![]() Happy Friday everyone! CCB is coming to you live from somewhere in Central Illinois along I-70. Cousin Fred is at the wheel, hopped up on energy drinks and greasy beef jerky. I’m typing this on a laptop that I’m able to keep connected through the grace of AT&T. I should be making commercials for them. We’re a bit over halfway back to The Compound from the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia. We’ve a date with destiny later today as the Charter Members of the Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit – Original Charter (POJOC) gather at The Compound to commemorate, well, something. Honestly, my fellow Jackrabbits and I don’t need much of an excuse to get together, eat meat, drink excessively, shoot guns, and play old Ramones tunes well into the night. As we’ve hurtled through the night, my phone has been constantly lighting up with calls from our Southern Living handler, the virginal vegan Brooklyn Hodensack who for most of the night though I was still in Philly. The calls have been going to voicemail. I changed the greeting on my phone to inform the caller that I’m hard at work on an exclusive and that I’M WRITING. Soon after the Queen of the Unindicted finished her speech last night, Hodensack called to tell me that the Schuykill Suite was filling up with Democratic bigshots and delegates who were enjoying a variety of catered food and drinks sponsored by Southern Living. As time wore on – or, I should say, the night wore on – the calls became more frequent and the virginal vegan’s tone became less collegial and more acerbic. She began leaving voicemails that went something like, “Where are you? I’m being overrun by Democrats here. They’re getting unruly. I’ve tried to get quotes from some of them for you, but every time I do someone else grabs my butt and the person I was talking to walks off laughing. You’re slacking aren’t you? You should be writing! That’s what I’m paying you to do! Write! Write! Do you hear me? Hello…?” Or, words to that effect. I was playing the voicemails over speaker so Cousin Fred could enjoy them too. Finally, at 3AM, she called and left a voicemail saying that there were only two creepy delegates left at the suite who from Idaho. She said they claim to be the only Democrats in Idaho. One kept sticking a pencil eraser in his ear to clean out the wax. Said he has a medical condition that causes more ear wax in one ear than the other. He even had a name for his affliction, though she didn’t recall what it is. The other one keeps rubbing his thighs, saying they itch. He thinks he may be infested with bedbugs from the hotel where he’s staying. She ended the call in a whispered tone with, “…for the love of humanity, please come back to the suite. Save meeeee!” Soon thereafter I think she became suspicious and called in her resources at the Southern Living Command Center. They were able to track my iPhone. At 4AM there was another call, another voicemail. Now her tone was menacing. She informed that I’m in Illinois (first Cousin Fred or I knew of that) and that I would have had to leave Philadelphia mid-afternoon to be there at that hour (she’s obviously a virginal vegan physicist). She ended the call with, “I’m coming for you. You’re dead to me. You hear me? Dead! Dead! Dead!” So, I have that to look forward to! Actually, I thought about calling her. I have, after all, finished the Southern Living article. But, no…I’ll let her simmer in her virginal vegan juices for awhile. It’s more fun that way. I was able to catch many of the speeches of the DNC from Philly yesterday thanks to a special channel devoted to that on Sirius-XM. It was kind of surreal, in a way. I mean every single point of the Democratic platform was addressed by a living example of that point. There was transgender speaker; a woman who aborted a pregnancy spoke about being pro-choice; speakers who had been touched by gun violence spoke out for reform; on and on. And, of course, there was the Queen of the Unindicted herself bashing The Trump at every turn. In fact, in all of my years here on Earth, I’m having a tough time recalling a presidential election cycle where the line between two candidates is so clearly drawn. Inevitably, though, no matter who wins it always seems to follow that legislative branch moves in one political direction or the other to counter the power of the executive branch. Maybe it’s those checks and balances swings that keeps America great. That no one party ever seems to hang on to total power for too long. It's not an egotistical narcissist bent on making America great in his vision nor his hard-to-pin-down opponent with something of a grating personality and more baggage (read as, troubles and scandals) than a passenger train can haul. Well, now, there’s nothing left to do, but sit back and enjoy the comedic drama as we head toward November. I’m sure it will turn out a lot better than you think. You’ll see! It’s gonna be great. Sneaking out like a thief in the night (with hotel glassware and towels)...we is Compound bound!7/28/2016
![]() Happy Thursday everyone! I have to apologize to all of CCB’s loyal readers (all six of you, by last count). The Queen of the Unindicted’s acceptance speech is tonight (Thursday), not last night (Wednesday) as I informed you in yesterday’s post. Guess I got things mixed up in the fog of too little sleep, too much booze, and too many media receptions around town. I began packing my bags yesterday and plotting my strategy to find Cousin Fred, whom I’ve not seen for more than twenty-four hours. Our Southern Living magazine handler, the virginal vegan Brooklyn Hodensack saw me dragging bags toward the door of Schuykill Suite and asked me where the hell I thought I was going? “Back to The Compound,” I said. “Not so fast, Bucko! Get in there and keep writing. There’s one more day of this nonsense,” she said. That’s when I realized that I was WAY off in terms of timing. This throws a whole new problem at my feet. I have at least twenty-one hours of driving to do to make it back to The Compound in time for the once-in-a-decade gathering of the original charter members of the Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit – Original Charter (POJOC) tomorrow evening. Cousin Fred and I will have to take turns driving and go all night. Her Majesty’s speech will likely end at 11PM tonight. Even though I’m gaining an hour by moving west, that’s still not enough time. I think what I’ll do instead is leave for the convention floor as I normally would and then just keep driving for The Compound. Oh sure, the virginal vegan Hodensack will be furious. I can listen to the speech on the radio and then finish my article for Southern Living as we’re driving through the night. The key here is that I have to lay my hands on Cousin Fred, make sure he’s sober and gets a little sleep before we hit the road. I’ll call my pal, Terry Two-Fingers, the rattlesnake handler and charmer from Freedom to buy everything we need for the POJOC gathering. The proceedings at Wednesday’s gathering of Dems here in Philly was a veritable love fest for the Queen of the Unindicted who actually came out on stage when the last speaker, Obama himself, wrapped up his remarks. They hugged, seemed to share a joke or two and then walked around the stage to the adulation of the gathered crowd. Well, most of them anyway. It seems that The Curmudgeon’s following is carrying on a life of its own. He may no longer be doing anything campaign-wise, but his disciples aren’t giving up. Curmudgeonly delegates attending last night’s convention staged a walk-out when Her Majesty appeared. And pro-Curmudgeon demonstrators outside the venue have set up their own tent city – which will last until Philadelphia police begin moving through the crowd with batons and pepper spray. That brotherly love thing goes only so far. I think it is certainly at her own peril that Clinton is all but ignoring these people. Without them, she doesn’t have a prayer against The Trump. He is counting on a lot of disgruntled Democrats not bothering to vote – those are, in fact, votes for him. There’s a lot of weird dynamics moving through this election. Hell, there are even psychologists online offering their perspective of why people hate the Queen of the Unindicted…and it has nothing to do with her alleged or supposed crimes. It’s her personality, or at least people’s perception of her personality that turns people off from her. Is that fair? Probably not. But, it is politics or at least that weird cult of personality that we ascribe as politics. The Clinton Campaign had better find a way to fix the rift within the party or they’ll be handing over the election to The Trump. Just one man’s opinion. Okay, I’m off to find Cousin Fred so we can load up the car and get ready to launch in the direction of The Compound…probably early afternoon. Will send more from the road tomorrow…thank goodness for my AT&T hotspot. ![]() Happy Hump Day, or as they’re declaring things here in Philly it’s Humpin’ Hillary Day (wait, that didn’t come out quite right). The votes are cast and the Queen of the Unindicted is now her party’s official nominee. Tonight she’ll make her acceptance speech, The Trump will tweet what a corrupt, lame bovine she is and then we’re off and running for a showdown in November. It’s been a weird turn of things here in Philadelphia. The Democratic National Convention really didn’t go off as smoothly as everyone had hoped. What with the (alleged) involvement of Russians in leaking the DNC emails that clearly showed the process was rigged, the DNC Chair’s subsequent resignation and the cavalcade of protesters outside the convention site raising hell that Bernie didn’t get a fair shake. There’s been a lot of speculation among us professional (and, in my case, semi-professional) media as to the Russian’s interest in creating problems for the Dems. The general consensus here in the Media Tent (aka, Schmooze Central), is that the stupid Russians figure that by fracturing the party and spinning it off into disarray, it’s more likely that Democratic voters just won’t bother to vote, which translates into a vote for The Trump. Maybe the Russians aren’t so stupid after all! I suppose Vlad of Putin has enough ego to want to ensure he can go head-to-head with The Trump. I mean, as near as I can tell, they’re both half crazy. Who knows what will happen if The Trump is elected and those two fools begin bumping heads. But, we’re a few months away from having to face Armageddon, so for now we have countless debates and more wild rhetoric to endure as one side or the other tries to convince us that they’re the lesser of our two evil choices. I’ve lost track of Cousin Fred. The last I saw him, I was in the Official Media Shuttle being whisked to an Official DNC Media Reception. Cousin Fred was laying in the gutter along Broad Street with a half-eaten cheesesteak sandwich on his chest and a spilled Harp Lager can in his hand. He’s really down now that Gigi has gone back to work shaping that carcass The Trump wears atop his gourd into something resembling hair. I’ll cheer him up. We have to be back at The Compound no later than Friday afternoon. There’s a special once-in-a-decade gathering of charter members of the Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit - Original Charter (POJOC) at The Compound that evening. Cousin Fred doesn’t know it yet, but we’re installing him as a Member Wannabe, which means he’ll be fetching drinks for us all night long. As such, he’ll receive his skull cap with only one jackrabbit ear. He won’t get the second ear until after he’s initiated…probably around 4AM Saturday morning…assuming anyone is still standing. But…back to the events at hand. I’ve not seen much of the virginal vegan Brooklyn Hodensack, our handler from Southern Living. She doesn’t have press credentials like me, so she hasn’t been tagging along on the official media schmooze events. She has, however, been hounding me late at night when the party’s here in the Schuykill Suite end. But I’ve been producing at least 1,000 words every 12 hours, so even she seems a bit more at ease. And, may I say, that it is a much smoother ride at crap like this (i.e., Democratic National Convention) when you are able to maintain your press credentials? Early Monday, I was working some of The Curmudgeon’s delegates on the convention floor, hoping to inspire similar insurrection that we witnessed in Cleveland, but it just didn’t happen. They’re all too worn out to do much insurrecting. So I wasn’t able to have my credentials revoked this time out. Imagine that! And, also let me say that the alleged convention rigging that the Russians allegedly inspired, if not carried out, is really politics as usual in America. Some may recall the Democratic Convention in 1960 when Bobby Kennedy was working behind the scenes to strong-arm Adlai Stevenson supporters into supporting his brother’s nomination. Word has that he sold his soul to get Jack elected, for all the good that did. Eh, well…the fat’s in the fire now. We’re sliding toward hell on Earth in November. It’s going to be a close one, no doubt. Hold on to your skirts, sports fans, the worst is yet to come. ![]() Happy Monday peoples! CCB is coming to you live this morning from Schuykill (or as Cousin Fred calls it, the Scoobydoo) Suite in the City of Brotherly Love. Uh huh…Cousin Fred has already been mugged, by the desk clerk in our hotel no less. It’s dangerous around here, I’m telling you. And hot. And extremely humid. It makes people crazy. But enough about the adventure that our stay in Philadelphia is quickly becoming. We arrived here early Sunday morning, having driven through the night Saturday. We didn’t actually intend to stay in Cleveland so long. We decided to stay over on Friday night because Gigi, the hairdressing hydrologist, was still in town and wasn’t due to fly to back to New York until Saturday morning. I made a fast run through the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame on Saturday afternoon, finishing in less than two hours. Hey, I once made it through the Louvre in Paris in less than 40 minutes. Saturday afternoon was when the trouble really began and it had nothing to do with me zooming the museum. While I was doing my touristy thing, Cousin Fred was determined to visit the boyhood home of his favorite TV and film star, Drew Carey. The only problem is, Carey’s boyhood home isn’t open for tours and is occupied. The police moved in after the home’s current resident called 911 to report “some crazy guy trying to invade my home.” In the end, the homeowner decided not to press any charges. Turns out he didn’t know that he is living in the boyhood home of Drew Carey and is now thinking he would turn it into a shrine of sorts. Still, the police held onto Cousin Fred until they could get a magistrate who issued a no-contact order and suggested that Cousin Fred leave Ohio as quickly as possible. Our Southern Living handler, the virginal vegan Brooklyn Hodensack, was out of her mind that we weren’t in Philly by Saturday afternoon. The Wasserman scandal was breaking and in Hodensack’s words, “we were still dinking around in Cleveland.” Dinking indeed. Although I had nothing to do with the Carey home invasion (I was still making my way through the Hall of Fame), Cousin Fred had the car, so there wasn’t much I could do. As we drove through the night, I asked Cousin Fred what he was planning for Philadelphia. He informed me that he plans to follow the Rocky Trail, whatever the hell that is. Oh, that and he plans to eat a lot of cheesesteak sandwiches. I was following the events regarding the political scandal as we drove. Thank goodness for large data plans. So, just when we thought that the Democratic Convention would be incredibly tame by comparison to the mess that was the GOP convention in Cleveland…eh, not so fast. It seems that someone at Wikileaks…though there’s heavy speculation that the Russians (sheesh) had a hand in things…hacked and released a bevy of emails from a DNC account that provided the veritable smoking gun that the DNC plotted to hold back The Curmudgeon’s campaign…a charge he kept throwing out in remarks during the entire primary season. Gee, guess he wasn’t so crazy after all. There really was a conspiracy. In the meantime, Wasserman-Schultz, and her head of unruly hair, has resigned effective the end of the convention. Yeah, so in the middle of all the turmoil, she insists she will still speak to the delegates. Hmmmmm. I hate to make comparisons here, but this thing is beginning to take on a Watergate sort of stench. Stayed tuned folks, this could get ugly. Sunday there were demonstrations outside the convention site by pro-Sanders people. We may have another attempt at mutiny on our hands before this is over. Seems to me that the best thing that Wasserman-Schultz could have done is resign her position immediately and step aside. She doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of what she’s done. Neither did Nixon. Who knew the Democrats could be just as stupid as Republicans? Seriously, who knew? Such drama unfolding. It’s gonna be great! You’ll see! In the meantime, the Queen of the Unindicted appeared on 60 Minutes saying that Republican calls for her to be jailed made her feel sad. Really? Seriously? Me thinks you need to pull on your big grandma panties and get ready for the ride. It’s going to be rough for her and her new lap dog Tim Kaine, which by the way, was not the best choice in my humble opinion that she could have made. I can’t help but wonder how he feels about it all, given that he was Her Majesty’s second choice for a running mate. Still, he’s a smart guy (and we could definitely use some of that) and appears to be scandal free. Uh huh, everyone and I mean EVERYONE has baggage. You just have to dig until you find it. I’m sure Vlad the Puter and his gang of thuggish hackers are hard at work on it. Stand by folks. It ain’t over until The Curmudgeon says so. The d**k measuring contest in Cleveland is done...true confessions of a journalist in exile.7/22/2016
![]() Good morning everybody…now, stay down and remain behind cover! It was a different mood here in the Cuyahoga Suite in Cleveland last night. Following The Trump’s acceptance speech in which he portrayed the “reality” of America, the delegates began arriving here for a post-speech celebration. This time though, the delegates looked more scared than celebratory. Each sat quietly with a drink in hand…beady, laser-focused eyes scanning the room for some danger yet to emerge. It was impossible to get any of them to talk or make a comment. The fear was palpable. The Trump has hit his mark. After all, to really get people’s attention, it’s always best to scare the livin’ beejeezus out of the peoples. Leadership by intimidation in a Kingdom of Fear…HA! Try fitting that on a campaign sign or something. Eh, you get the idea. And, what the hell do I know? Things are pretty dark, all in all, across the world. It just seemed a little heavy handed to shove it in the face of everyone watching at home. This after a series of gaffs and over-the-top surreal weirdness in Cleveland. Let’s see: there were two separate charges of plagiarism; hurled insults at a cleric trying to perform an opening prayer; Republican elites refusing to endorse The Trump on stage; The Trump hisself making an entrance on stage very reminiscent of wrestling’s The Undertaker…surreal…weirdness! And, then, last night following the speech, while the family gathered on stage to thunderous applause, strains of the Stones’ song, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Who the hell was that directed at? The GOP elite…a soft swipe at them perhaps? Weird, I’m telling you. On a level not seen before. The virginal vegan Brooklyn Hodensack, our handler from Southern Living magazine, came out from her private bedroom here in the suite. She was wearing a flak jacket and had a firearm on her hip. Mostly, I think she was checking to ensure I was writing. “Write more, write faster, not smarter. Quantity over quality,” was her advice. Always great to have a coach. She also informed me that her editor has authorized her to move us to Philadelphia ahead of next week’s Democratic National Convention. Great, another several days of nonsense until the Queen of the Unindicted is anointed her party’s choice. Eh well, they’re paying me so what do I care? I guess we’ll see how long it takes for me to lose my press credentials in Philly. They didn’t last 24 hours here in Cleveland. Having delivered her news, the virginal vegan Hodensack disappeared back into her private bedroom here in the suite. But, not before admonishing me to finish at least 5,000 words before I sleep. I had hoped to be able to head back to The Compound before Philadelphia, but I guess it makes more sense to just keep moving east. I haven’t seen Cousin Fred. He and Gigi are holed up somewhere. The Trump’s hair looked pretty good last night, so I’m guessing she came out of seclusion long enough to smear some more gel onto whatever manner of carcass that is and point him in the direction of the stage. Eh, well…there will be time to gather Cousin Fred and our meager belongings and head off to Philly. I’m not leaving town though, until I can at least run through the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Philadelphia, here we come! ![]() Happy Wednesday everybody from the Cuyahoga Suite in smoky downtown Cleveland. Cousin Fred and I, oh and the virginal vegan Brooklyn Hodensack, are here to bring you close-up and personal insights into the mess that is the Republican National Convention. It’s 4AM and once again, I just sent the last couple of delegates out the door and to their own hotel rooms. Another big party night last night. Now, I’m left with some very cold leftover chicken wings, very warm half-empty cans of beer, and positively yellow sticky notes everywhere from the virginal vegan Hodensack admonishing me to “Write, damn you!” and “Why aren’t you writing?” and “No sleep for you until you write 1,000 words!” and, my favorite “Write, or die!” She’s so emotional. Actually, after yesterday, I’m not sure I can still call GOP convention a mess. Everyone seemed well behaved. The Trump’s formal nomination and that of his running mate Mike “El Pensive” Pence were solidified by a roll call vote that the damned TV political analysts kept talking over the top of. I guess it’s their way of ensuring that viewers wouldn’t get bored and turn to reruns of Spin City and The Drew Carey Show on the LAFF channel or watching infomercials offering the latest in prostate relief (call now and get not one, but two for the first 1,000 callers). The really interesting thing from my point of view yesterday was that there wasn’t a single Republican elite-ish speaker that was necessarily rabidly pro-The Trump. They did, however, all share disdain and venom for the Queen of the Unindicted, who in her own weird twist on custom hasn’t been silent during her opponent’s convention. She has even been campaigning in Ohio during the convention. Guess Her Majesty figures The Trump will be burning up the Twitter servers during the Dem’s convention in Philadelphia next week and she might as well get in her own shots now. Here in the Cuyahoga Suite, we’ve all (well, okay it’s actually only me) been watching the events unfold. I’m now a journalist in exile having had my press credentials rescinded for trying to incite a riot on the floor of the convention the day before. As I said before, it’s something of a badge of honor for me. I’ve been thrown out of a lot of conventions – there was the Seiko Watch Sellers convention in Istanbul, Turkey years ago. I walked into a reception, had a few drinks, and didn’t actually get caught until I tried to take a seat at dinner. But, that’s another story for another time. So, the kindest most positive support for The Trump came from his own children, two of whom spoke yesterday. There were questions of plagiarism in a speech again, this time given by The Trump’s oldest son. Those were quickly laid to rest when the guy who wrote the original work said that he helped craft the speech. We here at CCB have a crack team of speechwriting analysts working to sift through every syllable of every speech, but as yet haven’t discovered what plagiarist experts call “a big deal.” There are rumors that The Trump plans to quote Alfred E. Neuman in his nomination acceptance remarks, but who knows. Be assured that CCB is on the job. The thing that struck me as I watched events unfold yesterday was how lackluster it all was. I’m told by my friends in the media (the few that will still acknowledge my existence) that the heads of the delegations were coached by convention organizers that the delegations HAD to put on a happy face and enthusiastically support the candidate. Maybe that was reflected in the faces of the people I saw on television. A sort of contrived, let’s get this over with feeling. At least that’s my keen political insights into things. Can The Trump actually pull this off? Who knows? No one seemed to give him much a chance for securing his party’s nomination before. And, if he does pull it off, will he be as divisive, as he has appeared as a candidate, when he’s president? Again, who knows? Whichever way it goes, we’re doomed as I see it. Probably more so than any other election in my lifetime, it’s going to come down to getting out the vote. The Trump, if he wins, will likely only do so by a slim margin. There’s much more to come, people. Stay tuned. Okay, I’m off to write 1,000 words to keep the virginal vegan Hodensack off my back. Night. ![]() Good morning everybody! Cousin Fred and I are coming to you live from the Cuyahoga Suite of the Ritz-Carlton in smoky downtown Cleveland. Well, at least I’m live. I’ve not seen Cousin Fred since – I dunno – maybe 2:30AM when he was stumbling through the crowd here asking if anyone could spare a DNA test kit. He’s convinced himself that he is related to The Trump and he’s looking for confirmation. This too, hopefully, shall pass. It’s now 4AM and I’ve just bid the final conventioneer adieu for the night. As for our handler, the virginal vegan Brooklyn Hodensack, I’ve not seen her since about 10PM last night when she went off to her private bedroom here in the suite and slammed the door. She did that following a visit by the RNC’s media relations guy who informed me that they’re rescinding the press credentials of Southern Living magazine, a move reportedly precipitated by my actions on the convention floor yesterday. Allow me to explain… The convention opened yesterday and unlike a lot of my media colleagues I chose to be down on the floor as opposed to up in the press suite above the floor with its open bar and catered buffet. Stupid me. I was in the thick of the crowd when the little guy at the podium attempted to get a vote on the rules of the convention and utter chaos broke out. The Anti-Trumpers were there and very vocal. They wanted to move things to a state-by-state roll call in an attempt to derail the presumptive nominee’s bullet train to formal nomination. Following the first attempt to get a vote, the little guy at the podium left the stage for several minutes only to return and attempt a second vote. Honestly, the nays pretty much matched the ayes on the second vote, but still the little guy at the podium declared the ayes had it and the rules stood approved as written. The floor immediately erupted into a cacophony of savage calls for the head of the little guy at the podium on a stick. In the middle of it all, I took a call from Cousin Fred who was watching from the Cuyahoga Suite. He said that it sounded to him as though the nays edged out the ayes. Hoping to see the place descend into a riot (makes for better writing). I immediately began working the Anti-Trumpers telling them that my sources outside of the convention hall were telling me that the fix is in. A small melee of Anti-Trumpers soon broke out near the back of the room. Most of those involved were on their way out anyway, figuring that it was all but hopeless and that any attempt to stop The Trump’s nomination was doomed. RNC thugs quickly moved those individuals out of the Q and into the street, seizing their convention passes in the process. I managed to slip out one of the side entrances, thus avoiding the general roundup and subsequent expulsion of the renegade Anti-Trumpers. What those opening moments of an otherwise carefully scripted and staged event really lay bare is the fact that there is still much disagreement within the party as to whom their nominee should be. But, it now appears that they’re stuck with The Trump, for better or worse. Today’s formal roll call for the nomination of The Trump as the GOP’s no kidding candidate could still erupt into pandemonium. Stay tuned, sports fans, we haven’t cleared rough seas quite yet. I’ve assured our virginal vegan Hodensack that it’s not that big of a deal that I’m now a journalist in exile (frankly, I wear it as a badge of honor). We can continue to cover the convention, but we’ll be doing it from the suite. I told her that Cousin Fred and I have covered countless other events in the past without ever leaving the hotel room. It’s the real advantage of being in print media. You don’t have to be in the middle of the action. You just need HD televisions turned to various news outlets. No problemo. And, in the evening we can get firsthand details of the actual floor action from the partying conventioneers here in the suite. It’s a sweet suite set up! Soon thereafter she locked herself away for the evening. She’ll emerge soon enough, I suppose, yelling at me about why I’m not writing. I’ll try to distract her by sending her out to find another four large TV’s so we can monitor events as they unfold. The remainder of The Trump’s entourage is set to arrive today, which means Gigi will be near. Cousin Fred will likely turn up before that happens before once again disappearing. Well, I’ll close this out now. I need to make arrangements for the breakfast buffet to be set up here in the suite. I invited all of the GOP vanquished to the room this morning for a bit of breakfast since no one will be picking up their meal expenses from now on. ![]() Great Monday morning to everyone! Hope you’re alive and well and survived the weekend! It was a busy one for Cousin Fred and me. He was missing Gigi, the hairdressing hydrologist, who had flown back to New York to get The Trump’s coif in good shape for the Republic National convention this week in Cleveland. He had been moping around The Compound for days. Nothing would revive his spirits, believe me I tried. I made an attempt to get his mind off of Gigi by moving ahead with our plan to drill a well that will supply water for a permanent Lake Mountebank. In fact, we were meeting with an engineer on Friday afternoon about augmenting the sandy soil around here with clay to form the lake bed. According to the engineer, if we left things as they were, the lake bed would constantly be draining back into the ground at a rate faster than we could pump water to fill it. And, of course soil augmentation comes at a steep price. He immediately whipped out a U.S. Dept. of Agriculture pamphlet about a grant program that helps farmers build stock ponds. The grants are in the amount of $600,000, which coincidentally is what the engineer is telling us that it will cost to move forward with his plan. The program, called Ponds Across America, comes with a lot of strings attached. For starters, they actually expect you to have cattle using the pond. There was little (okay, nothing) in the literature about naked slalom skiing at night (soon to be an Olympic sport assuming DISH ever lets us watch Olympic coverage again). As the engineer is explaining all of this, I note Cousin Fred staring off toward the northeast with a wistful look in his eye. Suddenly, he grabbed his phone and was working on something. As I waved goodbye to the engineer and promised to get right back to him, Cousin Fred is waving his phone in my face and telling me that it’s only a 17-hour drive from The Compound to Cleveland. Cousin Fred wanted a road trip. Who am I to deny him? Besides, the route would take us through Grayville, IL and my favorite bar, The Paradise Bar & Grill at the Fairbridge Inn Express…and my favorite bartender, Pedro, whose real name is Tom Collins. I’m not making that up! Pedro’s claim to fame is that he was struck by lightning…twice…and lived to tell the tale. Okay, I was in! We left that night and drove on through the night, not stopping in Grayville. Cousin Fred promised that we would stop on the way back to Oklahoma. As we’re moving along, I had Cousin Fred trying to find us a hotel in Cleveland. I knew it would be nearly impossible with 75,000 people descending on the city for the convention, so I had him searching for rooms in the suburbs. Finally, after searching and searching, he found two rooms at the Moon Over Inn in Parma, only 10 miles outside the city. I should have known…it was too close to the city to be available. I figured we’d be stuck some 30-40 miles out. Cousin Fred showed me the photo on the motel’s web site. It looked okay, but I pointed out that all of the cars in the pic were 1950s vintage. Eh well, we had rooms within 10 miles of the city. I thought, what could possibly go wrong? We rolled into the Cleveland metro at around noon on Saturday and decided to see if we could get an early check-in at the Moon Over Inn. As I guided the car along the boulevard near the motel, I noted a huge white wall up ahead with the words HOURLY RATES, ADULT FILMS, CLEAN SHEETS in huge purple letters with yellow outlines. It was our home in Parma for the next week! Gadzooks! Out front was a woman with huge hair dressed in a bikini top, very short shorts, and knee-high snakeskin boots. She held in her hand a…ummmm…rubber representation of a phallus which she was waving at the cars that passed the place. She squealed with delight when we actually turned in off the street and parked outside the office. I was handing over my credit card to Omar, the desk clerk, when my phone began ringing. I looked at the name of the caller…it was Brooklyn Hodensack, the virginal vegan from Southern Living magazine who had made my life in L.A. so miserable. With some hesitation, I answered. She immediately asked where I was. I told her I was in Parma, Ohio. She told me to come on into the city. The magazine had a suite at the Ritz-Carlton downtown. Apparently, Southern Living had hired a writer to cover the national convention for them, but he failed to appear in Cleveland. I was the second choice, but an expense-paid stay at the Ritz? I’ll take it. I snatched the card from Omar’s hand, grabbed Cousin Fred and we left. The woman out front expressed her dismay that we weren’t actually checking in and threw her rubber phallus at our vehicle as we turned onto the street and drove toward my destiny! ![]() Happy Thursday everyone! I’m headed out to big snake country this morning to view the remains of a very old structure and determine whether or not it can be saved and/or moved back to the more civilized confines – well, there are fewer snakes anyway…the slithering kind anyway – of Cosmic City. O’ the lengths I’ll go to for Oklahomana (sic)! I have my snake boots, a pith helmet, a peanut butter sandwich (in case of breakdown), and super deluxe military grade surplus night vision goggles (in case of breakdown after dark). I was thinking about wearing my old Navy flight suit (has dog tags attached to the zipper), but it no longer fits (go figure). I’m sure everything will be fine. You’ll see. It’ll turn out better than you think! I had hoped to have Cousin Fred along to walk in front of us with a long pole smashing the grass and calling “flee snakes, flee!” But, he’s too wrapped up in Pokemon GO to be of any use to anyone. Last I saw him, he was headed out across one of the pastures in the dark chasing after something with his iPhone. Cousin Fred got the Pokemon GO bug last evening after watching a segment on the CBS Evening News. I heard that NBC had a really great segment on the newest thing in gaming, BUT WE DON’T GET ANY NBC AT THE COMPOUND SINCE DISH DECIDED TO TAKE THE NETWORK HOSTAGE – or is the other way around? Regardless, I still gets no KFOR out here. Me thinks it’s time to find a new service. But, before Cousin Fred downloaded the app, he and I were sitting around reading the frigging fishwrap from OKC whose motto taken from the Latvian is “Yeah, we know we aren’t worth a crap, but what are you gonna do?” Cousin Fred was reading an article about the FBI dropping their pursuit of D.B. Cooper after so many decades of no one being able to find him or for that matter, even figure out who he is. For those of you who don’t care…lucky devils that you are…here is the bare bones, Cliff Notes version. On Thanksgiving Eve 1971, some guy who identified himself as Dan Cooper bought a one-way ticket from Portland, OR to Seattle, WA. He carried nothing but a briefcase with him. (Quick note for those of you playing along at home – there were no secure terminals or TSA back then. No one even checked the stuff you were carrying. I know, very Norman Rockwell (Google it), huh? And, you could actually walk right up to the departure gate and buy a ticket). Once the plane was airborne, he presented a note to the flight attendant announcing that his briefcase held a bomb which he threatened to detonate unless his demands for $200,000, four parachutes and a fuel truck were met. The plane lands in Seattle. His demands were met (go figure). The plane was refueled and he allowed the passengers on board to disembark (check the overhead bins - oops, there were none then - and be sure to take all of your personal possessions with you). He made a minimum number of aircrew stay aboard and then ordered the plane to take off again. Cooper’s instructions to the aircrew was to steer the plane in a southeast direction toward Mexico City (ίOlé!). At some point over Oregon, the aircrew got an indication that the aft airstair on the 727 was being lowered and the passenger compartment was depressurizing. One of the parachutes and all of the money was gone by the time the airliner made it back to the ground in Reno, NV. Nothing was ever found, except pieces of a parachute and a wad of rotting 20 dollar bills totaling $5,800 determined to the some of the serial numbers that had been handed over to Cooper in Oregon. That was in 1980, I think. Ever since, there has been speculation about whether or not Cooper survived the jump. He was dressed in a business suit and loafers for crying out loud. At the plane’s altitude that meant an ambient air temp of -34 degrees Fahrenheit. Not to mention that he leaped from a plane moving at roughly 200 mph. So the FBI engaged in a manhunt for the past 45 years, but no signs. No real clues. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Butkus. According to Cousin Fred, reading the story, the Feebs finally gave it up because according to them, they were expending too many resources on chasing a ghost that could be directed elsewhere (the resources, not the ghost). At that point, I was only half-listening. But then, Cousin Fred announced that he figured out the D.B. Cooper thing years before. I’m still only half-listening. “Uh huh,” I said. “No, seriously. He never left the plane. He was still on it when it landed in Reno.” Now he had my attention. According to Cousin Fred, who did some time in the Air Force years ago, there were a “gazillion” access points for maintenance personnel to get to key components in the fuel, flight control, and hydraulic systems on the old 727’s. Cousin Fred said that Cooper could easily have slid down inside the bowels of the plane and stayed there until it was parked. I started to ask a question, but he interrupted me. He pointed out that there had been speculation for years that Cooper was a former Air Force or possibly Navy (they used the same model of 727) load master. As evidence of that, investigators pointed out that he wanted the aft airstair ramp lowered before takeoff from Seattle. The pilot told him the plane couldn’t take off with the airstair extended. Cooper argued that it damn well could, but finally agreed to let it stay up and then he (Cooper) would lower it when the plane was airborne. Cousin Fred figures that Cooper lowered the rear ramp, dumped one parachute and the wad of $5,800 out the back and then secreted himself into one of the maintenance holds just beneath the flight deck. By the way, the plane landed in Reno with the rear stair ramp still lowered. In all of the theories I’d read on the case over the years, I don’t recall any about Cooper still being on board. I said as much to Cousin Fred. He gave me a “hrrmph” and then began reading aloud a story about the start of Woodyfest in Okemah. ![]() Wow…Tuesday already. The week is just zipping by. Recall seeing a meme go past on Facebook recently that said, “Nothing messes up your Friday like finding out it’s only Tuesday.” Now, that’s profound! Things are returning to a basic sense of order here at The Compound. Or, at least as much as things can…considering the looney bin my life has become. All of Cousin Fred’s minions have returned to their underground county bar, The Pukin’ Dog Lounge, like so many cockroaches heading for the pantry when the lights go on. They were camped over in the south pasture since the Fourth. Turns out, they just needed a ride back to the PDL, or the PooDLe as we here at The Compound now call it. We managed to load them all onto a flatbed trailer yesterday and get them over there. At least I can walk out onto my lawn now in the morning without being greeted by the sight of 50 naked bodies performing Tai Chi at sunrise. It was cutting into my own naked sunrise greeting. The Wife finally came down from the roof when the winds picked up a couple of days ago. Once her big-ass beach umbrella took off for Kansas there wasn’t much to keep her up there. Gigi has gone back to New York to pick up the hairdressing or whatever that is of The Trump’s do. His daughter did an okay job, but Gigi kept seeing him on TV and pointing out that Ivanka wasn’t wrapping it around his head in the right direction. She left her Lexus here…a sure sign she’ll be back, I suppose. Cousin Fred got the artesian well pit filled back in, for now. He insists that everything stops until we see what Lawyer X can do to get the state to drill a well for free. It certainly won’t be anytime this summer that Lake Mountebank refills, at least not fed by an underground spring. The courts are so backed up that the preliminary hearing is set for sometime in February 2017. It’ll be worth it to see Lawyer X trying to cover both sides, objecting to himself and then objecting to the objection to himself. It’ll be worth the price of admission, I’m telling you! By the way, for those of you wondering why we haven’t been talking about the series we shot up in Colorado for our new reality series, Bigfoot: Naked and Untamed, it’s because it looked as though the Bigfoot thing was beginning to die out. First, the Zombies then the Bigfoot. It’s getting so you can’t depend on mythical beings for anything! Ahhhh, but then! Yesterday, I was perusing the Huffington Post website and what do you think I found? Not one, but TWO, count ‘em TWO separate articles about the Bigfoot. WE’RE BACK! The first was a piece about ESPN Magazine shooting its annual body issue which generally has photos of athletes of all genders, shapes and sizes naked. So, the makers of that beef jerky that has the Bigfoot as its mascot, (Jack Link’s, I think) thought it would be fun to pose the Bigfoot a la Burt Reynolds in Cosmo back in the day. The result was an 8 foot Sasquatch reclining with a raccoon in front of his ummmm parts. Not sure I get the raccoon, but whatever. Well, that got me to thinking that maybe there’s a Sasquatch revival coming, but then I realized that it’s just a commercial ploy to sell more dried out beef. But then, further down the page, there was an article about the one of the two men who filmed the infamous Bigfoot footage back in the 60’s that became the documentary that dumbass kids my age went into a theater to watch, called…well, I can’t remember what the theater release was called, but it contained the most famous one minute of an “actual” Bigfoot tramping along near a creek shown over and over and over. Google Patterson-Gimlin film, you can find it. Anyway, the sole remaining filmmaker Bob Gimlin, who is well into his 80’s now, says that he wishes he had never left home to go Bigfoot hunting with his pal, Roger Patterson. The HuffPost piece entitled, “Bigfoot Ruined My Life” tells how Gimlin has had to endure decades of humiliation as the butt of jokes about the film. And, do you know, that both of those articles no sooner went viral – well as viral Huffington Post can be – than the phone begin ringing. I received a call from Chick Farris’ altogether able assistant Fergus yesterday. Fergus informed me that Chick is working a deal to land a permanent home for Bigfoot: Naked and Untamed on some cable channel. There’s even talk about shooting a second season already. So, I guess we’re off and running again. Cousin Fred says that no matter the outcome in Hollywood, we have to be back here before Labor Day though. It seems that he is planning yet another Holiday Extravaganza. Maybe someday Huffington Post will do an article about me entitled, “Cousin Fred Ruined My Life!” |
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