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 |  Groovy Blog v 2.0 |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Thanks, vivacious  , for my groovy blog header! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **
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| Several years ago I was sitting at a table in the high school cafeteria, waiting for my wife to join me for our youngest son’s annual jazz band banquet that evening. I’d had to rush from working out of town that day, but made it with about ten minutes to spare (and ahead of my wife, which is always important!) and was now just trying to wind down from the day as I watched for my wife among all the people milling around and chatting casually. I’d been to enough of these band functions to know pretty much everyone who shows up, even if some only by sight, but that night I noticed a young woman a few tables over I’d never seen before. She was about 20-years-old, I guessed, and very pretty, but what really caught my attention was the way she interacted with everyone around her. Always smiling and very effervescent, she was the center of attention at her table. I loved the way she engaged everyone in sincere conversation, from the youngest children to the oldest adults, and always seemed to have them laughing. I couldn’t help watching for a few moments (in a very non-fiendish, non-creepy way!  ) and casually thought about my own boys and their future mates, and wondered if they might one day find a sweet and kind woman like this or would it be a demon from hell. Hey, parents worry about this stuff.Fast forward to today where we are currently planning a wedding this July for my oldest son and the very same girl that caught my attention that night at the banquet. I’ll spare you all the details that got us from that point to now, but I will say that my future daughter-in-law is every bit as sweet and kind as she appeared that night, and then some. I know everyone says this when they’re just beginning, but I truly do believe they were made to be together and I’m very excited for them both. And you know what wedding$ mean, right? Lot$ and lot$ of…..happine$$!!! This $ummer i$ going to be $o $pecial! I know that in the Leave It To Beaver days, the bride’s family traditionally paid for the wedding, but the last time I checked this was the 90’s and that doesn’t fly anymore! Hey, the last time I actually did check it was the 90’s but I haven’t really checked in a while. Plus, I guess it’s finally time for that father-son talk about the birds and the bees, though I’ve always been confused where the bird came in. Whenever I hear that story it’s always about a bee doped up on pollen while hopping around to multiple flower partners with nary a bird in sight. So I’ll just assume that bee is the woman and the bird represents the man who does his best not to get stung while hiding in the branches far away from all that constant maddening buzzing and droning, on and on and on and on all day long. Yeah, I think I’m ready for that talk, plus I hope the kids are fully aware of the decision I made long ago never to have grandkids. |
| Forgive the random, shotgun entries. I’m still shaking off the blog rust and it’s really thick. I’m feeling a little guilty this week for checking the obituaries every morning for my elderly neighbor rather than just walking across the street and knocking on his door to ask him if he died. You know how it is with some neighbors, right? You see each other from a distance for years and years, but never make contact. There’s been a lot of cars and activity over there this week, which is unusual, and I haven’t seen any sight of him in all that buzzing around. So, I’ve been checking the obit page which is something I never do because all they ever want to talk about there is death. But, it’s amazing how wonderful everyone becomes after they die! All these long, glowing lists of wonderful generous deeds accomplished in life and not a single solitary bastard in sight. No “Aunt Clara was a miserable old woman who could make a mean tuna casserole, but sure does put the ‘bitch’ in obituary.” They must print those on another page somewhere. Anyway, he hasn’t shown up in the paper yet so hopefully he’s just having a week-long blowout birthday party or something. Or maybe he’s on that other hidden obit page somewhere. I started to make beef stroganoff the other day, but soon realized I had no sour cream. I checked online and found that yogurt is a suitable substitute. There was no yogurt either, so I checked for a sub for that and it said buttermilk. No such luck there either, so I just kept searching and subbing and when I was done, my stroganoff was an apple strudel. I had a cute story to tell, but I’ll save that for another day. Gotta pace myself, right? And keep things short and readable. There’s a scene in one of my favorite movies, A River Runs Through It, where a young Norman is being taught how to write by his father. When he brings a completed assignment to his father’s desk, he reads it, marks a few corrections, then hands it back and says, “Again. Half as long.” So Norman goes off and does his revisions and when he returns, the same thing happens. “Again. Half as long.” Eventually Norman’s father is satisfied, but whenever I try that I get carried away and wind up with “The”. As Mister Miyagi once said, “Find the balance, Daniel-San! Balance not just for karate. Balance for whole life!” I’m still searching for the writing balance. |
| Not sure it’s even worth it to try blogging since there doesn’t seem to be anyone around here anymore, but what the heck. This place is still home, and I enjoy talking to myself in my everyday life so I’ll talk into the vast, pale-yellow silence of Blogville and see if I get an echo at least. If a blog falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Or something like that. Anyway, the new year is off and crawling. Nothing that exciting going on, though I’m still wrestling with that New Year’s debate on whether to exercise harder or just buy bigger pants. One thing I would like to try differently this year is maybe join a local hiking group. Most of my hiking friends have either moved away or bought bigger pants and aren’t interested anymore. There is a local group that has been around for 50 years now, but unfortunately, so have most of their members. Their hearts are in it, even if their bodies aren’t anymore, and their trip reports each month for some recent grand attempt on an imposing local mountain often go like this: “Frank, Elmer and I reached the trailhead at 6 a.m., raring to go! About 4 feet up the trail, Elmer stubbed his toe on a root and felt something crack in his back. While resting for a while, Frank remembered he’d left his arthritis medicine at home, so after much discussion we decided to call it a day and eat all the food in our packs before heading back to town to have breakfast. All in all a great outing!” Oh, in my last entry back in 1942, I was still waiting on a couch. It did arrive, and my son thanks you for your couch prayers, since he spends about 20 hours each day there. Anyway…in keeping with the excitement of the new year, I think I’ll go clean the cat litter and eat some peanuts. Just thought I’d say hi. To myself. |
| I stand before you all this day….because I have to. There’s nowhere to sit! I STILL have no couch! My sad leg-weary story began way back in May - Memorial Weekend, to be exact. There I was, spending a peaceful and relaxing afternoon with my brother and his wife up on their property in the mountains northeast of town, when the text came in. Wife: Found a couch on sale for $799. Me: hahahahahahahahaha. Wife: Seriously. Salesman said he can’t hold it much longer. Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Wife: What if I buy it? Me: Well that won’t leave us much money for the divorce fees. *silence….followed by guilt* Me again: Hey, I just bought myself a new mountain bike, so if you want it, go for it. Wife: Hmmmm…. A couch sure wouldn’t be my choice for an extravagant purchase. In fact, I’m pretty sure the opposite of ‘mountain bike’ is ‘couch’, but she works and exercises harder than me and certainly doesn’t need my approval. Besides, it’s un-American not to buy furniture on major American holidays. That’s when all the big sales happen because many men and women died for our freedom and blowout-sale furniture. When I arrived home from my brother’s I was surprised to not find a new couch in our living room. I said nothing, not wanting to resurrect the idea, but several days later I learned the idea was alive and well and would be arriving sometime in July. July rolled around and we knew we needed to make room. Our old couch was getting kind of grubby so we needed to find a suitable match. My grubby nephew came to mind, and since he had just moved into his first apartment, he was more than happy to take it off our hands. We could survive without a couch for a week or so, right? Right. July faded into August. No couch. Frustrated calls to the furniture store gave birth to a new story: “The couch could take up to 12 weeks from the order date, and, gee, we thought we made that clear at the time of purchase.” Even that timetable was running out fast, and I thought of harassing the store each day with short creepy phone calls, like in ‘The Ring’. “Seven days…..” Our living room’s one chair became a daily battleground, as every butt in the house fought for its comfort. It’s never pretty when butts collide over territorial disputes. The 12 weeks came and went and now the store doesn’t even try to sound concerned. “I don’t know…..first week of September, maybe? Maybe not.” Apparently it’s being made in Wisconsin, the land of cheese. Hey, Wisconsinonionites! I already helped out with a cheese recession in my last entry! Stop churning, start upholstering! But there are a few advantages to our situation: No relatives living on the couch, and plenty of available open Christmas tree space - the latter becoming more of a possibility each day. So….here we still sit stand….indefinitely couchless. I suppose I could bring my mountain bike inside, just for something to sit on. But until then, I will stand tall. I have no choice. |
I’m losing it. Or I’ve already lost it…not sure. This morning I was in a rush to steal the last cup of coffee in the pot before anyone else could get it because I’m selfish like that, but I couldn’t for the life of me find my coffee cup. After a few minutes I found it…right where I left it….in my hand. Then a little later I couldn’t find my phone to check for a return text from my brother….while I was on the phone with my wife.  But, then…my wife and daughter and I saw ‘Inception’ yesterday, so I’m not entirely sure if any of that really happened or if I’m really writing an entry right now or only dreaming about writing an entry. If someone shoots me and I don’t wake up, I’ll know. It was a chilly day yesterday with a steady drizzle in the morning. And darned if the second bathroom didn’t start leaking from the ceiling again. I thought I fixed that for good last time, dang it. If it stops raining long enough I guess I’ll head back on the roof and try again. I wonder what Noah did when his second bathroom leaked. I guess he was lucky that way since a break in the weather was a long time coming. When Mrs. Noah told him to get up there and fix the leak, he could explain the physics of caulking in the rain and get out of it. Just throw the two ducks in potty #2 and call it good. But then you’ve got a logjam in the main bathroom since the women of the Ark would be hogging it all morning getting ready for the day, even though there was nowhere to go. Me and Noah are in the same boat. Get it? Same ‘boat’? That’s two eye-rolls already. Well, my father-in-law’s awake down there in California. Just got my first “you’ve gotta see this!” e-mail forward of the day. “World’s largest wild boar befriends wayward flock of penguins in South Dakota!” They’ll keep coming throughout the day. They usually stop sometime around 9 p.m., which I’m assuming is bedtime. And then he wonders why he’s gaining weight.  That’s three. He needs one of those fancy-pants internet phones so he can take walks and send must-read forwards at the same time.Speaking of which…. I qualify for a new phone soon. I can’t believe it’s been two years already since I got my cool orange, supposedly indestructible man phone. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but the wireless companies are slowly forcing us to buy those fancy-pants internet smartphones, and the accompanying expensive calling plan that goes with them. The basic mobile phones – you know, the kind whose primary function is to make a phone call – are being phased out. That’s an extra $30 a month I don’t have! So I’ll probably have to take it out of my cheese budget which affects the entire cheese and dairy sector, and more importantly, the thriving fondue pot industry. When that happens, you’ve got economic chaos. Totally not my fault! Blame the wireless companies. I have learned, though, that if you pay a little attention to your phone, you can learn a lot about yourself. It’s kind of like a therapist, and just like a therapist, it can shed light on some things we might be in denial about ourselves. For example, a simple check of your phone’s timer can reveal if you’re needy or needed. Mine shows 75 hours of phone calls in the two years I’ve owned it – 60 hours of incoming, 15 hours of outgoing. This means 4 out of 5 times my phone has a calling event (it sounds more scientific to call it an ‘event’), I am needed.  Concerning text messages -- anything over a 60%-40% split either way means you are either rude and don’t respond when people text you, or you are a pest. If you have no text messages on your phone, you are either OCD clean or are having an affair. If you have an orange phone, it means you are cool. If you don’t have an orange phone, you still might be cool but there’s no guarantee. There is more involving ringtones and pics stored on your phone, but that’s enough for one day. Therapy has to be done in stages. Maybe I should go back to bed just in case this really is a dream. Best to play it safe. |
| Summer is winding down, and with that comes one of the yearly traditions with the womenfolk in my home, more specifically, my daughter. Each year, just before the start of school, she has to make the 200-mile trip to Spokane, WA, to shop, because apparently the clothes available here in our town are not worthy of touching her skin. Spokane is the closest thing western Montanans have to a big city within a day’s drive, so off they go every year. I’ve managed to avoid this ritual each because, well….women + clothes shopping is no more pleasant two states away than it is here in my own backyard. It’s worse, in fact, since at least when I’m stuck at the local mall for nine hours I can call for emergency backup and get a ride home from a sympathetic male in the family, or simply crawl home. In Spokane, I’m at the mercy of the next available flight so I’ve always stayed home. This year, in a moment of weakness, I decided to tag along. My wife has nagged pleaded with me every year to go with them, which is a prime example of the fundamental difference between husbands and wives. If I’m going hiking or fishing or to a ball game, I’ll ask my wife if she’s interested and if she says ‘no’, I let it go. I certainly don’t want her coming along if she’s not going to enjoy it, for pete’s sake! Why make her miserable, which would make me miserable, which would ultimately result in bloodshed and possible dismemberment? She, on the other hand, will plead, whine, and beg for me to join her for an all-day women’s shopping trip, or an all-day gardening exhibit, or an all-day seminar on the history of the local library, knowing full well I’d rather hang out with Kare all day boiling underwear than be in attendance. She doesn’t care. Apparently my misery symbolizes victory and makes her happy. And, when I DO break down and join her at one of these things, more often than not as we’re driving away she’ll mumble something like, “Well, that was kind of lame.” Noooo! Ya’ think??? *violentsarcasm* But I went for it anyway, and I promise I was of good cheer. After a quick bite to eat at the mall’s food court, the girls got willingly sucked into Forever 21 (my daughter’s favorite clothing store). It looked like it was going to be a long suckage, so I made the rounds through both levels of the mall, checking out stores here and there. When I returned, I could see through the glass that Forever 21 wasn’t going to release them anytime soon, so I got a 32 oz. strawberry-banana smoothie and made the rounds through both levels again. I’d estimate there was about 42.9 tightly-but-barely clothed teenage girls per square acre, and by the time I made my way back to Forever 21, my wife and daughter were just checking out, which was good since I doubt I could have held my stomach in for another trip around the mall. We unloaded the Forever 21 haul in the car and came back for more fun. 1 store down, 200 to go. But, since most of the cash was sucked into store #1, the rest of the afternoon went fairly quickly. On our way out of the mall, we browsed through Macy’s and as I walked by the men’s cologne counter, I grabbed one randomly and squirted myself. Oooo, it was nice. Like…really nice. It’s called Pi…but with the symbol for Pi…and it did strange things to me. Good things, I think. Made me all happy and stuff. Catnip came to mind. My senses went haywire and I suddenly had no clue what I was capable of. I like Pi. Hopefully my wife noticed because that there Pi might be one them there African-disiacs. A few days after the trip to the big city, my daughter and I climbed E. St. Mary’s Peak in the Mission Mountains, the second highest in the range. The highest is closed each summer due to grizzly bear activity. Shelby’s becoming quite the little hiker, but this was her first trip into these mountains. She did awesome, as always. A few pics… ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** After four hours of steep hiking, you break out into some groovy alpine country at around 9,000 feet. The pointy peak with some snow was our destination. Fought off a herd of about 40 griz here with a pocket knife. Didn’t have time for pics. Sorry. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** If you turn around from the previous pic, this is what you see. West face of Gray Wolf Peak. It’s been years since I climbed this one, but Shelby wants to try it so hopefully we’ll get up there soon. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Shelby on the summit. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Shelby still on the summit ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Just a friendly safety reminder that if you’re ever working on the driveline of a diesel semi truck, be careful. Your hand might fall off. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Me coming off the summit. I really was up there at the top. Honest. Before I go, I must make up for a boo boo. The other day I mentioned getting ‘a few nice gifts’ for my birthday, but completely snubbed the very sweet lana bardot  for the really cool package of goodies she sent from halfway around the globe. Bad Party, bad! She sent me some really really neat gifts unique to her part of the world. The only thing unique to Montana are fecal-related products like moose poop and the like, so it was groovy. Thanks, Lana!  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Made in Montana. We are Montana proud. |
| My big birthday bash went off without a hitch. Probably because it wasn’t big at all. No incidents of drunkenness featuring nakedidity or anything. Just the usual lowkey gathering of my family. I got a few nice gifts, though not the 40-watt appliance bulb I was hoping for to replace the one that’s been burned out in the refrigerator for the past week. I mean, the Lexus was kind of nice and all but it doesn’t help me find the cottage cheese in the dark recesses of the second shelf, does it? Oh well, I’ll tough it out. As my kids lit the same 29 candles on my cake for yet another year, I made a comment about ‘having my cake and eating it too’ and told them that for the longest time when I was younger, I could not grasp the meaning of that phrase. So, of course, they said they’ve always known what it means. So, of course, I asked them to enlighten me. The rambling soon began with answers like, “well…uh…it means if you have a cake…or something…but you need to eat it….you can’t…because….um….if you didn’t, you might regret not wanting it…if…you had it…but didn’t want it before you did have it…” Silly kids….I set them straight that it simply means you can’t have cake around because you’ll eat it and get fat. My wife picked up three balloons for my birthday – green, yellow, and black. The symbolism was not lost on me. Green, for the distant days of my youth….yellow, representing my current state of decay, not unlike the rotting banana on the counter that is ignored and unwanted….and, finally, black, for my death. It was thoughtful of her to display the seasons of my life in balloon form, which takes the edge off and makes everything fun. It’s impossible to get depressed when there’s a balloon in the room. Anyway, it was nice. I am getting weaker in my old age, I’ve noticed. I used to be able to open a new carton of ice cream in about 4 or 5 seconds. Not it can take up to a minute. Or maybe the packaging is just stronger now. I enjoyed my usual yellow cake with chocolate frosting. A simple favorite from way back in my green balloon years. I thought about trying to make s’mores for those who don’t care for cake, since I recently learned you have to grill them to really get the chocolate to melt in the middle, which makes sense. I’ve always struggled with the melting aspect. I’ll have to try that on our next campout, since my boiled s’mores have never been a hit. |
| It’s interesting that the SM’s chose to update this website on my birthday. If you’ll recall in my last blog entry back in 1972, I made mention of the lack of a cake emoticon to celebrate my 100th entry, and since then we now have cake at our writing disposal…..even if it actually looks more like an 80’s pastel hair comb than a cake. Regardless, it’s obvious I have their attention so if there’s anything you need, let me know. Puce font color, or a nipple emoticon for the erotica crowd, perhaps? Let me know. How is your summer going? Mine’s going pretty good. I found out my cat is a smoker since she’s developed a smoker’s meow, plus I was blessed with a torn meniscus in my knee back in May that kept me off the trails for nearly a month. As soon as I recovered, I went on a long backpacking trip where I contracted giardia from drinking mountain water for the first time in a lifetime of drinking mountain water. But I’m a cheap and stubborn bastard, so I decided to wait it out and not see the doc to get the pills. It generally runs its course in one to two weeks, so each night I’d pat my stomach and say goodnight to the little parasites sucking on my lower intestine and hope the next day was a little better. I did google home remedies and came up with one that said to mix birch tree leaves, carrot juice, honey, milk, horseradish, grated garlic, and linden tree ashes, then let the mixture sit for three weeks before filtering the extract and adding beet juice. This method obviously has a high success rate since you’ll be cured before you even take it. Can’t beat that. Anyway, my little summer parasite buddies are gone now, but at least we made some memories together. And as I sit and ponder adding another year to my life and what the future holds, I can take heart in the uplifting display I witnessed a few days ago from our future generation. While camping with my family along the Clearwater River earlier this week, my brother and his wife came up to visit one evening. They brought along a couple of 5-year-old girls they were babysitting, and while the adults chatted around the campfire, the girls were lost in their own world a few feet away….constructing something with dirt and sticks while they played with their Happy Meal puppy toys. My sister-in-law asked if they were building something for their puppies, to which they replied, no, they had buried them alive and were making headstones. How sweet. We asked if they at least said a little prayer for them, to which one of the girls jumped up, raised her head and arms to the sky and yelled, “Come back alive when you reach the other side!” Then, satisfied their dogs were dead, they then exhumed the bodies and tried to burn them in the fire, but we put a stop to their fiendish little ritual. Ah, the innocent exuberance of sweet demonic youth. We are in good hands. |
| I got my truck back this week, still in one large piece. My daughter’s been using it to go to and from school this year (and only managed to wreck it one time!), but the keys are safely back in Daddy’s hands because we just bought her a 1993 Saturn for $500 from my niece, who happens to be a budding hippie. Now she has a car of her very own to wreck! It’s in awesome shape, but the peace sign sticker on the back of the car had to go. Ain’t gonna have none of them danged Obamamobiles parked in front of MY house, by golly! A quick attempt with my sexy guitar-pickin’ fingernails got me nothing but a broken nail, so I looked online because you can find out how to do anything online. I could type in ‘how to shave a raccoon’s testicles’ and get 100,000 search results, so I knew finding a cure for the common peace sign sticker would be no problem, and sure enough I found a quick way to remove it. Now it’s safe to take out of the garage.Well, this is my 100th entry of Blog #2. It took me over two years to get here, but at my age you need to move slow and pace yourself. Don’t want to blow out a font or break a sexy nail typing entries every day, for goodness sakes. And, because I have entirely too much time on my hands these days, I actually went through every entry and counted how many different people have commented in this blog. I was surprised to count 94 different names, though many are now labeled ‘past member’ while quite a few others are small and have malnourished accounts. Many of those were one-hit wonders, as well. They wandered through…left their mark like a dog on a fire hydrant…they wandered off, never to be seen again. This means I have left my mark in at least 94 blogs myself, as I always visit those who visit me, plus there are a handful of others I have tried who have NEVER returned the favor…the ungrateful little snots! I guess some people just don’t like their blogs being marked. Still, I really appreciate all the groovy comments from everyone over the past few years, and to show my thanks I’m giving everyone free health care and sandwiches. I should do something radical for my 100th….like, change my name or something. To a symbol or possibly the ‘confused’ emoticon, so I could be known as ‘The blogger formerly known as Party’. But, no, I’ll never change, though you never really know the positive effects a name change might have until you try. Look at Ralph Lauren. The guy’s real name is Ralph Lifshitz, so I’m thinking it probably helped him a little. “Oh, your pants! Is that a Lifshitz?” “No, it’s just a coffee stain.” Good career move there, Ralph! Enjoy my 100th Blog Bash. Mingle and have some fun. Since the SMs haven’t seen fit to have cake and drink emoticons at my disposal, there’s free light bulbs and glue in the comment lounge. It’s the best I could do. |
| Though I’ve never smoked pot in my life, I did honor all the stoners out there on 420 Day last Tuesday by lighting up a fresh piece of moose crap, Vintage 2010. Yes, I do believe this year’s crop is a keeper. I did not find a single brown fragrant moose nugget on my Good Friday hike a few weeks back, but since then I’ve been riding my super-keen new green mountain bike up into the same area as often as I can. The other day I decided to ride as far as I could – until I hit deep snow – and lo and behold, right next to the snowline sat my first batch of 2010. Early reviews are good. Avatar comes out on DVD today. I have yet to see it, but the previews are encouraging since none of the blue-bodied inhabitants of Pandora seem to have British accents, a common Hollywood trait for other-worldly folks. The Kentucky Derby is a little over a week away. I’m not a horse racing fan, but the Derby is a springtime fixture and anything associated with spring makes me pretty happy. I generally find the horse with the strangest name and pick it to win. Last year I decided 'Mine That Bird' had the stupidest name so I picked him, even though he was a longshot at 50-1. Yep, he won, so I think I'm on to something here. For some reason racing horses have bizarre names like ‘Dig That Potato’ and ‘August’s Neptune’, and I always picture the trainer out in the pasture calling for his horse. “Here, Dig That Potato! Here boy! Come get some oats, Dig That Potato!” When we were kids, every spring around Derby time we used to have ‘horse’ races using sticks floating down about a 100-feet stretch of the ditch that wound through the forest at the base of the mountains near our home. Each one of us would find a stick about the size of a finger, choose our horse’s name from the current crop of Derby contenders, then throw them in the ditch at the same time and track them to the finish line. The rules were you were allowed two rocks to aid your horse during the race, but only if your splash did not affect another horse’s ride down the ditch. Basically, if your horse got out of the main flow of water and began to get hung up near the edge of the ditch, you would then use your rocks to try to blast it back into the middle. There were the occasional temper flares where a lead horse was blown out of the water. I think owners of Kentucky Derby horses should be allowed to throw two rocks to get their horse moving if he falls behind. In fact, I think everyone in life should be allowed two rocks to get their loved ones moving when they’re going slow and need a little help. I’d also like to see short-track horseracing, Apolo Ohno style. Wouldn’t it be more exciting to watch 87 horses bumping each other while racing 42 laps around a 50 ft. track? One last thing before I go. Nowhere else but Fox News can you get stories this good. Yesterday they reported on the case of the three bisexual men who sued the Gay Softball World Series for $75,000 each for emotional distress because they weren’t deemed gay enough to participate. They were told, “This is the Gay World Series, not the Bisexual World Series.” Does that mean I’m not worthy of, say, the Vegetarian World Series just because I like some prime rib with my asparagus? So not fair. |
| I watched a ridiculous amount of the Masters golf tournament last Thursday through Sunday. But, I do that every year. I love the Masters and can’t get enough. I look forward to it every spring and haven’t missed one single tournament in 35 years. I remember my brother and I watching our very first Masters telecast on our parents’ grainy television back in 1975, then heading outside to build a miniature golf course in the yard where we would compete against each other. I was Tom Weiskopf, he was Tom Watson…our favorites at the time. Even at such a young age, we were hooked for life. Funny thing is, I’m not really what you’d call a golf fan. I only play a handful of rounds a year, and only watch a few of the major tournaments on t.v. But there is something special about the Masters. When they begin opening round coverage on Thursday afternoon and the grounds of Augusta National first appear on the screen, I get goosebumps. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I would. But, dang, I love that place! Way more than just a golf course, and what I wouldn’t give to just walk around it one day and stand in the same places where I’ve watched legends of the game give me 35 years worth of memories.As the tournament progressed, so did the texts between my brother and I. “Brian Gay out to a solid lead.” “I think Ian Poulter might take him today.” “Oh man! Did you see that from Henrik Stenson???” “Katayama shows flashes of brilliance, but can’t quite put together the whole package.” These messages had nothing to do with golf scores, but rather, the most outrageous golf attire for the day. I’m happy to report that the crazy loud golf pants of the 70s have made an impressive comeback, and my brother and I like to rate the day’s best. Brian Gay won Thursday’s honor with his brilliant red pants and white shirt with some kind of butterfly wing design on the back. Poulter’s bold purple and white plaid pants on Sunday may have been the best of the tournament. I was happy to see Phil Mickelson win, and the long and tearful embrace he shared with his cancer-stricken wife just after finishing his final round Sunday evening probably produced buckets of tears all across the country. Not from me, of course. *sniff sniff* Who knows, maybe it even made Tiger ponder his own situation a little deeper. I read one sportswriter’s column where he told how his wife started crying during the Mickelsons’ embrace and said, “I hate Tiger Woods.” Devoted husband and father Phil’s victory was the worst possible outcome for Tiger’s bruised image. In the short term, anyway, but it could ultimately prove to be inspirational for him as well. We shall see. All I know is that both of them just made an obscene amount of cash for a weekend of playing one of the most beautiful golf courses on earth. Tough job.I have decided I MUST get to Augusta, Georgia, and watch the Masters live and in person! Hopefully before I die, which would make it easier and be more enjoyable. To walk that course during tournament week would be a dream come true. I’ve thought of it before, but I’m nowhere near a rich man, and Masters tickets are some of the hardest to find in all of sports, which makes them insanely expensive…IF you can find any to begin with. But I don’t care anymore! I want to make it happen! I checked online and there are actually some available here and there. I found a package that included all four days of tournament tickets (‘badges’, they’re actually called), four nights lodging, transportation to and from the course, and complimentary breakfast and dinner….all for the ‘bargain’ price of $5,125 a person. I texted this information to my brother, to which he replied, “Dude, I can’t even afford a round of golf at Highlands (our local public course)”. Dream big, I always say! Okay, I’ve never said that but I’m saying it now. No, wait…I did say it that time I bought a raffle ticket for a frozen turkey from the Choir Club in high school. I won, by the way, proving that some big dreams DO come true. Whenever I feel there is no hope, I remember that turkey. That big frozen beacon of poultry is a symbol of what CAN be…not of what is. Everyone should have their own turkey. (No comment, Scarlett. )So, if I went for that package, I’d need to save $14.32 every single day between now and next April, starting today. It's already 2 p.m. so I need to get moving. Just need a street corner and a cardboard sign: “Please help me spend a week in the south with rich white folks. Credit cards accepted. God Bless”. I also found a place selling four-day tournament badges for $2,260, but I would need to find a place to stay. I could bring a tent and camp on the course, but I know of two WDC folks in Georgia, either of whom I’m sure would just die to have me stay with them while they feed me for the week of April 7-11, 2011! Especially Even Though I've Died , one of my oldest and dearest WDC friends, who will never let me forget how I forgot to mention her in a blog entry I wrote about four years ago where I talked about my oldest and dearest WDC friends. Maybe she’ll let me stay in her horse barn. |
| 5:27 a.m.: Cat chirps by bedside then bats my head, drawing blood. 5:28 a.m.: Cat takes flight and makes loud thump on front deck, then shoots a confused “what…you mean that wasn’t cute?” look in my direction as front door is slammed. 5:29 a.m.: Try to fall back asleep but worry open head wound will dry to the sheets. Crawl back out of bed and head for coffee. 6:44 a.m.: Wonders why our 12-cup coffee pot only fills our coffee cups 5 ½ times. 7:21 a.m.: Wonders why it’s okay for everyone else to walk up and start a conversation when I’m in the middle of writing something, but heaven forbid I interrupt them while they’re checking e-mail. 8:57 a.m.: Cat #2 gorges self…throws up near my feet. I suppress a gag. 10:08 a.m.: Finally start filling out 2010 Census form, since wife seems to think federal agents will be arriving soon if I don’t. As expected with any government form, confusion arises right off the bat. Question 1: “How many people were living in this house on April 1, 2010?” Question 2: “How many other people were living in this house on April 1, 2010 that you did not include in Question 1?” I am then instructed to “count all people, including babies.” Don’t make it to Question 3. Will take chances with federal agents. 11:45 a.m.: Try ordering a new printer online. Find out it’s out of stock. Company suggests an alternative printer. I say no thanks, I’ll keep looking. Quickly receive an e-mail from them expressing deep sorrow, stating how hard they tried to please me, but that they have no excuse and they failed me. Tempted to order their suggestion to boost their self-esteem. 12:33 p.m.: Hike up Mt. Jumbo. Take quiet Hellgate Canyon trail to top, busier main trail back down. Buttercups, yellowbells, phlox, and biscuitroot in bloom. Reminded again of the wild onion and biscuitroot soup I tried to make once while camping as a teen. Tasted like water with a hint of dirt. 2:48 p.m.: Wife asks if I can move our shed. “The 8 X 12 feet shed that we can’t even walk through anymore because of the 3.7 tons of crap in it?”, I ask. “Yes, that one,” she answers. I remind her that I don’t live on the corner of Clark & Kent, but humbly thank her for mistaking me for the man of steel. This seems to work for now and my back is granted a temporary stay of execution. 5:09 p.m.: Make a Walmart run. Wife asks me to stop at Redbox for either ‘The Blind Side’ or ‘Sherlock Holmes’. I laugh, as I’ve learned Redbox’s slim pickings is somewhat like the VHS video collection at the local county library. “Do you want Uncle Buck or The Shawshank Redemption?” I ask before slipping out the door ahead of the expletives. 6:10 p.m.: Make chimichangas in green chili enchilada sauce with brown rice for dinner. Daughter cries, “Not chimichangas in green chili enchilada sauce with brown rice again?!?” Remind her of all the starving kids in Bonner (a nearby town...I think locally when it comes to guilt trips. No need to go all the way to China.) Watch O’Reilly while I struggle through chimichangas in green chili enchilada sauce with brown rice…again. But that was yesterday. Today I am off on my annual Good Friday hike. Some of you may remember today also doubles as a moose poop harvesting day. This will be the landmark 25th consecutive year I’ve made this 16-mile hike. Yes, I know that dates me, but I first starting hiking the Rockies when I was 11-years-old, so I could be younger than you think. But probably not. I am in a rush this morning, but I promise to catch up with blogs when I return…tonight or tomorrow morning. Wish me luck today. Or better yet, say a quick prayer to the Great White Moose that the poop will be plentiful this year. Ask that it be firm to the touch, fragrant to the senses, and cover the earth like a welcome spring rain. The Grandfather moose have spoken. Let us smoke. ‘When he had received the drink, Jesus said, "It is finished." With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.’ John 19:30 |
| I’ve been having trouble sleeping again the past few weeks, so before bed last night my wife suggested taking a few shots of Nyquil. “But I’m not sick,” I said, to which she replied, “Yeah, but it’ll put you to sleep,” to which I replied, “Like an old dog?” to which she answered, “Probably not,” to which I replied, “Pusher.” So I took a few shots and headed off to bed. Yep, it worked. Too well, in fact. I rarely dream, so explain this one for me: I’m near a local four-way stop intersection next to one of our high schools. It’s raining, and I’m running down the sidewalk with Jerry Seinfeld and George Costanza, and we’re all in our underwear. We duck into a garage near the intersection where our pants are, and we’re all frantically trying to get them on as quickly as possible so we can run outside and cross the street in front of a car driven by Elin Woods (Tiger’s wife) that is currently stopped at the light. All the while, Jerry is teasing George about how he’s trying too hard to look good for Elin. What the…??? Sadly, I actually did not make any of that up. Why couldn’t I have been with Tiger in his underwear? At least I’d know there’d be a lot of women around. No, I get Jerry and George. And do I keep feeding my Nyquil habit? Will all my dreams be sitcom related? If so, that could be good, but it’s no guarantee. I might end up in an underwear dream with the Golden Girls. |
| I love politics, but hate getting political in this blog. So I’ll keep this brief and stick to some facts. I probably won’t even make any nasty references about the enemy party! Just want to share a few numbers. I check in on the Rasmussen Reports almost daily. They’re widely regarded as the most accurate, reliable and unbiased polls available, and not only for political races or events, but other areas of interest as well. Business, sports, entertainment…or, as they like to say, “If it’s in the news, it’s in our polls.” However, as a political junkie, I’m most interested in their political polls. Rasmussen uses an Approval Index Tracking Number that’s calculated by simply subtracting the percentage of those who strongly oppose a person, bill, event, etc., from the percentage of those who strongly support it. For example, if 50% approve of a candidate and 40% disapprove with 10% undecided, they would have a +10 Approval Index. Some recent Rasmussen numbers: Approve or Disapprove of Obama’s Performance: - 16 Approve or Disapprove of Congress’s Performance: -54 For or Against Health Care Reform: -14 Would you vote for a candidate who voted for Health Care Reform?: -16 How likely would you be to vote for a Republican in your district in the next election?: +10 Yet, despite this overwhelming disapproval of our government’s performance, another poll on Rasmussen shows that media coverage of Obama during the past week came in at a whopping +20 Approval Index. When Republican Scott Brown surprised everyone by winning Kennedy’s Senate seat, I thought for certain Congress would finally wake up and listen to the American people. It wasn’t even so much a political thing anymore….people just wanted those in Washington to pay attention. All these negative numbers should be a clear sign to those we elected to represent us, yet after the health care bill passed, Obama announced, "We proved that this government - a government of the people and by the people - still works for the people." Huh??? Is this political suicide for all those who pushed this through against the will of the people? I can only hope it is. okay…no more politics till election season. i'll now return to my regularly scheduled blog. |
| Awoke to the sound of the cat hissing at her own butt early this morning, so I knew there was trouble. And since my wife’s restless leg syndrome left my crotch in jeopardy and my nerves on edge, I figured I may as well get up and check it out. Yep, same thing that happened a few years ago – the filthy cat has maggots growing near her butt. She’s such a slob! A big fat furry old slob of a cat who never cleans herself properly, and since she’s such a big scruffy furball, we never notice until it reaches the hissing stage. Some of you may remember me blogging about this the first time it happened years ago. Back to the vet for more of that antibiotic spray and the joys that come with lifting slob cat’s tail and gently misting her buttocks several times a day. Let this be a lesson to you all, especially you furry ones. Hygiene! Or else you’ll be hissing at yourself in the wee hours of the morning. In other news, I’ve been diligently shopping for a new mountain bike the past month. I’ve ridden the trails my entire life on Walmart quality bikes. Hey, they only cost around $60 or so and actually work most of the time. They even have tires! But, they’re pretty much disposable, so about every three years or so they’ll get beaten beyond repair and I’ll just throw them out and buy another. If any of you have ever used a Walmart bike on rough terrain, you know it’s a little like driving a 68 Ford Fairlane down a washboard country road with all the banging and clanging echoing throughout the woods, plus they weigh about the same. All of this while riding on a seat the size of the average pine cone and just as comfortable. Well, no more! I want a REAL mountain bike this year. One with a lightweight frame, disc brakes, and all the groovy components I don’t understand but know must be cool. They sound cool, anyway. Seriously, these are the actual specs for the bike I’m most interested in: TruVativ 5D Aluminum Triple 22/32/42T 175mm crankset, Shimano ST-EF50BR STI EZFire 27 speed shifters, Cassette 12-28T 8 speed Hyperglide, KMC Z72 Narrow 8 speed chain, Shimano ST-EF50BR STI EZFire brake levers. And I’m, like, uh…can I get a red one? Anyway, it looks like one of the nicest days of 2010 is in full bloom, so I must go absorb it into my loins and other regions. My middle name is Patrick, so tomorrow is my day. Honor me with a big bowl of Lucky Charms and/or corned beef and cabbage. |
| Finally! A real warm and muddy Montana March! Ever since global warming set in several years ago, the month of March has been one long frozen extension of February from beginning to end, but not this year (so far). I’ve been getting out there every day. Hiking in shorts and a t-shirt this early in the year is a treat. I only had a cell camera, which makes everything small and somewhat bland in color like my tanless body, but I took a pic from the top of Mt. Sentinel yesterday looking north to the Rattlesnake Mountains. That big round and brown hill in the foreground is Mt. Jumbo, and if you look really closely at the very lower left end you’ll see four trees that look like dots. One of those trees is the one in Kare’s blog….I think....maybe. Fascinating, I know. And if you look really close, you can see his buttercup. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** But, not every part of spring is pleasant. In just a few weeks, spring break will be here and the usual round of crap that goes with it. First my daughter will say, “Ashley’s family is going to Europe for spring break!”, followed by my son with, “Tyler’s family is taking their private yacht to their private island in the Caribbean for spring break!”, followed again by my daughter with, “Nikki’s family is going on the space shuttle for the week!”, and then in unison, “What are we doing?!?” “Hey, there’s a fresh box of graham crackers in the cupboard and I just bought a new thing of chocolate frosting. Enjoy! But try to make it last the week, will ya’?" Grrrr…. I have one message for all you rich parents out there: You suck! Show offs. The least you could do is invite my kids to join you on your trips around the globe this break. Your treat, of course. I’ll supply the graham crackers.Some of our spring break vacations over the years include: *crickets chirping* Exactly! I’ve been planning ahead…buying extra grahams and all that, but I’m still prepared for the annual whine fest. When I was in school we didn’t even have a spring break! We were in class 7 days a week, 27 hours a day and then had 9 hours of homework every night! (I did well in math) My parents had it so easy. |
| My in-laws are really fragile. Not physically, but psychologically, emotionally, and any other way associated with their feelings. It’s tough being me! Even after all these years, I still struggle to keep my balance on the fragile little fiber-thin strand that exists when things are going good between us. Just when I think I’ve got it…I’m off again, hanging by my fingernails. When I’m dangling, it’s not like there’s far to fall. Meaning, basically things are always good between me and the in-laws. They’re great people and I have no monster-in-law stories to share. They’re just….fragile. Very fragile. They burn with an intensity of the brightest of stars in the galaxy, and I am but a helpless little dwarf planet in their orbit. I can turn my back on them, but they’ll continue to cover my butt with their brilliance. There is no escape!Unless there’s an eclipse. And that’s the problem! I never know when those are coming, but I do know that I am the cause. When we enter a dark period, I know I’ve said or done something wrong. Something that somehow, some way, upset the intensity of their brilliance and hurt their fragile feelings. Basically, they believe their wisdom is something to be treasured, yet they TRY to come across as humble and helpful mentors. They live 1,200 miles away in California and for years and years the eclipses were few and far between, but then that jackass Al Gore had to invent the internet and now I am graced by their brilliance almost daily. They’re the types who search for hidden meanings that don’t exist in everything a person says, or doesn’t say. They search for meaning in their surroundings. And if you happen to mention one tiny little area of interest in anything, your inbox will be filled with miles of literature on that subject over the course of the next few months and probably till you die. And you’d better be damn glad to get it! For example, I shared a few details with FIL once of a day of fly fishing, mentioning how I worked my way downstream that day. Apparently he researched it and determined that I should NOT have been fishing downstream but upstream, and sent me e-mail after e-mail of links and articles to prove his point, then bought me a subscription to a fly fishing magazine, apparently so I could get my fishing act straight. As a token of thanks, I sent him a link to the story of that man who tried to kill his in-laws with a rocket launcher last spring. Another time I asked him something simple about his pipe and tobacco. The ensuing tsunami (I always love putting those two words together) of pipe info is still hitting me to this day. It’s how I react to these floods of info that determines the length and severity of the eclipse, and I just haven’t figured that out yet. I do know I can’t be too long and enthusiastic in reply, as they will sense insincerity, and I definitely can’t be too short. A few exclamation marks are fine, but never consecutively. I’m learning…slowly. To see them in action as they try to determine why the simplest of things are happening throughout the day is kind of entertaining. A leaf blowing into a pile of dog crap on the sidewalk as they take a stroll is cause for deep reflection. MIL: Did you see that? FIL: Yes. What are the chances of one single solitary leaf sticking to that pile of crap? MIL: What do you think it means? FIL: I don’t know. Maybe that God is good and will always protect us from crap? MIL: Yes! That must be it. FIL: Isn’t it wonderful that God gave us these enlightened powers of enlightenment and no one else? MIL: Yes, honey. God is good. Anyway, I think I just entered another dark period. I never know if I’m pleased of frightened during these times, but I do know that if they ever find this entry, it might be the start of the eternal eclipse. |
| I failed to log on yesterday and was forced to spend a day in the blogless world of the little people. It’s good to spend time with the little people just to put life in perspective. We huddled around a rusty barrel and tried to stay warm…burning manuscripts that we no longer had the room in our ports to store and talked about the days when the gift points flowed like wine. One day was all I could stand of those people, so I snuck back to Blogville, but since money is tight, I had to settle for only one year of the Enterprise Membership for $1,239.95 this time and only 5 million extra GPs. Hopefully the economy will turn around soon and I can do more. Let’s see, what else? Oh, my wife was in Portland over the weekend and bought me a pair of special running socks from the big huge Nike store there. They’re blue with an orange L and R on top of the toe area. If only my shoes had that. I heard another classic line from a sports announcer last weekend. They butcher phrases regularly and have given me so many good things to add to my vocabulary over the years. A few examples: “He’s been wrecking havoc”, “It’s been good for the morality of the team”, “They’ve completely mailed in the towel”, “My hat goes out to them”, and the list goes on and on, but this weekend’s comment might top them all. During a women’s basketball telecast one of the players had their shot blocked and the announcer said, “She just got a taste of the other shoe.” When I was a child and all the way up through early adulthood, I naively thought all bibles were free. Not sure why, but it just seemed like a sacrilege to make a profit from God’s word for some reason. Imagine my surprise when I made my first-ever trip to a bookstore and saw all kinds of bibles selling for all kinds of prices. Yesterday, my brother sent me a text from a store he was browsing through, telling me of a bible for sale there for $120. Good Lord! I imagine for that price it comes with the Deluxe VIP Pass into heaven featuring an exclusive meet-n-greet with Jesus. Well, the Olympics are over and I’m already having withdrawal symptoms. You know, NBC did their best to show as many of the beautiful men and women athletes as possible, but they really dropped the ball with the women’s curling. There are some hot curlers! But they didn’t get nearly enough air time, though I suspect they were discovered anyway and will soon be featured in the pages of Maxim or in a series of videos like ‘Curlers Gone Wild’ and ‘Bucknaked Curling, Vol. 1-5’. My entries pretty much mirror my brain, by the way. Short attention span, no direction. Gotta work on that….if I remember. |
| Operation “Empty Bladder” will be starting at the top of the hour. BarlowGirl and Stellar Kart are in town tonight, and my wife and I have tickets. There’s nothing worse than being completely wrapped up in a movie or concert and having to break away for a potty trip, so I’m planning ahead. “Barlow-What and Who?” you ask? Yeah, I know…but I haven’t been to a concert since last summers’ Casting Crowns show, so I’m excited. “Casting What?” Shush! Since I’ve been in a sappy sentimental mood lately, I’ll continue. Scarlett left a comment the other day - “cyberlife was good in those times…” - that was right in line with thoughts I’ve been having quite a bit in recent weeks. Not that cyberlife isn’t good now…it is, and I think always will be, but blogging sure has slowed to a crawl here lately, has it not? That’s neither good nor bad, it’s just the way it is. Seasons come and go…people come and go…that’s life. I’m sure it’ll pick up again some day. Or not. Using my scientific blog-density research formula, I divide the number of black cases on the first two pages by the word count of each blue case entry, then add the frequency of yellow case entries within a 24-hour period minus the square root of the mass total of merit badges earned by all bloggers within the past 30 days, and I can pinpoint the current number of wdc bloggers per acre almost exactly. Let me tell ya’, after running the numbers, we’re becoming a more rural community! This is my second account here, but I originally started in 2002, back when it was called Stories.com. I think it was late 2004 or early 2005 when I discovered the blog pages here. I didn’t start my own, but just spent time browsing and reading. Not sure, but I think blogging was fairly new here then, and I remember how none of the blogs seemed to have ANY comments. One here or there, but that was it. The first blog I ever commented in was Emmyloo’s. Little did I know I’d struck gold with that very first comment. Emmy is one of the most talented and hilarious writers to ever grace this site. Come back, Ami! She’s not listening…Anyway, I finally started my own blog in autumn of 2005 and over the course of the next few years of so, things were wild around here. Quite the cast of characters, I tell ya’. Kind of the perfect storm the way everyone came together at the same time. But I think the biggest difference between then and now is the frequency of blogging. Back in the day, I would post an entry in late morning and by evening my blog would already be off the first page. Now it lingers on page one for the better part of two days before finally being bumped into that black hole between pages. (See Scarlett for black hole details) Just not a lot of people posting these days, but things will pick up again one day I’m sure. Or not. Hey, it’s still a lot of fun…just fewer bloggers per acre at the moment. Which does have its advantages -- easier to keep up with everyone, and shorter lines to the bathroom. A lot of those old regulars have let their accounts lapse, or have moved on to other venues where they’re thriving. I’m happy for them, but I still miss them....the traitors! Kidding. I’ve thought about blogging somewhere else….not as a replacement to wdc, but as an addition….dual-citizenship. But I just don’t think I have the energy to maintain two accounts. I’m lazy that way.Anyway, it’s not a big deal. Just an observation to give me something to talk about, nothing more. Lord knows I’ve taken my share of blogging hiatuses through the years. The different seasons of blogging will forever blow in and out of wdc, continually changing the landscape of Blogville. Wow…that was deep! These reminiscing entries sure are boring, but they really are an easy way to fill up dead blog space. Boring entries give me the powers to blog three days in a row! That could be a personal record. But I think I finally have all the sap out of my system, so next entry hopefully won’t be so sticky. Now everyone get out there and BLOG! I want to be pushed off the first page by sundown! Push!!! Breathe! Push!!! Oh, never mind....it'll drop out when it's fully cooked. Can't rush these things. |
| While up at my Dad’s over the Christmas weekend, I came across the old transistor radio I owned as a boy. It was black and fairly small, about three inches wide and four tall, and like many transistor radios from those days, was powered by a 9-volt battery that seemed to last forever. That little box opened up the exciting and mysterious world of late night AM radio to me. Back in those days everything was on AM radio. I listened to all my favorites of the day -- John Denver, James Taylor, Neil Diamond, Elton John - on a station broadcasting from about 25 miles to the south. As long as the sun was up, you could count on that station, but once the sun set a strange and exciting new world began to emerge. AM radio signals never stray far from home during the day, but that same signal bounces all over the ionosphere once the sun and her restraining rays go to bed for the night. Basically, its AM radio’s chance to come out and play. Each night I’d bundle in bed with my little radio, excited to hear what I might pick up this time. Late night AM radio was like that box of chocolates -- you never knew what you were going to get, though I did find a few regulars I could count on every night. Salt Lake City and San Francisco had a strong signal I picked up regularly. I’d lay in bed, gazing at the clear starry mountain skies out my window, and scan the channels with the precision I gained from hours of practice. Those thumb dials required a lot of finesse once you caught a weak signal and tried to bring it in as strongly as possible. And, of course, once you locked it in it would never last. There was something so fascinating to me to be out in the middle of nowhere picking up signals from places unknown. Growing up in a deep mountain canyon didn’t seem to limit my little transistor’s reception. My best friend lived a few miles farther up the canyon and the two of us would play a little game each night to see who could pick up the farthest station away. There was no texting back then, so we had to wait till the morning bus ride to compare search results. Every station I ever identified was from somewhere in the western United States, as well as nearby Canada, though there were many mystery signals as well. I picked up Spanish-speaking stations, but the farthest I could ever confirm was from Albuquerque, New Mexico. My friend swears he picked up a station from New Jersey, though I was skeptical. But in the crazy uninhibited world of late night AM radio, anything’s possible. Today the AM dials are dominated by talk radio, but some music remains. I’m still fascinated by the late night AM phenomenon and have tried to pass that excitement on to my kids. Whenever the family goes camping, I’ll pull out an AM/FM radio and start scanning. I’m happy to report the late night AM airwaves are still as active as ever. Funny how something so primitive can get me so excited. Just the other day, I had my laptop open to my gmail account as I sent a pic from my phone to my e-mail. Watching the pic arrive instantly in my inbox made me shake my head and smile…still amazed at the technology we take for granted every day. Still, none of today’s techno advancements can give me the thrill of the mysterious and exciting world of late night AM radio. |
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