For Emily

I don't know about you, but I've sometimes wondered what I'd be like on the worst day of my life.  Now, I know.

It was a Thursday night.  I was getting ready for bed, under the assumption that I was going to get up at 5 am and head for work like any other day.  Like I had that day.  Then, Lynn called upstairs.  "Rick!  Get dressed and come down, now!"

A chill went through me.  The first thing I thought of was; Emily.  Something's happened to Emily.

We quickly decided to take two cars, in case one of us had to camp out while the other came home, for whatever reason.  I prayed the whole ride, while keeping one eye on the rear view mirror, because the Blazer Lynn was driving has some issues and I didn't want to lose sight of her.

There are three stages, it would seem.  There's the initial shock, when you're getting and absorbing all the information.  Then there's The Long Slog, when you're waiting for the inevitable.  Finally, there's The Long Slog 2.0, in which you get the past completed and start moving on.

Have you ever been in a room full of mourning teenagers?  It would almost be amusing to observe if you weren't going through it with them.  They don't know what to say, or what to do.  Then again, they're never supposed to.  Their friends aren't supposed to be lying there like that.  What has happened is supposed to happen to their great grandparents.  It's supposed to be expected.  It's not supposed to be one of them.

When we went to Lisbon to pick up the car, I could see it all.  The car was parked in a little lot up on a hill.  Coming down the hill, I could see across the river at the town hall and fire station.  She'd gone there to visit friends.  She got the urge to go out on her long board and cruise around the parking lot.

Did you know that they ask you to write something down, that they can then read in the OR when they do the organ transfers?  They actually read it out loud before they start.  I don't know if anyone but Dartmouth/Hitchcock does that, but I think it's an incredibly generous thing to do.  It keeps it from becoming just another job, where you disassemble a broken thing to repair other broken things.  I don't remember exactly what Lynn wrote, but it was perfect and I had nothing to add to it.

We're both proud and humbled by the fact that, entirely on her own, Emily chose to check the 'organ donor' box on her driver's license.  We both had done so ever since the option was available.  So far, five people have benefitted from receiving both of her kidneys, her liver, her pancreas, and her heart.

I have seen the hand of God everywhere, throughout this whole agonizing process.  I've felt it on my shoulder, and felt His warm embrace holding me up with I could not stand on my own.  When we finally meet face to face, I plan to sit down and ask Him about this whole thing.  I respect His opinions and decisions, most definitely, but I do have some questions.  I believe that He is active in this world, but not necessarily that everything that happens is His doing.  I also believe that He grants us free will.

I firmly believe that He knew what was coming.  He saw it when she walked out her friend's door and grabbed her board.  He knew what was going to happen when that man got into his pickup to drive home.  He knew it when she was born, and when the man in the truck was born.  I'm sure that during some battle between the Phoenicians and some warlord millennia ago, somewhere in the back of His mind, He was aware of how many days it would be before Emily Sharon Clogston would zig when she should zag.

But I don't know if He planned it; if, somehow, it was something He wanted.  There might be a thousand reasons for Him to want that.  I certainly hope the five people who received her organs are grateful to Him.  Some people are talking about it as if He did it on a whim, like He wanted another soprano in the choir, or somebody to show Him a move on that board.  Or, to spare her from something that would suck even worse than getting hit by a pickup.  They take comfort in that, and I'm cool with that.  Heck, it's a possibility.  Just because He sees all of time and space doesn't mean He can't improvise.

The burning question in the back of my mind from that first moment has been; did she know the Lord? Oddly, I find that I have a peace with that.  It was her decision, of course, but I've been getting lots of reminders that she used to come to church with us, insisted on taking communion, had favorite hymns, went to youth group.  And the couple that ran that group are pretty sure that she sought a relationship with Jesus.  It's a little scary, because the last couple of years she's been backing away from all that.  But He would never back away from her. So, I think we'll meet again.

Now, those of you who aren't Christians may be privately rolling your eyes.  That's your privilege, of course, but remember; you're betting your life that it doesn't matter.

The outpouring of support has been amazing.  Her story made the front page of the Caledonia Record, and a really nice piece it was.  I could go on and on about what an incredible person she was.  I could also go on about how aggravating she could sometimes be, but it's all consistent with the fact that she worked very had to be as unique as she could be.

At one point, she was determined to become a veterinarian.  She always loved animals.  The cats in our house were all hers.  A few of them would not have survived as long as they did without her.  I can remember her diving into the shrubbery in front of the church, through all the stickers and cobwebs and everything, to fish out a scared and starving kitten.  We named him Junie, after the juniper bushes she crawled through to get him.

When she was little, she wanted to be one of the mermaids at Weeki Watchee Springs in Florida.  She couldn't have been more than 5 or 6 when we went down there to visit family, and she just thought that was the coolest thing ever.  She loved swimming and just hanging out in the water.  Lots of people have been sharing lots of Emily stories, and they always bring a smile.  I suppose any time someone that young dies it affects a lot of people.  When it's someone in their 80's or 90's, most of the people they know are already gone and it comes down to family.  There are so many more people in your life when you're 18.

Even so, it's beginning to appear that Emily Clogston is leaving a big hole behind her in a lot of people's lives.  And, happily, just about all of it's positive.  If she ever pissed anyone off, it's because she inherited her grandfather's tendency for seeing everyone as equals.  Like him, she could talk to the Governor the same way she'd talk to a bum on the street.  If you're the bum, it's great.  If you're the Governor, however . . . Yeah, she was never real big on people who are real big on themselves.  In retrospect, Grampa Sonny was probably better at the tact thing.

To some of her friends, she might well have been the only friend they had.  Or the first.  She hung out with a lot of people that any would consider misfits, and make them feel like they were worth something.  Which, of course, they are.  But her radar seemed to be tuned to find the one person in the room that had no friends.  She understood that, often, those are the most interesting people.

Now, in saying all this nice stuff about Emily, I don't want her siblings to think that we loved her more than them.  I have been very fortunate in the fact that all four of my children are incredible people, of whom I am very proud.  I certainly can't take much credit for that.  I second-guessed every decision I ever made regarding them.  And yet, by some miracle, they're all smart, loving, talented, hell, they're even good looking!  They get it all from their Moms, of course.  Good job, Lynn and Tracey.  And, sorry about the quirks they inherited from me.

When we first saw her that Thursday night in the hospital, she looked rough.  Blood all over her face.  Even when they cleaned her up and took her to Pediatric ICU, her face was all swollen.  It took a couple of days for her to really look like herself again.  The doctors made it clear from the beginning that there was little to no hope, and they weren't even considering surgery.

They did a profusion test on Friday, in which they injected her with a radioactive dye and gave her an MRI.  It showed that there was a minimal flow of blood to her brain.  Therefore, they could not officially declare her brain dead.  That was an important point, because it presented some options.  We could have asked right then that she be taken off life support.  She'd have lain there until her heart stopped.  The worst thing with going that way would mean some of her organs would not be usable for transplant.

We decided to wait another 48 hours and let them do another profusion.  It meant two more days of agonized waiting for the inevitable.  On the other hand, it gave us two more days with our daughter, and two more days for her friends and ours to come and pay their respects.  And, it would also mean that, when officially declared brain dead, more of her could be used to help others.  In the end, it was tough, but it was worth it.

There were times when I'd swear I could almost see her standing there in the room.  It was clear that she wasn't too happy about this situation over which she had no control.  After a while, I could no longer feel her in the room.  Or, maybe she'd just settled down.

On Sunday, they did the second profusion and confirmed that there was now no blood flow to the brain.  An operating room would be prepared, and they could harvest her organs.  I find that a particularly ugly phrase; harvest her organs.  I can only think of a big combine grinding its way through a field of Hammond B-3's.  Or some guy in black robes with a scythe.

It turned out that they weren't going to be able to get her into the OR until after 11 pm.  Around 9, things started to go awry.  Her blood pressure was dropping dramatically, and sitting on the sidelines we could only watch while doctors and nurses hustled in, plugged in new equipment to supplement the regular ICU stuff.  And try and make sense of what they were talking about.

At one point, one of them came and explained to me (the only layman in the room, as Lynn's an EMT) that it seemed her body was sick of waiting and was trying to leave before it was time.  They did a bunch of stuff and watched a bunch of readouts, and things began to level off again.  At one point during a lull in the action, I went around the bed and took her hand.  I told her, "I haven't asked you for anything, but it would be a good thing if you would hang on just a little while longer."

I'd gone a few times over the four days and held her hand or brushed her brow.  Spoke a few words, maybe.  Lots of people that came held her hand, gave her a kiss, talked to her, and that's good that they did.  But I knew that she most likely wasn't aware of anything, and there just didn't seem to be any point.  I'd be pretending to do something.

After that, things straightened out and she rolled easily across the finish line at almost midnight.  I'm certain it had everything to do with the doctors and nothing to do with me, but I just had to talk to her one last time.  We watched as they wheeled her out to go to the operating room, and then we came home.

When her brothers were little they cornered me once and asked me point blank which one of them I loved more.  As I recall, I laughed.  I tried to explain to them that love isn't something I know how to measure.  You just love.  There's different kinds, in that I love their Mother differently than I love them, or my guitar, or pizza.  But no amounts.  You love.  Actually, I can measure my love for pizza, depending on the toppings.  And, I love my kids lots more than pizza.  Surely a lot differently.

The service was absolutely one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.  I hope to never have another like it.  My other three, Alex, Tyler, and Cathleen, are all under direct orders to outlive me.  They have each promised to do their best.  That goes for you, too, Uncle Paige, and all the rest of you cousins and nieces and nephews.  And Autumn, and the rest of the extended family that Emily gathered around her.  I never realized I had to make such a request, so I recommend your children get the message, and soon.  And give them a big hug, too.

Emily and Cathleen have a different Mom than Alex and Tyler, but they've known each other right along.  Still, it was Emily who took it upon herself the last year or so to deepen the connection with her brothers and get to know their Mom, Tracey Cassidy.  I'm glad she did.  In spite of occasional protestations to the contrary, family seems to have meant quite a lot to her.  And all her friends were, of course, part of that family.  If any of you are reading this, you still are.  Come by any time and say hello.

One of the interesting blessings in all this is that there's nobody to be mad at.  Reports indicate that either she hit the pickup or swerved suddenly into its path.  The driver wasn't drunk, just heading home from work.  He was a senior NH State Policemen, with EMT training.  It happened in front of two buildings full of potential first responders.  And I'm certainly not mad at God, because I have a little glimmer of how much He loves Emily, too.  Lots more than even I could.  Probably about the same as he loves me.  It's nice to not have anger gnawing at me.  It was about as pure an accident as it could have been.  We honestly feel bad for the poor fellow that hit her, and we pray for his comfort.

A number of people have been cornering me lately and asking why I stopped posting on my blog.  I had no idea that so many many people were reading it.  So, I'll start writing for it again, I suppose.  And I'll begin with this.  I also mentioned to a few in passing that I was writing this, although I had no idea of what to do with it.  They insisted I share it.  So, here it is.

Today is three weeks from that accident that took our youngest from us.  I've not gone a day of that without thinking about her and crying a little.  Liable to be a long time before I stop doing that.  No hurry.

Love,

Dad.

Weekend Update

And now with your weekend update, your humble correspondent, Rikki-poo.

Thanks, Megan - or . . . whatever.  >sigh<

Okay, just wanted to throw something out there without smearing it all over facepagetuber.  I know I haven't been putting much on here lately.  But I HAVE been busy, and creative.  The Rick Clogston Band (which has REALLY got to get another name) played at the Green House last weekend, and we rocked!  In my humble opinion, and strictly because of the incredible people I'm playing with, and probably in spite of the trite songs I wrote for them.  It felt so good to hear my own music.  We're looking at recording something, somewhere, this summer.  Hope hope hope.

The other big project on right now is a novel.  I've got 22 chapters written, and it's probably a little more than half way through.  It's been running out of me like a great river.  I've shared the early parts with half a dozen people, and none of them have gotten back to me yet.  If you're interested in reading part of it, let me know.

And that's about it for now.  Be good and keep rockin'.

Rick

The Real Curse

Generations of Red Sox fans speculated that there was a curse on their beloved baseball team. The source of this curse was supposed to be Babe Ruth, who pitched for the Red Sox in the first part of his major league career but was sold to the New York Yankees and as an outfielder and hitter kicked off the century-long dynasty the Bronx Bombers enjoy to this day.

But I think I have determined the true instrument of the curse, and Sox fans will be dismayed to learn that it is one of the most beloved figures ever to don the scarlet hose. To better understand my line of thought, I need for you to formulate in your mind a quick list of the greatest players in the history of baseball. Quick, jot down the names of the ten best players you can think of. Here’s mine, right off the top of my head in the heat of the moment:

Babe Ruth
Ty Cobb
Ted Williams
Joe DiMaggio
Mickey Mantle
Jackie Robinson
Willie Mays
Hank Aaron
Cy Young
Lou Gehrig
Stan Musial
Dizzy Dean

Okay, there’s twelve of the all-time greatest, done in less than a minute. There will be some obvious names I’ve left off, but I’d be willing to bet that many of these same names showed up on your list if you have any knowledge of the game’s history. Remember, I’m talking about all-time all-stars, greatest of the great.

That means, to be honest, that Red Sox players are few and far between on this list. Let’s be frank, now, as much as we may love Yaz, Rice, Clements, Boggs, do they really belong on a list with DiMaggio and Mays? On my list, I have two. And one of them, Cy Young, was a pitcher who played with a number of teams besides the Red Sox.

That leaves one. One that played his entire career for the BoSox. And that one happened to have been born in 1918, the last year Babe Ruth wore a Red Sox uniform. And who passed from this mortal coil in 2002, the year before the ownership of the team changed hands. Which, as we all know, led to their first World Championship since . . . what year was that? And shortly, their second.

So, I hate to say it, especially as much regard as I personally have for the gentleman in question, but it’s a possibility that this gentleman . . . could be . . . may have been . . . the embodiment of the very curse he spent his career trying to overcome. It’s as if the Red Sox weren’t allowed to have a World Championship during the lifetime of the only other man to ever wear a Red Sox uniform that could be ranked on the same level as the Babe.

Of course, this is the 21st century, and I’m a grown man, AND a Christian, and I just don’t believe in curses.

Right?

And if I did, I would note that that curse must also affect the New York Yankees, the ultimate nemesis in the most storied rivalry in the history of sport. It should be noted that the Yanks never won a championship before the acquired Babe – and before the Splendid Splinter was born – and it would stand to reason that they should never win another after Teddy Ballgame passed.

But in fact they did just that in 2010. Their 27th. And if Ted Williams was the lynchpin of the curse, then that shouldn’t have been possible.

Whew. It was all just a coincidence, then.

Right?

Bike Week

Going to the Weirs during bike week is kind of like going to the fair. Except you bring your own ride. And, it's definitely geared toward grownups.

I can remember back in '64 or '65 riding home from a Saturday night at the races in Loudon with my folks. We hopped in the car and turned on the radio and immediately learned that it would be a good idea to make a detour from our regular route. There was a riot in progress at the Weirs, on the edge of Lake Winnepesauke in Laconia, NH. It was being led by a large contingent of the Hell's Angels motorcycle club. Governor John King had called out the NH National Guard to help the Laconia PD bring order, and they arrived in armored troop carriers.

The Guard and the Police rolled over the drunk-and-disorderly bikers like a truck. The authorities suffered zero casualties. The same could not be said for the bikers.

The centerpiece of Bike Week is a motorcycle race, which is now sanctioned by the AMA and held at New Hampshire Motor Speedway. It's possible that as many as 3 to 5 % of the people coming to Bike Week actually attend the race. The rest are here . . . well, mainly because the rest are here.

It's a chance for the locals, who deal with tourists year-round, to act like tourists themselves. They get to walk around and gawk at the bikes and bikers. The place to do this is the Weirs. You can see motorcycles all over New Hampshire during this time, but there is no greater concentration of them then at the Weirs. And the best part is that most of the vendors are from out of town, so we locals can take a day off and just watch.

This year, 2008, is the 85th annual race. In the mid-1960's the race moved from wherever it was held before to Bryar Motorsport Park, a road course that also hosted sports car races, etc. One prominent feature of BMP was a knoll that overlooked the track that came to be known as Animal Hill. This was where the hardest partying took place. In the early '90's, Bob Bahre, owner of Maine's Oxford Plains Speedway, bought the track and converted it to a one-mile oval that now hosts NASCAR and the like. There is a road course, where the motorcycle race still is held, but Animal Hill is gone.

The best time to hit the Weirs is early in the week. By Friday the real crazies, the former occupants of Animal Hill, are arriving in force. The alcohol begins to flow in earnest, and it starts getting a little dangerous. On Tuesday or Wednesday, most of the bikes are expensive Harleys owned by lawyers and dentists. The well-behaved brothers and cousins of the Angels of '65.

And yes, it is definitely geared to adults. The central theme of bike week is "F--- you." It's everywhere. I never realized that there were so many ways to phrase this simple, arrogant statement of defiance. And all of them can be emblazoned on a t-shirt, ball cap, bumper sticker, tattoo, or whatever you like.

I rode to the Weirs on my Yamaha 750 on a Wednesday. I made the mistake of not getting there until about 11 am, but was lucky enough to find parking reasonably close for only five bucks. On a good Wednesday it's possible to get there early enough to park among the herd in the middle of the main street. Not only is that free, but you have the thrill of being among hundreds of really cool bikes.

The first time I rode there on my own putt, I had a 400cc Honda with a milk crate bungee-corded to the back of the seat. As I climbed off my humble little rat-bike, parked among all the chrome-plated American iron, I noticed I was being watched by two particularly heavy, hairy, leather-clad gentlemen on the sidewalk.

"It's not the bike, it's the man," I said, staring them right in the eye. They nodded, smiled, and let me live.

Bike Week is oriented around American motorcycles, and Harley-Davidsons in particular. I once saw a neat little tableau at the Weirs. One guy was standing on the sidewalk, dressed head-to-toe in Harley logo clothing from his boots to his do-rag. His friend - I assume they were friends - was sitting astride a shiny Yamaha Royal Star, a full-dress Electra-Glide knockoff. The Harley guy was merciless in his derision of his friend's 'rice-burner.' Finally, he said the magic words:

"A real man rides a Harley-Davidson," he said.

The friend gave him a sour look and said, "A real man . . . does as he damn well pleases."

Translation: F--- you. Amen, brother.

I had a great-uncle who rode a motorcycle. This was back in the day when the only bikes available were Harley-Davidsons and Indians. The Harleys were more reliable, but the Indians were faster. Uncle Earnest rode an Indian, and the New Hampshire State Police rode Harleys. He liked riding real fast, so he knew from personal experience just how fast the Harleys of the NH Highway Patrol were. Finally came the day when two troopers rolled up to his home. He thought they were there to arrest him. Instead, they asked if he would like to join up. He said he would, under one condition; that he get to use his own bike. From that day on, the New Hampshire State Police were all-Harley, but one.

My Uncle Jim Parris always had a full-dress cruiser, usually a Harley Electra-Glide. There were a few years during the late 60's when he gave it up. People were so scared of the Hells Angels and their ilk that it became difficult for the average Joe to ride in peace. Now, the Average Joe IS bike week. It's become an event for the upper middle class, who have enough money to buy the bike and can take off enough time to enjoy it.

When going to the Weirs, I try to blend in. A little mid-week bad-ass. A little. I wore a black t-shirt with a Fender Telecaster on the chest, and a hat with the Unites States Postal Service logo on it. Don't tread on me. I got a pretty good deal on a new jacket, saw a lot of cool bikes, dropped some words of encouragement on a few Christian biker ministries, and listened to a couple of good bands. Not a bad afternoon, all in all.

Bike Week dominates the whole state of New Hampshire. It used to be Motorcycle Weekend, but now is two weekends and the week in between, and is dribbling over into the weeks on either end. It is reviled by many, but makes so much money for the state that it is accepted and even encouraged. The sound of rumbling motorcycles can be heard everywhere.

Last year, on the Monday after bike week, we were at work at the Moultonboro post office right off route 25. Suddenly, one of the clerks stopped and said, "Hey, wait! Hear that?"

We all stopped. "I don't hear anything," somebody finally said.

The clerk smiled. "Yea-a-ah," she said.

Translation: F--- you. Amen, sister.

Frontier Fleet

Well, it's about time I let you know about one of my obsessions. I am a trekkie. Not a trekker. I'm not that hard-core. But, I love all the Star Trek series, from the original right through Enterprise, and have most every episode on tape. I could watch the 23rd and 24th centuries until, well, the 23rd century at least.

As you may have gathered, I also like to write. I suppose then it was only inevitable that I should discover the world of PBeM's. That's, Play By eMail. I was lucky and found a good one right away. It's called Frontier Fleet.

It takes place roughly 15-20 years after the end of Voyager, so there's some distance between the official Trek universe and what we're doing, and yet the events of that still affect what we do. There are four ships, one starbase, and of course the Academy, where new members learn how to post properly, and begin developing their character.

It's a PG-rated game, so anyone that wants to write Trek-based soft porn has to find somewhere else to go. The basic guideline is, if they don't do it on the show, they don't do it here. Given that, it's still pretty open and free, with lots of room for creativity.

My main character is Lt.JG X'ok PaRel, a half-Vulcan, half-Klingon science officer aboard the USS Valkyrie. I also write a couple of the other science officers, Ensigns Alvarez and Fletcher, but they're considered SPC's, or Special Play Characters. X'ok, on the other hand, is a PC, or Primary Character. There's also NPC's, or non-playing characters. SPC's and NPC's are characters you throw in to keep things moving, and some NPC's are available to be played by anyone, with permission from the CO. There are people in the game who have multiple characters all over the fleet. Others concentrate on one or two.

What I find most striking about the game is the consistantly high quality of writing I find there. There are, quite literally, people from all over the world. Most of the writers are from the US, England, and the Netherlands, but I don't think there's a continent not represented, with the possible exception of Antarctica. All the posting is in English, which I would think would make it difficult for some, but apparently this is not the case. Oh, you can tell some people are still learning their way around the language, but the writing is still very good. I've learned a lot, and it keeps the juices flowing.

Anyway, I'll refrain from telling you any more right now. Better that you go check it out for yourself at www.frontierfleet.net. See ya there.

Ever Since I Was A Young Boy

Had a bit of a flashback recently. Took my two lovely and charming daughters, Cathleen and Emily, to Funspot in Laconia, NH. Funspot is one of those places where you can burn through twenty buck in an hour or so, but not mind the loss for a minute. Penny arcade. One of those places where there is, quite literally, something for everybody. We get a bunch of tokens, divvy them up, and from that point on the kids know where to find me. At the pinball machines.

I used to play pinball any time I got the chance, back in the day. It was one of my primary sources of entertainment, especially when I was in the Navy in the mid-70's. For me, there were three good reasons to hang out at a bar. They had good live music, good pool tables, or good pinball machines. Maybe, in my waning years, it's time to impart some of what I've learned on this subject.

First of all, I should let you know that my style of play was not like that of a lot of pinball fanatics I've known. I don't rock the machine. I've seen a lot of people tread that thin line of manipulating the table to the edge of tilt. For those of you raised on digital video games, a pinball machine has a device sort of like a pendulum, and if the pendulum swings too far, the game ends. It's called tilt, which means you tilted it too far. There was a bowling alley on the base at Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana, where they taped the tilt mechanism down. You could literally lift the machine off the floor and roll the ball any way you wanted.

To me, that takes the fun out of it. My style was more about finesse. Use of the flippers. I have good enough hand-eye coordination that I could aim the ball fairly well, if I were in practice. Even yesterday, having not touched a pinball machine for years, I was doing pretty well.

There were three or four major manufacturers of pinball machines back then. Remember that the information I'm about to impart is in no way official statistical data, or anything of that sort. It is merely observation, based on several years during which I travelled extensively and played a wide variety of machines. The main manufacturers were Bally, Williams, Chicago Coin, and Gottlieb. I suspect that Chicago Coin and Gottlieb might have been the same company, because the machines were so similar.

My personal favorites were the Williams. They were fast! There were a lot of reasons for this, I suspect, but I believe the main one was that the table was set at a steeper angle. My favorite trick on the Williams machines was a quick double flipper action. The ball would come down and just barely nick the end of one flipper. If you hit it just right, you could knock it into the tip of the other flipper, and then it had enough purchase to shoot it back up the table. baBAM! Plus, the spinners spun faster, the strobes flashed faster, the ball moved faster, and they were noisy sonzabitches!

The main problem with Williams was that they were more cheaply made. It could be one of the things that made them so fast, but little things would break down on them all the time. A roll-over button would cease operating, a spinner would stop spinning, or even a flipper would get loose. A well-used Williams might spend half its life out of order.

Chicago Coin and Gottlieb machines were made to be taken into combat. They had Gottlieb machines at Funspot yesterday that most of the graphics had worn off them, they were so old, but they still worked perfectly. They're slow, though. Painfully slow. The ball crawls around the table. They also seem to have the glass closer to the playing surface than other manufacturers. You're always hearing this scary CRACK as the ball hits the glass.

The happy medium was the Bally machines. Tougher than the Williams, faster than the Gottliebs, and classier than either. They weren't always the first with new innovations - Williams had that distinction - but they were almost always interesting, challenging, and well-made. The only real advantage the Williams had was, they were flashier. To young men, that's a big factor. Still, as long as it gave you fun for money, they were all good, and all got played.

Way before the days of action figures and other pop culture tie-ins, there was hardly a cultural phenomenon that didn't get immortalized on a pinball machine. A big movie, a popular TV show, a hot band, just about any cultural icon could be found with a silver ball cruising around it. I've played machines dedicated to everything from Playboy to Kiss to Star Wars, to Laurel and Hardy fercrissake. Some of them had a certain 'what were they thinking?' savoir faire to them.

It was a definite high point in pre-digital, mechanical entertainment technology. Unfortunately, that simple thing alone meant it was doomed, in the same way the electric guitar has given way to the synthesizer as a provider of tonal possibilities. I could see that the best, most high-tech and up-to-date pinball machine was John Henry to Pong's steam drill. You could see the winds of change moving the world any time you went into an arcade and walked past the rows of quiet pinball machines, and saw the crowds around the Space Invaders game.

Now, there's even digital pinball games, downloadable to your computer, which is the ultimate sacrilege. Not because of some warped sense of purity, but because it's just not the same. A mechanical game like pinball requires a certain amount of finesse that no digital technology can duplicate. It's like comparing film to digital photography. At the end of the day, digital is still tiny square blocks of pure color, and no matter how small the squares get, that's all they'll ever be.

So here's to the remaining pinball machines in the world. Long may they ding, bang, buzz, flash, and ratchet.

First pitch

Hi. This is my first post to my own blog. Hope you have as much fun reading it as I think I will writing it. It will be about everything.

I think the first thing I should do is explain the name. Peter Pan is, of course, the boy who never grows up. A lemonade stand is the kind of business where the proprietor gets to decide the product line and the price. This proprietor also gets to decide what gets listed on the bottom line. Lemonade is what the wise person makes when life hands them lemons. I happen to love lemonade.

I have a lot of interests, and if I keep doing this, we will eventually cover them all. There is one more thing that I'd like to dump in your lap today, and that is my favorite bible verse. Luke 17:10. Be a good Berean, and look it up. Dat's all 4 now.

r