Class Will Tell

CBS and ABC gave this story a little coverage, others did not.  It's not every day when a 2 year-old inspires a man who once was once at the helm of the world's greatest power to shave his head.  Former president George H.W. Bush did just that for young Patrick who, because of his treatment for leukemia, lost all his hair.  Patrick's dad is a member of Bush 1's Secret Service detail and, like others before him, is treated like a member of the family by George and Barbara Bush.  

When all of the agents assigned to the former first family set up a website--www.patrickspals.org-- to help pay for Patrick's medical bills,  the former president and first lady were the first to offer assistance.  And, when the agents all decided to shave their heads in solidarity with Patrick, Mr. Bush was right there with them.

Two of a kind:  Great man and his little buddy, Patrick

In a political era soiled by the likes of Anthony Weiner, San Diego's Bob Filner, and countless other narcissistic amoral blowhards it's good to be reminded that once we cared about character and doing the right thing.  You may not have agreed with George H.W. Bush on everything or maybe anything but you can't deny that his heart was always in the right place.  He was a war hero, good husband and father, but most of all a good and decent man.  I wish I had voted for him twice instead of throwing away the privilege on that goofy little jug-eared Martian, Ross Perot.

George H.W. Bush was our last president from America's Greatest Generation.  Our country is diminished as they take their leave. 

President Bush and Secret Service bald buddies of Patrick

Hair Explosions and Other DUMB Ideas

Major Moron

It cracks me up that people who are really BIG deals lately walk around looking like--well--me about twenty years ago after a few hours of "liquid show prep" at Bruno's Black Frog Lounge ( 5 shots for $10, any brand, any time).  Showing up for work looking like this used to get you fired, but these days people actually go out of their way to look like they woke up in a dumpster.  Once again I was ahead of the fashion curve.

The really amazing fact is that these clowns think they look hot.   And it's not just the twenty and thirty somethings anymore,  The "bedhead" has been with us long enough to have, like your aunt Shirley's ass,  a life of its own.     Older guys and gals now too sport this new emerging bum  aura  which begs for commitment to an institution or, at least, for one of those sport coats with sleeves in the back.  

The death penalty is too good for anybody who would do this to a kid.

Just think of the embarrassment to come!  These uber hipsters will soon have kids who, in less than ten years, will be laughing uncontrollably as they show off pictures of the old man and old lady to their snarky and nicely combed friends.  This look will be in the pantheon of pathetic stylistic megaton bombs.  "What were we thinking?!" will echo in the canyons of culture for centuries.  This even beats Nehru jackets, sack dresses, and bolo ties in the fashion faux pas department.

You know a fad is over when there are shampoos to support it.

Ready to do the backstroke in Satan's cesspool.

It is often said that there are three kinds of people in the world:  Those who make things happen, those who watch things happen, and those who WONDER WHAT HAPPENED?  For now, the latter are in charge of hair and makeup.

Take this dump truck to the bone yard.

Francis Albert vs The Moon Sisters

The perfect lubricant for Ol' Blue Eyes pipes

Frank Sinatra, arguably the best singer of the twentieth century, so enjoyed a glass or three of Jack Daniels, the elixir supreme of Lynchburg, Tennessee, that he was buried with a bottle or two. He earned it.  He was a producer, a maker of music, a man who created jobs that kept America's wheels of commerce turning.  And, because he was a fan of their product, the Brown-Forman company which distills "Jack" has decided to honor Frank's memory with a special edition dubbed "Sinatra Select".  

With a suggested retail price of $150 to $170 for a 750 milliliter bottle, ( I forget.  Is that a fifth or the half-gallon jug?  I don't do metric.) it will be among the priciest American  whiskeys.  Genuine, rectified, high class bust-head fit for booze hounds who demand the very best.  This 90 proof liquid orgasm will only be sold at duty free stores in a few major international airports and will be in limited supply at the company's Lynchburg distillery.

Were I still allowed, I'd be first in line.

Good for Frank, and good for Jack Daniels!

In our nation's capital we have just the opposite, a story of NO success, NO productivity,  of clueless takers with no shame and no brains who's only contribution to society is to print and spend money we no longer have.  They are content to leave the bill to our children and grand-children just as long as it gets them re-elected.  Two of the dumbest of these congressional parasites are representatives Donna Edwards of Maryland and Texas representative Eddie Bernice Johnson.  These exasperating dolts have recently proposed the creation of a national historical park on the surface of--are you ready--THE FRIGGING MOON!

On the whole it looks a lot like Nebraska.

Representatives Edwards and Johnson, neither of whom you'll ever run into at the Mensa picnic,  believe that the growing spacefaring of other nations and private corporations means that it's only a matter of time before somebody else lands on the moon.  They are concerned that if we don't protect the "artifacts"(see beer cans) strewn about the various Apollo landing sites that items may be damaged or stolen.  Of course neither of these idiots seems aware of the very real fact that the Department of the Interior, the agency tasked with running our parks,  is having plenty of trouble keeping our earthbound parks open.  People wait up to twenty years for a permit to raft down the Grand Canyon and there are barely enough rangers to shoot tranquilizer darts into Yogi Bear right now.  And these bimbos want to add THE MOON to the mix??!!

What has happened to our country?  How can we elect people like this to ANYTHING?  Have we become so intellectually incurious that we will vote for someone with NO resume who brings nothing more than a good speech to the job?  Oh, wait, we answered that in 2008.

Never mind.  

My advice:  Do like Frank.  Pack a bottle of Sinatra Select in your coffin.  I'm reasonably certain that's what you'll smell on God's breath when you reach the Big Up Yonder. (NO politicians allowed!)

Salute!

See if you can spot Alice Kramden.

Huh? Did You Say Something?

"Say again my precious pumpkin."

My wife and I are having a conversation.  It is typical of the kind of discourse we have these days.

She:  "Mumble mumble mumble…are much better than…mumble mumble."

Me:  "What?"

She: " Huh?  What did you…mumble mumble anyway?"

Me: "Huh? I didn't catch mumble mumble mumble."

She:" I said you never &#%&@* listen when I mumble mumble mumble."

Me: "What damn it!?"

She:  "My mother was right!  You are a complete #$@!&*!"

Me:  "Yes dear."

"Yes, I'm listening!"

As I recall, we were either talking about what to have for dinner or how crappy movies have become since actors quit enunciating.  It's true.  Both of us concur that the acting has never been better, but when it comes to movie dialog it is nearly impossible to understand anything being said on screen.  We spent-- I forget how much-- on a high end surround sound system and still feel lucky to catch half of what is being said in a typical contemporary film.

I suppose my problem could be the result of forty years of occupational headphone trauma.  Certainly there is a price ears pay for a daily four hour dose of "cans" cranked up to mach ten.  In fact I remember noticing a loss of frequency in the high ranges as early as my late twenties.  My wife can't use this excuse.  Could her loss of audio acuity be linked to years of yelling at me and the kids in her school library?

Or…..could notching age 65 on the geezer meter be the problem?  I still recall my mother insisting at age 89 that hearing aids were for "old people" and that she certainly didn't need any gadget like that.  This was always made plain to me after I had repeated something to her for the fifth time, at which point she would admonish me with, "there is no need to yell".  My reward for this chastisement was to discharge a load of smartass when her back was turned.  It's hard to read lips when you can't see 'em.  (I wonder if my kids are already familiar with this technique?)

The difficulty probably IS that pesky age thingy.  Hardly a week goes by without a piece of junk mail arriving to urge my ears in for a check-up and a friendly visit with a hearing aid salesman who can put me into the new Mick Jagger model for just pennies a day.  I tend to file those in the same receptacle to which I consign pitches for safe, festive and carefree cremation.

So, I guess the two of us will bump along in this "Huh?" and "What?" rut for a while longer until one of us either moves out or kills the other or... maybe, just maybe, we both go for a hearing test.

She: "What?"

Me:  "I said, mumble mumble…caption."

She:  "Great idea!  Where's the remote?  I'll hit the CLOSED CAPTION."

Me:  "Maybe you could turn it up just a notch while your at it."

She:  "Do you think we ought to get our mumble mumble mumble checked?"

Me:  "Yep, those are veneers.  He hasn't had his real teeth in years!"

These should do the trick.

Let's Don't!

Chub the Tub, twistin' like he did 52 summers ago.

"Chubby Checker wants to help set at twist record", reads the story header in my local San Diego daily.  Geezus, please, NO!  Is my initial reaction.  You're 71 years old, Chub.  You've been twisting every last freaking ounce of fame and scratch out of that stupid gyration for more than FIFTY years!  LET'S DON'T TWIST AGAIN LIKE WE DID LAST SUMMER!  I'm begging you!

It's that time of year.  State and county fairs are ready to welcome lovers of cotton candy, deep fried Snickers bars, corndogs and folks who dig burned out rock n' roll acts.

  

Actually, I'm sure that Chubby (aka Ernest Evans) is plenty tired of doing the "dance sensation that is no longer sweeping the nation" but, like all of us, there are bills to pay, ex-wives and children to do right by and probably a bartender and bookie or two to take care of.  It's a job that pays well and involves no heavy lifting. The toughest part is pretending to have fun as you crank out the same song year after year  while balancing your checkbook and planning your vacation. 

Spending more than ten years of my erstwhile radio career on three different oldies stations, I had the chance to observe more than a few of these rock n' roll dinosaurs perform.  Local disc jockeys are often required to show up for these shows to introduce acts that are staples of the station's playlist.  It's not bad enough that you have to listen to the mostly insipid lyrics from your own teenage years--and maybe even break out in zits again-- you must also witness the sad demise of these entertainers as they grow old and tired.  Some, with lots of hits under their belt, have plenty of songs to break up the monotony but others-- "one hit wonders',  if you will-- are doomed to pad a thin artistic portfolio with songs no one ever cared  about.  When they finish with their one and only big hit it's time to hit the exit and take the act down the road to the next county fair gig or oldies blowout.   I was actually happy for Bill Haley when he died.  Never again would he have to give a downbeat to some re-tread Comets as they kicked off "Rock Around the Clock" for the bazillionth time.  The man had suffered enough.  

When Rick Nelson dared to stray from his string of 50's and 60's hits during a show at Madison Square Garden in the 1970's, he got booed off the stage.  He did manage to get one more hit record out of the humiliation when "Garden Party" sold a million copies.  

"I went to a garden party, reminisced with my old friends

A chance to share old memories and play our songs again

When I got to the garden party they all knew my name

But no one recognized me I didn't look the same"

Singers have a hard time understanding that people who pay money to see them perform want to hear the hits.  Artists, naturally become bored with songs they have already made popular and want to introduce new material.  The most talented understand that it is a delicate tap dance to expose unfamiliar music to an audience.  It can be done only when the hunger for the hits has been sated.  Then it may be safe to slip a new tune into the performance. 

So, old Chub the Tub will have to set the Twist record without me.  I'm afraid that I have oldies poisoning and am unable to participate.  

"If you gotta play at garden parties I wish you a lot a' luck

But if memories were all I sang I'd rather drive a truck"

Couldn't have said it better myself, Rick.  I'm fairly certain he is only doing new material at that big sock hop in the sky.

Rick Nelson: May 8,1940-December 31, 1985

Don't Worry It's NOT Your Fault!

Thank God!  It's not my fault.  That adipose tissue orbiting my equator is the product of a DISEASE according to the nation's largest physician organization.  Obesity is now officially NOT YOUR FAULT!  See your doctor and let the American Medical Association assume the guilt, but save some for your parents.  As we all know, parents are responsible for just about every problem life tosses our way. 

Looks like it needs mayo.

I couldn't help noticing the curiously juxtaposed story about doctors declaring yet one more modern problem as a "disease" as I opened the paper a couple of mornings ago.  There was the report of actor James Gandolfini, TV's Tony Soprano, dying of heart failure after eating a whopping big meal  of fried foods and copious amounts of booze while vacationing in Italy.  It was just above the story of the AMA's declaration of gluttony as an illness.

REALLY?!  There is nothing to prevent us from picking up that double-decker ham sandwich?  No way to make us simply drop that fork, pass on the pie, and put the ice cream back in the refrigerator?  It must be that damn disease talking!

How did we get from a society that took on the responsibility of saving the world from Hitler, Tojo, and a variety of nutjobs in the Kremlin to one that can't wait to point the finger toward any vice, foible or offense as long as it is away from us.  Everybody is a victim.  We are no longer in control of our own destiny.

Maybe I'm being judgemental.  I can't help it.  I was raised that way.  It's my parents' fault, dammit!

I'm no doctor, but I play one on this blog and it is my considered opinion that a disease is an illness you are born with or contract by accident and cannot control.  Drinking too much and eating too much are physical and psychological addictions that can be overcome through something we used to call willpower.  When we want to look and feel our best it is within our abilities to simply put down the glass or knife and fork and get "well".  

In the words of Dean Wormer:  "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life son."  If our doctors are no longer willing to call us "Tubby" who is going to stand between us and that plate of fries?

Oh….who cares.

Is the crash cart on stand-by?  I'm goin' in!

Help yourself…it's a disease.

Sunday On The Deck With Dad

(My brother, Steve, now retired from the newspaper business, wrote this 23 years ago.  Our dad has been gone for more than 18 years but he speaks to me nearly every day.  These days, for a change,  I listen.  I think Steve does too.)


     "There's a deranged duck in the pond," my dad informs me matter-of-factly.
It's Sunday afternoon.  Father's Day.  We are standing one story above the ground on the narrow deck of my parents' condo squinting out into the glary light.  It is hot and breezy, the sky a dizzying whirl of blue and cirrus clouds.
   
     My dad, who is retired and has time on his hands, keeps a close watch on the ducks these days as they come and go in the small lake out beyond the manicured lawn behind the condo complex.  He counts the ducklings ("Snapping turtles got most of them this year.") and enjoys what, to his admittedly inexpert eye, seem to be the vagaries of duck social life.
   
     If there's a weird duck out there, I'm sure my dad knows about it.  When he points out the wayward fowl in question--a lone duck, diver, he says--I observe him for a while too.  He (or is it a she?) swims erratically around the lake avoiding the other ducks.  My dad thinks maybe it has lost its mate and is grief-stricken.  Through binoculars, the duck looks to me to be young and scrawny and glassy-eyed, maybe a little disheveled (a tuft of feathers is is askew on its head).  Dangerous, I think.  A loner, a rebel.  The John Hinckley or the Travis Bickle of the duck world.
 
      Hinckley Duck goes away eventually, paddling with a sudden purpose (off to buy a handgun?) toward a distant corner of the lake and out of sight.  Our thoughts and conversation drift to other things.
 
      I have been thinking a lot about the old man lately, and about the inexorability of genes.
   
     There was a rebellious time when I thought I had little in common with my dad, and I don't think he knew quite what to make of me.  If there's one thing he can't stand in the world it's a smark-aleck.  "Stay away from that guy.  He's a smart-aleck," was a warning I heard repeatedly as a kid.

     Dad is your basic solid-citizen---a patient, portly Ward Cleaver type interested in insurance, real estate, the crops, golf, washing the car, moderation and fairness.  He is cursed, however, with two kids who are Eddie Haskells.  Classic smart-alecks.  My brother is a big city DJ, and I'm a small town newspaper drone--jobs for un-solid citizens--two businesses fraught with cynics, burn-outs, booze-hounds and other unsavory characters.

     At one point, I think my dad dreamed that I could be a golf pro.  He bought me golf clubs and got me started playing when I was little.  I was pretty good and he kept encouraging me.  Of course I gave it up in high school.

     I was a brooding, solitary, wiseacre kid and I've become a brooding, semi-solitary, wiseacre adult.  Lately though, in the mornings before I have had time to activate my arsenal of self-delusions, I am often startled by the slightly puffy countenance returning my myopic gaze in the mirror, "Dad." I think. Time and circumstances ( and booze) work their magic on a face, but genes will out.  I notice, too, I am taking new pleasure in things like washing the car and mowing the yard.  Perhaps moderation and a resumption of my golf career are next.

     Dad has gotten jolly in retirement, though, to be honest, the last few years have not been especially kind to him.   A man who, as I recall, was never sick a day in his life had barely said goodbye to the everyday work grind when he was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, then diabetes.  He developed an ulcer, needed back surgery, spent the better part of a winter in the hospital or flat on his back at home.

     My family is small but not what I imagine most people would consider particularly close-knit.  Much is left unsaid between us.  We share, rightly or wrongly, a distrust of anybody who talks too openly about his feelings, and sense that life's important stuff, its essential truths, are ineffable.  Maybe it's this Midwestern reticence,  but I never heard my dad complain through any of his troubles.  (He will be embarrassed, of course, that I'm committing any of this to paper.)

     I thin he's having a good year this year, I'm happy to say.  He's able to golf again.  His White Sox are winning (he's a lifelong fan; naturally, to be contrary, I became a Cubs fan).  Most of all, he seems comfortable with himself--untortured by regret--which, I imagine, must be the best part of growing old. He's done OK.

     When it's time to leave, my dad walks out to the parking lot to see me off.  Night has begun to crouch down around the lake and the white brick condos.  My folks decided to move to this place when the house got to be too much for them to care for,  and I sense they are just now starting to feel at home here.  It still seems foreign to me.  We stand by the car for a moment as the insects whir incessantly from the shimmering trees.  He notes with some pride that I am keeping my car clean.

     "Happy Father's Day.  And thanks," I say for the final time, and we shake hands this Sunday.  Father's Day.

     " Another day long gone," he says to me cheerfully.  And in my head on the quiet drive home my father's voice echoes back to me as my own.

Steve Copper, June 26, 1990