Twitter, Shakespeare and the Aliens Among Us

I woke up one morning this week to find this quote included in my Twitter feed, “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

The person who posted it identified it as a Shakespeare quote, but didn’t say from which work.

I could pretend that it didn’t matter, that I’m so well-read that I didn’t need anybody to tell me that it comes from the first act of The Tempest. But that would be disingenuous – a lie of omission.

Besides, these days we have Internet search engines to remind us of the stuff teachers once required students to commit to memory.

A quick search of Google gave me the quote’s origin in seconds. But first it turned up a British heavy metal band, which apparently used the quote as the name for an album. One would expect Shakespeare at the top of the search rankings.

I’ll leave it to others to ponder what that says about the Internet and how search engines prioritize their results. I’m still trying to figure out whether aliens have really visited us or not.

Last month, my colleagues and I were bombarded with emails strongly suggesting we cover a big event to be held at the National Press Club in Washington, D.C. Some of them were polite, others were more insistent and even a little militant.

Journalists of all stripes are used to groups seeking coverage. In the old days, we got reams of press releases via snail mail or faxes promoting this or that event. The advent of email has made contacting reporters even easier. And, this group of true believers sent a barrage about the Citizens Hearing on Disclosure, an effort to get the government to fess up to alien contact.

One told us that it’s time to step forward and cover what could be the biggest story in history. Another said the truth about extraterrestrial existence is “unfolding before our eyes” and questioned why we weren’t planning to cover the hearing or broadcast it live.

Yet another suggested that journalists assume that humans are incapable of handling the truth, never mind that that’s what we are in the business to expose. And, at least one seemed to have been forwarded from Lord Ashtar, whoever that is.

The Citizen’s Hearing on Disclosure ended a week ago and, according to its website, it issued a communique urging the United Nations to hold a conference on whether aliens are trying to engage us or not.

I should mention here that I’m famous among my friends for having a passion for all things Star Trek, Star Wars and whatnot. But even I draw the line somewhere. There may be life elsewhere in the universe but I’m not ready to spend my time uncovering it.

However, I do want to express my gratitude to everyone who contacted us about the Citizens Hearing. Your emails came between two horrifying events that exposed devils among us – the Boston Marathon Bombing and the three woman in Cleveland who escaped their captor after being held for ten years.

The distraction you gave me was a small thing and hardly matters when stacked up against all those who have been directly touched by those two tragic events.

But I thank you all the same.

Lost On The Yellow Brick Road

Today marks the beginning of my second week in new work surroundings. My colleagues and I have abandoned our old headquarters near Washington, D.C.’s Verizon Center for a new HQ on North Capitol Street NE.

It’s an impressive building. It’s spacious. It’s modern. And, it’s clean. One of my colleagues summed it up saying, “I just prepared my meal in the bathroom. It’s nicer than my kitchen.”

It is a nice place to work. A truly nice place. But while the bathrooms really do sparkle, I don’t know that I want to make my customary peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the same room in which I flush it away.

Showing up for my first shift last weekend was akin to Dorothy arriving in Oz. After her farmhouse was swept away in a tornado, she went from a drab world filled with shades of gray to the splendor of fabulous Technicolor. The only thing missing when I arrived at the new building was a crowd of munchkins doing a song and dance routine and handing out giant lollipops.

I just wish the Yellow Brick Road leading there wasn’t so hard to follow.

I spent years perfecting my commute to our old building. The drive became so routine that I really didn’t have to think about it too much. As long as I paid attention to radio traffic reports, the commute from the Eastern Panhandle was usually trouble-free. And, if a problem cropped up somewhere along the line, I generally knew how to avoid it and still arrive on time.

All that’s changed now. And, I fear the move to the new building is reviving my reputation as a directionally challenged “Wrong Way” Corrigan, the pilot who famously flew from New York to Ireland in 1938 instead of to California, as his flight plan indicated.

Corrigan blamed his unauthorized trip across the Atlantic on a navigational error. He said his compasses failed. While he never admitted it, there are strong suspicions that he undertook his transatlantic flight on purpose after being denied by aviation authorities. If only I could convince my wife and kids to think the same of me.

There’s a joke around my house about my ability (or lack thereof) to get from point A to point B. It usually comes up when we are all in the car together, and my wife thinks wherever we are going is taking too long. She’ll roll her eyes and borrow a line from the Supertramp song, telling the kids, “You’re father likes to take the long way home.” That’s their cue to begin singing the chorus.

I’ve always denied intentionally taking the long way. But it seems as if the new commute is proving my wife’s point.

I just can’t seem to get the hang of driving to the new building. Even my iPhone is having trouble guiding me there. The app I’ve downloaded will get me close, but so far I haven’t arrived without first getting lost (it’s got to be the app’s fault).

It’d be nice if I had a Good Witch looking after me. One wave of the wand could turn my route into an easy-to-follow yellow.

But since that’s not going to happen, I’m just going to have to make the best of it.

Otherwise, I might be reduced to clicking my heels.

NPR’s Big Move (or Who Knew?)

I’m probably going to regret posting this because a) I got up at an ungodly hour today and b) my 11-year-old daughter just showed up at the door with three of her friends.

But I’m going to do it anyway, even though concentrating is about as futile as getting our giant dog Rodney to stop barking when it’s time for his daily walk.

For one thing, all my eyes want to do is close. And, if by some chance I were to nod off while reclining here in my favorite chair, I wouldn’t be asleep for long because of the other thing – the girls. Right now, they are singing along with Taylor Swift at the top of their lungs.

I could show them the door and cement my reputation as the “Mean Dad” of the neighborhood. But tangling with a pack of tween girls takes too much energy. So a word of warning – don’t expect much coherence.

I worked my first shift at NPR’s new headquarters building in northeast Washington, D.C. this weekend. The place is huge. It’s spacious. It’s modern. And, it’s clean. I could go on about its wonders, all of its bells and whistles, but let’s just say it’s quite an improvement over our old building near Chinatown.

I’m going on nine years at NPR, and yet only now do I feel like I just got called up from the minors. This is what “the show” is supposed to look and feel like. The only thing missing is a ballpark organist sounding the charge when I go into the studio to do a newscast and the wild cheers of an appreciative audience when it goes off like I’d just hit a home run.

But, while I’m taking great pleasure in exploring every nook and cranny of our new surroundings, I came to work this weekend feeling disconnected from my job. That’s because I wasn’t around when the runaway train seemed ready to careen off a cliff. Not only were tragic stories breaking, but they were happening while NPR was moving from its old HQ to its new one.

Saturday, as odd as it sounds, is the beginning of my work week instead of my weekend. The investigation into the Boston Marathon bombing was just getting started when I left for my regular days off. Plus, the deadly explosion at the fertilizer plant in the town of West, Texas hadn’t even happened yet.

By the time I arrived at our new building in the wee hours of Saturday morning, the train seemed to have finally come into the station. The manhunt in and around Boston was over. The surviving suspect was captured. And, the people of West are left to mourn 14 people dead and a community in shambles.

It’s often left to those of us who work weekends to pick up the pieces left over from a busy, trying news week. And, that’s what we did. The only difference is, this time we did it in new surroundings.

NPR’s new HQ. I like to call it “The Great Hall of NPR.”

Why A Rollercoaster Is In My Future (Whether I Like It or Not)

My son once asked me if I thought he’d “make a good driver someday.”

He asked with all the earnestness of a young boy driving what must have seemed to him to be a real car.

Ford Model T, 1926 (Photo credit: national museum of american history)

We were at Pennsylvania’s Hershey Park, and he was steering one of those jalopies that kids guide around a self-contained track.

You know the cars I’m talking about. They are fashioned after what people sputtered around in back in the day (think Henry Ford Model T’s). As I’m not much for thrill rides, bouncing around in those things is perfect for weak-hearted dads like me. Perfect, that is, until your oldest kid starts asking about driving for real.

That’s why I think theme parks should be required to post a sign or otherwise warn parents before they get into one of those things with their young children.

It should read:

WARNING! THESE JALOPIES MAY GIVE PARENTS HEARTBURN!

Such a sign is warranted in my view, mainly because those cars gave me my first taste of what it’s like to sit in the passenger seat with one of my kids behind the wheel. Hershey Park has plenty of roller coasters and other rides more than capable of turning my stomach, but I’d rather brave them than think about my oldest kid being old enough to legally hit the open road.

After he asked his question, I swallowed, took a deep breath and told him I thought he’d be good at anything he put his mind to. I even gave him an affectionate “atta boy” pat on the head while silently counting the years I had left before he put a license similar to mine in his wallet and my insurance premiums went up.

He must have been around 10-years-old when he asked whether he’d be a good driver. He’s had several birthdays since then and, although he hasn’t asked me that question lately, we’re about to find out the answer very soon.

My son is now 15.

And, since the state of West Virginia deems him ready to begin learning to drive, I figured he must be ready to be introduced to the joys of the state Division of Motor Vehicles. I took him to Berkeley County’s new DMV office on his birthday this week to fetch a Driver’s Licensing handbook.

“Welcome to the DMV,” I told him when he balked after beholding the long line for the first time.

Actually, I’m lying. While my son really did balk, the line wasn’t that long. We even got the handbook in fairly short order and were on our way home in relative good humor.

Really.

That handbook is now sitting on our coffee table. It’s a constant reminder of what I’m in for, and not just with our son. Our daughter will all too quickly follow on his heels.

And, while my son is not yet paying much attention to it, I know for a fact he’s got the car keys on his mind. And the first time he uses them with me in the passenger seat again, those roller coasters at Hershey Park are going to start looking pretty good.

English: Fahrenheit at Hershey Park. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Why I Won’t Ignore Mom Anymore When It Comes to Baseball

The stands at the Nationals/Marlins game, April 3, 2013

Sportswriter Frank Deford ruined my idea for this week’s column.

I was going to write about how my 14-year-old son rekindled my passion for baseball when he decided to start following the game. But I was forced to rethink that plan when Deford reminded me that such father/son baseball stories are “sappy” in a commentary he did for NPR, my employer.

He’s right.

They are sappy.

But, despite that, I’m still going to write about baseball.

How could I not?

The season just opened and my son’s new-found obsession is something to be encouraged.

Thanks to Deford, however, I’m not going bore you with an overwrought story about how the promise of a new season sparked my son and I to have a catch in our backyard “Field of Dreams” for the first time in years. (It wouldn’t be true, anyway. Until now, he’s never shown much of an interest in sports).

And, I’m not going to say how pleased I am that baseball still has the power to draw even the most hardened teenaged boys away from playing video games in their parent’s basement.

I’m not even going to write about when, with an ear-to-ear grin, my son told me how excited he was just before we entered Nationals Park Wednesday night for his first Major League game.

First Base Entrance, Nationals Park

Or, how we ate peanuts and ground the shells up with our feet as trumpets blew the charge, exhorting us to cheer the Washington Nationals to victory over the Miami Marlins.

Or, how disappointed we were when we missed Nats pitcher Gio Gonzales’ home run, the most exciting part of the game, because we were fetching hot dogs at the concession stand.

And, I’m especially not going to write about how I have a chance to pass down a love of the game to the next generation.

That would be sappy.

I am, however, going to offer a cautionary mother/son baseball tale that I was reminded of with great clarity at Wednesday night’s game. It starts in my hometown of Charleston, West Virginia.

These days, Charleston is home to the West Virginia Power, a Class-A minor league team whose ballpark near downtown opened in 2005. But when I was growing up in the 1970s and early 80s, Charleston was all about the Charlies.

The old Charleston Charlies logo

The Charleston Charlies played across the Kanawha River from downtown, at the former Watt Powell Park. It was a great old ballpark. I remember clambering all over the stands with a pack of my friends on game nights and shagging foul balls hit into the left field bleachers.

Watt Powell had at least a couple of distinguishing characteristics. For one thing, it offered a great view of the lush, green hillsides beyond the outfield. There was also a railroad line that ran just outside the right field wall. Charlies fans too cheap to buy tickets used to camp out there in lawn chairs. I always wondered what it was like for them when a train rumbled through, as one almost always did during games. And, although I don’t recall ever being on hand for it, there are stories of balls landing in empty coal cars as they clacked by.

For my mom, though, Watt Powell Park wasn’t about a Charlies game, or shagging foul balls, or admiring lush hillsides and the disruption caused by trains; it was about the breeze. It was near constant, making night games chilly even in the middle of a humid West Virginia summer.

She used to always make me take a jacket, saying I’d freeze and “catch my death of cold” if I didn’t.

Of course, I dismissed her concern. But if I didn’t take her seriously then, I do now.

I heard her voice in my head just before leaving for the Nationals game. My son had emerged from his lair downstairs in a T-shirt and light jacket. I told him it was going to be cold and made him grab a sweatshirt to wear underneath his jacket while I reached for my black down vest.

Unfortunately, my mom-inspired precautions weren’t enough. By the time the game ended, I felt like we’d just emerged from an ice box. I was shivering uncontrollably and my teeth were chattering. Even my usually hardy son admitted to being frightfully cold as we made our way to the welcome warmth of the Metro subway train that took us to the lot where I’d parked my car.

We don’t plan to go to another Nationals game until the end of May. It will be warmer then. But, after Wednesday night, my mom doesn’t have to worry anymore. We’ll be prepared for just about anything, even if it means taking a parka on a hot summer day.

Nationals Park, April 3, 2013

Update: It seems it was Dave Parker who hit a ball out of Watt Powell Park that ended up clanging around in a coal car. According to his Wikipedia profile, the ball was later recovered in Columbus, Ohio.

My Wife, Our Son’s Pinata and Me

My son’s pinata for Spanish class. Depending on when you grew up, it either looks like Woody the Woodpecker or an Angry Bird.

It’s not often that my wife leaves me totally in charge of anything, but she did last week when she left for her annual trip to the beach with a group of friends.

In her absence, I had to make sure the kids rolled out of bed (they did), that they were presentable in time for school (they were) and that dinner was on the table at a decent hour (we ate out – a lot).

I also had to make sure the garbage didn’t stink up the garage, the dishes didn’t pile up in the sink, our excitable dog Rodney didn’t have to cross his legs too much, our insatiable cat Skitty didn’t starve, and that the carpets were vacuumed, the bathrooms left sparkling, the laundry cleaned, folded and put away, and that the kids got into bed in time to get up the next day so we could do it all over, again.

Despite the pressure, I was reasonably confident that everything would be fine. That’s because my wife’s beach trip usually doesn’t catch me flat-footed. It’s an annual thing, after all; the one time of the year when she gets to abandon us in favor of friends and salt air. And, just in case I’m not paying attention, she gives me plenty of advance warning – repeatedly.

But this year was different. This time, her trip coincided with a school project that was due upon her return home and, therefore, needed to be completed while she was gone.

My wife seems to delight in school projects. So much so, I sometimes think she actually looks forward to helping our kids prepare for their science and social studies fairs. But this time, her attitude about our 14-year-old son’s latest project leaned more toward hostility than enthusiasm. In fact, I think she was secretly pleased to avoid helping our son with the pinata he was making for his Spanish class after spending a sloppy couple of days ensuring he plastered a balloon with paper mache.

The problem was she didn’t entirely trust me to follow his project through to completion.

Her lack of confidence showed in her phone calls home. She kept asking if I had watched the Youtube video on how to make a pinata. I kept reassuring her that I would, but that’s like urging a guy to stop at a gas station to ask for directions.

I never did watch that video. But I knew we had better be able to show some headway before she arrived back home. So, a couple of hours before she was due, our son and I got to work.

As it turns out, at least one of us watched the video. After showing me how to cut and fringe strips of tissue paper, our son glued them to the giant bird’s head he was making.

We got most of the head covered in red paper and had just knocked off for the day when my wife arrived. I was pleased with our progress, and while she was obviously happy to be back home, I could tell she wasn’t.

I usually grumble about snow days, but it’s a good thing the kids got one on Monday. It gave us an opportunity to make it up to her. We had plenty of time to finish the bird’s beak in yellow tissue paper and glue its bulging white Styrofoam eyes in place before it was due earlier this week.

My wife seemed happy after I texted a picture to her. But I suspect her approval was more of an expression of relief that a school project left in my hands was actually completed.

I’ve heard it said that “you’re only as good as your last project.” Since this one appears to have been a reasonable success, I prefer my record to stand as it is.

So, if you’re a teacher who has one of our children in class, please take note before requiring a project to be due in the spring. My wife is usually out-of-town for one week in March. Call me for the exact dates. I don’t want to be held responsible for whatever is or isn’t turned in.

“Snowquester” Chili

Depending on where you live in the Mid-Atlantic region, the storm cleverly dubbed “Snowquester” either lived up to its hype or was something of a bust.

Snow accumulations varied. But where we live in West Virginia’s Eastern Panhandle, only a few inches fell.

It was enough to keep the kids out of school. And the heavy, wet nature of what fell to the ground made it a pain to clear the driveway. Now, a day after the storm, it’s all but melted away. By tomorrow, it will likely be as if it never happened.

Patches of snow are all that’s left of “Snowquester” a day after the storm swept through. This patch won’t be in my backyard for much longer.

For us at least, “Snowquester” was reminiscent of what West Virginians of a certain age remember as “The Rockefeller Blizzard” of 1977. Then Governor Jay Rockefeller (who has announced his retirement from the U.S. Senate) sounded the alarm, warning West Virginians far and wide of a crippling storm that turned out to be a dud.

And, so it was for us with “Snowquester.”

But who knew it wouldn’t live up to its billing in our part of the panhandle?

Well, me for one, that’s who. And, I wasn’t alone.

With all the dire predictions ahead of the storm, I actually did what my wife often complains I don’t do – I thought ahead and then joined the pack at the grocery store as our parents did ahead of “The Rockefeller Blizzard.” I picked up some extra milk, eggs and sandwich bread; got some snacks that are not particularly healthy and some fresh fruit to atone for them. I even remembered to get our dog Rodney a great, big bag of food so he wouldn’t run out while we were snowbound.

I stocked up on other necessities, too – batteries, toilet paper and such. But as I paced the aisles of the store, I started obsessing about my favorite comfort food – chili.

If there was ever a time made for chili, it’s while a big snowstorm is doing its worst. Just the thought of a big pot simmering in the slow-cooker and spreading its warm, inviting aroma throughout the house was enough to prompt me to make sure I had what I needed to whip up a batch.

Chili isn’t that hard to make, but mine has a few twists. For one, I like to peel and cube a couple of potatoes to add to the mixture. It’s a move I learned from an old friend many years ago. The potatoes soak up the flavor and make chili even more filling and comforting than it already is.

I also like to use sausage in addition to ground beef and to throw in a can of enchilada sauce. Otherwise, it turns out thick, more like stew than chili. It makes the difference between eating it with a fork or a spoon.

Anyway, here’s how I put it together.

Snowquester Chili

1lb ground beef

1lb sausage

2 cans diced tomatoes

2 cans pinto beans

2 potatoes cubed

1 can enchilada sauce

2 pkgs of pre-mixed chili spices

Throw tomatoes, beans, potatoes, enchilada sauce and spices in the slow cooker. Brown the meat and add to the pot. Then all you have to do is wait a few hours for the potatoes to soften and the flavors to meld together. However, if you’re like me, waiting is not an option.

One of the pleasures of making chili is taste-testing it while it simmers. I generally end up going through a whole sleeve of saltines before it’s ever ready to be spooned into a bowl.

I could dip crackers into a simmering pot of chili all day. And while, “Snowquester” may not have given many of us the snow day forecasters warned of, it gave me the perfect excuse to make what will probably be our last pot of chili this winter.

Got any saltines handy?