Tag Archives: Otis Twelve

One Thing I Know

September 26, 2019 by
Photography by Bill Sitzmann

Cur pullum ad transire via? (Why did the chicken cross the road?)

Not easy to answer, don’t you agree? It’s a simple question on its face, but with so many deep implications. Not a concept to be approached lightly; to be left in the hands of dilettantes or the unqualified. It’s a complex world.

Our society faces many, evermore complicated challenges as the planet warms, the global economy cools, the price of avocados goes up while my credit score goes down. Many tough questions need to be answered. We need educated people to find the solutions to these and other similar problems. 

I am extremely well educated.

Don’t get me wrong, I am also frequently wrong about what I think I know. Or, maybe a better way to put it, I am frequently surprised by all the bothersome facts that fill in the blanks between my knowledge and reality. The first measure of an educated person is, after all, a realization of their limitations. Being “educated” is not synonymous with being “right.”

But, I am well educated.

I was taught Latin and classic Greek by monks. Really, I kid you not, and, no, I am not a side character from an episode of Outlander, season one. I was educated, at least partially, in a monastery, where we got up really early, sang really old chants, and read really old books. Some of the books were so old, there were no audio versions available in iTunes—imagine that. Us monks wore sandals a lot, too. I still like sandals.

My background in Latin has made me at ease in social situations involving professors from Oxford, or conferences celebrating Horace, Virgil, Plutarch, or The Gallic Wars.  I know what “Carpe Diem” means, even if the teenager wearing the T-shirt thinks it’s a reference to a fish. I know what “Caveat Emptor” means. That’s why I never buy clothes online.

My knowledge of Latin also means I can pick up a newspaper in Rome and completely misunderstand what the headlines say, while acting quite sure of myself as I share with my fellow travelers the news that today is the day the priests will be painting stray cats in the Coliseum. I’m pretty sure that was the correct translation.

A background in classical Greek comes in handy as well. Since I know some Greek, I can usually suss out what my doctor intends to do to me. Especially if it involves some “ectomy” or another. And don’t get me started about necrosis, psychosis, or the apocalypse.

Education is critical to human progress. Even when most of the people we educate seem to keep cranking out strange new apps for our way-too-smart phones, we still need to invest in quality education for our children. One or two of them might turn out to be smart enough to get the human race out of the pickle we’re in now. They are our only hope. As an educated person, I know enough to realize that saving humanity is beyond me, and I know…

Cur pullum ad transire via?

You know the answer:

Voluit ad alteram.

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5-9 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

This article was printed in the October 2019 edition of Omaha Magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.

Otis XII

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO.

Web Exclusive Animated Video: “One Thing I Know”

One thing we know: Otis Twelve knows a lot. Like, enough to question his doctor.

Which comes as no surprise to those who know him. Admire the illuminating illustrations from Joe Pankowski and listen to the voice that soothes the soul, as he knows from whence he speaks. Unless it’s in Greek, then maybe not so much.

To receive the print edition of Omaha Magazine, subscribe at omahamagazine.com/subscribe.
Read the column here.

Ars Gratia Artis

June 13, 2019 by
Photography by Bill Sitzmann

“I don’t know art, but I know what I like.”

That’s an old maxim that originated with Monty Python, or Archie Bunker, or Will Rogers, or Mark Twain, or North Carolina Sen. Jesse “liberals are going to hell” Helms—or maybe Francis Bacon wrote it in the 16th century and forged William Shakespeare’s signature.

Whoever said it, we all believe it. Nobody is a better critic of art than we are. We walk up to a painting, or out of a concert hall—we put down a book or examine a statue—and we turn to whoever might hear us and say, “I don’t get it.” Judgement thus rendered, we start looking for a food truck.

Some folks like the masters of painting—Rembrandt, Vermeer, Caravaggio, Michelangelo. Some love the impressionists—Renoir, Monet, Paul Cezanne (although he is truly post impressionist). Many admire Salvador Dali’s moustache and melted clocks. Some love the happy little trees that Bob Ross taught us to paint on TV, or those big-eyed orphan/puppy/kitten paintings. And don’t get me started about the genius of Arthur Sarnoff’s masterpiece, “Dogs Playing Poker.” 

In music Beethoven was a grouch but we love his music. Mozart was a spoiled child star. Franz Liszt had groupies. Chopin was heroic. Gershwin made Fred and Ginger dance. Bernstein kidnapped Romeo and Juliet and schlepped them to the West Side. The Beatles turned rock into pop into art. And Keith Richards has become a monument just by surviving.

The great sculptor Auguste Rodin was a thinker—we have all imitated the pose. Degas and his ballerina…Michelangelo and his David…and his Pieta…Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi created our Statue of Liberty. And what the heck is that thing on the Council Bluffs overpass?

As for literature, did you actually read James Joyce’s Ulysses? No, you didn’t, but you have an opinion about it, don’t you? Did you listen to Cole Porter when he told you to Brush Up Your Shakespeare? “Just declaim a few lines from Othella, and they’ll think you’re a hell of a fella.” Do you read bestsellers? Did you love Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, or did you puzzle out The Da Vinci Code? Hint: she’s his great-great-great-great-etc.-granddaughter.

Do you ever read or listen to the art of poetry? They even have competitive poetry now. They call those events “slams,” although no actual physical contact occurs—that is, no one dives in to savagely block an attempted couplet. The slams are pretty exciting and it’s a way that more and more young people are introduced to the art form. As for me, I marvel at the fact that I actually know our state poet. I knew him back when he was just a county poet. It’s even more remarkable to me that one of our great poets actually wrote a poem that mentioned me—really, I keep a copy in my wallet.

What is art?

That question has caused a few thousand books to be published over the years, as philosophers from Aristotle to Snoop Dog have attempted to explain why this odd bipedal species we belong to makes music, recites rhymes, tells stories, and draws pictures on cave walls, canvas, and our own bodies. Tolstoy says that art “Is a means of union among men.” And Tolstoy had a beard, so he must be right.

Go out and find art. Go out and support art. When you find it, tell others what you found. If you know an artist, support them. Our lives are art when we open ourselves the uncommon wonder to be found in every common thing.

Art is all around us. You may not be able to define it, but you’ll know when you like it.

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5-9 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

This article was printed in the July/August 2019 edition of Omaha Magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.

How Did I Get Here?

April 17, 2019 by
Photography by Bill Sitzmann

There’s an old joke about a traveler in New Hampshire chatting with an upstate farmer. “Have you lived here your whole life?” asks the visitor. The farmer replies, “Not yet.”

A lot of folks think I’ve lived my whole life here in Omaha. “You look like you’re from here,” they say. Perhaps it’s the faraway look in my eyes as I stare off towards the distant horizon. Maybe it’s my stoic persona. I don’t know. I’m even frequently asked about where I went to high school.

Many assume that, with my boyish charm, incisive intelligence, and somewhat socially maladaptive personality that I must have attended Creighton Prep. I didn’t. I was, in fact, trained by Benedictines, the natural enemies of Prep’s Jesuit founders. Those 16th century bloody feuds are still bitterly remembered. That said, I didn’t get prepped there, but I was admitted to Creighton University despite my somewhat shady secondary school background. How that happened is a short story that I will endeavor to lengthen.

Truth is, I’m not from here.

I was born in Des Moines and then quickly trundled off to Philadelphia for a while with my Navy dad and family. Yeah, I was a toddler in the City of Brotherly Love.

We moved to Kansas City, eventually, where the nuns thought my Philly accent was a speech impediment and soon had it out of me, using rulers and holy water.

So, mostly, I grew up in Kansas City, which is really different from Omaha. Omaha is like the little brother to Chicago—a smaller version of the Windy City, it’s one of those “broad shoulders” Midwest cities that grew up on the far side of the wide Missouri. Kansas City, Missouri, is a sister to Atlanta—Southern-styled and genteel, with a touch of the mob, it’s a city that stayed on the east side of the Muddy. You got kolaches and a cathedral; we got easy access to grits and lots of Baptist gospel choirs. You got polkas; we got ragtime. You say “Bee-at-triss;” we say “Miz-zer-rah.”

But a streetcar got me here. Let me explain.

My dad went to Creighton, before a certain World War intervened. Before he got his Navy wings, he was just a ground-bound farmer’s son who had made it to college—no small accomplishment. My dad, Vince, was a fun-loving guy and there was a certain pub in Dundee. It may, or may not, have been called the Golden Buddha. Whatever the name, my dad would take the streetcar from the Creighton campus that ran straight into old Dundee and visit the establishment—only after his studies were completed, of course. That’s where he met Harry.


Hang on I’m getting there—or here…

Harry went to Creighton, too, and when Vinnie met Harry a friendship came to be. And then, Harry took Vinnie home to Iowa one weekend and introduced him to Ethel. Love happened. Biology worked. Eventually, I came to be—in an existential sense. Cutting to the chase, I was weaned, learned to walk, picked up a Philly accent, lost my Philly accent, played second base for the Monarch Electric Bolts, grew 62 inches, hung out with Benedictine monks, graduated from high school, and as time came to pass…I decided that I wanted to attend my father’s alma mater…so…

Here I am.

A visitor recently asked me, “Do you like it here?” I remembered the New Hampshire farmer and replied, “Yes…So far.”

Yep, here I am in Omaha.

All thanks to a streetcar.

We should still have some of those.

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5-9 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

This article first appeared in the March/April 2019 edition of Omaha MagazineTo receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.

Otis XII

Otis XII hosts the radio program, Early Morning Classics with Otis XII, on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5 a.m. to 6:30 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

Two Habits To Save The World:

February 14, 2019 by
Photography by Bill Sitzmann

There are two things that frame my life—naps and walks.

Sure, I have a job and a family, but those roles take care of themselves so long as I have a nap and a walk on a regular basis. Most of life entails performing repetitive tasks: shopping, cooking, eating, breathing, filing your taxes, making your bed, and occasionally actually speaking to fellow humans with a modicum of courtesy. Living in the modern world is not really very complex, and for me at least, it’s easy when it includes the aforementioned snooze and stroll.

Now, napping is, on its face, also a simple task. Close your eyes, slip through a hypnagogic state into the realm of Morpheus, and there you are. It’s very similar to going to bed at night, except it must be done during daylight hours, when others are busy at seemingly “productive” tasks. Napping can be done while prone, sitting, crumpled in a corner, or even, by truly accomplished practitioners, standing, though I do not recommend beginners attempt this technique as it can lead to bodily bruising that is hard to explain to supervisors, spouses, or law enforcement officials. It should also be noted that napping is best when there are no children or small nervous dogs nearby.

The successful napper enjoys a myriad of benefits from the practice including an improved complexion, peace of mind, and a pleasant sense of detachment from the so-called “real” world. People who nap regularly rarely commit crimes, start wars, Google inappropriately, root for the New England Patriots, or embarrass themselves or others by becoming overachievers. People who nap are a natural brake on the world’s propensity for making too much progress, or letting achievements get out of hand.

I have learned that napping is a great thing to do when facing any problem, large or small. It seems that most problems in life solve themselves. In fact, they do so most efficiently when they are ignored. Thus, grab some “zzzz’s” and your problems will simply disappear.

Walking is actually a prerequisite for napping. A good stretch of the legs prepares one for a good stretch of afternoon shut-eye. But be careful, do not confuse walking with exercise. Exercise, or “working out,” as many addicts call it, is to be avoided at all costs. The worst form of this affliction is running.

There is never any excuse for running. Mankind has wiped out most of the old predators who fed on our tasty flesh, so we are unlikely to find ourselves in a life or death chase these days. Likewise, we no longer have to pursue our own prey since a good number of grocery stores are now open 24/7. Running is simply for showoffs, and running on a treadmill? The worst form of narcissism.

Walking is simply walking. It is important not to have a destination when walking. It’s a Zen thing. Simply move your legs and begin that journey of a thousand miles with a single step, always keeping in mind that you have absolutely no intention of ever covering a thousand miles. Avoid treadmills, jogging (a “gateway” behavior), and health clubs.

Take a walk. Take a nap.

The world will be a better place.

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5-9 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

This article first appeared in the March/April 2019 edition of Omaha MagazineTo receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.

Otis XII

Otis XII hosts the radio program, Early Morning Classics with Otis XII, on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5 a.m. to 6:30 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

My Bucket List

January 3, 2019 by
Photography by Bill Sitzmann

Lots of people have what they call a “bucket list.”

That, of course, is a list of things you want to do before you die. Because, obviously, there are not a lot of things you can do after you die. At least, so far as I know.

Before we go any further, it’s important to note that there are all sorts of buckets. Livestock buckets, ice buckets, mop buckets, ash buckets, sand buckets, etc. None of these buckets are to be confused with milk pails. All pails are buckets, but not all buckets are pails.

And it’s also important to understand that, in my mind, nothing made out of plastic should be considered a bucket. Plastic things with handles are an abomination. It says so in the Bible. Trust me. Just search Leviticus, you’ll see. True buckets must be made from wood or some type of durable metal, preferably galvanized aluminum or steel. Plastic buckets are…well, they are…plastic. There’s too much plastic in the world. We should put all of it in a super large bucket and seal it in a mountain in Nevada. Our grandchildren and the planet would thank us.

But back to “bucket lists.” Where did that phrase come from anyway? I know it’s a reference to “kick the bucket,” like Jimmy Durante did at the beginning of It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. But what does “kicking” a bucket (not a pail) have to do with dying? Some say it’s a reference to knocking the bucket out from under your own feet while you are trying to hang yourself in the barn. That’s a cheery thought. There’s an even less cheery explanation that involves slaughtering pigs…I will spare you that origin story.

There is another, less gruesome claim to the genesis of the saying. Back in the old days, the dearly departed would be laid out for the wake and a bucket of holy water would be placed at their feet. Mourners would then file by and sprinkle the corpse. Now, though no kicking the bucket would be expected at that point, I suppose if a clumsy friend knocked the pail to the floor, he might suddenly blurt out, “It wasn’t me! He did it!” pointing an accusing finger at the motionless honoree.

Wherever the term came from, like I said, lots of people have bucket lists.

I’ve noticed that most of these lists are heavy on travel. Like, “I want to visit the Alhambra at sunset.” Or…“I want to go to Bora Bora with Jennifer Aniston.” Well, leave me out of that. I love being in cool places. But I hate getting there. I’m 6’5” and not fond of security checkpoints, sitting in coach, or deep-vein thrombosis.

I have my own bucket list. So, before I die….

  1. Please let me never be on a Perillo Tour of Italy.
  2. Spare me food poisoning and/or a Caribbean cruise.
  3. I don’t want to ever watch the television news while in the dentist’s chair.
  4. Give me a cellphone with the ringer permanently set on “off.”
  5. Please let me never hear the words, “You might feel some pressure.”
  6. Three weeks alone at the Merritt Reservoir would be nice.
  7. I’d like to have a personal assistant. Might be fun.
  8. I’d like to have a TV that responds to me when I yell at it.
  9. Keep me alive until the Cornhuskers, 76ers, Cubs, and Chiefs win it all in the same year.
  10. I want to attend my grandchild’s retirement party.

Don’t get me wrong. I also want to see the Alhambra at sunset. But until there’s a train to get me there, I’ll just sit here with my steel bucket and dream.

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5-9 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

This column was printed in the January/February 2019 edition of Omaha Magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.

Simply the Best

November 12, 2018 by
Photography by Bill Sitzmann

Celebrating the best things in our community is a very good thing. In fact, it is better than good by definition. It is the best. Yes, it is beyond the comparative. It is superlative.

(Thanks, and a “Best Of” sticker to Sister Rose Agnes, the best grammar teacher I ever had, who taught me all about that good, better, best stuff.)

Obviously, in this issue, Omaha Magazine recognizes the superlative achievements of businesses across the metroplex—the Best of the Best.

Which reminds me, whatever happened to Pete Best? And while we’re on the subject of Best as a surname, do you realize there are 159 people named “Best” in the Omaha phone book? Why don’t we ever recognize them as some of the “Best in Omaha?” There are so many “Bests” in the world.

Ahmed Best, an American actor, got his big break from George Lucas when he was hired for Chapter One of the Star Wars saga. Unfortunately the part he got was performing the voice of Jar Jar Binks. Never in the history of the American cinema has a character been so pilloried. Audiences were almost unanimous in their dislike of the odd, shuffling, alien caricature. Sadly, instead of blaming Lucas they blamed Ahmed and nearly drove him to suicide. Fortunately he got through the trauma, and I hereby give him an honorary “Best Bad Star Wars Character Ever” award. It’s a case where being the “Worst” turns out to be a “Best.”

C.L. Best was the founder of the C.L. Best Gas Traction Co. Many people ask “Who?” or “What?” He later changed the name of the firm to Caterpillar. That’s pretty cool. One of the Best things you can do on a sunny afternoon is watch a big earthmoving machine level a lot or knock over an eyesore. Am I right?  Thanks, C.L.  You’re one of the Best.

Edna Best was a British actress who did a few notable films, including Hitchcock’s original The Man Who Knew Too Much, and The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Edna had the Best Wedding Ever, her third. She was granted a divorce from her second husband in a Las Vegas courtroom and then married to her third by the same judge, in the same courtroom, five minutes later. You have to admire her moxie.

Skeeter Best was a great jazz guitarist back in the day. He worked with Ray Charles, Harry Belafonte, and Etta Jones. He holds the title of “Best Nickname For A Guy Named Best.”

But the Best of the Bests was probably William Best, First Baron Wynford, who was Speaker of the House of Lords in the early 19th century. Lord Best suffered from a bad case of gout and thus, was carried into the chamber by four servants, as he remained seated in a large armchair, because it is good to be king, but it is better to be Lord Best.

Here’s to the Bests, in Omaha and beyond.  

Now, let’s be the best we can be to one another. 

View the full list of 2019 Best of Omaha winners here: https://omahamagazine.com/articles/best-of-omaha-2019/

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5-9 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

Garbage In, Garbage Out

October 24, 2018 by
Photography by Bill Sitzmann
Illustration by Joe Pankowski

Back in late 1969, America could do anything and meet any challenge. After all, those were the days of the Apollo Project. Neil Armstrong had taken his “small step,” and two days later blasted off the lunar surface, leaving behind the landing module’s descent stage and a collection of various scientific apparatus, tools, flotsam, jetsam, and flagpoles behind. In other words, we had successfully sent a man to the moon and back and left litter behind, because that’s what we humans do.

Speaking of garbage.

As a nation we were optimistic and sure of ourselves, and John Boyd of Falls Church, Virginia, was a visionary to match the times. Boyd had been working in the waste management field for years when he had his “Eureka” moment. What did America need? It all seemed so clear to him, America needed a household appliance that could convert our trash into neat little cubes—kind of like those bundles that Wall-E stacked sky high in that movie. It was a “can’t miss” idea, and Boyd got his patent. The kitchen trash compactor was born. The world was never the same.

Soon Kenmore, Whirlpool, and a host of brand names rushed the machine into appliance stores. The hydraulic power of the under-the-counter miracles would receive its daily allotment of debris and with a hum, a bit of a grinding noise, three or four clunks, a crack (no glass in the trash please), a slight ultrasonic hiss, and voila! That loose clump of garbage would be transformed into a super-dense odoriferous singularity. “What a boon,” the ads trumpeted, “Only take out the trash once a week!” 

The other thing we Americans are good at, besides having visions, is marketing. Trash compactor sales took off…at first…and then….somebody said, “Why would I spend $300 on a machine that turns 30 pounds of garbage into 30 pounds of garbage?” The light bulb went on above everybody’s head almost simultaneously, and the miracle appliance miraculously flopped.

Yes, Americans can achieve anything if we put our minds to it. The problem is that sometimes we achieve extremely stupid things.

Right now, some visionaries have a new vision, which of course, is what visionaries are supposed to have. They imagine our streets and highways full of driverless cars. Computers and little servo motors will, they say, seamlessly operate all our motor vehicles—even huge semi-trailer trucks—freeing us from the drudgery of paying attention to the traffic jam that surrounds us and giving us more time to stay riveted to our Twitter feeds for the latest absurdities of the dysfunctional electronic family we are all welded to these days.

Of course, the idea seems cool. Unless it’s foggy, or raining, or there’s a bit of construction on your route, or somebody tries to cross the street on foot. Yes, there can be, and have been, tragic consequences. OK, maybe it would be good news for Uber drivers, because none of them would work for Uber’s robot fleet anymore. Freedom! Other than that, it’s a cool idea that we should relegate to dystopic science fiction movies. Sometimes we humans have too many ideas. Ask John Boyd.

Driverless cars? Really? Why do we need a technology that will turn a freeway full of one million cars into a freeway full of one million cars?

Just asking.

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5-9 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

This column was printed in the November/December 2018 edition of Omaha Magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.

What’s in a Name?

August 23, 2018 by
Photography by Bill Sitzmann
Illustration by Joe Pankowski

In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare wrote: “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet.” Gertrude Stein continued, “A rose is a rose is a rose” in her poem “Sacred Emily.” NBC’s Craig Calcaterra concluded, “Pete Rose is a cheater.”

In my opinion, it is important what we name things. Take the “rose” in the above statements. Change “rose” to “salamander.” Juliet’s take on the scent of a salamander would not be quite so romantic. Stein’s poetic reflection on identity would lose its meter. And Pete Salamander would be in the Hall of Fame. Names are important.

When I was a precocious toddler on the verge of verbal proficiency, my family went to the beach. My young eyes took in all the new, heretofore unimagined, sights around me. The surf rushed in around my knees when suddenly, I saw it, and, in a flash, I knew what to say: “Clam!” I pointed at the new thing. I was naming the unnamed. The human need to understand drives us to categorize things in order to organize the universe in our minds. Naming things is an essential part of that process.

“Clam!” I said again.

“It’s a seagull,” said my father patiently. “Sea-gull.”

“Clam!” I liked the sound of my word better. What did I know? I was only a 1-year-old. I was transfixed as I watched the clam spread its wings and take to the sky, heading out over the waves towards the far horizon.

What I’m trying to say is, it is good to name things, but it is also a good idea to do it correctly.

When I was a somewhat older kid, I fell in love with baseball. I would take every opportunity to head down Brooklyn Avenue in Kansas City to watch my beloved Athletics at Municipal Stadium. Yes, the field was called “municipal” because it was a municipal building, that is, it was owned by the city. Cleveland had a Municipal Stadium, too. No one was confused. The name made sense. Here in Omaha the baseball park was named after Johnny Rosenblatt. That made sense because Johnny was a good guy and there would not ever have been such a stadium had it not been for his efforts.

The Bears play at Soldier Field. The Bills used to play at War Memorial. The Yankees played at Yankee Stadium—where else? Now some fields had names like Wrigley, but that was because Mr. Wrigley actually owned the stadium. He built it with his own money. Wrigley Field as a name makes sense.

But…here comes the old codger part…now we have this thing called “naming rights.”  Companies pay money to have their logos stamped above the entrances and scoreboards. It’s getting ridiculous.

If not for “naming rights,” whoever would have thought of Hard Rock Stadium in Miami, Smoothie King Center in New Orleans, Talking Stick Arena in Phoenix, or the Sleep Train Arena in Sacramento? And the latest worst and most terrible, stupid, regrettable stadium name of all time is…wait for it…

ENRON Field in Houston. Ouch. The perils of selling naming rights.

Here in Omaha we have a beautiful downtown venue. It was called the Qwest Center, then the CenturyLink Center, and now it is tagged as the CHI Health Center. We could have done worse, I guess, but I still wonder, when I hear the name, should I take an Uber to the concert or an ambulance?

I hope to hit a Powerball someday. I’ll buy the naming rights and proudly watch the letters go up on…wait for it…Municipal Arena. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Otis Twelve hosts the radio program Early Morning Classics with Otis Twelve on 90.7 KVNO, weekday mornings from 5-9 a.m. Visit kvno.org for more information.

This article was printed in the September/October 2018 edition of Omaha Magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.