ABC's Extreme Wool Pullover?

The call came a few months ago. Some fast-talking Los Angeles-based producer from ABC's "Extreme Home Makeover" called and requested some ideas on projects that would be good for the show.
For those not in the know, the show's theme is to find someone in need and give their home a massive makeover, and Hurricane Rita left many in need in Southeast Texas.
The guy who called said the show was producing a series of specials to help victims of Hurricanes Katrina, Rita and Wilma.
Being a fan of the show, I jumped at the chance to help. I also saw it as an opportunity to give our readers an inside look into the popular program. I also saw it as a chance for them to publicize the fact that our little forgotten storm here was the costliest in Texas history and one of the worst in U.S. history.
So, I gathered up the reporters and asked them to come up with lists of possible targets for extreme makeover. I e-mailed the lists off to the Los Angeles guy, who had promised to keep us in the loop and give us all kinds of project access once it was under way. The condition was that we keep our mouths shut so as not to ruin this so-called "surprise" they unleash on the beneficiaries.
A few weeks went by, and we began to hear rumors from our readership about the possible projects, with Sabine Pass as ground zero.
Worried that we were about to get scooped, I called the Los Angeles guy again, told him what was going on and asked whether we could write some kind of story, and he said "no" and again re-stated his promises: keeping us in the loop and giving us project access. He also noted that musical performers such as U2, Coldplay and Stevie Wonder were under consideration for some big concert to go along with the project.
I again agreed that we'd remain silent about the project, but no more than minutes after we hung up, some executive whatchamahoozit from New York called, seemingly in a panic that we would spill the beans and scuttle the surprise, thereby throwing a monkey wrench into the project.
I assured her that we didn't want to derail the surprise.
Finally, a few days before the project was slated to start, I got the call regarding some project details: the Sabine Pass firehouse, the Sabine Pass school auditorium and a shopping spree. Plus, a group of Sabine Pass kids were to get treated to a New York City trip.
Cool, I thought.
However, when I asked about the musical act, the "Extreme Home Makeover" representative hemmed and hawed, saying it hadn't been booked yet. In addition, we would not be allowed to do the behind-the-scenes stuff the Los Angeles guy had promised.
Not cool, I thought.
I asked, "Well, then why should I keep this thing a secret? We helped guide you in the right direction, and you made promises."
My ire apparently got relayed to the New York executive, who called to try to explain how the show works. It all contradicted what we'd been told earlier. They did acknowledge that the Goo Goo Dolls, a band that achieved marginal success on the alternative scene in the 1990s, would play a concert - at 7 a.m. on a weekday.
I was less than pleased, but we grudgingly decided to do coverage on their terms. So, as the trucks and volunteers rolled in, and the surprise that was not so much of a surprise revealed, our reporter and photographer stood on the sidelines with the rest of the media.
Despite the snub, it was fun to see some of the behind-the-scenes stuff, like the reenactment of surprise and the Goo Goo Dolls having to play a song several times because the sleepy morning crowd rounded up for the concert didn't meet "Extreme Home Makeover" enthusiasm standards.
This was Hollywood, plain and simple.
Tye Pennington, the show's hunky, hyperactive star, pretended to get on and off a bus for the shopping spree, and he was only on site for a fraction of the project time.
The whole effort had a feeling of chaos and disorganization.
When the projects were unveiled later in the week, the media were not permitted inside, which was kind of silly, because our coverage certainly would not have done any bean-spilling on a national scale.
So when the special aired earlier this month, I anticipated an hour of me rolling my eyes and laughing at the ridiculousness of at all.
However, I found myself realizing that "Extreme Home Makeover" did a pretty good job. The storylines didn't come off as too cloying. The firefighters and high schoolers got some pretty fancy new digs.
And last, but not least, Hurricane Rita got some badly needed national exposure.
Sure, "Extreme Home Makeover" probably made some money on the deal, what with advertisers, sponsorships and whatnot, but overall, Sabine Pass, and Southeast Texans, got something pretty much for free.

Rockin' the Barn With Buffalo Blonde

I've been playing trumpet for a rock 'n' roll band since December.
Imagine Neil Young and Crazy Horse with a trumpet player. Sure, it sounds weird on paper, but with Buffalo Blonde, the name of the band I'm in, it seems to work. Here's their web site, albeit one that hasn't been updated to reflect a few personnel changes:
http://www.buffaloblonde.com/
Before joining, I'd been playing trumpet with the wind ensembles out at Lamar University for 4 1/2 years, working my way up from the Concert Band to perennial last chair of the Wind Ensemble. I had some amazing experiences with these superb bands, but some commitments this spring and the opportunity to play with Buffalo Blonde led me in a new direction.
The transition wasn't easy, going from blending into a large group of players who meticulously and painstakingly rehearse every note of every measure of every line of every piece of music.
With Buffalo Blonde, there was nowhere to blend, run or hide. No parts that a composer had written. I had to come up with my own parts, execute them and then be ready at all times for the band to go off on some sonic foray that requires white-knuckle improvisation on my end.
I used to get nervous playing my little whole notes at the bottom of the Wind Ensemble. Now, I find myself standing with my trumpet in front of a microphone and having to figure out the key to a Buffalo Blonde's song via trial and error, much of it the latter, at least early on.
Since then, playing along to some rough demo CDs, I've managed to at least come up with parts and solos for all but a handful of the many, many Buffalo Blonde songs that have been written over the past few years. I really dig the music. The songs, basically, kick ass.
On Saturday, we played Can Jam in front of an enthusiastic crowd of dozens. It was our third gig, and this time, my wife, two boys and some neighbors came out to watch. My wife even made T-shirts for the boys, with Buffalo Blonde on the front and "My dad's with the band" on the back.
The gig took place out at the Ford Park livestock barns. It would have taken place in the big outdoor venue, but Hurricane Rita's destructive winds threw a monkey wrench into that possibility.
The second we started playing, both my boys rushed the stage, which was cute but also made me worry that they were going to climb up. I had a vision of some burly, overzealous bouncer hauling away my boys like little flour sacks.
But they were good, and they knew how to rock. Check it out:

My 4-year-old, Curt, insisted on bringing his little guitar to the proceedings. Following a day of being dragged around on the barn floor's dirt and rocks, it now looks like Willie Nelson's old guitar. But that's OK, because at least he didn't go Pete Townsend on it. And it still has a ways to go before it looks as beat up as my first guitar.

We Need More Guys Like This

The task of downsizing the remainder of the Mount Everest sand pile in my driveway loomed this weekend, a week after a day of sweat, blisters, dehydration and strained muscles managed to reduce the mound to only half its original size.
We recently put our house on the market, with an eye on finding bigger digs, so the sand pile became a realty liability. It needed to go.
On Sunday, while staggering around the front yard and putting away the day's implements of dirt distribution and fence reconstruction, a fellow from somewhere in the neighborhood pulled up in his big ol' pickup truck and asked me where I got the sand.
I understand his plight, because all of my recent calls to the apparently busy sand-delivery dudes went unreturned, so I turned to my contractor for help. He's got all kinds of crazy connections.
I told the fellow in the truck my sand-acquisition story, and then I pointed out that he'd be doing me a favor if he came and got my sand for free.
His eyes lighted, and despite my exhausted state, I told him to back up his pickup, and I'd start shoveling immediately. However, he said he had to get somewhere, but he'd come back later that day.
He didn't, becoming the latest in a series of unkept words in this post-Hurricane Rita environment. I won't bother to go into all the others, but I've come to expect people to not do what they say they're going to do.
Nevertheless, two days ago, I came home from work to find the remainder of the pile cut in half. I had no idea who took it, because I offered free sand to every neighbor I saw over the weekend. Please take as much of this as you want. Please.
Some neighbors did come, with their shovels, wheelbarrows and even Red Flyer wagons, but it only put a dent in the mound.
Yesterday, I came home from work to find the pile not only gone but the driveway swept.
My wife told me the fellow in truck, a neighbor whose name I do not even know, had just left. He scooped up all the sand and, despite my wife telling him he didn't need to do it, took a broom and swept the driveway.
I remember when people in the neighborhood where I grew up - where my parents live to this day - did these kinds of things for each other. Small gestures were repaid and paid forward to other neighbors. We were neighborly, and all the adults and kids along the street were friends and hung out. Almost all of those old neighbors, with the exception of my parents, have since moved away.
Today, my parents still keep up with some of those old friends who left, but I don't think they even know anyone who lives around them. There isn't much interaction. People keep to themselves. Lots of young couples born with silver spoons, knives and forks in their mouths, people who haven't had to deal with the hardships my parents faced: The Great Depression, World War II, leisure suits, disco, punk rock and me, among other things.
The isolationist mindset isn't as profound in my neighborhood today, but it isn't like it was on my parents' street when I was a kid.
At least the broom-wielding, sand-removing fellow in the truck gives me hope that the old-school neighborly spirit remains alive.
If I can figure out where he lives, maybe I'll drop some of my homemade beer and chili on him one night.

Rita and the Saffir-Simpson Scale

The final report on Hurricane Rita pegged her as a Category 3 when she hit the coast, with sustained 115 mph winds, but only a Category 1, with 80 mph winds, when it terrorized Beaumont.
Initial reports put the storm at 125 mph and 105 mph, respectively.
This week, we began putting together the annual hurricane guide, with a publication date in late May, just before hurricane season starts June 1. We're hoping for a bang-up job on this one.
Today, checking out a National Hurricane Center item we typically carry on hurricane intensity, I noticed something that made me wonder whether the final Rita report was a bit off.
Hurricane intensity is based on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale. I don't know who Saffir or Simpson are, but their scale is based on intensity of 1 to 5, with 1 being the wimpiest and 5 being a city killer.
This scale is used to estimate damage, due to wind, flooding, storm surge and falling trees.
Beaumont residents in particular should check this out and figure out for themselves what hit us:

Category 1 hurricane
Winds 74 to 95 mph. Storm surge generally 4 to 5 feet above normal. No real damage to structures. Damage primarily to unanchored mobile homes, shrubbery and trees. Some damage to poorly constructed signs. Also, some coastal road flooding and minor pier damage.

Category 2 hurricane
Winds 96 to 110 mph. Storm surge generally 6 to 8 feet above normal. Some damage to building roofs, doors and windows. Considerable damage to shrubbery and trees with some trees blown down. Considerable damage to mobile homes, poorly constructed signs and piers. Coastal and low-lying escape routes flood 2 to 4 hours before arrival of the hurricane center. Small craft in unprotected anchorages break moorings.

Category 3 hurricane
Winds 111 to 130 mph. Storm surge generally 9 to 12 feet above normal. Some structural damage to small residences and utility buildings with a minor amount of curtainwall failures. Damage to shrubbery and trees with foliage blown off trees and large trees blown down. Mobile homes and poorly constructed signs are destroyed. Low-lying escape routes are cut by rising water 3 to 5 hours before arrival of the hurricane center. Flooding near the coast destroys smaller structures with larger structures damaged by battering of floating debris. Terrain continuously lower than 5 feet above mean sea level may be flooded inland 8 miles or more. Evacuation of low-lying residences with several blocks of the shoreline may be required.

Category 4 hurricane
Winds 131 to 155 mph. Storm surge generally 13 to 18 feet above normal. More extensive curtainwall failures with some complete roof structure failures on small residences. Shrubs, trees and all signs are blown down. Complete destruction of mobile homes. Extensive damage to doors and windows. Low-lying escape routes may be cut by rising water 3 to 5 hours before arrival of the hurricane center. Major damage to lower floors of structures near the shore.

Category 5 hurricane
Winds greater than 155 mph. Storm surge generally greater than 18 feet above normal. Complete roof failure on many residences and industrial buildings. Some complete building failures with small utility buildings blown over or away. All shrubs, trees and signs blown down. Complete destruction of mobile homes. Severe and extensive window and door damage. Low-lying escape routes are cut by rising water 3 to 5 hours before arrival of the hurricane center. Major damage to lower floors of all structures located less than 15 feet above sea level and within 500 yards of the shoreline. Massive evacuation of residential areas on low ground within 5 to 10 miles of the shoreline may be required.

I'm no meteorologist, but based on this scale, it seems obvious to me that the coast got a strong Category 3, and Beaumont got a stout Category 2. It says "Some trees blown down" and "Some damage to roofs ... "
I'd say more than "some" of our trees blew down, and there are lots of blue roofs out there now.
What do you think?

I'm More Tired Than You Right Now

People this morning noticed the telltale thumb blister, the kind that only forms from quality time spent with a rake, shovel, broom or other implement of horticultural destruction.
I used all that and so much more this weekend as I set out to make the final push in getting all the Hurricane Rita home repairs finally in the rear-view mirror.
In addition to matching thumb blisters, I've got an assortment of hand and arm scratches. I'm picking at some pesky splinters, and a fingernail hurts thanks to accidentally getting a bunch of dirt in it during a poorly executed dig into a post hole.
To ensure maximum tiredness today, I started Saturday at 5:30 a.m. with a 20-mile run, the last long run during the training leading up to the Nashville marathon in two weeks. After the run, we took the kids to the Easter egg hunt at the church. I might blog about that if I can muster up some energy.
Returning from the church, I put on my grubbies and went to town on the mammoth sand pile, for which I've bitten off more than I can shovel. A neighbor did not take all of his half, so that left me to hump as much sand around the yard as I could.
Despite the effort, in addition to inviting neighbors over for some free sand, I've still got a long way to go. If you want some free 60-40 sand, just let me know.
Yesterday morning, after church, I put the grubbies back on and attacked the last, but certainly not least, damaged backyard fence section.
Rita pushed over a 25-yard fence chunk, snapping two poles. Three other poles needed to be righted and re-cemented. I figured the easiest way to do all this was to remove cross sections, fix posts and then nail back together the whole shooting match. The cross sections weigh about 150 pounds apiece, in my estimation, so I might need some help.
Post-hole digging is tough work. The three leaners were easily righted. I quickly was able to dig out one of the busted posts, but the second proved to be stubborn.
Typical fence posts are 8 feet long and go deep into the ground. Despite having all of the old concrete excavated, this post wouldn't budge. So I dug and dug and dug, occasionally stopping to use my hand to pull out the excess dirt. The thing barely moved, so I put some water in the hole.
The neighbor found great amusement in my progress after that, because every time I plunged a shovel or giant crowbar into the hole, geysers of mud spewed out and cascaded over me. One of her children, a 5-year-old, served as supervisor, inspiring me with comments such as, "You're never going to get that out of the hole."
A hour or so later, I finally extracted that !%$%^$#@!!!! post.
Last night, I was in that occasional state of being so tired that sleep is elusive. This morning, I've got aches in muscles I didn't know I had. My hands feel raw and battle-worn. My legs are stiff. My eyes are glazed.
Nevertheless, this weekend, I'll take on the task of nailing up the fence sections. Good fences might make good neighbors, but this fence represents the final chapter in the seven-month-long struggle to repair what Rita broke.
And when I'm done, I'm going to pop open a beer, sit on my covered porch and take joy in swatting carpenter bees with my child's plastic baseball bat.
Just like I did on many weekend afternoons before Sept. 24, 2005.

Ah, We're Finally Back

I instinctively began to make the long walk this morning down the parking garage en route to the dusty, gritty makeshift offices that we've used since Hurricane Rita gave our third-floor newsroom a sloppy wet kiss almost seven months ago.
But then I remembered: We're back, returned to the newsroom, one with new floors, paint, ceiling and floor tiles, furniture and a host of other decorative bells and whistles.
So I turned around an made my way up instead of down, to the doorway where I stood Sept. 24, 2005, and watched Rita blow off the roof.
The third-floor move came last night, with a switchover to the new phones and a Hail Mary scramble to move computers, personnel and some of the personal junk we'd toted downstairs, from coffee cups and pencil holders to dictionaries, AP stylebooks and piles of notebooks.
Since Sept. 24, 2005, we have been the Battlestar Galactica of news staffs, a rag-tag team of displaced journalists making due with the uncontrollable circumstances handed to us.
It's bittersweet sitting here alone in my refurbished office, where Rita's rains soaked through the roof, caused the ceiling to collapse and left stinking, bloody-red pools of insulation-filtrated water standing ankle-deep.
On one hand, I'll miss sitting elbow-to-elbow with Assistant Managing Editor Pete Churton and discussing topics ranging from music to sports. I'll miss mingling with the non-journalists who beat a pathway through the personnel office. I'll miss burning 5 to 10 calories while ascending or descending the parking garage.
Strangely, I'll miss working in less-than-desirable conditions, because there is something about shouldering adversity that builds character, bolsters pride and makes us tougher, better people.
We certainly had our fill of that in Rita's long, tense, soupy aftermath.
But it was time to get back to our professional digs, enabling me to have private conversations with reporters - and my wife - without numerous pairs of ears tuning in. After all, we're all storytellers here, and we love to hear a good story, even if it's about one of our news brothers and sisters. Gossip is like crack to some journalists.
Some see the move back to the newsroom as one of the last steps toward healing, of being whole again, of being one staff rather than many scattered throughout the building, in places such as circulation, classifieds and advertising.
The move back will not patch all the wounds, but it certainly will give us a familiar foundation upon which we can complete the rebuilding process and move forward.
After all, the next hurricane season, one predicted to be as bad as its predecessor, is fewer than two months away.

Meeting the Gubernatorial Candidates

A big portion of this past weekend's gathering of Texas newspaper editors in Houston centered on appearances by the four folks running for governor.
Texas has a proud tradition of colorful characters gunning for The Mansion. Ann Richards was a hoot, while opponent Clayton Williams, a larger-than-life West Texas cowboy and oil tycoon, started his campaign as endearing and ended it as a sexist flake with a boot-filled mouth. Mark White brought us no-pass, no play. William P. Hobby was once manager and part owner of The Beaumont Enterprise. Miriam "Ma" Ferguson was accused of accepting bribes, but she did take on the Ku Klux Klan.
During the past weekend, incumbent Rick Perry, Democratic challenger Chris Bell and independents Carole Strayhorn and Kinky Friedman appeared at the annual Texas Associated Press Managing Editors convention for question-and-answer sessions.
The state's top newsroom managers, people skilled and experienced in asking questions, were there.
That's a tough crowd.
All four candidates came off as knowledgeable, articulate and often entertaining. Considering that I've met every governor dating back to Dolph Brisco, who served from 1973 to 1979, it was nice to know that my streak would remain alive no matter who wins in November.
Hard questions about immigration, border security, school finance, the state budget and abortion were hurled at the candidates.
I didn't really care what they had to say. I was more interested in their personalities and how they handled themselves.
Despite being the state's chief executive, the primary job of Texas governor, in my opinion, is to reflect the state's image and personality. A figurehead, perhaps, but one entrusted with perpetuating the Texas mystique. A dorky, pasty-faced guy with a bowtie can't do it. It needs to be someone colorful, a nice combination of smarts, wit, charm and political savvy.
Rick Perry has been an OK governor, I suppose, aside from the fact that the school-finance circus continues, and I didn't appreciate him calling Hurricane Rita a "glancing blow" for Beaumont.
The first time I met Perry, he was running for agriculture commissioner in 1990 against Jim Hightower and making a campaign stop in Midland. If I remember correctly, he was flying around the state in his own airplane. I was the only one who showed up for the campaign stop, so I got a one-on-one interview with him. I don't remember what he said, but I do remember thinking that Hightower would stomp him like a barrel full of grapes at a winery.
Boy was I wrong. Despite his ups and downs as governor, Perry is being mentioned as a possible vice presidential running mate in 2008. He was asked about it Friday at the convention but brushed it off, saying he had a job to focus on.
I thought Perry and Bell did the best job of answering questions. Bell came off as highly articulate and intelligent. Strayhorn, one of those typical colorful Texas politicians, was entertaining, but she rambled and talked in whirlpools when asked about the state's budget surplus. Friedman, famous in the 1970s for his raunchy, goofball country music, with titles such as "They Ain't Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore" and "Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in Bed," was hilarious at times. He didn't strike me as someone whom I'd want to orchestrate major surgery needed to fix school finance, but he wasn't as big a joke as I thought he'd be and had some interesting ideas. He could be another Jesse Venture in the making.
Nothing the four candidates said really stood out or cemented my decision on whom will get my vote. But it was nice to see that no matter what happens, we won't have a dorky bowtie guy in the governor's mansion for at least the next four years.