Thursday, April 19, 2018

And the winner of the Wally-Look-Alike Contest, in both appearance and attitude, is . . . 



Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Louisiana passed a law making it illegal to have sex with animals by 25 to 10. That story again, ten Louisiana state senators voted against not having sex with animals.


Folks, it is a good time to remember that it is possible to hate Donald Trump without hating his voters. And I am living proof.


My porn name (first name family pet, last name childhood street)  is Charley Oak, even though we lived on Elm Street. Oak trees are bigger than elm trees.

And yes, I am seriously considering changing that to Charlie Redwood. 




And, yes, I am thinking of changing this blog's name to "Yes, I Know There Are Typos, It Is One Idiot's Blog, Not "The New York Times."


Sunday, April 15, 2018


That is my daughter's name on the UCLA track scoreboard. (It is a little fuzzy, so click on it to see it better)


UCLA's Drake Stadium at Sunset

A Golden Moment Returns

We have all had those glorious, but too-short, incandescent moments - that are missing only Herald Angel trumpets -  which change our lives for the better: our first love, our first kiss, our wedding, our child being born, our first dip in the ocean. Our first In-N-Out double burger animal style.

One of those moments, for me, came in 1969 when I was still ten. 

ABC’s “Wide World of Sports,” televised a track meet at Drake Stadium at UCLA. All of the US Olympic gold medal winners in Mexico City in 1968 were there including my idol, decathlete Bill Toomey, who ran in the open 400. Bob Seagren pole vaulted, Dick Fosbury high jumped, Bob Beamon long jumped. Willy Davenport hurdled. Lee Evans beat Toomey in the 400, but not by all that much.

At that time, like now, I am proud of the fact that I had many loves. When I was ten, I loved riding my gold Schwinn Sting-Ray bike; I loved the flaxen-haired Karen Smith with all of my heart; I loved “Daniel Boone” with Fess Parker; I loved 7-Up. 

Space Food Sticks? Yes, they tasted like brown candles, but the damn astronauts ate them, so I loved them. 

My love for our dog, Charlie, was unrequited, he was a devoted Momma’s boy. I loved my first pair of Adidas’ Italia’s, the white shoes with the green stripes until they smelled so putrid, it was like I was wearing rotting skunk carcasses on my feet.

And most of all, I loved my stuffed dog, Morgy, whom I still have, and love,  to this day. 

But, at ten, two of my top loves were, 1, the decathlon and track and field in general, and, 2, late afternoon, early evening summer barbecues with my parents and their wonderful friends. 

Something about the smell of charcoal smoke in a Weber grill and my father scorching meat to a black cinder char combined with laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the clack of croquet balls by the apple tree in our backyard and the golden summer "Field of Dreams" sunset, that all really resonated with me. 

It hit home. It was home.   

And when that amazing 1969 UCLA track meet ended in the late afternoon glow, the cameras showed volleyball nets going up, tubs of beer carried out, frisbees being thrown and, lord almighty, five or six Weber grills rolled into the infield and lit. 

After the 1969 track meet at UCLA on TV, they held a barbecue party on the infield for athletes and fans who wanted to stick around and attend. 

That was one of five vivid moments when it hit me: 

California is where I want to live.

Yesterday, my daughter, Ann Caroline, ran on that same UCLA track anchoring the Cal Poly San Luis Obispo women’s 4 X 100 relay. In that race, running for an All Star team, was 9-time Olympic medalist, Allyson Felix. 

And I got to talk to pole vault great, two-time world record holder, Dan Ripley, believe it or not. (sorry) What a wonderful guy. 

At Drake Stadium on Sunset Blvd, to paraphrase Don Henley, the ghosts of greatness hang heavy in the air. And not just athletic greatness. Down the road a mile or two is the studio where the Eagles, Stones and Led Zeppelin recorded. 

At this hallowed Drake Stadium, built into a steep hill, nestled in eucalyptus, pine and oak trees, this meet was named in honor of UCLA track legends and possibly greatest-ever multi-eventers, Decathlete, Rafer Johnson and Heptathlete, Jackie Joyner-Kersee. Rafer and Jackie were in attendance at my daughter’s meet. 

Rafer Johnson and Jackie Joyner-Kersee saw my daughter, Ann Caroline Kaseberg, aka, A.C., run. 

And suddenly, the meet was over and the sun was setting over the ocean just a few miles west. A seagull could fly in minutes from Drake Stadium to the Malibu house where Don Felder of the Eagles wrote "Hotel California" in the sunset after a day at the beach.

It was the same golden California glow I somehow was able to discern through our black and white TV in Illinois almost 50 years ago.

But there was neither one goddamn Weber grill nor one airborne frisbee in sight. Not a solitary pop-fizz of a can of beer, nary a clack of a croquet ball. 

When I find out why there was no after-party? Somebody’s ass is going to end up in my tote bag. 








The great Allyson Felix







The great Dan Ripley setting a world record 




Here is a new a.L.B.B. feature I like to call:

"We will soon have the technology to smell TV shows" 




“Fixer-Upper,” will smell like sawdust and paint. 

“Stranger Things,” will smell like waffles. 

“Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” will smell like the rubber glove after Harvey Weinstein’s prostate exam. 




“Game of Thrones,” will smell like ice, wine and the ocean.

“Roseanne” will smell like an old couch and steamed cabbage. 

“Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” will smell like champagne, stripper’s perfume and lazy stupidity.




“Chopped,” will smell like grilled garlic and onions.

“Silicon Valley,” will smell like fancy coffee, Cheetos and tater tots.

“Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” will smell like hope for our society a week after it has died.




Just found out a friend from college, who was handsome, talented, successful and funny, just passed away after a long illness. And I found out he was a member of one of the oldest and wealthiest land families in California history on his mother's side. 

If that guy, who was born on third base, could get thrown out at home? Anyone can.



How Can This Make Mathematical Sense?

Let me try to explain why I feel so stupid and or why the world is so confusing to me using just three examples.

(Let me confess by saying to say I am no mathematical genius is to say Kim Kardashian is no mathematical genius) 

First.

In my life, I was born and grew to a toddler in charming Louisville, Kentucky, grew up in bucolic Winnetka, outside of the best city, Chicago, went to college in Long Beach, California and gorgeous Santa Barbara, California, moved to the awesome New York City, moved back to California in wonderful San Diego, lived for two months in interesting and fun Los Angeles, and then back to wonderful San Diego. (No, I am not a fan of the city of Long Beach. Some of the people, yes, the city, no)  

In all of those places, almost to a person, everyone I met has, at some point in their lives, seen the eternal flame on John F. Kennedy’s grave in Arlington National Cemetery, in Washington DC. (It is something I bring up in conversations, as I, like my mom, was fascinated with JFK)  

But when I was at the JFK grave site, with my weeping mother and my consoling father, at age 8, I clearly remember there were only a handful of people there. (It was raining. This I remember because I was impressed the flame did not go out in the rain) 

How can that make mathematical sense? 

Second. 

After growing up skiing as a child in Wisconsin and Michigan on small ski slopes, as an adult, I got to visit Big Bear in California, which is much bigger than anything I saw in the midwest. Soon after that, my friends took me to Mammoth Mountain, California, which is, in a word, Mammoth. It makes Big Bear look like a bunny hill. 3,500 acres of skiable terrain. (I Googled it) 

It snowed all night, we woke up to bright sunshine and painfully beautiful and almost outer space-like blue skies and fresh powder covering Mammoth. 

Looking up at these vast untracked mountain ranges, if someone said we mere little humans had to make tracks over the entire ski area, I would say that it was impossible. It will take a week at least. (It was mid-week in Spring and not particularly crowded for Mammoth) 

The mountain was wiped of fresh powder by noon. And yet I saw the same goofy-assed loud, obnoxious, skier in avocado-green ski pants with red, white and blue suspenders and a stupid propeller baseball hat ten times that day including lunch and apres-ski beers at the main lodge.  

That makes no mathematical sense to me.

Third. 

There was/is a store in the nicest mall in tony downtown Del Mar, California, that sold nothing but potpourri and bath soap. Nobody was inside of the store. (Why would they be?)  And yet it was able to pay sky-high rent in a fashionable mall a block up the hill from the ocean. 

Unless that store is a front for the CIA or a mafia money-laundering scheme, how is that potpourri and bath soap store in business?   

That makes not mathematical sense to me. 

Yes, there are other examples. The top of the Empire State building was crowded but with only a few dozen people. Gettysburg was not crowded. Lincoln’s bedroom in Springfield, Illinois, I was the only one in there. Just a handful of stoners getting baked at Alexander Hamilton’s grave in Trinity Church near Wall Street. 

This country has 300 million people.

That makes no mathematical sense to me. 

While I am eternally grateful there are not more, why am I the only person out in the ocean as the sun comes up over the Torrey Pines cliffs on a gorgeous morning? 

One also gorgeous, crisp, fall Sunday early evening at sunset, circa 1985, I was coming out of working out at the Downtown Athletic Club, walking North for the subway stop at the World Trade Center, it seemed I was the only person around for miles. 

Due to there being no witnesses, that is why I did the most embarrassingly tourist thing ever: I walked up to the Two World Trade Center Tower, leaned against it with my chest and looked straight up. 

This really happened. 

Truly terrified, I staggered back almost falling because it genuinely looked like the tower was going to fall back on top of me. 

You explain these things to me, because I cannot.




People are whining that Anthony Rizzo is whining the baseball season is too long. 

It is too long. 

While I won't mention his name, one of the greatest three-sport athletes I ever saw played six seasons of Major League Baseball and, at roughly my age, he can barely walk with two knee replacements and a fused back and too many back surgeries to count. 

For those keeping track, I had "Accidentally threw out a package of Ding Dongs and peed on my shirttail" glasses of wine last night. 




















Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Was anyone else freaked out when, out of nowhere, Mark Zuckerberg started speaking in Russian? 


There was a shocking turn-of-events when Mark Zuckerberg's congressional testimony was halted when T.J. Miller phoned in a bomb threat. 


"Mr. Zuckerberg, can you sit there with a straight face and tell me that you have never, ever, once giggled when you heard the name IBM?"




Once-great-comedian TJ Miller arrested for a fake bomb threat. You know it's a rough time for comedians when a Green Bay Packer, Trevor Davis, gets arrested for making a funnier bomb threat than TJ Miller did.




Mark Zuckerberg is being questioned by senators who do not know there is not an "Any" key.

Monday, April 09, 2018





Green Bay Packer,  Trevor Davis, was arrested at LA Airport for commenting to his date, “Did you remember to pack the explosives?” Davis was charged with making criminal threats. On the bright side, Pauly Shore hired Davis to write jokes for his comeback tour.



Since you asked:

This was a great Masters. Anyone who says golf is not fun to watch is not watching. 

Golf is in incredibly good shape with all of these amazing young performers and the beloved older guys like Phil Mickelson and, yes, I will say it, Tiger Woods. Ugly buildings, hookers and Tiger Woods get respectable with age. 

One of the great things about the Masters is reading between the lines. The year Bubba Watson won, it was revealed he came in first place by a huge margin when they asked the players who they would least likely defend in a bar fight. Bubba became the first Masters Champion that the green jacket thought was too tacky.

And guess who finished second in least likely to defend in a bar fight?

This years’ winner, Patrick Reed.

One could not help noticing the tepid applause Reed got from the gallery especially compared to handsome studs, Jordan Spieth, Ricky Fowler and Rory McIlroy. Reed’s applause sounded like the hand a mediocre Neil Diamond band, called Sweet Caroline, would get at a garden party. Or the hand the drunk brother-in-law got after his lousy speech at the wedding reception. 

Golf is too polite for boos, Reed’s reception was damning by feint praise. At first I felt sorry for him like I did back when Jack Nicklaus was the chubby kid that was not as popular as Arnold Palmer. Reed looks more like a Chicago tavern’s softball catcher. Give the guy a break, I thought. 

But that sympathy did not last. 

One does not have to wade far into Google land to find evidence of Patrick Reed’s extremely prickly personality. The most damning was he got kicked off the U. of Georgia golf team for allegedly cheating and stealing. Two alcohol related problems. Estranged family. Teammates at both U. Ga and his transfer school, Augusta State, are not fans.

We all do stupid crap as kids, but Patrick Reed took it to another level.

CBS announcer, Jim Nance, kept referencing Reed’s tenacious Ryder Cup performance as the source of Reed’s nickname, Captain America. Turns out the nickname is sarcastic as hell. Even Tiger Woods, who has many faults, but dropping his resume on players is not one of them, Tiger, his-own-ass-self, had to put Patrick’s Ryder Cup trash-talk in his place about his ‘tude with a quick,

“All you need is 74 more wins and 14 more majors.” 

And Tiger is Patrick Reed’s idol. Patrick Reed is just a little bit more popular with the players than Bubba Watson.

And Bubba Watson is about as popular on tour as sand trap sand in their knickers, a provisional ball, a surly and cheap bartender at the 19th hole and a groupie with an STD.

Greatest burn of all time. Bubba hit a ball into the woods at Augusta. He chided a fan with “Can you back up? You’re really not supposed to be here.” The fan shot back with,

“Neither is your ball.”

Epic burn. If Bubba had acknowledged it, all would have been good. But no, Bubba had to be Bubba and get all pissy about how he has two green jackets. 

Fair is fair, Patrick Reed showed guts besting a tough Masters field. He also bested the theory that golfers are chiseled athletes.  

Now that we know that Tiger Woods is a cheapskate, a waitress chaser and a jerk, throwing in his injured back, he seems more human. And we can cheer for him again. 

But now we need a bad guy to take Tiger’s place. Enter, Patrick Reed. The guy who looks like he won the fried Twinkie eating contest at the country fair.

But there is a far bigger sin than being an arrogant, rude jerk in golf. And that is being boring. Patrick Reed is not boring.

Somehow Bubba Watson manages to be an arrogant, rude jerk and boring. 

You cannot spell golf without OCD. That isn't true, but it should be. Watching arguably the hippest and coolest golfer, Ricky Fowler, take a solid one minute on live National CBS TV to place his ball on the green was so frustrating. 

The worst spectacle to witness in sports is a golfer with an errant shot asking for a ruling. They have to wait for the rules guy to get there, then pace around, talk about it for five minutes and then measure a club length like six times, drop the ball three times.

It is the sports equivalent of watching old people eat a sandwich.

Golfers are the kind of guys who have immaculate desks. They make you take your shoes off when you enter their house. They wipe smudges off their freshly detailed car with their thumb. If their mashed potatoes touch their meat, they lose it. 

"Porterhouse. What's this waxy build-up on my golf shoes? Now I want that stripped off and buffed with a fine shammy. Chop chop." 




My Mom Had a Bird Phobia 

In case anyone reading this is, like I was, skeptical of phobias, rest assured, anytime a bird flew anywhere near my mom, the look of utter horror on her face could not be contrived. Her terror of birds was deep-rooted. 

My mother claimed that, when she was a small child in bed with a bad fever, her younger toddler brother, John, brought in dead birds their father, my grandfather Rodgers had shot quail hunting, to make her feel better. My mom said they found her climbing the walls screaming.

Whatever the cause of my mom’s bird phobia, there was no denying its existence.

One day, when I was 8, on a cold, early spring day, a bird flew into our house. 

My mother screamed a scream I had never heard anyone scream, let alone my mother, and then bolted across the street. She couldn’t just be out of the house, she had to be across the street. 

At the age of 8, I was suddenly entrusted with getting this bird out of our house and saving my mother from dying of terror. Which, at the time, seemed like a real possibility. 

My brain went into overdrive. I remember thinking birds like to sit on branches, so I ran outside and tore off a branch from a tree hoping to coax the bird onto the branch. 

Keep in mind, while I did not share my mother’s bird phobia, this bird was only slightly more terrified of me as I was of him. The bird was flying around in our kitchen banging into the windows trying to get out to our backyard. 

So I started trying to use sporting equipment to capture the bird. A tennis racket, my baseball mitt, a small fishing net. Nothing worked, of course. 

Out of nowhere, in the house walked a 13-year-old boy walking home from 8th grade, whom my mom had begged/recruited. At 8, 13 seemed like a grownup to me. 

He just calmly walked in, spoke softly to the bird, calmed it down, the once frantic bird nestled in his gloves like it was a nest. He walked outside and released it. It flew away. And, just as quickly as he appeared, the mystery hero just walked away. 

At the time I remember thinking, this is like a Jesus miracle.










AC Scores Her First Goal

While 90% of our experience with competitive youth women’s soccer clubs in San Diego was positive - besides the wildly rude and whacko parents of the Legends and Slammers - and we still have good friends from the soccer years, let me tell this cautionary tale.

Ann Caroline had the world’s laziest English coach when she started soccer. He spent half of each practice on the phone if he was even there at all. (For those old enough, picture the British cartoon boozy cad, Andy Capp, but without the sense of humor) 

So, because Ann Caroline was fast, Andy, I will now call our lazy coach, not his real name, could stick her at sweeper, the last defender before the goalie, and not worry about anyone getting a breakaway. AC, as she was nicknamed, would run anyone down and simply boot the ball away.

In addition to not needing to sufficiently train a goalie, Andy, the lazy British coach, did not have to teach AC how to dribble, pass or shoot. The only three skills needed in soccer besides running fast. 

Imagine if you had a tall kid in basketball who could jump through the gym and could block shots. But the coach did not bother to teach that kid how to dribble, pass or even shoot a free throw?  

In addition to being a soccer coach, Andy fancied himself a comedian and actually wrote a book about us crazy soccer parents. 

Each time you met Andy outside of soccer, he told you the same story of a Hollywood studio dying to make a movie out of his book. (By this time I could do a dead-on impersonation of Andy) 

Andy: "How's she goin', mate?" (Andy did not remember names) 

Anyone: "Oh, not good, Andy. It seems I have to have an operation to have my spine removed through my nose."

Andy: "Oh, that's super, mate. Hey, did I tell you someone wants to make my book into a movie?" 

So starting AC’s third year at only sweeper, I put my foot down and, to my surprise, Andy, our lazy British coach, agreed to put AC at forward on offense, in a big tournament, no less. But only if their team advanced in that tournament out of their group.

The team advanced and, to my slight pleasant surprise, Andy kept his word and put AC up on offense as a forward. 

Much to everyone’s shock, even, I admit, mine, almost immediately AC stole a ball, broke away up the left sideline, cut 90 degrees in front of the goal, shot and scored. It was amazing. It was electric. It was Mia Hamm-like. 

At that split second, when AC ripped the shot at the upper right corner, like she had done it a thousand times, when we all should have been hysterically celebrating, and most were, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed AC’s lazy British coach, Andy, and three sets of our own team's parents, close their eyes and audibly groan in disappointment. 

At first I couldn't believe what I was seeing. They groaned as if the other team had scored on us instead of AC scoring for us. 

Once they realized what they were doing looked really bad, they instantly stopped and pretended to cheer. 

But I know what I saw. They were upset AC was going to take their kid's position and or playing time. Team be damned. 

Not only was AC’s own coach rooting against her to score, so he could keep her at sweeper, so were some of our own team's parents. Parents I truly thought were fans of AC’s and friends of ours. Parents we had been on countless road trips and hotel happy hours and had over for dinner.

To say I was crushed is putting it mildly. While I expected something like that from the always-self-centered Andy, the other parents? That was a shock. (Well. Except for one clownishly pompous dad who united everyone else by being the single person we all despised)

Our team was the last of a truly neighborhood competitive team. By three years in to competitive soccer, other competitive teams had parents driving from up to two hours away. Our team was all still from our neighborhood.That made their reaction even more disappointing.  

The moral? Well, there are three: 

One, chances are good your kid will not play soccer in college, so do not stress about bad calls or playing time. Have fun. 

Two, remember some parents, not all, but some parents are not just cheering for their kid, they’re also cheering against your kid. 

And three, do not assume somebody is smart simply because they have a British accent.








P.S. A few years later, Andy would not only run the entire soccer club out of business, he also sued his fellow-English partner. 

Having burned bridges he had rebuilt and burned twice before, Andy is, last I heard, out of soccer, divorced and, to his credit, now earning money as an Uber driver. Although, if he drives like he coaches, I cannot imagine Andy agreeing to go where his passengers ask to go. 

AC would be driven out of soccer by her sophomore year in high school by two things, her love of track and field and a crazy high school soccer coach, a woman so evil and sadistic, who had never ever played soccer, she made Andy seem like John Wooden.

As of this writing, they have not made a movie out of Andy's book. 






Sunday, April 08, 2018


Friday, April 06, 2018

Emmylou Harris "Pancho and Lefty"

Thursday, April 05, 2018

Here is what happened when Stormy Daniels described Donald Trump's genitalia to a police sketch artist:

(It's Steve Bannon) 


And this is what happened when Donald Trump described Stormy Daniels's vagina to a police sketch artist: 




(It's Madonna) 

Tuesday, April 03, 2018

Please, please, do not snort condoms. It can result in choking to death. But if you insist on snorting a condom, always remember to first take it out of the wrapper. 

Yes, Eric Trump, we mean you. 



Is it just me, or does Sarah Huckabee Sanders always look like the mom who just discovered her son masturbating to goat porn? 


Kim Kardashian tried the Condom Snort Challenge. It was awkward when they had to inform Kim she first had to remove the condom off the guy who was using it.



Daniel my brother you are older than me
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won't heal
Your eyes have died but you see more than I
Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky



I can handle things, I'm smart. Not like everybody says, I'm dumb. I'm smart and I want respect, Torn Slattern and Nugget Ranchers





The latest stupid trend is Condom Snorting. People snort a condom up their nose and remove it from their mouth. Or as it is also known, practicing safe idiocy.


Donald Trump fired his second top appointee by Twitter. When Trump hosted “The Apprentice,” he fired people by using a hand gesture called “The Cobra.” When he fires by Twitter, it’s called “The Slimy Worm.” 



102-year-old, Julia “Hurricane,” Hawkins, set the Over-100 record for 60 meters. This shattered the old Over-100 record for 60 meters: 50 meters.  



A South African minister was bitten in the buttocks by a lion after trying to prove god would protect him. That story again, a lion was treated for nausea after tasting moron-ass. 



102-year-old, Julia “Hurricane” Hawkins, set the Over-100 record for 60 meters. Better luck next time, Cher.



The latest stupid trend at parties is Condom Snorting. They snort a condom up their nose and remove it from their mouth. So take that, people who doubted millennials.


Since you asked:


It is striking the similarities between the mass shooting at Parkland by Nikolas Cruz and the mass shooting here in San Diego at Santana High by Andy Williams in 2001.

But the most striking thing was the difference between the two shootings. The first was done by a pistol, the second by an AR 15. 

Both shooters were bullied losers who were so entitled - yes, there is that word again - they felt justified in killing the people who were mean to them. They both had it pounded into their heads, by well-intended people, that verbal abuse was tantamount to physical abuse, thus they felt justified in killing their verbal abusers.

Verbal abuse is not, repeat, not as bad as physical abuse. Anyone who teaches differently, no matter how good the intention, is wrong. Common sense tells us so.

Luckily for the children of Santana High, the shooter, Williams, only had a pistol. The difference between a pistol and an automatic weapon in these examples is: two killed 15 wounded in 20minutes by a pistol at Santana High, in Parkland, 17 killed 14 wounded in six minutes by an AR 15.

What I found so disturbing about the Santana shooting, besides the killings, was how the press marketed and changed the story to make it more slick and interesting. They sold it as an affluent San Diego high school where a sweet, little kid was bullied by the big mean jocks.

Neither was remotely true. Santana High is not affluent, it is a rural high school with drug, violence and gang problems. Andy Williams was a loser, druggy skateboarder who was bullied by his fellow loser, druggy skateboarders. (No, not all skateboarders are druggy losers, but in this case, they were) 

Apparently the sound of a little kid in a plush area getting picked on by mean football players sold better than the truth of a son of a meth-whore who picked up one of her mom's boyfriend's guns to get back at the dirtbags who stole his skateboard. 

The most significant difference between Parkland and Santana is the firepower the two losers used.  

We cannot stop a-holes who want to kill their enemies from being a-holes who want to kill their enemies. What we can do is take away their ability to kill over a dozen people in a few minutes with an AR 15. 

But, once again, if the NRA can justify 20 six-year-olds getting slaughtered by an automatic weapon used by a nut-job, like they did at Sandy Hook, they can justify anything. 


On a lighter note:

Has due-diligence been done to assure that the band Better Than Ezra is actually better than Ezra? If they are not? What an injustice to Ezra.


I'm Claudia from Gleeb.