Too much information can take up too much time

Published 12:00 am Thursday, September 23, 1999

Everybody has suffered from "too much information.

Thursday, September 23, 1999

Everybody has suffered from "too much information."

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It happens all the time.

You ask somebody, "How are you?" and they describe to the nth degree how they had a growth the size of a pumpkin removed from their back and how the pus looked like some kind of toxic waste material and offer to show you the exact location where it once lived.

If this is the information age, some people have more than others and some people have more to share than others want to hear.

"Why are we having this conversation?" is sure to come up, when these close encounters occur with people who either like to hear themselves talk or lead very lonely lives and are willing to talk to strangers.

Of course, reporters are paid to listen to people like that and interpret what they say for a story that people will read.

I remember the time two nice-enough fellows, Harry Stevens and George Brophy appeared before the Mower County Board of Commissioners with a proposal of some sort.

They went on and on using technical terms and multi-syllable words and soon enough my mind was wandering far away.

That’s the day that my admiration for the county commissioners grew. They actually looked interested in what Mr. Stevens and Mr. Brophy were saying.

For reporters, it’s an especially difficult challenge to listen to some esoteric discussion about something you haven’t the faintest interest in hearing about and still have to take notes and remember enough to write a story for the newspaper that readers will understand.

The other night I had such a challenge and wouldn’t you know it: it happened at Adams or as they’re calling it today "Tom Mullenbachville" ever since the man won an award for Adams Township and brought home $5,000, which was double the amount the township board had in its road and bridges fund after summer’s floods.

This was a Pork Crisis Forum sponsored by local veterinarians. Let’s face it, when people think of wild and crazy guys, veterinarians do not get mentioned.

When I got to Southland Public Schools they had consumed the free pork burgers, which was another reason I wanted to cover the meeting, so I took a seat in the back of the room and went to work.

There’s nothing funny about the pork crisis. That is if you’re on the losing end. A crisis is something bad that affects everyone. Not everyone in the pork industry is suffering, so I have trouble understanding just who the winners and losers are. And because agriculture keeps having a crisis all the time, some cynics wonder, "If there wasn’t a pork crisis, would they create one?"

The first speaker was a veterinarian, who must deal blackjack in a casino in his spare time, so fast did he shuffle charts and graphs to the overhead viewer.

The next speaker was an ag economist, who I think kept shuffling the same chart or graph in front of us throughout the evening to illustrate 12 or 13 different reasons for the pork crisis. All I saw was a blur of blue, green and red lines going up and down.

Now, mind you, there’s nothing personal here. These were apparently good guys, who knew what they were talking about. However, the ag economist’s wife was there and she read a book while her husband described how the pork industry has gone to hell in a hand basket.

I scribbled furiously, readjusted my gluteus maximus muscles a hundred or more times sitting on a hardwood bench and fought boredom as best I could.

A room full of the best and brightest pork producers in Mower County wouldn’t attend a meeting like this if it wasn’t important, so "Pay attention and get the story" I told myself.

At that point, the forum was only half through and two hours or more were left.

I decided I had had enough and, maybe, too much information for that night, put on my coat, gathered my notebook and pen and prepared to make an exit.

It was just my luck that Bob Barsch, or as I like to call him, "The Prince of Pork" was sitting behind me and said some smart-alecky thing like, "Leaving early, Bonorden?" Naturally, everybody around us heard him and chuckled aloud.

I was caught dead in my tracks and assured Mr. Barsch, that, no, I wasn’t leaving early and that I would cover the entire meeting and sat back down, wondering what kind of revenge I could exact upon the Prince of Pork.

The meeting ended, oh, about four or five hours later – at least, it seemed that way – and I got up, said my "Goodbyes" and left the building for the return trip home to Austin.

I’m not afraid to admit that occasionally my mind does wander, when a little bit too much information comes my way, but I haven’t lost it yet.

It only seems like it.