August 10, 2011: This week, the news bureaus flashed that doomsday was around the corner. I contemplated burying my head in the recycling bin for Wednesday's garbage pick-up.

With glee from the promise of increased circulation, papers announced the world debt crisis; the value of the dollar dropping; and rising food and high gas prices. The S & P's threats to downgrade the US credit rating became a reality. With the stock market dropping 500 hundred points, jumping out the window seems more palatable. The wolf is at the door; the three little pigs packed their toothbrushes.

Then the weirdest news of all, former New York mayor Ed Koch came out of the closet to campaign for a Republican to replace a congressman who made a Weiner out of himself. It was almost too much.

Ike (dog) and I searched for a good news story in the nightly media; and fortunately we came across one. The identity of D. B. Cooper has been found.

This story goes way back to November 1971. I was sharing a cheap two-bedroom top-floor row house apartment with Mr. Excitement, "Burg" Hackenburg (62), on the corner of Park and 34th Street. It was our first apartment since graduating college. It was a shared domain with every cockroach in Midtown.

It was Thanksgiving. I bought the News and caught the Penn Central heading for B'ville for the family gobbler. The paper headline blasted, "Northwest Passenger Jet Hijacked! Suspect Escapes at Ten Thousand Feet." That got my attention. The paper went on to name the brigand as a D. B. Cooper who ransomed a 727 for $200K, then dove out of the plane into a storm over the dense Oregon wilderness. D. B. must have attended maniac university.

His survival would have been a miracle. Leaping into freezing rain temperatures at that height wearing only a suit is nearly impossible and, if accomplished, the shredding by the intense tree growth could result in Bigfoot dining.

The mood at the family dinner was not in favor of D. B.'s actions, especially by my parents. But I took the stance that Mr. Cooper was a clever innovator. Not that I condoned his stand-and-deliver methods. However, old D. B. was the first compassionate and polite hijacker in the history of air holdups.

I pointed out that the alternative of forcing the plane to land in Seattle, releasing the passengers unharmed, holding only the crew, getting the money, and heading for Mexico was much more risky and far more inconvenient for everyone. As you can imagine I received boos from the family--a few dinner rolls were thrown in disgust. The following Monday riding the subway to my unsatisfying job, I confess, I mused pulling the same stunt.

His survival of the perfect crime has remained a 40-year mystery. It has always tweaked my curiosity. Now the FBI, according to a recent story, thinks they know who D. B. is thanks to a niece who came forth. She claims he lived a long and happy life.

See, there is, indeed, some good news in the news, if you look hard enough.

I was hoping, however, that D. B. had published a how-to book. When I was a kid without a care in the village, I always wanted to grow up to become a pirate or a cowboy. Early on, I envied both occupations for their roaming freedoms. Reflecting on it further, however, I realize that my heroes have always been rapscallions. Role model problems, not me.