Diggin' Up Bones

Here is who should never own a rolltop desk:  ME!  If you're a pack rat, and I am, the temptation to toss things into this black hole of the desk family is irresistible.  Too few of us rolltop aficionados are equipped with the neat and orderly personality necessary for the proper utilization of its drawers and cubbies.  

I bought my desk around 1971 and have moved it from Kansas to Florida to California to Washington and Nevada before returning to California for at least three more local moves and never bothered to do more than lock it.  This month, in anticipation of another interstate move, I decided to tackle the job of cleaning and sorting the contents for the first time in forty years.  

My God!  It's a freaking time capsule!  I have now spent days looking at old pictures, memos from angry bosses, birthday cards, funeral and wedding announcements, small toys and general reminders of bad habits long since ditched.  When did I smoke a pipe?  Beats me, yet here one is.  Old contracts from radio stations whose call letters have changed at least a couple of times since they fired me are right here next to letters from friends and relatives now long in the ground.  Messages from dead people are downright strange to read.  Do I save them or, like their composers, bury the remains?  It's a dilemma.

I have found files full of old news stories that amused me--like the one involving the gynecologist bent on revenge-- and correspondence from listeners to my radio show in several different cities.  (Note to millennials:  before the Internet, people wrote letters.)  I especially enjoyed re-reading the invitation from a woman in Tampa to come "visit" after her husband had gone to work.  She made a point of reminding me that my show was over at 10AM and that was perfect since her husband would be downstairs embalming bodies in their funeral parlor at that time.  She even sent a picture erasing all doubt as to whether or not she had access to her husband's make-up kit.  There was also a note from the woman in South Dakota's state goon garage containing several au natural shots of herself draped across the hood of a '54 Ford.  I still wonder what kind of mileage that baby got.  The letters from the retired FBI man who enclosed copies of missives he had received from old J. Edgar Hoover himself made me wonder once again about the late director's proclivities.  Very creepy.

Old pictures of my kids and the special book they made for me during the time I was commuting each week from Las Vegas to San Diego caught me by surprise.  It reminded me of how much I love them and how, like an ice cream cone on a hot August afternoon, our time together is melting away.

Yesterday I discovered my old Army compass, a toy truck given to me by a relative in the 1950's and the first transistor radio I ever owned.  Though it no longer works I'll be hanging on to that piece of outdated technology as a reminder of the treacherous path it led me down.

Checking the clock I see that it's time to get back to work with this excavation.  For as long as I've been at it you'd think the damn desk would look slightly more, uh…..clean.  It occurs to me that perhaps this project is just too large for me to handle.  

Another approach may be called for.

Got a match?

The forty year time capsule from hell

The Only Desert Rat Is HARRY

Cliven Bundy

If ever there was a state where "juice" and "stroke" ruled as coin of the realm it is Nevada.  Who you know and what have they done for you lately is the way score is kept in the Silver State.  Whether it springs from the days of gold mining or the commoditization of gambling and prostitution, Nevada has long promoted a liassez- faire attitude when it comes to commerce, that is unless the BLM and senator Harry Reid are involved.

In case you are unaware, there is a bit of a problem involving Nevada's dumber than drywall douche-nozzle senator Reid and hard working American rancher Cliven Bundy.  Mr. Bundy has been grazing his cattle on BLM (federal) land for years and there is some dispute over whether he is or isn't in arrears on his grazing fees.  Neil Kornze, the head of the Bureau of Land Management and former longtime aide to Mr. Reid, contends that rancher Bundy is a deadbeat cattle pimp and wants to confiscate his herd.  Coincidentally, and I'm sure it is just a coincidence,  Mr. Reid's idiot son Rory is a lawyer representing China's ENN energy group that positively drools over the chance to use the land to construct America's largest solar energy complex.  In other words Harry's kid stands to make a bunch of money from the Chinese commies if he can secure them the rights to slap a buttload of mirrors onto the desert floor. 

Harry Reid, spawn of Satan and political gas bag

Senator Reid chooses to frame this case somewhat differently.  He wants us to believe he has stumbled upon a new found passion for truth, justice and the American way.  Of course if this were the case he would busy himself writing articles of impeachment against the flyweight in the White House for his five years of lawless conduct.   No, when asked his thoughts regarding the current situation with Mr. Bundy and his cows, Harry said, "It's not over.  We can't have an American people that violate the law and get away with it. So it's not over."  (insert guffaws here)
Harry was wearing his sunglasses when that fourteen caret line of political bullshit fell out of his maw so you know he thinks he means business.

"What are you lookin' at?!"

"Moooooooo"

It's interesting to note that the initial beef (no pun intended) regarding Bundy's cud chewing bovine was the assertion that they were destroying the habitat of Nevada's desert tortoise.

In the interest of fair play and total accuracy I decided to question a Mr. Dick Tortoise of Pile of Rocks, Nevada.  I found him at home under cactus in this suburban Las Vegas paradise.

Question:  Mr. Tortoise, any thoughts on the current situation regarding Mr. Bundy's cattle and the scam Harry Reid and his son are running?

Answer:  "I know you'd  think that Harry being a fellow burrowing reptile and all would get him a pass from us.  Not so.  Actually we kind of like the cows and rancher Bundy.  Sure Bossie takes the occasional flop on our head but let a pantload like cousin Harry have his way and, well, next thing you know the desert is full of useless politicians.  Nancy Pelosi anyone? Get outta here!"

Me:  "Thanks Mr. T."

Dick Tortoise: "You're welcome…OOPS…better stand back, Bossie has that look on her face."

"This cactus offers ample cow plop protection."

Sriracha! The Ring of FIRE!

California, the state that can't chase off businesses fast enough, is at it again.  Well, more specifically, the Southern California city of Irwindale which orbits the cesspool of greater Los Angeles is at it this time.  The town council of this nondescript collection of warehouses, parking lots and zero charm has declared the factory that produces the delicious red lead that is Sriracha sauce a public nuisance.  This past Wednesday night the city gave Sriracha's owners, Huy Fong Foods, 90 days to make changes to their heavenly nectar's production process or CLOSE DOWN.  Apparently the candy ass citizens of this civic grease spot on the map of the formerly Golden State are complaining of spicy odors from the grinding of red hot chili peppers that sting their eyes, give them headaches, and prodigious coughing fits.  Irwindale has now gone completely bananas and called in the dogs of the South Coast Air Quality Management District.

What?!  Double secret probation?!

Who cares?  The stuff is flat out nectareous and, like Superman, able to leap tall helpings of bland culinary blandishments to render them, uhh….downright edible.  Heck, you can put the red napalm on everything from a boring casserole your aunt dropped off to leftover Army C-rats and your tongue will be sending you a thank-you note while your tummy says "howdy" to a new found friend.  It's magic!

 Huy Fong Foods, the maker of Sriracha, was founded by David Tran, a Vietnamese immigrant, who grew weary of mixing his delightful sauce at home in a bucket.  He began making his creation in 1980 and two years ago had enough money to open a $40 million plant in the aforementioned Irwindale, a burg of roughly 1400 residents.  Mr. Tran personifies the American Dream lived out loud.  Last year the company, which now employs 60 people year-round and another 200 during the peak of pepper-grinding season, did about $85 million in revenue last year.  Nothing to sneeze at.  Oops, sorry Irwindale.

As a huge fan of Sriracha--frankly it's an addiction--I am today proposing that our phony baloney legislature simply write a few thousand checks to buy off the unenlightened of Irwindale.  Sure the state has no money, but that has never stopped us before.  Let Jerry Brown (Yep, him again) and the rest of the "money is no object" boys and girls in Sacramento load the folks of Irwindale down with a lifetime supply of Kleenex and Claritin and leave the bill to the grandkids.  It's solid "let the bottom line be damned" California financial planning.

So, the clock is now running on the Sriracha factory problem.  Will the residents of Irwindale, gateway to Azusa, shut up and nut up for the sake of their one and only touchstone of civic pride?  Or, will they wuss out, close down the plant and invite the wrath of millions of flaming Sriracha addicts bent of a revenge of FIRE?  Tick toc…

I would remind Irwinalians of an ancient Vietnamese proverb:

"Life is not a bowl of cherries.  Life is a bowl of hot chilis.  What you do today may burn your ass tomorrow."

If You're Under 50, You Don't Know Cowboys

You could always tell what kind of an episode of Bonanza was in store just by listening to the music mix in the opening scene.  Serious music meant one of the Cartwright boys was either on trial for something he didn't do, in danger of being jumped by bad guys, sick and circling the drain, or about to become a near widower yet again.

Women didn't stand a chance on Bonanza.  They either succumbed to a rare disease or became victims of foul play.   A telltale cough early in the show was a certain tip off to the former.  Of course old Ben Cartwright, the patriarch of the clan,  created this Devil's Triangle for females years earlier with his unfortunate habit of marrying three different women and impregnating them with extremely large male progeny.  Regular viewers were led to believe that not one made it to Mothers' Day.  Thus, Pa Cartwright ultimately gave up the East Coast and his gig as a ship's captain and struck out for points west to become a Virginia City, Nevada bigshot and honcho of the Ponderosa, a ranch roughly the size of Rhode Island.

Ben "Pa" Cartwright

"Hoss" Cartwright

My pal, the Skipper, and I have been discussing shows like Bonanza for years.  Heck, we grew up with them and continue to watch them today.  (Insert plug for Blu Ray DVDs here!)  Gunsmoke, Maverick, Tales of Wells Fargo, Have Gun Will Travel, and so many other horse operas were the video and audio soundtrack of our young lives and continue to resonate as we enter our dotage.  Our credo: "What would Hoss Cartwright do?"  Or, perhaps: "Like Matt Dillon, I will always pay my tab at Miss Kitty's."  These guys were our role models.  Unlike our dads who went off to work each day and came home for supper, TV western stars rode horses, got in fist fights and shootouts, seldom shaved, and drank gallons of rot gut whiskey in dark saloons.  What's not to like?!

Miss Kitty & pals

Recently the Skipper's New England trouble making buddy, Tom, has started asking some disturbing questions about several of these wonderful old shows, Gunsmoke in particular.  For example:  Tom wonders if Miss Kitty merely ran a saloon in Dodge City or was the Longbranch a front for a sporting house?  Also, where did all the hills and boulders come from?  (If you've been to Kansas you know this is a damn good question.)  Did Matt ever spend any money on Miss Kitty, or, better yet, spend the weekend with the dishy redhead?  (We know she made him hotter than Rock Hudson at Boy Scout camp.)    How could Doc fix any injury, no matter how horrible, with whiskey and a pair of pliers?  Why did bad guys wait to show up in Dodge when Matt was out of town and only Festus left to run the jail?  (Wait, that one answers itself.)

Tom's perspicacity has inspired more than a few long distance discussions regarding other questions or mixed messages that trouble we males of a certain age.  The older I get the more I wonder just how much serious green Ben slipped to sheriff Roy to keep the boys out of the local calaboose.  Also, when the Cartwrights "went to town" did they really go to town or was there a Virginia City version of Miss Kitty's Longbranch to help take the edge off?   Why weren't there more episodes starring Hoss?  Why was Adam there at all?   Why all the black clothes, Adam?  And, what was the deal with Hop Sing, the Cartwright's cook?  He should have been making a killing baking fortune cookies, selling Chinese take-out and running a crooked mahjong game.  The Pondarosa was, after all, just outside of Reno.

I realize that if you're under 50 none of this has ever kept you awake nights.

Just one more thing:  Ladies, if you ever feel the urge to "get out of Dodge", make sure you steer clear of Virginia City and the Pondarosa.  With those Cartwright boys, you haven't got a chance.

Festus in deep thought

Adam.  Who needed him?!

Dan Digs It…and That's A Good Sign

A big smile spread across his face as grandson Dan looked at the new picture of his grandma.  "She has grandpa hair.  I LIKE it!"

My wife has cancer.  Diagnosed a few weeks back with "large B cell lymphoma", Linda has begun chemotherapy and it has, on schedule, taken her hair. No big deal really when you consider the consequences of not addressing the situation.  This is the "cancer to have" friends and survivors tell us.  We have no reason to doubt this declaration and pray that it's true.  Looking at the statistics it appears that the odds are in our favor.  If determination and attitude have a part in this--and I hear they do--Linda will beat this evil bastard back to hell and live to dance on its grave.  She's tough and able to endure anything, even 45 years of me.

I share this reluctantly.  Neither of us relish revealing more than absolutely necessary about ourselves. (The blog I do mostly for laughs and my own mental health.)  Linda, before retiring, was a librarian.  She prefers books to talking about herself.   As for me,  I sought the comfort of anonymity by hiding out on the radio where I could say anything I pleased without anyone seeing me.  Bosses, however, knew what I looked like and often made me pay for my temerity with my job, precisely why I wrangled the hits for 17 different stations in 40 years.  Some guys just can't take a joke…or a kick in the nuts.

I compose this as I sit by Linda's side for her latest chemo treatment.  The bag of good/bad poison is nearly empty and we will go home.  There will be some rough days ahead and just as she begins to once again feel fine it will be time for another visit to the clinic.  She'll be done sometime in late June.

This blog will not be posted if Linda does not approve.  The last thing I want is for her to be upset or embarrassed by anything stupid I might say.  There is little else on my mind these days; so I can think of no other subject on which to bloviate.  I too feel better knowing that maybe some of you who may also be experiencing cancer up close and personal will take some comfort in knowing that others are also in the fight.  And, if necessary, let this serve as a sympathetic nod to friends and relatives who didn't receive the empathy and concern they should have from Linda and me when you needed it.  We just didn't know.

With luck Linda will be in recovery and feeling fine by mid summer and we can fulfill our dream of moving to beautiful Lake Coeur d' Alene, Idaho to live long healthy lives.  This has been our plan for quite awhile now.  Of course,  some wag--I forget who--once sagely observed:  "If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans."

Best Birthday Yet

Recently I hit the on ramp for route 66.  No big deal really when you factor in the alternative.  I'm happy to have had my option picked up for another year of life's ups and downs.  If you are also on the "senior circuit" you know what I mean.  Too many friends have missed the cut and others are dealing with challenges they never saw coming.  If you're okay, it's perfectly acceptable to enjoy the ride.  You'll be asked to get off soon enough.   No need to rush things.

For the first time in many years both kids were at home for my birthday and that was sweet.  Each daughter has done well by any measure.  They found work that fulfills them and have husbands who love and respect them.  Every parent takes comfort and pride in their childrens' happiness.  

My one and only grandson, Dan, as kids are inclined, was more excited about my birthday than I.  His mom said that he had shopped diligently to find the perfect present for grandpa.  He could hardly contain himself as he watched me open a carefully wrapped package of well petrified dinosaur poop he scored from some museum. 

 It's only the BEST GIFT EVER!

It will be a sad day when he outgrows me.

Dan shows off his new fake tattoos

Grandpa and Dan rest up after a wrestling match.

Tax Time? Deal Me Out!

Here we go again.  It's time to render unto Caesar what has carefully been determined to be the IRS slice of your fiscal pie for 2013.  I prefer to think of it as protection money.  Pay up or go to jail.  Or, worse yet, incur severe tire damage,  be forced to spend an evening with Lois Lerner, or the unimaginable horror of listening to Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi sing "Sexual Healing".    The feds do not kid around.

So, here I am once again knee deep in 1099's, K-1's and W-2's that fill my mailbox and demand to be reported to the proper authorities who, in turn, will direct me to send them more money than currently resides in my bank account.  The deadline for this extortion is April 15.   After all, politicians have a scam to run and the votes of less productive citizens to buy before the next election.

"Paying taxes is a privilege", say the clowns who have managed to spend our country into receivership.  "Flat tax?, Never happen!"  "Why would we want everyone to have a stake in the country's finances?"  "Let the suckers pay!"

The IRS operates the Big Casino of the U.S. Treasury and, for some folks, they offer the "loosest slots in town".  For actual taxpayers the IRS instead invites you to the Texas Hold 'Em table where your every bluff is called and the government deals from the bottom of the deck.  Nobody with any money is allowed to leave the table still in possession of their pants.  If you're lucky, you head for the door in a decorator barrel.

Oh, wait just a minute, I nearly forgot.  For those lucky enough to reside in a state equipped with its very own confiscatory income tax, step right this way.  There are oh so many more chances to cough up what little you have left for the local elected crooks.  "No cash?  We take Mastercard and Visa."  "By the way, where's the title to your car?"

"I think we can come up with a nice little payment plan."