George Harrison-Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth)

Give me love, give me love, give me peace on earth, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


(Much love to service people past and present) 




After eight seasons, A&E cancelled “Dog the Bounty Hunter.” It’s sad. They said they were going to send Dog the Bounty Hunter to live on a farm, but I think they’re really putting him to sleep.

They were going to sign Dog for one more season, but then that would be seven seasons in Dog The Bounty Hunter years.

It is Fleet Week in New York City. Busy time for the Times Square hookers, they have to service the sailors and the Secret Service Agents.
 
California is $18 billion in debt; to raise some cash in Hollywood, the State is now charging $500 to break actor’s dreams.

The State is now going to charge Prius driver’s $250 per snotty attitude.

Studies indicate updating your Facebook status can lead to narcissism. Now, I can’t believe that. The other day as I was Google’ing my name while counting my Twitter followers and the hits on my blog and changing my Facebook picture, I thought, wow, I really am a giver.
 
“American Idol” has a big impact. Remember the guy with the faux-hawk, Sanjaya? Before “American Idol” I thought Sanjaya was a condition naked women got at the beach.

Since you asked:

What a week. Went up to indescribably beautiful Santa Barbara for a reason that is too powerfully emotional to describe. Then on Saturday it was up to Cerritos/Anaheim for my daughter’s soccer team for a tournament.

On Sunday we had a game at Long Beach City College, where I spent my first year of – for lack of a lesser word – college. 35 years later and the memories poured in like seawater over the gunwales of the Titanic.

My memories of Long Beach are not good. Air pollution, fast-food dives, vapid stoners, hitchhiking, a broken heart and a torn back. On the sideline of the soccer field my daughter was about to play is exactly where the track used to be. Right next to the hanger where Boeing used to roll out their shiny almost-finished jets. 

There is no telling how many hours I spent there trying to rebuild an ultimately and sadly futile gold medal decathlon dream on the shaky foundation of a torn hamstring and a wrenched back.

We drove right past the street where my studio apartment used to be. A horseshoe-shaped two-story stucco rotten-meat- stench nightmare filled with fried-chicken-skinned old people waiting to die. While describing my studio apartment experience to one of the moms, I heard myself say;

“If it was possible to die of loneliness, I would have.”