This is not, but looks like, Miss Golden

Oh please, Fabreze can handle these, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers
(My mantra at laundry time)

The FBI is investigating the hacking of naked photos of actress Scarlett Johansson on her phone; now why would the FBI become involved with such a trivial case? Oh yeah, naked pictures of Scarlett Johansson.

The best part of the FBI working on this is knowing that obviously there are no more terrorists in the world.

There is a new smart phone app that connects people who have to use a bathroom to people’s homes. You’ve heard of Match.com? This is Light-a-Match.com.

The Dallas Cowboys lost to the New York Jets, 27-24, due to two last-minute turnovers by Cowboy QB, Tony Romo. Romo hasn’t choked that bad since he was dating Jessica Simpson and she asked if her jeans made her butt look big.

A New Mexico state trooper, in full uniform, was photographed having sex with a woman on the hood of her car. He clocked her going 50 in a 30 mph zone, then she clocked him going two minutes in a ten minute zone.

McDonalds is opening 700 restaurants in China. “This is the best news I’ve ever heard;” said China’s dogs.

I’m still thinking about the Republican debate. Newt Gingrich has as much chance of winning the election as his wife, Calista, has of ever blinking again.

I’m still thinking about the Republican debate. Is it just me, or does Rick Perry look like a guy who still thinks it’s cool to say Groovy?


The makers of Twinkies, Hostess Brands, hired financial advisors due to hard times; who designed the Twinkie? Why is it a flesh-colored tube with white cream inside . . . oh my god, there goes that fond childhood memory.

Despite it being a strong democratic region, former New York Rep. and junk texter, Anthony Weiner’s, seat was won by a republican. That’s what happens when you show everyone you’re a dick.

Since you asked:
They say that all comedians come from troubled childhoods. To that I say, aren’t all childhoods troubled? By that I mean everyone thinks their family is the craziest in the world, including me. And I know I had wonderful parents in Bob and Ann Kaseberg.

But my brother, John, had an extremely contrary personality, I had a strong personality as did both of my parents and frequently not everyone got along. In fact, the fights between me and my brother were toxic and meant to do real harm. To this day, I firmly believe my brother had a form of autism, that is how little he needed people or relationships.

But I had a wonderful childhood by all measurements. There was love, affection, humor, support emotionally and financially. And yet I still remember feeling red hot shame at how crazy we were. And how terrified I was of people finding out how crazy we were.

Our next-door neighbors used to joke about how all-American we were. My Mom and Dad were both attractive, healthy, popular, successful people, my brother John was a tall, well dressed and smart kid and I was the big high school football and track jock who tirelessly chased cheerleaders, if not always fruitfully.

My Mom fixed great dinners every night where we all sat and conversed. The only time I got to eat and watch TV at the same time was when my parents were out and we had a babysitter. We went to church, we played games, we had fun. And we grew up in one of the wealthiest – albeit on the “poor” side – towns in America. And our school system was second to nun.

Oops, I mean none.

Was I aware that there were families crazier than ours? Of course. Namely my entire Mother’s side of the family which had more than its share of drama and booze. And even in the over-protective leafy suburb of Winnetka we knew about fathers having affairs, and mothers having drinking problems.

When I was in the Boy Scouts selling Christmas trees door-to-door, one neighbor opened the door at noon on Saturday in his red and black checkered bathrobe. He was so drunk he could barely stand up and he could not talk.

Selling those Christmas tree tickets is proof that childhood memories can be a two-headed beast. On the bright side, I sold enough tickets to win a ticket to a Chicago Blackhawks game. My Dad, a sales manager, could not contain his pride.

On the dark side, a woman who was a close family friend, came to the Christmas tree lot and screamed curses in my face for five minutes because I had neglected to tell her the lot had moved from across the street from her house on Tower Road to a couple miles away at New Trier High School.

17 years later at my Father's funeral, when this lady came up to give her condolences, her ugly tirade at me was all I could remember.

Now, I am not trying to compare my growing up on the wealthy North Shore of Chicago to Richard Pryor growing up in a Joliet Illinois heroin-den whore house, just like I am not trying to compare my comedy to Richard Pryor’s, heaven forbid.

But as Bill Cosby’s incredible comedy albums taught me, no matter how great or how awful, we all have fond and bad memories of our childhood. And Bill Cosby grew up in the projects of Philadelphia with a fall-down drunk alcoholic father.

One girl’s name, Megan Hanson, is proof to me the power of both good and bad memories of fourth grade. The good memories were of her flaxen shoulder-length hair, her angelic/naughty pretty face and green eyes were proof that my crush on her was aptly named: my crush on her was so strong, I could barely breathe. Purely innocent, but overwhelming love.

And yet that name also brings a horrible memory of an evil school vice principal, a mean-spirited skinny little bald man who smoked constantly. Unfairly, I was sent to his office because I had pushed the object of my affection, Megan, down in the mud. (It was an accident, I was running down a muddy hill and slipped and bumped into her)

With the door of his office closed, he swore at me and violently shook me by the shoulders in an angry and sadistic effort to get me to confess I had pushed her intentionally. Which, I am proud to say, I never did. If I had admitted to it, I would have been suspended, which is what he clearly wanted.

It was my first painful lesson that adults could be both hurtful and evil. (In retrospect, I should have ran out of his office screaming; "Help, help, Vice Principal So-and-so took off his pants.")

With all my recent reminiscing about my childhood – probably due to a reunion coming up and our daughter turning 13 – it occurs I can almost pinpoint the biggest change in a person’s life. That almost overnight transition you make from innocent naive sweet childhood into that scary and hormone raging confusion of adolescence. And the frightening knowledge that there was no going back.

And I am nearly positive that nascent, life-evolving wild careening hair-pin life turn occurred while I was staring at Miss Golden’s legs in Seventh Grade English class.

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhd she was hot.

Check out the chicken on Lex

Bone-in, skin-on thighs, marinated for an hour in peanut oil and a good splash of Mount Gay Rum and a squeeze of lime. (Good golden tequila could do)

Rub of garlic powder, Old Bay, salt, pepper.



Smoke with mesquite wood chips in the smoker-box over the direct heat, chicken on the indirect heat on the gas grill for one hour, about 350 degrees skin side up the entire time. Seared skin side down on the direct heat at the very end.

Because they were thighs and marinated, juicy, but great smoke flavor. The rum causes them to caramelize and no need for barbecue sauce.

(Who would have guessed my favorite chicken recipe would include the words, gay, mount, smoked and squeeze?)