Second Amendment Follies

When I was about eleven I pestered my dad to take me hunting. I wanted to shoot something. I was tired of watching Hoot Gibson and the Lone Ranger have all the fun plugging bad guys on TV. It was time for me to be pumpin' some serious lead.

Dad gave me his old 410 shotgun that Thanksgiving day at my Grandpa's farm in Illinois. We had just polished off the usual four million calorie food orgy and the football game was yet to begin on TV; so I'm sure that the ol' man figured that this was a good time to shut me up. Off we went into the snow and cold of that Midwest afternoon, me with blood lust in my heart and Dad with his trusty pack of Camels that he dared not partake of around Grandma. It was your typical "win win" situation.

About thirty minutes into our safari I spied a rabbit huddled next to a fence post behind the farm's big barn. The thing was just sitting there shivering and made no attempt to flee from me as I walked directly toward it. When I was about ten feet from "Bugs" Dad inquired as to when I might be contemplating shooting the wascally wabbit. Not missing the sarcasm, Bwanna pulled the trigger. The rabbit exploded in a starburst cluster of red. All that remained as I lowered the gun was a pair of ears and some fur. I was ready to head back to the house for some football and perhaps a snack of anything not rabbit. I had made my kill...and the barnyard cats would enjoy some lovely rabbit tartar as their Thanksgiving feast.

Dad fired up another Camel. Later he told me that the rabbit "wasn't right"; he had distemper or some malady that had prevented him from stepping out of the way of my shotgun blast. That really burned me. I was already convinced in my mind that I was one dangerous hombre with a gun even though I never wanted to fire one again. A couple of weeks after the Thanksgiving adventure I put a cigarette "load" in one of Dad's Camels just to get even. He was not amused.

Ten years hence, with no rounds fired in between, the Army gave me a Sharpshooter medal for marksmanship. I'm sure that Vietnamese rabbits with distemper are relieved that I never made it to the front.

Wake me in St. Louie, Osama

I'm guessing that it is a slow news week.

Why?

Well, how about the fact that we are now into over seventy hours of non-stop TV coverage of the new security x-ray machines at the airports. You know, the ones that show what your packin' underneath your jockeys or your Victoria's Secret Va Va Va Vooms! And frankly, unless there is something you're not telling us, chances are this will answer the age old question: " Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"

What's the big deal? Nobody except the folks working for the TSA will be able to actually see anything. What's more, the image appears to approximate an old black and white negative. AND WHO GETS EXCITED BY THOSE? This, of course, would assume that no teenage boys are currently in the employ of the TSA. Teenage boys get excited when the wind blows.

No, as long as these murdering malodorous dune dwellers continue to offer us a choice of returning with them to the eleventh century or dying, we need to have maximum security at our airports in spite of any inconvenience. That is why I am advising that we take it a step further.

In my previous life I found that a pint of whiskey and some Valium made air travel tolerable. A flask of Jack Daniels hidden in my camera bag and a couple of Valiums would get me as far as St. Louis without much discomfort. After that, it was a crap shoot. So, taking this a step further in the interest of national security,I am suggesting that after our body scan x-ray dealy the TSA people inject us with some sort of knock-out shot that puts us in a deep sleep until we reach our destination. This solves both the problem of the twisted turban types who want to kill us and at the same time makes air travel bearable. It's genius, if I do say so.

Okay...Shoot me up! Don't wake me until we're wheels down in St. Louis.
Better yet...put a tag on my toe and I'll see you at baggage claim.

Baseball and radio...Sweet Music

The radio business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs.
There is also a negative side.

_Hunter S. Thompson


I love that quote. The good doctor "Gonzo" was not unfamiliar with the business of amplitude and frequency modulation. It's an endeavor full of boozers, burnouts, and money grubbing degenerates who would back the car over grandma (twice) just to steal a quarter. People who can make even gypsies and carnies look good.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be broadcasters.

There is, however, one thing of beauty that is created every year by radio that should be considered its finest accomplishment. Radio was made for baseball, and viseversa. No other medium, especially TV, captures the essence and sheer magic of the game. It is a well dressed salad, a warm bed, a sensual massage for the ears. A top notch play-by-play announcer and a color man can paint an audio Mona Lisa for listeners on any given day of the 162 game season.

Part of the appeal of baseball audio is, I think, the great monikers of the game. My longtime radio buddy, Bill Moffitt, and I were speaking of this just the other day. Bill and I have toiled at three of the same radio stations and have often talked baseball. He asked me, "Where is Rip Repulski these days?" I have no idea what the former St. Louis Cardinal outfielder is doing or even know if he is on the right side of the sod. But, what a great name!

No other sport has names like: Sibby Sisti, Eddie Stanky, Eli Grba, Suds Fodge, Daffy Dean or Turk Lown. It just doesn't happen. And the beauty of baseball is that the great names just keep on comin'. Who can deny the elegance and grace of new guys with handles such as: Stubby Clapp, Homer Bush or Padre leftfield hopeful Terrmel Sledge? I certainly can't.

That's why I'm counting the days until I can catch that first Padre spring training game. Old friend Jerry Coleman, a true war hero and a beautiful man, will be painting a picture for me on the radio and I can't wait to start keeping track of those new hall of fame names.

Good-night Boob McNair...wherever you are.

Early Endorsement: Walt & Dash in 2008!

I can't stand another minute of it!
The presidential election is over a year away and I am sick of it.
I pretty much hate them all and can't imagine wasting another minute listening to these buffoons argue about issues that the federal government has neither the ability to handle nor the constitutional mandate to address.

Therefor, with great pride and affection, I am today announcing my wholehearted endorsement of my nephew Walt and his dog Dash as my candidates for president and vice-president of the United States in 2008.

Please join me is supporting this "too cute to steal" ticket.

Hey...If it doesn't work out, we rub the dog's nose in it and give the kid a "time out".

We've got Belgian Balls!

About two years ago, after tiring of mold and mildew at the beach, my
wife Linda and I moved into a home on higher ground in North San Diego
county. We love the place. It has lots more room than the condo near
the water and it doesn't feel soggy like the other place did. (We
actually had to install little heating rods in the closets at the old
digs just to keep the moisture in check.)

So here we are high,
dry, newly decorated and, oh yes...we have Belgian balls. They came
with the pool table that the previous owner tossed in as a deal closer
when we bought the house. The table is a dandy from Olhausen and the Belgian balls are from Aramith
, which I'm told are the best in the world. According to the brochure
that came with them, "they are recognized as THE reference of the
industry". Whatever that means.

For the first couple of months
we merely stacked stuff on the pool table and I began thinking of
possible suckers to sell it to. Neither one of us are much for games
and had long ago given up golf because it seemed to be too much
trouble. I had just wanted the damn table as a visible trophy of my
negotiating ability and prowess in the real estate game.

Then a
funny thing happened. Linda and I began playing pool. I can't remember
why, but we did. Now we play at least three games of eight ball every
night. We've decked the room out like a pool hall and even have our own
cues...with cases. It sucked us in and I fear we are hooked for life. I
hated geometry and felt lucky to get a D minus when it was forced on me
in high school, but those angles on the felt have got me in their spell.


It's
not a sport. We know that, but son-of-a-gun it's FUN and it feels
dangerous. George Carlin said it best: "Some people think billiards is
a sport, but it can't be, because there is no chance for serious
injury. Unless, of course, you welsh on a bet in a tough neighborhood.
Then, if you wind up with a pool cue stickin' out of your ass, you know you might just be the victim of a sports-related injury. But that ain't billiards, that's POOL."

So,
the next time you feel like trying your luck against a D minus geometry
student or like the idea of becoming the victim of a sports-related
injury, stop by our place. We're always open.

Bring your wallet.

There's Nobody Like the Skipper

The Skipper and Spammy Davis Jr.




"Ooh, ... I wonder if we Google it, we'd be able to find out how many people have been run over by one."

It's my pal. the Skipper, on the blower from Boston. He's amazing with stuff like this. I've just told him about a story in the paper with a dateline somewhere in Idaho where a couple of clowns managed to horse a Zamboni through a Burger King drive-through.

Yes, a Zamboni! You know...those steamroller looking contraptions that are used to smooth out the ice at hockey rinks. Only the Skipper would ponder the history of their involvement in pedestrian flattenings. He's sort of a savant in all things normal folks regard as "out there".

Dave Erickson, the good Skipper, and I have been pals since entering the eighth grade in Spencer, Iowa. I was the new kid from Michigan who, like Dave, chose to sit in the VERY back of every classroom. I knew we were destined for life-long paldom when, on the first day of school, he quietly cracked open a hollowed out Biology book which revealed a treasure trove of Cracker Jack. GENIUS!

The next day it was sardines with saltines. The kid was an inspiration.
Later I learned that his nickname was "Fizzy". This appellation having been earned by an attempt to surreptitiously consume soda through a tube connected to his study hall locker during the previous year. It seems that the pop exploded when Dave was sent flying courtesy of a back-handed whack from study hall monitor Coach Arvin Bomgarrs. This was the stuff of legends.

Over the ensuing years the Skipper and I have continued to stay connected even as we were miles apart. While I knocked around the country living the life of an itinerant radio disk jockey, Dave went to the Massachusetts Maritime Academy, (more commonly know as: Buzzards Bay Bait & Tackle Tech), and became one of the youngest captains in the U.S. Merchant Marine; thus, the Skipper moniker.

The Skipper spent the better part of four decades keeping oil tankers and gigantic coal boats from going aground and their owners off the shoals of bankruptcy by keeping a steady hand on the tiller of the USS Chill Bar (my favorite of the lot) and others. A couple of years back, after tiring of constant sea duty, he became a "barge pimp" by becoming the owner of New England Harbor Services. I'm not completely certain what this company does but his wife, Betty, says that he seems to be spending more time around the house lately.

In the last forty-five years the Skipper and I have shared tall tales, cigars, too much whiskey, (in my case way too much) and most importantly...lots of laughs. Everybody deserves to have somebody in their life who "GETS" them. I'm glad I have the Skipper.

Now...let's see what Google has to say about how many chumps have been mushed by a Zamboni...

It's the Y that makes us "special"

I'm expecting to hear it any day now.
All guys dread this one.
"All finished."
This is what thousands of women will be exclaiming sometime during the next couple of weeks and frankly it makes us guys crazy. What they are "All finished" with is: Christmas shopping for, you guessed it, 2007. It is unbelievable! For guys shopping is not something we enjoy or plan for. To us it is a ticking time bomb not unlike filing your income tax. There is not a person with a Y chromosome reading this right now who has not awakened in a cold sweat on any number of occasions knowing that he has either forgotten or is nearly out of time for buying some important, (see stupid), present that he is sure he is obligated to buy.

Men HATE to shop. When it is required, we plan for it much as Ike planned for the invasion of Normandy. Last year, while visiting my mother in Illinois, a trip to the grocery store was necessary. Mom is 85 now and seldom cooks; so in order to be able to survive a week's stay I knew that a major assault on the nearest snack isle must be carried out without further adieu. As my Y chromosome dictated, I had my list at the ready and with mom in tow made my way to the nearest food store. It was a smooth operation. I was in and out in about five minutes and back to the house in ten. GUY SHOPPING.

Now, nearly a year later, my mom still asks my wife: "Does he always shop like that? It made my head spin. He was running up and down the isles and then we were at the check-out." Yes ladies, that is how it's done! I had a list. The list had junk on it. I got the junk and paid for it. Free at last! Apparently, and my wife Linda agrees, the proper way to shop for anything is to mosey down every isle in the whole damn store and think about not only what you are buying today but also what Uncle Louie might like for Christmas. When you see something that fits into your twelve month shopping plan...you buy it. And that, gentlemen, is why they are always so smugly prepared for all those gifty occasions that we are prone to forget or put off until the very last minute. (You gals will have to admit that we do manage to find interesting gifts by procrastinating beyond all reason.) "Honey, when I saw this new drill press I just knew it had to be yours."

So...BROTHERS UNITE!
Let them have their Christmas shopping done in March.
Let's celebrate our Y chromosome! And, while we're at it, let's figure out a way to make those big bags of Halloween candy even BIGGER. You know...big enough to last at least until April.
Damn it, I'm out of candy corn. Let's GO SHOPPING!

Feel free to use this as a screen saver

For several years of my childhood I wanted to be a scuba diver.
You know, just like Mike Nelson on "Sea Hunt" the half-hour TV staple of the 1950's. I imagined that Mike's life of playing tag with fish and catching a bad guy or two all within the confines of a thirty-minute work day sounded like the ideal executive gig for me. A day at the beach with a paycheck!

Naturally, being from the Midwest, I managed to find inland employment that did not involve getting wet or even going outdoors. For nearly forty years I cracked wise on the radio while polluting the minds of the nation's youth with pre-pubescent pap pop music that was once called: The Top Forty. (We would have played the Top Fifty had there been enough payola to go around, but that's a story for another time.) Anyway, suffice it to say, I was distracted from my salt water calling for all of those years and it wasn't until 2005 that I was afforded the opportunity to don a wetsuit to see what I had missed.

Apparently...not much. Never had I looked forward to something as much as I did taking scuba lessons in Hawaii. I just knew that I would shimmy into that wetsuit, slap the air tank on my back, kick my swim fins and be home for the very first time with my friends Shamu and Sponge Bob.

I HATED IT. God it was awful! The wetsuit was icky and sticky. I can't stand breathing through my mouth. I kept floating to the surface. My ears hurt. As I said, I hated it. Forty years of thinking I had missed my calling. I was crestfallen. To make matters worse, the damn wetsuit made me look fat. I swear those stupid bastards who gave me the lessons at the hotel purposely put that inflatable vest on me just to make me look like a freaking weeble! Sonsabitches!

Oh yeah...Did you notice that some Grouper ate my hair?
Never Again!

Wheels of Fire!

I'm jonesing for a new ride.
I don't need a new car, but I want one. This happens to me all the time and I used to give into the siren call of the world's most expensive perfume, ( that new car smell), more often than Bill Clinton succumbed to the charms of a certain flesh toned humidor.

"Cars are nothing but a liability" was the mantra my Dad attempted to impress upon my brother and me even as he went aground on the shoals of the latest chrome from Detroit nearly every year. His excuse was that he traveled for a living and thus "wore out" a car annually. He didn't fool us. He was hooked on the "good smell um" being peddled by the Motor City. It's a cruel addiction.

Warren Buffett was never hustled out of his moola by the car pushers. In his early years of managing money, and in the years after he had made millions, he was famed for driving around Omaha in an old Volkswagen Beetle. He often mentioned that $25,000 compounding at 20% a year would come to $958,439 after twenty years, and to Warren that was just way too much money to pay for a car. That, ladies and gentlemen, is why he's LOADED.

During the twentieth century I was a drinker. Several friends and family members suggested that I lay off the sauce for a century; so I am currently in dry dock. When I drank I would often find myself in bars where, more often than not, I got what appeared to be good advice. I don't remember the name of the barroom Plato who passed on these pearls of wisdom but they have served me well in the past when new car fever was upon me. He said, " The first week you own a new car driving it is better than the best sex you have ever had. The second week of driving your new car is better than a fine meal at a five star restaurant. The third week...it's just your ****ing car."


I'm thinking of something maybe in "Hello Officer" red.

"Tank heaven for leetle gurls"

My friend Bill was on the phone. He needed help.
His fiance has been mad at him since Super Bowl Sunday. Something about directions, the driving kind, was behind it. It has been my experience that some women just don't understand that a man simply doesn't stop to ask for directions. It just ISN'T DONE!

So...The reason Bill was calling me is that it is well know amongst the brethren that I have a way with women. I love them! I love my wife; my daughters; my mother and at least a little of every one of them with which God has seen fit to grace his green earth. They are prettier, nicer, easier to look at, smell better, and are delightfully softer than any guy... and I dig them.

I don't know if my appreciation for humans of the feminine persuasion originally sprang from having a brother and no sisters. Or from the fact that they just make me delighted to be on this side of the sod whenever they're around. I know I'm grateful for my daughters being kind enough to let me be just "dumb old dad" when they were growing up instead of seeing how many times they could make me come up with bail money as my brother and I did to our parents. (Now that I think of it, we also can probably take credit for Dad's high blood pressure and male pattern baldness.)

Anyway, I love chicks. And as Valentines Day comes into view I just want to say thanks for being there ladies. I don't even care that they all throw like girls. It's kind of cute really.

Oh, I almost forgot. My friend Bill was calling me for an idea of what to get his fiance for Valentine's Day. You know, something that would really "say it all" and get him out of that guy prison that gals consign us to when we fail to get it. Bill knows that I'm one hombre that can always figure out what women want.

Yeah, he's getting her the pool table.

He's got GO Power!

I was a stupid kid. I'm probably a stupid adult but, since I only return to reality as a tourist, it isn't something that concerns me.

One summer day when I was eight or nine and having a typical kid summer in southern Michigan I hit upon what I thought was an absolutely brilliant "win win" idea that would make me a super hero and provide a fun new toy. Mrs. Isham's grandson, Danny, was visiting our little town of Leslie from his home base in far off, (ten miles), Rives Junction, Michigan. Danny was one of those kids who always had neat ideas and fun toys that seemed far more sophisticated than those enjoyed by we locals. He was a husky lad...okay...fat, which gave credence to any innovations he visited upon us. Part of that credence was likely born of the fact that he would sit on you unless you told him what cool concepts he had brought to the 'hood.

On this particular day Danny was dragging an empty vitamin jar around his grandma's yard trying to capture bugs. He had tied string to the jar and was trolling through the tall grass near the edge of the garage. Miraculously he, like a "B" movie big game hunter, managed to snare a rather large beetle. Well, that was it for me. I immediately sped home to secure a "magic" bug catching jar of my very own. Alas, when attempting to find a jar that would fulfil my needs, I came up empty handed. Mom was no help. In fact she made light of the whole concept by expressing some doubt about the "genius" of Danny Isham. I knew then that this would call for desperate measures...

Then it came to me! Didn't I have the perfect size jar just inside the refrigerator door? Yes, yes I did! That vitamin bottle would be PERFECT, but first it had to be EMPTY. Hmm, what to do? I know! If I eat all of the vitamins the jar will be empty and I WILL HAVE SUPER POWERS just like ol' Clark Kent on Superman. A million dollar idea was born.

Later that afternoon, having tired of the bug jar safari and Danny Isham, my next door neighbor Dickie Chamberlain and I began digging a rather large hole in his backyard. It was a hot day and we figured his family and mine would appreciate us building them a swimming pool. (Yeah, we both got our butts whacked for digging up the Chamberlain yard, but more on that another time.) I kept waiting for my super powers to kick in as the digging was getting difficult. Suddenly, I felt a burning sensation in my lower tract. I fled the dig at a high rate of speed and spent the weekend in the bathroom trying to figure out what went wrong. I still haven't quite worked it out. It SHOULD have worked.

Stupid Isham kid! Stupid Superman! Damn vitamins!

Just a trim...

I've been reading the Tao of Warren Buffett lately. Maybe you've heard of him. He seems to have made a couple of bucks over the last few decades and frankly I'm thankful that his former daughter-in-law was able to edit this compilation of his philosophy. With any luck, I should be awash in discretionary income within the next few months.

Warren's rule number 57 for making big cheese is: "Never ask a barber if you need a haircut." Mr. Buffett contends that if you ask an advisor if there is a problem he will assuredly find a problem---even if there isn't one. This is true of investment bankers, management advisers, lawyers, auto mechanics, lawn-care consultants, and the like. People who are paid to fix problems will always find problems no matter what.

Consultants are PROBLEM SOLVERS. Right away you know you're in trouble when someone remarks that a consultant has been retained. In radio, those of us toiling on the air used to cringe when we heard that a consultant had been hired by the station. Most of these guys were people who either had never been on the air or, at best, had worked the overnight shift on some tea kettle in Frozen Monkey, Montana. In other words, they were like the kid you knew in high-school who actually had a copy of the Kama Sutra but didn't know any girls. You know...LOSERS. My favorite one of these clowns was the guy who, when critiquing my morning show on K_BEST in San Diego sometime around 1997, asked me: "Why did you play that song by Jerry Lee Lewis just before the eight o'clock news? Don't you know that a song like that can make you sound OLD?" When I pointed out that we were an OLDIES station and that the playlist had been provided by HIM, I knew that it was time to look for work. I was right. MORON!

My point? I do have one. If you think you're getting a little shaggy on top, talk to either Andy, Barney, Otis or Goober...never Floyd.

It's just funny.

Even though I missed most of the game on Sunday, thanks to friends and incessant TV blather I have now seen most of the Super Bowl commercials. Some were funny, but for the most part I thought the majority of them had the faint patina of trying too hard. There seemed to be a certain desperation about the spots that smacked of too many vice-presidents overseeing the creative process and urging their charges to "be funny". The only problem with that is that management is NEVER funny; not even close. They're dweebs, that's why they're vice-presidents.

Humor is like pornography. You can't describe what makes it so...it just is. It either makes you laugh or it doesn't. Or, in the case of pornography, it either makes you... Let's come back to that another time.

An important element of humor that some of the unfunny folks who have given us the nonsense of "political correctness" fail to grasp is that ALL HUMOR IS OFFENSIVE. If you want ten people to laugh, at least one other person has to be on the receiving end of the shiv in the ribs. Comedy is a way of allaying anxiety and adversity without denying its cause. It is in the gap between what we demand of the world and what the world delivers that laughter flourishes.

One of the best Super Bowl commercials, in my opinion, was the Snickers spot where the two auto mechanics accidentally kiss while eating the same candy bar; then rip out some chest hair to do something "manly". The Human Rights Campaign and the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation complained to the Snickers people and BAM...the commercial is vapor.


Radio great Jean Shepherd said it best: "Comedy is always offensive. If you don't offend somebody you're not being funny. Only Americans worry about it."

Where are the grownups?

I miss my Dad. I miss him and all the guys like him who were and are
members of what we correctly call "the greatest generation".

Don't
get me wrong. When I was young I thought he was the biggest dope
around. All that "do a good job and act like you mean it" got hammered
into the thick skulls of my brother and me for our entire stay under
his roof. Of course we didn't appreciate it. We were way too smart for
that.

He and those like him are mostly gone now. Dad died twelve
years ago this May. His contemporaries are exiting the planet in
numbers over one-thousand each day just when we need them the most.
They were grownups. They and our moms got the job done without
complaint even when the odds were overwhelmingly stacked against them.
Think about it. First, they were the children of a worldwide economic
depression; then they were handed the massive crap sandwich we know as
World War II. They sucked it up and not only survived but thrived
throughout this one-two punch that would have certainly staggered, if
not flattened, we Boomers and our progeny. And...they saved the world.

What
concerns me today is: Where are the people who have the courage to know
what is the right thing to do and are able to do it? We seem far too
worried about how fat we are, how much money we have, and if the Eagles
REALLY ARE re-uniting for one more tour than we are about the things
that truly matter.

When my father was in the final stages of Alzheimer's,
he spent the better part of a day thinking I was someone else. I played
along and pretended to be one of his long dead Navy buddies. Then, as
my wife and I were leaving for the airport and a trip home to
California, he had one of those rare moments of clarity so common to
that disease. He looked at me and said, "Sorry I didn't recognize you
Kenny.""You looked just like a man." It was the nicest affirmation I
have ever received.

I miss you Dad.

Sure looks stupid to me...

I realize that this may just be one of those things I'm just too old to get. I am, after all, a card carrying member of AARP. (Hate their "gimmie gimmie gimmie" politics but love their magazine.) But what is up with all the body mutilation I see on so many kids and young adults today? The dopey tatoos were bad enough. I'm especially fond of those elaborate sunsets over the crack of the ass and the Chinese character tats that probably translate to "cashew chicken with rice". But, now I'm seeing these god awful lip, tongue, and other appendage piercings that are frankly disturbing. Oh yeah, who can forget the goofs I see with those damn little discs in their earlobes??!! Are they auditioning for jobs as extras in some "Return to the Serengeti" epic? This is the kind of stuff that would have earned a guy a serious ass kicking a few decades ago. It's insane, but unless you have one of these weirdos living under your roof, there isn't much of anything you can do about it.

Wait. I take that back. You can do what I have done. Beg borrow and steal all the legal tender possible and buy stock in Palomar Medical Technology. (symbol: PMTI) They manufacture the leading laser device used in tatoo removal. I have a very strong suspicion that you and I will be ringing the register bigtime in ten or fifteen years. I'm betting that when that ass crack sunset starts to look like an unfortunate birthmark you and I will be laughing all the way to the bank.

In the meantime....The world is a freakshow. And, since you live in America, you have a front row seat.