I was looking for something to do, and...

...I found this cool quote - Will Rogers said it:

"Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save."

Belated Dave's Friday Photo

Regis: "It's ruff getting bark off the roof."

This week has been wack

I did a morning show all week on the radio, worked in the recording studio all day, and 3 evenings I had outside appointments. Okay, maybe a couple of them were "drinking" appointments but so what? I'm looking for sympathy.

I haven't had my usual time to commit to my blog this week - and next week I'm in Nashville for important meetings. (and by meetings, of course I mean "drinking" appointments) It's time for the annual Country Radio Seminar, a time when radio types get together, talk about their year, discuss the future and... drink. Alot.

Side note: Country Radio Seminar is normally shortened to CRS. Which by the end of the week, usually stands for Can't Remember Shit.

During the course of the week there will be country artists roaming around the bar, you'll see people like Toby Keith, Hank Jr., a ton of start-up artists... and record companies whose job it is to see that their songs get played on your radio station. Those efforts include buying drinks and cigars for radio people at a pace reminiscent of a long-tailed cat covering up shit in a room full of rocking chairs.

Fortunately I'm not in charge of music at any radio station, those days are over. Now I attend the seminar simply for the opportunity to see clients and tell lies. Er, I mean share ideas. I will have my laptop and internet service, so chances are I'll have interesting stories to blog about. And probably compromising pictures, so "stay tuned."

-------------------

Now it's time for our lovely Sunday morning ritual. I've made coffee, and in minutes my wife and I will sit and enjoy a cup. Right before she puts on her coat and heads out the door to show property and do an "open house."

Ahhhh, Sunday mornings with a realtor.

Clarification

A good friend of mine asked me the other night where all my anger came from. I was sort of taken by surprise - I hadn't noticed an inordinate amount of anger lately, I've actually been fairly content. He told me his question was based on a recent post on my blog, and said it made me sound like a very angry person.

Well, to be honest I am a fairly emotional person. I resent it when I'm wronged and I'm protective of my family. But the honest truth is, it's just a blog.


The other day I had a couple of hours free and decided to go to a little Irish pub in our neighborhood. This guy at the bar was drunk and getting loud... and he wouldn't leave me alone. He kept asking me about my nationality and mocking the shirt I was wearing. Finally I had had enough, got up, spun him around and slugged him hard, square in the gut. He doubled over, and when he did I elbowed him on the back. At nearly the same time, the bartender came across the bar and subdued the guy... and we were both escorted from the bar. A guy shouldn't insult another man's nationality or his clothing - and frankly it pissed me off the point that I exploded!


That was a lie. Many times in the world of fictional writing, both professional and blog, we embellish a story to elicit a reaction. I get bored and feel the need to shake things up.

I should tell you I DID go to Frailey's and DID have a discussion with a guy at the bar about my shirt and where I was from. He WASN'T drunk, we DIDN'T fight, it was friendly and brief. But the story was better in it's embellished form.

I don't enhance all my entries - most of them are dead on. But don't get the wrong idea, my blog is an outlet for creativity as much as a release for me.

Besides, I'd rather get pissed off and write it down... than take it out on a poor guy at the bar.

I love me a Jon Stewart

The Daily Show on Comedy Central is a funny damn show. My wife hates it, but I try to never miss it. It is one of the only things we disagree about.

Jon Stewart did a piece recently on blogging that I found VERY funny. If you have a high speed connection, click the link. It might not be advised for slow connections.

Here it is.

Stewart is funny. His style is right up my alley and I'm a big fan.

And that DOESN'T make me gay.

Uh oh

What I'm reading about the Pope worries me. And I suppose I'm a real asshole for WHY it worries me.

We all know the Pope is not in good health. Now, he's been hospitalized again and given a tracheotomy.

Uh oh.

Look, as harsh as it may sound, I figure it's only a matter of time. God bless him, he's 84. He has pneumonia. But I hope he stays with us a little while longer for a really selfish reason. I have a morning show to do tomorrow, filling in for a guy on vacation... and I don't want to have to spend the morning talking about it. No disrespect, I just wouldn't know what to say. I'm not Catholic. I'd be finished after... oh, 15 seconds. But they would WANT me to spend the whole show talking about it and taking calls.

So John Paul, hang in there man. Kick this thing to the curb and get back to work. It's what we ALL want.

For our own reasons.

Side note: Today is Abe Vigoda's birthday. He's 84 also. I don't know what that has to do with anything, but... now you know.

Carrot Cake

You can't taste the carrots. So why is it "carrot cake?" Shouldn't we preserve the world's carrot supply and just make the CAKE? Send the carrots to Ethiopia or Sudan where they're needed. Maybe to Germany, those people need some color.

Anyone? Beuller? WTF?

What follows is a fond childhood memory...

So if you're not a friend or relative, it may seem fairly boring or sickeningly sappy to you:

Back in the mid-1970s, my uncle Ronnie and aunt Laura worked for Warner Brothers Pictures in Hollywood. When mom and I would visit them, they’d tell us stories of their adventures working on projects, some bigger (a 1973 remake of Miracle on 34th Street) and some smaller. It was always a treat to visit Ronnie and Laura, which made it ultra-sweet when my Mom asked if I'd like to live with them. Mom had decided, in her ADHD-inspired way, that she wanted to do some over-the-road truck driving. That’s no life for a kid, so I packed my stuff (which was a regular thing for me) and set up residence in the Hollywood Hills.

Ronnie and Laura were textbook Californians. They were vegetarians, drove a little fuel efficient Honda Civic, loved Rod McKuen and Neil Diamond, and had that accent that west-coasters are famous for. Aunt Laura was an office worker and an occasional extra for movies, and uncle Ronnie was the studly actor-type. They didn’t know anyone who could babysit, so I would often go to work with them and just hang out. There weren't many nine-year-olds who got to wander around that famous Warner lot where movies and TV shows are made, so I felt pretty important.

My presence was an experiment for them. They were fairly sure they wanted children, but it was tough because uncle Ronnie had a burgeoning career and it wouldn’t be easy to balance it all. It turned out my visit cemented their resolve, and once they committed, they were dead-set on making it happen right away. They would lock themselves in the bedroom for hours on end, which was totally gross, so I would walk to the park and play with whoever was there. Fine with me, I had fun, they had fun. I was almost ten years old, and thanks to the big mouth of my grandmother’s step-son a full three years earlier, I was hip to the "ins and outs" of life.

Like i said, gross.

School was a weird and magical thing in Hollywood. I walked nearly a mile each way, and once there, the students would start the day by lining up in the breezeway and singing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." It was 1974, and Johnny wasn't anyone I understood. It would be years until I realized what it was about.

I was a gifted kid in California, which wasn’t even a thing in Missouri, so I really loved going to school there. While I was at Annandale Elementary, I went to a place every day called The Kingdom. That was the name of the gifted program, and it consisted of a big air-conditioned room full of computers. Most of them had card readers, and you could load several into the memory and play a simple game. They took forever to load, so we ended up having very little time to actually play, but it was a very cool experience, and as I said, air conditioned.

The other option in The Kingdom was an area outside where we could play marbles, and I became pretty good at it in the few months I attended school there.

Being a vegetarian wasn't easy to adjust to. Aunt Laura would send lunch to school with me, consisting of a combination of the following: half a peanut butter sandwich, half a head of lettuce, some carrots, an apple, and this gross-tasting green juice. I spent a big part of the first two weeks at Ronnie and Laura’s in the bathroom. At that point in my life I hadn't experienced that much roughage, and many days it felt like I had eaten about five railroad ties.

Living with my aunt and uncle in those Hollywood hills, the sunny afternoons listening to the radio on the deck overlooking LA, their doting attention, the fun of being at Warner Brothers, were truly a high point in my life.

Then one day it all literally came crashing down.

I woke up on the morning of March 14, 1974 to the sound of Laura crying in the living room. I went in to see what was wrong, and through violent sobs she told me about a news report she had just seen on television.

For about a week, uncle Ronnie had been on a shoot for an ABC television series called "Primal Man." They had flown to a location in the White Mountains to shoot the movie, and were flying home late on the night of March 13. Just after take-off, something went wrong and the plane crashed into the side of a mountain, killing all 36 aboard. To this day, the crash is one of only three the FAA has failed to explain.

Laura had learned of the crash on the morning news. The police arrived a couple of hours later to confirm my uncle was gone.

I could only imagine how she felt. The two of them were inseparable. I had never seen a couple more in love, and all I could do was sit next to her patting her shoulder. At that age, I had no idea what to do.

The following few days were a blur, but I was asked to read one of the poems Ronnie had written at his funeral. Mom never made it back to Los Angeles to say goodbye to him, and I remember resenting her for it. I had no idea how intensely she experienced his death, and that avoiding the funeral had been a self-protection response for her.

Aunt Laura drove me to the airport later that day to catch a flight to Kansas City, to live with my grandparents.

I'll never forget the time I spent with Ronnie and Laura, and how they made me feel important and wanted. Their desire for a child was strong, and it turned out I was the closest they would ever come. I have to say, they would have been amazing parents. They were instrumental in making me realize my own potential, and through them I found a self-confidence I never knew I had.

I’m really glad the whole vegetarian thing didn't stick, though.

Sumbitch...

Today my name is Petty McShallow.

I have nothing meaningful to contribute to society this day - I hope you understand. I feel like I'm letting... oh, could be 4 or 5 people... down. Great. More guilt.

I was annoyed by the alarm clock at 4 am, showered in my sleep and did the morning show on our local country station today. I don't think I pissed anyone off, I avoided most controversial subjects except Paris Hilton's blackberry. (get your mind out of the gutter, I mean her electronic organizer) Even THAT subject felt flat to me, I just didn't have the energy to be my usual sarcastic prick-of-a-self.

I came home at 9 am, Tawnya had breakfast ready, then I took a short nap. I feel much better now, although not creative at ALL. I need to find some intellectual stimulation. And this is clearly not where I'll find it. So I'm off...

Hunter S. Thompson 1939-2005

Hunter S. Thompson -- journalist, gun-collector, enemy of the state -- committed suicide on Sunday at the age of 65. Most famous for his book about a road-trip/drug orgy through the Nevada desert, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," he single-handedly invented "gonzo" journalism.

My friend Russ just emailed to remind me of a quote from Hunter - I had forgotten it was he who said it... and it's obvious he knew what the radio business is like:

"The radio business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."

Sunday morning humor...

No offense to blondes, my daughter's one. But I had to pass on a couple of jokes I heard today:


A blonde woman was speeding down the road in her little red sports car and was pulled over by a woman police officer who was also blonde. The blonde cop asked to see the blonde driver's license. She dug through her purse and was getting progressively more agitated."What does it look like?" she finally asked.

The policewoman replied, "It's square and it has your picture on it."

The driver finally found a square mirror in her purse, looked at it and handed it to the policewoman. "Here it is," she said.

The blonde officer looked at the mirror, then handed it back. "Okay, you can go. I didn't realize you were a cop."

---------------------------------

A blind man walks into a biker babe joint, sits at the bar and orders a beer. He says loudly, to whomever was within earshot, "Anyone want to hear a great blonde joke?"

A woman next to him, hoping to spare him the embarrassment, said "I can see you're blind, so I feel it's only right I tell you, I am blonde. The bartender is 6'1" and blonde, the woman to your right is a blonde body builder and the woman behind you is a blonde karate black-belt. So do you want to reconsider telling that joke?"

He thought for a second. "You're right, forget it. I don't feel like explaining it 4 times."

What would Jesus drive?

On the way to retrieve my daughter today, I was behind a mini van. My friends all know of my disdain for said vehicles - not sure exactly why. I just hate 'em.

So the van was moving in and out of traffic with no concern for any vehicle that might be in the way. If he wanted to change lanes, he did... regardless. Move if you don't wanna get hit. And he didn't use his turn signal.

Side note: Ever daydream that you have the ability to blow up a vehicle with special gamma ray vision? Just look at it, get that expression on your face (the one of extreme concentration, sort of like Condoleeza Rice looks all the time) and the car goes boom. I am still dealing with the guilt which comes with those daydreams. But that's another story.

So finally I have the chance to pass Mr. Asshole mini-van driver and take the opportunity to glare at him. What I see is priceless.

The people are praying. The driver has one hand in the air, the passenger has both hands in the air - and they are both looking up and... chanting. In unison. I nearly ran off the road.

I wonder, do people really believe they can conduct themselves in whatever manner they wish and God will keep them safe?

Except for the fact they had survived this long, (they looked to be in their 40s) I'd say they were NUTS. I don't think God has much to say about changing lanes.

But I'll bet he has a LOT to say about misuse of gamma ray vision.

Skepticism

Skepticism is healthy. I say this because I am a skeptic, but mostly because it is always... ALWAYS a good idea to question information. No matter the source, a piece of information is likely colored or skewed by the opinion of the author or presenter. Skepticism is a means of discovering truth or falsity.

Can a skeptic be skeptical about real evidence? Sure, but those aren't true skeptics. True skeptics are leery about non-evidence-based theory. Those who dispute real evidence are... well, they're wackos. Example: the moon landings were faked. It's a preposterous notion when you consider factual evidence.

The conspiracy theorists who perpetuate the idea that 9/11 was staged by our government for it's own gain are just such wackos. To these people, out-of-context quotes, shadowy pictures and black helicopters ARE their evidence. So Popular Mechanics decided to put some experts to work to "test" the facts and evidence of 9/11. I thought the article was fascinating - read for yourself.

Unless you're a wacko.

9/11: Debunking The Myths

Dave's Friday Photo

Morning in the harbor.

Quote of the week...

"The thing we say we'll never do is the very thing, after all, we want to do most."

-author unknown

You're welcome

For the guys. Click the link. Wash your hands before you return.

"Reading" material

Dear Dave:

Just a quick note to let you know things are right on schedule! The preparations you’ve made lately - the temper tantrum toward your wife, the rate at which you are drinking, the way you treat your friends, your near-constant breaking of laws like speeding, public nudity and sodomy… the way you wear your hair – are having their desired effect, which is to get your here more QUICKLY!

(I will have to ask though, that certain activities, like your phone calls to your Mother and the donation you made to tsunami victims STOP immediately. It is muddying up your approval process.)

You’re one lucky sinner! You’ve earning the "A level package!" A 3 story, 25-thousand square foot mansion is awaiting you, nestled on the banks of the Styx river. (you have a dock, but you still need to earn a boat – I suggest forgetting your wife’s birthday again… that should do it)

You will have a small weekend cottage by the lake of fire JUST for how you treated that bartender last night. Priceless... especially the insult about his brain size… something about shoving it in a gnat’s ass being similar to a bee-bee in a freight car? You’re quickly adding up bonus points, which can be redeemed for things like loneliness, pestilence and self loathing upon your arrival.

And that email you sent your friend, Dr. Mike. What did that say again? Oh yes.

Dear ass munch:
You lazy bastard. Will you take 10 minutes away from masturbating, eating, or berating the innocent... and WRITE IN YOUR FUCKING BLOG? I'm sick of looking at your last entry, an ill-conceived doctored up picture… probably a product of a late night absinthe-induced photo-editing software purchase you made to see if you could give that nude snapshot of yourself a bigger dick.
Signed,
Tawnya

Strictly from the pen of pure evil, my friend!

In closing, I guess I’ll see you soon. Your recent activities have not only accelerated your arrival time (you should receive an ETA from old “grimmy” soon) but I’m also happy to announce you’ll be whisked away in true VIP fashion aboard the Hell Express.

First class, mon frere.

Signed,
B. L. Z. Bubb, a.k.a. Lucy Furr
The Prince Of Darkness (P.O.D.)

PS - I'm going to have to ask you to stop occasionally helping your wife with dinner.

Some days you feel GREAT

And some days you feel like the lab rat that got the placebo.

It is no secret how the rich get rich. Shrewd thinking, strategic investments. And, sometimes on the backs of unsuspecting blokes. Or blokettes.

Real estate is a tough business. And, sometimes I just need to keep my over-opinionated mouth shut about my wife's transactions. Now is not one of those times.

About 8 months ago, she listed a house that had been on the market for well over a year. The previous TWO agents who had taken a shot couldn't find a buyer. The housing market was worse then, there were problems with the house... a myriad of reasons the home hadn't sold. But during that time my wife had listed and sold 2 other houses on the same street, and when the owner saw her success, he immediately enlisted her to do her magic.

Quick history... the owner is a retired CEO. He had purchased the house 3 years ago, not for himself, but for his daughter. She has since moved elsewhere and now he's selling it. He owes nothing on it, he paid cash. HE lives in a 700 thousand dollar home right now - and is having a 1.5 million dollar, 11-thousand square foot home built. Needless to say, he has plenty of money.

Anyway, my wife found a buyer for the house and it will close soon. Mr. Rich Seller will make a pretty good profit on it, especially considering he hasn't put a dime into improvements of any kind. I'm talking about 50 grand here.

So during the repair work negotiations for the transaction, the buyers asked that the Masonite siding settlement claim (long story, but worth probably 8 grand) be transferred to the them... it is, after all, they who will need to make the repairs. He balked! He wanted to keep settlement money for siding on a house he didn't even own.

Secondly, the buyers asked that a sump pump be installed.

And that was IT. They asked for two things - one should have been automatic (settlement claim) and the other costs 300 bucks.

Well, my wife was finally able to talk the seller into the sensible thing, letting the buyer take the settlement for the siding. But the rich, gluttonous PRICK made my WIFE pay for the sump pump out of her own commission. She had busted her ass for this guy, found a way to sell a house nobody else could sell - and he makes her pay for HIS fucking (pardon) pump.

Come on, Dave, it's a small thing. It's only 300 bucks.

Screw him! When she told me this, I nearly SHIT myself! (that's right, SHIT is italicized - which means, well... SHIT) If it were me, I would have, in no incertain terms, told him where he could shove his house - and how far in it should go - and allowed his deal to fall through. Then I would have withdrawn the listing and sent him back to square-one with another agent.

But she is more patient than me - and apparently a better big-picture person. Had she done that, it would mean she had performed all the work for nothing - losing her investment of time, and about 9 grand.

And besides, now I've calmed down and I guess I can see her point. I reluctantly... agree. With. Her............


No. You know what? SCREW HIM. I've become pissed off ALL OVER AGAIN just by telling the story. If there were any justice, that prick should right now be out shopping for a 40 gallon drum of petroleum jelly for his insertion procedure.

I'm headed to my therapist to find xanadu for a little while.

So you tell me, how would you have reacted? Don't be shy, leave a comment. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong.

Disturbing questionnaire trend

Who could possibly CARE what kind of music I like?!?

Chain emails are annoying, especially the ones that require you to fill in blanks and forward them so your friends know more about you. I've received requests for top 10 CD lists, the old "deserted island" question, links to RATE-THE-MUSIC sites... ugh.

Having said that...

We have two vehicles at the Morris compound. They appropriately reflect the diversity of the personalities of my wife and me. A BMW 745Li, and a GMC Sierra crew cab pickup. Depending on what mood we're in... that's the vehicle we'll drive that day.

So what music will you find in the CD players in the vehicles:

BMW - (6-CD changer) The Essential Heart "Greatest Hits", Firefall "Greatest Hits", Alanis Morrissette "Jagged Little Pill", Jimmy Buffett "License to Chill", Sons of the Desert "Whatever Comes First", and Counting Crows "Hard Candy."

Pickup - (6-CD changer) Joe Diffie "Greatest Hits", Gretchen Wilson "Redneck Woman", Jimmy Buffett "License to Chill", Shawn Mullins "Soul's Core", and the Forrest Gump Soundtrack.

I'm not sure what the open slot in the truck CD player says about us. Nor am I certain what it means that we own two copies of the Buffett CD. I try not to overanalyze things.

Yeah, right.

Age is just a number

I'll bet you've met them... the different kind of people who feel somehow mismatched with their bodies. 20-year-olds who appear to have very old souls. Or, the opposite... 90-somethings who act like teenagers. Oh, there's nothing wrong with "normal" people - they're... you know, just fine I guess - but those with a unique perspective provide me the most inspiration and entertainment.

As I was sitting on the couch with my wife tonight surfing the net, I stumbled across something I have to pass along to you. He is a self-proclaimed oldtimer who calls himself Hoss... not really all that old (74 he says) but with a delightfully healthy level of immaturity.

Hoss, for whatever reason, has come to take up residence in what he calls a "Golden Oldie Home of False Teeth and Hips" - an assisted living retirement home somewhere in Oregon. I don't know the story of his life, where his children might be (if he has any) or how content he is with his current status quo. I do know that he appears to be having a blast. The diary he writes about life in the slow lane (and the oddball but society-mirroring cast of characters he shares his home with) made me smile. As I was scanning his site, I realized that his humor and positive perspective was totally disarming. Reading the stories actually gave me a feeling of relief - that growing old might not be so bad after all. There's a funny line here, something about grizzled gaiety - but I digress.

Check out his blog if you have a minute. It's called Old Horsetail Snake.

I can only hope to be as fun, interesting - and graceful - as Hoss when I am 74. If life throws you high inside fastballs, it's recommended that you lean back a little and take your best swing.*


* I'm sick of the lemons/lemonade metaphor