Evidence of absence?

Remember Boy's Life? It's still around, the official white-bread publication of the Boy Scouts of America, same as it ever was.

As I recall from my own Scouting days, the last page of each monthly issue was devoted entirely to humor -- specifically, the corniest jokes imaginable. Now one of those old Boy's Life jokes comes to mind every time I hear former Vice President Dick Cheney (et al) talk about the absence of terrorist attacks since 9-11 as proof positive that the Bush administration's black-bag policies worked.

The joke went something like this:

"I'm wearing elephant repellent," said a boy to his mother.

"Don't be silly," Mom replied, rolling her eyes. "There are no elephants around here."

"See?" the boy said with pride. "It works!"

It takes a real elephant -- or a real sheep -- to buy Cheney's brand of unfiltered, self-serving bullshit.

A case of consumption

An old New England aphorism has been rattling around in my head:

"Use it up, wear it out;
"Make it do or do without."

That led to my thinking about a couple of my grandfather's favorite expressions:

"There's nothing so satisfying as leaving a store empty-handed."

"If a ball of string costs seven cents, two for a dime isn't much of a bargain if you need only one ball of string."

Frugality, or simply the ability to differentiate between wants and needs, comes to most of us either later in life or out of necessity. Common wisdom tends to make more sense as the years pass. My grandfather, a dairy farmer raising a family during The Great Depression, had no choice.

For me, it's a little of both.

Like most kids, I was a dedicated to thoughtless consumption. Our teenage spawns are the same way, totally focused on turning every waking moment to their personal material advantage and getting their hands on The Next Big Thing. It drives me nuts.

I understand that it's the nature of dependent children to be selfish. It still drives me nuts.

At some point -- and honestly, I can't tell you exactly when -- I began deriving less satisfaction from consumption and more pleasure from making material things last. A quest for shiny new things receded and a more thoughtful approach to utility emerged.

It wasn't that I stopped buying stuff, as George Carlin put it -- I just felt the need to buy less stuff, less often. I kept the stuff I had, and if my stuff broke I did my best to fix it instead of replacing it. When I did buy stuff, often I bought used stuff.

I finished leftovers rather than giving in to momentary cravings. If there was a tool I'd likely need only occasionally, I'd borrow. Wanting for a bolt or a bracket, dipping into a bucket of salvaged parts took the place of a trip to Home Depot. I developed an arguably strange sense of pride in wearing a 20-year-old sweater.

Foolishly, I thought I had the whole consumption thing licked -- and then my financial situation went south, revealing that I wasn't nearly as frugal as I thought I was. Suddenly aware that I still had far more stuff than I possibly could need, I saw many other ways to make do and do without.

Building on previous efforts, then, my personal economy continues to evolve. It's not a matter of living like a Quaker or a Scrooge -- it's about being responsible and accountable instead of caving to the wish for material gratification.

Today I live well within my means. Even though I got here relatively late and out of necessity, I think my grandfather would like that.

Lost tradition, lost lessons

It's been over a year since The New York Times published the article, "To Revive Hunting, States Turn to the Classroom," about the hunting-education classes offered by public schools in West Virginia and more than a dozen other states.

My grandfather and my father, at least as a boy, hunted because they had to -- it put food on their table -- but I'm not a hunter and never have been. I do, however, embrace American hunting's rich tradition and the many lessons it teaches.

Because hunting, trapping and basic woodsmanship were woven tightly into the fabric of my upbringing in rural northeastern Ohio, the opening paragraphs of the Times article resonate with me.

"When David Helms was in seventh grade, he would take his .22-caliber rifle to school, put a box of ammunition in his locker and, like virtually all the other boys, lean his rifle against a wall in the principal’s office so he could start hunting squirrels and groundhogs as soon as classes let out.

"Now, when he takes his 8-year-old grandson hunting on weekends, Mr. Helms, 55, searches the boy’s pockets before sending him back to school to ensure that there are no forgotten ammunition shells. But most of his grandson’s peers never have to worry about that, Mr. Helms said, because they would sooner play video games than join them outdoors."

Our world has changed, certainly. That's saddening, on so many levels, and just as sadly accurate.

Mrs. KintlaLake and I often visit the gun shop that Dave Helms manages. More than once we've sat around that cozy Morgantown store with him and the shop owner, usually joined by a handful of locals, bemoaning what happens to our youth when they choose electronic hypnosis over spending time on the land.

Typical of today's society, it's the difference between entertainment and education. We sabotage our nation's future by demanding too little of young people.

I understand that this isn't the America I grew up in -- I get that. I also say that we're the poorer for it.

We've lost so much more than we've gained.

Sharps: Nothing like an old Western

I've wanted to write about this knife for a while but just now got around to taking a few photographs. It's a No.648A sheath knife made in 1977 by Western Cutlery Company.

Founded in 1896, Western originally was located in Boulder, Colorado. In 1991, manufacturing moved to upstate New York when the company was acquired by Camillus, which closed its doors in 2007.

I bought this particular Western at an outfitter in Kalispell, Montana during the summer of 1978, just before heading out on a solo trek into the Boundary Mountains north of Kintla Lake. It was my first fixed-blade knife. As I recall, I paid less than fifteen bucks for it.

Since the No.648A is similar to a knife made by Western for the Boy Scouts, it may look familiar to other guys my age. The carbon-steel clip-pattern blade is 4-1/2" long. The faux Stag scales are Delrin, the guard brass and the pommel aluminum. It's not at all exotic.

In fact, by today's standards it's quite ordinary -- really, it's just a hardware-store knife. And to this day, it's never, ever let me down.

My old Western has a lot more mileage on it than might be apparent. In the woods it's done its share of notching and light felling, made countless feather sticks and split piles of kindling. It's cleaned trout for the skillet and cubed beef for the stew pot. Around the house it's done everything from stripping electrical wire to pruning roses.

After all that, the blade remains essentially full and the point is intact. There's nary a chip in the edge. I've never babied this knife but I've always respected its limits, and my reward has been more than three decades of faithful service. To my sentimental eyes, it looks ready for another 30 years, at least.

This morning I pulled it from my bedside drawer, intending simply to wipe it down with light oil. Turning the familiar form over in my hands, I decided it was time to give it a fresh edge, something I hadn't done for it in years.

An hour later, its keenness restored, the blade was sharp enough to push-cut a sheet of newsprint and pop the hairs off the back of my hand. Perfect -- that's what a keeper deserves.

Update: Heartland leather
On a side note, over the last few days I've been perusing custom sheaths on the JRE Industries website. I finally quit gawking and dropped JRE a note last night.

A half-dozen e-mails later, co-proprietor Dan had answered all of my questions and I'd decided on a simple belt sheath that'll accommodate my original Leatherman Wave and a firesteel. It may take nine weeks or more to arrive -- these things are made one at a time -- but in the meantime look for a link to KintlaLake Blog to appear on the JRE Industries website.

That'll work.

Earlier posts
Sharps: Rite of passage
Sharps: Heartland leather
Sharps, Part II: On the belt

Links
JRE Industries

Rush to GOP: Don't listen, just talk

At a pizza parlor in Arlington, Virginia last Saturday, a group of Republicans kicked off a "listening tour" with an appearance by three of the party's leading lights -- 2008 presidential candidate and former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney, former Florida Gov. Jeb Bush and Rep. Eric Cantor of Virginia.

The audience was younger than might be expected for such a gathering. Romney, Bush and Cantor shared their vision of a GOP renaissance and heard firsthand the concerns of voters.

Listening -- it seems so obvious, so sensible, especially for a minority party in political exile. Some hard-core ideologues, however, continue to clang, clinging fast to their fantasies.

A handful of noisy conservative activists, protesting that the event was run by dreaded RINOs, demonstrated in the restaurant's parking lot. The irrepressible Rush Limbaugh, Republicans' verus rector, had this reaction yesterday:

"Look, folks, it's this simple. We do not need a listening tour. We need a teaching tour. That is what the Republican Party, or, slash, the conservative movement needs to focus on. Listening tour ain't it. Teaching tour is more apt."

My mistake -- listening is overrated. What the hell was I thinking?

Limbaugh's prescription [sic] for reviving the Republican Party-slash-conservatism is to keep repeating the same old ideas, only louder. Since that shut-up-and-let-me-talk approach models his successful entertainment empire, he must know what he's talking about.

Not.

His teaching tour would serve only to isolate a shrinking minority and ensure its ultimate demise. Limbaugh seems to be unaware that we, The People, have learned everything we need to know about mindless ideology.

The lecture is over. Class dismissed.

Republicans who reject the value of listening to the very voters on whom their party's survival depends are destined to become loud, proud and completely irrelevant.

Our nation needs conservative voices, thoughtful conservative voices, especially on issues like illegal immigration, fiscal policy and Second Amendment rights. I fear that a scorched-earth approach to regaining squandered political ground, however, will further alienate independent and moderate voters who might otherwise be receptive to conservatives' positions on these and other crucial issues -- and if that happens, we all lose.

The talkers need to stop talking, and we need to quit listening to ideologues who ignore the will of The People.

So sit down, Rush, and shut the hell up -- it's our turn.

Sharps: So you want simple?

Back when France withdrew from the "coalition of the willing" -- and really, who could blame them? -- omitting the word "French" from the American lexicon was great sport.

Famously, french fries became freedom fries. Ditto french toast, I seem to recall, although I doubt that even the most patriotic lovers ever exchanged freedom kisses.

We're beyond all that silliness now, so I feel safe talking about my favorite French pocketknife -- the Opinel.

If the rudimentary Opinel folding knife looks like it's been around for a while, it has -- the design basically is unchanged since 18-year-old Joseph Opinel produced the first one in 1890. It's nothing but a simple clip blade and a warm handle of solid wood. No springs, no pocket clip, no one-hand opening and no lanyard hole. It's a mainstay, not a marvel.

One notable innovation, the Virobloc safety ring, was added in 1955. Designed by Marcel Opinel, the ring locks the blade open. (It was changed slightly in 2000 to also lock the blade in the closed position.) The classic Opinel benefited from the improvement without sacrificing its simplicity.

Opinel offers its traditional folder in ten sizes, eleven woods and two steels (carbon and "inox" stainless). I have two -- a No6 in stainless with a beechwood handle and a walnut-handled No8 with a polished stainless blade -- both acquired in the late 1980s.

They're the kind of knives that I'm inclined to toss in with picnic fixings to slice bread, cheese or summer sausage, but they're capable of much more. Opinels are sturdy, nimble and comfortable, easily a match for light- and medium-duty chores beyond the camp kitchen. And the fact that they're simple makes them a pleasure to use.

Oh, and they're also ridiculously inexpensive knives -- if you pay more than ten bucks for an Opinel, you're probably getting robbed.

There's one more thing that inspires my fondness: the company still is owned entirely by the descendants of Joseph Opinel. Tradition, like simplicity, is something to be celebrated.

I think I'll put aside my fancy modern pocketknives and carry my old No8 for a week or so. Getting back to basics will be good therapy.

Earlier posts
Sharps: Rite of passage
Sharps, Part I: In the pocket

Links
Opinel Knife & Cutlery
Smoky Mountain Knife Works

Quote
"Going to war without the French is like bathing without an accordion."

Clogging the chute

I don't think I've ever done a poorer job of mowing the lawn -- any lawn, ever. The grass was high, thick and wet by the time I got to it this morning, and the broadcast cuttings now dry in clumpy rows, practically begging to be baled. Un-mown "skippers" are everywhere. I should've known better.

Actually, I do know better.

This time of year, 15 days is way too long between shearings. I could blame it all on the weather, but that wouldn't be entirely true. Truth is, I think I secretly enjoy watching dandelions bloom, the yellow flowers becoming seedy puffs guaranteed to get the neighbors cussing. Let 'em cuss.

Ours isn't a weed-free lawn because, dammit, I don't want one. The manicured, monochromatic green carpet typical of suburbia bores me. Weeds, on the other hand, are colorful. Weeds are interesting.

This yard really is mostly grass, at least by some loose definition. In addition to dandelions it also includes patches of ajuga and violets as well as spring beauties. We even let the crabgrass bloom. And one of the best things about mowing our lawn in the spring is the sharp, oniony aroma of wild garlic -- the stuff is all over the front yard.

Out back the air is heavy with the sweet scent of lilac and honeysuckle blossoms. The latter is anything but subtle, because we don't have honeysuckle bushes, we have honeysuckle trees.

No kidding -- when they're 15 feet tall and 20 feet across, they qualify as trees and we've got three. The smell, pleasant as it is in small doses, is enough to make a grown man woozy.

Today also was the day when I took my annual shower in conifer pollen. When I try to mow close to one particular Virginia pine, invariably the tree's pregnant clusters burst and cover me with yellow dust.

Fortunately, I don't suffer from allergies (touch wood).

With my shameful mow-job finished and the tractor back in the barn, I grabbed a pair of snips and harvested sprigs of honeysuckle and lilac, along with our last two crimson tulips. I transferred the fresh and fragrant flowers to vases, which now brighten our kitchen and dining room.

As I type this, a wonderfully cool spring breeze wafts through my office window. I think I smell onions...

'Please leave a message'

I woke up with a migraine headache this morning and spent most of the day in our darkened bedroom, keeping company with an ice bag and fending off waves of nausea.

When I rejoined the living late this afternoon, I sat down at my desk and noticed that there were three messages on our answering machine -- a telemarketer, an opinion pollster and an unidentified male voice saying only this:

"As a demonstration of Americans' thoughts about what's happening in our government, please take notice today."

Click. That was it.

Checking the ID log, I saw that the call came from area code 402 -- and I don't know anyone in Omaha, Nebraska, much less anyone who'd be inclined to lob a grenade at my answering machine (or anyone else's, for that matter). And while I didn't consider the message a direct threat against my family or me, I placed a quick call to local law enforcement.

The department's initial investigation, as expected, confirmed that the number was both unlisted and inactive -- clearly a front, probably one of a number of exchanges through which the call was routed in order to camouflage the source. The incident will be investigated further, I'm told, by local and other agencies.

In our current political climate, chicken-shit stunts like this are to be expected, I guess. Personally, I have no stomach for such things. If I learn more about the incident, I'll post updates here.

* * *
Update, 8:03pm: It took me an hour's Googling to discover that thousands of similar robocalls have been placed to private homes and mobile phones in virtually every part of the country since early April. Most of the illegal calls, according to anecdotal reports, have been routed through exchanges in Omaha and San Antonio.

And who's behind the calls? Those wacky "teabaggers," of course. Never mind that the largely misguided "tea parties" took place on April 15th -- three weeks later the robocalls persist, which speaks volumes about both motive and source.

So the message on my answering machine today wasn't ominous at all -- it was simply idiotic. I can't imagine what the perpetrators expect these robocalls to accomplish.

Then again, the Constitution doesn't establish a minimum IQ for the exercise of First Amendment rights.

Two-bagger

Here in the KintlaLake household, four humans share space with a pair of AKC-registered [REDACTED*]. We always seem to mismanage our supply of dog food, waiting 'til it's almost (or completely) gone to make a trip to our local kibble depot.

It is, you should pardon the expression, a pet peeve of mine.

Anyway, with only a scoop or two remaining this morning, I was assigned the task of fetching a 30-pound bag of the stuff. My wife gave me her frequent-buyer card, which appeared to be one punch short of a freebie. Sure enough, the friendly young cashier informed me that I was entitled to a second bag at no charge, giving me a choice -- take it today or wait 'til my next visit.

In this economy, it's hard to predict who'll be in business tomorrow and who won't. I grabbed another 30-pounder and plopped it on top of the first.

Transaction complete, the cashier offered to carry one of the bags out to my truck. He seemed shocked to see me pop both bags up onto my shoulder. As I walked toward the door, I turned back to him and said, "Thanks anyway -- but if I do collapse in the parking lot, would you be kind enough to call the squad?"

Either I look a lot older and weaker than I thought I did, or this kid has been talking to my father-in-law.

*Mrs. KintlaLake scolded me for invoking my personal nickname for the breed. Some other time, perhaps.

'Yesterday's summer'

A few hundred miles from here, an old friend is dying.

He's wrestled the cancer bravely and long, finally choosing to stop chemotherapy ten days ago. He's at home now, surrounded by family and being given medication to keep him as comfortable as possible.

It's been at least 25 years since our paths last crossed, but in our late teens and early twenties we were tight. We worked at a summer camp together, played guitars and sang together, celebrated and wept together.

When I drove west to Montana in 1978, the summer that first took me to Kintla Lake, he was my co-pilot. We undertook the cross-country odyssey like a couple of adolescents on holiday, ditching itineraries in favor of exploration. Our stream-of-consciousness journey took us off the beaten track to places like the Strato Bowl and Jewel Cave, lonely highways and greasy diners.

Beyond the adventure itself, I treasure the conversations we had while we were on the road. That trip, and the days he lingered with me in West Glacier before returning home, shine in my memory.

I recall the first song he wrote, the title of which appears at the top of this post. I wrote the bridge, which he never did like.

It's a different piece of music, however, penned by John Dawson Read and made (relatively) popular by Michael Johnson, that's been playing in my head over the last week. The voice I hear is that of another friend from our youth.

A Friend of mine is going blind, but through the dimness
He sees so much better than me
And how he cherishes each new thing that he sees
They are locked in his head, he will save them for when
He's in darkness again

I can picture several of us sitting around a campfire, trading songs.

And this friend of mine, he plays guitar & sings his song so well
And he sings so much better than I
He can sing you any pictures in your mind
He will sketch them out in rhyme, draw the details in the lines
And he'll colour it in time

And Oh how he loves his guitar, & it loves him
And they play so much sweeter than me
As if to say that come the day that he can't see
He will have at his command so much beauty in his hands
That the loss won't come so hard

The music is as poignant as the memory, intersecting perfectly with how I'm feeling about my friend today.

His wife has created a Web forum that allows his friends and family to post messages of support. I've been reading through those messages, laughing and crying and remembering, more than once interrupting Mrs. KintlaLake to read aloud something that couldn't possibly make sense to her. She's very understanding.

A couple of days ago, I noticed that as we hold our friend in the embrace of abiding love, we hold each other, all of us together again.

In our giving, in our loving, we've made it possible for him to present us with one last gift.

Won't you sing, Tommy Davidson, of things that you have done
Sing of silver seagulls sailing into evening's golden sun
Sing of city streets & villages & people on the run
Tell the people how you know it, Tommy Davidson

Thanks, old friend. You remain in my heart. I wish you peace.

Lyrics from "A Friend of mine is going blind" (1975) by John Dawson Read. An mp3 is available for free download on JDR's website, here.

Win

Over the last year or so, often I've turned to Mrs. KintlaLake and said, "I just need a win."

Yesterday, I got one.

The legal sacrament of bankruptcy is about losing, mostly, with our house being the biggest material loss. I knew that I'd be able to keep my four-year-old Chevy TrailBlazer if I could raise the difference between its agreed-on value and the statutory motor-vehicle exemption -- but my motorcycles, despite having been free-and-clear for years, would be surrendered to the trustee and sold at auction.

Last week, my attorney and I settled on what we'd offer the trustee for the TrailBlazer. I then suggested that we make a second offer that'd include one of the bikes -- admittedly low-ball, definitely a shot in the dark, payable over 12 months.

Fingers crossed, we submitted the offers on Monday. Late Tuesday afternoon, my attorney e-mailed me to say that the trustee had accepted our truck-and-bike proposal -- score!

Motorcycles have taken me to incredible places, introduced me to special people, put food on my table and sustained my soul. In recent months I'd come to accept the probability of life without a bike for the first time in nearly 30 years, but I really couldn't imagine it.

Now I don't have to -- I got my win.

My wife, by the way, is as ecstatic as I am. Her parents? Not so much.

This morning I went out to the barn and hooked up the battery charger to the bike I'm keeping, a 12-year-old Teutonic twin I've had since it was new. I'll liberate our helmets and riding gear from storage tomorrow, air-up the tires and then, dammit, the missus and I are goin' for a ride!

Following the path of Robert E. Lee's retreat near Farmville, Virginia (2000)

Speaking of Senators...

In 1966, Arlen Specter joined the Republican Party. This afternoon, the five-term U.S. Senator from Pennsylvania announced that he's now a Democrat.

Naturally, GOP hard-liners are going ballistic. They never much liked Specter anyway, discounting him as a RINO -- Republican-in-name-only -- and today is bitter vindication.

These days, it absolutely sucks to be a Republican.

Even when I disagree with Arlen Specter on issues, I like the way he plays the game of politics. More than that, I respect him as a man -- his personal courage in the face of multiple battles with cancer deserves admiration that crosses artificial partisan boundaries.

Specter had been facing yet another battle, at least until today -- a challenge from within the Republican Party for his Senate seat. That threat that made his jump to the Democratic Party a smart political play, and I have no problem whatsoever with his motive.

Truth is, I wish that Specter would've declared himself independent of both parties and been done with it, but I'll be satisfied with the independence of his actions if not his affiliation. I sense that he'll confound his new party's leadership as often as he did the GOP's.

When "RINO!" is hurled at the Specters, Snowes, Collinses, McCains and Hatches of the political world, it's intended as an insult, meant to disparage anything resembling independent thought. And while bucking one's party isn't as commendable as true independence, I consider RINO (or, if there is such a thing, DINO) a compliment of the highest order.

I mean, a political party is nothing but a name. It's merely a label. Anyone who reflects that fact should be admired, not admonished.

In the end, it takes a real chucklehead to be categorically faithful to a political party -- just look at the simple-minded hounds attacking Specter's defection. Lightning may strike me for saying so, but I find their howling entertaining as hell.

An enemy of The People: Dianne Feinstein

"Banning guns addresses a fundamental right of all Americans to feel safe." (U.S. Sen. Dianne Emiel Goldman Berman Feinstein Blum to the Associated Press on November 18, 1993, offering her typically idiotic counterpoint to Benjamin Franklin's 1755 assertion, "Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.")

"If I could have gotten 51 votes in the Senate of the United States for an outright ban, picking up every one of them -- 'Mr. and Mrs. America, turn them all in' -- I would have done it. I could not do that. The votes weren't here." (Sen. Feinstein, who authored the 1994 assault-weapons ban, to CBS 60 Minutes on February 5, 1995, expressing great disappointment in having failed to pass unconstitutional legislation that not only would've prohibited the sale of firearms to individual U.S. citizens, but also would've required law-abiding Americans to surrender legally owned guns to the federal government)

"I wouldn't bring it up now. I'll pick the time and the place, no question about that." (Sen. Feinstein, who now chairs the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, to CBS 60 Minutes on April 12, 2009, vowing to re-institute the expired assault-weapons ban and to make it permanent -- and, we can predict, to do whatever else she can to deny The People our Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms)

Ready, set...

Before leaving for the Spring Game on Saturday morning, Mrs. KintlaLake and I briefly discussed staying home. We were aware of the outbreak of swine influenza A (H1N1 virus) and we wanted to make a smart decision about venturing into crowded public places.

Like I said, our conversation was brief. We went to the stadium anyway, judging the risk to be negligible.

Now let's get this out of the way: The media are not over-hyping the swine flu.

One of the greatest threats to life as we know it is a flu pandemic. Although this particular swine-flu outbreak appears to be manageable and not generally lethal, public-health professionals can make only educated guesses about how it'll play out -- and if they don't know, I don't know.

Pundits sure as hell don't know. I dismiss useless commentary in favor of facts and I, for one, am grateful for the media's attention.

What we're seeing right now, as I understand it, is typical of a pandemic -- any pandemic, essentially, regardless of ultimate severity -- in its early stages. And while panic may be unjustified at this point, so is ignorance.

My family and I will continue to keep tabs on the news. We'll evaluate it critically and act accordingly.

We'll also be watching the reaction of public-health officials. If they're smart -- and provided that this outbreak isn't The Big One -- they'll be using the present threat to test their readiness.

The rest of us, by the way, have the same opportunity.

Next?

Pontiac 1926-2009


Oldsmobile 1897-2004


Plymouth 1928-2001

A spring day at The 'Shoe

As advertised, KintlaLake and family were at Ohio Stadium today, part of a crowd of 95,722 -- an all-time national record for a spring football game.

If life gets much better than sunburn, stadium 'dogs and Buckeyes football on a perfect April afternoon, I'm not sure I could stand it.

Road trip

Our older spawn, a high-school junior this year, is looking at colleges. Right now he spends the first half of each academic day in an auto-mechanics program at a local career center, so some of his attention is devoted to tech schools.

Recently he'd expressed interest in the University of Northwestern Ohio, a respected institution in Lima which happened to be holding an open house today. The spawn's driver's license is still suspended, thanks to his second speeding ticket, and since his mom works for a living I got drafted into busing him up there this morning.

I was willing, if not necessarily thrilled, to make the drive. If nothing else, I decided, it'd give me a chance to gauge my success in improving the TrailBlazer's fuel efficiency. Strange as it sounds, in six months it's seen little more than short hops and milk runs.

We left the house early enough to escape metro Columbus before the height of morning rush hour. Once past Marysville, we had clear sailing all the way up US 33 and Ohio 117 to Allen County.

I seldom visit that part of Ohio and I don't know it well, but it didn't take long before I was seduced by its flatland charm. It sits at the far eastern edge of the plains, the kind of landscape where a single cornrow can stretch for miles. The Scioto River, broad and brown in Columbus, is but a trickle up in the burg of Roundhead, barely cause for a bridge.

It's the Old Midwest, the heart of the Heartland, a simple place with a slower pace. The good earth is salted with hard-working men and women. Patriotism is on display everywhere, American flags flying proudly from porches, poles and silos.

On this bright, windy and unseasonably warm spring day, the two-hour drive to Lima was a welcome vacation for me. I soaked up everything I could.

The spawn, of course, slept.

My take on UNOH may not match that of a 17-year-old, but I liked what I saw and heard. The 185-acre school sprawls between Lima's retail cluster and a typical industrial park, bounded on one side by railroad tracks and a huge grain elevator. The facilities are modest but well equipped, the curriculum impressive and the instructors I met engaging.

It's not Ohio State -- and that's the point. Our spawn has plenty of time to decide if UNOH, or any tech school, is for him. We'll see.

So how did the TrailBlazer acquit itself? To set the scene, since October I'd managed to increase its real-world range by 10%, to 330 miles -- not bad, but I'm looking to get at least 20 miles more from a full 22-gallon tank.

Over the course of 240 miles today, despite battling 30mph winds and including some maddening stop-and-go traffic in Lima, it achieved almost 21mpg -- that's a range of 450 miles.

If I'd checked tire pressures before the trip, and with fresh oil, it's conceivable that it would've performed slightly better -- but for an everyday BOV, this'll do nicely.

With a short shakedown cruise in the books, now I find myself wondering how well my little white truck would do on a family trip to West Virginia -- twice the cargo and many long hills to pull. Sounds to me like a good reason for another road trip.

You need a FuBar

This is a Stanley® FatMax® Xtreme™ FuBar™ -- short for Functional Utility Bar -- and you need it.

The FuBar is a multi-purpose demolition and forcible-entry (or forcible-exit) tool. It's available in 15-, 18- and 30-inch versions.

Firefighters use FuBars. Cops and search-and-rescue pros use them, too. I've used an 18-inch FuBar for three years now and there's nothing quite like it.

It's a FuBar. It costs thirty-five bucks, and you need one -- at least.

It's come to this

Conservatives, wandering aimlessly in the political desert, think they've spotted another oasis. This latest mirage goes by the name of Carrie Prejean.

During Sunday's Miss USA pageant, the reigning Miss California was asked by intellectual featherweight Perez Hilton for her opinion on gay marriage. Right-wingers now are whining that what Prejean said -- "I believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman" -- cost her the crown.

Maybe so, maybe not. If cyber-twit Hilton and other judges allowed a contestant's political or religious views to affect their votes, that would be bad form (but not a tragedy). I don't much care, really, because her opinion is irrelevant and her defenders' argument is specious -- this whole made-for-TV dustup misses the point.

Take a look at how Prejean began her answer:

"I think it's great that Americans are able to choose one or the other. We live in a land that you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite marriage. And you know what? In my country..."

Say, what?

No, the best reason to deny her the Miss USA tiara is that she sounded like a bubble-headed beauty queen. Prejean truly may not be the quintessential dumb blonde, but when she opened her mouth, stupid came pouring out.

That doesn't matter, of course, to thirsty conservatives desperate for a cause. Like ideologues of all stripes, they'll leap to the aid of anyone who simply says the right things -- however inarticulate and vacuous they might be.

(See also Sarah Palin, Joe the Plumber, Dan Quayle, et al. You can add Perez Hilton to The Bimbo Brigade, too, along with about half of the celebrities pushing this or that political agenda.)

The mindless defense of Carrie Prejean, far more than the backward opinion she expressed, demonstrates once again that ideology is the enemy of excellence.

A tradition falls

My family and I will be in Ohio Stadium this Saturday afternoon for the 2009 Ohio State football Spring Game, the annual intra-squad scrimmage that caps off-season practice.

We'll be cheering for neither the Scarlet team nor the Gray -- we'll be rooting for the training staff. Honestly, it's pretty boring as football games go, but when admission to The 'Shoe costs just five bucks, we're there.

Most important, it's our tradition.

When OSU's regular season kicks off on September 5th, however, one KintlaLake gameday tradition will be missing.

March 30, 2009

Dear Hineygate Fan:

The Holiday Inn on Lane Avenue in Columbus, Ohio, is no longer.

This Columbus institution has been purchased by the real estate arm of The Ohio State University, called Campus Partners. It intends to use the hotel for student housing, thus prohibiting us from carrying on with our 26-year gameday tradition known as 610 WTVN’s Hineygate.

We had a number of discussions with the Campus Partners organization with the intention of forming a partnership in order to continue to provide a safe, fun gathering place before and after every Ohio State home football game.

Unfortunately, this simply wasn't of interest to them.

To a few, Hineygate was merely a beer bash for rowdy fans before and after the game. Nothing could be further from the truth. While alcohol was responsibly served with strict identification enforcement, it was a place for friends, OSU alumni, family, and business associates to gather, reunite, and celebrate football Saturdays in the center of the college football universe, Columbus, Ohio.

There are many on the losing end of this proposition starting with the loyal staff of the Holiday Inn. Some of these folks have been with the hotel for over 20 years, and now find themselves without a job in the worst economy this country has seen in a very long time. Also, there are many charities that benefited from Hineygate which will now have to find other sources of revenue this year. WTVN and the Holiday Inn donated over $600,000 to date to help these hard working organizations that helped children.

Finally, for you the loyal OSU football fan, your options before and after the game are now significantly reduced. Your tradition of meeting old classmates and watching the Danger Brothers at Hineygate at the Holiday Inn, is over.

There were many behind the scenes benefits to Hineygate that you might not be aware of, such as the relief of traffic flow before and after the games. Hineygate was a diversion and staggered the arrival and departure of several thousand cars every Saturday. Our on-air efforts in encouraging early arrival to the campus area were repeatedly lauded by the Columbus Division of Police.

Also, the fine Columbus Police officers working Hineygate and Lane Avenue would use the Holiday Inn as a headquarters of sorts to come in and use the restroom, grab a snack and a bottle of water, and communicate with management and staff about the happenings on street level.

In fact CPD has told WTVN and the Holiday Inn that Hineygate was the most well-run and well-behaved event on Lane Avenue with the fewest amount of incidents game-to-game and year-to-year.

610 WTVN’s Hineygate was a part of the fabric of Ohio State Football and gameday Saturdays for 26 years! The Holiday Inn on Lane Avenue was the home for this fine tradition and a significant element of Columbus pop culture. We are saddened to see both leave us now. On behalf of everyone involved with Hineygate, I thank you for your unwavering support over the years. It means more than you know.

Just remember as one door closes, another will inevitably open. Stay tuned…

Mike Elliott
Program Director - 610 WTVN
mikeelliott@wtvn.com

I've been a Hineygate Rat since returning to Ohio in 2001, and Mrs. KintlaLake became my partner-in-partying less than a week after we met in 2005. We've made many friends there. We've used Hineygate to introduce our spawns to adult entertainment, and we've celebrated four straight home wins over Michigan in that crowded, beer-soaked Holiday Inn parking lot.

Twenty-six years is a helluva run for any tradition, but this one is dying far too young.

We're holding out hope, perhaps somewhat foolishly, that Hineygate will relocate and not simply vanish. Like the man said, stay tuned.