Sad day for icons...

This hasn't been a good week for icons of my youth. A few days ago, I mourned the loss of Ed McMahon, someone I watched as a young insomniac with Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. He was always the foil to Johnny's antics but was the rock that kept the Master in check. I understand he was destitute at the time of his death. He deserved better.

God Speed Ed. Johnny's got your spot on the couch waiting for you.

Then yesterday, I hear about Farrah Fawcett going back into the hospital. I knew from what I had heard about her illness this was the final time. She passed away a short time later. She was the first poster girl for this old fool. My story about her involved the last day of high school, May 20, 1977. I was wearing a t-shirt with her iconic poster on the front. My classmates and I had just spent the lunch hour in a massive water fight. We went back into the school building only to be confronted by the Principal. I was talking to a couple of my classmates who were drenched by the water fight. These young ladies had forgotten to wear anything under their shirts so, needless to say, they had my undivided attention. The Principal came up to us and without looking in my direction (yes, his eyes were occupied) he ordered me home to change my shirt. The poster of Farrah was, in his opinion, obscene. I said no. He threatened to keep my diploma and I dared him to do it. Nothing came of it. That was the first time I stood up to an authority figure.

Thanks Farrah, your beauty was legendary but it also gave me the courage to stand up for my rights. Goddess Bless You!

Just now, I read where Michael Jackson has died of a heart attack. Lately, I haven't been a great fan. His antics were kinda creepy in the last few years. However, I remember a time when it was just his brothers and he and they were singing as a group. The Jackson Five had lots of hits and yes, I was a fan. Michael struck a chord with me because he was just a few months older. I saw someone my age hit the big time and become an icon. Thoughout the years, I saw him undergo a transformation that concerned me. He seemed to need something that he didn't get as a child in the spotlight. I think this was one reason he strayed from the norm so often. He didn't have the chance to develop an anchor growing up, a stable place or mindset that would give him comfort and security. I don't think he ever had a sense of home.

Be at peace, Michael. At long last.

They say celebrities die in threes. It's a morbid game but we all play it. These were three fellow humans with great talent and creativity. They touched our lives and entertained us. But they were only human. We owe them our blessings and condolences to their loved ones during this painful time.

So Mote It Be,
David A.

Happy Father's Day - a Tribute

I've mentioned my dad in many comments throughout the Toobs so now I want to put it out there in style.

My dad is a child of the Depression. He was raised in a rural area with few jobs and fewer social services. Back then, you took care of yourself as best you could 'cause there was no bailout, little charity and most of your neighbors in the same boat as you. My grandparents couldn't afford to live together most of the year. Grandpa would be staying at a logging camp and Grandma with her brother and his family. Dad stayed with his other uncle on his ranch on the Colville Reservation. Dad got to know most of the Indian kids his age from those years. Through it all, Dad never lost his perspective that no matter the situation, you always had options even if they were hard to do.

He played basketball in high school, was pretty good too. He held the single season record for points scored for 20 years, until a kid from Spokane broke it by one point in 1970. A couple of colleges wanted him to sign up but there was not much of a scholarship so he declined and went to work at the lumber mill. It was 1950. After a year of working in the mill, Dad got a chance to fall trees. This meant more money and better job security. However, once he got started as a logger, the Korean War came calling. Dad went into the Navy.

He was lucky and didn't see any action. His first ship went to Korea just as he was reassigned to another ship, one that had just come back. He only stayed for one hitch. Then, it was back to the woods.

One has to take into consideration the nature of this kind of work. Today, there are dozens of safety systems in place to protect timber workers from accidents but there are still fatalities. In those days, loggers had little safety equipment save a tin hat, leather gloves and thick leather chaps (if you could afford them). Dad saw many of his buddies succumb to the dangers of falling trees. There's no amount of experience or calculations that can tell you how a tree will fall. You just take a good guess and hope you have a clear path out of the way.

He worked the woods of Northeastern Washington for 50 years. His legs bear the scars of chain saws and fir trees, snake bites and burns. When his woods caught fire, he picked up his McCulloch and went to carve fire lines. A few times he was nearly overrun by fire, but I think Mother Nature had a soft spot for him.

In 1956, he married my mom and soon had a gaggle of kids running him ragged in a two bedroom, one bath house. I have seven brothers and sisters. From 1956 to 1970 about every two years, there was a new screaming poop factory added to the fold.

He and my mom never flinched in taking care of us. There were no vacations but there were day trips and picnics to the campgrounds and backwoods areas Dad knew well. My brothers and I would accompany Dad hunting sometimes but we never got anything. I don't think any hunter got a buck within a hundred miles of my brothers and me, loudmouth little punks that we were. But it was time with Dad. Good time, time to bond and fart and show Dad that you knew the proper way to handle a knife without a trip to the emergency room. We would go fishing with my sisters and catch loads of fish on Conconully Lake even if it meant we had to touch fish guts.

Dad never made more than $30,000 per year his whole career, that was the last year before the mill close. I remember my college financial aid form had Dad's income in 1976 at $18,000. I can tell you as a fact that we were never poor. We always had food, clothes and trips to the movies once in a while. The clothes came from the church rummage sale sometimes, the movies were far and few between but we weren't deprived. The food mostly came from Dad's buddies who bartered with him for meat, eggs, and such. Dad got end cuts from the mill that we chopped up and split for firewood. Cords and cords would be stacked in the back which would go out to his buddies that had ranches and orchards. Dad would get a half beef which would go to the butcher for cutting and wrapping. The butcher would keep the fancy steaks, cut roasts and some steaks and make hamburger out of the rest. Little to no cash would change hands. Dad also would pick apples on the weekend during the fall for a bit of extra cash for my glasses or my brother's football camp. Dad also had a garden. We've always grown our own veggies. Dad's garden took up most of the back yard at first but dwindled in size as he got older.

Now, Dad's retired and living the easy(!) life with Mom and my sister. He still has a garden - Boy, does he still have a garden. If I live to be a hundred I'll never have the talent at growing that he does.

Let me introduce you to my dad and his garden...

taken in 2005, he's 74 here.

the backyard (June 2004)- the grass on the left and behind the building were once garden too.
From someone who had to pull weeds in that garden, I can't tell you how thankful I am that the grass was planted.
In the garden, the beans on the left are on an archway trellis. They grow up the wire and meet at the top.
Then you have a 'tunnel' of beans that we walk through and pick.

Everyone thinks their dad is the greatest and I'm no exception. I've learned a great deal about life, responsibility and honor by his example. I hear lots of guys talk shit about courage and what it means to be a 'man' - well, that's it right there. You'll find no better example of what a man is supposed to be like. Don't take my word for it, I've got seven siblings that'll say the same thing.

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there.
And especially to the one who means the most to me.

Thanks, Dad, for everything!

So Mote It Be,
David A.

Friday Afternoon Cartoons for Old Hippies

Here's a few vids to keep the memory cells from going soft. I haven't seen these in years and thought that many of you would get a kick out of taking a step back to those days of running home after school to see these 'Toons.




Big fan of the Herculoids. Not sure why.



This last one is the keeper! The origins of Mr. Peabody and Sherman!

Enjoy the cartoon history lesson, I have to get Peabody's W.A.B.A.C machine back before he knows its gone!

So Mote It Be,
David A.

Time to get our heads right

So much shit. Who do you trust? Which way is up?...Up, down, right, left....

Did we torture? Yes, we did but was it legal?
Fuck you, it WAS against the law!

No, you dirty damn hippie, our lawyers wrote the magic memo! It was legal, kinda.
Besides, we had too! The evil Brown People were coming to make us all Muslim!

The give and take between the right and the left is getting shrill. This is just the torture memos. Health care is on the table now and we have some of our own party blocking single payer insurance. The corporate whores of the for-profit health care industry, the insurance industry, and the pharmaceutical companies are no-holds barred trying to woo Dems away from Obama's original plan.

The battles are on many fronts today. Too many to count and too many to mount much opposition. Our personal windmills are being pushed into the background as the MSM determines what story should be foremost on the news. This means my issues of affordable health care and decriminalized marijuana take a back seat to Miss California's tits.

So, I give you a moment of zen. A musical Valium to wrap your head around the situation and get a new perspective. This video takes us back to a time when the country was in chaos like now. Different time, different war, different players but the shit was just as deep. Then, as now, music was our channel to truth. Or at least the seeds of it.



I will update this post in a few. Work is calling and I have to bring home my meager slice of bacon. Enjoy the trip!

So Mote It Be,
David A,

Sunday Morning Cartoons

Ok, I love cartoons. The old Hanna Barbera cartoons (Huckleberry Hound, Yogi Bear, and Snagglepuss) were my favorite. So, I'll put out a couple of them from time to time just to keep it real.

When was the last time you saw this character?

Now, a second helping...

I love this stuff...

So Mote It Be,
David A.

Sunday Morning Cuppa Joe

Just got up and shit, getting old sucks. Aches and pains, bad foots and back, throat feels like I half swallowed a dozen oysters. Crap!

Sunday used to be fun. Back in the day, my grandpa would take my next younger brother, Neil and I to a little cafe on Main St. for breakfast. He alternated weekends with my sisters. We would order whatever we wanted as long as we ate it. I would get french toast, french fries and a vanilla shake, my brother would order french fries and a bowl of chili with a chocolate shake. These weren't the wimpy, fake milk bullshit shakes you get at McDonald's but the home blended kind made from scoops of ice fucking CREAM. They would pour it into those special glasses with whipped cream and a cherry and give you the extra still in the metal mixing cup.

Damn, ain't had one of those in years. Probably give me gas.

As we scarfed our meal, Grandpa would give us a quarter for the jukebox. Back in 1969, it was good for three songs. The deal was that we would have to play 'G8' and pick two others we wanted. I have a disagreement with my brother as what song that was. I know it was by Engelbert Humperdinck but the song is in dispute. I think is was either "Am I That Easy to Forget" or "Release Me". Neil says it may have been Tom Jones and the song was "Delilah". Although that song's more popular, I know that my memory is correct.

What were we talking about? Oh Yeah!

Grandpa passed away in 1971. Good man who loved his grandkids, all 8 of them. You see, Grandpa liked to drink a few beers with his buddies on Saturday night. Sometimes quite a few. Dad would get a call from the bar to come and take him home. On Sunday morning, he would show up, take either the boys or the girls in tow and head out to the Diner. I remember Mom always in a piss-poor mood when we left.

Years later, long after he had died, she told us Grandpa was hung over and needed something to eat, so he just took us with him. But I don't think it was just convenience that brought us along. Mom wasn't there as we ate. Grandpa would talk to us, ask us questions, brag to the waitress about what we were doing. We have a photo from 1968 that shows Grandpa napping on the couch with my sister curled up next to him fast asleep. She still remembers that he wore a cologne that was all his, that put her at ease. Mom says he was just passed out and it was probably the beer coming out of his pores, covered up in Old Spice.

She's mellowed in her opinion of Grandpa over the years. She's come to respect the way we 'kids' think of him and what he meant to us. She saw him through the eyes of an adult, a person who could see the faults and flaws without the innocence of youth. The loving eyes of a child can over look the dark realities of adulthood. That isn't necessarily a good thing. But in the context of this situation, it salvages a memory of a man who worked hard for a lot of years with little to show for it, other than a loving family. He didn't jump into the bottle because of despair but of loneliness. He needed his buddies at the bar for companionship. Who are we to judge that?

My dad, who moonlighted as barkeep at that tavern for extra money, said that every bar stool tenant there knew about us kids. All the 'Norms' and 'Cliffs' knew who we were, what baseball team we played on, who got the awards in school; everything about us. All that came from my Grandpa. When I was 10, he gave me a bike for my birthday. He said that he just happened to put a dollar on the punchboard game and he won the bike. He told me: "Didn't know what to do with the damn thing so I guess you can have it." A few years ago, Mom told me that he spent all night at that game until he won the bike.

If we don't allow for mistakes, allow for some human failing, we may end up slighting the memories of those who were important to us. When we talk about Grandpa now, Mom always says; "He really loved you kids." forgetting the way she felt about him back then. Selective memory can be a good thing, I guess.

We tend to be too judgmental, too strict in our personal dogma. If we don't allow some fresh air into the way we think, our standards will grow cold and rigid, like a petrified tree. We didn't have that as kids but some of us have it as grown-ups. I fear that I've gotten that way in my adultery too.

So today, I'm going to a little diner near my apartment and order french fries, french toast and a vanilla milkshake.

Happy Sunday, Grandpa.

So Mote It Be,
David A.