Journalism 101

I'm not God's gift to journalism, that's for sure. I was a professional broadcast journalist for most of my adult life. Certainly, my judgment on many occasions could legitimately have been called into question. I did pass several journalism classes in college, though. I also attended several seminars about news assignments, ethics and that kind of thing along the way.
One of the fundamentals of journalism, which is so fundamental that it has become cliche, goes something like this: Dog bites Man: not news. Man bites Dog: news. The idea is that if it's unusual, it might be defined as news. Look back on how that piece of advice starts: Dog bites Man: Not News. Comedy Central even produced a series called "Dog Bites Man."

And yet, on Wednesday a local television station actually aired a story about a mailman getting bitten by a dog.
I would have enjoyed witnessing the editorial meeting in which the decision was made not only to put a reporter on this story, but to tease it during prime time. According to the story, the mail carrier is not seriously hurt and the dog was properly confined in its yard. The reporter who presented this piece to the viewers is usually excellent and seems to enjoy a positive reputation. I'm guessing that he was pressured by a young producer to turn nothing into something. I'm guessing he's not happy about it.
I saw this and shortly thereafter realized I was actually scratching my head. Maybe I have fleas, but I don't think so.

Sphere: Related Content

Happy Anniversary to Daddy D.

An inauspicious occasion passed without notice this month, as inauspicious occasions have a tendency to do.
The first post to Daddy D's Storytime was February 7, 2006. Thanks to the tens of you who have visited over the past year. Please come back more often. I'll try to be better about picking up the pace.
A special thanks to Oregonian father of infant twins Matt Workman for inspiring the blog.
Thanks to local CPA Joel Thomas for naming Daddy D.
Y'all come back now, hear?

-DR

Sphere: Related Content

Feel the Pinch

The middle-age pinch is really getting to me, and I’m not talking about my waistband. Here’s the playbill:

1) 17-year-old son.
2) 15-year-old daughter.
3) 80-year-old father.
4) 40-something year old lovely darling spouse.
5) 60-year-old chronically ill unmarried half brother.

Where shall I begin to tell the story of the family related stress I presently endure?
Someone asked me what I was like as a teenager and if I’m experiencing payback. Don’t ask my older brother, because he will just let loose with some sinister smart aleck guttural laugh which indicates an utter inability to put his feelings into words. Of course, that just may be him. My son is one of the smartest kids you’ll ever meet. He’s a deep thinker who wears his feelings not only on his sleeve but from head to toe. He’s one step ahead of us at all times, and naturally his mother and I don’t know what we’re talking about. If I can just convince him to maintain his truly amazing grade point average and get into a nice college, we’ll be okay. Believe everything you have ever heard about teenagers.

This brings us to our daughter. As Daddy D has shared with the vast blogosphere several times, she and her friends really are the light of my life. I feel things turning, though. Example: Last night, her mother and I picked her up from the health club. Her mom asked, “Did you swim?” One might expect a yes or no answer, maybe a detail about how many laps she swam. But, no, we got “Is my hair wet?” Implied in there, of course, is “you idiots.” Believe everything you have ever heard about teenagers.

My father is just plain old. There’s no getting around it. He lives alone. He still drives. He’s self sufficient, and I’m happy about that. However, he has shown a tendency recently to fall down. Old person + falling down = broken hip. This leads to rehab, nursing home, and God knows what else. Nobody wants that! So, I suggest maybe a walker or a scooter. Nope. It seems the walker would be worse, because he says if he falls on the walker he could break a rib or something. Then, he added this little zinger: “I’m not helpless yet.” Thank you.

My wife is magnificent, a saint. Ask anyone who knows her. However, there’s this little thing called menopause. I lived through it with my mother and I vowed never to live through it again. So much for vows. When you add recalcitrant, know-it-all teenagers in with a pre-menopausal woman, you have an emotional inferno.

I’m stress eating. I’m gaining wait. I’m feeling the pinch. Help me.

Sphere: Related Content

The Crew Is Seriously Sick

Always on the cutting edge of breaking news, the local media reports today that there is a confirmed case of meningitis at a local high school. Here's the thing: the girl in question is home, out of the hospital and out of danger. I know this because the stricken teenager is a charter member of "my crew," the group of girls introduced to you by Daddy D a couple of weeks ago.
The young woman in question woke up in our house on a recent Sunday morning and was not herself. She was pale and lethargic. She was also hot to the touch. I took her temperature with a digital thermometer, and it registered 104! I don't know a lot, but I know that's dangerous at any age.
This disease can be fatal. We are closely associated with a family who lost a child to it several years ago. So, its presence at a local high school is legitimate news. This girl spent a few days in intensive care. The school sent out written notices and e-mails to parents explaining symptoms and offering advice. I consulted a physician who specializes in infectious diseases and took his recommendation. All the girls who were in our house that night immediately were prescribed antibiotics, and no one else has been stricken.
I really didn't see this coming. I knew her fever was alarmingly high, but I was kidding around with her. I remember saying, "gosh, we may have to pack you in ice." She didn't laugh. She has a tendency to be silly, so it became even more obvious that she just wasn't herself. Intensive care is just that. We'll spare the details, but let's just say she was uncomfortable for a while. We visited her several times and I can tell you that was a sick little girl. It was encouraging to hear that she expressed disappointment about missing the two major Mardi Gras parades in town. That tells me she's feeling much better. At least she's thinking about friends and parties again.
The friends are recovering emotionally. This hit some of them hard, and it wasn't in a teenage drama queen way. Given the fact that most of them know a child who lost a sibling to this same disease, they were legitimately concerned. Now that everything seems to be okay, it's nice to know they have a clear capacity for empathy. A lot of teens are self-centered by nature. I'm confident that they will become demanding and occasionally recalcitrant again soon. For a few days, they rallied around their friends' plight. They brought gifts, made cards and spent an extraordinary amount of time in her hospital room. They expressed love and showed true friendship. Naturally, her parents, sisters and other relatives rallied around her, as well.
Our ailing friend has a lot of work to do. She has missed a couple of weeks of school and she's still not fully recovered. She is out of danger, though, and she learned that she is surrounded by people who love her. Something positive will come out of this experience and she will perhaps be a stronger, more confident person because of it.

Sphere: Related Content

Anticipating Madness

March will soon arrive and all good sports fans will be expected to talk about basketball. The NCAA Tournament has become some kind of rite of spring. It commands our attention. Sixty-five teams from colleges across the country are invited in and every one has an opportunity, if not a legitimate chance, to win a national championship. Each game, each basket, each turnover is magnified because when a team loses a game, its season in finished. There are no second chances in the NCAA’s.
This event has grown on its own merits, but also has benefited from one of the most successful marketing campaigns in media history. A little alliteration goes a long way, it seems. “March Madness” and “March Mayhem” have become household catchphrases. Accompanied by a deep-voiced man booming it through your TV speakers with a background of up-tempo horns and video clips showing fantastic finishes, the allure is unmistakable. Television does a commendable job of showcasing the most compelling games and playing up the underdog storylines. It’s not so difficult to generate enthusiasm for an event which has at its base stories of success and inspiration.
All good sports fans do talk about basketball in March, but so do non-sports fans. That’s another reason this event has become part of the American fabric. It carries on for weeks and basically commands our attention. Why? Great sport certainly helps, but it’s gambling that has caused folks to tape open their eyelids and pay attention. The legal, conventional wagering in places like Las Vegas is dizzying. The amount of money bet on the internet and offshore is staggering. Gamblers are gamblers and this is just part of a routine year for them. It’s what happens among people who know who Bobby Brady is but couldn’t pick out a photo of John Brady that sets this thing apart.
Chances are a bracket will show up in front you. Someone you know, perhaps in your office, will start a contest. “Fill out a bracket,” you’ll be urged. “Even if you don’t know about basketball, it’s a lot of fun.” You might be compelled to throw ten dollars into and envelope in the hope of winning hundreds. Only the media elite can pretend to know something significant about every team in the tournament. I dare say no one has seen every team play. So, this bracket business becomes a big lottery. The lure of easy money is real. The desire to fit in, to participate in something with friends or co-workers, compels us to take a chance with our ten-spot. This is like Super Bowl squares on steroids. The process goes on and on, giving people something pedestrian to talk about. If you choose not to participate, you run the risk of being something of an outcast. Everyone’s invited to the party; sometimes you just need to ask if you can come in.
Whether or not it’s a good idea, the tournament brings us together. Troubles are set aside for a moment as we discuss how last night’s buzzer beater became a bracket buster. A flurry of e-mails with updated standings cuts into office productivity. Somebody’s elementary school kid will be in first place in your bracket contest after the first two rounds, and you find yourself pulling for the kid because you know he can use the money. He won’t win because his picks have no basis in reason. He’s an elementary school kid, after all. Instead, some friend of a friend of a co-worker who’s an Alabama alumnus will hit the jackpot and you’ll be disgusted for a half-day. In a couple of weeks you may not remember who won the national championship. Next March, we’ll do it all again. Is it Madness? You be the judge.

Sphere: Related Content

What's New Since 1980? Not Much

I called my father today. It was a regular check-in, "How ya doin'?" kind of weekend call. He's 80, so he doesn't get out as much as he used to. The first time I called, he was napping (of course). Old people are like dogs in a lot of ways. If they run out of things to do, they'll just nap. I kind of envy it. I called him later and asked "What are you doing now?" He said, "watching TV" I asked what he was watching. He said "Bonanza." Bonanza! It's Super Bowl Sunday and he's watching Ben, Hoss and Little Joe.

This really comes as no surprise to me. About ten years ago, while we were building a house, we stayed with him for a few weeks. It dawned on me then that he does not watch any television show produced after about 1980. He pushes the envelope a little by catching late-season reruns of "Dallas" on TV Land, but that's about as far as he will go. He has no awareness of the current hot TV shows. He's never seen American Idol or Lost or Desperate Housewives. Don't get me started about any of the Law & Orders or CSI's. He's not into any kind of comedy or reality shows. Jerry Seinfeld? Never heard of him.
This man is a huge fan of Country & Western music. I wanted to take him to see "Walk the Line," the Johnny Cash-June Carter biopic. He asked me, "Do Johnny & June play in it?" I said, "No. Johnny Cash is dead." He wasn't interested. The only current TV production he will watch is a boxing match. Even then, he prefers old fights from the 70's he can dig up on his satellite dish. I am intimately familiar with his viewing habits not only because I stayed there a while and learned more than I ever wanted to know about J.R , Bobby, Sue Ellen and Pam, but also because I have programmed the Wish Lists on his TiVo.
James Gandolfini? Who's that?
Did I say TiVo? Yes, the flip side of this man and his enigmatic entertainment tastes is that he may be the only 80-year-old in Louisiana with a TiVo and XM satellite radio. Of course, his XM is on one channel: 13 (Hank's Place...country music no more current that about 1970). At least he's consistent.

I asked him recently why he watches the same shows over and over again and doesn't start with anything current. He said he doesn't know any of the actors. I asked how he can get to know them if he doens't watch. He just shrugged. The other day, he was flipping through the channels and ran across All My Children on ABC. There's a character on the show named Adam. My dad said, "Say, isn't that old Candy from Bonanza?" I looked up David Canary's roles, and I'll be damned. It certainly was.

I wonder when we start to get like this. My wife's grandfather, in his 80's and 90's, wouldn't watch new shows, either. He got by with Lawrence Welk like my dad does with Lorne Greene and Larry Hagman. I have a buddy at work who refuses to upgrade his TV to HD, even though he can well afford it. He steadfastly maintains he's happy with his Trinitron. He loves a good football game, but doesn't have time for any TV shows. He said he keeps his radio tuned to the 70's channel on XM where he can listen to songs by great lyricists like Steve Miller. This guy and I are the same age, so that alarms me a little.
Come see me in thirty years or so. However we're being entertained, I'll probably still be watching Seinfeld reruns. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Sphere: Related Content

Foster Gets Mainstream Media

As noted here a few days ago, my old buddy Dave Foster has a new anchoring job in Nashville. Here's how the Nashville newspaper reported on it Friday:
Please note the other Shreveport connection here. News Director Ken Smith is a former KTBS producer.

Friday, 02/02/07
Foster named Ch. 17 sports anchor
By MIKE ORGAN
Staff Writer (Nashville Tennesseean)

Dave Foster returned to his hometown a little more than a year ago and is now set to return to the air as the weekend sports anchor at WZTV-17.
Foster grew up in Nashville, then moved with his family to Franklin, where he had attended high school. After spending more than 10 years as a sports broadcaster at two different stations in Shreveport, La., Foster returned to Nashville in December 2005 as the assignment manager at WZTV.

When Amy Fadool submitted her resignation as the Fox affiliate's weekend sports anchor in the fall, Foster decided to explore the possibility of moving back into sports.
"I had been wanting to come back to Nashville for a while; I wanted to get back toward my family," Foster said. "And then this job opened up, so I threw my hat in. I had some experience and loved the sports around here. I grew up watching all the teams around here as a kid so I'm looking forward to it, it's going to be exciting."
After playing football at Franklin, Foster graduated from the University of Tennessee in 1993 with a broadcasting degree.
A new market
Along with wanting to be reunited with his family, Foster said he started getting the itch to return home when Nashville began landing pro franchises — first the Titans and then the Predators.
"I went off to Louisiana around 1994, and for the sports market there's been a huge difference since I've been gone," Foster said. "I am looking forward to working with the pro teams, but I also still enjoy the local colleges and high schools. I went to the University of Tennessee, so I am a big SEC fan."
WZTV news editor Ken Smith said it always is a benefit when a station is able to hire talent with local ties.
"He comes in, and unlike most people he already knows so much about the area," Smith said. "He knows who the coach at MTSU is; he went to the University of Tennessee, it's a big plus for us."

Sphere: Related Content

Saban Digs His Hole Deeper

Nick Saban, a virtual enemy of the state, has given people in Louisiana another reason to dislike him. He used the term "coonass," and somebody recorded it. Wednesday, Saban issued an apology. My father is from Avoyelles Parish and speaks with a distinct accent. Some of his older brothers had much thicker cajun affectations, and I can easily slip into the distinctive rhythms of South Louisiana-speak myself. As a child, other kids often referred to me as "coonass," and I didnt think much of it. Of course, in the 60's and 70's a lot of other racial/etchnic perjoratives were used without a lot of thought. In the politically correct 21st century, the term seems insensitive at best. Really, it has no positive connotation.
Surely Saban should know better than to use a slur, even in casual conversation. He is alert enough to realize his name is mud among many coonasses because he accepted the head coaching position at one of LSU's biggest football rivals. He accepted the job at Alabama after angrily denying, on many occasions, interest in it. He made his decision on the day his former program, the LSU Tigers, played Notre Dame in the Sugar Bowl.

In a place where he was revered, he is now reviled, and this slip of the tongue (or whatever it was) only makes matters worse. I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. This one will probably blow over. It was a dumb mistake and a stupid thing to say, and even though a lot of people may not like him anymore, most people would believe that Saban simply is smarter than that.

Sphere: Related Content

Hangin' With My Crew

My wife and I don’t get out much, at least not with other forty-somethings. We have friends, but we just can’t seem to find enough time to be social. We do run with a crew, though, and we like them. When our kids were born, we said that we would like our house to be the one our kids’ friends like to visit. That goal has been attained. Much to our delight, almost every weekend our house is filled with girls. Some subset of the crew you see here, with the occasional wild-card entry, is always around.
I’ve told a lot of people that my house looks like a Miss America pageant every weekend. There’s no question that this is an attractive group of young ladies. The thing is, they’re as sweet and nice as they are pretty. While many girls their age show a wild streak, these girls seem to be well-grounded. They’re not out partying a lot. I know this for a fact, because they’re always at the house. I also know where they are most of the time because we’re the ones hauling them around town.
There are many benefits to having girls around. They cook, for one thing. And I like to eat. I think they torture my son, though. They are girls, after all, and they have a tendency to be a little loud. I don’t think his girlfriend is really excited about having these people around all the time, either. They’re part of the landscape, though. The truth is, on the rare weekend when they camp at somebody else’s house, I miss them. They are very nice to me and have me wrapped around their cute little fingers.
They all are freshmen in high school, and I have to come to grips with the thought that they could turn on me. They are adolescents, after all, and chances are there will be hurt feelings and broken friendships. More than likely, a boy will be involved somewhere along the way. Allow me to dream. I hope to watch these girls grow together into womanhood. I want to become overly emotional when they leave for college. I want big Christmas reunions. I want them to bring their kids to the house one day in the distant future.
I love these girls and I’m proud of them. They can hang around at my house any time.

Sphere: Related Content

It's a Marshy World and We're Just Livin' in It.

Volumes could be written about the people who have come through the Shreveport media market and have been miserable during their time here. This is a place you learn to love or for which you develop a dank disdain. As someone who has spent his life living in Shreveport or Bossier City, I've often been frustrated to hear newcomers disparage my cities. After decades of watching them come and go and hearing them whine about how there's nothing to do, I finally came to grips with the fact that this is just not a place for everyone. People like Liz Swaine and Carl Pendley came to town and made it their home. Bob Griffin has been here almost 50 years, and plans to stay longer. So, Shreveport-Bossier obviously has its charms.

Among those young people who recently have come here and beat a hasty retreat are the Fabulous Marsh Sisters. Rene Marsh worked at KTAL for almost two years, where she struggled to fit in while limping her way through the start of a career in broadcasting. Her claim to fame was breaking the story of Woodrow Hayes, who swindled a group of nuns in Shreveport out of approximately four million dollars. Rene had it first and the national media followed.

A native New Yorker, I got the impression she never found happiness here. She just didn't seem to fit in with any community. Her younger sister Michelle interned at KTAL. They sound almost exactly alike, and certainly look like siblings. They have similar carriages. In the south, we might call them "peas in a pod." We laughingly referred to them as "The Hilton sisters." Now, they are working at the same television station (coincidentally, channel 6) in Albany, the capital of New York. They are getting attention not only because of their unusual "sister act," but because there apparently just aren't that many African-Americans on the air in upstate New York.

Rene left Shreveport before her contract at KTAL expired, searching for fulfillment. Maybe she has found it. We wish her well and hope she and her sister remember Shreveport fondly.

Sphere: Related Content

Dave's Deal With the Devil

My last sportscast was the night LSU won its national championship in football with a Sugar Bowl win over the Oklahoma Sooners. I was not a sportscaster at the time, but I was allowed to return to the air as a gracious gesture from my employers. They acknowledged that I had spent a quarter-century covering LSU football, and I just needed to be there to cover that story. I bring this up only to call attention to my broadcast partner that night, Dave Foster. Dave replaced me as sports director at the television station, then his career hit a bit of a skid.
A native of Nashville, Tennessee, Dave wanted to go home. He had a couple of strong looks at sports jobs in that market, but didn't quite get over the hump. Finally, he accepted a job as the assignments manager at the Fox afilliate there. He toiled behind the scenes, planning and coordinating coverage. Apparently, he did a fine job, because...incredibly, preposterously, amazingly, Saturday night Dave Foster won an EMMY AWARD for his station's coverage of the aftermath of Tennessee tornadoes in April.
This is ironic in a way because he won television's most prestigious award a day after he officially decided to walk away from the assignments desk. Why would an Emmy-award winning broadcast journalist walk away from his post? Because he was named the weekend sports anchor at his station, that's why. His dream of anchoring sports at a television station in his hometown has come true. His first sportscast in Nashville is next Saturday.
I don't want to spill Dave's business, but let me say that he has been struggling a bit over the last three or four years. He's one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet, and he certainly deserves a break. I'd say he got one. Congratulations, Dave!
By the way, I happen to know that Dave, who is single, had a date Sunday night. Let's see: Friday: get the Dream Job. Saturday: Win an Emmy. Sunday: Well, what would cap off a perfect weekend? The way things are going, only Dave knows for sure.

Sphere: Related Content

Salve for the Saban Wound

The annual sportsman’s lament is near. If you are not a fan of basketball, then what are you to do for the next few weeks? As surely as February is the shortest month of the year, so will I fall into some kind of dysthymia. LSU’s fabulous football season is long behind us. The incredible run of the New Orleans Saints will sustain us, but only for a few more days...a couple of weeks if things go well. Spring training for baseball is still weeks away. If we can force ourselves to pay attention to LSU basketball, maybe we can make it through. The Mudbugs’ success on the ice is something we take for granted, but it still is something of an elixir for what ails us. Still, we are left longing.
One of the worst things to happen to sports fan in Louisiana early in 2007 may be one of the best things at this juncture. With college football recruiting reaching its crescendo, we can once again concentrate on how angry and disappointed we are with Nick Saban. At least we have someone, something on whom we can focus our energy. Saban’s decision to accept the head coaching position at Alabama led to furious foaming at the mouth for several days in January, and understandably so. The timing of his accepting the job (on the day LSU played Notre Dame in the Sugar Bowl) was unfortunate at best. His arrival in Tuscaloosa on the day when the Tigers, his former team, should have been grabbing national headlines with a convincing victory was insulting to thousands of fans who had viewed him as a hero. Now, he’s recruiting against the team he coached to a national championship. This story will not go away. It will be fun to watch for a long time.
LSU will be fine, though. Les Miles, the man who replaced Saban, has made a crucial, inspired hire. Gary Crowton has come on board as LSU’s offensive coordinator. Most recently, Crowton held the same position at the University of Oregon. He has been the offensive coordinator of the Chicago Bears and the head coach at Brigham Young University. He is known in Louisiana because he was the highly successful head coach at Louisiana Tech.
At Tech, Crowton coached quarterback Tim Rattay, who became a starting quarterback for the San Francisco 49’ers and is still in the NFL. His star receiver was Troy Edwards, who was a first-round draft pick of the Pittsburgh Steelers. He also played for the Ram and the Jaguars in the NFL. Those names reflect the kind of job Crowton can do with offensive talent. This means that his very presence is a valuable recruiting tool. He can take undersized players with above average talent, coach them at a small football school and get them to a level to earn millions of dollars playing pro football. Imagine what he can do for the caliber of players who are attracted to LSU.
Crowton also is considered by many to be an innovator, if not a genius, on the offensive side of the ball. Talk about fun to watch. I can hardly wait to see what he does with Matt Flynn, who will be a senior quarterback for LSU this fall. Jimbo Fisher, the man Crowton replaces at LSU, said Flynn has enough talent to be an early-round NFL draft pick. If his new coach can work his offensive wizardry, it could be a magical fall in Tiger Stadium.
Those of us who worked with Crowton during his time in Ruston can tell you that he is one of the most affable men you will ever run across. The combination of his talents and his personality could mean something special for LSU in the years ahead. This is arguably Coach Miles’ most significant hiring since he arrived in Baton Rouge. If things work out the way they should, people in Louisiana may eventually be willing to forgive Saban. Don’t count on it, though.

Sphere: Related Content

A Rare Religious Moment

I am contributing to a booklet of Lenten meditations for my church. Since I wrote something and I haven't posted anything in a while, I thought I'd give the Daddy D readership a preview of Lent Week 5 Tuesday...

Abraham is the father of faith, and we are taught to believe that we are Abraham's descendants and heirs of his covenant promises. God said to Abraham in Genesis 17:4, "Behold, my covenant is with you and you shall be the father of a multitude of nations." Does this mean that our physical ancestry can be traced to one man? Or, does it mean that a multitude of nations are the beneficiaries of his unwavering, seemingly unimaginable trust and obedience of God’s commands? In Genesis 12:3 God said to Abraham, "By you all the families of the earth shall be blessed." God created a genetic roadmap which would lead the world from Abraham to Jesus. We learn that everyone who trusts in Christ would become an heir of Abraham's promise and heirs to an eternal kingdom, God’s promise declared unto mankind.
So when God said to Abraham, "Behold, my covenant is with you, and you shall be the father of a multitude of nations," He opened the way for any person from that moment forward to become an heir of God's promises. Generations later, when Jesus walked the Earth and brought a message of hope, forgiveness and eternal life to men, he was laying the groundwork for a new covenant. God sacrificed his own son to save us from ourselves. In today’s world, the words from these lessons should give us confidence that God works for us.
Today we would say faith in Jesus, who is the fulfillment of God's promises -- is the way to become a child of Abraham.
Jesus challenged the people of Israel to accept his word as the revelation of God. His claims challenged the foundation of their beliefs and their concept of God. Jesus claims unique knowledge of God and makes a breathtaking claim: that the only way to full knowledge of the mind and heart of God is through himself. He is declaring that the way he lives is the standard to which men and women of all generations should aspire.
The Jews asked Jesus, “Who do you claim to be?” He answered, “Before Abraham was, I am.” He is telling them that he has been alive in some form for thousands of years, perhaps without beginning. He is putting himself on a plane with the Creator. Jesus was not just a man who came, lived, died, and then rose again. He is the immortal timeless One,* who always was and always will be. His death and rising make it possible for us to share in his eternal life.
The verses appointed from Psalm 105 tie these lessons together. The New Testament chronicles miracles or “marvels” credited to Jesus, who could do these things because he is God. The marvels in the psalm are precursors to the Wonders of Jesus. The consistent thread of covenant in verses 8, 9 and 10 leads us to the brink of redemption. God agreed to protect his people if they agreed to love and obey him. This means we strive to be Christ-like in our daily lives, because that honors God’s promise to us: The promise of a new and everlasting covenant for us and for all men means that sins will be forgiven, that the gates of Heaven are open. We gain entry by being children of Abraham’s faith, brothers and sisters in Christ’s death and resurrection.

*"The immortal Timless One" is a phrase I lifted from someone else's writing, which I can't find again. It stands out, though, and I didn't want to accept any credit for it.

Sphere: Related Content

The Blank Stare Meets the Confused Clerk

Blank stares and confused looks rule the day after the Great Gift Card Christmas of 2006. Early statistics indicate an increase in gift card purchases of more than thirty per cent over last year. We certainly contributed to the gift card craze at our house, but not without considerable effort. We hatched and executed a pretty ingenious plan for our sixteen-year-old son. We bought gift cards to various restaurants and entertainment venues, along with tickets to two upcoming concerts. My wife organized them all in an expandable file and labeled it “Chris’s night out.” For a guy with a girlfriend but no job, this worked out wonderfully.
We learned quickly during the process that the gift card concept trips up your average fast food worker. With only a couple of exceptions, we were unable to acquire gift cards from the first person we encountered. Time and again, we would ask for one and the manager had to be summoned. Many times, you could tell the poor guy was exasperated, with that “How many times to we have to go over this for God’s sake?” look on his face. We also quickly determined that it is essential to keep the receipts, particularly for those “reloadable” cards. We have a low level of confidence that all of our cards were properly processed.
Redemption proved to be an issue, too. The Day After Christmas, kids rushed to stores to help the value of those cards evaporate into a mist of video games, DVD’s and meals-on-the-go. I was in line at a major national electronics retailer when the blank stare went face to face with the confused clerk. A teenager ahead of me in the checkout line had a gift card valued at $25.00. His purchase came to thirty-two bucks and change. He gave the clerk the card and a ten dollar bill. Simple, right? Not so fast. The clerk took all the money and gave him back the gift card with a balance of seven dollars and change.
Am I wrong, or does this make absolutely no sense? Isn’t it obvious that you should use up the value of the gift card first, and then use the cash to offset the balance, giving change in cash? The kid’s mother was incredulous, and who can blame her? The thing is, it had to be explained to the clerk at least three times and the kid never got it. Frankly, he didn’t care. It’s not his money. He didn’t buy the gift card.
That’s the beauty of it for those retailers. There is no chance the purchase will be for the exact balance of the card. If you give a card to a customer (particularly a young one) with a balance on it, it is likely it won’t ever be used. That’s free money for the store. If the customer is compelled to use up the balance on the card, another purchase is executed, maybe one that wasn’t intended to begin with. That’s more money for the store.
It’s no wonder they’re pushing gift cards so hard. Now, if they can push their employees to learn to work with them properly, we’re getting somewhere.

Sphere: Related Content

Jump on the Bandwagon: Hate USC Now

The last month has been fun for veteran observers of the LSU football program. The team won ten games in 2006, backing up a ten-win season in 2005. Twenty wins over two years is an achievement worth noting for any college football team in America. So, why were LSU fans feeling blue in early December? It’s because they were not seeing red.
LSU did not win the Southeastern conference West Division title and consequently did not play in the conference championship game. Nonetheless, their success on the field had them ranked among the nation’s elite, and going into the first weekend in December it appeared that the team and the fans would have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to travel to the Rose Bowl. If Southern California could defeat a mediocre UCLA team, then the Trojans would play for the national championship and a spot would be created in the Rose Bowl. LSU was tabbed for that slot.
In the days leading up to that decisive Saturday, the Tiger Athletic Foundation sent an e-mail to its members advising that post-season travel plans were developing quickly. The message was sent in red font. Some people read a lot into that, bought plane tickets and made hotel reservations in Los Angeles. Then, USC lost. That put the Trojans into the Rose Bowl and sent LSU fans scurrying about in a frightful fret.
What does it say about the state of your football team that you can make it into the Sugar Bowl matched up against Notre Dame and you’re disappointed? For days, the tiger faithful were crestfallen. The Sugar Bowl certainly is prestigious, but in this unusual context it suddenly appeared to be just another trip to New Orleans.
Once they snapped out of their funk, many LSU fans realized a rivalry of sorts had been born. When LSU won the Bowl Championship Series national championship following the 2003 season, USC was named national champion by the Associated Press. So, to the wide world of observers, the national title appeared to be split. LSU fans began to revile USC for casting a shadow on the legitimate national title. Now, in 2006, the Trojans did them in again by losing to UCLA and yanking the Rose Bowl rug right from under their paws. Even though USC isn’t on LSU’s schedule, there’s plenty of reason to dislike them. It seems almost personal, in a way.
A rose smells lovely, but sugar is sweet and the LSU faithful have come around. Shirts emblazoned with “Beat Notre Dame” became popular Christmas gifts. Talk turned to the quality of seats in the Superdome as tickets to the game became more and more in demand. Slowly but surely, the purple and gold people among us began to realize that this little trip to New Orleans wasn’t such a bad deal, after all.
There is the little matter of those non-refundable airline tickets to Los Angeles. There are people all over the state stuck with those. If that breaks the budget, people will be seeing red, after all. Of course, we’re talking about ink instead of roses. Wasted money: another reason to hate USC.

Sphere: Related Content

Another Crack at Defining Friendship

When I was about 20 years old, I lived through a pretty significant heartbreak. The girl I thought I was going to marry unexpectedly dumped me and revealed that she had become invloved romantically with my closest friend at the time. I spent all of my free time with those two people, and poof...everything changed in an instant.
Not long after that, some people took pity on me and invited me to a party. I didn't know anyone there well, at all. There was a young woman there named Dianne Hay. She was so kind to me. She spent time alone with me and talked with me...helped me through the evening. She gave me hope that I would recover from this emotional darkness.
I only saw her once more. I remember well running into her a couple of weeks later at the Pizza Hut on Kings Highway in Shreveport. I never saw her again, and I have often wondered what became of her. I would like the opportunity to tell her how much that evening meant to me. She was there when I needed her, and no more. It was amazing. I may never see her again, but she apparently made a permanent impact on me.
I received an e-mail from a friend which started like this:
People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person. When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be. Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand. What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done.
Immediately, I thought of Dianne. I guess the holiday season brings out my sappy side. My wife and I aren't nearly as social as some people I know. Sometimes, you think there are parties all over the place and we're just not invited. Then, something happens to make you realize that friends are friends. You don't necessarily have to be actively social with them to know they're truly significant in your life.
One of my newest friends (It's always hard to define that, especially when you're talking about people you work with) and his wife work really hard at "getting out there." If there's a fundraiser or a social event surrounding a cause or civic endeavor, they go. Consequently, they are invited to a lot of gatherings. Sometimes, I'm a little envious of all the things they do and all the social interaction they have. Then, I realize that we have essentially the same opportunities; we just make different choices. So, I ponder the difference between actual friends and business/ psuedosocial acquaintances.
My father has spent a lot of energy trying to keep the next generation of his family connected. I've steadfastly maintained that "just because they're your relatives doesn't mean they're your friends." Yet, during our most recent troubles with my brother, an uncle and a couple of cousins stepped forward as really good friends. So, I've learned it's never too late to re-assess your relationships.
The e-mail from my friend continued:
Some people come into your life for a SEASON, because your turn has come to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.
The older I get, the more I realize this is true. I think a lot of time, "work friends" fall into this category. You help and support one another. Then, someone moves on and your work is done. You might occasionally touch base, but the relationship is changed. It has served its purpose.
LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons, things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant .
There are a couple of friendships in which I have this level of confidence. Here at mid-life, it is incomprehensible to me that I will not go to my grave loving these people. I am fortunate to have a life-long friend who has been with me at every major step I have taken, from first grade to marriage to becoming a father to burying a parent. I, in turn, have had the honor of being with him at times like those, as well. Of course, my wife is the best friend any person could have. She is the model for how relationships should operate.
Over the years, I have made a few enemies but have earned many more friendships. I'm not really comfortable categorizing them, I just celebrate them. At the holidays, I'm grateful for them. If anybody knows Dianne, tell her I said thanks.

Sphere: Related Content

The Longest Five Seconds of My Year

On the first Friday in December, I traditionally endure my annual physical. On Friday, December 1, 2006, the tradition continued. Having another man peer into various orifices is an unsettling experience on its own. In fact, for several years I went to a female doctor. I actually preferred that. However, there were certain activites which became necessary because of my family medical history. We weren't comfortable with her doing them, so I moved on. This is how we got to The Longest Five Seconds of My Year.
Let me lead you down this path gently (an adverb my doctor needs to embrace, by the way). My father was diagnosed with prostate cancer when he was in his 50's. The good news is: He's 80 now, alive & well. The bad news is: he was much younger than your average prostate cancer patient. So, as fortune would have it, I began experiencing the up close and personal exam for prostate enlargement when I turned 40. If you don't know what I'm getting at, let's put it this way: as far as I'm concerned, Christmas does not come early for me. Seven Decembers now, a cumulative 30-40 seconds of my life have been excruciuatingly elongated.
I know I get no sympathy from women for his. The pelvic exams they live through can't be pleasant. I have a point to make, though. For a lot of women ( I dare say most), isn't the area the doctor examines used as an entrance much more than it is as an exit? I mean, think about it.
From my perspective, this prostate exam causes someone to force his way in through the out door. ( With a nod to Prince, I guess the doctor could wear a raspberry beret. An obscure reference, I know).
The silver lining: I hate needles. Any kind of puncture turns my stomach. In the sequence of events surrounding this annual prod-fest, the bloodwork comes after the (Oh, my God, here it comes) digital rectal exam. So, the needle stick is a tiptoe through the tulips. I'm typically still reeling from the initimate invasion, so I sail through the phlebotomy portion of the program unscathed. The palpation portion of the process is almost a pleasure, in a non-homoerotic kind of way.
This leads me to the lingering mystery which seems to enshroud all of this for me. As painful (yes, painful) and awkward and unsettling as the Five Seconds are for me, I just can't figure how some people engage in similar activities for pleasure. Maybe it's like coffee, an acquired taste. I'm not interested in any new acqusitions, by the way. Thanks.
I already have another appointment for the first Friday in December of 2007. You know when I start dreading the first Friday in December? The first Saturday in December. The 24 hours in between, I'm just trying to recover.

Sphere: Related Content

More on Where I've Been

My brother got out of the hospital today, which is remarkable, considering we essentially were planning a funeral a couple of weeks ago. This is the same guy who got hit by a car while riding his bicycle earlier this year. It might seem, at first consideration, that the guy has some kind of dark cloud hanging over him. On the other hand, you may start to believe in guardian angels. Look at it this way: he's been struck by a moving motor vehicle and has drowned in a swimming pool in 2006 and lived to tell about it. Hey, at least he's trying to take care of himself.
He may be sprung from his stepdown bed, but he might still be a candidate for a stint in the loony bin. He's still a few bricks shy of a load, as the construction guys say. For instance, he has asked me every day, sometimes two or three times, where his wallet is. I tell him every time that I have it and it's safe, and his response is always the same: "Well, I didn't know." The hardest part about his elevator stopping a few floors short of the top is the fact that he doesn't realize it. He thinks he's fine. He wants to go back to work this week. It will be tough to convince him that he doesn't have sufficient judgment to drive. Even if he can work, how can he get there? This will be a new life experience.
All of this came on the heels of an emotional disaster in our house. One of the teenagers knew someone who commited suicide. We had a week of significant parenting activities there. That was the week after my father, who is 80, had a biventricular pacemaker with an internal defibrillator carved into his chest. The days leading up to that and the subsequent recovery period were a little stresser for everyone, too.
(For those reading carefully who might be confused about the fact that I wrote in an earlier post that I am my brother's only living relative, here's the deal: we have different fathers.)
So, I hope everyone can understand why the blog has been neglected. Daddy D has plenty of stories to tell. It's just that not many of them are fun to write. I'll try to get back into the swing of things. I've seen Borat. I took in a Hootie & the Blowfish concert. I also saw Racal Flatts. I took five 14-year-old girls to Dallas for a Christmas shopping expedition. I went to the LSU-Ole Miss game. There has been a lot to say, just not a lot of time to share it. I may even try to write like a writer again soon. I've had three significant family events in the last month to six weeks which have derailed normalcy. Maybe now we can get back on track.

Sphere: Related Content

Here's Where I've been

To the the vast yet ever-contracting Daddy D readership, I apologize for the extended absence. The last few weeks have been challenging.

If you have a family member with a "living will," take the existence of that document seriously. The idea that you may have to make decisions based on its contents is easy to embrace. If the execution of those wishes slaps you in the face, reality stings. On a recent Sunday afternoon, I was sitting on the sofa watching football when my cell phone rang. The call was from a nearby hospital; the person on the other end was looking for my brother's nearest relative. He is divorced and has no children, so that distinction falls squarely on my shoulders. The voice on the phone said, "we need you to come here right away."
I arrived at the emergency room to receive the sobering news that my brother, who had been swimming laps in a nearby pool, had been found unconscious on the bottom. He was blue, he was not breathing and his eyes were fixed. He had been pulled from the pool, and a physician who coincidentally was swimming nearby administered CPR. Now, an hour or so later, he had been revived but was considered "extremely critical." There was significant concern that he would not live through the night. If he did, the damage to his brain could not be determined. He was not breathing on his own and there was no way to determine if he would regain the ability to do so.
The next morning, we were engaged in active discussions about organ donation. I called his lawyer and got the living will. There it was, in stark black and white: the decision to withdraw life-saving measures belonged solely to me. For days, my only brother lay motionless in an intensive care bed. The condition of his body and the status of his brain were in considerable doubt. We all grew up Roman Catholic, so a priest was summoned. He administered the 'last rights," and told us my brother had been absolved of all his sins and was ready to make the great journey.
The days passed and slowly he began to breathe a little on his own. He cleared a major hurdle and it became clear that he would not die, but the level to which his mind would function remained very much in doubt. The only way we would know, we were told, is by having a conversation with him. We could not do that until the beathing tube was removed, and that was several days away.
I'm happy to report that he is presently awake and alert and speaking in complete sentences. His congnitive abilities clearly are improving every day, but still he is obviously impaired. The rate of his progress is encouraging and now there's reason to hope he will make a complete recovery. However, he clearly cannot go home alone. He will need rehabilitation. He is able to participate in the decision-making process, but the days ahead will be challenging as we determine together how he will spend the next few weeks.
He doesn't remember what happened, but he has been told time and again how serious his condition has been. The man who saved his life has visited him several times. The nursing staff has expressed amazement at his progress. He doesn't remember seeing a light or anything like that, so you have to wonder about all that absolution. You have to have faith, though...faith that there is a journey to make when your time comes and faith that a second chance at life will not be wasted. I'll keep you posted.

Sphere: Related Content

Here Come the Bugs

As the closest thing we experience to an autumn chill tries uneasily to settle in over north Louisiana, we can realize in amazement that Our Little Hockey Team is still here, alive and crawfishin’. The Mudbugs apparently have stood the test of time and continue to amaze and amuse us. How can it be that minor league hockey has been a success in hunting and fishing country?
Can it be the team’s owner, a walking talking caricature who appears at games in a big, silly cowboy hat wearing a giant shiny belt buckle with his blue jeans? John Madden carries the same name as a famous football coach turned broadcaster, and seems to have a similar level of enthusiasm for his adopted game. His loves his Mudbugs and tirelessly promotes the team. When he bought the team from high-strung New Mexico chiropractor Michael Plaman, he kept key people in place and made a successful effort to establish affinity with his fan base. He also has run the team like the business it is, all the while perpetuating his own image as a good ol’ fella who wears his hat and goes mud-ridin’. It works, too. I’m certain he’s sincere in that way. The fans who like that sort of thing seem to identify with him while those who observe his sartorial shenanigans with skepticism easily can appreciate the show he offers when he makes his rounds through the stands during games. It’s not about spotlights and antics, but more about being highly visible and creating a sense of connectedness between the fans, the team and its owner.
Certainly, the fact that the team wins a lot of hockey games helps. They routinely make it into the Central Hockey league playoffs, and most recently have made it into the championship series twice. The fact that have been tantalizingly close to winning the championship only to fall agonizingly short seems to work in their favor. It’s almost like there is a script writer crafting cliffhangers. The fans keep coming back to find out what happens next.
The local hero has to be the Bugs’ fiery coach, Scott Muscutt. He has been with the team since its inception. He was one of the most recognizable players on the team before taking over as head coach. He met and married a local woman and is raising a family here. Madden was smart enough to know he’s got it good with his coach, and he has made no change there. Muscutt is easy to like, and the fans adore him not only because he wins but also because his passion for what he does shows through at every moment. He’s also developed into quite the public relations man, understanding how important it is to connect with the community and keep things clean and above board with the players he hires.
During the off-season, the team experienced perhaps the most dramatic turnover in player personnel it has seen since it was formed. This year may be Muscutt’s biggest challenge so far and his toughest test as a coach and the face man for the franchise. History and experience tell us he is up to the challenge. If he can’t mold a consistent winner out of his current crew, the fan base may become disenchanted. However, there’s enough good faith built up by management and ownership that a rough patch on the ice should not be much of an obstacle.
The key to continued success is to maintain and grow interest. Shreveport-Bossier has a long history of developing complacency over time, and that may be one of Madden and Muscutt’s biggest fears: that the cities have begun to take the Bugs for granted. They’re still here and certainly they have earned our attention.

Sphere: Related Content