Planting a Seed

When the gasoline began to run out and the prices to run up, Herbert O'Dell Smith, 64, agreed to do his bit for the energy crisis. A professional stunt man, he had earned his nickname of "Digger O'Dell" by allowing himself to be buried alive for various ventures. He was campaigning underground for President Carter in Columbia, S.C., in 1976 when he had a heart attack that prompted his retirement.

But to dramatize the gas crunch, the Digger agreed to be buried at Mack's Mobile Homes lot on Highway 280 in Phenix City, Ala. "I'm not coming up till gas prices come down," said Digger. Then, wearing a T shirt and pajama bottoms, he climbed into his temporary coffin (6 ft. long and 32 in. wide and high, with a septic tank below and a viewing periscope above that doubled as a dumbwaiter for Digger's food). He was covered by 6 ft. of earth and 4 in. of concrete. Two telephones, a radio and a television, as well as the periscope, connected him to the outside world. "I'm just one person, but I'm telling it like it is," he would say. "We don't have a gas shortage, we've got a gas wastage."

Unfortunately for Digger, however, gas prices kept going up--and so did his blood pressure. Last week, only ten days into his stint, he was ordered unearthed by his doctor. "I'm convinced the seed I planted will be cultivated," proclaimed the haggard Digger. Then he headed back to Cumming, Ga., to tend to the tomatoes on his farm.

Like a Lead Balloon

Question: You are a miner. The Government has ordered you to attend a safety clinic, but has not paid your $500 in travel expenses. You are asked to take a multiple-choice quiz designed to relax the group. But it turns out that questions are based on off-color jokes. Given these facts, you:

A) Snigger delightedly.

B) Refuse to take the quiz and walk out of the room.

C) Send a furious letter of protest to Washington.

Answer: C. Republican Senator Malcolm Wallop of Wyoming said one of his constituents had found the test "disgusting." The Senator demanded an explanation from the Department of Labor, which incorporates the Mine Safety and Health Administration. Answered Assistant Labor Secretary Robert Lagather: "This test is not part of the instructor course. I was as shocked and disturbed as you were." Lagather recommended a 30-day suspension without pay for the instructor who had used the quiz. Just for good measure, however, Wallop had the exam read into the Congressional Record, where presumably its vulgarity will serve as a good example of a bad joke on the taxpayers.

Wear It in Good Health

The policemen's softball team in Jacksonville is raising money to play in a tournament in New Orleans by selling, for $5 each, pastel T shirts decorated with a drawing of "Old Sparky," the Florida electric chair, and bearing the legend 1 DOWN, 133 TO GO. The reference is to the recent execution of John Spenkelink and the 133 people left on death row in Florida. So far, 2,500 T shirts have been sold and orders--including some from lawyers and judges--have come in from all 50 states and from as far away as Australia.

Getting the Navy's Goats

Call it the Battle of San Clemente and give the edge to the goats over the Navy. The strange struggle began in 1973 when the Navy started to deport the wild goat population from the small island of San Clemente, located off the coast of Southern California, that it uses for target practice. The reason, according to the Navy, was that the goats were nibbling their way through the island's four endangered plants (the bushmallow, broom, larkspur and paintbrush).

Over the next three years, the Navy sold about 16,500 goats to ranchers and stockyards. But 1,300 nimble and wily survivors retreated into a rugged, mountainous area that is full of live ordnance from target practice. In two short years, 1,300 fecund goats became more than 3,000, and the Navy decided to get rid of them by "selective shooting from a helicopter."

No way, said the Fund for Animals and the Animal Defense Council, which got an injunction barring the assault. The Navy can now obey the court, appeal the order, or decide that it has better things to do than make martyrs out of goats.

Money Down the Drain

Chicago's sanitation engineers have dug themselves into a hole so deep that they are having trouble getting out. In 1976 giant mechanical moles began work on the largest public works project in the nation: 131 miles of tunnel shafts, reservoirs and pumping stations. The network was designed to drain off rainwater and thus combat sewer backup and subsequent flooding of basements and overflow into the area's reservoirs.

But Deep Tunnel, as it is known, has turned into a bottomless pit. The deeper it goes, the more money it costs, and the sharper the questions about the wisdom of the venture. The excavation, which is about 10% dug, is useless unless it is finished. But it will take the next 20 years to complete and cost $11 billion. What's more, it cannot operate without an additional $1.6 billion in hook-up costs for the 150 communities involved, and they do not have the money.

Illinois Senator Charles Percy, among others, wonders if the whole grandiose scheme is worth it, particularly since the Federal Government has been stuck with 75% of the total cost. When Percy asked the General Accounting Office to evaluate the system, it produced a six-volume report recommending that the Federal Government pull out because of the project's high costs and dubious effect.

As the studies pile up (154 to date), and federal money pours in, Deep Tunnel just keeps tunneling deeper. Meanwhile, housewives in one Chicago suburb resorted to their own program to keep the sewers from flooding: they covered the inlets with worn-out throw rugs during a downpour. Worked fine.

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