GENTLEMEN PREFER BLOGS

Herd The Offer For Malia's Hand . . .

 

It seems a lawyer from Kenya has made the Obama family a very attractive offer. Felix Kiprono is in love from afar with 17 year old First Family oldest daughter, Malia.

For those who would scoff at his sincerity Kiprono insists his love is real and that he is not simply after the family's money. The Kenyan lawyer, age unknown, is no cheapskate by any means. He is offering President Obama fifty cows, seventy sheep and thirty goats for the hand of fair if, underaged, Malia.

 

 

And he is a romantic as well. He is hoping the President will bring Malia with him on his July trip to Kenya. He will tie a sacred plant around her head, according to local custom, and feed her sour milk. He promises to teach his new bride how to milk a cow like other Kenyan women. 

I sure wish someone would approach me with a deal like that. Oh, certainly not livestock as an offering for Bonnie, Dusty or Shannon's promise of forever. The neighbors would likely complain.  But maybe a fully loaded iPad might get my attention 

Feel free to submit your best offer. 

 

"He Will Not Let Me Fa-a-a-ll"

The year was 1992. Our calling, Improbable People Ministries, was in its infancy and daughter Dusty, at three, was just a bit older. The three of us—Sally, myself and Dusty Rose—were traveling the Eastern seaboard from Los Angeles in our faithful Toyota mini-van, Rosie.

 

We had traveled so far north at one juncture we left the country and headed for Toronto where a service at a Christian college awaited. 

 

Dad & Dusty clown around in Provincetown

 

One evening, while ensconced in Canada, Dusty and I found ourselves all alone in the motel room. Sally had gone for food while Dusty and I held down the fort. I was reading a book as I recall, and Dusty was practicing a high-wire act along the six-foot counter that enveloped the bathroom sink.

 

Dusty was in a particularly good mood that evening. She was singing one of her favorite songs: 

 

"He will no let me fa-a-a-l

He will not let me fall

I put my faith in Jesus

For He will not let me fall."

 

The innocence was precious to watch and I found myself smiling at the sight on this circus performer tentatively moving across the counter's edge while singing her lofty hymn. She made two more passes, pivoting  ever-so-delicately each time, returning the way she'd come.

 

"He will not let me f-a-a-a-ll. "

 

 

But suddenly, without a bit of warning, Dusty slipped from her wire and fell two and a half feet to the shag rug below. This was not enough to hurt my daughter who landed on her natural padding—but caused just enough of a plop to shock the system and wound the soul.

 

"Daddy!" she called, with great crocodile tears welling in her eyes,

 

I jumped to Dusty's side to console her and check for broken skin.

 

"Daddy!" she called again as I was racing to her fallen figure.

 

"What is it, Dusty? Are you ok?"

 

"Daddy," she finally managed through free flowing tears and circumstances she could barely believe, "Daddy, He LET me FALL!!!!!!"

 

It was all I could do not to break out laughing, though that is exactly what I do with every retelling of this story through the years. 

 

Dusty had such a faith at three she truly believed the words she was singing. She believed Jesus was her safety net and, perhaps unwisely, let down her guard to be taken by that old demon, Gravity.

 

Would that we could all go back to such a time and be so guileless.

 

 

 

"Oh, the dreams of our youth—how beautiful they are. And how perishable!"  --Mark Twain

 

 

An Important Clarification

Well, that certainly clears the President of any spiritual wrongdoing. The Lexingtom Dispatch issued the accompanying retraction after first incorrectly printing that reader Boyd Thomas claimed President Obama is the Antichrist.

As much a relief as it is to scratch the President off the list the nagging question remains. For what it's worth my money, as to the evil genius, the future ruler of the world and unflinching source of total world dominion, is on this guy:

 

 

Farewell To The 'Stick

 

 

 

They're tearing down that old ballpark o' mine. They're ripping and wrecking and pummeling and ending the concrete land where millions of dreams, large and small,  once took place . . . and a couple were even realized. 

 

 

I saw  my first Major League Baseball game at Candlestick Park. I was eight or nine and when I walked through the tunnel and experienced the biggest burst of green I had ever seen. The grass was so rich and lush it looked like a leprechaun had exploded. I thought I had found the fabled  Emerald City of Oz. 

This was where, over the years, I saw Willie Mays play. I watched Millie McCovey, Juan Marichal, Orlando Cepeda, Gaylord Perry--Hall Of Famers all.  Who can forget Jim Ray Hart, Hal Lanier, Tom Haller and three Alous in the outfield at the same time?

 In 1999 I took my Dad to see a couple games during the Giants final homestand and it was a sweet time for us both, the roles reversing ever-so-gently with me buying the tickets, the motel room and the food and Dad being the grateful recipient.

Despite their enormous success winning three of the last five World Series, the Giants never won a championship during their tenure at Candlestick from 1960-1999. I know. I left my heart in Candlestick for most of those years.

 The Giants came close twice at Candlestick. When in Game Seven against the Yankees in the '62 Series, down 1-0 with two outs and runners on second and third Willie McCovey hit a screaming liners to second baseman Bobby Richardson who snagged it for the final out. A foot in either direction and the Giants are World Champs and I don't have to wait until 2010 to shed the cross of Giants failure I bore for the first fifty-five years of my life. 

 

 

 

Twenty-seven years later in 1989 the Giants came within four wins and a 6.9 earthquake of taking home the crown---which is to say not close at all. 

 

 

We've known this day was coming for some time. The Giants haven't played in Candlestick Park during this century. The 49ers, another long-time tenant, played there through their 2013 season. It has been sitting vacant since with ghosts roaming the outfield and phantoms sliding into second base.

 Now there is nothing left to do but turn out the lights and bid a fond adieu to this little corner of the world upon which so much depended with I was small. I use to lay under covers late at night with my transistor radio turned as low as I could to  hear Russ Hodges and Lon Simmons describe the action. I could imagine the scene playing out at Candlestick because I had been there and seen it for myself.

As the concrete continues to crumble on the park at Candlestick Point in San Francisco I think of one of my favorite Gershwin tunes. For Candlestick will live on in my heart long after the new condos and retail space goes up for the trendy northern California crowd. And they can't, my friends--no, they can't take that away from me.

 

 

 

 

Almost Forever

It would have been remembered forever.

It would have been one of the top 5 all-time plays in NFL history.

Great grandfathers would have been telling their great grandsons about this and where they were and what bad-for-them snack food they were munching when they first viewed this play 60 years hence.

But a funny thing happened to Jermaine Kearse on the way to immortality. 

His team, the Seattle Seahawks, failed to follow up and capitalize on the greatness of Kearse's moment. And because of that this play, incredible in real time, but an extreme work of art in slow motion, will eventually be lost to the dustbin of history.

I count four separate touches before Kearse reels it in in one giant Come-to-Papa moment on the fifth.

Take one more  look and weep at its intrinsic grace before it leaves your mind forever:

 

Click on Picture

 

 

And The Winner Is . . . ?

 

If you are looking for a betting edge for Super Bowl XLIX the good folks of Cincinnati have a sure-fire way of discerning the winner in advance. And this year's prognosticators agreed unanimously on the outcome. So there is still time to get to Vegas or your local bookie and bet the farm on . . . .

 

 

An Unreasonable Attachment

 

It's just a bowl.

 

Six and a half inches across.

 

Three and a half inches deep.

 

It holds exactly five and a half cups of fluid . . . or whatever else you want to put in there. The once-yellow bowl is now cracked and discolored as if someone had made that their life's work . . . 

 

"Hmmmmm . . . give me a hundred years, 10,000 washings, 227 near-drops and I'll give you back something almost unrecognizable from the dish you once prepared food in or ate from."

 

If you saw it in a Goodwill shop or Salvation Army store you wouldn't give it a second thought . . . unless the word "euthanasia" crept into your subconscious. Or you needed something for target practice out on the range.

 

 

This is a bowl that, in terms of food preparation, should have been put out of its misery in the 1960s when it was a mere fifty years old or so. This dish is so old it was there to see FDR create Social Security and then stuck around long enough to collect a monthly check for at least thirty-five years. 

 

So why does this unheralded bowl, this ugly stepchild of a casserole dish, currently reside in an honored spot in our kitchen cupboard? 

 

It was my grandfather's bowl. 

 

 

Charles James O'Connor Sr. (my father was Charles James O'Connor Jr. and I'm forever grateful to Dad I'm not CJO The Third) , born in Ireland in 1901 was among the youngest of eleven or twelve siblings. Drinking and procreating have always been two of the greatest skills on an Irishman's resume which is why I have always been a disappointment to my people. 

 

You see, I abstain from alcohol entirely.  And while I've aided in the conception process on at least three different occasions I feel the cultural guilt and shame of not propagating the family name by at least as many spaces as there are in an egg carton.

 

As soon as Grandpa Charlie was old enough to escape the grip of the O'Connor clan he downed a final pint of Guinness and hightailed it out of ol' Ireland, heading for The Promised Land of America. Instead, he landed in Sacramento which was as close to nirvana as he was ever get--and where he stayed until he died in his early 90s.

 

He had only one child, my father. His wife Marie died of cancer when my dad was just three years old. Grandpa didn't know how to deal with a three year old boy so my dad was sent to "The Ranch"--a nearby cluster of rural homes in South Sacramento populated by his mother's siblings Roy, Merna and Hazel. My dad stayed with his aunts and uncle on and off until Grandpa remarried and repatriated his only son now that there was a woman to care for him.

 

I came along in 1955. As we lived on the other end of Sacramento from Grandpa--I'm pretty sure that was by design--it was too far for me to walk over but close enough for many overnight visits. The first time I remember seeing The Bowl was on one of these overnight sojourns. 

 

It was a Saturday morning after a Friday night sleepover. He was using the bowl to mix pudding. There were two treats I never got at home that were always a staple at Grandpa's house: Seven-Up and Jello brand Vanilla Pudding. 

 

This was before instant pudding which allowed you to bypass some of the heavy lifting involved in the pudding-making process. Grandpa mixed the sweet components in The Bowl  and then poured the solution carefully into a pot on the stove. I'm not sure how long the cooking operation took, but while it was boiling I was over by the sink stealing fingers full of wet pudding mix remnants. I suppose this is where the bonding with The Bowl started. Occasionally, when Grandpa made chocolate pudding at my request, the bowl-licking process because became even more fevered and personal.

 

I'm not sure how The Bowl eventually made it into my possession. But I have a few theories. 

 

 

1. I know The Bowl was among my few household pots, pans, crockery and utensils when I moved out of the house after I tuned eighteen.

 

2. Grandpa was still alive until my early thirties so its transfer to our household was not as a result of an inheritance of his stuff--which is often the case with second-hand household goods.

 

3. Based on those observations my best guess is that upon one of Grandpa's remarriages (he was married four times and buried three wives) his new wife probably took a look at all the ancient stuff in his kitchen and demanded some modern kitchenware. 

 

4. At that point Grandpa would have offered The Bowl and various other items to my mom and dad who were never too proud--or rich--to turn down used goods or clothing from friends or family when offered. 

 

5. It probably hung around our family home, rarely used for a decade or so until I got my first apartment and my mother used the opportunity to rid herself of all the old kitchen stuff she owned which, in turn, likely brought her a trove of new kitchen treasure from Sears and J.C. Penny. Do you see a pattern developing here? 

 

 

6. The Bowl became my number one go-to dish when I needed something besides a flat plate to mix food components and to eat out of. It was the perfect bachelor bowl. How may cans of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom did I consume out of The Bowl? How many million Spaghetti-Os had a brief stopover in The Bowl before their unholy decent into the sewer systems of America? Even today I will mix eggs in The Bowl, pour the mixture into the frying pan, rinse out The Bowl and serve the scrambled eggs in the same dish it was mixed in. There is a symmetry and economy in that small gesture I find comforting.

 

Through the years The Bowl has survived at least ten moves, including one to Southern California where it came to live out its golden years in a sunny climate. No one else in our family uses The Bowl. Perhaps they are afraid of breaking it and knowing how badly I will feel. 

 

I know The Bowl is not going to survive until its bi-centennial. A careless drop, a random elbow, a 6.2 earthquake is all it will take to bring this beautiful culinary love affair to a crashing halt. And when it finally happens it might even be a bit of a relief, the same as when Cal Ripken Jr. voluntarily ended his consecutive games played streak at 2,632. 

 

When that day comes if I'm still around to see it, I hope I won't be angry. I hope I can look down on the shattered pieces--because, let's face it, NO ONE is breaking into our home, leaving the cash and the electronics while stealing The Bowl--I hope I can sweep up the shards and remember the many, many meals, the nearly perfect puddings . . . smile one last time and say "Thanks".

 

Even if it's strange to do so out loud to an inanimate object.

 

Maybe the reason I've kept The Bowl around all these years is because it helps keep  Grandpa's spectacled face alive in my mind's eye.  And I guess that's a good enough reason to hang onto a hundred year old broken down piece of pottery in a modern-day  Tupperware world. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The G.O.P. and Their Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Wow!

Republicans just had their worst day in a long, long time. They got body slammed to the mat and they don't appear to be moving.

House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi, the Wise and Wonderful One from the land the gave us Rice-A-Roni, has just declared a Senate takeover by the G.O.P. in November would endanger civilization "as we know it today."

Think about that for a moment. If the country awakens on November 5, 2014 to a Republican Senate majority . . . . the peaceful seas we enjoy today will no longer be calm and placid . . . overnight the Earth will face devastating hunger, massive water shortages, and a possible nuclear Winter the likes we have never been seen before. Male and female alike might actually be forced into the humiliating position of being made to purchase their own preferred forms of birth control from their own *gasp* personal treasure. 

In short, it will be a very dark day.

 

 

Civilization hinges on Dems retaining control of the Senate in November 

 

In the same interview Pelosi,  the San Francisco Treat, then compared Republicans and their stance toward women to NFL player Ray Rice who is suspended from his team indefinitely for punching his fiancee unconscious with a single vicious blow and then dragging her from the elevator.

 

 

This is what Republican are like, acording to Nancy Pelosi

 

How will conservatives recover from this amazingly accurate portrayal of their political planks and ethics? It won't be easy. Maybe they can hire the fella below as their new spokesman.

 

 

Hiring Jon Lovitz as new spokesman may be only hope for devastated G.O.P.

 

Pelosi could deliver the knockout blow by comparing conservatives and Tea Party members to the gentleman from ISIS who removed the heads of two US journalists recently. Wait for it . . WAIT for it . . . I'm pretty sure it's coming . . . . 

I thank God every day for Nancy Pelosi. She is the ultimate visionry for freedom and democracy in America.

She is the gift that keeps on giving.

 

 

 

 

Back To The Manger

My daughter Shannon will be auditioning this Sunday for a part in our church Christmas play. She has been taking acting lessons from a prrofessional coach for over a year. Now it's time to enjoy some of the fruit from that particular tree.

Our church always puts on a semi-professional production, which is why we start in late August instead of early November.

Shannon, at twelve, is among the oldest kids in the group now and this may be her final  production at this venue. I say "may" because one never knows when that infamous consortium of minds—The Powers That Be—will stretch the bounds of age for need of an older player to fill a niche role.

 

After all, I was drafted to play the part of the town Mayor in Miracle on Main Street a few years back, and I was significanly closer to the second reference in the phrase "from dust to dust" than I was to the first.

Hauled reluctantly, midst a blissful retirement from the world of the performing arts, was I. Lines were learned. Blocking staged. The muscle memory of performances past crept back slow at first, like a rustic tea kettle left on simmer so long it has nearly forgotten its whistle . . . 

When all was said and done critics hailed my performance as "An epic turn! At once a cross between Pacino, DeNiro, and Pee Wee Herman." Modesty forbids me from quoting other rave notices. I re-retired at the peak of my acting career and have never regretted the decision. The same cannot be said for my adoring public.

I was recently tripping down Memory Lane with these fond recollections and stumbled upon one other Christmas play remembrance.

The year following Miricle on Main Street I was at the church again one evening. Dress rehearsal was in full tilt for that season's Christmas musical, Back to the Manger. Shannon and Bonnie both had roles. 

Bonnie was playing the young Mary, future mother of Jesus.

I had driven the girls and had nothing much to do until rehearsal was finished. Killing time I walked into the bathroom and saw the young man who I had recently learned was playing Joseph, husband to Mary, father to Jesus in every way but biological. The kid was maybe fourteen or fifteen.

I decided to have some fun. After acknowledging each other I said to him, "So, I understand you're going to be married to my daughter." He laughed, and blushed.

"Yeah."

I headed into the stall. No one else was in the restroom. He was getting ready to leave. I said to him, "So, Ryan . . .  " "

Yeah?" he answers, likely wondering where this is going.

" . . . the next time my daughter tells you she's a virgin . . . (Pause for effect). . . I really want you to believe her  . . .OK? "

He laughed nervously and left. 

Just honing my cross-generational psychological warfare chops for when the non-Biblical suitors start showing up.

 

 

Obamanomics 101

 

Ripped from the pages of Breitbart.com:

 

"A new, unprecedented bill passed by California's State Senate on Thursday will encourage public schools to teach students about the historical significance surrounding Barack Obama's ststus as the first AfricanAmerican president of the United States of America."

 

Like I always say . . . you can't make this stuff up, folks. Of course the election of our first black President is a landmark moment in our nation's history. But why can't we leave the writing of that history to the historians? Why do we need our history produced at broadband speeds?

We have learned that it takes time and perspective--decades, really-- to give a clear and (ideally) unbiased view of our Presidents. To paint a presidential portrait now before the President's term is even completed, before his story is even told, is a bad idea on so many levels--not the least is that the bill brings a political agenda into the classroom in place of objective learning.

 

It gives politically motivated teachers of all ideological stripes  permission to share political ideas and ideals with school kids, many of them too young to form critical thought so as to question what they are being told.

 When I was in high school we learned US and World History from decades past. The Watergate hearings were in full stride as I entered college. Sure, we learned about the inner dealings of the current political crisis. But the class was called "Political Science."

AND WE WERE IN COLLEGE!!!!!

We knew we were analyzing data and forming opinions based on it. Today's kids, especially the younger ones, will  have little defense against whatever political spin they are being fed--from the Right or Left.

There is a memorable line in the musical "Evita" where the narrator, Che Guevara, whispers to Eva Peron, "Get them while they're young, Eva. Get them while they're young." He is referring to  the State efforts at propagandizing  school children to sing the praises of their President, Juan Peron.

Sorry to sound like my great grandpa, but whatever happened to the three R's: Reading and (w)Riting and (a)Rithmatic? Any time left in the school day for those trivialities?

Not as long as Climate Change For Fun & Profit, Kama Sutra For Teenagers, Feminest Studies in a Misogynist Age and Obamanomics 101 are on the menu, I suppose . . . 

 

James Brady: 1940-2014

First Ann B. Davis dies in June . . . and now President Reagan's former press secretary. Man, it's been a tough Summer to be a Brady . . . .

 

Top 10 Things You Don't Want To Hear On A First Date

 

 

10.   "Sorry to bother you . . . my water is breaking."

9.    "Did you know In 'n Out Burger uses condiments to spell out Bible Scriptures right onto their meat? They got that from me."

8.    "I like cats. Do you like cats? Cuz I like cats. Do you like cats?"

7.    "Would you be jealous if my dress size were smaller than yours?"

 

 

6.    "I thought I'd miss my mom tonight. That's why I brought her along in my purse."

 

 

5.    "Ever seen the inside of a bunny?"

 

4.    "What's your favorite musical—besides Sweeney Todd?"

 

3.    "I'll bet you want to know what happened to the last four girls I dated . . . "

 

 

2.     "I'm a litle short tonight. Do you mind paying? I'll cover the next 150 dates."

 

And the number one thing you don't want to hear on a first date . . . . . 

 

1.     "What size burka do you wear?"

 

 

 

* With thanks to my daughter Shannon

 

 

Life Is Unfair: Film At 11

Just when you think the accusations against Israel can't get any more silly or outrageous comes the story on Breitbart.com by Thomas Rose that the United Nations top human rights official has once again condemned Israel.

The charge against Israel by Navi Pillay?

"Deliberately defying International Law . . . in a way that constitutes war crimes."

Writes Rose:

The UN chairwoman criticized the U.S. for helping fund Israel's Iron Dome system which has saved countless Israeli and Palestinian lives. "No such protection has been provided to Gazans against the shelling," she said.

Just because Hamas fires rockets indiscriminately aimed at Israeli civilian population centers without provocation and fires them from within its own population centers does not “absolve” Israel from its own legal violations, Pillay told reporters Thursday.

Actually, Pillay may have a point. In this ever-evolving environment of equality for all, whatever the merit, the gap is widening between the ruthless winners in the world and us schubs who are upset because we sometimes get picked last in the company softball game.

In fact, the San Francisco Chronicle reported this morning the San Francisco Giants are considering suing the Los Angeles Dodgers for not allowing star pitcher Clayton Kershaw to throw for the Giants every other time his spot comes up in the rotation.

In addition USA Newtwork is complaining to the FCC that HBO refuses to run top rated Game Of Thrones free of charge on their channel and House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi has filed a grievance with God that she is not Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly.

Sometimes life is so unfair. 

 

BHD

With these brows EVERY day is a bad hair day . . .

 

 

Have You Ever Been Mallow?

 

 

Allow me to share a prank the two youngest girls and I pulled on my wife Sally a little more than a year ago.

Sally hates marshmallow. ANYTHING made of marshmallow. Just HATES it.

Rice Krispie Treats?

Hates 'em.

S'mores? (Who doesn't love s'mores?)

Hates 'em.

Peeps? Those cute little mashmallow chicks and ducks and bunnies that come out do play in microwaves at Easter?

HATE-HATE-HATES 'em.

This particular revulsion seems disfunctional in nature and I'd be very surprised if she has anything but a visceral reaction each Christmas at the mall when they play It's a Marshmallow World over the music system.

About a year ago when Sally was on a road trip I saw Klondike Bars—the chocolate covered ice cream squares—on sale so I bought a couple six-packs. The first was our favorite—Krunch—with krispies in the chocolate. The second was a brand new flavor—Rocky Road.

You may be aware that rocky road  ice cream has marshmallow in it. When we were down to the last two bars—one of each—I got an incredibly mischievous idea. I unwrapped both bars from their loose foil clothing. I then placed the Rocky Road (with marshmallow) Klondike inside the Krunch Bar wrapper and swaddled it tightly as if cradling a newborn Klondike.

Bonnie and Shannon shared the actual Krunch Bar.

Then we placed the faux Krunch Bar in the freezer under the peas where it could be spotted—but not too easily.We didn't want to leave it out in the open as Sally would  be suspicious of any dessert that sat several days in our fridge unmolested.

The girls and I made a pact not only to leave the bar alone, but not to say a thing about it to their mom when she returned as we know she has a weakness for Klondike Bars and her GPS sweet tooth would hone in on it eventually.

Sure enough, within a day of her return I noticed the ice cream bar was gone. The fish had taken the bait. Now it was time to reel her in.

That night at dinner I pointedly asked each daughter if she had eaten the Klondike Bar I'd been saving for myself. Both Shannon and Bonnie assured me in front of their mom they had not. They were most sincere in their feigning of fear. The dramatics were right out of a Perry Mason (WHO???) episode.

I stewed while moving dinner around with my fork.

Sally cleared her throat and sheepishly admitted that she had eaten it. Indeed, she was responsible for eliminating the last Klondike Bar. She apologized for not realizing I had intended to eat it myself. I acted hurt, then allowed myself some time to "cool down".

Silence filled the room as fake steam poured from my ears. If I wasn't winning an Oscar this night it was never going to happen.

"I hope you enjoyed it, at least," I said to Sally.

She assured me it was . . . *gulp*  . . .  quite wonderful.

Bingo! Yahtzee! Triple sevens at Vegas!

The girls and I couldn't hold in the laughter any longer. We exploded. Then I explained to Sally what we had done. It was like the playback scene at the end of every Monk episode where the great detective reveals how the crime in question was committed.

 "OH! OH! OH! EWWWWWWWWWWW!" she exclaimed in complete betrayal mode.

"This is wrong! This is so very WRONG!!"

We continued to laugh until it hurt. She had eaten marshmallow and ENJOYED it. Never knew that vile substance had made the long trek from taste bud to gullet until we told her.

Was it Evil to pull such a prank? Maybe with a small "e" but not, I believe, with a capital. Let's just say that if there is a Purgatory . . . I expect to do some hard time there on the way to Glory.

Do I worry about retribution? Sally is not like that. She's mature. She's a Godly woman. She is not about revenge.

And besides, for any food I haven't prepared myself . . . . I've hired a full time taster.