KOOL-AID WAS COOL

I'm not sure why we didn't drink much soda in the day. Actually I called it Coke. When we asked if somebody wanted a soft drink or cola, we just asked if they'd like a Coke.

We weren't alone either. I never remember anyone saying, "Would you like a Pepsi?" Or a Ventnor's or an A&W. Back then there were no diet drinks or New Cokes or Coke Zeros. We did have Cherry Cokes but not in the bottle. That's right, there were no cans or plastic.

But good old Kool-Aid was there along with lemonade. I don't remember iced tea either. Sometimes my Mom would make hot tea, but I just don't remember people drinking iced tea. Water was actually what most drank. Bottled, of course. Yeah, right. We drank from the tap or spigot or garden hose.

And in our town it didn't taste bad at all. Until we thought we needed industry and built a huge lake 20 miles away. That's when I was thankful for bottled water. Rend Lake water was terrible. It had a smell sometimes, "when the lake turned over". Which was roughly six times a year. Other times it had a chemical taste. Sometimes even discoloration. I don't even think Kool-Aid could salvage that taste.

But I'm pretty sensitive to tasting in water or soft drinks. If it's not in a plastic bottle, I'll usually not buy it. A glass bottle would be the best, but that's hard, if not impossible, to find.

One more thing: the price. For a Coke or a package of Kool-Aid--10 cents. That's right. Mr. Easton who usually bought us Cokes after our baseball victories would pony up about $1.50 for the whole team Too bad they didn't hawk Kool-Aid. A big pitcher would have save him a half a dollar or so.

YOU READ IT HERE FIRST--WARNING: GLOBAL WETTING

I missed out on claiming I invented the internet. Had I thought of it, well, I don't know. Big Al made a big deal out of Global Warming and won a Nobel Peace Prize or something and finally made it to the White House, which he still seems to think he deserved. I still expect him to run for President in 2008. I just can't see a Clinton co-presidency or a guy named B. Hussein Obama as our President.

But I can't see McCain, Thompson, Huckabee, or Guliani as Prez either. Not that I'm giving the nod to Gore. Not in my lifetime. So, whom do you see occupying the big house on Penn Ave?

Easy. Arizona governor Janet Napilatano. She's been my guv for 6 years and I still honestly can't spell her name. It's close to the Italian ice cream, but that probably suits her as well. Soft. On everything. You see, she doesn't govern. And maybe that's just what our country needs. Someone who does nothing. Kinda a 21st Century Ike.

Oh. our guv does show up for functions, but that's about it. Border control? What border, she asks? Education? Yeah, she's for it. Like all pols, but what does she do? Nothing. Oh, she lit the tree in the capitol rotunda, but she didn't even get that right. She called it a "holiday tree". Now wait a minute. You don't have to be a Christian to know it's a Christmas tree. What does she call the menorah--a "holiday candle"?

Maybe someone like that would be perfect for these times. I wonder if she plays golf?

Now about that Global Wetting. Three days of rain in a row in Phoenix in December is the prediction for this weekend. After over two inches of rain last weekend. Five inches at Horseshoe Lake where a friend of mine was fishing. That's enough for me to declare Global Wetting.

So where's my Prize? Oh, nevermind. I'd have to go to D.C. and get it from Prez Janet. (That's how she campaigned for governor last time against Mr. Munsil who's in my baseball season ticket group--man had he won, we could have had some great seats to see the Diamondbacks.) It wouldn't be worth the effort for me. So, I'm relinquishing my epiphany about Global Wetting. Feel free to claim it as your own idea. But you better be quick about it. You never know who reads my blog.

THERE WAS A TIME IN MY LIFE

When I did. And I didn't have nearly as much free time then as now. Oh, I still need an occasional distraction now. But back then I needed a lot more. So I picked up the telephone and called a friend. Then I got away from homework. Or questions that my parents might ask that I really didn't want to answer.

But since my junior and senior high days, I haven't been one to talk much on the phone. So it comes as a huge surprise to me that most people do like to talk on the phone. A lot. Everywhere. I think people use the phone the same way we used to use cigarettes--it gives you something to do with your hands.

It has to be the reason. Otherwise, how could so many people talk to so many people so much of the time? What could they find to talk about?

Don't get me wrong. In a medical situation, in a situation where contact must be made and timing is essential, they are wonderful. Sky Harbor Airport has a Cell Phone Parking Lot where you wait until you get that call that your passenger(s) have arrived and are on the curb, luggage in hand. That's awesome and the lot at Terminal 4 is only two minutes away. Yesterday after golf, one of my bud's called his wife to tell her when to expect him home. Again, no problem, just another example of how cool cell phones are.

But what I hear mostly from constant users is "Where you at?" Or "they have turkey bacon. What brand was it you wanted?" Or "What's up?" Or "Nothing. What are you doing?"

Loud talkers irritate me, too, as you can probably guess. They remind me of the first time I talked to someone long distance and thought I had to speak up so they could hear me. One lady in a store the other day was practically screaming into the phone as she followed me around the store. Then she beats me to the checkout line. She was still on the phone and reaching for her groceries with one hand while concentrating much more on the phone call. I didn't know whether to help her or push her. Since she couldn't hear me if I were to speak, I shoved her right in the middle of ...Ok, maybe I didn't, but the thought was there.

So Claire Bear when you finish that call, please finish your latte. Don't call me. I think you're great on my favorite tv show. But if you have to talk to me, just come by my house. You'll find me in a better mood then.

"WE'RE SPENDING A LOT OF MONEY TODAY FOR THIS ROUND; NOW, HAVE A GOOD TIME"

I like this silhouette of the dad and son or daughter heading out to play golf. Or at least heading to the driving range. How do I know they're just going out? Because they're still holding hands. There will be separation when they're done. At least if they're anything like our kids. (By the way, the quote in the title was said by me in Hawaii, the last time my wife and I , and son and daughter played golf together.)

Our kids, well they're still kids even if in their 20's and 30's, inherited a strong sense of independence from their mom. It's a great quality. Most of the time. But when it comes to playing golf, I wish they had/would listen to me more. Hey, I listen to everybody. I've tried just about everything anyone has ever told me to try to improve my game.

Except for this one guy that buddy Jeff and I still talk about. We were playing with another friend and this guy got put into our group. For some reason he didn't care much for my game. He must have been related to a salesman that didn't want to sell me a set of irons adding, "you can't buy a good golf game". I showed him: I bought the clubs later in the day. I hope he didn't get the commission.

But after three holes I'm one under par. And this guy is criticising my golf swing. He's not one under, he doesn't know me, yet he doesn't like my slice on my drives. Me neither. And I never know when it's going to show up. Sometimes it's a hook. Sometimes a very big hook. Or a dead pull. Or a dead push.

When I make suggestions to our kids, I'm totally rejected. Even to this day, I'll continue to offer suggestions that fall on deaf ears. "Don't you want to hit some range balls"? I offer our son before we played in a political golf scramble last Summer. "Naugh," is all I got. And on hole number one, he dubs a drive. Silently, I'm thinking, "Naugh."

Our daughter, like our son a four-year letter(wo)man in high school golf--compared to zero for Dad, similarly takes no guidance. "You're swinging too hard, just slow it down," I opine. "I know what I did, and it wasn't that," she snaps. Snapping she also gets from her mother. "Then what was it?" I continue, unfazed. "Just leave me alone." You never want to try a follow up when you've been snapped.

So I faded that day at Coyote Lakes with Jeff and the expert whom I was beating. I think I still beat him, but on the last hole after another sliced drive, he stopped me and gave me a lesson. He wanted me to hit a second drive after he showed me how not to slice. And he never did. He hooked with nice top spin. So it irritated him to see me hit the dreaded shot squirreling-banana like to the right.

I hit a second drive, because as I said I'll listen to anyone. Well, I say that, but I've never had a formal lesson--maybe that's why I still slice. This time it was straighter, but it still had no draw, not even a fade. But he told me to work on it, and I vowed to. Now if I could get the same kind of cooperation from my children; then again, maybe our son had the right answer, "Naugh."

JOAN MIRO AND MY CAR

There it sits. Outside. Wondering what happened to the warmth of the garage. Sometimes way too warm.

You can see it looking for me to provide shelter for it. I even take care to park it in a parking garage when we leave it at the airport. But not today. That is, no protection. Not for over one week.

And it sits. Exposed to the elements of the sun, illustrated by the arrow pointing to it. Joan wasn't that artistic after all. Just behind my car was a rainbow left after our deluge last weekend.

The other arrow, again provided by Ms. Miro for the sake of easier explanation, points to its only exit to the street. Which it prefers rather than sitting in a driveway.

But it won't be long, Lex. I'm sitting at the computer waiting for Cactus Garage Door fixers to adhere that spring to the garage door that went bust over Thanksgiving. As usual with our house, nothing is standard. Not the plumbing, not even the door handles and hinges on cabinet doors. And things break out West. Too early and too often.

Thank goodness for home warranty companies. My contract with American First or First American, I never can remember the order, just that I call them a lot, is about to expire. But I won't let it. At least until my car gets back into its comfort zone.

LINGERIE BOWL BIDS

I know all about the major college bowls. I mean after three hours on ESPN last night they devoted to the football bowl games how could one not know? Although I watched only parts of the marathon, I still had to go to St. L. Today.com to find out which bowl Mizzou got invited to.

Oh, I had heard they got jobbed and I know the meaning in context but I still don't know what jobbed means. But no one on the news, sports coverage, including today's AZ Republic told me they were going to the Cotton Bowl. Until I went to the St. Louis website.

But there are a lot of things I don't know about college football. Somehow because one of my teams, Arizona State Univ. didn't get invited to a BCS or BSC or BS Bowl game, the whole Pac 10 conference lost $47 million. Wow! Now that's a hit. Another one of my teams the Univ of Illinois had 3 losses, was ranked 13th in the final poll and they leap frogged Mizzou and ASU to play in the Rose Bowl, a major bowl with the $47 mil going to the Big Ten, I guess. Plus, maybe Ohio State playing in the national championship game, after losing to Illinois at Ohio State just 3 weeks ago, will add to that dinero.

The only thing crazier is that Notre Dame, one of our son's favorite college teams who had a horrendous year, has a longer winning streak than the two teams playing for the national championship. And I hear bowl selection committees are very interested in how a team finishes its regular season when selecting who plays where.

Congrats to those who made it. Flowers for those who didn't. As for me, I'm just waiting for some sanity to return to the sport. I'd turn to the NFL but I see the cheating Patriots are running away with it this year. Again. But that's ok, because the commish really showed them with his penalty for illegally taping an opposing team's coach call out defensive signals during a game. Against the hapless Jets, no less.

I wonder when they play the Lingerie Bowl? I didn't see who plays in this year's Football of the Absurd. Or maybe I did. It was probably announced last night, but like Mizzou's destination, I missed it. I won't be going to any website to find out, though.

STEVE, I NEVER KNEW YE; POLITICALLY OR SOCIALLY, AND THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE IT

Transparency continued.

I saw this week that author Stephen King suggested that Jena Bush be tortured by means of the waterboard, so that the President would see that it was torture. Mark another off my list.

You see, there are lots of things I don't care to know or hear about. One is someone's politics or political stances on issues. That can also include one's personal hygiene habits, preferences that really don't relate to their crafts. But the media being the media and times being what they are, we're exposed. You read it right; we, the people are exposed to the seamy side of our cultural heroes. Whether it's who's in rehab, who's fighting it out over parental rights, or just plain who's fighting, we get to hear or see it all. ET and other shows, including late night shows give us that expose.

And for the most part, I really don't much like what I know about them. King is merely the latest. Before him was Elizabeth Taylor, Jane Fonda, Robert Redford, Barbra Streisand, and a bevy of others spouting their venom and their expertise about the US government. If it's not politics, it's their personal life including pictures of Britney and her walking barefoot into a roadside restroom, or her choice not to wear panties. We hear about Brad Pitt's body odor. We hear about the scientologists and whatever the heck Madonna is.

In addition, we hear garbage language that George Carlin couldn't say or Lenny Bruce was fined for. And I'm not talking about in their movies. They say it in interviews or casual conversation and expect the censors to bleep. They don't bleep enough for me, and when they do, I still can read their lips. Role models? Certainly. The kind you don't want to pattern after.

So what's the answer? Long time readers will know I don't have many. Consider the source is appropriate. Not watching is another choice. Feeling sorry for them is also a valid response. But mostly, I shake my head and pity them. Maybe I wouldn't have cared much for McQueen either, but I'll never know. And that's the way I like it.