When I was about eleven I pestered my dad to take me hunting. I wanted to shoot something. I was tired of watching Hoot Gibson and the Lone Ranger have all the fun plugging bad guys on TV. It was time for me to be pumpin' some serious lead.
Dad gave me his old 410 shotgun that Thanksgiving day at my Grandpa's farm in Illinois. We had just polished off the usual four million calorie food orgy and the football game was yet to begin on TV; so I'm sure that the ol' man figured that this was a good time to shut me up. Off we went into the snow and cold of that Midwest afternoon, me with blood lust in my heart and Dad with his trusty pack of Camels that he dared not partake of around Grandma. It was your typical "win win" situation.
About thirty minutes into our safari I spied a rabbit huddled next to a fence post behind the farm's big barn. The thing was just sitting there shivering and made no attempt to flee from me as I walked directly toward it. When I was about ten feet from "Bugs" Dad inquired as to when I might be contemplating shooting the wascally wabbit. Not missing the sarcasm, Bwanna pulled the trigger. The rabbit exploded in a starburst cluster of red. All that remained as I lowered the gun was a pair of ears and some fur. I was ready to head back to the house for some football and perhaps a snack of anything not rabbit. I had made my kill...and the barnyard cats would enjoy some lovely rabbit tartar as their Thanksgiving feast.
Dad fired up another Camel. Later he told me that the rabbit "wasn't right"; he had distemper or some malady that had prevented him from stepping out of the way of my shotgun blast. That really burned me. I was already convinced in my mind that I was one dangerous hombre with a gun even though I never wanted to fire one again. A couple of weeks after the Thanksgiving adventure I put a cigarette "load" in one of Dad's Camels just to get even. He was not amused.
Ten years hence, with no rounds fired in between, the Army gave me a Sharpshooter medal for marksmanship. I'm sure that Vietnamese rabbits with distemper are relieved that I never made it to the front.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Wake me in St. Louie, Osama
I'm guessing that it is a slow news week.
Why?
Well, how about the fact that we are now into over seventy hours of non-stop TV coverage of the new security x-ray machines at the airports. You know, the ones that show what your packin' underneath your jockeys or your Victoria's Secret Va Va Va Vooms! And frankly, unless there is something you're not telling us, chances are this will answer the age old question: " Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"
What's the big deal? Nobody except the folks working for the TSA will be able to actually see anything. What's more, the image appears to approximate an old black and white negative. AND WHO GETS EXCITED BY THOSE? This, of course, would assume that no teenage boys are currently in the employ of the TSA. Teenage boys get excited when the wind blows.
No, as long as these murdering malodorous dune dwellers continue to offer us a choice of returning with them to the eleventh century or dying, we need to have maximum security at our airports in spite of any inconvenience. That is why I am advising that we take it a step further.
In my previous life I found that a pint of whiskey and some Valium made air travel tolerable. A flask of Jack Daniels hidden in my camera bag and a couple of Valiums would get me as far as St. Louis without much discomfort. After that, it was a crap shoot. So, taking this a step further in the interest of national security,I am suggesting that after our body scan x-ray dealy the TSA people inject us with some sort of knock-out shot that puts us in a deep sleep until we reach our destination. This solves both the problem of the twisted turban types who want to kill us and at the same time makes air travel bearable. It's genius, if I do say so.
Okay...Shoot me up! Don't wake me until we're wheels down in St. Louis.
Better yet...put a tag on my toe and I'll see you at baggage claim.
Why?
Well, how about the fact that we are now into over seventy hours of non-stop TV coverage of the new security x-ray machines at the airports. You know, the ones that show what your packin' underneath your jockeys or your Victoria's Secret Va Va Va Vooms! And frankly, unless there is something you're not telling us, chances are this will answer the age old question: " Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"
What's the big deal? Nobody except the folks working for the TSA will be able to actually see anything. What's more, the image appears to approximate an old black and white negative. AND WHO GETS EXCITED BY THOSE? This, of course, would assume that no teenage boys are currently in the employ of the TSA. Teenage boys get excited when the wind blows.
No, as long as these murdering malodorous dune dwellers continue to offer us a choice of returning with them to the eleventh century or dying, we need to have maximum security at our airports in spite of any inconvenience. That is why I am advising that we take it a step further.
In my previous life I found that a pint of whiskey and some Valium made air travel tolerable. A flask of Jack Daniels hidden in my camera bag and a couple of Valiums would get me as far as St. Louis without much discomfort. After that, it was a crap shoot. So, taking this a step further in the interest of national security,I am suggesting that after our body scan x-ray dealy the TSA people inject us with some sort of knock-out shot that puts us in a deep sleep until we reach our destination. This solves both the problem of the twisted turban types who want to kill us and at the same time makes air travel bearable. It's genius, if I do say so.
Okay...Shoot me up! Don't wake me until we're wheels down in St. Louis.
Better yet...put a tag on my toe and I'll see you at baggage claim.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Baseball and radio...Sweet Music
The radio business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs.
There is also a negative side.
_Hunter S. Thompson
I love that quote. The good doctor "Gonzo" was not unfamiliar with the business of amplitude and frequency modulation. It's an endeavor full of boozers, burnouts, and money grubbing degenerates who would back the car over grandma (twice) just to steal a quarter. People who can make even gypsies and carnies look good.
Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be broadcasters.
There is, however, one thing of beauty that is created every year by radio that should be considered its finest accomplishment. Radio was made for baseball, and viseversa. No other medium, especially TV, captures the essence and sheer magic of the game. It is a well dressed salad, a warm bed, a sensual massage for the ears. A top notch play-by-play announcer and a color man can paint an audio Mona Lisa for listeners on any given day of the 162 game season.
Part of the appeal of baseball audio is, I think, the great monikers of the game. My longtime radio buddy, Bill Moffitt, and I were speaking of this just the other day. Bill and I have toiled at three of the same radio stations and have often talked baseball. He asked me, "Where is Rip Repulski these days?" I have no idea what the former St. Louis Cardinal outfielder is doing or even know if he is on the right side of the sod. But, what a great name!
No other sport has names like: Sibby Sisti, Eddie Stanky, Eli Grba, Suds Fodge, Daffy Dean or Turk Lown. It just doesn't happen. And the beauty of baseball is that the great names just keep on comin'. Who can deny the elegance and grace of new guys with handles such as: Stubby Clapp, Homer Bush or Padre leftfield hopeful Terrmel Sledge? I certainly can't.
That's why I'm counting the days until I can catch that first Padre spring training game. Old friend Jerry Coleman, a true war hero and a beautiful man, will be painting a picture for me on the radio and I can't wait to start keeping track of those new hall of fame names.
Good-night Boob McNair...wherever you are.
There is also a negative side.
_Hunter S. Thompson
I love that quote. The good doctor "Gonzo" was not unfamiliar with the business of amplitude and frequency modulation. It's an endeavor full of boozers, burnouts, and money grubbing degenerates who would back the car over grandma (twice) just to steal a quarter. People who can make even gypsies and carnies look good.
Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be broadcasters.
There is, however, one thing of beauty that is created every year by radio that should be considered its finest accomplishment. Radio was made for baseball, and viseversa. No other medium, especially TV, captures the essence and sheer magic of the game. It is a well dressed salad, a warm bed, a sensual massage for the ears. A top notch play-by-play announcer and a color man can paint an audio Mona Lisa for listeners on any given day of the 162 game season.
Part of the appeal of baseball audio is, I think, the great monikers of the game. My longtime radio buddy, Bill Moffitt, and I were speaking of this just the other day. Bill and I have toiled at three of the same radio stations and have often talked baseball. He asked me, "Where is Rip Repulski these days?" I have no idea what the former St. Louis Cardinal outfielder is doing or even know if he is on the right side of the sod. But, what a great name!
No other sport has names like: Sibby Sisti, Eddie Stanky, Eli Grba, Suds Fodge, Daffy Dean or Turk Lown. It just doesn't happen. And the beauty of baseball is that the great names just keep on comin'. Who can deny the elegance and grace of new guys with handles such as: Stubby Clapp, Homer Bush or Padre leftfield hopeful Terrmel Sledge? I certainly can't.
That's why I'm counting the days until I can catch that first Padre spring training game. Old friend Jerry Coleman, a true war hero and a beautiful man, will be painting a picture for me on the radio and I can't wait to start keeping track of those new hall of fame names.
Good-night Boob McNair...wherever you are.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Early Endorsement: Walt & Dash in 2008!
I can't stand another minute of it!
The presidential election is over a year away and I am sick of it.
I pretty much hate them all and can't imagine wasting another minute listening to these buffoons argue about issues that the federal government has neither the ability to handle nor the constitutional mandate to address.
Therefor, with great pride and affection, I am today announcing my wholehearted endorsement of my nephew Walt and his dog Dash as my candidates for president and vice-president of the United States in 2008.
Please join me is supporting this "too cute to steal" ticket.
Hey...If it doesn't work out, we rub the dog's nose in it and give the kid a "time out".
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
We've got Belgian Balls!
About two years ago, after tiring of mold and mildew at the beach, my
wife Linda and I moved into a home on higher ground in North San Diego
county. We love the place. It has lots more room than the condo near
the water and it doesn't feel soggy like the other place did. (We
actually had to install little heating rods in the closets at the old
digs just to keep the moisture in check.)
So here we are high,
dry, newly decorated and, oh yes...we have Belgian balls. They came
with the pool table that the previous owner tossed in as a deal closer
when we bought the house. The table is a dandy from Olhausen and the Belgian balls are from Aramith
, which I'm told are the best in the world. According to the brochure
that came with them, "they are recognized as THE reference of the
industry". Whatever that means.
For the first couple of months
we merely stacked stuff on the pool table and I began thinking of
possible suckers to sell it to. Neither one of us are much for games
and had long ago given up golf because it seemed to be too much
trouble. I had just wanted the damn table as a visible trophy of my
negotiating ability and prowess in the real estate game.
Then a
funny thing happened. Linda and I began playing pool. I can't remember
why, but we did. Now we play at least three games of eight ball every
night. We've decked the room out like a pool hall and even have our own
cues...with cases. It sucked us in and I fear we are hooked for life. I
hated geometry and felt lucky to get a D minus when it was forced on me
in high school, but those angles on the felt have got me in their spell.
It's
not a sport. We know that, but son-of-a-gun it's FUN and it feels
dangerous. George Carlin said it best: "Some people think billiards is
a sport, but it can't be, because there is no chance for serious
injury. Unless, of course, you welsh on a bet in a tough neighborhood.
Then, if you wind up with a pool cue stickin' out of your ass, you know you might just be the victim of a sports-related injury. But that ain't billiards, that's POOL."
So,
the next time you feel like trying your luck against a D minus geometry
student or like the idea of becoming the victim of a sports-related
injury, stop by our place. We're always open.
Bring your wallet.
wife Linda and I moved into a home on higher ground in North San Diego
county. We love the place. It has lots more room than the condo near
the water and it doesn't feel soggy like the other place did. (We
actually had to install little heating rods in the closets at the old
digs just to keep the moisture in check.)
So here we are high,
dry, newly decorated and, oh yes...we have Belgian balls. They came
with the pool table that the previous owner tossed in as a deal closer
when we bought the house. The table is a dandy from Olhausen and the Belgian balls are from Aramith
, which I'm told are the best in the world. According to the brochure
that came with them, "they are recognized as THE reference of the
industry". Whatever that means.
For the first couple of months
we merely stacked stuff on the pool table and I began thinking of
possible suckers to sell it to. Neither one of us are much for games
and had long ago given up golf because it seemed to be too much
trouble. I had just wanted the damn table as a visible trophy of my
negotiating ability and prowess in the real estate game.
Then a
funny thing happened. Linda and I began playing pool. I can't remember
why, but we did. Now we play at least three games of eight ball every
night. We've decked the room out like a pool hall and even have our own
cues...with cases. It sucked us in and I fear we are hooked for life. I
hated geometry and felt lucky to get a D minus when it was forced on me
in high school, but those angles on the felt have got me in their spell.
It's
not a sport. We know that, but son-of-a-gun it's FUN and it feels
dangerous. George Carlin said it best: "Some people think billiards is
a sport, but it can't be, because there is no chance for serious
injury. Unless, of course, you welsh on a bet in a tough neighborhood.
Then, if you wind up with a pool cue stickin' out of your ass, you know you might just be the victim of a sports-related injury. But that ain't billiards, that's POOL."
So,
the next time you feel like trying your luck against a D minus geometry
student or like the idea of becoming the victim of a sports-related
injury, stop by our place. We're always open.
Bring your wallet.
Monday, February 19, 2007
There's Nobody Like the Skipper
The Skipper and Spammy Davis Jr."Ooh, ... I wonder if we Google it, we'd be able to find out how many people have been run over by one."
It's my pal. the Skipper, on the blower from Boston. He's amazing with stuff like this. I've just told him about a story in the paper with a dateline somewhere in Idaho where a couple of clowns managed to horse a Zamboni through a Burger King drive-through.
Yes, a Zamboni! You know...those steamroller looking contraptions that are used to smooth out the ice at hockey rinks. Only the Skipper would ponder the history of their involvement in pedestrian flattenings. He's sort of a savant in all things normal folks regard as "out there".
Dave Erickson, the good Skipper, and I have been pals since entering the eighth grade in Spencer, Iowa. I was the new kid from Michigan who, like Dave, chose to sit in the VERY back of every classroom. I knew we were destined for life-long paldom when, on the first day of school, he quietly cracked open a hollowed out Biology book which revealed a treasure trove of Cracker Jack. GENIUS!
The next day it was sardines with saltines. The kid was an inspiration.
Later I learned that his nickname was "Fizzy". This appellation having been earned by an attempt to surreptitiously consume soda through a tube connected to his study hall locker during the previous year. It seems that the pop exploded when Dave was sent flying courtesy of a back-handed whack from study hall monitor Coach Arvin Bomgarrs. This was the stuff of legends.
Over the ensuing years the Skipper and I have continued to stay connected even as we were miles apart. While I knocked around the country living the life of an itinerant radio disk jockey, Dave went to the Massachusetts Maritime Academy, (more commonly know as: Buzzards Bay Bait & Tackle Tech), and became one of the youngest captains in the U.S. Merchant Marine; thus, the Skipper moniker.
The Skipper spent the better part of four decades keeping oil tankers and gigantic coal boats from going aground and their owners off the shoals of bankruptcy by keeping a steady hand on the tiller of the USS Chill Bar (my favorite of the lot) and others. A couple of years back, after tiring of constant sea duty, he became a "barge pimp" by becoming the owner of New England Harbor Services. I'm not completely certain what this company does but his wife, Betty, says that he seems to be spending more time around the house lately.
In the last forty-five years the Skipper and I have shared tall tales, cigars, too much whiskey, (in my case way too much) and most importantly...lots of laughs. Everybody deserves to have somebody in their life who "GETS" them. I'm glad I have the Skipper.
Now...let's see what Google has to say about how many chumps have been mushed by a Zamboni...
Thursday, February 15, 2007
It's the Y that makes us "special"
I'm expecting to hear it any day now.
All guys dread this one.
"All finished."
This is what thousands of women will be exclaiming sometime during the next couple of weeks and frankly it makes us guys crazy. What they are "All finished" with is: Christmas shopping for, you guessed it, 2007. It is unbelievable! For guys shopping is not something we enjoy or plan for. To us it is a ticking time bomb not unlike filing your income tax. There is not a person with a Y chromosome reading this right now who has not awakened in a cold sweat on any number of occasions knowing that he has either forgotten or is nearly out of time for buying some important, (see stupid), present that he is sure he is obligated to buy.
Men HATE to shop. When it is required, we plan for it much as Ike planned for the invasion of Normandy. Last year, while visiting my mother in Illinois, a trip to the grocery store was necessary. Mom is 85 now and seldom cooks; so in order to be able to survive a week's stay I knew that a major assault on the nearest snack isle must be carried out without further adieu. As my Y chromosome dictated, I had my list at the ready and with mom in tow made my way to the nearest food store. It was a smooth operation. I was in and out in about five minutes and back to the house in ten. GUY SHOPPING.
Now, nearly a year later, my mom still asks my wife: "Does he always shop like that? It made my head spin. He was running up and down the isles and then we were at the check-out." Yes ladies, that is how it's done! I had a list. The list had junk on it. I got the junk and paid for it. Free at last! Apparently, and my wife Linda agrees, the proper way to shop for anything is to mosey down every isle in the whole damn store and think about not only what you are buying today but also what Uncle Louie might like for Christmas. When you see something that fits into your twelve month shopping plan...you buy it. And that, gentlemen, is why they are always so smugly prepared for all those gifty occasions that we are prone to forget or put off until the very last minute. (You gals will have to admit that we do manage to find interesting gifts by procrastinating beyond all reason.) "Honey, when I saw this new drill press I just knew it had to be yours."
So...BROTHERS UNITE!
Let them have their Christmas shopping done in March.
Let's celebrate our Y chromosome! And, while we're at it, let's figure out a way to make those big bags of Halloween candy even BIGGER. You know...big enough to last at least until April.
Damn it, I'm out of candy corn. Let's GO SHOPPING!
All guys dread this one.
"All finished."
This is what thousands of women will be exclaiming sometime during the next couple of weeks and frankly it makes us guys crazy. What they are "All finished" with is: Christmas shopping for, you guessed it, 2007. It is unbelievable! For guys shopping is not something we enjoy or plan for. To us it is a ticking time bomb not unlike filing your income tax. There is not a person with a Y chromosome reading this right now who has not awakened in a cold sweat on any number of occasions knowing that he has either forgotten or is nearly out of time for buying some important, (see stupid), present that he is sure he is obligated to buy.
Men HATE to shop. When it is required, we plan for it much as Ike planned for the invasion of Normandy. Last year, while visiting my mother in Illinois, a trip to the grocery store was necessary. Mom is 85 now and seldom cooks; so in order to be able to survive a week's stay I knew that a major assault on the nearest snack isle must be carried out without further adieu. As my Y chromosome dictated, I had my list at the ready and with mom in tow made my way to the nearest food store. It was a smooth operation. I was in and out in about five minutes and back to the house in ten. GUY SHOPPING.
Now, nearly a year later, my mom still asks my wife: "Does he always shop like that? It made my head spin. He was running up and down the isles and then we were at the check-out." Yes ladies, that is how it's done! I had a list. The list had junk on it. I got the junk and paid for it. Free at last! Apparently, and my wife Linda agrees, the proper way to shop for anything is to mosey down every isle in the whole damn store and think about not only what you are buying today but also what Uncle Louie might like for Christmas. When you see something that fits into your twelve month shopping plan...you buy it. And that, gentlemen, is why they are always so smugly prepared for all those gifty occasions that we are prone to forget or put off until the very last minute. (You gals will have to admit that we do manage to find interesting gifts by procrastinating beyond all reason.) "Honey, when I saw this new drill press I just knew it had to be yours."
So...BROTHERS UNITE!
Let them have their Christmas shopping done in March.
Let's celebrate our Y chromosome! And, while we're at it, let's figure out a way to make those big bags of Halloween candy even BIGGER. You know...big enough to last at least until April.
Damn it, I'm out of candy corn. Let's GO SHOPPING!
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