Monday, November 17, 2008

It is so on, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

This stock market is tough. Sunday investors bet on the 0-10 Detroit Lions just so they could lose their money a new and different way.

During his CBS “60 Minutes” interview, Barack Obama said it hasn’t sunk in yet that he is president; to which Hillary Clinton said; “Sheyeah, tell me about it.”

This economy is rough. This morning I saw Paris Hilton standing on a Hollywood Freeway off ramp, holding a sign that said; “Will Skank for Food.”

Dallas Maverick owner, Mark Cuban, is being charged with insider trading by the Securities Exchange Commission. If found guilty, Cuban would face prison time where the term insider trading takes on an entire new meaning with cigarettes and an unfortunate ending for Cuban.

Dallas Maverick owner, Mark Cuban, is being charged with insider trading by the Securities Exchange Commission. This officially makes November, 2008, the worst month ever for Mavericks.

QB Tony Romo, with a bad little finger, led the Cowboys to a 14-10 over the Washington Redskins; Romo’s girlfriend, Jessica Simpson, said she took constant care of Romo’s pinky. When asked if that helped his little finger, Jessica said; “His little finger is also called the pinky?”

Since you asked:
What did your home smell like as a child? Woody Allen said something to the effect his Coney Island apartment smelled like cooked cabbage, guilt and Mahjong tiles.

Our house on Elm street in Winnetka smelled like a freshly vacuumed carpet, Ivory soap and my mom’s Channel with the feint hint of the one cigarette Mom would have before she went to bed.

Howie Detmer’s house smelled like fresh laundry washed with Downey Fabric softener. And Fritos. (Not washed with Fritos, we always had Fritos with lunch)

My Grandmother’s house in Louisville smelled like grits and bacon cooking with Folgers coffee brewing and also a hint of Ivory soap.

One dorky red-headed kid I was frienemies with – before the word was invented – we never got along, I never really liked him, and yet we hung out together during a long stretch of fourth grade, his house smelled like his basement which smelled like a combination mildew and old-man-in-church-dentures-breath. Yuck.

Duncan Judson’s house smelled like a Scottish castle because it was practically a Scottish castle right on the golf course of the Indian Hills Country club. If you want to know what a Scottish castle smells like, it smells like a pool table and big stone fireplace and two Labrador Retrievers and red wine with the feint hint of a roasting garlic lamb.

My first girlfriend, Betsy Fox, her house was very warm and smelled like popcorn and Seven Up. My idea of heaven was curling up with Betsy Fox on the Saturday after my football game drinking Seven Up and eating popcorn and watching a movie. (No, she was no relation to Debbie Fox)

Jim “Woody” Woods house had the smell of a spring day after a shower combined with the good smell of old wood from his Mom’s antique furniture collection. Woody’s attic room smelled like the developing chemicals in his bathroom/darkroom. Not bad, just specific and memorable.

Will “G-Willy” Volkman’s house smelled like his dog, Joe. That is not meant to mean it smelled like a dog. It didn’t. Joe was a cute feisty black curly-haired great mutt who had his own smell that was a nice hint of both dirt and grass and dog biscuits. If you were in the house, Joe was next to you, so that’s what the house smelled like. Even after, bless his heart, Joe was gone. And Spaghetti. Will was always wolfing down a plate before running off to play a hockey game.

My buddy Jeff Lipe's house was nice and warm and white, but I can't remember how it smelled. It sort of smelled like the tension of the pending violent domestic altercation between Jeff and his brother Jay. Jeff's house didn't have a smell as much as it had a sound and that sound was their wonderful dalmatian, Beau, barking after the sound of the china and furniture rattling when they hit the carpet fighting. Beau was deaf and he could still hear it.

One of my old girlfriend’s house had no discernable smell whatsoever. It was so psychotically clean and sterile there was absolutely no olfactory evidence that any humans had ever lived there. That should have been enough of a clue of things-to-come to send me screaming for the hills.

One girl I dated from Winnetka for way too long had her own personal smell. It was warm, clean, familiar and utterly, utterly non-sexual. Like a freshly bathed puppy.

My buddy, Bill Schultz's house smelled like his Dad's cigars and his Mom's corn beef. She was the sweetest, friendliest Irish woman you could ever meet.

If I'm leaving anyone out it's just that most of the houses in Winnetka smelled the same which was a combination of fresh snow, fresh mown grass and money.

Our home? Right now it smells like the pumpkin bread Virg and Ann Caroline baked last night. Normally it smells like candles and roasted garlic – because we have and use a lot of both – and the feint hint of whatever I last barbequed along with the good earthy smell of two chuckle-head Labradors.

Ann Caroline has a great smell. If a giggle had a smell that is what she smells like. AC smells like a sweater, clean hair and love. The other day I walked into her play room to show her how to pull up the “Marley and Me” clips on YouTube – she already knew how to do it, of course – and suddenly, well, it didn’t smell good.

“Ann Caroline, what stinks? Do you need to take a shower?”


“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly, “I just tooted.”

With full parental honesty I can tell you it was not cute, it stunk.

When A.C. becomes president this is the first story I am going to tell to “60 Minutes.”