STICKY DOORKNOBS

Spilling the beans

I have been back to work for about 45 minutes since returning from a holiday vacation. In that time, I turned over almost an entire cup of coffee, spilling the entirety of the cup's contents onto the floor, soiling and discoloring the carpet of my friend's office. Five minutes ago, I just spilled coffee on my 2009 At-a-Glance desk calendar, doing particular damage to January 8 and 9.

I figure I can either a) accept the fact that the signs seem to be all there for this to be a bad year; b) stop drinking coffee (not likely); c) call in sick Jan. 8 or d) go home for the day.

I hate to break it to you, but I'm not nearly as coordinated as I might appear.

Debit Card Machines: If I could change one thing about the world

I don' t like to complain. It doesn't do much good and it only taxes my system.

But if I could change anything about the world, I would change one thing (two things actually, if someone would kindly give me permission to outlaw leaf blowers, maybe the laziest invention ever).

Debit card machines.

I really dislike them. And I don't normally really dislike things. In many ways debit card machines have simplified life and made it socially acceptable to not carry cash around, which I never did long before the debit card machine.

The problem I have with debit card machines is this: Is there no way we can all agree on a standard by which they would all operate the same?

When I go to my grocery store, it's fairly simple: Swipe the card, then it asks me if the amount is correct and then it asks me if I want any cash back. I say no; maybe if I'm feeling generous, I say yes, and then suddenly I'm done. Why can't all debit machines be like this?

But then when I go to another store I find a completely different machine that asks me entirely different questions. For instance, why does the machine at Target always want to know if I want the entire amount put on my card?

DEBIT CARD MACHINE: Do you want the entire amount put on this card?
ME: No, put $3 on my debit card, and the other $197 on this business card I found on the floor in housewares. What is goin' on with that?

Splitting the purchase up and putting it on two or three cards is actually the real reason why our economy is in such a mess. Think of the accounting challenges on something like that, even for a computer.

And then I get the occasional machine that seems to be obsessing over my decisions.

DEBIT CARD MACHINE: $20.98. Is this your total?
ME: Yes.

DEBIT CARD MACHINE: Are you sure?
ME: Well, yeah, I'm pretty sure. THAT'S WHY I PUSHED YES BEFORE you idiot machine.

DEBIT CARD MACHINE: Because if there's something else, we can always start over if it means saving you another trip later this afternoon because we know how annoyed you get, Mr. Patterson, when you forget an item and have to return later.
ME: Milk! I forgot milk. Thanks, Mr. Debit Card Machine.

The reason I have such an issue with the randomness of debit card machines is that I get used to the one I use all the time, and then I go somewhere else that asks a whole different set of question and I think I'm done and I stand there waiting for my receipt, actin' all smart, and the dude behind the cash register says, "You have to answer another question," and then I feel all dumb again.

My simple solution? Create all debit card machines to be like the one at my grocer's. Give me the total, ask me if that's an OK total, give me the chance to resubmit if it's wrong and then be done with it.

It really should be no more difficult than that.

I'm sure.

WARNING: Close eyes before reading this blog

So, we bought one of those sunshades for my wife's truck over the weekend, the kind that lowers the temperature inside to something less than the normal solar surface readings we know and love this time of year in West Texas...

I can understand the warning on the side of a coffee cup that tells me that the contents of the cup may exceed 150 degrees and that I need to be careful. And I can even understand, especially in today's world, why they would put a warning on the side of a blow dryer that warns people not to use it in the shower. But I can't figure out why the makers (attorneys) of the Auto Expressions Magic Shade Sunshade felt it necessary to include this warning on the back side of their product packaging:

Blue Man, Ugly Man

NEW YORK -- Forget for a moment that you are looking at the worst photograph ever taken of the guy on the right who suddenly forgot how to smile the same way Yankee second baseman Chuck Knoblauch forgot how to throw to first base several years ago, if you are EVER in New York and have a couple of hours, I strongly recommend you go see the Blue Man Group at the Astor Theater in Greenwich Village.

I refuse to believe that the face the guy on the right is making is because he is star struck over some blue-faced, drum-playing, toilet paper-throwing performance artist who looks like Jerry Seinfeld in bad makeup. But maybe. I suppose there's that chance. Gosh, imagine how I would look if I ever had my picture taken with the Pope.

Speaking of which ... PBXVI is next up on the agenda, followed by tonight's performance by the really groovy Midland High Orchestra at Carnegie Hall. And tomorrow's private audience with me, my family, and 60,000 others at Yankee Stadium.

Fly Like an Eagle: 7 scouts, 3 adults, 10 headlamps, a long walk and an honest day's work make for a memorable weekend

Pratt Cabin, 2.2 miles down trail in McKittrick Canyon, Guadalupe Mountains National Park.

There is something cathartic about a 2 mile hike into a West Texas canyon when the only natural light is from a quarter moon above and Orion in the southwestern sky, and when you, seven Boy Scouts and two other adult leaders are armed only with a handful of not-so-regulation headlamps, 99-cent water bottles  and imaginations that border on being waaaaay overactive.

The next time you need to clear the cobwebs from your emotional corners, take a long walk after dark in the middle of nature. The noises in the brush will keep you honest and the scores of mountain lions your clear-thinking head conjures up will make you feel like a giant at the completion of the walk.

We did this Friday night.

The Boy and I, six other Boy Scouts from Midland's Troop 152, Scout master Tim McKinney and volunteer dad Joe Lilly made the walk into McKittrick Canyon at Guadalupe Mountains National Park, bound for Pratt Cabin (above and at right), a historic lodge in need of some serious fix up. More on that later.

Hiking is a great enough experience when done in the daylight the way most sane people do it. When you take away the sun -- and you are the designated lead hiker of the group -- it can definitely be a Get-Close -to-Your-Maker experience.

As our fearless leader Tim (who brought up the rear, I might add) said, we wouldn't have any problems with mountain lions; they would be spooked by the sound of 10 people walking and long gone by the time we came anywhere near them. That was indeed the case, although with a dozen beams of light from everyone's headlamps and flashlights pointed in every direction imaginable, there were enough shadows moving across the path to make us all at least slightly apprehensive on a number of occasions

The Boy, who just turned 14 a couple of weeks ago, has been working on the planning phase of his Eagle Scout project for five months now. After his troop summited Guadalupe Peak last November, he noticed there were no mile markers along the pathway, so he inquired about installing them as his project. The park ranger denied that request -- the trail is a nature conservancy and a protected area, and caretakers of the land are duty bound to keep it as unaltered as possible.

The ranger at Guadalupe, Fred Armstrong, worked with The Boy throughout the planning process, and offered an alternative: the 32 window shutters at the historic Pratt Cabin were in a state of disrepair and badly in need of painting. The Boy jumped at the thought.

After weeks of negotiating on dates and hammering out details, we were finally able to load up three truckloads of teenage boys and head for the project this past weekend. After the 2 mile walk into McKittrick, bed rolls were unfurled and eight of the 10 campers slept under the stars. (It's probably not necessary to point out which two of us pitched a tent for a little additional warmth in the 30 degree overnight chill.)

The boys began work at 8 Saturday morning, and 10 hours later, the 32 shutters had been scraped, sanded, primed, painted and painted again. There were times -- many, in fact -- when it looked doubtful that the job could be completed in just one day, but when you dangle a free Hunger Buster meal at the Kermit Dairy Queen on the way home -- if the work gets done -- boys do tend to get hoppin'.

Congratulations to The Boy and thanks to Justin, Brandon, Tim, Martin, Jarod and Scout, and to Big Tim and Joe for helping make it possible. And to the hospitality and friendliness of Guadalupe NP Ranger Cap'n Call. It was one of those weekends that stands a good chance of being remembered by everyone involved for quite a few years.

 

Unsecura Videus Camus de Auto Hoodeus Flyus Off Fastus. Or, farewell old friend.

I, umm, I'm not sure where to start. Maybe here: There is not a word in the English language that adequately conveys the feeling you get when you realize you have just done something horribly wrong and you don't yet know the final outcome but you are pretty sure it's not going to be good.

Panic. Shock. Gloom. Doom. Horror. Disbelief. All those words work to a degree and if they were all rolled together into one big word -- panicshockgloomdoomhorrordisbelief -- that pretty well does the trick, but it's way long and much too hard to pronounce.

Horrophobia. Videopanic. Cam-disorder. Those would be words we could invent to get us started.

Unsecura Videus Camus de Auto Hoodeus Flyus Off Fast would be the Latin origin of what happened.

It started Monday morning, this morning, so enough time really hasn't passed by yet for me to be sufficiently removed from the event in order to write objectively about it. Which means what you are about to read is stark, raw honesty.

There was a tank battery fire at the Alon plant in Big Spring today, thank heavens not nearly as horrific as the fire two months ago. I drove over and arrived about 9. I pulled up where the media staging area had been at the previous blast. I took a few frames of video with my Panasonic, but since I can't transmit that video back immediately, I laid the camera down on the hood of the car, picked up a second video camera, shot some video and sent it back to work so that it could be put up on our Internet site as quickly as possible.

When I was done sending the video back to the newspaper, I hopped in my car and drove off, bound for a location closer to the fire, which raged on as fires often do.

Five minutes later and much closer, I pulled up to an area just outside the fence that serves as the perimeter for the oil and gas plant. Several workers sat and watched the tank battery burn.

I slowed to a stop, put the car in park and reached across the front seat for my Panasonic camera.

And it was at that moment that that feeling crept in. That panicky shock, that gloom and doom, that horrified feeling of disbelief, that feeling for which there exists no appropriate word.

I turned the car around and headed back to where I had left only a few minutes earlier. Part of me actually hoped I wouldn't find it, but as I drove down the rural road east of Big Spring, a shiny object glared at me. I pulled up on it and picked it up. If you look closely in the photo you can see it laying there just at the edge of the pavement.

The camera was making sounds like R2DR and so it became immediately obvious that it was toast. And all I could think of was if my father were here, he'd say, "Cameras were not made to fly off car hoods at 50 mph."

The camera wouldn't shut, and it wouldn't open, even though the video tape had flown out like it had been unbuckled. And on the view screen, there was an eerie shot of the pavement, a sort of farewell picture, a way of saying, "This is the last thing I saw before your negligence cost me my life."

That camera and I have been through a lot together. Cracker Barrel Updates. Kinky Friedman. The great Midland Flood of 2007. We've done a lot. Seen a lot. I shot a lot of people with that camera. I get wistful thinking how it will no longer be a part of my work life.

Driving the 45 miles back to work with a dead camera and hardly any video to prove up, I knew only one thing for sure: I would not be turning in a mileage report for this trip.

Now the only thing left is facing the boss and explaining the look on my face. And asking him if he knows of the word that can convey that feeling of horror I was feeling. And hoping his response is not "Fired?"

If you can't laugh at yourself, who can? Turns out pretty much the whole world

Pictured: Former Dallas Cowboy safety Bill Bates, left, and Midland District Court Judge Dean Rucker.

I have had a wonderful, blessed life. Filled with goodness, exceptional family, beautiful children and a loving and understanding wife.

Which is not to say my life has been without its moments.

I have struggled with certain issues, chief among which are life's moments of embarrassment. I have had four that stick out like Barney Fife singing in the church choir. Moments that say, "Look at me everyone, I am a major dweeb."

I think if we admitted our moments of embarrassment, it would be easier for us all to accept them, acknowledge them and then forge ahead.

To the next embarrassing moment.

Which just so happened to come to me last week.

But allow me to give you some background. As I said, I have had four such moments. Times so embarrassing they cast a bright red glow upon all who were nearby. Occasions that were so embarrassing others were equally embarrassed for me.

There was the time in 1977 when as drum major of the Irving Nimitz High School Band, I fell while walking UP a ladder to the platform upon which I was to conduct the entire unit in a piece by Tchaikovsky that was already difficult enough before 150 band members were faced with having to be conducted by someone who couldn't properly negotiate five steps upward.

Then there was the time in 2002 when, as co-emcee of the Midland Christmas Parade, I mistakenly referred to the "Citizens on Patrol" as the "Citizens on Parole," a term which does not give the remainder of the Midland citizenry the same comfort level as does Citizens on Patrol, a more accurate depiction of what these hard-working volunteers do.

(Note: You may have noticed the first incident came in 1977, the second in 2002. This by no means is to say that 25 years passed between embarrassments.  However, for purposes of brevity and so that I may continue to walk down the street largely unnoticed, I only provide for you these few high points low points today).

These first two moments of embarrassment are my milder mess ups. They can and often do serve as casual dinner conversation starters that can provide some light-hearted chuckles.

There have been two other incidents that are classified under the "Doozy" heading. Mishaps that would have sent me running for the hills had I had that option, and some hills.

Such as the time in 1993, when former Dallas Cowboy safety Bill Bates visited Midland to benefit a local non-profit. I along with a reporter from the Odessa American were given the opportunity to interview Bill in the same small setting. The Odessa writer walked in first, introduced himself successfully and sat down. I followed him in the room. Bill stuck out his hand and introduced himself politely by saying, "Hi, I'm Bill Bates." I looked at him and returned the introduction.  Literally. "Hi," I said, "I'm Bill Bates."

In retrospect I can say that 15 years later, it is still very painful. I can only hope now that there was no drool apparent during our brief encounter. I had no idea I held Bill Bates in such high esteem until I made a total idiot out of Jimmy Patterson. Nor did I ever envision having to remind myself that Jimmy Patterson was in fact my name. The other guy already HAD the name Bill Bates.

And then it was just this past Tuesday when I scored the coup de gras. The gravy upon all my other life embarrassments. The cherry on top. A moment for which I can be remembered in perpetuity.

I was in a room full of people. Important people. Police chiefs, sheriffs, educators, clergy, even judges. I had had the pleasure of meeting them all at some point or another during my career and everyone in the room had been nothing but gracious through the years, especially the judges. District judge Jody Gilles was there. So was Marvin Moore and Al Walvoord, two of our county court-at-law judges. In the middle of the program, another judge came in and sat down. He smiled and nodded knowingly at me, I returned the  smile and continued talking. I was at the podium as a sort of moderator during this particular occasion and I had made it a point of properly introducing all the dignitaries in attendance, especially those who are robed for the better part of their work days.

When the last judge arrived, I finished with what I was saying, turned and introduced him, and thanked him for coming. As I mentioned earlier, I've had the pleasure of speaking to this judge and all our other judges on several occasions through the years.

"I'd like to also thank the Honorable John Hyde, 238th district court judge, for being with us today," and I noticed as I was thanking him that he was trying to say something while I was introducing him and I thought how unusual and I leaned over and said, "Excuse me?" and he said ...

"I'm Judge Rucker. I'm honored to be thought of as Judge Hyde, but I'm Judge Rucker."

I can assure you that there are certain times in life where there is absolutely nothing that can be said that can ensure a proper recovery from some of life's more embarrassing moments. This was one of those moments. My moment to shine in the red glow of blood that rose from the base of my neck and covered every exposed patch of my face and head, inch by painful inch. It was my crowning achievement.

Until, of course, the next crowning achievement comes along.

Hug a Veteran weekend

Harold 'Pat' Patterson

Tailgunner, Navigator, Captain

U.S. Navy

World War II

South Pacific Theater

1924 -

We fall down, we get up

Karen and I have talked a lot recently about stumbling. Not literally, of course, but the spiritual and emotional stumble. She feels bad when she feels the urge to not be quite so healthy on a particular day and so she'll trip and order some nice, juicy, gooey, cheesy enchiladas at a Mexican food restaurant and then she'll spend the rest of the night wondering if the stumble is long term or only a fleeting break in what has otherwise been a wonderful self-improvement journey for her. And I consider my own issues and how I try to battle them daily. They are there. And then they are not. And then they are there again. And I wonder what will it take to finally get over those issues? What will it take to have total self-control for the rest of life? To do good every day for ever?

   But one day recently it finally dawned on me: that perpetual goodness that we all wish we could achieve may or may not ever happen. We confront our demons, our challenges, our issues, whatever, every single day. We crawl out of bed and put our game face on and we go out and show ourselves to the world and we have no idea what the day will bring and how we will respond and often all we can do is try our very best and hope for the best.

   After this bombshell epiphany dropped on me (it took only 48 years, understand), I told Karen that we can't really see ourselves as failures. If we have that chimichanga and beer after 30 days of Weight Watchers dinners and bananas and walking two miles a day, it's not a failure. At least it doesn't seem like it should be considered a failure to me. Life to me seems like a series of days, weeks and months of doing good followed by, hopefully, shorter periods of falling down. We fall, we pick ourselves up again, brush off the dirt and the leaves and whatever else has caked on us and we keep on. And then we do well for a while again and we feel good again and then one day we wake up after a bad day at the office and we don't feel like doing so good so we fall again. But then when we fall, God gives us that feeling of guilt, or the desire to do better again, and so we do.

   The cycle repeats itself ad infinitum for many of us. I doubt seriously that any of us set out to do good in life and accomplish that task for the remainder of their lives every single waking moment. But it's not for lack of trying.

   The good and the not-so-good cycle applies  regardless the aspect of your life you've decided you need improvement. It doesn't matter your vice or your bad habit, you try to do better and then one day you wake up feeling like today's not the best day for doing good and so you don't.

   There is a wonderful song that was released in the late 1990s by Contemporary Christian singer Bob Carlisle called "We Fall Down." It's about a man, miserable with his life, who walks to the store every day and each time he does he walks by a monastery. Thinking about the holiness inside the monastery only makes him feel more miserable about himself and his dead-end path. One day, a priest walks out and the man asks the him what it is that they do every day beyond the marble walls of the beautiful, sacred place. And the priest tells him, "We fall down, we get it up. We fall down, we get up ... The saints are just the sinners who fall down ... and get up."

   The man, or maybe the listener, suddenly realizes that men and women do fall down, but by the grace of God they get up. And get up. And keep getting up.

   As a boy and younger man, I often found myself looking judgmentally at others who I knew were going out Saturday night and drinking and carousing and then showing up at church on Sunday and I would think to myself how hypocritical they seemed.

   But you know what? How wrong I was. These people are not hypocrites. They just fall down. And then they get up. The saints are just the sinners. And so are we all.

   If you fall down frequently, don't despair. It is not the falling down that is our failure. It is only in the failure to get back up.
 

Instantaneous

I feel horrible for Kevin Everett, the Buffalo Bills tight end who lined up like every other time he'd lined up and seconds later was on the turf unconscious. A helmet-to-helmet hit rendered the Port Arthur, Tex., native motionless and with the diagnosis of a severe neck injury. He went from promising newcomer to "Hopefully he will be able to walk again" in a split second.

Two Fridays ago, a carload of Midlanders were headed to Odessa, stopped at a red light, when they were plowed into from behind by a truck-trailer going at a high rate of speed. The front seat occupants were injured; the woman in the backseat, Julie Jones, known to many Midlanders, is in a coma with a bruised heart and a severe head injury.

In both cases, these two people I would imagine were living wonderful, healthy lives and ... a second later, they were changed forever through nothing of their doing.

On the way to work this morning, I was preparing to turn left onto a major street from another major street. I was first in the left turn lane. The light cycled yellow and I pulled out thinking I could turn after oncoming traffic had stopped. The light turned fully red and after a second or two of it being red, a truck ran through the red light. Then, another truck, a full 3-4 seconds after the light turned red.

Just before they pulled through, blatantly running the red light, my foot had eased off the brake and onto the gas. Had I decided to accelerate, we would've been broadsided by one and possibly two pickups going 35-40 mph. The Boy would have been hit square on.

Something told me not to do it. That little voice that comes to all of us.

We were the fortunate ones this morning. And even though we survived, I could not help but shudder the rest of the morning thinking how close life came to being over or dramatically altered forever.

It is cliche when you hear the phrase life is precious. But it is also very true.