Moron Detection

For about five minutes twenty years ago guys thought the chicks would dig them if they wore their baseball cap backwards.  

ATTENTION SLOW LEARNERS:  It's OVER!  Put your hat on correctly or get off my planet!  Only the mental midgets with their caps cocked sideways manage to look more mentally deficient than the nimrods with the backward lids.  I will admit that compensation for this criminal display of headgear  manifests itself by allowing for extremely easy identification of idiots, cretins and morons.  Unless you are currently wearing a catcher's mask and actually fielding that position on the diamond, a turned around cap places you firmly in  the mental S L O W lane.

With baseball season here and warm weather head cover once again the order of the day I have prepared a simple tutorial you can reference before deciding to either acknowledge or ignore people you meet.  This advice is just as useful as spotting a "Bernie" bumper sticker or one of those "Co-Exist" dolt detectors that come in handy while driving.  (Note:  When spotting a Toyota Prius with one or both of the aforementioned idiot tags, the proper command is: "Prepare  to ram!"

Here are some photos that should prove useful:

Cap cocked sideways = always carry bail money.

Major stooge, probably doesn't even know he's at the game.

Hollywood tool.  Need I say more?

This is how to wear baseball headgear!

Ball cap would be an improvement.

Nicely filled out cap!

Girls can get it wrong too!

No cap, worse yet, a horse's ass with a PONYTAIL!

Okay, which one is the horse's ass?

I rest my case...

Merle Haggard -- It's Been A Great Afternoon

Back when radio mattered, people would often remark to those of us on the air that it "sure must be cool to get paid for listening to your favorite music four hours a day."  In those pre-Internet days radio was the place we all went for a music fix.  It was our national campfire for culture and popular music of all kinds.  In truth, if you worked in radio, there was very little listening going on in those studios.  Once a song was introduced the headphones came off and phones were answered, papers were read and management pestering was a constant distraction.  A back-timing clock kept air personalities in touch with the time remaining on a song and when to crack the mic.  As a consequence, most radio folks are very familiar with the beginnings and endings of hit records but the in-between stuff is a bit of a blur.  In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that with the majority of contemporary music it was just fine with me if I missed the meat of dandies like:  "Billy Don't Be A Hero",  "Kung Foo Fighting" and anything by Cat Stevens.  In fact most of the program management flyweights I had to chase out of the studio were usually in there begging me to stop making fun of the music.  Couldn't help myself.  It was sort of the same deal with referring to the general manager as a fat goon and sales reps as "time slimes".  Some things simply must be said.

Where was I?
Oh, yes, radio and music.  What prompted this unscheduled off ramp into broadcast nostalgia was the death this week of Merle Haggard.  Of forty years spent in little rooms talking to people I could not see only two were  logged at country stations. (One in Oakland of all places.)  This was in the early 1980's and, to my surprise, I had a lot of fun.  Country radio listeners are wonderful!  When they call you up it's to ask your size because they're knitting you a sweater or inviting you to dinner.  At rock stations calls often went something like this:  "Hey a-hole I requested Stairway to Heaven an hour ago.  When are ya gonna play it."  After telling them to gargle with razor blades I could get back to promising the program director that I wouldn't continue to compare Cat Steven's music to weasels in heat or call attention to the fact that the Bee Gees can sing about as well as my ass plays harmonica.  And to think I was often accused of not "lovin' the music" in a big way!  The very idea!

Merle Haggard

Which is the long way around the mulberry bush to say that I really DID and still DO like Merle Haggard.  Hank Jr., Willie, Waylon and all those outlaw cowboys were fun to listen to and it was a more than refreshing couple of years spent "honking the howdy hits" as my longtime radio reprobate pal, Bill Moffitt, branded our time in the country radio corral.

I do believe it was "The Moff" who dubbed Merle Haggard the Frank Sinatra of country music.
Nailed it Billy!

Hit the play arrow on this You Tube tone poem from "The Hag" and enjoy.  Somewhere he's kickin' out the footlights and puttin' on a show.

I Pee, Therefore.....I Go Where?

When I was a kid my grandparents still had an outhouse.  Lots of people in rural and small town America had them.  Even though southern Illinois may have made the leap to indoor plumbing,  grandma and grandpa weren't yet certain that those new fangled toilets would catch on.  Also, the little house out back required less upkeep and seldom required a wait (or paint).  A good can of bug spray for the all but inevitable hornets nests and  obligatory olfactory impaired spider or two was certainly more budget friendly than a call to the local plumber.  Oh, sure you had to keep an eye out for local high school hoodlums who thought it great fun to reposition the privy a few feet from its foundation, but otherwise it was trouble free.  

Those were simpler times.  Lately, it seems as if not a day passes without some sort of dust up regarding who can use what public restroom.  Apparently there are men who want to be women and women who want to be men and I guess that's fine by me.  Frankly I don't see the problem if your shorts are in conflict with your outward appearance.  Who is going to know you're sporting the wrong equipment for the restroom you've chosen unless you loudly announce it to the immediate world?  Let's say you're a guy who thinks he's a girl.  If you're properly attired, just waltz into the ladies room and use one of the stalls  they are rumored have in there.  Heck, you can probably even sneak in a nap on one of the couches I hear tell are available if you're suffering the vapors.  Problem solved.  A gal who thinks she's a boy calls for slightly more finesse.  You'll have to at least pretend to be a little bit crude and a ton more messy.  A few minutes preparation with the day's sports pages will go a long way toward helping you pass.  "How 'bout those Mets?" uttered while standing at the urinal will help you fit right in.  (Keep in mind that you'll need to adjust team loyalties by consulting your current location.)  Also--and this is of utmost importance--it is always EYES FRONT while standing at the trough! (Also, no more than three shakes!)  If all of this is really too much for you, take comfort in the fact that, for guys, the world is your bathroom.  Find a good tree or, when desperate, a bush or car belonging to someone you don't like will do just fine.

Bruce (oops, Caitlin) Jenner didn't know he had it so good.  At least he/she had the good sense to remain a conservative.

The Obit Is Dead

"She often bragged of her affairs with John Kennedy and Frank Sinatra"
"Friends said she had been drinking herself to death for years," read one classic line from the obituary for a prominent Bay Area socialite back in the early 1980's.

You don't see obituaries with quotes like those anymore.  Let's get real, you don't see much in the way of newspaper obituaries that provide more than a perfunctory recitation of statistical facts and memorial information regarding the disposal of the diseased.

When we lived in San Francisco I looked forward to reading what my pal, Captain Dave, refers to as "the Irish sports pages" each day in the Chronicle.  That paper had some of the most entertaining obituaries of any daily in the country.  I recall the elaborate send off they gave to one of their own columnists, Charles McCabe, when he was fitted for the wooden overcoat.  His lowlife newspaper buddies commissioned a life-sized cardboard cutout of good old Charlie that they dragged around to some of his favorite North Beach saloons for one more round.  It was duly noted by said colleagues  that cardboard Charlie, like the real McCabe, stayed in character by never once picking up a tab.

Newspapers, like radio and TV, are all about business in 2016.  The accountants are running the show and the creative types have been ushered off to early retirement at the track or, more likely, the corner bar.  Editors, proof readers, and writers of obituaries are the stuff of history in an age of Google, spellcheck and do-it-yourself notices written by a relative or friend.

I have been noodling about this lately since finally getting around to reading a book I picked up about ten years ago.  I do that--buy a book with the good intention plowing through it pronto--and then don't.  The book, The Dead Beat, is a dandy salute to the ink stained masters of the BIG sendoff.  Marilyn Johnson, a longtime writer and editor, has put together some of the best obits in the English language, and it is a most welcome and hilarious tiptoe through the tombstones.  I wish I hadn't waited ten years to read it!

One of the funniest and most revealing sections of The Dead Beat regards the use of euphemism when writing of someone's "passing".  A list of euphemisms from from longtime London Telegraph writer, Hugh Massingberd, is delicious:

Gave colorful accounts of his exploits--Liar!
No discernible enthusiasm for civil rights--Nazi
Powerful negotiator--Bully
Tireless raconteur--Crashing bore
Relished the cadences of the English language--Old windbag
Fun-loving and flirtatious--Nymphomaniac!
Affable and hospitable at every hour--Chronic alcoholic!
An uncompromisingly direct ladies man--Flasher and rapist!

Damn, I miss real obituaries!  They're gone now; services pending.
If you want a good one, I'm afraid you'll have to write it yourself.  In the meantime, let me recommend a really good book.

Squirrel Delinquent

The good news is we have no presidential debates scheduled for the next few days.  The bad news is, unless something gives, we are reduced to choosing between a draft dodging blowhard with a bad combover and Richard Nixon in a pantsuit come November.   It's enough to depress Norman Vincent Peale.

With that in mind my pal, the Skipper,  recently sent me a YouTube video that made me laugh.  I offer it here to help take your mind off the coming election, though I do realize this will only enhance your nightmarish fear of squirrels. 

Much like politicians, you should NEVER turn your back on these bushy-tailed rodents! 

WTF? We Have to FIX This!

"Based on our comparison of publicly available information published by the U.S. Census Bureau and the federal Election Assistance Commission, your county is failing to comply with Section 8 of the NVRA."  "Federal law requires election officials to conduct a reasonable effort to maintain voter registration lists free of dead voters, ineligible voters and voters who have moved away."

The preceding notice from the Public Interest Legal Foundation, a law firm dedicated to election integrity, was recently sent to officials in 141 counties across America.  In other words, lots of places have plenty more voters on the registration rolls than real live people.  Hmm?  Apparently that fact is of little concern to the DNC or, for that matter, either former Attorney General Eric Holder or current AG Loretta Lynch both of whom refused to do anything about the situation.  And, of course, our current short timer-in-chief has no problem with corrupted voter rolls.  In fact, if the aforementioned  had their way, we would all vote early and often via our computers beginning at age 16.  Confusion and corruption has served the Democratic party well.  Why bother with integrity when smoke and mirrors have worked their electoral magic?

As of today, there are 141 counties spanning 21 states that boast out of whack voter rolls.  Michigan has 24, Kentucky 18, Illinois 17, Indiana 11, Alabama 10, Colorado 10, Texas 9, Nebraska 7, New Mexico 5, South Dakota 5, Kansas 4, Mississippi 4, Louisiana 3, West Virginia 3, Georgia 2, Iowa 2, Montana 2, North Carolina 2, and Arizona and New York with 1 apiece.  Franklin County Illinois has the highest rate of voter registration to population imbalance at 190 percent.  Simply outrageous.

It was refreshing to vote in the Idaho primary election this week.  Even though my candidate did not win, for the first time in many years I was asked to state my name and address, show a valid picture ID and sign my name before voting.  Common sense seems to dictate that simple exercise should be in place in all localities, but it's not.  In California I was never asked for any proof of identification and could have easily signed up pets and dead relatives to vote absentee at anytime.  This, of course, goes a long way toward explaining why Jerry Brown is yet again the governor of the once Golden State and why being in the country illegally or being a convicted felon is no obstacle to voting.

Simply requiring a valid picture ID to cast a ballot is an inconvenience to NO ONE.  This basic prevention of fraud is essential.  Any citizen either too stupid or too lazy to secure this easily accessible token of identification should not be allowed to vote.  Voter suppression is a canard employed by those who will stop at nothing to prevail.  The will of the people be damned.

Guys Don't Text!

NO TEXTS ALLOWED!  It's a guy phone.

For a couple of years now I have been hearing mysterious dinging sounds at all hours of the day and night most of which are followed by my wife typing furiously.  It's called texting and I'm convinced only women do it.  I suppose I could have asked her what was going on but, like so many aspects of a long marriage,  mostly it's better not to know.  What she has been doing all this time is carrying on extended "conversations" with our daughters and personal friends by sending written messages back and forth.  This makes no sense to me.  If you want to talk to somebody why not just punch in their phone number and give them a call?  Texting is essentially nothing more than Western Union which, as I recall, was pretty much put out of business by the telephone.  I think it's a chick thing.

Guys don't text.  Well, at least none of my buddies do.  If a guy needs to talk to a pal, he CALLS.  Why go to all that trouble of typing stuff on a keyboard fit for 2 year-old hands??  Linda asked me if I ever got any texts and I asked her if by "texts" she meant that writing that sometimes mysteriously appears on my phone. "Yes, that's it," she said.  All this time I had assumed it was some kind of bug in my phone and considered maybe taking the damn thing in for repair.  Of course I never did and eventually the ghost writing on my screen would disappear.  Who knew?

I do NOT want to text!  It's bad enough that we are all required to carry these modern day slave bracelets with us everywhere we go let alone actually answer when they ring or belch out one of the idiotic alternative "sounds" willing to yank our chain.  I hate phones!  Forty years of being forced to answer them while on the radio has convinced me that sane people never use them.  As I explained to many a manager as he or she was showing me the parking lot and handing me my final check, "I didn't get into radio to listen to other people, I got into it to make them listen to me!"  And that, boys and girls, is why my phone is always on mute.  (Also, probably why I got fired... a lot.)  As far as I'm concerned, the function of a cellular phone is to provide stock quotes and ball scores that I may have a financial interest in; nothing more.
On second thought, that fart app is pretty cool.

So, fellas, I guess this is just one more of those "hear me roar" deals the girls have going on.  We'd better get used to it.  It's just like seventh grade when they all passed notes in class while we were busy trying to avoid getting caught chewing gum or launching spitballs.  It's the price we pay for having the common sense gene.

Now, where are my ear plugs?  The dingbats are at it again.