I and I

As soon as we got across the bridge from the Florida mainland, we pulled into the Sanibel visitors' center. In the parking lot, I saw this:


True, it's a van, but it's not just any van. It's a van with this bumper sticker:


Chances are this means nothing to you, and the truth is, it should mean nothing to me, either, but it's the logo of a Cincinnati band called The Modulators, who have been around so long that they played at a high school dance I attended (the condom is still in my wallet, by the way) when I was maybe 17 years old. Back then, they were among the two or three most popular groups in town, and these bumper stickers were everywhere. The Modulators are still around, with some of the original members, no less, but that "next big thing" aura they had, or that I thought they had, is long gone. They're still fun, though; they played a parish festival last summer and I actually danced along with the other doughy, middle-aged locals, and my 6-year-old son, who totally showed me up on the dance floor. The kid does an excellent Worm.

Why does this sticker excite me? Because I'm old, that's why. This fact was confirmed when I saw this:



. . . and I thought, "Well, that kind of makes sense. Marco Polo is a really loud game."

A Visit from the White Death.

Maybe it's my imagination, or my increasingly faulty memory, or a combination of the two, but I'm certain that when I was a kid, Cincinnati got at least four or five good, deep snows every winter. I remember waking up on a school day, looking out my window and seeing the whole neighborhood blanketed and motionless. I'd turn on the radio, praying for a snow day, and I'd listen as the DJ read the whole list of closures, dominated by the many Catholic schools in the area. I'd lie there with my fingers crossed and listen as he stumbled through all those saints' names, from Aloysius to Xavier, and I'd think, "Come on, just this once, close it. Please close it."

Then, finally, I'd hear, "And, Cincinnati Public Schools are . . . (dramatic pause to which ellipses do not do justice) . . . open!" This was usually followed by an announcement that the buses were running late, but nobody knew how late, so all students should arrive at their bus stops at the regular time -- all of which was particularly meaningful to me, since my high school was 12 or 13 miles from home. Bastards.

Now my kids attend a Catholic grade school less than a mile from our house, and the place shuts down whenever there's a prediction of possible sighting of a rain cloud. And they don't get why I'm bitter. A few months ago, I began telling them that when I was young and a student in the public schools, we didn't even get Christmas Day off. I've said it so many times now that I'm starting to believe it. Or maybe I've said it so many times because it was true, damn it.

All of which brings me to this. The snow started to fall here on Friday morning and by the time it ended early this afternoon, we had twelve inches of snow on the ground. A foot of snow! On a Saturday! I'm not sure whether a grown man should be so happy about a snowfall, but it was fantastic. The downside after-effects are already in motion; right now, for instance, I'm watching the local news and the weatherman cannot stop congratulating himself on how right his prediction was. But this morning . . . well, that was cool.

I took my kids sledding down the street, where we saw more neighbors gathered than at any other moment in the four years we've lived here. After that we came home, built a fire in the fireplace, ate lunch and they settled in for an indoor day. Usually the video games irritate me after a relatively short time, but what the hell? It's Saturday and there's a foot of snow out there.

My wife and I were supposed to have attended a formal charity event tonight. It would have been the first time in 17 years that I'd worn a tuxedo, but the event was canceled. (Probably fortunate, since I don't know how to tie a bowtie, and my frustrated, profanity-laden attempt to learn last night didn't yield much.) Thinking the event was still on, however, I decided I'd better shovel the driveway. Ordinarily, I'd just wait it out, figuring the snow would melt eventually, right? Because my boss had invited us to this thing, however, I thought I'd better do what I could to get there.

So out I went. You know what? Snow is heavy. Sure, it looks all light and fluffy like cotton candy or something, but try lifting it! I was on the front sidewalk when I felt something pop in my lower back, and I collapsed to the ground. The wind whistled by my ears as I loosed my plaintive cry, "Little help?! Little help here?!" Nobody heard.

Nobody, that is, except this brave canine. Out of nowhere, she bounded to my side, wearing one of those mini-barrels of rum on her collar. I took the rum, she popped the cork with her teeth, and I drank, deep and long. The rum was warm like a Caribbean sunset and it made me feel like a pirate. The dog looked at me, waiting for instructions, and I said, "Go, friend, and tell my family I'm hurt. Tell them to hurry! Now, go! Go!"

Off she tore into our yard and I could hear her barking at the back door. After what seemed like an hour -- I'm sure I was delirious from my injury -- the dog returned, alone. I think she shrugged her shoulders, but her valiant reaction inspired me to stagger to my feet and follow her back to my house.

I've always thought of myself as more of a cat person, but I'll tell you what, this is one smart dog. First, a daring rescue and now, she's helped me find a way to pass off this injury as a workers' comp claim. Next stop, long term disability!

Man, what a great Saturday!

Newspaper Men Eating Candy.

One thing I’ve learned in my so-called career, with the bit of traveling I’ve done, is that there are cities in this country that are worse – far worse – than Cincinnati. That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, and it’s not really fair, either, because Cincinnati, though far from perfect, is a pretty good place to live. We have the arts, we have major universities that attract students and faculty from all over the world, we have professional sports, we have a fantastic library system, and so on.

Yet you don’t need to look too hard to find someone who’s not from around here, who knows the city by reputation only and believes it’s a backwater town run by right-wing Bible thumpers. Why is that? Could it have something to do, perhaps, with the fact that the city’s major (and soon to be only) daily newspaper, the Cincinnati Enquirer, is run by conservative hacks and reads as if it were hastily cut and pasted by a group of people who only do journalism as a hobby? The paper has one or two bright lights, most notably the amazing cartoonist Jim Borgman. Everything else? Bad, really bad.

The worst offender is columnist Peter Bronson: never insightful; never amusing; always predictable. Read my summary of today’s column and then never bother yourself with him again.

Shorter Peter Bronson

I’ll begin today’s column with an inept attempt at relevance, in the form of a long out-dated pop culture reference. See, I’m just a regular guy! Now, I’ll twist myself into knots making that reference fit this morning’s G.O.P. talking points. (And isn’t it lucky for me that as an editorial columnist, I don’t have to back up my opinions with actual facts? See, just like Joe Six-Pack.) From there, I’ll segue into pure mean-spiritedness masquerading as humor. Annnnd . . . all done! But wait, I forgot a gratuitous swipe at a Clinton! Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow!