Don't look now, but it's a surfin' dawwwwwwwwwwwg

Don’t dawg a dawg, dawg, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


Due to the volcano in Iceland, thousands of foreigners are stranded at the airport in Paris; they have not showered; they have not bathed, they are extremely cranky; they have been named honorary Parisians.


The NFL has suspended twice-sexual-assault-accused Pittsburgh Steeler, Ben Roethlisberger, for six games. Or as Ben calls six games: 42 lap dances and 32 massages with happy endings.


An England a surgeon mistakenly removed a patient’s testicle. Boy, that surgeon has some balls.
And the patient, Camilla Parker Bowles, is furious.

An England a surgeon mistakenly removed a patient’s testicle. And once you remove testicles, you can’t put them back. Just ask Tiger Woods.


Shaquille O’Neal’s estranged wife, Shaunie O’Neal, claims Shaq used to scare and intimidate their kids. Here is a parenting tip: if you don’t want your kids to be frightened of their dad, make sure he isn’t over seven feet tall, 300 pounds with a size 24 foot.


A police office in Lake Tahoe was evacuated when it was believed a suspect had a bomb in his anus. Turns out it was a vibrator. For the love of god, Andy Dick, get some help.


Scientists in the UK have developed an embryo with the DNA of one man and two women; they say the person will be able to stop and ask for directions, it just won’t follow them.


In New York, 30,000 doorman are threatening to go on strike. Most of the best apartment buildings in New York have doormen. In the rest of the country, to open a door, we use these things we call: our hands.


The Chicago Cubs are already four games out of first place and playing below .500 %. Some Cubs fans are already saying: “Wait ‘til next 12 month cycle of Prozac.”


Since you asked:
Saw “Crazy Heart” As Leon Helms of The Band once said of New York City in “The Last Waltz”, “That there is an adult dose.”

Whew, I loved it, but parts were tough to watch. It sure didn’t sweet talk anyone to death. Normally this isn’t my kind of film, but my love of outlaw rock knows no limits.

Jeff Bridges doesn't make this film, he IS this film. Didn't use to be a Maggie Gul, Gyllau, a Maggie fan, but I am now. She is also rocking quite the body. Wasn't much of a Colin Farell fan, but I am now. And Robert the D. was awesome as always.

Living in Santa Barbara in 1978 to 1981 I was a witness to this great meeting of music, time and place. At a time when I had UCSB Sigma Chi fraternity brothers swooning over Ronald Reagan and wearing their Polo shirts under their Oxford polo button down shirts with both collars up, reeking of Polo cologne while wearing their Vaurnet sunglasses in class, cowboy hats, jeans and leather boots sure looked good to me.

And a lot of the stars lived in and around Santa Barbara. And they loved to play at the County Bowl where I worked briefly as security. I’ll never forget when we were screening purses for weapons - and finding lots of them and a lot of drugs, which we were obliged to let them keep - at the front gate before the Waylon Jennings concert, I heard a deafening roar and looked up to see every security guard’s worst nightmare: 20 chrome-chopped motorcycles of Hell’s Angels roaring up. Panicked to death, I looked over at the head of security, a fairly- young-for-a- retired policeman, and he was waving the Angels through to go and park backstage just as pretty as you please.

Turns out the Angels were mostly nice as hell. Later we would find out the Hells Angels were the leading supplier to rock stars of good quality and quantity cocaine. This explains Altamont.

And often you would walk into bars around State street and Joe Cocker would be singing drunk off his ass. (Joe once bought my Dad a bloody Mary by accident at brunch at the soon-to-be-mentioned Cold Springs Tavern) Once we walked in on a heavenly jam duet with Kenny Loggins and Emmy Lou Harris.

But the best/worst was at the venerable old rustic and wooden stage coach stop bar, Cold Springs Tavern. My buddy, Mike, was the bartender and he looked the part. He looked exactly like Robert Redford in “Jeremiah Johnson” beard and all.

Mike invited us and a few of his buddies to drink for free and listen to the Captain Crunch and the Deep Cross Cowboys, a local band that specialized in country songs with obscene lyrics, like “It’s Hard To Say I Love You” (When You’re Sitting On My Face)

CCATDCC were actually really good and we had a great time and headed back down the mountain to our Isla Vista beach front apartment. (Two of us were waiting tables for Sunday brunch the next day at the Elegant Farmer) The next morning we walked out on a half-drunk, half-awake Mike, who just staggered in as he was sleeping on our living room couch the entire summer, and he mumbled with his eyes closed;

“Oh, why did you leave? Why in the hell did you leave?”

Apparently right after we left, fresh from an L.A. studio session, into the bar strode Jackson Browne and a truly inebriated Joe Walsh and a likewise Jimmy Buffet, and apparently they played, sang and jammed in this cozy log cabin bar all night. And, this being the Eighties, they had a guy with them who was freely dispensing to the bar patrons a mysterious powder that enables folks to stay up all night. We then remembered we had passed their limo when we drove down the mountain road.

Oh well.

By the way, any rock/country/outlaw band looking for a grill chef/comedian/harmonica player for your next Western tour swing, I can be had for merely session musician rates. Can grill me a mean tri-tip, tell a belly-hurtin’ joke and play a tear-jerkin or boot stomping solo or fill on harp.

Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Haaaaaaaaaaaw.