a unit of measurement. But then I considered that watts are named after James Watt, volts after Alessandro Volta, and the Richter Scale after Charles Richter.

   A fellow by the name of Oliver Smoot recently retired from the chairmanship of the American National Standards Institute. He said with a smile that he would lend his name to a unit of measurement -- the smoot would be equal to his height (5 feet 7 inches).

       I was reminded, as I considered our good senator struggling to keep his Tang and trail mix ingested, that Frank Gilbreth, an efficiency expert often called the father of motion study, broke work down into fundamental units of activity, which were and still are called therbligs, derived from spelling his name backwards.

        For years, I have joked with Spouse when she is considering a purchase by using a unit of measurement not commonly heard: Totino's pizzas. For a lot of years of our marriage Ñ and sometimes you can still find them on sale Ñ Totino's pizzas cost 99 cents. Sure, that purse or pair of shoes only costs $15, but that is 15 Totino's pizzas, I remind her. Kind of puts things in a practical, day-to-day perspective, I think. Kind of makes her mad.

      What are some other units of measurement we can get our arms around and maybe push for adoption, along with Mr. Smoot? Well, we can consider measuring time in Wobegons. That would be the time between episodes of "Prairie Home Companion." What a treasure this show is and what a treat is Garrison Keillor. I don't have a regular time to listen to it, but when I stumble on to it -- usually on a Sunday -- that dead time in between could be a wobegon.

        On college campuses, the time before the first lie or major infraction by a fraternity could be measured in sigmas. When members of that so-called Greek community indicate that they are now a "dry" (non-drinking) house, or that they don't believe in initiations, or spout some similar rot, the time before their houses are raided, complaints made against the noise or investigations of sexual assault would be a sigma. Works for me.

        The time a baseball player takes off for "injury" while being investigated for steroid use, time used to rid one's system of enhancing chemicals, could now be called a bond. Or perhaps the number of steroid use violations issued against an athlete, as in, "the linebacker was charged with three bonds, a violation of the NFL drug use policy." I think that one could work.

     Time between peacekeeping efforts in Middle Eastern nations? Those could be called bushes. Time between news reports about car chases that mean absolutely nothing in the long run? Those could be CNNs. Time between price hikes of gasoline? Those could be exxons.

   We are between the first two races of the Triple Crown, so what the heck is a furlong? I looked it up and it equals 40 rods. Well, that clears that up. Turns out Saxon farmers in old England (picture the guys playing in the mud in early scenes of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail") decided a furlong (or furlang in the old tongue) was the "length of a furrow," or how far a team of oxen could plow without needing rest. Not the most exacting form of measurement, is it? It was later pinned down to be 40 rods, 220 yards, 660 feet or one-eighth of a mile. Knowing that, the Preakness will be even more enjoyable to you, won't it?

    Having spent time in England, I learned quickly to tell my weight in stones (yes, I have put on a pebble or two) and knew precisely what a fortnight was. Pound sterling? I had it figured, right down to the tuppence.

        Our lives truly are measured. In many ways.

        So, may your summer be full of bushels and half bushels and pecks and flats and acre feet and knots and nautical miles and maybe even some positive Apgar scores. But be careful of the APRs and the fathoms and those tricky troys and carats. Watch for high and prolonged Kelvins and SPFs and Randiquitos (derived from Randolph and the number mosquito bites received there. Trust me on this one.) And, for heck sakes, I hope you make it through the summer without any garns.

Weather watching is a favorite pastime in Utah

  
               Probably because I am a geek and/or a nerd, I like to monitor what the first story out the box is for local news channels. Of late, I have been amazed how many times the lead story is weather. And not just world-wide disastrous kinds of weather. Local weather, too.

        It might be bad weather, the results of weather, power outages or accidents because of weather. Heck, one night the lead story was even that the storm was not as bad as the meteorologist had reported it might be. Think of it — the lead story was that the weatherman got it wrong! I mean, these guys are getting better, I'll give you that, but when the top story of the day is that the weather outfoxed the weatherman, well, it must be a slow news day. 

               I've always been a weather watcher. It's in my genes. My dad — because of his job and his genes, I suppose — monitored the weather hour by hour. I grew up with Pa chiding Bob Welti for "working for the chamber of commerce" when Welti's weekend forecast was rosier than the gathering purple clouds and my dad's bones said it was going to be.

               But, of course, that was before Viper. Or Stormtracker or any of the other tools that help us peek into and under clouds.

               Working in the hayfields as a young man, I had my own Viper system — my nose. I loved to smell an oncoming storm. After bouncing around on the metal seat of red tractor, I longed for a sudden summer storm to interrupt our hot and dusty work. As late afternoon clouds darkened the sky, raindrops about the size of pie plates would pound on my straw hat and make me jump when they hit the backside of my workshirt. Sometimes it poured and stopped the work. Sometimes it only assaulted – in a good way — my sense of smell.

               Years later I would basically fear for my life while crouching in a tent in the High Uintahs. I gave up trying to count the seconds between the thunder and lightning to determine how far away the powerful strikes were — you know that old trick, don't you?— and instead watched the inside of the tent light up like an X-ray as the deafening snap of thunder was instantaneous with the lightning strike. It's the one time in my life I was right in, not under, a thundercloud. 

               Speaking of old tricks, weather experts say that the chirping of a cricket can provide a close indication of air temperature. By counting the number of cricket chirps in a 14-second period and adding 40, the total will equal the air temperature to within one degree 75 percent of the time. To which I say, "Huh?"

               As a child growing up in Randolph, we had another way to determine temperature — the crowbar hole. We had a hole in our back porch though which we would stick a crowbar. If your hands got too cold to hold it, you knew you needed a hat and muffs. If the bar snapped right off, you knew it was too windy to go out, but if it only bent a bit, you better get out and do your chores.

               One of my chores was to help my grandfather milk a couple of cows. The stream of milk would usually freeze before it hit the bucket, so he would snap off the long strand of frozen milk and I would carry a bundle of it into my grandma to thaw in a pan on the stove.

               (I've got to tell you, I told that one to an unsuspecting workmate a few weeks ago, and she bought it, hook, line and sinker.)

               While I might be stretching it a bit with the last two stories, with my hand on my Bible I will tell you that I once saw it snow on the 4th of July. It didn't stick, mind you, but there was snow in the air during the July 4th Parade. 

               Some place up Logan Canyon called Peter Sinks claims to hold the record for cold in Utah. That doesn't count. Doesn't mean a thing unless you are carrying a gym bag and trombone going to school. Nobody lives in Peter Sinks. People live in Randolph.

               But all in all, I love Utah weather. I love the surprises. I love May, especially. Ånd the next time I hear you complaining about the weather, I'll say just one word:

               Myanmar.
 
 

By coincidence, we all seem to love coincidences

From FEbruary 2006

        Talk about your synchronicity.
  In a little room just off where the city council meets in Lancaster, NY., 17-year-old Kevin Stephan earlier this month got a little plaque to hang on his wall. The folks there gave him a nice round of applause and his picture was taken, standing alongside the woman whose life he is credited with saving. Kevin is a volunteer firefighter and known by all as a good kid and when restaurant employees shouted for help, they looked to him for aid when a woman fell to the floor, choking on food.
   "They called me over and I did the Heimlich and helped her get breathing and I guess you could say I saved Mrs. Brown," he said, when pressed for a response at the picture-taking session.
        Ahh, Mrs. Brown. As he was helping the woman recover, he recognized the woman as -- are you sitting down? -- the same woman who saved him, seven years earlier when he was accidently hit in the chest with a baseball bat swung with full strength by another Little Leaguer. Brown, a nurse whose son also played on the team, performed CPR "and he came back," she said. He saved the life of the woman who saved his life. "It's almost unbelievable," said Stephan, who is also an Eagle Scout.
        Maybe you saw this little news item when it was broadcast on NBC.  Everyone I tell the story to says it gives them chills. Everyone calls it a remarkable coincidence. 
        I get a kick out of coincidences. Especially true ones, like Stephan and Mrs. Brown. Do you remember hearing the one where Winston Churchill's father puts the son of a poor Scottish farmer through school, because the boy's father saved his little boy. Turns out the Scot's son was Alexander Fleming and he, in turn, saves Winston Churchill's life because of the penicillin he discovered. Something like that.
        I've heard that one a half dozen times in several similar forms. The Winston Churchill Center in Washington, D.C., says they have been fighting this one for years. Not true. Never happened. No synchronicity there, just the Internet.
        Even though I'm fascinated with coincidences, they don't happen to me much. Oh, I remember once softly singing the repetitive bars of a somewhat memorable oldie (OK. Elton John, if you must know) while walking to my car and when I started the car and turned on the radio, the same song was playing. Oooh. That's about it for me. No tingles up your arms on that one, is there?
        There is a great little book with lots of true, verifiable, published, not-just-on-the-Internet coincidences that will give you plenty of tingles. If you can still find it, it's called "Incredible Coincidences: The baffling world of synchronicity," by Alan Vaughan.
        The book has things like the account of a coffin being washed off an ocean liner in a storm in the Gulf of Mexico and months later being found in the harbor of a small town in Maine, hometown of the deceased. Or the woman in Berkeley who is locked out of her house and the mail carrier walks up, holding a letter from her brother, who had stayed at her house a month earlier. Inside the letter -- sure enough  -- a house key that he was mailing back to her.
       Several stories are rehearsed in the little paperback where people with the exact same name were in auto accidents, colliding with one another. There's some great stuff, some great goose-bump givers.
        I remember reading a few years ago of a family that was water skiing on Pineview Reservoir and lost a wedding ring. They gave up after a futile search for the valuable. They came back to the spot the next summer ... and found the ring.
        Maybe it is no coincidence that both you and I like these things. Here's a few odd coincidences I have noticed in day-to-day life:
        When two Hollywood actors make a movie together where they play a couple, dang it if they don't end up leaving their former "partners" and shacking up, er ah, taking up with a new partner. What a coincidence. Who is Meg Ryan married to this week, by the way?
        Just yesterday I saw again a common coincidence -- when a group pushing a social agenda was not able to get favorable legislation passed, they promised "litigation" and "a court battle."
      When some Muslims want to demonstrate how much they hate being characterized as warmongers and how they deserve respect, they end up burning something and a half-dozen get killed. Weird, isn't it?
    Was it a coincidence that the first four storms of this winter season were oversold and over-anticipated, and then the one last week left me shoveling about nine inches of "30 percent chanceÓ off my driveway? And is it just a coincidence that as soon as the "pumps" were built out by the Great Salt Lake they have never been used?
      Isn't it a odd coincidence that when massive amounts of government money are given to a single contractor in Iraq without any oversight, abuses and misuse soon follow?
        A real coincidence, this one: Ninety-five percent of those who jog don't look like they need to.
        I've also noticed that any column written by an amateur like me better stop any list at six or seven items -- beyond that boredom sets in.
       And that's no coincidence.

It's high time I was a highly paid consultant

       

From January, 2006

One of the strangest news items I picked up on this past month was a tidbit noting that Michael Brown is now a highly-paid consultant.

  Who's Michael Brown? Think hard now. Who was the most maligned, made-fun-of and in-over-his-head bureaucrat of the federal government during 2005? Yeah, that guy, the former head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA). And now he is a consultant, helping local governments plan for -- yup, you guessed it -- disasters.

       Now if ol' Michael can get a $100,000-plus a year job as a consultant, surely I can. Why can't I consult? Surely there is something I could share with others of the common-man ilk to help make their lives better.

    Maybe I could offer a session I would call Dealing with Brokeback Blowback. This would deal, of course, with all of the harangue surrounding a certain movie and certain peoplesÕ reaction to it. The objective of the sessions would be to let people know it is OK not to see this movie. Take a deep breath -- it really will be OK if you have no interest in seeing this movie. Yes, Hollywood will make fun of you and belittle those who are "too little-minded" to see it. But we'll make sure you know that all those awards are given by a tight group of friends; that you can ignore the insinuations that if you don't want to see this movie "you're not comfortable with your own sexuality."

        This is the latest catch phrase of those pushing their idea of sexuality and money, you may have noticed. Somehow if you don't want to see cowboys frolicking in a watering hole together or jumping in a sleeping bag to stay warm, well, something's wrong with you, something askew with your comfort level, with your sexuality, not theirs. Did you see "Fantastic Four?" Of course not. Did someone accuse you of being uncomfortable with your own feelings of invisibility or having insecurity about turning into a flame? There will be lots more brouhaha about "Brokeback." Be prepared -- it will likely win the Oscar.

        So what? You ignored "Chicago" and kept your self-esteem intact -- we'll make sure you can handle all the "Brokeback" crap, too.

       Besides. It's only Heath Ledger and some kid named Gyllenhaal, for heck sakes. If it had been Sean Connery or Tom Selleck, now, that would have put me into therapy, too.

       Maybe I could offer consult sessions on how it is OK to hate this war and still appreciate and honor the troops. The two really can be independent thoughts. For some, these sessions will be easing them away from the thought that there ever were weapons of mass destruction. Easy now. Breathe deep. Hans Blix really did know what he was talking about. We might discuss how patience and a well-placed cyanide capsule could have saved a lot of lives and kept the United States' image worldwide more palatable. I could consult on the idea that you are not a bad member of the church if you don't get caught up in the effort to mix patriotism and testimony and the war and all that into one odd Sunday pot.

   I could consult -- and we could commiserate together -- about Howard Stern and his recent $100 million contract to do a radio "show." Yes, the same Howard Stern that describes young women for his listening audience as they strip, and has piano players that play tunes using their personal parts -- that Howard Stern, and, yes, I did say $100 million. We will together reach the bottom line that it is tough to hear someone use the First Amendment as a shield to hide behind ‹ because we love it so -- and will chalk it all up as being just one step closer to Sodom. Maybe weÕll start an advent calendar of sorts, if you know what I mean.

   I would be happy to consult Utah educators, reminding them we have to do something to help the Hispanic population. We have to require that English as a Second Lanuage teachers at least be able to speak a second language, for crying out loud. We need to require that university graduates in secondary and elementary education in Utah speak Spanish. We need to realize that the high number of Hispanic girls that are entering the system at Grade 7 are not leaving at Grade 12. Far, far too many are leaving the education system to be cared for by the welfare system, as they have children in their teens.

    We are now into our second and third generation of immigrant families in Utah and higher education is still not a valid or worthwhile goal for most Hispanics. Most just don't get why it is a big deal. Nothing will change until this growing segment of our popular realizes it is a big deal. Who's telling them?

   I would like to offer consultation sessions on how to get off of caffeine. For a price, weÕll discuss the cold turkey method, the "substitution" method (I suggest V-8 and lots of Excedrine as an alternative choice during the weaning period) and the one-mug-less-per-day approach.

I will be offering these sessions as soon as I actually do it myself. I'd hate to be thought of as a loser, you know, like Michael Brown.

Americans are pawns in big global warming picture

A letter to the editor caused an interesting stir when it was published in the Cache daily recently. The writer suggested that as troublesome -- heck, potentially threatening -- the concept we have come to know as global warming is, that there is very little man can do change the origins of it.

His point -- which was lost on most who responded -- was that someone else, er, ah, make that Someone Else, is in charge. A volcano blast here, an extended jet stream change there, a change from El Nino to La Nina, and the whole global warming issue changes. And you could almost see in your mind's eye the soft berets on the receding hairlines, the brown patches on the elbows, the pipes clinched between the teeth of those who responded with the most anger.

This idea went right over their heads.

How dare he suggest there is nothing man can do, came the hue and cry. 

The letter writer suggested no such thing. As sure as man is not in control of weather, man is in charge of taking care of the planet and there is much that can be done. Knowing that man can't cause a tsunami should not be an excuse to not do all that can be done to improve our current position. Every aluminum can picked up off the highway helps ease litter. Every light turned off, every bike ridden to work, theoretically helps keep us green.

But if I could reinforce his point it would be to say: when you look at the big picture, there's not a lot the average American can do to make a sweeping change with regard to origins of global warming, especially weather-caused origins.

Can I make a second point on the subject?

When you look at the big picture, there's not a lot the average American can do to make a sweeping change with regard to global warming, especially industrial-caused origins. 
I'm not normally a "glass-half-empty" kind of guy, but get your arms around this fact: Eighty percent of the pollution now being spewed into the Earth's  atmosphere which is leading directly to global warming and long-term damage to the planet is being produced in China and India. Eighty percent of so-called greenhouse gases have as their origin the "emerging nations" of China and India alone.

Americans -- whether they have patches on their sport coats or not -- have a tendency to put on myopic blinders, thinking the sun, moon and stars revolve around them. As important as we are in the world, we sometimes act like we are alone. We buy our hybrids and screw in our funny-looking light bulbs and pat ourselves on the back. And any good those two simple acts did is negated in seconds by another power plant or factory coming on line in India.

And, in the words of a friend of mine who frequents India for business, they could not care less. 

One of the real rubs in this big global warming picture is that not only is America a minor contributor to the problem, but they will be the biggest recipient of the fallout that is bound to occur should the problem go unabated. Follow these dominos: China and India continue to pour pollutants into the atmosphere. Deterioration and global warming follow. Drought, food shortages and political unrest -- caused by resultant poverty and famine -- are next, resulting in new patterns of immigration and refugee situations.

The United States, however, will continue be seen as the land of promise, as my glass-half-full says it surely is. America will accept and bear the brunt of waves of new immigrants, the source of which is the money-hungry plundering of current emerging economies. America will also be called upon for increasing humanitarian assistance around the world, putting our military and commodity levels at lower and lower levels.

Sorry for the bad news, but somebody had to tell you.

So rather than focusing on light bulbs, Congress should be focusing on forcing change around the globe. Trade sanctions, immigration sanctions and pressure on China and India are a must. Would we get their attention if we said there will be no more trade with these countries until they truly clean up their act? How about telling India that no more of their students could enter our country for higher education until changes are made?

If every time Americans turned off their lights or rode mass transit, thinking they are making a difference, they also wrote your congressman insisting on stronger measures worldwide, the message might finally get through.

But for now, well, it just looks like it's getting warmer.

Keep your quote marks to yourself

Recently, here in the quiet Valley of Cache and Inversion, a headline writer for the local daily stirred the pot when he or she put quote marks around a selected word in a headline.

There's a lot of words in a newspaper on a given day; lots of words in headlines on this Wednesday or that Saturday. But he/she found an interesting one to pick on.

Referring to some news regarding the LDS Church, this headline writer put quote marks around the word "apostle." You know, like: Funeral Services Held for LDS "Apostle."

Now, in that same issue and subsequent issues of the "newspaper" (oops, you can see where I'm going with this already, can't you?), quote marks could have been put around lots of words: The new principal used to be an "educator" in a local elementary school. There are seven "student"-athletes on the team. The city manager and three of his "friends" were uninjured in the accident. The "pope" is in the hospital. The “attorney” has been "practicing" “law” for three years.

Oh, the power of the quote mark, especially when it's nowhere near a quote. With just a stroke of the keys, verbs and nouns can get enough spin to fly right up and hurt someone. Of course, considering the demographics of the newspaper’s readership and "little" things like that, this headline made a bit of flap. Not enough to blow out the fog, mind you, but a flap nonetheless.

Did the headline writer know what he or she was doing?

Of course he/she did.

Why did he/she do it? Can I read "minds?" (See, it is pretty easy to do.) But, predictably, there were readers that both vilified and defended the action.

It got me to thinking. Doesn't take much to get me "thinking," you know. I started snooping around a bit on the subject of spin and turns out there are few mini-flaps going on right now, and involving bigger media than little local dailies. For example, some national media -- New York Times, for one -- will not use the term “war on terror” or if they do, they put quotes around it and no capitalization. The Chicago Tribune will only use it when Bush -- the primary user of the term -- refers to certain, specified activities and not everything and anything currently on his Iraqi plate. CNN and many other major players use it liberally and covering a wide range of activities.

The Associated Press tries not to use the phrase and tries to limit the use to times when they are independently quoting someone else. The biggest debate at AP is the capitlization question. Currently, they do not. AP worries a lot about such things.

These debates are not necessarily new but are becoming more frequent and that's a good thing. It's been said that he who controls the language controls the debate.

Political consultant (sounds better than lobbyist, see?) Frank Lutz says the reason the idea of cutting or repealing the once-invulnerable estate tax finally got sold was because he started referring to it as a "death tax." Estate sounds wealthy and death sounds inevitable. And suddenly something that wasn't always viable received support of 75 percent of the American people.

Consider the Social Security program, which was almost called Economic Security, but Depression-responsive Congressmen felt the former was better and more comforting. It is a tax, mind you, but is hardly ever called that. Some even call it a contribution. Currently, many in the media are debating whether changes proposed by Pres. Bush should be called Social Security "reforms," "revisions" or "overhaul." National Public Radio, for example, suggests words like revision, revamping, retooling and overhaul are all more objective than reform -- Bush's word of choice-- which carries an implication of improvement. But do the others carry an implication of impending doom that "reform" does not?

Bush was also advised to use the term “personal accounts,” rather than “private accounts” when referring to his plan. How do those words spin you?

Do you spin when the "conservative" versus "liberal" labels are debated and how some within those camps prefer "moderate" or "initiator of change?"

Be careful. The spin could make you a bit dizzy if you're not paying attention. So pay attention. Don’t put up with words that don’t work. I refuse, for example, to accept “entertainer” Howard Stern. Give me a break. There’s a baker’s dozen of modifiers closer to the truth than that one. “Actress” Paris Hilton. Ha! The entertainment industry, as we all know, is spinning out of control.

But on a “serious” note, watch for red flags and spinning words when the subject is politics and religion. Or liberal and conservative. Or political correctness and diversity, or your money. Or education and laws.

Or newspaper “columnist.”

July sparks criteria for being Utah native..... or ....

Published July 2006

It was a question I had been asked before, but this time it sent my mind to wandering, wondering what it is that makes us unique. The closer the date gets to Pioneer Day, the more I ponder such things, I suspect.

"So, are you a Utah native?" she had asked. The question came at the end of a luncheon discussion among a table-full of conference attendees on the West Coast. When she heard I was from Utah, she wanted to know how far Bountiful was from the campground from which "the little Boy Scout" had gotten lost, a big news item, even in Seattle. Once I had drawn a map in the air and made it clear that he didn't just meander out his back door to get lost, she posed her question.

Reminds me of a bumper sticker I had seen not long ago, declaring simply: "California Native." Combined with the overly self-confident, chip-on-the-shoulder mannerisms of the car's driver, the feeling was one of holier-than-thou. I've never seen a sticker that spouts "Native Utahn." Never seen one that says "Native Iowan," for that matter, though there may be some. There probably isn't a bumper sticker that says Native Wyomingite. Or is Wyomingman, or is it Wyomingian? Whatever it is, it doesn't roll off the tongue. I'm told you don't need such a bumper sticker to spot the driver from Wyoming. Instead, check for a Hefty bag being used as a window on the passenger side of the truck or the oily rag used as a gas cap, or look for the tube top of the female driver.

With acknowledgement that the only true Utah natives were here before the Pioneers arrived, we might want to consider some criteria for calling ourselves Utah natives. Some of mine:

You can't call yourself a Utah native until you've hiked Zion Narrows, getting a stiff neck admiring a miraculous canyon that must have been fashioned by the finger of Diety as much as the unique Virgin River underfoot; until you've sensed the insignificance of a single man, a humble understanding that comes while being wedged between these dark, cool cliffs dropped in the middle of a red desert.

You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you watch "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" with a kind of voyeuristic enthusiasm, identifying at least three scenes -- minimum requirement -- that you know were filmed in Utah because you've been there and you've seen those same backdrops with your own baby blues. You have to know how to find Grafton, home of Etta Place, and you have to know what Butch's real name is.

You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you can identify where there are road signs -- just a mile or so apart -- that say "Eagles on the Highway" and "Watch for Sanddrifts."

You can't call yourself a true Utah native until you've stood on Red Spur and looked into three states at once and while doing it noticing how clean the air really can be. You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you understand the accuracy of the observation made by the discoverer of Bryce Canyon: "It's a helluva place to lose a cow."

You can't really call yourself a native Utahn until you know where Axtell is, and Cleveland, where Veyo and Meadowville and Yost and Colton are. You must have visited Hatch at least once, or at the very least know someone from there. Of course, you automatically become a native Utahn if you know the little song that lists all the counties in the state.

You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you catch yourself making excuses as to why you have to go over Monte Cristo. No, it's not always faster, but it's always better. It's a trip that must be made at least once a summer.

You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you know what to do when you drive over a cattle guard ... until you've used a BLM/Forst Service/State Park-maintained public toilet at 4:30 in the afternoon, on a Saturday ... until you can sing at least one line from the Beach Boys tune that was incredibly titled "Salt Lake City" ... until you've purchased a rubber dinosaur in Eastern Utah, be it from a vending machine or curio shop ... until you've had a "famous" raspberry shake ... until you have been disappointed at seeing Big Rock Candy Mountain for the first time ... until you can name all the communities in Utah named after U.S. presidents ... until you know where in the state there is a convenience store in a cave ... where there's a missile in the city park and you can fully explain why it is there.

And while there is a big party called the Days of '47, you can't be a native Utahn until you've appreciated Black and White Days or Raspberry Days or Onion Days, Peach Days, Strawberry Days, Dixie Days or even Health Days.

And you can't call yourself a native Utahn until you realize that he who declared "This is the Place" was himself a native New Englander, a pragmatic vagabond who would roll over in his monument if those of us passing through this unique corner of the world were to assume it is ours and ours alone or forget to fully appreciate it.

And so, I'm relaxing the rules a bit. If you can do any one of these things, consider yourself part of the club. Now enjoy.