Friday, April 25, 2014

Diggin' Up Bones

Here is who should never own a rolltop desk:  ME!  If you're a pack rat, and I am, the temptation to toss things into this black hole of the desk family is irresistible.  Too few of us rolltop aficionados are equipped with the neat and orderly personality necessary for the proper utilization of its drawers and cubbies.  

I bought my desk around 1971 and have moved it from Kansas to Florida to California to Washington and Nevada before returning to California for at least three more local moves and never bothered to do more than lock it.  This month, in anticipation of another interstate move, I decided to tackle the job of cleaning and sorting the contents for the first time in forty years.  

My God!  It's a freaking time capsule!  I have now spent days looking at old pictures, memos from angry bosses, birthday cards, funeral and wedding announcements, small toys and general reminders of bad habits long since ditched.  When did I smoke a pipe?  Beats me, yet here one is.  Old contracts from radio stations whose call letters have changed at least a couple of times since they fired me are right here next to letters from friends and relatives now long in the ground.  Messages from dead people are downright strange to read.  Do I save them or, like their composers, bury the remains?  It's a dilemma.

I have found files full of old news stories that amused me--like the one involving the gynecologist bent on revenge-- and correspondence from listeners to my radio show in several different cities.  (Note to millennials:  before the Internet, people wrote letters.)  I especially enjoyed re-reading the invitation from a woman in Tampa to come "visit" after her husband had gone to work.  She made a point of reminding me that my show was over at 10AM and that was perfect since her husband would be downstairs embalming bodies in their funeral parlor at that time.  She even sent a picture erasing all doubt as to whether or not she had access to her husband's make-up kit.  There was also a note from the woman in South Dakota's state goon garage containing several au natural shots of herself draped across the hood of a '54 Ford.  I still wonder what kind of mileage that baby got.  The letters from the retired FBI man who enclosed copies of missives he had received from old J. Edgar Hoover himself made me wonder once again about the late director's proclivities.  Very creepy.

Old pictures of my kids and the special book they made for me during the time I was commuting each week from Las Vegas to San Diego caught me by surprise.  It reminded me of how much I love them and how, like an ice cream cone on a hot August afternoon, our time together is melting away.

Yesterday I discovered my old Army compass, a toy truck given to me by a relative in the 1950's and the first transistor radio I ever owned.  Though it no longer works I'll be hanging on to that piece of outdated technology as a reminder of the treacherous path it led me down.

Checking the clock I see that it's time to get back to work with this excavation.  For as long as I've been at it you'd think the damn desk would look slightly more, uh…..clean.  It occurs to me that perhaps this project is just too large for me to handle.  
Another approach may be called for.

Got a match?
The forty year time capsule from hell

Friday, April 18, 2014

The Only Desert Rat Is HARRY

Cliven Bundy
If ever there was a state where "juice" and "stroke" ruled as coin of the realm it is Nevada.  Who you know and what have they done for you lately is the way score is kept in the Silver State.  Whether it springs from the days of gold mining or the commoditization of gambling and prostitution, Nevada has long promoted a liassez- faire attitude when it comes to commerce, that is unless the BLM and senator Harry Reid are involved.

In case you are unaware, there is a bit of a problem involving Nevada's dumber than drywall douche-nozzle senator Reid and hard working American rancher Cliven Bundy.  Mr. Bundy has been grazing his cattle on BLM (federal) land for years and there is some dispute over whether he is or isn't in arrears on his grazing fees.  Neil Kornze, the head of the Bureau of Land Management and former longtime aide to Mr. Reid, contends that rancher Bundy is a deadbeat cattle pimp and wants to confiscate his herd.  Coincidentally, and I'm sure it is just a coincidence,  Mr. Reid's idiot son Rory is a lawyer representing China's ENN energy group that positively drools over the chance to use the land to construct America's largest solar energy complex.  In other words Harry's kid stands to make a bunch of money from the Chinese commies if he can secure them the rights to slap a buttload of mirrors onto the desert floor. 

Harry Reid, spawn of Satan and political gas bag
Senator Reid chooses to frame this case somewhat differently.  He wants us to believe he has stumbled upon a new found passion for truth, justice and the American way.  Of course if this were the case he would busy himself writing articles of impeachment against the flyweight in the White House for his five years of lawless conduct.   No, when asked his thoughts regarding the current situation with Mr. Bundy and his cows, Harry said, "It's not over.  We can't have an American people that violate the law and get away with it. So it's not over."  (insert guffaws here)
Harry was wearing his sunglasses when that fourteen caret line of political bullshit fell out of his maw so you know he thinks he means business.
"What are you lookin' at?!"
"Moooooooo"

It's interesting to note that the initial beef (no pun intended) regarding Bundy's cud chewing bovine was the assertion that they were destroying the habitat of Nevada's desert tortoise.

In the interest of fair play and total accuracy I decided to question a Mr. Dick Tortoise of Pile of Rocks, Nevada.  I found him at home under cactus in this suburban Las Vegas paradise.

Question:  Mr. Tortoise, any thoughts on the current situation regarding Mr. Bundy's cattle and the scam Harry Reid and his son are running?

Answer:  "I know you'd  think that Harry being a fellow burrowing reptile and all would get him a pass from us.  Not so.  Actually we kind of like the cows and rancher Bundy.  Sure Bossie takes the occasional flop on our head but let a pantload like cousin Harry have his way and, well, next thing you know the desert is full of useless politicians.  Nancy Pelosi anyone? Get outta here!"

Me:  "Thanks Mr. T."

Dick Tortoise: "You're welcome…OOPS…better stand back, Bossie has that look on her face."

"This cactus offers ample cow plop protection."

Friday, April 11, 2014

Sriracha! The Ring of FIRE!



California, the state that can't chase off businesses fast enough, is at it again.  Well, more specifically, the Southern California city of Irwindale which orbits the cesspool of greater Los Angeles is at it this time.  The town council of this nondescript collection of warehouses, parking lots and zero charm has declared the factory that produces the delicious red lead that is Sriracha sauce a public nuisance.  This past Wednesday night the city gave Sriracha's owners, Huy Fong Foods, 90 days to make changes to their heavenly nectar's production process or CLOSE DOWN.  Apparently the candy ass citizens of this civic grease spot on the map of the formerly Golden State are complaining of spicy odors from the grinding of red hot chili peppers that sting their eyes, give them headaches, and prodigious coughing fits.  Irwindale has now gone completely bananas and called in the dogs of the South Coast Air Quality Management District.


What?!  Double secret probation?!

Who cares?  The stuff is flat out nectareous and, like Superman, able to leap tall helpings of bland culinary blandishments to render them, uhh….downright edible.  Heck, you can put the red napalm on everything from a boring casserole your aunt dropped off to leftover Army C-rats and your tongue will be sending you a thank-you note while your tummy says "howdy" to a new found friend.  It's magic!

 Huy Fong Foods, the maker of Sriracha, was founded by David Tran, a Vietnamese immigrant, who grew weary of mixing his delightful sauce at home in a bucket.  He began making his creation in 1980 and two years ago had enough money to open a $40 million plant in the aforementioned Irwindale, a burg of roughly 1400 residents.  Mr. Tran personifies the American Dream lived out loud.  Last year the company, which now employs 60 people year-round and another 200 during the peak of pepper-grinding season, did about $85 million in revenue last year.  Nothing to sneeze at.  Oops, sorry Irwindale.

As a huge fan of Sriracha--frankly it's an addiction--I am today proposing that our phony baloney legislature simply write a few thousand checks to buy off the unenlightened of Irwindale.  Sure the state has no money, but that has never stopped us before.  Let Jerry Brown (Yep, him again) and the rest of the "money is no object" boys and girls in Sacramento load the folks of Irwindale down with a lifetime supply of Kleenex and Claritin and leave the bill to the grandkids.  It's solid "let the bottom line be damned" California financial planning.

So, the clock is now running on the Sriracha factory problem.  Will the residents of Irwindale, gateway to Azusa, shut up and nut up for the sake of their one and only touchstone of civic pride?  Or, will they wuss out, close down the plant and invite the wrath of millions of flaming Sriracha addicts bent of a revenge of FIRE?  Tick toc…

I would remind Irwinalians of an ancient Vietnamese proverb:

"Life is not a bowl of cherries.  Life is a bowl of hot chilis.  What you do today may burn your ass tomorrow."


Friday, April 4, 2014

If You're Under 50, You Don't Know Cowboys


You could always tell what kind of an episode of Bonanza was in store just by listening to the music mix in the opening scene.  Serious music meant one of the Cartwright boys was either on trial for something he didn't do, in danger of being jumped by bad guys, sick and circling the drain, or about to become a near widower yet again.

Women didn't stand a chance on Bonanza.  They either succumbed to a rare disease or became victims of foul play.   A telltale cough early in the show was a certain tip off to the former.  Of course old Ben Cartwright, the patriarch of the clan,  created this Devil's Triangle for females years earlier with his unfortunate habit of marrying three different women and impregnating them with extremely large male progeny.  Regular viewers were led to believe that not one made it to Mothers' Day.  Thus, Pa Cartwright ultimately gave up the East Coast and his gig as a ship's captain and struck out for points west to become a Virginia City, Nevada bigshot and honcho of the Ponderosa, a ranch roughly the size of Rhode Island.
Ben "Pa" Cartwright
"Hoss" Cartwright

My pal, the Skipper, and I have been discussing shows like Bonanza for years.  Heck, we grew up with them and continue to watch them today.  (Insert plug for Blu Ray DVDs here!)  Gunsmoke, Maverick, Tales of Wells Fargo, Have Gun Will Travel, and so many other horse operas were the video and audio soundtrack of our young lives and continue to resonate as we enter our dotage.  Our credo: "What would Hoss Cartwright do?"  Or, perhaps: "Like Matt Dillon, I will always pay my tab at Miss Kitty's."  These guys were our role models.  Unlike our dads who went off to work each day and came home for supper, TV western stars rode horses, got in fist fights and shootouts, seldom shaved, and drank gallons of rot gut whiskey in dark saloons.  What's not to like?!
Miss Kitty & pals

Recently the Skipper's New England trouble making buddy, Tom, has started asking some disturbing questions about several of these wonderful old shows, Gunsmoke in particular.  For example:  Tom wonders if Miss Kitty merely ran a saloon in Dodge City or was the Longbranch a front for a sporting house?  Also, where did all the hills and boulders come from?  (If you've been to Kansas you know this is a damn good question.)  Did Matt ever spend any money on Miss Kitty, or, better yet, spend the weekend with the dishy redhead?  (We know she made him hotter than Rock Hudson at Boy Scout camp.)    How could Doc fix any injury, no matter how horrible, with whiskey and a pair of pliers?  Why did bad guys wait to show up in Dodge when Matt was out of town and only Festus left to run the jail?  (Wait, that one answers itself.)

Tom's perspicacity has inspired more than a few long distance discussions regarding other questions or mixed messages that trouble we males of a certain age.  The older I get the more I wonder just how much serious green Ben slipped to sheriff Roy to keep the boys out of the local calaboose.  Also, when the Cartwrights "went to town" did they really go to town or was there a Virginia City version of Miss Kitty's Longbranch to help take the edge off?   Why weren't there more episodes starring Hoss?  Why was Adam there at all?   Why all the black clothes, Adam?  And, what was the deal with Hop Sing, the Cartwright's cook?  He should have been making a killing baking fortune cookies, selling Chinese take-out and running a crooked mahjong game.  The Pondarosa was, after all, just outside of Reno.

I realize that if you're under 50 none of this has ever kept you awake nights.

Just one more thing:  Ladies, if you ever feel the urge to "get out of Dodge", make sure you steer clear of Virginia City and the Pondarosa.  With those Cartwright boys, you haven't got a chance.
Festus in deep thought

Adam.  Who needed him?!