Dear Dr. Trump...

I was fascinated by your advice yesterday. After your informative press conference, I tried your bleach suggestion, I mixed Clorox with a packet of instant lemonade in a beer glass. I couldn't get it down. 

Knowing it would protect me, I came up with a solution, multiple small doses. I put 10 packets of lemonade mix into a one-gallon jug of Clorox, then put the jug in my freezer, it was a tight fit, so I ate the gallon of strawberry ice cream I had to remove to get the bleach mixture in the freezer. 

Two hours later, I poured the chilled mixture into a shot glass. Using the shot glass method the chilled bleach was easy to get down, I didn't know the exact dosage you'd recommend. I figured 10 shots would be a good initial dosage.

When my wife came home from work, she's an ER nurse, she said, "What the hell are you doing with that bleach and look at the mess you've made in the kitchen!" 

At that point, I couldn't talk and my eyes were watering, I was so weak, I couldn't get off the floor. My wife said, "You're a disgusting bastard, spending your day drinking and watching Fox news, I'm going to bed and this mess better be cleaned up before I go back to work tomorrow." 
Sir, I was unable to respond. 

Dr. Trump, by this point, my stomach felt like it was on fire, every time I belched the lining of my throat feels like it's going to fly out of my mouth, my head is pounding, my ears are ringing, I have chest pains and I'm having trouble breathing. 

Luckily, several hours later, my wife got up to pee and when she finished, she checked on me, I was curled in a ball on the kitchen floor. She assessed the situation, cut a ten-inch section out of my new garden hose. jammed it on the turkey baster and pumped my stomach right there on the kitchen floor. When she finished, she said, "It's a damned good thing you ate a gallon of ice cream before you drank that shit, otherwise I'd be calling the coroner." With that, she stomped off to bed and locked the door.

Dr. Trump, I'm still shaky and the headache won't go away, I can breathe somewhat better. I am concerned about the continuing chest pain, I asked my wife about it, she said, "You're an idiot, don't talk to me."

Since she left for work, I've been thinking, what do you think about using powdered bleach in time-release capsules? Could you have Jared look into that? Maybe bleach in suppository form? Although after my morning sit-down I did notice some blood, so maybe that isn't a good idea.

My neighbor Larry and I are working on mercury battery-powered UV lights. Larry thinks if we use those small disc-shaped mercury hearing aid batteries attached to a UV bulb we'll be able to get the powerful disinfecting light inside our bodies.  Larry and I know the batteries will be easy to swallow (we both swallowed two yesterday after your press conference) they go down nicely with a good gulp of beer. Larry wants to know if you have a source for small UV light bulbs so we can further our research. 

I've attached my contact information, so it will be easy for Jared to get back to me. 

Thank you and God Bless you, sir, I'm a big man (my wife says that's what saved my fat ass from bleach poisoning) and I have tears in my eyes. 

Make America Great Again!

Not Stupid, Evil...

How hard is this to understand?

The government is giving small businesses money during the crisis, they are passing it out with no strings. The money is called a loan, but it will be forgiven if you follow the "rules". 

Right.

The most important thing right now is to get the money to people who need it, you know the workers. These "loans" kinda, sorta, require that but they don't.

In simple terms, if it costs you $1,000 a month to run your business and your operating costs (rent, payroll, etc) are $900. The first requirement to get your loan should be, PAY YOUR EMPLOYEES! Send them home, send them their paychecks. If you do that, you'll be ready to open up when things return to normal. The bonus is this, your employees will continue to pay the rent or mortgage, they'll pay taxes, social security, medicare and that helps everybody and of course the money you pay them will circulate back into the economy. 

You get a nice bonus too. 

1. The people who work for you will be appreciative and think you're a decent human being and they will come back to work happy and healthy the day you open the doors.
2. Your day to day operating costs will drop while the doors are locked, like gas, electricity. You won't have to buy as much shit as you normally do.
3. If you're smart you can put some of this money back into your business, maybe even set up a rainy day fund. Update your clunky ass computer system, hire somebody to wash your dirty windows.
4. You get to pay yourself.

Of course, this is hard to do when we have a Treasury Secretary who thinks a $1200 check with the president's signature on it will last the average person 10 fucking weeks.

Lydia, Mammy Frances and my mother...

To be close to dad in his last phase of Army Air Corps training, before he left for war, Mom rented a room in an antebellum mansion in Laurinburg-Maxton, North Carolina from Mrs. Lydia Tyson. In North Carolina, mom was on her own. Two women, who became her life-long friends Bea and Moly's pilot husbands were sent to other bases. Mom was frightened and lonely when she got off the train in Laurinburg-Maxton.

Mrs. Lydia Tyson's, the widow of a prominent local banker, contribution to the war effort was to rent one bedroom out of 5 to my mother. My mother was 19 years old.

Mrs. Tyson had her "help". Fred and his wife "Mammy". Fred and Mammy lived in a small house behind the big house. Fred took care of the yard, the garden and the outside of the house, Mammy cooked, did laundry and cleaned. 

Fred in addition to his other duties was Mrs. Tyson's chauffeur. 
Some of Fred's days were taken up driving Mrs. Tyson to the bank (she was still the majority partner) dropping her off at the country club for lunch, taking her to local events, bond rallies, and church. On Wednesday evenings and Sunday, he drove her to church, If Fred was mowing the grass or trimming the hedges and Mrs. Tyson needed to go somewhere, Fred would run back to the little house, slip on a jacket and a tie, put his hat on his head, back the black Packard out of the garage. Fred would drive up next to the house, open the big car's door for Mrs. Tyson and off they'd go.

Fred's wife Mammy was in charge of the house. Mammy's given name was Frances, the same as my mother's Uncle Jim's wife. As mom told me many times, "I liked Mammy Frances much better than my own Aunt Frances."

Mom could only see dad one day a week leaving her 6 days with Mrs. Tyson and Frances. They treated my mother like a daughter, this lonely girl far from home was sheltered by their wings. 

Mrs. Tyson and mom would read books and discuss them, they followed the war news together on a big console radio. They loved poetry, drama, plays and of course, movies. They went to a movie together every week.

When mom was bored she would offer to help Mammy Frances with her housework, getting a stern, "I got this child, you just sit there and talk to me."  One day, by request, mom read to Mammy while she worked. Mammy gave her Langston Huges, W.E.B. Dubois and Zora Hurston to read. Mom read Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Faulkner to Frances in return. 

Mammy Frances and mom listened to music together, it was the first time mom heard the blues, gospel music and the black big bands. Mom liked it. 

Mom would get dressed, white gloves and all, to go shopping with Mrs. Tyson, they rode in the back seat of the Packard, Fred drove. 

Mom would get dressed up to go to the market with Mammy, Mom rode in the backseat, Mammy Frances rode upfront with Fred. When they shopped together Mammy Frances insisted Mom walk a few feet in front of her. "Cuz that's the way it is, Miss Janice."

Mom and Mammy Frances were Roosevelt Democrats, Mrs. Tyson was a Democrat too, but like most Southern Democrats in the 40s, she had her qualms about Mr. Roosevelt. Politics in the Tyson household stayed on the back burner, turned down low.

Both women gave my mother love and companionship when she needed all the support she could get. They knew mom was worried, she only had a few months left with my dad. They became mom's family when she was so far from her own. 

Mrs. Tyson, the genteel Southern lady, prim and proper, the daughter of slave owners and confederates. Mammy Frances, the daughter of slaves. They both treated my mother like she was their own. They held her when she was lonely, they dried her tears and listened to her fears. Mom was their Miss Janice. She belonged to these two childless women. Their daughter.

Mrs. Tyson taught my mother, with Mammy Frances help, how to make Pecan pie, made with pecans Fred shook off the big tree in the yard. 

Mom learned to cook Mrs. Tyson's favorite fried chicken, fried skinless and to cook Mammy's fried chicken with the skin still on. Cream gravy at our house was done Mammy Frances style served at a table set Mrs. Tyson style. We ate Southern buttery breakfasts with potato patties, basted eggs, and thick-cut bacon, our green beans were always cooked with a bit of ham, bacon or pork. 

Best of all, Mammy Frances taught mom the intricacies of cooking North Carolina Wet BBQ. Smokey, sweet, tart, tangy and oh so good. I can close my eyes and taste it. I remember mom fishing around in the bottom of the big, black roasting pan with a fork and finding a piece of pork and saying,  "this is the best part." It was, thanks to Mammy Frances

When Mom came home to North Dakota after dad left for England. She returned with the love of those two Southern ladies in her heart and her eyes. 

Mammy Frances and Mrs. Tyson sent their Miss Janice letters. Cards at Christmas and her birthday for years. My mom answered of course. She sent them my birth announcement. My mother told me later, "If we lived closer, you'd have two more grandmothers."

Mrs. Tyson wrote my grandparents a letter, "Mrs. Franklin If I had a daughter of my own.." it began.

I can't forget Fred, he'd bag up pecans from the big tree every year and send them north to Miss Janice. 

An all too short love affair...

A gorgeous Saturday afternoon in late April 1963. 

I'm a 17-year-old high school senior, sitting on the front steps waiting for one of buddy's to pick me. 

My dad's and mom's friends, Ed, and his wife pull into our driveway in a red, 1963 Jaguar XKE. 

My jaw drops, I've never seen an E Type except in car magazines. Ed hops out, tosses me the keys and says "Take it for a ride." Ed heads for the backyard to see my dad, Nomi, his wife joins my mom in the kitchen.

I'm stunned and amazed or dazed and confused in my 501 Levis, gray t-shirt and Converse All-Stars standing in the driveway with the Jag key fob in my hand.

Some background on the Jaguar XKE: 

The E Type was as good as automobiles could be in 63, it was sleek, fast with a racing heritage going back to the Jaguar D Type racing cars of the 50s. 
The E Type was a scarce commodity worldwide and they were expensive for the time. They are even more expensive today. 
The E Type is still considered to be one of the most beautiful cars ever built and is the only car in the collection of the New York Museum of Modern Art. 

I slip into the tan, the Brits call it Bisquit, leather bucket seat, Ed is short so I slide the seat back and adjust the backrest. My arms are extended with a slight bend at the elbows, hands at 10 and two on the wood-rimmed steering wheel.

My right hand naturally falls to the shift lever, into neutral, start the Jag's overhead cam straight-six. It comes to life. Parking brake off and I back onto the street. Minutes later I'm heading south on US 81. 

A few miles out of town, I shift the Jag down into 2nd gear, run the tach to redline, shift to 3rd and on into 4th. A moment later the speedometer reads a tick over 120. I'm in teenage gear head heaven. 

I'm frustrated all the roads are too damn straight, I want curves, sweeping curves, banked curves, tight curves. I know where a few are, they're west of Thompson. I put the E Type through its paces. The Jag is fast in a straight line and fast on the twisties too. The car sounds magnificent especially when its wound up.

Back in town, I drive by my girlfriend's house, not home. Her mother gives me the evil eye. I drive to the Kegs Drive-in and tool slowly by. Kids are breaking their necks to see the Jag. 

I see my friends, 

"We came by to get you and your dad said you out driving around in a Jag, we didn't believe him."

Three car rides later I see my girlfriend, she leaps out of her friend's car and joins me. 

"Is this better than your Prom night in the Corvette?"

"Are you kidding?" She says and kisses me on the cheek.

"Be tough to park in this wouldn't it?" She gives me a punch on the arm, but she knows its true. 

We drove around and show the Jag off, downtown, the tennis courts, the campus and Riverside park. The Jag puts smiles on most people's faces. 

A local leather-jacketed hood flipped me the bird as we drove by. I slowed down and said, "Remember when I kicked your ass in junior High, pull over and I'll do it again." He didn't ake me up on my offer. 

A local cop, the nemesis of every teenage driver glared at me, I said nothing and stared straight ahead and purred away from the light.
It was over too soon, I drove home thanked, Ed. My girl and I had a coke with the adults and left in my 57 Chevy Belair which I held in total disdain other than the fact it was good for parking.

DJB and Me...

San Diego around 9 at night, DJB and I are in Old Town. We're eating at a little place, the kind of Mexican restaurant with a tiny, old Latina making fresh tortillas in the front window. Damn, they're good. We're drinking cold beer, we've had fish tacos, carnitas, ceviche, we're eating our way through the menu. At 10:30  we decide to drive to Ensenada. I don't even remember why. It was a good idea at the time. What the hell, it's only 89 miles away, a short ride down the coast.

We climb in DJB's Silverado, silver and red Silverado, a single cab with a toolbox bolted in the bed. We cross the border and get lost in Tijuana.

"Hey there Hor-hey, how the hell do we get to En-sen-nay-da?" A Mexican guy and his wife, look at DJB like he's crazy, never the less he points us in the right direction.

It's a beautiful drive down the coast. A full moon, the Pacific Ocean is on the right, beautiful beaches and a smooth 2 lane asphalt road, no traffic.  

I get thirsty, open a couple of cold Tecates and hand DJB a bottle, he takes a massive pull and slips the bottle between his legs. We've got the windows down and the radio is blasting a million watt Tijuana oldies station. DJB is driving a nice steady 80. 

Time flies, a couple more Tecates and we're at the harbor. It's 1 in the morning. Nothing is open. We see a local strolling down the street, DJB stops. The guy looks at us like we're crazy.  The Mexican, in perfect English, tells us, "There's only one place open, a late-night place. Alfredo's Sea Boy Bar."

We find Alfredo's, park the Silverado. The Sea Boy has no door, just a greasy curtain.  We pull back the curtain when we do everyone in the bar turns and stares at the two gringos in the doorway. Even the music stopped. It's a scene from a movie and we're in it.

Dennis and I make our way to the bar. At the end of the bar, there is a big guy, his back to the wall, it's Alfredo himself. We order tequila shots and a couple of Tecates from the bartender, a hawk-faced woman with a scar that runs from her hairline, down her left cheek and curves off under her chin. Alfredo later tells us that her boyfriend's wife carved her up one night in a fit of temper. 

We've become friends with Alfredo because his brother lives in Chicago. He likes us so much he gets up, goes behind the bar and pours us samples of tequila. The consensus, Sauva Commemorative. Alfredo joins us in shot knocking. God only knows how many we have as the hours' pass. We've become Alfredo's mejores amigos, 

Dennis and I are now part of the late-night gang at the Sea Boy. 

Making my 3rd or 4th trip to the hellish restroom, as I'm standing at the open trough, I can see the sun coming up through the slit window above me. I wash my hands in the rusty water and head back to the bar. 

"Dennis, the sun is coming up, we need to get back. Dennis and I get into an argument. He claims, "It's not sunrise, it's the false dawn." 
I have to show him my watch 6 times to convince him we have to go. We are embraced by Alfredo, the scar-faced woman gives us a sneer. 

Out on the street, Dennis spots a stray dog, he takes off after it. He's yelling, "Com ere, don't you want to move to the United States like every other Mexican?" He can't catch the dog, he stumbles back, out of breath. "You see that dog? Damn, he was nice, I really wanted that dog."

Back on the road, Dennis lasts about ten miles, "You gotta drive, I can't do it." 

I get behind the wheel, Dennis gets his sleeping bag out of the toolbox, rolls it out in the bed of the Silverado, climbs in and passes out. 

I'm driving my ass off to get back to San Diego, my plane to Boston is at noon, I have to be at the airport at 11 and I haven't packed yet.

At the border, the agent asks me, "Country of birth?"
"USA."
"How about your buddy in the back?"
Dennis sticks his out of the sleeping and says "Fort Knox, Kentucky, goddammit." We make it through and I didn't have to declare the quart of Sauza Commemorative Alfredo sold me at cost.

I made it home, I'm still alive, but sometimes I wonder how I made it this far. Dennis is too and wonders the same damn thing. 

Johnny and June's granddaughter...

One night I was working late, almost 8. I locked up my office and was about to head home, I noticed Scotty was still at his desk, We decided to cross Boylston Street and have a beer at the Boylston Brewery, we sat at the bar ordered from the bartender, somehow during our 2nd beer Scott brought up Johnny Cash. The bartender said, "You like Johnny Cash?"

'Who doesn't like Johnny Cash?"
The bartender smiled, "I love Johnny Cash, he's my grandpa." she turned and moved down the bar to wait on another customer.
Scott looked at me and said, "What the hell did she say?"
"She said she's Johnny's granddaughter."
"No way."
"We'll see when she comes back." We drank our beers and waited.

The pretty bartender comes back, we get her story. 

Anastasia is Carlene Carter's daughter, her stepfather is Nick Lowe, her grandmother is June Carter Cash and her great grandmother is Mother Maybelle Carter, she adds, "Mother Maybelle taught me to play the guitar." Johnny Cash is her step-grandfather, "He loves me like I'm his own."

Anastasia was a student at Berkeley School of Music, it's just down the street from Boylston Brewery. Anastasia is off again, down the bar to serve a few more beer drinkers. We wait.

Anastasia split time between her parents, she went to school in London and lived with her father, holidays and summers in Nashville. She said it was fun but schizoid. 

She said Christmas with her grandparents was the best, "You'd never know who would show up and of course they'd all go down to the music and play songs, laugh and sing."
"Are there tapes?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Will, we ever hear them?"
"That's up to John Carter."
"Who is on the tapes?"
"Everybody."

Tiffany ( her first name) Anastasia Lowe graduated from Berkeley, she is now writing songs, wrote a hit for Selena Gomez, doing some acting. Of course, her grandmother wrote a song about her.

It was nice to meet the grandchild of two American Legends.

Pretty little Sheila, you'll know...

George, Eric and I always laughed about the winter we spent in Florida, me cooking a good meal, heavy drinking and watching "Cops" and other lousy TV with the dog sitting on George's lap...

Here's my side of the story.

One night I was at a charity event in West Palm, I was wandering around after the event, mingling with the crowd enjoying a fine Cuban cigar, I think it was a Fuentas. I heard a woman's voice with an English accent. "Do you have a light?"
I  lit her English Oval and we chatted, we had a drink, another. Her name was Sheila, she was blonde, blue-eyed and her face was almost too perfect. More on that later.

I gave her a ride home, we started to date. 

Sheila had a lovely house on a lake in West Palm, she had a poodle. Her poodle and my dog got along just like Sheila and I got along. Our dogs played, so did Sheila and I. 

Sheila looked like the English actress Diana Dors, maybe better. When you looked closely at her face, it was almost too perfect, it was symmetrical. 

Have you ever taken a mirror and held it in the middle of your face? The reflection shows your entire face, but only one side reflected as one. It's disconcerting.

When Sheila was 13, she was riding with her parents, she was in the backseat. Her father's car ran into the back of a lorry. Sheila was thrown between the seats and smashed her face into the dashboard of her father's Jaguar. Broken nose, broken cheekbones, lost teeth, and a skull fracture. Her face was destroyed. As she said, "I went from a pretty, happy girl to an unhappy monster in a split second." 

Sheila's father was a doctor, after much consultation with his peers, he sent her to a hospital in Switzerland, 18 months later, Sheila had her face back. (Sheila built a consulting business working with Doctors and psychologists, along with beauty experts to help people like her adjust to their new reality after injuries.)

When people first met Sheila she could be intimidating, but she was warm and funny in a typical understated English way. One evening we were in line, waiting for a table at a restaurant in Palm Beach. Guys kept staring at Sheila, a lot of them were focusing on her boobs. A middle-aged guy was especially enamored, Sheila said, "Look at them all you want, I've had them since I was 13 and it doesn't bother me in the least."

Orly Knutson and his wife the lovely Judy, came to Flordia to stay with me for a week.  When Judy met Sheila, she told me later. "She was so intimidating, her face, her hair, that body and her sense of overwhelming confidence, I was ready to hate her. She won me over in 10 minutes." 

I knew that feeling.

Through January, February, and into March, Sheila and I were inseparable. If I wasn't at her house, she was at mine. I had a small swimming pool. (it took up my entire tiny backyard) Shelia would sunbathe and swim topless. My elderly neighbor would stand, peering through the tall hedge on his side of the fence and water the same flowers for hours. Of course, it wasn't long before his wife put a stop to that. 

Things between us were going "swimmingly" or so it seemed. Towards the end of March, I took Sheila to the Palm Beach Film Festival. The festival was a celebration of Alfred Hitchcock. Tippie Hedren and Janet Leigh were the speakers. The festival was a black-tie event. Sheila looked like a movie star in an understated white silk gown. She charmed everyone she met. I was more than happy to stand in her glow.

After the festival, we drove to her house on the lake. I parked in her driveway, Sheila put her hand on my arm, "Robert, we're going to have to take a break for 3 weeks."

"Why?"

"My husband will be here, he's finished his project in Spain and he has some time before the next begins."

"Your husband?"

"Yes, we have an agreement."

I looked Sheila in the eyes and said, "Get the fuck out of my car!"
She did, I jammed my black BMW into reverse, burned rubber in her driveway and did the same on the street in front of her house.

I was mad and heart-broken. I had tickets for Sheila and me to fly to North Dakota for my father's Memorial service. I wanted my family to meet her.

Sheila called me off and on for a few months, one night she told me I "Should grow up". I told her to fuck off for the 2nd time. that was the end. 

It was the beginning of my weekends with George and Eric and my 7 months of monkish exile.  I emerged from the monastery for George's birthday dinner in October. I hadn't been out since March.

That night I met Cakes. 

trump's EPA wants to turn back the clock

Get rid of mileage and emission standards, great idea from the administration. Great for the oil companies, do you understand why? Because you'll burn more gasoline, that's why. That and you'll dirty the air more than it already is, that's just the bonus.

Since the original emission standards were issued a million years ago in the 60s, the cars we drive have gotten more efficient. How have they gotten so much more efficient, engineering that's how?

Out here on the left coast, there are a lot of well preserved old cars on the road, you see them everywhere on the weekend. When you stop behind one, let's say its a beautiful 57 Chevy Belair two-door hardtop, maybe a sharp black with a white top or better yet a red example. As you admire the perfect 63-year-old car in front of you, you begin to notice a smell, it's nasty, a bad smell. What you're smelling is unburned gasoline and the by-product of inefficient combustion. When the old Chevy pulls away from the light, you'll see a trail of transparent black smoke, unburned gasoline, and other bad stuff. If you're like me, you roll up the windows and turn on the AC, it's that bad.

American automakers fought the new rules, they kept adding air pumps and filters to knock the emission levels back. At the same time, they were trying to get the EPAs rules relaxed. The Japanese said, "Okay we'll just design some clean and highly efficient engines and play by the new rules."  Guess what? they sold millions of cars.

In the bad old days, gasoline engines used around 40% of the energy in a gallon of gasoline, today's engines use over 60 percent. Racing engines utilize close to 90%, that's why small-displacement Formula 1 engines can produce 875 to 1,000 horsepower from 1.6 liters.

Gas was cheap in the old days (not really, but that's another discussion) even though our 57 Chevy V8 was sucking gas to the tune of 13.1 MPG at a nice steady 60 miles an hour, only 16% of 57 Chevy owners complained about mileage. If you stepped that shiny Chevy up to today's Freeway speed the MPG dropped to the low 12 range. Was the Chevy quick? Nope, it did do 0-60 in 9.7 seconds, making it very sluggish by today's standards, and it clocked the quarter-mile in 17.5 seconds at 77mph. A base model 2020 Honda Civic sedan, 4 cylinders with an automatic can lay waste to the Belair Power Pack and it gets 37 MPG on the highway. The Turbo Charged 4 banger Civic is faster than all the vaunted 60s muscle cars and gets almost 3 times the gas mileage.

If you review all the muscle car road tests, you'll find that the plain jane, everyday family car Toyota Camry sedan with a V6 and automatic transmission is faster than any of the muscle cars of the 60s and early 70s. Even my V8 powered 4900 pound, 4 wheel drive Grand Cherokee is faster than a Camaro Z28. and my Jeep gets better mileage. I can pull and Airstream Sport trailer with the Jeep -and get better mileage than the Z28 or any of its sister ships.

A BMW 330 will kill the much toted "Factory Experimental" cars of the era and do it with the air conditioning on.

Things are much, much better today than in the good old days. I had a 57 Chevy with a Powerpack 283, not only was it a slug by today's standards, it needed a tuneup every 4,000 miles and the brakes were worthless.

Why are things better today, simple, efficiency forced on the manufacturers by emission regulations by the EPA. The smart people at the carmakers went to work gave us better mileage, cleaner air and one hell of a lot more performance.

It is not a time to go backward at the behest of the fossil fuel industry.

One last note, my 57 Chevy couldn't do a 200 mile round trip on one tank of gas. The oil companies loved cars like that, they wish we all drove them again.