Va-Va-Va-VIVI!

With all these postings on my trip back to Georgia, I completely forgot to post some photos of our puppy, "VIVI". How 'Bout This Dawg?:She's much cuter in real life, let me tell you...and sweet as can be. She also makes a great pillow!

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La Provinçale.

Last Friday I met up with my good friend, Steve Morrison, and we drove south from Atlanta to Valdosta, Georgia. We made the journey to pick up my family's bulldog puppy, VIVI, a dog - excuse me, Dawg - that, as the daughter of UGA VI, is true Southern royalty. Driving with Steve I realized that I both missed living near my friend, and missed living in The South.

We drove through the night, catching up on old times, our families and our lives. We shared some fairly good barbecue at O.B.'s in McDonough (very good ribs, dry pulled pork, institutional mac and cheese and cole slaw, over-puréed yet tasty Brunswick Stew and so-so sweet tea), and got to Valdosta around 1am.

The next morning we entered the Gold Plate Restaurant in Valdosta for what promised (if reviews on the internet were to be believed) to be a good, Southern breakfast. The Gold Plate is your fairly typical Southern breakfast joint. It's a series of cinder block structures that seem to have witnessed a number of expansions. Judging by the number of diners, the local gentry seems to endorse it. Inside it's a series of rooms adorned with faded duck prints, and a number of large steam tables, all of which were being prepared for a lunchtime buffet.

As we entered the Gold Plate, we were met by a kindly old lady who sensed this was our first-ever visit to her establishment. "Why don't you sit down in the other room," she motioned, "it's a lot...quieter." Taking her cue, we entered the other dining room...and soon realized that our host's notion of "quieter" translated as "whiter". Hmmm.

Our waitress came up to the table, order pad in hand. "Y'all know what ya want?" she asked. We informed her that we hadn't been given a menu yet. This was met by a terse smile, and a statement of the obvious, "You're not from around here, are you?" She soon returned with menus. The restaurant's board of fare boasts three different types of breakfast sausages: "Fresh", "Smoked" and "Patty". Steve asked her to explain the differences. "'Fresh' means brown, 'smoked' means pink, and 'patty' means flat." was her reply.

We both opted for 'Fresh' sausage as well as some biscuits and gravy. I also ordered a few eggs over medium and a side of grits.

While the Gold Plate has three kinds of sausage, it would appear they've only one kind of egg: scrambled. Not wanting to yet again show myself as 'not from around here', I said nothing. The food was good...one of the best Southern breakfasts I've had in some time. Our waitress returned to freshen our coffee, and asked, "So, where are y'all from?" Steve explained that she was from Atlanta, while I flashed her my California driver's license. "California, huh?" she said, and then came closer and whispered, "Is it true what they say? Are there a lot of faggots in California?" It took all my willpower to resist smiling, reaching out for Steve's hand and batting my eyes at him, but I was hungry and did not want to risk being denied service. I instead just replied, "I really wouldn't know about that, 'mam. I'm happily married."

While Steve headed to the bathroom, our waitress returned to ask, "So, is California nice?" "It is, but it's not as nice as Georgia," I said, hoping to improve on her opinion of me...after all, she was holding a pot of scalding hot coffee. "You've never been?" I asked her. "Oh no!" she claimed, "Never! There's too many faggots. But I've been all over the rest of the country." When I asked her where she'd traveled to, she proudly stated, "Well, I've been to Louisiana once, to South Carolina twice, to north Georgia a few times, and I've spent a LOT of time in Florida."

Uh-huh.

The Gold Plate in Valdosta does serve a mean breakfast...and a heaping side plate of homophobia at no extra charge.


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Be Careful What You Wish For

I'm writing this post from the American Airlines' Admiral's Club at LAX. Beside me sits my new bulldog, VIVI, who's already endured two plane rides (one from Atlanta to DFW, the other from DFW to LAX). We're both waiting eagerly for our connecting flight to San Luis Obispo - home! - where Amie and the boys are giddy with anticipation of the arrival of our sweet, little puppy.

I spent roughly 49 hours in Georgia on this trip. Over the course of that time, I drove all over Georgia: from Atlanta to Roswell to Valdosta to Athens, back to Roswell and then to Atlanta. It was wonderful to be back. More details about the trip later.


Being in Georgia got me thinking of all Things Southern. There is a tradition of, well...traditions in Georgia. One Georgia tradition that got a lot of attention over the past few years has had to do with Georgia's state flag. I won't bore you, dear reader with a concise history of Georgia's flag...just its most recent chapters. Georgia, like many states who had aligned with the Confederacy during the Civil War, had opted to revise their state flag to include that often misunderstood (and misappropriated) symbol, "the stars and bars" of the Confederate Battle Flag. Georgia adopted this flag in 1956...mainly as a snub to growing pressure to integrate. Certainly there are many who fiercly disagree with this assertion. They instead hold to a conviction that the Battle Flag was meant to commemorate Georgia's history...a rich history that included taking the C.S.A.'s side in the Civil War (commonly known hereabouts as "the recent war of Yankee aggression"). While you can hold to this belief, the blatant timing of this new flag belied the true intentions.



Fast forward nearly 50 years later, and the ever-growing wave of political correctness made it inevitable that this flag had to go. Those who held that there was no room these days for a Confederate symbol on the state's flag had finally won their argument. Sadly, the resultant need for a new Georgia flag - and a need to appeal to all sides of the argument - led to a 'design by committee'. And, in a result all too typical of committee work, the flag that was adopted (on January 30th, 2001) well and truly sucked. Luckily, most everyone else agreed that this flag sucked, and Georgians set out to change their flag yet again.


Finally, on May 8, 2003, a new flag was unveiled:Simple, straightforward and beautiful, huh? Seems to have it all...the famous Arch installed in Athens, GA at the entrance to the University of Georgia (which has long been a part of the Seal of the Great State of Georgia), the strong, American-inspired red, white and blue colors, and 13 stars representing the original 13 colonies...of which Georgia was number 13. Certainly, this was/is a flag that the state's citizens could rally behind, no?

It seems as though they have. All sides seem to have embraced the new Georgia flag. But, if you know anything about your Civil War history, this flag is all too familiar:
The new Georgia flag is, in fact, a slightly altered version of the flag of a flag that was adopted by the Confederate States of America during the Civil War.

It never ceases to amaze me that this new flag has not stirred up controversy. Seems the old 'stars and bars' of the Confederate Battle Flag - a flag which many people think was the Confederate flag - was the problem. So what if the new flag is a lot closer to an actual Confederate sentiment than the old one. I guess it's all about perception, huh?

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Life Stinks.

Ah, the memories of childhood. There are sights, sounds and experiences from that time in our lives that we all hold dear. As I've approached mid-life, I - like so many men before me (and no doubt after) - often find myself trying to recapture those early days...the salad days, if you will. Stereotypically, this involves a red sports car, and, eventually, a lawyer. Being happily married, I've instead opted to relive my childhood the non-litigious, old fashioned way: through my two sons, Jack and Thom.

It was this desire to revisit my childhood that drove Santa this Christmas to send us three board games that I really enjoyed as a kid: Stratego, Risk and Life. All three of the board games had made a fairly big impression on me as a child...and I thought would prove similarly enjoyable to Jack and Thom. Last night we finally broke out "The Game of Life". Do you remember this game? It had it all. The board itself was a little diorama, with churches, mansions, sweeping curves...and an entrancing, spinning wheel that was, no doubt, Merv Griffin's inspiration for Wheel of Fortune.

As a kid, playing Life was a heady experience. You got your own car. You got paper money every payday, and with regular raises! And, if you were lucky, your car would soon fill up with a wife and kids. At the end of it all, you'd end up in 'retirement', a winner...cashing in your home and counting down all the money you had at the end of the game. Life was fun!

And, why the heck wouldn't it be? After all, Art Linkletter himself "heartily endorsed this game". I don't know if you remember, but when it came to kids and kid-related stuff, old Art's endorsement was a big deal in its day. It was tantamount to a Papal blessing.

Now, thirty seven years since I last played Life, I've learned something new about this game: it sucks. First off, it drags on for hours. It's so excruciatingly boring that, if I - as a kid - were to think that the game of Life in some way was representative of life itself, I would have cashed in my chips long ago. Secondly, there's little (read: no) 'thrill of the game' to this game. I thought perhaps I was alone in this sentiment, but I was not. Looking over at my wife, Amie, it was obvious that we both felt a letdown...Life was not as fun as we remembered it.

But perhaps my distaste for Life is due to my age...as Shakespeare said, "A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age". Well, perhaps...but not if my kids are any judge. Within 30 minutes of playing this game - a game which can, if you let it, march at a pace that's positively geologic - we had all had enough.

If Art Linkletter were alive today, my family would be hunting him down, demanding he "heartily" refund our money.

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Worst Schill Ever.

For the life of me, I cannot understand how the folks at Tanqueray think that the character of Tony Sinclair helps them promote/sell their gin. To me the guy's just freakin' obnoxious.

I honestly think there's never, ever been a more offensive spokesperson for any consumer product.

Okay...so I might be wrong.

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Broken Spoke.

Over the course of the last week, my youngest son, Thomas, has really taken to his new bicycle. It's great seeing him revel in his new-found freedom. A few days back I showed Thomas how to place a card in the spokes to make cool 'motor noises'. That brought a BIG smile to his face. Watching Thom on his bike got me thinking about when I was a kid, and my bike was my ticket to 'out and about'.

While there were others before her, the first bike I can remember owning was a late 60's model Schwinn Speedster, nearly identical to the bike pictured to the left, with the exception that mine was metallic green in color. I think it was a hand-me-down from my brother Dave.

Alright, it wasn't nearly as cool as the bikes some of my friends had - Sting Rays, Apple Krates, Apollos, Dragspeeders, et al. Its 'coolest' feature was the 3-speed, mounted on the handlebar. One flick of the thumb and I could change those gears!

In retrospect, that Speedster of mine was a geek's bike.

Necessity being the mother of invention (the 'necessity' here being to NOT look like a total spaz on my Schwinn) led to my trying to imitate heroes of the day. When I was a kid, heroes included those darlings of the dragstrip, Don "The Snake" Prudhomme, Tom "The Mongoose" McEwen and Don "Big Daddy" Garlits. I wondered...could I turn my Schwinn Speedster into a Schwinn Dragster?

Turns out I couldn't. But at least I could affect the dragster look. But how to do it? The answer was as close as my parent's hallway closet. It was there that I found a BIG umbrella (similar to the one pictured here) that automatically opened at the push of a button. I theorized that this umbrella could act as a kind of drag chute...after getting up to speed, I could hold this umbrella - excuse me, drag chute - behind me, push the button and end my run just like The Snake and his pals did every "Sunday SUNDAY SUNDAY!"

So it was that one Saturday I met up with my buddies, riding my bike, holding my parent's umbrella. My arrival was met by puzzled looks...until my first 'run'. Peddling down the street like a madman, I then popped the chute. "Cool!" my friends offered, "can I try that?" I murmured something to the effect that I still had to 'perfect' it. The very next attempt was the same as the last...except this time I thought it would be even cooler to change gears in the midst of my deceleration. So there I was, left hand extended behind me, holding the opened umbrella, my right hand moving off the handle bar, my thumb pressing down on the gear shift.

Uh huh. You can see where this is going.

The pressure applied to the right handle immediately sent the handle bar - and, as a result, the front tire - towards a sharp right turn. In very short order, my Schwinn Speedster hit the curb, sending me al la Pee-Wee Herman over my handlebars. Luckily for me, the sidewalk broke my fall. I opened my eyes to see my friends hovering over me. "Are you okay?" they asked. "Sure," I replied, "I meant to do that." As I got up, my friends all exclaimed, "That looked cool!"

Those three words made all the pain worthwhile.


Checking out humor-blogs.com is definately more fun than impailing your manhood on the handlebars of your bike.

T-Mobile: Unstuck!

My very first post on this blog site concerned what was, I felt, a none too subliminally suggestive image on the T-Mobile Hotspot log-in page. For those of you who've forgotten (after all, it's been, like, what? 37 days since that post?!), the image in question is to the right. If you want to know what I had written about this photo, you'll have to scroll back to read my December 5th posting for yourself, Mr./Mrs. Lazybones!


I recently had need of T-Mobile's Hotspot services, and when I logged on I noticed that they've done away with our ersatz snogglers, and replaced in its stead the image to the left. Could it be that my humble blog post - and, no doubt the resulting buzz caused by the TENS of people who read it - resulted a tremor at T-Mobile of the properness of their original image? Hmmm?

Okay, no need to worry, friend. I'm not that delusional. And it may be just me, but I think our old T-Mobile guy is about to knock one out in that restaurant's bathroom.

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Truly Vile Vinyl

So, there I was last night, surfing the internet, looking for an image that I could use as a new avatar. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, an avatar is a graphic image that serves as your 'identity', if you will, when posting on chat boards. But that's not important. What IS important is that in my search for a new one, I came across a virtual (literally) treasure trove of some of the world's worst album covers!

Some of these are so awful that I just HAD to share them with you:

Ooh la la! Looks like the Danish Hair Club for Men got themselves a night gig! And I'm pretty sure that the fat kid in the back on the left is the dude who played "Oliver" in the final season of The Brady Bunch. It turns out that "Stuffparty #1" was popular enough that they made "Stuffparty #2". No, that's not a joke, I'm serious.

Heino. Ever heard of him? Yes, you read right...it's a him on that cover. Despite the roses, blonde pageboy cut, and the fey look and it's a MAN, baby. And while I only took one quarter of German at UGA, I believe "Liebe Mutter" translates as 'Love Mother'. Does this mean he loves his mother, or wants to love our mother, or he loves all mothers in general? Not quite sure what "Ein Blumenstauß, der nie verwelkt" means. If I'd have to guess, I'd say it translates as "Dude Looks Like a Lady".

Of course, you had to know that any discussion of tasteless album covers would include one that features some good ol' Southern Gospel singers. Seems the Louvin Brothers want us to know that Satan is real. While I've never listened to it, I'm sure that one minute with this album would make us all believers.






Eeeeeew! I always knew that fecalphelia had to have its own special smell. Now, thanks to Mr. Pooh-Man M. C. Pooh, it's even got its own SOUND.

I don't know if you could call this a 'bad' album per se. It's got pretty good production values (at least when compared to the rest of the crap I found), and considering the time this album came out (1979), the cover is pretty tame. But this certainly it has to top anyone's list of "Worst Foray Into Uncharted Territory By An Established Singer". What was the record label thinking? 'Merman belts out show tunes like a foghorn...and that's big bucks in disco!'?

Turns out that Miss Merman didn't record her own renditions of such disco classics as "Love to Love You Baby", or "How Deep Is Your Love", or even "Disco Duck". She actually recorded disco renditions of her own classics...including "There's No Business Like Show Business".

On second thought, this IS a truly bad album.

AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, MY CHOICE
OF THE ABSOLUTE WORST ALBUM COVER EVER:

(children, please cover your eyes)

Words escape me.

How 'Bout THIS Dawg!?

About six months ago we lost our beloved white Bulldog, Fireball. We still don't know how it happened, but over the course of two weeks she lost all motor functions. It was a tough time for us, and we miss her dearly.

In early November I was back in Athens, Georgia for the Homecoming game against Troy State (a game that was a LOT closer than anyone would have guessed pre-season). Before the game I caught up with Sonny Seiler, owner of UGA (pronounced, "ug-ga"), Georgia's beloved mascot. Sonny's a bit of a legend amongst Dawg fans. For over 50 years, the Seiler family has sired these dogs. For those of you counting, we're currently on UGA VI.

Sonny and UGA have also been immortalized in the book, "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil", as well of the 1997 movie adaptation of same. In the movie UGA played himself, while Sonny played a judge. Those of you who are real UGA fans probably know that actor Jack Thompson played Sonny.

"Sorry to hear about the loss of your Dawg," Sonny said, "you let me know when your family is ready for another one." I told Mr. Seiler that I appreciated both the condolences and the offer, an offer I couldn't help but wonder if it was just polite conversation or the 'real deal'. I've known of more than a few folks who'd asked Sonny for a bulldog pup, only to be politely told no. Being offered a puppy who's daddy is THE UGA is high cotton where I come from. It's tantamount to being offered a winning lottery ticket: it doesn't happen often, and you'd be a damn fool to decline it.

In between flights on my way home, I called Amie and mentioned Sonny's offer. "Do you think he was serious?" was her response. "We shall see," I said. We didn't have to wait long. As a matter of fact, as I my final plane landed in San Luis, I turned on my cellphone and noticed I had one voicemail message. It was from a "Miss Becky" in Moultrie, Georgia. "Mr. Garretson? Mr. Sonny asked me to give you a call. He's told me to put you at the top of the list for a puppy."

True to his word, Sonny wasted no time in extending his most generous offer. Six weeks ago, UGA VI sired a litter, only one of which was an all-white...a little girl. As this is UGA's coloring, all-whites are especially prized. The fact that our Fireball was an all-white girl made the decision even easier...we wanted - and got - dibs on this puppy.

It will be a few more weeks before the litter is old enough to leave their parents, and I'll be heading back to Georgia to pick her up. Miss Becky sent us these photos of our sweet girl, and I just had to share them with you.

And, yes, we've already settled on her name: VIVI (pronounced, "viv-vee"). Amie's always wanted a dog with that name, and as her daddy's UGA VI, it just seems a natural!

GOOOOOOO DAWGS!

Are You Experienced?

When on the road I heartily embrace a gastronomic philosophy of, "When In Rome...". Such a worldview has served me well, resulting in meals of Haggis and whiskey in Scotland, Hot Browns and Bourbon in Louisville, roast pig haunches and Alt beer in Düsseldorf, salmon and pinot noir in Portland, Pike Quennelles and Viognier in Condrieu, and beer accompanied by more beer in every part of Australia. But never in my travels have I anticipated encountering a regional culinary specialty as I have that quintessential Norwegian delight: Lutefisk. On our recent family vacation to Minnesota, home to many an expatriated Norsemen (and Norsewomen) I finally had the opportunity to experience my first plate of Lutefisk.

Fret not, dear reader, if Lutefisk - both the name and the food - is unfamiliar to you. Here below is a fairly accurate description of this delicacy, courtesy of Wikipedia:

"Lutefisk is made from air-dried whitefish (normally cod, but ling is also used), prepared with lye, in a sequence of particular treatments. The first treatment is to soak the stockfish in cold water for five to six days (with the water changed daily). The saturated stockfish is then soaked in an unchanged solution of cold water and lye for an additional two days. The fish will swell during this soaking, attaining an even larger size than in its original (undried) state, while its protein content decreases by more than 50 percent, producing its famous jelly-like consistency. When this treatment is finished, the fish (saturated with lye) has a pH value of 11–12, and is therefore caustic. To make the fish edible, a final treatment of yet another four to six days of soaking in cold water (also changed daily) is needed. Eventually, the lutefisk is ready to be cooked."

A bit clinical, yes. Perhaps Minnesota's favored son, Garrison Keillor captures the real essence of Lutefisk when he wrote:

"It looks like the dessicated cadavers of squirrels run over by trucks...It can be tasty, but the statistics aren’t on your side. It is the hereditary delicacy of Swedes and Norwegians who serve it around the holidays, in memory of their ancestors, who ate it because they were poor. Most lutefisk is not edible by normal people. It is reminiscent of the afterbirth of a dog or the world’s largest chunk of phlegm."

Having now been armed with both a technical and cultural understanding of Lutefisk, how could anyone NOT want to tuck into a heaping plate of it? So it was last Thursday afternoon that I looked forward to lunch with Amie's family at Paul Pearson's Restaurant in Edina, MN. Pearson's is to Lutefisk as Weiner's Circle in Chicago is to hot dogs, as The Carnegie Deli in New York is to a Pastrami sandwich, as Geno's in Philadelphia is to the Philly Cheesesteak. It's a foodie's Mecca, serving up the definitive example of that food product for which said establishment is best known.

It's cozy and quaint inside Paul Pearson's. Think your family's basement rumpus room, circa 1972. Dark wood paneling, brass chandeliers, weathered Formica and lots and lots of brown. Don't get me wrong...I liked the place. Amie's grandmother, Doris, herself of sturdy Scandinavian stock - her maiden name is, after all, Olsen - extolled the virtues of Pearson's yummy squash. When Doris' sister, Evie heartily seconded the squash, I was fixed on my side-dish. Soon Amie asked if I'd decided on my lunch selection, I smiled and said, "Of course...I have to get the Lutefisk." This was met by somewhat surprised looks from not only my lovely wife, but also Doris and Evie...ladies who knew far more about Lutefisk than I, in that they'd actually had eaten it before. Perhaps they knew something I didn't.

Their nearly simultaneous queries of, "You're really getting the lutefisk?" were met by my stating, "Well, ladies, when in Rome..." I placed my order with our waiter with sufficient airs (or so I thought) of someone who knew exactly what he was getting into. As a fallback measure, I also placed a side order of a Swedish Meatball. Soon before me was a platter that looked for all the world something more akin to baby food than anything else:
Certainly, the yellow squash helped to reinforce the baby food idea. The fish-shaped serving platter did its very best to remind me that what I was about to partake in was once fish-related. But what I had expected (namely, a lump of grilled fish meat that smelled vaguely of lye) was replaced by what looked like cellophane noodles that had been over-boiled and puréed. Turns out that that's pretty much what Lutefisk tastes like...at least to me.
Having finished my first Lutefisk, I can attest that it was a somewhat anti-climatic experience. It didn't taste bad...but then again, it really didn't taste like anything at all...and certainly not like fish. I've read that some first-time imbibers are put off by Lutefisk's texture (phlegm-like, to paraphrase Mr. Keillor). I didn't find that the case, but then again, I'm one who absolutely adores raw oysters. I've also heard tell that the small fish bones can be off-putting. I did encounter two small, hair-like bones...not nearly as bad as some pan-fried trout I've had.

Would I order Lutefisk again? Nope. But, if faced between starvation and Lutefisk, I'd have no problem with more of it. Perhaps that's how Lutefisk became a staple of The Great White North...there wasn't much of anything else to eat.

Oh, and Amie's grandmother Doris was right...the squash was really good!

Colder Than A Witch's...

So, here I sit in my humble little winery, freezing to death. It's a balmy 48 degrees inside. If we ever decide to diversify we could open a meat locker. I'm talking COLD. How cold? Cold enough to make me wonder why I spent money on a vasectomy, that's how cold. "Cold Than a Witch's Teat" cold...which - by the way - how cold is a witches you-know-what, anyway?

The good news is that this is the last day at work for a few weeks. The bad news is that most of my time off will be spent in Minneapolis where it's been averaging 29 degrees in the daytime (that's a daytime high) and 14 degrees at night. But, it's Amie's hometown, so it will be good to spend time with friends and family. Besides, the kids love romping in the snow.

Hope that you and yours have a wonderful Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa or whatever you might be celebrating. And, while you're at it, a great New Year's, too!

Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!

Proof positive that it's never too late in the year to be considered a shoe-in for the 2007 Darwin Awards!:

India Tigers Kill
Man Reaching
Into Cage

By WASBIR HUSSAIN, Associated Press Writer

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

GAUHATI, India (AP) -- A man who stuck his arm into the tiger enclosure at a zoo in northeast India bled to death Wednesday after two big cats tore off his limb as his family and dozens of visitors watched, a zoo official said.

The man, identified as 50-year-old Jayaprakash Bezbaruah, avoided zoo safety precautions in an apparent attempt to photograph the two adult Bengal tigers up close, said Gauhati zoo warden Narayan Mahanta.

"The man ignored warnings from keepers, crossed the first barrier and stretched his hand into the enclosure that housed a male and a female tiger," he said. "The animals grabbed his limb and tore it apart at the shoulder."

Bezbaruah, who had been visiting the zoo with his wife and two children, was rushed to a local hospital but died of blood loss, said Mahanta.

"I have never encountered such a bizarre incident in my 11 years as a wildlife official. It was shocking," Mahanta said.

Sadly, it turns out ol' Jayaprakash can't be considered for this year's Darwin Award because their rules state you have to have done yourself in before you've procreated. Doh!

What I Got for Christmas, Vol. 5

Without a doubt, my all-time favorite Christmas present was:

MAJOR MATT MASON!

As I've mentioned in other posts, I was a bit of a 'space case'. Okay...I'll come clean: I was a BIG TIME space case. I pretty much had one of everything that you see in this picture above you. I'd play with this stuff for days on end...ah the memories.

What I Got for Christmas, Vol. 4

As a kid you're pretty much at the mercy of others...especially your parents. They were your bank, your chauffeur, your cleaners, your hotelier and your restaurateur. Every now and then you were bound to feel the urge to be in control of something. Some found this need met in bossing around younger siblings. While I did have a younger sister, she was younger than me by seven minutes. It really didn't count. More often than not, when I did try to exert some control over her, she'd slug me. And woe betide me if I slugged her back...my parents were very much firmly in the camp of "you never hit a girl no matter WHAT!".

Others found solace in dominating a family pet. Over my childhood we pretty much had them all...dogs, cats, birds, hamsters, fish, turtles...you name it. I enjoyed having pets, but - for me - pets were not so much of my 'beast of burden' as they were simply a burden. "Walk your dog", "Feed your bird", "Clean the litter pan". Really...who is in control of whom?

Nope, what this young boy needed - and got one Christmas - was a CHEMISTRY SET!:
Whoa, nelly! A chemistry set held the promise of dominating the basic elements of life! With it I could create new medicines, amazing new compounds, and unlock the keys to the universe! Turns out all I really did was find ways to stain carpets and make noxious-smelling crap. But what did it matter? I was in control! During the time I played with my chemistry set I was The Man.

Heady stuff for an eight year-old.

What I Got for Christmas, Vol. 3

As a kid, one of my all-time favorite presents - received for Christmas or otherwise - were models. Plastic models were a BIG part of my childhood. While airplanes and rockets were always numero uno with this hombre (and some people don't think I've assimilated well to life in California...hah!), I enjoyed building models of pretty much anything. From "The Visible Man" to a scale model of Mr. Spock, from the nuclear submarine, Nautilus, to the Seaview sub from "Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea", I loved building them all.

While not a large part of my model collection (a collection that was constantly threatened by destruction [at the hands of me, the creator], as building rockets, airplanes and things of this nature inevitably led to lighting them on fire and/or trying to launch them into space/stratosphere. Often achieving both through the use of Estes' solid rocket engines. But I digress), I also enjoyed building the occasional model car. The memory of one of these 'cars' has always stuck with me. In a good way. Well, usually.

In the mid to late 1960s, Monogram Models, Inc., sensing young model makers' running towards all things space (actual and fictional) began to offer up a bevy of four-wheeled vehicles, tricked out and customized in hopes of attracting kids back to the basics: American muscle cars. Okay, so perhaps Monogram got into customizing model cars because rival model company Revell had signed America's favorite Kar Kustomizer, Ed "Big Daddy" Roth to design cars for them to sell them to kids. Monogram dug deep into the vaults to produce such classics as "Rommel's Rod", part dragster, part Nazi half-track; "Dragon Wagon", a sweet-looking, low-riding sled with a circus cage that contained a real dragon; and - who could forget? - the "Beer Wagon", a drag slicked t-bucket with a flatbed that held...beer barrels! You know, for kids! In retrospect, I think Monogram went on the cheap, scavenging parts from all of their other model kits and tried to build a concept car around them. But what did it matter? I fell for it all...hook, line and model glue. My personal favorite Monogram model had to be the Showtime Garbage Truck!

In this one kit, Monogram tried to cash in on all of America's favorite pastimes at once: drag racing, surfing, rock music and garbage collecting! God Bless America!

What I Got For Christmas, Vol. 2

If "Strange Change Lost World" machine ranks as my all-time fifth-favorite Christmas present ever, number four has got to be G.I. Joe...especially the one of him as a Astronaut complete with his very own space capsule!

I also loved playing G.I. Joes with my brothers and friends. REAL G.I. Joes, not those quarter-sized wannabes that they offer kids nowadays. I can still remember my first Joe...a grizzled, bearded Marine with a pull string that would bellow forth such gung-ho Marine speak like, "Cover me! I'll get that machine gun!" when you activated it. So, when they introduced an Astronaut G.I. Joe, it was only natural that I wanted one.

As a child of the 60s, I was a huge fan of the U.S. space program. I lived, breathed and ate NASA. How much of a geek was I when it came to our nation's space program? Enough to be somewhat disconcerted by the fact that when I first came face-to-face with my Astronaut Joe I couldn't get over the fact that he was sporting a Project Mercury-era capsule and space suit while wearing what was so obviously a Project Gemini EVA chest pack, just like the one Ed White wore on his Gemini IV space walk. Those imbeciles at Hasbro! Didn't they know?!? Oh ya...I was a BIG TIME space geek. And I loved this toy...despite the incongruity of Astro Joe's garb.

My twin sister was more partial to Barbie. Every now and then I'd include one of her Barbies in my G.I. Joe scenarios. "G.I. Joe comes back from a space mission" or "G.I. Joe on shore leave". The end result was always the same: G.I. Joe and Barbie would 'wrestle'. I was too young to know what they were supposed to do while they were wrestling, but I knew it was something that I shouldn't be play-acting with two dolls...even if they lacked anatomical correctness.

What I Got for Christmas, Vol. I

Whew. Posting about the "Star Wars Holiday Special" really got me into the Christmas spirit...how 'bout you? By the way...did you notice? Even back in 1978 - nearly 30 years ago - network executives were practicing political correctness. Holiday Special. Sad, really. Anyhow, that post got me thinking about what were my all-time favorite Christmas presents when I was a kid. The memories came flooding back to me. Could I rate my top five, all-time favorite Christmas presents?

Turns out that I can. And here, for your holiday enjoyment, is my number five:

THE STRANGE CHANGE "LOST WORLD" MACHINE!

Produced in an era when the members of the Consumer Product Safety Commission were still wearing poopy-diapers, this was a gift any kid would have welcomed under his Christmas tree. It has it all...brightly-colored plastic pucks that - when put into the Strange Change Machine (basically a heating element with a blower....think of a vertically-mounted hair drier permanently set on 'incinerate') - would turn into dinosaurs before your very eyes!

And what was great was that this sucker got so hot that the plastic creatures became pliable enough that - when you placed them into the bare-metal vise, and turned the crank - you could press them back into their original puck form!

Of course, the combination of a heating element, bare metal and plastic often made for, um, interesting moments. If you weren't careful, this sucker could burn the hell out of you. But that was part of the fun!

I can still smell the melting plastic, hear the whir of the fan, and feel the warmth of the heating element. No doubt if Mattel released this thing today they'd be slapped with more lawsuits than a Chinese lead toy producer. Pity. This is exactly the kind of toy kids need these days. The kind of toy that is fun, that allows a kid to not only create something...but destroy it, and in so doing, will more than likely scare the shit out of them.

This toy ranks as my all-time number five Christmas presents that I've ever received. More to follow!

Have a Yourself a Very Wookie Christmas.

The last few evenings have found me busily decorating the house with Christmas stuff. Lights on the house trim? Check. The occasional wreath adorning a door or two? Check. Nutcrackers in place? Check. Obligatory nativity scene? Check. Live streaming of holiday music? You bet.

I love Christmas. The sights, the sounds, the smells. It's a great time of year. I'm often reminded of Christmases past. As a kid, I loved watching those Christmas specials on TV. You know, Charlie Brown, Bing Crosby, Andy Williams...all of the usual suspects. Then, in 1978, the Star Wars franchise tried to cash in on the Christmas Spirit, too. WTF?! As if America wasn't already buying enough Star Wars crap, they aired a two-hour, prime-time special to remind us that it was time to fill their coffers once again, and in so doing, ended up producing what is arguably the worst TV Christmas special ever.

I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall at that pitch meeting:

Producer: I've got a GREAT idea on how we can tie the Star Wars phenomenon into your Christmas programming!

Network Wonk: We prefer 'Holiday' programming. Less hate mail. So, hit me with your best shot.

Producer: Okay...Chewbacca is trying to get home for his kids' birthday, and his buddy, Han Solo, does all he can to get him home in time...

Network Wonk: They've got birthdays in outer space?

Producer: Sure...but we don't have to call them birthdays. How about LIFE days? Sounds futuristic, doesn't it?

Network Wonk: I LOVE it!

Producer: This show's got it all! It's set in outer space! It's got friends, it's got warmth, it's got all that feel-good crap that folks will eat up with a spoon!

Network Wonk: But it's GOT to have music...kids love music.

Producer: It does! We've got The Jefferson Starship. Star Wars, Star Ship! Get it?!

Network Wonk: I'm with you so far. Does it have stormtroopers?

Producer: Stormtroopers? You bet your ass it has stormtroopers! One of them even kills Chewbacca's uncle, Fuzzy. His death scene is a pivotal moment in the production.

Network Wonk: Sorry, we can't have violence, even Wookie violence. It's bad for the children.

Producer: Alright, Fuzzy lives. So what can we have?

Network Wonk: How about Bea Arthur and Art Carney?

Producer: And you think that's good for kids?

And, in case you forgot just how lame the "Star Wars Holiday Special" was, here's the Cliff Notes' version...complete with Mark Hamill before the accident that turned his face into hamburger:

Some Christmas memories are best left forgotten. This is one of them. Happy Holidays!

What Happens In Vegas...

Left Las Vegas yesterday evening and headed (thankfully) for home. Las Vegas is a great city...especially if you're - like me - into food and wine. You can't swing a dead cat and not hit a world-class restaurant. But there IS a side to the city that's, um, a bit hard for me to describe. Instead of trying, I'll simply offer you this picture I took while leaving Paris (the casino, not the city):

Wow. I guess Hillary Clinton was right. It does take a village.

Airborne Freak Show.

One of the few perks of traveling as much as I do is that American Airlines always upgrades me to First Class. It's not that First Class is really all that 'special' when compared to Coach, but it does provide you with a little more leg room, an attempt at a balanced meal, and - my favorite! - free booze. The later can help you forget the brutal, naked truth that you're really just in a cattle car with wings.

Flying First Class occasionally allows me the opportunity to meet some interesting people...sometimes even 'famous' people. Yesterday I flew from New Orleans to Las Vegas, changing planes in Dallas. It was in Dallas that I met my latest 'seat mate who's a star': Carrot Top! Now poking fun of Carrot Top is tantamount to shooting fish in a barrel...it's waaaay too easy. I've read other bloggers, seen a few stand-up commedians, and watched a few TV shows, all of which can't resist the comedic catnip that is Carrot Top...or as I now call him, "The dude who sat beside me in 2A". He's a walking treasure trove of laughs...after all, LOOK at this guy!
And, yes, ladies and gentleman, the guy looks as freaky in person as he does in this photo. Turns out, he's a nice enough guy...reserved, polite, accommodating to autograph seekers (but, honestly, does anyone really covet an autograph from Carrot Top?), and not at all the asshole that I halfway expected him to be. But it was tough for me to look at Monsieur Sommet de Carotte and wonder if - one day, years ago - he ran into a doctor's office holding a photo of that plastic surgery addict, Catwoman, and said, "Hey, Doc! That's the look I've wanted all my life! Shoot me up with pain killers and let's get'er done!!"







I know, I know...the dude is like catnip.


This latest flight got me thinking of other famous (or 'famous') people I'd flown with. And, you know what? It turns out the the last three folks all share a common thread...other than being a part of the public psyche. THEY ALL HAVE DEMONIC EYES! Carrot Top looks like he grew tired of the constant pre-show application of eyeliner, and elected instead to have his eyeliner permanently tattooed. Sure, it probably hurt, but think of all the money he saves.

Prior to my Carrot Top encounter, I had perchance the good fortune of flying from Nice, France to London beside ex-Go-Go chantruese Belinda Carlisle!

Now I will freely admit it, I used to have the hots for Miss Carlisle back in the early eighties. So when my wife pulled on my elbow and whispered, "That's Belinda Carlisle", I dismissed her. "No way, babe...Belinda is a LOT younger and more attractive than that lady." It was then that my wife explained that I was no longer a 'spring chicken', and that I looked - shall we say? - different than I did 25 years ago. I love my wife.

Sadly, my mind's image of Belinda Carlisle was not at all compatible with the reality sitting next to me, chatting away on her cellphone. Today she looks like a lot of those over-50 SoCal ladies...vainly trying to cling on - fingernails dug deep into someone's flesh - to an image of eternal youth via bad plastic surgery. It's all in the eyes, people...and I have to tell you, those eyes of hers were scaring me!


Prior to my mile-high experience with Belinda, the other last famous person I flew with was TV's own political pundit with the bad pate, Sam Donaldson.

Turns out that Sam's not a bad guy, actually...and he has a surprisingly decent sense of humor. But, man those eyes. Beedy, always in a perpetual squint. Perhaps it's not so much the eyes, as it is those two arched, woolly caterpillars that serve as eyebrows above them. And the truly awful toupée that sits above them. I couldn't help but wonder, 'does he wear such a bad rug to divert attention from those demonic eyes?' Yowsuh.

Yeah, First Class is nice enough. Did I mention they serve you free booze? I sure as hell need it...especially considering the company I've been keeping.