Home And Honked Off

Random rants from a week on the road...

So, shut down the damn government already!

Frankly all I want from the federal government is defense of the borders, mail delivery, and most important of all,  TO LEAVE ME ALONE!  I relish the thought of all "non essential" government employees, (like congress and the president), not showing up for work.  And, by the way, just WHY do we have ANY non essential employees on the federal payroll?

SHUT HER DOWN!

Also on my gourd today...

Air travel...SUCKS!  I have been in the air the past several days and it has finally reached the point where I truly believe that, given the choice, I would rather have another colonoscopy than get on a U.S. commercial airliner.  How have we managed to take what used to be an enjoyable mode of travel and morphed it into an airborne nightmare?  Don't get me wrong, I love a TSA pat down as much as the next guy and can't get enough of those security x-ray machines, but why is it necessary to completely undress and put everything in plastic boxes as we snake our way through mind numbingly long lines?  And, while I'm amped up here, have the geniuses running the Grace L. Ferguson Airline and Storm Door Company, given any serious consideration to charging passengers extra money to CARRY ON baggage instead of checking it?  Because most fliers are cheap, they refuse to pay $50 to check a bag and instead schlep fifty pounds of crap into rollaboards designed to hold ten pounds and then attempt to jam all of that into overhead bins with a capacity of an automobile glove box. 

airborne gas chamber

The "friendly" skies smell like cheese

AND....(you can tell I'm rolling now), why are the U.S. based airlines the worst in the world these days?  Other countries seem to have newer planes, better service, nicer looking flight attendants, (well, at least under 80), and don't STINK.  Most American carriers operate planes that smell like bad food, though they barely offer any, and outhouses.  After a welcome aboard whiff it's tough to tell if passengers,  scouting out the on board facilities,  just decide to pull the pin on an ass grenade right in their seat or maybe just whiz their pants because they're too lazy to climb over the tub of guts strapped in next to them.  Whatever the case, most planes are as lethal as the San Quentin gas chamber in its prime.  (Hmm, maybe California could save some dough by treating the boys on death row to a plane ride?)

If only you could roll down the windows!

Of course there is no need to roll down the windows if you choose to fly Southwest.  Their planes frequently offer a sunroof.

After my week filled with plane travel it felt good to be on the ground again in Southern California.  That is until I read the following in yesterday's paper:  "USC Researchers Say Pollution May Be Harming Our Brains".

Too many rats in the cage

WHAT???!!!

Apparently researchers looked at the smallest particles that are not visible to the naked eye but are found in air samples taken near major California freeways.  They exposed these particles to mice for a ten week period and the results showed brain damage in the little rodents which included memory loss and developmental disorders.  This, of course, confirms just what you always suspected about those of us who call Southern California home.  I concur.  

You might want to stock up on some vintage Tom & Jerry cartoons while you're at it.  If the USC research is to be believed, how much longer can Jerry continue to do his own stunts and outwit Tom in those very fine MGM productions?

There.

Glad that's off my chest.  Maybe it's just the particles talking.

Could somebody please open the sunroof?

Time Travel

She sits by the window with the TV on seeing nothing.
The cancer that took her breast twenty years ago has come for the rest of her.  My mother, now in her ninetieth year, resembles a dying leaf hanging tentatively from a very feeble tree.  Seeing her only once or twice a year, this visit has been more sobering than the last.  She is unsteady on her feet needing assistance for just a trip to the bathroom.  (Incontinence is a fact of life these days.)  Her memory...a memory.  I sense that she doesn't really know who I am; Linda, my wife, maybe.  Like the hostess of a large cocktail party, she seems to know that I have been invited but she searches for a name.

My brother, Linda and I take mom to a scheduled doctor appointment.  The sawbones offers nothing more than "Her oncologist can give her something to keep her comfortable."  Thanks doc!  We got her dressed and in the car for this?  What's the point?  Don't get me started on the medical profession.

If living a long life is nothing more than "keeping comfortable" and watching TV in your pajamas I may consider giving up exercise and returning to my seat at the end of the bar.  Society needs to re-think our approach to old age.

As I pull the car around to pick her up at the front door of the doctor's clinic, my mother asks my wife who is "the old man" messing with our car?  It is the first laugh of a long day for this old man.

It'll Only Take One...

Several years ago when a judge was dumb enough to allow me on a jury it proved to be a real education in American jurisprudence.  After hearing more than twenty lounge lizards  testify  that the defendant had indeed emptied an entire clip of ammunition into the belly of a bar patron he felt had disrespected him, I was certain our panel's deliberation would be brief.  

He did it.  People saw him do it.  GUILTY!  In California it was too much to hope for a death sentence, but I was confident that he would spend the rest of his life as a prom date for the general prison population.  (He appeared to have the legs for it.)

My first inkling of trouble began as soon as we jurors sat down to deliberate.  An older gentleman on our panel said, "I feel like the blind man examining the elephant.  It's hard to see the big picture."

Stunned, I thought the guy had to be kidding around or was indigent and needed the meal money and maybe a place to crash.  NOBODY could be this stupid!

He was.

What should have been about a sixty second deliberation stretched out for a couple of days.  The man was clearly an idiot and if the guys on the jury had prevailed would have been dead in an hour but, thankfully, the women in the room knew exactly how to handle the situation.  They used their feminine wiles on the old husk and very carefully flattered and flirted him into believing that he might have a chance with one or all of them.  (As I mentioned...he was a moron.) We got his vote and got the hell out of the courthouse after waving a tearful "see you in hell" to our freshly convicted miscreant.

By the way, that's all it takes.  ONE MORON!  

One nitwit on the Barry Bonds perjury tribunal and he gets away with his massive bullshit lie about never having  used steroids.  My guess is there is at least ONE dope dumb enough to hold out.  

Actually the trial, now underway in the Bay Area, is not about whether the ex-slugger for the San Francisco Giants used steroids to boost his performance.  No, it's to determine if he lied to a grand jury investigating his use of steroids.  

HE DID.

To be more specific, he did do steroids, (check out the before and after pictures), and he did lie about it  to the grand jury.  If you believe otherwise then you also believe that somewhere there is a gal who is just right for Tim Gunn.

Get a load of some of the jury questionnaire responses from potential members of this panel:

"I'm a Barry Bonds fan and I'm a huge Giants fan.  It's my life.  I don't know if I could judge Mr. Bonds after providing me with so much entertainment.  It's an intimate relationship." (prospective juror #22)

Prospective juror #29 said, "My opinion is that steroids is okay to be used since these are the jobs of athletes.  If a player must advance in his/her jobs, supplements should be able to be used."

These two mental midgets were dismissed.  The final jury consists of four men and eight women.  I hope the women take charge.  Common sense dictates that the moron or MORONS on the jury will be among the men.

Before steroids

Let's hope that after hearing from Barry's mistress the women will do whatever it takes to administer justice to one of the most arrogant, disagreeable liars to ever don a major league uniform.  But, don't count on it.  The nitwits have us surrounded.

Prospective jurors
"Me and her is on our way to the Mensa picnic."

After steroids

Tax Reform Anyone?

Like a carp at feeding time

I like to keep a picture of Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid on my desk as I go about the ever increasing nonsense required to pay the dues for living in what used to be a pretty cool country.  It becomes more difficult with each passing year.

Beginning in January when the first 1099s, W-2s and K-1s get dropped like live hand grenades by mailman Russ, I struggle to keep my temper as I prepare for the first meeting with Bob the tax guy.  These days it takes someone like Bob, both a lawyer and accountant, to decipher the myriad of changes and tweaks in our ever more complex tax code.  Like mob protection in a bad neighborhood, it is entirely necessary to pay this toll if you want to keep walking on two good legs.  SEND US YOUR MONEY, OR ELSE!


It would be tolerable if only the morons running the show in Washington didn't insist on behaving like the drunk at the end of the bar.  You know, the guy who in spite of the fact he has no money and is no longer allowed to run a tab insists on buying a round "for everyone".  It's easy to get re-elected when you promise to give your constituents all they desire and then do it with their own money.  The only problem is they have run out of money....yours, mine, China's....EVERBODY'S!  The United States congress has managed to accomplish the heretofore unimaginable feat of presiding over the world's only money LOSING whorehouse.  What's more is that the house is on fire and all the working gals have given notice, and they still don't get it.

Our country is broke.  Even if the government took every penny away from all the folks they consider "rich", (and they have a very low threshold of rich),  America would still be IN THE HOLE.  For those with political aspirations, that would be BEYOND BROKE.

Village Idiot

The solution?  A flat tax for ALL and a complete change of management in D.C.  No more professional politicians!  Term limits for everyone and no exemptions from programs required for other Americans.  (See social security and the odious medicare.)  I propose three tax brackets: 10, 15, and 20 percent, with NO exemptions for ANYTHING.  That would put an end to most Washington lobbying and would insure that all citizens have some skin in the game.  When it truly is everyone's money, we'll see more attention being paid to how it is spent.

Of course my plan will send tax preparation gurus like bean counter Bob to the unemployment office, but he'll be able to take all that loot he has made from clueless clowns like me to his hideout in the South Pacific.  Maybe he has a plan involving some of those unfortunate out of work ladies from our nation's capital?

Backyard Harmony

"AL"

He's early this year.
Al, the extremely good natured alligator lizard who lives in our backyard is stretching his legs a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.
"Couldn't hibernate any longer," he says.
Actually I welcome his company on the patio as another baseball season draws near.  Many warm afternoons have passed between us as we listen to Jerry Coleman call Padres games.  To be fair, Jerry doesn't call all that many hardball tilts these days but he has always been our favorite.
"You used to work with old Jer didn't you?"
"Yes", I reply.  "He was a war hero too....a superior human being."
"The friars should do well this season.  I like some of the moves they've made...sure improved at shortstop, and the outfield should be more productive".
I concur with this analysis and tingle with the knowledge that opening day is only a couple of weeks away.
"How's the family?  I see that your new grandson is tearing around the yard now."  I'll tell Alice, (Al's wife),to make sure that our youngsters don't bite him."  "I can't make any promises about the old ball and chain herself.  She's been in a foul mood all winter.  Bitching about the the lack of quality bugs to eat and the fact that I talk while I hibernate.  Of course there is the gassiness thing...I tell her I can't help it.  I'm a LIZARD dammit!! I get into an occasional rancid spider"
He continues...
"Oh...I really appreciate the diaper on the grandkid.  The folks who lived here before you not only didn't cotton to a lizard who talks, they also had a dog.  Believe me, it's no picnic to be dodging dog logs while I'm roaming your spread.   Appreciate it.  Now if you could just keep your low life friends from peeing in the bushes..."
I assure Al that I always curtail beer consumption in the backyard after the seventh inning.  Only later do I recall that I no longer drink and can't remember the last time drunken friends were allowed free range of the backyard.  I make a mental note to see if grandson Dan is indeed wearing a diaper.

It really is good to see old Al, my pal, back on the patio sunning himself once again.  I can see that he and the Mrs. were busy before the weather cooled.  Lots of little Als and Alices scurry around the palm trees.  Everybody looks healthy and well fed.  It'll be a good season for us all.

"Al, I can't help but notice that you look a little more green this year.  What's up with that?"

"Bite me.  I'm Irish!"

Stylin' With Mr. C.

"I'll be in Rock Rapids, Sioux Center, Orange City,  Le Mars, and Cherokee today,"the old man would say as he headed for the garage after breakfast.  It would be another long day of driving the back roads of Northwest Iowa .  Some days he would range as far West as Inwood or way out to Fort Dodge or Webster City if he was eastbound.  He peddled mortgage loan money to farmers and banks for the Prudential Insurance company.  I still don't know why he announced his itinerary before hitting the road.  Car phones, cell phones, even CB radios weren't on our radar in the early 1960's.  From Spencer, Iowa mom couldn't get in touch with him if she needed and frankly the only reason she would want to contact him would be to complain about something horrible my brother and I had done.  We boys welcomed his time out of range as an opportunity to hone any elaborate stories required to cover our ALWAYS guilty asses.

What inspired this trip into the time tunnel containing my misspent youth was a recent series of ads in the Wall Street Journal.  It was a special weekend supplement that featured, I guess, what were the latest styles in mens' suits.  Generally speaking I am not what anyone would call a fashion plate.  Hell, I am a SLOB.   Those who know me consider it a compliment if I break out a new t-shirt for a meet up.  Dad was never like that.  He always dressed as if he planned to run into William F. Buckley or Lady Astor. (Perhaps in Cherokee??) His suits, and there were several, were always impeccably tailored; shirts and ties carefully coordinated.  Sunday afternoons were reserved for shining his shoe collection as he watched sports on television.  He even shaved on the weekends!

Naturally, my brother Steve and I steered a steady course for careers where dressing up didn't matter.  Okay...we got into jobs where showing up for work in pants was considered a major concession.  I blabbed on the radio for nearly forty years and Steve still toils as an ink stained newspaper clown.  No "best dressed" awards rest on our mantles.

One of my most vivid memories of Dad is from 1981.  He and mom were visiting me and my family in San Francisco.  I was 32 years-old and hosting a morning radio show on a major San Francisco station.  One weekday morning I suggested that my wife bring mom and dad into the city for lunch after my show was over.  They would take the BART train in from our home in an East bay suburb and we would have a nice lunch after touring the radio station.  The station was a show place.  It was located in an historic building directly across from the Trans America pyramid and right nextdoor to Melvin Beli's office.  I was proud to work there.

The folks arrived just before noon and I gave them the complete tour.  We covered three floors of offices and studios and it was fun to introduce them to all the talented people on staff.  Afterward, as we walked to a nearby restaurant, I said something like, "Well, what did you think of the station Dad?"  I will never forget his reply.

"You sure work with a bunch of bums."

I don't know what I expected.  All my co-workers, just as I did, dressed like we were still in eighth grade.   It's one of the bennies of the job.  Shaving is optional too.  It's radio.

I made sure he picked up the check at lunch.

These days I still mostly dress the same way I did in junior high, but I also own a few suits.  (You never know when a friend is going to have the temerity to die.)  Of course I don't often wear them which means it is always a surprise when I put one on.  Recently I have managed to slather on an extra five pounds and notice that the pants are becoming just a "scosh" on the snug side.  Judging by the ads in the Journal  I'd say I'm just about another five pounds away from looking cutting edge stylish.  Every single suit looks too tight!

Give me another couple of weeks and a few dozen Krispy Kremes and I'll be ready for a spread in GQ.

Now if I can only find that shoe shine kit.

At Last! A Reason To Listen

In the 1960's radio compelled us to listen with entertaining content.  What a concept!

Sometime during the 70's or 80's the cool people running the business, perhaps because they were having too much fun at the party, decided to give the industry's keys to the the geeks from the accounting department.  (Any endeavour about to take the big slide into oblivion always winds up in the hands of the accountants.)  Today's radio is the unlistenable product of humorless no talent drones who, typical of the true losers they are, couldn't get laid in a womens' prison with a fistful of pardons.  Like small town undertakers applying rouge to a moldering corpse, they fill the air with brainless verbatim liners like, "Just ahead of another commercial free all music jam" and "the best variety all the time".  You know...the stuff that worked so well in, (insert the name of any city where this clown last ruined a station).

When the last listener turns off the last radio these guys will be the LAST to know.

But here's the good news.

There is GREAT content on the Internet.  Yes, thanks largely to entertainment pioneers like Adam Carolla and his Ace Broadcasting, anybody can download terrific shows on ipods or other portable devices and find themselves a boatload of pure magic.  You know...stuff that makes you laugh and sometimes learn.  Compelling content.

Adam is a true virtuoso.  He's funny and he gets it.  There is no better curmudgeon.  H.L. Mencken is alive and living in the Carolla garage.  And, if you want story telling, there is This Week with Larry Miller.  Not since the late Jean Shepherd has there been anyone as gifted with a yarn as Larry Miller.  A longtime comedian and actor, Miller has a million stories and he isn't afraid to use them.  His show is a humor pinata stuffed full of belly laughs and insight.  A welcome audio air conditioning for our modern day miasma.

If you haven't already done so, don't waste another second.  Get yourself to the Carolla website and start downloading some downright righteous shows. 

Kickass radio is still around...It just moved to the internet.