It was my night to cook. That’s usually not a cause for concern, but tonight would be different.

My wife, a marvelous, adventurous cook who can improvise in the kitchen the way Don Rickles can on stage, was working late. So being the gracious husband I am, I said I’d make dinner. I’m no Iron Chef, but I can get by, especially with gentle, loving guidance and a well-tested recipe.

I was in the mood for pasta tonight. No problem. No one can screw up pasta. No one.

The only reason I wanted to make pasta was the baguette I had purchased. It’s perfect for garlic bread. Maybe structuring the entire meal around a tall, skinny loaf of gluten isn’t such a great idea, but I was going to run with it.

Because I was told we didn’t have any pasta sauce in the pantry, I was using company time to research easy and flavorful cream sauce recipes on cooking Web sites. I found one I thought I could handle, which would also stretch my culinary chops, so to speak: Roasted Garlic Peppercorn Sauce. Rated 4 stars out of 5 by users of the site. “Fast, easy and delicious,” raved workingmom49 of Schenectady. No one can screw up this sauce. No one.

First, cut the tops off two cloves of garlic, drizzle them in olive oil and roast them at 325 degrees for 45 minutes. So far, so good. Flash forward to taking the garlic out of the oven. Maybe I left them in for a few minutes too long or maybe our oven bakes a little too hot, but there were certainly usable. Onward to the much-awaited cream sauce.

The recipe calls for a standard butter, flour, milk mixture. Let that come to a boil. It looked a little thin, but it’ll thicken. Just follow the recipe.

Time for the garlic bread. One of my favorite foods in the entire universe. Baguette split, butter melted, garlic minced, bread buttered, spices spread and into the oven. Bake it for a few minutes, then a moment of browning under the broiler. I’ve done this before. No one can screw up garlic bread. No one.

For the sauce, I’m supposed to crush a tablespoon of peppercorns. After several minutes of looking in every drawer in the kitchen and finding every single kitchen implement conceivable EXCEPT a mortar and pestle (Why do we have three peelers? How many melon ballers does one family really need?), I decided to use the back of a large spoon. It was supposed to produce the same result, except now the peppercorns shoot out from underneath the spoon at warp speed if I hold the spoon slightly askew. Within a few moments, the countertop looks like an accident site at a ball bearing factory. Peppercorns are flying thick and fast.

Time to start the bowtie pasta. Bowties, the cutest of all the pasta shapes.

Unfortunately, the sauce isn’t quite thickening up. Maybe a little higher heat. I mean, I’m following the recipe exactly. I added the roasted garlic, now smashed under my peppercorn-encrusted spoon, and let the flavors meld. A little taste should give me direction on seasoning. Now, I’m sure all of us had tasted library paste at some time. The library paste at my grade school was a Dom Perignon ’53 compared to the witches brew I had going. After adding salt and the peppercorns, it tasted like library paste with salt and peppercorns. Actual library paste would have been an improvement.

OH CRAP, THE GARLIC BREAD.

When I opened the oven door there was a cloud of smoke thick enough to show up on weather radar. I grabbed the pan and ran it to the back porch to vent the house. I let it sit on the patio table, where it would hopefully decay into chunks of carbon thick enough to form charcoal briquettes. Oh well, another good baguette down the epicurean toilet. Then the smoke detector went off…… on the second floor. Several minutes of waving a large bath towel to freshen the air around the smoke detector finally quieted the ear-splitting, seizure-inducing whine of the smoke detector’s piercing, wake-the-dead scream.

This is when I see the pasta boiling over. The bowties have come unknotted and are as unkempt as a drunken high school senior the morning after prom. They’ve gone from cute little pasta bowties to glutinous little ragged rectangles of death.

Let’s review. Bread: ruined. Sauce: ruined. Pasta: ruined. I’ve hit the trifecta. We went out for Mexican food. They didn’t ruin anything.

I think I’m going to burn that recipe. It shouldn’t be hard. No one can screw that up. No one.

P.S. One final indignity: there was pasta sauce in the pantry all along.

    I had the honor, privilege and fun of attending last weekend’s NASCAR race at the Kansas Speedway as a journalist. I was going to file a story for my radio station if a.) our local boy (Clint Bowyer of Emporia, KS) made good, or b.) something dramatic happened, like 12 cars pinwheeling into the spectators. Neither did. Kind of a bad news/good news situation. But I was able to meander through the paddock, stand in the pits during the race, take a ton of photos (to be posted on Facebook later this week), watch the victory lane celebrations and sit in on press conferences.

    Here are a few random observations from behind pit wall.

    It was going to be that kind of day for Tony (“Smoke”) Stewart… combative, sarcastic and, like so many, successful. It started early Sunday, when he was late to the mandatory drivers’ meeting. The meeting venue was crowded with sightseers and hangers-on, to the point where Stewart couldn’t get it. He said, loud enough for all to hear, “Boy, we must have a lot of drivers in here.” Soon after, someone put a camera right in his face and snapped a picture. “Do these people need to be in here?” he bellowed.

    That’s just Smoke being Smoke: fiery, focused and talented.

    And then he found the chair.

    During the press conference after his victory, one of the traveling press corps asked what Smoke thought was a stupid question.
“Jeff Gordon mentioned that under the old points system, you’d be well on your way to ….”
The questioner wasn’t given time to finish his sentence. You can guess where this is going from here.

    At first slightly combative, Smoke smoked, “We’re not under the old points system. We haven’t been for 5 years. Why are we even talking about this?”

    Trying to regain control of his question, the writer continued, “When Jeff Gordon was here….”

    This is when Stewart started channeling his inner Rodney Dangerfield.

    “Jeff Gordon was here? I’ll bet that was special.”

    “He was sitting in that very chair,” said the reporter, maybe hoping that playing along with the sarcasm would mercifully end this question/sarcasm/explanation/sarcasm cycle.

   “In this chair? Oh man, I can still feel the vibe. I think I’m gonna keep this chair.” He was just getting started. “Maybe get it autographed. That outta be worth something.” He was on a roll. “I should bring it back to the hauler. Can I have this chair?”

     He was looking for a member of the Kansas Speedway staff for confirmation or validation or for another straight line.
Stewart finally got around to answering the question, something about “we all know the point system is reset, we all know the rules at the beginning of the season, we all know the points before the Chase starts are irrelevant for the last 10 races” but no one was really paying attention anymore. They were all working out how to fit “Chair-gate” into the leads of their stories.

    The press conference ended after another – safer, generic – question. When Tony Stewart was last seen at the Kansas Speedway, he was wheeling his new chair back to the team’s HQ on wheels. It probably means more to him than the trophy.
          

    On Saturday afternoon, I wandered into the interview room right before a session with George Gillett Jr. I’d never heard of him either. I should have. He co-owns the Richard Petty Racing team. He used to own the Montreal Canadiens hockey team. He co-owns the Liverpool Football Club (the kick the ball into the net kind of football, not the Chiefs really suck kind) with Tom Hicks (owner of the Texas Rangers and former Texas Gov. George Bush).

    Mr. Gillett was having a press conference to rebut, challenge, shoot down, set straight, dissemble and generally retort some rumors that “the King’s” racing team – an icon of American motorsports – was being sold to a Middle Eastern concern.

    George has talked to Prince Faisal of Saudi Arabia. And, yes, Faisal has expressed some interest in purchasing a small share of the team. And, yes, they’ve signed some confidentiality agreements with the Prince, and, yes, they’ve talked about establishing some oval tracks in the Middle East, and, yes, they’ve talked about establishing a feeder series running in the Middle East.

    But George was here to strongly refute the notion Gulf oil barons were taking over the team.The press – the always maniacal and incorrect press – had been throwing around terms like “chaos” when describing Gillett’s team recently. So George wanted to set the record straight. Just because your main driver (Kasey Kahne) says he doesn’t know what’s going on with the team or who he reports to doesn’t mean the team is in chaos. In fact, quoth George, it’s just restructuring.

    The team will be switching to Fords next year because their current car company went bankrupt. Never a good sign.

    But he was direct and honest and insistent and unapologetic about what he wants to do with his racing team. And everyone should know the it will always be Richard Petty Racing, not the Prince Faisal Ford Motor Company Racing But America Will Always Need Middle East Oil Because You Don’t Conserve And Haven’t Invested In Solar race team.
 

    In the junior varsity race Saturday, the Nationwide Series, a 19-year-old driver named Parker Kligerman won the pole. Nineteen years young, you say. Yes, and it is also is his first race in that car. An auspicious debut, though he’s not old enough to drink the victory champagne. He drives for the Penske team, which has produced about 20 Indianapolis 500 winners and a handful of NASCAR race winners.   

    And then the race started, and he fell back and fell back … and fell back. He finished 16th. But, hey, first race, 19 years old, not bad. When I was 19, I was working a dead-end job, drinking myself into a stupor every weekend. So kudos to the kid.    

    The young man who finished 6th, Justin Allgaier, doesn’t look old enough to be my paperboy, let alone be a race car driver. He’ll likely be the series Rookie of the Year … before he starts shaving regularly.
 

    He is a quick rundown of the field: in the race this year are 2 former F1 drivers (Montoya and Speed), 4 alliterative initial drivers (Mark Martin, Kasey Kahne, Scott Speed, Jimmie Johnson), 3 Juniors (Earnhardt, Truex, Hornish), 2 Indy 500 winners (Montoya, Hornish), 1 Kansan (Bowyer), 2 Missourians (Edwards and McMurray) 1 Colombian (Montoya), 1 Australian (Ambrose), 1 Italian (Papis), 3 rookies (Speed, Logano, Papis), 2 brothers (Kurt and Kyle Busch), 2 Gordons (Jeff and Robby)  and 15 Chevys, 12 Toyotas, 8 Dodges, 8 Fords and a Marcos in a Little Debbie (Ambrose in a Toyota sponsored by the snack cakes).

 
    Oh, the toils, troubles and travails of Dale Jr. fans.

    First, his evil stepmother kicks him off daddy’s team, then he loses his cherished #8, then his fans need to refresh their tattoos with a new number and color (green #88 instead of red #8). He didn’t qualify for the Chase, his best finish this year was 2nd at Talladega (the 9th race of the year), and then, well, he sucks. OK, maybe he doesn’t suck. But he is overrated.

    But this weekend at the Kansas Speedway, he qualified second fastest, the outside of Row 1. Is this the beginning of the redemption?

    He ran strong early on, pulling out a lead after restart. Then things returned to normal. During the first round of pit stops one of the lug nuts on a rear wheel was left off during a tire change. Race officials called him back into the pits. That moved him from first to 32nd. From there, the day didn’t get any better. He finished 36th.  

    There was a lot of talk earlier in the year about Indy Car’s PR sensation and occasionally good driver Danica Patrick flirting with joining NASCAR in 2010. I don’t believe there’s ever been a female driver in NASCAR. There were three women in the Indy 500 this year. The last female who raced in F1 scored points at the 1975 Spanish Grand Prix. Why the glass garage door in NASCAR?

    Where are the black drivers? F1 has a black world champion. The Hispanics (other than Indy car and F1 transplant Montoya)? The Asians? Hell, the Yankees have a pitcher named Chein-Ming Wang.

    The NASCAR fan base has expanded exponentially during the past 10 years. But it’s still a profoundly overwhelmingly white, working class audience. So much so that 5 years ago, Sen. John Kerry, in a bid to win “NASCAR Dads” as a voting bloc, issued the painfully embarrassing statement, “Who among us does not enjoy NASCAR.”

    That is the whitest thing anyone has ever said. It could have only been worse if he “y’all” with his Boston Brahmin.

   In addition to not having to shift, brake or turn right, NASCAR drivers don’t have to even use their mirrors. They have “spotters,” a crew member high above the race track telling them who is coming up behind them, on which side and what to do about it. Seems like cheating to me. Make these guys figure it out for themselves.

   They also allow a “lucky dog pass,” the ability to go around the pack and stay on the lead lap if they pitted under green and then a caution period ensues. That’s rewarding a driver for guessing wrong, or to put it in “short bus” terms, everybody deserves a trophy.
 

   How can you tell it’s race day? The Hooters restaurant is open early for breakfast.

 
    How much do NASCAR fans love souvenirs? Walking back to my car I saw a man carrying scraps of body parts from the Nationwide race and a woman wearing a stray lug nut as a ring.

    No matter how talented, aggressive, reckless or overzealous a driver he is, I don’t think anyone will ever be intimidated by a driver named A.J. Allmendinger. Allmendinger conjures up visions of, I don’t know, a Bavarian vicar or an Austrian porn star.

   And, finally, we come to the stat geek portion of the program. Here’s a quick review of NASCAR’s ridiculous points system. The Kansas race was the 29th out of 36 races. Here is NASCAR’s driver points tally:

1          Mark Martin                   5551                                                                 
2          Jimmie Johnson          5533                                                                 
3          Juan Pablo Montoya  5500                                                                 
4          Tony Stewart                 5484                                                                 
5          Kurt Busch                      5460                                                                 
6          Denny Hamlin               5452                                                                 
7          Jeff Gordon                    5448                                                                 
8          Greg Biffle                       5437                                                                 
9          Ryan Newman              5387                                                                 
10        Carl Edwards                5386                                                                                         

If they’d keep score the way F1 does (the way God intended), the points would look like this:
1          Tony Stewart              109
2          Jeff Gordon                 100
3          Mark Martin                99
4          Jimmie Johnson        89
5          Denny Hamlin             81
6          Kyle Busch                   64
7          Kurt Busch                  58
8          Greg Biffle                    50
9          Kasey Kahne               47
10        Carl Edwards             44

    I guess NASCAR feels that American like really big numbers, like the federal deficit, the number of kids Jon and Kate have, or the number of lobbyists trying to defeat health care reform. None of those small, wimpy European numbers here.

Thanks for reading. Let me know what you  think.

When you go on vacation during Christmas, you expect to spend time in the loving bosom of your family, not at a former crime scene.

We packed three people and seemingly tens of thousands of presents into the car headed to Texas to visit my wife’s family over the Christmas. Had this been a less buy time of year or we had less cargo, we might have stayed with her sister for a night or two. But given the body and present count, we checked into, what I’ll call, the Braymont Inn, a few blocks from my sister-in-law’s house.

The Braymont is a national chain with reasonable rates a continental breakfast. (I think the continent was Atlantis, everything tasted wet and salty.)

A 10-hour drive isn’t difficult, just boring. So when you arrive at your destination, you’re eager to get out and meet people and catch up on news and eat and laugh and party. These things we did. And then it was time for bed. Even a motel bed feels good at this point, regardless of how many “How filthy is your motel room?” exposés you’ve seen on the local TV news during Sweeps Week.

Morning, renewal, in-room coffee, lazy chat and looking forward to a hot shower and breakfast and … no, it can’t be … there is no hot water in the Braymont. Boiler broken. They’re looking into it. They’re sorry for the inconvenience. It’ll be fixed tomorrow.

This isn’t inconvenience, this is bordering on a crisis. My Christmas spirit is being sapped because I can’t rinse the 10-hour drive off in a torrent of hot, South Texas soft water. OK, we can handle this. Not killed, made stronger. A quick tepid rinse and then my wife made the discovery that will forever characterize this trip: the blood-spatter pattern.

She was reaching for something that had rolled under the bed and lifted up the sheet to see that the box spring fabric had an old blood stain. Not an “I cut my finger and a few drops of blood came out” spot. Not an “I was whittling a new moose call and the knife slipped and I need three stitches” stain. Not even an “I smacked my head against the wall stumbling around in the dark and head wounds bleed a lot and please go get the ice bucket” mess.

This was a basketball-sized, something-criminal-and-probably-a-felony-happened-here blood puddle. It had been cleaned many times to extract as much blood – or evidence – as possible, but there’s really no way to return the box spring to its pristine state after the boys form the crime lab have finished with it.

We were aghast. Not that something unfortunate had happened in this room earlier. This was Conroe, Texas, after all, misdemeanor assault capital of Montgomery County. But that Braymont management thought that their guests would be OK with sleeping on a mattress that could have starred in a “Law and Order” episode. This was revelation No. 1 in a two-revelation process that will keep us from ever staying in a Braymont Inn again.

We dressed as quickly as a possible to report this to the front desk, hoping they’d be as outraged as we were. The young man behind the desk turned out to be the son of the franchise owner, a young man in his late teens or early 20s, a young man who doesn’t exactly grasp the concept of customer service, a young man who would find the concept of “Do you want fries with that?” too intellectually rigorous.

We told him what we found, suggested he contact the authorities and find us another room ASAP. He said a room would be ready for us by the time we finished breakfast. Mmmm, Braymont breakfast: salty, undercooked scrambled eggs and the best Danish that Sam’s Club had to offer – last month. We got our new room keycard, packed our stuffed, transferred rooms and crossed our fingers.

The rest of the day passed with good fellowship, board games, too much good food, presents and my debut on Dance Dance Revolution. (For the record, I stink.) Back to the Braymont. The mattresses in the second room seemed to pass muster. Not on the comfort scale necessarily, but at least we didn’t have Detective Columbo hunting for crime-scene clues in our room.

Ahh, morning, renewal, in-room coffee, lazy chat and looking forward to a hot shower and breakfast and … no, it can’t be … there is no hot water in the Braymont, again. Boiler still broken. They’re still looking into it. They’re still sorry for the inconvenience. It’ll still be fixed tomorrow. These guys really know how to satisfy customers, who could become repeat customers or write reviews on hotel Web sites.

You know the drill: tepid shower, family fellowship, food in abundance, Christmas cheer.

That night was our last with the Braymont. It passed without incident. And in the morning, praise Jesus, there was hot water. Glorious hot water. We packed, checked out, silently wished the other guests well because we knew what they were in for. Ten hours home and we went straight to the computer to write the most scathing review of the Conroe, Texas Braymont Inn we could.

It’s been three years. Hopefully there is new management, a new attitude, or at least new sheets at the Braymont.

A nice warm spring evening, time on our hands, what to do? Drive to Nebraska!

My wife, Malissa, had moved here from Houston recently and was eager to explore her new territory. Plus, she had spent as little time in Great Plains states as I had spent in Texas. So with some time on our hands and gas money (way back when it was only $1.25/gallon) burning a hole in our collective pockets, we trundled off for a long drive to add Nebraska to the list of states that Malissa had visited. Little did we know what culinary adventures awaited us.

We headed west on I-70, and just past Topeka headed north to the Nebraska state line.

Let me tell you something about my wife: she marvels at the world around her and drinks in images and experiences the way a desert island castaway drinks ice water – with gusto. So all the farms, wildflowers, cows, row crops, silos, Indian casinos, little towns, hills and rusted signs fascinated her. I’d seen it all before, but seeing it new through her eyes was, well, eye-opening.

We were cruising along, nowhere to go, no timetable, beautiful sunset, life is good. At the Nebraska state line we stopped so I could take her picture under the “Welcome to Nebraska” sign. About 90 minutes into the road trip, we started getting a little hungry. No worries, we thought. We’ll stop at the next town, village, city, hamlet, wide bend in the road or metropolis and grab a bite.

Welcome to Nebraska City, Nebraska. The county seat of Otoe County, Nebraska City has a little more than 7,000 residents. Arbor Day was invented in Nebraska City. Lewis and Clark visited in 1804. It was a stop on the Underground Railroad. It has a Firefighting Museum. Nice little place.

The Nebraska City Chamber of Commerce and Convention and Visitors Bureau lists 33 restaurants of various size. I’ll bet 32 of them are great. We chose number 33. To protect the innocent, I’ll call our dining location Balentino’s Pizza and Pasta. We figured, what can go wrong with pizza and pasta? Lots.

We weren’t expecting 5-star French cuisine, ostrich steaks with mango chutney, turducken or braised tips of lamb in port wine reduction with a glaze of wild mushrooms. A clean bathroom would have been nice. We didn’t get that either.

What do you generally want from restaurant personnel? Attention, prompt service, a smile. Sure, that’s why we leave tips. At Balentino’s that night, it took about five minutes for anyone to realize we wanted to pay them money in exchange for goods and services. OK, we can overcome this. We’ll just do the salad and pasta buffet. In the meantime, the iced tea tasted like river water.

The buffet had a small selection: something that looked like pasta, something that looked like lettuce and roughly seven salad toppings. I’m not usually a picky eater (despite what my mother will tell you about me and vegetables when I was a kid), but I generally like my marinara sauce to taste like something other than nothing. Pick a spice, pick an herb. Use them. Use something, anything. Salt doesn’t count. Red is a not a flavor.

Salad next. How can you screw up salad? Balantino’s found a way. To say that they kept the salad fixins’ chilled would be a gross understatement. The peas and the chopped hard-boiled eggs were frozen. Repeat, frozen. Solid. Eggs, frozen solid. The bright green frozen peas were better suited as projectiles than ingestibles. How delicious is that?

Despite the long drive behind us and the long drive ahead of us and the hunger in between, we got out of there as quickly as possible. We couldn’t take it anymore. It was that bad. Balantino’s everywhere are diminished because of this one restaurant.

I don’t want to paint the entire culinary industry of Nebraska City with such a broad brush, but there is nowhere to go but up. The good people of the Cornhusker State deserve better.

We continued our journey, crossing from Nebraska City into Iowa, stopping to take a picture under the “Welcome to Iowa” sign. Fifteen minutes later we entered Missouri – it was too dark now to take a picture under the Welcome sign – and began the two-hour drive home. A wonderful trip, albeit a non-nutritious one. I think we picked up some Cokes and chips at a truckstop during the last leg of the trip.

My wife got an eyeful of the countryside, we added two new states to her “states visited” list and have a great new anecdote. All in all, a great evening.

Dear Earthlings,

WTF? Seriously. WTF?

Do you guys have any idea of what you’re doing? There aren’t that many Earth-like planets in the Universe and you’re all on the verge of screwing yours up. What do you propose to do then? Ideas? I didn’t think so.

I’ve been around the galactic block a few times and I’ve got to say that y’all (to use your Earth parlance) have a pretty nice planet. You’ve got water, flora, fauna, land masses, cheesecake, biodiversity that is the envy of beings everywhere and you’re throwing it all away.

For what? So more single-occupant vehicles can clog your arterial surface connectors? So you can have more stuff that comes inside other stuff wrapped inside more stuff, all of which has to be discarded? So you can drain the planet of all its resources? So you kill each other at an increasing rate?

Seriously, this is the best you can do? How long have you been evolving? (One of our undercover agents on your planet told us that many of your kind believe in something called “intelligent design.” If there truly was a being designing all that chaos, don’t you think that he would have a) done a better job, and b) designed people so that they wouldn’t poop where they eat, which is essentially what you’re doing to your planet?)

We’ve been watching your planet for a long time, all the while with fingers crossed. Your planet is warming at an alarming rate. Do you know what happens when things warm up? They get hot, swampy, things that can’t stand the heat die, and eventually everything catches on fire. It also smells like Bayonne, N.J., in August. You don’t want that, do you? I didn’t think so.

I’ve been to failed planets. It’s not a pretty sight. Jerzib-Crustaceous 7 used to be a lot like your Earth. You know what’s it’s like now? The closest analogy your species would understand is Houston in summer without the air conditioning, public sanitation, cheesecake or oxygen.

Get a grip, people. You don’t want to end up like the Jerzibbians, fried to a crisp with no water or sense of humor. They don’t even laugh at this joke: How many Jerzibbians does it take to change a light bulb? None, their planet is dead.

You’ve got some time to turn this around. It doesn’t take anything but commonsense and cooperation. Don’t they teach that in Earth kindergartens?

DON’T SCREW IT UP THIS TIME.

Sincerely,
Zorblat the Magnificent, Esq.
Celestial Overland and Master of Parsects 17-22, 24 and subparsects 31a and 32a

Of the twin inevitabilities of death and taxes, I choose taxes.

I spent an afternoon filling out boxes such as “Form 1120S, Schedule M-1, Reconciliation of Income (Loss) per Books with Income (Loss) per Return. Note: Schedule M-3 required instead of Schedule M-1 if total assets are $10 million or more.”

Trust me, I’m not in danger of having to use Schedule M-3 any time soon.

I’ve spent too much time at www.irs.gov. I’ve spent too much time reading instructions like:
“Enter the amount from Form 1120S, page 1, line 21. Enter the income (loss) without reference to the shareholder’s:
* Basis in the stock of the corporation and in any indebtedness of the corporation to the shareholders (section 1366(d)),
* At-risk limitations, and
* Passive activity limitations.
These limitations, if applicable, are determined at the shareholder level.
Line 1 should not include rental activity income (loss) or portfolio income (loss).”

I realize that we all need to pay our taxes to hold up our end of the social contract. I don’t have a problem with that. On balance, the federal, state, local, school, water district, sewer district, cemetery districts, and all the other taxing authorities we are in hock to use the money wisely on projects and services that add to the collective good.

We get our communal panties in a bunch – and rightfully so – when we read about taxes paying for $900 hammers, $1500 toilet seats or $10 trillion on the Iraq War.

But think about, they generally get it right: most streets are repaired, the schools teach our kids, the trash is picked up, the subways run on time, the bad guys are kept in jail, the sewers carry out the icky stuff and clean water comes out of the tap.

If the economy continues to tank and governments cut their budgets are deeply as anticipated, we’ll soon find out what it’s like to live with unrepaired streets, closed schools and legions of unemployed workers who need government-funded social services that can’t be funded.

Taxes aren’t fun, but given the alternatives, they are necessary.

The latest fad/time waster on Facebook is “25 Random Things About Me,” a list of – wait for it – 25 random facts about themselves that people share with the world. It’s funny, pathetic, vain, pompous and delightfully voyeuristic all at the same time. So naturally I want in on it. So here I am, doing my best “look at me, look at me, look at me” dance. I now present “25 Random Things About Me.”

25. In my next life I want to come back as a jazz pianist.
24. Cheesecake is the greatest food – ever!
23. My favorite color is British Racing Green.
22. I’ve never read “Huckleberry Finn.”
21. My comedy heroes are the Marx Brothers, Bob and Ray, Monty Python, Tom Lehrer and Dave Barry.
20. My brother died last summer and I really miss him.
19. When/if I grow up, I want to learn to tap dance.
18. I used to run into burning buildings on purpose.
17. Cat person, not a dog person.
16. My greatest fear is being alone.
15. I once stood next to a former Duchess. That’s the closest I’ve gotten to royalty but not the closest I’ll get. I would love to use “your highness” in an actual conversation, and not just with my wife or cat, though one of them truly deserves the honor.
14. Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart changed my life.
13. Good glove, no hit.
12. I was a pirate in a previous life. I know this for a fact.
11. Snakes scare the bejesus out of me.
10. I don’t have a middle name. My family was too poor to afford them.
9. When I win the lottery, I’m going to buy a 1968 Jaguar XKE V-12 convertible.
8. My best friend, Steve, and I look like we could be twin brothers. Mom liked him best.
7. I’m not as dumb as I look.
6. My favorite Scrabble words are aa, gnu and yurt.
5. I have a killer recipe for white chocolate brownies with pecans.
4. One of the things I want to do before I die is be in a huge pie fight.
3. The most scared I’ve ever been was once parked on the side of I-64 in southern Indiana while a tornado hit about a quarter-mile ahead of me.
2. Coffee is now my drug of choice.
1. I am the luckiest man alive. I have a wonderful wife, four fantastic children and a great family. I have a job I like and a roof over my head. But my natural state of being minimizes these triumphs and I spend way too much time thinking about all the bad stuff. I need an attitude adjustment.

My little girl isn’t so little any more.

Alexandra Rose Wilke turns 16 on Monday. She’ll go for a driver’s license test. There will be more boys asking for dates. Soon she’ll be going to college. Career, marriage, children can’t be far behind.

She’s come a long way. It hasn’t always been a smooth road. When she was young, the word stubborn barely described her obstinacy. But one thing she’s always had was a great sense of humor – intentional or not – and a great sense of comedic timing.

When she was in pre-school, I began writing down some of her quips. I called them “Alexisms.” They run from pre-school through junior high. I think they show what a great kid she was, is and will continue to be.

So without further ado, and with the narration I wrote at the time, I present the wit and wisdom of Ally Wilke. (Her nickname has gone from Alex to Ally.)

* Alex was waking around with her shirt tail out and she told me: “I’m not a tuckin-in person.”

* Alex was playing outside at a friend’s house when they spotted two butterflies lazily wandering by.  “Those two butterflies are mating,” her friend said with the authority of someone who learned about it in second grade. Later, when they spotted the same two butterflies flying separately, Alex said: “They got a divorce.”

* I was walking Alex to the bus stop. She was bemoaning the fact that “no one plays with me at recess.” “No one?” I asked.  “Well, only, Joshua, Paul, Lance, Peydon, Kirsten and not Jason anymore because he moved.”

* Standing at the bus stop, I noticed Alex’s hair was mussed up. I told her that I needed to do a better job brushing her hair.  Alex said: “Don’t worry, my hair fixes itself in the afternoon. That’s what makes me special.”

* Driving Alex to school this morning, two weeks before her birthday:  “I feel 7 already.”

* We were playing tennis in the street this afternoon, when Alex hit an errant shot that almost hit Patch the cat. Mused Alex, “I lose more cats that way.”

* Alex had finished performing her guitar piece for her music class and next up was Eric telling some jokes. The kids were sitting on a semicircle of bleachers watching their classmates. After Eric’s first joke, Alex stood up and walked to the back of the room where I was standing.  I bent down to speak with her, expecting something like “Please tie my shoe” or “I need to go to the bathroom.”  Instead, she whispered, “Ba-da-ba.” A rim shot!

* Our new kitten was cleaning himself. I asked Alex, “How did Tiger learn to clean himself, because he didn’t have a mom to teach him?”  Quoth Alex, “He must have watched me and Xan pretend we were cats.”

* During a time I was between jobs, I was taking Alex and some friends on a drive, when 3-year-old Will asked me what I was going to be for Halloween. Before I could answer, Alex said, “Dad, you could go as a guy who doesn’t have a job.”

* I was rummaging through the medicine cabinet looking for talcum powder. Alex wandered by asking what I was doing.
“Looking for talcum powder,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Baby powder.”
“I don’t think we have any. We haven’t had a baby for a while.”

* A nice spring day, Alex and I decided to go for a bike ride. She hopped on her bike, saying, “Let’s go see what this baby can do!”

* We’ve been in a drought all summer. On hot and muggy afternoon, we had a brief rain shower. When Alex saw the rain, she put down her drink and headed outside, saying: “I’m going outside to dance.”

* We were taking Ally’s friend Kirsten with us on a very chilly winter day to swim at the city’s indoor pool. As we were pulling out of the driveway, Kirsten asked, “Which pool are we going to?” Noting how cold it was, I said, “the outdoor one.” Without missing a beat, Ally said, “It’s cheaper this time of year.”

* Ally and I were listening to NPR’s news show All Things Considered. Ally didn’t quite believe the name of the program. She asked the radio: “What if I called you up and told you I got a puppy. Would you consider it?”

* I was talking with Ally this morning about her cat, Pyewhacket. Based with recently acquired fifth-grade math knowledge, she said: “Maybe we should call him 3.14-whacket.”

* Ally and I were at a railroad crossing waiting for a stopped train to continue. There was a small space visible under the railcar in front of us. Using her keen logic, Ally said: “I wish we had a clown car.”

* We were driving to the New Jersey Shore to visit relatives. As we turned onto Long Beach Island, the street numbers started at 15th and began rising. We were looking for my aunt and uncle’s home on 129th Street. I said, “You mean we’ve got 100 blocks to go?” Then Ally said, “Are we still going to be in New Jersey?”

* I was on the phone with Ally asking about the New Year’s Eve party she went to. She went to a sleep over with her friends Paige and Xan, the two friends she generally hangs out with after school. She said, “We stayed up late and acted like idiots.” Then I quipped, “How is that different than a regular day.” Without breaking stride, she said, “We were wearing hats.”

* We were discussing all the Harry Potter books and movies with her stepbrother, Joel, who was just beginning to read the series. We were throwing around titles Joel was unfamiliar with. He asked, “What order do the books come in?” Ally piped up, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.”

* We watched the movie Happy, Texas. Afterwards, my wife said there really was a town called Happy, Texas. Ally asked incredulously, “What other towns are our there? Emotionally Disturbed, Louisiana?”

* We knew this was going to be the last Christmas for Santa Claus. We felt lucky that we had gotten away with it for as long as we did. A few days after Christmas, Ally was taking some trash out to the curb and looked in a bag. She saw the box that her big Santa present had come in. The jig was up. Ally told her mom that she had seen the Santa box and it was OK that Santa didn’t come to our house any more. “But I’ll still believe in Santa for the little kids and the poor kids,” she said. I have never been so proud to be a dad as I was in that moment.

I’m still proud of her every single day. She’s grown into a wonderful young woman with a bright future.

Ally, I reluctantly give you permission to grow up.

Love, Dad

“The rich are different from you and me.”

Wall Street bonuses of $18.4 billion – billion with a B – while the companies were losing zillions of dollars – zillion with a Z – and getting crajillions of dollars – crajillions with a capital C – in taxpayer bailout funds.

The Secretary of the Treasury (if this country still has any treasure) forgot to pay about $34,000 in self-employment taxes. This man will oversee the IRS. Now the nominee for Secretary of Health and Human Services didn’t pay about $128,000 in taxes for using a car and driver given to him by a prominent donor.

Remember Leona Helmsley? Owned a chain of hotels, husband owned the Empire State Building. “We don’t pay taxes. Only little people pay taxes.”

The average tax rate paid by the richest 400 Americans fell by a third to 17.2 percent through the first six years of the Bush administration and their average income doubled to $263.3 million. The 17.2 percent tax rate in 2006 was the lowest since the IRS began tracking the 400 largest taxpayers in 1992, although the richest 400 Americans paid more tax on an inflation-adjusted basis than any year since 2000.

All this brings to mind the old joke: How do you make a million dollars? Start with $900,000 and invest wisely.

Does wealth make you stupid? Forgetful? Arrogant? Or does wealth – especially long-term or inherited wealth – put a person out of touch with the great unwashed? Does a sense of entitlement kick in when your bank balance exceeds a certain point? (That point has several zeros between the dollar sign and the decimal point.) Or don’t they care?

I wish, I dream, I hope, I fantasize about having the opportunity to be this stupid!

‘Twas the night before Kansas Day and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring not even an ornate box turtle.
Carrie Nation’s stocking were hung by the chimney with care
in hopes that the WCTU soon would be there.

The farmers were nestled all snug in the beds
with visions of crop subsidies dancing in their heads.
With Kathleen in her kerchief and Sam in his cap
having just settled down to a bipartisan nap.

The moon on the breast of some hard winter wheat
gave the luster of midday to objects down at my feet.
When what to my wondering eyes should demur
but a miniature sleigh and 8 tiny governors

With a little old driver so lively a sprite
I knew in an instant ‘twas William Allen White.
More rapid than Western Meadowlarks his coursers they came
and whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Finney, now Hayden,
Now Carlin, now Graves,
On Docking, on Bennett,
On Avery and Landon.
To the top of the porch,
To the top of the wall,
What’s the Matter With Kansas?
Well, nothing at all!

And then in a twinkling I heard in the kitchen
the preening and spinning of each politician.
And as drew in my head and was turning around
down the chimney Mr. White came with a bound.

His wit how it wrinkled, his prose oh so merry.
The Sage of Emporia, read from Goodland to Perry.
He had a broad face and little round hips
that shook when he laughed like a prairie populist

He sang Home on the Range, talked of John Brown’s Body,
Spoke of Bleeding Kansas, Nicodemous and of course Dodge City.
Then laying a finger aside of his nose,
Giving a nod up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his governors shouted anew,
away they flew like chasing fresh tax revenue
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove down the turnpike
Happy Kansas Day to all, ad astera per aspera, and to all good night.