...because someone actually, incredibly, impossibly...left a comment on one of my blog entries.
Eighty-eight entries over seven months, and I finally have a comment. A comment!
Writing a blog is a little like standing at the end of a pier, and each day you put a message in a bottle, stuff a cork in its mouth, and hurl it into the sea. One doesn't know if those messages go anywhere; for all you know the corks leak and they are all sitting on the ocean floor, twenty yards from where you threw them.
But no! Apparently, there really is an Internet!
To Jim, writer of my beloved comment, whoever and where ever you are, thank you. My day is made.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Baby Name, Drug, or Country? The Answers:
Here are the answers to my "Baby Name, Drug, or Country?" quiz.
The first five are all names of pharmaceuticals.
The second five are all baby names, taken from online sources.
The third set of five are countries.
Believe it, or not.
The first five are all names of pharmaceuticals.
The second five are all baby names, taken from online sources.
The third set of five are countries.
Believe it, or not.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
The Supremes: Lock and Load
In its final decision for the session, the Supreme Court has come to the conclusion that, yes, the founders really meant that the right to bear arms means you, dear citizen, can own a gun. It only took them a couple of centuries to figure that out.
Now that that's settled, let's move on. Apparently, you can own a gun (without a lock! OMG!) and keep it in your house. Nice first step, guys. (I say "guys" because Ruth Ginsberg, that liberal ninny, objected as part of the 5-4 vote.)
But what about those of us who spend half the day in our cars? Right now, here in the People's Republic of Kalifornia, the law says I'd have to keep my gun in a locked box in the trunk. Unloaded.
That's not exactly the best location for a weapon when you're set upon by a gang of thugs in the bowels of Los Angeles at midnight.
"Yeah," you say, "And what the hell are you doing in the bowels of LA at midnight?" Uh, earning a living, along with a heck of a lot of other folks.
Not all of us live and work in Beverly Hills. Every day, several hundred thousand of us Californians have to run the gauntlet from suburbs to our jobs along some pretty mean streets. Remember, they didn't put the freeways through the good neighborhoods. So, if your Hyundai takes a crap in the middle of any number of less-than-desirable 'hoods along your commute, you could have about as much luck surviving as a sparrow, with a bad wing, at a cat show.
Last year, for example, there were 12,000 assaults, 10,000 robberies, 500 rapes, and 784 murders attributed just to gang members, according to the LAPD's website. And just how do you think Mr. Crip and Mr. Blood feel about Joe Lunchbox who can't carry a gun to protect himself? Pretty happy about that, I imagine.
Remember, LA has something like 26,000 known gang members who really don't give a shit what LAPD Chief Bratton says about not carrying weapons. Like it or not, the homies know that it's better to be judged by a jury of your peers than to be carried in a coffin by your friends. Street smarts win out every time over criminal codes.
A growing number of states have laws permitting the carrying of a concealed weapon, assuming that A) you're not a felon, and B) you're not crazy. You might be surprised to learn that following the institution of concealed carry laws, weapons-related crime in these states didn't increase. Apparently, grandma doesn't turn into a vigilante or mass murderer just because she can carry a .22 in her purse.
As someone once said, "an armed society is a polite society". If the homies had to contend with masses of potentially armed citizens, they'd politely go back to robbing Korean liquor stores like in the old days, and leave the rest of us alone.
Ya feelin' me, Supremes? Just don't take another 200 years to figure it out.
Now that that's settled, let's move on. Apparently, you can own a gun (without a lock! OMG!) and keep it in your house. Nice first step, guys. (I say "guys" because Ruth Ginsberg, that liberal ninny, objected as part of the 5-4 vote.)
But what about those of us who spend half the day in our cars? Right now, here in the People's Republic of Kalifornia, the law says I'd have to keep my gun in a locked box in the trunk. Unloaded.
That's not exactly the best location for a weapon when you're set upon by a gang of thugs in the bowels of Los Angeles at midnight.
"Yeah," you say, "And what the hell are you doing in the bowels of LA at midnight?" Uh, earning a living, along with a heck of a lot of other folks.
Not all of us live and work in Beverly Hills. Every day, several hundred thousand of us Californians have to run the gauntlet from suburbs to our jobs along some pretty mean streets. Remember, they didn't put the freeways through the good neighborhoods. So, if your Hyundai takes a crap in the middle of any number of less-than-desirable 'hoods along your commute, you could have about as much luck surviving as a sparrow, with a bad wing, at a cat show.
Last year, for example, there were 12,000 assaults, 10,000 robberies, 500 rapes, and 784 murders attributed just to gang members, according to the LAPD's website. And just how do you think Mr. Crip and Mr. Blood feel about Joe Lunchbox who can't carry a gun to protect himself? Pretty happy about that, I imagine.
Remember, LA has something like 26,000 known gang members who really don't give a shit what LAPD Chief Bratton says about not carrying weapons. Like it or not, the homies know that it's better to be judged by a jury of your peers than to be carried in a coffin by your friends. Street smarts win out every time over criminal codes.
A growing number of states have laws permitting the carrying of a concealed weapon, assuming that A) you're not a felon, and B) you're not crazy. You might be surprised to learn that following the institution of concealed carry laws, weapons-related crime in these states didn't increase. Apparently, grandma doesn't turn into a vigilante or mass murderer just because she can carry a .22 in her purse.
As someone once said, "an armed society is a polite society". If the homies had to contend with masses of potentially armed citizens, they'd politely go back to robbing Korean liquor stores like in the old days, and leave the rest of us alone.
Ya feelin' me, Supremes? Just don't take another 200 years to figure it out.
Eight Hundred Minutes of George Carlin. - By Joshua David Mann - Slate Magazine
Here's a reminder of what we are going to be missing now that George Carlin has left us:
Eight hundred minutes of George Carlin. - By Joshua David Mann - Slate Magazine
Eight hundred minutes of George Carlin. - By Joshua David Mann - Slate Magazine
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Baby Name, Drug, Or Country?
Here's a fun challenge for you, with a follow up link to read more on the implications surrounding the naming of children in the African-American community.
Ready? Identify the following names as either: A) baby name; B) pharmaceutical; or C) country. We'll post the correct responses at a later date. No fair Googling for answers...
Alli
Iressa
Calan
Rosula
Cialis
Abiba
Harith
Keyara
Laquinta
Massassi
Tuvalu
Benin
Reunion
Djibouti
Burkina
A Roshanda by any other name. - By Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner - Slate Magazine
Take particular notice of the paragraph identifying which population segment is most likely to name their baby with a "black" name. Very interesting...
Ready? Identify the following names as either: A) baby name; B) pharmaceutical; or C) country. We'll post the correct responses at a later date. No fair Googling for answers...
Alli
Iressa
Calan
Rosula
Cialis
Abiba
Harith
Keyara
Laquinta
Massassi
Tuvalu
Benin
Reunion
Djibouti
Burkina
A Roshanda by any other name. - By Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner - Slate Magazine
Take particular notice of the paragraph identifying which population segment is most likely to name their baby with a "black" name. Very interesting...
Music To Die By
Suppose you're on your deathbed.
Some vital organ of yours has reached its expiration date and your doctor says "Gee, that's a bummer," and all that (s)he and the hospital staff can do is "watchful waiting" which is medical-speak for "we're going to come in and check your pulse every half-hour until you don't have one."
This isn't far from how my mom died a little over six years ago. I do have to give the attending ER physician credit for one action that offset his incapacity to do anything, and made him look like a real human being who sincerely cared he'd just delivered a death sentence.
A few hours after my mom was admitted and transferred to a private room, he entered bearing a crumpled brown paper bag, from which he produced a short stack of compact discs, a player, and headphones.
"Would you like to hear some music, Mrs. Woods?" he asked.
My mother nodded yes. I was a little surprised; she didn't hear very well and didn't listen to music often at home.
The doctor shuffled through several titles, and she picked a collection of Glenn Miller recordings. "Of course!" I thought; these were the songs of her youth, the songs she heard when she was a freshly-minted adult, away from home, building C-47's in Long Beach, and dancing nights at the ballroom near the pier.
So I placed the headphones on her and loaded up the CD. I could hear music leaking from the little ear buds, and asked if the volume was OK...
The next day I returned the rumpled paper bag and its contents to the doctor's office at the Beaver Clinic. He came out to meet me, and I guess my expression told him that my mom had passed away. I thanked him deeply for the music and told him that it was a touching gesture.
So here's the question: what's on your deathbed playlist? A full album from a favorite artist? Perhaps a custom mix prepared especially for the occasion?
Obviously, you'd want each cut to be special; you've got no time for frivolity, so now's not a golden opportunity to renew your acquaintance with Cindy Lauper or MC Hammer. Unless, of course, your name IS Cindy Lauper or MC Hammer, and you want to recapture your fifteen minutes of fame.
But, it's not. So, what's it going to be?
Go rummage your record collection and let me know. And then I'll tell you mine.
Some vital organ of yours has reached its expiration date and your doctor says "Gee, that's a bummer," and all that (s)he and the hospital staff can do is "watchful waiting" which is medical-speak for "we're going to come in and check your pulse every half-hour until you don't have one."
This isn't far from how my mom died a little over six years ago. I do have to give the attending ER physician credit for one action that offset his incapacity to do anything, and made him look like a real human being who sincerely cared he'd just delivered a death sentence.
A few hours after my mom was admitted and transferred to a private room, he entered bearing a crumpled brown paper bag, from which he produced a short stack of compact discs, a player, and headphones.
"Would you like to hear some music, Mrs. Woods?" he asked.
My mother nodded yes. I was a little surprised; she didn't hear very well and didn't listen to music often at home.
The doctor shuffled through several titles, and she picked a collection of Glenn Miller recordings. "Of course!" I thought; these were the songs of her youth, the songs she heard when she was a freshly-minted adult, away from home, building C-47's in Long Beach, and dancing nights at the ballroom near the pier.
So I placed the headphones on her and loaded up the CD. I could hear music leaking from the little ear buds, and asked if the volume was OK...
The next day I returned the rumpled paper bag and its contents to the doctor's office at the Beaver Clinic. He came out to meet me, and I guess my expression told him that my mom had passed away. I thanked him deeply for the music and told him that it was a touching gesture.
So here's the question: what's on your deathbed playlist? A full album from a favorite artist? Perhaps a custom mix prepared especially for the occasion?
Obviously, you'd want each cut to be special; you've got no time for frivolity, so now's not a golden opportunity to renew your acquaintance with Cindy Lauper or MC Hammer. Unless, of course, your name IS Cindy Lauper or MC Hammer, and you want to recapture your fifteen minutes of fame.
But, it's not. So, what's it going to be?
Go rummage your record collection and let me know. And then I'll tell you mine.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Shit, George Carlin Is Dead
Carlin was soooo much more than being famous for seven dirty words. To label him a "comedian" would be like saying a triple-crown winner is a nice pony. George Carlin was a keen observer of American life, a terrific writer, and a top-notch performance artist. Each show he ever did was a carefully crafted presentation, and, unlike many of his peers, his skills only sharpened with age. Carlin checked out at age 71 (71!!!) at the top of his game, and there's nobody who can replace him. He was to have received the Mark Twain award soon, and if ever there was a guy who earned a comparison to Twain in this day and age, it would be George Carlin.
Monday, June 16, 2008
A How-To Article: Writing Your First Novel Using Dave's Patented "Chinese Restaurant" Method
It's fun! It's easy! Here's how to generate a best-selling story line! Expand the synopsis you'll create below and wham-mo: on to the book tour.
All you have to do is pick options from the accompanying lists, just like you would at a Chinese restaurant... you know, one from column "A," one from column "B" until you (or in this case, your audience) has eaten their fill. So, follow along and you're good to go... all the way to Barnes and Noble's "New Fiction" shelf.
Ready to become a famous author? Let's do it!
When (fill in the name of your lead character):
a) kills
b) marries
c) divorces
d) sleeps with
e) buys a beer for
f) borrows money from
g) steals the identity of
(fill in the name of another character)
a) all hell breaks loose
b) discovers they're clairvoyant
c) finds out they have a child they never knew about
d) realizes they're actually pawns in a deadly game
e) is transported back in time
f) is now wanted by the FBI
g) is now wanted by the mob
h) is now wanted by both the FBI and the mob
i) has made a pact with the devil
j) has made a pact with the devil, the FBI and the mob
k) was really the shooter on the grassy knoll.
Soon enough, (character name) is
a) embroiled in a plot with
b) hunting
c) being hunted by
d) racing against time with
e) travelling the world with
f) trapped in a swamp with
g) trapped in a burning building with
h) trapped in a political scandal with
i) trapped in a bathroom without toilet paper with
j) hanging by a thread with
k) hanging by their feet from a toilet within a burning building with
a) the President
b) mom
c) aliens
d) mysterious strangers with secret agendas and funny accents
e) evil corporate big shots
f) Jesus Christ
g) the "ex"
who has just finished:
a) planning a surprise party
b) making a nationwide broadcast
c) threatening the world with mass destruction
d) taking the cat to the vet
e) losing the secret microfilm down the drain
f) sleeping with (character name's) best friend.
Fortunately, (character name) has:
a) a magic wand
b) telekinesis
c) a reformed alcoholic brother
d) double-jointed shoulder blades
e) keys to a Ferrari
f) keys to a safe house
g) keys to a safe house with a Ferrari
h) the phone number of the last honest cop in the city.
Soon, (character name) will be:
a) firing their pistol
b) firing a machine gun
c) firing a rocket launcher
d) firing their manager
e) firing off emails
f) firing up the barbecue
in order to subdue:
a) the forces of evil
b) good guys who have mistaken (character name) for a bad guy
c) roving packs of wild dogs
d) giant crickets
e) public criticism.
OK, got your plot line? Great! Be sure and share that first royalty check with me. A dedication would be nice, too.
All you have to do is pick options from the accompanying lists, just like you would at a Chinese restaurant... you know, one from column "A," one from column "B" until you (or in this case, your audience) has eaten their fill. So, follow along and you're good to go... all the way to Barnes and Noble's "New Fiction" shelf.
Ready to become a famous author? Let's do it!
When (fill in the name of your lead character):
a) kills
b) marries
c) divorces
d) sleeps with
e) buys a beer for
f) borrows money from
g) steals the identity of
(fill in the name of another character)
a) all hell breaks loose
b) discovers they're clairvoyant
c) finds out they have a child they never knew about
d) realizes they're actually pawns in a deadly game
e) is transported back in time
f) is now wanted by the FBI
g) is now wanted by the mob
h) is now wanted by both the FBI and the mob
i) has made a pact with the devil
j) has made a pact with the devil, the FBI and the mob
k) was really the shooter on the grassy knoll.
Soon enough, (character name) is
a) embroiled in a plot with
b) hunting
c) being hunted by
d) racing against time with
e) travelling the world with
f) trapped in a swamp with
g) trapped in a burning building with
h) trapped in a political scandal with
i) trapped in a bathroom without toilet paper with
j) hanging by a thread with
k) hanging by their feet from a toilet within a burning building with
b) mom
c) aliens
d) mysterious strangers with secret agendas and funny accents
e) evil corporate big shots
f) Jesus Christ
g) the "ex"
who has just finished:
a) planning a surprise party
b) making a nationwide broadcast
c) threatening the world with mass destruction
d) taking the cat to the vet
e) losing the secret microfilm down the drain
f) sleeping with (character name's) best friend.
Fortunately, (character name) has:
a) a magic wand
b) telekinesis
c) a reformed alcoholic brother
d) double-jointed shoulder blades
e) keys to a Ferrari
f) keys to a safe house
g) keys to a safe house with a Ferrari
h) the phone number of the last honest cop in the city.
Soon, (character name) will be:
a) firing their pistol
b) firing a machine gun
c) firing a rocket launcher
d) firing their manager
e) firing off emails
f) firing up the barbecue
in order to subdue:
a) the forces of evil
b) good guys who have mistaken (character name) for a bad guy
c) roving packs of wild dogs
d) giant crickets
e) public criticism.
OK, got your plot line? Great! Be sure and share that first royalty check with me. A dedication would be nice, too.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The Stuff I Never Got
I wonder sometimes if the stuff you wanted, and never got, is as important and influential on one's life as the things you did acquire.
As a little kid, I always wanted a Flexible Flyer. There's probably a better name for them, and most people think of Flexible Flyers as sleds, which the company did manufacture. No, this was a sled with wheels...big solid disks with thin solid rubber tires, rolling on ball bearings, that allowed it to scoot down sidewalks and streets with amazing speed. To my seven-year old eyes, it was to a wagon what a Ferrari is to a Ford Focus. The smooth wood platform balanced over a red-painted steel frame, every bit as purposeful as a racing car. Wagons were for hauling stuff. Flexie Flyers were for hauling ass.
I never got one. On rare occasions I'll spot one in an antique store, and I'll glide my fingers over the wood, the steel rails, and test the smoothness of the ball-bearing mounted wheels. I'd probably buy one now, except for the fact that I'm no longer three and a half feet tall and fifty pounds; My middle aged body would dwarf the Flyer and render it useless.
Another item I never got was a real baseball mitt. I know; how could any American kid survive without a mitt? It was something every boy used every single day back then. Somehow, I never got one. Today I see them in the sporting goods stores; so many different manufacturers now! Nike sells gloves? WTF? Rawlings and Spaulding still are around, though the ones our local Big Five carries all seem to be made in China or Taiwan. Why I'm surprised by this, I do not know.
Here's a real irony for you: I did have a mitt, but never knew it. When I was born, my grandfather, Sherman Abbott, purchased a really nice catcher's mitt for me. It was so nice, my parents never let me have it until I was too old to use it. Today it sits beside my bed, accompanied by a softball my grandfather later gave me from down in his basement. God bless ya, Grampa. At least you tried.
Back around my first year of high school, my dad let out with a little bit of information I've dreamt about ever since... Apparently someone at work had an old single-cylinder motorcycle they wanted to give away. Give away!!!??? Sign me up. And not just any motorcycle, mind you; it was a DUCATI. Now, while I wasn't as well-versed in motorcycles then as I am today, I knew Ducati to be more than just a foreign made bike, Ducati's were legendary in their style and racing heritage. Me? With a Ducati? Oh. My. God.
Nothing ever materialized out of the rumor; I was left to ride my lawnmower-engined mini-bike up and down the driveway for a couple more years. I didn't even own a real motorcycle until I was in my mid-thirties. But the image of that graceful single piston "Duck" never left my imagination. Even today, I find myself scanning eBay for my lost dream bike, and the ones that are for sale are worth many thousands of dollars I don't have to waste on such things.
What all this means, I'm at a loss to explain. I've had plenty of cool toys over the years, enjoyed them, then moved on. But I guess it's like the old story about the fish that got away... they get bigger and nicer as the years go on.
As a little kid, I always wanted a Flexible Flyer. There's probably a better name for them, and most people think of Flexible Flyers as sleds, which the company did manufacture. No, this was a sled with wheels...big solid disks with thin solid rubber tires, rolling on ball bearings, that allowed it to scoot down sidewalks and streets with amazing speed. To my seven-year old eyes, it was to a wagon what a Ferrari is to a Ford Focus. The smooth wood platform balanced over a red-painted steel frame, every bit as purposeful as a racing car. Wagons were for hauling stuff. Flexie Flyers were for hauling ass.
I never got one. On rare occasions I'll spot one in an antique store, and I'll glide my fingers over the wood, the steel rails, and test the smoothness of the ball-bearing mounted wheels. I'd probably buy one now, except for the fact that I'm no longer three and a half feet tall and fifty pounds; My middle aged body would dwarf the Flyer and render it useless.
Another item I never got was a real baseball mitt. I know; how could any American kid survive without a mitt? It was something every boy used every single day back then. Somehow, I never got one. Today I see them in the sporting goods stores; so many different manufacturers now! Nike sells gloves? WTF? Rawlings and Spaulding still are around, though the ones our local Big Five carries all seem to be made in China or Taiwan. Why I'm surprised by this, I do not know.
Here's a real irony for you: I did have a mitt, but never knew it. When I was born, my grandfather, Sherman Abbott, purchased a really nice catcher's mitt for me. It was so nice, my parents never let me have it until I was too old to use it. Today it sits beside my bed, accompanied by a softball my grandfather later gave me from down in his basement. God bless ya, Grampa. At least you tried.
Back around my first year of high school, my dad let out with a little bit of information I've dreamt about ever since... Apparently someone at work had an old single-cylinder motorcycle they wanted to give away. Give away!!!??? Sign me up. And not just any motorcycle, mind you; it was a DUCATI. Now, while I wasn't as well-versed in motorcycles then as I am today, I knew Ducati to be more than just a foreign made bike, Ducati's were legendary in their style and racing heritage. Me? With a Ducati? Oh. My. God.
Nothing ever materialized out of the rumor; I was left to ride my lawnmower-engined mini-bike up and down the driveway for a couple more years. I didn't even own a real motorcycle until I was in my mid-thirties. But the image of that graceful single piston "Duck" never left my imagination. Even today, I find myself scanning eBay for my lost dream bike, and the ones that are for sale are worth many thousands of dollars I don't have to waste on such things.
What all this means, I'm at a loss to explain. I've had plenty of cool toys over the years, enjoyed them, then moved on. But I guess it's like the old story about the fish that got away... they get bigger and nicer as the years go on.
Trillion-Dollar Baby: China's Impact on the U.S.
This week we "celebrated" the anniversary of Ping-Pong Diplomacy. For those too young to remember, back around 1971 the U.S. made it's first tentative steps toward breaking down what was then called "the bamboo curtain" with Communist China, by sending a delegation of Ping-Pong players over to bat some balls around. (I think they whooped our butts.)
We imported zip, nada, nothing from China then; they were isolated from much of the world by their own choosing; fearing, I suppose, the influence of America on their perfect Communist state. And oh, yes, the two countries had been busy trying to kill each other, through intermediaries, in Vietnam and Korea for 20 years.
Today things are much, much different. I read somewhere that over 24 percent of the manufactured goods we buy today are Chinese made. I think the Chinese influence on the average American is even bigger if we remember that it takes a lot of Chinese toys and textiles at Walmart to offset the billions we spend on a single U.S. built warship or bomber.
China's success is leading to a burgeoning middle class there. They're buying cars and eating more meat. Which means we must compete with them for gas and wheat. Don't expect to see $1 a gallon gas or 49-cent loaves of bread again in our lifetimes.
Did I mention that the Chinese are holding something on the order of one trillion dollars in U.S. Treasury notes? That's $1,000,000,000,000.00 in debt we owe the Communists, folks.
And, have you noticed that when referring to China, nobody ever calls them "Red China" any more? I guess they've earned (or bought) the right to political correctness.
All that power and influence gathered in just one generation. Amazing. Maybe if we'd been better at Ping-Pong...
We imported zip, nada, nothing from China then; they were isolated from much of the world by their own choosing; fearing, I suppose, the influence of America on their perfect Communist state. And oh, yes, the two countries had been busy trying to kill each other, through intermediaries, in Vietnam and Korea for 20 years.
Today things are much, much different. I read somewhere that over 24 percent of the manufactured goods we buy today are Chinese made. I think the Chinese influence on the average American is even bigger if we remember that it takes a lot of Chinese toys and textiles at Walmart to offset the billions we spend on a single U.S. built warship or bomber.
China's success is leading to a burgeoning middle class there. They're buying cars and eating more meat. Which means we must compete with them for gas and wheat. Don't expect to see $1 a gallon gas or 49-cent loaves of bread again in our lifetimes.
Did I mention that the Chinese are holding something on the order of one trillion dollars in U.S. Treasury notes? That's $1,000,000,000,000.00 in debt we owe the Communists, folks.
And, have you noticed that when referring to China, nobody ever calls them "Red China" any more? I guess they've earned (or bought) the right to political correctness.
All that power and influence gathered in just one generation. Amazing. Maybe if we'd been better at Ping-Pong...
Father's Day
I really miss my dad on this day. We almost always spent Father's Day together, especially after I was an adult and living my life elsewhere. My dad and I shared a love of old automobiles, and on this day we would attend an annual show to look at beautiful cars we could only dream of owning.
Dad would invariably be wearing thin worn blue slacks and a white shirt; dress socks and an old pair of dress wingtips too beat up for work. I don't think he ever wore jeans in my life, which is odd for someone who spent as much time outside in the yard or in the garage as he did. Perhaps blue jeans reminded him of hard days as a kid back on the farm. I'll never know.
There's lots of things I'll never know about my dad; why he made the decisions he made or what secrets he would not, could not share. Bits and pieces would come out in conversations, but by and large my dad was not one to make speeches on the meaning of life. He just sweated life out.
He died in his 64th year; too young for a man of his generation, but he was as worn out as those old blue slacks he so often wore to the car shows. I have now lived 84 percent as long as he did, but I haven't lived as hard a life (though hard enough, I think) that I suppose I will live longer. I don't think I will know as much as he did, though, about the world, though if I live to be 100.
I do know that he was always unfailingly glad to see me. His face brightened and the gloom lifted every time I would greet him; even that last time as he lay on a hospital gurney with his heart ripping him apart in pain. It's an image I will always remember, and I am glad that is the image that comes to mind every time I think of him. Happy Father's Day, dad.
Dad would invariably be wearing thin worn blue slacks and a white shirt; dress socks and an old pair of dress wingtips too beat up for work. I don't think he ever wore jeans in my life, which is odd for someone who spent as much time outside in the yard or in the garage as he did. Perhaps blue jeans reminded him of hard days as a kid back on the farm. I'll never know.
There's lots of things I'll never know about my dad; why he made the decisions he made or what secrets he would not, could not share. Bits and pieces would come out in conversations, but by and large my dad was not one to make speeches on the meaning of life. He just sweated life out.
He died in his 64th year; too young for a man of his generation, but he was as worn out as those old blue slacks he so often wore to the car shows. I have now lived 84 percent as long as he did, but I haven't lived as hard a life (though hard enough, I think) that I suppose I will live longer. I don't think I will know as much as he did, though, about the world, though if I live to be 100.
I do know that he was always unfailingly glad to see me. His face brightened and the gloom lifted every time I would greet him; even that last time as he lay on a hospital gurney with his heart ripping him apart in pain. It's an image I will always remember, and I am glad that is the image that comes to mind every time I think of him. Happy Father's Day, dad.
Tim Russert 1950 -2008
We note the passing of NBC's Tim Russert, Buffalo native and from all reports, the really great guy we thought he was. God isn't making journalists like Tim anymore, and we're all the poorer for it. So, on Tim's behalf this Sunday, we say: "Go Celtics!".
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Best Worst (or Worst Best) Inventions of the 20th Century
1) Personal Computer: The good: Allows me to research any topic, anytime, without leaving my house. The bad: I never leave my house.
2) Cell Phones: The good: I'm never out of touch. The bad: I'm never out of touch.
3) Diamond (HOV) Lanes: The good: My wife and I can blow past a hundred cars stuck in traffic when we go into LA. The bad: 99 percent of the time I'm alone in the car, the diamond lane is virtually empty, and the lane I'm in is just crawling along. Where's the justice in that?
4) Big Box Stores: The good: One stop shopping. The bad: No more local retailers. Or employers.
5) Cable TV: The good: 500 channels to choose from. The bad: There's still nothing worth watching.
6) Computer Chips: The good: Reliability in small packages. The bad: I can't fix anything with pliers and a screwdriver anymore.
7) VHS and DVD: No need to go out to the movie theater for a recent film. The bad: No more drive-in theaters showing recent films at discount prices.
2) Cell Phones: The good: I'm never out of touch. The bad: I'm never out of touch.
3) Diamond (HOV) Lanes: The good: My wife and I can blow past a hundred cars stuck in traffic when we go into LA. The bad: 99 percent of the time I'm alone in the car, the diamond lane is virtually empty, and the lane I'm in is just crawling along. Where's the justice in that?
4) Big Box Stores: The good: One stop shopping. The bad: No more local retailers. Or employers.
5) Cable TV: The good: 500 channels to choose from. The bad: There's still nothing worth watching.
6) Computer Chips: The good: Reliability in small packages. The bad: I can't fix anything with pliers and a screwdriver anymore.
7) VHS and DVD: No need to go out to the movie theater for a recent film. The bad: No more drive-in theaters showing recent films at discount prices.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Attack Of The Clancy Brothers
Have you ever pulled up to a stop-light, and had some idiot roll up next to you with his mega-watt stereo blasting the hardest ghetto rap imaginable?
Of course you have. And I have the cure.
Tonight, I'm at the Circle K, waiting in the car while Wifey shops inside. Up rolls the stereotypical black Escalade with 22 inch chrome rims, and every other word starts with "f" or "n" from the sound system, booming loud enough to be heard a block away.
Little known fact: Honda Pilots have excellent sound systems of their own. You want woofers, fella? I got your woofers right here... Feeling a bit like Dirty Harry telling the bad guy he's packing a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and can blow your head clean off, I fire up my own stereo with just about the whitest band the world has ever known: The Clancy Brothers.
For those of you too young to remember the Clancys, they were a staple back in the folky days of the 1960's, playing traditional Irish pub songs on guitar and banjo. Even their sweaters were white.
I ramped up the volume to "11" and let the boys rip into their version of "Whiskey in the Jar" from nigh-on 45 years ago.
Go ahead, I thought, make my day.
Maybe it was the line about producing my pistol, and then producing my rapier, but after a couple of minutes, my problem was solved. No more boom-boom from said Escalade.
Success never smelled as sweet. Or sounded so quiet. Your mileage may vary when you try this technique, and having Dirty Harry's .44 under the front seat as fallback might be a good idea as well.
So...good luck with that... but it worked for me. Once.
Next time, I'll whip out the ultimate weapon of mass destruction, capable of not only shutting down stop-light ghetto rappers, but cleaning out the entire neighborhood in one small tactical mushroom cloud of sonic revenge:
Barbara Streisand.
Of course you have. And I have the cure.
Tonight, I'm at the Circle K, waiting in the car while Wifey shops inside. Up rolls the stereotypical black Escalade with 22 inch chrome rims, and every other word starts with "f" or "n" from the sound system, booming loud enough to be heard a block away.
Little known fact: Honda Pilots have excellent sound systems of their own. You want woofers, fella? I got your woofers right here... Feeling a bit like Dirty Harry telling the bad guy he's packing a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and can blow your head clean off, I fire up my own stereo with just about the whitest band the world has ever known: The Clancy Brothers.
For those of you too young to remember the Clancys, they were a staple back in the folky days of the 1960's, playing traditional Irish pub songs on guitar and banjo. Even their sweaters were white.
I ramped up the volume to "11" and let the boys rip into their version of "Whiskey in the Jar" from nigh-on 45 years ago.
Go ahead, I thought, make my day.
Maybe it was the line about producing my pistol, and then producing my rapier, but after a couple of minutes, my problem was solved. No more boom-boom from said Escalade.
Success never smelled as sweet. Or sounded so quiet. Your mileage may vary when you try this technique, and having Dirty Harry's .44 under the front seat as fallback might be a good idea as well.
So...good luck with that... but it worked for me. Once.
Next time, I'll whip out the ultimate weapon of mass destruction, capable of not only shutting down stop-light ghetto rappers, but cleaning out the entire neighborhood in one small tactical mushroom cloud of sonic revenge:
Barbara Streisand.
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