The End is Near

"At the tone the time will be...8...43...and 50 seconds."

How many times did we call AT&T's Joanne Daniels to hear her nasally old bag voice tell us just what the hell time it was? Truthfully, for most of us we NEVER called her for a time check. We dialed her number to fake out somebody nearby:
"Hello, boss?"
"Hey...I'm wondering if I can get out of working this week-end?"
"My neighbors need me to help them move...What? OH, I see...very
important that I be there."
"Okay...I understand. I'll be there.".........at the tone, 2...57... and
twenty seconds.

Let's face it. The time lady was one handy dame to have around. Now, as of September 19, she will no longer be available in the state of California. Supposedly, by discontinuing the time calls in California, the phone company will gain 300,000 new phone numbers previously reserved for the service. Other states lose the time lady on the same date or shortly thereafter.
Who ya gonna call???

Other signs that the END IS NEAR:

Remember when the great athlete Jesse Owens was revered for giving Hitler the ultimate "up yours" at the Olympics? A world class runner making the U.S.A. proud by accomplishing something no other athlete could.
Now, we have the likes of Joey Chestnut taking bows for jamming enough wieners in him to feed a third world country. And, let's not forget the latest crowning achievements of the "Black Widow", Sonya Thomas the 105 pound woman who just the other day scarfed 173 hot chicken wings at the National Buffalo Wing Festival in Buffalo, New York.
She holds competitive eating records for several events including: 35 bratwursts in 10 minutes, 11 pounds of cheesecake in 9 minutes, 44 lobsters in 12 minutes, (I'll bet she didn't eat the guts!) 250 Tater Tots in 5 minutes, over 8 pounds of Vienna sausages in 10 minutes, and my personal favorite...8.4 pounds of BAKED BEANS in 2.47 minutes! (And we're worried about North Korea have the bomb????)
Mmm Mmm EXPLOSIVE!

The largest untapped pocket of natural gas known to man.

DEAD...OR ALIVE?

When my brother and I were kids we were often treated to conversations between mom and dad regarding the "living or dead" status of certain people. Some were folks of the famous variety and others were just people that they had known earlier in their lives.
Steve and I would laugh like hell about it when we were out of "swift kick" range for dad. Neither of us could believe that anyone capable of walking upright wouldn't know whether someone was still operating on the right side of the sod or not.
Who were these morons??!! It was embarrassing.

Naturally, as the years have slipped by and brain cells have fled, I now find myself having the same imbecilic conversations with my wife Linda. Often we are completely blown away when someone mentions that a famous movie star has been dead "for over ten years". It's hard to keep track!

So, with that in mind, I thought it might be fun to see just how your trivia banks are holding up on this holiday weekend in the year 2007.
Four of the ten famous people pictured here have checked in to the Mahogany Hilton. Do you know which ones are still alive? (If you don't even know who some of these people are you are way too young for this blog. Feel free to laugh behind our backs.)











































The four who are "tap city" are:
Don Knotts, Dennis Weaver, Hugh
Beaumont and Phil Silvers. Senator Ted "Fatty Arbuckle" Kennedy, though appearing to be dead and in advanced bloat, remains alive and dangerous.

Channeling Gabby or Goober?

Let's face it.
Women want guys to dress like the handsome singing cowboy.
You know, Roy Rogers or Gene Autry attire. They like their men to be well pressed and nicely combed and it wouldn't hurt if they were good smellin' too.

Most of us of the male persuasion, however, prefer to be comfortable and ready for action--primitively decked out for either battle or the quick roll in the hay whichever comes first. Besides that, the only songs we like to sing involve truck driving and drinking beer, neither of which do much for the fair sex. "I'm a wheelin' dealin' kid stealin' truck drivin' son-of-a-gun", to quote the great Dave Dudley.


This all dates back to cave man days when men would put on animal heads or face paint to scare off the dirtbags from other tribes. Now, of course, we use either threads from the bargain bin at Wal Mart or, better yet, GOLF CLOTHING. I have a brother-in-law who is a master of the "white man as pimp" scary golf get-up. For this essay he shall remain anonymous. But trust me...nobody is better than BOB when it comes to putting together a hideous golf combination. It's pure genius!

So I say to my brothers everywhere, "Let the word go forth...get in touch with your inner Walter Brennan." "Embrace the Goober or Bluto that is YOU!" "You have nothing to lose but some num nums from your main squeeze!"


Which one of these lids do you think goes with my Bart Simpson tie?

"Whatever you say dear"

Women talk...men listen!



These studies, or scientific findings, seem to come at us in rapid succession lately. Researchers take aim at some deeply held perceptions about the difference between men and women and we all go: "Wow, I never knew that! How interesting!"

A couple of weeks ago the geniuses at the Journal of Science announced that they, after studying a bunch of college students, have determined that women talk a lot more than men. To be more specific, they believe that women talk two or three times as much as men. Women, it was determined, used 16,215 words a day and men 15,669. (Frankly, this seems to me to be padded by about 15,000 on the men's side of the tally...But I digress.)

After the results of the study were announced they were roundly criticised from several corners of the academic research universe. Most of the critical comments seemed to be in the alto and soprano register, but that could be just a coincidence.

No science...Here is what I know: Whenever a guy hears this question: "Honey, do you think this outfit makes me look fat?" He should not e v e n think of answering!

They live longer than we do too.

"YER NOT FROM AROUND HEAH ARE YA?"...said the Killer Grouse!

"Don't worry, we'll head up to the camp after this is over."
It was my longtime pal, the Skipper, urging me to remain calm as we endured the commencement speech at the Dartmouth College graduation in the Summer of '93. My daughter Kelly was grabbing her diploma from that prestigious institution and I was proud to be there. Unfortunately for me and my wife, Linda, and our friends Dave (the Skipper) Erickson and his wife Betty the day would require us to sit through the aural emissions of liberal gasbag Bill Moyers.

(Bill Moyers...Better than Somenex!)






Dave and Betty, who live in Georges Mills, New Hampshire had been Kelly's local parents while she attended Dartmouth. Hanover, the home of Dartmouth, was just a few miles up the road from them and they had been happy to be there for her when she needed support or important things like a fake I.D. The Skipper even loaned her a couple of his beloved lighted beer signs for her dorm room. (I get misty just thinking about this.)




Betty and The Skipper in front of Katz's Deli in NYC



Anyway...about ten minutes into how horrible America is, except when the Dems are in office, I decided that Mr. Moyers could finish his speech without me. The Skipper and I adjourned to a nearby wobble water emporium and left our wives to stare glassy-eyed at the guest speaker. The dive that we found was already filled to the gunwales with other dads who had taken the liberty of hiring a runner to keep tabs on the commencement and report back to what was now Dad Headquarters. It was perfect. Dave and I returned to the ceremony when the runner reported that they were just about finished handing out diplomas to the "B's". I got there just in time to snap a shot of one Ms. Kelly Copper glomming on to her Dartmouth sheepskin. I felt like a real Mr. Touchdown.

The next day Linda flew home to her teaching job in California and my brother Steve and I remained to join the Skipper on a two day sojourn to what he referred to as "THE CAMP". The Camp is owned by Dave and a couple of his buddies. It is located on Lower Jo Mary Lake in Northern Maine. It is only accessible by float-plane and is...ahh...rustic. Everywhere outside of Maine, it is called... a DUMP.


"The Camp" in the early days....

The people in the picture are all now slumbering in the Mahogany Hilton, but the structure remains the same.


As you can see from this more recent photo, the camp has a wonderful beach. (If your idea of a wonderful beach is a bunch of guys sitting around around drinking whiskey wondering where the women are.)


At sometime during our stay as far from civilization as I have ever been, Dave suggested that Steve and I might enjoy hiking the Appalachian Trail. The famous trail actually begins along the shores of this remote lake. It seemed like something interesting to do besides counting the hours until we would once again be within walking distance of a 7-11. Frankly, my brother and I had both begun to worry about how long the whiskey was going to last. So, this was good! Dave would take us by boat to the other side of the lake; drop us at the trail head and we would hike back to the "camp" having tackled the Appalachian Trail. A story for the grand kids!


No sooner had we been deposited on the opposite shore and begun our trek, when we were attacked by a killer grouse! I am not making this up. We had taken about five steps on the trail and out of the weeds came a hissing puffed-up monster who sent us scrambling back to the shore of the lake. We hailed for the Skipper to turn his boat around and come rescue us.
Killer Grouse...WHO KNEW?

Dave called us pansies, but I didn't see him lingering for a better look!

I present this as a warning tale to all of you who may be considering a hike in the New England woods sometime in the future.
DON'T!


New England is a very dangerous place. The people talk funny. And...if Bill Moyers doesn't get you, the Killer Grouse will!

Elvis is dead...and I'm not feeling so hot myself

Dick Nixon and "The King"

(If only Nixon had been a singing sensation and Elvis the Commander and Chief.)


How can thirty years have slipped by since Elvis grabbed the Big Bus to the great Up Yonder?
He changed everything for an entire generation!
Our parents hated him. Mayors of cities and men of the cloth were certain that he was the cause of juvenile delinquency, (Remember that one?), and was the gyrating genome of the country's headlong slide into sexual degradation.
To us, the cat was the essence of cool. He was the reason I bought my first transistor radio. In fact, now that I think of it, he was one of the primary reasons I got into radio. (The 1950's and 60's version of running off to join the circus.)
Damn it! It was all his fault! I just had to be on the air just to bask in the King's reflected glory. The son-of-a-bitch set me up!

I was on the air the when the"Elvis is dead" bulletin from the AP came across the wire. About the only good thing I remember from that day was that the program director came into the studio and said, "We're throwing out the format...it's all Elvis all the time until further notice.
I loved it.

When you think about it, things have been pretty much downhill ever since.

By the way...according to Willie Nelson, the King's last words were: "Corn?"

Embracing the SLOB...

We're all slobs.
Some of us are in denial; others revel in all that is slobby.
I am in the camp that enjoys a really good mess.

Let's explore the various types of slobs that exist in the world...

First of all, there is the house slob. The house slob plops everything on the kitchen counter or the nearest free piece of furniture. The top of the dining room table was last seen at Thanksgiving. Old Christmas cards, magazine "come ons", CD's, expired coupons and empty containers abound. The house slob always thinks there will come a time when these items will come in handy.

The cure for house slobiness: MOVE.

The office slob is well known to all. This person has a desk that is stacked high with crap that looks important. It is not! Avoid having a desk, if at all possible. Desks lead to memos and memos lead to meetings. NOBODY NEEDS MEETINGS. I always try to operate out of a briefcase as this makes it much easier to beat a hasty retreat after telling your boss what you think of him after he has "allowed you to spend more time with your family". If it is absolutely necessary to have a desk, make sure to keep your whiskey in a Christmas package. This will allow you to replace it weekly yet will give snoops the impression that it was a gift you hadn't even bothered to open.

The cure for desk slobiness: AVOID HAVING A REAL JOB.


The bathroom slob thinks that it is okee dokee to be a complete slob in the bathroom as long as they are clean in person.

The bathroom pictured here is the bathroom of singer Whitney Houston. I am not making this up!



The cure for THIS bathroom slobiness: QUIT SMOKING CRACK COCAINE!


The car slob is always a treat. If they offer you a ride, they will say something like this: "Hold on a minute while I throw this junk in the back."
Newspapers, old napkins, petrified food, stinky gym clothes and mail are found throughout the car slob's vehicle. A once a year wash makes the car habitable for a few days, but the rolling pigpen is an automotive nightmare the rest of the time.



(front seat of slobmobile)



The cure for the car slob: DO WHAT I DO...ALWAYS OWN A CONVERTIBLE. On occasion , drop the top and drive real fast. PROBLEM SOLVED!
(but watch out for cops)