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.