tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5731881062640613922024-03-17T22:04:00.279-05:00RIFLES AT DAWNTim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.comBlogger912125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-50510838343391709212024-02-05T09:54:00.000-06:002024-02-05T09:54:09.475-06:00Ugh! COVID Strikes!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMK55TJSLXEqFTxnUbcuRXhK4gylX-r0gJyzh12I3sGsZshybxRnf-3rA7Nwajjzjs5aymGkaj2iVkKWycg0fY33G3Merq_Qnox47rr8yOfPP4GtuUDdLfrp1muEPQS6FyTBkiViMIUx-4FBO5cRbWiqqtounVOJYVPjGs6rmwaYy4Glkq9I0c39WLBvo/s1200/BP%20%20COVID%20Test.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="1200" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMK55TJSLXEqFTxnUbcuRXhK4gylX-r0gJyzh12I3sGsZshybxRnf-3rA7Nwajjzjs5aymGkaj2iVkKWycg0fY33G3Merq_Qnox47rr8yOfPP4GtuUDdLfrp1muEPQS6FyTBkiViMIUx-4FBO5cRbWiqqtounVOJYVPjGs6rmwaYy4Glkq9I0c39WLBvo/s320/BP%20%20COVID%20Test.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Damn. The dreaded
pink T-line. We had both tested positive, after several days of thinking it was
just a bad cold. I mean, we’ve been SO careful to avoid COVID for nearly four
years: triple-vaxxed, triple-boosted; masks when necessary; untold numbers of
Lysol spray cans and bottles of hand sanitizer used over the years. Avoiding
crowds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">By the time I
finally broke out the COVID home test kits, after several days of denial, we
were outside the window for Paxlovid, so we decided to just tough it out. Since
the cold symptoms started, we hadn’t gone anywhere or seen anyone, so we were
spared the embarrassment of calling people and telling them we’d tested
positive.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As near as we
can figure, Toni brought it home from a physical therapy session in a gym-like
setting. It was the only time in the three or four days prior to the onset of symptoms
that either of us had been away from our apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We both
figure that our triple-vaxxed, triple-boosted status is what kept us out of the
hospital. As far as we’re concerned, the vaccinations did their job. From what
I’ve seen, a lot of folks don’t understand that the vaccine doesn’t prevent you
from getting COVID. It helps mitigate the worst effects of the virus, which we’re
convinced is exactly what it did for us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My guess is
that my case was mild, and Toni’s was moderate. While she pounded Tylenol, I
was overdosing myself with DayQuil. I think I consumed a hundred or more orange
liquid-gel Day-Quil capsules over the course of my bout. We both had nasty,
nasty coughs, stuffy heads, runny noses, chills, and muscle aches. Toni lost
her sense of taste. It wasn’t stay-in-bed-sick; it was just annoyingly
miserable. We quarantined ourselves in our apartment and binge-watched TV.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">One afternoon
when Toni and I were both dozing, my friend and former on-air partner Sly
called to share a funny story. We started recounting some of our outrageous
on-air adventures, which resulted in a laughing spell that turned into a
coughing spell. I said to Sly (who had a bout of COVID a few months ago) between
fits of coughing, “I have to hang up! You’re killing me with these stories!!” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Since Toni
and I have both had serious cases of pneumonia requiring hospitalization in the
past, we were concerned that if the COVID started to affect our oxygen
saturation, we’d head to the ER immediately. I also have asthma, controlled by
daily medication, so I’ve used a home pulse/ox meter for years. We monitored
our oxygen sats every few hours, and at no point did either of us dip below the
mid-90’s.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I started to
feel better after a week or so, but Toni’s case hung on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-J0QhnxQV9KqqRK_IgJJEUBqssvUDTsdnO-P5kg53L8W8JGU2Sq3ON1DCu9fe4xBAhrQdttX0Eirp_pa6ee0lhZmX1TgB9Wx7UTVd8Mh3huJ_qSzitiXORYF3-2nY65-64L8aJTCKDCvlyJwS1C2jYEXVl_XGEE4bKUBZKBn023P1cPIhjq_gsrlNG8/s1024/BP%20Covid%20Test%20Negative.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-J0QhnxQV9KqqRK_IgJJEUBqssvUDTsdnO-P5kg53L8W8JGU2Sq3ON1DCu9fe4xBAhrQdttX0Eirp_pa6ee0lhZmX1TgB9Wx7UTVd8Mh3huJ_qSzitiXORYF3-2nY65-64L8aJTCKDCvlyJwS1C2jYEXVl_XGEE4bKUBZKBn023P1cPIhjq_gsrlNG8/s320/BP%20Covid%20Test%20Negative.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">On the tenth
day after the symptoms started, I finally tested negative. Toni was still
positive, but three days later, she took another home test and it was negative.
We were finally out of the woods. We both still coughed intermittently, and
weren’t back to full strength, but the worst of it was finally behind us.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Now, a couple
weeks later, we’re back to normal. And you can bet that if the CDC says it’s
time for another booster, we’ll be among the first in line to get it.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-87375092877292302072023-11-30T12:15:00.000-06:002023-11-30T12:15:06.079-06:00I Am Radioactive (And I Can Prove It)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJJcTUh6Fs9kNKqP8waQUoqR9eE4GXKMSysZ42-d3qlIA7xk9cwqBCX2WIViAMwI_Xq_Lt1mRb8FYqNdltRaKVb_XKMfY1uQtPOhDIppyD6elOtJ7yJIxSCl-OUF1UFFapuyfLa8BKyg-4hpF4k-PJdFuh4YycVZo0njOJcFRBW2Cxsqj4EtJVGZJi0g/s750/BP%20Radiation%20Symbol.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJJcTUh6Fs9kNKqP8waQUoqR9eE4GXKMSysZ42-d3qlIA7xk9cwqBCX2WIViAMwI_Xq_Lt1mRb8FYqNdltRaKVb_XKMfY1uQtPOhDIppyD6elOtJ7yJIxSCl-OUF1UFFapuyfLa8BKyg-4hpF4k-PJdFuh4YycVZo0njOJcFRBW2Cxsqj4EtJVGZJi0g/s320/BP%20Radiation%20Symbol.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Yesterday I spent much of my time waiting around and doing
nothing, in a bleak room labeled “Nuclear Medicine Patient
Lounge” or some such. As my 75<sup>th</sup> year is almost upon me, and because
of an abundance of crappy hearts among most of my siblings, my docs decided it
would be a good time to really get to know my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">A blip on a routine annual EKG at my primary care doctor’s
office a month ago piqued the interest of some algorithm, earning me a referral
to a cardiac doc. One of the battery of tests I was then subjected to was
yesterday’s Nuclear Cardiac Stress Test, which involves a lot of steps, including the injection of some
radioactive fluid into the blood stream. The little nukes apparently know their
job is to migrate to the left ventricle of the heart, and once there, some huge
machine into which you’re stuffed takes pictures of your heart for the docs to interpret.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Prior to the test, I was warned that I should avoid getting
too close to children under the age of 12 for a period of three days after the
test. There’d still be some radioactivity coursing through my veins, enough to
warrant keeping a safe distance from the grandkids.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">However, I had no idea how serious this nuclear medicine
stuff is until my four-and-a-half-hour odyssey was nearly complete. There were
four of us old guys in the morning session, and we took turns getting injected
with the isotopes, spending our time in the giant machine that takes the
pictures, drinking lots of fluids, and sitting in the dreary patient lounge in
between.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was pretty much 45 minutes of boredom followed by 15
minutes of intense medical stuff, hour after hour. But then, just before the
final hour, the genial guy who was our Nuclear Medicine guide came into the
lounge with a serious look. He handed each of us a sheet to take with us and
said it was imperative that we take the sheet with us any time we left our home
in the next three days.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-614lOPpaid3o-XLlyvJIxo5mKn4d018Uy6AwnG2B-76FwLKXYSk1tvvFZwnW4L8wEVB2l8y6YGc2v_sYPsnD5vBb5IWUm99GRvUUPenMXDKpCwRpUI2XrpW_vGgsCIiKggCUvn6c_rhh7nKthz2nc8fJP0m7QdARG9C87Wzr7ocAQp7cTr4LQog8fSg/s1581/Nuclear%20Medicine%20Card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1478" data-original-width="1581" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-614lOPpaid3o-XLlyvJIxo5mKn4d018Uy6AwnG2B-76FwLKXYSk1tvvFZwnW4L8wEVB2l8y6YGc2v_sYPsnD5vBb5IWUm99GRvUUPenMXDKpCwRpUI2XrpW_vGgsCIiKggCUvn6c_rhh7nKthz2nc8fJP0m7QdARG9C87Wzr7ocAQp7cTr4LQog8fSg/s320/Nuclear%20Medicine%20Card.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">He told us if we should happen to be pulled over by a cop,
we’d trip their radiation monitor and would need to show the card explaining
that we’re not terrorists carrying nuclear material, just “nuclear medicine
patients.” He further explained that Homeland Security has radiation monitors
at undisclosed locations around every city of any size, and that if we happened
to pass near one, we’d trip the monitor and would likely be tracked down and
questioned within an hour. All we’d have to do is show the card to explain why
we tripped the monitor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As it turns out, one of our fearsome foursome was a man who’d
just retired from one of those three-letter acronym outfits that’s part of the
U.S. Government. I won’t name it, because HIPPA and all that. We’d all
introduced ourselves at the beginning, and knowing who this gentleman had
worked for meant we all looked at him after our genial guide handed out the
cards and gave his little spiel.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">He told us more and more law enforcement agencies are being
equipped with radiation monitors, and that Homeland Security has radiation
monitors in secret locations all over the place, just as our guide had
mentioned. After he confirmed and amplified what our guide had said, he emphasized
how important it was to keep the card on our person and be ready to show it to
a law enforcement officer immediately upon request.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Unless, of course, you want to spend about two or three
intense hours being ruthlessly interrogated by some people who are deadly
serious about their profession,” he added. The other three of us sat in stunned
silence for a moment afterward.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Message received.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We live in interesting times.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-17367313597105278782023-09-10T10:37:00.002-05:002023-09-10T10:37:53.744-05:00Nobody Gets Flat Tires Any More... Do They?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYWlB1dTKFkY4s0ltk6bqVYee7ClOVhs1tZr6nr-lgnkoPRErAMvpE3l1O1Tj-4DbgZ97lMbwA6jyKW5JU1KO4V0D_qLV6iFGlF7liCrlBYnqxmGvnHnarcuJ2j9JzmeQ6gXk8ym7PltH9RHUKI2g1vwNyP4035AWZqWd6XJNoS538eFnnSax8v45DszA/s3516/BP%20Car%20in%20tow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2810" data-original-width="3516" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYWlB1dTKFkY4s0ltk6bqVYee7ClOVhs1tZr6nr-lgnkoPRErAMvpE3l1O1Tj-4DbgZ97lMbwA6jyKW5JU1KO4V0D_qLV6iFGlF7liCrlBYnqxmGvnHnarcuJ2j9JzmeQ6gXk8ym7PltH9RHUKI2g1vwNyP4035AWZqWd6XJNoS538eFnnSax8v45DszA/s320/BP%20Car%20in%20tow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>The view from atop a flatbed tow-truck</i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Twenty years ago, I would have yelled out a string of lusty
cuss-words, got out the lug wrench and jack, and changed the tire. As the song
says, “But that was yesterday, and yesterday’s gone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">This past Friday was a challenging day for many reasons. My
bride had to endure a common but bothersome medical procedure, the kind for
which you must do “bowel prep.” Which means starting late Thursday afternoon
she had to start drinking a gallon of that horrible concoction and couldn't stray more than a
few steps from the bathroom for the next 16 hours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">This meant a night of very little and highly disturbed sleep
for both of us. Such is life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">With bleary eyes we left our apartment at oh-dark-thirty
Friday morning to the Endoscopy Center of Fairfield, just a quick jaunt down
the coast. Everything was fine, and by mid-morning we were headed back home. I
suggested to my tired wife that she just crawl back into bed and take a nice,
long nap. I hung out in the living room and caught up on some of the streaming
shows I like.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Early afternoon arrived and I heard Toni stirring. She came
out to the living room with a worried look. When she woke up, her right eye
hurt and she had a blind spot in the center of her vision. Not good. She called
her eye doctor, down the coast in the tony hamlet of Westport, home to scores
of hedge fund billionaires and all manner of famous people. “We can’t get you
in. Our first appointment is next Friday.” “But it’s an emergency!” “Our next
open appointment is next Friday.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">That was the end of that conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I suggested she call my eye doctor’s office in downtown
Bridgeport. They gave her some sort of insurance runaround. Some mindless BS
about “not recognizing her policy.” For the love of Pete, it’s the tiny company
called MEDICARE!!!! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I called them back and bullied my way to the office manager,
reminded her that I’d been a client for the past three years, described my wife’s
medical emergency, and she said, “Oh my, that doesn’t sound good. Let’s get her
in right away.” Now, that’s customer service. I gave her Toni’s Medicare number.
She said, “I see you live in Black Rock – I can slot Toni in at 3 o’clock as an
emergency so that gives you plenty of time to get here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Sidebar: the government says we live in Bridgeport,
Connecticut’s largest city, but the neighborhood in which we reside, along the
coast of Long Island Sound, is called Black Rock because of, among other
things, Black Rock Harbor, a coastal haven for ships of all sizes. Black Rock
was a separate city (or “town,” as they call the municipalities around here)
until Bridgeport gobbled it up in the 1960’s. Locals still call it Black Rock,
best known now not for the huge harbor and marina, but for the scores of really
good restaurants and entertainment venues.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Back to the tale of the flat tire.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’d barely ended the conversation with Millie at my eye
doctor’s office when she called back and said they had a cancellation at 2:45 –
did we think we could make that appointment on short notice? Sure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We piled into our trusty new road warrior, a Chevy Equinox,
and headed to downtown Bridgeport. We were tired and scared, but grateful that
my eye doctor was accommodating and understanding. I made the turn off North
Avenue onto Main Street. As I turned into the eye doctor’s parking lot, I
managed to miss the entrance by a few feet and rammed perforce into the curb.
The right front tire took a massive hit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Toni was startled and I said a few things which I won’t report
here, hoping all would be OK.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It wasn’t. As she got out of the car to go into the office,
she looked down at the right front tire and reported that it was going down
rapidly. In the next breath, she said, “It’s flat.” More expletives issued from
my mouth. I told her to go in and deal with her eye, and I’d deal with the mess
I’d created.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Just then, the information center on the dashboard issued a
warning about the right front tire (you can see it in the photo at the top of
the post) followed shortly by a message from OnStar: “Low air pressure has been
detected in one or more tires on your Chevrolet Equinox - Passenger Side Front
(1PSI).” One PSI. Probably because the tire pressure monitor system doesn’t
report ZERO PSI.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I got out of the car to inspect. Why, I don’t know. I knew
what had happened. I smashed it into the curb so hard that no tire could have
survived the impact. After still more profanities, I called my guys at the
Firestone Tire Store; they recommended Mid-Town towing and said they’d deal
with the flat as soon as we got there.
Meantime, I called our daughter and after filling her in about what was
going on, asked her if she might be available for some taxi service, since the
situation was still sort of fluid. Of course, she would. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’d put Mid-Town towing on alert, explaining that we couldn’t
do anything until my wife completed her eye doctor appointment. They told me to
give them a holler when we were ready to go. Shortly thereafter, Toni came out,
with news that after a battery of tests and looking into blinding lights on
some fancy machine, the doctor said she’d somehow scratched her eyeball. She’d
given Toni a couple vials of medical eyedrops and said the situation should
resolve itself in a couple days; nothing to worry about; call me if you don’t note
improvement tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Spoiler alert: her vision was back to normal the next
morning and the pain was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Much relieved, I called Mid-Town Towing, and ten minutes
later they were there with a big flatbed tow-truck. “Call dispatch and give
them your credit card info, and if everything’s OK, I’ll have you drive up onto
here and we’ll have you over to Firestone on King’s Highway in Fairfield in short
order.” Everything was OK with dispatch, so we drove up onto the flatbed, the
driver strapped the car down, and we were on our way.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The Firestone guys swung into action immediately after we
arrived. Usually on an All-Wheel Drive vehicle like ours, you can’t just
replace one tire. You have to put four new tires on, lest the AWD computer be
confused, or some such. But the tech said because the tires were new – less than
four thousand miles on them – we could get by with just replacing the right
front tire with an exact size match, and all would be well with the AWD
computer. (Dr. Google agreed, as I found out, later.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Four o’clock on a busy Friday afternoon and those guys had
us on our way home in a little less than an hour. We ate a quick dinner and
were in bed at 8 o’clock, too tired to do anything else.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">At granddaughter Lola’s 5<sup>th</sup> birthday party, the
next day, my friend Amy from our son-in-law’s side of the family sidled up to
me and said, “Run into any good curbs lately?” She’d seen my post on Facebook
about the incident and gave me some good-natured ribbing about it. “Sounds like
a blog post should be done,” said someone else. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">All’s well that ends well</span></span></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-88606957127624543302023-08-20T10:31:00.002-05:002023-08-22T09:22:25.631-05:00Road Trip!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4-y_jQOCDJPTqgL-e1GPvdvUTnYJJv_tnZHnw9Brb7oWkQRh3wMTfvGibh7ZRGCbtHCCOWob5bY2YAfU-WHQP7MPMPS_Ler51VtjNVdG5kPLDzkxUaPC9RwMFM5-Wq67c66GvE8MpPSokxPPcUu92MfJWB6kXpkJ8jOFNs8bix_5u6cHJou1yzjA6j0/s1426/BP%20Rosie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="1426" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4-y_jQOCDJPTqgL-e1GPvdvUTnYJJv_tnZHnw9Brb7oWkQRh3wMTfvGibh7ZRGCbtHCCOWob5bY2YAfU-WHQP7MPMPS_Ler51VtjNVdG5kPLDzkxUaPC9RwMFM5-Wq67c66GvE8MpPSokxPPcUu92MfJWB6kXpkJ8jOFNs8bix_5u6cHJou1yzjA6j0/s320/BP%20Rosie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">A few days ago, I made one of the most terrifying road trips
of my life. When I was finally home, safe, I reflected on some of the other
harrowing experiences I’ve had behind the wheel in the past quarter-century.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">This, of course, leaves out the countless times I’ve put
myself in peril behind the wheel prior to 1997, particularly when I owned cars
with abundant horsepower, fueled by premium gas, copious amounts of
testosterone, and a lack of good judgment. Those stories are for another time,
if at all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The photo at the top of the post is Rosie, our
family-friendly 1994 Colt Vista. Toni named her Rosie because of the color of
the car and the license plate, MRR-548. Toni always said the letters stood for
“My Rosie Rosebud.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was Christmas, 1997. We lived in Madison and were headed
up to the Fox Cities to spend the first part of the Christmas celebration with
my family, at my brother Mike’s house in the countryside west of Neenah. The
forecast said one to three inches of snow. Rather than take my big, black
Cadillac Eldorado, we elected to take Rosie, which was a far better performer
in the snow with her thinner, high-profile tires and her tiny 4-cylinder
engine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Early in the afternoon we made it to Mike’s house without
incident, braving only light snow and flurries via eminently passable Highway
151 and Highway 41. Knowing I had to drive home, I limited myself to one beer
as we partied and exchanged gifts with my family. By late afternoon, the snow
had picked up considerably, and sister-in-law Beth served dinner early so we
could “beat the worst of it” back to Madison.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was snowing pretty hard when we backed out of Mike’s
driveway and headed south. Highway 41 was snow-covered and slippery, so I took
it easy and drove at a fairly steady 45 MPH. When we got off 41 to take Highway
26, road conditions were sketchy at best. I did about 35 MPH, constantly
steering out of little skids, until we hit Speed Trap Central, also known as
Rosendale. From Rosendale to Highway 151, it was miserable. I kept hoping that
151 would be in better shape than Highway 26.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">But no.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was snow-covered ice with deep ruts which kept tossing
little Rosie from side-to-side, white-knuckle all the way, constant
steering/correcting, all the way from Waupun to Sun Prairie. It was quiet in
the car without much talking. I think Toni and the kids were acutely aware of
how dangerous this trip had become. When we finally got to the I-90/94
interchange on 151, the road got better. The plows must have been working
pretty hard on the interstate to keep it passable.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We finally got on the Beltline, took our exit, drove on
unplowed city streets until I finally pulled into the garage at home. We were
safe. After a few deep breaths, I helped unload Rosie, took a long hot shower,
and hit the hay.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHsQzTRI2O5Mp-F1rdTC_Hts2fftmCu6VVtuVmi37Rya-tXNi4peppmnbw3GPEFpf2WJc8jBzCoupof_O_mEgud9-PvOqIn18wmeICCOAsOTBjy_w8tXUBV5beZ_LGs9HyAdJ-cpudAca1czr8P4QarbN8_46DS2_0xiJpKOe2WvJVqfXLml3pPirdwk/s4032/BP%20Rendezvous.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2691" data-original-width="4032" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHsQzTRI2O5Mp-F1rdTC_Hts2fftmCu6VVtuVmi37Rya-tXNi4peppmnbw3GPEFpf2WJc8jBzCoupof_O_mEgud9-PvOqIn18wmeICCOAsOTBjy_w8tXUBV5beZ_LGs9HyAdJ-cpudAca1czr8P4QarbN8_46DS2_0xiJpKOe2WvJVqfXLml3pPirdwk/s320/BP%20Rendezvous.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Above: My Trusty Rendezvous Road Warrior</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;">The next harrowing journey came again at Christmas time, in
2008. The whole family – wife Toni, son Dru and our newly-acquired
daughter-in-law, Dru’s wife Ashly, daughter Mal, and our young collie, Shadow –
piled into my trusty road warrior Rendezvous and headed to Toni’s sister’s
house in Hammond, IN, a Chicago suburb, to be with them for Christmas. The trip
down was uneventful, the family Christmas was a blast, and just as the party
was breaking up, it started to snow. In Hammond, at the foot of Lake Michigan,
they tend to get tons of lake effect snow when the northerly wind howls across
the lake and picks up tons of moisture. We knew the forecast was for snow, and
before we went to bed that night, we watched the Chicagoland weather.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">They were forecasting about six inches of snow for
Chicagoland, with heavier amounts north and west of the city. I wasn’t worried
about our trip back to Madison in the morning. The trip would be Interstate
highways all the way; and the venerable road warrior Rendezvous was
all-wheel-drive and equipped with four Dunlop SJ-6 winter tires, the ones Tom
Holmes said would be up for whatever Mother Nature could throw at us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">When we got up and let the dog out to do her business, and
had our first cup of coffee, we turned on the TV news. We knew we had about a
half-foot of snow in Hammond, but the TV folks were saying the storm had gotten
very brutal overnight just north and west of Chicago, with plummeting
temperatures, copious snow, and howling wind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Then, they reported that Interstate 90 – our path back to
Madison – was closed from just west of Elgin all the way to Beloit. Plows
couldn’t keep up with the blowing snow. Toni looked at me and said, “Are we
going to be able to get home?” I mustered as much fake confidence as I could
and said, “Sure. We’ll just take the Tri-State to I-94 and then up to
Milwaukee, take the I-894 bypass around the city, and then back onto I-94 to
Madison.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Two sides of a right triangle, but it would get us there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We had breakfast, said our thank-you’s and good-bye’s, and
piled into the road warrior.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UF3Wc4ebj25-wPgmuj8UB53D2ThjB8N8xdPf8IX123UiIv0zKZ69dDQsaXxHZuMgIHkb6xBtdvrV-Dnae2XsWKF7SUth031eWspVN9sEgAaTmOUvIrbHViLDrdUOvXw-p0-_lYvtqYH1G75TaHpWCVT0h58sMB2tVQYSGnrkKRwMu0KXzymSEFjGnDU/s604/BP%20Shadow%20Xmas%2008.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UF3Wc4ebj25-wPgmuj8UB53D2ThjB8N8xdPf8IX123UiIv0zKZ69dDQsaXxHZuMgIHkb6xBtdvrV-Dnae2XsWKF7SUth031eWspVN9sEgAaTmOUvIrbHViLDrdUOvXw-p0-_lYvtqYH1G75TaHpWCVT0h58sMB2tVQYSGnrkKRwMu0KXzymSEFjGnDU/s320/BP%20Shadow%20Xmas%2008.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Shadow, curled up amidst the luggage, in the back end of the Rendezvous</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was the driver; Toni sat next to me; in the back seat were
Dru, Ashly, and Mal; and in the back end with the suitcases and boxes of
presents was our young collie, Shadow, who promptly laid down and went to sleep
before we were out of the city limits.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The city streets in Hammond were crappy. No surprise. We
picked up I-294, the Tri-State Tollway, a few blocks from Toni’s sister’s
house. It’s not in as good a shape as I’d hoped. Plowed, but still some snow on
the road surface and lots of icy stretches. Before we’d gone more than a few
miles, we saw the first wreck. Then another. I’m doing about 40 MPH and keeping
up with traffic. Seeing the wrecks must have tempered the usual speed-demon
Chicagoland drivers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We’re listening to WBBM-AM to get the latest traffic info.
Well, Toni and I are. The kids have headphones clamped on, no doubt listening
to rap or hip-hop or whatever they called it in ’08. And I’m acutely aware that
we’re on another one of these Christmas odysseys, risking life and limb, at the
mercy of some ignorant ass who thinks his Jeep Grand Cherokee can easily handle
70 MPH on icy roads.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I remember worrying about getting rear-ended, the back hatch
springing open from the impact, and Shadow getting out and into traffic. Or
getting into one of those infamous multi-car pileups where the road warrior
Rendezvous becomes a projectile in a demolition derby, with me and my family becoming
innocent victims and on our way to a hospital.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The Tri-State Tollway ends and we’re on I-94 headed to
Milwaukee. Every couple of miles there’s an abandoned car in the ditch. I’m
white-knuckling it again, trying to stay in the right (“slow”) lane, keeping up
with traffic, constantly checking the mirrors, again keenly aware that the
people I love are tacitly counting on me to get us home safely.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We take the I-894 bypass around Milwaukee and the road gets
a lot better. The howling wind out of the west means north-south roads will get
the most drifting, and although we’re driving into a strong headwind, the plows
are able to keep the road in fairly decent shape because of minimal drifting. I
can maintain about 55 MPH safely but am occasionally passed by some guy in a
four-wheel-drive truck who is confident in his immunity to black ice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s early afternoon when we finally pick up the Beltline,
and 10 minutes later we’re home, safe. Another harrowing journey has come to an
end.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBEb-nJ4xdhtopRk99xPFDsw_pqVwHn3IESIpGWEZnyKHrWjUbM4hY1O0WnUTZ424QgtMUa4OkgjqN5Pwxmyhf_5UJ5ZPLTO9ZZrZUXqdvaVmkfvwX6_aGgPRgexkH7dyLVADll2nCYs1ARtaFEfPcZz-xQIvTq3YlLyXv-FdAUjThNblNwQ8CotdoRs/s640/BP%20Hemi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBEb-nJ4xdhtopRk99xPFDsw_pqVwHn3IESIpGWEZnyKHrWjUbM4hY1O0WnUTZ424QgtMUa4OkgjqN5Pwxmyhf_5UJ5ZPLTO9ZZrZUXqdvaVmkfvwX6_aGgPRgexkH7dyLVADll2nCYs1ARtaFEfPcZz-xQIvTq3YlLyXv-FdAUjThNblNwQ8CotdoRs/s320/BP%20Hemi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Brute: Toni's Hemi Magnum</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Fast forward to Thanksgiving, 2016. Our son and his wife
have invited us for Thanksgiving dinner in their newly-acquired home in the Bay
View neighborhood of Milwaukee. They’ve promised to do all the cooking while we
relax. We’ll be there with bells on! Toni and I had been accustomed to hosting
a big family Thanksgiving dinner, but that was before the kids scattered and
began their adult, professional lives.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The invite is for cocktails at 2, dinner around 3 or 4, pie
and coffee to follow. Plenty of time for us to enjoy a leisurely dinner and be
back home in time for the big Packers game that night. They’re retiring Brett
Favre’s jersey number at half-time, and it’s the Bears, to boot. We’ll pull up
anchor around 6 and should be home in time for the kickoff.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We’ll take Toni’s car, a Dodge Magnum with the
340-horsepower 5.7-liter Hemi engine, to give it some road miles. The Hemi, as
we called it, made two six-mile trips every weekday taking Toni to work and
back, so when the opportunity to give it some road miles presented itself, we
took the Hemi and let it stretch its legs a bit. That car could haul ass!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The forecast was for light rain, but nothing to worry about.
We had a lovely mid-afternoon dinner of turkey and all the trimmings and sipped
our coffee and enjoyed delicious pumpkin pie. It was sort of drizzly and grey
when we arrived, but when we headed back, it was dark and raining a little
harder. We drove west on city streets and picked up I-94 at the Holt Avenue
interchange. By the time we got to the infamous Marquette Interchange, it was
pouring buckets – so hard the windshield wipers could barely keep up – and I
had to slow to a very dangerous 20 MPH to try and see the road signs to make
sure I stayed on I-94.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was driving in the dark, in pouring rain, in a car which I
seldom drove. Recipe for trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">By the time we got to the Zoo interchange, I was barely
managing to keep up with traffic at around 35 to 40 MPH. There was no sign of
the storm letting up. Toni pulled up the weather radar on her cell phone and
said it looked bad: we were driving into the worst of it, yet to pass. A few
more scary miles down the road, around Pewaukee, Toni suggested that rather
than try and brave the rest of the journey, maybe we should get off the road
and get a room at a motel around Delafield somewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I thought about our two collies at home, and how they would
react to being cooped up inside the house all that time. They’re good girls,
but they can’t hold their bladders forever. And I thought about how good it
would be to get off the road. And how much I hated driving at night in a
rainstorm. Curled up in a motel room, watching the Pack. Hmmm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As I was considering the option of getting off the
Interstate and letting the storm rage on without trying to navigate through it,
the rain let up. Just a tiny bit. Enough that the windshield wipers were now
actually clearing the rain off the glass. Visibility improved, just marginally,
but manageably. I said, “let’s give it a few more minutes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As tempting as the option of spending a night in a motel
somewhere in lake country was, there was still the strong appeal of making it
home. I asked Toni to check the weather radar again. She said it looked like we
were almost through the yellow zone. The red zone was now east of us, and she
said it looked like the green zone was somewhere around Johnson Creek – and
moving east: toward us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We decided to brave it. Her radar interpretation was
accurate. The rain continually diminished as we motored west, and by the time
we were at Johnson Creek it had diminished to the point that I could actually
set the wipers on intermittent and maintain 60 MPH easily. A half-hour later,
we were home, the dogs had been let out, and we’d only missed the first quarter
of the Packers game.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Eight years hence, I’ve realized that my brain has blotted
out much of the scary early part of the trip when we were in the Milwaukee
metro on I-94. I know there were times when I almost drove off the road because
my night vision sucks, and it’s even worse when it’s raining. But there’s
enough memory left of that night to remind me that I was lucky not to have hurt
us or some unsuspecting motorist that night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Oh, and the Bears beat the Pack in that game.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnr9zuzGM7iSiEHkxLCY70Tg3S3fNzt1PsuZ4hPmjfvAwO1SVMsipM8XXM3M6XljmJaedpjaAKaZYF6xqruVLquaEltAwTxgfPYkzCn8r6tsBYCrRHBU0f8Y6O8C8QVuNRfbD4AEukzAT2CinK7N2dWaUT3ZaIfYb3lvi9hu7ixmb2NoF_L-vbRb30uGs/s1200/BP%20Equinox.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="1200" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnr9zuzGM7iSiEHkxLCY70Tg3S3fNzt1PsuZ4hPmjfvAwO1SVMsipM8XXM3M6XljmJaedpjaAKaZYF6xqruVLquaEltAwTxgfPYkzCn8r6tsBYCrRHBU0f8Y6O8C8QVuNRfbD4AEukzAT2CinK7N2dWaUT3ZaIfYb3lvi9hu7ixmb2NoF_L-vbRb30uGs/s320/BP%20Equinox.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our new family truckster: Chevy Equinox</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The most recent trip through hazardous weather came a few
days ago, taking Toni to catch a flight at Westchester County Airport in our new Chevy Equinox. Tiny 4-cylinder engine, but All Wheel Drive, all-season tires with only a couple thousand miles on them, and lots of creature comforts. The trip
for her to visit our son and his family in Milwaukee was planned for months and
was one she eagerly anticipated. (For those who don’t know, my traveling days
are over; my mobility issues make airline travel all but impossible.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We knew several days in advance that there was a good
likelihood of heavy rain around the time we’d be traveling but were hoping
there’d be enough leeway in the forecast that maybe we could get the trip in
before the worst of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">A veteran traveler, Toni likes to fly early in the morning, when
flight delays are least likely. She wanted to be at the airport around 4:15 AM,
which meant we planned to leave our apartment around 3:15 AM. When we went to
bed, the forecast was grim. A giant rainstorm was in Pennsylvania, bearing down
on the New York City metro, and they said it would hit around 3 or 4 AM. Great.
The worst possible timing for us. Toni asked me how I felt about the impending
trip, and I said, “terrified.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">When the alarm went off at 2 AM, the first thing we did was
check the weather radar. It was still west of us, but we had some time. Not
much, but some. Around 2:45 AM, Toni checked the radar again and said, “I think
we should go as soon as we can.” I agreed and went back to watching the
overnight news on TV in the living room. Just before 3 AM, Toni came down the
hallway and said, “All I have to do is brush my teeth and then we’re outta
here.” OK with me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As we left our apartment, we looked out the window. It
wasn’t raining. But we knew it was imminent. When we got off the elevator in
the lobby of our building – it had just started to rain. Missed it by that
much! I said, “let me go first and bring the car around front so you don’t have
to go through the parking lot.” I don’t mind getting a little wet. So what.
I’ll dry off.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">In the few minutes it took for me to load my rollator into
the back end of our SUV and drive to the front entrance of our building, the
rain had picked up quite a bit. Toni came out, pulling her suitcase, tossed it
into the back seat, and by the time she actually got into the car, she was
drenched! “My hair!” she said, looking at in in the mirror under the
passenger’s side visor. “It’s flat as a pancake now!” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Without a free hand to hold an umbrella, she was at the
mercy of the elements – for about 20 feet. But that’s all it took. “Maybe we
can still beat the worst of it,” she said, as we headed out of our neighborhood
on the Black Rock Turnpike. The Westchester County Airport is about 37 miles
from us, via the historic Merritt Parkway. For reasons perhaps best understood
only by those whose families have lived in Connecticut for generations, the
Merritt Parkway is a four-lane thoroughfare through the countryside, which has,
over the years, become a heavily-travelled road. But it’s not lit at night,
like Interstate 95, a few miles south of the Merritt. It’s dark, it’s blacktop,
it’s winding and hilly, and when it’s raining, because of the dips in the road,
you encounter standing water frequently.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">But it sure has that rustic charm that Connecticuters
apparently want.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We wound through Fairfield on the way to the Merritt Parkway.
It was constant, moderate rain. I had the wipers on the second-highest setting
and was seeing the road OK. I was starting to hope that we’d be able to make
the entire trip with this moderate rainfall. We got off the Black Rock Turnpike
and onto the Merritt Parkway. There was absolutely no traffic. I was able to
maintain about 50 MPH but was concerned about hydroplaning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Suddenly, the moderate rain became a deluge. Just east of
Westport we’d run into the brunt of the storm. Lightning flashed, the wind
battered our SUV, I had the windshield wipers on the highest setting, and was barely
able to see the road. I’d slowed to about 20 MPH and was wondering if we’d make
it to the airport on time. Toni had the weather radar up on her cell phone and
said, “Looks like it’s going to be pretty bad until we get past Stamford.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Conjuring up a mental road map, I realized it meant we had
to get past Norwalk, then New Canaan before we hit Stamford. Just then, the
rain let up a tiny bit. I felt I could manage about 35 MPH. I knew Toni was
glancing at the big digital speedometer in the middle of the dash. I told her I
was afraid to go any faster because of the danger of hydroplaning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Some moron in a big Chevy Silverado pickup suddenly came up
behind us and passed us in the left lane. He had to be doing the full 55 MPH
speed limit. It was the first time we’d encountered any traffic since getting
on the Merritt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We got past Norwalk, where we’d lived in a hotel for a week
or so, waiting for the moving van to bring our stuff when we first moved to
Connecticut. It was at the height of the plague in April of 2020. People were wearing
masks and gloves and avoiding each other. We had to prove we were travelers to
even be allowed to stay at the hotel. Our Wisconsin driver licenses were deemed
adequate evidence.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Then, just west of Norwalk, around one of the many blind
curves on the Merritt, we saw half a dozen or so flares on the highway and the
flashing lights of emergency vehicles. Toni was afraid the road was going to be
closed and she’d miss her flight. But as we got closer, we saw that the right
lane was blocked but the left lane was open. Sure enough, it was a one-car
wreck. There was a cop car and a flatbed wrecker blocking the right lane, and
smashed up against a guidepost on the shoulder of the road was a white sedan. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hydroplaning, I’ll bet,” I said, as we crawled by the
wreck. We resumed our 35 MPH pace in the rain. Past the exits for Stamford,
suddenly the rain let up considerably. Toni pulled up the weather radar again
and said we’d be in the green zone the rest of the way. I pushed it up to 45
MPH, and before long, we were at the New York state line and the exit for the
Westchester County Airport.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As I pulled up in front of the terminal, a few minutes
behind schedule at around 4:30 AM, Toni reached over and touched my hand and
said, “Thanks. I know you’re terrified. But thanks for doing this.” We talked
about a few things, knowing that soon the cop in the car across from us was
going to tell us to move along. Security theater. We kissed goodbye, Toni
grabbed her suitcase from the back seat, and as she entered the terminal, I
made my way out of the airport and back on the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I hoped that the rain, which was more of a drizzle now,
would stay at that level all the way back to Bridgeport. Toni had encouraged me
to “turn and burn,” because another huge wave of the storm was approaching from
the west. I was able to maintain 55 MPH on the Merritt on the way home, until
just west of Fairfield. I caught up with the storm, which was moving east.
Damn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I got behind an old white pickup truck which was doing about
30 MPH. Cars were passing us in the left lane. Fine. I’m not blocking traffic.
I’m operating at “a reasonable and prudent speed.” I allowed plenty of space between
me and the old white truck and just followed him to Exit 44. I got back onto
the Black Rock Turnpike, and suddenly the rain let up again. The storm had
moved past me, to the east.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">By the time I was back home, the rain was down to a few
sprinkles here and there. I parked the car, took the elevator up to our floor,
got into our apartment and collapsed into my big recliner. Thank God, the
nightmare is over. Toni got to the airport in time, and I made it home safely.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m 74 now. My night vision is crap. My reflexes aren’t what
they used to be. I’m OK to drive, I think, in daylight and on dry pavement. At
night, only for short trips on roads I’m thoroughly familiar with. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">For now, anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m not sure if I’m up to another adventure like these. I
hope I’ll never have to find out.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-42836784492857254572023-07-17T09:46:00.003-05:002023-07-21T14:25:22.752-05:00Great People Made Great Ratings<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglycdLbxnSWn_Jt_QN5muuUtIN7yQ1CQRE7lRZMOaXZs1k9jC467vUh9LMGPIsTWOl-u3QMQw1UVhi4CiWia84Gj7j6fa-vxG9ih5eIo9hMGhYq13rVxGIPE3WO8KGzUqJEW1Wdvakub7vX5wwV1lnkGMEKgVcfF04WjdeJh2hvc91pbMxLUlh4VGqMC0/s2007/BP%20WOSH.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1391" data-original-width="2007" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglycdLbxnSWn_Jt_QN5muuUtIN7yQ1CQRE7lRZMOaXZs1k9jC467vUh9LMGPIsTWOl-u3QMQw1UVhi4CiWia84Gj7j6fa-vxG9ih5eIo9hMGhYq13rVxGIPE3WO8KGzUqJEW1Wdvakub7vX5wwV1lnkGMEKgVcfF04WjdeJh2hvc91pbMxLUlh4VGqMC0/s320/BP%20WOSH.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The photo atop this post is what’s left of a building which once
housed a powerful and successful pair of radio stations in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. From
1977 to 1984 I worked there, both as Operations Manager and morning news
anchor. I was also a partner/shareholder in the corporation which owned the
stations. My friend Jim Backus, who was one of my colleagues there, posted the
photo. Jim is a historian of all things Oshkosh, and he’s keeping tabs on the
demise of the building where we once worked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My office there was on the first floor, in the front right
corner of the building. I see it’s now overgrown with brush and weeds. There’s
an analogy there somewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The stations have long since changed names and owners and
have moved to a different part of town. But during the time I worked there, that
building was home to some of the most talented people who ever graced the airwaves
of the Fox River Valley. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jim’s photo of the unkempt remains of the building brought
to mind a lesson I learned a long time ago: in the broadcasting business, it’s
not the building or transmitter or equipment that brings success. It’s the
people. To say that our AM station (WYTL-AM, later WOSH-AM) and our FM station
(WOSH-FM, later WMGV-FM) were successful is a huge understatement, at least
from a ratings standpoint.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The AM station was a weak thousand-watt signal on the high
end (1490) of the AM dial and the FM was an average 3,000-watt signal (at 103.9
FM) that generated just enough power to cover the Fox Valley market, from
Appleton on the north to Fond du Lac on the south – the state’s second-largest
media market. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzxkAFTQt2DR1lEviT8rl1tHcHxXi2mdizHecgJoOci3UGTL308mga0FCum53pvG3R6-w3EJ7IHjoOHi1URSWHmkGlHMQdFVoX4FsD2K-ED23AfQlCRyQuMRrdGssCrssjHlZLM6ZRuRvc95HQUV9uKkp6OM31ZhmFR_HfSzZ3_k2r4G8T7fbphIDb2Tk/s2977/RTV%201984%20Birch%2059%20Share.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2977" data-original-width="2552" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzxkAFTQt2DR1lEviT8rl1tHcHxXi2mdizHecgJoOci3UGTL308mga0FCum53pvG3R6-w3EJ7IHjoOHi1URSWHmkGlHMQdFVoX4FsD2K-ED23AfQlCRyQuMRrdGssCrssjHlZLM6ZRuRvc95HQUV9uKkp6OM31ZhmFR_HfSzZ3_k2r4G8T7fbphIDb2Tk/s320/RTV%201984%20Birch%2059%20Share.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I saved many radio ratings reports from those days, but one
in particular demonstrates that success. The one above, from 1984, shows just
how dominant those two stations were. It shows that at any given time, 32.6% of
adults 18 years or older were listening to our FM station, WMGV-FM, and 26.5%
were listening to our AM station, WOSH-AM. That means that at any given time,
nearly 60% of adults listening to radio were listening to one of our two
stations.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">That kind of ratings dominance just doesn’t exist any more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It wasn’t a pair of powerful 50-thousand-watt signals that
supported those ratings. It was the people who created the programming carried
on those two average-powered radio stations. It was a fun crew of young, talented
broadcasters who loved what they did. We worked hard, we played hard. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m happy to say that via social media, I’ve stayed in touch
with a lot of the people I worked with back then. A few stayed in broadcasting;
others had successful post-broadcasting careers as managers, entrepreneurs,
sales executives, and other professional occupations. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve listed all 32 of them below, from my Facebook Friends
list – in no particular order except the way Facebook displays my friends list.
If I’ve missed someone, my apologies. Every one of you had a hand in creating
the most successful AM-FM combination the market ever knew. I’m privileged to
have worked with you and honored to remain friends!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Jim Backus, Sheree Olson Rogers (Sommers), Lori Schmitz
Goldapske, Rick McCoy Trautschold, Robert Snyder, David (Campbell) Kappeler,
Tim Probst, Mark Lewis Salzwedel, Mark Ostendorf, Bill Kiefer, Steve (LeRoy
Stevens) Buss, Judy Steffes Reising, Don Berrens, Gretchen Grandl Brown, John
(Carlson) Volkman, Bill Vancil, Dick Record, Gayle Olson, Bill Hammer, Jerry
Bader, Brad (Stevens) Fuhr, Jim Oskola, Pat Moody, Steven Ward Erbach, the late
Bill (Bulldog) Denkert, the late Charlie (Hart) Hartwig, Dave Murphy, Melanie
Scott Pape, Joe Nadeau, Chuck Mefford, Becky (Brenner) Brose, and Paula Gilbeck
Westphal.</i></span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-69601934006057992492023-06-08T09:51:00.000-05:002023-06-08T09:51:25.261-05:00Those Were The Days<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1FbVtI-6z2JFjLyjJU__jRPl1cFz5j-Zd38iPypWXM9otH_cgZL7MIFWuQvaLdaLb7o5UPfSMOb0yiXLsfuDbxjYCzvPVFJTp7cMZxevXKWjqHoZz6UQUqJkAVUEihaClPtM91xYAZbtvZijZZ6ZzIJ7glEw8LS2DjBJAeYKrrGaqtr-XOQVcE4gE/s496/J%20J%20Lopez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="496" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1FbVtI-6z2JFjLyjJU__jRPl1cFz5j-Zd38iPypWXM9otH_cgZL7MIFWuQvaLdaLb7o5UPfSMOb0yiXLsfuDbxjYCzvPVFJTp7cMZxevXKWjqHoZz6UQUqJkAVUEihaClPtM91xYAZbtvZijZZ6ZzIJ7glEw8LS2DjBJAeYKrrGaqtr-XOQVcE4gE/s320/J%20J%20Lopez.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My friend Juan Jose Lopez passed away earlier this week. 64
years young. My friend and former on-air colleague Sly was the first to tell me,
via a text, in Sly’s inimitable way: “I think The Lord is about to call our
friend Juan home.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">When you’re the news anchor on Sly’s broadcast – which I was
for more than a decade – you’re bound to be dragged into some uncomfortable
conversations with Sly’s guests (read: targets). I had more than a few
uncomfortable conversations on-air with Juan, during Juan’s years as a member
of the Madison school board.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I recall one particularly heated on-air conversation where I
said, “Juan, you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” We were
talking about Madison Memorial High School (Sly’s alma mater) football coach
Wally Schoessow. Juan laughed at my barb, and the conversation moved on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still have a recording of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">That was a couple of decades ago, and when I got the news
that Juan had died, I recalled that conversation and some of the many others I’d
had with Juan over the years, regarding the school board, Briarpatch, or any of
the many other Latino causes that Juan championed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Back then – which now seems like centuries ago – you could
have a difference of opinion with someone, have a lively, pointed discussion
without devolving into name-calling, and afterward, continue a cordial
relationship with that person.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Not any more, it seems. No middle ground. No gray areas.
Personal insults. Hateful social media posts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Our paths crossed many times during my Madison years, and I
ran into Juan at scores of public events. Every time we met, we’d shake hands
firmly, inquire about each other’s well-being, talk about whatever high-profile
cause Juan was involved with at the time, and even do some good-natured
ribbing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Juan would sometimes chide me with a comeback like, “And you
say I’m the one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about?! Ha!” We’d laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The last time I saw Juan was a few years ago, not too long
before my wife and I moved to coastal Connecticut. Toni and I were having
dinner at a Mexican restaurant on Park Street. As we were leaving, Juan was coming
in. After the initial hello’s, Juan said, “It’s nice to see that you’re
supporting one of our Latino businesses with some of those gringo dollars in
your wallet. I hope you left a good tip!” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Rest in peace, Juan Jose Lopez. I hope they name a school
and a bunch of other stuff in Madison after you. You sure earned that kind of
recognition with your tireless advocacy.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-42303262758473571682022-05-06T09:07:00.001-05:002022-05-07T08:57:23.757-05:00...and THAT's How You Do A Wedding!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgTaLREadsvqDzon1UpR3OLlHokSmwtUm6zvVfKNRkdrWUx564l7qO1e51mlH0QRXW2nMSBqWRiL68XmNOZhNXromFXowYR6OSpMctF4vbYCTJ23oQ7gWL6Gxl4ffsppxK5aFLvwvOkCx7F0mgNGTCa_adMgqOoe066nnHft4kxAp3WICwwdwDKSJ/s790/GLW%20Greg%20lifts%20Lisa.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="773" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgTaLREadsvqDzon1UpR3OLlHokSmwtUm6zvVfKNRkdrWUx564l7qO1e51mlH0QRXW2nMSBqWRiL68XmNOZhNXromFXowYR6OSpMctF4vbYCTJ23oQ7gWL6Gxl4ffsppxK5aFLvwvOkCx7F0mgNGTCa_adMgqOoe066nnHft4kxAp3WICwwdwDKSJ/s320/GLW%20Greg%20lifts%20Lisa.jpg" width="313" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">From the moment we walked into the chapel for the ceremony
until we said our thank-you’s and good-byes late that night, every aspect of
the wedding exuded class. The experience was unforgettable.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Our son-in-law’s sister got married last weekend, and my
wife and I were fortunate enough to have been invited. Bride and Groom Lisa and
Greg have come to be our friends over the past couple of years. We are blessed
that our son-in-law’s big Italian family has included my wife and me in so many
get-togethers. They have truly made us feel home in our new surroundings in
coastal Connecticut.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The ceremony was held at the O’Byrne Chapel at
Manhattanville College, just across the New York state line from us. The bride’s
mother and father were married in this beautiful chapel not quite 49 years ago.
My wife and I were among the first to enter the chapel, early enough to hear
the musicians running through some of the music they’d be performing during the
ceremony.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My first career was in music performance. For that reason, I
observe a lot of things that other people may not pay attention to. One of the
first things I noticed was that the trumpeter was playing a Schilke S-22 horn.
An instrument like that will set you back around 8 grand, and it’s for serious
players only. As the ensemble was rehearsing “Jesu, Joy”, I turned to my wife
and said, “the trumpeter’s low B-flat is a bit sharp.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She smiles and nods, having put up with this kind of stuff
from me for decades. Then, I noticed that as soon as they finished rehearsing
that piece, the trumpeter – Ken Tedeschi, a fabulous player and, as I later
learned, principal trumpet with the New Haven Symphony – pulled his tuning
slide out about a quarter-inch. “He caught it,” I said to my wife. “He’s a real
pro,” I added.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Before long, it was time for the main event. Our daughter
was one of the bridesmaids and our son-in-law and his brother were the
groomsmen. Our darling grandchildren were also members of the wedding party:
little Lola was the flower girl, and her brother Joey was the ring bearer. They
performed flawlessly!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiFEwQw5Ie8dLv4tfi98zj8u38AKYmrM7XmyLsKfcc5DXBvJRYudUdeCRwYqDRffUlaiVcgWTj0ImAc_i7vEbB1DTIjklN4v-IKxV6jHrk0pRufm6OPwQPdB04pqwK7Bw3W912pmu-VDeueYr2YV_CuunYRK9SEcEQMoN10thGN_jqsay_LBlk__h/s751/GLW%20Chris%20with%20Joey%20and%20Lola.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="694" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiFEwQw5Ie8dLv4tfi98zj8u38AKYmrM7XmyLsKfcc5DXBvJRYudUdeCRwYqDRffUlaiVcgWTj0ImAc_i7vEbB1DTIjklN4v-IKxV6jHrk0pRufm6OPwQPdB04pqwK7Bw3W912pmu-VDeueYr2YV_CuunYRK9SEcEQMoN10thGN_jqsay_LBlk__h/s320/GLW%20Chris%20with%20Joey%20and%20Lola.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Here they are with the mother of the bride (aka grandma, or
“mamma” to them) in this photo taken by their great-aunt Annemarie. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The ceremony was moving and inspirational; the music was fantastic;
the bride and groom were glowing; it was a feast for the eyes and ears, classy,
emotional, charming, delightful. Lisa and Gregory’s smiles lit up the chapel as
they walked out, now husband and wife.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I must take another personal moment here. For the past
couple years, neuropathy has increasingly robbed my sense of balance. I can’t
stand without holding onto something. It can be terrifying. I walk easily with
the aid of a rollator, but often the rollator impedes rather than assists my
mobility. Going out of the chapel, there are three steps – but no railing for
me to hang onto to make the descent. As I approached the exit, two of the bride’s
cousins, Frank and Paul (Frankie and Paulie to family members) immediately approached
me and asked if they could assist me down the stairs. These two “big, strapping
young lads,” as my Irish grandpa would say, who were both ushers at the
ceremony, came to my aid and helped me navigate the stairs. They are both wonderful
young men, a credit to their parents and the extended family.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The reception was held a few miles away at the beautiful and
historical Westchester Country Club. We began with cocktails and appetizers on
the terrace, overlooking the championship golf course. It was a gorgeous day,
sunny and warm, and soon the terrace was filled with the sounds of laughter and
conversation. Everyone was having a wonderful time!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWCXn0CMrm1me3SJs3VyiUAiT-140xbibZG8cx-1OpU2Fn-wn11RxNOWZJ_nWmtUwYX4bSpPclsBBkASCneaLvj4gABEWjgaBZOZmQF93pe62Yz6o4aoQEaO06ijwjOCmbJzoAj3RmiEwkANAz-sSz5hR1eplbyiaPQoGIZ6ss4WhBGQgQkdDaZZt/s886/GLW%20Dom%20and%20Lisa%20with%20Rolls.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWCXn0CMrm1me3SJs3VyiUAiT-140xbibZG8cx-1OpU2Fn-wn11RxNOWZJ_nWmtUwYX4bSpPclsBBkASCneaLvj4gABEWjgaBZOZmQF93pe62Yz6o4aoQEaO06ijwjOCmbJzoAj3RmiEwkANAz-sSz5hR1eplbyiaPQoGIZ6ss4WhBGQgQkdDaZZt/s320/GLW%20Dom%20and%20Lisa%20with%20Rolls.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, the bridal party was finishing up the wedding
photos. Here’s the beautiful bride and her father, with a vintage Rolls-Royce
limousine, at the front portico of the Westchester Country Club. Talk about
classy and elegant!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Soon it was time for dinner and dancing. We were led into
the spacious ballroom, which looked like something out of a Hollywood movie.
Fantastic floral arrangements adorning every table; tasteful decorative touches
everywhere; a sensory overload of beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And the music? Out of this world! The 11-piece band played a
variety of genres, tempos, textures, and styles. And they were really good. The
father of the bride, knowing that I’d have a keen ear for the music, came up to
me and asked what I thought of the band. “Fabulous!” was one of the superlatives
I used, along with others like “exceptional’ and “remarkable.” “How about those
horns,” he said, enthusiastically. “You gotta have horns,” he added, smiling
broadly. I told him he’d hit it out of the park with the ensemble at the chapel
and the band at the reception.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And, of course, this was no chicken-and-mashed potatoes kind
of meal. The first course, served hot and efficiently by the uniformed staff,
was lobster with parsnip puree and fresh salad. The second course was filet
mignon and shrimp fricassee. The presentation was five-star, and everything was
delicious! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLt3_cPfw8ziR9hpqf28wvq7QDHSEETV5oig45iGWi3OhBxswfF_huoUD6AItaYjtkuLRFb2q2U6YQKORwTn9L0N3tfEjJJZR3hU3Q1K459ftWm4o36RT-HAqB6tSykoHbQ516v6pKUn5Sz1b3OmPH7HFoZh4HN0muQYYZ03tNihHy8k6rum-gNn9c/s4032/GLW%20Tim%20and%20Toni%20at%20reception.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLt3_cPfw8ziR9hpqf28wvq7QDHSEETV5oig45iGWi3OhBxswfF_huoUD6AItaYjtkuLRFb2q2U6YQKORwTn9L0N3tfEjJJZR3hU3Q1K459ftWm4o36RT-HAqB6tSykoHbQ516v6pKUn5Sz1b3OmPH7HFoZh4HN0muQYYZ03tNihHy8k6rum-gNn9c/s320/GLW%20Tim%20and%20Toni%20at%20reception.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">We were having a wonderful time. There was much merriment
and frolicking, particularly by the folks on the dance floor. Granddaughter
Lola danced song after song, a bundle of energy and enthusiasm! The bride and
groom stopped by, on their tour of the assemblage. I told Lisa how beautiful
and poised she was and thanked her for inviting us. Gregory, the groom, leaned
down to my ear-level and said, “I swear I’m going to get your ass out on that
dance floor” – an inside joke between the two of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What a fantastic day, memorable from start to finish. And
even as our daughter walked us out of the ballroom to the valet parking stand,
we passed by a huge display of fantastic cookies, each individually wrapped and
labelled “From Our Favorite New York City Bakery, Lisa and Gregory.” Had to be
Levain Bakery on the upper east side of Manhattan, purveyors of outstanding
baked goods. We each took one. (Well, OK, at our daughter’s insistence, I took
hers, too.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Congratulations to the bride and groom, and to their parents
for the wonderful, unforgettable event they staged. We had a ball!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Classy.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-12513142079135526722022-03-11T07:59:00.005-06:002022-03-11T18:33:13.811-06:00Panning For Gold<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSOu4ykV4V2sFfPfZb6CoeWlNeAWu7vBMCP9IHDFT9D4g4k7KRXD1mrZnsAdySR6mUDRTqC0dGQ6MisPReF9S8IgjDVq0V8wnJTVavZ2gOU6Zo6Dj0t19Dh33rUs8ynpRABKT1KL4vkyrrUGXar_5MBJc5ReehaOXL0-QqP8vQa1rHXp51koSiNahd=s1320" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="1320" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSOu4ykV4V2sFfPfZb6CoeWlNeAWu7vBMCP9IHDFT9D4g4k7KRXD1mrZnsAdySR6mUDRTqC0dGQ6MisPReF9S8IgjDVq0V8wnJTVavZ2gOU6Zo6Dj0t19Dh33rUs8ynpRABKT1KL4vkyrrUGXar_5MBJc5ReehaOXL0-QqP8vQa1rHXp51koSiNahd=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Social media has become, in many ways, a sewer of hatred,
jealousy, bullying, misinformation, and disinformation. Everyone who used to be
an “expert” on contagious diseases and vaccines is now an “expert” on
international relations and military strategy.</span><o:p></o:p></p></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">But social media doesn’t have to be such a cesspool if you
can train yourself to ignore the negativity and baiting and political crap.
Case on point: the photo above. That’s me, and my neighbor Kay, feeding and
petting the tame deer that everybody called “Lucy.” Lucy lived in the woods at
the end of our back yards. Kay’s dad took the photo. I think it was 1953, which
would make me (and Kay) 4 years old.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve often said I grew up in a Tom Sawyer-like environment,
in a small Wisconsin village, with pine forests, a lake, streams, sledding
hills, sandlot baseball diamonds, and lots of wonderful playmates like Kay. In
our neighborhood, it was pretty much a group of four kids who hung out together
when I was a preschooler. Kay was the only girl. Rick and Robbie were the two
other guys, neighbors on the other side of Kay’s house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">When we started elementary school, Kay and I went to
different schools. As a Catholic, I went to what the non-Catholics called
“sister school,” because our teachers were nuns. But Kay and I still played together
after school and all summer. Before long, my sister Lynn, four years my junior,
joined the group. Kay and I took piano lessons from our neighbor a few houses
down the street, Mrs. Kuhn. We even played a duet together at Mrs. Kuhn’s
recital for her piano students.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Kay’s dad was a Renaissance man, skilled in a wide variety
of disciplines, including music. Her dad had played sax with some of the most
famous bands in the region, and when we were in high school, her dad put together
a small neighborhood combo that rehearsed and performed in their big living
room. At that point, my family had moved to a bigger house on the other end of
town, but Kay and I were still friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGcgKUeYMju0adGgfJd95WNujmYS5o8v_vJQ9skXrYhw6XiQIvXLIbN1jQixYeaObfOFjgmI1JD5HCtQ9tYSCb5807pGWoZIWjNq6lKQLMBpTiIOCsYNwKOWzi9qNMNprx8cM4pJ22YAPd0aqrin6JoMV5rhchB4OP51GyqWCANpR1bLt9oEBIm-rc=s1057" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="1057" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGcgKUeYMju0adGgfJd95WNujmYS5o8v_vJQ9skXrYhw6XiQIvXLIbN1jQixYeaObfOFjgmI1JD5HCtQ9tYSCb5807pGWoZIWjNq6lKQLMBpTiIOCsYNwKOWzi9qNMNprx8cM4pJ22YAPd0aqrin6JoMV5rhchB4OP51GyqWCANpR1bLt9oEBIm-rc=w400-h246" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Here’s our high school band, marching down Main Street in
the 1965 Homecoming parade. I’m the guy with the big gold Sousaphone toward the
center of the photo, and Kay is somewhere in the ranks, in the flute section.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">By this time, although Kay and I were in high school band
together, we travelled in different circles of friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went to the same college for our undergrad
work, but I can recall only one time that our paths crossed on campus. By the
time I was in my third year of undergrad, I’d completely lost track of Kay. Our
lives were headed in different directions. I hadn’t seen or communicated with
her in five decades. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Enter Facebook.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">While surfing through the posts one day, I stopped to read a
new post in the “You’re Probably From…” Facebook page dedicated to the history
of my small hometown. While reading the comments, I noticed one that made me
wonder: was this my childhood friend and playmate, with whom I hadn’t had
contact in 50 years? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Different surname, but a few clicks later I knew it was the
married name of my long-lost friend. Soon we became Facebook friends and
exchanged a series of emails, catching up on five decades. Kay was a retired
teacher, widowed (at far too young an age), now living in the Pacific Northwest
near her son. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We marveled about how two
kids from a small village in Wisconsin wound up on opposite ends of the nation,
to be close to family and grandkids in our golden years. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Social media is a powerful force, with the potential to
create either division or unity. To me, social media is often like panning for
gold. A lot of the stuff is meaningless or worse. But there are flashes of gold
– like reconnecting with a childhood playmate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-77481925520991290812022-02-27T10:32:00.004-06:002022-02-28T08:26:24.287-06:00Mila<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqlaIY8645th0KMxyUaKjXXRXeze7kEm1-kj-svjrtzYSaOlRQCRrkv9gXFU0yRW06Ji0jlbbGq_DIEX5IhAo6KRx5TL8nKHiFHaNytg0KvBvhaOsvzJ4vHvRiQEMmCL1WwEicSyyVop-wm2Haamh5ZxZY7h0lCaXestpxgG4hZMJznUtHNi5GlGVu=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1080" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqlaIY8645th0KMxyUaKjXXRXeze7kEm1-kj-svjrtzYSaOlRQCRrkv9gXFU0yRW06Ji0jlbbGq_DIEX5IhAo6KRx5TL8nKHiFHaNytg0KvBvhaOsvzJ4vHvRiQEMmCL1WwEicSyyVop-wm2Haamh5ZxZY7h0lCaXestpxgG4hZMJznUtHNi5GlGVu=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">There was excitement in the air as neighbors greeted each
other in the hallways or lobby of our apartment building. “Did you see the
little dog?” “Someone has a dog!” “Have you seen the dog – it’s so cute!” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The second part of the conversation was usually something
like, “I thought they didn’t allow dogs here.” More on that, in a moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">When my wife Toni and I moved to coastal
Connecticut two years ago to spend our golden years close to our daughter and two of our
darling grandchildren, the apartment lease made it clear: dogs were strictly
verboten. One cat, no dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The timing of our post-retirement move was dependent on the
lifespan of our two loyal and loving collies, who lived with us in Madison and
patrolled our expansive back yard every day of their lives with us. We weren’t
going to move until both dogs had “crossed the rainbow bridge,” as so many
dog-lovers say. We figured that would be mid-2022.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Fate had other plans.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Our beloved Shadow passed away of a massive stroke in
January of 2019, just before my wife retired. Shadow lived a full and happy 13 years
and three months, which is just above average for a collie. Since Shadow and
her “sister,” Sunny, had similar bloodlines, we figured Sunny would also live a
bit more than 13 years – mid-2022, we estimated. Then, we’d sell the house and
move to Connecticut, probably in the summer of 2023.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">But, less than a month after Shadow passed, Sunny was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of cancer, and she passed in early February 2019. We were devastated. And suddenly, our timetable changed.</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiInLtIGJ9d3w29GOAlFbtP4aBodpj6cb_yU4jhvxhmUmO75uFAW56tSJYmXSGHi_S3D5fsNBzd0IMsiUurMh6qaqE9IZ2S2rBPB2FgQfWucSDU2kTd81BbjYL47ZkFK2xGyGenbPv_7wkoPnlCPurWnNuph_LEdXbggvB7aQrqEpRg8pqp5z4Pk5cG=s682" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="682" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiInLtIGJ9d3w29GOAlFbtP4aBodpj6cb_yU4jhvxhmUmO75uFAW56tSJYmXSGHi_S3D5fsNBzd0IMsiUurMh6qaqE9IZ2S2rBPB2FgQfWucSDU2kTd81BbjYL47ZkFK2xGyGenbPv_7wkoPnlCPurWnNuph_LEdXbggvB7aQrqEpRg8pqp5z4Pk5cG=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Here's one of my favorite photos of our wonderful collies, taken a few years ago. Sunny, on the left, is a purebred Blue Merle Collie, and Shadow, on the right, is a purebred Sable Collie - a Lassie look-alike.</i></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">So, here we are, in a very nice apartment, happily retired. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No lawn-mowing, no snow-shoveling, no
landscaping maintenance. Plumbing on the fritz? Send a note to Michael, the
building super, and it’s fixed the same day. Free to enjoy all our favorite
pastimes, free of chores that became tedious as we got older.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">But the lifestyle we chose would also be free of dogs – a
major trade-off for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Dog-less, until the late fall day that I looked out my
office window and saw the most darling little dog, on a leash held by a young woman.
The dog was carefully examining with her nose the shrubbery that adorns the
north lawn of our building. After she’d completed her nasal inquiries, her
“mom” led her – to my amazement – up the sidewalk and into the lobby!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Could the dog be a visitor? Certainly not a resident, given
the proscription against canines in the lease. I mentioned the dog sighting to
my wife, knowing she’d be curious, too. Over the next couple days, I saw the cute
little dog several more times. My wife and I would immediately report sightings
to each other, if we happened to be in a different room in our apartment when
the dog was sighted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">There are about 60 residents in our building, and I’d
estimate that more than half are retired. The younger people are professionals,
working from home. They must have good jobs, because this place isn't exactly "affordable housing." So, the hallways and common areas tend to be quiet. It was
just a couple days after I first spotted the little dog that when I encountered
fellow residents, after the standard greetings, we’d mention the little dog.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I guess it’s a commentary on the status of being retired, that conversations with residents of a similar age tend to center on the
weather and similar mundane things. The people who live here respect each
other’s privacy, one of the many things we like about living here. So,
something as novel as a cute little dog apparently living in our building
rapidly supplants the weather as the prime conversation topic. A lot of our new neighbors are also former dog owners.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">One morning, while down in the lobby to retrieve our mail, I
encountered a woman who said she’d actually petted the little dog. This is
headline news! I took the elevator back to our apartment and immediately
reported this scoop to my wife. “She PETTED the dog?” my wife said, plaintively.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The mystery of the little dog would be solved the very next
morning. Five or six mornings every week, my wife spends an hour in the
apartment building’s gym, walking, exercising, working out. That particular
morning, on her way down the hallway to the elevator, my wife encountered our
friend, Jeri, who had befriended us immediately when we moved in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jeri is of a similar age, retired, but she puts in a
half-day of work every weekday, keeping the common areas of the building
vacuumed, polished, and sparkling clean. For this, she gets a big break on her
monthly rent. Since Jeri’s routine takes her to every part of the building, she
knows all the residents and just about everything that’s going on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">She explained to my wife that the little dog – Mila is her
name – belongs to a young couple who just moved in. They both work from home.
Mila is a therapy animal. Jeri explained that the young couple had to jump
through a bunch of hoops with the New York City company that owns our building,
filing paperwork from their doctor and therapist, attesting that Mila was more
than just a pet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mila's "mom" explained that Mila is an Australian Shepherd. Mila looks just like the dog pictured at the top of this post.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My wife got to meet Mila a few days later, in the lobby of
the building. Toni was returning home after running some errands, and she was
coming into the building as Mila and her “mom” were heading out. Toni told me
about meeting Mila, petting her, and talking with one of Mila’s owners.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My chance to meet Mila came a few days later. We’d just
returned from grocery shopping and were dragging the groceries into the building
when Mila and her “mom” came out of the building. Mila was very excited and
happy to interact with us. She sniffed my hand, putting my scent into her
memory banks, and then soaked in some serious pets from me. Her coat was, as
advertised, soft and fluffy. She's a happy, peppy little dog.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">A few days later, we discovered that Mila and her people
live on the same floor, at the other end of our wing of the building. It may
seem silly to people who have never had a dog as a pet, but we are happier now
that we know there’s a dog living just down the hallway from us.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-73597544208801690482022-01-22T09:53:00.000-06:002022-01-22T09:53:08.397-06:00Take A Listen: Breaking Overnight – Your Family Is Not Safe<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWGtV6X5zeGNDahUZ1xOKBr81SXrAmjAJg0DBXoWqYCjJXTGjRPvr9GxfPUuFT85T0UfkyTAEBeCPqwXzgCjH1MrMF2UUAt6iBDheD2ASg5Xj-td7jBWXBr7JdFbU23hj_SEmgRvGXVp17HQL1ixTeMINLxpmffLgmlg2lIY0e5enkIJqWxl30Pmxr=s1540" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1540" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWGtV6X5zeGNDahUZ1xOKBr81SXrAmjAJg0DBXoWqYCjJXTGjRPvr9GxfPUuFT85T0UfkyTAEBeCPqwXzgCjH1MrMF2UUAt6iBDheD2ASg5Xj-td7jBWXBr7JdFbU23hj_SEmgRvGXVp17HQL1ixTeMINLxpmffLgmlg2lIY0e5enkIJqWxl30Pmxr=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Is there anything more contrived and stupid than the current
trend of TV reporters and anchors introducing a blathering politician or some
other video clip by preceding it with the asinine comment “take a listen?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Centuries ago, when English was the preferred language of American
news presenters (before NewsSpeak supplanted English), the presenter would
introduce a video file directly, by saying something like “…and the mayor came
out strongly against a wheel tax.” Then the video would play. Now, for reasons
I don’t pretend to understand, it’s become “…and the mayor came out strongly against
a wheel tax. Take a listen:” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Having been in the business of broadcasting for much of my pre-retirement
life, I observed decades ago that stupid vocal frills like “take a listen”
generally start on either coast and then move inland. If they’re saying it in
LA or New York, it quickly works its way in to Omaha and Chicago. After all, if
you want to be a member of the club, you’ve got to know and use the jargon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Like sportscasters who now invariably say “welcome in to the
broadcast” and constantly mistake prolific for proficient.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Another important element of NewsSpeak is the use of the
word “giant” on second reference to some corporate entity in the news. For the
uninitiated, an example: “Breaking overnight: Costco announces mass layoffs.
The retail giant says…” or “Facebook is introducing a new ‘thumbs down’ icon.
The social media giant says…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like
there’s some arcane NewsSpeak grammar that forbids the use of the company’s
name except in the opening line of a story.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Kinda like “budget” becomes “spending plan” and “snow” becomes
“the white stuff” on second reference. And the use of unnecessary auxiliary
words like “price point” for “price.” Not to mention the frequent use of “hone
in on” rather than the correct “home in on.” (Even my auto-correct flagged the
incorrect usage!)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I don’t need to expound on the bogus use of “breaking overnight”
by morning news presenters, even though the “breaking” news broke 24 to 36
hours before. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Or the implication, sometimes couched in less inflammatory language,
that your family is not safe unless you watch our newscast. “Fire kills three
in east-side conflagration – firefighters say the origin of the fire was in an
appliance which you may have in your home right now. The frightening details on
the 6 o’clock news.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Ever notice how even the most insignificant events – like a
game show contestant on a long winning streak – become “historic?” History
books won’t mention Ken Jennings’ long win streak on Jeopardy. Similarly, “amazing”
is now regularly used to describe mundane events, and “hero” is anyone who does
anything challenging or moderately difficult.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I know. I’m a dinosaur, a throwback to the days when English
was the preferred language of news presenters, jargon was to be avoided, and auxiliary
verbs were always used when appropriate.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-12882808152699084002021-04-29T13:55:00.002-05:002021-04-30T09:29:05.783-05:00Baseball Is Alive And Well<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzpEht1WnLdcnxExwsblgC3HjBIKbRgC3kXAJnY7nudek0vuu6JIr-O1xyu828PYh0l2Y1EWGyXhEJ1wqH5Z7DwDQRQ-88JPK1Fay841Ae-zhyc811YGhnigX0z2b46mtvi1qOrXaaSE/s2048/AAA+Joey+hits+against+big+infield++April+2021.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1183" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzpEht1WnLdcnxExwsblgC3HjBIKbRgC3kXAJnY7nudek0vuu6JIr-O1xyu828PYh0l2Y1EWGyXhEJ1wqH5Z7DwDQRQ-88JPK1Fay841Ae-zhyc811YGhnigX0z2b46mtvi1qOrXaaSE/s320/AAA+Joey+hits+against+big+infield++April+2021.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was an epic matchup: the green-clad O’Reilly Electric
little leaguers against the maroon-clad boys of Fairfield Rotary. The game
would begin at the stroke of noon on a beautiful early-Spring Saturday at
Highwood Park.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The young ballers, most of them 5 years old, had been
practicing at home with their dads, and already had a 3-inning game under their
belt. But this was serious stuff: word had it the boys of Fairfield Rotary were
not to be taken lightly. Big hitters, those guys.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">This is T-ball Little League, organized by the Rec
Department of the City of Fairfield, Connecticut. Our grandson, Joey (Joey B to
his teammates) plays in this league, and my wife and I have every one of Joey’s
games on our schedule. We moved from Madison, Wisconsin to coastal Connecticut
a year ago, at the height of the plague, to be closer to our daughter and her
family. It was exactly this sort of thing – the prospect of watching two of our
grandkids grow up – that led us to weigh anchor after more than 30 years in
Madison and set sail for Long Island Sound.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We live in the Black Rock section of Bridgeport,
Connecticut’s largest city. It’s a beautiful and very safe neighborhood,
bordered by the vast expanse of Long Island Sound on the south, and the city of
Fairfield on the north.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Make no mistake about it: Fairfield is a wealthy community.
As my wife and I roll into a parking spot at Highwood Park in our late-model
high-end Chevy SUV, there’s a Range Rover parked ahead of us. We’re surrounded
by BMW’s, Audis, a few Benz sedans, big Volvo SUV’s, a Lexus or two, and the
occasional Honda. Our big white Chevy would fit right in at Lambeau Field or
Miller Park… er, American Family Field. Whatever. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still call it County Stadium. But here,
we’re outclassed up and down the parking lot.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">However, everyone we meet is friendly, down-to-earth, and
most cordial. Many of those we meet are grandparents, like us. We are all eager
to engage in conversations about our darling children/grandchildren, and how
they’ve taken to the Great American Pastime.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfiyp2Q4UpA00uB5ktbr7W5F3yXFPVgpFoFL1MLVyai35Rzb71uQpHQTSwhGMgbnNNrZMZrNiOTysSKTlGu4f4ngn80piV90m_hnx0Ex5lgksofRUbriWeRf7OHIGf9NEkBs1gsNBZhY/s913/AAA+Joey+plays+first+base+April+2021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="913" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfiyp2Q4UpA00uB5ktbr7W5F3yXFPVgpFoFL1MLVyai35Rzb71uQpHQTSwhGMgbnNNrZMZrNiOTysSKTlGu4f4ngn80piV90m_hnx0Ex5lgksofRUbriWeRf7OHIGf9NEkBs1gsNBZhY/s320/AAA+Joey+plays+first+base+April+2021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The young man with the bright blue glove and the perfect
infield stance playing first base is our grandson, Joey. He’s got great form,
we think. On the right side of the photo, the dad overseeing things is our
son-in-law, John – Joey’s coach and mentor. John and Joey have been working on
catching, throwing, batting, and running since February, when the snow
disappeared.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Nearly all the dads are present, coaching their sons, being
patient and encouraging. A couple of the dads are missing, but the
grandparents’ grapevine informs us that those dads are “away on business.” The
moms are just as supportive. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7GQnNSsCD3D9gaR-FdUIXJARA6ynJcYJ4TYnvMF7WMyxkIWwrqlWM-vJy01qi5sdwvPhet9qDJGOU67Gwd2gLCiX2D9ulCRlvkyBmqvNjgP9-VU5OJHPovGcvR1Iqfo_1CbYBC7uDC4/s2048/AAA+Mal+and+Joey+baseball+April+2021.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1879" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7GQnNSsCD3D9gaR-FdUIXJARA6ynJcYJ4TYnvMF7WMyxkIWwrqlWM-vJy01qi5sdwvPhet9qDJGOU67Gwd2gLCiX2D9ulCRlvkyBmqvNjgP9-VU5OJHPovGcvR1Iqfo_1CbYBC7uDC4/s320/AAA+Mal+and+Joey+baseball+April+2021.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As the dads dispense advice and give tips on form and style,
moms provide the loving nurture of assuring their kids that they’re doing a
great job and dispense kid-friendly granola bars and hugs. Pictured above, our
daughter Mallory assures Joey that his uniform looks awesome and that he’s
really throwing the ball well.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Many, if not most of the moms, have solid sports
credentials. You can overhear them talking about the team sports they played in
high school and college. Sitting to our right is Brandon’s mom. The family
lives in the same neighborhood as our daughter, but their son plays for
Fairfield Rotary. Both he and Joey wear uniform number 8.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I comment that Joey’s dad is a Yankees fan, so Joey’s number
8 is the same number Yogi Berra wore. “My husband grew up in Maryland,” she
says, “so Brandon’s 8 stands for Cal Ripken. You know, Ripken not only was a
star with the Orioles, but he was also actually born in Maryland,” she adds.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">These ladies know their baseball.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My Chicago-born wife and lifelong Cubs fan quietly assumes
Joey B’s number 8 is for Andre Dawson.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The boy who’s a favorite with all the moms is a spirited lad
nicknamed Chip. Chip’s family lives just a few houses from our daughter and
son-in-law, and he and Joey are good buds. Chip is a bit small compared to the
other 5-year-olds but possesses an indomitable spirit and plays with reckless
enthusiasm. He has a huge head of light blonde hair that flows from under his
baseball cap to his shoulders. When Chip runs, his hair flies wildly, and
everyone cheers for him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mqo4ZgXgauDqANtY2gUzJccQETFaJXEz6we6ieYnVpSOwMu6qbZXeNDjqvop7R0Hqyc45OvF_qIOwyPubXNwJgpr-0sI0jODtulfuNU5NiYIT4HKome5Y33Jyq9J_8HufIDJ8Lox76k/s651/AAA+Joey+at+bat+edit+April+2021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="651" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mqo4ZgXgauDqANtY2gUzJccQETFaJXEz6we6ieYnVpSOwMu6qbZXeNDjqvop7R0Hqyc45OvF_qIOwyPubXNwJgpr-0sI0jODtulfuNU5NiYIT4HKome5Y33Jyq9J_8HufIDJ8Lox76k/s320/AAA+Joey+at+bat+edit+April+2021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Not surprisingly, all the boys like to bat far more than
they enjoy playing infield. Here’s Joey B swinging for the fences. He knocks
the ball off the tee and follows through, something his dad has been coaching
him. The first practice we went to, the concept of running to first base after
you hit the ball off the tee was something that didn’t come naturally. The boys
would whack the ball into the infield, then stand and admire their work – as
the dads and moms yelled, “run to first! Run to first base!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The boy at bat would then dutifully run toward first base,
after the vocal cues from the parents and assembled fans. At the first
practice, most of the boys carried their bat with them all the way down the
first base line. By the second practice, the dads had managed to coach that out
of them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My love of baseball started early, and I have a tremendous
coach to thank for that. When I first played organized baseball, the late Russ
Tiedemann was our summer rec league coach in Hortonville, WI, where he was also
the high school varsity baseball coach. He drilled us on fundamentals in every
practice session and taught us the beauty of in-game strategy. His love of the
game was contagious.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">After several years at Hortonville, Coach Tiedemann was
hired by UW-Oshkosh to be varsity baseball coach, where he established a true
baseball dynasty, winning 15 conference championships and a national
championship in 1985. Coach Tiedemann has sent more young men to careers in
Major League Baseball – 28 – than any other baseball coach in Wisconsin
history.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was my great fortune to have been coached by an icon like
Russ Tiedemann.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5fdbck3SdPN3davwLqeyFuwg0jONWvQgA-p8-8nxLJFkh-RA54O8oAsXZer5iekbNmYMA-5NHJQPtXYR6HXz4mN5tv3b87MURcoxjPuze7mCdnmcLMTNcilJ8pDkL8BlAYkacIlhGB8o/s2048/AAA+Joey+on+First+April+2021.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1376" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5fdbck3SdPN3davwLqeyFuwg0jONWvQgA-p8-8nxLJFkh-RA54O8oAsXZer5iekbNmYMA-5NHJQPtXYR6HXz4mN5tv3b87MURcoxjPuze7mCdnmcLMTNcilJ8pDkL8BlAYkacIlhGB8o/s320/AAA+Joey+on+First+April+2021.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">But, before Coach Tiedeman, my coach was my dad – just as
Joey’s coach right now is his dad, just as all the young t-ballers on the
field, as shown above, are being coached by their fathers. In the photo above,
Joey is standing on first, looking right at me, saying, “Papa – I got a hit!”
And, considering the formidable infield Joey faced at bat, that single was
quite the accomplishment. There’s not much need for an outfield in t-ball for 5-year-olds, so
everybody plays infield.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Perhaps Joey will grow up to be a singles machine, just like
Papa (me). Thanks to Coach Tiedemann, I could always make good contact with a
pitched ball. It was the running part that did me in. What would have been an
extra-base hit in the many bar leagues I played in over the years was usually a
single for me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpo2BG2h9PMryuhkQJNKNytkc03mjpOG-M_6P0PKRRwUxO_JcaC0C-dHI7qGFEiUgBx_hCbdiEaIdUaJ-duyYbsOzWdorxwBE1sFcRuDrr9oWEwsMeqMBCyBNxR00IBBOBXK27AH9eSew/s1009/Tim+WYTL+Softball+ca+1985+edit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="689" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpo2BG2h9PMryuhkQJNKNytkc03mjpOG-M_6P0PKRRwUxO_JcaC0C-dHI7qGFEiUgBx_hCbdiEaIdUaJ-duyYbsOzWdorxwBE1sFcRuDrr9oWEwsMeqMBCyBNxR00IBBOBXK27AH9eSew/s320/Tim+WYTL+Softball+ca+1985+edit.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>But there was that one night, years ago, when our radio station team was playing a team of county sheriff's deputies, that I blasted a ball over the fence and out of the ball park. I had to run/trot/walk all the bases on that sweet summer night. It was the game-winning hit, so the guys made me a little trophy engraved with the date and the legend "Game-winning homer - boy, am I good!" I still have the trophy.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;">So many great memories - from the sandlots of my youth in Hortonville, to the bar-league games of my adulthood, to the t-ball games of my grandson.</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As long as there are dads who volunteer their time as
coaches, and young men like Joey who love to get together and have fun playing t-ball,
baseball will remain alive and well.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">And there’ll always be grey-haired grandpas like me to cheer
them on from the sidelines.</span><o:p></o:p></p></div></div>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-35961476025213134072021-03-31T13:28:00.003-05:002021-04-01T14:04:49.177-05:00How I Met G. Gordon Liddy<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WHWFaDfSvdIsWC_Rgs-l1h6lcNQ2TXPf84n-XR4paZReNJbsJrBoYH4292RpBLHN0vS66zaUnAm7Fip98qx13BvcRWjDkMsrmB-UMB62nlWtB0hxlRBCqe-Y5x8fUEKPQMrH37q5cws/s620/BP+G+G+Liddy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WHWFaDfSvdIsWC_Rgs-l1h6lcNQ2TXPf84n-XR4paZReNJbsJrBoYH4292RpBLHN0vS66zaUnAm7Fip98qx13BvcRWjDkMsrmB-UMB62nlWtB0hxlRBCqe-Y5x8fUEKPQMrH37q5cws/s320/BP+G+G+Liddy.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was 1994, and the radio station I programmed was carrying
Liddy’s immensely popular talk show. Liddy had started out in 1993 as a talk show host
on a Washington, DC station, and within a year his fast-paced and controversial show was nationally
syndicated.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I deeply disagreed with his politics, but the guy knew how
to grab and hold a radio audience. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My soon-to-be wife Toni and I were attending the huge annual
NAB/RTNDA convention in San Antonio. For those not familiar with the acronyms, NAB
is National Association of Broadcasters, and RTNDA is Radio-TV News Directors
Association, which is now known as RTDNA, Radio-TV Digital News Association.
Toni represented her employer, WISC-TV, and I represented mine, the Midwest
Family Broadcast Group.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">We had both chosen to attend the break-out session G. Gordon
Liddy was presenting, the topic of which was something like “How To Get And
Hold A Talk Radio Audience.” It was held early in the afternoon of the second
day of the convention, in one of the many break-out session meeting rooms at
the San Antonio Convention Center.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Toni and I wanted to get to the session a little early, to
be sure of getting a good seat to hear “The G-Man,” as he called himself. As it
turned out, we were the first to arrive at the room, and there, ten feet away
from us, seated alone at the table in the front of the room, was the man
himself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The first thing we both noticed was Liddy’s eyes. Toni
called them “dead eyes.” He had a piercing gaze that immediately intimidated
you. They were the eyes of a man who’s seen a lot – and probably a lot of
things you wouldn’t want to know about.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">He was quite affable. “Hi, welcome, c’mon in” he said to us,
holding us with that deadly gaze. “You’re the first to arrive,” he added. He
extended a hand and we both approached, shook hands, and he invited us to sit
in the front now, not more than six feet from him. I told him my station
carried his show and his face lit up. “Great! Thank you! Hope you’re happy with
me!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">He’s the kind of man you want to say “yes, sir” to. So I
did. I mean, this guy has seen and done everything. He was an undercover White
House operative and one of the chief dirty tricksters of the Nixon era.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I don’t remember much of his presentation, only because the
years have dulled my recollection.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">But I’ll never forget those eyes.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Those dead eyes.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-32812186851776993172021-03-23T10:05:00.000-05:002021-03-23T10:05:03.568-05:00Features and Benefits<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOVswxuU2m_hCgVSJfDbIzjtiX2CrlwQQKZJbagM6ed8CC9xZgHjoxLXx7LInBSjbzf93bS3cQrrd0ie8qtBoD42WP9JJCsz2uBsv-kIES-NazUYcWkkWissRqxkfaQewATySDlulYnY/s743/BP+Features.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="743" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOVswxuU2m_hCgVSJfDbIzjtiX2CrlwQQKZJbagM6ed8CC9xZgHjoxLXx7LInBSjbzf93bS3cQrrd0ie8qtBoD42WP9JJCsz2uBsv-kIES-NazUYcWkkWissRqxkfaQewATySDlulYnY/s320/BP+Features.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">While watching the Badgers in an NCAA Basketball Tournament
game Sunday, an ad came on for a Kia vehicle. The announcer excitedly said the Kia SUV
featured “torque vectoring – and, a center-locking differential!!!” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I waited for the overenthusiastic announcer to explain what torque
vectoring is, and what a center-locking differential does, so that the 95% of
the viewers who are not gearheads like me would understand what he was talking
about. Suffice it to say he never explained it. I wondered who approved using
such arcane language in a commercial supposedly targeted to a mass audience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The ad violated one of what used to be the cardinal rules of
writing ad copy: if you’re going to cite a feature, be sure to explain the
benefit. But given my failure to understand the purpose of so many ads I see on
TV today, it’s possible the old rule was tossed out decades ago. Now it all has to do with "branding" or some such, which goes over the heads of dinosaurs like me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My first introduction to the features/benefits concept was
in the early ‘60’s, when I heard a recording of Dr. Murray Banks, a then-famous
psychiatrist, describing how vacuum cleaners were being mis-marketed by Madison
Avenue. Dr. Banks said the sales pitches involved facts like how much power the
electric motor in the vacuum cleaner has, how it rolls on fancy new wheels, how
engineers used new research to modify the design.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Forget all that stuff,” Banks said (or words to that
effect). “They should just say to the housewife this vacuum cleaner works so
efficiently it will add five years to your life expectancy,” Dr. Banks said,
which got a big laugh from the audience he was speaking to. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Remember, this was recorded in the early 60’s, hence the
outdated “housewife” reference. But Dr. Banks had hit upon one of the core
flaws in the advertising business: a feature without a benefit doesn’t mean
much to the consumer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hYxnGZ3DCtz_n9AwvOl04DG3tVejXtqX10RcMWkBjk8m_38VKcChSe-rTyp5mjob_ZolukIhia7giAgk2yLNJzSZQYRDYO6QXQl8FkIlGmk6METDgEL0Lc2zNugqr7cLOG9ad4Oj7oc/s300/BP+Benefits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hYxnGZ3DCtz_n9AwvOl04DG3tVejXtqX10RcMWkBjk8m_38VKcChSe-rTyp5mjob_ZolukIhia7giAgk2yLNJzSZQYRDYO6QXQl8FkIlGmk6METDgEL0Lc2zNugqr7cLOG9ad4Oj7oc/s0/BP+Benefits.jpg" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As a fledgling broadcaster, my concept of features and
benefits was sharpened at a sales seminar I attended. The presenter said, “when
your sales presentation says your station has fifty thousand watts of power,
what does that feature mean to the average businessperson?” He answered his own
question by saying, “Nothing. Not a thing, unless you hook that feature to a
benefit, and explain it by saying the station has fifty thousand watts of
power, which means your advertising message will come through loud and clear
over the entire marketing area.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">He went on to give several other examples of oft-advertised product
features, meaningless without being hooked to a benefit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44mHUlSYTJmuzLY8Gr71tL3OMhSAnFXpml9D73SVe47sJyZ1VSNyTvgLmrf4jT2yb7AomYYaBTkVTpKwjmC2FwrquEq-Abzt61B5_jc3MbIebZSxs-9tbiqayJDNvh7ssS9oTx0-2LiE/s634/BP+Features+vs+Benefits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44mHUlSYTJmuzLY8Gr71tL3OMhSAnFXpml9D73SVe47sJyZ1VSNyTvgLmrf4jT2yb7AomYYaBTkVTpKwjmC2FwrquEq-Abzt61B5_jc3MbIebZSxs-9tbiqayJDNvh7ssS9oTx0-2LiE/s320/BP+Features+vs+Benefits.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">A lot of businesses understand this basic advertising
concept, but sometimes the failures, when as obvious as the Kia ad I saw, are
mind-blowing. I’m sure Kia paid some ad agency a lot of money to tout torque
vectoring and a center-locking differential. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">What a waste.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-74878831928907463622021-03-09T09:21:00.000-06:002021-03-09T09:21:32.498-06:00How I Almost Got Sent To Facebook Jail<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8g6MlDH98W0_aK-tIZ3CnVkz2GTPYRWnAmqFKr3uT5c9N64apyRMgWeLnHdCAoupHUE4I-KMNXMDC-S6BSoaCR-d7tTs4Tk9KQA3cBbR2ZFR98WWAfLEEgy_Ko3xPeO-GlETudyZlQng/s900/BP+Prison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="900" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8g6MlDH98W0_aK-tIZ3CnVkz2GTPYRWnAmqFKr3uT5c9N64apyRMgWeLnHdCAoupHUE4I-KMNXMDC-S6BSoaCR-d7tTs4Tk9KQA3cBbR2ZFR98WWAfLEEgy_Ko3xPeO-GlETudyZlQng/s320/BP+Prison.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As a former radio and TV news anchor, I have a lot of
Facebook friends who have either retired from the biz, been thrown under the
bus by the biz, or are still actively employed in the broadcasting biz. A lot
of us enjoy posting and sharing screen caps of bloopers like the one below.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRzY8_8exqa3NpJjQRqbxccPu5f2qBZ3AiwLcKjsm3jhA8jn7d78i1r1HUosh8tZDPeo1IUFPMiVUymkX-dEfi9saLLGuBVHMUcrqtZwQp2pTm5ljarCJX0uc9Sd8jHrelqSxBOmIYYA/s621/Tulsa+TV+Snot+Woes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="621" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRzY8_8exqa3NpJjQRqbxccPu5f2qBZ3AiwLcKjsm3jhA8jn7d78i1r1HUosh8tZDPeo1IUFPMiVUymkX-dEfi9saLLGuBVHMUcrqtZwQp2pTm5ljarCJX0uc9Sd8jHrelqSxBOmIYYA/s320/Tulsa+TV+Snot+Woes.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Yesterday, a former colleague who still hosts a daily
call-in talk show in the Midwest (and is a recovering radio news anchor) posted
a question: what are some of your favorite headlines or teases? There were
quite a few interesting responses, including this one posted by a friend who
works for Fox Radio News.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7qtTzzqnZ5ISu6cPxOkd24oMedbV3Qxb_84_wQXFNAefayMgWEZcSMR3o-1UkzYvNXrVB6UVYSdA61YdK5cEA7S57OlAD5USMPa3fN_md87yK1I-mSF_9pVvMVH1dVmfbJ8mzNiQPkk/s330/BP+Headless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7qtTzzqnZ5ISu6cPxOkd24oMedbV3Qxb_84_wQXFNAefayMgWEZcSMR3o-1UkzYvNXrVB6UVYSdA61YdK5cEA7S57OlAD5USMPa3fN_md87yK1I-mSF_9pVvMVH1dVmfbJ8mzNiQPkk/s320/BP+Headless.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The New York Post is a rich source for stuff like this,
including one of my favorites. Years ago, when I was still an on-air radio news
anchor during the hunt for Saddam Hussein, I’d write and deliver colorful
stories about the effort to find him and bring him to justice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">One morning, the station’s consultant was monitoring my
broadcast online from his east-coast home, and he sent me an e-mail saying, “saw
this in the Post this morning and it reminded me of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_QG4t63QYW2ziEX-2_BINCkqtOBwcTerAFS4fnwgRReUdkDb1_1P-37EX2sECGVy-d2qpgAVXOZxA_u8GdFO2wXkeMMETXt5kdTXjVhiRmmsz9Stc2oGMPXxDKXp-T8O2WbUrlb0y8I/s994/BP+Saddam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="994" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_QG4t63QYW2ziEX-2_BINCkqtOBwcTerAFS4fnwgRReUdkDb1_1P-37EX2sECGVy-d2qpgAVXOZxA_u8GdFO2wXkeMMETXt5kdTXjVhiRmmsz9Stc2oGMPXxDKXp-T8O2WbUrlb0y8I/s320/BP+Saddam.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">So, I posted this on the string of comments, saying it had
always been one of my favorites – particularly the “warm up the virgins” line.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes after I posted
it when I got a notification that someone else had posted something on the
string. When I went to look at the post, Facebook instead popped up a screen
telling me they had put a warning over the image I posted, saying it contained an
explicit image that might be offensive.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I wish I’d had the presence of mind to grab a screen-shot of
the warning, but I was too astounded by this to have my wits about me. What on
earth was offensive about a picture of Saddam Hussein – originally published by
a New York City newspaper?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">After reading the warning, I clicked around on some other
stuff on Facebook for a couple minutes. All of a sudden, I got another notification
from Facebook that I was being officially warned that my post violated Facebook’s
community standards (again, I wish I’d grabbed a screen cap of it) and I was
prompted to scroll down to read more about these community standards. I was warned
that if I did not agree to uphold these standards, my account would be
temporarily suspended.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">So, I clicked on the thingy that said, “I agree,” to avoid
being sent to Facebook jail.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">With all the absolutely bogus crap that makes in onto
Facebook – the political, divisive, demonstrably false memes, the hateful
screeds, the racist stuff – my post of a newspaper page from 2006 gets me a stern
warning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Wonderful.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-18284435222118141332020-11-10T10:08:00.000-06:002020-11-10T10:08:18.714-06:00I Want...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rkwk9mjg4_mZfk1z3j9wXfYwPOP7dhgmOSelCXHK-lyebb1ZLDPovwucn2qZqsBCdonlCrp-D_efMS9jMKbJfJIH5jGD2lPAFpBPEDfNpnWLxmQ62rmv06LY6G17E6Du-k139TZybOA/s2048/Mal+trees+Nov+2020+b.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rkwk9mjg4_mZfk1z3j9wXfYwPOP7dhgmOSelCXHK-lyebb1ZLDPovwucn2qZqsBCdonlCrp-D_efMS9jMKbJfJIH5jGD2lPAFpBPEDfNpnWLxmQ62rmv06LY6G17E6Du-k139TZybOA/s320/Mal+trees+Nov+2020+b.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want more warm, sunny afternoons with you and your
wonderful family, on the patio in your beautiful back yard, watching our
grandchildren grow up, listening to the laughter of the
children and carrying on conversations with you and the outstanding man you
married.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want it to be an easy hour’s drive on the Interstate, like
it used to be, to visit with our remarkable son and his talented wife and our
fast-maturing granddaughter. I want Zelda the cat to sit on my lap while I pet
Peach the dog, talking with your brother and his wife.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want to roll back the years to the time when you and your
brother would come over for Sunday brunch, share with your mother and me what
was going on in your lives, and then go off to do the fun things young adults do. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>I now understand why my late father was so happy when on the
rare occasions after we’d all grown up and started our own lives, he could say,
“all six of my kids, in the same place, at the same time.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want just one more evening when I could sit in my easy
chair in the home where we raised you, watching TV with your mother on the
couch a few feet away, our loyal and smart dog Shadow sleeping on my feet, and
our happy, goofy dog Sunny to my left, laying wedged between my easy chair and
the wall, with my hand resting on her beautiful coat of coarse, wiry hair.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIJUZFOf_VRDM6VZc7jZeSBPmjBcmc2mBuoMMzDmNWgiaVYnPqxiG2hSLoeSP7VJZRY53InJx8ct4X3I-TaTTlSEM03lpNm62Rjb-FG4HYgsIsBUcHTbttPeVJzO9ZPJKbSDC7eRecYc/s2048/img_1679.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIJUZFOf_VRDM6VZc7jZeSBPmjBcmc2mBuoMMzDmNWgiaVYnPqxiG2hSLoeSP7VJZRY53InJx8ct4X3I-TaTTlSEM03lpNm62Rjb-FG4HYgsIsBUcHTbttPeVJzO9ZPJKbSDC7eRecYc/s320/img_1679.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want one more warm, sunny day when I can get on the lawn
tractor and mow our expansive back yard, loving the luxurious smell of
fresh-cut grass, pausing along the south fence line to pick and eat those
delicious raspberries right off the bushes, coming back into the house to be
greeted by happy barks and wagging tails.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want to be able again to walk freely and easily, without
worrying about whether I can make it to the next “touch-point” without losing
my balance, without constantly being afraid of falling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want to be able to take my mom to lunch, seeing the joy on
her face as she excitedly rides in my car on a grand outing to a restaurant
she’d chosen and had looked forward to going to many days in advance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want one more night of fishing for walleye on the Wolf
River with my dad. I could use a lot more of his pointers on how to navigate
life’s challenges.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want one more time to feel the electricity and thrill of
playing with a really good band, with outstanding arrangements, everybody’s
road chops up, performing for an appreciative and enthusiastic audience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want one more sunny day behind the wheel of my ’68
Chevelle SS-396, the engine roaring as I shift gears while weaving through
traffic, then cruising on the open road, wind on my face, joy in my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want to be able to go back and change all the times when I
treated people harshly or impatiently and said intemperate things.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And I want my wife – my best friend - to always be happy,
and for my children and grandchildren to live in a world much better than the
one we left them.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-63367579648593681382020-07-14T09:11:00.000-05:002020-07-14T09:51:16.738-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>BREAKING OVERNIGHT!</i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXDl_XiVHDYEwDGWzJXXGgjw-oYiXvVyRLLv1K-3dPl7vPTR6CRdSBkk0KYXYo8E-wCgaZ4thD-38ayZZquusA_H9Jy2XzM730arrzVZnm8-42k4tyoJJG8c1DQfOiR8rwfkMP3rItun0/s1600/BP+Breaking+News.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="800" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXDl_XiVHDYEwDGWzJXXGgjw-oYiXvVyRLLv1K-3dPl7vPTR6CRdSBkk0KYXYo8E-wCgaZ4thD-38ayZZquusA_H9Jy2XzM730arrzVZnm8-42k4tyoJJG8c1DQfOiR8rwfkMP3rItun0/s320/BP+Breaking+News.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My displeasure with what’s come
to be known in many corners as “NewsSpeak” has been registered here frequently
over the years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I realize that my personal war against NewsSpeak is a lost
cause.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">NewsSpeak is a dialect found mainly in broadcast news, where
the remnants of consultant-driven news writing still flourish. Hardly any
broadcast operation can afford consultants any more, but when they traveled from market to market, most
of them would try to get news writers to inject “excitement” and “immediacy”
into their writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Never mind that nobody ever talks that way, in forced
present tense, or distorting time to give the illusion that what the audience
is getting is so hot off the presses (see what I did there?) that they’re truly
getting the latest stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGvvk_Ym11c33Z92nW-J5444lFQe3AW5ZS-OvS_7Z0GGgbzpxM7xqPrzU4Hs2Oq1aJCLCoE0MCJoOPxrDeLWx8DIntMbX6gAwXkZuoGPtsi6m3_tym2f9kosMVTLc-XYjTWS7b4a-Fy4/s1600/BP+Overnight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="701" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGvvk_Ym11c33Z92nW-J5444lFQe3AW5ZS-OvS_7Z0GGgbzpxM7xqPrzU4Hs2Oq1aJCLCoE0MCJoOPxrDeLWx8DIntMbX6gAwXkZuoGPtsi6m3_tym2f9kosMVTLc-XYjTWS7b4a-Fy4/s320/BP+Overnight.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was saddened this morning when the above item appeared on my phone.
Although we moved to coastal Connecticut a few months ago, my wife and I still
try to keep up on news from our old stomping ground in Madison.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">See the word “overnight”? That’s a TV news thing, where all
news is either breaking, breaking now, breaking overnight, or some similar
variant. The Supreme Court didn’t make that ruling overnight. It made the
ruling yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But NewsSpeak almost never allows the word “yesterday” to be
written in copy. The consumer would get the impression that it’s stale news if
it happened yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m sad to see that the virus has crept into my former hometown
newspaper. Overnight, my butt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-74889892439703117732020-05-27T08:49:00.000-05:002020-05-27T09:45:27.275-05:00<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Living In
The Nation’s #1 Media Market<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrR1iwLqAT0DLI954dZyCjKiM2umxBeyvwww39rpR5KGUSr38ytX6_iv62AXEekUjB1zO0dxJuVuKDtx33LYB8Q1N63asGpYYuD6cG2JpYzgANecXSoExyI6m6yecwxmq9bj9YNnnQXs/s1600/BP+WABC+TV+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="1300" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrR1iwLqAT0DLI954dZyCjKiM2umxBeyvwww39rpR5KGUSr38ytX6_iv62AXEekUjB1zO0dxJuVuKDtx33LYB8Q1N63asGpYYuD6cG2JpYzgANecXSoExyI6m6yecwxmq9bj9YNnnQXs/s320/BP+WABC+TV+logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The New York TV news market is staffed by
people who are really good at what they do. There are no beginners fresh out of college. The anchors are polished, the
reporters are veterans, and the production values are through the roof. The
pace is quick and mistakes are rare, which is really saying something since so
many of the anchors take turns working from home during the plague.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WABC-TV7 is
the most-watched TV station in the nation, and while my wife and I have sampled
the newscasts on WNBC-TV4, WCBS-TV2, and WNYW-TV (Fox 5), we find ourselves
watching more WABC-TV Ch 7 news than any of the many others.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The writing
is crisp, sharp, grammatically correct, and seldom if ever will you hear any
“news-speak.” Phrases like “fled on foot,” “the incident remains under
investigation,” “officials say,” and similar cop-talk or officialese are absent
from scripted copy and live ad-lib reports.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’d expected
WABC-TV would sound and look a lot like ABC-TV’s morning show, Good Morning
America, but it does not. To me, GMA is largely unwatchable because the language
their reporters speak is a horrible bastardization of standard English.
Auxiliary verbs (is, are, was, were, has, have, had, and the 16 others) are
almost never used. (Example: “Arizona authorities (are) looking for suspects…”)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">GMA begins
almost every story with “overnight” or “breaking now” or “this morning.”
Everything is written and delivered in what news consultants call “forced
present tense” which supposedly gives immediacy to the content, but in actual
practice is quite difficult to listen to. Subjective adjectives like
“shocking,” “amazing,” “terrifying,” “stunning” and others are frequently
sprinkled in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But you
won’t hear any of that on the network flagship TV news operations. They speak
conversational English without the newswriting clichés so often heard on
network news presentations.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The weekend
presentations aren’t quite as good as the weekday product. You’re likely to
hear some news-speak, and some tortured usages like “ten-year anniversary” and
outmoded descriptors like “wheelchair-bound.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Because we
live in Bridgeport, the largest city in Connecticut, 40-some miles from midtown
Manhattan, all the New York City stations treat us as local. They include
Bridgeport news and weather in all their newscasts. Our New York
City-headquartered cable company, Optimum, also gives us several Connecticut TV
stations from Hartford and New Haven. There, you’re more likely to hear
fractured grammar, news-speak, and silly usages. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sitting
through a TV newscast with me is no picnic, but my wife, who’s accustomed to my
constant commentary, puts up with it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUpIqKLyEnrGAfplOWjWLtDThgKqnVSFEAKNSRmrQhkQu6udQsWt9zbdaO1V31qbNhaomFF91Nx14BgN7rOEFWfHU3AK9diWcWA9uPb8WFZj9wiYNQ_ehMwcY55NhVVWfYAPCGrWLZcw/s1600/BP+Toni+on+TV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1341" data-original-width="1600" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUpIqKLyEnrGAfplOWjWLtDThgKqnVSFEAKNSRmrQhkQu6udQsWt9zbdaO1V31qbNhaomFF91Nx14BgN7rOEFWfHU3AK9diWcWA9uPb8WFZj9wiYNQ_ehMwcY55NhVVWfYAPCGrWLZcw/s320/BP+Toni+on+TV.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For those
who don’t know, my wife was an on-camera TV reporter for many years in the 90’s
and early 2000’s for the Madison CBS TV affiliate. Above is a screen-grab from
one of her many live reports from the Chicago Bears Training Camp in
Platteville in the summer of 2001.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For many
years, I lived and worked in the nation’s second-largest TV market, Los
Angeles, where the ABC flagship station there, KABC-TV 7 was my choice. I can
still hear the late Jerry Dunphy’s famous opening line, “From the desert to the
sea to all of Southern California, this is KABC-TV news.” Dunphy was born in
Milwaukee and after paying his dues at smaller markets all over the country,
became the lead anchor at KABC-TV and an icon of Los Angeles TV.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Another one
of my favorites from my SoCal days is Ann Martin, who worked for nearly two
decades at KABC-TV before KCBS-TV lured her away. There was absolutely nothing
flashy about her style and delivery. She spoke plain English and never used any
of the many horrible news-speak clichés. I remember one particular evening in
1988 that encapsulated her style for me. I had the TV on in the living room and
was doing something in the kitchen, when I heard her say “if you’re somewhere
else in your home listening to this broadcast but not in front of the TV
screen, I’ll give you a moment to get in front of your TV because there’s some
video here you’re going to want to see.” Although I don’t remember what the
video was, I remember her lead-in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzula3KBEQkLp3aOKoHUkenvLAQ4awdilxtf1rX70DEehJE-214ZOCN9I5_3rzHQ7JS-bxzGWIN1ASdN9K0EbnWUK4vFdC3Qc7kb03kaEr2GWXku-PkgYN76yJWtpWcBcMK0Nn294v9VY/s1600/BP+KABC+TV+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzula3KBEQkLp3aOKoHUkenvLAQ4awdilxtf1rX70DEehJE-214ZOCN9I5_3rzHQ7JS-bxzGWIN1ASdN9K0EbnWUK4vFdC3Qc7kb03kaEr2GWXku-PkgYN76yJWtpWcBcMK0Nn294v9VY/s320/BP+KABC+TV+logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Because of
my job at the time, I was privileged to meet a lot of the Southern California TV
news people. And I got to see first-hand the inner workings of the nightly
newscasts on several of the Los Angeles TV stations, including KABC-TV,
KNBC-TV, and KCBS-TV, where I met sports anchor Jim Hill, who played for the
Packers in the mid-70’s. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Like most of
Southern California, the atmosphere in these newsrooms and studios was laid
back. You can’t be wound too tight and expect to get along well in SoCal. There
was a sense of urgency, as there always is in TV news, but folks were seldom
hyper. That seems to contrast with the prevailing vibe I’m getting here in the
New York City metro, where people can be brusque and impatient.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back in the
mid-90’s I did a 10-minute Monday morning feature for WISC-TV in Madison called
“The Week Ahead.” They had a TV camera in my radio newsroom on the other side
of town, and I’d chat live on the air with WISC-TV news anchor Cheryl Schubert Hartung. We’d talk back and forth, previewing the major
news stories we expected to cover during the week ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last week
Cheryl and I were visiting on social media, talking about the higher intensity
level on the east coast. Earlier in her TV career Cheryl was a reporter for a
station in Albany, NY, and she told me a story about what that newsroom was
like. She said a lot of the producers and anchors were refugees from the New
York City TV market, and they were wound pretty tight. They didn’t want to
raise their kids in NYC so they migrated to more family-friendly environs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She told me
one day, the news assignment manager was pitching a fit about something,
ranting and hollering. He unplugged the phone that was on his desk and threw it
into the newsroom, barely missing her head. She said after the storm calmed
down, the News Director called her into his office and told her she was “too
nice” and needed to “toughen up.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I suspect a
New York City TV newsroom is probably not the kind of place I’d like to visit in
my advanced age. I can’t dodge flying telephones as quickly as I could have
when I was younger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i><u>RADIO</u></i></b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Since I
spent so many years programming and anchoring news radio stations, I’m
compelled to give my two-cents-worth. There are several really top-notch radio
news operations in New York City. The station I have on the most in the car is
1010 WINS. “Ten-ten WINS: WINS wins New York” is one of their many slogans,
along with the evergreen “where the news never stops,” and their heritage
slogan “Ten-ten-WINS: you give us 22 minutes, and we’ll give you the world.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fox News
Radio actually plays it pretty much right down the middle, not like the Fox TV
news product. But they often write sentences without auxiliary verbs, the most
prominent form of news-speak, and force present tense. My wife’s ex-husband,
Rich Denison, is one of the principal anchors at Fox News Radio in New York
City, although since the onset of the plague he’s been delivering newscasts
from his home studio in New Jersey.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2loBbiEk1_YxoeJ1yKJ19WJAt-Yi0Sad0G6K1fGMqT-Dyyng7n68BypD57XTZR6E1PFoQli51Z0gsz-YzjiVIzg_GmslSfyrAhFOe3x7T97Hprq0FvN1uO_AM4FDUkoC4pVUnKp_5K7E/s1600/BP+WABC+radio+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2loBbiEk1_YxoeJ1yKJ19WJAt-Yi0Sad0G6K1fGMqT-Dyyng7n68BypD57XTZR6E1PFoQli51Z0gsz-YzjiVIzg_GmslSfyrAhFOe3x7T97Hprq0FvN1uO_AM4FDUkoC4pVUnKp_5K7E/s320/BP+WABC+radio+logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then
there’s the most listened-to news-talk radio station in the nation, WABC-AM.
Like WINS, WOR, and the other major New York City AM stations, it sounds like a
million bucks: tight and bright, forward motion galore, and flawless execution.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The
signature element for every AM radio station is what we broadcasters call the
“top of the hour ID” or “legal ID.” (“Legal,” because the FCC used to require
all stations to identify at the top of the hour, with the station’s call sign
and city of license.) The Legal ID is the ten or fifteen second production
element that serves as the audible logo of the station, the element that’s the
station’s unique identifier.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hearing
WABC-AM at the top of the hour is a joy. I’ve simply got to go full radio geek
on this one. Just before the end of the hour, you hear the jingle begin. And
it’s a dandy – written by the late Mr. TM himself, Tom Merriman. More than a
hundred musicians were used on the session to create the WABC top-of-hour
jingle, and a small chorus of singers with Merriman’s signature tight
harmonies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You hear the
jingle start to play, and Mr. Deep Voiced Announcer says, “reaching more
Americans than any other news-talk station in the nation!” Immediately, the
jingle singers come up to full volume singing “NewsTalk Radio 77, WABC” -and
suddenly the key changes dramatically as the singers intone “New York City!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Suddenly a
voice comes in over the jingle, giving the time, saying “In the greatest city
in the world, it’s five o’clock!” The jingle comes to a cold musical ending,
immediately followed by the beginning of the ABC Radio Network News sounder and
the start of the network newscast.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s the
kind of thing that makes us old-time veteran AM radio guys giddy – that big,
orchestral jingle, the deep-voiced announcer, perfect timing – it never fails
to get me when I hear it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The media
mix is one of the fun things about living in the New York metro for me.
Hopefully my long-suffering wife will continue to put up with my running
commentary during the broadcasts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-91746575659402936242020-05-15T13:58:00.000-05:002020-05-20T09:19:54.973-05:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">THE GREAT ADVENTURE: Part 3, The New Place</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsd6ZU9Xk2TUClBpBE7ioji_bKSRmio2WzesRNQUIS-D7LNU9azC-Ze_aeiaztt5OkfXlmcqBmkrC0R34jxcH1PcyhIJWrprKCEJqoMgbr55T8zApT6jTMG12-nyGP7qousOpriH2wJU/s1600/BP+New+Digs+front+entrance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="722" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsd6ZU9Xk2TUClBpBE7ioji_bKSRmio2WzesRNQUIS-D7LNU9azC-Ze_aeiaztt5OkfXlmcqBmkrC0R34jxcH1PcyhIJWrprKCEJqoMgbr55T8zApT6jTMG12-nyGP7qousOpriH2wJU/s320/BP+New+Digs+front+entrance.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We decided that when it was time to sell the Compound and
move east, we’d lease a “luxury” apartment rather than buy a house or a condo.
No maintenance, no mowing, no shoveling, no HOA fees, no hassles. In January,
my wife bought a ticket to fly to Connecticut and spend the first week of March
with our daughter and her family. She'd go apartment-hunting during the day. Or so we thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By mid-February, we were concerned about the feasibility –
and, the possibility – of her actually making the trip. To avoid the incredible
hassles of flying to LaGuardia or JFK airport in NYC, we’ve always chosen to spend
a few bucks more and fly to the Westchester County Airport in New York, which
is about a 20-minute drive from our daughter’s home in Fairfield, CT. By the
second week of February, we were seeing news reports that Westchester County
was rapidly becoming a Coronavirus hot-spot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By the first week of March, we knew that the trip was off.
New Rochelle, NY, a short distance from the airport, had been declared the
hottest Coronavirus hot-spot in the nation. The mayor had closed the city. So,
my wife began her search for a new place for us, relying completely and
exclusively on the internet and a lot of phone conversations. For weeks, we
evaluated properties she’d deemed viable. In April, we pulled the trigger on a
luxury apartment in the very nice Black Rock neighborhood of Bridgeport, which
is the largest city in Connecticut. We’d be about 10 minutes away from our
daughter’s home in neighboring Fairfield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We did the deal sight unseen, having reviewed a lot of
photos of the inside and outside of the place, and relying on our daughter’s
assurance that it was a nice place. She said it was just a few blocks from the
office building where she and several other psychotherapists had established
their practice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The little blue ‘x’ on the photo above marks the spot where
we now live. That big body of water a few blocks south of us is Long Island
Sound, i.e., the Atlantic Ocean. We’d checked out the place, from the outside
only, when we first arrived in Connecticut early in the evening on April 29<sup>th</sup>.
We held our breath as we turned off Fairfield Avenue onto Ellsworth Street, and
took a deep breath of relief when we first saw the exterior of the place in
person. It looked very well-maintained and quite nice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We got our first peek inside on April 30<sup>th</sup>. The
management company said they’d have a representative meet us at 5 PM at the
building to give us the keys. We made the short trip from our hotel in Norwalk
to Bridgeport and waited in the lobby at the appointed hour. The representative
from the realty management company showed up, appropriately attired (as were
we) in mask and gloves. She handed us a large envelope and said, “here’s your
keys and stuff; if they don’t work, let me know. Take the elevator to the
fourth floor and turn left.” And with that, she turned on her heel and went
back to her car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We didn’t expect to have a long, guided tour of the building
and all the amenities. And we were starting to get used to the brusque style of
people in the NYC metro. But to just hand us the keys and walk off, without
even a “so sorry that because of the plague I can’t give you a fully guided
tour, but I know you’ll love the place” – even by New York City metro
standards, that was not much of a “welcome to your new home” speech.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We took the elevator to the 4<sup>th</sup> floor, turned
left, discovered that at least one of the sets of keys worked, drew a deep
breath, and unlocked the door. Thank heaven, we loved the place. It was even
bigger and more spacious than it looked in the photos. Brand new coat of paint
in every room; brand new, never-been-used high-tech appliances; woodgrain
floors throughout; and tons of closets and storage space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hugged my wife and said, “you done good, dear!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">During the next few days, waiting for the moving van to
arrive with our furniture, we made several trips from our hotel in Norwalk to
the new place in Bridgeport. We stocked the new, hi-tech fridge and the pantry.
We talked about which things would go where, once the furniture arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On Sunday, May 3<sup>rd</sup>, we finally got to see our
daughter, her husband, and their two kids. While none of us put on masks or
gloves, we were careful to observe the social distancing guidelines. My wife
and I stayed in the car with the windows down, visiting with them. Among other
things, we talked about what we were going to do once the plague had been
mitigated and the rules had been relaxed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even though it had only been a few days since we started “living”
in the hotel in Norwalk, we’d sort of fallen into a routine. Days were spent doing
preliminary set-up work in our new apartment, breaking for a burger or chicken
sandwich at noon, and learning the streets around our new home. Our evening
meals consisted of either stopping at a drive-though on the way back from Bridgeport
to Norwalk, or having food delivered to our hotel. It’s truly contactless
delivery – they call you when they’re in the hotel lobby; you go meet them and
they place the food somewhere that you can pick it up while maintaining social
distancing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We got the bad news from our moving van driver on Monday,
May 4<sup>th</sup>, that he wouldn’t be in Bridgeport with our furniture until
early Wednesday afternoon. Something about a delay with a load he was dropping
off in Lake Placid, NY. Nothing we could do about it – United Van Lines had an
8-day window to deliver, and they were still in the middle of the time window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We checked out of the hotel in Norwalk late Wednesday
morning and drove to the new place. We were excited about actually moving in!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To kill time while waiting for the van driver to call, my
wife stretched out on the bare floor and caught a quick nap. Finally, the phone
rang and Mike, our van driver, said he’d be backing in with our stuff in a few
minutes. His crew of three hard-working young men made short work of lugging
5,100 pounds of our stuff up three flights in a tight stairwell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The property
management company had warned us – and United Van Lines – that using the
elevator to move furniture was strictly verboten. They pointed out that one of
the many cameras surveilling the interior and exterior of our secure building
was inside the elevator and was being monitored to make sure the movers didn’t
use the elevator.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The crew helped us set up the huge sectional, my overstuffed
recliner, our king-size bed, and the other big, bulky stuff. My wife carefully
checked off every box and item as the movers brought it in, to make sure all
our stuff was unloaded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As we signed the Bill of Lading, Mike told us that in the
past two days he’d had four cancellations. People were re-thinking their plan
to move in the middle of the plague. He wished us happiness in our new home,
and we thanked him and wished him safe travels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were boxes piled high in every room. Now we faced the
task of opening the sixty-odd boxes of stuff we’d packed in Madison, and starting to find
the right place for everything.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But, we’re retired, and with the tight
restrictions in the New York City metro because of the plague, there’s not much
else for us to do. We’re tackling it in bits and pieces, and before too long,
we’ll have everything where it’s supposed to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Meantime, two weeks in, we’re enjoying life in our new digs, as the last
great adventure continues.We look forward to the day when we can explore the museums, restaurants, and other attractions around here. Most of all, we're anticipating the day when we can actually hug our daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-21201534152840827222020-05-14T15:09:00.001-05:002020-05-19T08:44:40.325-05:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">THE GREAT ADVENTURE, Part Two: ROAD TRIP!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The van was loaded with our possessions – 5,100 pounds, according
to the United Van Lines people. We made good time on the road to our new home
in coastal Connecticut. Going around Chicago was a breeze, although there was a
bit more traffic than we expected. The Indiana Turnpike has to be one of the
most boring drives imaginable. Nothing but flat land and no scenery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We stopped for gas somewhere in eastern Indiana and figured
we could make it to Toledo before dark. We pulled off the turnpike at the first
Toledo exit around 7 PM, filled up with gas to be ready to roll in the morning,
and then joined the line of cars at a Taco Bell for dinner. There was a nice
hotel a few hundred feet from the Taco Bell so we just drove up, put on our
plague masks, went in, and got a room. Easy-peasy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The only thing on our mind was a good night’s sleep and an
early morning departure, and that’s exactly what we got. It was just after 7
when we got back on the Turnpike and headed east again. I took the first shift
driving and set the cruise control at 71 MPH. There was hardly any traffic.
Somewhere just west of Cleveland my bride spotted a Schneider truck ahead of us,
pulled out her camera, and documented it. A sign of home - Schneider National is headquartered in Green Bay. Sconnies call these trucks "pumpkins" because of their orange paint job.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To pass the time, we told stories. I first met the woman who
would become my wife at work in 1988. I was 39 years old and she was just shy
of 35 years old at the time. I’d had a career in music performance long before
I met her – a career she knew very little about. She knew me more as a broadcaster than as a musician. So I regaled her with
stories from my years in Los Angeles and tales from my international tours, recording sessions, and TV shows I was on. She
shared with me stories from her formative years, her days as a "salad girl" at her parents' restaurant, her college days, and other
aspects of her earlier life that I didn’t know about. It really helped pass the time.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">For every "oh my lord, you did THAT in college?" that her stories elicited from me, there was a "you played with THAT band (or on that record)?" from her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Somewhere near Clarion, PA we stopped to fill an empty gas
tank and each had a Quarter-Pounder at the McDonald’s across the street. We were
making good time. We got back on the Pennsylvania Turnpike and by early afternoon
were pretty sure we could make it to Bridgeport before nightfall. Hammer down!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The next gas stop was, according to the receipt from the gas
station, at a place called Drums, PA. The most memorable thing about that stop
was the Mexican restaurant across from the gas station. The signboard proclaimed,
“Mexican food so good Trump wants to build a wall around us!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The condition of the roads around Scranton, PA, where we took a
quick jog north to catch Interstate 84, is generously described as abominable. The
pavement is so rough you need to keep both hands on the steering wheel.
Disgraceful. We crossed the Hudson River just north of Newburgh, NY. Shortly
thereafter we were in Connecticut. In Danbury, we picked up Highway 7 South to
Interstate 95 in Norwalk, and suddenly we were about 10 minutes from our destination,
Bridgeport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">During one of my wife’s driving shifts that afternoon, I got
on the phone and made hotel reservations for us. We knew we’d be spending
several days in a hotel, waiting for our furniture to arrive, so we wanted to
stay at a place that had decent amenities. The one that looked best to me was a
Holiday Inn in downtown Bridgeport, so I made the call. After we’d gone through
the long process of name, credit card number, blah blah blah, the guy paused
for a long time. “I’m sorry; I now see that the hotel is actually closed
because of Corona Virus.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This would be our first real awakening of what it’s like to
live in the New York City metro in the time of Covid-19. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The man on the phone said they had a “sister hotel” nearby
that he could book us at; a Best Western a few blocks away. I asked how he
could book for both Holiday Inn and Best Western, and got some mumbo-jumbo
about how the number that I called – which was the number listed on the
homepage of the Holiday Inn on Main Street in Bridgeport – was actually the
number for a second-party booking service.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We decided to book the Best Western for two nights, which
would give us a place to land while we surveyed the territory. If we liked it,
we’d extend our stay; if we didn’t; we’d find a better hotel. So, we committed
to $298. It was about 7:30, overcast with sprinkles, and we got in line at a
Wendy’s and had burgers for dinner. Then we entered the address of the Best
Western into the Waze app, and in a few minutes, we arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And thus began a nightmare of epic proportion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The first clue was the empty parking lot. The second clue
was the sign on the front door of the hotel, listing a number to call for information
– a number that rang and rang, and was never answered. By now it was dark, it
was raining, and we had nowhere to stay. We realized that the Best Western,
like the Holiday Inn, was closed because of the plague.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I called the number I’d called to make the reservation and
got the royal runaround.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Meanwhile my wife was on the phone to our daughter,
who lived a few miles from where we were, asking for advice in finding a hotel.
Bingo! The Hi-Ho Hotel (who could possibly make up a name like that?) was indeed
accepting reservations from “personnel involved in essential services.” Thank
heaven, moving across the county is considered an essential activity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The rigmarole to get into this hotel was daunting. The Hi-Ho
is an automated facility. There are no employees on site. You make your
reservation online, and when you arrive at the Hi-Ho, there’s a number you call
to get your room number and the access code for the lock on the room door. The
room we got was 317, which meant lugging several thousand pounds of suitcases
up two flights of concrete stairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjayfBYJDwv3i1qUFyOrOgsat5RRjXY1At5utZOEJY5ZA4Q2gV-fRFFIE8GlOl4rhbXp6AFm3wkCHFLq2ev8BJDYp48C06nuysQVHsdP_eUsEhnzVl00k9t-PfBJ4SkaxMXhdzS_ILFB6A/s1600/BP+Hotel+Hi+Ho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="733" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjayfBYJDwv3i1qUFyOrOgsat5RRjXY1At5utZOEJY5ZA4Q2gV-fRFFIE8GlOl4rhbXp6AFm3wkCHFLq2ev8BJDYp48C06nuysQVHsdP_eUsEhnzVl00k9t-PfBJ4SkaxMXhdzS_ILFB6A/s320/BP+Hotel+Hi+Ho.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The room was bare-bones. Bed, TV, bathroom, and an eclectic
lounge chair straight out of 1968. Hippy chic. The TV allowed limited choices,
and we wound up watching a recording of that evening’s 6 PM news on WABC-TV New
York, followed by a recorded newscast from Permian, TX (???) so we called it a
night and went to sleep, thankful that we had a roof over our heads but with a
firm resolve to find a better hotel for tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We awoke around 7, showered, and set about the task of
finding lodging. I theorized that we might have better luck looking for a hotel
in Norwalk, which we’d gone through on the way to Bridgeport. I seemed to
remember there were a bunch of national-chain hotels visible from the highway
as we rolled past Norwalk early last evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The first call was to the Courtyard by Marriott hotel on
Main Avenue in Norwalk, and the young woman who answered, Miranda, was a
friendly and competent young woman. After we determined that they were in fact
open, and were in fact accepting reservations from “personnel involved in
essential activities,” I hit her with the key question. “Miranda, are you
actually in Norwalk, actually in the hotel?” She paused and said, “yes, I’m on
the phone at the check-in counter at the hotel in Norwalk.” Just had to be sure we weren't being led down the primrose path again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A half-hour later, following another tortuous session of
lugging suitcases down two flights of concrete stairs at the Hi-Ho and a quick jaunt west on
the Merritt Parkway, we met Miranda in the lobby of the Courtyard by Marriott
in Norwalk. "So you're the folks moving here from Wisconsin" she said. "Nice to meet you!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi75QOFb7eFtH14snunP_CcrOvMnObv5eAwENY1FUvLnd-lzq9CbPmpK6qAQec9gB0ncYW7bz_DN6Ur7TCQrPc3MAbTYZjZXib3POYDvqDEz8wKEQ6CkvYiXFVQle4jROeA-MvNIPdS1Zk/s1600/AAA+Hotel+in+Norwalk+CT+May+2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi75QOFb7eFtH14snunP_CcrOvMnObv5eAwENY1FUvLnd-lzq9CbPmpK6qAQec9gB0ncYW7bz_DN6Ur7TCQrPc3MAbTYZjZXib3POYDvqDEz8wKEQ6CkvYiXFVQle4jROeA-MvNIPdS1Zk/s320/AAA+Hotel+in+Norwalk+CT+May+2020.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The room was nice, clean, and had all we needed: a King-size
bed, a big TV, a nice couch and chair, a refrigerator, and a coffee maker. Nirvana.
This would be our base of operations for the next four days as we waited for
the moving van to arrive in Bridgeport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As we’d learned the evening before, things are locked down
pretty tight in the New York City metro. Hundreds of people were dying of the plague
every day in New York City at that time, and everybody was wearing masks and
gloves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Although we’d left Madison on April 28, the close of escrow
on the Compound was on May 6<sup>th</sup>. If you’re the seller, you need not
be present at the close, but you have to sign documents in front of a notary.
Our closing agent back in Madison made an appointment for us to meet a notary
at the hotel at 10 AM on Monday, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May 4<sup>th</sup>.
We’d sign the requisite paperwork, the notary would witness, and then overnight
the paperwork back to Madison.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A short time after I spoke with our closing agent, the
notary called. Her name was Dorothy, she’d be coming down to Norwalk from her
home a few miles away in Danbury with the appropriate papers. After we confirmed time and place,
Dorothy said “and, even though it goes without saying, I’ll expect both of you
to be wearing masks and gloves.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">During the plague, hotels operate quite differently. You
become your own housekeeper. They drop off clean linens and towels in front of
your door early in the morning; you change the bed and towels and put them back
in the plastic bag and set it outside your door. Hotel staff, such as it is,
does not enter your room. Small price to pay for good lodging.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNuJIV64pOKO_mHYZK_Tr2z2EZPKaAKf82sSkqF1p54g5OpKFsVoIF-Fz7bvwVbyMwvbPvQVouns7WueU7HKpM6MT5sWOPtjAHfxGRmaVgacW5_QXc5ABP6oNPuVwGVdJXtgMzH7Lpf4Y/s1600/BP+Norwalk+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1092" data-original-width="1520" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNuJIV64pOKO_mHYZK_Tr2z2EZPKaAKf82sSkqF1p54g5OpKFsVoIF-Fz7bvwVbyMwvbPvQVouns7WueU7HKpM6MT5sWOPtjAHfxGRmaVgacW5_QXc5ABP6oNPuVwGVdJXtgMzH7Lpf4Y/s320/BP+Norwalk+map.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The little blue “x” at the top of this photo marks our
hotel, Courtyard by Marriott. The main drag of Norwalk is, like most other
streets everywhere in the vast NYC metro, largely deserted. Norwalk is a city
of about a hundred thousand. It’s home to some huge multi-national
corporations, like Xerox, Pepperidge Farms, Frontier Communications, and many
others. There are huge new corporate office buildings lining the streets – some
of which you can see in the photo above – but they are now vacant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Going out for lunch or dinner means driving to one of the
few restaurants still open, waiting in line behind a whole lot of other cars,
and choosing from a limited menu. Very limited. And prices? Welcome to the New
York Metro. Two burgers, medium fries, large diet cola – fifteen dollars, please.
We stopped once at a Dunkin Donuts to get breakfast for the next morning. Three
donuts, five dollars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We’d expected our furniture to arrive on Tuesday morning,
May 5<sup>th</sup>, but our van driver called Monday night and said he’d been
delayed and would be there early Wednesday afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nothing we could do about it. We booked another night at the
hotel and crossed our fingers that we’d see our stuff and officially move in,
in Bridgeport, on Wednesday. And that’s what happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>(Stay tuned for the final installment, The New Place, which
will be posted tomorrow.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-39336486061373046132020-05-13T14:50:00.000-05:002020-05-18T13:22:54.029-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">THE GREAT ADVENTURE, Part One: SELLING THE COMPOUND</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrue15b6MvYk8q1Zs-SFLI6csrkHHElN070mq0Vd-Seeq7nMMGffzzAnD1lS_U7WzPsG6hz2D2gjq4sc1RQ-LjnvVbKdjiabUZrcDdba7M5lp0Qk0DubNGW3ruCm_LrT997o8d7Mkak70/s1600/703+Ocean+Road+Sept+2000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrue15b6MvYk8q1Zs-SFLI6csrkHHElN070mq0Vd-Seeq7nMMGffzzAnD1lS_U7WzPsG6hz2D2gjq4sc1RQ-LjnvVbKdjiabUZrcDdba7M5lp0Qk0DubNGW3ruCm_LrT997o8d7Mkak70/s320/703+Ocean+Road+Sept+2000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We knew, when we bought the house in 1998, that the day
would come when we’d sell it. We raised a family in that house. Five pets lived
with us throughout the years – three dogs and two cats, not counting three
years of hosting the guest cat – our son and daughter-in-law’s devil kitty, Zelda
– while our son spent three years overseas as an international auditor for the
firm that employed him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We celebrated birthdays, high school graduations, college
graduations, and anniversaries in the home which we dubbed “The Morrissey
Compound.” (OK, I gave it that name, but it stuck. The genesis of the nickname
is a story for another day, and, not surprisingly, it involves alcohol.) We had
lots of family gatherings, parties, and get-togethers with friends at the
Compound. My wife and I spent a lot of memorable evenings lounging in the hot
tub on the upper-level deck off the master suite. We loved our beautiful home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, it’s someone else’s house, and my bride and I have
decamped to a “luxury apartment” in Bridgeport, Connecticut, eight blocks from
the ocean. Well, Long Island Sound, to be exact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For a long span, from 2009 until 2018, the Compound was also
my workplace. I built a radio studio in my huge office space and did news
reports for a national online news service for 9 of those 10 years. Like many
others, I stitched together a combination of gigs to keep the money rolling in,
and served my clients with writing and editing services, voicing news reports,
and managing social media. On the last day of September, 2018, I allowed my
last contract expire, and I pulled the plug on work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As anyone who’s lived long enough can tell you, things don’t
always work out the way you’ve planned. My bride planned to retire on her 65<sup>th</sup>
birthday, in July of 2019, and she did. Our daughter plotted and schemed with
her mother to lure us to coastal Connecticut after our retirement, so she could
keep an eye on us in our “old age.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With that in mind, we figured the sale of the Compound and
move to the east coast would happen probably in the summer of 2022. How did we
arrive at that estimation? It was loosely based on what we thought would be the
life span of our younger collie.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In 2006, after our faithful Sheltie crossed the rainbow
bridge, we got a purebred collie puppy which I named “Shadow.” She turned out
to be the best dog ever. Smart, energetic, obedient, loyal and loving, Shadow patrolled
the vast expanse of the back yard at the Compound, keeping the squirrels, deer,
and wild turkeys at bay.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In 2010, we got Shadow a companion: another purebred collie,
which my wife named Sunny (see what she did there? Shadow – and Sunny). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKVpeupyvUDvTwsEsVV7n5VyiA560a_FZXsL_3PNvMUIx0SBi-Ybq-q4CqargXl9nDTZX4wl_jIvclgcbbGethuRJvkdg3mc7st2Ga-E8CsiIEIwj7jDk7_QG1eU5VQ7l4dULpdcIjho/s1600/Shadow+and+Sunny+full+size+together+girls+late+summer+2018.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKVpeupyvUDvTwsEsVV7n5VyiA560a_FZXsL_3PNvMUIx0SBi-Ybq-q4CqargXl9nDTZX4wl_jIvclgcbbGethuRJvkdg3mc7st2Ga-E8CsiIEIwj7jDk7_QG1eU5VQ7l4dULpdcIjho/s320/Shadow+and+Sunny+full+size+together+girls+late+summer+2018.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In the picture above, Sunny is on the left and Shadow is on
the right. The two were best friends, inseparable, literally living their lives
shoulder-to-shoulder. Shadow passed away three days after New Year’s Day 2019, having
lived a full and wonderful life. Since Sunny was two years Shadow’s junior, we
figured she’d have a similar lifespan and would likely be with us until late 2021
or early 2022.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We wanted Sunny, who had never slept a night anywhere other
than at the Compound since the day we brought her home, to live out her days with
us, free to roam the expansive back yard and end her days at the Compound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But that was not to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Scant weeks after Shadow passed on, Sunny fell victim to an
extremely aggressive form of pancreatic cancer, and she drew her last breath
literally at my feet in the living room of the Compound in early February,
2019.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At this time, my bride was fewer than six months from joining me in
retirement, and suddenly our retirement plans changed. With Sunny gone, there
was no longer a reason for us to keep living in the spacious home we’d owned
for 20 years. We adjusted the timetable and decided to sell the home and move
east in the spring of 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After my wife’s retirement party on August 1, we set about preparing the
Compound for sale in the spring market. We hired tradesmen to spruce things up,
to put a fresh coat of paint on all the interior walls, to replace many of the
fixtures to give the Compound a more modern feel. We replaced the entire
kitchen and dining room floor. We donated tons of furniture we wouldn’t need
after the move to Habitat for Humanity. We had electricians come in and make
sure everything was code-correct. We spent 25 grand bringing everything up to snuff. Or so we thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjB5wXR3jWSpKNcf0ZMAYtlKSlqVO0BSzSYNnZjjOpx8hs31OsV99EMnOmaBoEGCV8UKXlY6N82Te257kZXoSoPa3SthWg65zZreYun13_5FsC-17laB0K6VtItEk54YNB0jEX7KXFlA/s1600/BP+703+Interior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1022" data-original-width="1600" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjB5wXR3jWSpKNcf0ZMAYtlKSlqVO0BSzSYNnZjjOpx8hs31OsV99EMnOmaBoEGCV8UKXlY6N82Te257kZXoSoPa3SthWg65zZreYun13_5FsC-17laB0K6VtItEk54YNB0jEX7KXFlA/s320/BP+703+Interior.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The place looked good; almost like new. In November, we
hired the realtor who’d sold our neighbor’s home the prior summer and had earned rave
reviews from our erstwhile neighbors. We thought maybe we’d put the home up for
sale in April, but his advice – which turned out to be prescient – was to list
it for sale ASAP, which turned out to be the first week of March.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He advised us to price the home at the low end of the
spectrum to create a bidding war, and that’s exactly what happened. Within 48
hours we had five offers – all substantially above asking price. We countered what
we considered the best three of the five offers. All three came back with an
even higher bid. We accepted an offer that was three thousand dollars below the
highest offer. That was because this particular offer contained two of the most
powerful words in real estate: ALL CASH. On March 6<sup>th</sup> the deal, for
all intents and purposes, was done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then the plague hit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Suddenly, restaurants and bars were closed. We were told to
shelter in place. And suddenly, our ALL CASH buyer had a lot more leverage.
Real estate sales fell through the cellar. The father of our buyer is a real
estate agent in Chicago, and he went to work on us with a chain saw. He hired
the most picky inspector in the world. After the inspection report, it was a
litany of “replace this, repair that, fix this thing, fix that thing”. The cost
of this unnecessary repair/replace BS was twenty thousand dollars. On top of the 25 grand we'd already spent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our realtor said, in essence, bend over. He told us if we
didn’t acquiesce to this jerk’s unreasonable demand, daddy – the man with the
money - would tell his son to back out of the offer and it might take as long
as a year to find another buyer, at a lower price, because of the horribly
unfair inspection and the ever-worsening pandemic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What had been an easy, quick sale had become a nightmare. We
clenched our jaws, took the additional 20-thousand-dollar hit, and moved on with our
lives. The close was on May 6<sup>th</sup>, a week after we’d left Madison for
good. We signed the papers in front of a notary in our hotel on May 5<sup>th</sup>
and the money was in the bank on May 7<sup>th</sup>. The nightmare was finally
over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For months, we thought we’d cry like babies when we pulled
out of the driveway at the Compound for the last time. We feared the many
wonderful memories we’d made there with our children and pets would cascade through our minds and we’d be
sobbing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But, at the end, at high noon on April 28<sup>th</sup>, after the moving
van was packed and headed east and we’d done the final walk-through to make
sure nothing we wanted was left behind, we loaded our suitcases into our car,
rolled slowly down the driveway, and stopped in front of the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Neither of us was crying. My wife took a photo with her
iPhone, posted it to Facebook with the caption “Bye, old friend. We’re off to
Connecticut.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hit the gas and we headed east.<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>(To be continued in the next post, coming soon, titled “Road
Trip.”)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-43006848190621442702019-02-01T09:11:00.001-06:002019-02-01T09:11:48.954-06:00We Have To Do Better Than This<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP3dXp_8qHFlQNuq1B3WJ8Z3XuQSEGoHJrDGVDfWuio-HxiwyhvnEnXkxhbYZ7Gne-R9Hg08EcaFvc_q2JrL-12wxG7QWWaOSW6xXhm4iAmMbWOeT4cbgB6QuTAPWRrYPPdrl51QueMo/s1600/BP+Vos+Fitz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="1107" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP3dXp_8qHFlQNuq1B3WJ8Z3XuQSEGoHJrDGVDfWuio-HxiwyhvnEnXkxhbYZ7Gne-R9Hg08EcaFvc_q2JrL-12wxG7QWWaOSW6xXhm4iAmMbWOeT4cbgB6QuTAPWRrYPPdrl51QueMo/s320/BP+Vos+Fitz.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The guy on the left is Robin Vos, the Republican leader of
the state assembly. On the right is Scott Fitzgerald, the Republican leader of
the state senate. When Scott Walker was governor, the trio ran the state just like
Tony Soprano and his crew ran north Jersey. They made the rules, they drew the
maps, they ruled the roost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unlike the Soprano crime family, Vos and Fitzgerald were
duly elected by the voters. And I think it’s high time the voters in their
districts un-elected them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not too long ago, a UW Professor, Kathy Cramer, researched
and wrote a book about the huge political division in Wisconsin. She called the
book The Politics of Resentment. It’s full of actual interviews with Wisconsin
voters, and the opinions and comments of rural ‘sconnies reveal their
resentment of people who live in Madison and Milwaukee. Government bureaucrats
or librul college profs, all of them, or so the falsehood goes</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cramer’s research revealed that rural Wisconsinites by and
large believe a broad and false narrative that government workers are
incompetent, lazy, and undeserving of their paychecks. Scott Walker seized that
falsehood, amplified it, weaponized it, and won three statewide elections – two
for Governor, one beating a recall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the last election, when ‘sconnies voted for a change
of leadership, Vos and Fitzgerald immediately played that old
resentment/division song again the next morning, whining that if it wasn’t for
Madison and Milwaukee, their man Walker would have won.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If it wasn’t for Madison and Milwaukee, there wouldn’t BE a
Wisconsin, boys. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So Vos and Fitz cooked up a special session to try and take
away as much power as possible from the office of Governor of Wisconsin, and to
try once again – and fail once again – to disenfranchise as many ‘sconnie
voters as they could.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now comes news that the Foxconn people are backing even
farther away from the promises they made about what they’re going to do for
Wisconsin. They haven’t come close to hitting their job creation promises and
have announced fundamental changes to their plans for the state. Respected
financial journals are now universally casting a gimlet eye on the Foxconn deal.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few days ago, news broke that Foxconn isn’t going to build
hi-tech flat screen devices in Wisconsin, and instead of a manufacturing facility,
they’re thinking about a “technology hub” or some sort of think-tank
campus-like development. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gee, technology is a rapidly changing business? Who knew?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hours after the grim announcement from Foxconn’s Taiwan
headquarters, Vos and Fitz were out with a statement saying the reason for this
retrenchment is the election of our new governor. Tony Evers’ election has
brought economic uncertainty to the state, say Vos and Fitz, and that’s their
reason why the Foxconn deal is on the verge of becoming the biggest taxpayer
swindle in American history. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Moments after Vos and Fitz released their statement blaming
Tony Evers, the politics of division/resentment kicked in, and Walker loyalists
were Tweeting and re-Tweeting the blame on Evers, and posting snarky stuff on
Facebook.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sooner or later – and I hope it’s sooner – the voters who
elect Vos and Fitz are going to tire of the constant resentment and division
preached by Vos, Fitz, and their ilk. They’ll look for and support a different
kind of politician, one whose stock-in-trade is not fear, hatred, and division.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have to do better. We deserve better.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-55207463321881527002018-10-10T10:31:00.002-05:002018-10-10T10:31:59.277-05:00A Modest Proposal (Which Would Probably Never Work)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnePpXv5GQdNTnUc6zk639MwNJPVELucv1X32LPYCUndGvlASr9xL8J2WtUVfWcnVshP0KUkZPR3MzUWv31CRdOERVeLxdNi6efHtyOjbBC8PX9lL-mG0LAUF6KEfLcw_8MZ8-rnl2P8/s1600/BP+Severe+Weather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="750" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnePpXv5GQdNTnUc6zk639MwNJPVELucv1X32LPYCUndGvlASr9xL8J2WtUVfWcnVshP0KUkZPR3MzUWv31CRdOERVeLxdNi6efHtyOjbBC8PX9lL-mG0LAUF6KEfLcw_8MZ8-rnl2P8/s320/BP+Severe+Weather.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With all the technology that exists today, there must be
some way to provide TV viewers who don’t care to sit through marathon local TV
coverage of severe weather and would rather see the program being pre-empted by
the live storm coverage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Many of the local TV stations that provide live severe
weather coverage have at their disposal auxiliary channels – which usually have
far lower viewership than their main channel – to which the interrupted
programming could be switched. Viewers could be told, either by a “crawl” on
the bottom of the screen or by mentions during the severe weather coverage by
the meteorologists and news people who are providing the live coverage, that
the interrupted programming could be seen on their alternate channel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Case on point: yesterday afternoon’s bout of severe storms
which hit north and west of Madison. The local live coverage pre-empted the
popular game show “Jeopardy” on WMTV-15 in Madison, and the folks at Channel 15
got an earful of complaints from callers and on the station’s social media
platforms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Listen, friends: as a retired broadcaster, I can tell you
that you’re not going to change the minds of the news managers and meteorologists
at these stations. They’re going to interrupt programming to do live severe
weather coverage, period, end of sentence. They see it as a critical mission to
keep their viewers informed when there’s dangerous weather around, and they’re
not going to be dissuaded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just wish that for those of us who don’t care to sit
through the extended weather coverage, there would be a method whereby we could
continue watching Jeopardy. Or whichever show is being interrupted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, I suspect my proposal is fraught with all sorts of
legal issues. In the specific case of yesterday afternoon, I’m guessing that
Channel 15 couldn’t just switch Jeopardy over to CW, another local channel owned by the same company that owns Channel 15. And I suppose the lawyers would
holler if NBC-15 would say “during this live severe weather coverage, Jeopardy
is being streamed live on our website, NBC15-dot-com.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We’re fortunate in Madison to have a great collection of
seasoned professional meteorologists providing excellent, knowledgeable,
authoritative severe weather coverage. I’m honored to say that some of these
folks – like Gary Cannalte at Channel 3 – have been personal friends for decades. They're very, very good at what they do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But when the severe weather is 50 miles away and not headed
toward me, I selfishly wish that there was a way I could see the program being
interrupted, instead of the radar-indicated tornadoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ll take “Alternative TV Coverage” for 400 dollars, Alex…….</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-53471259685235275962018-07-02T10:59:00.000-05:002018-07-02T10:59:00.881-05:00Sunny's Week Of Hell<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wr9CkIbwGpMQQyt3PpRpEuEc-uy5eateAi7EGpH-XTlzpH8s8J-eQ17LV3LFXMWleCLNBw-mRFVmXdl0PpSh1DRHvNApQjKMvjUj-8NmbojTeMyhm6z8F02gE_UeovTwc76w7cTT-_Y/s1600/SS+June+2016+Sunny+and+Ellia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="1600" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wr9CkIbwGpMQQyt3PpRpEuEc-uy5eateAi7EGpH-XTlzpH8s8J-eQ17LV3LFXMWleCLNBw-mRFVmXdl0PpSh1DRHvNApQjKMvjUj-8NmbojTeMyhm6z8F02gE_UeovTwc76w7cTT-_Y/s320/SS+June+2016+Sunny+and+Ellia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sunny, seen above with our granddaughter in a 2016 photo, is
the sweetest and gentlest dog you’ll ever meet. She’s a show-winning purebred Blue
Merle Collie who we rescued from the show circuit in 2010. She can be a fierce
protector of our yard, keeping the squirrels and chipmunks and turkeys and
various other wildlife at bay, barking at them and chasing them. But with
humans, Sunny is the kindest dog around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This week, the week of our Independence Day celebration, is
Sunny’s week in hell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sunny is scared to death of fireworks. She hides, scratches
the floor or carpet with her right front paw, hyperventilates, and paces. Her
older sister (actually, half-sister) Shadow, our other Collie, isn’t bothered
by the unpredictable loud booms. But the noise really gets to Sunny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I understand some people want to indulge their propensity to
make loud and unpleasant noises on the 4<sup>th</sup> of July, but for the past
several years, some of our exurban neighbors have taken it to the extreme. They
buy professional-grade fireworks like aerial bombs and cherry bomb mortars and
set them off all night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not just on Independence Day, but, since it falls on a
Wednesday this year, they’ve assaulted us with their explosive devices starting
the weekend before and will continue every night through the weekend after the
4<sup>th</sup>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUhBtJsy_bS3L4-PkqCK94QUL1c2r0hIeuGcfYmrDqdQ2ifATzJd4RnLrbRurZufbpu86MYiNC5SfulafklU57ieRBzn3tX5f4bCe9PB_osMQF-lTuq-zJDTsS7kvQFh6mQwYP930O4c/s1600/SS+June+2016+Sunny+nice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1147" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUhBtJsy_bS3L4-PkqCK94QUL1c2r0hIeuGcfYmrDqdQ2ifATzJd4RnLrbRurZufbpu86MYiNC5SfulafklU57ieRBzn3tX5f4bCe9PB_osMQF-lTuq-zJDTsS7kvQFh6mQwYP930O4c/s320/SS+June+2016+Sunny+nice.jpg" width="229" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our township has noise ordinances and rules about fireworks
that go into the air, but the cops won’t enforce the laws. I understand lax
enforcement on the 4<sup>th</sup>, but – 10 nights of aerial bombardment from 9
PM to 1 or 2 AM? Please. I’ve called the cops and given them the exact addresses
of the three “launching pads” within a few blocks of our home, but – no joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last year our veterinarian gave us some “doggie Prozac” to
use in calming her down, but the stuff, even at the lowest dose, knocked her
for a loop. One dose made her sleep so soundly I worried about her respiration
and made her loopy the entire next day. She could barely stand 16 hours after
the dose was administered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We haven’t tried the thundershirt, because reviews from
actual users on Collie discussion boards are split 50-50. Half swear by them,
half say the expensive garment did no good. Maybe buying one and trying it is
our next step.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Channel 15 in Madison did a great TV story with a war
veteran who suffers from PTSD, and how the fireworks affect people like him. I can’t
find it on their website or I’d give you a link.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you’re one of those people who loves to blow things up
and make loud noises, just please be aware that all of us do not share your joy
in these things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-89331649557742444452018-04-26T10:57:00.001-05:002018-04-26T10:57:37.600-05:00HDDTTWA<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbCEygwhySpWlZjwlK3h5FE-6gexcxcXmw1IdNnLxKiOfRBeZCGWoMjRea3PcqW2Y8CSssA44d6DLUdI5dJP5cbYXZW-euat-1idjUbipIcksgA1IA655hyEFE5YImt07fSegNVMEEmw/s1600/BP+Empty+Head.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbCEygwhySpWlZjwlK3h5FE-6gexcxcXmw1IdNnLxKiOfRBeZCGWoMjRea3PcqW2Y8CSssA44d6DLUdI5dJP5cbYXZW-euat-1idjUbipIcksgA1IA655hyEFE5YImt07fSegNVMEEmw/s1600/BP+Empty+Head.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Years ago, before the period of media newsroom devouring, my
friend George Hesselberg would occasionally devote his column in the Wisconsin
State Journal to a HDDTTWA topic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The letters stand for “How Dumb Do They Think
We Are?” and, in his inimitable style, George would relate an example of a
person or company or institution that was trying to pull the wool over our
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I recently jettisoned one of my two day-jobs, a job which
required me to use a land-line to get higher quality audio recordings (news interviews) than you typically
get with a cell phone. When I made the call to the company (initials AT&T)
to cancel my land-line, I came prepared for the same kind of HDDTTWA runaround
I got from them about 15 years ago, when everyone in our house had a cell phone
so there was no need of a land-line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I called to cancel the landline. They told me it would be
cancelled the next day and that I’d get a “final” bill. Of course, it didn’t
happen. A month later, after I’d paid the “final” bill, I got another bill, and
discovered the land-line was still active.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I called them to say WTF, the lady exclaimed “oh – your
cancellation didn’t go through!” I told her that if it “failed to go through”
this time, I’d refer the matter to the fraud division of the state consumer
protection department – knowing full well that companies as large as the one in
question have no fear whatsoever of such agencies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast-forward to March of 2018. This time, when I called to cancel
the land-line, I recorded the conversation. I even warned the nice young lady
that I was recording the call. She assured me the land-line would be cancelled
immediately, that it would be disconnected within 24 hours, and even asked me
what kind of message I wanted people who called it to hear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few days ago, when the land-line was still connected, and
another monthly bill arrived, I called the company again. This time the guy on
the line assured me that they had no record of any call cancelling the service,
and that every time someone from the company discussed anything with me about
my service, a “digital fingerprint” would be on my file, and there was no such
fingerprint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I asked him if he wanted to hear my conversation with his
colleague a month ago, when I was assured the line was cancelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Long pause.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I said “perhaps you should connect me with someone in a
management or supervisory capacity”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Suffice to say that about 20 seconds after I began playing the recorded
conversation to him, he caved. Said the matter would be taken care of
immediately, gave me a “cancellation confirmation number”, and, long story
short, it’s disconnected and I’ve paid the “final, final” bill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They think we’re pretty dumb.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-573188106264061392.post-46879296040292448852018-04-12T10:44:00.002-05:002018-04-12T10:44:28.294-05:00There’s Retired, And Then There’s RETIRED<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0l5BzBtMTt1LytXKf-KcxPqaxMbWodwYn93WPs90THC3rbrl0her3p68KFmn5VN5YDxkxcYFkdjnddQh_I5VjtTD5mUyC2hHTDfphqqtXAexrz-tupDbTWHyEI_wWxoFJ6Eqo79wonE/s1600/BP+Paul+Ryan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0l5BzBtMTt1LytXKf-KcxPqaxMbWodwYn93WPs90THC3rbrl0her3p68KFmn5VN5YDxkxcYFkdjnddQh_I5VjtTD5mUyC2hHTDfphqqtXAexrz-tupDbTWHyEI_wWxoFJ6Eqo79wonE/s320/BP+Paul+Ryan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Paul Ryan isn’t retiring. He’s not running for re-election.
Big difference. My guess is he’s not even retiring from politics. I’ll bet he will soon become
another highly-overpaid lobbyist. And maybe he’ll accept an invitation to a
corporate board or two, to add a few million dollars to his annual earnings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m retired. Not capital-R retired, but I’m down to one
personal services contract that keeps me off the streets and keeps my mind
active. I’m going to be 69 in a few weeks, and I’m counting the days until my
child-bride retires. Capital-R retires. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At age 48, Paul Ryan probably could actually capital-R
retire, but I don’t think that’s likely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For my friends from out of state who follow politics, you
may or may not be aware that it’s quite likely that Ryan would not be
re-elected in Wisconsin’s First Congressional District. For one thing, Ryan has
served well the interests of the Koch Brothers in Washington, but as for the
folks in Janesville and the eastern part of the 1<sup>st</sup> WI District –
not so much. That fellow with the hard hat and prominent moustache is looking
more and more likely to win that election, no matter who he faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not a historian and I don’t know how the historians will
write Paul Ryan’s chapter. I’ll remember Ryan as a failed candidate for Vice
President, and a failed Ayn Rand acolyte who leaves office with a trillion-dollar
nation debt as his heritage. How ironic, for someone who billed himself as a
policy-wonk fiscal conservative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will say this: Ryan is gettin’ our while the gettin’ is
still sorta good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There’s a storm a’comin’.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Tim Morrisseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00457723301178870851noreply@blogger.com33