You probably shouldn't read this if you're under forty.

September...we hardly knew ye, and now you're a soon-to-be hologram of a summer left behind. Every fall, as school begins and the mornings grow a little crispier, I tend to wax about autumns past.... and nothing harkens to autumns past more than music.

This morning, as I listened to my pseudo-stodgy, adult contemporary radio station, I heard my teenager in the adjoining bedroom, singing and bopping along to every tune that sprang onto the airwaves of her teenage contemporary, a.k.a. hip hop, station.

I thought, When did I lose my passion for top forty radio? When did I pull out my tent and drive stakes into the pop music campground?  


I'll tell you when—when the seventies ended and I outgrew the demographic. So, rather than fight the tide, I've decided to revisit some of my favorite music from the Seventies.

Cheesy? Sure, some these songs are, but I love all of them. People sometimes criticize this era for its lack of variety, its emphasis on guitar rock and disco. But you be the judge.

And since we're saying goodbye to September, let's say hello to "September," by Earth, Wind and Fire:


In my opinion, E, W &; F defines 1970s-style R&B. K? And since we're on the subject of groundbreakers, here's one of the decade's definitive pop songs:


After the Jackson Five, it seemed like everyone wanted to throw their bell-bottomed leg onto the cool wagon, and here's the Brady Bunch's attempt:


I still wish my mom had agreed to buy me one of those fringy leather jackets like Greg had. It wouldn't have matched my horn-rimmed glasses very well, but whatever.

I'm not quite ready to leave the pop category yet, since I haven't mentioned the world's most popular group at the time:


Do I love these Swedish seductresses? Guilty. I also love the women in the group.

Time to move on to another genre, defined by a band which continues to be universally loved. I remember hearing this song shortly after getting my first FM radio:


No one will ever match Freddie.

This next tune can induce puberty in a TV tray, it's so chock full of teen angst. To me, it's the poster child for power ballads:

Excuse me for a second. I need to pop a couple of Sucrets after listening to that guy.

Even though I wasn't much of a disco aficionado, I can't leave out the kings of bearded, Australian camel toe beats:


I'm sure lots of run-down, 1970s-era neighborhoods had roving bands of skinny thugs with their white jackets slung over their shoulders.

The times were a-changin', even though we weren't quite ready for these guys yet:


It's funny how tame they look now.

Here's one of my favorite melodies from the emerging new wave movement which set the stage for the next decade:


And last but not least, we've got my favorite example of the arena rock we loved so dearly. I swear if I had David Lee Roth's stomach, I'd wear this outfit to work tomorrow:


Viva la 1970s!

Ten reasons why I've decided to join the Tea Party

10) Our country is filled with too many educated people already. We don't need our tax dollars paying for more kids getting their heads filled with complicated words I can't understand. I'm also tired of replacing those red rubber recess balls that get kicked onto the roof.

9) America's infrastructure is fine. The roads are in great condition, and my Hummer doesn't know the difference between a pothole and a poodle.

8) I love going to the Tea Party rallies. After looking around me, I feel really thin—even when I wear my fanny pack.

7) The government needs to stay away from our businesses, our guns and our homes... except if someone is gay. In that case, we need to make sure nothing perverted or anti-Christian is going on in there. I'll volunteer to go check things out.

6) I'm tired of eating six-dollar burritos, made by illegal aliens. I want to eat fifteen-dollar burritos, assembled by real Americans.

5) America needs true patriots now more than it ever has during the five thousand years since God created America and plunked Adam and Eve down somewhere in western Pennsylvania.

4) I want to ride Sarah Palin all the way to the White House. I didn't mean it that way.

3) I finally understand what socialism is. It's where the government redistributes my hard-earned wages to slackers like my grandma. And let me tell you, it turns my stomach.

2) I refuse to support a President who wasn't born on American soil. He was born in Hawaii.

1) I'm white, my position of privilege feels threatened, and I need someone to blame.

Jack LaLanne: The Original Fitness Guru

Happy birthday to an American original.

Yesterday, Jack LaLanne turned ninety-six years old. Before Jane Fonda and her extremely warm legs, before abs of steel, aluminum or jello, and long before Richard Simmons had you sweating to the oldies while hiding a box of Milk Duds in his afro—there was Jack LaLanne.

As a child, he recalled a strong addiction to processed foods and sugar, but then became infatuated with weight training and nutrition after listening to a lecture about the evils of junk food. Mr. LaLanne obtained a chiropractic degree and opened his first health and fitness facility in 1936, emphasizing weight training for men and women alike—quite unconventional for that era.

His gyms grew in popularity and multiplied throughout the San Francisco Bay area, leading to a local television fitness show in 1951. Soon, LaLanne's program attained national prominence, and introduced America's housewives to the benefits of exercise without leaving the home. His most common prop was the common household chair, and when combined with the body's own leverage, a good workout could be had by any willing participant.

Here's a brief clip from Jack's television heyday:


As you can see, he was a pioneer with some of his attitudes, but quite old school with others.

One of my earliest memories is hanging out in my grandma's living room, watching her watching him. His workouts definitely exerted her, as small beadlets of perspiration accumulated upon her forehead, her matching polyester top and pants sealing in the heat like the cellophane coating on a strip of fruit leather.

I always knew the show was about to end when the organ kicked in and he launched into his pseudo-operatic voice, singing a blessing while his pecs twitched to the back beat.

This was also the signal for Grandma to finally make me a little lunch. Her glow had usually dried down to a dull matte finish by the time she placed the saltines next to my bowl of Campbell's bean with bacon or chicken and stars. And if I were lucky, she'd let me eat lunch on a TV tray while watching Dark Shadows or The Newlywed Game.

I loved those afternoons at Grandma's house. She had a number of mad grandma skills, like getting a tissue under my nose before my sneeze had even concluded. After several years of marveling at her sneeze response prowess, I finally discovered that she scooped tissues directly out of her bra. "That's how she does it," I remember thinking. "She must keep so many Kleenex in there that she buys her bras a cup size larger. What a sacrifice."

Okay, I started out talking about Jack LaLanne, and now I've changed the subject to my grandma's bras. This is wrong and I'm sorry.

Anyway, happy birthday, Jack. You've got more testosterone in the tips of your fingers than I have in my whole body.

Katy Perry's got nothing on some of these old shows

There goes that Katy Perry, shaking things up again.

If you haven't already heard, she taped an appearance for Sesame Street with our red buddy, Elmo, wearing a bustier and singing a kid-friendly version of her hit, "Hot N Cold." Rather than describing it, here's an actual image:

Apparently, the show was slated to air this fall, but was nixed when a few thousand parents voiced their displeasure after viewing a leaked version on the YouTubes.

I doubt that Elmo objected, however. Keep in mind, he's really a puppet, and the puppet's mouth is operated by a human hand, which resides mere inches Ms. Perry's green-bedecked cleavage. Sunny day, indeed.

I'm not sure what the big deal is. Kids have been bombarded with disturbing imagery on their televisions for years. I did a little research, and I think you'll agree that Katy is quite tame when contrasted with some of the children's shows which aired across our fine land during the 1950s, '60s and '70s. You be the judge.

We all know this guy. I can't look at him any longer, because he freaks me out. I pray for the child in this photograph every night, right after I pray for mass-produced jet packs before I die.




This disturbing image is of Flippo the Clown, who terrorized young people in Columbus, Ohio. Holy sweet mother, enough clowns already.

These two are Duane Elliot and Floppy. If you're trying to look sexy for all the moms, you lose a bit of street cred with the dog puppet.

Grandpa Happy? I just can't imagine saying to my kids, "If you don't stop fighting each other with spatulas, it's no Grandpa Happy for either of you."













Wow. I never realized it was possible to film a children's show from a prison.

Romper Room was definitely ahead of its time in reaching kids on a personal level regarding the evils of drugs.

I'm sure Mr. Goober was funny enough, as long as you weren't eating anything while watching him and his sidekick, Nosie, The Green Oyster.

This is "Iowanna-Pow-Wow" and "Trader Milt Boyd." I have a lot of concerns about this pairing, especially if they're somehow related.

Hopefully, kids already knew they were special, and they didn't need some guy who thought he was Merv Griffin telling them that from the set of the Sonny and Cher show.

You can't just put on a hat and think that we'll ignore the fact that you look like that creepy guy at the end of the bar.








I can't end this post hating on every kids' show, because there were so many good ones. I watched a non-creepy clown named J.P. Patches, whose program was shown twice daily on KIRO TV in Seattle. It aired from 1957 until 1981, and I'm sure I viewed every episode from 1962 onward. He's a local icon, probably much like some of the above characters with whom I'm not familiar, so please don't take offense if one of them is super nice and visited you when you got your tonsils out.

Here's to you, J.P. Now, please call the folks at Sesame Street and tell them to lighten up.

Can I get something started for you?

"Good evening, sir. Welcome to Applebottom's. My name is Misti and I'll be your food and fun facilitator tonight."

"Well, hello, Miss Misti. Go ahead and call me Hank, or just keep calling me sir, because I am more than willing to be your knight in shining armor."

"Yes, well, Sir Hank, would you care to start out with something to drink? Perhaps one of our signature Applebotinis with a twist of cinnamon?"

"Darlin', I am already twisted enough. Mm mm. Why don't you just bring me an Amstel Light and sit your little Applebottom down right here next to Sir Hanky Panky."

"Sir, this is hardly appropriate behavior for a restaurant setting. Please contain yourself. Now, how about an appetizer? Maybe something like our Leaning Tower of Onion Rings. It's a four-star customer fave!"

"Misti, you bring me those onion rings and I'll provide the tower for a little ring toss, if you know what I mean, sweet cheeks."

"I'm not sure I do...but I'll take that as a yes. Have you decided on a main course? Our special tonight is sizzling beef fajitas, with your choice of flour or corn tortillas. Just look at this beautiful photograph of it on my specially laminated vest."

"Honey, I'm looking right through that beautiful vest of yours to a main course I'm much more interested in. Now, how about it, doll? Just back it on up over here and I'll definitely order up something!"

"Oh, Hank baby, here I come!"

"Wait a minute, you're not supposed to say that! Remember, this time you're supposed to be a clueless, but sweet, waitress, and I'm the boorish, obnoxious customer."

"I know, honey, but you're just so hot, I just couldn't hold back any longer. Maybe we should try the policewoman writing the speeding ticket for the confused foreigner or the Russian soldier barging in on the peasant girl."

"We've already done those, baby. Let's try the other idea we had. Okay, ready? Knock knock! Pizza delivery for the newly widowed socialite!"

"Do come in..."

Just remember: Someday they'll be taking care of us

They're so young. They're so thin. They're so...not smart.

I drove my fifteen-year-old daughter to school this morning. As we travelled up the narrow corridor known as 35th Avenue, one of West Seattle's main thoroughfares, I steered gently around a young cyclist. He pedaled a too-small bike, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans on this fifty-degree morning, while wearing headphones and no helmet.

"Hey, it's Justin," blurted my daughter as we came even with the wobbly rider. "He goes to my school."

"Is he smart?" I asked rhetorically.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, let me change your answer," I snapped back. "He's not smart. I can count four stupid things he's doing right now. He's wearing a t-shirt in the cold weather, he's not wearing a helmet, he's listening to music and he's riding on a really narrow, busy street. Justin is stupid. Stupid Justin."

"Geez, Dad, calm down."

"Sorry, I just see these kids, and they're your age, and they make me crazy. Most of you guys are learning how to operate cars. Maybe your friend Justin needs to learn how to safely ride a bike before he can even think about driving."

"Dad, get angry much?"

"Okay, I'm done."

We picked up Zoe's friend and continued on to the high school. I don't normally converge on her academic facility at this time of morning, when all the inmates are gathered outside or entering the building.

I stopped at a crosswalk in front of the school to let a group of kids pass. They performed this task admirably, with the exception of one young man who stopped three steps into the street, after realizing he hadn't finished his cigarette yet, and couldn't bring it onto school grounds. He stayed there, blocking my way, until his frontal lobe finally engaged and sent him retreating to his original curbside locale.

We proceeded through the crosswalk as I watched him suck down the last fumes of his smoke. I found it ironic how he wore expensive basketball shoes, basketball shorts and a Jordan t-shirt, yet he'd probably struggle to sprint the length of a hoop court.

Small gaggles of kids assembled in the drop-off area, where I stopped the van to let the girls off. One young woman split off from her group and approached our car to meet my passengers, her hands clutching a two-liter bottle of Grape Crush and large bag of Lays Potato Chips.

Hmm.. well, they may not be bright, but teenagers are definitely tough. If I ate that for breakfast, I'd need the defibrillator paddles.

Tomorrow, she's taking the school bus.

Take responsibility, America!

It's just three words—three simple words:

"I screwed up."

This basic, trisyllabic utterance has rendered itself rarer than quiet time at Dr. Phil's house.

Last Thursday, 2005 Heisman Trophy winner, Reggie Bush, returned his award after the NCAA determined that Bush and his family had accepted hundreds of thousands of dollars in gifts from two sports agents and ruled him ineligible for his tenure as a collegiate football player.

Upon returning the trophy, Bush stated that his gesture was "not an admission of guilt. It's me showing respect to the Hesiman Trophy itself and to the people who came before me and the people coming after."

Not an admission of guilt? Give me a break, Reggie. Then why did you return the freakin' thing? Not enough room next to all your T-Ball trophies? Just say those magic words: I screwed up.

Unfortunately, Bush's behavior is merely a symbol of our current culture of blame, deflection and misdirection. We all do it, and we start young. My kids are often so averse to fessing up that situations get far worse for them in the long run. They'll hear me ask them such questions as:

"Which one of you knows how that strawberry jam got on the cat?"

or,

"I realize that, technically, the toilet paper roll isn't completely bare since a third of a square is glued on permanently, but I'm not willing to introduce cardboard to that sensitive region of my person. So tell, me, who witnessed the end of the roll?"

At that point, they either stare blankly like dairy cows, or blame each other.

I'm definitely not immune to avoiding responsibility. There have certainly been times when I've given up on a paper jam at work or feigned righteous indignation when one of my wife's white shirts emerged a nice sunset pink from the dryer. But overall, I've found that owning up to my misdeeds is the first step toward putting the event in the rear view mirror.

So why can't Sarah Palin just admit that "refudiate" isn't a word? Why didn't Bill Clinton merely say, "Yes, I inhaled. Of course I inhaled. Otherwise, it's like chewing up your Quarter Pounder and spitting it onto the plastic tray. What a waste." Why did John Edwards take the Michael Jackson approach by saying, "The kid is not my son (actually, daughter)?"

And why the hell did Alex Rodriguez claim that he had no idea that he was taking steroids during the 2001, 2002 and 2003 seasons? We're talking about a world-class athlete who closely monitors every substance that enters his body. The guy probably eats only the hand-massaged left breast portion of the free-range chicken in his organic cobb salad.

Come on, people—let's own up to our mistakes. Let's clear our guilty consciouses and purge ourselves of those blame shifting demons and say the following loudly and proudly:

"Okay, I did it. I'm the one who ate all the pork rinds."