Mike Matson

Sometimes I find myself lapsing into the vernacular of my youth. When it’s time to depart whatever premises in which I find myself at that moment, I have often been heard to say, out loud, “Let’s boogie.” This is often greeted with sideways glances intended to communicate, “Sorry, my inner disco ball short-circuited in 1979.” We didn’t make up the word, we just adapted it from the boogie-woogie big band swing music of previous generations. Long before our own Jones Genera

To raise money for a weeklong summer camping retreat to Colorado, my middle school-age church youth group sold fireworks. Roman candles, Black Cats, ladyfingers, and combo packs perched on shelves on the back wall of a ramshackle fireworks stand, thrown together with plywood, particle board, spit and duct tape. We set up shop in a rougher part of town than our Baloney on White with Miracle Whip-Come Home When The Street Lights Come On neighborhood. My sister and I were o

It’s always dangerous to lead an opinion column with numbers but bear with me. Fifty-two days until the Kansas Primary election. Advance voting begins in 32 days. One of eleven Democrats will win that election and take on incumbent GOP Sen. Roger Marshall in the fall. I’ve invited all credible Democratic candidates to appear on my live KMAN radio talk show/recorded podcast. One of the advantages of having achieved semi-retirement is I get to define credibility. My definiti