Be fruitful, and (then) multiple.

I don’t want to offend anyone, but I will.

Before you decide to have and raise kids, do something, anything, for society.

In the Bible, which I’m sure I’ve read various passages and pages of, God tells Adam and Eve, (In Genesis, Chapter 1, Verse 28, with Peter Gabriel as lead singer) “Be fruitful and multiple.”

Well, yeah. Except here’s a little tick in our language. I think He meant “and” as “and then” multiple. Multiplying, it turns out, is pretty easy. But being fruitful isn’t always considered an important part of the equation.

I’m not a religious expert, but the entire “fruitful” aspect to me means do something in life beyond domestic battery, meth and XBox. Now, I’m not going to suggest children borne of “unfruitful” folks are less loveable, intelligent or somehow worthless. I’ve just noticed that parents who don’t work for the betterment of their community (through work or volunteer organizations) don’t -- generally -- work for the overall betterment of their children as well. They sometimes introduce them to domestic battery, meth and XBox.

(Yes, this is casting a wide net, and I know I catch some good dolphins among some bad fish. If you had kids before a job, and made the kid your job, good for you. This isn’t a castigation over the past. What we did, we did. This is a lesson for our children.)

So, lesson kids, is this: Go do something for society. This isn’t because I’m a socialist, it’s because we’re all better when people focus their energy outside themselves for a few years. Join the Exchange Club; donate globs of blood to The Red Cross, volunteer for the military, educate yourself in college and get a job as a teacher. Do something. Be fruitful. Find a partner who has also avoided the drugs and the couch and the charges of domestic battery. Be fruitful together, and learn a few things about life.

And then, by all means, multiply. Just try keeping the start of the process off the Internet.

First Tackle

There are moments in our lives that are a huge deal for us, and nobody else may ever notice or know. One of mine was during seventh-grade football – and it is a moment I’ve looked to many times throughout my life when I was momentarily apprehensive about a situation.

from the manuscript "Even The Losers..."

 

I’d been given my pads and uniform, and was ready for the first day of practice. Somehow, I’d even put on the hip pads correctly – something not all the first-timers had done properly. I was less intelligent, and more lucky in this instance.

They had us stretch and do jumping jacks. They had us run, and do push-ups. Like many of the guys involved, I never played Pop Warner, so the coaches were going back to basics.

The coaches showed us the different stances – the three and four point. How-to-backpeddle-without-falling-assfirst. They showed us how to block using the blocking cart. They showed us how to tackle with tackle dummies.

But now, it was time for first contact.

It was time for tackling drills – against other kids on the team.

For many of us, this was a first time. I suspect other guys had mothers very similar to mine who hadn't allowed them to play until we were in middle school.

For others, this was old hat – and their opportunity to show their dominance over the tackling virgins.

Chris Miller was The Alpha-Male. He was a quiet guy, but not because he was timid. He scared most of us enough without talking. He was that guy who had always been stronger than everyone. He was going to be the quarterback, and we were going to run a lot of Option ball so he could carry it. Because he was that good. And strong. And fierce.

Nobody wanted to make him mad – because he could kick your butt.

And nobody on our team wanted to try to tackle him – because he could kick your butt.

In the first two of the five rounds of tackling drills, I was set against Kurt Babcock and Jonathan Williams. They were both like me; newbies. We kind of collided into each other too high, and there was little essence of tackling. The coach screamed at me to get lower; to keep my legs moving; to keep my head up and wrap my arms around the waist.

“Wrap up! And drive your legs, Larson!” he yelled. I would always be Larson to him. If he knew my last name, he decided he didn’t want to use it. He must have had a Lawson break his heart, because to him, I was always Larson.

In the third round, I looked at the upcoming guys on the other side. I was three back.

Chris Miller was three back.

Shit.

Chris was going to be the offensive player, and I was supposed to try to tackle him.

Shit.

Two newbies collided too high, and the coach yelled at them. “Wrap up, and drive your legs.”

Shit.

Chris looked bored. He’d been running through everyone during this drill. Nobody had tackled him. He either juked them and left them with their facemask in the grass, or he ran and pounded through them, leaving their ass in the grass.

It was a moment in life, I knew that.

No way was I supposed to be able to tackle Chris Miller.

The guys in front of us went, and I paid no attention to them. My mouth dried and heart raced. My natural instinct was to be nervous. This was a first, serious attempt at tackling. My eyes tried to focus on what was taking place around me. My heart raced a bit faster, but I worked on remaining calm. Thousands of people had done this before – hell – millions. This was no big deal.

Shit.

“Okay. Miller. Larson. Ready ... ” the coach stated.

“Go!”

I lowered my hips and looked at Chris, judging where he wanted to go based on his hip position. He started to dart to his left – and I positioned myself in front of him. I lowered my shoulders and looked up – finding my face properly positioned to his left hip.

We collided, his legs still running.

I wrapped my arms around his waist – and kept my legs pumping.

I drove him back just half-a-step, and he went off kilter. I held on for dear life and press on, still running myself, driving him backwards to the ground.

“GOOD TACKLE, LARSON!” the coach yelled.

Holy shit. I just tackled Chris Miller.

We got up. He was pissed. I was scared.

But I’d done it.

Guys looked at me like you look at a person who just pissed on a police officer’s shoes. Astonished. Dumbfounded. With that look of “You’re screwed” in their eyes.

But I’d just taken those lessons I’d been taught, and used them. And they worked. If I could do it, couldn’t anybody?

I got back in line. The two sides of boys were uneven. As I was approaching the front of it for my next chance – this time to be tackled – I looked across the way. I was third in line – and on the other side, Kurt Babcock was third-in-line. Chris Miller was fifth-in-line.

Whew. That’s good, I thought.

And then Chris pulled aside Kurt and another teammate – and took their place. It might have been my imagination, but I think he was growling.

Shit.

I took the ball and ran forward. It wasn’t an attitude of defeat, but one of Shit. I knew Chris was going to take out some Miller justice. And he did. I wasn’t fast enough to escape his speed. He lowered himself, put his facemask on the ball and drove me back several yards as he punished me with an echoing tackle.

But I held onto the ball… I didn’t fumble and I didn’t whimper. Football is about getting tackled as well as tackling.

I got up right away. It was a shocking feeling, but that’s what we were supposed to be doing; tackling. I thought it would be whippish to whine about Chris pounding me – and while I’d probably prefer it being someone less able, it’s not like life always gives you someone easy to dodge. Sometimes, you have to take the hit – and you have to get up from it before you let it affect you. It’s not just a mind game to show an opponent you’re tough enough. It’s a mind game to remind yourself that pain tolerance needs to be built ... and built upon.

Miller and I would again meet in the drills one last time. Again, I was able to tackle him – but it wasn’t as clean a hit. He’d juked me just enough to make it a sloppy tackle.

But I was able to tackle Chris Miller. Sometimes well. Sometimes not.

But I’m able.

And with that ability, I can see myself doing just about anything.

Chris, I think, had some respect for me at the end of the day. Or maybe he’d already forgotten. I didn’t make a big deal out of anything to my other teammates. A few guys mentioned they didn’t think I could do that; and to be honest, I surprised myself. But it was a moment that I will always recall as a milestone of life.

It was a moment I have looked at many times when taking on new challenges and changes where I’m feeling apprehensive.

It was probably a moment few others noticed or know about.

La Porte or LaPorte, a Hoosier word problem...

I have a problem with LaPorte. And my problem is La Porte.

Growing up in NWI, I've always thought it was the city of LaPorte in the county of LaPorte. But several years ago, I saw it starting to be written La Porte.

Now, if you look it up on a website, or a state map, or even road signs, there's a 45 percent chance its going to be spelled wrong. My problem is, I don't know which answer is right.

Luckily, I fancy myself a bit of a professional asker of questions. So I decided I was going to figure this conundrum out. First thing to do is: Ask people who should know.

I say should, because apparently nobody is exactly sure. Except for the mayor of LaPorte, who stressed to me, that it's La Porte.


"It means 'the door' in French. There is a space between the a and p. That is the proper way to spell it. I know some do not put the space in but that's not really correct," Mayor Kathy Chroback wrote me in an email on Aug. 20.

Of course, what does she know? She's just the mayor. And what about the fact that it's often LaPorte County and sometimes La Porte County. I wanted to confirm this with someone in the field of academia. So I emailed Purdue North Central Chancellor James Dworkin.

"It is the same in both the city and the county," Dworkin responded. "Personally I always use LaPorte, but when you go online you often see it as La Porte."

The chancellor then followed up my question by positing a question.

"I would suggest that you speak to some historian of the area to see what kind of answer you get from him or her. Let me know what you find out," he wrote.

Great. I thought I was getting an answer from some people who are a part of the LaPorte County community -- and apparently they aren't even sure. I mean, I do appreciate what Chancellor Dworkin said, and from my college days, it seems he's using that professor-mind-trick of "ask yourself the same question in a different format, you will."

But I took his recommendation and ran with it, getting in email touch with La Porte County Historical Society historian Fern Eddy Schultz. I kind of already knew what her answer was going to be. But Ms. Schultz was polite in her message back, acting like she bunts this question down the third base line three times a week.

"This is a frequently asked question. La Porte is 'The Door' and it would seem only correct that La Porte should be two words. As you note, I, too, often see it written as LaPorte," she said, then diagnosing what she thinks may be a reason.

"I know that publications seem to consider it one word in order to save on the word count. The City of La Porte's website uses La Porte; the La Porte County page, however, seems to think LaPorte if right.  I, personally, like and favor La Porte."

Ah, slimey publications and their word counts! I should have known it was that crazy left-wing mainstream media, killing the La Porte space like it was the Freedom of Religion! OK, maybe that is reading too much into her answer.

While looking at the historical's society website, I did find this painting posted from 1915, suggesting the city was then named "LaPorte." I mean, that by now wasn't shocking. It would have been more shocking than having it named "Gunness," but it wasn't shocking.

  

http://www.dunelady.com/laporte/lpcityphotos.htm

Well, that throws things back around. So I had decided to avoid members of the print media, since I'm a part of them and I know most of them in LaPorte County. Except that country music station in downtown LaPorte. Is it country music? I think so. I've heard rumors, but if I'm listening to local radio, it's probably WIMS because I know on a facebook-level many of the good folks there.

But interviewing friends? Always odd. So I emailed Dennis Siddall of The Eagle -- 96.7 on your FM Dial! (They are not the Rock of Chesterton, WDSO-FM!). Anyway, Siddall is the general manager and morning guy who wakes up probably at 4 a.m. I imagine he, like many people in journalism, and many more in radio, is torn between the love of his job and the loathing of his paycheck. Sorry, I'm getting off track. He didn't say or suggest any of that, it's just a pretty standard stereotype. What he did say was this:

"I'm originally from Knox but since I"ve been in this area I've always wrote it as LaPorte."

Argh.

What about the fine folks at the LaPorte County Convention and Visitor's Bureau?

"I have asked some friends in city hall and in the chamber and am awaiting a response -- but the initial response I have gotten is LaPorte! That is what I have always used," LCCVB Executive Director Jack Arnett wrote to me when quizzed. "That is what is used by the state in most official documentation that I am aware of," he added, noting he'd let me know if he heard anything further.

I can tell him what he'll hear. La Porte.

There must be some justice to this LaPorte situation! I mean, am I going to have to start writing my last name La Wson? This madness must be solved! I mean, I can't justify taking this to court ...

But I can justify emailing a judge. And one who is generally known as a hard ass. And, really, that's a good thing. Someone who cuts to the chase. Makes sure the prosecutor isn't overstepping his bounds; makes sure the guilty get a good long sentence for serious crimes. What say you, the Honorable Judge Tom Alevizos?

"Officially It is LaPorte County and the City of La Porte," he wrote back. Yes! We have an answer, I thought. Then he continued. "At least that's what I've been told. Then again I'm from Michigan City. I've seen it done many ways."

Noooooooooo! The humanity!

He did point out to me that, as per Indiana statute, it is LaPorte County. Even going sofar as to give the code's curvy figure (IC 36-2-1-1). So that much is solved. I think.

Who could give this controversy a passing or failing grade? Well, of course, a teacher at LaPorte High School (And yes, LaPorte is how the high school spells LaPorte. So this answer should be easy.) I looked up some teachers in the English Department of LaPorte High School and decided to touch base with LaPorte High School graduate and I assume longtime community member Linda Arney.



"To answer your question directly, the original spelling is the French, 'la porte,' which means 'the door,'" she wrote. Well, I already knew that, but I always appreciate the head's up.

"That was the nickname given to this area because it was one of the gateways to the rest of the Plains areas, following the Little Calumet, Trail Creek and the Chicago rivers. My preference is La Porte, two words, for this reason. I think people just got lazy with the spelling, and then you have the cost of changing the names that are incorrect. Most of the town seems to not mind the confusion...I wonder if the town of La Porte, TX has the same issue! Once the government had us adding zip codes, the corrections didn't matter anymore, and people stopped caring about it. Now, in the era of electronic communication, it is again easier to run the words together, sometimes leaving out the capital P. I, however, will continue to make corrections to 'La Porte' whenever I see the word spelled incorrectly," she added.

Well, that's solved. It's LaPorte if I'm writing the mayor, La Porte if I'm writing the radio station. Er, wait, La Porte if I'm writing the judge about county issues and LaPorte if it's a city issue. Um... It's La Porte if I don't want to fail Ms. Arney's class...

It's apparent this confusion has reined on some level for probably close to 200 years (the lovely city was founded in 1832, if memory serves. I mean, sure I was just looking at the historical society's website, but you don't suggest I go check a fact while I type, do you?) And, if fate has its druthers, another century from now, some people will still write it La Porte while others write it LaPorte.

They are all wrong. And right. I'm just not sure who...

Hello, cello fellow

As a copy editor, one of my jobs is to write headlines.

They are a bit of a word problem. You are given a certain number of letters and have to make it interesting.

I won't suggest I'm amazing. But I've received an award.*

A few weeks ago, I received a piece of art for a page. Now, when there is just one piece of art with no story included, we, in the biz, call it "wild art." That makes us sound tougher than we actually are. "Hey, I've grabbed that wild art. It was a tough mean bastard, but I took care of it."

When you work in a newsroom, it is sometimes fun to act tough.

Anyway, the wild art was of two boys looking at a teenage boy showing off his musical skills. With a cello.

One of the early lessons I learned in journalism was drink alcohol often. And also, your first instinct on your writing is probably right. So I looked at the photo and added the "kicker" (a little headline above the "wild art" that also sounds a little threatening) "Hello, cello fellow."

Almost instantly, I hated it. It was simple. It rhymed. It was silly. It was dumb.

I looked at the photo again, and couldn't think of anything else. I was pressed for a little deadline time, so I just OK'd the kicker and hoped I'd never hear about it again. Nor did I want anyone to mention it.

A few hours later, the newspaper is printing and my bosses are looking at the edition.

"'Hello, cello fellow?'" my boss said. "Who came up with that?"

"I didn't, but I kind of like it," my other boss said.

I sank in my chair, but I also am Catholic, so I am quick to take responsibility when I'd rather run.

I raised my hand. "That's, um, mine."

"'Hello, cello fellow?'" She laughed. I felt embarrassment blazing on me like sun rays of July. "I like it," she said, not quite convincing me it was good.

Here's the thing ... it's not terrible. It's just a bit odd. I'm sure somewhere, the picture is cut out as they family has their moment of: "Hey, look at our cute kid as [he watches a cello fellow, is a cello fellow showing off his cello.]"

I looked at my co-workers, and defended myself just a little bit.

"I mean, what are you going to do with that photo? It's two kids checking out one kid, with a cello."

John J. Watkins | The Times
Josh DeVries, 15 of Chesterton, gives brothers Bennett, 3, and Max,
5, LoPiccolo of Beaufort, N.C., an impromptu cello lesson Saturday
at Thomas Centennial Park in Chesterton.

http://www.nwitimes.com/news/local/porter/duneland/chesterton/article_818a6eb3-45ac-5af2-ba1a-3488c984f8b9.html





* You don't care. Nor do I -- I usually forget about it.

9/12

Patriots.

They were the team I covered for the newspaper. The Owen Valley Patriots.

On the Friday night after 9/11, it still seemed like 9/12.

The team was playing the Northview Knights. But pretty much it was still difficult for anyone to concentrate much on anything. I stood on the sidelines, randomly talking to coaches and assistants, but I really was talking more with the players and managers that night.

While the lives of American's had changed -- their world really had. They were at the age they were going to be directly affected by this new war. I imagined some, maybe many of them, would be spending time in a very dusty place. I feared some may not make it back home.

It was still very new, this war. But this wasn't going to be something settled over a diplomatic talk and courtroom in The Hague. This was going to get much more bloody before there was a moment of peace. By Friday, we had an approximate death count, but I don't think it was as high as some had initially feared. And we knew much more about the basics of the plot, but I don't think any of us thought it was a one-and-done mission. We were still waiting ... trying to anticipate.

I stood there at a high school football game outside of Brazil, Indiana, and thought: Man, I wonder if terrorists would hit this? A soft target. A lot of victims. I imagine I wasn't the only one with my eyes a little more open. Situational awareness. Or paranoia. Probably a mix of both.

There was still some worry. I'm sure I was going to find out about some people who were somehow hurt or directly affected by the attacks. And I thought about a buddy of mine who had recently made it into Army special forces. Don't get dead, I thought.

It is an odd part of humanity, how we concentrate on our own future when we see the futures of others eliminated. I hadn't gone to the Navy to reenlist ... I had considered it ... but it wasn't like my rate was a necessary one. And, honestly, I didn't want to re-up for four years since, at this point, I really thought this was going to be a war of a few months. Maybe a few years.

Someone asked me if I was going to rejoin. I shrugged. I wasn't going to lie.

"Ask me in six weeks," I think I said. By that time, I figured we'd know if this was World War III or Grenada.

I looked again at the kids as they took to the field and the national anthem was performed. It had been a surreal week; no jets in the skies. No clue what was next. I'd been trying to save money, so I didn't have cable television and so I became a big listener of AM radio. The conspiracy theories were already flowing. The Trialateral Commission and Nostradomus were suddenly big topics. I looked again at the kids. All that B.S. was not going to mean much if this becomes a really hot war.

I thought about my friend in the special forces. And I thought about these kids. Don't get dead, I thought.

It's still 9/12 to me in a lot of ways. In the weeks after the attacks, I wrote a column for my newspaper that said -- essentially -- don't give up your freedoms by giving into a lot more tighter security. Some readers were angry. I was unpatriotic for writing it, by their estimations. I'm sure I've been called worse.

In the years after 9/11, it's still 9/12 in a lot of ways. We are more situationally aware, or paranoid. Where we once ignored Islam, many of us tend to fear it. Early on, I just figured the terrorists were not that much different from suicidal members of the Ku Klux Klan. A small percentage of Christians tout themselves as KKK members -- not any stretch of a large number. If we did it right, we could surgically eliminate the majority of the cancer and isolate the rest.

As I started to notice people becoming more conservative, I felt suddenly an urge to become more liberal. Not in terms of wanting to hand out food stamps. I just didn't want us as a nation flying our flags high and dropping bombs low on every villager in Afghanistan. We Americans. We're better than that. Let the terrorists kill the innocent; that is their downfall. We just kill terrorists. Because if we don't, I felt, the cancer will only grow.

God, I thought. I hope we do this right.

I looked out onto the field. And I hoped, for the sake of both teams and all these communities -- all of us -- that we would.

Patriots.

10 years later...

It started out as a beautiful morning.

For our generation, it's our Pearl Harbor. It's one of those basic questions that we'll ask someone in a conversation.

"Where were you when you heard about 9/11?"

It's as common a question for us to ask one-another as "Where did you go to college?" Or at least as common as "Where were you when you heard about the Challenger?"

For some reason, I remember that hour before the attacks as clearly as I remember the three hours after. I took a backroad into Spencer, where I was working at the time, and had my hand out the window. It was an absolutely beautiful day. A touch of crisp, but still far from chilly. I remember thinking: "Now, this is a perfect day."

It was a Tuesday, and I was running a little late. Pretty standard, actually. The first thing I did every morning for the Spencer Evening World was stop by the Owen County Sheriff's Department and sift through crime reports from the previous night. I rapped on the door and was let in. Peggy Cradick was in the office filing some paperwork, and the dispatcher was having a pretty quiet morning in the dispatch center.

I looked through the overnight reports, and wrote up a few car wrecks. Nobody had been killed, and no serious crimes were committed. I heard Peggy from the other room talk aloud.

"Oh my God," she said.

My head turned. I will never suggest I'm a great reporter, but I do have a knack for sensing when something is up. Something in someone's voice or mannerisms. My best friend once said I am intuitive. I don't know what that means, exactly, except I usually pick up on hints and allegations a few milliseconds before others do. Something like that.

I got up to check out what caused Peggy to gasp. She had on CNN in the other room, and the first jet had struck a few moments earlier. CNN coverage had just started, talking about the incident. There was heavy smoke and a significant hole, but it was so early into the news, that there was still debate on what type of aircraft struck. A small jet, perhaps, I remember hearing.

I watched for just a few seconds and decided I'd have to mention it to my boss. We didn't cover national news unless it was really, really big. But who knows -- maybe we had someone who worked in that building originally from Spencer, Ind. It was possible.

Returning to the dispatch center, I went to write down the last of the arrest reports.

"Check out CNN," I mentioned to the dispatcher. "Something big is going on."

"Fuck that," he said. "I'm watching CHiPs."

He was. It was a few minutes before 8 a.m. Central time, and I gathered up my notepads, driving five minutes over to The Spencer Evening-World. I walked in and mentioned the burning tower to a co-worker, Shelly, before walking back to my cubicle. Tom Douglas, my editor, walked to his desk and I stood up.

"Hey Tom, I doubt it means anything to us, but some plane hit one of the twin towers over in New York City."

Tom looked at me and acknowledged it, but also gave me a "so what?" look. We covered, exclusively, Owen County, Indiana. And that was no where near New York City.

Shelly walked back, and in retrospect, I now know she was stunned.

"Scott," she said. "Jimmy called. He said a plane hit the tower."

"Yeah, I know," I said looking at her. "We were talking about that ..."

"No," Shelly cut me off. "Another one."

And suddenly, New York City meant a lot to everyone.

Tom didn't really even need to say much. We just started trying to figure out how we were going to get this news to our readers. Our job isn't very important in the overall scheme of things, but in Spencer, a lot of people actually relied on us for information.

The Spencer Evening-World didn't have wire service. Everything was either written by four writers, including our editor-in-chief, or it came in via press release or community member. And while not having wire was some sort of source of odd pride -- it made us focus on writing a lot of local-local-local -- it really hampered us in the world of world news. Especially on 9/11.

The Internet was almost impossible to use. And we didn't have a television in the office. Tom told me to grab $100 out of petty cash, walk over to Radio Shack and buy a good radio. I did just that, watching some of the images on the televisions inside the store. I brought the radio back and tuned into AM radio, writing down quotes from John McCain and any other official the networks interviewed. I wrote a lot of attribution to ABC News. I'm sure I didn't spell a lot of things right, but I remember trying to figure out Osama bin Laden and Taliban.

I was too busy typing for a noon deadline to think much about the implications. We all were.

Somehow, though, I did manage to take time to be a world-class ass to a co-worker who had annoyed me. And, while I apologized for saying something completely ridiculous a few minutes later, I still wonder why when our world was changing I could still be the same petty ass that I sometimes am.

I tried to handle the main story while my boss wrote a local reaction piece. My boss OK'd taking an image off the Internet from a website that finally started working and showing the explosion of the second jetliner into the second tower. We were at work.

My phone rang. It was my mother, checking in. I didn't mind at all. It made sense, but I was trying to concentrate on typing. We spoke about the situation.

"Are you going to go back in?"

"Um. I don't know, Mom. I mean, I haven't really thought about it."

I'd gotten out of the Navy a few years earlier and was still eligible to re-enlist. I dialed my future-wife's office. She worked on an upper floor in a Fort Wayne law office. Sure it wasn't a target, but it was still a bit unsettling. We spoke for a few moments and that was it. Not too much needed to be said. We'd been a couple before ... would be one again ... but on Sept. 11, we were just friends.

As I was finishing up the main story, my boss looked at me.

"So ... are you thinking about ... what's your plan? Are you going to be called back by the military? Are you going to join again?"

I still didn't know. The war was three hours old, and all I knew was things were going to be very different for a very long time.

You wonder about all the people dying that day, and you wonder back to how beautiful the morning began, and you think: This is not a guarantee.

Some educators need long detentions

Seething. That's what I was. I wasn't enraged, but I was beyond angry.

"This isn't some drunk jackass smacking the ass of a waitress late Saturday night at some pub," I said, my hand pointing out the window, my voice raised.

The prosecutor stayed pretty quiet. My impression was he didn't like me very much.

"I'm not going to ruin this guy's life over this. This is a personal matter."

This wasn't a personal matter. This was a teacher allegedly committing sexual battery against a student. And aside from the initial police report I'd read and reported about a few days earlier, not a single fact was going to see the light of day. 

He gruffed.

"I feel like I'm talking to a tabloid. This is none of your business."

I'd been standing in the prosecutor's office -- somewhere in America -- at some point in my life. A co-worker was with me, and while I was pissed, he was stunned. We weren't told there wasn't evidence or the purported victims statements wouldn't survive a trial. We weren't told he had an iron-clad alibi.

We were told this was a personal matter.

The story had been whitewashed from the start. An initial report we'd written had been sent to a corporate attorney, who edited out any reference to the educator, whether it was a man or woman; if the educator was involved in extracurricular activities. The teacher was well-known, and through his extracurricular activities, brought in a certain amount of money and -- in theory -- prestige to the community. All we'd gotten in was a Day One brief, a few paragraphs, buried with a small headline which amounted to "Someone at some school investigated for some thing, some police say."

Sometimes, when a story is a big deal, it's too big of a deal.

My co-worker and I had been spending time on it. We thought it was important. A teacher had, according to the police report, cornered one of his students -- trying to kiss her and grab her breasts, as I recall. As I investigated, I spoke with her father. "She's a good, Christian girl," he said. Well, that didn't really matter to me. "I'll tell you this much: She doesn't lie; she doesn't have any reason to lie." That was much more compelling.

My co-worker was trying to dig up the dirt. He'd stopped by the school on another assignment, but brought up the allegations. He came back and looked at me.

"Yeah. That was bizarre. [Popular, nice girl of school] said to me 'That [victim] is a stupid slut.'"

"Really?" I asked. "What the fuck?"

"Yeah. [Popular, nice girl of school] called her a slut."

Knowing [Popular, nice girl of school] on some levels, it struck me as out of character. But I guess we don't really know everything about anybody.

Despite the prosecutor's decision to not pursue charges, the teacher's spouse was putting pressure on him. At least, that's what we were hearing through grapevines. We weren't really sure of anything going on. Everything that wasn't a personal matter became a personnel matter at school.

The teacher resigned, and soon was at another school -- again holding a position where he brought in some money and, in theory, prestige for the community.

Some time later, I was at a social gathering that included alcohol and community members. I guess since I had a rum and Coke in my hand, everything was considered some sort of off the record. These people were involved with the school where the allegations took place.

"So, is it true about [educator]?" Community member 1 spoke to Community member 2.

"About what?" Community member 2 responded. He was someone who knew the sexual-battery-allegedly-committed educator.

"His new babysitter?"

"Oh yeah. She's hot. She looks just like [Popular, nice girl of school]," Community member 2 responded.

Adrenaline raced into my brain. That rush like you're falling out of bed.

"Holy shit. Seriously, he likes that type, huh?" Community member 1 said. "He fuckin' her now?" he said.

Community member 2 raised his eyebrows and chuckled, nodding his head.

My reaction was numb. Really? I thought. We just laugh about this? What the fuck is wrong with us? I took a long sip of my drink and counted to 60 in my head, deaf to the conversation. I made up some excuse and left. I was seething.


It was in that moment that I really didn't know if I'd let a daughter participate in extracurricular activities. Somehow this wasn't a topic of instant damnation. This was a punchline. Adults laughing about other adults using teenagers. We're not talking about a 20-year-old making out at a party with a 15-year-old. We're talking about adults with power and influence lording it over teenagers ... no matter how attractive or damaged they are. It angered me, but there was nothing I could do. I was seething.

***

Let's advance to Modern Day. MaryBeth Lebo has been coaching volleyball at LaPorte High School for a long time. Among the community, she is held in high esteem.

One of Lebo's assistants, Bob Ashcraft, is now starting to serve 21 years in prison for sexual misconduct with a minor and felony child seduction. Ashcraft had started a "relationship" (and I use that word very, very liberally) with a 14-year-old volleyball player.

Now, prosecutors are charging Lebo and LaPorte High School athletic director Ed Gilliland with failing to report the sexual misconduct of Ashcraft. 

The news broke yesterday and will be -- by the end of today -- pretty well covered. Check nwi.com, southbendtribune, heraldargus, the newsdispatch.com or -- my guess -- even Chicago news. Because this is pretty rare.

The charge is a misdemeanor -- but one that could end up with them in jail for 180 days. If nothing else, they have lost their jobs (for now) and will have their actions (and inactions) related to Ashcraft under a microscope.

Lebo and Gilliland are innocent until proven guilty. But I will be interested to see what is reveled in court. There are hints of email conversations, but we'll see what they knew, when they knew it and how they reacted to it. 

I don't know of many other situations like this where higher-ups were actually held accountable for coaches having sex with kids. And maybe this is a trend that needs to take place much more often.

Do I feel bad for them? No. It is about time that a prosecutor investigate and charge officials who turn a blind eye to a culture of child seduction. We send our children to schools for a basic education. Not for adults to lust over. Not for adults to take advantage of them. 

Lebo has been a great coach in terms of wins and losses. But protecting her team from Ashcraft was more important than any semi-state win. I'd rather go 0-20 with the basics instilled than win a state championship with ethics and innocence left in the front seat of a pickup truck.

***

Do I think all educators do this? No. I wouldn't even say 40 percent. But I'll say this: The percentage is higher than you'd like to hear. The prevalence would probably alarm all of us. I've just heard of far too many cases like the one I mentioned above where an educator or coach was known for having a "relationship" with a kid, and instead of police being informed or charges being filed, the educator was allowed to resign and retreat. Usually to another school. Nothing damning put on their resume. Just that they left for personnel reasons.

Shifted around. Kinda like, no, exactly like, Catholic priests who preyed on kids the last century.

So if you don't care about the kids being seduced by educators, maybe you should be concerned about your wallet down the line.

Here's my prediction. One day, in the not too distant future, the victims of these educators are going to start to connect online. They are going to unite like victims of priests and file lawsuits. They are going to find a good attorney who wants to help them with discovery and criminal cases that never existed are going to become civil cases where the public has to ultimately pay for the sins of the educators.

I've been told it's difficult to sue public entities like school corporations. But it happens. And, in the past, it was difficult to sue tobacco companies and the Catholic church. But if a jury gets a hint that a teacher was shuffled from one school district to another to another to another, because the educator couldn't get enough loving, there are going to be tens of millions paid to thousands of victims from the last several decades.

And I won't be upset with the victims.

But for the perpetrators and those of us who let them get away with it, I'll be seething.

Beating up on pacifists

Ah, pacifists. Sometimes, you make it so easy.

Goshen College, located somewhere in or near Goshen, Ind., has people aching for a fight.

The school was founded on Mennonite principles and had never played the national anthem before any athletic contest. Eventually, that led to a minor uproar a few years ago, so under a little pressure (OK, that's my conjecture), they began toying with the idea of starting games with songs of America -- including a non-lyrical version of "The Star-Spangled Banner."

Their problem with Francis Scott Key's poem to war and America? As Mennonites, they don't believe in war or, on some levels, countries. Mennoites and related religions have the distinction of being Christians who were, centuries ago, beaten up by both Protestants and Catholics via the state churches. So they tend to be very pro-separation between church and state.

After two years of tinkering with songs, the college decided to do something stupid. They adhered to their principles. And that provoked a myriad of profound responses throughout the Internet   (and I imagine to the inboxes of Goshen College administrators).

"I think this fine institution of higher learning needs to move to Mexico or Rwanda, so they experience the diversity there and get away from hateful whitey. Not 60 years ago, our ancestors knew how to handle this b.s., the problem is, we've become a nation of sheeple. "

"Want alternatives to the national anthem? Here's one: The Star Spangled Banner. Here's another: You don't like it, get out of rotten old America and go to Europe. They don't like us, either."

"You don't like the National Anthem? Then I suggest you pull up stakes and move to another country. This country has not survived and thrived because of a bunch of pacifists, but because of people who fought and died for this America to be founded as a free country, and to remain free in subsequent wars. You want the benefits of living in a free land then put yourself out for it. It isn't about you it is about America."

Now, I don't have all that much in common with anyone at Goshen College. For instance, they are either college educated or getting a college education; they attend church dozens of times a year; they know where Goshen College is and they have a principle of avoiding confrontation.

Of those aspects, I can kind of tell you about where Goshen College is; somewhere in or near Goshen. Kinda close to South Bend. Probably closer to Elkhart.

But that's about it. My college education is lacking. My church attendance more-so. And my moments of being non-confrontational are limited.

So it's easy for us to beat up on Goshen College. I mean, what have they done for us? During wars, Mennonites have routinely been conscientious objectors -- working in health and agricultural fields in nations overseas but avoiding fights. Well, that's kinda Christ-like and all, but Christ doesn't protect our oil fields or homes. 

Alas, in an era of I'll-out-patriot-you-with-a-bigger-flag-pennant-on-my-lapel, Goshen College students and officials have decided they'll avoid patriotism. I guess they don't think Jesus Christ would put his hand on his heart for America. I hope that doesn't mean they don't believe he roots for my favorite football team to win as well when I have $50 on the game...

I tried contacting several Goshen College students from Northwest Indiana, to no avail. Maybe they just don't want to be questioned about it anymore. 

However, I did hear from one of their alums.

"I was very much chagrined by the decision to play the National Anthem at GC and am pleased that the 'trial period' has ended," Douglas Swartzendruber wrote me in an email.

I can barely spell his name. I can't imagine he's very smart or important to America. Oh, wait... upon further review -- Dr. Douglas Swartzendruber was named to Time magazine's 2010 list of 100 most influential people in the world...

Well, OK. The world. But still... what has he done for America? I guess he's fighting cancer while he works at Pepperdine University or doing research in Colorado.. Well, la-de-da. What's that ever done for us? It certainly hasn't helped lessen traffic on our interstates.

He was one of the original signers of the request not to use the song. And he has caught some hell for it. But, in his mind, it's not something that's going to send him on a path to Hell.

You can check out some of his thoughts at his blog.

Here's the thing: I like pacifists. I like the concept. I'd be terrible at it, but I think they are actually doing things -- in general -- the right way. I know a guy who isn't a pacifist who sits down during the national anthem. He isn't making a statement of conviction -- he is trying to piss people off. But Goshen College isn't trying to anger anyone. They are simply standing by their convictions. And if you strike them out of anger, or believe you are a better American than they are because you think our country is based on a flag and a song, you're missing out a key element.

We're a country of people and of laws. And good people who respect those laws, even if they reject some of our country's cultural traditions, should be just as respected as anyone else. If a private, religious institution decides they don't want to promote war, why strike their face? They'll probably just offer you the other cheek.

Still, I'll be honest, if I'm at a Goshen College game (which would be surprising because I don't really no where it's located), and someone starts to give them any grief ... I'd be happy to be  John Book to their Eli Lapp. Well, not with nearly a good as a right hook...

But, alas, they'd just off you paz. And that's not a candy that causes cavities...

9/11 memorials and a naked chick

Leave it to some French artist to take a human tragedy and figure out a way to add nudity.

Sculpter Jean-Sebastian Raud (known to people who don't know him as "Froggy") has a new piece of art he hopes will be accepted into the National 9/11 Memorial Museum. To read from his press release, it is a moving piece of art, showing both the innocence and determination to find humanity and justice in the act of terrorism that killed about 3,000 people.

Yeah, and you won't happen to notice the naked woman.

The bronze sculpture, which actually looks artistically interesting, looks like this:

(P.S., Don't look if you're easily offended. OK, I'm sure you're still looking ... let's dispense with the formalities):

It is the twin towers, with a female and male form standing vertically inside of them. It symbolizes, I don't know, something. Naked stuff. And while I'm sure it can be quite touching to some who view it, pretty much I just see a naked woman and a dude covering up his little dagger with a really big sword. I wonder what Freud would say about that. And those rock-hard abs...

Again, art is completely subjective, and the artist himself explains
the piece this way...

"The first tower in front, facing the audience, the woman's nudity symbolizes timelessness and universality, so that the work can be read by a contemporary audience as well as by future generations. Nudity also symbolizes the fragility which is inherent to victims. The blindfolded eyes evoke the victims of blind terrorism, the bound hands represent the loss of freedom as well as the blockage of the body frozen in an ocean of concrete and material.


The second tower, pictures a man holding a sword, tightly sealed in the ground. It expresses the impossible defence against the unpredicted and coward attack. The man holds this sword firmly, with his hands tight, which also symbolizes strength and resistance. The crown evokes hope and the triumpth of freedom, as well as the links of friendship and fraternity between France and the USA."

OK. I can kind of buy that. However, just a few things, when I look at art completed 500 years ago, and there's a naked woman, I usually don't think: "Wow, nudity means A, B and C." I think, well, something along the lines of Beavis and Butthead. "Uh-huh-huh. That chick's naked." I accept it isn't the most mature thought process, but I'll go ahead and embrace it as mine. And another thing: That chick's naked.

Now, I don't think anyone should freak out about this. The nudity is explained by Mr. Raud and I'm sure, in his heart of hearts, he wasn't trying to turn someone on with art that could turn so many people off. And it's not like he should have to cover-up his lady like Mr. Ashcroft did with Lady Justice.

I mean, that's just silly. It's one thing if it is new art you are having someone create, and you as the buyer say: "Hey, I am a Puritan (and/or member of the Taliban), and nudity is a sin in all instances, so please keep the ladies clothed." But to flip out and suggest there is something wrong with art that is hundreds of years old is, well, immature.

And I would never, ever suggest the artist Jean-Sebastian Raud has somehow tainted the tragedy of 9/11. Art is very subjective. And while I'll suggest that it seems a bit of an odd choice, I am not offended by the nudity, nor the really, really large sword. I just think that 500 years from now, our offspring are going to look at this piece of artwork and think: "Uh-huh-huh. That chick's naked."

Well maybe not your offspring. Probably mind.

(Ladies, can I have a moment to chat with you, just one-on-one? Listen, I'm sorry this always happens -- but you just have to learn that in our society for the last, oh, 7,000 years or so, your breasts are weapons of body mass index destruction. Be they your own, or artistic renderings of them. They should never be seen -- unless it is by some dude-artist who is being artistic with them [or it's an issue of BustD Magazine.] Our culture is somehow both shocked and intrigued by them -- like they are a car wreck on your chest. And it doesn't matter if it's a jackknifed semi erupting in flames or a side-street fender-bender. And I have no idea why. But I'm pretty sure Jean just added them to his art so people will look at it and say: "Wow, how expressive" while they are actually looking at breasts.)

(Dudes, can I have a moment to chat with you, just one-on-one? Listen, I know that the woman in the piece of art is naked. That doesn't mean the piece of art wants to have sex with you. It just means the piece of art is considering having sex with you -- and you might want to buy it one more shot of Jameson).

If you'd like to learn more about Raud's artistic tribute to 9/11, here's the link to his web page... at it, you'll be able to read all the positive reviews of his 9/11 tribute.

http://www.raud-sculpteur.com/Hommage-Tribute.htm

I am checking out the images again. To see if it starts to move me in an emotional way, making me think of humanity and how we are determined to live despite the tragedy. To keep true to freedom. To appreciate our friendship with the French and how great it is to live in America..

She's still naked.

Exit 21. Not gonna go there. Wouldn't be prudent..

(John L. Hendricks, The Times)

While carpooling, my co-worker and I would occasionally use Exit 21 along the Indiana Toll Road to the Borman Expressway. (Henceforce, probably known as The Bormonster). But it was closed last month, and there was conflicting reasons given. Was it just because officials didn't want traffic backing up on the Toll Road during busy summer months, or because ... you know ... it's about to look like this:

 

Generally, I was OK with driving on it. I mean, you're on it for about 24 seconds -- and really, how often do we think about the bridges we're driving on? Unless you suffer from gephyrophobia. Which, let's face it, you probably don't.

And, as many of my friend know, I already travel some of the hazardous roads in the Midwest where we have to be aware of deer, gunshots and Illinois drivers.

So freaking me out: Not easily done. However, my Scotti Senses went on high-and-mighty when state officials 1) Closed Exit 21 without prior notice. 2) Eventually noted it was closed and may be deconstructed it after, oh coincidentally, an accident may have damaged a portion of it... Sure … it could be closed forever...

http://www.nwitimes.com/news/local/lake/lake-station/article_ae1b3d2c-b75d-54df-adb5-11a480d54462.html ...

and 3) another state official said: No, the bridge is fine. We’ll open it back up after Labor Day. 

http://www.nwitimes.com/news/local/lake/article_4d86fbd4-7d64-5d96-9388-cfff2395acb1.html

One part of the problem: The wreck that caused some damage they had to check it out -- it was caused by pigs. Well, a pig truck, but still, if you're on a bridge, and inspectors are checking it out because of a crash that had pigs as a contributing factor ... it's gotta be some sort of bad luck.

And here's another part of the problem. The state official who essentially said: Everything's OK folk. Nothing to see here. Well, his name is Michael Cline.

Yes. Cline. Now, when I think of Cline, as a Chesterton High School grad, I think of two things. Walking home with Tricia Cline during freshman and sophomore years while we spoke of our hopes for the future -- or probably just worries about social studies. And also this: 

Pretty quickly, I’m thinking of other road and bridge failures. Back in 1982, when I was old enough to read a newspaper and look at images, the Cline Avenue Bridge collapsed while it was under construction. The collapse, tragically, killed a dozen workers. And back in 2009, a new Cline Avenue bridge was closed to traffic because of safety concerns. (Although it was apparently strong enough for CGI Transformers) 

http://www.nwitimes.com/news/local/lake/article_ce4be47a-f3e4-11de-8028-001cc4c002e0.html

And, also in Lake County, the span of Martin Luther King Drive going over the Bormonster is closed because of its bad habit of cracking.

http://www.nwitimes.com/news/local/lake/gary/article_8632f066-7054-5e6a-9514-24e26416e742.html

If I'm not thinking of those wrinkles in road history, I'm thinking this...

Now, I'm not some worry-wart who frets about the sky falling. But I do have some concerns about bridges that might not be, let's say, in awesome shape. See, I never worry about my chances in a fair fight. Like me vs. turns in a roller coaster while I'm strapped in; Me vs. a punch by a drunk Mike Tyson. Me (in my car) vs. a deer. However, even with airbag deployment and OnStar wanting me to push that little red button, I don't like my chances if I'm on (or under) a bridge that decides to lay down on the job.

So go ahead and open that bad boy up, even though I really doubt you will. It's just me, Mr. Cline, but I'm inclinded to think you're possibly a bit ingenuous in your statements. And even if you aren't, my paranoia is OK with me finding another route to work.

My drive is adventuous enough without it ending like this (minus Nazi garb)...

http://youtu.be/FkkXHjQSyEI

 

P.S., State of Indiana, I love you. You know I do. Sure, I was away for a while, but I came back. So here's some advice, free at that. When trying to assure Hoosiers that a road or bridge is in great shape, don’t use an official named Michael Cline. Nor named Jason SmashbrokenkillingHoosiersscrewyoudrivers.

Common Sense, an uncommon history

Once in awhile, people try to end a debate simply by throwing out the phrase: “It’s just common sense.”

And while I appreciate Thomas Paine's contribution to America, I’m not a fan of people using the phrase thinking it should end a debate. Disagree with me if you choose, based on your own beliefs and experiences, but don’t use common sense as an end-all-be-all argument. It’s pretty weak. And I imagine that’s why so many politicians are prone to rely on it as a talking point.

Common sense is what the majority of people believe is accurate and just. And while I’m sure there is actual common sense that exists – like animals will eat you if you die in the woods – a lot of “common sense” statements are just social mores and political beliefs that ebb and flow.

Sometimes, I hear people suggest we should go back to the days of our Founding Fathers and reboot our society from 1776.

I think we’ve -- in general -- progressed, and I believe that’s a good thing.

Common sense isn’t a law of nature. It is, by my simple definition, what most people think makes the most sense. And, as a law of nature, what most people think makes the most sense is going to change with time. Education and health improve. Common sense evolves.

Let’s look at a recent history of common sense, going back just 2,000 years.

Common sense, 2010 - We can trust and trade with Russia and China, in general.

Common sense, 2005 - With modern technology, offshore drilling is safe and clean.

Common sense, 2000 - Turmoil in Afghanistan doesn’t really affect us.

Common sense, 1995 - Gays shouldn’t marry, for the children.

Common sense, 1990 - Gays in the military will undermine the mission.

Common sense, 1985 - HIV could be spread by casual contact.

Common sense, 1980 - Communists are a bigger threat than religious fanatics.

Common sense, 1975 - With modern technology, nuclear power is safe and clean.

Common sense, 1970 - Interracial marriage should be avoided, for the children

Common sense, 1965 - The youth can change the world for the better.

Common sense, 1960 - Cigarettes are not bad for you. Doctors even enjoy them.

Common sense, 1955 - Separate but equal education is, in general, OK.

Common sense, 1950 - Interreligious marriage should be avoided, for the children.

Common sense, 1945 - Blacks aren’t brave or smart enough to serve in the regular military.

(Army Pvt. George Watson, Medal of Honor recipient for actions of 1943.

Died saving several troops in sinking ship)

Common sense, 1940 - Europe can handle its war problems on its own.

Common sense, 1935 - Jews probably deserve the problems they get.

Common sense, 1930 - Turmoil in Germany doesn’t really affect us.

Common sense, 1925 - The Theory of Evolution shouldn’t be discussed in high school.

Common sense, 1920 - A prohibition of alcohol will be good for the country

Common sense, 1915 - Europe can handle its war problems on its own.

Common sense, 1910 - Issues of a sexual nature have no business in public discussion.

Common sense, 1905 - Women’s sufferage is a state issue.

Common sense, 1900 - We can trust and trade with Russia and China, in general.

Common sense, 1890 - Mormons are a cult.

Common sense, 1880 - Southerners can be trusted to rebuild the South.

Common sense, 1870 - Northerners can be trusted to rebuild the South.

Common sense, 1860 - Depression is a sign of insanity.

Common sense, 1850 - Immigrants like Irish and Chinese are only good for hard labor.

Common sense, 1840 - Indians need to move West; they don't know how to use the land.

Common sense, 1830 - Slavery is a state issue.

Common sense, 1820 - Issues in southern states don’t affect the rest of us.

Common sense, 1810 - Rights belong to men who are property owners.

Common sense, 1800 - Bloodletting is a good treatment for most ailments.

Common sense, 1750 - Being a British colony is, in many regards, a good thing.

Common sense, 1700 - Indians need to move West; they don’t know how to use the land.

Common sense, 1650 - A witch is a true threat and should be prosecuted and killed.

Common sense, 1600 - Slavery is good for economics and blacks don’t know any better.

Common sense, 1500 - The Pope is to be trusted, no matter what.

Common sense, 1450 - The Earth is the center of the universe and all revolve around it.

Common sense, 1400 - The Earth is, likely, flat.

Common sense, 1300 - Plagues are a sign God is angry with us.

Common sense, 1200 - The King is to be trusted, no matter what.

Common sense, 1100 - Christians should be in charge of the Holy Land.

Common sense, 1000 - Suffering from seizures is a sign of possession.

Common sense, 0500 - Rome will never again have any influence on the world.

Common sense, 0400 - Despite setbacks, the Roman Empire will rise again.

Common sense, 0300 - A Christian is a true threat and should be prosecuted and killed.

Common sense, 0200 - Despite setbacks, the Roman Empire will never fall.

Common sense, 0100 - Christians are a cult.

Common sense, 0000 - To please God, make a blood sacrifice.