Showers California Style

In 1980 I took a job in San Francisco.  While waiting for my family to join me in our new home I spent lots of time walking the streets getting a feel for what the locals refer to as Baghdad By the Bay.  It was, and still is, a city unlike any other.  I remember jumping on a cable car at California street and Montgomery one afternoon only to discover myself seated next to a very large man sporting an embroidered jacket proclaiming himself to be "Floyd, the Golden Shower King of San Francisco".  I was no longer in Kansas,  maybe not even on the planet.  I was in the weirdest city in the state of Anything Goes, USA.

What made me recall California and showers (not the Floyd variety) was a small story that made the wires yesterday about the Water District of Southern California and its on going campaign to get the citizens of that drought stricken zoo to take shorter showers.  No more long luxurious rinses for the denizens of SoCal!  Nope, the district now has its very own radio station on Pandora called the Water Lover's Station which features non-stop rain songs of short duration.  The district actually spent employee time to develop a 100 song playlist featuring songs such as:  "Purple Rain" (must be the 4 minute edited version), "Have You Ever Seen the Rain" and other stone smashes that roll 24/7.  (Hey, I wonder if the station is hiring?)

I'm fairly certain that the commissars at the WDSC are depending on their customers to do the honorable thing and call a halt to their wash down after listing to just one heavy hit from yesteryear and will not be sending monitors into any bathrooms.  Give them time.  This is the state where dumb ideas come to thrive.  Sacramento is the petri dish of irrational expectations and the home of politicians who can resist everything except the temptation to pander to their often misinformed constituents.

I wonder if this new shower station takes requests?  How about a continuous loop of Carole King's "It Might As Well Rain Until September"?  And, if old Floyd is still around, I'll bet some fed up Californians may have a job for him at the Water District of Southern California, or, better yet, in Sacramento.

Flyspecks

 

Doctor Walter Palmer's office is once again open for business in Minnesota.  The dentist who was for several days the most reviled and hated man on earth, after it was reported that he had killed Cecil the lion in Zimbabwe, wasn't actually at his River Bluff Dental Clinic but several staff members were seen entering the building.  It's no surprise that the doc has yet to show his face since there seems to be no shortage of animal lovers ready willing and able to kill him.  That's right, KILL him.

Don't get me wrong, I don't condone what Palmer did.  I've never understood guys who insist on earning their testicle merit badge by killing critters who've done them no harm.  Apparently Cecil was part of an Oxford University research project and was tame enough to be sporting a GPS collar.  The fact that Palmer was conned into traveling all the way to Zimbabwe and forking over $50k for the "thrill" of knocking off what amounted to an over sized house cat would seem punishment enough, but in the age of misplaced priorities there are many who want the doc to swing for his mistake.  Really?

The world in general, and liberal Americans in particular, seem to be more concerned with the welfare of animals than of human beings.  For example:  Ask yourself who is the bigger detriment to society, a stupid dentist who kills an innocent lion, or a guy who fathers ten kids and doesn't stick around to support them monetarily or emotionally?  Certainly the latter costs us more money and leaves a trail of lives in jeopardy and likely to be unfulfilled and unsuccessful.  Cecil's death is the easy one for us to become enraged over.  It costs us nothing and we feel good about ourselves for being angry.   

Increasingly we are a nation of people just sitting around waiting to be insulted or angered about symbolic slights or perceived injustices.  The demand for removal of the Confederate flag from just about anything and everything is a timely example of this useless symbolism.  Will it make one bit of difference to any American's well being if that flag disappears?   Will there be less black unemployment?  Greater racial harmony?  Not likely, but it may assuage some white guilt and make some of  us FEEL BETTER. 

 

Another flyspeck that seems to resonate with the more superficial among us is the campaign to change the name of the NFL's Washington Redskins.  Personally, the team's owner seems like the Mount Rushmore of jerks but I applaud his refusal to change the iconic brand name he owns.  Does anybody really think that changing the name of the team will make life a scintilla better for the native Americans we long ago snookered out of what was rightfully theirs?  Ah, but liberal whites will feel better about a phony sense of accomplishment if only they can make that one happen.  

And, they wonder why Donald Trump resonates…


"Liberalism in the 21st Century is, for the most part, a moral manipulation that exaggerates inequity and unfairness in American life in order to justify overreaching public policies and programs."--
Shelby Steele

An Anniversary

Last week there were lots of news stories commemorating the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Most of the coverage was concentrated on the devastation leveled on the Land of the Rising Sun by the atomic bombs code named Fat Man and Little Boy. Naturally, like most events viewed in hindsight, the second guessing about the necessity of a smack down of this magnitude which rendered so much damage and loss of life was mostly of the "we really didn't need to do it" variety.  The contention that "if only we had dropped the bombs off shore the Japanese would have surrendered" is most often postulated.  This chestnut is usually espoused by folks not around at the time of World War II and/or by mental midgets who think Barack Obama and John Kerry are doing a crackerjack job of handling our nation's defense.  In other words, numbnuts.

Anyone who has spoken with veterans of the war in the Pacific, especially those unfortunate enough to have been taken prisoner by the Japanese, will, to a man, tell you that Japan had no plans to surrender.   American captives witnessed the daily sticks and stones drilling by men, women and children preparing for the Allied invasion they knew was coming.  The bombs dropped by B-29 pilot Paul Tibbetts and company were the sole reason the Japanese accepted the Postsdam surrender terms seventy years ago today, August 14, 1945,  and signed the formal documents aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay on September 2.

The courage of President Harry Truman to order the bombings and Paul Tibbetts crew to complete the mission most likely saved a couple of hundred thousand American lives that would have most certainly been lost during a land invasion of Japan.  Both men reportedly slept well for the rest of their lives knowing they had made the right decision and carried it out in a timely manner.  I seriously wonder if we ever again will be blessed to have such men.   Doing what is required to put an end to wars we never seem to start these days finds us timid and reluctant.  Career politicians with an eye on polls seem fearful of making any commitment that risks even a whiff of unpopularity with an impatient and often uninformed electorate.  The U.S. is poorer for it, and, I fear, because we are currently led by an embarrassingly naive and timid administration, we invite war with far greater consequences than the country has ever experienced. The world will always be home to those who seek to dominate others.  To show weakness and lack of will only invites conflict.  We pull our punches and equivocate at our  peril.


"I thought to myself, 'Gee, if we can be successful, we're going to prove to the Japanese the futility in continuing to fight because we can use those weapons on them.  They're not going to stand up to this thing.  After I saw what I saw I was more convinced that they're going to quit.  That's the only way I could do it," - Pilot Paul Tibbetts


"Wisdom consists of the anticipation of consequences." -Norman Cousins  

Have Junk, Will Travel

The end wasn't pretty.

With a "San Francisco or bust" taped to his tin can carcass, the Canadian bucket of bolts known as Hitchbot  set off from Salem, Massachusetts on July 17 for a U.S. tour designed to take him from East Coast to West.  It didn't work.

Maybe the boots were too much?

The Ryerson University research project would have been better off attempting an exploration of its native Canada where the folks are fewer and the politeness plentiful.  Instead, Hitchbot wound up decapitated and disarmed in a Philadelphia alley just two weeks into the planned coast to coast navigation of America.  It was one of those big East Coast Philly welcomes reserved for folks who can't decide between Geno's and Pat's when it comes to where to go for cheesesteaks.  I'm guessing that Hitchbot chose wrong.

This misadventure has given me an idea…

(Two hours later)  There, I feel better after that brief nap.  Big ideas always tire me out.

After watching yesterday's Republican debates and also observing the complete incompetence of our current administration, I have decided on an experiment of my own.  This afternoon I placed our less than efficient I-robot vacuum cleaner by the curb in front of our home in Coeur d' Alene, Idaho sporting a sign saying: I'm D.C. Bound!   Please give me a lift and help sweep the crooks away.  I have also pinned an identification badge sporting the name "Jeff" to this contraption in an attempt to appear friendly.   I have know many Jeffs in my lifetime and am reasonably sure  that the name practically guarantees harmlessness.  Of course, if you are a politician, all bets are off.

This will be a real test, America.  Washington needs a good sweeping out and Jeff is just the hunk of junk to do it!  He won't take up much space in your car or truck should you decide to help us out.  In fact, he can easily ride in the trunk or on the lap of any willing passenger.  The only maintenance he'll require is an occasional re-charge if you're near an outlet.  Your country is counting on you!  Don't leave him broken and battered in the parking lot at the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota.  (A delightful side trip if your a fan of corn and Lawrence Welk)

I just checked and, so far, nobody has stopped for Jeff.  Maybe I'll join him as he waits. Our local forecast is calling for clear skies and no rain.  The sun goes down around 8:40 PM in these parts.  Let's hope it won't go down on our country.

Just remember the world is a freak show.  In America we're lucky enough to have a front row seat.

"Hi, I'm Jeff.  Washington sucks!  Let me fix it."

Huh?

Me: "I think I'll get some sun on the beach."

To which my wife replies, "Yeah, but you're my son-of-a-bitch."

We have exchanges like this every day and, though entertaining, it may signify that it's past time to do something about our hearing.  Like so many in denial baby boomers, we are predictably beginning to plow past the expiration date on much of our on board equipment.  Reading glasses, aching backs, sore knees and the usual litany of busted anatomy has smacked us upside our 50 plus heads and we don't like it even a little.

The hearing thing and the loss of almost instant recall of all things trivial bothers me the most.  If it weren't for Google and the Internet Movie Database I would be spending countless nights staring at the ceiling trying to put names to character actors--heck even stars--I've seen hundreds of times in familiar old movies.  Names and faces I used to instantly identify are now hopelessly misfiled in the clutter of my aging mind.  Wait a minute, maybe they're on the cerebral Rolodex?  Nope, not there.

Almost daily I'm reminded of numerous conversations between my mother and me regarding her near deafness in the final few years of her life.  "You don't have to shout," she'd insist as my brother and I would explain to her all the positive points of wearing a hearing aid.  "They're for old people," was the response.  She was 89 at the time and, yes, you did have to shout.

I was in my late twenties when I first began to notice a loss of hearing in the high range, yet it didn't concern me as I continued to wear headphones cranked up to mach 10 three or four hours every day as I shoveled the hits on the radio.  Over forty years of that kind of abuse your ears pretty much take early retirement.  On the plus side, I have become a very accomplished lip reader and closed captioning is a necessity for those of us who know for a fact that today's actors MUMBLE.

So, as far as Linda and I are concerned, it isn't yet time to shop for hearing aids.  Those things are for OLD people.  We'll continue to muddle along missing some important conversational fragments but taking comfort in the fact that perhaps we will also miss some hastily proffered critiques of each other that might better be left unsaid.

"Are you going to wear those crappy looking pants again you old fart?"

"Yeah, I like 'em too.  These khakis really are a work of art."

Now, if I could just remember who played Penny on Sky King...

California Dreamin'...

Those of us who grew up in the East or endured the bitter cold winters and steamy summers of the Midwest all wanted to be in California.  The Mamas and Poppas assured us we'd all "be safe and warm" if we were in L.A. and we believed them.  The weather was fine and the things we cared about seemed to happen in the Golden State.  

I spent half of my 67 years in California and, for the most part, thought the place lived up to expectations.  Sometime in the early 1990's it began to turn.  Traffic and taxes grew exponentially worse and the condition of the roads and infrastructure began to noticeably deteriorate in spite of the growing cost of living in lotus land.  Property taxes, though slowed by proposition 13, snowballed along with sales, income,  and gas taxes yet the state remained broke, the public schools barely adequate and English in danger of becoming a second language.

But I digress.

A friend recently sent me this You Tube video of some major Southern California freeways and city streets from the 1960's.  It reminded me of how great the place used to be and why I no longer live there.  For those of you who remain, this may almost be beyond belief.  If you are a former Californian, this video should affirm your decision to flee.  

It truly was once the state of dreams.

Escape From Squirrel Town

Squirrel Town:  Bring peanuts!

I knew it would happen one day.  On our walk this morning my wife ran out of peanuts for the squirrels that patrol and control the park just around the corner.  We had to run for it but made the street just in time to dash for the safety of home.  The furry rodents are extremely territorial and regard Park Street as the River Styx or, at least, an alligator infested moat and, to my knowledge, have never ventured across.

Safely out of range,  I reminded Linda that the little bastards are nothing more than flea-bitten rats with big heads and bushy tails whose cartoonish appearance fools people into believing they are friendly and would like nothing more than to pal around. WRONG!  The cagey miniature cons sit up on their haunches and swish their tails as they beg pathetically using those dumber than Al Sharpton eyes.  Their brains are about the size of a lentil and it's often necessary to point out where the peanut you have just tossed their way has landed.  

As it is with all creatures, there are some exceptions to the short bus riding denizens of squirrel town.  A  roly-poly rascal I've nicknamed "Kramden" is the Jackie Gleason of squirrels.  He knows right where to plant his pudgy carcass when he sees the peanut momma hove into view.  Right away he is in begging mode with the twitchy tail and paws at port arms looking for all the world like he's auditioning for the lead in a road company production of Oliver Twist.  "Please, sir, may I have some more?"

Kramden in action

Lois Lerner?

So, it's off to the supermarket this afternoon for re-supply of unsalted, (gotta watch that squirrel hypertension),  in the shell peanuts for tomorrow's sojourn through squirrel town.  The walk always does us good and the squirrel shakedown is a constant reminder of Jerry Brown's California tax policies that helps drive folks from the Golden State.  Or, is it the IRS I'm reminded of as we stroll among the rodents?  Come to think of it, was that IRS head honcho John Koskinen with his paw out this morning? Or, is he still busy lying to congress?  And, by the way, where is Lois Lerner?


Perhaps if we follow the peanuts...

"Lois and I have no idea what happened to your peanuts."  Right Lois?  Lois?

I