Little Drummer Boy

At the gym this morning I was happy to be among my own kind as we grown-ups fought fiercely to beat back the tide of holiday blubber recently launched into orbit around our expanding equatorial region.  It's useless I realize to even attempt a return to moderation at this point when New Year 2014 calories are waiting to ambush us with the sobering realities of adipose tissue, but I try.   

Gone are the days when two or three pieces of Christmas pie didn't mandate a next morning shoe horn for pulling on pants. These days every delicious morsel of good time dining packs its bags to find a home in the dunes of my jeans.  Exercise is required if I want to be around to celebrate a 66th Christmas and make ready for an attack on 2015.  It's a slap in the face from Father Time.

This year I was treated to the look on the face of daughter Katie and her husband Doug as their boy found a new drum kit from his Aunt Kelly and Uncle Pavol under their tree.  Danny kicked off what promises to be an especially noisy new year around their house with an impromptu concert on the new skins.  I predict the kid will be the next Buddy Rich, but then I did get to leave early.

Let there be drums!

Santa was good to my one and only grandson.  He's a lucky lad who,  I'm proud to say,  remains remarkably unspoiled.  

Today we are set to play in the snow at Legoland.  Snow, to a kid from Southern California is something to get excited about.  My Midwestern memories of snowsuits, mittens, boots, and runny noses have no meaning for Dan and he can barely wait to hit the slush pile of machine groomed white stuff at his favorite theme park.

So, if you need me today, I'm afraid I'll be "on the slopes" at Mt. Lego attempting to re-think my attitude about frozen rain and its capacity to entertain.  Perhaps a four year-old can turn around a snow grump of more than sixty years.  To my surprise, this grandpa gig gets better every day.  It's an opportunity that doesn't knock on every man's door.  In my case, it leans on the doorbell.  I'll bet I won't even need gloves.

"I'm ready grandpa.   Let's GO!"

The Best Gift

When my brother and I were kids Christmas was a time of no school and almost palpable anticipation.  Were we going to get cool stuff that we wanted or was it going to be one of those Christmases where our deportment earned us little more than things we "needed" along with the traditional Boys Life subscription and stupid board game from Aunt Shirley and Uncle Louie.  Fortunately, we usually avoided the holiday doghouse and would get fun things like a new bike, wagon or a Hopalong Cassidy cap gun.  Christmas was dandy and a return to school a couple of weeks away.

It's easy to forget what a kid's Christmas is like as we grow older and have children of our own.  Christmas becomes, like it or not, more of a chore and something to get through.  Jean Shepherd's book and movie, "A Christmas Story" captures this dichotomy superbly.  Ralphie, excited for the BB gun that will revolutionize his very existence and the "you'll put your eye out" protective rationality of his mom is there in technicolor for all of us to nod knowingly.

This year, as a grandparent, I have the rare opportunity to be a kid again at Christmas.  At four, our grandson Dan is completely in thrall of Santa, his elves, jingle bells and the baby Jesus.  For the first time it is all there on the big screen of his life.  He got to be one of the wise men in the church children's pageant and didn't mess it up.  The elf on the shelf has come to life at his house and Dan's behaviour has earned him high marks--so far.    He saw Santa at the Mission Bay Yacht Club where the jolly fat man can be found every Christmas in San Diego.  Dan greeted the old boy like a long lost friend and it was obvious that Santa and his Mrs. remembered the lad well.  (He got a candy cane to prove it.)

Who knows how long this Christmas magic will last?  I recall my guttersnipe pal, Bob Chamberlain, hipping me to the "Santa is your mom and dad" deal when I was about six or seven and I, in turn, wrecking my brother's faith at the tender age of five.  

So, this Christmas my wife and I will be at Daniel's house and will experience the day in all its majesty and wonder.  I think it's going to be a good year for him as I see a pile of presents under the tree that say "to Daniel", and Santa knows his address too.

The best gift of all this year comes with no box and no name.  It's for grandma and grandpa as we, for the second time in our lives, see Christmas through four year-old eyes.  Hands down the best gift, ever.

An actor prepares.

"Go ahead, guess what's in the box."

Nailed it!

Dan hangin' with Santa and Mrs. Claus

Santa Will Stick Around A While Longer

Senator Blutarski takes a break from his senate duties.

My Uncle Bob, a son of Illinois, always voted a straight Republican ticket until the day he died.  After that he pretty much voted Democratic.  

It used to be that once the detritus of December 25th was swept away there were no more presents until maybe your birthday.  That, my fellow Americans, is no longer the case.  Now that the bloodsucking leeches of our professional political class have discovered that it's possible to retain their status as privileged characters entitled to the public trough,  Santa is on the job 24/7 all year long. Whatever you need is within easy reach just as long as you keep voting for Representative Santa or Senator Santa of (your state or district here).  

Money is no problem for the punch drunk Palookas of  D.C,

 they'll do whatever it takes to buy your vote with your very own money.

Have a business?  Collect a decent paycheck?  Well, you my friend, have more than you need!  Send your dough to Washington so that it can be redistributed to those who can't be bothered with showing up for a job or are too lazy to steal.  Oh, by the way, when we run out of your money, we'll simply print some of our own.  NOT at problem.  Your kids and grandkids will pick up the tab.

In fact it may well be a good idea to see if your children can secure federal jobs.  That way they'll be certain to be first in line for decent seats on the lifeboat when the USS Democracy hits that iceberg of massive debt that is guaranteed to take it down faster than Bill Clinton's pants at a womens' prison.

Representative Blowhard is unavailable for comment.

Think of about this as you get ready for next year's tax shakedown.  Are you a taker or a maker?  If you are the former, rest assured that the ride can't last forever.  If you actually contribute more than you take from your country, God bless you!  If we stick together, demand reform and educate our children about the bear trap being set for them, then the greatest country the world has ever produced has a chance to continue.  If not, get ready to say "hello"to the ash heap of history where the bones of morally and fiscally corrupt civilizations lie bleaching in the noonday sun.  

Some citizens are catching on.  Max Baucus, the democratic dolt from Montana, deduced that his days of living large on the public arm are over.  He knows the collective IQ of the state of Montana could not possibly sink low enough to insure his re-election;  so he has chosen to "retire".  (For politicians retirement means taking a fat pension, continuing to live in Washington D.C. as a lobbyist and attending the same freeload cocktail parties.)  At least we won't be subjected to any more drunken rants by Montana's no longer favorite political pantload.

"Chivas neat…make it a double!"

 

Aw Come On…It's Still Fun

We started doing it because, well, our parents always did.  Later it became the perfect way to let longtime friends know where we were as the Gypsy existence that is the radio business bounced us through seven or eight states and seventeen sets of call letters in forty years of broadcast bacchanal.  Christmas cards used to epitomise the season and, though it was always tough to get them sent,  the incoming tide of reciprocal greetings made it worthwhile.  The memories of good friends, their triumphs and disappointments experienced during the year rapidly coming to an end was as warming as any yuletide hearth.  Coming home from work to check the day's mail for new cards loaded with annual updates was nearly as good as Christmas Eve.  

Sadly. the whole Christmas card deal seems to have gone the way of, well, radio.  My kids don't send them nor do most of the people we still consider good friends.  I'm sure the Internet has had an impact, though getting an "e-greet" from someone just isn't the same.  Time constraints are profound but probably no greater than they were fifty years ago and, sorry, the "it's too expensive" kiss-off doesn't cut it in the age of $5 lattes and $4 gas.

Nope, this year I will once again send a newsy missive to old pals and relatives (who damn well better read them!) just to let them know we are still above ground and grousing about even more topics than last year.  We won't send any "in town" greetings as it always seems idiotic to mail something to folks you see frequently, however, if you're out of sight, a "not out of mind" card is on the way. 

I promise to continue to inflict all Copper Christmas card recipients with news of kids and grandkids, provided they continue to perform up to my slightly subjective bragging standards.  Also, this gives me an opportunity to catch up on neighborhood gossip as I hand my news stuffed letters to mailman Russ who is the pride of the U.S. Postal Service.  (The preceding has been a paid political announcement.)

So, please give it some thought this Christmas and join me in keeping the tradition of the Christmas card going.  It would make your mom happy. Whether it's the best of times or the worst of times, it's the only time we have.  Catch up with some old pals this year.  

You may get back some award winning dandies like these:

I have no idea who these people are.

"Sit on grandpa's lap?  No way!"

Christmas, it's all about family.

Some people do not fear self criticism.

Didn't We Just Do This?

I hate the holidays.  Well, not really,  but I do dread them almost as much as I used to be giddy with anticipation of their approach when I was young.  Don't get me wrong, the food, fun and family doings are all enjoyable.  It's the velocity of their annual arrival and the finality of the door slamming on another year that gets me down.  Didn't we just have Christmas?!  What year is this anyway?

Yesterday was Thanksgiving.  I realize that's no news flash but it also marks the second year where my wife and I were guests at the table of our youngest daughter Katie and her family.  It was a treat to be with Kate and her husband Doug,  a creative man with a turkey and other tasty traditional Thanksgiving goodies.  I saved room for slices of three different pies provided by Doug's stepmother, his sister Debbie and the the kids' friend,  Christine.  (Pumpkin, Apple-cranberry, and chocolate pecan in case you were wondering.) As my four year-old grandson, Dan, would say, "It was scrumptious!"  I won't need to eat again until July.

We lingered, like most families, for a long while after the feast talking about everything from the value of heirloom jewelry and corn futures,  to the recent acceptance of nephew Michael to Baylor University.  There were laughs about previous Thanksgiving mishaps, childhood stunts, job related stories, the usual stuff of family get togethers.  Seated next to Dan,  I was able to keep him entertained with my passable Donald Duck impression and, when that failed, the fart app on my I-phone.  I "kill" with the Yo Gabba Gabba crowd.

As afternoon became evening it struck me that sometime while I wasn't paying attention the holiday torch had been passed.  Thanksgivings and future Christmases are now the province of Katie and Doug's generation.  There was no memo or meeting to attend, but the compilation of birthdays has moved Linda and me from host to guest for these traditions.  We are now the "old people" who, when not doting on the grandkids, talk of pensions, medicare and how the country is going to hell and aren't we lucky we won't be around to see it. 

As I said, I am beginning to hate the holidays.  They're fun but a big fat reminder that another year is up on blocks and the clock is ticking.  Friends are falling by the wayside, bucket lists need attention or  trimming, and suddenly there is a real awareness of past mistakes that demand correction …if possible.  I plan to get on that right after the holidays.

The hand off has been made.  The kids now own the season until one day--you might as well say next week--they'll look around and wonder just when their own kids took charge.  It's life.  Thomas Lynch, the fine poet and essayist, said it best:  "So it is with this life, we hammer at the moment until all that's left is memorable."

And, as long as we're quoting, let's let the English poet John Betjeman take a shot at this predicament.

"You've been given just one life in this world that matters and upon which every other life somehow depends as long as you live, and also given the costly gifts of hunger, choice, and pain with which to raise a modest shrine to meaning."

Good luck with that.  The clock is ticking.

In the meantime, I wonder if there is any more of that pie?

  

Generational Passage

It changed everything.  For those of us alive at the time it was a watershed moment.  Boomers like me can instantly tell you where they were when the news broke that the president had been shot.  It was the end of childhood innocence and the birth of a scepticism that persists today.  

I was in ninth grade study hall studiously not studying when the school intercom began to carry the news from Dallas.  The surreal broadcast emanated from WHO radio in Des Moines, the closest network affiliate to our small  northwest Iowa town of Spencer.

  

How could this be?  This was America.  People were hardworking, god fearing, upright defenders of  the free world.  Our president was the man responsible for the most powerful nation on earth.  The generation in charge, our parents, were the people who saved the world from Hitler and the Emperor of Japan.  Finally, after catching their breath from that massive undertaking, they had elected one of their own, John F. Kennedy,  a young decorated Naval veteran as president.  He was a Catholic--the first--with a beautiful wife and two lovely children.  He was also a leader who believed in a strong defense, lower taxes and was pro-life just like many other Democrats of the day. His successor, LBJ,  a shameless political opportunist, was largely responsible for steering the party into the ditch on the left where it remains mired today.   The economy was humming, the war in Vietnam barely on anyone's radar and the Russians had just blinked after being caught placing missiles in Cuba.

When Walter Cronkite, the "go to" newsman of the time,  confirmed that the president was dead school ended for the day.  Local high school football games were canceled nationwide.  Adults and kids wrapped up everything early that day and headed home for one of the strangest and saddest weekends in memory.  People sat transfixed before the glare of black and white television screens watching the almost Shakespearean tragedy unfold.  News anchors looked exhausted and every face sad.  

The Top 40 radio stations that were the drumbeat of my generation dropped the Beach Boys, Dion and Fats Domino for the somnabulistic drone of funeral dirges interrupted only by hourly newscasts featuring only  THE story.

Blame began almost immediately.  Finger pointing from the left centered on a climate of right wing hate said to be prevalent in Dallas at the time.  All of this in spite of the obvious fact that Kennedy had been felled by a bullet fired by a Castro loving little communist named Lee Harvey Oswald.  Naturally, on Sunday,  conspiracy theories exploded as Oswald was shot by nightclub owner Jack Ruby.  

Conspiracy?  Who knows?  Though it is uncharacteristic for even two people to keep a secret for fifty minutes let alone fifty years, maybe there was some nefarious plot to kill JFK.  I doubt it, but will keep an open mind.

Of one thing I am certain:  Fifty years ago today my generation began a transition from youthful optimism to a more realistic and educated cynicism.   More sobering and still haunting, we watched  overnight as our parents became at once and forever no longer young.

Give Me the FUN Guy!

Hands down I'm taking Rob Ford.  At least in Toronto they have leadership that provides a few laughs.  Here in what was once the greatest nation in the universe we--well, no one I know--have decided that it was a good idea to elect a president who had never so much as run a car wash.  Barack Obama,  once described by his equally incompetent and inexperienced sidekick, Valerie Jarrett,  as a man so intelligent he had "been bored all his life"  now has plenty to keep him occupied as the cornerstone of his social engineering and wealth redistribution agenda, national health care, crashes around him.  Thanks Barry, it was a swell idea.  We finally found the ultimate "style over substance" liberal clown to claim the title "WORST PRESIDENT EVER!"from that hopeless Georgia hillbilly, Jimmy Carter.  Congratulations.  Now, please leave so we can find someone funnier to run the country.  

"Did ya like me in Tommy Boy?"

The first five or six folks in the Hoboken phone directory are likely more qualified than B.O. but I'd really prefer the Toronto Tons O' Fun, Rob Ford.  I realize that we'd have to waive that "native born American citizen" thingy in the constitution but am fairly certain that we already have.

Get me that large and IN CHARGE mayor from the Great White North!  Any guy who looks that much like the late Chris Farley has got to be our man.  Did you see him in his football jersey?!!  Comedy gold my friend!  Ford Nation forever!  

So the large lad enjoys an occasional debauch and a cocktail or three…So what?  He shoots from the hip, fears no PC police and HATES taxes.  That certainly puts me in the booth yanking the lever for the Robster when it's time to vote.  With luck he'll be able to work his partying magic (and crack pipe) on all branches of our currently useless government and render the entire executive, legislative and judicial branches so completely gassed to the gills they can no longer do us harm.

The time is now!  The man is Ford!

COME ON DOWN FAT BOY!!
Hook up the sled dogs and mush on down to D.C.
We could use some laughs.

"First order of business:  every Friday is jersey day."