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The Jumps

Apr 30, 2009 05:00PM ● By Super Admin

“The jumps!” I cannot overstate how important those two words have been to my boys and their neighborhood buddies. The question, “Dad, can we go down to the jumps?” was always asked with such a breathless excitement that bordered on hyperventilation. I often said “yes,” partly out of fear that a “no” would cause them to black out.The jumps were a series of...well, dirt bicycle jumps dug out of a vacant lot behind our housing development. There were ramps, bumps, grooved turns, small dips and some outright craters. It looked as if a giant mutant mole passed through, followed by a backhoe, making it all the more impressive to realize that it was created entirely with shovels wielded by kids who would otherwise find it difficult to put their dishes away.  The lot of jumps was a wide, open space, bristling with wild grass and star thistle that an occasional jackrabbit will still startle up from. One edge of the lot is lined with a narrow grove of oaks and through them dawdles a small, lethargic creek that is home to frogs, ducks and beavers. It is far from being a wild land though – homes peer down from a small ridge above the trees. An office complex sprouts from another low hillside. And the back of the lot is bordered by railroad tracks where, sometimes, a rumbling locomotive would let out a blast on its horn, further validating to the boys that the jumps were in fact a good place to be.  And they were. The jumps represented a relic of something now nearly extinct in much of Suburbia: unstructured, unsupervised play. There was no entry fee, no waiver to sign and no time limit for how long they could stay  (provided that all their homework was done). The only rules were those the visitors made themselves. There were no coaches at the jumps, no team to make, nobody to impress other than each other. Occasionally we parents wandered down to watch, and unable to help ourselves we dispensed the usual admonishments of “be careful” and “slow down.” But the words carried less authority and conviction than at home, because really, the jumps were not our place. The jumps belonged to them.   Ah, but recently a bulldozer came in and flattened down the jumps. I’m sure it was the landowner, understandably worried about liability in an age when a restaurant can get sued for serving a hot cup of coffee. I don’t know who owns the land but it doesn’t matter. The day the jumps were laid low, every kid in our neighborhood wore a look like someone had just licked all the red off their sucker.There’s talk about building the jumps back up again and I haven’t discouraged it. Places like the jumps are more than just where kids can go to show off to one another; they are places to learn that Mom and Dad don’t always have to be there to set the rules, settle a disagreement or pick them up after a fall. As a result, our kids possibly start developing a sense of independence, or self-reliance. Our kids can be tough, if we let them be. In fact, while lawyers and other killjoys will probably disagree, I hope the kids do build the jumps back up again. I hope before long they’re back out in the fresh air, pedaling like crazy through that empty expanse toward ramps that send them soaring. Maybe I shouldn’t because I’m the adult and I should know better. But I think the world needs places like the jumps, where a kid can still have some good free fun. Besides, perseverance is another good thing to learn, so where better to learn, than a place like the jumps?Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1.

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Deadliest Catch

Mar 31, 2009 05:00PM ● By Super Admin

The best part of my favorite show is during the opening credits. It happens as Bon Jovi sings, “I drive all night, just to get back home.” During the first line, the bow of a crab boat plunges down, cleaving a wave in half. Spray explodes. Over the next line, that image fades into a tight side shot of Skipper Sig Hansen’s head, and for a moment, the spray – which is being raked by a fierce gale – aligns perfectly with Hansen’s blonde swept-back hair, as though one is becoming the other. As the fade-in continues, Hansen slowly turns and glares into the camera with eyes as hollow as sea caves. He looks like a Viking ghost.“Lucky edit!” says Todd Stanley, when asked about the scene later. For some reason, I don’t believe him. Todd and his brother Doug are the Emmy-award-winning creative forces behind Discovery Channel’s Deadliest Catch. Not bad for a couple of dropouts from Roseville High School who were lured away by the temptation of being river guides. In fact, it was on the Colorado where they met a fellow guide who shot video in his spare time;  he taught the brothers, and they began their adventure. Long story very short, a decade later they’re in L.A. freelancing for tabloid shows like Extra! when Discovery called. Alaska was on the line.The brothers agree that being raised among the rolling hills of Roseville and Rocklin prepared them in a way for the rolling nothern seas. “It was the Wild West back then,” says Todd. “Just wide open fields and motorcycles, having a good time, learning about being outside and being on your own.” Doug adds that living so close to world class skiing, rivers and climbing has nurtured their sense of adventure. It also made it impossible to forget where they came from, which is why they both live here now; Doug in Roseville, Todd in Lotus.On the show, Phil Harris (the Chewbacca look-alike) is one of the captains featured. It wasn’t easy adapting to a camera crew on board his boat, the Cornelia Marie. Harris says plainly, “If you don’t like a guy, it can be a real pain in the [butt].” But Todd, a producer/cameraman, and Doug, a producer and director of photography, earned his respect. “Doug is amazing...he can bring things out of people that they just don’t want to talk about.” And Todd...? “He’s completely different, but every bit as good. And he helped me when things were looking really bad,” says Harris. He’s referring to last season, when he became dangerously ill while still at sea. It became the show’s main storyline. Todd stayed by his side as Harris navigated through bone-jarring seas to get emergency medical attention for what turned out to be a potentially fatal blood clot in his lung. The captain is grateful. “It wasn’t in his job description to stay with me. He did it because he’s a great guy, and he cared.”Though, normally neither brother would be found holed up in the relative comfort of a warm wheelhouse, an example not lost on their crew. “They’re good mentors,” says Ben Zupo, a Sacramento native who’s worked two seasons as a cameraman. Has he ever seen them do something to make him question their sanity? “...All the time!” Probably not something their parents want to hear.I asked the guys if they’re ever concerned for their safety.  Todd said he gets too involved with his work to worry. Doug simply announced that he’s yet to see a wave big enough to scare him. Another nugget their parents could likely do without.So, what about the folks? “In the early days they couldn’t really figure us out,” says Doug. “And they are still quite worried whenever we go to sea because one storm could take out the whole family lineage!” The brothers chuckle at that one. But with the boys hauling in Emmys like the Cornelia Marie hauls in crab, at least the folks are proud. “We’ve finally became bona fide to them!” says Doug. More chuckles.It’s a long way from the comfort of my couch in Roseville to the bitter cold of the Bering Sea, but thanks to Todd, Doug and my cable provider, I’ll be making the trip again this year. The sixth season of Deadliest Catch starts next month and I can’t wait for Captain Sig’s glare! Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1.

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Batter Chatter

Feb 28, 2009 04:00PM ● By Super Admin

Hey, how ya doin. I’m a backstop. Yep, that big metal thing behind home plate at a ballpark near you. I know...I’m not supposed to be able to talk. Well, your kids aren’t supposed to climb on me, so we’re even. Tom was a little too busy (i.e. he couldn’t think of anything to write) so the editors asked me to step in and share a few of my thoughts on a national treasure that’s about to come back around again, youth baseball.I’ve been a backstop for a long time. The parks department put me up in ‘83. I’m 20 x 16 panelized feet of galvanized steel. I’ve seen a lot of kids playin’ ball and there’s nothing I love more. I guess you could say it’s my reason for being. Over the years I’ve noticed that a few certain elements seem to be the keys to success for everything from boy’s hardball to girl’s softball – both of which I love, by the way. Hey, backstops don’t play favorites (and neither do the umps, but no one ever believes me on that one).One: The parents gotta not only care, but care for the right reasons. If their six-year-old doesn’t poke a homer off the tee, they still oughta get a trip to the ice cream shop after the game. I’m happy to report, most parents get that. But I think the same should go for a 12-year-old. Yeah, they may look like a big-leaguer when they step up to the plate or onto the pitcher’s mound with their game face on, but in the dugout they’re still having burp contests and arguing over who would win in a fight, Batman or Spiderman. Come to think of it, so are a lot of the players in adult recreational softball leagues. Two: Hopefully your kid is out there because they love the game, because there’s no doubt they’re out there because they love YOU. They want you to be proud of ‘em – even the little tyke doing the pee-pee dance in right field. Never stop letting them know how great you think it is that they lace up their cleats – even if they’re tying them on their own now. Three: They’re learning a game – how to hit, throw, run it out to first, all that stuff. But they’re also learning life lessons like fair play, good sportsmanship and making a commitment to others. If you’re tryin’ to stack a team in the pre-season draft, or yellin’ at a 15-year-old ump for missing a call at second, or always missing practices or getting your kid there late, think about the message that sends. It sure ain’t one they’re gonna run on the scoreboard between innings at Pac Bell Park. Four: Winning is great. It’s awesome. It makes me quiver right down to my anchor blocks. But win with class – clamp down on any smack talk or in-your-face celebrations (and that includes some of you parents in the stands). And while you’re at it, teach them how to lose with grace. Sure, it’s fine to kick a little dirt, but losing a little league game shouldn’t be anything that ruins a weekend, or even the ride home. Five: Teach ‘em to support their teammates. Parents and coaches are one thing. But there’s nothing better to the ears (or heart) of a kid who just struck out for the fifth time in a row than to get some encouragement and a pat on the back from a teammate. When they finally do uncork one, it’ll be tough to tell who’s got the bigger smile.Six: Countin’ on your kid to be the next Jenny Finch or Dustin Pedroia? Great, but don’t push ‘em too hard or else you run a real risk of burning them out or wearing them out before they even reach high school. Let your kid’s drive lead you...not the other way around. That’s not to say don’t push a little, but never let that push become a shove.Seven: The most important – enjoy these moments. Once they’re gone, that’s it. You wanna come away with some great memories, right? Well, so does your child. Support, teach, and support some more. It’s pretty simple. Oh, and don’t forget the ice cream. •Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1.

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Dancing Daddy

Jan 31, 2009 04:00PM ● By Super Admin

Given the state of the economy, I have decided that I need a back-up career. My regular job seems secure enough, and for that I am truly thankful. But these days you never know, so it’s good to have a back-up plan. Mine is: A Dancing Sign Guy.  I’m not saying I’m a great dancer. To the contrary, I dance like Frankenstein stomping on ants with his shoes on fire.  But I don’t think you need to be a good dancer...just have a little enthusiasm. I mean, how often have you seen a “dancing” sign person who could better be described as a “standing” sign person, or a “sitting” sign person, or a “not-sure-where-they’re-at” sign person? C’mon guys...you’re not making me want to visit your new apartment complex very badly. Move around a little. Shake that thang. Uh, the sign, I mean. Mostly...but shaking other thangs probably wouldn’t hurt, unless doing so causes a slipped disc. Next, if you can, kick it up a notch. Add a little something extra, something that draws eyes to your presentation like wasps to a salmon barbeque. For example, there’s a young lady who dances sign (I’m not sure if that’s how they put it, but if truck drivers can say they “drive truck” I think it should be okay) on the corner of Garfield and Greenback. She can spin the sign on her finger like a basketball while simultaneously displaying footwork that would make her a finalist on Dancing with the Stars. Or, she’ll bend at the waist and whirl like a dervish, with the sign on her back rotating in the opposite direction. The Kings ought to hire her for a half-time show.Then there was a guy who used to sign wrangle for a furniture store on Riverside. He was unbelievably, another great dancer, who moved like he had certain sensitive parts of his body hot-wired to a car battery. Last I heard, a new gated community in the Bay Area hired him. Yeah baby...the Big Time.   But, again, dancing per se isn’t wholly necessary. For a while there was a guy on the corner of Junction and Foothill, who would simply head bang...I mean hard-core, neck-snappin’, scalp-flippin’, Angus Young-apin’ head banging. I don’t know what music he had in his headphones but I’ll bet it came with a parental advisory sticker. He would lurch and stomp menacingly towards traffic – think Gene Simmons straining at his dungeon chains – while shaking his sign as though it read “ROCK ON PUNY MORTALS” instead of “Mr. Pickles.” He made the idea of a sandwich seem like a power chord for your belly.Anyway, that’s the point. Like any job, you need a little zeal, and you need to know how to use it. So no, I don’t dance well. But give me a sign and step back, because I’ve given this a lot of thought and if I ever get this gig, I would take fundamental enthusiasm and the only dance steps I know – which are stolen from Bruce Springsteen in his “Dancing in the Dark” video – and combine them with the one irresistible force I can bring to the table (or busy street corner)...my man-kini. A joke gift (I hope it was a joke) from my wife for my 40th birthday – it’s never been out of its box. Really. No, REALLY. But it’s there, on a closet shelf like a skimpy, tiger-striped fire extinguisher, in case of emergency. I can hear the drivers now: “Oh my, what is that creepy sign guy wearing? (Enter gag reflex.) Hey, six months of free cellular service from Joe’s Mobile Phone Hut?!” I wouldn’t be a “Dancing Sign Guy.” I’d be a “Dancing Sign Daddy.” You know, on second thought, let’s just hope that I keep the job I have, and this whole recession thing is over really, really soon.Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1.

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The Driver’s Permit

Dec 31, 2008 04:00PM ● By Super Admin

My feet brace against the floorboard. My heart sounds like a galloping horse inside my chest. I grip the dashboard with both hands, which is dumb because if the airbag deploys, my arms will be snapped like brittle little branches. But I can’t help myself – I am experiencing one of the most underrated terrors of parenting: the learner’s permit.  For 15 and-a-half years, we’ve only cared about the safety of our children. From Mr. Yuk stickers on cleaning products to practically encasing them in bubble wrap before letting them ride a bike or skateboard, we have exercised a remarkably okay, sometimes excessive, degree of control to help our kids remain unscarred.    But all that “control” ends the day they get their driver’s permit. It’s the first real whiff most of us get in learning that from here on out, our teen’s fate will lie less with us, and more with their own developing judgment skills. And, with this particular milestone you get to sit right there with them and share the consequences of any momentary lapse of reason.       The child is my daughter, Emma. For most of her life we maintained that she would never drive until she turned 18. But, that changed when she hit high school and we suddenly found ourselves serving as her personal chauffeurs for her increasingly busy school and social calendar. She’s a lousy tipper to boot. So she spent much of the summer whittling away at her online driver’s test, proudly reporting that she’d scored 88 percent on the final exam. “What about the other 12 percent?” I asked. “Oh it was something about merging onto the freeway, and what you do if your brakes fail,” she responded. Great. “I’m joking, dad.” Ha. Ha.They say there are no atheists in foxholes? I would also add “or in passenger seats next to someone with a learner’s permit.” In fact, barreling down Roseville Parkway with your inexperienced 15 year-old is pretty much the definition of faith: faith in God, your kid, other drivers, and your vehicle’s air bags. You suddenly appreciate the preciousness of life, and how fast 45 mph really is.I am by nature a fairly excitable individual. I can’t help it. I cheer when my team scores. I applaud good news. I scream at oncoming headlights. So it’s been a challenge these last few months to maintain a consistent level of calm in certain driving situations. I have found that politeness helps.  “Dearest daughter, you almost cut in front of that speeding cement truck.”“I had my blinker on.”“My lovely first child, did you know he was even there?”“After he honked, yes.”“Reflection of your mother’s beauty, if you do that again you’ll be riding public transportation until you’re 80.”Truthfully though, she’s getting better. She’s learned that yellow does not mean “punch it,” the radio is best left on dad’s station, and a good left turn means all four tires remain in contact with the pavement. She’s even learned to use her blinker. In a few scary months, it will be like setting a baby duck free to paddle across a pond that you know is filled with voracious, duckling-loving bass. Comforting, right?   I know 2009 is going to be an interesting year for all of us: a new president, an uncertain economy, the Kings. But unless you’re in the same passenger seat as my wife and me, count your blessings. And if you see a red Passat with a starry-eyed teen behind the wheel, and Dad with his eyes closed in what looks to be prayer, please, give us room. Especially if you’re driving a cement truck. Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1.

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Christmas Music

Nov 30, 2008 04:00PM ● By Super Admin

I  can handle stores breaking out Christmas decorations in September. I’m okay with the crass commercialism that permeates the season like the over-scented candles at a holiday craft fair. I don’t mind trading paint with other shoppers in the crowded Galleria parking lot on random weekends in December. But the one thing I cannot stand at this time of year, that sets my teeth on edge and drops me to my knees begging for mercy from the sweet manger-baby Himself is…Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmas Time.”Don’t get me wrong. I like Paul McCartney. I absolutely appreciate his place in the pantheon of popular music. His work with the Beatles is unassailable, as is much of his solo work (“Say, Say, Say” excluded). But, as sure as even supermodels pass gas, music geniuses too, are capable of occasional noxiousness and sometimes you have to crack a window. Just hearing those first cloying synthesizer notes… “bow-ow-ow-ow…dow-ow-ow-ow-ow,” makes me want to shake my fist at a mall Santa and kick his elves in the shins. Why? Let’s take a look.  The lyrics. “The moon is right, the spirits up, we’re here tonight and that’s enough, simply having a wonderful Christmas time.” Really? That’s the best you could do? You’re the guy who gave us, “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make!” But these “Christmas” lyrics…they have all the depth of a wading pool. And notice, Sir Paul gets to the chorus so quickly, it’s as though he knew it was a dreadful plunge best taken as soon as possible. The lack of passion. McCartney wanders through the vocals like he’s talking to someone who he’s not quite interested in. I picture him thumbing through a Lands’ End catalog while he was recording this.  The melody. It’s catchy...kind of like pink eye. “Siiiimply…haaavving… awonderfulchristmastime,” is repeated over and over like there’s a terrible skip in the record. But there isn’t. He meant to do that to us. It worms its way into the living room of your brain, lays itself out on the couch and starts ordering movies.  The frequency of play. When the Muzak at Arden Fair or Sunrise Mall switches over to all-Christmas on the day after Thanksgiving, the relentless onslaught begins. On soft rock radio stations around the country, “Wonderful Christmas Time” gets scheduled more often than commercials for the Shane Company. The disturbing fact is, it gets played a lot for a reason: there are those who walk among us who actually enjoy the song. I believe these are the same people who take an hour to back out of a space in a busy mall parking lot.  In the nearly four minutes that this song is allowed to breathe, I can completely understand John Lennon’s issues with Paul.For the record (no pun intended), I am not a Christmas music-hater. I love “The Christmas Song,” and “White Christmas.” I will hum, if not sing along to “Jingle Bells,” “Frosty the Snowman,” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” I think Martina Mcbride’s interpretation of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is among the most beautiful sounds ever offered to the human ear.  And that ultimately is the point. There are thousands of other songs more worthy, more deserving of a spin than “A Wonderful Christmas Time” – including the “Jingle Cats,” the “Barking Dogs,” and “Grandma Got Run Over by Reindeer” (but just barely). And so I beg the Chai-tea-sipping program directors of soft rock stations and Muzak to please, in this season of mercy, have a little on us. Help make it a truly wonderful Christmas time and stop playing that song. And when “those people” call to complain that it isn’t being played? Be polite, but please suggest that perhaps the best thing they could do is to simply hang up and finish backing out of their parking stall.Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1.

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Blazing Heroes

Sep 30, 2008 05:00PM ● By Super Admin

On July third, I hiked with my son to the top of Mt. Tallac, above Lake Tahoe. From our 9,700-foot vantage point we could see 360 degrees. It was beautifully clear and the lake below us glimmered like an alpine sea. But above us, angel-hair wisps of smoke drifted like cobwebs along the jet stream and to the north a hundred miles or so, a great industrial-sized column of smoke billowed from the hills of Butte County. West of us, in the Desolation Wilderness, Pyramid Peak rose starkly against a sky jaundiced from fires in the American River Canyon. It would be the last nice day we’d have for a while.As I write, it is now mid-July and our air is filled with a choking yellow haze. The smoke from those fires, and others, collects in the valley like a searing fog. It stings the eyes, scratches the throat, and turns anything more than a hundred yards away into ethereal smudges. Like a skein of oil on the surface of water, it seems to settle the very air that carries it. A lid of heat holds it all down and inside we cook. In the foothills it’s worse: the honey-colored haze is sticky and thick among stands of oaks. It doesn’t just dissolve whole ridges, it erases entire mountains.  In those mountains, fire crews battle. There are thousands from all across the country and fire stations just down the street. Dressed in lemon yellow and armed with hoses, chainsaws, shovels and bulldozers, and supported from the air by nimble helicopters and lumbering C-130 tanker planes, they climb into the fire, stomping up steep slopes at high elevation, sometimes bearing packs weighing sixty pounds. They drink gallons of water and burn up to 7,000 calories a day. They are streaked with sweat, dirt, grime and soot. They watch for rattlesnakes and poison oak and tree branch torches that burn free from their trunks and fall without warning. They watch the wind, wary of any sudden gusts or unexpected eddies that could rouse the flames and quickly whip them into a life-threatening frenzy. These men and women are scratched and bruised and fatigued to their core. But still they fight, because it’s what they do and it’s what they love. When you live down here among the stoplights, cul-de-sacs and shopping plazas, the wilderness we visit only in the best conditions can become abstract and taken for granted. Now, as it burns and the smoke fills our streets and our lungs, we are reminded once again that all of us—man, beast, and sugar pine forest—are connected.Firefighters, like soldiers and police officers, belong to a profession that we too easily take for granted, until they’re needed. And too often we fail to pay proper tribute unless tragedy strikes.A few weeks after writing the initial portion of this essay, the worst happened and nine firefighters were killed in a helicopter accident in the Shasta-Trinity National Forest. Days before that, two other firefighters lost their lives. Our hearts go out to their families. Our gratitude resides with their memories.In this issue, we celebrate the best this region has to offer. I hope in some small way this piece serves to pay proper homage to the men and women who risked everything to step into the ring of fire this long, hot combustible summer.  Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1 KNCI.

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Wine Class

Aug 31, 2008 05:00PM ● By Super Admin

You can love something without understanding it…just look at the popularity of Lost. But it’s always nice when you do know something about the object of your affection. Take wine for example. I enjoy the occasional sojourn to the vineyards of Placer or El Dorado County with friends. But when I get there, I see others sipping, swirling and saying things like “it’s got good legs” and I end up feeling uncomfortable and intimidated, at least until the third or fourth stop. Rick Kushman, the longtime TV columnist for the Sacramento Bee, (and their funniest writer, if you don’t count the angry letters-to-the-editor) enjoyed wine, but didn’t much understand it either. So he wrote a book. “A Moveable Thirst,” co-authored with Hank Beal, the executive wine buyer for Nugget Markets, is a great read for anyone who has ever wondered if there was room in the wine world for people who don’t walk around with the collar up on their polo shirt. I caught up with Rick to get the scoop:T: Why wine? Why not beer…or grain alcohol?R: It would have been tough to get our wives to let us tour grain alcohol plants, and believe me, I’ve asked. Seriously, wine is fun and it makes food, and life better. Plus the more you learn about it, the more interesting and the more fun it gets. And the subject needs normal people writing about it to spread that sense of fun. Not that I’m normal… I’m just saying.T: What’s the number one mistake of the novice wine drinker?R: Listening to other people, and looking at price. I say in the book, if you love it you’re right; if you hate it, you’re right.T: Which wine has the most pretentious fans?R: Cabernet, European cabs and cab blends. Cabs are big money reds –  the ones that can get cultish and exclusive and let people pretend they’re cool. I’ve never figured out why people think wine makes you cool. I mean, would you do that with anything else, like, say potatoes? Who says, “I only eat imported potatoes?”T: Which wine has the least?R: White Zinfandel. When someone asks what he or she should look for in a glass of white zin, I tell them, “the buzz.” T: When some people sip wine, they taste blueberries and apricots and chocolate. All I ever taste is wine. Is there something wrong with me?R: Tom, there’s a lot wrong with you, but nothing involving wine. You can smell a cake and know if it’s chocolate, so eventually with some practice and attention, you’ll get different smells and tastes out of the wine.   T: Three questions a novice should ask to look more wine savvy?R: First thing: never try to look wine savvy because there’s no reason. Who cares if you’re not a pro? But, the questions to ask are really simple: “Tell me about your wine?” “What might I notice in it?” and “What food would it go well with?”T: Three questions they shouldn’t?R: “Can I have more?” “Is that hot server single?” And, “Was that your cat I just ran over?”T: Your book is about Napa, but what about the Sierra Foothills? When are you going to give those wineries some love?R: I do love the wineries in the foothills. And I’ll be writing about them in the Bee in my new column, The Good Life, and on the Bee’s wine Web site, sacwineregion.com. And, yes, my professional life now involves drinking wine and watching TV. See what going to college gets you?T: Your favorite wine to review TV shows with?R: Anything with high alcohol [content]. T: Is it true that a guy sniffing the cork is an uninformed tool?R: Total tool. When they drop the cork on you at dinner, do not touch it, or put it in your pocket, [just] ‘cause you paid for it. There’s nothing you can get from the cork.T: Thank you for helping me no longer be “that guy.”R: Uh, Tom, buddy, you’re still that guy. But I do what I can.T: Last question: Now that you’ve explained wine to me, can you explain Lost?R: The only thing I can tell you Tom is: the more wine you drink, the more sense Lost makes.Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1 KNCI.

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Flyin' Solo

Jul 31, 2008 05:00PM ● By Super Admin

W hile Tom is on hiatus this month, I volunteered to share my recent first-time-pilot experience. I was contacted by letsgoflying.org (sponsored by the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association) to do a story on their services. I don’t think I’ll be interviewing at Southwest anytime soon, but the opportunity gave me a nerve-racking, yet breath-taking Top Gun experience, not to mention an impressive conversation starter.After making sure to have my proper caffeine intake (alertness is key when flying... so I’ve heard), I met my instructor, along with my photographer (yes you’d better believe that I needed documentation of this event) at the Sacramento Executive Airport. Thankfully, it was a clear day, and my instructor, Ed, could not have been more reassuring… until we sat down at a small table to go over some pre-flight “basics.” Looking back, I’m not sure that “basic” was the appropriate word to describe the numerous technical terms that were thrown my way. I really had not been nervous, up until I got the “basics.” When Ed started explaining what each of the 27 gauges (don’t quote me on that figure) in the cabin were used for, I took a big gulp and quickly tried to remember if I brought along my anti-anxiety medication. But there was no time to think, I just listened as if it were life or death. After seeing the color draining from my face, Ed let me know that he would be sitting next to me and able to take control of the plane at any moment. Phew. He also informed us that if you put all of his flights together, he has been in the air for over a year and a half. Another sigh of relief. After the “basics” flew right out of my left ear, we headed to the field to pick our plane and perform all of the pre-flight inspections. With everything in check, we boarded the tiny, I mean tiny plane (is there such a thing as a SmartPlane?). Initially my biggest challenge was mastering the headset radio (not a good sign). Once I figured out the winning technique of pushing my lips up against the microphone to actually be heard, I moved on to firing the engine. So exhilarating that I temporarily forgot that I had much more to master. Next came my second biggest challenge: taxiing in a straight line while moving forward (easier said than done). When you taxi you actually steer with your feet, left peddle turns you to the left and so on, but you must also hold the wings somewhat level using the steering wheel (or the yoke I think it’s called). The procedure is very unnatural, like trying to pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time. Once I maintained a straight path for... oh, a few yards, Ed smiled and said I was a natural. Now it was time for take off. I was as ready as I ever would be, and frankly there was no turning back without a great deal of embarrassment (although I considered it). Taking off was as easy as pushing a button. Ed instructed me to slowly push in the throttle until we reached a certain number on one of those gauges that I wasn’t paying attention to in the beginning, and then I simply pulled out on the yoke to lift the nose of the plane off of the ground. And, voila! I was flying! I only knew that because Ed told me that I was. Flying over downtown Sacramento Ed coached me through the regular drills such as steering the plane in different directions and changing levels of altitude. As we ended our sightseeing, and I unclenched my teeth, Ed asked if I’d like to try landing myself. But just then, a gust of wind turned us a little sideways, and I replied that I’d let him handle the touch down. I didn’t want to push my luck; I would save the crash-landing for next time!

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