He was much more than a football coach

By Jeff Orvis

It's hard to believe that we already have five games in the book for the 2011 high school football season. But just in time for the rest of the season comes a book that should be required reading for every current prep football player across this great country.

“The Sacred Acre” by Mark Tabb is now available at local book stores. I picked up my copy at the local Wal-Mart. After just finishing it, I am really glad the big box store has this on its shelves. The book tells the story of Ed Thomas, veteran high school coach at Aplington-Parkersburg in northeast Iowa who was gunned down in the weight room at his school on a bright June morning in 2009.

Thomas was a legend in high school football circles. He had been named National Coach of the year earlier in the decade and four of his former players went on to play in the NFL. It came as no surprise to the folks who knew and respected him in the community that he spearheaded the rebuilding of the A-P football field, which others had called “The Sacred Acre” after an EF-5 tornado tore through Parkersburg in 2008.

This book chronicles the work done by Thomas and the A-P community to rebuild the city of just under 2,500 residents. It also recounts in painful detail the events that led up to and followed that fateful morning in 2009. Tabb had the full cooperation of the Thomas family in writing this book. It contains a forward by former NFL Coach Tony Dungy.

Thomas was a deeply religious man. His family attended the same church in town as the family of his murderer. In fact, Mark Becker, who was convicted of the crime, had been a player on the A-P team a few years before.

The book contains some of the favorite quotes of Coach Thomas. The first one may best describe how he tried to live his life:

“I want my legacy to be that I wasn't just a football coach, but a man who tried to live a Christian life and impact others.”

Anyone who has ever played the grand game of high school football, or who has had a son or daughter who has played or can't imagine a Friday night in the Fall without seeing stadium lights shining in the middle of a small town or big city will gain a lot from this book. It is much more than a football book. It is a good portrayal of life in a small town and how folks will pull together in times of adversity. It makes me homesick for Belle Plaine or Independence...

Ten years later - we're down, but not out

By Jeff Orvis

“I just wanted you to know that I'm okay, but I'm heading home.” That was the message from my sister 10 years ago this week. I was in the middle of putting the finishing touches on our newspaper at our Marengo office. Melissa worked in an office in Bossier City, LA. Her call came in the early afternoon of Sept. 11, 2001.

A group of my co-workers and I had left our Belle Plaine office that Tuesday morning for our weekly trip to the printing plant 15 miles away. As we were leaving, I glanced at the TV in our office in time to see a plane hitting the first tower.

The next few hours were spent finishing the paper. I don't think any of the people I was working with really understood just how devastating this was. Living in rural Iowa, where the tallest structure is a grain bin, you don't have daily reminders of just how massive a big city office building can be. Of course, later on, we witnessed horrors we thought we might only see in computer-generated scenes of fictional movies. But this was real. People were falling to their deaths right before our eyes.

When my sister called, I had no idea where President George Bush was. He had been visiting a school in Florida when he got the news that first one, then two aircraft had barreled into the World Trade Center in New York. After a brief statement to the nation at the school, the Secret Service hustled him back to Air Force One, We later learned that while the president wanted to immediately return to the White House, his security detail said it was uncertain whether the attack threat was over and they refused to send him into what may have been harm's way.

It was decided to land the plane at Barksdale Air Force Base near Shreveport, LA. Some of my sister's co-workers, outside for a cigarette break, noticed that a large Boeing 747 was landing at the base. They quickly guessed that it was the president's plane. Not knowing if he was being hunted by an enemy, my sister decided she wanted to be home with her family and she called just before she left her office.

The rest of that day, as well as for several days ahead, there was plenty of speculation on who mounted the attack and what effect it might have on this country and the world. Some predicted that there might be an immediate gasoline shortage in this country. Deciding to get away from the wall-to-wall TV coverage for a few minutes, I drove down to our local convenience store that evening and saw a string of cars all the way out to the street. My neighbors were topping off their tanks just in case.

None of us really had a clue on how to act in the succeeding days. We had no experience with an attack on our shores that claimed over 3,000 lives. Should we go to work the next day? Would school be canceled for the week? Three days later, our high school football team was scheduled to travel out of town for a game. Should that game go on?

By Friday, we had a few more details about what happened. But many of us still had a tough time wrapping our brains around the events of the week. The trip to the football game was just the tonic for many of us to help soothe the pain and shock. It also sent a signal to the beasts who planned the attack that Americans might be down, but not out. There was a moment of silence before the game to show respect for the memory of the victims and support for their loved ones.

In those days following the attack, none of us would imagine that in the coming months and years that air travel would become a lot tougher because of increased security measures. We didn't know that our country would become involved in the longest war in its history or that a huge federal agency, the Department of Homeland Security, would become yet another necessary drain on our tax dollars.

Before we had the luxury of hindsight later on, we had no choice than to trust that the president would handle the threat. When I saw tapes of Bush's reaction when Andy Card whispered in his ear that the second plane had hit the towers and this country was under attack, Bush looked like a deer in the headlights. Some of the kids in the classroom thought he would become physically ill. But very soon the Texas stubborn streak kicked in and he went to work. He has written and spoken about his reactions and actions of that day. I would have hoped that one of his first phone calls would have been to his father, George H.W. Bush, who had been president less than 10 years before. I would have also hoped he would have called Bill Clinton, who held that office less than a year before.

Regardless of what we might think about the job George Bush did as our president, none of us can truly imagine the thoughts and fears that must have been pulsing through his brain as he turned to the TV in the plane and saw people jumping to their deaths from the burning towers and knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to help them.

It's been 10 years since that terrible day. But we still haven't fully recovered. The emergency crews who responded to the scene are still feeling the physical effects of inhaling toxic dust and fumes from the crash site. Families of those who died that day are still coping with the emotional trauma. Our armed forces are still huntin terrorists in far away lands.

And those of us who live more than 1,000 miles away from New York, Washington or Pennsylvania know that despite the measures taken by our government over the years, terrorists could still attack us in any number of ways. This is a new era in warfare. It was the worst attack on U.S. Citizens since that December day in 1941 when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.

We might not be able to completely eliminate terrorist threats, but we can send a strong message to those who would vow to bring us down as a nation that we will never be defeated. We can do that by serving in the military, holding our elected officials accountable so that active duty personnel, veterans and their families are treated as heroes, whether they were involved in a firefight in Afghanistan or worked as a clerk at the Rock Island Arsenal. We can also volunteer through our churches or community organizations to help make life better for our neighbors, regardless of where they might live in this world.

Any of these actions will tell potential terrorists that while you might have us up against the ropes, the final bell hasn't rung and we will bounce back, again and again.

It's not like TV

By Jeff Orvis

When the message came asking if I would be willing to cover a murder trial that had been moved from Iowa County to Davenport, it didn't take me more than a minute to agree. While it's true that I had never spent more than an hour or two in a courtroom, being excused from jury duty three times, I figured I had seen enough trials portrayed on TV, it should be easy.

The trial involved a first degree murder case. The defendant had been the operator of a restaurant in Belle Plaine. She was accused of conspiring to kill her common-law husband in an elaborate scheme to end years of physical, sexual and emotional abuse. I was acquainted with Denise from her work in restoring and opening the restaurant. I had been in her establishment a couple of times and she always seemed cordial, hardly the type who would one day admit that she and two others bashed in the head of another.

As the day approached for the opening of the trial, I became a bit anxious about some things that would later seem quite trivial. What would be the proper thing to wear? How stern would the judge be? Would there be anyone else in the courtroom I had ever met besides the defendant?

The first day of the trial was taken with jury selection. There must have been 100 or more Scott County residents in the courtroom, most probably hoping somebody else would be called to sit on the 15-member jury (12 jurors and three alternates). Few were dressed better than I was. I figured business casual would be appropriate.

I soon determined that a real trial is not quite like a 60-minute TV drama. First off, I noticed that as the day began, we didn't stand when the judge entered the room, but once the jury was chosen, we were asked to stand when the jurors came into the room. The judge didn't use a gavel, but we all knew when things were underway. The trial was held in one of the larger courtrooms in the courthouse. There were no windows and the seats for spectators were hard, non-padded church pews. Apparently aware of this, the judge, who seemed like a nice guy with a tough job to do, gave us frequent breaks during the nine-day event. He was also a stickler for the time, starting court promptly at 9 a.m., breaking for lunch at noon and ending each day at 4:30 p.m.

I had never met the victim. But when the prosecution spent the better part of one session showing graphic crime scene and autopsy photos, I wondered how anyone could do that to a fellow human being. When it was the defense's turn to present evidence and the defendant's psychologist took the stand and related what she had been told about the couple's relationship, I wondered how a man could do that to a woman he professed to love.

The trial drew few spectators. One woman had served on a jury for another of the three defendants and she was at this trial to observe most days. On only a couple of occasions did I see anyone there to support the defendant. By the second day, when she entered the courtroom, she recognized me as a former Belle Plaine person and we nodded to each other.

During breaks in the proceedings, several of the attorneys for both sides were very friendly. When I explained that this was my first trial after 35 years in the news business, they were willing to explain some of the procedures to me and also make some off-the-record comments that helped me understand what was happening and why. They even displayed some humor in this very serious situation. One of the attorneys kept looking for the TV reporters, claiming he had a deal with a local restaurant in his hometown and when they appeared, he was going to wear a sign on his back advertising the restaurant.

After the prosecution explained the crime and outlined its claim on how the defendant and the other two had planned the murder, the defense attempted to explain that the defendant was the victim of battered woman syndrome. "Somebody was going to die" is how the lead defense attorney began his opening statement.

On the eighth day of the trial, the jury got the case. After about four hours of deliberation, the day ended with no verdict. The next morning, the jury returned and an hour later, the verdict was in. Denise Frei was convicted of first-degree murder, the third defendant to receive the same judgment. She was placed in handcuffs and began her journey to a permanent life in prison. Several relatives of the victim, including his 16-year-old son, remained in the courtroom after the the proceedings. They were happy with the verdict, but two years after their loved one was killed, there seemed to be more relief that it was all over, than jubilation with the result.

After all, up until that fateful night in July, 2009, many of those left behind considered Frei to be a friend living a good life in a small town.

Maybe in an attempt to put the gruesome details of the crime out of my mind for a few minutes, during some of the breaks, I wondered how attorneys, judges, deputies present in the courtroom, court attendants and others could spend hour after hour, for days on end for much of their careers working in a windowless room. When I thought about the victim and defendant, I wondered how men and women could live like that, dominating someone else in the name of love and staying in an abusive situation.

It made me so thankful that I never had to personally experience that lifestyle. It also made me quite grateful to see the sunshine at the end of each day of the trial.

A great weekend of good friends, good jazz

How many of today's popular recording artists will be remembered 80 years from now? Thanks to the tireless efforts of several Quad-City area music fans, the work of Bix Beiderbecke was celebrated last weekend for the 40th year in a row.

Beiderbecke was a jazz performer who lived a short 28 years before the ravages of alcoholism claimed him. But in those few years, he left a mark of innovation that has lasted for decades. Beiderbecke made his mark in some of the larger cities of this country, but he was a native of Davenport. His most favored style of music, Dixieland jazz, was prevalent at several venues in downtown Davenport last weekend as bands from as far as the east coast and Australia filled the air with the sounds of sweet jazz.

Last weekend marked 30 years since my dad died way too soon at the age of 54. One of his gifts he gave me was a love of music, particularly jazz music. He told me of the days when he would go over to Rock Island and hear Louis Armstrong play for 50 cents. I still have hundreds of 78 rpm records my dad collected.

Back in the summer of 1971, I was preparing to continue my education after graduating from high school. On a warm August night, he took the family to the lower level of the local Holiday Inn to hear a series of jazz musicians who played in the first Bix Beiderbecke Jazz Festival. Last Friday afternoon, something drew me to the banks of the Mississippi, to LeClaire Park, for an afternoon of great jazz music. Perhaps it was my inadvertent tribute to my dad. All I know is something drew me to spend the afternoon in the brilliant sunshine listening to great music on Friday.

On Sunday morning, I attended services at First Presbyterian Church in Davenport. It was the Beiderbecke home church and the pipe organ was replaced by the sweet sounds of the Jimmy Valentine Quintet with guest clarinetist Dave Bennett. If you closed your eyes and allowed your imagination to take over, it was easy to think that you were hearing the great Benny Goodman and Pete Fountain in dueling clarinets. Jazz music in a church service gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "Make a joyful noise!"

In this era when the fine arts program in many schools is in peril because of budget cuts, it is more important than ever that this style of music not be allowed to die. This festival draws thousands of fans from around the country each year. Make plans to check it out the first weekend in August in 2012.

This was also a big weekend for the Pleasant Valley High School Class of 1971. Many of us gathered at a local restaurant Saturday night, wondering where the past 40 years went. As we are nearing the age where we can claim we are having "senior moments," name tags were very valuable.

Our school was on the outskirts of the Quad-Cities and we weren't really sure whether we were a suburban school or a rural school. While I didn't notice any of my classmates arriving in a limousine, many of us have achieved a lot in our careers and in our lives. Several have moved away and settled in the far corners of the country. Some have stayed close to where they grew up and carved out successful careers in many fields. Some of the real heroes of my class were several of my friends who have battled various serious ailments and have persevered. Unfortunately, more than a dozen of the folks I graduated with are no longer with us and we held a special remembrance for them.

I realize that each year thousands of high school graduating classes hold reunions around the country. But even in this era of social networking and multi-tasking, it's even more important to periodically physically climb in the car, drive to a location and shake hands or give a hug to a former classmate. E-mails can't quite compare.

The Pleasant Valley Class of '71 is AWESOME! None of us has aged a bit and we still know how to party!

A couple of leftover comments: It's been a few weeks since I've made any political comments, so here goes. As I've heard the babble of the endless bunch of presidential wannabes from the party currently not in the White House, I have yet to hear anyone say how he or she would deal with international affairs. Many of them feel that the Obama administration is vulnerable because of our financial mess, but any current or former president will tell you that there's more to being the leader of the free world than how the stock market is doing. A handsome financial portfolio doesn't mean much if terrorists attack our country. The next time you have an opportunity to hear a presidential candidate, ask him or her how they would do a better job of protecting us from foreign threats.

Corporate America strikes again! I have become a fan of a particular brand of mixed nuts. It's the brand that features a walking peanut as the spokesman. The last time I bought a can of nuts, I noticed that the net weight had dropped from 21 ounces to just over 18 ounces. If my math is correct, that's a decrease of over 13 percent! The nuts cost the same for 18 ounces as they had for 21 ounces. A few days later, as I was driving down 53rd Street in Davenport, I saw this big vehicle the size of a bus that looked like a giant peanut on wheels. Remember the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile? This was a nut mobile, apparently a marketing tool for the nut people. Now I know why the nuts increased in price by 13+ percent. Thanks, corporate America! I guess you have to keep fuel in the nut mobile somehow.

Vacationing? For a different perspective, hit the road!

If economic circumstances, lack of time off or simply a desire not to go through the hassle of packing and spending nights in strange beds has kept you staying close to home in recent years, it might be easy to forget there's more to this world than your street, your town or your state.

In recent years, several factors have kept me close to home. TV and the internet have helped open my eyes to the fact that this is a great big world. But nothing quite compares to climbing in the car and heading out on the open road. We just returned from a 10-day, nine-night journey to Jacksonville, FL. My mom provided the car and a lot of the expenses. She had a desire to see her daughter, son-in-law, grandson and granddaughter and especially a great-grandson who is not quite two years old.

Since I am in between jobs at the moment, I suggested that we avoid the potential delays and inconvenience of air travel and put her Buick through the paces. I checked my handy-dandy road atlas and thought the 1,220 mile trip would be no problem.

As the day for departure grew closer, I was beginning to wonder if this old man would be up to the challenge of being behind the wheel for three straight days. A couple of days before we left, my aunt, who is only a couple of years older than I am, expressed an interest in joining us. Suddenly, the driving chores were cut in half!

The first night we stayed in Metropolis, IL, the unofficial home of Superman. The next day, we traveled through Kentucky and Tennessee (first time for me) and on through Alabama (another first) to Montgomery. Driving on interstates most of the way, my only problem on this day was a crazy trip through Nashville at midday. My aunt then took over and had to drive through a stop-and=go rush hour in Birmingham.

Many states have welcome centers just over the border as you enter the state. I would say one of the most unique such facilities in the country is just north of Huntsville, AL. We saw the attraction a mile before the exit. A Saturn 1B rocket rested on the grounds of this welcome center. Not a replica, it was the real thing, towering almost 250 feet tall. The connection is that Huntsville is home to the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory. I had wanted to see the Kennedy Space Center while visiting Florida for the first time, until I learned that tourists had to pay $44 for the experience. So the chance to stand less than 20 feet away from the model of rocket that had sent astronauts into space for free was amazing.

We saw a lot of the things that many other tourists see on their vacations. I finally got to wade in the Atlantic Ocean one afternoon and we walked the streets of St. Augustine, FL, the oldest city in the country. On a visit to Daytona, my nephew gave us a personal tour or a huge auto auction facility where he is in charge of the computer systems. The company auctions thousands of cars each year from this location and the administration, security and other aspects of this operation was much more than I ever expected. We stopped at the Daytona International Speeday and stood along the fence just past the fourth turn while a couple of cars roared past at more than 120 mph on practice laps. We also got to meet many of my sister's co-workers in her 12th floor downtown Jacksonville office.

Seeing the sites, experiencing new places and getting away from the daily grind are all important reasons to take a vacation. But even more important for us was the opportunity to reconnect with a sister who continues to amaze me in her professionalism, my brother-in-law who is exploring new professional opportunities and is a real inspiration, my niece and nephew, who have weathered some adversities to grow into mature and caring young adults. and the newest member of our famiy, Warren, who at just under two years of age has already displayed a strong throwing arm. If he can throw a baseball or football in a few years the way he can fling his pacifier, I just hope I'm around to be his agent!

When you board a plane in Moline and a few hours later you land in Florida, it's easy to forget that you are passing over woods and fields and cities and towns. Behind the wheel of a car, you gain much more appreciation for the thousands of people who labored millions of hours to carve a roadway through the mountains and woods of the Southeast. Besides, traveling by air, you miss the opportunity to stop at a produce stand along the road just north of Montgomery and buy peaches the size of softballs picked that morning and sold to you by a nice lady with a strong southern drawl. America is great!

Does this really matter?

In reviewing some of my recent posts, I've noticed a trend. I'm spending a lot of time and space complaining. I try to be a positive person, but some of the things I've witnessed in the past few months make it difficult. I'm going to point out a few things here that bother me a bit. But I also hope to point out some of the beautiful things left in this old world.

I have been a fan of CNN for years. I rely on that network to present up-to-the-minute news day or night. Although live programming usually ends at 11 p.m., we know that if something big happens in the middle of the night, CNN will be back on with live reports.

Lately, I've become a bit disappointed in this news outlet. CNN and its sister network, Headline News, has devoted a staggering amount of attention to a murder trial in Florida. For those of you who have been living in a cave for the past couple of years, authorities accuse Casey Anthony of killing her young daughter. Casey Anthony is not the daughter of a head of state, or an heiress. By all accounts, she might be a troubled young woman who may or may not have smothered her daughter and stashed the body in the trunk of a car.

Unfortunately, this case doesn't seem to be unique in a world where there is still way too much violence and lack of respect for human life. But somewhere along the line, some genius in a newsroom somewhere decided to play up this case and suddenly the courthouse is surrounded by network TV satellite trucks and spectators are fighting each other for a spot in line to sit in the courtroom.

Before you plan your day tomorrow around scheduled TV coverage of the trial, ask yourself this question: "How does this murder trial directly affect me or my hope of making my world a better place?" Murder trials usually drag on for months, if not years. During the time much of this country's attention has been zeroed in on this non-remarkable event, dozens or maybe even hundreds of others have met a violent death. Where was the extended TV coverage for them?

Make no mistake. The death of any child is tragic. But aren't we really doing a disservice to the memory of other victims by focusing so much attention on one routine murder case in Florida?

Another recent media-generated guilty pleasure involves the case of a New York congressman, Anthony Weiner. He finally admitted that he had sent improper text messages to several women and ultimately resigned from Congress. He didn't represent my district. As far as I could determine, he would never have become a serious candidate for president. But just because a photo surfaced of a clothed portion of his anatomy, we all became anxious to see what would happen next in this incident.

While being a bit critical of CNN, aren't we all growing tired of that yellow banner that seems to flash across the screen every hour that says "Breaking News."? I always thought that breaking news was the term used to get our attention to an event that had happened within the hour. But the network is using it way too often. It's like the old fable about the boy who cried "wolf." After awhile, it loses its meaning. Anderson Cooper, you should know better. During Hurricane Katrina, you did a wonderful job of keeping local, state and federal officials honest in their bungling of aid to the citizens of New Orleans. You must want to choke when the hucksters in your control room flash the "Breaking News" banner across the screen for a story that actually broke 10 hours before.  

As for our morbid fascination with the Casey Anthony and Anthony Weiner stories in this world, I have one question to ask: Don't we all have better things to do? And don't get me started on the explosion of "reality" TV shows. That's for another time.

Personally, I have other things to be concerned with. I am still looking for a job that will take me to my retirement years. We are involved in several wars that are taking lives of our troops on a weekly basis. On a lighter note, I still have hope the Chicago Cubs can put it all together in the second half of the season and make a run at a pennant. And the NFL owners and players still are at odds, jeopardizing the most important season of the year - pro football season.

I promised to mention some of the more uplifting things happening in this world, so here goes. When I grow tired of worrying about murdered children, wacko politicians or pro sports, I wander out to the screened in porch and sit and watch the activity around our bird feeders. We have a colony of gold finches that stop by on a regular basis. At the other feeder at least a couple of hummingbirds visit regularly. It has been a long time since I saw a gold finch and it took 58 years for me to see my first hummingbird. And yesterday, our neighborhood was visited by a large red-tailed hawk, that perched on the roof of a neighboring building and sent out his plaintive cry for a half-hour or so. 

Naked pictures of a New York congressman can't top that.

Time for a consumer uprising?

Dear Folgers: Where's my six ounces of coffee? Back in the dark ages, when I began drinking coffee as a way to cut calories and stay awake, the familiar red can was the only brand in our house. We usually bought a one-pound can - that's 16 ounces. Sometimes, if we were expecting company, we might splurge and buy a two-pound can, 32 ounces.

Soon, folks who decided cut down on their caffeine intake but still wanted the taste of coffee in the morning were rewarded with a green can of Folgers, also in 16 and 32 ounce sizes.

Have you paid attention to the amount of coffee in those same red or green containers today? I'm betting that the bean counters at corporate are hoping you will be more swayed by the numerous varieties of coffee on the store shelves. But look close at the fine print and you will soon discover that the can that at one time contained 16 ounces is now just over 10.3 ounces. I'm no math expert, but I know that's a considerable drop from what we used to buy. Was their a corresponding drop in price? Guess again.

Coffee is far from the only culprit. Try to buy a half-gallon of ice cream. The square container looks the same. but it contains only 1.75 quarts, sometimes less. Canned vegetables seem to have more water in the can than they used to. Buy crackers or cereal and you can often notice that the product doesn't fill the box. Sometimes there is a disclaimer on the package that says some settling might have occurred during shipment. Nonsense! They are just using a box that once held 14 ounces of product to hold 12 ounces or less!

If a person had way too much time on his hands and somehow had access to some of these products from 10 or 20 years ago, he could start a web site alerting consumers to just what companies are doing to increase their bottom line while hoping we won't notice.

In this era when people are suing companies for virtually anything, commercials on TV and radio and ads in magazines and newspapers are containing more silly stuff than ever before. Most broadcast car and truck ads that quote a certain price or interest rate contain a voice of somebody who escaped from auctioneers' school who reads a paragraph of stuff in warp speed and a hushed tone. If you listen closely, you might learn that the deal they just spent 25 seconds telling you about doesn't pertain to you unless you have just won the lottery and you are the son of the car dealer.

In the past few years, we have been bombarded with ads for prescription drugs. It may show a scene of a family with smiles on their faces, going about their business with the mother recovering from some frightening condition, thanks to this miracle drug. But while the scene continues, the positive aspects of the drug are followed by a list of what might happen to you if you take it and you are a member of a small minority. Thank the lawyers for that.

We have been aware of an increase in health care costs of recent years. Doctors claim the number lawsuits they are subjected to and the cost of liability insurance has caused the increase. But I wonder if at least a small part of those increases are an aggravation stipend. If a doctor must take time to explain to a male patient why a drug meant to alleviate problems that plague some females is not right for him, it takes time away from seeing the next patient.

We are also subjected to several ads each hour which promote a product that makes a man able to perform to his wife's or girlfriend's expectations. One such ad shows a guy trying to eat a sandwich when the missus comes in with that gleam in her eye and he drops the sandwich and races after her. Another ad shows the woman calling her man away from his garage. They walk hand in hand across the lawn. Their house falls away and they are shown putting up a tent. The final scene shows them side by side in bath tubs. The moral of the ad is if you take this drug, your house will fall down, you will be forced to live in a tent and the only way you will ever get clean is in a bath tub. No more showers. Now I don't know too much about intimacy, but I do know that not much hanky-panky can be accomplished in separate bath tubs!

Thanks for allowing me to climb up on my soapbox for a few minutes to vent my frustrations. It's 91 degrees here in Davenport this afternoon - too hot to do anything outside. The Cubs are on a seven-game losing streak and I was turned loose in front of a computer keyboard. I just read what I wrote and realize that it might not be wise for an unemployed hack who has applied to several public relations and ad agencies to be making fun of potential future clients. But just maybe somebody will admire my candor and give me a chance. Besides that, the weather is supposed to cool off in a couple of days and the Cubs still have more than a half-season to turn it around. The glass is still half-full - or maybe just over a third full.