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."

The Automotive Hall of Shame

Back in the 1970's American Motors gave us the Gremlin, a car so unattractive that I thought it impossible for automotive engineers to create a mode of transportation more embarrassing to drive.  Of course the French managed to top Gremlin with their putrid cockroachmobile, the Citroen.  But who would ever be caught driving a car made by cheese eating surrender monkeys?  Oh yeah, an old boss of mine who eventually died of embarrassment. (I'm still smiling.)

 Whether it's because we now have, in spite of the demise of American Motors, more pencil-necked geeks designing cars,  or an abundance of car shoppers with no taste, there is now a veritable plethora of crappy sleds on the road.  

To prove my point, Carinsurance.com has recently conducted a survey asking respondents to name the most embarrassing cars on U.S. roads.

The results:

We're NUMBER ONE!!

1. The Smart Car

2. Nissan Cube

3. Hummer H2

4. Chevrolet SSR

5. Volkswagen New Beetle

6. Subaru Baja

7. Lincoln Town Car

8. Pontiac Aztek

9. P.T. Cruiser

10. Honda Element

Probably the sole reason Pontiac went to the boneyard.

For Chrysler fans who miss the 1930's

Just proves you CAN make a bad idea worse.

Where is it written that hybrids must look like a turd on wheels?

The worst idea EVER for an American car.  Gremlin!

We've all at one time owned cars that were best parked blocks away from our destination and practically had "loser cruiser" stenciled on the door, but we ditched them just as soon as we could for wheels that looked cool.  My first car was an ugly old '54 Buick Century that ran like a champ but looked like a  Kardashian butt.  I swapped it for a red '65 Ford Galaxy convertible that made me look like a player.  The only problem was it ran like Henry Ford himself pissed in the tank.  It was NEVER  right!  EVER!  I didn't care.

Life is too short to drive a stupid looking car.  

Don't let the greenies fool you.  The only non-embarrassing hybrid ride is the Tesla.  The others are the automotive equivalent of mom jeans and real Americans DON'T DRIVE FUGGLY CARS!

Citroen is reason enough to hate the French.  God, what an ugly car!





Here's your car!  The 2014 Corvette Stingray!
Tell 'em Groucho sent ya...  

Buy it!  Nothing exceeds like excess.  Embrace your inner coolness.

Yours For Halloween Safety

Halloween is one day gone and I'm already making revisions for next year's candy disbursement program.  Last night, in spite of several trips to Costco to lay in multiple bags of candy gratuities for the neighborhood's pint sized freeloaders, we hit rock bottom shortly after 8PM.  The little socialists came in waves and, thanks to my very liberal son-in-law who relished dumping fistfuls of MY candy into the gaping sacks of the juvenile extortionists, never left our porch with less than a year's worth of calories.  It was the gimmiecrat philosophy writ large on my own front porch.  Disgusting!

"You'll be the most popular house on the block," he said.  It was as if Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi were right there!  

"You're an idiot," I explained.  "Who wants to encourage the little beggars to come back for more next year??!!"

When my four year-old grandson returned from his trick-or-treat run loaded to the gunwales with sugary swag, I put him in charge of handing out candy at the door.  It warmed my heart to see him carefully dole out spare rations as he told his contemporaries to "Go home" and "get off my porch".  I love that kid!  He has registered Republican and "management material" written all over him.  I should have fired his dad much earlier in the evening.  

Costumes, at least in our area, were better this year.  Lots of creativity, though none as convincing as my grumpy old man ensamble.  I've nailed that one, if I do say so myself.

Of some concern to me of late is the adult costume situation.  As more grown-ups dress up for Halloween I'm seeing a dangerous trend develop.  Many women are wearing what appear to be highly flammable get-ups.  I actually felt very warm just being within reach of some of the dressed up moms who accompanied their kids on their candy grabbing rounds.  This is distressing!

Naturally, as a good American, I would like to help rectify the situation.  May I suggest that any women thinking of sporting a Halloween costume next year first take a picture of themselves and email it to me.  That will enable yours truly to inspect the outfit to see if it looks like it might burst into flame.  

Believe me when I say that it is NO trouble.  I'm just happy to help.  I'm a giver.  I just keep giving and giving.

Safety first is my motto!

Looks fairly safe, but I'll need more information.

Always happy to help the health professionals.

Needs more candy!

Shotgun Start? Nope, FINISH

Check out the eyes.  Cocktails may have been involved.

It's kind of disappointing.   I was certain that I had invented golf's shotgun finish.  Years ago when I still played the game I was famous for my "shotgun finish".  It occurred whenever I became so completely fed up with how a round was treating me that I threw my clubs in the nearest water hazard and went home.  The expense was considerable and the continuing frustration of "a good walk spoiled" convinced me to simply give it up.  I did.  

Even in my playing days it was difficult to imagine why anyone would choose to live on a golf course.  What's the point?  All day long a homeowner serves as a captive audience to a parade of mostly white middle-aged fat guys encased in attire ordinarily reserved for pimps.  And don't get me started on errant Titlists and Maxflies bombarding your domicile like Doolittle's raid on Tokyo. It's enough to spur Gandhi to kickass mode.

That may have been what caused Jeff Fleming of Reno to finally pop his cork.  Mr. Fleming has just entered a guilty plea to battery with a deadly weapon for firing his shotgun at an unsuspecting golfer who was dropping a shot on the 16th hole at the Lakeridge Golf Course the other day.  Old Jeff is now looking at a possible trip to the motel with bars for a ten year jolt and a whopping $10,000 fine when he is sentenced on December 12.

By the way, the wounded golfer is fine.  He was treated for minor injuries to an arm and both legs at a local hospital and is recuperating nicely.

This incident has me wondering if perhaps a few rule changes might perk up the old game of golf just a smidge.  How about arming EVERYBODY?  That could provide some of the real life excitement that the game lacks at present.  Homeowners with strategic mortar and machine gun emplacements coupled with players sporting a sufficient arsenal of guns and ammo would put a certain amount of pop into an increasingly mundane sport.

Heck, changes like that may even provide your corespondent with a renewed yen for a day on the links.  I wonder what the statute of limitations is on that unfortunate incident at my old country club.  Who knew that my party featuring greased pigs,  molasses and an open bar would go south quicker than a bus load of hookers at a Shriner's convention?  

Maybe if I changed my name….

This and a couple of grenades should pep up a round.

National League? Not This Year!

When I was a kid, it was the Tigers.  I spent my grade school years in southern Michigan and in the 1950's that meant you were a Tiger fan.  It mattered little that Detroit was all but out of the American League pennant race by Memorial Day because: (A)  There was a team called the Yankees, and (B) The Tigers were pretty awful.  New York had guys named Berra, Mantle and Ford while Motown sported a line-up featuring guys like Neil Chrisley, Walt Dropo and Charlie "Paw Paw" Maxwell who was famous for being from Paw Paw, Michigan and hitting home runs, but only on Sundays.  Sure, the Tigers had a young future Hall of Famer named Kaline but Al was generally a rose among thorns.  "Wait 'til next year" was the Tiger fan's mantra until 1967 when they faced the Cardinals in the World Series,  but by then I was long gone to South Dakota and a short lived romance with the Minnesota Twins.

The Boston Red Sox were my team for much of the 1970's when I worked for a radio station that served as the club's broadcast home in Florida.  I had the chance to interview and, in a few cases, get to know some of the guys who were members of the Red Sox 1975 World Series team.  (In my opinion, that series between the Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds was the best ever.)

In 1976 a move to San Diego and a job with the Padres' radio station converted me to a National League guy forever.  It didn't hurt that KOGO had plenty of primo seats for employees at all home games.  Also, since the team was so godawful, parking was a breeze for radio stablemate Bill Moffitt and me.  We went to a lot of games thirsty and usually by the seventh inning were well fortified.  Like the song says, WE REALLY DIDN'T CARE IF WE EVER CAME BACK, as long as someone else was driving.  Former Yankee great, Jerry Coleman, handled Padre play-by-play and handled sports updates on my afternoon program.  He gave me my first Padre cap and regaled me daily with stories from his long career.  How could I NOT be a fan?

After leaving San Diego for jobs in San Francisco and Seattle, I was briefly unfaithful to the Padres as I flirted shamelessly with the Giants, A's and Mariners.  Like the jobs, none of these relationships felt right.  I was still a Padres guy.  Of course,  now when the post season rolls around--with only two exceptions in 44 years--a Padres fan is faced with choosing a "second favorite" team in which to invest some fan loyalty and it's often difficult.  Who wants to root for the Cardinals or Dodgers?  St. Louis has a fine ballclub, but the city?  No thanks!  It's a river town that long ago lost its race to relevance with Chicago and continues to be a burg that never misses a chance to miss a chance.   Los Angeles is a cesspool of carpooling morons who, for the most part, don't even speak English.  It doesn't help that Dodger fans are the Yankee fans of the National League.  They give front runners and bandwagon jumpers a bad name.  Flies swarm wherever and whenever they gather.   Simply the worst people on the planet.

So, here in the fall of 2013, I sit conflicted before my big screen HDTV.  What team do I like in the Series?  Tigers?  Nah, Detroit is the team of my yesterdays; something in me died when Kaline retired.  Boston?  Nope, today's Sox look like refugees from Duck Dynasty.  Cardinals?  No "there" there.  Dodgers?  No how, no way!

 So, my fidelity to the Padres remains intact.  I'll watch the series this year but with little enthusiasm.  I predict lots of trips to the kitchen for snacks and beverages, not to mention considerable channel flipping. The off season trade for a big bat and one more starting pitcher will, this year for sure, put the Pads in contention in 2014 and whet my appetite for the World Series once again.  We Friars fans will continue to warm ourselves on that happy thought this winter as we contemplate pitchers and catchers reporting to Peoria, Arizona come February.  Well, that and the fact that, at least, we're not Cub fans.

 "NEXT YEAR, just WAIT 'TIL NEXT YEAR!" That's the battle cry of the true Padre fan.
It worked in '98 didn't it?  Okay, kinda.

Next year!

Happy Birthday You Little Pirate!

Dan strikes the Iron Man pose

Oh wait, grandpa got that wrong.  You were a pirate last year for Halloween.  This year you specifically told me that you're going to be IRON MAN!  The seasons and years roll by so fast in granddad time that it's easy for we old coots to get confused.  Last year you were only three and really not ready for the responsibility that comes with being Iron Man.  But now, since you receive your four year-old promotion this coming Tuesday, you are almost certainly qualified to don the mask and save humanity, or maybe ring a few doorbells for candy come the 31st.

Four years old!  Grandma and I can't believe that you've gotten so big in so little time.  We sure do enjoy having fun with you.  You're quite the conversationalist these days and always have a refreshing take on the stuff of life that we grandparents have come to take for granted.  Your assessment of baseball: "they throw the ball, catch the ball, hit the ball and then run around the bases" is as prescient as any I've heard.  It's obvious that you are destined for a play-by-play job in the major leagues should that be on your career radar.  At four, professional horizons are limitless.

"Beware evil doers!  Iron Man is on the job.

This birthday you have lots of accomplishments to celebrate.  Pre-school two days a week has given you  even more lessons in cooperation and respect for your contemporaries.  I realize that you were already an excellent sharer of toys and playground equipment, but now you also are learning about working with other kids on fun projects like gardening, dinosaur history, and play dough creations.  It makes your mom and dad proud to see how well you get along with other children.  You're a friendly guy, but Grandpa knew that all along.

leading the pack at Legoland raceway

On your way to birthday number four you also earned your Legoland driver's license.  Maybe this is just grandpa bragging, but I thought you looked like Mario Andretti as you zipped around the oval at what has become one of your favorite places on the planet.  You could have lots of fun driving race cars when you grow up.  Just make sure to always buckle-up!

Pit stop for root beer

Potty training goes into the plus column as you hit "the BIG 4".  It's a little embarrassing for gramps to confess that staying dry at night was not something he had conquered by four. Mom and dad appear really happy about checking  that one off the old "to do" list!

Lessons like looking both ways before you cross the street--WITH the green light--and always checking for cars exiting parking garages are both important achievements you mastered this year.  Those two will go a long way toward keeping you around for birthday number five.



Like so many learning experiences, grandpa accidentally gave you the valuable knowledge that a cape doesn't allow you to actually fly.  Grandma and I bought that Super Hero outfit for you with the idea that it might work for Halloween.  We didn't know that you just assumed that it made you into a kid with super powers.  As you now know, only with mom's help could you get airborne.  She's a great mom I know, but asking for a "lift" of more than a block would seem to be out of the question.  You'll have to walk, pal.

This cape should have me airborne in minutes.

There are SO MANY things you've mastered on your way to this birthday it's hard to remember them all.  You have been cramming your brain full of all kinds of information that will serve you well in the years ahead.  (Great haircut, by the way!)

So, Danny, old buddy, have some cake and maybe a root beer or two and enjoy mom and dad, your friends, grandparents,  even cousins,  on the one and only day you will ever be four years old.  You are much loved by all who know you.  As the birthdays continue to arrive, remember to always plunge into life and move with it.  It's a dance that you seem to be mastering well.

Love,
Grandpa

"Faster mom! There is a damsel in distress!"