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.