Little Drummer Boy

At the gym this morning I was happy to be among my own kind as we grown-ups fought fiercely to beat back the tide of holiday blubber recently launched into orbit around our expanding equatorial region.  It's useless I realize to even attempt a return to moderation at this point when New Year 2014 calories are waiting to ambush us with the sobering realities of adipose tissue, but I try.   

Gone are the days when two or three pieces of Christmas pie didn't mandate a next morning shoe horn for pulling on pants. These days every delicious morsel of good time dining packs its bags to find a home in the dunes of my jeans.  Exercise is required if I want to be around to celebrate a 66th Christmas and make ready for an attack on 2015.  It's a slap in the face from Father Time.

This year I was treated to the look on the face of daughter Katie and her husband Doug as their boy found a new drum kit from his Aunt Kelly and Uncle Pavol under their tree.  Danny kicked off what promises to be an especially noisy new year around their house with an impromptu concert on the new skins.  I predict the kid will be the next Buddy Rich, but then I did get to leave early.

Let there be drums!

Santa was good to my one and only grandson.  He's a lucky lad who,  I'm proud to say,  remains remarkably unspoiled.  

Today we are set to play in the snow at Legoland.  Snow, to a kid from Southern California is something to get excited about.  My Midwestern memories of snowsuits, mittens, boots, and runny noses have no meaning for Dan and he can barely wait to hit the slush pile of machine groomed white stuff at his favorite theme park.

So, if you need me today, I'm afraid I'll be "on the slopes" at Mt. Lego attempting to re-think my attitude about frozen rain and its capacity to entertain.  Perhaps a four year-old can turn around a snow grump of more than sixty years.  To my surprise, this grandpa gig gets better every day.  It's an opportunity that doesn't knock on every man's door.  In my case, it leans on the doorbell.  I'll bet I won't even need gloves.

"I'm ready grandpa.   Let's GO!"

The Best Gift

When my brother and I were kids Christmas was a time of no school and almost palpable anticipation.  Were we going to get cool stuff that we wanted or was it going to be one of those Christmases where our deportment earned us little more than things we "needed" along with the traditional Boys Life subscription and stupid board game from Aunt Shirley and Uncle Louie.  Fortunately, we usually avoided the holiday doghouse and would get fun things like a new bike, wagon or a Hopalong Cassidy cap gun.  Christmas was dandy and a return to school a couple of weeks away.

It's easy to forget what a kid's Christmas is like as we grow older and have children of our own.  Christmas becomes, like it or not, more of a chore and something to get through.  Jean Shepherd's book and movie, "A Christmas Story" captures this dichotomy superbly.  Ralphie, excited for the BB gun that will revolutionize his very existence and the "you'll put your eye out" protective rationality of his mom is there in technicolor for all of us to nod knowingly.

This year, as a grandparent, I have the rare opportunity to be a kid again at Christmas.  At four, our grandson Dan is completely in thrall of Santa, his elves, jingle bells and the baby Jesus.  For the first time it is all there on the big screen of his life.  He got to be one of the wise men in the church children's pageant and didn't mess it up.  The elf on the shelf has come to life at his house and Dan's behaviour has earned him high marks--so far.    He saw Santa at the Mission Bay Yacht Club where the jolly fat man can be found every Christmas in San Diego.  Dan greeted the old boy like a long lost friend and it was obvious that Santa and his Mrs. remembered the lad well.  (He got a candy cane to prove it.)

Who knows how long this Christmas magic will last?  I recall my guttersnipe pal, Bob Chamberlain, hipping me to the "Santa is your mom and dad" deal when I was about six or seven and I, in turn, wrecking my brother's faith at the tender age of five.  

So, this Christmas my wife and I will be at Daniel's house and will experience the day in all its majesty and wonder.  I think it's going to be a good year for him as I see a pile of presents under the tree that say "to Daniel", and Santa knows his address too.

The best gift of all this year comes with no box and no name.  It's for grandma and grandpa as we, for the second time in our lives, see Christmas through four year-old eyes.  Hands down the best gift, ever.

An actor prepares.

"Go ahead, guess what's in the box."

Nailed it!

Dan hangin' with Santa and Mrs. Claus

Santa Will Stick Around A While Longer

Senator Blutarski takes a break from his senate duties.

My Uncle Bob, a son of Illinois, always voted a straight Republican ticket until the day he died.  After that he pretty much voted Democratic.  

It used to be that once the detritus of December 25th was swept away there were no more presents until maybe your birthday.  That, my fellow Americans, is no longer the case.  Now that the bloodsucking leeches of our professional political class have discovered that it's possible to retain their status as privileged characters entitled to the public trough,  Santa is on the job 24/7 all year long. Whatever you need is within easy reach just as long as you keep voting for Representative Santa or Senator Santa of (your state or district here).  

Money is no problem for the punch drunk Palookas of  D.C,

 they'll do whatever it takes to buy your vote with your very own money.

Have a business?  Collect a decent paycheck?  Well, you my friend, have more than you need!  Send your dough to Washington so that it can be redistributed to those who can't be bothered with showing up for a job or are too lazy to steal.  Oh, by the way, when we run out of your money, we'll simply print some of our own.  NOT at problem.  Your kids and grandkids will pick up the tab.

In fact it may well be a good idea to see if your children can secure federal jobs.  That way they'll be certain to be first in line for decent seats on the lifeboat when the USS Democracy hits that iceberg of massive debt that is guaranteed to take it down faster than Bill Clinton's pants at a womens' prison.

Representative Blowhard is unavailable for comment.

Think of about this as you get ready for next year's tax shakedown.  Are you a taker or a maker?  If you are the former, rest assured that the ride can't last forever.  If you actually contribute more than you take from your country, God bless you!  If we stick together, demand reform and educate our children about the bear trap being set for them, then the greatest country the world has ever produced has a chance to continue.  If not, get ready to say "hello"to the ash heap of history where the bones of morally and fiscally corrupt civilizations lie bleaching in the noonday sun.  

Some citizens are catching on.  Max Baucus, the democratic dolt from Montana, deduced that his days of living large on the public arm are over.  He knows the collective IQ of the state of Montana could not possibly sink low enough to insure his re-election;  so he has chosen to "retire".  (For politicians retirement means taking a fat pension, continuing to live in Washington D.C. as a lobbyist and attending the same freeload cocktail parties.)  At least we won't be subjected to any more drunken rants by Montana's no longer favorite political pantload.

"Chivas neat…make it a double!"

 

Aw Come On…It's Still Fun

We started doing it because, well, our parents always did.  Later it became the perfect way to let longtime friends know where we were as the Gypsy existence that is the radio business bounced us through seven or eight states and seventeen sets of call letters in forty years of broadcast bacchanal.  Christmas cards used to epitomise the season and, though it was always tough to get them sent,  the incoming tide of reciprocal greetings made it worthwhile.  The memories of good friends, their triumphs and disappointments experienced during the year rapidly coming to an end was as warming as any yuletide hearth.  Coming home from work to check the day's mail for new cards loaded with annual updates was nearly as good as Christmas Eve.  

Sadly. the whole Christmas card deal seems to have gone the way of, well, radio.  My kids don't send them nor do most of the people we still consider good friends.  I'm sure the Internet has had an impact, though getting an "e-greet" from someone just isn't the same.  Time constraints are profound but probably no greater than they were fifty years ago and, sorry, the "it's too expensive" kiss-off doesn't cut it in the age of $5 lattes and $4 gas.

Nope, this year I will once again send a newsy missive to old pals and relatives (who damn well better read them!) just to let them know we are still above ground and grousing about even more topics than last year.  We won't send any "in town" greetings as it always seems idiotic to mail something to folks you see frequently, however, if you're out of sight, a "not out of mind" card is on the way. 

I promise to continue to inflict all Copper Christmas card recipients with news of kids and grandkids, provided they continue to perform up to my slightly subjective bragging standards.  Also, this gives me an opportunity to catch up on neighborhood gossip as I hand my news stuffed letters to mailman Russ who is the pride of the U.S. Postal Service.  (The preceding has been a paid political announcement.)

So, please give it some thought this Christmas and join me in keeping the tradition of the Christmas card going.  It would make your mom happy. Whether it's the best of times or the worst of times, it's the only time we have.  Catch up with some old pals this year.  

You may get back some award winning dandies like these:

I have no idea who these people are.

"Sit on grandpa's lap?  No way!"

Christmas, it's all about family.

Some people do not fear self criticism.

Didn't We Just Do This?

I hate the holidays.  Well, not really,  but I do dread them almost as much as I used to be giddy with anticipation of their approach when I was young.  Don't get me wrong, the food, fun and family doings are all enjoyable.  It's the velocity of their annual arrival and the finality of the door slamming on another year that gets me down.  Didn't we just have Christmas?!  What year is this anyway?

Yesterday was Thanksgiving.  I realize that's no news flash but it also marks the second year where my wife and I were guests at the table of our youngest daughter Katie and her family.  It was a treat to be with Kate and her husband Doug,  a creative man with a turkey and other tasty traditional Thanksgiving goodies.  I saved room for slices of three different pies provided by Doug's stepmother, his sister Debbie and the the kids' friend,  Christine.  (Pumpkin, Apple-cranberry, and chocolate pecan in case you were wondering.) As my four year-old grandson, Dan, would say, "It was scrumptious!"  I won't need to eat again until July.

We lingered, like most families, for a long while after the feast talking about everything from the value of heirloom jewelry and corn futures,  to the recent acceptance of nephew Michael to Baylor University.  There were laughs about previous Thanksgiving mishaps, childhood stunts, job related stories, the usual stuff of family get togethers.  Seated next to Dan,  I was able to keep him entertained with my passable Donald Duck impression and, when that failed, the fart app on my I-phone.  I "kill" with the Yo Gabba Gabba crowd.

As afternoon became evening it struck me that sometime while I wasn't paying attention the holiday torch had been passed.  Thanksgivings and future Christmases are now the province of Katie and Doug's generation.  There was no memo or meeting to attend, but the compilation of birthdays has moved Linda and me from host to guest for these traditions.  We are now the "old people" who, when not doting on the grandkids, talk of pensions, medicare and how the country is going to hell and aren't we lucky we won't be around to see it. 

As I said, I am beginning to hate the holidays.  They're fun but a big fat reminder that another year is up on blocks and the clock is ticking.  Friends are falling by the wayside, bucket lists need attention or  trimming, and suddenly there is a real awareness of past mistakes that demand correction …if possible.  I plan to get on that right after the holidays.

The hand off has been made.  The kids now own the season until one day--you might as well say next week--they'll look around and wonder just when their own kids took charge.  It's life.  Thomas Lynch, the fine poet and essayist, said it best:  "So it is with this life, we hammer at the moment until all that's left is memorable."

And, as long as we're quoting, let's let the English poet John Betjeman take a shot at this predicament.

"You've been given just one life in this world that matters and upon which every other life somehow depends as long as you live, and also given the costly gifts of hunger, choice, and pain with which to raise a modest shrine to meaning."

Good luck with that.  The clock is ticking.

In the meantime, I wonder if there is any more of that pie?

  

Generational Passage

It changed everything.  For those of us alive at the time it was a watershed moment.  Boomers like me can instantly tell you where they were when the news broke that the president had been shot.  It was the end of childhood innocence and the birth of a scepticism that persists today.  

I was in ninth grade study hall studiously not studying when the school intercom began to carry the news from Dallas.  The surreal broadcast emanated from WHO radio in Des Moines, the closest network affiliate to our small  northwest Iowa town of Spencer.

  

How could this be?  This was America.  People were hardworking, god fearing, upright defenders of  the free world.  Our president was the man responsible for the most powerful nation on earth.  The generation in charge, our parents, were the people who saved the world from Hitler and the Emperor of Japan.  Finally, after catching their breath from that massive undertaking, they had elected one of their own, John F. Kennedy,  a young decorated Naval veteran as president.  He was a Catholic--the first--with a beautiful wife and two lovely children.  He was also a leader who believed in a strong defense, lower taxes and was pro-life just like many other Democrats of the day. His successor, LBJ,  a shameless political opportunist, was largely responsible for steering the party into the ditch on the left where it remains mired today.   The economy was humming, the war in Vietnam barely on anyone's radar and the Russians had just blinked after being caught placing missiles in Cuba.

When Walter Cronkite, the "go to" newsman of the time,  confirmed that the president was dead school ended for the day.  Local high school football games were canceled nationwide.  Adults and kids wrapped up everything early that day and headed home for one of the strangest and saddest weekends in memory.  People sat transfixed before the glare of black and white television screens watching the almost Shakespearean tragedy unfold.  News anchors looked exhausted and every face sad.  

The Top 40 radio stations that were the drumbeat of my generation dropped the Beach Boys, Dion and Fats Domino for the somnabulistic drone of funeral dirges interrupted only by hourly newscasts featuring only  THE story.

Blame began almost immediately.  Finger pointing from the left centered on a climate of right wing hate said to be prevalent in Dallas at the time.  All of this in spite of the obvious fact that Kennedy had been felled by a bullet fired by a Castro loving little communist named Lee Harvey Oswald.  Naturally, on Sunday,  conspiracy theories exploded as Oswald was shot by nightclub owner Jack Ruby.  

Conspiracy?  Who knows?  Though it is uncharacteristic for even two people to keep a secret for fifty minutes let alone fifty years, maybe there was some nefarious plot to kill JFK.  I doubt it, but will keep an open mind.

Of one thing I am certain:  Fifty years ago today my generation began a transition from youthful optimism to a more realistic and educated cynicism.   More sobering and still haunting, we watched  overnight as our parents became at once and forever no longer young.

Give Me the FUN Guy!

Hands down I'm taking Rob Ford.  At least in Toronto they have leadership that provides a few laughs.  Here in what was once the greatest nation in the universe we--well, no one I know--have decided that it was a good idea to elect a president who had never so much as run a car wash.  Barack Obama,  once described by his equally incompetent and inexperienced sidekick, Valerie Jarrett,  as a man so intelligent he had "been bored all his life"  now has plenty to keep him occupied as the cornerstone of his social engineering and wealth redistribution agenda, national health care, crashes around him.  Thanks Barry, it was a swell idea.  We finally found the ultimate "style over substance" liberal clown to claim the title "WORST PRESIDENT EVER!"from that hopeless Georgia hillbilly, Jimmy Carter.  Congratulations.  Now, please leave so we can find someone funnier to run the country.  

"Did ya like me in Tommy Boy?"

The first five or six folks in the Hoboken phone directory are likely more qualified than B.O. but I'd really prefer the Toronto Tons O' Fun, Rob Ford.  I realize that we'd have to waive that "native born American citizen" thingy in the constitution but am fairly certain that we already have.

Get me that large and IN CHARGE mayor from the Great White North!  Any guy who looks that much like the late Chris Farley has got to be our man.  Did you see him in his football jersey?!!  Comedy gold my friend!  Ford Nation forever!  

So the large lad enjoys an occasional debauch and a cocktail or three…So what?  He shoots from the hip, fears no PC police and HATES taxes.  That certainly puts me in the booth yanking the lever for the Robster when it's time to vote.  With luck he'll be able to work his partying magic (and crack pipe) on all branches of our currently useless government and render the entire executive, legislative and judicial branches so completely gassed to the gills they can no longer do us harm.

The time is now!  The man is Ford!

COME ON DOWN FAT BOY!!
Hook up the sled dogs and mush on down to D.C.
We could use some laughs.

"First order of business:  every Friday is jersey day."

The Automotive Hall of Shame

Back in the 1970's American Motors gave us the Gremlin, a car so unattractive that I thought it impossible for automotive engineers to create a mode of transportation more embarrassing to drive.  Of course the French managed to top Gremlin with their putrid cockroachmobile, the Citroen.  But who would ever be caught driving a car made by cheese eating surrender monkeys?  Oh yeah, an old boss of mine who eventually died of embarrassment. (I'm still smiling.)

 Whether it's because we now have, in spite of the demise of American Motors, more pencil-necked geeks designing cars,  or an abundance of car shoppers with no taste, there is now a veritable plethora of crappy sleds on the road.  

To prove my point, Carinsurance.com has recently conducted a survey asking respondents to name the most embarrassing cars on U.S. roads.

The results:

We're NUMBER ONE!!

1. The Smart Car

2. Nissan Cube

3. Hummer H2

4. Chevrolet SSR

5. Volkswagen New Beetle

6. Subaru Baja

7. Lincoln Town Car

8. Pontiac Aztek

9. P.T. Cruiser

10. Honda Element

Probably the sole reason Pontiac went to the boneyard.

For Chrysler fans who miss the 1930's

Just proves you CAN make a bad idea worse.

Where is it written that hybrids must look like a turd on wheels?

The worst idea EVER for an American car.  Gremlin!

We've all at one time owned cars that were best parked blocks away from our destination and practically had "loser cruiser" stenciled on the door, but we ditched them just as soon as we could for wheels that looked cool.  My first car was an ugly old '54 Buick Century that ran like a champ but looked like a  Kardashian butt.  I swapped it for a red '65 Ford Galaxy convertible that made me look like a player.  The only problem was it ran like Henry Ford himself pissed in the tank.  It was NEVER  right!  EVER!  I didn't care.

Life is too short to drive a stupid looking car.  

Don't let the greenies fool you.  The only non-embarrassing hybrid ride is the Tesla.  The others are the automotive equivalent of mom jeans and real Americans DON'T DRIVE FUGGLY CARS!

Citroen is reason enough to hate the French.  God, what an ugly car!





Here's your car!  The 2014 Corvette Stingray!
Tell 'em Groucho sent ya...  

Buy it!  Nothing exceeds like excess.  Embrace your inner coolness.

Yours For Halloween Safety

Halloween is one day gone and I'm already making revisions for next year's candy disbursement program.  Last night, in spite of several trips to Costco to lay in multiple bags of candy gratuities for the neighborhood's pint sized freeloaders, we hit rock bottom shortly after 8PM.  The little socialists came in waves and, thanks to my very liberal son-in-law who relished dumping fistfuls of MY candy into the gaping sacks of the juvenile extortionists, never left our porch with less than a year's worth of calories.  It was the gimmiecrat philosophy writ large on my own front porch.  Disgusting!

"You'll be the most popular house on the block," he said.  It was as if Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi were right there!  

"You're an idiot," I explained.  "Who wants to encourage the little beggars to come back for more next year??!!"

When my four year-old grandson returned from his trick-or-treat run loaded to the gunwales with sugary swag, I put him in charge of handing out candy at the door.  It warmed my heart to see him carefully dole out spare rations as he told his contemporaries to "Go home" and "get off my porch".  I love that kid!  He has registered Republican and "management material" written all over him.  I should have fired his dad much earlier in the evening.  

Costumes, at least in our area, were better this year.  Lots of creativity, though none as convincing as my grumpy old man ensamble.  I've nailed that one, if I do say so myself.

Of some concern to me of late is the adult costume situation.  As more grown-ups dress up for Halloween I'm seeing a dangerous trend develop.  Many women are wearing what appear to be highly flammable get-ups.  I actually felt very warm just being within reach of some of the dressed up moms who accompanied their kids on their candy grabbing rounds.  This is distressing!

Naturally, as a good American, I would like to help rectify the situation.  May I suggest that any women thinking of sporting a Halloween costume next year first take a picture of themselves and email it to me.  That will enable yours truly to inspect the outfit to see if it looks like it might burst into flame.  

Believe me when I say that it is NO trouble.  I'm just happy to help.  I'm a giver.  I just keep giving and giving.

Safety first is my motto!

Looks fairly safe, but I'll need more information.

Always happy to help the health professionals.

Needs more candy!

Shotgun Start? Nope, FINISH

Check out the eyes.  Cocktails may have been involved.

It's kind of disappointing.   I was certain that I had invented golf's shotgun finish.  Years ago when I still played the game I was famous for my "shotgun finish".  It occurred whenever I became so completely fed up with how a round was treating me that I threw my clubs in the nearest water hazard and went home.  The expense was considerable and the continuing frustration of "a good walk spoiled" convinced me to simply give it up.  I did.  

Even in my playing days it was difficult to imagine why anyone would choose to live on a golf course.  What's the point?  All day long a homeowner serves as a captive audience to a parade of mostly white middle-aged fat guys encased in attire ordinarily reserved for pimps.  And don't get me started on errant Titlists and Maxflies bombarding your domicile like Doolittle's raid on Tokyo. It's enough to spur Gandhi to kickass mode.

That may have been what caused Jeff Fleming of Reno to finally pop his cork.  Mr. Fleming has just entered a guilty plea to battery with a deadly weapon for firing his shotgun at an unsuspecting golfer who was dropping a shot on the 16th hole at the Lakeridge Golf Course the other day.  Old Jeff is now looking at a possible trip to the motel with bars for a ten year jolt and a whopping $10,000 fine when he is sentenced on December 12.

By the way, the wounded golfer is fine.  He was treated for minor injuries to an arm and both legs at a local hospital and is recuperating nicely.

This incident has me wondering if perhaps a few rule changes might perk up the old game of golf just a smidge.  How about arming EVERYBODY?  That could provide some of the real life excitement that the game lacks at present.  Homeowners with strategic mortar and machine gun emplacements coupled with players sporting a sufficient arsenal of guns and ammo would put a certain amount of pop into an increasingly mundane sport.

Heck, changes like that may even provide your corespondent with a renewed yen for a day on the links.  I wonder what the statute of limitations is on that unfortunate incident at my old country club.  Who knew that my party featuring greased pigs,  molasses and an open bar would go south quicker than a bus load of hookers at a Shriner's convention?  

Maybe if I changed my name….

This and a couple of grenades should pep up a round.

National League? Not This Year!

When I was a kid, it was the Tigers.  I spent my grade school years in southern Michigan and in the 1950's that meant you were a Tiger fan.  It mattered little that Detroit was all but out of the American League pennant race by Memorial Day because: (A)  There was a team called the Yankees, and (B) The Tigers were pretty awful.  New York had guys named Berra, Mantle and Ford while Motown sported a line-up featuring guys like Neil Chrisley, Walt Dropo and Charlie "Paw Paw" Maxwell who was famous for being from Paw Paw, Michigan and hitting home runs, but only on Sundays.  Sure, the Tigers had a young future Hall of Famer named Kaline but Al was generally a rose among thorns.  "Wait 'til next year" was the Tiger fan's mantra until 1967 when they faced the Cardinals in the World Series,  but by then I was long gone to South Dakota and a short lived romance with the Minnesota Twins.

The Boston Red Sox were my team for much of the 1970's when I worked for a radio station that served as the club's broadcast home in Florida.  I had the chance to interview and, in a few cases, get to know some of the guys who were members of the Red Sox 1975 World Series team.  (In my opinion, that series between the Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds was the best ever.)

In 1976 a move to San Diego and a job with the Padres' radio station converted me to a National League guy forever.  It didn't hurt that KOGO had plenty of primo seats for employees at all home games.  Also, since the team was so godawful, parking was a breeze for radio stablemate Bill Moffitt and me.  We went to a lot of games thirsty and usually by the seventh inning were well fortified.  Like the song says, WE REALLY DIDN'T CARE IF WE EVER CAME BACK, as long as someone else was driving.  Former Yankee great, Jerry Coleman, handled Padre play-by-play and handled sports updates on my afternoon program.  He gave me my first Padre cap and regaled me daily with stories from his long career.  How could I NOT be a fan?

After leaving San Diego for jobs in San Francisco and Seattle, I was briefly unfaithful to the Padres as I flirted shamelessly with the Giants, A's and Mariners.  Like the jobs, none of these relationships felt right.  I was still a Padres guy.  Of course,  now when the post season rolls around--with only two exceptions in 44 years--a Padres fan is faced with choosing a "second favorite" team in which to invest some fan loyalty and it's often difficult.  Who wants to root for the Cardinals or Dodgers?  St. Louis has a fine ballclub, but the city?  No thanks!  It's a river town that long ago lost its race to relevance with Chicago and continues to be a burg that never misses a chance to miss a chance.   Los Angeles is a cesspool of carpooling morons who, for the most part, don't even speak English.  It doesn't help that Dodger fans are the Yankee fans of the National League.  They give front runners and bandwagon jumpers a bad name.  Flies swarm wherever and whenever they gather.   Simply the worst people on the planet.

So, here in the fall of 2013, I sit conflicted before my big screen HDTV.  What team do I like in the Series?  Tigers?  Nah, Detroit is the team of my yesterdays; something in me died when Kaline retired.  Boston?  Nope, today's Sox look like refugees from Duck Dynasty.  Cardinals?  No "there" there.  Dodgers?  No how, no way!

 So, my fidelity to the Padres remains intact.  I'll watch the series this year but with little enthusiasm.  I predict lots of trips to the kitchen for snacks and beverages, not to mention considerable channel flipping. The off season trade for a big bat and one more starting pitcher will, this year for sure, put the Pads in contention in 2014 and whet my appetite for the World Series once again.  We Friars fans will continue to warm ourselves on that happy thought this winter as we contemplate pitchers and catchers reporting to Peoria, Arizona come February.  Well, that and the fact that, at least, we're not Cub fans.

 "NEXT YEAR, just WAIT 'TIL NEXT YEAR!" That's the battle cry of the true Padre fan.
It worked in '98 didn't it?  Okay, kinda.

Next year!

Happy Birthday You Little Pirate!

Dan strikes the Iron Man pose

Oh wait, grandpa got that wrong.  You were a pirate last year for Halloween.  This year you specifically told me that you're going to be IRON MAN!  The seasons and years roll by so fast in granddad time that it's easy for we old coots to get confused.  Last year you were only three and really not ready for the responsibility that comes with being Iron Man.  But now, since you receive your four year-old promotion this coming Tuesday, you are almost certainly qualified to don the mask and save humanity, or maybe ring a few doorbells for candy come the 31st.

Four years old!  Grandma and I can't believe that you've gotten so big in so little time.  We sure do enjoy having fun with you.  You're quite the conversationalist these days and always have a refreshing take on the stuff of life that we grandparents have come to take for granted.  Your assessment of baseball: "they throw the ball, catch the ball, hit the ball and then run around the bases" is as prescient as any I've heard.  It's obvious that you are destined for a play-by-play job in the major leagues should that be on your career radar.  At four, professional horizons are limitless.

"Beware evil doers!  Iron Man is on the job.

This birthday you have lots of accomplishments to celebrate.  Pre-school two days a week has given you  even more lessons in cooperation and respect for your contemporaries.  I realize that you were already an excellent sharer of toys and playground equipment, but now you also are learning about working with other kids on fun projects like gardening, dinosaur history, and play dough creations.  It makes your mom and dad proud to see how well you get along with other children.  You're a friendly guy, but Grandpa knew that all along.

leading the pack at Legoland raceway

On your way to birthday number four you also earned your Legoland driver's license.  Maybe this is just grandpa bragging, but I thought you looked like Mario Andretti as you zipped around the oval at what has become one of your favorite places on the planet.  You could have lots of fun driving race cars when you grow up.  Just make sure to always buckle-up!

Pit stop for root beer

Potty training goes into the plus column as you hit "the BIG 4".  It's a little embarrassing for gramps to confess that staying dry at night was not something he had conquered by four. Mom and dad appear really happy about checking  that one off the old "to do" list!

Lessons like looking both ways before you cross the street--WITH the green light--and always checking for cars exiting parking garages are both important achievements you mastered this year.  Those two will go a long way toward keeping you around for birthday number five.



Like so many learning experiences, grandpa accidentally gave you the valuable knowledge that a cape doesn't allow you to actually fly.  Grandma and I bought that Super Hero outfit for you with the idea that it might work for Halloween.  We didn't know that you just assumed that it made you into a kid with super powers.  As you now know, only with mom's help could you get airborne.  She's a great mom I know, but asking for a "lift" of more than a block would seem to be out of the question.  You'll have to walk, pal.

This cape should have me airborne in minutes.

There are SO MANY things you've mastered on your way to this birthday it's hard to remember them all.  You have been cramming your brain full of all kinds of information that will serve you well in the years ahead.  (Great haircut, by the way!)

So, Danny, old buddy, have some cake and maybe a root beer or two and enjoy mom and dad, your friends, grandparents,  even cousins,  on the one and only day you will ever be four years old.  You are much loved by all who know you.  As the birthdays continue to arrive, remember to always plunge into life and move with it.  It's a dance that you seem to be mastering well.

Love,
Grandpa

"Faster mom! There is a damsel in distress!"

It's the MOST Delicious Time of the Year

So there I was at Hudson's Hamburgers in downtown Coeur d' Alene, Idaho minding my own business,  appreciating the fact that the joint feels like a bar but only serves burgers.  I was thinking about maybe having some pie when a colorful local--they're all colorful here-- says, "You know, it's only 84 days until Christmas."  

A slice of heaven in the Idaho panhandle

WHAT??!!

No menu, just hamburgers and pie.

Hamburgers, no whiskey

That can't be.  Quickly I do the math and decide that the son-of-a-bitch is right.  My, so far, perfect day has now been ruined by this clown.  I decide to have a piece of coconut cream pie to make it all go away.  This place, Hudson's, by the way is the home of truly terrific burgers.  It's roadside diner food that is now being purveyed by the fourth generation of Hudsons  here in one of the most spectacular regions of the country.  Don't ask for a menu.  There isn't one.  Hamburgers, with or without cheese, come with a smile, pickle and onion.  Help yourself to mustard, ketchup, spicy mustard, or spicy ketchup.  Top it off with a piece of pie and life makes sense.

Sated, I pay up, exit Hudson's and amble down Sherman Avenue, Coeur d' Alene's main drag.  As I stroll I remember that my wife and I started seeing Christmas decorations at Costco sometime in August and complained that this was becoming the norm.  What about Thanksgiving??  My mom, in her sunset years, became so angry about America's traditional day of thanks getting lost in the Christmas hurry up, began sending out Thanksgiving cards instead of Christmas greetings.  I sort of agreed with her but, since turkey doesn't do it for me, let the protest slide.  But now here we are losing another tradition in our rush to Ho Ho holiday time.

What about Halloween?  Where is the candy??!!  I've seen some displays in grocery stores and discount emporiums but have they been as prevalent this year?    I conclude that I'm not sure.   As I recall, our house is generally loaded to the gunwales with gut busting chocolate, candy corn, jolly ranchers, licorice whips, Baby Ruths, Milky Ways, Snickers and other delicious booty by this time every year.  Am I slipping?  Yes, of course I am, but NOT when it comes to my candy.

The whole purpose of early Halloween candy shopping--and don't breathe a word of this to my wife--is to have plenty of the good tooth rotting stuff around to shamelessly pilfer  before the calendar requires doling it out to the pint sized pirates  in the 'hood come the 31st.  Why should they have all the fun?  After all, opportunity knocks but once while temptation leans on the doorbell.

Damnit!  I need to start buying sugary snacky goodness pronto dante!  As it is, I already have a difficult time fending off my candy loving son-in-law and have deemed it necessary to establish diversionary secret supplies around the house just for his visits.  (Little does he know that I only hide last year's leftover treats in places he can ferret out, thus solving any problems with 2013 inventory.) 

You know what…

I just flashed on a wonderful idea for all the little tykes within Halloween distance of the old Copper manse.  This year I'm putting the kids first!  No more sugar badness for my little friends.  In 2013, as a service to their parents and dentists, I will hand out nothing but healthy goodies to the kiddies.  Brussel sprouts, broccoli, carrots, beets, cauliflower, radishes, and rutabagas  are going into the sacks of the little beggars.  And, for those demonstrating neglected dentistry, brand new toothbrushes and tooth paste will be provided by kindly Old Man Copper!  

There, I feel better already.  Now, if you can just hand me that Snickers bar, I'll show you how I can make it disappear.
The little nippers will thank me one day.
Happy Halloween kiddies!!  Put your candy in the old guy's hands,  help yourself to some delicious vegetables and NO ONE WILL GET HURT.

I'll sacrifice my teeth for the children's sake.

And Leave the Driving to Us

I'm fairly certain that this is illegal, however I don't recall ever noting any specific restrictions regarding getting a lube job for your crank shaft while driving on the Eisenhower Expressway in Chicago.  Too bad the cops didn't pull them over.  "Officer, I honestly thought it was legal to park my beef bus in this lap pool."

When watching this You Tube video it's hard to decided who owes more IQ points.  Is it the couple in the van or the morons attempting to capture the "magic"?

I wonder what kind of mileage they're getting?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gcCH82JLEf0

Playing the Crazy Percentages

Aaron Alexis, Navy Yard killer

A crazy guy kills a bunch of people with a gun.  Sadly, this has become a regular occurrence in America today.  Almost as predictable is the cliched outrage from the media and politicians regarding gun control and our country's propensity for violence.  "America has too many guns" is the default response from most quarters as they trot out the endless parade of camera hogging senators and representatives to call, yet again, for more gun regulation.  It ain't that simple.

I'm no gun nut.  I don't hunt or target shoot but I do have a shotgun for home security.  I qualified during my couple of years of military service to fire the M-14 and M-16 rifles, a 50 caliber machine gun and the standard issue Army 45 caliber pistol.  I know what they can do and have no desire to keep any of those weapons handy.  I do understand that other people may think differently and am fine with them owning, with the exception of maybe the machine gun, those firearms.

What I am against is CRAZY people having guns.  Too many of them do and we need to stop it pronto.  Obviously background checks aren't doing the job of determining who is capable of handling a gun responsibly, so I suggest we revert to the option that kept us safe for years:  Lock the crazy bastards up!

Just do the math.  In the mid 1950's the United States had a population of approximately 150 million people; today we have more than twice that number.  If--and I think this is conservative--you believe that roughly one out of one-hundred people are capable of acts of extreme violence, then it stands to reason that many more Fort Hood and Washington Navy Yard situations will manifest themselves.

Paranoid schizophrenics and other mentally disturbed citizens need to be isolated from society for their own good and the safety of others.  Sometime in the 1970's our government decided that it was a horrible thing to confine the dangerously insane.  It was "a violation of their rights" and they should be able to move about freely in society.  Of course this idea is the very essence of insanity front and center on the national stage.  "They'll be fine as long as they take their medication" was the thinking, but for the insane to function somewhat normally in a semi-sane world  they MUST take their medication.  Most don't, and there's the rub.

In 1993 Bill Clinton's administration issued orders barring military personnel and civilian contractors from carrying personal firearms on any military installation--even officers.  The ruling specified that there needed to be "a credible and specific threat against personnel" before military members would be authorized to carry weapons for personal protection.  We all know what happened at Fort Hood and now at the Navy Yard.  Lunatics show up everywhere and, unlike the military, they have no restrictions or reservations about much of anything.  They are nuts, remember?  This policy is idiotic.

Guns?  Sure, they're bad when in the wrong hands.  Either we start locking up people who need a "check-up from the neck up", or we start letting our military and others in potentially dangerous occupations start packing.    Perhaps then there would be no need to "shelter in place".  A simple "Go ahead punk, make my day," would suffice.

Not Just HOT, This Car Is Sizzling!

I've lost track of the number of rants rolled out on in this space regarding the paucity of colors available for new cars.  When this war on fun began is anybody's guess, but it has been on going for decades.  The Henry Ford syndrome of "any color as long as it's black" has been the mantra of auto manufacturers since about 1970.  From Detroit to Berlin and Yokohama the car makers' pallet has been reduced to: black, white and silver.  No exotic colors need apply.  

"People don't want 'em," is the response from my pals in the car business.  "Bullshit," I explain.  People don't "want" fun colors if there are no fun colors available to want.  

The good news is that  bright and exciting shades are slowly becoming available once again.  The car pirates are charging more for them but the electric greens, powder blues, canary yellows and several shades of out loud REDs are being offered once again.  

Ford is positively inspirational with this year's introduction of the Bacon Wrapped Ford Fiesta.  Yes, as of August 30, bacon loving car buyers can now order the full wrap, racing strips of bacon over the hood, or a "side of bacon" over the rear wheel of their new ride.  This is inspired!  I wish I'd thought of it.  While I've been bitching about the lack of available colors some hillbilly transplant has been working miracles in Detroit.  The Fiesta's starting price is $14k and the full bacon wrap is an additional $3,347, plus installation.  A bargain in any pork lover's language.

I'm thinking that a fried egg wrap for the hood would not only complete the look but also promote the undoubtedly hot mill contained therein.

As long as we're discussing exciting the car buying public,  I wonder if a scratch n' sniff version would add some real flare?  And--if they dare--put me down for a "liver & onions Lincoln", sure to be a chick magnet extraordinaire.

In the meantime, here's a salty ride that looks good enough to eat.

"Ford Fiesta…America's carb free ride!"