Only one thing is constant in the newspaper business … and that is change. Everyday brings something different.

As a newspaper editor, my job is to allocate our resources in a way to produce the best products we can for you, the reader, everyday. If you regularly read our print or online products, you know we’re always tweaking, always looking to improve.

This week came the latest changes, which are geared toward making our products more reader friendly than ever before.

You may have noticed many of our destination, or specialty pages, disappeared this week. Pages like Business, Health & Wellness or In Your Schools, pages that have traditionally run during a given day each week, are no more.

Instead, we now bring you that type of news everyday. Rather than dedicating a page or two once a week to the latest business news, or the latest in entertainment, you’ll now find those items on our pages everyday. When we find out about something, it goes into the next edition in which space is available – no waiting.

It’s now easier than ever to get your latest event, announcement or photos into the paper too. Rather than keeping track of who our business reporter, or health reporter is, you can simply send all of that information to news@noblesvilledailytimes.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it and we’ll make sure it gets published.

Did I mention photos? If you’ve got a news item about a new employee, or your child has accomplished something in school, send along a photo. If you see something interesting in the community, take a shot of it and e-mail it to us.

As I’ve mentioned many times before in this space, this is your paper. It’s news about you, and it is often news by you.

In coming weeks we will introduce further changes that will give you even more input into your community newspaper – an unprecedented amount of input that will allow you to decide what your daily newspaper looks like.

Stay tuned. More change is coming.

About once a week my buddy, Barry, and I get together to play guitar and hang out. We almost always play an Uncle Tupelo song called “New Madrid.”

The song references the New Madrid Fault and infamous earthquake prognosticator Iben Browning, including a lyric, “Mr. Browning has a prediction … .”

Browning, while credited with successfully predicting other earthquakes, had speculated that a major earthquake was likely along the New Madrid early in December 1990. He said there was a 50 percent chance of a major quake, in fact, which he based on expected heightened tidal forces at that latitude at that time. The big one never happened.

Well, this Mr. Browning did not predict the earthquake that shook the Midwest Friday morning. But I did make two separate New Madrid Fault jokes in the week preceding the tremors – which appear to be somewhat prescient.

The first comment came last Sunday during a softball game. My friend Chris – a really big guy – ripped the ball to the wall and was trying to leg out a triple when he slid into third and was tagged out. Of course this drew considerable smack from most everyone on our team, particularly after I said seismologists across the country were trying to figure out if the New Madrid Fault had just given way.

I had totally forgotten that joke, when I once again referenced the fault Thursday in our newsroom. When large trucks drive past our office here at the Model Mill Building they often rattle our walls. One truck caused a great deal of seismic activity Thursday. When reporter Rebecca Sandlin asked “what was that?” I responded, “the New Madrid Fault.”

A few hours later, a real earthquake would be rattling our newsroom. I mean, is that weird, or what?

At the very least, you have to admit feeling the earth move in central Indiana was a unique experience. I’d never felt an earthquake like that before. For us here, it was kind of cool. No major damage was reported. No one was hurt. And it gave the local TV stations the opportunity to preempt the national morning news shows and send Tree Boy to interview the rattled masses at an area doughnut shop.

Fortunately, it wasn’t the big one – and Mr. Browning’s prediction has still not come to fruition.

But the great quake of 2008 did allow for one self-fulfilling prophecy. When I arrived at work Friday morning, an e-mail from Barry was waiting.

“I guess we know what we’re opening with tonight,” he wrote.

I’ve detailed the nearly-obsessive love my son has for all things racing many times. It’s scary how big a racing fan he is as a 4-year-old, watching every NASCAR and IRL race that is on television, and using racing jargon as he plays with his toy cars — or his sister’s baby strollers for that matter.

He does not get it from me. I love sports, but have never been a huge motor sports fan. I’ve not discouraged his obsession. Afterall, it’s not like he’s becoming a white supremacist or a Pistons fan. In the past couple years, I’ve learned far more about racing than I ever imagined I would because of Zach.

Well, now it appears he has infected his sister.

Sunday offered up a tricky twin bill of racing, with the NASCAR and Indy Car races running at the same time. I had a lot of work to do around the house, and Zach couldn’t choose just one race. Well, I allowed him to take his first step into manhood, and control the remote. That’s right. I sat him up on the couch with some pretzels, a drink and the remote and taught him how the “recall” button works, so he could switch from race to race at his whim.

At one point in the afternoon, I listened as he explained to 2-year-old Emily that he was watching the Indy Car race and only switching occasionally to the NASCAR race because “NASCAW waces are longoo then Indy Caw waces, and the NASCAW wace will still be on when the Indy Caw wace is over.” Despite his difficulty pronouncing his Rs, he made a compelling argument.

What shocked and dismayed me, though, was after he switched to the Indy Car race during a commercial in the NASCAR race, I heard Emily’s little voice scream in protest, “No, I want watch NATHCAR.”

Occasionally a story will come along that inspires even a cynical journalist.

In this line of work, a lot of what we deal with is the darker side of human nature. As someone who spent more than a decade covering police, fire and court beats, I’ve seen the worst humanity has to offer. It’s easy to become jaded. As far as grouchy old newspaper editors go, I’m about as grouchy and pessimistic as they come.

But I was been blown away last week by the way my community rallied around Michael Treinen and his family. If a story like this doesn’t touch your heart, then you don’t have one.

When we got into the office last Monday morning to find several e-mails detailing the family’s plight – how Michael had reached a lifetime cap on his insurance and would need to raise $500,000 by Thursday in order to have a bone marrow transplant – the cynic in me said “no way.” I mean think about that. A half million dollars in four days.

Well, as of Friday, the community had collected more than $700,000 to help save this young man’s life. That’s staggering. Never in my career have I seen anything like that. I’ve never even heard of a community rallying like that, in that amount of time.

Schools and organizations and businesses pitched in to help. In most cases, they were helping someone they didn’t even know.

I don’t know the Treinen family. But I want to personally thank everyone who took the time to collect donations, who gave income from their business or their family budget.

As a father, I can’t even imagine what it would be like for my son to be facing that type of battle. But I hope the Treinens gain some comfort in knowing they are loved and supported.

As a Noblesville resident, I am proud to say this is the community in which I am raising my children.

Our job is to give you the news, and often the news is bad. While most of what the Noblesville Daily Times reports is positive news, it is seldom as inspiring as this.

It has been an honor to share this story, and it is an honor to serve a community like this.

People around here are goofy over golf. With more than a dozen public and six private courses in the county, the locals have more than their share of opportunities to hit the links.
Because we know you love the game, each spring we publish our Golf Guide. The 2008 edition can be found inside today’s Daily Times. It features green fees, contact information and more about the county’s courses. In addition, the guide features stories and information about the local world of golf – including a feature on Noblesville’s sensational sisters, Ashley and Amber Prange, and their professional careers.
Golf is one game I’ve never taken a shine to. That puts me in the minority around here.
With the cost of green fees and equipment, I’ve never been able to afford to work at the game. As a result, I suck. If I weren’t so horrible at it, I’m sure I’d be able to work it into my budget. The simple fact is, I have a habit of trying to avoid public humiliation.
My parents bought me a very inexpensive set of starter clubs when I was a teen. My friends and I occasionally liked to knock around a 3-par course in Kokomo, and I’m sure my parents felt taking up golf would be good for me.
With those clubs I did try to learn the game. But, as I mentioned before, I sucked.
While I’ve never been a star athlete, I have always been able to be at least competitive and not look like a complete dork while playing most sports. This fueled my passion, and I continued to work on my skills.
Golf offered no hope. It gave me only frustration. The clubs got pushed to the back of the closet, where they’ve remained for the most part. I’ve played in various charity tournaments over the years. This only reinforced my fear of the game. Something about teeing off and whiffing in front of a bunch of strangers makes me know I’ve made the right decision.
Yet I know my shunning of golf is my loss. I would love to take an afternoon and play a round with the guys while drinking a few cold beers. Lot’s of business gets done on golf courses around here. Few of my sources would care to meet me on Conner Courts for a game of one-on-one.
I’m sure local groundskeepers are thrilled that I don’t spend the occasional afternoon chewing up their fairways. And those with houses near courses probably have lower insurance rates thanks to my foregoing those fairways.
Besides, that leaves more room for all of you. Looking to find a place to tee off? Check out our 2008 Golf Guide. Good luck on the links, and remember to replace your divits.

Monday’s news that Donnie Walsh would step down as president of the Indiana Pacers at the end of the season didn’t come as a surprise. He had said all along this — his 24th year with the team — would be his last. In recent months it became clear he would stick to that promise.

That didn’t soften the blow any. I just hate to see him go out like this.

I’ve been a Pacers fan my entire life. I remember well life before Walsh. A handful of Pacers games would be broadcast each season. Now nearly every game is on TV. Ugly curtains at Market Square Arena use to hide the fact that half the arena was empty. Under his stewardship, sellouts became the norm and the team built the sparkling gem that is Conseco Fieldhouse.

Like the other three ABA teams absorbed by the NBA, the Pacers seemed to be fighting an uphill battle in their early days in The League. Under Walsh’s leadership, they became perennial contenders. In fact, he built this team into a championship caliber organization not once, but twice. First came the Reggie, Rik, Mark and Davises era. After that team grew old and its parts moved on or retired, he built the franchise again with the Reggie, JO, Artest era.

Then came the brawl. Nothing has been the same since.

One of the league’s marquee franchises is now in ruins. The fans hate this group of players, and refuse to support the team. The Pacers have the lowest attendance in the league. The franchise is saddled with unwieldy contracts that will have them in salary cap hell for the foreseeable future. Much of this is the result of the handiwork of one of my playing idols, Larry Bird. Much of it is the result of the Curse of the Cup — that damn beverage that landed on Ron Artest’s chest and changed the team’s fortunes.

While Walsh must bear some of the responsibility for picking up and holding on too long to a cast of malcontents and injury-prone trouble makers, it is sad that this is how his time here will end. He deserved to go out on top.

The theory is he’ll be running the Knicks next year. Yet another kick in the gut to Pacers fans. This would be akin to Bill Polian leaving the Colts to run the Patriots. I just can’t believe it is happening like this. I’ve long respected and admired Donnie. I thank him for what he did for the Pacers. I wish him the best. But if he should end up in New York, well, I hope he has as much success as Isiah Thomas has had there.

I’ve had many people question my heritage in recent days. From acquaintances to in-laws to longtime friends, several people have told me that I am not white trash.

Much of this conversation stemmed from my column last week in which I declared myself a White Trash American. I’ve never been ashamed of my roots, and discuss my low rent background openly and freely.

Still, people see me today wearing a tie and conjugating my verbs properly and don’t believe I could have come from the trailer parks of Kokomo. See, that’s a mistake many people make. They believe all White Trash Americans are slack-jawed morons. One must be careful when making assumptions about an entire group of people.

Being white trash doesn’t mean you are stupid. Generally it means you haven’t caught a lot of breaks in life, and in many cases, you just don’t know any better. White trash kids have no control over the fact they were born into poor families. As such, they often don’t get the same educational or cultural opportunities as those born into wealthier families. As a result, they grow up in a world with limited learning and earning potential, and live their entire life in poverty. They have children, and the cycle continues.

I was the first person in my entire family to go to college. That doesn’t mean the rest of my family was dumb. It means I had good grades, caught some breaks and got opportunities people I grew up with did not.

But never mistake the fact that I am white trash. Just a couple examples from my childhood.

My dad bought an old used Jeep when I was a teenager. It didn’t have a canvas top with it. So rather than spend the money on one, he built his own – out of plywood. So as a freshman in high school, I would be dropped off at school each morning in a red Jeep with a big, black, square wooden top on it. In my mind, it was humiliating. In my dad’s mind, he was saving money he could use to buy his seven children food.

My dad was a plumber, who fancied himself a funny guy. Our mailbox was cemented into an old toilet bowl. A wooden sign was fashioned onto the mailbox post that read “junk mail” and had an arrow pointing down to the bowl. To my dad, it was witty. To me, it meant I couldn’t bring anyone from school home to my house. I’ve got hundreds of these types of examples.

People have told me that at least I was able to leave my past behind thanks to my education. Well, as the saying goes, you can take the boy out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the boy. Besides, the boy would take his trailer with him and move it to a new trailer park.

I’ve not exactly left my white trash ways behind, you see. Many times during my adult life, I’ve had more than one car. Of course only one worked at a time. When a part from one breaks, you take a spare from another, essentially creating a “frankencar.” Those cars have had their share of clothes hanger antennas, too. The rehearsal dinner for my first marriage was held at Ponderosa. I use to never throw away socks. I would sew the toes and heals and keep the same pair for decades. Once again, I’ve got hundreds of examples.

My current – and last – wife, Michelle, is responsible for making me look shinier than I am. This Tuesday we will have been married eight years. She has civilized me.

Michelle is from the exact opposite end of the social ladder than me. Her people have class and sophistication. They write thank you letters anytime someone gives them anything. They have cocktail parties with hors d’oeuvres, and serve beer in glasses. Her family resembles a Norman Rockwell painting, whereas mine resembles a Far Side comic.

Michelle has taught me it is OK to buy a replacement when something has broken rather than trying to duct tape everything back together. She, to some degree, has ended my longstanding practice of recycling Kleenex.

While my eyes have been opened to new things, and I’ve grown in my ability to move and function in polite society, I never forget from where it is that I came. Some might be embarrassed about being white trash, but not me. My upbringing made me who I am. I appreciate hard work, and the value of a buck. I am thankful for everything I have, and I never look down on others who have less. I am a White Trash American, and proud of it.

I’m a mutt. My ancestry consists of a potpourri of peoples. Best I can tell, I’m part German, part Scottish, part English and a few parts unknown. As far as my heritage is concerned, I’m primarily white trash.

Like most of America, I am gearing up to celebrate the Irish heritage that I don’t possess. While I am partial to the holidays that center around drinking – and I’ve been known to throw down a few green beers in honor of St. Patrick’s Day – I always feel a little jealous this time of year.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never minded being a mutt. It’s just that my people don’t get a holiday in our honor during which every bar has a special. There are no parades, or mayors dying rivers. Unlike Italian Americans or African Americans, I don’t have any cultural identity, nothing that makes me feel a part of a larger, special group.

As a white trash American, my people are known primarily for our penchant for living in trailer parks and fighting on Jerry Springer. The closest we get to cultural celebrations are NASCAR races.

In the great American melting pot, I think there are a lot of people out there like me. We’re like a human goolosh, with no background or nation of origin providing the bulk of our cultural identity. So we identify with the environment in which we grew up and we latch on to those bits of others’ culture with which we can identify.

I think that explains why St. Patrick’s Day has become a celebration of the masses whereas other cultural celebrations have not. All that you have to do to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day is drink and wear green. I like to drink, and I look good in green. So it is a celebration of heritage that I can embrace.

So many others are closely tied to religious practices. This requires a heavy investment on the part of the celebrant. I mean, have you ever attended a Passover Seder? With all the reading and ritual, it’s a very participatory … and long … evening. As a Gentile, I don’t exactly feel like I fit right in each year as my wife’s family celebrates Passover. Besides, Maneshevitz is not my drink of choice.

But put a green beer in my hand, and surround me with dozens of green-clad bar flies, and I feel right at home, despite the fact I don’t have a lick o’ Irish blood in me.

I’d always heard that when you have kids who go to school or daycare, you would get sick constantly because of all the bugs they bring home, but soon you’d build up some superhuman immunity and never be under the weather again.

Bullsnot … which is the substance I think is emanating from my cranial orifices even as I write this. I have had roughly 58 colds this winter. Or, more accurately, 1 cold — which I caught in September and which remains lodged in my lungs and sinus passages today.

I’ve had a kid in daycare/nursery school for more than four years now — two the past two years. While each has the occasional sniffles, the little carriers seem to be remarkably healthy considering the number of bugs they’ve brought home to me in recent years. My question is when does my superparent immune system kick in? I should be like freaking Wolverine by now.

My God. Well, guitar god at least. Eric Clapton is coming to my neighborhood, and I don’t know that I’m going to be able to see him.

The Noblesville Daily Times reported today that Clapton will play Verizon Wireless Music Center — literally blocks from my house — May 30.

Slow Hand has always been one of my favorite guitarists. As I’ve written before, no one makes it look easier. I’ve loved his work through every era of his career, from the Yardbirds, to his fiery Blues Breakers stint – when “Clapton is God” began appearing across London — from his groundbreaking work with Cream, all of his various supergroups to his solo stuff, I love to watch and listen to him play. My dog and constant companion for 13 years was named Layla for chrissakes.

But fatherhood, a low-paying career choice, and escalating ticket prices have conspired to limit the number of concerts I attend nowadays. I use to go to any decent show in the area, but now I’m forced to pick just a few that I simply can’t miss.

I’m already planning a trip to the Bonnaroo festival in June, and I’ve got my prime seats lined up for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers in July. That pretty much exhausts my concert budget for the summer.

Clapton’s tickets are $175 for lower pavilion and $89.50 for upper pavilion. I don’t think I’m going to be able to swing that with a lot of other things going on in my life right now. Lawn seats are $38, but I can’t see spending that much to sit a mile from the stage.

I’m going to have to make some tough choices. I don’t know that I’ve ever missed a Clapton show in the Indianapolis area since I was 16. Add in the fact that this very well could be my last chance to ever see him, and I just don’t know what to do.

Of course, my beautiful, intelligent, funny, saint of a sister-in-law (who just happens to be a regular reader of this blog) is in the music industry. Over the years she’s fed my Slow Hand cravings by giving me recent releases for Christmas (including remastered deluxe packages of “461 Ocean Boulevard” and Cream’s “Disraeli Gears” as well as the “Me and Mr. Johnson” disc and various concert DVDs), and this year gave me his autobiography. Hmm, tickets sure would make a nice birthday gift. Hey sis … you out there? Maribeth? Hello?

Oh well, in the meantime I’ll just crank up “Promises” on my way home, and watch clips like this on the computer.