Notes From Fly-Over Country

Off to the circus...again!

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Thu, 21 Apr 2016 22:54:00 +0000

Welcome home. This will be my new home for the spring and summer and I couldn't be more excited. It's like going full circle in my life.

I took a job with Nebraska Game and Parks in the maintenance department at Pawnee Lake, just West of Lincoln. So why full circle? My first job was working on the Hartington Country Club golf course.

My dear 'ole dad loved that place. He helped turn it into one of the most beautiful golf courses in Nebraska. That was a tall order when you consider it was a pasture when they started. Not many of those early town visionaries knew anything about creating a golf course. After they came up with a plan, Gene O'Meara put his big cats and scapers to work and the course took shape.

But, it was still rearranged pasture. This dirt an Augusta National would not make. Dad could see that and he could also see he needed to learn more about golf course management if this course was eventually be something special. Many times, he made the drive to Lincoln to learn more about the fine art of turning greens green. He put my brothers to work planting little saplings so eventually the fairways and the holes looked like individual fairways and holes. (You should see those trees today!)

So, to make a long story a little shorter, this job is a return to my roots and my heart. It's a little golf course maintenance, a little boy scouting, and a lot more time with my beloved dog. And maybe most of all, I can breath fresh air, hike, maybe kayak a little, and not be all that concerned about politics and the social correctness of the day.

After all, if you have to go when you are in the woods, you don't have to find a transgendered bush. Just be careful you don't wipe with poison ivy!

For the children...

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 13:35:00 +0000

KFAB had an item on it's newscast this morning that caught my attention. Some city government type wants the schools to pony up with some of the money they get from fines and share with the cities. The cities need the money because they are running out of ways to collect it. (The recession has caused cash flow problems and things like the $200,000 payoff to a mayor's mistress are causing problems.)

These folks are going to run into a brick wall.

Schools are never going to give up a dime. Make that a penny. They tell you they are in the business of creating the next generation of great Americans and they are running on a shoestring right now. If you doubt that, walk into Lincoln's Northstar or Southwest high schools. Dumps.

School administrators are suffering through impossible budgets because they are better than the rest of us. Their lives are devoted to making life better...for the children.

Anyone who goes after the school system budget may as well stand up at the NAACP convention and use the "N" word in the greeting. It's for the children. Hands off.

Well, maybe it's time we put that to the test. What is for the children? Unless times have drastically changed since I was there, children still hate going to school. Children hate homework. Children hate cafeteria food. The only folks who appreciate all of the nice stuff that got put into the new school budget at the teachers.

Maybe all of this untouchable money is "for the teachers..."

Administrators will tell you students are more difficult these days and the classroom is out-of-control. What do you expect from people who view success as being a rapper, or a drug dealer, or a pimp driving around all night in a black SUV with dark windows? Who needs an education to do that? Well firearms training maybe.

These are tough times. I don't think they will get much better very soon. At some point in time-probably sooner rather than later-the tax payer will be taxed out and those without children are going to say..."enough of the children."

Maybe the drop-outs-to-be need special ed. How about a program called "Last Chance." Bring in an emergency room doctor who treats gunshots. Take a field trip to prison and let the inmates tell you how cool it was to be a drug dealer. Take them to a funeral home so they can see what it will cost Mom to bury them. Call the parents in and hand them a bumper sticker..."My kid is a high school drop out."

Then, take them back, set the G.P.A. goal and tell them to make it or get out AND they will be barred from all school events if they flunk out. No football games. No basketball games. No marketing opportunities for dealers-to-be. No place to show off and be cool.

Schools, you have enough money. You have adequate facilities. You have adequate training. Teach. Show us something for all of that money you get. Teach. Stop bitching that the conditions are deplorable. Teach. Get tough and teach.

And to parents, if you can't supply a home environment that points children in a positive direction other than dealing drugs and prostitution, take birth control pills.

We could make those free for the asking by diverting some of that fine money. Now that would make a difference.

Should Nebraska Change The Death Penalty?

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 00:00:00 +0000

She cooperated and gave the two black masked gunmen all of the money in the register in midtown Omaha convenience store. But on their way out, one decided to stop and shoot this 42 year old lady to death.

Cowards.

They'll get caught someday. They'll get convicted someday. But they won't have to face Old Sparky, as folks liked to call Nebraska's electric chair. The Nebraska Supreme Court threw out the chair because it was too cruel to use for capital executions. If capital punishment survives the expected do-gooder lobbyist onslaught, the new method will most likely be lethal injection. Do the crime, get sleepy time.

One Nebraska state senator (yes, I did leave that in small letters instead of the more respective title case) has been in the way of approving a new means to exterminate vermin such as the ones who killed this lady. The new method will probably pass this time because the problem senator was term-limited out. And, with luck, maybe someday these lowly, cowardly creeps will be strapped to a gurney, put to sleep, and put away. Painlessly of course.

Hell, Nebraska makes death tougher on cows and pigs than on killers.

But before this terminal time-out, the creeps will get to live out most of their lives. By then, most Nebraskan's won't remember the early January day in Omaha and the fear this woman must have felt as these cowards took her life. Their attorneys and various do-gooders will battle the State of Nebraska and try to overturn their death row convictions because the offender will have learned how to paint or write poetry. They will have wed some lonely cow who thinks breeding in a cell under supervised visits is height of true human romance. By then, there will be value in their lives and they shouldn't have to pay for one...little mistake.

There was a time when Nebraska knew how to handle low-life killers. After all, Nebraska was the home of one of the first serial murderers. His name was Charles Starkweather. He killed nine innocent folks on a three-day or so killing spree in Lincoln and the farm country surrounding it. He fled West and rather than die in a gun battle with Wyoming Troopers, he gave up.

Cowards usually give up when they are about to die.

Starkweather was caught in November 1958. He was tried in May 1959. He had his date with Ole' Sparky in June 1959. He was buried in an unmarked grave until some do-gooder decided that was wrong and put a marker on him. Bruce Springsteen's song "Nebraska" was about this James Dean looking dropout who worked on a Lincoln garbage truck. The movie "Badlands" glorified him.

There were no movies or songs about the nine people he killed.

Do-gooders never waste time on those folks. They never see the loss of the nine, the loss of their families; the loss of their children's families; the family tree that never had a chance to flourish. They only see the "immorality"of the State killing a killer. What good does that do? (Nebraska has a record of a prison guard killed by a killer. That mistake was corrected the second time by Ole' Sparky. No more problem.)

Perhaps we should be more sympathetic. After all, times are tough. There are two war going on. The economy is bad and people need work. And, with a new administration, we are going to lose good housing like Guantanamo Bay before long.

So, before the Nebraska Unicameral votes in a new way to execute society's worst, before we have to listen to new "significant" songs and watch new "significant" movies, I have a win-win idea.

Let Nebraska adopt one of the Guantanamo Al Quida be-headers. Heck, I am sure the do-gooders think those folks should have a chance for a new productive life. Let him contract to handle Nebraska's executions. He can wear his black Arab hood and use a big knife that he pulls from a scabbard on his back. He can rant-out the death warrant. He can bind the convicted killer's hands behind his back and force him to kneel before a camera in front of a red prison basement wall with a big white N on it. Let the executions sounds be recorded and have the entire event broadcast live on the Internet.

After a couple of those, maybe the cowards-to-be will think twice about committing a violent crime in Nebraska.

It's Not Flat

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 00:12:00 +0000

When folks find out I am from Nebraska, the first thing they usually say, well after some comment about football, is "it's pretty flat and boring out there, isn't it?"

It's neither. Nebraska is transitional between boring Iowa and supposedly exciting Colorado. (The California know-it-alls have taken over Colorado and ruined the state.) I won't include Wyoming in on this because Wyoming is truely eye candy.

But there has to be a little building to go from 1,000 feet above sea level to those 12,000 foot snowcaps out west. Hense, the natural beauty of Nebraska.

You don't need to drive more than about 20 miles into Nebraska before you get a taste of something neat. You'll have to cross the Platte River to get anywhere on Interstate 80. You'll see lots of sandbars from this famous river that cuts right through the middle of Nebraska. Sometimes, it's a mile wide and an inch deep and out by Gothenburg, you will have to search to find it because the water has been diverted for irrigation purposes. Further West, the Platte becomes Mr. Rugged again. Keep in mind, the Platte is not just a river. It's America's pathway--the Oregon and Mormon Trails wandered along with the Platte. To the Northwest is the Nebraska Sandhills and if you liked the rugged beauty you saw in Dances With Wolves, the Sandhills are for you. The Sandhills are often called the Great American Desert because that is what it was a few hundred years before football came to Nebraska.

Take Highway 26 out of Ogallala and you will see the mountains starting to form. You'll soon come across great bluffs and wonderful vistas. You will follow the North Platte as it points you toward Chimney Rock and Wyoming. The Union Pacific Railroad line will keep you company as you drive along and go up and down the great hills of Western Nebraska--a great challenge for anyone with a road bike who wants a nice challenging ride through history.

Nebraska is more that football. It's beautiful. Take a good look at that vista pic and judge for yourself. I took it from outside of my car and not a plane because it popped up out of nowhere and wowed me. Nebraska just might wow you, too!

Markers

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 11:21:00 +0000

I have lived in Nebraska most of my life. During that time, I have had a number of license plates which displayed Chimney Rock. I have also heard the arguments that using this old symbol doesn't really reflect the Nebraska of today.

They're wrong.

It was downright foggy yesterday morning when I started my drive home from Scottsbluff. (I have never been there either and came away with new feelings about that rugged beauty of the area.) There were two choices I could make for my drive home. I could make a beeline for Kimball and pick up Interstate 80 an aim at Omaha or I could take a two lane highway through the middle of what some would call, nowhere.

I chose nowhere. What the heck, this was my two day vacation and it was only about 100 miles of nowhere before I was back on I-80 to somewhere via Ogallala. (That's a town named after the Sioux Indian tribe that did Custer in.)

About 30 or so miles down the road to nowhere is Bridgeport, Nebraska; the home of Chimney Rock. Now mind you, we are going the opposite direction of the pioneers who got pretty excited when they saw this first big sign on the highway to Oregon. They had probably heard the stories about folks who made contact with the Sioux and other tribes. They had probably heard the rattle of the king of Nebraska snakes. They had probably admired the meandering Platte River which lead them to this great marker. And now I was drawn to it, too. Backwards of course, but for friends that know me, that is somehow fitting.

But it was foggy. I mean really foggy. As anyone who has studied fog knows, the green shades are more brilliant than the brown shades. That means the view to my left of the North Platte River was spectacular. Cat tails are at their full growth. The grasses of summer barely moved in the morning fog. The river moved along in silence as it made its way around sandbars and little islands of green. The bugs seemed to be sleeping in. In the distance, the bluffs started to appear again. They looked like drawings in light brown pen and ink on light brown parchment. There was just a hint of something there.

But where was Chimney Rock?

I got more help that the pioneers did. There was no handy sign next to the Oregon Trail that said...Chimney Rock Visitor's Center, 2 miles ahead. I made the turn onto the country road. I could see a bluff. Then there was an opening. Then there was a mound. A mound? Could that be it? Could that great spire be up there above that mound in the morning fog? A building and a gate appeared. It was the visitor's center and it was closed until 9:00am. The mound was directly behind the center so this must be Chimney Rock. I climbed over the gate and walked in. There was a sign telling me to stay on the sidewalk because rattlesnakes were common in this area. Fair deal.

Normally, you would think there would be some other tourists like me waiting to get in but I was all alone. There was not a sound as God prepared to lift the gray curtain on the coming day. Not even a moo from the distant cows. Not even a rattle. Thank you, Lord.

I walked around with one eye trained on the mound and one eye trained on the ground for any movement at all. Finally, God's paint brush went to work. Through the mist of that Western Nebraska sky, the spire started to appear. I wondered how a pioneer boy, walking along the river about a mile away must have thought when he realized that mound was not a mound at all. It was Chimney Rock and they were indeed on the right path to Oregon. No doubt they had seen some hard times coming across Nebraska. Axle deep mud. Grumpy Indians. Grumpy snakes. Grumpy wagons and grumpy oxen that pulled them. Grumpy weather. But finally, a place of hope. A sign of hope. A marker of hope.

I could have waited until the fog burned off and got a typical postcard picture of Chimney Rock but I really liked this one. I found it in the fog. That's how a lot of my life has seemed to have gone. I have found it in the fog.

But now I have also found another marker. And at least today, in this silence of a foggy Nebraska morning, I feel at peace inside. So far in my 62 years, the journey has been a good one.

The Godfather would be proud

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 14:52:00 +0000

The Godfather would be pleased today.

The thieves are in control of American. Just go to the gas station and the grocery store and see for yourself. No, I am not calling honest, hard working farmers thieves. They have long deserved more for their work. I am calling the people who speculate on gas and oil prices and commodities thieves.

After all, what did they do to earn it?

The commodities traders are nothing more than Las Vegas high rollers using the American kitchen table as their betting chips. And guess what? The American family is tapped out. For the first time in my life, I can see how America can collapse.

Congress can see it, too. But the problem with Congress is they are made of of double speak lawyers who owe their allegence to K Street instead of Main Street. Some say lobbists have the same rights to free speech as the rest of us. Well, if that is the case, congress would not pass any legislation that would do those folks any favors because that's what congress does for the rest of us.

Congress has stopped listening to the folks. In fact, the recent gaff by Obama in San Francisco proves congress is a bunch of people who think they are better than the rest of us.

That's why the rest of us suffer at the grocery store and the gas pump.

All we can do is send an email or a letter to Congress and in a few weeks, you'll get a fluffy "I fell your pain" letter back.

To bad we can't send Luca Brasi.

A BIG hand for LPD

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 22:50:00 +0000

My favorite store was robbed a couple of nights ago. I happened to go there the following morning. A Lincoln Police car was parked just outside the front door and an officer had the gate pulled down a little as he stood on a ladder dusting the gate for prints. Not good.

My friend Travis the shoe guy filled me in with as much as he knew. There was a robbery during the night. The thieves came through the front door after breaking one of them. The got the big garage door metal protective gate up somehow. They wanted guns and got plenty of them--84 according to news reports.

Most of the guns were handguns. But there were some military style assault rifles. That is a lot of firepower in the wrong hands and these were the wrong hands. How could they get away with such a crime at a big mall like South Point?

For one thing, there was no security. The crime happened around 2:00am and security stops at 1:00am. I know, dumb. The Sheels cameras produced dark film. Double dumb. In this day, motion detectors should have lit that place up like Christmas. Plus, some security companies offer a service that also records and alerts security to things like breaking glass. The store and the mall both get a big F. They owe themselves and us the best security, especially when it comes to guns.

My thought was the guns were long gone to some other place. But less than 24 hours later, Lincoln Police Swat unit recovered 30 of them and made three arrests. They were local gang members. Bravo LPD. That's very impressive considering what you had to work with.

Perhaps they will get the rest of them soon--both guns and thieves. If not, the "hood" just got a whole lot more dangerous.

Some folks will be hollering for more gun laws and that makes me yawn. If you want to stop gun violence, register ammunition. If you come up on a records check or a mental health check, no bullets for you.

After all, how dangerous is a gun without bullets? And, old guns and stolen guns now have new rules to play under.

But that debate may never come. Until then, we have to rely on law enforcement to keep us safe and last night, Lincoln Police did a hell of a great job!

Catching the maid

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Mon, 02 Jul 2007 02:53:00 +0000

Jack was the photographer on the first Lerjet job I ever had. It was a specially modified Lear with a camera about the size or a beer cooler stood on end, peering through the floor at the ground below.

We were taking pictures for the US Geological Service who, in turn, made all kinds of maps. I was the copilot on the three man crew and my job was to preflight the plane and to not touch anything once the plane was airborne. That's the way the captain wanted it and that's what he got. Such an order and a lack of any training meant that if he died, we probablly all died because I didn't have a clue how to fly the damn thing.

We roamed about the country trying to find absolutely cloudless skies to take pictures from as high as 49,000 feet. Yes, that is up there. We even went to 51,250 feet once and frankly, that scared the hell out of me.

As we roamed, so did our base of operations. Find the cheapest hotel in the town and we were in it. We dined nightly at some cheap burger place or a pancake house. We didn't go to bars and I had about as much in common with the captain and old Jack than I do with a mentor at a quilting store.

Then the mystery happened. Jack looked frustrated at one breakfast. In fact, he looked downright mad.

"What's wrong, Jack?" I asked.

"The maid is stealing my scotch," he answered.

The captain laughed and told Jack he was drinking too much. The maid was innocent. Jack left in a huff as the captain laughed at him.

You can guess how the next few days went. The captain was relentless. He made fun of Jack and the maid. Finally, Jack had enough. He devised a plan.

"I caught her red-handed," Jack said proudly at breakfast.

"You couldn't have," the captain said. "We leave the hotel before the maids start work."

"Well I caught her red-handed."

"How?" I asked.

"Well," Jack said as he leaned forward and got a sly grin on his face, " I poured the scotch into another container I had and peed into the bottle. It's the same color. Then I marked the pee level on the bottle's label."

I howled. "You peed in the scotch bottle?"

"Yup," he said. "And sure enough, the level has been going down for two days how. She is drinking my scotch."

"No she ain't," the captain said. "She is drinking your pee. You want them hash browns?" he asked me.

I shook my head no and he scraped them off of my plate and into a clean ashtray and ate them.

So much for classy pilots, huh.

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The creek

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Wed, 13 Jun 2007 13:04:00 +0000

He knows he is there. Right there in the widest part. He could be the biggest sucker in Nebraska. And, if he caught it, that would mean a sure headline and picture in the Cedar County County News.

"Have a nice day," his mom said as he left the house. "But stay out of the mud with your new tennis shoes."

He looked down at his new Converse shoes. They are almost too bright to look at in the blazing summer sun. But, he is waiting. He is challenging his boyhood.

The other guys have better poles than his. They have fancy fiberglass ones with reels and clear line. He looks at his bamboo pole and the fixed green line with a bobber about two feet above the hook and rusty nut weight. He knows how to use it. He will feel the bite if the bite comes and he will snap that pole back and set the hook. This fish will not be the one that got away.

He looks at the tall weeds and starts to move in toward the stream. He looks for stickers and neddles. He hates those itching neddles. He also looks for poision ivy. His scout training has taught him what to look for.

As he gets closer to the stream, the ground gets softer. He can feel his new shoes sinking in up to the canvas part. Soon, he can feel his socks getting wet. And then, his new tennis shoes sink into the gooey mud. He looks down at them and he knows he is going to catch it when he gets home.

A horsefly lands on his arm. He does not see it. It bites him and he drops his pole and slaps it dead. Little clouds of gnats are swiriling around his head. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bottle of vanilla he took from the kitchen. He puts some on his fingers and wipes it in his ears. That should keep the gnats out of his ears and the buzzing sounds, too.

He is there. He crouches down and looks at the dark green water. Soon, the minnows come up and swim around right in front of him. He wonders if they are trying to tell him where he is. Is he just below them on in the deep. He must be careful here. At this wide part, the water goes clear to China. His oldest brother told him and he knows that has to be true.

He opens his small rusty tin coffee can and paws around the wet dirt to find his best night crawler. If he is going to catch him, he will have to serve up the Thanksgiving dinner of worms. He finds the one and feeds it onto the hook; his hands turn dirty and wet from the process. He gently dips his hands into the water to clean them. The minnows dart away. A perfect ring starts across the little pond just like a Tsunami going across the ocean.

He looks around for a comfortable, dry place to sit. There is a dry spot with a rock that looks perfect except someone else has found it first. He looks at the bullsnake looking at him. It is about 3 feet long and is no threat. He will let the snake keep his seat and he will take a seat on a dread tree in the other direction.

He swings his pole so the line will land right in the middle of the biggest, deepest part. The weight and hook disappear into the dark and the bobber soons sits motionless on the water. Soon, the glassy look returns. The snake has moved on. A red-winged blackbird chirps a warning. Stay away from the nest, the bird warns. He isn't sure if the warning is for him or the snake.

Then, the bobber comes to life. A ring goes across. Then another one. He can feel it in the pole. His muscles stiffen. How much strength will he need to set the hook and pull this monster out? Will he be too slimy to pick up? Will he get away? He stands up and gets ready to set the hook.

Suddeenly, he hears a car stop on the road behind him. He turns and looks as the driver gets out. His heart is in his throat.

"Buster, you better not be in the mud with those new shoes!"

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noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Sun, 01 Apr 2007 16:48:00 +0000

I can still remember Jack Mitchell's face when he found out about the FTC action against Du Pont over an anti-freeze commercial.

As a rookie Remington Arms Company advertising man, anything that happened to Du Pont, happened to us. Du Pont owned us.

The Federal Trade Commission brought an action against Du Pont because "we" forgot to tell a customer in very large print, that before they put in our anti-freeze, they had to put out their old anti-freeze. If they didn't, crystals could form in the engine and block coolant flow. That would eventually make the engine terminal.

The instructions were on the package but this product was being sold to guys. Guys read small instructions? Not in the FTC's lifetime. After challenging that claim, the lawyers started to challenge every claim.

"I am allegedly Jack Mitchell and I am here to make a point, not in writing, but a point none the less, that all claims must be submitted to the lawyers before we can publish anything!" It was hell for a while but finally, the issue was settled and things moved on.

That doesn't happen anymore. The FTC has gotten old like most of us and has beat most of us in the aging war. It has become toothless. You can tell by what's going on in the banking industry. If you are late on your credit card payment, all credit cards are going to charge you a higher rate. It's there in the fine print and it is called Universal Default. What? I thought when all companies decided to take the same pricing action, that was called price fixing? Pass the mush to the FTC.

Let's not forget, the banking industry has exercised moral oversight of the American checkbook for years. Little by little, they have raised the price for that service. Write a bad check and you pay the bank $35. (They get away with charging these high extortion fees because they know most folks will be to embarrased to raise a stink.) How much did the bank pay us for the bad checks they wrote in 1929; the South American Loan Crisis; the Saving and Loan Crisis; and the mortgage crisis now in the works? Not a cent.

Americans have put up with these well dressed thieves for too long. They have bought our politicians. They have bought the FTC and other similar organizations at the state level.

Maybe it is time for a refund...say a class action suit? They are not any more entitled to collect "morality" fees than Jim and Tammy Baker. Any lawyers out there willing to raise a stink with these thieves?

There Hereeeee!

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Tue, 20 Mar 2007 23:57:00 +0000

The gray of the long winter sky is being replaced this evening by the boiling blue sky of spring. It's tornado season!

Actually, tornadoes have occurred in every month except January. But, we are days away from the best part of the year. I am a spotter for the county and when everyone else heads for the basement, I head for the hills--the tops of some of the tallest ones in the county.

If you have learned anything, you probably know it is not a good idea to go to the top of a hill to watch a thunderstorm. They come packaged with lighting and lightning loves high place. I have heard the loud snap of a strike a couple of times so that should tell you I am too close. But, I stay inside the car and hopefully well grounded in my civic hobby.

And I am not alone. There are usually 30 some of us out on 30 some hills talking to a person who is talking to Lancaster Emergency Management. They look for stuff on radar and then we tell them if the stuff is there. The stuff is high winds and of course, rotation, wall clouds, and that little funnel looking thing looking for a place to land and turn into a big thing.

You have no idea how much fun it is to watch that happen.

Yea spring!

Repawed

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Sat, 17 Mar 2007 10:19:00 +0000

Yes, the cast is off and the doctor has officially released me in a repawed status. The paw is a little stiff but is handling the keys pretty good right now. Thank God.

This has been a long month. If you take a look at the cast in a post past, you will see it squeezed my little finger into the next door brother. Now that may not seem like a big inconvenience, but on the keyboard, you got ;' instead of ;. My dear ole dad was a two finger typist so he would have gotten along nicely.

Hats off to John Hall and his friendly insurance company! They are paying the hospital bill. I am kind of surprised to be honest. The adjuster was really concerned about how much money I made. When we got by the idea that I was only looking for a little help on the medical bills and not trying to stick John for a settlement, things moved right along. After all, it was an accident. I hated that it happened. I also hated that it happened on a friend's property. If I had seen the ice, maybe none of this would have happened. But, as Dr. Laura likes to say...life happens when you are making other plans.

Indeed it did. But I am on the way back! Thanks John. Thanks cool Dr. Matt. Thanks my best buddy Scott!

Great Speeches by President Hagel

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Wed, 14 Mar 2007 03:30:00 +0000

Did you catch the press conference? There were quite a few folks there. Fox cut in live. I imagine CNN did, too. I bet some folks were even sitting on Hagel for President signs. Maybe an NU pep band was in the wings ready to play Hail Varsity. (That's what they play when the real President comes to Nebraska.)

It may have been the most exciting day in Nebraska since word got out that Debra Winger was hanging out in sin in the Governor's Mansion.

But everything fizzled. No memorable speech. No memorable phases. Nothing. What a shame. One can only wonder what times past would have been like with Hagel as President...

"Four score and seven years ago, or maybe eight, I am not sure..."

"Ask not what your country can do for you, well maybe you can ask, I will let you know in a few weeks..."

"The bombing will start in five minutes...well maybe tomorrow...I need some time to talk with some other people, maybe next year..."

He was suppose to split the party right down the middle with an anti-war platform. He was suppose to attract anti-war liberals from the left. CNN's Bill Snyder was really excited.

And so was the crowd. Until Hagel spoke.

Can you imagine someone that decisive with his finger on the nuclear trigger?

Pack up the horns, boys. If there is going to be a strong presidential candidate from Nebraska, my money is on a guy named Nelson.

The Sound of a Super Hero

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Wed, 14 Mar 2007 00:28:00 +0000

I would probably be a big 24 fan but there is only one problem. I can't hear it that well. Jack Bauer whispers through most of it. That is just not very super-heroee.

When I was a kid, I could hear The Lone Ranger 20 feet away with part of a peanut butter sandwich stuck in my ear. (We didn't worry about earcoli back then.) But try to listen to Jack. He whispers to Cloe. I can't get by that name either. The Buchanan's fat beagle was named Cloe. Go figure.

I never had a problem with hearing Festus, Matt, Kitty, or Doc. Muley could get a "whad he say?" out of my dad but the others did just fine. If you don't know what show that was, well you just don't know great television.

I don't know if I will ever get into 24 because of the whispering. It doesn't seem fair, does it? Just think where the country would be today if Archie had whispered to Edith?

Target practice

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Sat, 17 Feb 2007 11:23:00 +0000

I wish I still had my trusty Remington Model 700 BDL 22-250. I would go out to the country today and do some target practice. I would only need one bullet because the target isn't a paper bullseye, it is my Cingular phone.

Yes, my two year contract with that bunch of liars is over. No more dropped service in the center of Lincoln regardless of what their independent research company says. No more "no service" messages in the back of The Coffee House when my friends are chatting away on their phones.

Just one shot at 50 yards and no more Cingular. No more customer service calls that start with them saying "we apologize." What a sad excuse of a company!

Maybe best of all, they are no more. They are now AT&T again. I say again because I was a fairly satisfied AT&T cell user until Cingular bought AT&T's wireless unit. I inherited bad service through merger.

But I don't have to put up with their bad service anymore! Can you hear the bolt of my 700 opening? Can you see me put the cartridge in? Can you see me close the bolt? Can you see me looking through the scope? Can you see that goofy Cingular logo thing dance on my cell screen?
Can you see my trigger finger gently sqeeze back? Can you say goodbye Cingular?

Just the thought makes me smile!

The writer's nightmare

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Mon, 12 Feb 2007 00:39:00 +0000

OK, this is a writer's worst nightmare--next to proofreading. I stopped at John Hall Motors for a friendly visit. It had just finished snowing. There was just a dusting to maybe a half inch of light stuff covering the ground. But, that was just enough to cover some glare ice under it caused from melting the day before and refreezing over night.

I was wearing my trusty Sorell boots. They keep my feet nice and toasty and are generally great in this kind of weather. Unfortunately, they are like a 4x4 truck on glare ice. Worthless.

My right hoof found the ice about the same time my left one did. I went up in the air and broke the fall with my right hand which promptly broke my right wrist. Owie.

I boarded the 4 bus for downtown, stopped at my favorite coffee house for a cup and got a bag of ice from them to put on the wrist. By then, it was time for the 16 bus to come around, pick me up, and drop me at Lincoln General. (That's Bryan West these days but it will always be Lincoln General to me and all fans of Terms of Endearment.)

In and out in 45 minutes. It is a broken wrist and tomorrow I get a cast put on. The forecast is for sleet and freezing rain. That would not be good for a guy who has to walk about a mile and a half to reach the doctor.

This is a writer's nightmare I can assure you. My paw is typing all kinds of crap. Thank God I don't have to use white-out on here.

Here's to you...Dad

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Mon, 05 Feb 2007 14:40:00 +0000

My Dad was pretty big stuff in his small Nebraska town. He helped build a golf course out of a country pasture and went on to become the volunteer greens keeper. He turned hard clay into one of the most beautiful courses in Nebraska. Yes, the folks up there remembered him for that and you will find a bust of him out near the first tee.

He was also the mayor for a few years. He was in that post when the streets finally got paved.

But, half of the town remembers him for being the best Catholic a Protestant church ever produced. (Don't get him confused with being a pillar of some church. He wasn't.)

It was back in the 1940's. Dad, unlike me, was a great athlete. In fact, he got a scholarship of some sort to play basketball at Creighton University in Omaha. (That's right, he was a Protestant kid who got a scholarship to play basketball at a Catholic university.)

But times were tough and he came home to help his dad hold on to the Ford garage and one farm to the East of Hartington. The family owned a bunch of farms before the Great Depression but lost them. Yeah, I could have been a cattle baron but alas, my shoes are cleaner and my bank account is much smaller. Can you imagine how much his heart ached at not having a chance to play ball on go on to a bigger life?)

Dad worked in the garage with his brother after grandpa passed away Now, most sons think their dads walk on water and worry that they will never be as good of a man. Mine not only walked on water, he started Global Warming.

He started that walk at then struggling Holy Trinity High School. That little school couldn't afford a basketball coach back in the 40's and the priest asked dad if he could help out for a year. He said he would and kept that promise for 8 years. He never took a cent in salary and I suppose he took plenty of grief from the Protestant community for coaching at a Catholic school and whipping their ass in the county basketball tournament.

I must say, those folks have never forgotten what he did. Right next to his casket was a big spray of red roses from his teams. The priests were part of his funeral service. The Catholic church has honored him several times and have honored us, his family, by including us in those events.

How could a writer worth his salt leave a life like that alone?

Well, I couldn't. It's been a life goal to write something about those basketball years and I finally finished the movie script yesterday. You should know I HATE basketball so this was going to be a major effort on my part. Football was fine, but basketball I never got.

I have already completed a couple of edits and there are a couple more to go and frankly, I love it. It was fun to write. It made me well up inside. It brought tears. And, it brought out some writing that I didn't think I was capable of doing. I think there was some higher intervention here and it went straight to my fingers. What seemed to hit the page bypassed my loathing of the sport. That's the way it was suppose to be.

Normally, once I got in my "writing mode," it would take me a month or so to write something like this. I went start to finish in three days and I am very happy with it.

Yes, I do hope it makes it to the silver screen because my Dad's life was powerful, purposeful, and centered on helping other folks enjoy a better life through athletics.

So, here's to you...Dad. Your story is out there for a bunch of people to see. I hope they get the chance. God bless ya!

My new home gym

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 21:29:00 +0000

I just finished setting up my new home gym. I don't need a treadmill or anything like that because I climb four stories of stairs four times a day and walk 2 miles to catch a variety of buses. Plus, after this ice and snow moves on to a memory, the mountain bike comes out and I will do about 20 miles a day on it.

All I needed was something for the old muscles to keep their tone and bulk up as much as muscles can when you are 60 something. I did some shopping. Scheels was a good place for that. They had all of the nifty machines including Bowflex. That machine impressed me the most so I registered on their website and got the free video. There were plenty of well built people demonstrating their variety of machines and some testimonials from a various assortment of young gorillas about how Bowflex changed their bodies. Indeed it did.

Did I mention I was 60 something?

Now the Bowflex has about a 5 X 5 footprint so I measured. I only had 4 feet available. After all, I was not planning to give up my Marcy situp bench. It has helped me get a stunning 2 pack set of abs! Plus, I am almost back in size 33 X 32 jeans and at my high school weight of 185 pounds. Yes, I am impressed with my progress but there is this little problem of chest sag starting to show up.

Did I mention I was 60 something?

Anyway, I pondered the space issue and pondered the budget issue and then remembered my Dad's home guy. He had the guys cut up a window weight and created the thing he could roll up on a stick and increase his wrist strength. It worked because he was a great golfer right up until the end. He died at 62.

Did I mention I was 60 something?

Anyway, inventory taken, I was off to Wal-Mart for a possible solution. It cost me about $4 and works great! My Marcy situp bench now has a bike tire I cut in half attached to a bathroom plunger handle. (New one not a used one!)

After situps, all I have to do is pull the tire under the Marcy and hook it up to the plunger handle sitting on my chest which is hooked up to the other end of the tire. Push it straight up and presto! resistance and a savings of about $1500.

Now that's not bad for an old goat fighting the inevitable, is it?

I did mention I was 60 somthing, right?

The Good Life?

noreply@blogger.com (flkenny) — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 21:25:00 +0000

Frankly, you have to be a bit of a liar to be a great copywriter. That's why I rank myself as just a good one. And here's why.

Back in the agency days, one of our best accounts was the State of Nebraska. The state's slogan for God knows how long is Nebraska...the good life.

On a nice spring day. Ok. On a beautiful fall day. Sure is. On a football Saturday in Lincoln. No doubt. But on a day like today, it really does take a bit of liar to pull that one off.

It's 9 degrees outside and the wind is howling out of the Northwest. There are still hundreds of homes without power from a brutal ice storm of two weeks ago. (Not to worry, though. At least you can put the frozen food out on the porch and it won't thaw. Hell, if grandma kicks the bucket, put her out there, too. You can deal with her later.)

This is the time of year when you wonder about the Indians. How did they survive? I know, the buffalo provided them with dandy heavy robes to keep warm but you have to wonder, did they think this was the "good life?" Maybe they sent smoke signals to the Seminoles asking about short-term teepee reservations near a nice Florida beach.

There really isn't anything good about brutal winds and brutal temperatures. Nebraska is too flat to ski. Only nuts go ice fishing. Any animal with a brain is in some kind of hole. The rest are fattening up for the packing plants.

Only Nebraskans venture out because they absolutely must get to the bar or Wal-Mart. It's an inherited teepee fever syndrome.

Good life? Not for me. Good grief it's cold. Bring on tornado season.