It's Merely Moronic

Now don't get me wrong, nobody, especially any female, has ever referred to me as "Mr. Style", but there are some pretty hideous fashion statements happening in the men's department of late.  The good news is that these will undoubtedly provide ample future laughs for the progeny of the hopeless haberdashery and tonsorially challenged hombres who succumb to a perceived illusion of hipness at whatever price.  Isn't it obvious that looking cool today can often make you appear the total tool tomorrow?

For example, the whole spiked hair thing should have been over five years ago.  Instead, the "just rolled out of the feathers" look clings like a toxic cloud of Aqua Velva.  Perhaps it's because I have no hair to spike that I find this look so irritating?  No, it's because it makes you look like a man who has yet to come to grips with the limits of his own intelligence!

Putting the funk in dysfunction

Another befittingly stupid look is the no socks thing.  What has it been, twenty years this has been around??  It's not only uncomfortable as hell to have nothing between your tootsies and the inside of a shoe it also makes for stinky shoes.  Sockless is fine if your wearing shorts or a bathing suit but no socks with a suit or, even worse, a tuxedo makes a guy look like he's headed for the prom at the nervous hospital.  (The short bus will be arriving momentarily.)

Total dork

With an ever expanding selection of fun socks sporting weird designs and loud comic images like Sasquatch riding a bicycle, Homer Simpson saying "Doh!", and my favorite, assorted pieces of dancing sushi, there is no sane reason for flashing nude ankles.  Entertaining socks are wonderful conversation starters too.  Needless to say socks provide the freedom to ditch your kicks nearly anywhere without looking like some backwoods bumpkin stump jumper.  Nobody wants to see your banged up toenails, bunions and blackened soles.  Get some socks!  Leave the bare legs to the gals.  Theirs actually look good and--sorry guys--ours don't.

A pair of favorites 

Now, if the primary reason for getting dressed up and forgetting to don socks is to give your kids some laughs when they trip down memory lane looking at old pictures of you after you've checked in to the horizontal Hilton, have at it.  You obviously have a great sense of humor and the kids were lucky to have had a cool dad.  However, if you're showing bare skin from the bottom of your pants and the top of your shoes because you think all the hip guys do, you sir are a moron and I'll give you five minutes to get off my planet.

I'm tempted to watch the Oscars on Sunday night, even though I haven't seen a single nominated film, just to see some Hollywood nitwit pick up his trophy in a tux sans socks.  I won't watch a minute of it but $50 says it'll happen.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to get those Elvis Presley hound dog socks of mine out of the dryer.  It's Friday and time to fly the freak flag.

I predict this will be the next fashion statement for guys.

Good News Warms a Dad's Heart

There are many kinds of awards.  Some are dubious and can more accurately be described as recognition we could do without.  You know, booby prizes.  Here in north Idaho we're just a couple of inches away from topping a 1935 record for snowfall in the month of February.  A definite wintertime booby prize.  At the halfway mark of the month we are slogging through more than 30 inches of new ice cold fluffy white hell.  Enough already!  We give up.  Even the dogs don't like it.  Their paws are cold and finding a fire hydrant in this weather has become nearly as impossible as finding an honest politician.

Over here boy!  Look, no waiting.

As of right now the white stuff is scheduled to keep falling through the weekend and I'm running low on Cheetos and potato chips.  Just as I was about to stick my head in the oven I received a text from my daughter Kelly telling me that she and her husband, Pavol Liska, just learned that a film they produced and directed has won the International Film Critics Forum award for best picture at the Berlin International Film Festival.  "Die Kinder der Toten" was a labor of love created with an all European cast under the auspices Kelly and Pavol's New York City based company the Nature Theater of Oklahoma.  Obviously this makes up for the Cheetos and chip shortage here on the tundra.  I'm very proud of the little girl who came into my life 48 years ago last week.  She has worked hard in a business that chews up more people than it rewards.

Now, maybe she can hop a plane to Coeur D' Alene and help me shovel.   I'd like to get it cleared by June.

It's The Least Wonderful Time of The Year

Everybody loves October, but who needs February?  Hands down the month of the groundhog and Valentines is about as much fun as a high colonic.  Paperwork needed for the April tax rape administered by the bunko artists in D.C. starts pouring in and, if you live in snow country, it's now dirty brown with plenty more on the way.  Let's face it after December most of us are ready for Spring and Summer.  January, February and most of March are like relatives you aren't that fond of announcing that they are coming for a visit and can stick around for a couple of extra weeks.  February is also a sports desert.  Football is over and, though pitchers and catchers report next week, baseball's spring training doesn't provide exhibition games until the very end of the month.  Basketball??  Please!  Basketball is the February of sports.

Here in the Inland Northwest it's our turn to host the polar vortex.  This week and next look to be on the extremely cold side with oodles of white fluffy stuff piling up outside our windows.  Perhaps that's why half the neighbors are gone?  Those of us who last August never gave a thought to winter now huddle by the fire with books or Netflix and promise ourselves to never get caught like this again as we scan the web for Zillow or VRBO deals.  We do take some comfort in the knowledge that our friends and relatives in California, Arizona, Florida and Hawaii will likely be broiling this August while we enjoy a beverage or three under clear skies, no flies and perfectly comfy temperatures.

From Frozen Monkey, Montana to Moose Munch, Maine, and Ice Pick, Idaho we cold and wet Americans are more than ready for this thing called February to be over.  Just twenty more days and we'll be in mud season!  Baby steps.  In the meantime, who wants ice cream?

The lake isn't frozen.  Why am I?

  

Stupor Bowl LIII

Football's village idiot

Thank God this thing will be over on Sunday.  The "BIG GAME" we all feel compelled to watch   will feature at least one team that doesn't deserve to be there and the idiot NFL commissioner, Roger-Who Dat?- Goodell seems not to care.  With a shrug and his typical deer in the headlights gawk old Roger acknowledged that NFL referees don't always make the correct call.  Or, for that matter, in the case of pass interference two weeks ago in New Orleans, any call at all.  The Saints were robbed in broad daylight in front of thousands of NOLA inebriates and millions of mostly likewise "well oiled" fans watching at home.

The fat cat team owners pay this dunce $40 million dollars a year for a job requiring little more than  handing out a few fines, showing up at team parties, schmoozing the owner's and drinking their booze.  He also gets to look like a dork while awarding trophies, a task at which he excels.  God forbid he should do something useful like getting rid of that stupid Super Bowl roman numeral nonsense. What the hell number is LIII anyway??  How uselessly pretentious!  (Okay, I was asleep when we covered that in school.)

 Since the Wienermobile job fell through,  I'd like to offer that I'd be more than willing to take Roger's job for $4 million per year and would volunteer to detail the owners' cars twice monthly.   On further consideration, I would jack that up to $10 million if I had to do L.A. Chargers owner Dean Spano's ride.  (The man is a piping hot talking pile of pig flop.  Flies swarm at the mention of his name.)

It's not unusual to see idiots like Roger in positions of great authority.  I witnessed more than a few colossal management dummies in the broadcast business who, in spite of repeated failures, always wound up getting good jobs they couldn't handle.  Perhaps, like those folks, Goodell is dazzling when interviewing for a position.  Nah, that can't be it  The guy looks to be a walking talking sedative.  In fact, Jason Gay, a very talented writer who covers sports for the Wall Street Journal, called Goodell's Wednesday State of the League address "about as exciting as listening to someone tell you how build your own clock radio." I do believe that captures the essence of the man.  My idea of hell would be standing between Roger Goodell and Al Gore at a cocktail party holding only an empty glass.  BARTENDER!!!

So, enjoy the game.  We can all hope that it will be a good one, though giving the points and taking the Patriots seems to be almost too easy.    How about placing a bet on the clown prince of the NFL dropping the Lombardi trophy?  For $40 million per year and lifetime use of a private jet he has fumbled pretty much everything else.  Put me down for a C note that he does.

"Hi, I'm Roger and this is my IQ.

Hot Dog! A Dream Job!

This is exciting stuff for aging boomers!  The folks at Oscar Mayer have announced that they're now seeking a qualified "Hotdogger" to be the next driver of their totally cool Wienermobile.  The job begins in June and the company is accepting applications for this dream gig until January 31.  The "condiments" that come with the job include what the Oscar Mayer folks refer to as a "competitive" salary, benefits, cool clothing and a company car like no other.

"Look ma, I am a wiener!"

  As the most car centric generation in history, we Boomers consider the day we got our driver's license to be the day life began.  We loved and still care about our wheels.  If you were a teen in the 50's, 60's or even 70's a major component of your social life revolved around aimless cruising and listening to tunes.  The opportunity to return to those days of yore while driving an iconic and delicious looking sausage around the United States will be a dream come true for some lucky guy or gal.  To apply for the job check out the company website where requirements for the assignment are spelled out in detail.  A four-year degree in public relations, journalism, communications, advertising or marketing are at the top of the list.  Though not specified it would seem that a genuine appreciation for tubed meats and a verifiable diagnosis of permanent arrested development would be far more important than any old college degree.  Party animal credentials will be thoroughly checked!

WARNING:  I have already applied for this sweet deal and am anticipating a congratulatory call from  Mr. Oscar Mayer himself just as soon as the company ceases accepting all those other applications.   Should I be cheated out of what would appear to be my destiny, let me be the first to call shotgun.

The ultimate wiener roll

Other than needing some fuzzy dice, this baby is ready to hit the road.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

I'm sensing it's that old toxic masculinity bubbling to the surface.  How else do you explain my abandonment of a season long boycott of the NFL?  Perhaps it was an overwhelming desire to see the Los Angeles (Ne San Diego) Chargers get their collective asses handed to them by the Patriots.  Whatever the case, before I knew it,  I had returned to the realm of wasted Sundays with the NFL.

This weekend, with the Chargers easily dispatched and limping back to the L.A. cesspool, the AFC conference championship game will feature the mostly hated yet talented New England Patriots and the exciting Kansas City Chiefs and their stellar young quarterback.  The early Sunday NFC contest should be an excellent opening act as it features the suddenly pretty good Los Angeles (Ne St. Louis) Rams as chum for the "Who Dat?" nation's Drew Brees and his Saints.  The Superdome is where teams like the Rams are fed to the lions and I don't plan to miss a minute of the slaughter.

Slaughter??  There's that toxic masculinity again!  My brothers and I would like to thank the American Psychological Association for coming up with this handy excuse for our testosterone fueled bad behavior.  We can't help it!  Please understand that we really would like to be better people but, damn it, our genes won't let us.  A denial of biology would be a blow to the mental health nerds who seem determined to crush masculinity and the cult of manhood whenever and wherever it seeps into modern society.  Face it guys, we're just plain abnormal!  Embrace your feminine side and prepare to calm WAY down.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to cave in on this and hope many of my fellow Y chromosome carriers will join me this weekend as we forget we own razors (thanks Gillette!), gorge on  pork rinds, Cheetos, potato chips and beer while reveling in the coming pigskin orgy.  Heck, we may not even shower until the Super Bowl is over!  (Perhaps a bridge too far?  Just asking for a friend.)

Now, toss me that bag of Fritos and a cold one and prepare to watch some football my posse.  In just a couple of weeks we enter the sports dark side of the moon that is the seemingly endless weeks to  be endure between the end of the football season and pitchers and catchers reporting for Spring training.

Well, there is soccer.
Yeah, right.  Ha!  Beer me, I'm running low on toxic masculinity.

Family Reunion

Not that there was ever any doubt, your kids are your kids no matter what their age as those of us who've attained senior status will attest.  For the past few days it has been impossible for me to ignore that simple truth as my daughters, now 47 and 45 years old respectively, have joined me for the first time since the celebration of their mother's life in the summer of 2017.  Naturally it's a somewhat bittersweet reunion but therapeutic nonetheless.  Kelly,  the oldest, lives in New York City and travels extensively in Europe while her sister, Katie, works as an attorney in San Diego.  Obviously the opportunities for getting together are few and we make the most of them when we can.

Both girls are married now to guys I actually like and Katie has provided me with my one and only grandson, Dan, who is now 9 years-old and due to surpass me in mental and social maturity somewhere between the day after tomorrow and a week from next Thursday.  In the meantime we have fun playing with his Christmas toys while his mom and sister catch up on all that is important in their active lives.  It's good to see them laughing again in spite of the very large void that remains and will continue to ache for the rest of their lives.  They're dealing.

With each passing year it becomes emphatically clear that family solidarity is imperative to happiness.  I can't imagine life without these two wonderful daughters who remain eternally stuck at about 10 and 8 years-old in my eyes.  I'm glad we did this.  It's a wonderful reminder of just how lucky my life has been.

I have the pictures to prove it...

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."--  F. Scott Fitzgerald