Selected Columns: 1999-2006

Note: to access "Cut-rate Journalism: Hard Times at Small Newspapers" by Robert Hankins, go to www.cutrate.blogspot.com

On getting married in Las Vegas
Previously unpublished

A wrong turn into a parking garage took us to a place off Freemont Street called the Las Vegas Club. It was in the older part of town. I’ve seen its lights flashing in old newsreels.
It looked pretty much like every other casino there: a little sports bar in the corner, a gift shop, a few tables for people who were actually going to eat, and rows upon rows of slot machines. There was even one that made a point to keep my attention. As Martha made a cellphone call back to Lake Charles, I couldn’t help but notice Rod Serling staring at me.
It was a Twilight Zone game. I stared back at it for quite some time, and soon I knew the dead television writer’s secret: that he wanted me to win some money. Not just a little bit of money, mind you, but quite a bit of cash. And I agreed, too, but quickly realized it would not happen. For one, there was already someone playing the machine. For about 15 minutes, I watched him put a token in, lose his money, and put another one right in again. But I still had some time, and it was then I decided to try another television icon, Herman Munster, a few rows down, and won roughly $200. Of course, that money didn’t last very long in Vegas, and I overtipped everyone, just like I knew I would. I broke even, I told my friends, but that’s what they all say, isn’t it?What a fool’s dream it was. Could I really win enough to retire from the news biz, and go fishing on that big lake up there, Lake Mead, with its clear bluegreen water? Could I really be through with the things I hate about Southwest Louisiana – the potholes and construction zones and the hurricanes? Back at the Aladdin, I chanced to muse that, yes, while the South may have its problems, one of them is not good old-fashioned manners. Next time you’re in Vegas, say hi to people, hold a door open for someone or let a fellow customer cut ahead of you in line – and watch the weird looks you get. As you can imagine, nobody ever says thanks, either. Las Vegas is a strange combination of tourists from everywhere, and locals who make no bones about the fact that they’re decadent guttersnipes. Everybody has something for free – timeshares, condos, real estate, cars – and they want to give it straight to you, first thing on the block, just because you look like such a nice person. And as you sit there at the bar, as they all file past, you may find yourself asking the big question. Which ones have the souls? But that’s just Vegas, I guess. Some like it, and some don’t. And when you wake up in the morning, the sun is watching you.
Like my friend Lindsay Powers says, "Vegas can have Vegas." Well, I guess I didn’t say much about getting married. Perhaps that’s best left for a one-year anniversary, or maybe five. Just remember, if you ever head out there, the floorshow starts at 6, and nothing is free.
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The Chinese Buffet
Previously unpublished

There is perhaps a no better American institution than the Chinese buffet.
You don't have to dress fancy, or need a lot of money.
At the end, you get a fortune cookie. Mine usually says something like, "Smile and it will bring happiness to others," although recently I got one that read, "Soon, you will get an offer you can't refuse."
When Chinese restaurants became popular in 1900 San Francisco, staffers served mostly dumplings to their Chinese customers. The eventually Westernized a lot of their food for non-Chinese patrons. While still based on classic Cantonese recipes, the buffet had its beginnings with "chop suey," a combination of meat, vegetables and rice. One could argue the modern Chinese buffet is American as apple pie, but you’d have to take into account we actually got apple pie from England.
Ordering off the menu isn’t bad, either. When I was about 25, I went to a Chinese restaurant with several friends. One friend said, "Let’s all get something different, so we can share." I leaned over and said, "Are you sure that’s OK?" "Oh, yeah," he replied. "In fact, they encourage it."
And in fact, they did. Our food came out, was passed around the table, and I didn’t see anyone, anyone at all, giving us "the eye."
General Tso, whose name rests on a popular chicken dish, was a real military officer. A 2002 article by Michael Browning of the Palm Beach Post described him as quite ruthless, yet his gentle side included silkworm farming. Since he died in 1885, it’s unlikely he actually enjoyed any of his "own" dish. Browning could only trace the cuisine back to the early 1970s.
While Chinese cuisine is popular everywhere in America, it is Southeast Texas, where I live, where we expect a good Cajun flair to our meal. And you can get it with Vietnamese chili sauce called "Sriracha." It comes in a plastic red bottle and has rooster on the front. If you ever try it, be sure to have some water nearby. And if you were to tell me "Sriracha" means "sinus clearing," I’d believe you.
It took me 10 years to do it, but I finally figured out how to work chopsticks. Although I still fake it, while looking suave and sophisticated at the same time. The secret is to spear everything. Chances are, nobody around you will notice because they’re faking it, too. If you get caught, pour soy sauce on everything. It makes it seem like you know what you’re doing.
I like looking at those 3-D murals they have, too. You never quite know which one you’ll get: the Great Wall, a colorful mountain stream scene, or something else. And that’s one reason I will always love the Chinese buffet. No matter when I go, I will always find something new.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________The The next hit war comedy
Previously unpublished

One of the great things about wars is they make for hilarious situation comedies.
Twenty years after World War II, CBS gave us "Hogan's Heroes," about wacky Allied prisoners outsmarting the Nazis at Stalag 17.
Then 20 years after the Korean War, CBS aired the wacky antics of the "M*A*S*H" doctors.
Which means that in 2025, CBS will look for that next hit war comedy based on the Iraq War.
I thought I’d give the suits over there a few suggestions, although my track record isn’t very good.
A few years ago I came up with a sequel called "The Fugitive, Part Two," in which Dr. Richard Kimble, now cleared of all charges, continuously hounds Lt. Gerard in his daily police work.
He’s there at the coffee pot every morning, and skulking around the bushes at crime scenes, screaming "You were wrong! You were wrong!"
Of course, Hollywood didn’t go for that. They wanted a plot featuring the one-armed man’s brother, who has both arms but only one leg. He kills Dr. Kimball out of revenge, and Gerard must flee as the likely suspect.
Each week, he helps out attractive, unattached women while staying one step ahead of the law.
But since we can’t always have quality television such as "Trading Spouses," here are my ideas.
"Rummy's Heroes," sponsored by the Department of Defense and McDonald's, stars Donald Rumsfeld as an everyday, ordinary secretary of defense touring Abu Ghraib prison. While making a speech, a stray beam falls and smacks him on the head. When he wakes up, he’s in a prison camp during the First Gulf War, with Saddam Hussein as the commander.
Rummy and his wacky gang steal Saddam’s laptop computer, and use it to order 2,000 camels to the presidential palace. They blame it all on "Chemical Ali." A frustrated Saddam shakes his fist in the air and screams, "Rummmyyyy!"
Another show, "B*U*S*H," is about brain surgeons at a hospital in Mosul.
Each week we follow the escapades of Hawkeye and Trapper, who play pranks on their supervisor, Col. Dubya, because he’s "regular Army."
For instance, when Dubya tries to land a jet on an aircraft carrier to make a big speech, the wacky surgeons have Radar remove the ship's "safety cord" and Bush flies into the ocean.
Dubya comes to the surface, spits out the water, and looks into the camera.
"One of these days," he says, "I’m gonna kill those guys," and the laugh-track swells.
It would all be nice, of course, if war were that laughable.
It would be even nicer if there weren’t 3,000 Americans dead.
I see a lot of bumper stickers that say, "Support Our Troops."
The best way to support them is to bring them home.
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A column here, a column there
Previously unpublished

A column idea is one of those things you never get when you need one.
But you always seem to have a steady supply when you're not looking.
I've heard that repeated quite often in the news business (mostly by me), but thanks to some new guidelines by a respected journalists' organization, I shall never have to worry again.
The furor began a few months ago, when famed cowboy humorist Stump Langley, writing in the Omaha Tribune-Times-Express-Democrat, published a piece about his days as a cattle rustler in the early 1930s.
"It probably weren't no good to hide all them critters in the public library," Langley mused. "But we was young, and didn't have that smart book-learnin' like at them fancy East Coast schools."
The National Book Committee praised the work, nominating it for the most apostrophes used -- ever.
However, the American Association of Newspaper Columnists took issue with it, saying the Huck Finn rip-off was not up to current U.S. journalism standards.
So the group issued a statement citing examples of the so-called pitfalls of "column-ism," in an attempt, it said, to "get everyone on the same page."
I provide them here, as a public service.
-- "When will that church in the middle of town stop playing the "Big Ben" chimes every hour? Why couldn’t it be 'Video Killed the Radio Star'?
-- "I was starting my annual "Charles Manson for President" campaign, when it suddenly occurred to me that Gore WAS right about global warming."
-- "Luke, I am your father, which is why you should check out the great deals at Stan’s Boat World."
-- "Marge, if they can put a man on the moon, you’d think somebody could make a decent cup of coffee."
-- "Hello. I’m Gerald Ross, your new editor of the Times-Post-Dispatch-Express-Chronicle. I’m kind of new around here and wondered where all the X-rated theaters were."
-- "I've started a file on the Liptak murder case. It's in my lower, right desk drawer, next to the bottle of Johnny Walker Gold."
-- "I heard this really funny story in the unemployment line the other day."
-- "Forget Sinatra. Forget Elvis. The greatest entertainer of all time is, without question, Frankie Valli."
-- "Man walked in space what year? Was that in the '90s? Hey Tony! Look that up for me!"
The association added that it was probably a bad idea to cuss in a family publication.
-30-

Selected Columns

[Asterisks (*) note first-place winners in daily or nondaily column divisions of the Press Club of Southeast Texas. (**) note Associate Press Managing Editors’ winners]

They wished Rita had only been a drink
The Orange County News, Sept. 27, 2006
At least it was cool that day.
Down in the 50s, the weatherman said, and work crews cleared the trees from the sides of 10th Street.
The pine scent was like a living room at Christmas, and briefly masked the garbage bag odor in each front yard, and on every corner.
One of the first places open after Rita was the Capistrano lounge, which kept hours until the mandatory 9 p.m. curfew time.
With no phones and sparse power, the building's Spanish-mission design only added to the feeling we'd all been set back in time.
No jagged metal, but owner Lonnie Givens said he lost a big cooler in the back.
He'd managed to find a cover band, playing standards and requests.
Jeff Smith didn't consider himself lucky, but figured he'd done all right.
Earlier that day, I peered through his northern house window, and never once did it look like a back yard.
Doyle Perkins of Houston came home shortly before the storm to help his mother.
“That's a 50-year-old house,” he said. “It survived Audrey and everything else that's been through here. And twice it felt like we were leaving the ground.”
Later taking pictures near the Orange County courthouse, Perkins and fellow Houstonian Vicky Sheridan found legal notes from 1917 buried under a pile of brown fall leaves.
Sheridan, who helped provide generators, food and water to residents, complained how Orange was ignored by the national media.
“If a lot of people had died, it would have been big news,” she said. “I wish Peter Jennings was still around. He was good at doing small-town stories. Instead we had Geraldo, who never once got the Sabine River's name right.”
Sherry Wright stayed in town during Rita.
A few days after the storm, her dogs got after a wild rabbit in the woods and left it alive.
“We kept hearing these horrible howling noises, and my husband finally took a shotgun to go put it down,” she said.
“I cried, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Those awful, awful screams.”
As a lone girl danced in a corner, the mirror was silent. No one would see what they looked for, if they even knew what it was. Only blank shadows on a dim, white wall.
And soon, near a red neon sign, night did fall on Orange, Texas.
But to some, it had been there all along.

________________________________________________________________

Through the drone of the crowd*
Orange Leader, July, 2000
This one's for Jimmy. One more for the road.
His retirement earlier this year leaves a big gap in what came to be known as the "Papania's Atmosphere."
For years, Jimmy Smith was the Disco Cajun Sinatra, the balladeer of Hank Williams, the diviner of Rockin' Sidney.
Forever, it seemed, those Jimmy songs were heard to the smell of oysters beinville on the half-shell.
"Route 66" to the sound of clinking glasses. "Send In The Clowns" to the sight of flickering candles, jutting from waxy wine bottles on red-and-white-checked tables.
Through the drone of the crowd came echoes of life on Earth. Jimmy heard them all, and they all heard Jimmy.
You might find better Italian food somewhere else, but not the straight-on aura: Neva running out of the kitchen with another plate. Frankie talking to the void with cigarette in hand. Eddie at the bar with a wink and handshake, mixing cocktails and home-spun advice. Always, Eddie.
Jimmy had his own language. On "Help Me Make It Through The Night," the word "through" became "three." On "Margaritaville," he sang, "But she's a real beauty, a South Cameron cutie."
Glen Meek called him "The Pete Barbutti of Lake Charles," and, like that goateed, piano-playing comedian, Jimmy had a sense of humor.
He could even find time for an eye-wink singing "Happy Birthday" for the millionth time, or "Wind Beneath My Wings" for another happy couple twirling on the dance floor.
Unlike Eddie and Frankie, Jimmy didn't wait to die at Papania's. He often spoke of his own recording studio and a love for music that would never be satisfied by all the DMX channels in the world. One night, he described how he tried to stay awake until 4 a.m. to tape a Tito Puente concert, but fell asleep and missed it. He vowed to get it the next time.
From his tales at the bar came patches of a hipster life: A friendship with Lenny Bruce in 1950s Hawaii; playing across the street from Willie Nelson in early '60s Arizona; a brief stint at NASA in the '70s. He drove a beat up, dirty white Volkswagen van to work. His daughter got married last year in New Orleans.
"Me and Willie, when we had a break, used to catch each others' acts," he would say. "One night a few years later, I was driving to a gig somewhere and I heard 'Crazy' on the radio, and I screamed, 'He made it! Willie finally made it!'"
Jimmy shut down the piano one night when swamp pop singer Little Alfred walked in with a loosened black tie after a wedding gig. Jimmy cranked the ivories back up, in honor of the singer.
Alfred sang a slow and beautiful "Misty" in perfect soulness; Jimmy was impeccable.
Eddie watched it all from behind the bar, in a color picture they put of him there from some long ago night. Frankie was just above, peering out from World War II in his black and white uniform.
And, perhaps, they knew something we didn't.
That the end was near. That soon, Papania's would never be the same.
And maybe one night, we would see Jimmy, calling out from a porch in Arizona.
"Hello, my name is Jimmy Smith."
But it would just be a dream.
________________________________________________________
Heavenly highway
Orange Leader, January, 2002
Also ran Houston Chronicle, Austin American-Statesman

The Highway Angel may not have wings, but he can get you to the Promised Land, or at least the next filling station.
He might be able to fix your car right there on Interstate 10, near lonely places like Mile Marker 14.
He drives a red pickup with headlights that search for those in trouble.
"A woman from New Iberia gave me that name," says Matthew Joseph, 43. "Her car broke down and she just sat there for five or six hours waiting for help. Then I came along and got her fixed up right. She said I was her angel."
His truck carries cables, tools and a chain for towing. He usually goes out at dusk with his cousin, Murphy Kirkwood, 63, known as Daddy Kirk. They drive west to the Texas/Louisiana border, turn around under the Sabine River Bridge, head east to Sulphur then back to Vinton.
Joseph will take money if it is offered, but sometimes gives it to those he helps. At times he has taken families into his home, given them a place to stay and fed them. Once he drove a woman and her children to her hometown in West Virginia, then took the bus back to Vinton.
"Remember that guy from San Antonio?" Kirkwood asks.
"You gave him $5 when you didn't have any money yourself. I told you not to do that."
"He needed it more than I did, for food," Joseph says. "I had food at my house."
The Angel is 6 foot 7 inches tall and weighs 280 pounds. He sometimes gets strange looks when he pulls up for a quick inquiry. An elderly woman on a thick foggy night wanted to keep driving with a flat tire rather than pull over. He yelled to her that he would get behind her car and flash his lights, at least until she made town. She finally stopped on the shoulder and said, "The Lord told me you were a good person."
His late father, nicknamed Jimbo, sold food on street corners. At the end of each day, he would give away what he didn't sell.
"I think that's where I get my giving nature from," Joseph says.
"Your father was a gentle giant, just like you," Kirkwood says.
When Jimbo died at age 37, his widow was left with six boys and a girl.
"I was raised in the church," Joseph says. "I remember when it rained, and it would lightning and thunder. All the lights would go off. My mother would gather us in a circle, read to us from the Bible and teach us to pray."
Describing himself as a jack-of-all-trades, Joseph says he learned to work on cars when he owned a junk yard. On the highway, he says God is always with him.
"It's dangerous out here," he says. "Usually the Lord tells me when someone has good about them and when they have evil about them."
Last week, he helped Eddie Williams, a worker at Delta Downs racetrack whose car broke down on the way home. Williams called some friends, who pried into the engine on the garbled roadside. They knew what the problem was.
"It looks like you have it pretty much in hand," Joseph told Williams. "I'll leave you this flashlight. If you want to return it, just take it to the Lucky Longhorn casino. My brother works there."
Joseph parks a good distance from stalled vehicles so he can get away fast if he needs to. Once he found two men sitting in a car and asked if they needed help.
"This guy started talking to me, and he had this bandana. But he dropped it on the ground and a gun fell out. They were going to rob me. Then I heard him mention a guy named Johnny that I kind of knew from town. And I said, 'Yeah, I know him, we're good friends,' and this guy goes 'Oh yeah? Me and Johnny were in jail together. Anybody that knows him must be OK.' So I talked myself out of that one."
When the dusk turns to black, Joseph calls off the search and heads home to wife Sandra. The couple have three children, and one grandson.
"My wife always tells me, 'Matthew, you're going to get yourself killed going out like that,' but the Lord always leads me in the right direction."
________________________________________________________
Fan's collection of celebrity signatures will have you seeing stars
Orange Leader, June, 2000

She adored Randolph Scott, she's seen "Gone With The Wind" at least 38 times, and for more than four decades now, Shirley Bisson has kept Bridge City in touch with Hollywood.
"You talk about fun, to go to your mailbox and know that you've got a picture of someone you've seen all your life," says Bisson, who has at least a dozen scrapbooks of letters and autographed photos from Steve McQueen to Hoagy Carmichael.
"I hope to be able to continue performing and producing the kind of entertainment you enjoy," McQueen wrote from Mexico while taking treatments for the cancer that would kill him.
Bisson collected several glossies in the 1950s and "60s, but didn't really start in earnest, she says, until after Elvis died.
"I got two pictures from him, and then he passed away, and I figured I better start taking this seriously," she says.
Her most personal moment came in 1973 when she wrote to George Burns after the death of her 19-year-old son, Bobby, in a car accident.
"I listened to his music that day. It got me through the day," she says.
Burns replied, "I think my singing perked you up, and that made me feel good."
Carmichael wrote to answer her question about how his song "Two Sleepy People" came about. He and his wife were having dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Frank Loesser in New York, he wrote, and one of the ladies said she was tired. "So am I," said the other lady and Frank said, "Two sleepy people."
"We worked it out from there, and a song was born," Carmichael wrote.
Joan Fontaine requested $3 for postage to send a picture. Joan Bennett said her favorite of all her films was "Scarlet Street" with Edward G. Robinson.
Peter Jennings wrote "Hello in Texas" on his picture. Ken "Festus" Curtis from "Gunsmoke" wrote "With a heap o' good luck ..." Romance novelist Barbara Cartland told her from London, "What a grand idea at your age to take up oil painting."
Shirley thumbs through the pictures.
"Randolph Scott, just look at him," she says. "Boy, he was an actor. That's when we had actors -- none of that junk we have today."
She continues on through Liberace, the cast of "Charlie's Angels," Neil Armstrong, Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop, Jimmy Stewart, Dr. Jonas Salk, Gene Autry, Bette Davis, Ginger Rogers, Sally Struthers, Mary Tyler Moore, Bess Truman, Mel Blanc and Sam Snead.
"I have several from Elizabeth Taylor with a different last name each time," she says.
Shirley also has items from Hank Snow, Leonard Bernstein, Ben Johnson, Marlo Thomas, Benny Goodman, David Brinkley, James Garner, Ella Fitzgerald, Clayton "Lone Ranger" Moore, Yul Brynner, Pavarotti, Andy Williams and Jimmy Dean.
In her quest for fan memorabilia, she has even found cynicism in the bad backlash of Tinseltown.
"When Eric Estrada was on 'C.H.I.P.S' my mother said she wanted a picture of him," Shirley recalls. "So I sent a letter to him and he wanted $10 to send us a picture ... I turned that letter right over and wrote, 'Here's this old lady, 80 years old, and with as much money as you make you want $10?' I told him it wouldn't be long before he was out of the movies, and look where he is now."
She gets most of her celebrity addresses from books like "Who's Who" at the library.
"If it's a lady, I research who she has been married to, then I get an address for that person," she says. "That's how I found Jennifer Jones."
"You have to remember," says her husband, Bob Bisson, "she did a lot of this before the age of computers."
"I wouldn't even know how to turn one on," Shirley says.
Looking at her autographed picture of Johnny Carson, she says, "Johnny helped me a lot. If I didn't know someone's address, I'd just send it to him and he'd pass it along for me."
Probably her most valuable letter is from Mother Theresa, who wrote from Calcutta, "May each one of us allow God to use as his instruments to bring peace in this world."
"She's going to be a saint soon," says Bob Bisson. "And that's going to be a rarity, to have a letter from a saint."
_________________________________________________________________
The novel approach to journalism* / **
Orange Leader, Aug. 2, 2001

The news business attracts some interesting characters. Most of them are washed-up actors. Some are English majors who don't want to teach English. And there are even a few that actually went to journalism school. In my case, I needed a job.
Many reporters eventually quit their respective full-time positions to go off and write the Great American Novel while living in the woods or something.
But can you imagine what would happen if news writers were encouraged to practice their fancy fiction using regular news events? Then you would see articles like this:
Mayor Steve Sanders' eyes shifted from the left, then the right. A voice entered his ears from far away, like those of the Tangiers airport long ago when the Frog Lady attacked his luggage. All around the room, the people waited -- waited for him, the mayor, to say something, anything. His heart raced, like the time he watched that Ann-Margret movie -- the one he never told his wife about.
"Shall we approve the minutes of the last meeting?" he asked. His mind went back to how it had all been last week: how they agreed to give the Wendy's on Oceanside a new parking lot; how they had welcomed Dairy Queen to the area. It all seemed like such a blur.
All around the mahogany table went the councilmembers' "yays." Billings, the investment man, whose family made its money bootlegging with Joseph P. Kennedy; Hopkins, the tailor, who got rich by converting an old barn into a giant shopping mall for the insane; Squire, the city manager, a nice guy from Canada who had a dark secret; and Heathrow, the council's only woman and a close friend of Tipper Gore.
The crowd came to a hush as the elderly woman sauntered up to the podium. It was Millicent Harper, the town librarian, but everyone knew her by her middle name -- "trouble."
"I want to know what's going to be done about that big pile of trash over on Fifth Street?" Harper asked. "People keep adding to it and it's getting to be a real eyesore."
Sanders knew what he had to do now. It was time for the old song and dance, the old top hat and tails.
"We'll look into it," he smugly said. If only the meeting wasn't being videotaped for Cable Channel 3, he could tell the old bat what he really thought.
Soon it would all be over. He could go home and study the economic development proposal submitted by Simmons, the port director. But would it work? Could he get the local fishermen to go along with it? And what about the tugboat problem?
Hopefully his wife would be asleep so he wouldn't have to talk to her. Then he could drink some warm milk and drift off to another world, his perfect world. Ann-Margret was waiting.
_____________________________________________________________
Perchance to dream*
Orange County Record, Dec. 18, 2002

Stunned disbelief has a certain look to it.
I saw it some months back, on people's faces in a hot July neighborhood of dirty houses and overgrown weeds, and television trucks swarming by.
It was a stilted, slow-moving confusion, as the bad news came down that Dannarriah Finley was dead.
The girl was reported missing July 4 from her Fourth Street home in Orange. As a crowd gathered at Delle Bates' place to watch the fireworks and enjoy free keg beer and sausage, Dannarriah's mother called police.
Around her house, people came to support the family. Some sat on the porch of an abandoned house, keeping their distance out of respect. Occasionally, as satellites swirled above the Earth, a broadcast truck would drive by to see if anything had changed. Members of Mount Zion Church, one block away, opened their doors and kitchen to serve the volunteers who came to search. A week later, Dannarriah's funeral would be there.
The ministers told us she wasn't dead, that she had merely changed her address, and was waiting for our everlasting reunion in the house of the Lord. We would still dream of her, they said, and perhaps she would of us, too.
The body was found in a remote area of Pleasure Island in Port Arthur, about 30 miles from her home. It was mutilated to make identification difficult, however, her DNA records were sitting in a drawer somewhere from a paternity suit filed not long after she was born.
And we did dream of her, as the rumors of who could have killed her flew like helicopters searching for a haze that would never appear.
In typical Texas fashion, one newspaper editor wrote that hanging was too good for the killer.
The local media flashed her pictures everwhere. The most common showed her in front of a tree at her school. Then there was the playful one, with a cowboy hat and toy cap guns, and that great big smile on her face.
FBI profilers came down from Washington. The local police searched her neighborhood, and the spot where she was found, several times.
While many resented the local journalists, they resented even further no interest by national news organizations. Although the case was widely reported in Texas, people were confounded that the song of Dannarriah; a poor black girl, would not be played across America in favor of rich white girls like Elizabeth Smart and Samantha Runnion. But the song was heard in Orange, and the fact it remains unfinished and out of tune only further amplifies what the preachers told us, that it was a wake up call to keep our kids safe.
The day we got the word she was gone, Archie Jenkins sipped a small Miller beer on his front porch across the street from her house. He had lived there since 1970.
Back in those days, he said, it was a real nice neighborhood, and things like this never happened.
And for a moment, in that slow, stilted confusion, we wanted to believe him.
Elegy for my blue jeans

Orange Leader, Dec. 19, 2001
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to pay our last respects to these worn fibers.
Here at the Orange Leader, we're starting a dress code, and it's time to say goodbye to my old friends.
These jeans had a good life. Made somewhere in the USA, we know not where, they traveled by truck to the Factory Outlet Mall in Hackberry, La., where they were severely damaged by rain from a leaky roof. They survived to stay on the rack another day.
How blue they looked the first day I saw them. I cared not if they were cotton or denim. What was more important to me, was the price. And they fitted me perfectly. Well, except for the cuffs, which went over my shoes. But I knew from eighth-grade home economics class they could be hemmed. I'd just have to find someone with a needle, and a mind crazy enough to do it.
I cried the first time I put them in the washing machine. My "babies" were no longer pure -- being tossed around by that horrible swirling thing in there. Although I had been careful to use Cheer in warm water, I still felt like I had thrown them to the wolves. When it was over, they had a gentle, dry tumbling, and we toasted the new dawn with some Bud Light I'd found on sale.
How proud I was when these mere strands graduated to become true jeans with the knee sections ripped right through. I sported the rebellious look about town like a young Kurt Cobain at a Meat Puppets concert circa 1983. The bigger the holes got, the better the intoxication. We completed the evening with several glasses of a well-aged classic wine, Night Train.
I think back to the milestones of my life when my jeans and their ancestors before them were with me every step -- when I got my first bicycle, had my first kiss and watched my first episode of "Star Trek." Was it the one with the Nazis or the blue lady? Funny, I just can't remember now.
And as I sit here with a 12-pack of Red Dogs I got from Frank Sheridan for letting him watch the uncut version of "Heavy Metal" on Showtime, I realize these jeans had so much more than to be senselessly struck down in their prime.
And when you see me wandering around aimlessly repeating, "Where are they?" or asking some department-store Santa to "Please bring my jeans back," just sit me down, give me a double shot of Chivas and explain, "They're not coming back, Robert. They're in heaven now."
__________________________________________________________
On the day that good ship fell
Houston Chronicle, Jan. 31, 2004

It was something about the tiles, they said on CNN, as the bagpipes from India played. The digital sign on Interstate 10 in Orange, which usually warns of traffic tie-ups, had a different message that cold, clear morning.
"Call Police to Report Debris." A big old boy from Michigan walked into Cody's on 16th Street and said, "That was really something, wasn't it?" He had a cowboy hat on, and was there to race horses at Delta Downs. His name was C.C. Hurt, and as I watched the fire from Columbia's decent replayed, I couldn't help think his name ironic. Sitting there at the bar, I came up with a cynical joke. "Well, it wasn't really rocket science, was it?" But it felt good to laugh. And the bagpipes played, for the lost and their families, and voices went silent as we watched and learned about them all. At Spanky's Pub, the mood was quiet, the television flashing. Life attempted to go on, as Alice Hopper racked up credits on an eight-liner fruit game. Waitress Alicia Hucko didn't know about it until she arrived for work that night. Manager Charlotte Molley had been there at 8 a.m., going over the books when Fox News broke in 15 minutes later.
After that, her eyes rarely left the set.
As I drove home, the fog reminded me of ghosts. And I remembered what an ABC radio reporter had said, that it had been one hell of a day. Arriving in my driveway, I clicked the garage door opener. I was glad to get out of the cold. And I heard the bobwhite, who often whistles on my street, do so one more time, then several times. The day that good ship did fall from blue stars.
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