Boys Behaving Badly

It all started with a purloined bottle of sloe gin, a particularly horrible British combination of gin and sloe berries that tickles your taste buds with delightful combination of ripe plums and an old toilet seat.  A grand drink indeed.  I no longer remember who scored the hooch, me or my pal Tom White, but we had a whole bottle with the seal still intact.  Along with two six-packs of Storz beer, a Midwest regional brew of some merit, the two of us were the owners of teenage boy gold.  As I recall, White had secured the beer at a small package store in Arnolds Park, Iowa a  burg that wrapped itself  around the shores of Lake Okoboji the premier lake in Northwest Iowa.  At 17, and sporting a growth of carrot colored beard, White was able to carry off the "I'm 21" vibe sufficiently enough to fool a bored shopkeeper who merely wanted the money,  a chance to close early, or could remember his own misspent youth.


Naturally there was a plan.  As captives in the ever so polite small city of Spencer, Iowa we and our other degenerate posse were constantly on the lookout for new opportunities to immerse ourselves in hot water.  We were too hip for the room and chafed at the restrictions imposed by our parents.  This caper involved the two of us telling our parents that we were staying at the other guy's house for the night.  We crafted our stories carefully and were certain we had covered all the bases.  Parents were at a disadvantage in 1965, no cell phones or tracking devices were available to check on miscreants like the two of us and we were home (not really) free.  Let the good times roll!

After clocking out of my summer job as a carryout at Swanson's Super Store, owned by Oscar Swanson "The Watermelon King", where I toiled hauling groceries behind old ladies who couldn't remember if their car was a black Cadillac  or a pink Rambler, I met up with White.  We headed north toward the lake in my 1954 Buick Century with four bald tires and no spare which my father had warned me never to take out of town.  (I can't live by your rules!)  We inventoried our booze supply and made sure we had two packs of Marlboros to enhance our evening.  (Did I mention that I was a D student?)

As I recall, the two of us were between girlfriends that summer and really had no reason to stifle our inclination to go full-tilt bozo.  Blame it on testosterone poisoning if you will, but we were determined  to have a criminally good time.

The plan--we really did have one--was to head for Gull Point which, if memory serves, was a state park with a very nice beach.  There we could hide out in the trees, drink booze, smoke cigarettes and pretend we were adults before grabbing some sleep on the sand. I remember both of us vowing that if we made it to our 60th birthday we would be guilty of shortchanging ourselves on fun.  What we hadn't considered was that the area was patrolled from the water by the Lake Patrol and that the park was closed after dark.  I don't know if we got a little loud or maybe someone in a nearby home saw the glow of our cigarettes but a patrol boat began circling the area sometime after midnight.  They were shining a searchlight  around the area where we were holding our impromptu party and demanding that we show ourselves.  Naturally we hit the deck and concealed ourselves in the underbrush.  When the boat went around the point and began searching the other side of the park we picked up our contraband and lit out for my car which sat alone in the parking lot at the entrance to the park.  We knew that it was very possible the cops would be checking on a lone car after hours in a state park.  Luckily the the red bomb with the bald tires was still there and there were no cops in sight.  I fired up the Buick and we headed for another beach.  We chose a residential area and stashed the car on a side street before hauling ourselves and the illegal refreshments to a public beach where we polished off the sloe gin and the last couple of beers before falling asleep on the sand.  I awoke the next morning feeling like I had gone ten rounds with Sonny Liston and was in receipt of a head pounding reminder to NEVER ever drink sloe gin again.  (An easy promise to keep more than 50 years later.) Tom looked to be in equally bad shape but neither of us said a word.  We were just a couple of almost adults who'd merely indulged in grown up pleasures the previous night.  It was just one of many stupid, yet fun, adventures that, come to think of it, more than prepared me for life in the radio business.

After brushing our teeth in the lake and shaking sand from our shoes and clothes we headed off to our summer jobs which, at least in my case, seemed to be especially difficult that day.  "You look like you don't feel well young man.  Let me show you where my car is...I think it's over here.  No, that's not it.  Now where did I park?  It's a Cadillac...no wait, maybe a Rambler."

Brewed in Omaha for juvenile delinquents of the Great Midwest

They Just Don't Get It...

(The following is a re-post from 2009 and, NO, they still don't get it.)

(Thursday April 16, 2009)
 Nobody seemed more surprised by the turnout for yesterday's turnout for yesterday's "Tea Party" than the dolts in big media.  It was almost comical to watch as the nimrods at CNN, MSNBC, ABC, CBS and NBC tried to minimize the stalwarts who are fed up with a tax system that asks only about half of us to pay the freight for keeping the federal government in business.  It would be something else if we actually saw our money being spent in a responsible way on things necessary for the country and its citizens continued survival and well being.  But, NO, those of us who still pay are being asked to fork over our hard earned jack for programs that exist only to perpetuate the careers of professional politicians who buy the gratitude and goodwill of an emerging class of perpetual dependants.

Less than 10% of the people of the United States, those making more than $92,400 per year, pay 72.4% of our national income tax.  That is WRONG!  It's a recipe for fiscal and emotional bankruptcy  of the country and it needs to stop NOW.  Nowhere in the constitution is there a guarantee  of health care, welfare benefits or federally funded retirement plans.  These are merely "nice to have" if the country can afford them. (A better case could be made for a right to free food and cocktails.)  This has gotten so completely out of hand that drastic measures are required, SOON.  This isn't a new dilemma created by our current recession.  It was crafted by professional politicians, both Democrat and Republican, whose penultimate goal is to be RE-ELECTED.  After all, the business of politics is re-election and it's "all business all the time" for professional pols.  America needs a flat tax NOW!  All citizens need to have some skin in the game.  A country cannot long survive if half the population contributes nothing to the cause.  A good start regarding a flat tax might be to require those making less than $100,000 to pay 15% and anyone making above that mark, 20%.

The insanity of the tax code now in place only invites disaster.  The Obama administration (and now Trump) must cease their profligate ways or we risk losing our republic.  No more cooking the books.  We're done enabling this nonsense.
(And here we are, nine years further down the road, deeper in debt with yet another messy income tax regime in place and no end to the nonsense in sight. Hope you enjoyed your April 17.)

Remembering Linda...

Linda Buckingham Copper

April 13, 1948--April 17, 2017

Custer, Wounded Knee and Me...

(This is a re-post of a blog from December 2008)

In the late 1960's I was a student at the University of South Dakota.  I was a broadcasting major and, thanks to a job as a disc jockey at KVRA radio in Vermillion, was able to pay for my education and get hands-on radio experience at the same time.  Ted and Doris Dolney owned the station and were like a second set of parents to me.  They allowed me, at various times, to program KVRA, host the morning show and indulge in flights of fancy that would have most likely gotten my ass canned anyplace else.  I owe them big time.

Wet Vermillion

Dry Vermillion

When I was in charge of station programing the bulk of available work hours were hogged by yours truly. Most of the other guys at the station were students too, but I had been there the longest and was the closest to Ted and Doris.  This meant that most weeks I worked seven days.  As I said, I was a student and needed the money.

In those days the FCC required broadcasters to carry a lot of "public service" shows designed for the betterment of their communities of license.  It was all boring crap that NOBODY wanted to hear but the government KNEW these shows were best for us all.  Up yours LBJ!!

Since South Dakota is smack dab in the heart of Sioux Indian country, one of the required programs we were asked to carry was something called "Oyate", which is Sioux for...uh...beats me.  It was a thirty minute pre-recorded show done entirely in the language of the Lakota Sioux.  Naturally I scheduled the show to run in what we radio types referred to as the Sunday morning ghetto.  It aired someplace in that wonderful 6AM until 10AM corral between the Back to God Hour and some Baptist thing.  Who knew?  Nobody was listening on a Sunday morning, not even me.  It was a sweet deal to run these programs.  Here's how I handled it:  The radio station was located on Main street in Vermillion and sported a huge picture window that looked into the primary On-Air studio.  This allowed people passing by to look in and see the monkey...er..disc jockey doing a show.  (It was a simpler time and folks in rural America were easily entertained.)  There were, in addition to the usual microphones and turntables, a couple of large reel to reel tape recorders that were used for the playback of shows like Oyate.  It was necessary to merely slap the tape onto the recorder; hit PLAY and the announcer on duty could exit the studio.  An easy way for a guy to turn a buck on a Sunday morning.  Had I been smart, I would have gone somewhere to grab a snooze every Sunday after starting the tapes, but nooooo.

Vermillion, being in South Dakota, had about nine million bars lining Main street.  In fact there were two saloons directly across the street from KVRA.  One of them, "Our Place", was owned by two guys named Freddy and Duane who bore no slight resemblance to a couple of small town undertakers.  Nice guys, but goofy looking.  As luck would have it, they were always open for business on Sunday mornings starting at 6.  It was really too perfect.  I would arrive at the station just before 6, load the tape decks, push START, place the phones on hold, and mosey across the street to greet either Freddy or Duane as they opened their swinging doors.  It was easy to watch the tapes roll and the phones flash in our "Window on Main Street" as I kept vigil from my perch on the bar stool closest to the door.  I'd shoot the breeze with Freddy or Duane as I enjoyed a "big red one", the always delightful tomato beer that is a favorite of most South Dakotans.  Sometimes I even shot some pool.  The boys always had the radio behind the bar tuned to KVRA so that I could closely monitor our very fine Sunday morning programing.

Though it was on the air every Sunday during my years at KVRA, I never understood a word of Oyate  and neither did Freddy or Duane.  Who spoke Lakota Sioux?! It always sounded strangely singsong to me.  Years after I was long gone from the frozen and dusty plain of South Dakota I discovered that Oyate had always been shipped to us "tails out".  For you non broadcast types, that was how many reel tapes were shipped in those days.  Some engineer had figured out that tapes lasted longer if they were sent out backwards and required a re-wind before airing.  As you may have figured, I had been playing Oyate backwards for at least two years.  No wonder the damn thing sounded so weird!  So, here we are forty (now 50) years later and I feel just a little guilty.  I'd like to apologize to the entire Sioux Indian nation.  Hey, why didn't you guys call?? (Oh yeah, I had the phones blocked.)  Just to show you how badly I feel about this unfortunate incident, if you're ever in the San Diego (now Coeur D' Alene) area I'd like to buy you a tomato beer.   Are we cool Kemosabe?

Driving Mr. Sam

I have been fortunate in my life to have collected a fairly large and eclectic posse of characters I'm privileged to call my friends.  The Skipper, Country Al, Tito, Johnny Boy, Tailspin Tommy, Battlin' Buzz , Nasty Ned, Cool Rick, Bobby T and my old buddy Willie the Moff to mention a few.  Last year I was lucky enough to add another, Sam Jankovich.  

Sam Jankovich

This past weekend I set the cruise control at 90 and hauled Sam from his home in Hayden Lake, Idaho to Billings, Montana for his induction into the Montana Football Hall of Fame.  He's in his 80's now and recently gave up driving.  I was honored to be his chauffeur for a couple of days just to be a part of all the hoopla surrounding such an event.  This wasn't Sam's first hall induction; he is already enshrined in several as the result of an outstanding career as a player, coach, university athletic director and a memorable stint as the general manager of the New England Patriots, but this one meant the most to him. 

I was introduced to Sam by his longtime friend and neighbor, Melissa Moss, who, along with Sam's beloved Margaret, a true saint, made the Hall of Fame journey.  It was an unforgettable experience.  Sam is a man of strong opinions who chooses not to keep them bottled up.  He also appreciates anyone who is inclined to lob a little rhubarb in his direction.

Sam: "You drive like crap.  I ought to push you out at the next gas station."

Me: " When you come out of the men's room there'll be a smoking patch of rubber where this vehicle used to be!"

Margaret, Sam and wheel man at Muzzy's

Then we laugh and move on to the next insult.  I love the guy! On the way Margaret (who'd heard it all before), Melissa and I were treated to tales from his days as athletic director at Washington State during the late 70's through early 80's in addition to stories of his seven year run as A.D. at the University of Miami where he won national titles in 1983, '87 and '89.  His two seasons as chief executive officer of the New England Patriots were anything but fun both fraught with turmoil as the team transitioned from the ownership of Victor Kiam to Robert Kraft.  According to Sam it was the least enjoyable time of his football life.  He later concluded his career as president and general manager of the Las Vegas Gladiators of the Arena Football League.

Sam's hometown of Butte marked the halfway point in our 500 mile journey to Billings and the Hall induction.  For a couple of months he had been reverently speaking of the wonders of something called the "wop chop"available only at the semi-legendary Muzzy's Freeway, a rustic joint just off the 90 freeway in Butte, run by an old pal of Sam's. Admittedly this gut bomb consisting of a battered slab of deep fried pork served on a bun with onion, pickle and yellow mustard lived up to Sam's superlatives.  I liked it well enough to buy one of Muzzy's extra large T-shirts and am already contemplating a return for more greasy goodness. I'll save the heart attack for later.


We arrived in Billings in time for the Friday night reception and cocktail party featuring many former and current Hall of Fame inductees, including Kansas City Chief's great, Jan Stenerud.  Many had been coached by Sam and were excited to see him.  On Saturday it was off to check out the Burger Dive in downtown Billings which was a recent winner of the Food Network's best burger contest featured on their "Man vs. Food" show.  The burgers, we all agreed, were most likely the best we'd ever had. Bring on the crash cart and alert the by-pass team.

Margaret and Melissa at the Burger Dive

 Saturday evening's awards ceremony was sold out with more than 500 people in attendance.  Sam was the first to be inducted; he gave a heartfelt and rousing acceptance speech which earned him a standing ovation.  The lighthearted bluster was gone.  It was a quietly emotional and humble friend who thanked all who made it possible for him to have had such a career.  It was a side of him I had not seen.


There were many media representatives, including a unit from ESPN, and all wanted their time with Sam. It made for a long day for a man in his ninth decade and he powered through it all like a champ.

One more interview

We began our return trip to Idaho on Sunday with another stop in Butte to see Sam's great grandson baptized in the Serbian Orthodox church he has loved all his life.  On Monday, before heading out, we stopped at the Metals Sports Bar to have breakfast with Ray Ueland the owner and another longtime friend of Sam's.  Ray had arranged a Sunday night gathering at the Butte Civic Center for Sam that was attended by many former players from his coaching days.  I snapped a picture of the plaque honoring him at that venue and remarked how much he looked like the late Danny Thomas in his heyday and wondered aloud why he now looks like Fred Mertz.

Sam: "I wish you were still on the radio so I could turn you off!"
Me: "Shut up and get in the car Fred."

On the road home we all agreed that the weekend had been a wonderful success, with Sam still marveling at all the kind words and accolades he collected from many he had mentored over a long career.
 The greatest use of a life is to spend it on something that will outlast it.  Sam Jankovich has accomplished that with class and humility.  His is a life well lived and I am proud and grateful to call him friend.

Sam: "Shut up and drive radio boy."

Stick 'Em Up! An Hour Stolen!

Now, where the hell did  I put that ladder?  I'm in the garage trying to remember where I stashed that rickety wooden step-ladder that is needed no more than two times a year for changing the batteries in my smoke alarms AND the clocks--all of them--because the government insists on either adding or stealing an hour from our day.  

Here's my message to all the states who participate in this annual nonsense:  CUT IT OUT!  Make up your mind already!  Either keep the clocks on daylight saving time (my recommendation) or lock us in to standard time and be done with it.  Some states and territories already refuse to participate in this semi-annual nonsense which already makes for plenty of confusion for their neighboring states and drunk dialing relatives residing more than a couple of time zones away. 

Some states, like mine, make things even more confusing by employing multiple time zones.  Thanks elected geniuses!  Just this week some nimrod in the Idaho legislature proposed putting the panhandle (where I live) on Mountain Time because our neighbor, the people's republic of Washington is considering going on year-round DST effectively moving them to Mountain time from Pacific.  Just what we need!  It's bad enough we have to live next door to that gulag, this blockhead wants to let the commies in Olympia decide what time it is in Idaho??!!!  I AM depressed!

Maybe we should all merely frolic in a time zone of our invention.  How about the Jimmy Buffett  time zone?  JBT, where it's always five PM.  Works for me.  No need to set your clock to any time other than the cocktail hour come this Sunday.  (Sometimes I dazzle myself with good old common sense.)  Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a happy hour out there with my name on it.  

And, just a minute,  there's my hammock ready to rock me into a short nap.

In life, pain is mandatory but suffering is optional.  The ladder is all yours.

"Come on FIVE O'CLOCK!"

You've Come A Long Way Baby! Wobble Water For Women...

My mother never drank much.  I can only recall my parents having a couple of drinks with friends maybe once a week and usually on a Friday or a Saturday evening.  What struck me as strange was mom's penchant for drinking whiskey, usually a blended Canadian or a Kentucky bourbon, neat.  Outside of a rare fling with a daiquiri she avoided the sweet "girly" libations and stuck with "three fingers" of sippin' whiskey.  A classy move all the way.

This recollection was prompted by the March 1st introduction of Jane Walker scotch by the makers of Johnny Walker and numerous other adult libations, the Diegeo Company.  Their press release stated the objectives of the new product like this: "In recognition of women who lead the way, we are unveiling Jane Walker, the first ever female iteration of the brand's iconic Striding Man logo.  Jane Walker is the celebration of the many achievements of women and a symbol of empowerment for all those on the journey towards progress in gender equality."  Wow!  How's that for mansplaining? In a nod to that equality, Jane Walker has not been powered down for the more delicate feminine constitution.  Nope, it packs the same wallop of brother Johnny.  It's genuine double rectified bust head guaranteed to get you just as loud and obnoxious as the boys.  It packs all of the promised essentials of the whiskey food group: sloth, envy, greed and delusions of grander all in a gorgeous looking bottle.

It's good to know that Diageo is donating $1 from the sale of each bottle to women's causes and that, come next month, 50% of the company's board of directors seats will be held by women.  Both are enlightened moves by a management team that has obviously done some homework.  

How this experiment goes is anybody's guess.  At present only 30% of scotch drinkers are female.  A bump up to 50% would be huge and presumably it would make Jane Walker a lock for future promotion.  This much I do know, mom would give it a pass.  "Tastes like fly spray", was her answer to a proffer of scotch.  Perhaps we should have been keeping a closer eye on that can of Raid in the garage?  

I'd be interested to hear from women who are willing to give this new hooch a try.  Single guys might want to date it too. (Less maintenance.) Here's to equal opportunity impairment! Remember not to fly that 747 after an evening with Jane.  Don't worry, you'll both pee just as much.