Spring, Finally

February in north Idaho

After going more than a month with the sun making only fleeting cameo appearances and more than sixty inches of new snow enveloping the Idaho panhandle, many of us huddled by our fireplaces and dreamt of Hawaii or the Virgin Islands.  Spring seemed only a mirage.

Then, as if someone flipped a switch, midway through this month of March the sun came out, the snow stopped and temperatures crept into the lofty forties and low fifties.  People heretofore bundled in parkas and ski masks began sporting t-shirts and shorts.  (All that winter fat pays off!) Squirrels, geese, deer, moose, even two legged critters are getting frisky.  Kids are already staring out school windows anticipating a homework free summer vacation and the chance to ride bikes, swim and play ball.

Freeloading goose gives me the stink eye

 Adults are cleaning up golf clubs, planning gardens, dusting off fishing gear and getting boats ready for launch now that the tarps are back up over the slips at the marinas.

On my morning walk I checked to see if the goose who usually builds her nest in a flower box on the bridge of the boardwalk at the Coeur D' Alene Resort marina had moved in yet.  It looks like she has.  Once she has eggs to protect she'll be hissing at me again just like she has for the past four Springs.  She's a shameless shake down artist always angling for something to eat.  "Get a job honey," registers not with her but I say it anyway.

Look, you can see Summer from here!

I'll confess to phoning this one in today.  Concentration is nearly impossible when Spring fever is epidemic.  The oh so comfortable chair on my front deck is flirting with me and I seldom say no to temptation.  Resting my eyes and soaking up a little sun is always a good idea.  Maybe when I come to I'll make some tropical reservations in anticipation of another snow slammed February.  I'll just rest my eyes and let the sun warm my winter weary bones.  Zzzzzzz.  Oh, would it be too much trouble for you to build me a pina colada?

Next winter for sure

Fun With Animals

"Hi, I'm new in town."

The Southeast, especially Florida and Georgia, is home to many exotic animals and insects that can put a big hurt on we humans.  Alligators, scorpions, poisonous snakes, spiders, fire ants and disease carrying cockroaches the size of a '48 Packard make everyday an adventure in old Dixie.  Having spent several years in Florida, I know what I'm talking about here.  

Now, according to the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, there is a new critter to keep an eye out for when you find yourself south of the Mason Dixon Line.  The Argentine black and white tegus has been spotted in a couple of Georgia counties and no doubt Florida has also become home to a few of these 4 feet long pre-historic freak shows.  Consensus in the scientific community is that, like pythons, piranhas and Iguanas, these horrors were "pets"  that owners released into the wild when their hideous novelty wore off.  The good news is that the tegus diet pretty much consists of eggs and bugs.  They're also non-poisonous and slow.  Nonetheless, who wants to cross paths anything that looks like Harvey Weinstein after a bad night?  It may be something to consider if you find yourself packing to leave the tax gulags of New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts or Illinois.  

Nah, it's STILL worth fleeing those clip joints.  Just remember to pack steel toed boots and bug spray.

In the Pacific Northwest little things like 66" of snow in the month of February tend to keep our bug population in check.  Also, any reptile with a lick of ambition prefers to be anywhere other than a place where it isn't safe to come out from under a warm rock until August.  Nope, here we only need worry about large furry creatures like bears, moose, wolves, and the occasional crazed beaver.  Moose, with hooves the size of dishpans, can trample a person to death for simply insinuating that Rocky the flying squirrel was a bigger star than Bullwinkle J. Moose.  They're very touchy about such things.  Bears, on the other hand, need little provocation to smack you around and, if you really piss them off, eat you.  Personally I have found that the best defense when confronting a bear is to try your best to amuse the big lug.  Once, while picking huckleberries, a bear favorite, I distracted Mr. Bear by performing my more than passable imitation of a spawning salmon.  It was a big hit.  To show his appreciation the big brown goober offered up his own killer impression of Harvey Weinstein that I applauded enthusiastically before skedaddling for home.  It's essential for one to be entertaining in bear country.  

"Wonderful salmon impression, I could just eat you up!"

The South's warm weather has a lot of appeal especially at this time of year but I believe I'll stay put here in the wilds of the Northwest.  Bears sleep for a good part of the year; alligators, Argentine black and white tegus, pythons and assorted other snakes I'm not so sure.  As insurance, no matter where you are, always take a friend with you when in the wild.  A friend you can outrun.

"Check me out! I'm Harvey Weinstein!."

Just In Time For St. Pat's

It's not just for breakfast anymore!

In addition to the eternal Irish conundrum of whether to fight and get drunk or get drunk and fight, Saint Pat's revelers have another tough choice to make as the 2019 green weekend bacchanal gets underway.  This year not only will there be green beer but, in select locations, a no doubt "magically ridiculous" new malt beverage will be joining the celebration.  The Smartmouth Brewing Company, a Virginia brewery, is debuting a frothy amber tipple called Saturday Morning that, according to Smartmouth spokesman Chris Neikirk, tastes like a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal.  "It has a soft pillowy body with a slight cereal taste, it is brewed with in-house toasted marshmallows and bulk dehydrated marshmallow bits," reports Mr. Neikirk.  However, to make sure we all know that the product is not being marketed to children, the new brew is not sporting the Lucky Charms moniker.  (Pay no attention to the picture of Lucky Charms cereal on the can kids!)

The advent of this new beverage will no doubt come as good news to the Ohio man, Del Hall, who is giving up all food and drink EXCEPT BEER for Lent.  Mr. Hall, who, by the way, works at the Fifty West brewery in Dayton, opines he is merely following the lead of monks from the 1600's who made a special bock beer for Lent.  "So the monks in Bavaria, they would call doppelbock liquid bread and basically it would sustain them through the 46 days of Lent," the certifiably delusional Ohioan explained.  Hall did say he was going to mix it up a bit by including ALL types of beer in his experiment.  (Saturday Morning for breakfast big guy?)  He claims that he feels good so far and is losing weight with the suds regime.  You can follow his progress on his YouTube channel.

"Beer!  It's slimming!"

Green beer will be in abundance this weekend to provide the sons and daughters of the Emerald Isle and their pretender degenerate friends with enough personality enhancement to insure a memorable experience.  Oh wait, it might be a good idea to hire a non celebrant to video the festivities to--you know-- refresh those memories the following day.  Make sure not to drive and don't drunk dial old lovers while full of Irish goodwill if you join the party.  Also, remember if you wake up on March 18th naked with a live badger in the room and Lucky Charms on the ceiling, that may be a real clear sign that it's time to SLOW DOWN.

"We started without you!"

To Text Or Not To Text, That Is The Vexation

Didn't we get this backward?  Texting should have come before the advent of the honest to goodness telephone call, right?  Do we really need to be busting our thumbs with this modern day version of smoke signals when we have the ability to actually TALK to someone?

I tried to avoid getting sucked into this gigantic retreat to the age of the telegraph but to no avail.  It was unavoidable.  My first exposure to this nonsense was on one not so fine day a few years ago when strange words began appearing on my phone causing me to ask my late wife to please explain.  She reported that one of my daughters was texting me.  "What the hell is that," I replied full of Luddite indignation.  "Why can't she just call"?  Which, not coincidentally, remains my question to this day.

  

If we have a legitimate reason to communicate with somebody isn't the quick and easy way to accomplish this verbally? Nope, we now behave like a nation of 13 year-old girls passing notes in junior high study hall and unfortunately I have joined their club.  It's maddening but unavoidable.  "Text me" has become the communication order of the day but--and I know I'm not alone here--my thumbs and my eyes can't take much more of it.  It is dangerous to be walking around with our heads down squinting at a tiny screen as we try to compose a semi lucid message to a friend or colleague.  It's an excellent way to walk into a street lamp or, worse yet, step into traffic.  (Pedestrian injuries and deaths are up for this very reason.)  In New York City I've noticed a marked slowdown in the pace of the place as many text distracted New Yorkers no longer plow straight ahead at a clip not seen in other metros.  Now they're almost like the rest of us.  I did say "almost."  On a positive note texting does give them something to look at on the subway besides sleeping bums, crappy musicians, and panhandlers.

"Damn, I missed my stop.  I was texting!"

Texting looks to be with us for awhile and I believe I've gotten the hang of it even though I still prefer a phone call or an email.  Texting has even made me a better speller thanks to that pesky auto correct, though an upgrade in the cuss words department would be helpful.  It really gets interesting when you employ that deal where you just yell at your phone and magically your words are converted to text.  The genie inside my phone NEVER gets that right! She probably went to school with SIRI.

In the meantime, if you need me, buzz me up, or, better yet, pass me a note in study hall. Coach Cook isn't looking, he's busy texting

"Hey guys, the light has been green for ten minutes."

Alfred E. Neuman For Congress

Just for fun I recently Googled "pictures of morons in congress" and--no surprise--mug shots of most all of our representatives came up.  Initially I thought the situation was the fault of those of us who bother to vote.  I reconsidered when I asked myself who runs for any kind of political office?  Sadly those drawn to life as a D.C. demimonde are, to a greater degree,  narcissistic nincompoops who never tire of telling us they're just what the country needs to right our ship of state.  In reality they are mostly just carnies with good teeth.

It's not a bad gig.  Tell some whoppers and promise your gap-toothed goober constituents they can have everything their hearts desire and then get ready to stand at the government trough.  Just get elected once and you're set with great lifetime medical coverage for you and your family and you've guaranteed yourself a fat never ending pension unequaled in the private sector.  Your only job henceforth is to get re-elected and continue to remain among the Beltway elite.  Do the right thing?  Only if it feathers your own nest.  Just keep shoveling the fertilizer to the folks at home and, should they ever throw you over for a newer prettier face, you can just stay in Washington and become a lobbyist for some wealthy concern that once fronted you campaign money.  No need to return to your hometown where it may be necessary to explain a vote or two to the un-washed who elected you not so long ago.

What prompted this rant?  Congress can't seem to accomplish even the simplest of their constitutionally designated tasks.  Their constant "election mode" setting has rendered them completely ineffective and impotent.  Budgets don't get passed, simple straight forward bills passed and, though we've been in many since the Second World War, they can't even manage a declaration of war, EVER.  The Afghanistan war, and that's what it is, has been ongoing for eighteen years with no end in sight.  Kids now volunteering for service weren't even born when it started.  How can that be?  An essential part of Marine boot camp now includes a mandatory history lesson about the September 11th attacks and their connection to the Afghanistan war.  Can you imagine World War II dragging on like this?!  Once again, like Korea and Vietnam,  our country is bogged down in a half-assed attempt at a politically "safe" solution that has cost the lives of too many of our best young people.  Only worried about the next election, our representatives have chosen to take the easy way out and refused to declare any of these wars.  Gutless!  Either declare this war in Afghanistan and throw everything into it  required to win or get the hell out and bring the kids home.  Twenty-thousand wounded and 2,400 American dead is a national disgrace.  Congress, DO YOUR JOB, or go home.  This isn't how it's supposed to be.

It's Merely Moronic

Now don't get me wrong, nobody, especially any female, has ever referred to me as "Mr. Style", but there are some pretty hideous fashion statements happening in the men's department of late.  The good news is that these will undoubtedly provide ample future laughs for the progeny of the hopeless haberdashery and tonsorially challenged hombres who succumb to a perceived illusion of hipness at whatever price.  Isn't it obvious that looking cool today can often make you appear the total tool tomorrow?

For example, the whole spiked hair thing should have been over five years ago.  Instead, the "just rolled out of the feathers" look clings like a toxic cloud of Aqua Velva.  Perhaps it's because I have no hair to spike that I find this look so irritating?  No, it's because it makes you look like a man who has yet to come to grips with the limits of his own intelligence!

Putting the funk in dysfunction

Another befittingly stupid look is the no socks thing.  What has it been, twenty years this has been around??  It's not only uncomfortable as hell to have nothing between your tootsies and the inside of a shoe it also makes for stinky shoes.  Sockless is fine if your wearing shorts or a bathing suit but no socks with a suit or, even worse, a tuxedo makes a guy look like he's headed for the prom at the nervous hospital.  (The short bus will be arriving momentarily.)

Total dork

With an ever expanding selection of fun socks sporting weird designs and loud comic images like Sasquatch riding a bicycle, Homer Simpson saying "Doh!", and my favorite, assorted pieces of dancing sushi, there is no sane reason for flashing nude ankles.  Entertaining socks are wonderful conversation starters too.  Needless to say socks provide the freedom to ditch your kicks nearly anywhere without looking like some backwoods bumpkin stump jumper.  Nobody wants to see your banged up toenails, bunions and blackened soles.  Get some socks!  Leave the bare legs to the gals.  Theirs actually look good and--sorry guys--ours don't.

A pair of favorites 

Now, if the primary reason for getting dressed up and forgetting to don socks is to give your kids some laughs when they trip down memory lane looking at old pictures of you after you've checked in to the horizontal Hilton, have at it.  You obviously have a great sense of humor and the kids were lucky to have had a cool dad.  However, if you're showing bare skin from the bottom of your pants and the top of your shoes because you think all the hip guys do, you sir are a moron and I'll give you five minutes to get off my planet.

I'm tempted to watch the Oscars on Sunday night, even though I haven't seen a single nominated film, just to see some Hollywood nitwit pick up his trophy in a tux sans socks.  I won't watch a minute of it but $50 says it'll happen.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to get those Elvis Presley hound dog socks of mine out of the dryer.  It's Friday and time to fly the freak flag.

I predict this will be the next fashion statement for guys.

Good News Warms a Dad's Heart

There are many kinds of awards.  Some are dubious and can more accurately be described as recognition we could do without.  You know, booby prizes.  Here in north Idaho we're just a couple of inches away from topping a 1935 record for snowfall in the month of February.  A definite wintertime booby prize.  At the halfway mark of the month we are slogging through more than 30 inches of new ice cold fluffy white hell.  Enough already!  We give up.  Even the dogs don't like it.  Their paws are cold and finding a fire hydrant in this weather has become nearly as impossible as finding an honest politician.

Over here boy!  Look, no waiting.

As of right now the white stuff is scheduled to keep falling through the weekend and I'm running low on Cheetos and potato chips.  Just as I was about to stick my head in the oven I received a text from my daughter Kelly telling me that she and her husband, Pavol Liska, just learned that a film they produced and directed has won the International Film Critics Forum award for best picture at the Berlin International Film Festival.  "Die Kinder der Toten" was a labor of love created with an all European cast under the auspices Kelly and Pavol's New York City based company the Nature Theater of Oklahoma.  Obviously this makes up for the Cheetos and chip shortage here on the tundra.  I'm very proud of the little girl who came into my life 48 years ago last week.  She has worked hard in a business that chews up more people than it rewards.

Now, maybe she can hop a plane to Coeur D' Alene and help me shovel.   I'd like to get it cleared by June.

It's The Least Wonderful Time of The Year

Everybody loves October, but who needs February?  Hands down the month of the groundhog and Valentines is about as much fun as a high colonic.  Paperwork needed for the April tax rape administered by the bunko artists in D.C. starts pouring in and, if you live in snow country, it's now dirty brown with plenty more on the way.  Let's face it after December most of us are ready for Spring and Summer.  January, February and most of March are like relatives you aren't that fond of announcing that they are coming for a visit and can stick around for a couple of extra weeks.  February is also a sports desert.  Football is over and, though pitchers and catchers report next week, baseball's spring training doesn't provide exhibition games until the very end of the month.  Basketball??  Please!  Basketball is the February of sports.

Here in the Inland Northwest it's our turn to host the polar vortex.  This week and next look to be on the extremely cold side with oodles of white fluffy stuff piling up outside our windows.  Perhaps that's why half the neighbors are gone?  Those of us who last August never gave a thought to winter now huddle by the fire with books or Netflix and promise ourselves to never get caught like this again as we scan the web for Zillow or VRBO deals.  We do take some comfort in the knowledge that our friends and relatives in California, Arizona, Florida and Hawaii will likely be broiling this August while we enjoy a beverage or three under clear skies, no flies and perfectly comfy temperatures.

From Frozen Monkey, Montana to Moose Munch, Maine, and Ice Pick, Idaho we cold and wet Americans are more than ready for this thing called February to be over.  Just twenty more days and we'll be in mud season!  Baby steps.  In the meantime, who wants ice cream?

The lake isn't frozen.  Why am I?

  

Stupor Bowl LIII

Football's village idiot

Thank God this thing will be over on Sunday.  The "BIG GAME" we all feel compelled to watch   will feature at least one team that doesn't deserve to be there and the idiot NFL commissioner, Roger-Who Dat?- Goodell seems not to care.  With a shrug and his typical deer in the headlights gawk old Roger acknowledged that NFL referees don't always make the correct call.  Or, for that matter, in the case of pass interference two weeks ago in New Orleans, any call at all.  The Saints were robbed in broad daylight in front of thousands of NOLA inebriates and millions of mostly likewise "well oiled" fans watching at home.

The fat cat team owners pay this dunce $40 million dollars a year for a job requiring little more than  handing out a few fines, showing up at team parties, schmoozing the owner's and drinking their booze.  He also gets to look like a dork while awarding trophies, a task at which he excels.  God forbid he should do something useful like getting rid of that stupid Super Bowl roman numeral nonsense. What the hell number is LIII anyway??  How uselessly pretentious!  (Okay, I was asleep when we covered that in school.)

 Since the Wienermobile job fell through,  I'd like to offer that I'd be more than willing to take Roger's job for $4 million per year and would volunteer to detail the owners' cars twice monthly.   On further consideration, I would jack that up to $10 million if I had to do L.A. Chargers owner Dean Spano's ride.  (The man is a piping hot talking pile of pig flop.  Flies swarm at the mention of his name.)

It's not unusual to see idiots like Roger in positions of great authority.  I witnessed more than a few colossal management dummies in the broadcast business who, in spite of repeated failures, always wound up getting good jobs they couldn't handle.  Perhaps, like those folks, Goodell is dazzling when interviewing for a position.  Nah, that can't be it  The guy looks to be a walking talking sedative.  In fact, Jason Gay, a very talented writer who covers sports for the Wall Street Journal, called Goodell's Wednesday State of the League address "about as exciting as listening to someone tell you how build your own clock radio." I do believe that captures the essence of the man.  My idea of hell would be standing between Roger Goodell and Al Gore at a cocktail party holding only an empty glass.  BARTENDER!!!

So, enjoy the game.  We can all hope that it will be a good one, though giving the points and taking the Patriots seems to be almost too easy.    How about placing a bet on the clown prince of the NFL dropping the Lombardi trophy?  For $40 million per year and lifetime use of a private jet he has fumbled pretty much everything else.  Put me down for a C note that he does.

"Hi, I'm Roger and this is my IQ.

Hot Dog! A Dream Job!

This is exciting stuff for aging boomers!  The folks at Oscar Mayer have announced that they're now seeking a qualified "Hotdogger" to be the next driver of their totally cool Wienermobile.  The job begins in June and the company is accepting applications for this dream gig until January 31.  The "condiments" that come with the job include what the Oscar Mayer folks refer to as a "competitive" salary, benefits, cool clothing and a company car like no other.

"Look ma, I am a wiener!"

  As the most car centric generation in history, we Boomers consider the day we got our driver's license to be the day life began.  We loved and still care about our wheels.  If you were a teen in the 50's, 60's or even 70's a major component of your social life revolved around aimless cruising and listening to tunes.  The opportunity to return to those days of yore while driving an iconic and delicious looking sausage around the United States will be a dream come true for some lucky guy or gal.  To apply for the job check out the company website where requirements for the assignment are spelled out in detail.  A four-year degree in public relations, journalism, communications, advertising or marketing are at the top of the list.  Though not specified it would seem that a genuine appreciation for tubed meats and a verifiable diagnosis of permanent arrested development would be far more important than any old college degree.  Party animal credentials will be thoroughly checked!

WARNING:  I have already applied for this sweet deal and am anticipating a congratulatory call from  Mr. Oscar Mayer himself just as soon as the company ceases accepting all those other applications.   Should I be cheated out of what would appear to be my destiny, let me be the first to call shotgun.

The ultimate wiener roll

Other than needing some fuzzy dice, this baby is ready to hit the road.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

I'm sensing it's that old toxic masculinity bubbling to the surface.  How else do you explain my abandonment of a season long boycott of the NFL?  Perhaps it was an overwhelming desire to see the Los Angeles (Ne San Diego) Chargers get their collective asses handed to them by the Patriots.  Whatever the case, before I knew it,  I had returned to the realm of wasted Sundays with the NFL.

This weekend, with the Chargers easily dispatched and limping back to the L.A. cesspool, the AFC conference championship game will feature the mostly hated yet talented New England Patriots and the exciting Kansas City Chiefs and their stellar young quarterback.  The early Sunday NFC contest should be an excellent opening act as it features the suddenly pretty good Los Angeles (Ne St. Louis) Rams as chum for the "Who Dat?" nation's Drew Brees and his Saints.  The Superdome is where teams like the Rams are fed to the lions and I don't plan to miss a minute of the slaughter.

Slaughter??  There's that toxic masculinity again!  My brothers and I would like to thank the American Psychological Association for coming up with this handy excuse for our testosterone fueled bad behavior.  We can't help it!  Please understand that we really would like to be better people but, damn it, our genes won't let us.  A denial of biology would be a blow to the mental health nerds who seem determined to crush masculinity and the cult of manhood whenever and wherever it seeps into modern society.  Face it guys, we're just plain abnormal!  Embrace your feminine side and prepare to calm WAY down.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to cave in on this and hope many of my fellow Y chromosome carriers will join me this weekend as we forget we own razors (thanks Gillette!), gorge on  pork rinds, Cheetos, potato chips and beer while reveling in the coming pigskin orgy.  Heck, we may not even shower until the Super Bowl is over!  (Perhaps a bridge too far?  Just asking for a friend.)

Now, toss me that bag of Fritos and a cold one and prepare to watch some football my posse.  In just a couple of weeks we enter the sports dark side of the moon that is the seemingly endless weeks to  be endure between the end of the football season and pitchers and catchers reporting for Spring training.

Well, there is soccer.
Yeah, right.  Ha!  Beer me, I'm running low on toxic masculinity.

Family Reunion

Not that there was ever any doubt, your kids are your kids no matter what their age as those of us who've attained senior status will attest.  For the past few days it has been impossible for me to ignore that simple truth as my daughters, now 47 and 45 years old respectively, have joined me for the first time since the celebration of their mother's life in the summer of 2017.  Naturally it's a somewhat bittersweet reunion but therapeutic nonetheless.  Kelly,  the oldest, lives in New York City and travels extensively in Europe while her sister, Katie, works as an attorney in San Diego.  Obviously the opportunities for getting together are few and we make the most of them when we can.

Both girls are married now to guys I actually like and Katie has provided me with my one and only grandson, Dan, who is now 9 years-old and due to surpass me in mental and social maturity somewhere between the day after tomorrow and a week from next Thursday.  In the meantime we have fun playing with his Christmas toys while his mom and sister catch up on all that is important in their active lives.  It's good to see them laughing again in spite of the very large void that remains and will continue to ache for the rest of their lives.  They're dealing.

With each passing year it becomes emphatically clear that family solidarity is imperative to happiness.  I can't imagine life without these two wonderful daughters who remain eternally stuck at about 10 and 8 years-old in my eyes.  I'm glad we did this.  It's a wonderful reminder of just how lucky my life has been.

I have the pictures to prove it...

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."--  F. Scott Fitzgerald

New Year, New Resolutions

This year will be different.  Changes will be made and "new and improved" will be affixed to my persona!

In the past I would laugh at those who promised to change their behavior for the better via some foolish resolutions, a mistake of epic proportions.  However, as one who has evolved from "fair-haired boy" to "bald-headed brother-in-law", I now see that there is real possible improvement in store for me in 2019 and after much consideration I have composed a list:

In 2019 I resolve ...

1. To never deprive myself of the cathartic pleasure of yelling at my TV.

2.  To never served watered down drinks to my friends.  (Don't ask for ice.)

3. To never feed soup to a harelip horse.

4. To never invite a live gopher into my home.  (unless it looks like fun)

5. To never get in touch with my feelings.

6.  To resist everything but temptation.

7. To never take a dog's temperature in church.

8.  To never give up a chance to ignore political correctness.

9.  To never go ice skating in my underwear...or, ice skating AT ALL.

10.  To give up swearing.

Damn!  That stupid b@##$% Pelosi is on my TV!!
Oops, I do believe my resolutions are shot to hell.

I  feel very positive about my chances for next year.  I'm sure to nail it in 2020!
Happy New Year!