Drive-By Panhandling

The scruffy guy in the ballcap and dirty clothes rushed up to me out of nowhere, immediately stirring that uneasy feeling in the stomach, with that little head voice saying, "Uh oh, this guy wants something. I hope he's not dangerous or easily riled."
Talking fast and sounding in a panic, he said his car's tank had gone dry, and he needed a couple of bucks to get gas so he and his family could return to his Vidor home.
I'm a charitable, compassionate guy and all, for the most part, but this kind of thing makes my neck hairs stand up. I've been scammed. I've been robbed at knifepoint. I've been in seemingly precarious situations involving strangers.
When I was in college, I took a date to the AC/DC concert at The Summit in Houston. I'd been to a lot of concerts with raunchy-looking crowds, but this one had a whole new level of danger and ugliness to it. There were fights galore. Brazen drug use was all around. It looked like Ex-Con Day at The Summit.
On the way out, a group of young thugs wearing bandanas surrounded us, with the ringleader saying, "Give me your wallet, or we're going to stab your ass."
I literally, and ignorantly, thought my butt was in danger. I pictured 15 knife-wielding guys stabbing my hind quarters.
In a fair fight, I could have taken on at least two or three of the little fellas, but this was a gang thing, with knives in play, so I handed over my wallet and they took off.
I took comfort, and a little pleasure, in knowing the wallet contained all of 6 cents, a driver's license, my student I.D. card, a Gulf credit card and an unused Palais Royal credit card my mom gave me.
College kids - and bandana-wearing hoodlums for that matter - don't shop at freakin' Palais Royal, man.
Anyhoo, I had to file a police report, and the officer told me that the same thing had happened to a young couple at another concert. The guy wouldn't give up his wallet, and the gangsters stabbed him to death.
In a more humorous incident a couple of years ago, I was meeting a friend at a Houston bar for a couple of beers, and there was a guy in the parking lot with a flash light. He waived me into a parking spot and said the charge was $5. Seeing as this was Midtown, near downtown Houston, I believed him. Parking fees can be ridiculous in Houston, and $5 almost seemed like a bargain.
But I only had a $10 bill. He said he didn't have change and needed to go get it from a nearby building. I never saw him or my $10 again, and my friend later told me that this guy, whom I nicknamed Parking Lot Pete, spent his days scamming people like this. My friend, kind of like Norm from "Cheers," was a Midtown regular, so all of Midtown had a nice laugh at me that night, and I even got a couple of sympathy drinks out of it.
Back to the recent gas guy, I turned him down cold, and he marched back across the parking lot. However, I felt sorry for him, so I drove over to where his car was parked, handed him a couple of bucks and took off.
A few days later, someone claiming to have the same predicament approached my wife in a parking lot and asked for gas money. She turned him down. Since then, I've been hearing about this kind of gas-money thing a lot.
On Saturday, a guy driving in an old car, with an old guy in the passenger side, drove up to me in the Lowe's parking lot and said he needed gas money to get back to Lumberton.
Already irritated about an unrelated thing earlier that morning (My new riding lawnmower conked out on me the first time I tried to cut the grass), I had a less-than-sympathetic response:
"Look, you scammers need to find a new angle. I've heard about this tired old scam a lot lately. Find someone else to rip off. If you're not a scammer, learn to read a !!#%$#@!! gas gauge before you hit the road to questionable return."
The driver just hit the gas and got the hell out of there.
It's too bad people have to resort to this kind of thing to make their way in the world. It takes advantage of the compassionate and makes it more difficult for those who really need help to get it.

The Trace Of Crusty Old Editor In Me

In an age of touchy-feeling management and lofty political correctness, staying in touch with the old-school, tough-cookie side of newspapering has become increasingly difficult.
I still vividly remember the abrasive old news barnacles who ran my journalism department, which imploded years later under the control of the kind of high-minded thinkers and philosophers who churn out journalists who are academic juggernauts but have no practical skills.
I remember my stories put up on a screen in class and ripped apart for all the other students to see. I remember wanting so bad for the college newspaper to scoop the local daily.
In that environment, you quickly learn from your mistakes, albeit in a sometimes unprofessional and humiliating kind of way, by today's standards.
The days of fiery, cigar-chomping, sharp-tongued editors who kept a whiskey flask in a bottom desk drawer were gone before I got into the newspaper game, but I learned the trade under guys who worked in that environment. The passion and fire-bellied aggressiveness in those days has been replaced by a softer professional.
That's a good thing, because modern work places just don't operate well under that kind of management philosophy.
I sometimes do wish journalists today had just a touch of that old-school fire, with a healthy fear of getting beat on stories and violating the standards of accuracy, grammar, punctuation, spelling and the holy journalism rules known as Associated Press style.
I feel lucky to have a crack reporting staff that, for the most part, practices these kinds of things daily. They showed what they were made of during Hurricane Rita, and I'm proud of them.
But what I see all too often from applicants makes me wonder how many wheels have fallen off the teaching and guidance aspects of this industry.
I've had applicants leave voice mails saying they had accepted jobs elsewhere. We flew them in, put them up in a hotel and wined and dined them, and yet when they decided to go elsewhere, they thanked us for our time via voice mail.
Some applicants just mail a resume. No cover letter. No news clips. No references.
Some applicants mail poetry. Some show up late for interviews. Some have no questions to ask of me. You're a reporter, so show me what you can do by asking intelligent questions! Some show up seriously underdressed.
Some applicants have no practical experience but expect to make a big leap out of college. Most likely, they'd find work here too demanding and frustrating. They need some experience first. I try to help by suggesting that they start on a weekly or a small daily. I even have some connections for them and am willing to make a phone call if they have potential.
One old-school practice that I've abandoned, however, is the formal flush letter telling an applicant that we have no opening for someone of their qualifications or that we have stronger applicants. In an age where people can e-mail resumes, clips and cover letters, I often get hammered with applicants when an opening comes up here. I could spend all day writing rejection letters. Instead, I try to respond, at least via e-mail, to every applicant.
For the non-prospects, I try to find something positive and encouraging to say. I also try to guide them to where they might be better suited to get a solid start.
I do this for two reasons. For starters, I'm an advocate for the trade, and I want to see those interested in the field find success. They might get good and remember the nice guy Beaumont that gave them some help, and they'll want to come work for me.
Also, you never know when they might get really good, so much so that I'll find myself asking them for a job some day.
What goes around comes around, you know?

Desperate Saturday Morning Police Chase

Long ago, getting tickets for a big-time rock concert often required camping out in line the day before. The notorious lines for tickets to see the likes of Led Zeppelin, Bruce Springsteen, Kiss, Bob Seger, The Rolling Stones, The Who and other huge acts became their own rock subculture and almost a right of passage for a young concert goer.
The days of waiting in long lines for tickets pretty much is a thing of the past, replaced by high-octane, white-knuckle, chaotic, sometimes heartbreaking online ticket purchases.
Earlier this year, when The Police announced a reunion and tour, I decided I needed to take the wife to go see them. The Police concert I saw March 20, 1982, still ranks among my Top 5 all-time favorites, and I've seen A LOT of concerts. It remains the only big-venue show on my Top 5. The trio, touring behind their album, "Ghost in the Machine," put on an energetic show full of surprises and jams that were neither too short nor too long.
I like bands that can engage in improvisation, hitting a groove but not dragging it out for 30 minutes, like the Grateful Dead, Blues Traveler and others often did. I don't like it when a band plays their album stuff note-for-note. That's just boring.
On Friday night, while listening to a Houston-based classic rock station while on the way back from getting takeout pizza, I caught the announcement that Police tickets would go on sale 10 a.m. Saturday.
So there I was 9:58 a.m. Saturday, nervously sitting in front of the home computer and armed with a credit card and big mug of coffee.
The tickets went on sale at exactly 10 a.m. out of the Toyota Center web site.
And then the frenzy began.
I made the fatal error of trying to get picky about the seats, whose prices ranged from $50 to $225. I went for the $90 seats, and, only seconds into the adventure, the first pair that came up were behind the stage.
Unacceptable.
So I went back and tried the "best available" option, knowing that thousands of tickets were flying out of availability with every passing second.
What came up were $225 seats way back on the floor.
No way.
After a few more stabs, I stumbled upon some great $90 seats in the same section where I sat back in 2005 to see The Rolling Stones. Filling out the requisite information, I panicked when I looked up on the left side of the computer screen to see a timer counting down.
23 ... 22 .... 21 ... 20 ...
I filled out the last box and hit "continue" with only a second or two to spare, but then I got an "error" message, saying the e-mail address I provided had an existing account, and I needed to provide a password.
Poof! Those tickets were gone.
With my panicked wife sitting behind me and the kids locked out of the room, I hollered several expletives at the computer screen. Subsequent attempts yielded nothing but crummy seating. The pickings were getting slim, and I was trying every ticket option I could. The only hope became for some other schmuck out there in the ticket derby to have his shot clock expire and his tickets released back into the emotionally bloody feeding frenzy.
Finally, on yet another "best available" attempt, I scored two tickets on the lower prom right next to the stage.

Wife: "Honey, those are $225 tickets."
Me: "Screw it. I'm going for them."

Buyers fever had set in.
Earlier, I had tried my work e-mail, but due to the existing account - and me not remembering the password - I couldn't use that one again, so I tried another e-mail account.
Unfortunately, I apparently had used that e-mail account as well to buy tickets and again got an "error" message.
Poof! Those tickets were gone.

Me: "%$^$#@!@!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Son No. 1 (from outside the locked door) : DADDY WHAT'S WRONG?
Me: "GO AWAY!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!"
Son No. 1 (giggling): "OK, daddy. Bye bye!"

At this point, I realized my attempts were futile. My wife knew her Toyota Center password, so I grabbed my coffee, went outside the house and let her jump into the Internet fracas. I couldn't stand to watch.
Minutes later, as I angrily paced around the driveway, she emerged from the house to inform me that she'd scored some OK seats for $90 on the upper prom on the side.
I guess every little thing she does is magic after all. Based on a little Internet research this morning, it appears the show sold out in 30 minutes. Scalper tickets in eBay were going for as high as $1,495.
I don't know how I feel about online purchases versus the old-school long waits.
On one hand, it's nice to have the ticket-buying process compressed into a few frenzied minutes. On the other hand, if you're waiting in line, you can at least see your competition and know where you stand.

BISD Bond Backoff The Right Thing To Do

My dad once told me that if an approaching situation makes the neck hair rise and puts a sick feeling in the stomach, it might be best to back off or disengage.
The Beaumont school district and its bond committee did exactly that last night with the decision to push a bond election date from May until November.
Conflict and problems gave the portly bond proposal an unbalanced feel - something that likely would have resulted in a May bond election's failure and catastrophe for BISD.
BISD absolutely needs a bond election, considering the crumbling, overcrowded campuses that should have been taken care of during the misguided 2002 bond election, when the pricetag was only $150 million compared with the current, inflation-jacked $440 million.
Voter palatability will hinge on the ability of the committee and school district to unite, sans all the conflict and divisiveness, and properly sell this bond issue to wary taxpayers. It needs the backing of everyone from the chamber to Kiwanis Club. Students, parents, business representatives and myriad community facets need to get behind it. It needs the feel of a pep rally.
With questions still hanging over the bond proposal, there was no way that BISD had the time to mount a successful bond-marketing campaign.
Now, the district has more than half a year to hammer down details and begin the sorely needed consensus-building that the 2002 bond election lacked.
Again, as I've said before, this bond issue must be broken into two parts.
Under Proposition 1, the district should ask for the new construction at the elementary schools and renovations to the middle and high schools. These are essential needs.
Proposition 2 would include everything in Proposition 1 as well as the new districtwide stadium and natatorium at a neutral site. Approval of Proposition 2 would cancel Proposition 1.
If BISD doesn't approach the bond election in this way, it risks having the essential needs torpedoed and waiting possibly years - like it did from 2002 to this year - to get another bond proposal on the table.
If this happens, $440 million might seem like a bargain by comparison.

BISD bond initiative already in peril

The Beaumont school district's efforts to fix a bleak facilities picture already has shown troubling signs of a cracking foundation.
The bond proposal - almost a half decade overdue - has created disturbing divisions in the planning committee. The committee recently voted 18-5 to hold the bond election in May, but co-chairman Dr. David Teuscher, a dissenter, said he felt "steamrolled" by the group's shift from consensus to majority-rule.
At a meeting last week, committee members bickered over various aspects of the bond issue, such as whether a vote should be held in May or November. Committee members are divided along racial lines.
Meanwhile, the bond's humongous size - about $450 million - is going to take some serious marketing and explaining to be palatable for taxpayers. As it stands, the bond proposal has a feeling of being rushed, reckless and controversial.
Beaumont school trustees must decide by March 12 whether to put the bond issue on the May ballot.
As it stands, the bond effort is rife with conflict when it should be a community rallying point. This community needs better facilities, no question.
The school district's failed 2002 bond issue - which was only $150 million - went down due to being poorly marketed and overambitious. It should have been broken into two parts: Bond A with the essential needs and Bond B with the essential needs plus bells and whistles such as athletic upgrades. Bond B approval negates Bond A.
Now, athletic upgrades and a 1,000-seat Ozen auditorium are being proposed for the new bond issue, thereby making it critical for the district to divide the bond issue into at least two parts and give voters a choice.
Otherwise, this bond issue most likely will be doomed to failure, perhaps costing the district even more millions upon millions in inflation-related constructions expenses if and when a sensible, well-planned bond issue makes it onto the ballot and gains voter approval.

Family Photo Mystery-Three Rakes-Part 2

I posted the rake story earlier, but here's a Cliff Notes version:

My paternal grandfathered died of a stroke at age 72. I was in fourth or fifth grade at the time.

I came home from goofing around outside to find my dad sitting in a chair in the den, with his head hung low. He'd just gotten the phone call about his dad.

So for some reason, he decided we needed to go rake the front yard. There weren't any leaves or anything, but we raked anyway, piling up just enough dead grass and pine needles to fill one bag.

We didn't say much during the raking. I offered to go with him to New York to help with funeral arrangements, and he told me I needed to stay behind and take care of the family.

I'll never forget that day.

In January, on the day we buried my dad in Houston, I grabbed two old beat-up rakes out of the garage and brought them back to Beaumont. That afternoon, I grabbed my own rake and handed the old rakes to my boys.

Despite the fact that the big Moon Bounce had arrived for my son's birthday party the next day, the boys ignored it and instead joined me in raking up massive leaf piles in our back yard.

We had a blast.

Yesterday, I got a picture in the mail. My mom sent it to me. I'd never seen it before. My sister, while going through a draw in my dad's closet last weekend, found that photo.

My grandfather was born in 1900, I believe. The photo is dated July 1972.

I've got my mom doing some digging to find out when my grandfather died.

If that photo is of THE day that my grandfather died, I'm going to lose it, because that meant that this whole raking thing held as much meaning for Dad as it did for me - and he never said a word about it or showed me that picture.

Even if it wasn't taken on that day, there had to be some reason why, in all the photos taken of the family over the years, this one held a special enough meaning for it to get tucked away in a closet drawer, hidden for almost 35 years.