That Dang Fire Is Still Burning

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and its contractors recently had their debris-removal road shortened a bit when an incinerator ember drifted onto a nearby massive wood pile and set the whole shooting match ablaze.
About two miles from my house.
The fire on the 2.5-acre wood pile - which in my estimation was about 15 to 20 feet high - started Dec. 13 and continues to burn to this day off Keith Road near State Highway 105, despite recent rains.
One of many piles throughout Southeast Texas, this mountain's formation was a sight to behold. I've witnessed its rise - and subsequent fiery apocalypse - since the days following Hurricane Rita's visit Sept. 24.
As a long-distance runner, Keith Road has been a blessing to me for more than four years. I've easily logged more than 1,000 miles running down that road, almost all of it surrounded by pastures from the partially paved Perl Road all the way out to Beaumont's municipal airport. From poisonous snakes (rattlers, cottonmouths, copperheads and corals) and braying donkeys to pit bulls and the occasional malevolent hollers from booger-eating rednecks in beat-up pickup trucks, I've seen many things on Keith Road.
Mostly, it's just peaceful, particularly at dawn when the unrisen sun turns the morning sky into a remarkable color festival.
Then came the debris pile, which is right at Mile 3 of my running course.
Despite the pile of logs lingering on my front yard for months, I knew Jefferson County and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers were hard at work because of the rapid ascent of this spectacular pile of dead trees. Huge trucks went in out of the place nonstop during daylight hours. Dump and run. Dump and run. Dump and run. The pile got so huge that trucks and tractors began making roads all over the thing.
Then came the incineration phase, in which wood was dumped into a trench and vaporized with a high-intensity flame, kind of like cremation, I suppose. The process was so effective and minimized smoke so much that from 100 yards away it didn't look any bigger than a smoldering campfire.
This was all highly entertaining for a long-distance runner, for whom tedium can be as much of a challenge to overcome as fatigue, dehydration and the pack of Keith Road wiener dogs that won't let me pass Mile 3 until I stop and pat them on the head.
On Dec. 13, while sitting on the couch and watching the 10 p.m. news, my heart jumped as images of The Great Keith Road Debris Pile Fire flashed across the screen.
MY DEBRIS PILE WAS ABLAZE!!
I quickly called the newsroom to make sure the night reporter had the story, and he did. The next day's story noted that a burn-pit ember jumped to the neighboring pile and sparked a fire that, with the help of a stiff breeze, quickly grew out of control. The pile's density ensured an intense blaze that would have required Herculean efforts to extinguish.
With no homes in danger, firefighters decided to just let the thing burn to the ground.
I got to catch my first look at it a couple of days later. With the sun yet to hit the horizon in the east and the moon hanging over the blazing debris pile to the west, it made for a surreal sight.
Today, more than two weeks later, it's 2.5 acres of smoking ash, with the occasional flicker of flames here and there. Firefighters said Dec. 13 that it could burn for "several weeks."
By comparison, during my days at Texas A&M, before tragedy struck a few years later, the mighty bonfire would burn for two weeks before bulldozers came to clean up the ash.
The fire following the World Trade Center attacks Sept. 11 was stilling burning three months later, according to:
http://www.newscientist.com/article.ns?id=dn1634
But that's nothing compared to the New Straitsville coal fire. This southeast Ohio inferno started in 1884 and burns on underground to this day, according to:
http://www.grayco.com/cleveland/oddities/sample4.html
Angry coal miners, locked in a five-month strike with management, torched their workplace in 1884 by setting oil-soaked timbers on fire and turning them loose deep inside the mine. That must have been kind of fun.
The blaze gnawed away into millions of pounds of coal that run in veins for miles in all directions. All kinds of surface mayhem ensued: hot-water wells, flame geysers shooting from the ground, collapsed roads, etc.
Attempts over the years to extinguish the blaze have failed. Sometimes, the fire was believed to have gone out, only to emerge somewhere else. The fire as of 2003 was believed to be burning beneath the Wayne National Forest, according to:
http://www.forgottenoh.com/News/coalfire.html
Months ago, FEMA noted that Hurricane Rita left behind 5 million cubic yards of debris, enough to pave a two-lane road from Los Angeles to London.
Considering the volume of fire fuel this presents, perhaps, in order to avert the kind of friction that led to New Straitsville's fiery wonder, we should have a Take A U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Contractor Out To Lunch Day.

Third-Grade Teacher Finds Me

It's amazing how some school teachers seem to forever remember almost each and every one of their students.
Years ago, when I was in my mid-20s, I visited my old elementary school, which is about a mile from my parents' house. I was home on vacation or something.
I'm not sure why I even went up to the school. Maybe I just wanted to see if any of my old teachers were still there. Sure enough, there were.
I was in the principal's office and spotted my first-grade teacher, whom I hadn't seen in almost 20 years. Her name was Mrs. Perkins. The kids liked to call her Mrs. Percolator. I have no idea why. She was a terrific teacher.
In the principal's office, Mrs. Perkins immediately gave me that "I know you!" look. Seconds later, her face lit up. "Oh Brian! It's you!"
How in the world did she remember me? I was the poster child for average students everywhere. I was a relatively quiet, shy student, albeit one who started a chicken pox epidemic in my claass. First grade was the year I learned that my handwriting would never improve. Terrible things occurred on my Big Chief notepad.
But Mrs. Perkins remembered me somehow.
Today, I opened up my work e-mail to discover a note from my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Haynes. Here is a woman who had perhaps 1,000 students pass through her classroom, and yet somehow, through this blog, she found me.
I remember third grade as the first year I began wearing dreaded glasses to school. The frame styles would be hip today, and Buddy Holly made them look OK, but they sure weren't fashionable then. My mom gave me two choices: dorky (black) and Xtra dorky (tortoise shell). The bullies soon learned that words couldn't hurt me, and if they tried to swipe my glasses, a fistfight would ensue, regardless of the bully's size. I also got some payback to mom, who to this day still has to look at those glasses in my school pictures.
Ha ha.
I also remember being pretty good at math, but horrible in art, in the third grade. I remember Mrs. Haynes being very nice and an excellent teacher and that it was an honor to get to whack the chalk out of erasers. I remember learning how to spell "mosquito." I remember the day a girl threw up all over the classroom.
Other than that, I don't remember much of third grade.
But, somehow, Mrs. Haynes remembers me. I have no doubt she could tell all kinds of stories that I've long forgotten. She might even be able to pick me out of a police lineup. Teachers are just like that. Every kid is a page, and every school year a chapter, in the stories of their careers. I think this is kind of cool, but, seeing as Mrs. Haynes is an avid reader of my blog, it introduces a new wrinkle for me: having to better police my grammar, punctuation, spelling and the occasional naughty word.

Katrina only a Category 3, like Rita, kind of ...

One of the biggest gripes going around in Southeast Texas is that Hurricane Rita, sandwiched between Hurricanes Katrina and Wilma, has become The Forgotten Storm.
The complaint certainly has some weight to it. A recent CNN account of the year's storm, for example, mentioned Katrina and Wilma, but not Rita. In general, the idea that Hurricane Rita will make the Top 10 damage list - perhaps in the Top 5 - hasn't sunk in yet on a national scale, and it probably never will. The bellyaching doesn't so much center on federal disaster response and aid as much as it does simple large-scale validation. Blame for this partly goes to Southeast Texans, who evacuated like they were supposed to and showed a remarkable resiliency in the aftermath.
Nevertheless, last weekend, Jefferson County Judge Carl Griffith told me that thanks to Southeast Texas elected officials' efforts - through photos, videos and eyewitness accounts - jaws in Washington, D.C., are dropping.
Yes, Virginia, there was a hurricane here, and a really big one, too.
And, according to an Associated Press story that broke this morning, it was about the same size as Hurricane Katrina.
Check out this report: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/10558235/
Apparently, upon further review, Katrina was only a Category 3, like Rita, when it smashed into the Gulf Coast in August with winds of 127 mph. That made it just shy of a Category 4, whose range is 131 to 155.
Rita, by comparison, roared ashore with 120-125 mph winds, according to the latest estimates. With the Category 3 range being 111 to 130, that put her just barely on the strong side of that classification.
Another interesting point to note is that the winds in New Orleans were clocked at 95 mph, compared to the 105 mph reading recorded in Beaumont. That means New Orleans took a strong Category 1, while Beaumont got a middle-of-the-road Category 2. Category 1 winds range from 74-95, while the winds are 96-110 for a Category 2.
Katrina analysts revised that storm’s strength after studying data from devices dropped into her from an aircraft, the Associated Press reported.
Also: "Although an accurate reading of the highest winds in the New Orleans area were made difficult by the failure of measuring stations, a NASA facility in eastern New Orleans measured a sustained wind of only about 95 mph, the report said."
Not all the data is in on Rita, so there's no telling how she'll size up in the long run.
While all this is interesting from a meteorological standpoint, it doesn't take away from the fact that Katrina, obviously, was far more deadly and destructive than Rita.
I saw it for myself during a recent trip to Mississippi, and two Enterprise staffers got a sobering look at it during a media workshop last week in New Orleans.

Tales of the Taping

The Bush Administration's dog-paddling through potentially hot seas in regard to secret domestic surveillance raises interesting questions about civil liberties, privacy, the U.S. Constitution and simple courtesy, for government right down to private citizens.
It might be decades - if ever - before we learn the extent of the surveillance, as well as how many lives have been saved and terroristic acts prevented along the way. We don't know whether Bush's efforts are heroic or a threat to basic freedoms.
At this point, I really don't have an opinion on it. If they were listening in on me, they would have been treated to such domestically threatening issues such as my wife's struggle to get through Wal Mart, which of my kids threw an ear-piercing temper tantrum or what kind of wine I should pick up to go with the evening's culinary delight. Or the fact that the fourth season of "24" is out on DVD, but our usual rental place neglected to stock one of the four-episode discs in the series.
Anyhoot, this whole surveillance thing got me thinking about newspaper practices in regard to tape-recording conversations with news sources, angry subscribers, happy subscribers or the occasionl run-of-the-mill fruitcake. It might be an apples-and-anvils comparison, but it does raise the issue of the ethics and laws regarding whether what you say on the telephone is secretly burned onto a cassette tape and stored away somewhere for future reference.
What many callers or sources might not realize is that it's perfectly legal in Texas for one party to tape-record another without the other party's knowledge or consent. When you call the police department, there's a good chance the conversation is recorded, and the cops, typically in a recording, tell you as much.
It is a general courteous practice, but not a requirement, for reporters to inform a source during a telephone interview that a tape recorder is being used.
However, as an editor and journalist with 20 years of experience, I often tell reporters that tape recorders should be a backup to notetaking. Using a tape recorder as an interview crutch often leads to the heartache of realizing the batteries - as well as the interview - are shot. Plus, reporters who rely on tape recorders instead of notes for interviews introduce a time-consuming step in the news-gathering process. When it's Deadline 6 p.m. and I want to go home, the last thing I want to see is a reporter hunched over a tape recorder and taking notes on an early morning interview with a source who has a spicy new nutria recipe for Thanksgiving.
I also lecture reporters on the art of developing some system of shorthand to quickly take notes. The most simple means I know is to develop symbols for oft-used words, such as teachers (T), people (P), city council (CC), and (a), could (cld), would (wld) and the (t). I call my note-taking system "slophand," whose primary feature is vowel elimination. It's almost impossible for anyone else to read, but I can go back in a notebook from 15 years ago and read every word of my notes.
I abandoned tape-recorder usage very early in my career, and I instruct my reporters to do the same.
Nevertheless, there are times when a tape recorder is essential, such as for backup when a journalist is part of a reporter pool interviewing a big-shot source, such as the president or governor. That way, a reporter doesn't risk the embarrassment of having a quote that differs from what everybody else writes - or puts on television or radio.
Getting back to telephone conversations, I think it shows courtesy when a reporter tells a source that an interview is being recorded. The source shouldn't mind or feel uneasy, seeing as a skilled note-taker is going to get it down on paper anyway.
According to this web site - http://www.callcorder.com/phone-recording-law-america.htm#State%20Laws%20(Table) - Texas is among 38 states that require the consent of only one party for tape recording. The other states are: Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, Nevada, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, West Virginia, Wisconsin and Wyoming. The District of Columbia also allows it.
Twelve states require all-party consent: California, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Montana, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania and Washington.
There are all kinds of interesting facts in the aforementioned web site about states' recording laws. Their inconsistencies underscore this issue's various slippery slopes.
Of course, when it comes to busting crooks and terrorists, it is a whole new ballgame of conversary, pitting privacy and civil rights vs. public safety and the need for law enforcement to do its job.
It'll be interesting to see whether the federal surveillance issue simply simmers and goes away or boils over onto a more scandalous or perhaps even criminal burner.
It's nice to know that the people whom we elect to make these decisions, or appoint those who make them, eventually have to answer to the American public for their actions.

A Debris-Free Christmas!

On the way to take my eldest son, Curt, on a shopping odyssey Saturday, I spied something that made my heart jump and my holiday hopes soar. No, it wasn't a package-delivery guy, in a truck or on a sleigh.
It was the brush man!
During the almost three months after Hurricane Rita, we'd seen the trucks come through at least three times, only to have our mammoth mound shunned due to its intimidating largeness.
I quickly pulled over, got out and shook the brush guy's hand as he stood outside his monster crane truck and eyeballed a limb pile. He looked larger than life: tall, lanky, rugged, scruffy and wearing those state trooper sunglasses.
Could this be the hurricane superhero who would get that horrible, grass-killing 20-by-15-yard log pile off my front yard?
I told him how happy I was to see him and that I'd started to wrap my head around the possibility that my yard had been banished to the Land of the Misfit Debris Piles. I told him how the heart-wrenching heap served as a constant reminder of the neighbor's gigantic pine tree, which did more than $15,000 to my home and put our family life into upheaval.
In other words, I kissed his butt.
"Is this pile huge?" he asked.
"Why yes, it is very large!" I replied.
"Excellent," he said. "I like the big ones."
I shook his hand again and drove away, confident that by the time I returned, the angels would be singing as massive logs got yanked one at a time off my yard. Sure enough, a couple of hours later, there he was, saddled in his truck as if he were Paul Bunyun riding a mechanical ox.
Little by little, the debris pile disappeared as Bunyun skillfully used his crane as if it were a third arm, carefully picking up debris and putting it into larger lumps before taking them away with big claw grabs.
Little boys and girls from around the neighborhood watched in amazement as Bunyun worked, going house to house and taking away the eyesores one pile at a time.
Not only did he take away the tree remnants, he also came back and removed the other debris, the damaged roof boards, Sheetrock and assorted junkery.
By the time the dust settled, the noise subsided and entertainment died down, I finally felt a long-shouldered weight lift and the spirit of Christmas whoosh in.
The roof is done. The master bedroom, closet and bathroom are whole again, with a fresh coat of wife-pleasing paint. We've moved out of the sun room last night and back into the bedroom. The only thing left to do now are the outdoor fence, gutter and awning replacement, which won't disrupt our lives.
Tonight, we'll crank up the Christmas music, decorate the tree and celebrate the fact that the hardest part of the Rita recovery, at least for our little home, is behind us.

Those Heartwarming Christmas Photos

Christmas photos are an important way to chronicle family evolution, particularly that of the children. The photos speak volumes about a child's wonderous, innocent belief in Santa and the spirit of giving.
However, the photographers who snap these pictures don't seem to understand what I'm looking for in a Santa photo. Sure, the big eyes and smiles are nice while the critters are perched upon Santa's knees, but I'm looking for something a little more realistic.
I like screaming, crying, sleeping or just good, old-fashioned bewilderment.
Our children have been champions at this. Their emotional range has been captured and chronicled in touching ways that perfectly accent our walls during the holiday season. They also provide an occasionally twisted father with perfect ammunition for those treasured later years, from prom dates to prospective spouses.

Son: But Dad, I don't wanna rake the yard! I got my girlfriend coming over.
Dad: Are you sure about that son?
Son: Come on, dad! She'll be here in a couple of hours!
Dad: That's fine son, but remember that Christmas photo?

Son: Where are the leaf bags?

Precious, ain't it? The photographer at the mall last year tried to get all professional on us, and I stood nearby and hollered, "TAKE THE PICTURE!!! TAKE IT!!! YEEHAH!!! COME ON!! JUST DO IT!!!"

Anyway, the guy on the right, Curt, has come along way since then. This year, as he nears his fourth birthday, he's really into Santa. He apparently grasps the idea that there is a connection between Santa, candy and presents. Here is a recent shot:

Ah, yes, he's full off the Christmas spirit this year. I can't say the same for Sopranos Claus here, who looks like he's part of the federal witness protection program in order to avoid getting whacked.

So it looks like the prospects for hilarity are dimming for Curt, but his brother, Luke, is another story. Check out this little gem:

Ah, yes, I can always count on Luke, the funniest child ever, to keep up the tradition.

Of course, those two boys teamed up for some holiday photographic magic during a recent trip to Houston, where on Thanksgiving we took them down to the evening Uptown Houston lighting near the Galleria. Again, my heart filled with joy as the boys showed their appreciation for their containment in a stroller during the loud, crowded event. See for yourself:

Sadly, we didn't make it until the grand lighting at this glorious holiday-entertainment spectacle. Nevertheless, we carried away some fond memories that we'll delight in sharing with others for years and years and years to come.

If you have similar heartwarming photos, feel free to e-mail them to me at bpearson@hearstnp.com, and I'll post 'em in this blog.

Happy holidays!

Old Fashioned Home-Raising

When it comes to building stuff, I'm about as handy as a match at a gasoline spill.
My dad can take a block of wood and, using a chisel, a hammer and some sandpaper, somehow shape it into a Carnival cruise ship. His father built myriad fine homes in Long Island, N.Y.
I'd be lucky to whittle myself a spear out of a broom handle.
Nevertheless, I signed up to work a Saturday at a Habitat for Humanity project in northern Beaumont.
Habitat for Humanity, with the help of lots of volunteers and money and material donations, builds or refurbishes houses and sells them to needy families, who get financed through no-interest loans. The families are expected to take part in some of the construction. This is called "sweat equity."
Habitat for Humanity, founded in 1976, is a nonprofit international ecumenical Christian housing ministry that has built almost a quarter million houses worldwide, with homes for more than 1 million people in more than 3,000 communities, according to http://www.habitat.org/how/factsheet.aspx
They're not palacial, posh mansions, but they are nice, well-built, decent-sized homes that often dramatically elevate the owners' quality of life.
In the communities that Hurricanes Rita, Katrina and Wilma ravaged this year, Habitat for Humanity has its work cut out for itself.
Signing up as a volunteer through my church, Wesley United Methodist, the work date was supposed to be weeks ago, but Rita blew a wrench into that. A home-building event postponed for a home-wrecking event.
The project was rescheduled for this past Saturday, so off I went to the work site, carring a couple of pints of coffee, some protective goggles and a hammer. Mr. Extreme Home Fakeover.
I didn't need any equipment, though, because there was plenty of it available, from electric saws to fashionable aprons for toting around nails, hammers and other home-construction whatnot.
I got assigned to the roof, pounding on plywood and then nailing tarp upon it.
This is not sissy work, for hammering on an angled roof is precarious business. I found myself hammering on the slide amid other works bearing nail guns, saws and other potentially skin-shredding, eye-popping devices.
Nails, hammers and sheets of tarp rolled off the rooftop as workers hollered "HEADACHE!!!" to warn those toiling below. People slipped on the slick plywood. One guy, whose name I can't recall, navigated the exposed rafters with nothing but cool fall air between him and the concrete 10 feet or so below. When asked how he swallowed his fear, the mountain goat said he used to work at a refinery, and walking around on the catwalks 300 feet above the Earth was far more frightening.
I felt like a sissy.
Nevertheless, I continued pounding away for hours and hours. At about 3:30 p.m., our work was done. We'd run out of materials, and the roof, except for the shingles, was done anyway. My sole injury for the day was a throbbing left thumb, which took a poorly aimed hammer blow near day's end.
I'd heard the home was for a single mother and her daughter, but they weren't there for sweat equity on this day. There is still plenty of work to be done, including interior Sheetrock installation, a job a group of Catholics was doing on another Habitat for Humanity home down the street.
I'd like to say the experience left me all warm and fuzzy inside, but I can't. I had too much fun and learned too many fascinating things about home construction. I also burned enough calories to take care of the cheeseburger that volunteers grilled up for lunch.
After the home is finished and the occupants move in, maybe I'll drive over there and say "Hello." Maybe I'll bring them a house-warming present, too.

The Rolling Stones Still Rock

I was a late bloomer in regard to becoming a Rolling Stones fan. Like the Beatles, the Stones are among the Top 5 rock bands of all time, arguably in the top two. But while I acknowledged the Stones' greatness, I never felt compelled to go out an buy an album.
However, a year or so ago, I decided that I needed a Stones album in my collection, so I went out and bought "Let It Bleed" on CD. It has my favorite Stones song, "Monkey Man," plus a bunch of other classics and some tunes I'd never heard before.
It blew me away.
So I moved on to the other three all-time classics of that magical Stones period from the late 1960s to early 1970s: "Beggars Banquet," "Sticky Fingers" and "Exile on Main Street," which some still consider the greatest double rock album ever.
What I like about the Stones is the guitar interplay, the razor-sharp lyrics and just the overall bad-boy attitude and groove.
Since "Exile on Main Street," the Stones have been hit and miss, from the great "Some Girls" and "Tattoo You" to the slicker, more professional stuff of the 1980s and 1990s, the latter period being void of all-time classics.
Earlier this year, it was announced that the Stones would play the Toyota Center in Houston. Considering my newfound appreciation of the band, a big part of me needed to get tickets, albeit quite expensive ones. Plus, you never know when their last tour is their last tour.
On the flip side, I wondered if the old geezers would be worth seeing, considering the ticket prices ($400 for the top ones) and the possibility that a band member, most likely the wrinkly-faced, partyguy smoker who plays lead guitar and co-writes most of the songs, would drop dead on stage by the time the December concert rolled around.
The day the tickets went on sale last summer, I was out grubbing around in the yard. My wife, Amy, came out to remind me that Stones tickets would go on sale in 15 minutes. I hemmed and hawed. She suggested I go for it. I gave her my credit card, and she managed to go online and score two $90 tickets about 2 minutes after they went on sale. Minutes later, the concert was sold out, with the exception of some luxury box seats.
With Amy having no desire to see the Stones, I gave the other ticket to my brother-in-law as a birthday present.
Several months and two hurricanes later, we found ourselves Thursday at the Toyota Center, sitting in some boss seats about 20 rows up from the side of the stage. A guy came out and announced that the opening act, Los Lonely Boys, would not play due to an illness. The crowd didn't mind, but it seems like if you've got the chance to open for the Stones at a sold-out show, you drag yourself out there and play unless you've got bird flu or ebola.
About 9 p.m., the opening chords of "Start Me Up" put the audience on their feet, where they stayed during most of the show.
The Stones very quickly dispelled any notion that they no longer were vital. Touring on their best album in years, "A Bigger Bang," they ripped through a set of new and old songs. With no fancy light show or stage gimmicks, it was all about the energy and the music.
For about two hours, the Stones flaunted their title as World's Greatest Rock 'N' Roll Band and served notice to their contemporaries that four decades of concert experience have only made them better performers.
Here's the set list, from what I can remember:

Start Me Up
It's Only Rock 'n' Roll
She's So Cold
Tumbling Dice
Oh No Not You Again
Rain Fall Down
Dead Flowers
The Night Time is the Right Time (Mick Jagger with one of the side singers)
Slipping Away (Keith Richards)
You Got It in for Me (Keith Richards)
Miss You
Rough Justice
Get Off of My Cloud
Honky Tonk Woman
Sympathy for the Devil
Brown Sugar
Satisfaction
You Can't Always Get What You Want
Jumping Jack Flash

In concert reviews from around the country, the Stones have gotten knocked for not taking more risks in their set list. Or they get critized for not playing this song or that song. Or that they're just going through the motions.
I disagree with all of that.
Picking a set list must be tough for them. They want to push the new material, but they don't want to blow off hardcore fans who come to hear the old stuff. They also don't want to alienate portions of the crowd by playing obscure stuff, regardless of how great it might be.
For me, the concert easily made my Top 5 list, and I've seen a lot of concerts, from The Who to Husker Du, from Stevie Ray Vaughan to Rage Against the Machine, from The Replacements to Johnny Cash.
It takes a lot to keep me from looking at my watch toward the end of the show and saying to myself, "OK, I've seen these guys. Time to wrap it up and go home."
But the Stones last Thursday kept up the energy for two remarkable hours and made me glad I didn't give in to the temptation to scalp the tickets on Ebay, where they could have fetched almost $400 apiece.