We Could Have Done Without This

Besides hearing, "hey what's this red stuff" uttered by your doctor,  the worst thing he or she could say is: "it's back."
After nearly nine months of recovery from a stem cell transplant, my wife's cancer is back.
Son of a bitch!  Just when she had begun to feel like all of this had been a bad dream it comes back like a punch in the gut.

We got the news two weeks ago and it felt like somebody was pelting our house with rocks, or, in Linda's case, a home invasion.  Every morning the knowledge that this sneaky bastard of a disease had once again slipped into our lives made the temptation to just stay in bed seem like a good plan.  We're over that now and are ready to kick some large B cell lymphoma ass.  Linda begins with a brand new (just approved in April) chemo drug the first of next week.  This one promises not to leave her feeling too bad or--even more important as far as she is concerned--BALD.  After meeting with her primary oncologist we are feeling quite positive about this drug's ability to do the job.  If it fails there are other new miracles  of medicine to be tried including  the possibility of another trip to Seattle and a re-education of her CAR-T cells.  I have no idea what that's all about but it seems to be succeeding in early trials at the Cancer Care Alliance and at the Mayo Clinic.

Linda is a native of Rapid City, South Dakota and, as another child of that great state and longtime friend, Doug Steckler, said to me, "NEVER piss off a girl from South Dakota....No NEVER."  Steckler is a lunatic but I can't remember the last time his insight was incorrect.  She is pissed!  Cancer doesn't stand a chance.

What Kind of a Name is Marilyn for a Boy?

"Hi, I am a moron."

Major freak flag flyer Marilyn Manson, like most rock n' roll reprobates, won't set foot on a concert stage until all of the perquisites outlined in his contract are in place.  His backstage rider includes such beauties as:  "all rooms shall have private flush toilets (Porta Johns are specifically not acceptable), also "promoter shall provide one oxygen tank with regulator and mask for artist's sole use.  In order to avoid being late to the stage, or starting the show with runny makeup, the dressing rooms for both Manson and his band each require "one clock and one efficient AC unit.  Dressing rooms need to contain these items:  ten Gatorades ( grape, berry or watermelon flavors), two packs of Dentine Ice gum (peppermint and spearmint), French onion dip (fresh from deli, if possible), a half-gallon of two percent milk, and two bags of Haribo gummy bears.

To ensure patrons and performers are in safe hands, "None of the security personnel shall possess any handcuffs, mace, firearms, clubs, knives or dangerous weapons...under no circumstance is a flashlight to be used as a weapon."  If you're a patron of the event, Manson's contract forbids the wearing of spiked bracelets and chains of any kind.  (Obviously Manson draws a "classy" crowd.  ed)
With demands like these you'd expect the guy to actually be talented.
Guess again.

I think we should all have these kind of riders just for participating in daily life.  Not that you asked, but here is my newly created list of "musts" just for waking up each morning:

1.  I would like to be awakened gently like a lily on a quiet pond.

2. I would like my wife to give back at least half the covers.

3. Breakfast shall feature only cereals that come with toys in the box and contain either chocolate or fruity flavors.

4. All pictures and references to liberal politicians must be removed from my newspapers. (yeah, I still read them).

5.  No whippersnappers with their caps on backward allowed within two miles of my hacienda.

6.  NO WIRE HANGERS!  (I had this one before Joan Crawford!)

Uh....I know I have more ideas for this list but I'll need some more time to think them up.  It's not that easy being petulant and demanding.  Now get busy on your own damn list!

Okay, one more:  I demand permission to resume drinking booze if ever I find myself trapped between two or more boring people.  

Pull the trigger.  I'm begging you!

Miss Cleo, Chickens and Bats...Oh My!

Miss Cleo

As the wife and I took a little break from reconfiguring the house in the wake of a visit from our six year-old grandson Dan (Cocoa Puffs and Trix still turning up in unusual places) we both did some catching up on the latest news.  First of all I was saddened to note the passing of Miss Cleo who, you may recall, was always standing by to talk with you on The Psychic Hotline.  Did it catch her by surprise I wonder or was she dressed up and waiting at the station for the Dirt Nap Express?  If her obituary is correct it appears that she had been less than candid about certain aspects of her life.  For example,  her real name was Youree Harris and she was from Los Angeles which, last time I checked, wasn't even in the same time zone as the Caribbean.  What else was she not telling us?  And, it's obvious that the old Hotline must not have been getting the job done for her cash flow lately as one of her last jobs was doing commercials for a Plantation, Florida used car dealer called Uncle Mel's Cheap Heaps.  This, of course, begs the question:  Would Miss Cleo be able to predict when the transmission might take a hike on one of Uncle Mel's bargain rides?

Here in the Idaho panhandle we have time to relax and enjoy a slower pace.  The news cycle doesn't usually include major crimes like murder, home invasion, drug busts and endless freeway tie-ups.  Of course we have the occasional meth lab explosion but those seem to be almost the exclusive province of rural and small town America.   The big ugly stories we leave to the major metropolitan markets while we take time to focus on, well,  Miss Cleo assuming room temperature and items of local import.   Here in Coeur d'Alene there was a front page story regarding some old bag state senator--or was it representative?--who drove her car around police barricades during our Fourth of July parade.  She assumed that the cop yelling at her to back her car up and not cut through the marching Cub Scouts and Brownies didn't realize how important she was as she whipped out the old "Do you know who I am young man?!"  No, he wasn't impressed and wrote her a ticket which she is contesting vehemently.   Frankly I hope they give her about five years in stony lonesome just for being a politician.   It's a doggone shame that she was recently defeated in her bid to continue on as our local state political hack.  She had the potential for real comedy gold.

Another breaking story here in the Famous Potatoes state is the disappearance of the 7-foot tall steel chicken in Pocatello.  (This just in:  THE CHICKEN HAS BEEN RETURNED, film at 11.)  I have no idea what this monstrosity is supposed to promote or represent but do agree that it would look cool on our front lawn.  I won't bring it up for a vote as no doubt Linda would not be willing to go along with this stroke of decorating genius.  Women have no imagination when it comes to home decor.

A little something for the front yard.

Last night after finally agreeing that we had caught up with the news and our home had returned to normal--okay, as normal as we get--we relaxed on the front patio and enjoyed watching the sunset.  As darkness descended and we enjoyed a gentle cooling breeze off the lake, we lingered and congratulated ourselves on surviving a week of a six year-old's visit and how smart we were to move to the Idaho panhandle.  Linda remarked that there was a really large butterfly putting on a show near the tree just to the West of us and how nice it would have been for our grandson to see it.  Of course it was a BAT but I agreed that it was indeed a very special "butterfly" just to get her inside before she wised up and screamed.
I wonder if I could have blown that by Miss Cleo?

An Idaho "butterfly"

Gen Z Meets The Greatest Generation

Our daughter Katie and her family have been visiting this week and I'm happy to report there has been zero Pokemon Go nonsense attempted by grandson Dan.  He has been busy wearing out grandma and grandpa with swimming, boating, fishing and general horsing around that seems well suited to these long warm final days of July.  We can rest up next week.

On Sunday we had a visit from old friend Denny Krick, a California pal who now calls Seattle home. Denny is a World War II  Navy veteran looking forward to his 91st birthday on August 7.  He was on his way to Montana to see another mutual San Diego buddy at his summer home on Ashley Lake near Glacier National Park.  Denny is a remarkable guy and I couldn't let the opportunity to introduce young Daniel to a true hero pass us by.

Here is the shot I hope Dan can show his grandchildren when he is 91.  The generation that saved the world from the insanity of Hitler, Germany and the Empire of Japan is rapidly slipping away and will live on only in our history books and in the memories of those of us who knew them.  Now Dan has joined our club.  I hope he'll grow to treasure the day.

Denny and Danny

Pokemon Blows

"Got time to waste?  Come chase us!"

It's official.  We are totally out of stuff to do.

What other explanation could there possibly be for Pokemon Go?  In case you recently stepped off the planet, this idiotic waste of time has many of our fellow earth dwellers traipsing around the real world with "not so smart" phones clutched firmly in hand as they chase imaginary  digital monsters.  Not only are these clowns doing a wonderful impression of Otis Campbell, Mayberry's town drunk on the old Andy Griffith Show, they are also endangering themselves and others as they barge into traffic and walk off cliffs in pursuit of these pretend monsters.  Holy idiocracy! Just when you thought the country couldn't possibly get any dumber, we somehow manage to come up with crap like this.

I will confess Pokemon Go has provided oodles of entertainment for my wife and me when we make our morning trek to the neighborhood park to feed the squirrels.  Up until now we have had to amuse ourselves by feeding endless nuts to the  furry little tree top dummies in an attempt to make the lot of them official contenders for the Jackie Gleason look-a-like contest.  Some have become so fat it's necessary to roll the peanuts toward their respective trees in consideration of the required dragging of bellies no longer capable of navigating park terrain.  With the addition of the Pokemon Go zombies to the mix of park fauna, we are now treated to the near constant hilarity of dozens of virtually obsessed morons falling over picnic tables, barbecues, playground equipment and each other as they capture precisely NOTHING.  Even the squirrels think they're idiots.  Don't these people have jobs?!

another one rides the short bus...

My wife, as usual, keeps attempting to put a positive spin on this Pokemadness by saying things like, "at least the kids are doing something outdoors."  Which is a lot like bragging that your child is the skinniest kid at fat camp.  She also fails to take into consideration that the argument loses something when at least half the "kids" look to be over 25.

So, keep it up kids!  All that falling down and walking into trees provides all the hilarity of alcohol abuse without the expense of buying booze.  And, don't forget, "chased and captured imaginary monsters in a local park" looks pretty damned impressive on a resume'.    

My thoughts precisely!

The Only Choice

Really?  This is it?

Wow!  Do I want the mendacious harridan who who wouldn't hesitate to back the car over Jesus if he got in the way of her monstrous ambition, or do I hitch my wagon to the manatee sized blowhard with the My Little Pony comb over? 

Any takers?  I thought not.

 Republican and Democratic conventions are upon us and, at least for me, the choices about to be proffered us are rich with comedy gold.  Certainly neither of the about to be anointed candidates hold much promise for greatness or, for that matter, even competence.  It's almost as if the country ran an ad for "least likely to succeed" and has wound up with these two Jack & Jill clowns.  However you vote, regret is in the wind.  So what do we do?  

I'm inclined to go with The Donald mostly for the entertainment value.  The man is a human cherry bomb and, as far as I'm concerned, that works.   Anything he would like to blow up in D.C. gets a green light from this corespondent.   Even "Slick" Willie Clinton, while promoting the candidacy of his wife--in name only--  Hillary, told a crowd recently that "it's time to put the awful legacy of the last eight years behind us."   I'm with ya Bill.  It seems as if he not only forgot he's officially married to her but that she is a major participant in the "awful legacy". She is the candidate who promises more of the same.  She is one of the phony "we know what's good for you" liberal a-hole central planner, socialist, big government  loons who should pack for Europe where they can freely enjoy the globalization, environmental stewardship and social equity they love to blather on about.  Most of us have had enough of their whining ruling class bullshit and would gladly help them pack.
Memo to all current administration bureaucrats:  Get out and stay out!  And take Nancy Pelosi with you!

In the words of the great American, P.J. O'Rourke, "Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys."  As one who is a lifelong case of arrested adolescence and former drinker of whiskey, I would like to go on record as saying it's time to turn the keys to the country over to The Donald.  Eight years of the smug moral contempt and elite condescension of the Obama administration is enough.  We don't need another minute, let alone four years, of politicians taking our money and telling us we're too dumb to know what's good for us.  Let's light the fuse on the free market capitalist cherry bomb that is Donald Trump and begin to jump start this once great country.

In the words of Steve Forbes, "If you could legislate prosperity, the Soviet Union would have won the cold war."  Hard work is the father of prosperity, not government programs.  And, while we're at it, it couldn't hurt to elect someone willing to call Islamic terrorism by name and begin the long and arduous task of doing whatever it takes to rid the earth of its moral rot.  Trump may not be a Reagan, but at least he's not a politician and that's good enough for me.

Where Was This When I Needed It?

Bill Moffitt and I, two sons of the Midwest, amazingly spent close to fifteen years working at three different San Diego radio stations where we most often hosted shows in either middays or afternoon drive time.  Sometimes it was "Willie" from 10A-2P and me from 3-7P and other times, vice versa. Neither of us liked to "tour".  Touring was how those of us the radio business referred to making personal appearances at car dealerships, grand openings, elephant races when the circus came to town or introducing artists featured on the station's playlist when they performed at local venues.  We both hated those gigs.  Sure, there was extra "cheese" for showing our faces but, damnit, like most radio loons, we got into the business to hide out.  If we wanted to be seen we'd be on TV! In fact, our one time boss at KCBQ, Gary "Fuzzy" Herron, officially dubbed us the Steely Dan of broadcasting.  His reference to the pop/jazz duo of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker was apt in that, like those two, we preferred studio work to any live appearance.  We liked being incognito as it afforded us the opportunity to say horrible things about people without getting punched in the nose. We had no desire to mingle with listeners who perhaps didn't share our  semi-delightful senses of humor.  Exposed to us in the flesh, the fear was, like the Wizard of Oz,  a peak behind the curtain would show us to be mere smoke and mirrors scam artists.  Hell for us was having to show up anywhere, but being required to do live broadcasts from the Southern California Exposition, a glorified county fair held in Del Mar, California every summer, was the worst.  Broadcasting from a station mobile unit right on the midway reminded both Bill and me of just how close to that bottom rung of show business (the carnival) we were.  How far away could a job as a ride loader for the Tilt-A-Whirl be?  For a couple of guys only capable of talking dirty and playing the hits the correct answer was, "not far".

Narrative Clip 2

What prompted this reverie was a recent story in the Wall Street Journal about a tiny 8-megapixel camera that clips to your shirt and snaps a photo every 30 seconds.  It's called the Narrative Clip 2 and we sure could have used it back in the 70's and 80's.  You see, often times in order to prepare for putting ourselves out there as live targets, Moffitt and I would first fortify ourselves with what we referred to as "liquid show prep".  Station promotion department personnel would be assigned to accompany us to these outside events which left us only required to demonstrate the ability to stand upright and be able to speak to both listeners and clients without swearing.  No easy task.  Often this left us with little recollection of the engagement.  At one point we seriously discussed hiring a couple of the station interns to follow us around with a video camera so that we might be able to defend ourselves to management should anything untoward happen during these forays into the real world. They often did.  I do recall some fallout from our closing down of the Sky Room at the El Cortez Hotel  in 1978 and a surprise late night visit to the local NBC television station in 86' where, while on an unsupervised self conducted tour, Willie and I stumbled into the director's booth during the eleven o'clock news.  TV people can be so touchy.  And, I completely deny the story about the two of us being forever banned from a concert venue in San Marcos by an outraged Korean midget for simply running up the largest bar tab in the history of the place.  I tried to explain the promotional advantage of this feat to our boss, but it was a NO SALE.

"Are you my daddy?"(captured by Narrative Clip!)

Alas, as it often is with life, fate intervened.  Radio got clobbered by the Internet coupled with a distinct lack of interest by millennials and station owners decided that it was far cheaper to run what was left of the business with robots and trained apes.  The latter being willing to work for peanuts.  Also, the two of us had reached retirement age and had already been asked by our less party intensive friends and relatives to maybe lay off the sauce during the 21st century.  (I plan to start again in the 22nd.)  So we did.  Still, I think the Narrative Clip wearable life logging camera is one terrific idea.  I would highly recommend its use to all wives or husbands of spouses who may be alcohol aficionados who like to be out and about.  It could save the day and is certainly more inexpensive than hiring a police sketch artist or a kid to follow you around with a camcorder.  Those things can make you look fat.

"Think you're going out?  PUT THIS ON!"