The National Campfire, Now Embers

Have you noticed?  Very few cultural icons unite us these days.  In the 50's and 60's the tribal drum of the Baby Boom generation was Top 40 radio.  Those of us who came of age at that time toted our transistor radios everywhere we went.  It was the soundtrack of our lives.  From coast to coast the same hits, blasted just loud enough to piss off our parents, bore testament to our sincere belief that we would always be hip and never grow old. (Hey, we were idiots.) 

TV too united us in a much broader sense.  Most families watched the same popular shows and embraced the moral and cultural norms they represented.  Father really did know best, Davy Crockett was the "King of the Wild Frontier" and Superman fought for "truth, justice and the American way".  We saw Elvis and the Beatles for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show, a man who single handed proved that even your dad could host a TV show.  We talked about it on Monday at school or around the water cooler at work and came together in our shared experience.

I was reminded of how much we've changed as a nation while looking over the latest Nielsen Total Audience Report that was released yesterday.  Our national campfires, radio and TV,  where we once gathered to warm ourselves in shared cultural experiences are rapidly going the way of the Pony Express.  Radio began its death spiral with the advent of streamed music and the solitary experience of listening through earbuds and headphones.  You can walk miles of packed summertime beaches and not see a single radio but you will see plenty of heads bobbing to sounds only they can hear.  Traditional television watching is also rapidly declining.  Streaming services like Netflix, Amazon Instant Video or Hulu now have subscribers in 40 percent of American homes.  If we watch network television at all it is mostly recorded and viewed at our convenience as we fast forward through the commercials.  After years of domination, broadcast and cable networks find themselves in an entirely new competitive situation.  Cable nets fell 9 percent in total audience in 2014 and there is panic in the executive suites.

We have eliminated most gatekeepers and become our own entertainment program directors.  In many ways that's good.  We want what we want, and we want it NOW.  However, something is lost in all of this.  Today we are a nation of multiple languages, races, religions and cultural traditions but very little unites us as a country.  Maybe that's what makes us such a desirable destination for the rest of the world, but I wonder.  I question our ability to come together as our parents and grandparents did to defeat the pure evil of the Third Reich and Imperial Japan.  If necessary, will we be able to snap out of our self induced isolation, remove the buds from our ears and focus on major threats that seem near our doorstep?  Or, will we march in lockstep off the cliff of history grooving to our very own music mix as we contemplate what movie to watch tonight on Amazon Instant Video?

Sorry to go all serious on you, but this has been on my mind as I watch winter turn to spring on a glorious Friday afternoon in North Idaho.  I think I'll head out for a walk, but I'm not taking my Ipod.

When ALL Things Are Possible For MY Team

Spring training has started and the Padres have already dropped a couple.  Hey, it's just spring training, they made a lot of good moves in the off season.  This could be their year!  Of course I say this every year and that's the beauty of Spring.  All things are possible for a baseball fan.  The carcass of last year's miserable season is a distant forgettable memory.  Baseball is back and the world is spinning in greased grooves.

Baseball fans are eternal optimists.  Though football has surpassed America's Pastime in popularity, the number of games played by a major league baseball team keeps hope alive for most of us at least until June. Even the most miserable clubs have a chance to put together a winning season at that point.  Growing up in Michigan I lived for the Detroit Tigers and great players like Al Kaline, Charlie "Paw Paw" Maxwell and Frank Lary.  They seldom beat my Dad's beloved Chicago White Sox but they were MY team.  Baseball more than other sports inspires an ineffable loyalty and sense of ownership in its fans.  Ask most any American if they have a team and even casual fans will confess to having an allegiance to a favorite organization.

As I mentioned, my father was a lifelong fan of the Chicago White Sox.  Other than being from downstate Illinois,  I know of no particular reason he chose the pale hose.  He grew up in what is considered to be St. Louis Cardinal country but always preferred the American League over the National.  Among the many questions I wished I had asked while he was still around,  his choice of a baseball team intrigues me quite a lot.  My Uncle Bob was also a White Sox fan but Uncle Louie was a National League guy all the way who remained loyal to the Chicago Cubs throughout his lifetime.  It's hard to imagine that they failed to make even a single trip to the World Series during his entire earthly hitch.  My brother Steve continues to carry the Cubs torch and is beginning to question whether he too will get shafted by those "lovable losers" before he slides home.

After moving from Michigan I flirted with other teams.  A couple of years fealty to the Twins, a fling with the Red Sox, Angels, Giants, A's and Mariners were a product of my radio gypsy life. In 1976 I took at job handling the afternoon drive show on the Padre's flagship station, KOGO, in San Diego.  There I was fortunate enough to work with former Yankee great Jerry Coleman, one of the finest men I have ever known.  Jerry was the play-by-play announcer for the Pads and also handled sportscasts at 4:30 and 5:30 PM on my radio show.  A genuine war hero who had his baseball career interrupted for service as a combat pilot in both World War II and Korea,  Jerry was just a tremendous human being.  From day one he made me feel at home in San Diego and always made tickets to Padre games available  whenever I wanted them.  We worked together for two years and largely because of Jerry, I became a Padres fan for life.  

Most everyone has a story about when a team became "their" team, and it's usually  an interesting one.  You can learn a lot about somebody by simply steering the conversation toward the subject of favorite baseball teams.  Cubs and Mets fans, for example, tend to be far more patient than the rest of us; also slightly more masochistic.  Some fans relish a club's history or repeated success but most have a special something that inspired them to sign up for life, which reminds me…  NEVER trust a Yankee fan!  Yankee fans are bandwagon clowns and front runners.  They've suffered little as fans and deserve to be scorned by the rest of us.  Dodger fans are equally wretched.  They are merely the Yankee fans of the National League and deserve your disdain.  If necessary, move to the other side of the street when you see a Yankee or Dodger fan approaching.  They are to be pitied and recognized as the opportunistic low life scum they truly are.

And now, if you'll excuse me,  Spring is in the air and the Padres are about to take on the White Sox in a Cactus League tilt.  Via Direct TV and the 2015 MLB package, I'll be there to support the Friars.
Sorry Dad, the White Sox just aren't MY TEAM.

Ruminations on Ginny, Frank, Warren and Potato Stix

Has anyone else noticed that the woman, Ginny Rometty, who is the president of IBM looks like 1965 Frank Sinatra in drag?  I knew she reminded me of someone every time she popped up on CNBC to be interviewed about how crappy Big Blue is doing lately.  Could she be, like that twit Ronan Farrow, the product of some of Old Blue Eyes wild oats?  Francis Albert did get around and Ms. Rometty could be a ring a ding offspring.  Maybe if we heard her sing?

Another point to ponder is the recent revelation regarding the diet of the world's most successful investor, Warren Buffet.  Turns out that the CEO stock picking genius of Berkshire Hathaway is a bit of an idiot savant.  The guy can sure mine gold in the market but the the old reprobate eats like a knuckle dragging gap-toothed goober.  His diet is nutritionally just south of a carnival roustabout and a Kentucky hillbilly.   Throw in a moon pie and bag of peanuts and he hails from Harlan county.  Check it out:  He recently bragged that he consumes roughly 2700 calories a day and a quarter of this regimen includes five 12 ounce servings of Coca-Cola.  Granted this certainly helps his $16 billion holdings in Coca-Cola, but can't be doing a lot for his health.  Okay, so he's 84, maybe he's on to something.  He does use the cokes to wash down his daily intake of a can of Utz potato stick.  Maybe that's the secret?  Or, is it the chocolate chip ice cream he often has for breakfast?  Come to think of it, perhaps we should post a copy of the Buffett Diet at the front door of every one of those ubiquitous "health food" stores where all the skinny unhealthy looking morons in their yoga pants can read it before embarking on another safari in search of "organic, no GMOs, gluten free" crap they insist on feeding themselves.  That would be even more fun than my habit of standing in the parking lot of those places telling customers that they're all going to die anyway.  (Try it, it's fun.)

The "Sage of Omaha", being worth roughly eleventy bazillion dollars, is a cracker jack stock picker which leads me to believe that you and I could do nearly as well in the market by merely changing our food pyramid just a smidge.  I don't know about you but my adjustment would be minimal.  A switch to Coke, ice cream and potato stix from my current consumption of Dr. Pepper, dill pickles, and Fritos is definitely doable.  That first bazillion is practically in the bank.

Certainly I would hope that, after assuming his diet and the success it is bound to bring, there would be no requirement of a move to Omaha when Warren checks into his pine condo.  (I did mention that he's 84 didn't I?)   Perhaps we should at least think about it.  Though money doesn't always bring happiness it will at least help you be miserable in comfort.

Now, where's that map of Nebraska?  Potato stix anyone?

Partly Cloudy, With a Chance of Jury Duty

We've had very little winter in the panhandle of Idaho.
Granted, most of the really cold weather and heavy snow storms often skip over this region and dump their misery on the denizens of northern Montana and Wyoming before moving on to the Great Plains, but this year has been one of the mildest on record.  Longtime locals are out in shorts and T-shirts while newcomers like my wife and me are merely thankful we can put off buying snow tires for one more year.

And then it happened...  In the mailbox a summons for jury duty baring my name and address.  What??!!
I've only been here four months and I'm up for jury duty?!  How is this possible?  I could understand being called on what seemed like an annual basis when we resided on planet California, there being so few actual legal citizens and all, but now Idaho yanks my chain too?  There must be some mistake.
I call the number on the summons.  No mistake,  I report Monday.

For years people who worked in the media got a pass from jury duty.  The whole concept of having a "voice in the public square" meant that those of us in the newspaper, radio or TV business could have undue influence on a case and result in an avoidable miscarriage of justice.  It seemed like the right move to me.  Then, either because of a scarcity of bodies in the pool of potential jurists or some ruling by the government, suddenly EVERYBODY went into the hopper for jury duty.

I didn't mind showing up the first couple of times in California but after that……ENOUGH!  I actually wound up on two juries:  a major cocaine bust and a murder trial.  They were interesting and sort of fun at the time though I was somewhat put off by the fact that both defense attorneys told me after the fact that they had picked me on purpose because they hoped I would blab about the trial on my radio program and get their clients a mistrial.  I didn't and was happy to send the drug dealing dirtbags and the murdering SOB to stony lonesome for a very special extended stay.

Perhaps my steadfastness and no nonsense trial service has preceded me to my new home state?  Maybe I'm already well known in the legal circles of the Idaho panhandle as the "hangin' jurist".  Or, more likely, some clerk yanked my name out of a hat at the voter registration office.  That's what I get for exercising my franchise.

So, next week is jury week.  Now that I'm retired it wouldn't hurt my feelings to land a spot on a big case.  You know,  one of those cases where an old lady is in the dock for boosting a 98 cent bottle of Joy dish washing detergent or maybe a civil case involving a stud horse shooting blanks.  Exciting stuff.

I'll have to check on what the state allows with regard to maximum penalties and hope that a jury can at  least recommend hanging or the electric chair.  I don't believe in messing around.  Firm but fair is my motto.  The "hangin' jurist" is always ready to drop the hammer on society's misfits.

 Having just checked, I now know that Idaho employs lethal injection as its method of extermination.  I've always enjoyed mixing a mean cocktail.  Let's get this party started!  Now where's that old bag who grabbed the 98 cent bottle of Joy?

Dude! Here's an Awesome Idea...

I

The other day when I was just beginning my annual lament of the approach of Valentine's Day I overheard a typical clueless twenty-something male say this to his equally mentally challenged buddy, "Dude, I got an awesome idea about what to get Shawna for V-Day."

After imagining what it would be like to machine gun this idiot I was reminded of an often considered but never acted upon campaign I would like to initiate.  Can we please give DUDE, and AWESOME the rest of the century off??  Isn't anybody else sick of hearing those two insipid words?  My God, what will it take to drive a stake through the heart of AWESOME?  Give it a rest!  How about: outstanding, inspiring, formidable, imposing, exalted or impressive?!  Doesn't anybody have a thesaurus?  Take AWESOME out and shoot it please!

This card, a case of beer and tickets to Wrestle Mania should do nicely for Shawna.

Dude is another dumb default that has lost all meaning.  If you're a boomer, you no doubt remember the Durango Dude from the Corky & White Shadow series featured on the Mickey Mouse club.  The Dude was cool.  He was the Dude because just like any other city slicker "too dressed up for Dodge"he was trying to pass for a cowboy. It was a core staple of most Westerns. When did this perfectly good noun for dandy, peacock, or fop become the go to synonym for all guys?  Dude should be limited to the vernacular of crusty old sidekicks like Gabby Hayes, Walter Brennan and Pat Buttram, not skate boarding slackers.  

As for the Hallmark holiday that is Valentine's Day, let's give that a rest too. It was stupid when you were in grade school and is now exponentially more moronic as an adult.  Let's limit this sentimental slop to the Hallmark Channel and those eHarmony commercials where it belongs.  If you'd like to take your main squeeze out for dinner that's fine but let's all agree to skip the flowers and candy. (Just thinking of your waistline honey.)  How cost effective can that be if you're already married?  (Perhaps I should quit while I can still make it out of this hole alive.)

Whatever the case, this Valentine's day nonsense will be over soon and all guys can comfortably return to being the inconsiderate louts we were meant to be.

 Naturally, since I value my life, I did do the required V-Day shopping again this year and have narrowed down the card selection to a couple I think the little woman will really appreciate.

Check these out:

Sweet and to the point

No wonder I've been married for 46 years.  These cards are simply awesome dude…just awesome.

A little mushy but sure to win her over

To Listen to This One…Everybody MUST Get Stoned

We appear to be living in an age of stupefyingly bad ideas:  Our current Commander-in-Chief (don't get me started), reality TV shows, net neutrality,  McDonald's "Pay with Lovin'" ad campaign, and our indecipherable tax laws for starters.  However, nothing could top the absolute dumbest idea ever, Bob Dylan releasing an album of Frank Sinatra songs.

No, Really.

"I did it my way."

This steaming pile of cow flop is called "Shadows in the Night" and is the single most godawful toilet worthy effort ever recorded, which is really saying something for a Dylan project.  Not only does this no talent Minnesota mewling mutt bring zero interpretive ability to this collection of fine lyrics he also manages to make the aggregation sound like a combination of your cat in heat and a backed up garbage disposal. Holy crap, IT'S AWFUL!

One saving grace lies in the fact that Dylan has chosen no real Sinatra signature numbers for this audio spittoon.  The tunes are mostly "B" sides from the Sinatra songbook but they do manage to contain a buttload of  hydrogen sulphide.  Don't believe me?  Check out a sample at Amazon and go screaming into the night.

What old Robert Zimmerman (Dylan's real name) has managed to accomplish is no less than the creation of the single worst album of all time.  Some of my old radio pals argue that this isn't so, reminding me not to forget Pat Boone's effort to cover a bunch of acid rock ear offal a few years back.  And, never to be forgotten,  that idiotic William Shatner assault to our musical senses from the days before he needed a girdle.  NOPE, I say this thing is definitely THE WORST.

Remember any of these beauties?

And so many more…..

Payola, of course, doesn't exist.  The music industry and broadcasters have too much integrity to take money for promoting audio barf bags like "Shadows in the Night".  (Okay, that's a lie.)  But if they did, there is not enough jack in any bank to get this junk on the air.

Well, maybe.  I do have my eye on this boat…NO, not even for that!

There is one thing you can take to the bank.  When Dylan catches the big bus to that recording session in the sky Ol' Blue Eyes will be there with a very special 45 he'd like him to hear.

"Bobby baby, I heard what you did to my material and I'm gonna stick this in your ear."

Double Trouble

Not so long ago "double" had a positive connotation.  Double Bubble bubble gum, a Double Double from In & Out Burgers, doubling down on a promising blackjack hand and the ultimate double was a commercial featuring the always ultra hot Doublemint Twins.

"Double your pleasure double your fun

With double good double good Double Mint Gum"

No more!  Last year the the percentage of adult Americans considered obese went up from 25.5% of the population to an all time high of 27.7% and those of us in the 65 and older category jumped the most by adding 4 percentage points.  (Insert geezer high five here)  All of this lard we're sporting never winds up in a useful or attractive place.  Why can't it go to our shoulders or maybe our feet?  Nope, it all seems to want to orbit the gut or butt and, increasingly, our chin.  Actually it is more often chins.  Double and even triple chins are now the bane of most everyone over 40 and it sucks massively.  I believe my grandma called it a "full" face and insisted on associating it with good health.  Well, she's dead and can no longer peddle that BS.  It just looks FAT.

Of course some double chins are merely the curse of heredity but most are self inflicted.  Some wag once suggested that eating naked before a mirror might prompt all of us to ease up on the groceries.  Certainly the shock of dealing with your mug the first thing every morning has a sobering effect until all your self delusions have kicked in.  I don't think I'm the only guy who greets DAD in the glass these days.  There is enough chin blubber to go around.

There is some good news to report on the double chin beat and it doesn't involve surgery or dieting.  Tell you more?

There is now a specially formulated chemical called ATX-101 that can be injected into the skin and it kills off fat cells under the chin.  "Submental fat" they call it, most likely because it resides under your big fat head.  It's not Botox nor is it closely related to that always obvious facial fix.  It is a version of deoxycholic acid that occurs naturally in our bodies to help destroy fat.  Of course, the question that pops to mind is: WHERE THE HELL HAS THIS STUFF BEEN HIDING AND WHY HASN'T IT BEEN DOING ITS JOB?!

Tests are ongoing in both Europe and the United States and so far the results have been positive.  Sixteen-hundred patients have been injected and more than 90% have maintained a "meaningful reduction of fat after two years."

So, good news aging Boomers!  ATX-101 to the rescue!

However, it could be arriving just a tad late.  I Googled the Doublemint Twins yesterday just to refresh my memory and they appear to have been avoiding the salad bar just like the rest of us.  I'm guessing they must have doubled down on the buffet at Caesar's Palace when we weren't looking.  

To put a positive spin on this situation, they've probably lowered their standards considerably and may even be in the market for some attention from those of us hauling around a Y chromosome.
As  they say, "less is a bore."

Debbie Doublemint, now TWICE the fun!