I was playing golf the other day and my partner asked me, “Jack, now that you are retired, how are you occupying your time?”  It took me too long to respond.  I finally mentioned golf and my blog.  But, any of you who keep track of my blog know that I haven’t been spending a hell of a lot of time on it.  So, I decided to give some serious thought to this weighty issue.

I decided I feel pretty busy, but I know I’m not.  I’m just letting the meager tasks I have fill up my time.  Can you imagine how little pressure I feel?  It’s great!  Am I capable of doing more?  You bet.  But, deep down inside, I would resent having to shift gears.

I read a lot.  Once in a while, I read a worthy book, like Collin Powell’s “My American Journey”, or “1776” by David McCullough.  But, not very often.  I would rather read about Western heroes taking on incredible odds, like Louis L’Amour Sacketts, or Detectives like Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch catching the bad guys at great risk to life and limb.  Oh, and I want a happy ending – none of this Message in a Bottle crap where the hero dies in the end.  If I want heartache and sorrow, I’ll pick up the newspaper.  I read terribly slow, so reading is a commitment and my effort deserves a happy ending.

I study and play chess.  I have some great books on chess openings and even some kind of an on-line study program.  I am the proud owner of three computer chess games.  Each one is more sophisticated than the previously purchased one.  There lies the rub.  I hate to lose.  One chess computer I can beat almost all the time.  One I can beat about half the time, and my most sophisticated chess computer beats me like a rug (even at its lowest level).  It is also impossible to play head games with a computer.  But, it plays head games with me.  I take 3-5 minutes to make my move and bam!  It answers in two seconds.  Why couldn’t they have sent me one with a defective knight?

I am careful  about playing chess.  I think chess can be a sickness like drugs or alcohol and you can end up doing nothing but playing chess and dribbling out of the corner of your mouth.  Bobby Fischer is one of the basket cases I can cite.  So, I play intensely for a couple of weeks and then I step away (probably because I have lost two or three in a row).  I hate losing

Have you noticed a theme?  Never lose, happy endings.  It is something to strive for.  How about never getting sick?  That’s too much to ask for.

Being retired also provides us with the time we need to take care of our medical problems.  It takes me a certain amount of time just to organize my pills for the week.  Then, if I could just remember to take them.

The only special project I have taken on is fighting to keep 36 holes of golf at Fort Belvoir.  Some three-bags-full bureaucrat decided 27 holes were enough.  As you might know, the Army is going to position the Army Museum on the front nine of our Gunston course.  I devoted a number of hours to shooting down the Army’s first draft environmental assessment.  We are about due for the revised draft EA.  I’ll get another shot at this one, but I’ve already written about this before (The Army is Gobbling Up Golf Courses at Fort Belvoir), so I’ll pass on.

The bottom line is that if tomorrow someone asks me how I am occupying my time in retirement, I will probably pause too long in responding.  But, I won’t be concerned.  I’m having too much fun.

I seem to be dreaming more.  Maybe it is because I am sleeping more.  The retired life doesn’t require as many 0-dark-30 mornings.

My dreams are really stupid, but at least they aren’t scary anymore.  I think we have all had that dream where someone or something was after us AND we could not move.  You want to run, but you can’t.  Usually, when you wake up, you find that your legs are so tangled in the sheet that you can’t move.  On one occasion, I kicked off all my covers defending myself.  My bunk mate is still nimble enough to avoid my arms and legs when the war is on.

I think my favorite dream is when I can fly.  I just lean in a certain direction and up I go.  I don’t accomplish squat, but it’s pretty cool.  My dreams are so short and choppy that I can’t remember much about my flights.  Don’t know where or when.  I am always disappointed when I wake up and find myself grounded.

I spend a lot of time in my dreams losing things.  I can’t find my car or my golf clubs or suitcases.  I go back to where  they were and they’re not there.  On the way, I bump into old friends who are no help in finding my stuff.  I also spend a lot of time trying to find my room in hotels.  It’s like a Harry Potter movie where all the stairs shift.  For some reason I always think I know where I am going, but I never get there.  Hotel elevators take me strange places, but never to the floor where my room is supposed to be located.

The good news is that when things really go South, I tell myself, “this has got to be a dream.”  Yes, I do!  And, I wake up.  Isn’t that neat?  When your house is about to be consumed by flames and the fireman says, “You have to leave now.”  And, I say, “I think I’ll just wake up.

I don’t think I have ever had a dream worth evaluating.  There was the one where our President told us that under his health care program we would all live to be 150 years old and never be sick a day.  Maybe that is why it will cost less.

I’m trying to think if I was ever on a plane in one of my dreams.  I really don’t think so.  But, who needs a plane when you can fly?

For our 50th Wedding Anniversary, we were taking our kids and grandkids on an Alaskan cruise.  We had been planning the event for over a year.  Coaxing, encouraging and mildly threatening all to attend.  Talk about herding cats.  When children are grown and have their own families, interests and obligations spiral in many directions.  That’s why we started early, coaxing, prodding and even playing the guilt card.

Well, it worked, and with a couple of months to go, everyone had made their plans and had their passports.  Becky and Eddie and the two grown kids were driving from Prescott Valley, Arizona to Vancouver.  Paul and Sandy and their two kids were flying in two days early from Roanoke, Virginia, to see a little of Vancouver.  Missy and Terry and their two kids were flying in the day before the cruise from Jacksonville, Florida.  We were also flying in the day before from Springfield, Virginia.  It turned out that we were scheduled to be on the same plane with Missy and her family from Chicago to Vancouver.

One of the basic rules of flying is avoid Chicago during the summer.  Well, Carole and I eventually did.

Our United flight was to depart from Reagan National at 9:30 AM to Chicago.  Our philosophy is we would rather get to the airport early and wait, than have something go wrong.  Our neighbor, Jim Vancini, graciously gave us a ride to the airport.  We arrived at 7:15 AM and checked in.  We had used frequent flyer miles to upgrade.  We were informed at the counter that we were flying Ted, not United, to Chicago and there were no first class seats on Ted.  Our first class seats from Chicago to Vancouver had also disappeared.  Then the plane was delayed until 10:24 AM.  As we only had one hour to make our connection in Chicago, it looked like we would miss it.

I am usually an optimist  and I figured if our flight was late, maybe the flight to Vancouver would also be delayed.  Missy and family (minus one), who had arrived in Chicago, confirmed that the Vancouver flight had been pushed back.  Tyler, Missy’s son, had a last minute mandatory university obligation, which dropped him from the trip. 

After we were on board and in the queue to take off, the captain came on the intercom and told us they had “weather” in Chicago and we had been put on “hold.”  We sat for 30 minutes and then the captain came on again and advised that they had shut down the Chicago tower because of a possible tornado.  What a helpless feeling.  We couldn’t get back to our gate because it was occupied by another plane.  So, we sat.

A little before noon, we taxied back to the gate.  I had spoken to a flight attendant about our 50th wedding anniversary cruise and they were concerned.  One of them said they would talk to an agent about a flight from Dulles to Seattle which might help us.  When the plane got back to the gate, a very helpful manager hooked us up with an agent.  The Seattle flight had already departed.  BUT, Air Canada (an affiliate of United) had a flight to Toronto where we could connect to Vancouver.  While it took an hour and a half, the crew actually got our luggage off of the Chicago flight.  The flight to Toronto  departed at 5:45 PM, so, again, we had plenty of time.

We picked up our luggage, checked in with Air Canada, had a leisurely lunch and went back through security.  We were getting good at many of these tasks.  We could see the light at the end of the tunnel.   And, from then on, everything went relatively well.  In Toronto, we sat on the plane for over an hour waiting for connecting passengers and then the push-back vehicle wouldn’t work.  I had visions of something getting broken.  But by 9:30 PM, Carole and I were in the air, destination Vancouver.

Missy, Terry and Kristin had not been so fortunate.  Our last call from Missy told us that all flights out of Chicago had been canceled.  They had been booked on an early flight the next day to Denver with a connecting flight  to Vancouver.  The next morning when they got to the airport, they found out the Denver flight had been delayed so that they could not make the Denver to Vancouver flight.  Did I earlier mention helpless feelings.  It is a helpless feeling when you can’t get from here to there.

Terry went up and talked to a United agent about their plight and the next thing he was frantically waiving to Missy and Kristin.  It turned out that because of all the canceled flights the day before, United had put on an additional flight from Chicago direct to Vancouver!  They were seated in the first class section and away they went.  Of course, their luggage was still waiting for the Denver flight.  But, we all made the ship.  Missy’s last suitcase showed up two days later when we docked in Icy Straits, Alaska.

The anniversary cruise was everything we planned for and expected.  There were only two mandatory formations, the life boat drill and the family photo session.  That will be this years Christmas card – no not the life boat drill.

I’m trying to figure out what’s happening.  When I was on active duty, I used to write columns for the Post newspaper and even in the local town paper.  After I retired, I missed not being published.  So, here I am, a blogger.

If a blogger blogs and nobody reads it, does it make less noise than the unheard tree falling in the forest?  Deep huh?  Well, my webmeister is GoDaddy.Com.  They help me out by keeping statistics on how many hits I am getting (and even which articles are most popular).

I check the stats all the time and about four months ago, they changed their statistical format.  The new system is called “new statistics tool”.  But, they haven’t done away with the old system.  They now call the old system “classic statistics tool”.  Does that sound familiar?  I think that is exactly what Coke did.

The “classic” tool and the “new” tool never jibe.  Their techs have explained to me that “hits” and “views” are different.  OK, I guess it is better to get a view that a hit.  Before writing this, I decided to make it my quest to understand the difference.  Now, I understand more, but I am sorry that I do.  It appears that the “new statistics tool” does not include visits to my site “from web crawling bots.”  I had no idea that web crawling bots were looking at my blog site.  If I write something funny, will a web crawling bot laugh?  For that and other reasons, I am going to be more careful what I write.  I wonder if the web crawling bots are anything like the critters in The Matrix.

As I mentioned, I can keep track of how many hits I get each day and also, what blogs people are reading.  If you Google “green visor,” Ricequips comes up.  And, I have a lot of hits from people trying to find the elusive green visor.  Then, I published a poem about Wayne and Marie Alley.  You may not know who they are, but, I guess there are a lot of people who do.  I get a lot of hits on Wayne and Marie.  I suspect they come from real people.  I don’t think Wayne and Marie know any web crawling bots.

In February, 2008, I wrote a blog entitled “Bomb Threats at Washington Square.”  It’s filed under The Fox.  It tells about a maddening summer back in 1997, when crank bomb threats were called into our building.  We would evacuate for hours, three to four times a week.  I thought it was a cute story, but I’m not fair and impartial (like Fox News).  Well, here it is over a year later and all of a sudden, I’m getting over 50 hits each day.  What’s going on?  Are these people or critters?

I know with the search engines out there, titles are important (that’s why I worked so long and hard to get this one just right).  For example, if I mention in the title, “child seat safety,” there would be a large number of well-meaning consumer groups who would scrutinize every word.  Now, I mentioned “bomb threats.”  Are terrorists interested in that?  I doubt it.  What really scares me is that our Government may be interested in people writing about bomb threats.  That’s all I need.  “No, no, not the water board again!”

I’ll bet the answer is less sinister than I have conjured up.  I mentioned my old boss, Jerry Curry and how, at that time, he was running for President.  Maybe the Curry fans found the blog.  Then, there is also the possibility that I have finally been discovered by someone other that the web crawling bots.

For a limited time, you can still subscribe to Ricequips.com for FREE.  Just what this country needs in this time of economic strife.

It was 1974 and I was teaching at The Judge Advocate General’s School, which is located on the grounds of the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.  Students were no longer protesting the Vietnam War.  For all practical purposes, it was over.  So how were these students, many away from home for the first time, to expend their energy.  The answer was streaking.

Streaking became quite popular on campuses across the nation.  It didn’t matter whether there was an athletic event or the outdoor meeting of the Ladies Horticultural Society, some young dude, naked as a jaybird, would go streaking through the event.  One of our Basic Class Graduations was interrupted by a streaker (and it was indoors).  No one seemed to get too upset.

The levity of the situation caused me to sit down and write the following letter to the editor of the Daily Progress newspaper.  They published it under the title, “After Streaking, What?”

Dear Editor:

Rah, Rah, Raw for the streaking streakers of this wonderful country.  No one should really complain.  Youth has always had an overabundance of energy and it must be expended.  So why not streak?  Just keep in mind that three years ago, some were expending their energy making bombs and burning down ROTC buildings on campus.  Bless their streaking streaks.

However, I am concerned about the longevity of streaking.  While streaking is great for comfortable spring days, I fear that the heat of the summer will have a deterrent effect upon even the heartiest of streakers and that the sport will wane.  In short, streaking will soon be out of season.

I submit that those of us who advocate harmless frolic are compelled to bring forth an acceptable substitute.  After some careful thought, I believe that gargoyling is an acceptable substitute.  This practice would consist of the student climbing up on the outside of a university building in the nude and assuming a position on the facade as a gargoyle.  Our society has long accepted the appearance of weird looking gargoyles on buildings, so it would be inconsistent to object to gargoyling.

While university students have competed to see which could gather the largest group of streakers, gargoyling, too, can have its competitive aspects;  for example, most gargoyles on campus, or the highest gargoyle on campus, or the weirdest looking gargoyle.  The ultimate contest could be gargoyling for the longest period of time.  Any student  who could hold his pose for over four hours would definitely be a contender.  By then, he would surely be subjected to fatigue, the campus police and those nasty birds.

While I realize that gargoyling, like streaking, suffers from the malady of being seasonal, those of us who are organizing the Society for the Encouragement of Harmless Frolics are already concerning ourselves with the selection of a winter sport.

                                                                    Sincerely,

                                                                    P. J. Rice

The twelfth year of my life should have been a good one.  I was learning how to pitch.  My Dad, who caught professionally, was really excited about the way I was throwing the ball.  I was playing “B” League baseball (ages 10-13) in East St. Louis and no pitcher could be 13.  So, this was my year.  The sky was the limit.

Early in the summer, a bunch of kids were taking their bicycles out Bunkum Road and so, I raced home to get my bike.  On my way to catch them, a dog started chasing the bike.  I decided that if I just ignored the dog, I would be OK.  What a dumb idea.  The dog bit me on the calf.  It wasn’t a bad bite, but it broke the skin.  I went home and my Mom took me to the doctor’s office.  We waited all afternoon and when we saw the doctor, he gave me a tetanus shot and told us we needed to find the dog.   Well, we tried, but we never did.

The moral of the story is if you are ever bit by a dog, don’t loss sight of the mutt.  I was bit again while in Vietnam and my earlier experience paid off.  I found the owner of the dog and when the dog died (that was scary), I practically lived with the veterinarians until they let me know that the dog did not have rabies.

At age twelve, I had to take the rabies shots.  Doc Stein explained that they were given one a day for 14 days and they needed to be given in the lining of the stomach.  After each shot, I had to lay down for about 15 minutes.  I felt like I had been kicked by a horse.  Doc Stein was out of town for shots 13 and 14.  So, his father, the elder Doctor Stein gave me the shots.  He explained that there was no absolute requirement that they be given in the stomach.  He gave me shots in the buttocks and thigh that were both painless.  I just checked, and today the rabies vaccine consists of four shots and they are given in the arm, like a flu shot.  What a rip.

I had my last shot on Wednesday and started getting sick on Friday.  I was weak, miserable and throwing up.  Mom took me to see Doc Stein on Saturday and he gave me some cold medicine.  We finally got him to come to the house late Sunday afternoon (Yes, they really did make house calls).  I was rushed to the hospital.  My white blood cell count was out of sight.  I had an appendicitis.

When they operated Monday morning, it turned out my appendix had ruptured and gangrene had set in.  I found out later that Doc Stein could not complete the operation and that another doctor stepped in and saved me.  I was one sick puppy.  Thank goodness for penicillin.  Every four hours, I would get a penicillin shot in my bottom.  I got to where, during the night, I could roll over and get the shot without even waking up.  My bottom looked like a pin cushion.  They left a long drainage tube in me which required my bandages to be changed every day.  Every few days, they would pull out a little of my tube and cut it off.  Now there is a strange sensation.

I was in the hospital for about three weeks.  My pitching career was over.  About a month after I got out of the hospital and while still under Doc Stein’s care, it came out in the local newspaper that Doc Stein and his wife were both addicted to morphine.  This made a lot of things fall into place.  That’s why he couldn’t finish the operation.  That’s why he had to wait until his wife got home with the car to come see me that Sunday, when they had three cars.  I also remember his secretary telling me how fantastic he was with an hypodermic needle (lots of practice).  The only good news was that office visits took less time.  He was only permitted to care for patients already under his care.

In the fall, I went out for junior high football.  I made it through the three tough weeks of preseason ball, but when the doctor showed up for physicals, I knew I was in trouble.  The hole where the tube had been had healed, but not properly.  The doctor told me that he would not approve my physical, but if I could get my doctor’s approval, I could play.  I went to see Doc Stein and he cut the skin tissue over the hole and let it drain.  I remember him saying, “This shouldn’t hurt.”  Maybe he was referring to himself.  It hurt like hell.  I healed up fine, but my 8th grade football season was over.  What a helpless feeling.

No one will ever convince me that the rabies shots in the stomach weren’t the cause of my appendix going bad and rupturing.  I have never gotten a doctor to agree with me.  They can’t tell me what caused my appendicitis.  They would just blow me off.  But, these are the guys who used to put leeches on people.

Tom Mongan and I were both born and raised in East St. Louis, Illinois.  Even though we were the same age and in the same grade (and from the same neighborhood), we never met until we went off to college.  He went to Assumption High School and I went to East Side High.  Never the twain shall meet.

Anyway, both being from the same town and away from home, we became good friends.  By the second semester, we were sharing a dorm room.  Tom was the smart one.  In English composition class, he wrote a great paper on his/our home town.  For economy of effort, I used his paper in my English composition class.  He got an A and I got a C!  I went to my teacher, Miss Hodges, and told her I really wanted to do better and could she explain to me what was wrong with “my” paper.  I knew the paper deserved better that a C.  She never did explain to me what was wrong with the paper, but she decided that it was easier to give me a B, than to put up with my constant inquiries.

Nutty Tom and I only lasted one semester together.  We got caught spraying shaving soap down the hallway.  I came up with the conclusion that they couldn’t prove it was us.  We were going to stonewall.  Then, one of the monitors produced an envelope addressed to me covered with shaving soap.  I accused Nutty Tom of looking at my mail, but it didn’t work.  Our punishment was to be separated the next year into distant buildings.

The next year, I found myself living way South and a half-mile to the North was Nutty Tom.  Those who controlled the dorm assignments had kept their promise.  That first day, one of the assistant coaches called me in and told me I needed to be assigned to a room designated for athletes.  Guess who ended up being my next door neighbor?  Nutty.

We were both conscientious students.  We just had strange work habits.  We generally didn’t do any homework until after 11 o’clock at night.  Then, we would work until we got done (usually 1:30 to 2:00 AM).  Nutty’s roommate, Luke, would go to bed at a reasonable hour and sleep through our antics.  Some time after 1:00 AM, we would find everything we said was funny.  It was a riot.  We called it “giddy hour.”  One of our favorite games was feeding Luke.  We would slip over and put a cookie on his chest.  Luke would find it and eat it without ever waking up.  This was great sport.  The only time I remember Luke waking up was when some of our group (including Mike “the animal” Magac) misappropriated a cooked turkey from a frat house and we put a drumstick on Luke’s chest.

Just to let you know, Luke did not choke to death.  Lowell Lukas ended up with his Masters in Physical Education and became a very successful golf coach at Central Connecticut State University.  In fact, Luke was elected to the Golf Coaches Association of America’s Hall of Fame.  In his acceptance speech, neither Nutty nor I received any credit for nourishing him during his formative years.  Come to think of it, I guess he never knew.

One late night, when Nutty and I were cutting across campus, a campus security guard tried to stop us to see our IDs.  I just kept walking.  We had done nothing wrong and I was sure he had no authority.  I told Nutty Tom to keep walking, but he stopped.  He took out his wallet and showed the guard a one dollar bill and said, “I’m George Washington.”

Carole, my future wife, didn’t want me hanging around with Nutty Tom.  And, Gay, a sweet Suzie Stephens, who became Nutty’s wife didn’t want him hanging out with me.  That was because when anything went wrong, we were always together and each told our future bride that it was the other one’s idea.  Everyone called me PJ and I was smug in my knowledge that PJ didn’t sound as guilty as Nutty Tom.

Well, that was a long time ago and our wives now are willing to let us get together.  In fact, they join us.  Nutty Tom became a banker in Houston specializing in trusts, investments and financial services.  I guess his title at “Nutty Tom” had to disappear after he left school.

He has a website entitled Securityimpressions.com which is quite impressive.  If you want to know financially what is going on, what went wrong and what to do about it, check out Nutty Tom’s blog site.  There is nothing on the blog site which would make you think he was once known at “Nutty Tom,” or “Nutty” for short.

I was some kid when I was growing up.  I had a lot of things figured out.  For example, in the 7th grade, I wrote a history paper explaining that when the Republicans were in power, we had depressions and financial crises.  When the Democrats were in power we would end up in a war.  I concluded by explaining that it was up to the American people to decide whether they wanted war or depression.  I was amazed by the fact that I was the first person to figure that out.  I was really annoyed when I got a C- on my paper.  So much for originality of thought!

Another thing I figured out was if you approached every game like it’s a “life or death struggle,” you lose less often.  And, I did lose less often.  I was a really bad loser and, come to think of it, a really bad winner.  Kids didn’t like me, but, hey, in a life or death struggle, where does friendship come in?

My Dad was an excellent checker player.  I wasn’t happy when he beat me, but I had removed checkers (with him) from a life or death struggle.  When I was ten, we went on a vacation in the Ozarks and I played checkers with my Uncle Bob.  I could tell from his moves that he was no match for me.  I jumped one of his checkers and the next thing I knew, he made a triple jump into my king row.  The checkers were made of Bakelite, an early plastic, and before I realized what I was doing, I crushed four of the checkers in my hand.  I wanted to play him again, but he refused to play with broken checkers.

Not much changed through high school.  I think I seemed like a normal kid until I got on an athletic field and then the adrenaline and the old philosophy took over.  When I reflect back, I’m surprised someone didn’t throw a net over me.  Then again, there was reinforcement for my philosophy.  We never lost a football game the entire time I was in high school.

Football is a sport that requires its players to be emotionally “up” for the game.  Senator John Culver, one of my partners at Arent Fox and a friend, was a star fullback at Harvard College.  He told me one day while we were on the topic, “Jack, it’s not the kind of sport where you get up in the morning and while putting on your socks, say to yourself, ‘Well, I guess I’ll go out there today and throw my body into people with the distinct possibility that either they or I will be injured.’ ”  I guess I never figured out how to get “up” for a game without being in a frenzy.

East St. Louis Senior High School played teams from as far away as Chicago and Indianapolis just to fill out our schedule.  In October, 1954, we traveled to Warren Central High School in Indianapolis.  I was the second string quarterback.  My parents went to the game.  They watched our game on Friday night and then drove up to Purdue to see my brother Bill play for the Missouri Tigers on Saturday.  We beat Warren Central 19-0 and I got to play in the 4th quarter.  I threw a long pass to one of our ends.  He was ten yards behind everyone and I hit him right in the hands.  He dropped the ball.  I went crazy.  I was storming on the field.  I was storming on the sideline.  How could he do that to me when I threw such a perfect pass?

On Sunday, my Dad sat me down and told me that Bill had not gotten into the game against Purdue.  But, he was much prouder of Bill than he was of me.  He read me the riot act regarding my antics on the field (and on the sideline).  And so the process began.  I began to realize that I had to be accountable for my actions.  At a minimum, that meant not showing up my team mates.

My rehab has never been completely successful.  But I do have an additional philosophy that I live by and recommend to you.  It is, “If what has you upset won’t be bothering you in three days, then it’s not worth getting upset over.”  If you break a plate – clean it up – move on.  Even if you have a fender bender – get over it.

This won’t come as a shock.  Even though I have been playing many sports for many years, I have never received a Sportsmanship award (never even been nominated).  But then, any committee who knew me, might think I would find the nomination insulting.

Every town should have something that they are proud of.  Back in the 1950’s, my home town had a large billboard as you entered town that said, “Welcome to East St. Louis.  World’s Largest Hog Market.”  I was impressed, but not surprised.  That’s because when the wind blew from the North, you knew something big was going on.

Springfield, Virginia is a bedroom community in the greater Washington DC area.  What it has been known for is nothing to be proud of.  It was known for its Springfield Mixing Bowl.  The Mixing Bowl was where I-95, I-495 and I-395 came together.  The reason it was called the Mixing Bowl is because local traffic and interstate traffic had to fight their way across each others lanes.  Long delays would build up in all directions.  In the early 90’s, in one year, there were 179 accidents.  That’s just about one every other day.  Delays were bad without accidents.  With accidents, bring your lunch.  No one changed the radio station or talked on the phone while negotiation the Mixing Bowl.

During the time I worked in the Pentagon, We had to fight the Mixing Bowl every day.  While driving home, South on I-95, we had to cross two lanes of interstate traffic to exit in Springfield.  My carpool had strict rules for the Mixing Bowl.  The driver concentrated on the traffic in front of him, never looking back.  The person riding shotgun would announce when the driver could move to the right.  He would announce, “one lane.”  The driver would immediately pull one lane to the right.  This was repeated until we were in the Springfield exit lane.  The only other command for the shotgun rider was “two lanes,” but crossing two lanes at one time was considered the same as winning the lottery and was cause for celebration.

Now, the Springfield Mixing Bowl is history.  Something to tell the grandchildren about.  “Kids, back in 78′, your Grandpa spent four and a half hours stuck in the Mixing Bowl.”  “Golly Grandpa, did they have cars back in 78′?”

Fixing the Mixing Bowl took eight years and $676 million.  It was a remarkable project.  In fact, I commuted to DC throughout the project and never was delayed because of construction.  Confused, but never delayed.  They did have to shut down major arteries about six times.  But, they always did it late at night on weekends.  These events, which usually involved placing huge chunks of concrete into flyovers, drew large crowds of onlookers.  No, not me.  I was tucked away.

Now that it is done, let me tell you my pet peeves on the project.  These only apply to those of us coming out of Springfield.  We are traveling East on Old Keene Mill Road heading for I-95.  The I-95 intersection has everything backwards.  If you want to go right (South to Richmond), you must get in the left lane.  If you want to go left (North to DC), you must get in the right lane.  This is just the opposite of every interstate entrance and exit you can think of.

You can say, “Well, as long as it’s clearly marked, it shouldn’t be a problem.”  But, it isn’t clearly marked.  In fact, it is deceptively marked!  The overhead sign pointing to the lane for I-95 South is pointing at the white line between the two lanes (one lane going North, one South).  That’s right, the arrow points down at the white line between the lanes.  I have seen hundreds of cars change lanes at the last second.  I suspect thousands have just gone in the wrong direction.

I have studied this overhead sign (I am sure the traffic engineers have too).  You can’t move the sign over where it belongs, because that space is occupied by a large reinforcement to the overhead structure.  I know they know of the problem, because they have painted all kinds of directional information on the roadway.  Have you ever tried to read directional information on a roadway when cars are bumper to bumper?  It’s tricky.  It may work on the interstate, but not on Old Keene Mill Road during rush hour.

I know how to fix the problem.  I have studied the sign every time I pass it.  All they need to do is tilt the sign.  Tilting the sign will move the arrow so it points to the correct lane!  It sounds easy, but I am sure there is some regulation against tilting directional signs.  Some state transportation attorney will mention the word, “liability,” and that will be the end of that.  I’ve thought about doing it myself.  It would probably guarantee me my 15 minutes of fame.  But, I am fearful that if I get up that high, my nose will bleed.

This hasn’t been a good month for blogs.  July is almost over and I believe this is just my second.  I have lots of excuses.  The water damage drained me.  We spent ten days on the road visiting loved ones.  I have taken on additional duties in my golf association (doing anything for the first time is time consuming and unnerving).  And, the dog ate my computer.  Now, you have to figure out which of the above statements is not accurate.

This is my hundredth publication and I gave a lot of thought to the subject.  I believe that 100 blogs should qualify me as a grand blogmeister.  I figured at this time on my path to blogtopia, I would be much wiser.  I am not.  But, I have learned some lessons which I would like to pass on.

First, running a website hasn’t made me a computer wizard.  I thought that I would continue to pick up neat things that I would add on to expand the excitement of the site.  I was certain by now I would be posting pictures.  I made myself a promise that it would happen by last March.  It did not.  Go Daddy runs my website and I suspect if I go back to them and tell them I want to be able to post pictures, they will make it happen.  They have been very supportive.

I suspect to get what I want I will have to spend a few bucks.  That won’t be bad.  Right now, the site costs me practically nothing.  No unkind comments please.  The good news is that the site doesn’t run on gas!

I’m a one man marketer and when anyone is foolish enough to ask me what I am doing with my retirement, they get a three-minute pitch on my website.  Then, I give them one of my old business cards with the blog site hand written across it.  I even changed my Virginia vanity license plate to “RICEQPS” (you only get so many letters).  While pumping gas, a fellow asked me about my license plate.  Out comes the cards.

Another lesson I learned is that even good friends who take my card and tell me they will visit my website don’t.  I used to pout.  Some close friends told me they would subscribe, but they didn’t.  I pouted some more.  Then, I realized that these people have a life of their own.  Not visiting RICEQUIPS.COM doesn’t make them evil or even bad.  It just makes them busy.  So, I forgive them in absentia.  Since they aren’t reading this, it will have to be in absentia.

Of the hundred blogs, I think some are really good and some should be deleted.  I don’t plan on deleting any, but I need to develop the site so people are pointed to the better ones.  The three postings that have been read the most are: TV Commercials – Can You Hear Me Now?; My Green Visor; and The Indoor Perfect Storm.  If you have read this far and are not familiar with those three, you might want to check them out.

Tim McGraw had a song out entitled, “My Next Thirty Years.”  The idea was that he would try to do better in his next thirty years.  Well, I plan to do better in my next 100 blogs.