After the Oar House, everything went black

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When a massive power outage hit the Northeast and Midwest last week, I immediately thought what a lot of other people thought: terrorism.

I was slightly reassured when the feds promised us almost immediately that the blackout was not a result of terrorism.

But I became less reassured when officials, speaking to the cause of the blackout, said, "It was in New York, a lightning strike at a power station at Niagara Falls . . . wait a minute, it was on the Canadian side . . . er . . . wait . . . it was Ohio . . . I mean, Michigan. We'll have to study that and get back to you."

Note to the feds: We always feel better when you say something about what something isn't if you can first get your story together on what it is.

Funny thing, the usual concern in blackouts is how members of the public will comport themselves. Will there be rioting? Will there be looting? Will the birth rate go up? (Hey, that's not funny, some of us have a better chance for lovemaking when it's dark everywhere.)

Turns out the rabble did fine. It was the powers-that-be who couldn't get their act together.

The blackout did bring back fond feelings, though. On Nov. 9, 1965, I was getting ready to leave for Vietnam and was calling my grandmother from a hotel room I was sharing with my uncle in Santa Monica, Calif.

My uncle, there on NASA business, had driven to Camp Pendleton to pick me up and take me out for the weekend, and I was telling my grandmother that he had taken me to a place (a really neat bar actually) called the Oar House.

"He took you WHERE?!!" my shocked grandmother asked.

When I figured out what she was thinking, I hurriedly said, "No, it was . . ."

And at that exact minute a massive blackout hit the Northeast, affecting 80,000 square miles and, somehow, knocking out telephone transmission between Miami and Santa Monica. It was a few days later before my uncle had a chance to convince my grandmother that our entertainment that night consisted of cold beer and free peanuts.

But back to my original point. The government and big business do look out for us.

This is, after all, the only nation on the planet that has a law requiring tags on hair-dryers saying they should not be used in the shower.

Two friends of mine, in their early 20s, were asked for ID a while back when they tried to rent a floor buffer at a major discount store.

"Why are you carding us to rent a buffer?" they asked.

The answer was simple:

"So you don't commit suicide with it."

They are still trying to figure out how one commits suicide with a floor buffer, and why nobody there has to produce ID to buy poisonous household chemicals, razor blades, hunting knives, or, for the creative, automobile batteries and jumper cables.

And, finally, school officials in Lee County are, like a lot of others, struggling with the financial realities of keeping up with runaway growth and considering selling naming rights for their schools.

I have no problem with Hooters Elementary or Jiffy-Lube High.

A younger, brighter colleague of mine forecasts announcements like: "Tonight's Division 1 high school football playoff game features the Roto-Rooter High Snakes against the Kelly Funeral Home High Stiffs."

Or, "And now for the singing of the alma mater: "Oh, Wal-Mart High, we sing thy praise/To succeed in learning, always/We've learned to love our our high school days/And we'll remember Wal-Mart, always."

And finally, I was approached at an event the other night by a woman who asked me where I had gone to elementary school. When I told her she said, "I was sure it was you. I remember you."

What I also remembered was that she was the prettiest girl in the third grade, which saddened me. If I had known back then that I was making the kind of impression that would last 50 years, I would have made a move.

"How did you remember him?" my wife asked. "Was he chubby then?"

"No," the woman answered. "But I do remember that he had a monkey that went to the bathroom on his head."

Oh well, at least I made an impression.

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