The Last of the Fedora Wearing Reporters

Mike Celizic died this week.
I could use all the euphemisms that are painfully PC today, but Mike wasn't terribly PC. And the fact remains, there will be no more Friday nights at a bar, both of us telling boring stories of the glory days of being a reporter when what was important was getting the story and getting it right, not getting it posted on a Web site.
Mike was a fine reporter, masterful writer and one of the best drinking buddies I ever had. That's saying something for a reporter.
He also always wore a hat. In winter, a fedora like the old guys with press cards in the band. In summer, a perfect Panama. Gals he was drinking with would vie for the opportunity to wear the hat for a while at the bar.
One year, at the New York Press Association in Saratoga Srpings, they had a casino night. Mike understood craps, which is sort of like understanding nuclear physics as far as I'm concerned. I told him I always wanted to be the girl who blew on a guy's dice, so he let me. He started out with $5,000 in play money and ended with $12,000. If only it had been real. I don't know if I'll ever by the good luck girl again.
The unfariness of losing Mike at 62-years-old stings. Who would have thought the rookie Statehouse reporter would have left us before his mentor?
When we weren't swapping war stories over endless rounds of Jack and Ginger (always my favorite couple) or glasses of beer, Mike and I discussed deeper subjects. Talk would drift around to matters theological. Mike was convinced this is all there is. I kinda figure he and God are discussing that right about now.
Basically a sportswriter, Mike covered several Olympic Games, including Beijing '08, where he discovered the miracle of Chinese bespoke tailoring.
I would enjoy bugging him about the fairness of sports that are size dependent, mostly basketball, which I loathe. He would actually agree there is something unsportsmanlike about the need for excessive size.
Mike would take the best photos of fireworks. What skill and patience that requires. I imagine from now on, whenever I see fireworks, I'll think of Mike. I imagine many things with send me thoughts of Mike.

Who Unplugged Uncle Stanley?

I was in an aerobics class when the music suddenly changed to a polka.

The instructor, who chose the music, is Chinese-American, married to a WASP, so she didn't miss a beat, but most of the class started giggling because most of the class has an Uncle Stanley. His name might not be Stanley and he may not be an uncle, but he plays the electric accordian every chance he gets. 
The instructor was amused by our collective memories and by our disappointment that she didn't have an Uncle Stanley who plugs in at every available moment.
"Well, I guess it isn't too late to get one," she said.
Which is an interesting concept.
Can we acquire alternate ethnicities and alternate relatives? Would we want to?
That's a concept worth exploring. 
But for now, I want to know if we can unplug the relatives we have.

Tweeter Twits

Back in the dark-er ages, the musically literate had thousands of dollars in stereo equipment. These folks weren't consumers. They didn't walk into a store and buy the entire package. Only rich amateurs did that. True music mavens purchased each component individually, often from tiny shops run by funny little old men who used to build wire recorders and electric train transformers in their basements. The proprietor would have suggestions for wiring up the components which the purchasers would ignore. Among the components were enhancers for the bass and treble called woofers and tweeters. Every time I hear today's gadget-addicts talk about tweeting, I think of the electronic geniuses who actually understood what they were doing. And, actually DID something. Today's contact-obsessed just randomly "tweet" like twits. Which may be why they call it twitter.

Horses are God's Apology for Men

I'm not one of those women who doesn't like men.
I do like men. Some of my best friends are men. My son is a young man and he is a lot easier to get along with than his sisters.
I tell my girls boys are like Labrador retrievers, lovable, but it takes a little longer for their brains to kick in.
I was having lunch with a dear male friend who mentioned I seem very familiar with the needs of the horses we both work with. "Horses," I said, gesturing with one hand, "men," I said gesturing with the other. I excluded my present company, of course, but, in general, horses are a lot easier to get a long with. They let you know what they want. They are affectionate without asking for more. They are just so much easier to communicate with. And I say that as a professional at human to human communication.

The Queens of Schadenfreude

I used to keep an informal "Lord High Executioner's list." You know, from The Mikado. The Lord High Executioner wished he could choose the people he executed. I no longer keep the list, but I sure have a new category to add: The Queens (and Kings) of Schedenfreude. You know them. They are the people who take obscene joy in the misfortunes of the technologically inept. Worse, they take perverse glee in the knowledge that people with glaucoma and other vision problems have trouble seeing on a computer screen. They wouldn't dream of kicking someone in a wheelchair down the stairs, but they bask in the thought that computers cause problems for a lot of people, all the while, tsk, tsk-ing that technology will improve so much the problems won't exist for long -- yeah right.