A door closes; another opens...

It was a good jiggly run.
John Joseph Houghtaling, the inventor of the "magic fingers" vibrating bed, checked into the mahogany Hilton last week. He was 92.
Who knows how many bad backs were granted 15 minutes of tingling relaxation and ease for just a quarter, or how many marriages were saved for fifty cents? Hell, Jimmy Buffett even sang a song about it. Magic Fingers was rousing success in its heyday of the 1960s and 70s. There were roughly 175 franchise dealers across the USA, and the gadgets each brought in about $6000 to $7000 a month...in quarters. Not bad.

You don't find magic fingers in hotels and motels very often these days and it's a shame. Of course, based on the escalation of hotel rates, fifteen minutes would probably require you to visit the mortgage loan department before receiving your tingling and ease.

In other news...

The Hare Krishnas living in New Vrindaban, West Virginia are looking for some help. It seems that the cattle sanctuary they created four decades ago needs your support. The Krishnas, not big believers in eating cows, would like you to adopt a cow. For $51 smackers you can feed bossie for a month, AND for just $108 you would be providing "special care for retired cows who can no longer breed of give milk".
WOW! Fetch my wallet! This is like our Social Security system-- only better.


I really would like to help. Here is another million dollar idea that I'm willing to throw out FREE OF CHARGE:


My family still has a small farm in central Illinois. My brother and I would be more than pleased to provide pasture for retired Bovine Americans for...hmmmm, let's say a more than reasonable fee. (Hey, we're givers! We can't help ourselves.) In fact, I'm thinking that maybe we can cut a deal with the Magic Fingers company, now that business isn't what it used to be. We could bury some of those vibrating machines beneath our pasture and massage those big beautiful four legged bags of methane into a cow coma. In the interest of "keeping it Krishna", we would only charge the cattle the original 25 cent rate for fifteen minutes of jiggle.





Just think of the miles of smiles at the Old Copper Corral!

We'll need some partners on this deal, of course. How about getting together sometime next week?

Let's meat, (oops), meet at Ruth's Chris.

Bring your checkbook.

Priorities?? PETA's are pathetic

So, here we have John Harwood of NBC getting ready for yet one more media "softball" session with our new el presidente and what happens? The commander-in-chief nicely nails a pain in the ass housefly with a very deft blow and PETA goes nuts.

PETA, in case you didn't know, stands for People Eating Tasty Animals...or something like that. (Hey, I'm a kidder.)

Actually it stands for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. (I like my acronym better.)

Here is my question: Since when is a goddamn housefly an animal??!! It's a soulless FREAKING INSECT!! Flies are a delivery system for every disease and parasite known to man. These winged angels of pestilence tap dance on all things disgusting, (dog crap for starters), and happily seek us out to "share" the experience. I hate them.

PETA people need to take a good look at their priorities. It's one thing to be against kicking dogs and cats, or cooking them for that matter, but PLEASE get real about some of the other stuff. Calling fish "Sea Kittens" so we won't eat them? Protecting nasty houseflies?? Come back to us PETA people. You're in lunar orbit.

By the way...this particular incident reminded me of one of my guttersnipe junior high pals, Joey the K. Joey used to capture flies in study hall and tie a thread around their tiny thorax's like they were pets. This was highly amusing to the rest of us at the seventh grade table especially when Joey would yank just a little too hard and the fly's head would come off. PETA should have been there. Now that was entertainment!

I choose to look at this big deal "flygate" incident as an opportunity for new dialog with the Obama administration. Maybe we don't see eye to eye on the monetary system, the supreme court, health care or basically...ANYTHING, but we by-God agree on what to do about flies. YOU KILL THE BASTARDS!

I've got your car right here...MAGGOT!

I guess it was in the paper the day before yesterday.

It was one of those stories that you initially think is a gag.

There was a picture of a high school kid sliding into the driver's seat of a Ford Mustang GT convertible as several admiring adults looked on. Immediately I was drawn to the story...

Why was he getting this cool ride? What had he done to merit such a nifty sled? How come I never had a slick set of wheels like that until I was WAY out of high school? You know, the usual questions of an aging yet still adolescent male.

So, I read the story.

The lad was being given this fine set of wheels for...PERFECT ATTENDANCE!

What???!! Yes, he was being handed the keys for merely showing up for school every day. DAMN! I read the story a second time because I thought I must be missing something. Turns out the only thing I was missing was not being born in this kid's generation. I hate to sound like a geezer, though that is exactly what I am, but kids didn't get cars for perfect attendance in MY DAY!

I sat on this story for a couple of days and finally decided to rant about it in a blog. Since I no longer had a copy of the paper, I decided to use Google to find the picture that originally ran in the San Diego Union-Tribune. I typed in "student gets car for perfect attendance" and was astounded to find that there are hundreds of schools doing the same thing nationwide.
I was especially intrigued by the story of the suburban Chicago twelve-year-old girl who won a car.

How do the schools promote this? Do they send a note home with the little slugs? "Make sure that Billy and Susie show up at our very fine institute of secondary learning and he or she COULD WIN A CAR!

This is NO way to run a railroad, or a school for that matter!

In my day...(God, I AM OLD), we had a different kind of incentive. It went something like this:

"Hey gang, if you skip school we can have you arrested and thrown in the motel with bars." "Oh yeah, and if that doesn't work for you, we can arrange for you to get drafted EARLY." (Yes, boys and girls we had something called mandatory military service back in my day.) Of course that was back when our government acknowledged the fact that we had enemies who needed to be "taken care of". (See: KILLED) Now, of course, we know that folks who want to destroy us are merely misguided and need to "cool off" in a fine resort facility until we can read them their Miranda rights. But, that is a rant for another day.

No...this man was our incentive for hauling our ass to school each day.

"If you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of death praying for war. But until that day you are pukes. You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even f#@&^ing human beings. You are nothing but unorganized garbastic pieces of amphibian crap. Because I am hard you will not like me. But the more you hate me the more you will learn."---Gunnery Sergeant Hartman

Maybe the schools should try this incentive for awhile...

STAY IN SCHOOL OR I'LL BE YOUR NEXT PRINCIPAL!

"And, give me the keys to the car."

"You're gonna LOVE our school maggot!

Welome Stranger...

Doug, my son-in-law, and I exchanged knowing glances as the superdooper deallybopper thingy glided over Katie's abdomen. (Sorry for using technical terms, but I played doctor as a child.) We were at the doctor's office for the baby ultrasound and the picture on the screen was unmistakable. There HE was. In fact, the technician remarked that he was at that very moment hanging on to his "he" thing as we gawked. (For the record, my grandson appears to be sporting the Milton Berle model.)

Son of a gun! Both of us knew what this meant. Doug was getting an early look at the guy who would one day wreck his car and cost him bail money. I reminded him that though it was time to start saving for both of those inevitabilities he could at least look forward to getting a pass on wedding expenses. There is compensation for everything.

I also reminded him that he was about to save a fortune on clothing too. Little boys can go at least twenty years in t-shirts and bluejeans. (I've managed to stretch it to 61.) And...when it comes to entertainment, all you need is a good jar for catching bugs and frogs and maybe a sack for bringing home funky looking rocks. Sweet!

Granted, there is frustration ahead with regard to getting the kid to bunt when he wants to swing away. And, don't get me started on the infield fly rule! But, overall, boys are pretty easy to handle until they get big enough to do that "wreck the car" thing and the "felony" thing. (Not to mention that reckoning that comes when your own son is big enough to knock you into the next county.) That's when raising girls starts to look like wining the lottery.

The kids haven't decided on a name yet, but they have until October. I've suggested Delbert and Dewey and have met great resistance on both. However, the middle name "Danger" is a lock. That is an idea too superior for words. "Danger is my middle name." Freaking brilliant!!! Chicks will dig it.

The best news of all as far as this soon-to-be grandpa is concerned is this: Starting this holiday season I will have company at the kids table. Food fights and bad behavior until milk comes out our noses will reign for years to come.

The world is spinning in greased grooves.

And the winner is...

This is it.
Tuesday morning we find out what the new grandkid will be sporting in the gender department. This is all new to Linda and me and frankly I find it more than okay. Ultrasound rules!



Katie and Doug have invited us to be there when the big reveal happens. I suspect they're nuts, but since I'm new to this grandpa gig I'm not going to turn down any science that will help me narrow down my toy shopping. Will I head straight for the trampolines at the toy store, or will it be an afternoon of checking the "comps" on several Barbie doll houses? Whatever the case, there's a world o' shopping to do. And...it's gonna be FUN!

I remember when "we" were pregnant with daughters Kelly and Katie waaaay back in the early seventies. Nobody had any forewarning of who or what might "pop out" in nine months. Relatives and friends were flying blind when it came to gifts for the new arrival. "Oh, don't worry. You can take those blue jammies with the trucks on them back to the store for something pink and frilly." (Actually, most of my friends gave inappropriate gifts from the liquor store that came in handy for ANY occasion.)

Oh, by the way... I found a terrific new book for my son-in-law. It is perfect for any new father or father-to-be. "Home Game" by Michael Lewis is screamingly funny and quite useful as a guide to fatherhood. It's published by W.W. Norton and is available in most bookstores or on Amazon.com. Come to think of it...this is a dandy book for any guy who is already a father.

Father's Day is coming!

This book would garner a big laugh from your old man. Buy it!
(Must I do everything?)

I found this picture on the web. Cool cap!

Maybe I'll be shopping for this lid next Tuesday afternoon. Or...maybe I'll be scoping out Barbimobiles. I'm sure GM will have them on sale by then,

It'll be as good as new...

"No need to call a repairman."
"I've got just the thing to fix that."
Either one of those statements should be on my dad's tombstone. He was one of those guys who was determined never to "waste" money hiring a pro when household problems came to call. This is on my mind today as I try to determine a reasonable course of action regarding a much needed fix for the thingymobob framdamnitz valve on our outdoor sprinkler system. The damn thing shoots water straight up into the air and not on the junk that grows and seems to need water.

Son of a bitch!! I hate dealing with crap like this. The main reason is that I am no good at it and seem incapable of even remotely describing the problem well enough to the guys at Home Depot to enable them to sell me the correct hardware to fix it myself.
I'm screwed.


Why is it that some guys have all the fancy tools needed to repair just about anything that breaks and others, like my dad and me, have a couple of dippy screw drivers , a busted hammer and not a glimmer of a clue on how to use them?

When I was a kid our family had any number of appliances that needed to be treated with special care because of some exotic fix dad had created for them. There was the waffle iron which featured one leg that was formerly an orange colored bottle stopper. Or, how about the coffee table that would fall down every six months or so until dad "repaired" it with his special combination of Elmer's glue and rubber bands. His master work, the one that had the whole neighborhood talking, was the ancient Bendix clothes washer that lived in our basement. Mom complained for months that the stupid washing machine would dance around the cellar whenever it went into its spin cycle. (My brother and I loved this and took turns riding the errant machine as it went berserk.) Finally, tiring of the constant nagging, dad secured a monster sized cement block from some friend of his and proceeded to mount and tie the washer to the top of it with an elaborate array of ropes and knots. This cure worked...sort of...for awhile. The machine continued to buck and lurch but now was confined to a range of only four to five feet. Victory!

The federal government could have used dad. That's the kind of Mr. Fixit the country needs!

So, here I sit trying desperately to think of how dad would handle the major project I have before me.

Hmmmm.

Hand me that bottle stopper...

Better yet, a beverage.

Equine investing...Where the windows clean the PEOPLE

Tomorrow millions of casual fans will have their TVs tuned to the Preakness to see if Mine That Bird can notch another victory in his quest for the Triple Crown. There is also much interest in the filly, Rachel Alexandra, since a win by her would be the first by that gender since 1924. Kentucky Derby winning jockey Calvin Borel appears to have voted in favor of Rachel Alexandra. Borel chose to ride the filly in the Preakness after making an electrifying last-to-first move with Mine That Bird to win the Derby by more than 6 lengths. So much for loyalty.



Mine That Bird ,alone in his stall, wonders what happened to Calvin.


The hussy, Rachel Alexandra, looking swanky after a workout.






I have never been a major railbird, but have been known to make an occasional wager on a bobtail in the interest of sport and solid business judgement. In thirty years I have made money...twice. The first successful adventure in para mutual investing came in 1984 in Las Vegas. My friend and business partner, Bob Hanna, and I were in the habit of meeting at the Sahara Hotel race and sports book every Saturday morning in the Fall to place our considered and well thought out NFL wagers in the hands of the accommodating bookies provided by the establishment. After handing in our weekly wagers we would enjoy a leisurely lunch at the bar and speculate on how to spend our anticipated winnings. (The fact that Joe Conforte was looking for investors in the Mustang Ranch got considerable attention.)

On that particular Saturday, as we enjoyed our repast of hotdogs and whiskey, one of us glanced at a TV screen in the sports book where the first race was about to go off at Pimlico. It came to our attention that a 30-1 shot named Barroom Hussy was in the race. Simultaneously we looked at each other and said, "We cannot let a magnificent piece of horseflesh like that run without us having a rooting interest!"
The horse won. Many horses AFTER that race won for us as well. We were horse picking geniuses! By 4 PM we were also very much in trouble with our wives. Both of us had said that we would be home around noon and, well...we would have called, but cell phones hadn't been invented yet. Yeah, that's it. We were also VERY drunk.
Linda and Judy were plenty steamed when they found us at the Sahara, but abruptly cooled off once they spied the pile of bills stacked in front of us on the bar. As I recall, a fine dinner to smooth the marital waters still left us "bucks up" on the afternoon.
Naturally Bob and I had big plans for this run to continue on all Saturdays going forward. Alas, it did not.



A couple of years ago I had another winning day at the track. I was with my pal, Fireman Bill, at the Del Mar racetrack here in San Diego and it was a wonderful afternoon of moneymaking fun. My approach to the sport was quite different from the Barroom Hussy days. I hadn't had a drink in several years; so alcohol was no longer a partner in my horse picking decisions. Also, I had read a book on "picking winners". My system was now studious, reasoned, and analytical. In short, it was now a snooze. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
By the end of the day I was up $7.42. Bored, but UP $7.42.

So, I'm still searching for a sure fire horse picking method. (Yes, I've given some thought to always going with the horse that takes a massive horsey dump just before the race. It doesn't work.)

I know the odds are long for Take the Points tomorrow, but I like him at 30-1. Papa Clem at 12-1 is also intriguing.

Maybe I should employ the wisdom of my old railbird pal, Champagne Joe, who once told me "Always go with the mob horse." Joe insists that it's money in the bank to check the Racing Form for horses whose owners have Italian surnames.

"The mob horses never lose."---Champagne Joe (June 17, 1990)




I wonder which horse is Tony Soprano's?