Pay No Attention to The Evil Men with Twirly Mustaches

By Peter Rodman

On Monday, if no agreement has been reached between the two houses of Congress, the stock market will plunge precipitously, by several hundred points.  
Our national "AAA" credit rating is likely to be downgraded, resulting in hundreds of dollars in extra interest charges to most middle class American families, every single month. 
If that's not a 'tax,' I don't know what is. 
But this seems not to faze the GOP in the least.

You can count on Fox News and Laura Ingraham and the rest to work overtime, spinning this whole thing as President Obama's fault. But here we are, trapped in yet another unecessary, months-long battle, crippling our government, ignoring the jobs problem--stuck arguing philosophy, with the 'Evil Landlords' of the GOP, who have come to collect the rent money, from a frightened nation held hostage.
Honestly, Folks...
Could it be any clearer, who the real villains are?


Radical Republicans have succeeded in creating a crisis where there simply was none--and all for...what?  To prove that they're suddenly 'serious' about cutting government spending?  
On Thursday, the New York Times published a chart, based strictly upon U.S. Treasury Department statistics, showing that of the supposed "14 trillion" in debt, President Obama's administration is actually only responsible for a mere $2.4 trillion of it. 

Guess which eight-year regime is The All-Time Borrowing Champeen, ringing in at $6.4 trillion, from two ten-year wars (at least one of which was entirely unecessary), a couple trillion bucks in tax breaks for the wealthiest among us (and where are those jobs they were to have created, Dubya?), and the absolute rape of corporate regulations, leaving this country to be run, as Paul Begala puts it, "like a casino."


The Republican Party as we once knew it is no longer.  It's been hijacked by hate-talk radio, Fox News, and the Karl Rove/Koch Brothers money machine.
The most recent trend being proffered by the right is that any yahoo can govern. 
And why not?  Hey, even if she walked off the job in the middle of her term as Governor, Sarah Palin looks good! 
Yippee! (In fact, the main difference between this group of anarchists and the actual Yippees, is that the Yippees never seriously nominated Abbie Hoffman for elective office.)

 The right-wing narrative is that "big gub'mint" gets in the way of commerce; regulating food, safety, and the environment are "job killing" propositions; and helping the poor is a foolish waste of the public's time and money. 
As is science.  As is education.  Conservation.  Anything "green." Etcetera.
In other words, cut it all to pieces. 
In short?
Anything good is bad for you.

"We can't afford it!" they holler.
(But we can afford a couple trillion in gifts to the richest 1% of us, and we can afford to let corporations pay ZERO taxes...)


So here we are again, this time (even more ridiculously) arguing about whether or not to pay our past bills, by raising the debt ceiling, which Ronald Reagan did seventeen times, George W. Bush did seven times, and every President has done without any of this drama, whenever necessary.
"Raising the debt ceiling."  
What does this mean?

Last week, the Daily Beast's, Christopher Hayes put it best: 
He said it's as if we all went to dinner, Republicans and Democrats alike, and we each ordered everything we wanted, and ate it all--including dessert--and then, when the bill came due, the Republicans got up and left the table, refusing to pay until we all agree never to eat out again. 
The point is, the 'debt ceiling' concerns our past bills; everything spent already. 
It has nothing to do with the future.


The "crisis" that Fox News and the GOP love to pretend we're in exists solely because they've put us there.
Again: Raising the debt ceiling is a routine measure. 
It's already been done twice, under Obama. 
And again: It was done SEVEN TIMES, under George W. Bush!


While some (including Obama) voted against it at various times, never was the nation being held hostage by a radical opposition, like it is today. 
And if we're so broke, why aren't those tax breaks for the wealthy even on the table?

The answer is that this crop of Tea Party Republicans couldn't care less about creating anarchy.  They'd rather your country collapse than compromise at all, so they can re-shape it in the image of Rush Limbaugh.

This is the kind of breakdown that happens whenever societies decide to attack the best minds they have. 

Anti-intellectualism has a long history of destroying great civilizations; from Greece to Germany, the trail of hatred and anarchy is long and bloody, when mobs decide to seize control and tear apart all that exists, willy-nilly.


I can tell you right now, I love my country.  But I am not at all optimistic that we haven't planted the seeds of our own demise. 
First, and perhaps most importantly, we ended the 'Fairness Doctrine' for broadcast outlets, a couple decades ago. 

This created what we have today: 
A funhouse mirror on talk radio, full of reckless clowns pumping out total distortion, and only one point of view, 24/7, to an unsuspecting public. 
Lies substitute for truth; blatant falsehoods casually waft through the air until they reach your ear, disguised as fact. 
It's a one-sided, non-stop, right-wing hate machine--spewing the most vile and preposterous nonsense imaginable. 
It wouldn't surprise me if Sean Hannity or Michael Savage  actually declared the world was flat.  (Apologies to Tom Friedman.)
In their world, up is down; rich is poor; racists are victims of 'reverse racism'; and most importantly, wrong is right.


I'm going to make a rather shocking prediction, here.
If the programs that are being slashed right now continue to crush the poor, ignore the jobless, outsource our corporate profits (and jobs) overseas, fail to tax the rich at all in many cases, strip workers of their collective bargaining rights, demonize the government, and cripple the middle class much further, you can count on riots and bloodshed and looting in the streets--your streets--on a scale that will make Cairo once again seem like a vacation destination.


We are planting the seeds of an absolute class uprising.
And this is not 20 or 30 years away, either. 
It's right around the corner. If the right wing is allowed to continue holding this nation hostage, cutting back all benefits to teachers, schools and police, in favor of keeping corporate and capital gains tax loopholes open for billionaires...there will be headlines so drastic and so life-changing in America, that you'll forget where you were on November 22, 1963, or possibly even 9/11.
Put more simply:  You ain't seen nothin' in this lifetime, like you will see, if actual class warfare ensues. 
A good investment might be wrought-iron bars, for your windows. 
It will not be pretty.
And it will be everywhere.

The current debt ceiling 'controversy' is but another glimpse of the nightmarish vision of America that some very evil, very stupid people are attempting to foist upon the rest of us.
The other day, Glenn Beck actually suggested on his nationwide radio talk show that "six million checks are too many" for the government to be writing each month.
Imagine that. 
Imagine if some off-the-top-of-his-head numbskull ever gets to unilaterally decide that "six million monthly checks are too many."  What happens then?  No pavement, to fix the potholes?  No school air-conditioning repairs? No police uniforms? No food inspectors?  No garbage collection? No '911' staffing?
Since when does every jackass get to chime in about undoing what took us all 240 years to do?

Oh, I see.  You don't like big government?
Guess what:  It's a big country. 
If you really like small governments, may I recommend Lichtenstein. 

A whole lot of idiots have bought into this kind of talk show 'schtick'--and somehow, elements which would have been considered a radical fringe throughout our history are now given a seat at the national table. 
What's the old saying? 
"Opinions are like assholes; everybody's got one."


The trouble is, we've been letting these reckless cowards get taken seriously.  Our 24/7 cable TV news monster desperately needs 'content,' so no matter how nutty your ideas, they'll air them. That, we know.
But we've somehow begun pretending that these fringe voices matter, just as much as the vast majority of credible ideas...and as a result, 87 of the most wild-eyed nutballs imaginable made it into Congress, last year.   Michelle Bachmann?  Rand Paul?  Really???
None of them care much to actually govern.  (Bachmann, for example, has missed more votes than she has actually cast this year.)  Yet all of them seem hell-bent on shaking our government to its very foundation. It is a mandate for self-destruction.
Whoever coined the term "idiocracy" was right.


We've gotten down to where scientists are called "elites," NASA basically no longer exists, regular newspapers and networks are portrayed as  radical ("mainstream/lamestream media"), and every whackjob out there gets to chime in with uninformed and reckless "ideas," about how to dismantle over 200 years of the greatest civilization in the history of this planet.
Many, many great minds converged--and yes, compromised, over many decades--to help form Social Security, Medicare, and so many of the other crowning achievments which have made America what it is today. 
But somehow, we've come to a point where we're entertaining "ideas" from everyone in the classroom who raises their hand to say, "Hey, I've got a better idea!!!"  Is there any wonder it all suddenly looks and feels like third grade?

Now, every jerk with a telephone or a keyboard gets to say, "Forget all that!  Tear it down!  Gub'mint's too big!"

"I've got an idea! We write too many checks!  Let's just cut the amount of checks we write in half!"
Seriously.  That's how bad it's gotten.


On Monday night at 11:59, President Obama should grow a pair and do the right thing.
Go ahead and raise the debt ceiling.
That's right.
All on his own, with the stroke of a pen...and NO conditions. 
Remember, this is only to pay our past bills--money which both parties long ago voted to spend, right or wrong.


And Mr. President, I frankly don't care whether you invoke the 14th Amendment (as Bill Clinton has suggested you do) or simply cite your 'executive authority' to act unilaterally, in a national emergency: Just do it.




Mitch McConnell and Jiminy Glick:
Separated at Birth?

Not a court in the land, including the conservatively-stacked 'Roberts' Supreme Court, would dare undo a debt ceiling in the name of Constitutional minutiae.
It simply ain't gonna happen.
They will not unilaterally risk collapsing our economy--but John Boehner and his evil co-horts have proven that they will. 


And after the President raises the debt ceiling on his own, (rightly) separating it from any future spending and taxation issues, we can go back to the current debate...that is, if the Republicans can stand to promote their tired ol' trickledown philosophy without holding a gun to our collective heads.

Talk about being "straight out of Central Casting!" John Boehner and Rush Limbaugh and Paul Ryan and Scott Walker couldn't look any more like the proverbial 'evil landlords,' in a silent melodrama.  So let 'em stew awhile, and twirl their shiny black mustaches, and huff, and puff, and even threaten to blow the whole house down, just like they've been doing all along...but for God's sake, stop giving them any ammunition, with which to do it.

Cut 'em off at the pass, Mr. President. We need you to ride in at the last minute and save the day, Hollywood style! Raise this damn "debt ceiling" without 'em--and pay no attention to those evil, cowardly,  small-minded men, hiding behind the curtain.

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This article is Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved. You are welcome to share it with your friends. 

CHOPPED: The Home (Bachelor) Edition

By Peter Rodman

I never meant to smear Katy Perry.
It’s just that the latest issue of Rolling Stone was a little too close to the butter, when I made a snap decision this afternoon, to create my very own episode of Chopped.
I’d thawed a beautiful, plump, organic boneless chicken breast earlier in the day…and the pantry was so full, I couldn’t see behind the cans of Beefaroni I'd recently bought--strictly for nostalgic reasons, of course. (For the record, I also stock 'Popeye’s' brand spinach. It’s a loyalty thing.)
So I figured I’d make an entirely unplanned meal, out of whatever occurred to me, as I went along.
My “basket of ingredients” would be…anything I thought of!

I’ve never had such a fun Sunday.  (Well, there was that time I broke my arm.)  Also, I'm wondering:  Do other people laugh out loud, mocking their own cooking, when nobody’s around?  I mean...not including at mental institutions? 
...or should I remove all but the plastic knives, around here...

My rules of the game were simple:
The thought process in creating this meal would be completely 'spur-of-the-moment.' An entirely stream-of-consciousness (and ingredients) concoction!

First, I decided to chop an onion--‘Paul McCartney style,’ of course. He (infamously) created a YouTube video a couple years back, detailing his score-then-slice dicing method.
It’s eight minutes long.
My half-an-onion took around fifteen, narrowly avoiding an emergency room visit.
(And no matter how many times I've washed my hands since, this keyboard will smell like onions one year from now, I guarantee it.)

Meanwhile, I started two pots of boiling water, not knowing what I might put in them. (I’m so adventurous!)
Moments later, while standing on a stool, I spotted some Uncle Ben’s Instant Rice.
Okay, that’ll be my only cheat…promise.

That, and the ear of corn in the fridge, that looked kind of iffy. As I husked it, my heart sank. Those beautiful white-and-yellow kernels had turned to a hundred tiny, shriveled elephants’ toes, during its four week (all expenses paid) stay, in my luxury veggie bin.
Ah, well…stick it in the microwave!

I recalled having bought some chicken-specific batter for frying a while back…so I set out to find it, standing on the tallest chair in the house, and carefully edging the full cabinets around.
AH!!! There it is, just as I remembered it!

“Kentucky Kernel’s Seasoned Flour--Since 1810--Perfect for Chicken!”

Well, almost 1810, anyway...
For some reason, I’d already started the George Foreman Grill, so I thought I’d bread the chicken with the flour, and just grill it.
Unfortunately, I don’t do a lot of breading in the house.
Okay…I don’t do any.
(Translation: I don’t really know how.)



Breading fail

 So I figured, if you just take an egg and crack it in a bowl (I think I saw that once…) then mix in the flour, it’ll serve as an adherent!
Launching into my 'Topo Gigio' impression,  for no good reason, now: 

"...no, Senor?"

"...no."

I mean, it did serve to 'adhere' the flour to the egg, alright--but unless you’re planning on doing some serious outdoor caulking on brickwork, this was nothing like any ‘breading’ you’ve ever seen.  (I'm figuring a half an hour with an electric sander on 'high' should get most of it off of my utensils.)

Because I have a poor memory and I travel a bit, I always label my groceries with the date I purchased them, in Magic Marker. As I tossed the boxes into the trash, I noticed that the flour and the egg were thusly labeled:

Yep, that's right.  Five year old flour...older than my neighbor's kid.  
You will note the many handy recipes on the box, too.
(Unfortunately, until this very moment, I didn't.)　
As for the egg, I'm not saying it was late term or anything, but a pro-life picket line broke out in my kitchen. 

Still, I did not lose heart.
On the kitchen counter before me sat one of the most beautiful, plump, tender breasts that had been in my house in a long time (if you don’t count mine). I scraped what flour-dust remained onto the chicken, and dropped it onto the grill.

Uh oh…the rice!!!
I’d been counting on my ‘bed of rice’ to save pretty much anything I created, but by this time, this particular bed looked like a 'Going Out of Business' item, from Mattresses Plus.

So much for timing.
I re-zapped the corn, gathered up the chicken, and disgustedly plunked my plate of dinner onto the table. (Note the angry 'presentation,' above.) Took a bite of the chicken, which looked dry, but was actually delicious…and then, at the last minute---as if to compound every earlier mistake-- I decided to add some Paul Newman’s Sockarooni Sauce, just in case.

Just in case what, I now wonder?
Just in case the rest tasted as good as the first bite?
No danger of that now, my friends!

I once had a neighbor ask, “What do you do in there, all day long?”
Now, you know.

This is how a bachelor (and aspiring retiree) whiles away the hours.  Despite having no competition at all, I was summarily 'chopped,' from my own (imaginary) episode of Chopped.
And just because I'm sharing my lameness, doesn't mean you should try to remedy it, either.
So please, send me no cookbooks.  
On the other hand, a couple more of those plump and tender breasts might be nice...




__________________________________________________
Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.
__________________________________________________
References:
PAUL McCARTNEY MAKES MASHED POTATOES:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyyEc-GNDfQ&feature=BFa&list=PLCC0AB9CB93E0F98B&index=2
__________________________________________________
CHOPPED (from The Food Network):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=opYMcQg0MDI
__________________________________________________

Re-formed Buffalo Springfield Prove They're No Los Angeles Codgers; Audience, Not So Much...

By Peter Rodman

SANTA BARBARA, JUNE 8--
A friend of mine asked for "the Full Report" on the Buffalo Springfield's reunion show, and I was happy to oblige.  I was also conscious of retaining, for my review, as many concert details as possible--despite my overall fatigue.  (As opposed to the most telling fashion statement of the evening...fatigued overalls.) 
But let's be frank--age is as much a factor for the audience now, as it is for the band.  In that context, because the seats at the fabled Santa Barbara Bowl are a mere 15 inches wide--with NO armrests!--I had to carefully time any 'pants adjustments' to coincide with the four prolonged standing ovations.  Otherwise, I would not only have injured those adjacent to me, but caused untold embarrassment to the Rodman family name.  In addition, simply unfolding my arms required wiggling the circulation back into them, before any said adjustments could even be considered.

Buffalo Springfield, version 2010 (from left): 
Joe Vitale, Stephen Stills, Richie Furay, Neil Young, Rick Rojas 

Face it:
At my age, and in this shape (and in that 'seat'), there was no way to document the proceedings here (at AARPSTOCK 2011) in anything even approaching the detail some might prefer.

In other words, I forgot to bring a pen.  And nobody else had one either. 
Apparently, even women stop carrying pens after 25 years of marriage, because by that time, they've stopped carrying purses altogether--especially in Santa Barbara. 
Yes, these are 'the Golden Years'--when a girl knows 'the hubs' has made it, and accessorizing the Montecito chalet is no longer in doubt--as long as she'll take a Tuesday night in June, to let the old jamoke revel in his favorite band from 1967.
I'm telling you, I must have asked 25 people...no pens!
 
So, be forewarned: I did not record the set list in detail, for you. 
Besides, my days as a daily newspaper writer are over. Heck... newspapers are over!
But if I were still a music writer, I'd have made you up a detailed 'set list' from last night's show, worthy of a cross between Phillip Seymour Hoffman (as Lester Bangs in Almost Famous) and Marv Alpert's most anal basketball statistician. 
It would have listed every song from top to bottom, with asterisks for encores, and who played what...I promise.  But since I'm only doing this for the fun of it now, my failing memory will simply have to suffice. 

I'm gonna just say what my overall impressions and feelings were, once I can edit out MOST of the details of a turbulent journey--including hookers, literally knocking on my airport hotel door all night in San Francisco the night before, having had to stay over because of repeated flight delays, and cancellations.
I won't kvetch about that stuff.

This is about the music, man!!!
But suffice it to say, I wasn't feelin' too 'groovy' by the time I made it to the concert, on Tuesday.

In fact, an afternoon cat-nap turned into a coma, deep enough to have been induced by laying down in front of an actual Buffalo Springfield Steamroller...if you know what I mean.

And if you know what I mean--about any of this--you are my target audience, and their target audience, and like me...you know Buffalo Springfield.  

So:

In the afternoon, just to suss out the place (and mostly to refresh my memory, directions-wise), I sojourned up to 'The Bowl,' as we Santa Barbarans call it...and was greeted by hand-printed signs everywhere, saying
"NO CAMERAS. NO VIDEOS. NO CELL PHONES.
NO WHISTLING OR HOLLERING BETWEEN SONGS.."
and about eight other forbidden behavioral quirks I never made it to, like NO LATE LIBRARY BOOKS, NO READING GLASSES, NO CRAPPING YOUR DEPENDS, and most curiously, NO EXPLAINING THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF COUNTRY ROCK TO YOUR WIFE DURING THE OPENING ACT'S SET.
Oy, such detail!  I mean, the Bluebird Cafe sells t-shirts that say, "SHHHHHHH!"...but that's a 75 seat bar, not a major outdoor amphitheatre.

Go figure.
I swear, I am not making up those "rules"( except all the ones after the 'whistling and hollering between songs' part).
Even the backstage parking guy helpfully volunteered, "It's specifically on Mr. Young's orders." Guessing there were no Chinese maitre'dee's around, I figured out who he meant.

I told him I had hoped to possibly stumble on the soundcheck, but it was still only 3:45...and while there was a tour bus there,  I knew that must belong to (my good friends) Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings--the opening act. 
When I say 'good friends,' they're people whose houses I've been in, and I've supped with, and hosted on my radio program many times, and who would themselves say we were good friends, unless I started tweeting untoward pictures of myself wearing only Fruit of the Looms (with the original, collectible logo on them) to various receptive females (presumably in nursing homes) around the country. But let's leave that icky thought behind, shall we?

The point is/was, we've been friends, yeah. 
I love Gil, and I love Dave.
But have I called them in the last five years?

No.

Is the phone number I have even current?
Not likely.
See 'em around town now and then, but they've been busy touring and recording and being great....and I've been busy, ummm...mowing the lawn, writing a book I may never finish, covering my bald spot with Toppik, and hangin' out on Facebook, 24/7. 



Dave Rawlings, Gillian Welch

The parking guy said they'd already done their sound check, so I knew that was their bus--but in truth, it was a process of elimination. Because there is simply no way the entire 'core three' in Buffalo Springfield  (from the Summer of Love) are gonna effin' share one bus.  There'd be no 'love and peace'  if they did.


Anyway, ten years ago I would have approached the bus and said "hello" out of the blue, far from our Nashville homes, but  now, I just thought "That'd be too weird," though I know they would have graciously received me.

In fact, I was reticent to even call my old Boulder friend (and teenage hero) Richie Furay, but since he suggested it when I told him I was coming, I did put in a courtesy phone message, saying, "Have a great show, Richie! I'll be out there rootin' you on!" or something along those lines.

By the time I pulled out of the venue in the late afternoon, many more (identical) tour buses were groaning their way up the hill, towards the lot.  Obviously...THAT was "them."


I declined to turn back....but this Monmarte-like neighborhood was already crammed with cars, seemingly parked on each others' backs, and grey-haired hipsters excitedly converging on the venue. 
Even when I had checked into the Motel 6 three hours earlier, two scary drunks, stinking of pot and wearing grey dreadlocks interrupted the process to say, "Heyyyyyyyy, man!!!  YOU'RE an old HIPPIE!!! Must be goin' to the Springfield concert!!!! Right on, mannn! When you leavin'!!!???"
Oh look...it's Wayne and Garth's grandfathers...drunk.

Get to the show, I know.
That's what I was thinking, three hours later...late, having 'overnapped' again...
Suitably forewarned about the camera thing, I left behind my trusty Nikon 200mm zoom/rig completely--packed just for the occasion, but no longer a viable option-- and simply tucked a fLiP video cam into my jeans pocket.

It's hard trudging uphill, ten blocks, on gout-ridden feet. 
I finally got to the meet-up place my local friends had designated, and the kindly guards said, "Take your time," as I tried to huff out the words, "Is this the area known as the Wine Bar?"
Easy, old man...you'll be okay.
My friends, whose 4:30 dinner reservation I had slept through, had said, "Park at the high school!"
But even though I used to live here, I was too embarrassed to mention that I no longer had any idea where the high school was.


As luck would have it, I actually beat my friends back to the Bowl, by show time.
While I was waiting, I bought the requisite 'Buffalo Springfield' zippered hoodie ($60...XL, please) and chatted up the extremely cute t-shirt girl, who was more than accomodating.
"See?" I winked, "We old guys still know how to flirt!"
She smiled back at me, with those cobalt blue eyes, and that smooth, flawless, youthful skin--looking right through me...
"That's okay!!!," she chirped. "You're SAFE!!!"
Oh.
Thank YOU very much.

Jeez, Edith...

(The two ants in the middle are Dave and Gillian.)

By the time we'd all met up and bought our wines, and walked up the steeper-than-Red Rocks stairs, Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings had already started their set.  It was still light out, and the setting is spectacular (I'd last been there for Brian Wilson, some ten years ago). 
Behind them was a huge "BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD" logo, in the familar italic typeface that graced their debut L.P.  Under that, a planetarium-style amalgam of backlit stars.
But with no 'big screens' and the 7,000 or so seats well removed from the stage, they were tiny--even from my close-up section (fifth row of the first tier behind the 20 rows of folding seats).
I could see their new, white 'Manuel' (rhinestone) suits, an obvious nod to the Parsons/Burrito contingency, and quite frankly, a sartorial concession to their first-ever major tour-opening stint.
But for the most part, as folks filed in, loudly talking and not paying almost any attention to the music, their two-part delicacy was lost to the crisp air of sunset.


One secret to the SB Bowl is that the 'worst' seats have the best view: 
Over the mountains, the stage, the city, the unmatched harbor, and then the ocean...and THEN...(on a clear evening like this)...the Channel Islands.
(I tried to remind my pals of that, as my seats were far closer to the stage, than the ones I'd bought them.)
Mine, I said, were too low to peer over the trees, and the stage, and out into the pastel orange, Pacific sunset.
In the cool dusk air, the sound mix seemed to reach us in bursts of treble, and while it was rich, it had no legs--sorta like the venue's wine. The sound hit you, and then disappeared like dry ice, almost upon arrival.
I gingerly grabbed thirty seconds of low-held video from my seat (sun still up, but barely now), VERY unobtrusively. 
Ten full minutes later, I received a visit from (again, a very nice but very firm) security guy:
"Hey...I've been told...on orders directly from Mr. Young...that if we find any video or cell phone cameras, we are to immediately remove the camera, and the person using it.  Hope you understand!"
"I'm so sorry," I said, looking around at my seat mates earnestly.
"Don't worry," I assured him, tacitly reminding him of our collective age group. "...I'm compliant!"
(My pre-compliance video clip can be found, above.)
My whole row thought it was among the weirdest warnings they'd ever heard, at a concert. 
Wow...
"Mr. Young!"...mentioned a second time...by a separate guard...four hours later.
(Guess we know who's in charge on this-here tour!)

The charm of the Bowl (and its related drawback) is that it's not unlike Forest Hills in '67, which was more of a club with rules: No nonsense, no riff-raff, curfew, decorum, the whole bit.  And there's something to be said for that. 
But in respecting the neighbors (and the strict 10 p.m. curfew--$1,000 a minute fine, if you go over), the poor soundman had very little to work with.  An outdoor theatre must be UNsubtle in its sound, by definition, or it just...dissipates.
This was a near-fatal problem for Welch and Rawlings.  Nobody gave a shit about their show--which was as good as anything they do at the Ryman or on Prairie Home Companion, or wherever--because most of it was drowned out by arriving guests. Until they closed with "White Rabbit," this crowd hadn't unleashed their "I'm 60 and I deserve a bit of unfettered nostalgia" fervor...but boy, did they, at that point! 
BOOM! Engagement.

From then on, for me at least, the nostalgia worked. 

I truly believe that (despite some rough edges) from everything I've heard on bootlegs and such, this is the best-ever version of Buffalo Springfield.

I don't curse much anymore--it's unbecoming, of an old person--but Richie Furay is a fuckin' rock star. 
In my opinion, he carried the show. 
And if Stills and Young have done some remarkable catch-up work (since their rusty debut at Coachella last year), Furay's still the one with the lion's share of the stage appeal. He's got the voice, the onstage demeanor, the lack of pretense and ego, and an overall comfortability factor the others have simply worn out, over 40 years of 'Monster Fame' Furay has never shared. 
He's fresh; they're less so.

But the best parts about seeing this re-tooled Buffalo Springfield were, in truth, 'parts'--collaborative moments, unavailable from any source but the sum of the three surviving members, period. Those occasional blends in background harmony singing ("if I do come back at all...alllll") simply cannot be found in any other configuration, solo or otherwise. 
The real reason this show/tour is so worth doing, is the vocal blends and guitar tones peculiar to this particular band.
Though the material is surprisingly durable, Buffalo Springfield was never so much about a song, as it was about a sound.
We have not been able to revisit that particular sound, for over 40 years...and in regrouping for this tour, I believe that is the key:  We boomers have squeezed nearly every lemon dry, nostalgia wise--and in 2011, Buffalo Springfield remains a curiously untapped source, found nowhere else, that can still give us the $100-a-seat goosebumps we so crave.

It did that much, and then some.
"On the Way Home," "Burned" (a marvelous guitar showcase for that pedal tremelo that first introduced Stills to our consciousness), and Richie's cut-through-the-night vocal on "Do I Have To Come Right Out And Say It" were early highlights, for sure.
Neil Young was, as advertised, the 'Alpha Dog' of the bunch.  Stills has been beaten into submission;  Furay, the happy loyalist, is finally getting his due.
Young was the first to speak.
"How ya doin'?" he said, shaking his requisite fringed jacket.
Two songs later, during a recurring sound glitch, he approached the mike again:
"How ya doin'!"

Richie leaned in, to ask Neil if it was okay to dedicate a song to a couple whose 29th anniversary it was.  Young nodded his acquiescence.
(Do you think he'd have leaned in to ask anyone else?)

The three men wore the kind of reasonably blue bluejeans, you only get in department stores--the ones that fade the way only older peoples' jeans fade: straight, slate blue.
No 'Diesels,' for Buffalo Springfield. Nor 'True Religion' (unless you count Richie's day job) either.
Think Wrangler's Stretch--not Levi's 501's--but it still made for a smartly handsome lineup of 60-somethings.

 
Stephen Stills not only played marvelously--adopting his seldom used 'Buffalo Springfield' style--but sang perfect 'thirds,' harmony-wise.  He's dropped around thirty pounds since the last videos we saw.  Still, when forced to sing lead--and it seemed like a push--he was far less effective.  My theory is (no joke here) ill-fitting dentures.  Something about his speech and singing has been off now for several years, and all I want to say is, we have a place in Brentwood Tennessee called 'Dental Bliss,' where they apparently feed you so much laughing gas that you simply won't care anymore, while ya git yer teeth did...for what it's worth.
Young actually made them re-start one Stills song...stopping it so blatantly that I figured it was a rehearsed 'bit.'
But whether or not it was, his ego dominated the proceedings, and his own vocal effectiveness didn't kick in until "I Am A Child," which may have been the highlight of the whole show.  It was perfect--not in a Neil Young Live-Archive-Released-From-Massey-Hall-In-Toronto way...but in a uniquely BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD way.  He adeptly covered the harp parts himself;  the others did backgrounds; everybody was ON.
That can't be said for some of the pacing, which took a few distinct dips, almost as if Stills was flagging (I thought) on the tempos...but again, no Richie version of "Kind Woman" has ever sounded quite like the BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD version, which they ably delivered in tip-top form tonight.  His intro to it was the longest speech of the evening, detailing how he met...(and right here, the other two chime in, like mocking brothers...."Naaaaancy!")  His voice is in the best shape of his life, period...and Stills did an applause grabbing mandolin-strum during each chorus, echoed by Young's piano trills, all perfectly augmenting a show piece of the evening. 
Still, there were low points.  As with the original records, "Go and Say Goodbye" was a yawner by the Buffalo Springfield, in no way competitive with the turbo-charged Poco version.  Same story on this night.
Thankfully, the "Bluebird" jam of yesteryears was truncated some, and I still maintain there's gotta be that banjo part at the end, no matter what.
I liked how Young moved around, urging Stills on at times, mocking the guitar battles of olde.
"Oops," he said after one tune, "I think I just hit the worst chord of the whole tour.  This is why we broke up in the first place!"
And, "We're the Buffalo Springfield...we're from the past!"
And, "Still got the Earl Warren Fairgrounds?  We played there...just a little while ago!"

My friends were less familiar with the original Springfield albums.  I wondered how they'd feel...and near the end, since we weren't sitting anywhere near each other, I mozied (sp?) downstairs. 

They were down there, and already leaving. 

I could see where not knowing these deep album cuts might have made for a boring show, to them. 

They blamed the 'bad sound'...but to a lifelong fan of the Springfield, the sound was fine.  Not overpowering, just an honest band, actually playing every note, muffing a few, but giving it all a real 'go.'

This was a very specific show, about very specific songs from a very specific time, by the specific players who'd originally played them.
Not for the casual fan, maybe...but just about right, for this one.    
  

As I was writing this, my cell phone rang.

It was 1:30 a.m.

The caller ID showed Richie Furay's number...but he'd hung up, after two rings.

Honest mistake.

But hey...know what?

At my age, I'll take an accidental rock star 'pocket dial,' over any backstage pass.

____________________________________________



UPDATE:  Following my silly joke above about his accidental late-night phone call, Richie did in fact leave a very sweet message, the next afternoon. One hopes he'll forgive my revelation, in the service of comedy.  
____________________________________________
This article Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

"Me and Oprah"

　
　

By Peter Rodman

　




Sometime during the fall of 1991, I was boxing up my life, to move from my beloved 'penthouse' studio apartment in Chicago, to my just-as-beloved new beach home, in Santa Barbara.
Packing everything alone, I found myself entranced by the daytime TV shows, which most men never even see.


Apt. 3208, The Elm Street Plaza,  Chicago

Of course, there were Springer, Geraldo, and a few others…but Oprah Winfrey obviously stood out, as somehow above the rest.
Until....

By the third day of this exercise, I realized I’d just seen three consecutive shows depicting American men as the biggest losers on the planet.
In one show, Oprah actually featured “Men Who Beat Their Pregnant Wives." The next was ’Alaskan Hunks,’ and so on.
So I wrote her a note, simply saying, “Can’t you do any better than that? That’s what we expect from Springer, and those other guys, Oprah…not you!!!”

Fast-forward to six months later. I’d settled in to my beautiful new home out west, and was happily enjoying my first full-time west coast experience, when out of the blue, I received a call.
“Hello," said a voice from Chicago, “My name is Jamie, and I’m a producer for the Oprah Winfrey Show.”
“Uhhh..hi.”  (???)
“Oprah wanted me to call you, and tell you she received your letter--and she’s decided to do something she’s never, ever done before: An entire show, devoted to peoples’ letters!”

“That's great,” I said.  The truth is, I was covering up the fact that I'd completely forgotten about even writing it!
Once she got going, though, I figured she meant they'd just be reading my little note...which would be embarrassing enough, but acceptable...I guessed.
But 'Jamie' continued:
“Oprah wants you to videotape your letter at home, for the show!”
“Ohhhh,” I said, nonchalantly. “Well, to be quite honest, I only ever intended to write it--I never intended it, I mean I never imagined it as me, getting on the show! And besides, I don’t have any video equipment! So I really don’t think it’ll work.”
And that was that.
I figured I was off the hook.
Wrong!!!

The phone rang again, a couple hours later.
“Hi, Peter...Jamie!”
It was like we were old pals.
“Oprah says to go to any video or camera shop you like, and just rent whatever equipment you need…and she’ll pay for it!”
I said I’d try.
Yet another, more insistent call came--this time, putting a time frame on it. “She needs it by Friday.”
Now, if you’d like to skip the rest of the story, there’s a tape of my appearance on the show on facebook at the moment. Enjoy.　

But (can't ya guess?) there’s a lot more to it...

For one thing, I was working for a major airline at the time, flying overseas every single week. For another, my room mate (and best friend) John had a 9 to 5 job in town, and because we knew the old ladies on our Shoreline Park area block used to wonder if we were gay, we liked to...well...mess with 'em, a little.
When John got home from work, he’d step out of the car and I’d say, nice 'n loud...
“Is that you, Hon?”
Or he’d say, “Huu-uunn!!! I’m Hooo-oome!!!”

Believe me, despite the females coming in and out of our house at all hours of the night, that poor little old lady across the street spent many, many hours peeking through her blinds, desperately trying to 'suss out' the situation.
In retrospect, I guess we were a little cruel, that way. 
Okay, so that's the set-up.

Now...I’m home alone with all this rented video junk--which, in 1992, was not small.
I had tripods, all kinds of wiring, and a camera approximately the size of a refrigerator. (Okay, that's a slight exaggeration.)
But I did have one dilemna:
How’m I gonna film myself, talking to Oprah, without running around from behind the camera to the front of the camera, like an idiot, on national TV?
Beyond that, I had no editing equipment, so I had to make one tape, with the right 'take' on it.
Nobody was around; I wasn't gonna ask the little old spying neighbor-lady to operate this thing; and I hadn't made any new friends in Santa Barbara, yet.
I’d hosted my own TV show before, so I knew how stupid that would look.
Hmmmmm.
I resolved to set up the camera looking out the side door, then go out the front door, and casually walk into frame, through the side yard.  "Hey, Oprah...!"
Mister Cool.
"Hey, Oprah?"
NOT!!!
The problem was, it took me around ten 'takes,’ before I was happy with the result.
Me. 
Alone outside in the yard, visibly talking to no one, but loudly saying, "Hey, Oprah!"

Imagine the lady across the street (and she was, believe me)...wide eyed, looking through her blinds as I obviously walked around the yard, ten times in an hour, talking aloud, to a non-existent person named, “Oprah.”
When I finished, I Fed-Ex'd the tape to Oprah in Chicago, thinking that was the end of it. (I’d been told the whole show was just going to be peoples’ letters on videotape.)
Next day, Jamie calls:
“Oprah wants to set you up with her girlfriend on the show!”
What?
“Absolutely not.”

“...Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to embarrass myself or anybody else. No way!” I said.
How many of those things ever go well, on TV?  Besides, although I definitely have no right to be, I’ve always been prohibitively picky, in the ‘love’ department.
I stood my ground. Jamie sighed, and we agreed the video would be enough.
Then she called back again. “Are you sure? Oprah will pay for your date, and--”
“NO! I don’t think I could even imagine such a thing. I’m sorry. We’re just going to have to leave it at that, if it’s okay with you.”
When she called back yet again, Jamie had another idea:
I should just come to Chicago and “tell” my letter, on the show. “We’ll pay your airfare!” she said excitedly.
“Jamie, I work for the airlines,” I reminded her. “I fly free. And I hate to be a bad person, but I never wrote this letter intending anything like this.”
We finally struck a deal,  after she offered me three free nights in a luxury suite at the (then brand new) Meridian, in my old neighborhood, the Gold Coast of Chicago. I flew myself there.
When I got to my room, I couldn’t believe the care that had been taken, to make me feel comfortable. Fresh flowers, a selection of CDs “personally chosen for you by me, Oprah,” and meal vouchers for the whole long weekend.  Hard to imagine now, but in 1992, having a CD player in your room was pretty impressive, let alone having one stocked by Oprah.
I wasted no time contacting a recent girlfriend or two, and between lunch dates and catching up with old friends, made the most of a beautiful weekend in Chicago. By Monday, I began to see the other 'Oprah' guests collecting in the lobby.
There was a guy, also named “Peter,” who was in the end-stages of AIDS, as gaunt and frail a person as I've ever seen out of bed, and still breathing. I asked him what his letter had been about.
“I just wrote to tell her how inspired I’ve been, during these tough times, and everything she means to me.”
I just about broke down crying, right then and there.
Peter was the sweetest soul, and he knew it was over for him…but this would be his last hurrah.

Several other guests, including Mike and Melissa (whom you’ll see on the tape) shared their stories in the lobby, the morning we were to go to the taping.
When I got a free minute, I called my Mom, who lived in an apartment complex for the elderly in Ann Arbor. “Mom, it’s me!” I started. “Guess what! I’m gonna be on Oprah!!!”
My Mom loved me a lot, but after nearly 20 years of hearing all my 'razz-ma-tazz' about being on the radio,  TV, and in the papers, she could barely contain a yawn, at this news.
“I don’t really watch Oprah,’ she said.  Mom preferred old movies.

Now, a fleet of long black limousines was gathering around the block.
Poor Peter, the AIDS guy, was alone in his wheelchair, so I said, “Hey, Pete…why don’t we ride together!”
With that, Oprah’s frightened looking producer came scurrying over, to say quite firmly:
“No!" she barked,  Every guest must ride in their own limousine!!! Oprah insists!!!”
And so we did.
At the show, we pre-planned guests were held away from the rest of the audience, already seated, until right before the taping began.  There are no accidents, on 'Oprah.'  Everyone who talks is carefully seated (and vetted) just before showtime. Some (like myself) are even able to negotiate a few free days extra, in Chi-town--though quite frankly, I was trying to talk them out of having me, which is why I was (inadvertently) sucessful, in getting so many extra perks.
As I walked by the front row, a girl whispered (loudly enough for me to hear it) “That’s him!”
I took a glance. Of course. That was Oprah’s ‘friend.’ (The blind date I'd refused.)
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Good decision, I thought.

The taping went well, and from that day (April 11, 1992) forward, I became friends with Mike and Lisa. We exchanged Christmas cards and occasional phone calls for nearly 20 years. I really related to his story.
Mike drove a UPS truck, and his 'beef' with Oprah, was that she acted like poor men should treat their wives especially nice, since they didn’t have money. His point hit home with me--and probably every other workin’ stiff out there. Anyway, a sweeter couple you’d never meet, so we hit it off well.
Poor Peter bravely recited his litany of praise for Oprah, although it looked like his head was literally going to fall off his neck.
When I got back home to Santa Barbara, my Mom called. Suddenly, she was very interested in my upcoming appearance on Oprah!
“When does it air, again? Are you sure? What time is that on here? Do you know what channel?”
Apparently, she had casually mentioned it in the cafeteria, and all the old ladies went bonkers.
“Oprah!!! Your son is gonna be on Oprah???”
Mom being kind of a loner, this worked wonders, for her popularity at the Sunrise Apartment complex.
She began regaling them with stories of my life in media, adding that I was now flying overseas as a flight attendant, yada, yada, yada.

It felt good, to have made Mom happy.

After the show aired, my Aunts, Uncles, and cousins all called, with very sweet messages. I was especially amused when one said, in a new York accent, “Pete, ya did good...didn’t embarrass the family at all!”
Whew, huh!
But when I finally talked to Mom after it aired, she was a little...less than enthusiastic…and I just couldn’t figure out why.
It took some time, but I eventually realized that, since she had mentioned to her fellow seniors that I was a flight attendant, and my name was 'Peter', the old ladies must have figured, “Gay.”
And then...when Oprah kept repeating his name ("Peter") over and over on the show, the ladies almost certainly decided I was the other Peter, since they wouldn't have known me from Adam.
It all made sense, in their world--which was at least a generation before my own. 
But just as quickly as she'd found some much-needed positive attention before it aired, Mom was back in Awkward Land afterwards...and couldn't quite figure out why.
Neither can I, looking back on it--which is kinda funny, in a 'dated' sort of way.
And which goes to show, ya never can tell.

Almost a decade later, we were still laughing about it all.
A lot.

But I always knew 'the other Peter’ couldn’t have lived for very long after the show--and although his particular segment isn’t included here, that’s what I think of, when I think of my time on Oprah.
That, and my narrow escape from a disasterous, nationally televised blind date!

As I write this, it's been nearly twenty years, since the show aired.  I've only included a short excerpt here, pertaining to my own appearance.   But earlier in the tape, Oprah introduces the 'viewer's letters' theme by saying, "We've been doing this show now, for five whole years."
At the time, that sounded sorta monumental, believe it or not.
Today, I watched her very last syndicated "Oprah Winfrey Show."
Twenty five years.
As you see 'em come and go, the numbers make you feel old...but that's a 'nother whole column.
Godspeed, Oprah.


_________________________________________
Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

Cicadas!!! [My Personal War on Terror]

By Peter Rodman

The first thing you do, when you realize a 13-year cicada invasion has begun, is you run inside and get the camera.
Then you run back outside, grab a few shots of bugs, and excitedly return to your office, to do what we would all do, in that situation:
 


Spend a half hour uploading them to your Facebook page! (complete with a can't-miss comment):
         "They're heeeeeerre....."  

Now, sit back and wait.

Like.
Like.
Like.
“We saw some yesterday!” 
Like.
"WE saw some last week."
(...same damn guy, always tryin’ to one-up everybody!)

But it was only after the photos were posted that it suddenly dawned on me...this one ain't goin' away, after you post it.
“Uh oh....this is real. They are back!"

To give you a tiny idea of the sense of siege I felt last time they came to town, the cicada infestation actually caused me to allow smoking in my house, for God's sake--just so I wouldn’t have to open the door. 
That's how bad it got.

Well, okay…confession:
My Mom was the smoker in question, God rest her soul.

Mom had the misfortune to select the precise time of the last '13 year' infestation, for a rare visit to the South.
On her first day here, we drove to Paducah to visit our kinfolk, and the ride was completely bug-free.
(Apparently as part of the treaty ending the Civil War, President Lincoln allowed most of Kentucky off the hook, on the cicada thing.)  But when we returned, two days later, it was as though we had entered an actual monster movie.

I am not kidding.
I’ll never forget us arriving back at my place in Nashville and just sitting there in the car, petrified to leave.  We must have prepared for our desperate sprint (from the car to my front door) for at least fifteen minutes.
Anyway, during that time inside the car, things were at least as tense as they must have been last week, in the White House Situation Room--especially considering that the President never had to unfasten Mom's safety belt, and then gather up the 'groceries' (“Rye?" Check. "Vermouth?" Check. "Carton of Chesterfield Kings?" Got ‘em!) before going out into enemy territory.


“Sure is dark in here!” I said, fumbling for my keys.

“Dear Gawd,” my now wide-eyed Mom said, pointing to the solid, inch-thick curtain of bugs now completely covering all the windows.  There is something hilarious to me--to this day--about an elderly woman, offering her deadpan evaluation of a really, really bad situation.

“Are you ready?” I asked, like a Cicada Commando Fighter.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said bemusedly.

But even Mom had no idea what was in store, and as she opened the door and got bombed by several million flirty, sticky, giddy cratures.
I heard her mutter again, in that special New York accent, "Gawd luv us all!"
With that we crunched, cowered, and flailed our way to my front door--itself already under attack--as though it were a 4x8 foot Nestle Crunch Bar they had to devour, immediately.

Even though I had thoughtfully set Mom up a virtual 'living room' outside on the balcony deck--and lovingly mixed the proper Manhattans for her (“Two-to-one, no cherry!”)--when I finally peeked outside, the place looked like something out of ‘Mothra.’

The ashtrays and easy chairs I had set up--not to mention the TV, and the knitted 'throw' in case she got chilly--were completely covered in short order, with these merry roach-like creatures, who were mating faster than a Friday night crowd at the Oak Beach Inn. (Can ya tell I had a good time in my youth, back at the Oak Beach Inn?)
Even the sound they made sounded suspiciously like,
“…come here often?”

Anyway, after I separated the curtain of bugs from her face and discovered that yes, Mom actually was still under there, I decided to let her inside the house--to chain-smoke me into oblivion, for the final three days of her visit. During the next two days, I inhaled more second-hand smoke than Gracie Allen.  As a postscript, Mom’s gone now…which really makes me regret that third night-- when I finally couldn't take it anymore, and dropped her at a local hotel. (See photograph, above.)

The reason cicadas wait thirteen years before generously sharing their 'Passion Play' is to make absolutely sure you’ve forgotten how miserable it was last time around. After six weeks of this nuclear barrage, surveys usually show a spike in the populations of places up north, like Detroit--as people gradually decide they’d just as soon endure the occasional mugging as run a gauntlet of rock festival-style procreation among insects that would have scared the Hell’s Angels out of Altamont, had these creatures been there.
Believe me, I’ve been in some bad crowds.
But there is no crowd as bad as a few trillion cicadas on your property.
Even though the bugs (in their defense) are patchouly-free...I'd still rather be at a Grateful Dead concert, using somebody else's half-eaten chicken wings as a headrest, while laying on that moldy blanket that's been keeping their spare tire from clanking around too much in the trunk, for a couple decades.

So today--after fulfilling my ritual Facebook posting obligation--I decided to prepare in earnest.
I decided that I would "pay any price, meet any hardship, and oppose any foe," all of which seemed to work for President Kennedy, during the most serious moments of his administration--like that time he had to finally decide between Angie Dickinson and Marilyn Monroe.



Note: The blue parts are my backyard.

 To understand where I’m coming from, you'll need to know a little bit about where I live. I bought my little house because it was nestled atop a pretty little hill.
What I forgot to do was check out the area behind the house, which turns out to be nestled at the bottom of many massive hills. After a few years of realizing my backyard was constantly underwater, I contacted the city.
They were very helpful, bringing me topographical maps and charts and patiently detailing for me precisely why my backyard is usually underwater.
It seemed to almost fascinate them.
“See this?” the guy said, as though we were looking at a toy train set. “This is the area above your yard, with an aerial breakdown of the topography…in color! Isn’t it amazing? And…see this? This is where every other yard to the north drains into your backyard. But what’s interesting is…see this? That’s all the yards to the east that you don’t see, and…see this? They also drain all to one place…your yard! Wish I could help ya…!”

So yes, I’m used to it by now.
But with the 13 year cicadas on the way, I decided to fight back.
For one thing, even though I’ve got a car in the garage, the other one is in the driveway. And just in case I have to drive somebody else’s Mom out of the 'hood at the height of the onslaught (to get the makings for Manhattans, of course) I figured it might be a good idea to buy a plastic “car cover.”
But I didn't stop there.
Noooooo, not me...
I arrived home with several hundred pounds of insect-killing granules; roughly enough to eradicate the Taliban. My strategy would be to spread a bag on the backyard deck, then sweep it through the cracks between the wooden planks, so the muddy-muck underneath doesn’t become a haven for God-knows-what kind of creatures--including, and especially, cicadas. Unfortunately, I could not find the word "cicada" among the approximately 25,000 species of insects listed as 'goners' on the bag, if you use 'Bug B Gone.' I bought it anyway, undeterred.

Being a cautious guy, I also bought a few of those face-masks, like the ones Japanese people tend to wear on special occasions, like "leaving the house."
I sometimes wish Americans were that considerate, don't you? Imagine…me protecting you from my cold, by wearing a mask!
I don't know much, but I do know that the level of consideration for your fellow man in Japan far exceeds the level of consideration at my local Wal-Mart--where the cashier sneezed into her hand just before licking her thumbs to separate the plastic bags, so she could more easily pack my protective face face-masks, bug poison, and orange sherbet purchase into the bag.
Anyway, I figured a mask might help protect me from the rising 'dust of death' I was about to bestow upon my deck--so I got the extra thick, deluxe face-masks, which allow nothing at all to penetrate--including air, as it turns out.
I was hyperventilating before I left the garage.
I bravely strapped that sucker on, scissored open a 50 lb. bag of poisonous bug dust, and began lovingly brooming it across the backyard deck, carefully guiding it through the spaces between the slats, with my unspoken best wishes to whatever miserable creatures might be stuck in the unseen mud, below. And please, don't start...I know, I should never kill another living thing! 
But when the mosquitoes under there set up a mailbox that said "1 Bubonic Place," I personally thought they went a little too far.

I decided, then and there, to forego the plastic 'car cover,' even though that was the original reason for my trip to the store. And it had seemed like such a clever way to avoid having bugs smother my 'outside' car...but things change, people.
Suppose it did keep a couple trillion cicadas off my ’96 Stratus? Who'd remove it after six weeks, with all those dead bugs on there?
Certainly not me.
As you can see, I tend to slightly overreact to critters...but I'm not the only one. 
This morning, a fire ant rang the doorbell, and begged me to let him in.
I've just called Ameritrade and canceled all my pecan futures.
And if you should see any online, I'm looking for a plastic house cover. 
　

___________________________________
Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.
Please note:  Some of this was made up, just for fun.