The Rentable

I'm driving a 2009 Chevy Impala today.

One of the few nits I've picked with my used TrailBlazer is its windshield, which is covered with what looks like a layer of hard-water spots. Unlike mineral deposits, however, they refuse to yield to chemicals or mild abrasives. After much wrangling, my dealer and I convinced GM to cover the damaged glass under warranty, considering that it should've been caught during the 117-point GM "Certified" Used Vehicle inspection.

The replacement windshield, which has to be a genuine OEM part in order to be covered, finally came in yesterday. My dealer will do the work today and keep my truck overnight in a heated garage. I'll pick it up tomorrow.

Thus the Impala, my loaner for one snowy day.

I find nothing immediately appealing about the Impala, never mind endearing -- the car just screams, "I'm ordinary." It's not quite as blasé as the late-model Ford Five Hundred or Mercury Montego, which the Los Angeles Times called a "lamentable rentable," and about which the reviewer wondered aloud, "Where is the nurse call button?"

No, the Impala isn't that boring. It's damned close, though.

I think I'm especially miffed that GM slapped "Impala" on such a forgettable car. Time was when the name was synonymous with big, fast sedans and convertibles, the kind of car you'd bug your dad to buy just so you could borrow it when you were old enough to drive. An Impala used to have soul.

Not anymore. Regrettably, the current Impala is pretty typical Detroit fare. And yes, it's occurred to me that the same could be said of my plain-vanilla TrailBlazer. Fair enough.

Ok, so the Impala doesn't turn me on -- but is it capable?

I doubt I'll get the chance to find out. It's in the teens here today and we're expecting five inches of snow, so as long as it's got good grip and the heater works, it's capable enough.

So far, so good. I just can't wait to turn it in.

* * *
Update, 3pm: My dealer just called -- GM, for the second time, shipped the wrong windshield. The correct glass reportedly is coming overnight from another dealer two states away, and the plan is to put me back into my truck by the end of the day tomorrow.

I'm not holding my breath. I'm not going to bad-mouth the Impala any more, either, since our blind date has been extended.

Meeting 'Willy Pete'

My seventh-grade science teacher had a flair for the dramatic. His performances often involved pyrotechnics, like making a batch of flash powder or setting fire to a magnesium ribbon to show us the bright white light with which it burns.

One day, he told us to get up from our desks and stand against the back wall of the classroom. He then donned safety glasses and thick rubber gloves, picked up a pair of forceps, reached into a jar of water and drew out a chunk of a whitish material. Holding it at arm's length, he waved it slowly back and forth through the air, attempting to dry it.

Without warning, the chunk burst violently into flame, splitting into two small pieces. One bit landed on the floor, burning through the tile to the concrete slab beneath, and the other burrowed a deep hole into a desk in the front row. It was a stunning and memorable demonstration.

The substance was white phosphorous.

Every news story I see about Israel's use of white-phosphorous munitions in Gaza takes me back to seventh grade and the day that I saw firsthand, albeit on a very small scale, the wickedly destructive properties of this element.

Breathing easier

On Christmas Eve, Santa Claus (disguised as my in-laws) helped me check two items off my wish list -- a high-flow air-filter element and a CB radio for my truck. Not wanting to wrap the wrong things, Santa left it to me to do the ordering, which I did last week.

For me, having the ability to track shipments via the Web ranks right up there with weather radar and live traffic cams. According to the UPS website, the CB should be on my doorstep tomorrow afternoon. The air filter showed up yesterday via USPS Priority Mail -- but not before taking the scenic route.

It shipped last Thursday afternoon from Cincinnati, just 120 miles from here. By Friday morning the package had traveled 250 miles to a USPS depot in Michigan, more than 200 miles from its intended destination. Instead of being re-routed directly here, it was bounced back to Cincinnati, where it was scanned Saturday afternoon. My local Post Office got the wandering parcel yesterday morning and had it in my hands a couple of hours later.

Memo to the USPS: Please don't expect me to salute your next request for a rate increase.

I've been installing K&N air filters in all my vehicles -- cars, trucks and motorcycles -- for over 20 years, almost reflexively, and I've been satisfied with the results. Since I don't fancy my TrailBlazer to be a hot rod, I didn't spring for one of K&N's expensive CAI (cold-air intake) kits, opting instead for the stock-replacement element.

Honestly, I felt a bit silly swapping the air filter on a GM Certified Used Vehicle less than 1,500 miles after buying it -- until, that is, I lifted the lid off the airbox.

The filter element's white pleats were black, inside and out, thoroughly choked with dirt and soot. What's more, the intake horn was installed upside-down, further disrupting air flow that already was severely restricted.

Certified? My ass. So much for that 117-point inspection.

My truck's 4.2-liter six essentially has been breathing through a crimped straw for as long as I've owned it. It was bound to run more happily with the new K&N anyway, but now it'll be jumping for joy. I'll be paying particular attention to fuel mileage, which I'm certain will increase by at least one real-world mpg.

After this experience, methinks that GM Certified Used Vehicles and the United States Postal Service have earned the same scrutiny that Pres. Ronald Reagan, quoting a Russian proverb, applied to the Soviet Union -- Доверяй, но проверяй.

Tired skills

It's January 12th, and our Christmas tree still stands in the corner of our living room, a symbol of both sentiment and procrastination. My wife and I have promised each other that we'll strike it and pack up the rest of the holiday decorations tomorrow night.

Another example of postponing the inevitable is our lawn tractor. The snow's been flying for a couple of months now, but I didn't get around to pulling the mower deck and attaching the dozer blade until late last week, spurred by the forecast of a nasty winter storm.

Walking into the barn and switching on the fluorescents Friday afternoon, I saw that I had another job to do before turning a lawn mower into a snowplow -- one of the front tires was dead flat, the bead popped off the rim. A quick once-over of the tread and sidewalls uncovered no obvious punctures, cuts or cracks.

Despite being an average shade-tree mechanic, I have virtually no tire-repair experience, just a long-ago summer job at a Montana service station and the occasional trailside fix of a mountain-bike tube. A lack of skills generally doesn't discourage me, however, so I gathered what I figured I needed -- tire irons, air compressor, liquid soap and a ratcheting tie-down strap -- jacked up the front end of the tractor and went to work.

If nothing else, I thought, maybe I'll learn something today.

The purpose of the tie-down strap (thank you, Google) was to coax the beads toward the rim -- wrap it around the circumference (tread) of the tire, soap the beads, cinch the strap down tight, start filling the tire with air, then release the strap as soon as the beads seat.

It worked on the very first try -- and it would've worked even better if I'd released the strap a bit sooner. By the time I flipped the catch there was so much tension on the mechanism that it let go like a Roman ballista, the nylon strap hitting me in the face and the ratchet taking a good-sized chunk out of a knuckle on my left hand.

As blood from my injured hand spotted the concrete floor, I smiled at my "success." I wrapped a clean shop rag around the wound, secured my man-bandage with duct tape and proceeded to finish the job -- mower deck off, plow blade (plus wheel weights and tire chains) on.

I connected a battery charger, shut off the shop lights and retreated to the house for food and sterile gauze (not necessarily in that order). I returned to the barn after dinner to unhook the charger.

The tire was flat again.

This time, once the beads were seated, I pulled the valve core and dumped in some Slime. (Like I said, I have no real skills.) I spun the wheel to spread the miracle goop around inside the tire, added more air, spun it again and walked away.

Done.

The dreaded weekend storm missed us completely, by the way, but last night we did get a little over an inch of snow, so this morning I did some light plowing.

That tire is still holding air. Not bad for a hacker, eh?

An uncompensated plug

Zachariah's Red-Eye Saloon opened in the mid-1970s in an old warehouse on High Street across from the Ohio State campus, quickly becoming the Mother Church of central Ohio's music scene. The club attracted its share of big-name touring acts, but its heartbeat was local artists.

Nothing lasts forever, of course. Zach's closed in the early 1980s.

Now, every January, many of those musicians -- along with those of us who sat on the other side of the footlights -- gather in Columbus to rekindle the warm glow of the High Street days. The event, like all good reunions, is as much soul as it is song.

This year's Zachariah's Red-Eye Reunion, the ninth edition, will happen the evening of January 31st. If you're within driving distance and have 12 bucks (plus beer money) to spare, I encourage you to make it a date -- you won't regret it.

Zachariah's Red-Eye Reunion 2009

Saturday, January 31st, 7pm at The LC
(Lifestyle Communities Pavilion)

405 Neil Avenue, Columbus, Ohio

Appearing
McGuffey Lane
Tom Ingham
Delyn Christian (of The Fret Shop Band & QFM96)
Dave Rangeler (of Blackjack & Pistol Pete)
Denny Petroff (of Spittin' Image)
Julie Ivory & Terry Fickes (of Jesse Squire Band)
John David Call (of Pure Prairie League)

& more...

Tickets
General admission $12 in advance
(Ticketmaster or call 614-457-6157)
$15 day of show

(reserved seats sold out)

Music, nearby

This weekend delivered us a winter storm that wasn't -- it showed up mostly as rain and hype. Tonight also brought one of our favorite musicians, John Schwab of McGuffey Lane, to a pizza joint in a strip mall just two miles up the road.

Even though John's playlist consists of original songs, country standards and pop covers aimed at folks my age, my wife and I invited our teenage spawns to join us and, to our surprise, they accepted. The older boy made it a fivesome, bringing his girlfriend.

The real shocker? For three hours they sat with rapt attention, tapping their feet and drumming the table in time to the music. When I said goodbye to John after his second set, he smiled sheepishly and confided, "Man, I hope the kids weren't too bored."

Far from it. I doubt that the "kids" will be downloading mp3s of what they heard, but they seemed to genuinely appreciate both the art and the artist.

Tonight, as usual, John asked for requests from the audience. He performed two of mine: "Tennessee," a sentimental postbellum ballad penned by late McGuffey Lane bandmate Bobby Gene McNelley; and Jerry Jeff Walker's "Redneck Mothers." (I don't think our spawns know that I asked for that shit-kickin' anthem, and I'm not telling.) And when someone shouted out, "Girl from Ipanema," John mischievously complied -- think "bossa nova meets Bobcat Goldthwait."

Whenever I attend one of John's gigs, whether he's alone or with the 'Lane, I'm always struck by the energy in the room. Faces, many framed by hair as gray as mine, shine with three decades of memories. Voices rise and know every word. The scene is heartwarming, testament to a true treasure of central Ohio's rich tradition of homegrown music.

For Mrs. KintlaLake and me, catching John's solo act served as a sort of "fix" -- the annual Zachariah's Red-Eye Reunion concert is three weeks away, and this was a tantalizing taste of what's to come. We can't wait.

Great show, John. See you at the Reunion.

Season's end

The games all have been played, the season's over and the Florida Gators are BCS champions. And in some quarters -- notably Utah, southern California and Texas -- controversy still brews.

That's exactly as it should be. Gawd, how I love college football.

The Buckeyes finished 10-3 and ranked #9, having been beaten only by #2 USC, #3 Texas and #8 Penn State. On the other side of the KintlaLake household, my wife's 9-4 West Virginia Mountaineers ended the season at #23, falling to #17 Cincinnati and three unranked teams.

With this season indelibly in the books, then, what of next year? Will the Buckeyes and Mountaineers be winners?

Last night, during a CNN segment on the political donnybrook in Illinois, the moving image of Chicago journalist Bob Greene popped up on my TV screen. The unexpected appearance of Mr. Greene, who's known best for his work with (and ultimately his dismissal from) the Chicago Tribune, reminded me that he'd once written a poignant column following the death of longtime OSU football coach Woody Hayes.

The two had become friends over the years. In his 1987 column, Mr. Greene remembered a dinner conversation with Coach Hayes, the last time he saw "the old man," revealing that the irascible football icon had, in his twilight, shifted his perspective.

Near the end of the meal, the talk got to the subject of winning. Woody had always been known for his fierce pursuit of victory. Now, though, he said, "You're asking me if there is anything that is as important as winning. And I think the answer is yes. There's something that's even more important than winning."

I asked him what that was.

"There are some lines by a great orator," he said. "My dad used to quote him. He said it better than I ever could:

"'And in the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love hears the rustle of a wing.'"

He was speaking softly.

"You see," he said, "the important thing is not always to win. The important thing is always to hope."

I'll never forget those words or the first time I read them. It's wisdom worth keeping.

In March of 1987, Wayne Woodrow "Woody" Hayes was laid to rest at Union Cemetery beneath a simple granite headstone. His beloved Anne joined him in 1998.

Eight months from now, the 2009 football season will be well underway. With good people, good play and and good fortune, OSU and WVU again will be winners.

In football, as in life, we'll always have hope.

Addendum: Season's end
In his conversation with Bob Greene, Woody Hayes foreshadowed his own epitaph. While I've known that for some time, today I went digging for its source.

The "great orator" to whom Coach Hayes referred was Robert Green Ingersoll (1833-1899). The line he quoted is from a somber soliloquy that Mr. Ingersoll delivered at the graveside of his brother, Ebon. It concludes:

Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death Hope sees a star and listening Love can hear the rustle of a wing.

He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath, "I am better now." Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead.

The record of a generous life runs like a vine around the memory of our dead, and every sweet, unselfish act is now a perfumed flower.

And now, to you, who have been chosen from among the many men he loved, to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust.

Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is, no gentler, stronger, manlier man.

I don't know that I've ever read words more eloquent than those. For me, they place the familiar epitaph into a brilliantly illuminated context.

Coach Hayes is deserving of the orator's tribute, unabridged. Would that the same could be said of each of us.

Nap time is over

It's been since Monday night that I've felt compelled to post to this blog. Lots to talk about, not much to say.

Thus these bits.

* * *
Samuel Joseph "Joe the Plumber" Wurzelbacher said yesterday that he'll be spending ten days in Israel as -- I swear I'm not making this up -- a war correspondent for some fly-by-night Kool-Aid website. Reportedly, he wants to get the perspective of "regular Joe" Israelis on the Gaza conflict.

Heaven help us -- and the still-honorable profession of journalism.

* * *
Sarah Palin, in yet another interview with yet another conservative (read, "safe") media outlet, criticized Tina Fey and Katie Couric. The incurably inarticulate governor of Alaska is slamming the pair for "exploiting" her, contending that "it...says a great deal about our society."

I agree. It says that a public figure who can't find her butt with both hands and yet pretends to be qualified for the nation's highest office will be exposed as a fraud.

* * *
The last several weeks have demonstrated that President-elect Barack Obama is, in my opinion, the right leader for these times.

I adamantly disagree with (and will continue to oppose) Obama, Biden & Co. on specific issues, but I suspect that his presidency will, in many ways, be good for this country -- if, that is, Republicans and self-important Democrats can resist sabotaging our national good for the sake of shriveling ideologies.

* * *
I think it was William Tecumseh Sherman -- a son of nearby Lancaster, Ohio, by the way -- who said,

"War is a cruel business. The crueler it is, the sooner it's over."

I have no love for Hamas, nor do I have any particular affinity for the state of Israel or for the Palestinian cause in general. In thinking independently about the current conflict in Gaza, then, all I can do is to consider how I might feel if I lived close to a disputed border.

I feel compassion for innocent Palestinians and Israelis caught in the crossfire, and I have an appreciation of Israel's purposeful aggression in defense of its people. That said, I come down against terrorism and on the side of our only ally in the neighborhood.

The sooner it's over, the better.

* * *
Last month, Ohio's Department of Job and Family Services, which oversees unemployment compensation, was taking about 7,500 calls a day. Since the holidays, daily call volume has risen to 80,000.

Understandably, the agency's staff can't keep up, leaving callers on-hold long enough to drain cell-phone batteries. Adding insult to economic injury, both the department's automated phone system and its website keep crashing, making it impossible for unemployed Ohioans to file their claims for weekly benefits. (New York's and North Carolina's systems have suffered similar failures.)

With 435,000 citizens collecting benefits -- and I'm among the 7.3% of Ohioans who are unemployed -- the state pays out $43 million every week. As of Monday, Ohio had just $16 million left, meaning that the state fund is officially insolvent and will be forced to borrow from the feds.

Strange, strange days.

* * *
For the last few days, I've been paying two bucks for a gallon of regular gas -- a jump of 36% in three weeks, suddenly higher than the national average.

That's just nuts. And I'd be pissed about it, too, except that two bucks is less than half of what I paid just four months ago.

* * *
Oklahoma and Florida will play tonight for the BCS title.

The Gators, coached by Ashtabula native and former Ohio State assistant Urban Meyer, well-and-truly whupped OSU for the championship two years ago, and that still stings. Sooners coach Bob Stoops hails from Youngstown, and I've gotten past any bitterness I felt over Uwe von Schamann's dagger (a.k.a. "The Kick") in 1977.

I don't have a favorite dog in this fight, really, but I'd like to see Oklahoma bust out to a 21-0 halftime lead. Florida wouldn't score a touchdown 'til early in the fourth quarter. Stoops and the Sooners hoist the crystal ball, 35-12.

That's my fantasy, anyway.

* * *
Finally, please join me in a moment of silence: Ohio State running back Chris Wells announced today that he's leaving early for the NFL.

(snif)

Thanks for the memories, Beanie -- every smash-mouth run, every hurdle, every stiff-arm, every Wolverine-killing touchdown gallop.

All the best.

My kingdom for a horse

A third consecutive bowl loss for the Buckeyes was the last thing I wanted to happen tonight. Now that it has -- 24-21 to #3 Texas -- I find myself not nearly as disappointed as I am proud.

I'm proud as hell, actually, of a team that entered the Fiesta Bowl a prohibitive underdog and yet came within 16 seconds and a missed tackle of pulling off the upset. The game was a 60-minute exchange of body blows -- classic, slug-it-out, big-time college football.

I'll remember the Bucks' punishing defense, the nothing-to-lose attitude, and Todd Boeckman's second-half touchdown pass to Terrelle Pryor -- senior to freshman, the benched captain to his young heir. It was a perfect, full-circle moment.

Though I wish the outcome had been different, I loved every minute.

"Those guys are big, strong and physical, the best defense we faced all year." (Colt McCoy, Texas quarterback)

Every year, the Ohio State football team takes the field with an embarrassment of riches, bringing an impressive arsenal of weapons to bear on its opponents. What OSU lacked tonight wasn't talent, however -- it needed a horse.

The gritty Buckeyes, especially without Beanie Wells in the second half, simply had no horse to ride tonight. The Longhorns did, in the person of a quarterback named Colt McCoy, the Heisman Trophy runner-up and arguably the best player in the college game.

Ball player, ball game.

"I can't tell you how proud I am of the leadership on this team. It didn't get done on the scoreboard, but they know how much we care about them." (Jim Tressel, Ohio State football coach)

Some sports pundits will write the story of this OSU team as "promise unfulfilled" -- in Columbus, that's what happens when you're projected to be a national-championship contender and end up 10-3. Others will cite tonight's defeat as more evidence that Coach Tressel and Ohio State "can't win the big ones" or as conclusive proof that the Big Ten is an also-ran conference.

Whatever.

There's no shame in analysis, certainly, nor is there any pride. Analysis isn't the caretaker of tradition -- it can't move a grown man to tears or inspire a child to learn to the words to a century-old fight song. It has no passion, no warmth, no history and no heart.

Analysis has none of the qualities that separate sport from, say, accounting.

I'm not an analyst. Mine always will be a fan's account, heartfelt and rooted in partisan pride. I'll tell it again next season, win or lose.

September's right around the corner -- Go Bucks!

Shades of Joe Walsh

Seems to me
You don't wanna talk about it
Seems to me
You just turn your pretty head and walk away

In the current economic climate, how far will car companies go to get our business?

Naturally, all of them are cutting prices to the bone. There's the familiar array of free scheduled-maintenance plans, zero-interest deals and long warranties, but those perks are soooo 1990s. Consider what Hyundai Motor America announced yesterday:

"Beginning today, Hyundai is providing a complimentary vehicle-return program for the first year on every new Hyundai that is financed or leased for owners who experience an involuntary loss of income within 12 months of the purchase date."

You read that right -- buy a car, lose your income, bring the car back, walk away from your loan or lease.

The program, Hyundai Assurance, is being advertised heavily during this weekend's NFL playoffs. There are, of course, a few strings -- buyers must have suffered "a covered life-changing event" and the maximum depreciation benefit is $7,500 (buyer pays any remaining balance).

Look, I'm no fan of this company's products. I recognize marketing gimmickry when I see it, and yes, some form of WALKAWAY insurance has been an option at select dealers for over 30 years. Still, who would've thought we'd ever see anything like this offered by an automaker, at the corporate level, on every sale?

Not me -- these are strange days. Question is, are they so strange that struggling U.S. car companies will match the Koreans' ante?

I'm not holding my breath.

Bowlful

I love college football, but after watching all five of yesterday's bowl games I'm a bit hung over.

Congrats to the Hawkeyes on their decisive win, which will prevent the (overrated) Big Ten from pitching a perfect post-season o-fer. And as it turns out, JoePa, USC is exactly who we thought they were.

The Trojans' domination of Penn State in the 2009 Rose Bowl begs a question: If Coach Pete Carroll and his team are so damned good (and they are), how is it that they manage to blow a gimme game (Stanford, Oregon State) every season, it seems? I can't quite figure that.

Six more bowls remain, including Monday's matchup between OSU and Texas in the Fiesta Bowl, before Thursday's climactic (sort of) BCS Championship game. I'd better pace myself.

* * *
The first time that my wife and I celebrated New Year's together, she introduced me to her pork-and-cabbage tradition.

It's said that eating such a meal, variations of which exist all over the world, will bring prosperity (from the cabbage) and progress (from the pork) in the New Year. We can always use some of both, so I'm in.

Last night's version of our culinary ritual consisted of a pork-loin roast bathed in a glaze of apricot preserves, vinegar and mustard. Since sauerkraut doesn't go over well in our household, cabbage came to the table in the form of cole slaw.

(To any Southerners reading this blog -- no, there were no black-eyed peas, despite Mrs. KintlaLake having lived in New Orleans for a time. I'll have to ask her about that.)

Right now, the leftover roast and glaze, along with barbecue sauce and pickled garlic, are getting acquainted in our slow cooker. Tonight we'll enjoy zesty pork sandwiches and the last of the slaw. Them's good eats, for sure.

But will it bring us good luck? Stay tuned.

* * *
6:30pm: The Cotton Bowl (and dinner) just concluded -- an entertaining game with a surprising outcome. I look forward to these grand old gridiron events, the handful of real bowl games -- Rose, Cotton, Orange and Sugar -- that I remember from my youth.

That's why I was disappointed to learn that the venerable Cotton Bowl stadium, after today, will no longer host the Cotton Bowl game. Beginning in 2010, the bowl will be played in the Dallas Cowboys' new palace, forsaking heritage and tradition for commerce and comfort. With the move, only "Rose Bowl" still will connote both a game and its venue.

Some time-honored traditions, on the other hand, just strike me sideways. Seeing the Kilgore Rangerettes perform at halftime of this afternoon's game, for instance, seemed...I dunno, not right. There may be much to admire about a troupe of high-kicking cowgirls with a 68-year history, but nothing says "I'm a dinosaur" quite like the Kilgore Rangerettes.

It works in Texas, I guess, and I'm sure that somewhere there's a far more sophisticated blogger who judges my own favorite traditions to be corny as hell. But the way I see it, if the Academy Awards were held in Dallas (perish the thought), I'd half-expect an appearance by "Up with People."

Permanent address

When I heard that Rod Blagojevich, the addled and embattled Governor of Illinois, had appointed Roland Burris to fill the Senate seat vacated by President-elect Barack Obama, I was inclined to separate the governor's alleged misdeeds from the appointee's qualifications -- that is, I don't subscribe to the whole "taint" proposition.

Now that I know a bit more about Mr. Burris, however, I can't imagine anyone so poorly suited to serve in a government of, by and for The People. It's obvious, at least to me, that Mr. Burris has lived his 71 years in pursuit of his own legacy, not in service to the citizens of his state.

Exhibit A -- Mr. Burris, in an outrageous feat of narcissism, has built a granite mausoleum engraved with his résumé. (He's still very much alive, by the way.) Beneath the Illinois state seal and the inscription "Trail Blazer," he reminds visitors to Chicago’s Oak Woods Cemetery that he was the state's first African-American attorney general, its first African-American comptroller and the first African-American exchange student to Hamburg University (that's in Germany) from Southern Illinois University (that was in 1959).

I know that the U.S. Senate isn't exactly an ego-free zone, but I wouldn't hand a power tool to someone who prematurely memorialized himself, never mind trust him with a seat in Congress.

And speaking of ego, Mr. Roland Burris has two children, a son named Roland and a daughter named (no kidding) Rolanda.

Seriously, do people really do this?

Apparently so -- and sadly, some of them are in charge.

From the ridge

The New Year holiday is supposed to be an annual vantage point, a sort of ridgeline from which we survey the trail behind and gauge the territory ahead.

I'm reminded of a solitary trek I made from Kintla Lake, now 30 years ago but still bright in my memory. At one point I made a decision, arguably ill-advised, to leave the marked trail and venture north into a trackless section of the Boundary Mountains.

I recall how difficult it was to find a clear and easily navigable way upward, and I'll never forget the exhilaration I felt when finally I crested a high, open ridge from which I could take some compass bearings.

Behind me were the Kintla Creek lakes and the landscape through which I'd already passed. Canada lay ahead, with British Columbia in front of me and the southwestern corner of Alberta to my right.

Taking bearings gave me my position, but it didn't chart my course -- that was up to me. All I knew for sure was that I wouldn't be turning back. I pressed on, down-slope and northeast, making my way toward the international border.

Today, standing on a metaphorical ridge, I look back at the path that brought me here over the last 12 months. By any measure it was damned tough going, with dry washes and dead ends, uncertain footing and more than a few falls.

I've arrived at this vantage point weary yet still strong, aware of life's gifts and inescapable joys, and my family walks with me.

The trials of 2008 are behind me. I'll carry the year's lessons but drop its burdens, pressing on into new territory, both unknown and unexplored.

I have my bearings. As for 2009, all I know for sure is that I won't be turning back.

Handoff

Weak end

Michigan's had a rough year.

The state can lay claim to the nation's highest unemployment and lowest high-school graduation rates, home foreclosures happening at more than two-and-a-half times the national average and an auto industry that's circling the proverbial bowl (federal benevolence notwithstanding).

As bleak as things are in real life, you won't find many Michiganders singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Sports doesn't offer much of an escape these days, either.

With the Wolverines' unprecedented futility still fresh in fans' minds, yesterday afternoon brought yet another round of sporting shame -- the 2008 edition of the Detroit Lions officially became the least successful team in NFL history.

Sixteen games, sixteen losses.

There's still reason for hope, however. The Pistons may be in second place, well behind the division-leading Cleveland Cavaliers, but at least they're winning. The Red Wings have a good shot at a second straight Stanley Cup and the Spartans have a puncher's chance of upsetting Georgia on New Year's Day.

Sitting here in Ohio, I know I'm in no position to pitch rocks across the border. I mean, our own economy is nothing to brag about, and besides, the Browns and Bengals didn't win enough games combined to make the playoffs.

Looks like there's plenty of shame to go around.

Larry's last call
When I was an OSU student back in the '70s, everyone "knew" that Larry's, a dingy High Street joint across from North Campus, was a gay bar -- but it wasn't.

Larry's was a haven for edge-dwellers and counterculture types, welcoming all, including gays, into its dim confines. For most of its 85 years, the place hosted misfits, rebels and groundbreakers, cultivating legends along the way.

Now Larry's is gone, closing its doors Saturday night, a casualty of mismanagement and society's preference for more polished, cookie-cutter establishments. Maybe that's what progress looks like.

Some will say that an old beatnik bar is an anachronism in the 21st century. I say that Columbus is poorer for the loss.

House divided
To the delight of my Morgantown missus, West Virginia defeated North Carolina, 31-30, in Saturday's Meineke Car Care Bowl. I may be a devoted Ohio State fan, but I cheered and fretted and celebrated right alongside my wife as quarterback Pat White willed his team to its fourth bowl win in as many seasons.

While the final seconds were ticking down in that football game, a basketball game was getting underway in Columbus -- OSU vs. WVU.

Uh-oh.

Ohio State entered the contest undefeated, the Mountaineers with two losses. Even though the young Buckeyes were down by seven at the half, I was sure that they'd pull out a victory, especially in front of the home crowd. They didn't, losing to West Virginia in humbling fashion, 76-48.

Mrs. KintlaLake is doing her best not to gloat.

Stupid is, stupid does
Chip Saltsman once chaired the Tennessee Republican Party. He ran Mike Huckabee's campaign for president. Now he wants to be the next chairman of the Republican National Committee.

Seems like a perfectly reasonable career path.

Mr. Saltsman is promoting his candidacy with a 41-track CD, which he distributed to RNC members as a Christmas gift. One of the musical numbers is a parody called "Barack the Magic Negro."

Yes, it's sung to the tune of "Puff the Magic Dragon." And no, I have no idea what Mr. Saltsman has been smoking.

Predictably, GOP leaders are scrambling to issue statements decrying the song (publicly, anyway). Rush Limbaugh is defending it with typically idiotic froth -- and why wouldn't he? After all, the We Hate The USA CD, which also features "The Star-Spanglish Banner" and "Wright Place, Wrong Pastor" among its mindless selections, was produced by Limbaugh sidekick Paul Shanklin.

Most disturbing, I think, is Mr. Saltsman's judgment that the CD would find a receptive audience at the RNC. It may not be surprising that third-grade "satire," the daily fare of talk radio, still amuses some people, but it's sad to see that Mr. Saltsman (like those Committee members, presumably) believes that clumsily veiled racism is essential to resuscitating a dying party.

Until Republicans learn the difference between conservative and stupid -- and ditch the talk-radio compass -- make that a dead party.

Palm reading

I'm a certified (perhaps certifiable) "neat freak," and my penchant for orderliness extends to the way I organize information. That's why I've been a fan of Palm PDAs since I bought my first PalmPilot over a decade ago.

A Centro has been riding on my belt for about six months now. Naturally, it does everything I expect a Palm to do. This is the first time, however, that I've owned a device that combines a high-zoot PDA with a mobile phone, and I'm really into it.

As for the ubiquitous BlackBerry, I'm not envious and never have been. When my wife upgraded from a Motorola flip-phone to a BlackBerry Pearl just after Thanksgiving, I messed around with it a bit and it didn't play nice with a Palm veteran like me.

Mrs. KintlaLake tried to love little 'Berry but simply couldn't. We never did figure out how to swap files easily.

Last night, my wife traded the Pearl for a Centro of her own. She's much happier already, even though she's not a Palm geek, and sharing data -- contacts, appointments, reminders, photos -- is a breeze.

I don't know much about "best," but but I'm widely regarded as an expert on what works for me. The Centro definitely does -- and now it's a family affair.

Christmas Day

It's bright, clear and cold. There's no snow, either on the ground or in the air.

Our perfect tree stands in the corner of the living room and Christmas music echoes through the house.

Santa brought a bicycle to our younger spawn. Christmas is always better when a bicycle is involved.

This morning we enjoyed a delicious breakfast casserole, my wife's labor of love and a family tradition.

Warmth, love and light. It's Christmas Day.

Christmas Eve

Whatever you celebrate this holiday season, remember to celebrate home, love, family and freedom.

Give thanks for life's blessings, great or meager, and know that there are others who have less.

Find those people and serve them -- and then don't tell a soul.

Give more than you get. Pay forward.

Watch children. See this night unfold through their eyes.

Christmas Eve is special, no matter how you hold it in your heart. So keep it, embrace it and make a memory to recall as long as you live.

No traction whatsoever

This afternoon's three-mile trip home from the grocery store took 45 minutes. A five-mile drive to my in-laws' house this evening took over an hour.

The holdup wasn't rush-hour traffic or last-minute holiday shoppers -- it was freezing rain, and unless you've driven in it, you've never truly puckered.

What I described in last Wednesday's post as a "glaze" was Tiddlywinks compared to the half-inch of ice that encased our world late today. Until township crews managed to catch up with the mess -- a span of about two hours -- the roads were beyond treacherous.

For the uninitiated, think about sitting in your stopped vehicle on what you think is a straight, level patch of pavement, your foot on the brake. Then imagine turning the steering wheel side-to-side slightly, without letting off the brake or touching the accelerator -- and feeling the vehicle slide out from under you, looping slowly 90 degrees until you're perpendicular to the direction of travel.

As seen on TV, weather like this is just silly. Traction is where you find it and easily misplaced.

Good tires and a delicate touch with the throttle will get things moving on glare ice, and four-wheel drive definitely is a bonus. Nothing, however, will stop a vehicle reliably. Extreme following distances and hyper-caution, something approaching paranoia, can help a driver avoid most ditches, trees and other vehicles, but the smart choice is to stay the hell home.

We, of course, went the hell out.

On leaving the house tonight, we approached an uphill stretch a half-mile south. About a dozen cars were lined up in the rainy darkness at the bottom of the hill, patiently (and wisely) waiting while one vehicle at a time attempted the icy grade. Inevitably, one didn't quite make it over the crest and stopped, unable to advance and afraid to reverse course.

The road remained blocked until a salt truck made an assault on the hill, dodging brazen oncoming drivers and getting rather sideways itself. The local police commander, a friend of ours, pulled up in the department's SUV to join the frozen fray, putting out flares and ultimately blocking northbound traffic. We finally made the grade, passing seven (count 'em) ditched vehicles on our creep up the hill.

We continued at a cautious pace until we reached the relatives' house. It was a dicey, pucker-a-minute adventure. I love this stuff.

Now I'd be remiss if I didn't spend a moment on our 17-year-old spawn's drive home. When he walked out to his car, he slipped and nearly fell in his grandparents' untreated driveway -- and that, if you ask me, should've been a clue. The homebound roads were icy in spots but mostly just wet, lulling him into forgetting that our own short-but-steep driveway might be as slippery as the one that almost put him on his ass 15 minutes earlier.

I hit our driveway first, 4WD engaged, the spawn close behind, and in squirrelly fashion I chugged to the top. Meanwhile, the boy was discovering that a turbocharger, sticky tires, Swedish engineering and a case of amnesia combine to produce a lot of shaved ice, but not much progress.

Eventually, with teenage determination and after much spinning, he reached the garage. He opened his car door, stepped out -- and fell on his ass.

Well, this is how he'll learn. It's certainly how I did.

Lights out

Moraine Assembly, the General Motors SUV plant near Dayton, Ohio, opened in 1951.

GM's oldest plant, Janesville Assembly in Wisconsin, has been in operation since 1919.

At the end of today's shifts, both plants will close -- for good.