Rock And Roll All Night, And Republican Party Every Day

"Hindsight is 20/20. I have some real issues with the economy and how it's being done. America should be in business and it should be run by a businessman," said the musician, who voted for Barack Obama in 2008. "Americans, smartly, and I applaud them for doing so, vote on the issues and not the party," he said. Ladies and gentlemen, you've seen the rest, now here's the best, endorsement, that is: Gene Simmons of the rock band KISS is supporting Mitt "Catcher's" Romeny in his run for the presidency of the United States. Gene, as the God of Thunder and star of reality TV is uniquely suited to make this judgement because he is, after all, a celebrity.
And an entrepreneur. Gene would be very happy to take care of your merchandising needs from the cradle to the grave. He never met a licensing deal he didn't love. This may be why his net worth bumps into that of his preferred candidate. I don't know if it is still vogue to throw around such numbers, but they must certainly frequent some of the same posh clubs and eateries. And speaking of restaurants, Mister Simmons is opening up his own chain of eateries, which he managed to include in his stump for his man Mitt.
This summer, you can catch Gene on stage, singing, playing bass, and alternately spitting blood and fire. No word as yet on who Tommy Lee is supporting, but we can only assume there will be some lively backstage banter, especially if Dave Mustaine shows up.

Fear Factor

My wife has decided to refer to the tragedy at Oakland's Okios University as a "self-esteem shooting." I believe her suggestion is based on the idea that when a personality collapses under great pressure from its own weight, bad things happen. I don't know if we will ever make full sense of what happened on Monday morning, mostly because we are probably just a few hours away from the next incident requiring us to consider all the reasons why these things continue to happen. I won't pretend to understand the motives of One L. Goh, just as I can't understand all the sound and fury that events such as this generate.
I remember when Colorado enacted legislation intended to keep homeowners safe in the event of a home invasion. This became known, colloquially enough, as the "Make My Day" Law, after the terse threat given by Clint Eastwood in a Dirty Harry movie. It should be noted that, at the time Inspector Callahan uttered these words, he was standing in a coffee shop, not his living room. A number of states followed suit, and now you can feel safe in your home because of that fictional San Francisco Police detective.
But what if you're walking down the street? Florida has the answer for that: It's called "Stand Your Ground," and it allows a person to use deadly force without a duty to retreat. If you feel threatened. It's also called "Line In The Sand," and if you like your ordinances with a macho feel, they don't come much better than this.
Not surprisingly, in the wake of the Oakland killings, there has been a renewed cry for those of us on the front lines to start carrying guns. These folks fervently believe that if there had been more citizens carrying weapons at Okios University, lives would have been spared. They would like us to pack heat in the classroom. One of the first things we learn in teacher school is that after biological needs like food and water, human beings need to feel safe in order to learn anything. Apparently having more guns in a room makes some people feel safe.
Me? I believe that a society that has truly evolved will need fewer guns, not more. Amendments to the Constitution have been amended and repealed throughout our history, and I can imagine that there might come a time when we have outlived our need for guns. We solve things with words and actions that don't leave innocent victims dead. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.

Certain Restrictions

I've flown JetBlue on a couple of occasions. It's nice to know that there is a discount alternative for flying from Oakland to New York. Not discount like forty-five dollars discount, but if you saved your nickels and dimes, you might end up feeling as if you saved a few of those nickels and dimes by flying the skies of Blue. Of course, you might also be a little nervous about the flight crew of this bargain airline.
Last Tuesday, Captain Clayton Osbon ran through the cabin before passengers tackled him in the galley. He screamed incoherently about religion and terrorists, which put a damper on the in flight entertainment found in the back of every headrest. Consequently, Flight 191 from New York to Las Vegas was diverted to Amarillo, Texas where Captain Osbon was taken in to custody. Later in the week, his wife let everyone know that "he was not intentionally violent toward anyone." Unintentional violence at thirty thousand feet is still a pretty dicey proposition.
It got me to thinking about the relative safety of other kinds of travel. The advantage that a jet has over a bus is a co-pilot. If the bus driver goes nuts, you had better hope that Sandra Bullock is on board to grab the wheel, or you're probably going to end up in a ditch. Even at sixty-five miles an hour, the descent probably won't be as abrupt as flying. Then there's the train, which certainly has its potential for becoming runaway, in which case you had better check to see if Jon Voight isn't your conductor. You could always settle for the family road trip across this great land of ours, but after a few hundred miles of getting the back of your seat kicked and choruses of Ninety-nine Bottles Of Beer, even the most responsible of us might begin to crack.
And that may be the point where discussion ends: After twelve years of slogging back and forth across the continent, Captain Osbon may have reached his limit of being asked "Are we there yet?"

YA

By way of admission, I know that I am not the target audience for "The Hunger Games." I passed the "young adult" marker a few miles back, and I probably won't be seeing it again anytime soon. That's okay with me, since it has also kept me free and clear from both Team Jacob and Team Edward. The down side has been a certain distance generated between myself and the young adult who lives with me. Though he eschews all things Twilight, he has been fully caught up in the flurry of Suzanne Collins' blockbuster trilogy. He read all three books and committed the details to memory, and was pleased with how readily those details were reproduced on the screen adaptation of the first book. His biggest frustration is the wait for the next movie.
This was my wife's reaction as well. She's more in touch with her inner young adult. She is also the one who started us all off on the road to Hogwarts before my son was able to read anything but Calvin and Hobbes. Happily, his interest in transmogrifying things easily translated into the world of Harry Potter, and we spent the decade leading up to Deathly Hallows periodically immersed in that world.
But when it came time to jump on the Katniss Everdeen bandwagon, I stayed behind. It might have something to do with the fact that we are just a few short years before Soylent Green becomes a staple in our pantries, and we missed Skynet becoming self-aware by a year now. Dystopian societies don't seem that frightening to me. If you want reality TV shows pitting angst-ridden teens against one another, the next "Sixteen and Pregnant" marathon is just minutes away on MTV.
Maybe I just don't get it. I already got "Logan's Run," "The Running Man," and "The Long Walk." I'm about ready for someone to write the first JOG novel, for us jaded old guys.

All The Busts Aren't In Canton

If you've been hanging around this blog for a while, you've probably noticed that your daily productivity has slowed somewhat and you really should think about getting back to work. You might have also noticed my passing fancy with the world of professional sports. Just recently I reported on the trials and tribulations of the Denver Broncos' search for a franchise quarterback. They sent Tim Tebow and his mania packing in favor of a battle tested veteran who may be playing out his last few games in the Mile High City. It has generated all kinds of amusing anecdotes, not the least of which are the accounts of what lengths other teams went to secure Peyton Manning's services. People across the country were falling all over themselves just to get a chance at throwing more money at this guy.
Way back in 1998, Peyton Manning was considered the "safe choice" for the Indianapolis Colts behind the much more physically gifted kid named Ryan Leaf, who was picked second by the San Diego Chargers. Leaf stated on draft day, "I'm looking forward to a fifteen-year career, a couple of trips to the Super Bowl and a parade through downtown San Diego." The parades weren't in San Diego. They were in Indianapolis. That fifteen year career turned out to be about three. He appeared in twenty-five games and started twenty-one. Conversely, Peyton Manning has won a record four league most valuable player awards, was the most valuable player of Super Bowl XLI, has been named to eleven Pro Bowls, has eleven four thousand-yard passing seasons (including a record six straight), and is the Indianapolis Colts' all-time leader in passing yards (54,828) and touchdown passes (399). Ryan Leaf took his 11.5 million dollar signing bonus and four year 31.25 million dollar contract and disappeared into infamy. He has become the gold standard for sports failure.
Is it any wonder that he turned up this past weekend in Montana, arrested on felony charges of burglary of a residence and criminal possession of dangerous drugs, plus a first-time charge of misdemeanor theft. These counts were backed up on his probation for burglary and controlled substance charges in Texas back in 2009, around the time that Peyton Manning was working his way toward his second Super Bowl appearance.
This must be what Jim McKay had in mind when he talked about the "human drama of athletic competition." Now we can start watching for Tim Tebow to get caught breaking into apartments in New York City.

Chances Are

I don't know when to hold 'em. I don't know when to fold 'em. But I do know when to walk away. When I was approached by a very enthusiastic co-worker last week to pitch a dollar into the well that was the Mega-Millions Jackpot, I politely demurred. I was told that I would be sorry when the rest of the staff was rolling in the dough. I was admonished for talking to them about "if they won," since it was not a matter of "when." It was a certainty. Educated people who were in the business of educating others were rabid for a chance at that six hundred million dollars. A one in 175,711,536 chance of winning five hundred million dollars.
As I have stated here before, I'm not much of a fan of wagering, especially on those things over which I have no control. While it is true that I have paid a few dollars for the opportunity to participate in March Madness bracketology, or the elusive opportunities presented by managing a Fantasy Football team. Those experiences offer some measure of control beyond their randomness. If I were to be allowed to wad up a dollar bill and toss it into a vast pool full of floating ashtrays. If my dollar bill happened to land in the correct dish, out of nearly two hundred million, I would win a prize. The odds of being attacked by a shark are one in 11.5 million. Somewhere in Las Vegas there are professional gamblers crying into their breakfast buffet, since three tickets beat those odds. The megamillions, not the shark.
I'm thinking of setting up a concession where people can pay me a dollar to guess which number, between one and two billion, I am thinking. I promise to give a percentage of the money I don't end up giving away to the local school district. And a hefty donation to the folks at Gamblers Anonymous.

The Call

"Who am I speaking to?"
David Caven, who is this?
"This is Officer Frendlich with the Boulder Police Department, you said your last name was 'Cave-in?'"
Cav-en. What can I do for you?
"Well, I'm afraid I have a little bad news Mister Caven. Your mother is, well..."
My mother is - is she okay?
"Did you just speak to her, Mister Caven?"
Yes, well, a couple of hours ago, but she was fine.
"We did a cursory trace of this line and we found that the last call that came through on this line was from your number."
But what about my mother?
"She's laying here in a heap, Mister Caven, still clutching the receiver. What did you say to your mother in that call?"
And that's pretty much why I am retiring from the practical joke business, at least where my mother is concerned. Fear not. She's fine, if not the tiniest bit chagrined after all the years of abuse she has taken on April First. We have lived through earthquakes, trouble with our young son, and even the trials of having my younger brother join a cult. All in the name of fun. I have benefited greatly from the unconditional love and trust I have been given by my mother, and how how have I paid her back? A yearly dose of torment, designed primarily to amuse myself and anyone who might hear about it later. Like the time I rearranged her Netflix queue to send her nothing but movies about April Fools. Or when I amended her online calendar to include a series of imaginary meetings with imaginary clients and strangers.
It would serve me right if my mother would arrange any sort of prank to try and pay me back for all my yearly Spring attentions. She has flinched in anticipation long enough. Now it's time to set her free from all this silliness.
I wonder if she'll believe me.