"I Can't Remember When He Weren't Around..."

For "men of a certain age", (a dandy TV show by the way), there are very few of life's touchstones that call for a slightly watery display of emotion.

For me, and most boomers of the male persuasion, the first real challenge came in the form of a dog named "Old Yeller". Millions of grade school boys in 1957 were grateful for a darkened theater when that beautiful canine got his ticket punched for the big fire hydrant in the sky. The sniffles were audible and the popcorn was soggy but, damn it, nobody's kid sister saw us cry. The movie "Shane" was a bit of a leaky situation too.

As we moved into our teens it became fairly easy to get through emotional scenes in movies. In the 1960's most guys were far too busy attempting to cop a feel from their date to pay the slightest attention to what was on the screen. (I recall having been at the Corral Drive-In theater in Spencer, Iowa for no fewer than ten showings of the movie "Cheyenne Autumn" and never once saw the film.) I'll catch that one on Netflix one of these days real soon. By the way, I can pretty much guarantee that there is no crying in "Cheyenne Autumn". At least it didn't sound like it.

What got me to thinking of guys "misting up" was something that happened just the other day. For the first time in years I heard Walter Brennan's "Old Rivers". It really isn't a song; it's more of a talk piece with a rinky-tink piano in the background, one of those off the wall hits that happened frequently during the heyday of Top 40 radio. In fact, old Walter had certified gold on his hands in 1962 when "Old Rivers" made it all the way to number 5 on the national charts.

"Old Rivers" is simple, as most true hits are. It reflects on a young man's friendship with an old character he knew long ago. There is one of these guys in every young boy's life. Beaver Cleaver had Gus the fireman and Dennis the Menace had good ol' Mr. Wilson. Usually it's somebody north of 70 who is a bit of a grouch with a heart of gold. Most guys never forget these "sort of" mentors and secretly hope to have some young kid tag along after them when they too reach their dotage.

Most women will recall "Old Rivers" with little fondness. It's one of those songs that they punched away on the car's AM radio when it popped up in 1962, but guys didn't. I'm pretty sure that guys were the reason it made it to number 5, and we'll shed a tear or two when we listen to it when no one is around. (note: If you are a man that doesn't get a little misty when you hear "Old Rivers", well...you were raised by wolves.)

Women have "Steel Magnolias" and roughly a bazillion other movies and sad songs. Just let us have Walter Brennan, (Grandpappy Amos to some), and his classic "Old Rivers".

How old was I when I first seen old rivers?

I can't remember when he weren't around

Well, that old fellow did a heap of work

Spent his whole life walking plowed ground.

He had a one-room shack not far from us
And well, we was about as poor as him
He had one old mule he called Midnight
And I trailed along after them.

He used to plow them rows straight and deep
And I'd come along near behind
A- bustin' clods with my own bare feet
Old Rivers was a friend of mine.

Tha sun'd get high and that mule would work
Till old Rivers'd say "Whoa!"
He'd wipe his brow, lean back on the reins
And talk about a place he was gonna go.

Chorus:
He'd say, one of these days
I'm gonna climb that mountain
Walk up there among the clouds
Where the cotton's high
And the corn's a-growin'
And there ain't no fields to plow

---Instrumental---

I got a letter today from the folks back home and
They're all fine and crops is dry
Down at the end my mam said, "Son
You know old Rivers died."

Just sittin' here now on this new-plowed earth
Trying to find me a little shad
With the sun beating down 'cross the field I see
That mule, old Rivers and me.

Chorus:

Now, one of these days
I'm gonna climb that mountain
Walk up there among the clouds
Where the cotton's hig
And the corn's a-growin'
And there ain't no fields to plow.

With the sun beating down 'cross the field I see
That mule, old Rivers and me....

Walter Brennan

Pitchers and Catchers

Baseball comes back in the Spring because, well, we NEED it.
In most of the country this has been one of those Winters that have folks thinking that maybe firing up the car with the garage door closed isn't such a bad idea. The gray skies and frozen miles of continental U.S. tundra have been grim.

But now, in Florida and Arizona, the boys of Summer are reporting to their respective training camps and pennant hopes abound for fans of even the most moribund clubs. Any Washington Nationals fans out there?

Here in San Diego we always have hope. Two trips to the World Series in forty years is enough to keep the flame burning for Padre fans. This could be their year! (Feel free to check back with me at the All Star break.)

Football, on the other hand, is a different story. I NEVER hold out hope for a Charger Super Bowl trophy. You could send your kids to college by betting against the Bolts in the playoffs. Naturally, I have a theory...

Baseball players are better people than football players. Oh sure, America's pastime has its share of drunks, philanderers, and all around reprobates but none of them seem to come close to the clowns of the gridiron.


Take, for example, the Chargers' cornerback Antonio Cromartie. In this morning's San Diego Union-Tribune it is reported that he is past due on about $25,000 in child support after missing his February payment for several of his children. The paper goes on to say that Mr. Cromartie has at least seven children with six different women in five states. (It would appear that he is a firm believer in interstate....uh..commerce.)
Cromartie signed a five year contract with the Chargers in 2006 with a $7.35 million dollar guarantee; so he can easily afford his expensive hobby.
By the way, he has been named in at least five paternity suits in the past three years. This guy is a serious playah.
His big concern of late has been how distracted his football playing has been because of his "off field issues". Here's the quote: "My head wasn't in there, I was dealing with my kids and their moms. It had my mind somewhere else."

If there is a God, PLEASE let there be no more like this guy in ANY SPORT. The fact that someone as morally bankrupt as this piece of meat can find employment with a professional sports franchise is an embarrassment. Maybe even more embarrassing to all of us is that there are at least six different women in five states dumb enough to sleep with him. School reform anyone?

Come Father's Day, his kids should demand a recount.

Second Chances

My grandson, Dan, will be four months old on Monday.
I turn 62 in a month, yet I feel I have known him all of my life.




We laugh at the same things and delight in using our "outside voices" when watching television. Burps, farts and pratfalls are sophisticated comedy as far as we're concerned. And, though he's not yet able, I'm sure that Dan will soon join me in an intricately planned raid on grandma's candy cupboard.
Yes sir, the circus train has left the station and two major clowns are the engineers.

Though I only saw him a couple of times a year, my grandpa Fred Copper was one of the foremost influences on my life. He and I could talk for hours about everything from baseball to

slapstick comedy and never grow tired of each other. (Well, he may have, but he never let on.) There is something in that generation skipping buffer that invites a closeness that is, at least in some cases, superior to parent and child. Maybe it's the unconditional nature of a grandparent's love that facilitates a closeness that a parent subconsciously fears.

I don't know, but it IS different.

Fathers of sons have, for my money, the toughest job in parenting. You worry that if you are too soft on a boy you do him a disservice in that he knows nothing of life's hardships and becomes a man who "can't take a punch". On the other hand, if a father hands out a non-stop curriculum of criticism and an unforgiving demand for toughness and attention to detail, he risks losing forever the love of his son. It's a very delicate balance.

I lucked out. I have two wonderful daughters who looked to me for laughs during their formative years. A son probably would have killed me.

I'll leave it to Dan's dad, Doug, to carry the heavy father load.

Grandpa will be in the bullpen; always ready with the comic relief.

I still recall the answer I gave when at age 5 grandpa Copper asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. I said, "I want to be a bum."

Not missing a beat, he said, "That's fine. Just make sure that you are a RICH bum."

I took his advice and got into broadcasting.

When the time comes for me to ask Dan the same question I'm hoping that he aspires to slightly more lofty goals than his grandpa had. But, no matter what his answer, my reply will always be the same: "Be a rich one Danny, be a RICH one."

We grandpa Coppers pass on the wisdom of the ages.

Stop Me Before I Pay Again!

I have to see my tax guy tomorrow.
Nothing personal, but boy do I really HATE TO SEE HIM.
I'm getting started early this year so that my rage may come to a boil earlier and thus, with luck, dissipate in time for Christmas. I doubt that will happen, but it's worth a shot.

Every year millions of us drop our collective pants and subject ourselves to a virtual high colonic from our federal and, in most cases, state government. It's painful and falls just short of statutory rape. (Okay, you're right...it doesn't fall anywhere near short.) It is an outrage. Our tax laws punish the productive and encourage the politicians. The worst of all possible situations.

It would be fine if the fatasses in Washington spent our money on defense and absolute necessities, but they don't. Like every teenage boy's favorite uncle handing out whiskey and cigars, they grab all of our cash with both hands and buy the votes of constituents too dumb to realize they are being patronized. Oh, and once they are done spending the loot of real taxpayers, they merely crank out money that they don't have. Anyone who ran a real business like the pols run government would find themselves bunking with "Bubba" in the big house faster than you can say "entitlement". By the way, when did hand outs become entitlements? The only entitlement our founding fathers promised us was the entitlement to MAKE IT ON OUR OWN...or not. And, if you make it, you should be entitled to keep most of what you earn. That's the only way this country does not become one big Ponzie scheme, which it would appear, is the road we're on. Hell, I'd rather have Bernie Madoff handling my finances than pantloads like Barney Frank, Nancy Pelosi, and Chris Dodd. What have they ever done to make this country a better place to live?
The business of politicians is to get re-elected and they are always in campaign mode.
"Who's vote can I buy today?"

Well, what happens WHEN THERE IS NO MORE MONEY???

Now, more than ever, America needs a flat tax. A tax of 10 to 20% paid by everyone guarantees that the country will have enough money to take care of our national defense and to help those who are truly unable to take care of themselves. It would ensure that productive citizens would all have "skin in the game" and a vested interest in making sure that their money was well spent. The time has come to do this!

If our politicians continue to be the towering mounds of jello that they have been in the past and no reform is on the horizon, I have another suggestion:

The state of California, (now going broke to the tune of $20 billion dollars), has proposed installing a network of computerized methane emissions monitors to measure flatus from farms, landfills and "other sources". (You know who you are.)
So far, the California Air Board has spent about $400,000 on these devices and hopes to share the information with NASA. (Just another example of our gasbags going to D.C.) You CANNOT make this up!

Here is an idea.....

Simply put these "flatus-o-meters" over Sacramento and Washington D.C. I'd bet my last tax dollar that these two gasbag magnets could provide enough energy to run our country for the next thousand years. Hell, there might even be enough hot air to finally launch that Barney Frank Macy's parade float we've all been clamoring for.

Has anybody got a pin?

Get Off My Planet...NOW!

I miss those old scary movies where there was a trap door in the floor that would open up and dispatch people to a watery death or some unexpected deadly demise.


My choice for instant justice would require a pit full of hungry alligators--VERY hungry alligators.

I have begun keeping a list of folks I deem too repulsive for hanging or strangulation and have reserved my very special Alligator Surprise exclusively for them.



MEMO: Would the following people please report to my alligator pit. (You're on the menu.)

1. All terrorists...I have gone through airport security one too many times because of you a**holes.

2. People who make up needlessly fancy names for ordinary items. For example: "Chabbata" for what is obviously merely a freaking sandwich. Do it and die!

3. The person who invented those idiotic paper towel dispensers that require restroom attendees to "wave your hands" in front of the machine in order for the towels to magically come forth. I have NEVER seen one work properly and feel that such flawed engineering invites the death penalty.

4. Any guy over the age of 15 who wears a baseball hat backwards. INTO THE PIT! NOW!

5. Any person using a cell phone for entertainment. By this I refer to people who forgo a book while waiting in an airport and instead inflict on all within earshot the drone of an inane conversation with another troglodyte cell phone boob.

6. Anyone caught dangling prepositions. (Don't you know that you could go blind?)

7. People who insist on putting an "of" where it doesn't belong. (IE. It was too hard "of" a job. No "of" dammit!)

8. Sales clerks who try to sell me an extended warranty on ANYTHING.


I have more, but this is a good start.

All of you I called, stand right there....... I hope you brought your bathing suit. Al likes a little texture with his vittles.

When 1954 became 1967

We own three cars.

Two people; three cars.

It really is stupid, but I blame it on California. You need a "beater" for just running around and at least one late model ride with a top that goes down so that you can enjoy the sunshine and semi-fresh air that you delude yourself into believing your tax dollars are providing.

As I said...I blame California.

When I was a kid in the Midwest my family had one car and, like most everybody else, it was the car that dad drove to work. I don't recall that any of my pals came from multi car families. Well, the kids of car dealers always seemed to have plenty of rolling stock at the curb, but that was different.

In the late 1960's I, like most baby boomers, was asserting my independence at college and having pretty much the time of my life as I basked in the fresh air of being on my own and away from parental restraint. Doing just enough to get decent grades, I hoped to ride the good time train for just as long as possible before getting drafted. It seemed to work.

I had a radio job that paid decent money. My classes were in broadcasting, theater and film; not exactly a killer curriculum. And, I had the coolest looking bright red Ford Galaxy XL rag top to transport me to all the parties I was physically able to attend. Sweet.

In one of my classes I met one of my best friends of all time, Doug Steckler. Doug is, without question, one of the funniest people on the planet. He is funnier by accident than most people are on purpose. We have remained friends for more than forty years and he still makes me laugh out loud. (Something I rarely do.) He spent time with Chicago's Second City and was one of the key people in the creation of television's SCTV. In the 90's he joined me on the lowest rung of the show biz ladder when he teamed with Tim Conway Jr. on KLSX radio in Los Angeles.

What started me thinking about cars, college and Doug Steckler is this:

Every time I get in my newest car I think of this true story that happened to Doug during our partying days at the University of South Dakota.

In those days all cars started with a key. Today, many cars require a fob to be inserted in the dash where a computer reads a code before allowing a button to be pushed to fire the engine. No key.

Here is the story:

It was a Friday night in the Fall of 1967. Doug and I were at a party having our usual WAY too much fun. We both told ourselves that we needed to call it a night fairly early because we were scheduled to be on a chartered bus early Saturday morning to go to Minneapolis with some theater appreciation class we were both taking for an easy A. No problem.

I can't remember if we were drinking cheap scotch or cheap rum, but we had picked-up plenty of it on our way to the party. I'm told that we had a marvelous time.

I left around midnight and somehow found my way back to my apartment. Doug left around 2 AM and had some trouble negotiating the whereabouts of his car, a 1954 green Chevrolet.

He had been helped to his car by well meaning revelers and miraculously made it home. (Drunk driving was not frowned upon in those days as it is today. Like Andy Griffith's Mayberry, every small town in the Midwest had its very own Otis Campbell.) The next morning I picked Doug up at his home. He was living with his parents and sister at the time. We both were massively hungover, but with the resilience of youth managed to ride the bus to Minneapolis and actually enjoy the play we saw at the Tyrone Guthrie Theater. I still recall that it was something by George Bernard Shaw.

When we returned to South Dakota that evening Doug was in for a big surprise. His dad was waiting for him at the door of their house and looked more than a little put out. The state police had just left the Steckler abode and that was just the icing on the cake. It seemed that the night before Doug had driven a brand new 1967 Plymouth home to the Steckler garage. In his impaired condition, Doug had pointed to the new Plymouth when being "helped" to his ride and the key to his '54 Chevy HAD WORKED! What were the chances???!!!!

A million to one? I'm sure a car guy could hazard a reasonable guess, but not me. About the only good news that Doug got that evening was that the law student who owned the Plymouth had decided not to sue or press charges. I seem to remember that there were witnesses to some rather unbecoming party behavior on the part of the future barrister.

I hope that you youngsters take a lesson from two old reprobates like your Uncle Ken and Uncle Doug. The next time you find yourself "over served", point to a yellow taxi cab when somebody asks "which car is yours?".

Just don't try the '54 Chevy, that one is Doug's...I think.

"At Hope" ?? How About GET REAL!

Washington state senator Rosa Franklin thinks she has the answer to what to do with that state's "disadvantaged" or "at risk" children. She wants to soften the stigma that comes with those descriptions by replacing them with a new one, "at hope".

The Democratic, (there's a surprise), legislator thinks that negative labels are hurting children's' chances for success and that ditching "at risk" for "at hope" is just the ticket for these kids.

"We can really put too many negatives on our kids," said Franklin, who is the state Senate's president pro tem. "We need to come up with positive terms."

Of course this kind of nonsense does NOTHING to help troubled children, but the senator and her like minded liberal minions will feel better about the whole thing. It's the same kind of mentality that has given us a generation or two of people who expect a blue ribbon just for showing up. "Everyone's a winner!" "Don't pay any attention to that mean man who said you weren't good enough to make the team......EVERYBODY MAKES THE TEAM!"

Unadulterated crapola reins supreme in our society and it is already manifest in a public school system that refuses to flunk students who can't add, subtract, or write a simple declarative sentence. How we pay for it is in our face every day. Ever notice the little pictures of hamburgers and french fries on fast food cash registers? Those are for the kids we wave through graduation who somehow never learned how to make change.

When young men used to get drafted into the Army many a moron was saved through the tough discipline of a hardened veteran drill sergeant. No man who experienced basic training could fail to laugh at the idea of being treated as an "at hope" project. To a drill instructor, all recruits are "hopeless maggots", "dip shits" and worse. The inspiration and motivation of the soldier depends almost entirely on the knowledge that if he is successful in learning to fight and win he will never ever have to repeat basic training. If he flunks, the hell starts all over again until he succeeds.

"No fair" is the common lament of children. Somehow they think that life has a referee who makes sure that all of our ups and downs are distributed in an even handed manner. It hurts when they learn that isn't the case, though some never quite grasp the obvious.

A couple of hundred years ago the folks who didn't catch on to this basic truth wound up eaten by bears. Today we have beepers on trucks to alert people who are too stupid to get out the way when the vehicle is in reverse. Pathetic.

Idiotic politicians and political correctness do no favors for kids or society in general. At risk kids are AT RISK and not At Hope. It is only when we acknowledge a problem that we begin to fix it. Children need to know the score and to understand that they alone are responsible for their own success or failure. The longer we attempt to make ourselves feel better by denying the unmistakable truth the more our country is AT RISK.