Merry Christmas

We are in Seattle for Christmas.
I'm sure this will be, like most of them, one to remember.  Our daughter, Katie, and her family will join us at the hotel for the week and that will be the best present of all.  The original plan had been for them to be with us in Coeur D' Alene so that seven year-old Daniel could experience a Christmas with snow.  There is plenty of the white stuff in northern Idaho this season and I'm certain that he would have had plenty of opportunity to do what kids do in the snow.  Being a native San Diegan he knows little of life outside of the zone of 70 degrees featuring toasty sunshine and, unlike his grandparents, he is thrilled with the idea of a frozen outdoors.

This week Linda received the first of six infusions of Nivolumab, a form of immunotherapy designed to kick start cancer fighting T cells that we hope will finish off her lymphoma.  Cancer is a stubborn adversary that is adept at hiding and more than a little reluctant to die.  We fight on.

For obvious reasons this blog has lately fallen off my radar.  I will do my best to contribute on a more regular basis when we return home in a week or two.  It's therapy for me and, I hope, occasionally entertaining to readers.

Here is to a very Merry Christmas to each of you and a bright and shining brand new 2017.

Shut Up!

When did restaurants get so damn noisy?

Hotel living for a couple of months while my wife is treated at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance means lots of visits to local restaurants.  I'm seriously thinking of publishing a guide for joints all the way from Pike Place Market to as far north as University Village for anyone planning a trip to this seriously damp and cold corner of the country.  The food, especially the seafood, is excellent, the wait staff almost always friendly but the NOISE IS LOUD.  I know this phenomenon isn't exclusive to the Northwest; I've long noted it in Southern California and, of course, New York City.  What I can't figure out is why.  What memo went out to restaurateurs requiring that all ceilings be raised, beams and duct work exposed and music cranked up to "can you hear me now?"  It's nuts.

Think about it.  Can you name a single dining establishment in your neck of the woods that currently features low lights, a low ceiling and is quiet enough to allow for intimate non shouted conversation? If so, make sure you order something from the bar to insure they don't go out of business.   

I suppose, as so often is the case, this ambiance, like spiked hair, will be looked upon with laughter and derision in a few years. At least I hope so.  It's no fun to yell in order to rise above the din and the crappy music.  Isn't dining out supposed to be a relaxing break from the grind of the rest of the day, or am I mistaken?  I'm almost certain that any entrepreneur willing to open an eatery that is lit like a 1940's film noir feature and is as quiet as a library could make some serious bank from those of us seeking sustenance and a sea of calm.

In the meantime, check please.

Waiting

My wife, Linda, is out of the hospital and feeling much better every day.  The T cells taken from her and genetically modified to seek out and kill her lymphoma seem to be doing their job.  Her hair has gone AWOL for the third time in three years but she knows it's a small price to pay if this regimen works. The lymph glands in her neck have nearly returned to normal, her skin tone is far better and food is beginning to appeal once again.  These are all positive signs that this yet to be FDA approved procedure is the real deal.  Now we wait.

Other than blood tests every few days at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance there is little for us to do as we wait for another two weeks to pass.  The doctors who are the heart and soul of this new treatment have determined that it takes approximately one month to say with certainty that a CAR T cell patient has put their cancer in remission.  A petscan and bone marrow test will provide the report card.  Linda has fourteen days to go.  If her cancer has been defeated we go home.  If not, we go home and maybe come back in a couple of months to try again.  At this point, with only about 180 subjects having participated, the program has roughly an 80% success rate.  If this is sustained, it will be considered a major breakthrough in cancer treatment.  Both of us are excited, yet nervous, to be a part of what may well be substantial medical history.  Mostly we just want to get on with our lives.

This is dicey business.  Two days ago the leukemia section of the program was shut down after two patients died.  The lymphoma study continues as it involves entirely different gene modification and has produced more successful outcomes.  Nonetheless, this is all a delicate tap dance that may yet experience some unforeseen trips and falls.  We simply hope and pray that Linda is ready to dance her way into a cancer free life.  She is excited to be among the 80%.

Making Way For A Junior Reporter

With my wife in the hospital this blog has suffered from neglect.

Daughter Katie has been in Seattle helping me with all things necessary for her mom's recovery.  She left today to return to San Diego and her husband Doug and seven year-old son, Dan.  They have missed her tremendously but have been more than understanding through it all.   As a consequence of her absence Katie missed Dan's "Back to School Night" report created to edify us all about bugs.  Because of this I thought it only appropriate to publish it here as a show of appreciation.  Call me a prejudiced grandpa but I think this puts him on track for a job at 60 Minutes or 48 Hours.

Here it is...

Dan pauses to refresh himself  using a straw that doubles as glasses.

Like Gingko Biloba

The ginko biloba tree in Autumn

We both joked about it.  What else can you do?

They removed the tap from my wife's neck on Tuesday.  The Mahurkar hemodialysis catheter installed to grab the hardiest of her T cells was reminiscent of the spikes pounded into Michigan sugar maples in the springtime of my youth.  It was no fun to look at and miserable for her to wear during the four days required to do the job.  Our grandson thought it was cool and wanted something similar for his Halloween costume.  He's seven and hasn't a clue.  The contraption did what it was designed to do and now Linda's T cells are in a lab at the Hutchinson Cancer Center being genetically modified to attack the blood cancer that is trying to kill her.

After nearly four months here last year for a stem cell transplant, neither of us was ready to reprise an extended stay in the Emerald City for yet another campaign against this insidious large B cell lymphoma raging inside my wife's body.  Yet, here we are.  Daily we are thankful for the unwavering support of faithful friends and family.  We also count ourselves lucky to be retired and comfortable enough to withstand the obvious financial strains of this battle.  Daily we see others who have young children and jobs to worry about and are amazed that they persevere.

 Magnificent ginkgo biloba trees, now golden in Autumn, line Aloha street for the block we walk from our hotel to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance each day.  A Google search of these beauties offers the information that they are some of nature's hardiest and disease resistant deciduous trees;  the only plant life to survive 1945's atomic bombing of Hiroshima.  Their presence here is obviously no accident.

The pleasant distraction of a World Series lifts our spirits.  We both love the game of baseball and are delighted to find the Cubs flirting with the chance to win it all for the first time in our 68 years of life and, like all Cub fans, hope and pray that 2016 truly is the year of miracles.

The ginkgo biloba endures

Taking a Cruise

That's what we've decided to call it.  A "cruise" sounds a ton better than going back to the hospital, but that's where we're headed.  

Linda's cancer returned in August and has proven itself both resilient and deceptive.  Even after last year's stem cell transplant the lymphoma that has tried to mess with her for the past three years keeps coming back for more.  This ugly bastard should have talked to me.  This woman is the definition of relentless and indefatigable!  For forty-eight years she has put up with my seemingly inexhaustible supply of bullshit and won't quit until I've been fixed.  (Those who know me realize this is a fool's errand that demands at least another fifty years.  Please don't tell her.)

Beginning next week we return to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance where Linda will be a patient in their CAR-T cell program.  It is a new form of therapy involving the body's immune system that you're welcome to Google for a more detailed explanation.  Simply put, it is a program that withdraws T cells from the body and "re-educates" them to attack cancer cells.  It's very new but so far has proven quite successful in fighting leukemia, so much so that doctors feel comfortable in its ability to be equally effective on lymphoma, especially the large B cell variety that has chosen to go after Linda.  We have high hopes.

It dawned on me a couple of weeks back that what began as a feeble attempt to sweep some of the snakes from the attic of my mind--this blog--has gone on for nearly ten years.  When radio jobs went away there was no place to go with this nonsense except right here.  The web was free and it stopped me from talking to myself in the driveway for four hours every morning.  Actually, I would have kept on doing that but the neighbors called the cops.  So here I am.  Just about the time I think I should quit inflicting this on the unsuspecting I hear from an old friend or former radio reprobate reminding me of a tale or two that can now stand the light of day and I decide to just keep typing.  So, for now, I will.  I'll try to be diligent in filing these usually light-hearted ramblings during the next few weeks but, if they become sporadic, you'll know it's only because we're on a cruise.

Linda resting and wishing I wasn't taking her picture during a recent walk..

I'm My Own Grandpa

The country comedy team of Homer & Jethro recorded a novelty ditty entitled "I'm My Own Grandpa" that has been rattling around my aging gourd lately.  I'm fairly certain it's because I have been finding myself slipping into codger speak a little more every day.  You know, stuff like: "I remember when Halloween pumpkins were 10, 25 and 50 cents; not EIGHT BUCKS!"  "Damn kids are playing that rap crap again!"  And, of course, my wife's favorite:  "How come they're hiring high schools kids as television news anchors?"

Going grocery shopping is excruciating for me.  Working as a bag boy for Oscar "The Watermelon King" Swanson at Swanson's Super Store during my high school days in the early 1960's left that era's prices etched forever in my mind.  The other carry out guys and I used to be able to come within a few cents of a customer's final bill just by eyeing their baskets as they pulled up to the check stand.  A $50 order would fill a typical grocery cart to overflowing and someone spending $100 invariably had at least two carts and required two of us to help them to their car.  These days, when forced to hit the supermarket, I look at what I have to purchase and simply give it a multiple of ten to estimate how bad the hit will be.  The same formula works for cars too.  A ride that was $5000 in the 60's is easily $50k today.  Houses need at least a ten multiple to make the price leap from the 60's to today.  Whoda thunk??

What got me thinking about all this was a recent study an expert on aging, Dr. Jan Vijg of Albert Einstein College of Medicine, who says that 115 years of age is just about the maximum limit of human longevity.  Of course some folks have exceeded that but Dr. Vijg seems to think that after 115 we're all pretty much competing with cabbages when it comes to being useful.  I tend to agree, although it could be a real challenge to see if my heart could absorb the amount of change and inflation a person would have to contend with to make it that far.  And, isn't that maybe why we are allowed the fairly standard three score and ten years most of us are dealt?  How much change is good for you?  Shouldn't there be some benchmarks that are immune to change?

Mark Twain said, "The two most important days in life are the day you are born and the day you discover the reason why."  Possibly it takes some of us as much as 115 years to come up with the why.

Now, what was I talking about?
Eight bucks for a pumpkin?!!
Now, when I was a lad that pumpkin would have been 50 cents and the farmer would have given you a ride home!

Bumping Into Ben

"Hey buddy, it's me Gentle Ben!"

While walking in the woods of north Idaho one day last week I chanced upon an old friend.  I nearly didn't recognize him as, like me, he has aged considerably but it was TV's Gentle Ben.  You remember the series don't you?  It was a big hit in the 1960's and featured Ben as the big furry pal of a boy named Mark played by Clint Howard.  The show was shot on location in the Florida Everglades.

"Ben", I said.  "What's up pal?  What a  nice surprise that you're also a denizen of the Idaho panhandle."

Ben & Clint 

HERE IS THE TRANSCRIPT OF OUR CONVERSATION:

GB:  Good to see you too Buddy!  Remember the time we got wasted at Sweet Lou's oyster bar in Tampa?

KC:  Things are a little hazy but I do seem to recall you trashing the place.

GB:  Good times!  It was a real bitch working Florida in a fur coat.  Sort of like working on the surface of the sun,  but I survived.  Rides on the air boat saved me.

KC:  Yeah, this Idaho north woods weather has got to be way better for you.

GB:  Between sweating it out in the Glades and that little pain in the ursine ass, Clint Howard, I couldn't wait for that show to get canceled.  By the way...is there another kid in the history of Hollywood who went from cute to gap-toothed goober faster than the Howard kid?!  Holy crap!  Talk about "the prince formerly known as charming".

KC:  His brother, Ron, always manages to squeeze his mug into every movie he produces just so old Clint can keep getting residuals.  

Clint Howard, from cute to ugly in record time

GB:  It wasn't so easy for me after the series ended.  I wound up working in the circus and hating every minute of it.  Riding the bike, juggling, and all that bear shtick depressed me no end.  I wound up hitting the mead pretty hard and eventually couldn't stay on the bike or  do any damn juggling without knocking myself out.  It was brutal man.  They canned me and the wife ran off with Jo Jo The Dog Faced Boy.  

I don't like to talk about it.

KC:  Well, you're here now and I trust things are on a more even keel.

GB:  Yeah, pretty much.  Although the debate the other night was a bummer.  Geez, can you believe we're down to an orange manatee shaped loon and some old bag who looks like every guy's idea of A LONG DAY?

KC:  Like George Carlin always said:  "The world is a freak show and if you're an American you have a front row seat."

GB: Bingo!

KC:  So, who are you gonna vote for?

GB:  Well, between the humorless, mendacious harridan and the overweight circus act, I'll go with Shakes the Clown every time.  The Hildabeast reminds me of my ex old lady.
By the way...which way to the lake?  I'm really getting sick of huckleberries and am jonesing for some bass.

KC:  The pike are hitting at the mouth of the river and the trout, perch and kokanee are fatter than ever this year.  Northwest sushi at its finest!

GB:  Thanks pal.  Mind if I take your Wall Street Journal with me?  I've got some business to attend to before exiting the woods.

KC: Be my guest.  Catch you later.



And, with that, he was off, older, wiser and certainly cooler than the average bear.

Senior Moments

Corbin Point on Lake Coeur D' Alene

Willard Spiegelman, a professor of English at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, has written a new book called: Senior Moments , looking back, looking ahead.  It's a thoughtful reflection on growing older that has a lot to recommend to those of us who have reached, or are about to reach, our  biblical three score and ten years of life.  If you qualify, there is much that will have you nodding your head.

An observation that particularly resonated with Linda and me was this:  "Here is a formula for staying young well beyond the days of youth:  Grow old in a place where you do not think you belong.  You will feel like an adolescent, because adolescents always consider themselves outsiders.  Then, after decades, just as you have gradually habituated yourself to your surroundings, pack up and leave.  It is time for another, perhaps the final, beginning."

Wow!  Are you kidding me?  We were actually being SMART when we left our comfort zone in Southern California for the wilds of the Idaho panhandle two years ago?  We thought we just had tired of all the traffic, liberal politicians, taxes and  an ever pressing need to learn Spanish.  Instead we were helping ourselves return to our adolescence, though most who know me will contend I have never come close to even flirting with responsible maturity.

It's true we had stayed much longer in the San Diego area than was customary for a couple who had moved seventeen times in nearly forty-eight years of marriage, but it's easy to get comfortable when the sun shines and the temperature seldom dips or soars out of the 70's.  Nonetheless, move we did and have never looked back.

Originally our plan was to travel during the cooler months and stick close to home the rest of the year but Linda's cancer battle has kept us in Coeur d' Alene year round lately and that has been good.  We've learned more of the history of the area and made new friends because we stayed put.  Of course, we miss old friends and family but have been lucky enough to have had many visitors.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that if you're thinking of a change of scenery once you've made up your mind to enjoy doing all the fun things you've been putting off because you had to show up for work, it may be time to consider professor Spiegelman's advice and head for a place "you do not belong".  After all, it may be later than you think.

A patriotic sailboat on July 4th

Sightseeing tour boat

Boardwalk Marina, Lake Coeur D' Alene

As American As?

When I was a kid in the 1950's the only "ethnic" food we had came in a can.  Franco American spaghetti or Chef Boy Ar Dee ravioli was the extent of the menu offered up by moms in our neighborhood.  My dad, brother and I actually looked forward to this nights when mom opened a can of that orange gelatinous stuff before heating it on the stove.  Pizza didn't happen, at least in our decidedly unsophisticated corner of small town America, until the early 1960's and most of us didn't know what to make of it.  We liked it!  Chains like Pizza Hut and Dominoes hooked us for life and made pizza a staple of the American diet that now requires more than 72,000 restaurants to satisfy.

The American palate has grown far more sophisticated in the past several years and it's not unusual to have a number of eateries offering the cuisine of Mexico,Thailand, India, Germany, Greece, China and Japan even in the most remote corners of the country.   Mexican restaurants are fast closing in on Italian joints in popularity just about everywhere but Japanese--especially sushi--restaurants are also multiplying at an astonishing rate.  

I've been a fan of sushi since the 70's when practically nobody else I knew was fond of or had even tried the stuff.  My wife and daughters had to be talked into it only to become even bigger fans than I.  There was a little place next door to the San Diego radio station that employed me in those days and many times I would be the lone non Japanese customer.  (They used to try things out on me and then laugh when I would eat them.  If I didn't keel over they'd add them to the menu.)  I think the sake helped.

Something about "those guys tried to kill me in the South Pacific" prevented me from ever attempting to talk my dad into a sushi bar sojourn when he was alive but mom, in her late 70's, had to admit "it was pretty good" when we dragged her to one of our favorite places.  There is just something about it that most people not only like but CRAVE.  

No question about it, sushi, like Mexican and Italian cuisine has become exceedingly popular in America.  Just take a quick look around.  There are sushi bars in cities and small towns from coast to coast--even IOWA.  It's surprising really.  Think about it.  If someone had told you even as recently as the late 80's or early 90's that restaurants featuring primarily raw fish would become this popular, would you have predicted it.  I thought not, but who can argue with delicious?

Now, where was I?  Never mind, just pass the wasabi.

Eat Me

Home Sweet Calaboose

"Hell or High Water" is an amazingly good film.  Jeff Bridges, as an aging Texas ranger, turns in a performance that may just be the finest of his career.  The Oscar for best leading actor should simply be mailed to him. That is no slight to Ben Foster, who,  for his portrayal of an impulsive bank robbing ex-con, should already have his supporting actor statue at the engravers.

As I watched this saga of a soon to retire ranger on the trail of two west Texas luckless brothers who are systematically knocking off small town branches of the Texas Midlands Bank, it occurred to me that most of us spend far less time in banks than we used to.  With automatic deposits and withdrawals, credit cards, ATMs, and on-line loans it's way too easy to scratch "go to the bank" off our list of things to do.  Banks are reducing brick and mortar locations and full-time employees at an ever accelerating rate.

  

Banking has become one more industry forever changed by the internet.  That's why it's a good thing that Lawrence John Ripple of Kansas City, Kansas was smart to pull off his latest bank heist while there still was an actual Bank of Labor on Minnesota Avenue in that city.  You see Mr. Ripple had an ulterior motive to his attempted ripoff of the bank's cash.  Instead of fleeing after handing a teller a note that read, "I have a gun, give me money", he took the money and then took a seat...IN THE BANK LOBBY.

When a bank security guard approached, Ripple said: "I'm the guy you're looking for."  The guard took the money from him and held Mr. Ripple until the cops got there.  It didn't take long as the Kansas City, Kansas police headquarters is on the same block as the bank.

When questioned by investigators, Ripple said that he'd rather be in jail than at home with his wife.  "I no longer want to be in that situation," was the quote.  He didn't elaborate further but I speculate it was either her company or perhaps a fondness for jailhouse cuisine that prompted this move.  Perhaps it was just more inexpensive than counseling?

"I just love them jailhouse tater tots."

Please, Remain Seated

Another wasted college education

Dear Colin Kaepernick,

As I write this it is Thursday afternoon and the 49'rs are set to play the Chargers tonight in San Diego.  It's Military Night at the stadium and all indications are that you, dumbass, are planning to once again remain seated during the National Anthem.   Where is Joe Montana when you need him?

You have said, "I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color.  To me, this is bigger than football and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way.  There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder."

This is rich coming from a guy making millions of dollars for playing a kids' game in a country so racist it elected a black president TWICE and is home to countless other people of color who have succeeded in a myriad of professions for longer than you have been alive.

Okay, you claim to have a beef.  I won't begin to address how completely stupid it is that you have bought into the "hands up, don't shoot" canard foisted upon us by the Michael Brown incident.  All you need do is examine the facts to know that story is simply not true.  That aside, you have numerous ways to make whatever point you wish to make.  You could write your congressperson, petition, picket or embark on a speaking tour.  Many avenues of expression are open to you in this wonderful country of ours.  To refuse to stand for the National Anthem is an insult to all of the brave men and women of all colors who have fought and died so that you have the opportunity to live in freedom.  Your disrespect is also a slap in the face for those who protect you each and every day.  

....It is now Friday and I know that you once again refused to stand for the flag and our Anthem even during Military Night in a city that is home to countless veterans and current service members.  You got a few boos but came away otherwise unscathed.  Get back to me when you figure out how many other countries there are where you could pull this off.

One more thing:  Since you seem to like sitting, I hope the Niners give you ample time for that by giving the QB job to Gabbert.

We Could Have Done Without This

Besides hearing, "hey what's this red stuff" uttered by your doctor,  the worst thing he or she could say is: "it's back."
After nearly nine months of recovery from a stem cell transplant, my wife's cancer is back.
Son of a bitch!  Just when she had begun to feel like all of this had been a bad dream it comes back like a punch in the gut.

We got the news two weeks ago and it felt like somebody was pelting our house with rocks, or, in Linda's case, a home invasion.  Every morning the knowledge that this sneaky bastard of a disease had once again slipped into our lives made the temptation to just stay in bed seem like a good plan.  We're over that now and are ready to kick some large B cell lymphoma ass.  Linda begins with a brand new (just approved in April) chemo drug the first of next week.  This one promises not to leave her feeling too bad or--even more important as far as she is concerned--BALD.  After meeting with her primary oncologist we are feeling quite positive about this drug's ability to do the job.  If it fails there are other new miracles  of medicine to be tried including  the possibility of another trip to Seattle and a re-education of her CAR-T cells.  I have no idea what that's all about but it seems to be succeeding in early trials at the Cancer Care Alliance and at the Mayo Clinic.

Linda is a native of Rapid City, South Dakota and, as another child of that great state and longtime friend, Doug Steckler, said to me, "NEVER piss off a girl from South Dakota....No NEVER."  Steckler is a lunatic but I can't remember the last time his insight was incorrect.  She is pissed!  Cancer doesn't stand a chance.

What Kind of a Name is Marilyn for a Boy?

"Hi, I am a moron."

Major freak flag flyer Marilyn Manson, like most rock n' roll reprobates, won't set foot on a concert stage until all of the perquisites outlined in his contract are in place.  His backstage rider includes such beauties as:  "all rooms shall have private flush toilets (Porta Johns are specifically not acceptable), also "promoter shall provide one oxygen tank with regulator and mask for artist's sole use.  In order to avoid being late to the stage, or starting the show with runny makeup, the dressing rooms for both Manson and his band each require "one clock and one efficient AC unit.  Dressing rooms need to contain these items:  ten Gatorades ( grape, berry or watermelon flavors), two packs of Dentine Ice gum (peppermint and spearmint), French onion dip (fresh from deli, if possible), a half-gallon of two percent milk, and two bags of Haribo gummy bears.

To ensure patrons and performers are in safe hands, "None of the security personnel shall possess any handcuffs, mace, firearms, clubs, knives or dangerous weapons...under no circumstance is a flashlight to be used as a weapon."  If you're a patron of the event, Manson's contract forbids the wearing of spiked bracelets and chains of any kind.  (Obviously Manson draws a "classy" crowd.  ed)
With demands like these you'd expect the guy to actually be talented.
Guess again.

I think we should all have these kind of riders just for participating in daily life.  Not that you asked, but here is my newly created list of "musts" just for waking up each morning:

1.  I would like to be awakened gently like a lily on a quiet pond.

2. I would like my wife to give back at least half the covers.

3. Breakfast shall feature only cereals that come with toys in the box and contain either chocolate or fruity flavors.

4. All pictures and references to liberal politicians must be removed from my newspapers. (yeah, I still read them).

5.  No whippersnappers with their caps on backward allowed within two miles of my hacienda.

6.  NO WIRE HANGERS!  (I had this one before Joan Crawford!)

Uh....I know I have more ideas for this list but I'll need some more time to think them up.  It's not that easy being petulant and demanding.  Now get busy on your own damn list!

Okay, one more:  I demand permission to resume drinking booze if ever I find myself trapped between two or more boring people.  

Pull the trigger.  I'm begging you!

Miss Cleo, Chickens and Bats...Oh My!

Miss Cleo

As the wife and I took a little break from reconfiguring the house in the wake of a visit from our six year-old grandson Dan (Cocoa Puffs and Trix still turning up in unusual places) we both did some catching up on the latest news.  First of all I was saddened to note the passing of Miss Cleo who, you may recall, was always standing by to talk with you on The Psychic Hotline.  Did it catch her by surprise I wonder or was she dressed up and waiting at the station for the Dirt Nap Express?  If her obituary is correct it appears that she had been less than candid about certain aspects of her life.  For example,  her real name was Youree Harris and she was from Los Angeles which, last time I checked, wasn't even in the same time zone as the Caribbean.  What else was she not telling us?  And, it's obvious that the old Hotline must not have been getting the job done for her cash flow lately as one of her last jobs was doing commercials for a Plantation, Florida used car dealer called Uncle Mel's Cheap Heaps.  This, of course, begs the question:  Would Miss Cleo be able to predict when the transmission might take a hike on one of Uncle Mel's bargain rides?

Here in the Idaho panhandle we have time to relax and enjoy a slower pace.  The news cycle doesn't usually include major crimes like murder, home invasion, drug busts and endless freeway tie-ups.  Of course we have the occasional meth lab explosion but those seem to be almost the exclusive province of rural and small town America.   The big ugly stories we leave to the major metropolitan markets while we take time to focus on, well,  Miss Cleo assuming room temperature and items of local import.   Here in Coeur d'Alene there was a front page story regarding some old bag state senator--or was it representative?--who drove her car around police barricades during our Fourth of July parade.  She assumed that the cop yelling at her to back her car up and not cut through the marching Cub Scouts and Brownies didn't realize how important she was as she whipped out the old "Do you know who I am young man?!"  No, he wasn't impressed and wrote her a ticket which she is contesting vehemently.   Frankly I hope they give her about five years in stony lonesome just for being a politician.   It's a doggone shame that she was recently defeated in her bid to continue on as our local state political hack.  She had the potential for real comedy gold.

Another breaking story here in the Famous Potatoes state is the disappearance of the 7-foot tall steel chicken in Pocatello.  (This just in:  THE CHICKEN HAS BEEN RETURNED, film at 11.)  I have no idea what this monstrosity is supposed to promote or represent but do agree that it would look cool on our front lawn.  I won't bring it up for a vote as no doubt Linda would not be willing to go along with this stroke of decorating genius.  Women have no imagination when it comes to home decor.

A little something for the front yard.

Last night after finally agreeing that we had caught up with the news and our home had returned to normal--okay, as normal as we get--we relaxed on the front patio and enjoyed watching the sunset.  As darkness descended and we enjoyed a gentle cooling breeze off the lake, we lingered and congratulated ourselves on surviving a week of a six year-old's visit and how smart we were to move to the Idaho panhandle.  Linda remarked that there was a really large butterfly putting on a show near the tree just to the West of us and how nice it would have been for our grandson to see it.  Of course it was a BAT but I agreed that it was indeed a very special "butterfly" just to get her inside before she wised up and screamed.
I wonder if I could have blown that by Miss Cleo?

An Idaho "butterfly"

Gen Z Meets The Greatest Generation

Our daughter Katie and her family have been visiting this week and I'm happy to report there has been zero Pokemon Go nonsense attempted by grandson Dan.  He has been busy wearing out grandma and grandpa with swimming, boating, fishing and general horsing around that seems well suited to these long warm final days of July.  We can rest up next week.

On Sunday we had a visit from old friend Denny Krick, a California pal who now calls Seattle home. Denny is a World War II  Navy veteran looking forward to his 91st birthday on August 7.  He was on his way to Montana to see another mutual San Diego buddy at his summer home on Ashley Lake near Glacier National Park.  Denny is a remarkable guy and I couldn't let the opportunity to introduce young Daniel to a true hero pass us by.

Here is the shot I hope Dan can show his grandchildren when he is 91.  The generation that saved the world from the insanity of Hitler, Germany and the Empire of Japan is rapidly slipping away and will live on only in our history books and in the memories of those of us who knew them.  Now Dan has joined our club.  I hope he'll grow to treasure the day.

Denny and Danny

Pokemon Blows

"Got time to waste?  Come chase us!"

It's official.  We are totally out of stuff to do.

What other explanation could there possibly be for Pokemon Go?  In case you recently stepped off the planet, this idiotic waste of time has many of our fellow earth dwellers traipsing around the real world with "not so smart" phones clutched firmly in hand as they chase imaginary  digital monsters.  Not only are these clowns doing a wonderful impression of Otis Campbell, Mayberry's town drunk on the old Andy Griffith Show, they are also endangering themselves and others as they barge into traffic and walk off cliffs in pursuit of these pretend monsters.  Holy idiocracy! Just when you thought the country couldn't possibly get any dumber, we somehow manage to come up with crap like this.

I will confess Pokemon Go has provided oodles of entertainment for my wife and me when we make our morning trek to the neighborhood park to feed the squirrels.  Up until now we have had to amuse ourselves by feeding endless nuts to the  furry little tree top dummies in an attempt to make the lot of them official contenders for the Jackie Gleason look-a-like contest.  Some have become so fat it's necessary to roll the peanuts toward their respective trees in consideration of the required dragging of bellies no longer capable of navigating park terrain.  With the addition of the Pokemon Go zombies to the mix of park fauna, we are now treated to the near constant hilarity of dozens of virtually obsessed morons falling over picnic tables, barbecues, playground equipment and each other as they capture precisely NOTHING.  Even the squirrels think they're idiots.  Don't these people have jobs?!

another one rides the short bus...

My wife, as usual, keeps attempting to put a positive spin on this Pokemadness by saying things like, "at least the kids are doing something outdoors."  Which is a lot like bragging that your child is the skinniest kid at fat camp.  She also fails to take into consideration that the argument loses something when at least half the "kids" look to be over 25.

So, keep it up kids!  All that falling down and walking into trees provides all the hilarity of alcohol abuse without the expense of buying booze.  And, don't forget, "chased and captured imaginary monsters in a local park" looks pretty damned impressive on a resume'.    

My thoughts precisely!

The Only Choice

Really?  This is it?

Wow!  Do I want the mendacious harridan who who wouldn't hesitate to back the car over Jesus if he got in the way of her monstrous ambition, or do I hitch my wagon to the manatee sized blowhard with the My Little Pony comb over? 

Any takers?  I thought not.

 Republican and Democratic conventions are upon us and, at least for me, the choices about to be proffered us are rich with comedy gold.  Certainly neither of the about to be anointed candidates hold much promise for greatness or, for that matter, even competence.  It's almost as if the country ran an ad for "least likely to succeed" and has wound up with these two Jack & Jill clowns.  However you vote, regret is in the wind.  So what do we do?  

I'm inclined to go with The Donald mostly for the entertainment value.  The man is a human cherry bomb and, as far as I'm concerned, that works.   Anything he would like to blow up in D.C. gets a green light from this corespondent.   Even "Slick" Willie Clinton, while promoting the candidacy of his wife--in name only--  Hillary, told a crowd recently that "it's time to put the awful legacy of the last eight years behind us."   I'm with ya Bill.  It seems as if he not only forgot he's officially married to her but that she is a major participant in the "awful legacy". She is the candidate who promises more of the same.  She is one of the phony "we know what's good for you" liberal a-hole central planner, socialist, big government  loons who should pack for Europe where they can freely enjoy the globalization, environmental stewardship and social equity they love to blather on about.  Most of us have had enough of their whining ruling class bullshit and would gladly help them pack.
Memo to all current administration bureaucrats:  Get out and stay out!  And take Nancy Pelosi with you!

In the words of the great American, P.J. O'Rourke, "Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys."  As one who is a lifelong case of arrested adolescence and former drinker of whiskey, I would like to go on record as saying it's time to turn the keys to the country over to The Donald.  Eight years of the smug moral contempt and elite condescension of the Obama administration is enough.  We don't need another minute, let alone four years, of politicians taking our money and telling us we're too dumb to know what's good for us.  Let's light the fuse on the free market capitalist cherry bomb that is Donald Trump and begin to jump start this once great country.

In the words of Steve Forbes, "If you could legislate prosperity, the Soviet Union would have won the cold war."  Hard work is the father of prosperity, not government programs.  And, while we're at it, it couldn't hurt to elect someone willing to call Islamic terrorism by name and begin the long and arduous task of doing whatever it takes to rid the earth of its moral rot.  Trump may not be a Reagan, but at least he's not a politician and that's good enough for me.

Where Was This When I Needed It?

Bill Moffitt and I, two sons of the Midwest, amazingly spent close to fifteen years working at three different San Diego radio stations where we most often hosted shows in either middays or afternoon drive time.  Sometimes it was "Willie" from 10A-2P and me from 3-7P and other times, vice versa. Neither of us liked to "tour".  Touring was how those of us the radio business referred to making personal appearances at car dealerships, grand openings, elephant races when the circus came to town or introducing artists featured on the station's playlist when they performed at local venues.  We both hated those gigs.  Sure, there was extra "cheese" for showing our faces but, damnit, like most radio loons, we got into the business to hide out.  If we wanted to be seen we'd be on TV! In fact, our one time boss at KCBQ, Gary "Fuzzy" Herron, officially dubbed us the Steely Dan of broadcasting.  His reference to the pop/jazz duo of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker was apt in that, like those two, we preferred studio work to any live appearance.  We liked being incognito as it afforded us the opportunity to say horrible things about people without getting punched in the nose. We had no desire to mingle with listeners who perhaps didn't share our  semi-delightful senses of humor.  Exposed to us in the flesh, the fear was, like the Wizard of Oz,  a peak behind the curtain would show us to be mere smoke and mirrors scam artists.  Hell for us was having to show up anywhere, but being required to do live broadcasts from the Southern California Exposition, a glorified county fair held in Del Mar, California every summer, was the worst.  Broadcasting from a station mobile unit right on the midway reminded both Bill and me of just how close to that bottom rung of show business (the carnival) we were.  How far away could a job as a ride loader for the Tilt-A-Whirl be?  For a couple of guys only capable of talking dirty and playing the hits the correct answer was, "not far".

Narrative Clip 2

What prompted this reverie was a recent story in the Wall Street Journal about a tiny 8-megapixel camera that clips to your shirt and snaps a photo every 30 seconds.  It's called the Narrative Clip 2 and we sure could have used it back in the 70's and 80's.  You see, often times in order to prepare for putting ourselves out there as live targets, Moffitt and I would first fortify ourselves with what we referred to as "liquid show prep".  Station promotion department personnel would be assigned to accompany us to these outside events which left us only required to demonstrate the ability to stand upright and be able to speak to both listeners and clients without swearing.  No easy task.  Often this left us with little recollection of the engagement.  At one point we seriously discussed hiring a couple of the station interns to follow us around with a video camera so that we might be able to defend ourselves to management should anything untoward happen during these forays into the real world. They often did.  I do recall some fallout from our closing down of the Sky Room at the El Cortez Hotel  in 1978 and a surprise late night visit to the local NBC television station in 86' where, while on an unsupervised self conducted tour, Willie and I stumbled into the director's booth during the eleven o'clock news.  TV people can be so touchy.  And, I completely deny the story about the two of us being forever banned from a concert venue in San Marcos by an outraged Korean midget for simply running up the largest bar tab in the history of the place.  I tried to explain the promotional advantage of this feat to our boss, but it was a NO SALE.

"Are you my daddy?"(captured by Narrative Clip!)

Alas, as it often is with life, fate intervened.  Radio got clobbered by the Internet coupled with a distinct lack of interest by millennials and station owners decided that it was far cheaper to run what was left of the business with robots and trained apes.  The latter being willing to work for peanuts.  Also, the two of us had reached retirement age and had already been asked by our less party intensive friends and relatives to maybe lay off the sauce during the 21st century.  (I plan to start again in the 22nd.)  So we did.  Still, I think the Narrative Clip wearable life logging camera is one terrific idea.  I would highly recommend its use to all wives or husbands of spouses who may be alcohol aficionados who like to be out and about.  It could save the day and is certainly more inexpensive than hiring a police sketch artist or a kid to follow you around with a camcorder.  Those things can make you look fat.

"Think you're going out?  PUT THIS ON!"

Ironman? How About Doughboy 2.0

The Ironman 70.3 just finished here in Coeur D' Alene this past weekend and I have a couple of questions.  First of all, what's with the 70.3?  This event was supposed to be a "half" Ironman event, so where does the 70.3 come from?  More important than that is why for the love of pastry would anyone want to put themselves through a vomit inducing regime for the pitiful reward of  being able to declare that you finished without calling an ambulance?

I watched these idiots punish themselves from the comfort of our front deck as they hauled their anorexic bodies through the 1.6 mile swim that began this masochistic madness and noted with no small degree of smugness that none of them were smiling. The bike ride was 56 miles followed by a run considerably longer than a trip to the fridge for a cold one.  It made me want to urp just thinking about it.

The big question is:  WHY?  Why punish yourself doing stuff that's no fun when you can challenge yourself with things like a pie eating contest or a massive beer chug?  Instead of this Ironman b.s. I suggest that my new hometown should think LARGE and FUN with something we might call The Doughboy 2.0 or The Fat Boy 500.  (The numbers have no significance as I have no mathematic ability; they merely sound cool.)  Sponsorship should be no problem.  Dunkin' Donuts, Pabst, Aunt Jemima, Stay Puft Marshmallows, Burger King and any number of local pie shops will be lining up to be a part of this fatso fest.  Trust me.  I may be an idiot but I'm a genius when it comes to bonehead ideas that serve no purpose.

This event will be HUGE!  A town full of people eating like they were going to "the chair" is certain to be a TON more fun than a bunch of serious (and humorless) millennials running around like democRATS on Nancy Pelosi appreciation day.  It's time to get aboard the all new Tubby Trolley for the Fat Boy 500!  (I'm hoping to get several 500 lb. participants.)

WARNING:  Any contestants found guilty of attempting to bulk up by sitting on the air hose down at the Chevron station will be immediately disqualified.

Now, if you'll excuse me, please pass the pie.

Knife and fork for a burger?  This guy is a sure loser.

An early favorite to take the burger eating contest.

 Neighbor "Bacon Butt" already in training.

A potential sponsor

"How's my makeup?"

Consuming baked goods from the bottom is just bad technique.

A lard ass who wears it well!

This inflatable will lead our parade.