That Dog Is Crazy, But She Has Company

A blonde woman I know has two dogs, a male and a female.  Both are rescues living a dog's Life of Riley in her care.  She's an animal lover who is never spare with her affection or willingness to spend whatever it takes to insure the health of these two privileged pooches.  Were I of the canine persuasion there is no doubt in my mind that my fondest wish would be to get my kibble at her house.  In fact several of her friends dearly hope there is such a thing as reincarnation allowing them a shot to return as one of her rescues.  She is the patron saint of dogs.

I, on the other hand, though I love dogs, have always been "in need of improvement" when it came to canine care.  Our family always had dogs when I was a kid and, though my brother and I enjoyed playing with the mutts when we felt like it, we were often neglectful when it came to maintenance.  Mom took over the feeding and grooming when she tired of nagging and shaming us to do our doggy duty.  (Hey Steve, I said DUTY right here in the blog!)  As adults my brother became a much better dog owner.  He has two completely undisciplined Boston Terriers  that he loves and dotes on diligently, whereas I had a rescue dog during the years my daughters were young, whom I never  replaced once the girls were off to college and she off to bow wow heaven.  Terri, like most dogs, was the world's worst piggy bank.  A never ending pile of money went into her care which returned nothing but crap perpetually in need of being picked up (whenever the neighbors were looking).  In other words, if you're thinking reincarnation, it's wise to hope for something other than being a dog in my care.  It would be doggy hell.

Where was I?  Oh, yes, the blonde lady and her two dogs...

Davis, the Mr. Cool of dogs.  No barking, no b.s.

The male, Davis, (a very cool name indeed) is the Perry Como or Bing Crosby of dogs. (If you're under 50, Google those guys or maybe think Fonzie.)  Nothing phases the calm, cool and collected border collie.  He's friendly,  unflappable and--best of all--is not a barker.  The female, Dory, is his polar opposite.  She is the Lindsey Lohan of dogs, a bat shit crazy redhead who needs constant supervision and a jumbo prescription of Valium.  She barks, jumps, races around chasing anything that moves, both real and imaginary.  She belongs in puppy prison without possibility of parole.  That being said, I kind of dig her.  She's my kind of gal, sort of a Caril Ann Fugate to my Charlie Starkweather.  (It's history kids.  Look it up!)  We make a good team, though I confess she has me beat when it comes to chasing squirrels.

Helter Skelter eyes = Lindsey Lohan behavior

As of this writing the blonde lady is attempting to keep us both in line with strong discipline and rewards for good behavior.  So far neither of us has earned a gold star.  She's considering Prozac for both of us and a shock collar for me, the dunce cap and naughty chair having been resounding flops.  Hey, I can't live by her rules!

Well, it's nearly time to chase the neighbors' dog or maybe some dust motes or imaginary intruders.  Anything will do.  Perhaps we'll get a dog treat if we stay off the furniture.

Come on Dory, let's stir up a whole kettle of crazy.  This mutt is down to clown and, since genes will out, so am I.  Woof! Woof Woof Woof!

One dizzy bitch

Don't fall for the innocent look.  She's plotting her next move.

A Good Time At 7000 Feet

My family is small.  Two daughters and their husbands, a grandson, a brother, his wife and son, two first cousins and a second cousin comprise the entire posse.  My late wife's family is, by most measures, a considerable collection of brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins numerous enough to require name tags to keep things straight.  It's a jolly clan in spite of political and geographical differences.  They genuinely care for each other and it works.  Luckily the Buckinghams continue to consider me a part of the clan and include me in their family celebrations,  for which I am grateful.  

This past week three of my nephews hosted a celebration of life for their parents at Sylvan Lake Lodge in the Black Hills of South Dakota and most of the family made it.  It was an unforgettable few days of laughter, great food, water sports, hiking and sightseeing in one of America's best locations.  If you haven't been, put it on your list of places to see before it's too late.  At least see Mount Rushmore.  It will make you proud to be an American.

Here are a few pictures...

George and the boys.

Getting around in the Black Hills is often interesting.

Fun at Sylvan Lake

Daughter, Katie, and her family

These guys like me because I gave each their first illegal drink.

Have you noticed how much younger pilots are these days?

Buckingham, party of thirty, your table is ready.

Raise The Drawbridge! Just Say NO To Hollywood North...

Hard to beat this.

Uh oh, there goes another one.
Cars with California plates have begun circling the neighborhood and it's getting a little scary.  Denizens of the once Golden State, apparently weary of insane taxes and the endless frustration of one party liberal lunatic rule, are in the process of discovering North Idaho and Coeur D' Alene in particular.  They have checkbooks at the ready and aren't afraid to use them.  TMZ has taken to calling our little slice of paradise "Hollywood North" because of all the celebrity ex-pats who've discovered the area.  Kanye and Kim anyone?

When I fled San Diego county four years ago for the shores of Lake Coeur D' Alene I thought it would be years before others discovered this dandy hideout but, according to the latest statistics, I now live in the fastest growing county in the fastest growing state in the union.  Crap!  Houses and condos all around me are selling at an amazing rate and price doesn't seem to matter.  All the gold in California gives every impression of no longer being in a vault in Beverly Hills in somebody else's name but northbound in a great big hurry.

So long peace and quiet.

Just last week two of my nearest neighbors sold their home to a couple from Santa Monica and yesterday my next-door neighbor, Cool Rick, a successful local real estate tycoon called to let me know that he just sold his place for a crazy amount of money and said he had several out of town jaspers ready to buy mine should I care to cash in.  It's not often you get the chance to double your money in four years.  Maybe it's worth thinking about?  I wonder what the market is like in Alaska?  I do have to live somewhere and could maybe get used to wearing a parka in June while dining on smoked moose and whale blubber.  Texas has some appeal, the only drawback being that it's full of Texans. The Black Hills of South Dakota are beautiful and still relatively undiscovered.  Deadwood has gambling too!  North Dakota?  Twenty million acres of cow toilet has little appeal.  Back to Florida?  Nah, it's full to overflowing with New Yorkers and assorted East Coasters looking to dodge ridiculous state tax bites.

What is a retired dilettante to do?!  Californians are on the way to Idaho towing their lifestyle behind them.  The 'hood could soon be gnarly.  I wonder if they know about our winters, or the bears?  We do have bears...and they're HUNGRY.  Bring cash and food.

Cool Rick: "I got their cash and I'm NOT going to Disney World!"

Bloody Mary? Bloody Crime!

A bloody crime!

Nothing exceeds like excess and there is excessive mischief going on in the world of adult beverages.  With stealth and a persistent effort to top each other, bartenders nationwide have taken to turning the most dependable and heretofore delightful eyeopener, the Bloody Mary, and created something very close to brunch at Caesar's Palace.  Whole chickens, hamburgers, skewers of shrimp,  assorted vegetables and scotched eggs are being jammed into perfectly good and, until now,  wonderfully simple tomato juice and vodka combinations.  These $50 and $60 abominations sport cutesy names like: Monster Mary and Chubby Mary.  Spot on monikers but lousy cocktails!

Where's the dog?

Why do some people feel it necessary to mess with perfection?  A Bloody Mary should be easy enough for shaky hands recovering from the previous night's debauch to prepare with ease.  As a public service this blog is ready to demonstrate proper Bloody Mary making simple enough for even the most intellectually challenged of us to master.  Don't mess this up!

All American Bloody Mary!

cocktail prep

If you have chicken, hamburgers, shrimp and other foods carefully prepared, put them on a plate and give them to the dog.  All you'll need for a perfect Bloody Mary is booze and some form of tomato.
For this demonstration I found myself without tomato juice and found that it really didn't matter.  A couple of tomatoes or maybe a splash of ketchup should do the trick.

Any vodka, tequila or gin will suffice as your basic cocktail building block. (NEVER RUM!)  A couple of ice cubes will give the drink a bit of a chill but always beware of using too much ice as it can promote choking.  Fewer ice cubes also promotes safer drinking and walking as the beverage will have a "see through" patina to it.  (Safety first!)

I hope you have been taking good notes as the weekend is here and it's time to put on your party pants.  If you've followed my directions correctly, you have the perfect tall and frosty Bloody Mary containing all the essentials of sloth, envy, greed and delusions of grandeur needed for the perfect weekend drink.  I give you, the"See Through Mary".

Cheers! See you in re-hab!

All Those Young Faces...

 I went in search of nostalgia when I made my way from my house to the local 4th of July  parade on Wednesday.  Coeur D' Alene, Idaho, my home for the past four years, now sports a population topping fifty-thousand but is still a small town in many ways.  We all know our neighbors, say "good morning" to people we meet on an early walk, pitch in to support local charities, all essential  elements of small town life .  In many ways it's reminiscent of the tiny Midwestern towns I called home in the 1950's and 60's.  

The parade route was packed with young and old alike and the weather was a perfect 72 degrees with clear skies, a welcome respite from what has been a too chilly Spring and early Summer.  Fire trucks, scouts, the VFW and the American Legion were well represented and it was good to see that there was at least one World War II vet still around to be honored.  The audience applauded and cheered the marchers, most now long past squeezing into uniforms that fit combat versions of themselves.  The crowd was there to celebrate being alive, free and living in a country blessed like no other.

 Then it happened.  Coming down the street six or seven abreast I saw what appeared to be marchers with placards nearly as large as they were.  At first it was impossible to see what message they bore but soon it hit me.  Each held a large picture of either a young man or woman in uniform with the dates of their births and subsequent deaths.  In every case the date of death was recorded in this new century.  Bright young faces normally looking forward to families, careers, and all the good stuff of life passed before me baring  2013, 2016,  even 2018 as the date the dream stopped.  There seemed to be so many, though I didn't count.  One small city and all of those names.  I began to multiply it by all the other cities and towns and felt ashamed that the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq had largely fallen off my radar.  It was surprising and disappointing.

As I walked home those faces filled my mind with questions.  The war of my era, Vietnam, was front and center in the daily news cycle.  The front page of most major papers had at least one or two stories with a Southeast Asia dateline and a continuing tally of casualties and fatalities often led television's evening newscasts.  In twenty years (1955-75) our country lost 58,220 young men and women only to find ourselves in 2018 still arguing over what exactly the mission was and where we went wrong.  One thing certain, most all of us were paying attention and were more than a little concerned about the loss of all those lives.  Was it because so many were draftees instead of volunteers?

I am embarrassed to admit that before seeing this assembly of way too many youthful faces now gone forever I had given little, if any, thought to the war in Afghanistan.  Why is that?  Why has the press ceased to provide full coverage of a war to which we have now given nearly 2000 young lives  and seventeen years of our time?   According to information I found on the net, the United States still has 14,000 troops in that dismal sand trap and our expenditures thus far stand at nearly three trillion dollars.  THREE TRILLION!  That's not counting the dollars spent in Iraq where we lost close to 5000 troops and still maintain a military presence.  I'm no dove and have always believed in a strong defense but at some point we have to wonder if slowly losing some of our best and brightest to a war so few of us appear to understand or care about should continue unexamined.  Maybe it's time to starting asking some questions of our politicians and the media.
Why so long?  What is the mission? How much longer will it last and at what expense?  Why is there so little news coverage?

Let's start asking for the kids who no longer can.

"A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to the United States of America for an amount up to and including their life."

Flush Twice For English

Seventy-five percent of cellphone users (see ALL of us) go to bed each night with our phones on or near the bed.  Not me baby!  I bury that sucker under pillows, blankets and dirty t-shirts in a mound at  least an acre or two south of my bed.  No nocturnal slave bracelet for this cowboy!  It's bad enough that troubles and people you don't want to talk to can track you down when the sun is up, let sack time be a phone free zone.

I didn't make up that seventy-five percent figure.  A company called SureCall just released that stat and others regarding our irritatingly ubiquitous cellular companions.  Here are a couple more that gave me whiplash:  Ten percent of users check their phones during sex, with an astonishing forty-three percent reporting that they checked their phone while having relations two to ten times in the past year.  This naturally begs the question of just what the hell they were looking up during this obviously merely routine session of mattress polo.  Ball scores?  Ways to spice up your love life?  Maybe seeing if there was something better on TV?  Whatever the case, it could be time for some serious thought  regarding  your commitment to the relationship.  

The most unsurprising revelation from SureCall was that sixty-nine percent of smart phone users check their phones while using the toilet.  (This goes a long way toward explaining the demise of newspapers and magazines.)  What this study didn't touch on was how many are doing this in public restrooms.  I don't get it.  Do these idiots blabbing away behind stall doors or standing at a urinal think that whoever is on the other end of the conversation can't hear what's going on??!!  Also, how many times have you thought someone in a men's or women's room was speaking to you only to discover that they were on the phone?  

"Yes, I did see that catch."

"Hey, pipe down!  I'm on the phone here."

I don't know about you but I have zero interest in EVER being on the receiving end of a conversation initiated from a restroom, unless, of course it's from someone with good news or money.  It really does pay to have the "pants waiting" feature.

Remember, flush once for Spanish and twice for English.  Or, is it the other way around?

Hey, did you guys wash your hands?

Bargains? When Did This Stuff Get So Expensive?

When I was a kid it fascinated me to hear parents and grandparents lament the cost of most everything.   It seemed as if these stories of complete dinners costing $1.49, homes less than $5,000 and cars being driven off showroom floors for hundreds not thousands of dollars were pure apocrypha.  Never would I be caught complaining of the bargains "in my day" to whipper snappers in my future.

Well, here I am with seventy years of road behind me and almost daily the cost comparisons of what seem like only a few years ago and today slap me upside my old grey head.  Some prices appear to be in line and a few items--if memory serves--have become real bargains.  Clothing, for example, seems reasonable.  No doubt this is because most of what we wear is manufactured in international backwaters where labor is cheap.  On the other hand I do believe most of us who have attained "senior" status find that cars and hotel/motel rooms loom large in the "when did they get so expensive?" department.  My first house cost $27,500 in 1973 and today that won't snag a halfway decent car.  Of course automobiles today are light years superior in all respects when compared to 1973 tin .  Motels and hotels?  Debatable.

Motel $50

Motel 6 was Motel 6 because it cost $6 to stay there in 1962 when the first one opened in Santa Barbara, California.  That works out to roughly $50 in today's dollars and for whatever reason that doesn't appear to make sense.  Depending on where you are, the average bill for a motel or hotel with the basic amenities (see indoor plumbing) runs around $100 per night today.  Naturally cities like New York and L.A. are considerably higher and destinations such as Cat's Ass, Nebraska, Frozen Monkey, Montana and Cain't Read, Kentucky far less.

It's mere conjecture on my part but I do believe, because we largely travel by air these days, that hotels get more of our business than motels.  Motels hark back to the days when the only kind of trip most of us took was by car as we traveled to see relatives or to maybe to get to a vacation destination.  In rural and small town America there were many mom and pop motels along the main roads that often advertised their free TV (black & white) and magic finger beds that, for a quarter, would massage away your road weariness.  

"Look kids!  This motel even has a playground!"

Car travel with my parents was always contentious.  My father insisted on "making good time" and wanted only to stop for gas.  Mom, on the other hand, preferred a leisurely journey and wanted to stop frequently for meals and potty breaks.  She would grumble as she made and packed sandwiches for the cooler dad would jam into the backseat to separate my brother and me.  The fights over snacks and sandwiches between the two of us invited threats to pull over and "fix" the problem by the man in the driver's seat however "making time" was paramount.  He kept his foot on the accelerator, fired up another Camel and rolled on.  As the sun began to set there were increasingly insistent requests from mom to find a "nice motel" for the night.  Dad would turn up the ballgame and flick on the headlights as he said, "Don't worry.  We'll find a nice place soon...a really nice place."  Mom would point out that there were more and more NO VACANCY lights coming to life as we passed another motel.  I always knew we were in trouble when dad started paying attention to potential places to stay with a worried look on his face but, by then, it was usually too late.  We'd wind up at some motel that had a broken Coke machine, rusted metal lawn chairs in front of every room or, worse yet, consisting of some rustic "cabins" that hadn't been refurbished since the Truman administration.  Dad would always try to punch it up by pointing out how good the beds looked and how lucky we were to have that "sanitized for your protection" strip deployed over the toilet seat and bathroom glasses that were wrapped in some kind of paper.  Mom bought none of it and would give him the death stare until mercifully sleep overcame us all.  Well, most all of us...

I wonder if there are still any sandwiches left in the cooler?  If Steve snagged the last one he's getting clobbered!

"Hey, this one has a vacancy.  We made good time! Great price too."