And the winner of the Wally-Look-Alike Contest, in both appearance and attitude, is . . . 

Stormy Daniels  started in pornography back in 2002. Back then she was so young, she was Partly Cloudy Daniels.

87-year-old Florida man has given over 100 gallons of blood in his lifetime. A little scary when he was asked what is like to give so much of his blood, he said, “Who said it was mine?” 

Former Raider, Aldon Smith, walked into a police station and blew a .41 blood-alcohol-content, five times the legal limit. That is drunk enough to go into a coma or marry a Kardashian.

Negotiations to purchase the company that makes the ADHD drug, Adderall, fell through. When asked to comment, the buyer said, "I like beans."

Many say the sketch-artists's rendition of the man Stormy Daniels described, who threatened her in 2011, looks like Tom Brady. Personally, I think that opinion is over-inflated.

Former Raider linebacker, Aldon Smith, blew a mind-boggling .41  blood-alcohol-content - five times the legal limit - when he went to a police station. NFL experts say that is enough alcohol to propose to a Kardashian.

This would be a nicer world if I only had diarrhea as many times as I've spelled it correctly.

It was awkward when Patriots tight end, Rob Gronkowski, bought a stake in a race horse named Gronkowski, and  said, "So when do we get to eat the steaks?" 

Louisiana passed a law making it illegal to have sex with animals by 25 to 10. That story again, ten Louisiana state senators voted against not having sex with animals.


Folks, it is a good time to remember that it is possible to hate Donald Trump without hating his voters. And I am living proof.


My porn name (first name family pet, last name childhood street)  is Charley Oak, even though we lived on Elm Street. Oak trees are bigger than elm trees.

And yes, I am seriously considering changing that to Charlie Redwood. 




And, yes, I am thinking of changing this blog's name to "Yes, I Know There Are Typos, It Is One Idiot's Blog, Not "The New York Times."

That is my daughter's name on the UCLA track scoreboard. (It is a little fuzzy, so click on it to see it better)

UCLA's Drake Stadium at Sunset

A Golden Moment Returns

We have all had those glorious, but too-short, incandescent moments - that are missing only Herald Angel trumpets -  which change our lives for the better: our first love, our first kiss, our wedding, our child being born, our first dip in the ocean. Our first In-N-Out double burger animal style.

One of those moments, for me, came in 1969 when I was still ten. 

ABC’s “Wide World of Sports,” televised a track meet at Drake Stadium at UCLA. All of the US Olympic gold medal winners in Mexico City in 1968 were there including my idol, decathlete Bill Toomey, who ran in the open 400. Bob Seagren pole vaulted, Dick Fosbury high jumped, Bob Beamon long jumped. Willy Davenport hurdled. Lee Evans beat Toomey in the 400, but not by all that much.

At that time, like now, I am proud of the fact that I had many loves. When I was ten, I loved riding my gold Schwinn Sting-Ray bike; I loved the flaxen-haired Karen Smith with all of my heart; I loved “Daniel Boone” with Fess Parker; I loved 7-Up. 

Space Food Sticks? Yes, they tasted like brown candles, but the damn astronauts ate them, so I loved them. 

My love for our dog, Charlie, was unrequited, he was a devoted Momma’s boy. I loved my first pair of Adidas’ Italia’s, the white shoes with the green stripes until they smelled so putrid, it was like I was wearing rotting skunk carcasses on my feet.

And most of all, I loved my stuffed dog, Morgy, whom I still have, and love,  to this day. 

But, at ten, two of my top loves were, 1, the decathlon and track and field in general, and, 2, late afternoon, early evening summer barbecues with my parents and their wonderful friends. 

Something about the smell of charcoal smoke in a Weber grill and my father scorching meat to a black cinder char combined with laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the clack of croquet balls by the apple tree in our backyard and the golden summer "Field of Dreams" sunset, that all really resonated with me. 

It hit home. It was home.   

And when that amazing 1969 UCLA track meet ended in the late afternoon glow, the cameras showed volleyball nets going up, tubs of beer carried out, frisbees being thrown and, lord almighty, five or six Weber grills rolled into the infield and lit. 

After the 1969 track meet at UCLA on TV, they held a barbecue party on the infield for athletes and fans who wanted to stick around and attend. 

That was one of five vivid moments when it hit me: 

California is where I want to live.

Yesterday, my daughter, Ann Caroline, ran on that same UCLA track anchoring the Cal Poly San Luis Obispo women’s 4 X 100 relay. In that race, running for an All Star team, was 9-time Olympic medalist, Allyson Felix. 

And I got to talk to pole vault great, two-time world record holder, Dan Ripley, believe it or not. (sorry) What a wonderful guy. 

At Drake Stadium on Sunset Blvd, to paraphrase Don Henley, the ghosts of greatness hang heavy in the air. And not just athletic greatness. Down the road a mile or two is the studio where the Eagles, Stones and Led Zeppelin recorded. 

At this hallowed Drake Stadium, built into a steep hill, nestled in eucalyptus, pine and oak trees, this meet was named in honor of UCLA track legends and possibly greatest-ever multi-eventers, Decathlete, Rafer Johnson and Heptathlete, Jackie Joyner-Kersee. Rafer and Jackie were in attendance at my daughter’s meet. 

Rafer Johnson and Jackie Joyner-Kersee saw my daughter, Ann Caroline Kaseberg, aka, A.C., run. 

And suddenly, the meet was over and the sun was setting over the ocean just a few miles west. A seagull could fly in minutes from Drake Stadium to the Malibu house where Don Felder of the Eagles wrote "Hotel California" in the sunset after a day at the beach.

It was the same golden California glow I somehow was able to discern through our black and white TV in Illinois almost 50 years ago.

But there was neither one goddamn Weber grill nor one airborne frisbee in sight. Not a solitary pop-fizz of a can of beer, nary a clack of a croquet ball. 

When I find out why there was no after-party? Somebody’s ass is going to end up in my tote bag. 

The great Allyson Felix

The great Dan Ripley setting a world record 

Here is a new a.L.B.B. feature I like to call:

"We will soon have the technology to smell TV shows" 




“Fixer-Upper,” will smell like sawdust and paint. 

“Stranger Things,” will smell like waffles. 

“Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” will smell like the rubber glove after Harvey Weinstein’s prostate exam. 




“Game of Thrones,” will smell like ice, wine and the ocean.

“Roseanne” will smell like an old couch and steamed cabbage. 

“Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” will smell like champagne, stripper’s perfume and lazy stupidity.




“Chopped,” will smell like grilled garlic and onions.

“Silicon Valley,” will smell like fancy coffee, Cheetos and tater tots.

“Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” will smell like hope for our society a week after it has died.

Just found out a friend from college, who was handsome, talented, successful and funny, just passed away after a long illness. And I found out he was a member of one of the oldest and wealthiest land families in California history on his mother's side. 

If that guy, who was born on third base, could get thrown out at home? Anyone can.

How Can This Make Mathematical Sense?

Let me try to explain why I feel so stupid and or why the world is so confusing to me using just three examples.

(Let me confess by saying to say I am no mathematical genius is to say Kim Kardashian is no mathematical genius) 

First.

In my life, I was born and grew to a toddler in charming Louisville, Kentucky, grew up in bucolic Winnetka, outside of the best city, Chicago, went to college in Long Beach, California and gorgeous Santa Barbara, California, moved to the awesome New York City, moved back to California in wonderful San Diego, lived for two months in interesting and fun Los Angeles, and then back to wonderful San Diego. (No, I am not a fan of the city of Long Beach. Some of the people, yes, the city, no)  

In all of those places, almost to a person, everyone I met has, at some point in their lives, seen the eternal flame on John F. Kennedy’s grave in Arlington National Cemetery, in Washington DC. (It is something I bring up in conversations, as I, like my mom, was fascinated with JFK)  

But when I was at the JFK grave site, with my weeping mother and my consoling father, at age 8, I clearly remember there were only a handful of people there. (It was raining. This I remember because I was impressed the flame did not go out in the rain) 

How can that make mathematical sense? 

Second. 

After growing up skiing as a child in Wisconsin and Michigan on small ski slopes, as an adult, I got to visit Big Bear in California, which is much bigger than anything I saw in the midwest. Soon after that, my friends took me to Mammoth Mountain, California, which is, in a word, Mammoth. It makes Big Bear look like a bunny hill. 3,500 acres of skiable terrain. (I Googled it) 

It snowed all night, we woke up to bright sunshine and painfully beautiful and almost outer space-like blue skies and fresh powder covering Mammoth. 

Looking up at these vast untracked mountain ranges, if someone said we mere little humans had to make tracks over the entire ski area, I would say that it was impossible. It will take a week at least. (It was mid-week in Spring and not particularly crowded for Mammoth) 

The mountain was wiped of fresh powder by noon. And yet I saw the same goofy-assed loud, obnoxious, skier in avocado-green ski pants with red, white and blue suspenders and a stupid propeller baseball hat ten times that day including lunch and apres-ski beers at the main lodge.  

That makes no mathematical sense to me.

Third. 

There was/is a store in the nicest mall in tony downtown Del Mar, California, that sold nothing but potpourri and bath soap. Nobody was inside of the store. (Why would they be?)  And yet it was able to pay sky-high rent in a fashionable mall a block up the hill from the ocean. 

Unless that store is a front for the CIA or a mafia money-laundering scheme, how is that potpourri and bath soap store in business?   

That makes not mathematical sense to me. 

Yes, there are other examples. The top of the Empire State building was crowded but with only a few dozen people. Gettysburg was not crowded. Lincoln’s bedroom in Springfield, Illinois, I was the only one in there. Just a handful of stoners getting baked at Alexander Hamilton’s grave in Trinity Church near Wall Street. 

This country has 300 million people.

That makes no mathematical sense to me. 

While I am eternally grateful there are not more, why am I the only person out in the ocean as the sun comes up over the Torrey Pines cliffs on a gorgeous morning? 

One also gorgeous, crisp, fall Sunday early evening at sunset, circa 1985, I was coming out of working out at the Downtown Athletic Club, walking North for the subway stop at the World Trade Center, it seemed I was the only person around for miles. 

Due to there being no witnesses, that is why I did the most embarrassingly tourist thing ever: I walked up to the Two World Trade Center Tower, leaned against it with my chest and looked straight up. 

This really happened. 

Truly terrified, I staggered back almost falling because it genuinely looked like the tower was going to fall back on top of me. 

You explain these things to me, because I cannot.




People are whining that Anthony Rizzo is whining the baseball season is too long. 

It is too long. 

While I won't mention his name, one of the greatest three-sport athletes I ever saw played six seasons of Major League Baseball and, at roughly my age, he can barely walk with two knee replacements and a fused back and too many back surgeries to count. 

For those keeping track, I had "Accidentally threw out a package of Ding Dongs and peed on my shirttail" glasses of wine last night. 


Here is my problem with Donald Trump and this is not political:

The Long Beach track coach who reneged on my scholarship sending me to Long Beach City College for a year? Fat gut, combover.

UCSB professor who gave me an F-Minus because I dared to give my opinion instead of his on a term paper? Fat gut, combover. (Still managed to pull a B) 

IBM salesman who lied to the face of my Port Hueneme Naval officer prospect on when he could deliver their computers and got the $500,000 order instead of me? Fat gut, combover.

Wealthy Montecito/Santa Barbara house owner who kept our cleaning deposit after we spent 24-hours straight cleaning the the house? Fat gut, combover. 

My bond broker manager on Wall Street who screwed my client out of a trade almost getting me fired?  Fat gut, combover.

San Diego brokerage firm manager who fired me right in between the six months my mother died and my brother died? Fat gut, combover. 

Creepy Mr. Potter look-alike racist neighbor lawyer, who used the N-word regularly in his conversation, and bribed me to pay for his driveway to be paved before he would sign the agreement I needed to sell my parent’s home after they died? Fat gut, combover. 


It’s not fair to judge someone, like Trump, based on their appearance? 

Let’s say you decide to go for a stroll, you leave your house and, out of nowhere, a guy wearing a red beret walks up and slaps you hard in the face. 

You have nothing against guys in berets. Even red ones. 

That was weird, you think. But life can be like that. Most of the time people are great, but this guy, wearing a red beret, no judgements, happened to slap me in the face. OK. I’m fine, my cheek is red, but now I have an interesting story about a guy in a red beret, out of nowhere, slapping me in the face.

One week later, it happens again. This time it is a different guy, but same red beret. Now you know something is up. For some reason, guys in red berets are slapping you in the face.

One week later, it happens again, the third time. Again, different guy, but a guy in red beret has slapped you in the face. This time you almost feel like blaming yourself because you let a guy in a red beret close enough to you to slap you in the face.  

One week later, another guy in a red beret comes up from behind you and slaps you in the face, and then a week after that, a fifth guy in red beret does the same thing.  

If you go around warning people that all guys wearing red berets slap people in the face, you sound like a crazy person. 

Donald Trump is my guy in a red beret who has slapped me in the face seven times.