I guess you could say I started it. But it was really an innocent act of ribbing my neighbor for being a Jeff Gordon fan. Saturday night before the road race at Infineon Raceway, I taped a sign to my living room window. It was a number 24 with a circle around it and a slash across the number. Translation, no 24!

 
 Boy, did he take offense to that? Before I knew it there was a no 20 sign in his window, plus he hung two Dupont racing jackets on each side of his deck. It cracked me up when I overheard him telling another neighbor "he started a war".
 Sunday morning before the race started, I stepped out on the porch where he could see me. I was wearing my #20 hat and t-shirt. He came right out followed by his wife and brother in law. They all said I started something that could escalate. They now are thinking of painting their condo the Dupont Chevrolet car colors. And she is planting flowers in a pattern to create a 24 in her yard.
 I asked him if he was such a Gordon fan, why did he drive a Dodge Intrepid? He didn't have an answer for that, except he always liked the way Intrepids drive. He asked me why I hated Jeff Gordon?
 "Because he's such a 'prettyboy'", I said. "Besides, he's from California". I almost accused Gordon of being just as annoying as a democrat, then I caught myself. I think my neighbor IS a democrat. No sense in adding politics to a friendly disagreement.
 Now I added a checkered flag sign to my window. That got me some boos from acrossed the street.

So there you have it. As I'm writing this, the race is just starting. So in a couple hours we'll know the outcome, and who get's bragging rights around the neighborhood this week. And you can bet this will be an on going fued, kinda like the "Hatfields and McCoys".
 Well, Junior is already out! What a terrible season he's having.
 LET'S GO 20!!!
 And I'll catch you all next time.

This one "crack"ed me up. Those spaniards are pretty funny. Gives a new twist to "haulin' ass".

Besides, I can't believe how uncomfortable and even dangerous that could be. There's not a lot of bike seat showing on some of those.

But on a serious note, is this the kind of thing we want on our land? The right to ride naked through the streets is not constitutionaly guarranteed. But this is where we are heading if we succumb to the liberal way of thinking. I'll bet that everyone in this picture are union members! Keep it in Europe and it's funny, bring it home and it's not.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;   &n bsp; 

I'll be traveling for awhile. Until next time, see ya.

 I returned from a physical exam with two learned truths. One, my scale truly is way off. and two, my cholesteral is high. So my diet has drastically changed. I love bacon and eggs!

But, I'll be eating oatmeal from here on out. YUCK!

 I was emailing with an old friend and he offered the following dietary advice. I really enjoyed it, and since he got it from the internet, I know it has to be true! So I'm repeating it here for your enjoyment.

HEALTH QUESTION & ANSWER SESSION
 
Q: I've heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life. Is this true?
 
A: Your heart is only good for so many beats, and that's it... don't waste them on exercise. Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer; that's like saying you can extend the life if your car by driving it faster. Want to live longer? Take a nap.

Well, Father's Day was rather uneventful. The weather was overcast and rainy, so I lounged around and watched sports all day and relaxed. But I couldn't help but think of a Father's Day from 1995.

 That year my children were living in another state and I wasn't going to get to see them. So my friend AJ and I decided to go fishing. We are both long distance dads and he couldn't be with his kids either.

 We packed a lunch and a cooler of beer into my boat and trailered it forty minutes to Lake Aleknagik, north of Dillingham, Alaska. We had one spot in mind, the hole where the Agulowok river feeds into the lake. That spot is great for dollies. We don't care about keeping or eating them. We are purely catch and release guys.

 Once the boat was wet, it's about 30 minutes on step towards the end of the lake.

 On the way there, AJ breaks out a cardboard box full of fishing paraphernalia he had just received in the mail. He had seen this infomercial and got suckered into buying it. I couldn't stop laughing as he kept pulling out lure after lure and showing them to me. I said "AJ, I only need two lures, my cast master and a green pixie. Why'd you get suckered into all that mess?"

 His lures were all made of this jiggly rubber substance. They reminded me of the gummy worms I used to bring home to my kids. I think he called them "flying lures". Not only that, they didn't have hooks. The hooks were separate and he had to assemble them, which he was frantically trying to do, 'cause we were approaching our spot.

 I pulled the boat right up into the mouth of the river and killed the motor. We just drifted from there, letting the current run us right over the fish hole. I grabbed my rod (already rigged with a cast master) and put in. AJ had a fancy looking lure assembled and cast off the other side of the boat. His cast only went about 20 feet and splashed right beside the boat.

 I laughed again and said that it didn't appear to “fly” too well. He mumbled some profanity under his breath and reeled back in. He said all he needed was a split shot for a little weight.

 "Fish on" I hollered. And in minutes I was releasing my first dolly. It was decent size, but nothing to write home about. I cast back into the water. AJ was just finishing putting weight on his line. I told him his lure looked more like a piece of costume jewelry. Again he mumbled something under his breath and cast his line.

 "Fish on" I yelled again. And in minutes I had released fish number two.

 But AJ wasn't about to give up. Now that his lure was actually casting properly, he had become pretty serious.

 We had drifted too far and I started the motor, eased back up to the mouth of the river, killed it and kept fishing. Two fish in the first drift was pretty good. And on my first cast of the second drift I had another. "Fish on" I screamed.

 AJ was starting to get annoyed. He decided he was using the wrong color flying lure, and was rigging up a different one. Soon he was casting again and again with the new color. Maybe a Budweiser would change his luck, so we both had one.

 "Fish on" I yelled. This was starting to become a Father's Day clinic.

A couple hours past as did many, many drifts. The score now (for those of you keeping track) was AJ-0, me-11. Some of our time was spent BS-ing about stuff, and we ate our lunch. So it wasn't hardcore fishing the whole time, after all, it was Father's Day. I have to admire AJ's determination in using the new flying lures, but it was getting a little embarrassing. Finally, after 3 hours and I don't know how many fish I'd caught to his zero, he broke down and asked if I had another cast master. Of course I had to lie and tell him no.

 AJ and I have fished a few times together since then, but I never saw the infamous flying lures in his tackle box again.

 You remember that trip AJ?????

I recently had a chance to do some fishing in Oregon. Accompanied by my son and hosted by my father, we set out on a sunny friday morning to hunt the elusive kokane trout. Although we were more than a week from Father's Day, I viewed it as such. After all, there were three generations of Lindsay's in the boat. A feat that is rarely accomplished. So with a thermos of coffee, a cooler of beer, and a killer's instinct, we headed out.

After finding our spot on the lake, my father divied out the poles. We baited up our lures and put out our lines. Now, I immediately knew I was in trouble. First, the last time I fished here I slayed them, however, that was at the other end of the lake. We were miles from my hot spot. Second, I noticed that the lures my son and father used were the same color, but mine was different. Was this some kind of grandson/grandpa plot? They know I'm partially color blind, did they think I wouldn't notice?

Naw, it couldn't be. How much difference could the color make anyway?

Well, seven fish later, I saw how much difference it makes. The score, grandpa 2, son 5, and me 0. At least I got to drink my coffee uninterrupted. But the sun was now hot, the coffee all gone, and I was ready for a beer. Besides, usually after I crack a beer my luck changes for the better.

Not so this time, my son kept reeling them in at a rapid pace.

Now, keep in mind that these little pan sized fish are not highly prized. I mean really, the bag limit is "no limit". And after catching 100's of fish in Alaska, the true reason for even wetting a line in Oregon is for the "experience". But I couldn't ask for a better Father's Day, spending quality time with my son and my dad.

OK, it could only be better if we were on the Nushagak river, but otherwise it was great. Final tally, grandpa 5, son 13, and me 1. There seems to be some disagreement as to who caught the biggest. Clearly mine was the largest, the old quality verses quanity arguement. And at least I wasn't skunked.

Well, there is plenty of time to regroup for day two, now that I know what I'm up against. Until next time, see ya.

This morning, I took a different route. A morning newspaper is still my objective, but I was feeling pretty good and decided to expand the distance yet again.

 Along the new route was a property that someone was adding a chain link fence to. It was a six foot tall fence that had only stood a few days. So I started thinking...

 If a bear or moose confronted me at this point in my trek, what would be my escape route? Obviosly, over the fence would be the quickest exit. And that brought back memories.

 Many years ago, my best friend MP and I used to enter the state fairgrounds for free by scaling a chain link fence. We were working stiffs always looking to save a few bucks. I would park on an old girlfriend's father's property right next to the fair. I wasn't seeing her anymore, but he always liked me, and knew my car, so he didn't mind. Great, no parking fee.

Then, MP and I would loiter about thirty yards from the ticket gate and wait for our chance. It never fails that the ticket gate, being a busy place, would always be under staffed. Watching the security guys for just a few minutes, it was easy to see where ther attention was focused. Then, in the blink of an eye, we'd hop over the fence and get lost in the crowd. No admission!

 This happened every year for about six years, until I got married. Hey, the fair would get plenty of our money, just not the admission or parking! But one year was a little embarrassing.

 MP and I had dates. They were roommates in our apartment building and they were hot! We had been working on them for quite awhile, and this was only our second date with them. We asked them to the fair and they were excited to go (as were we). We all piled into my Starfire and off we went. I parked at the usual place as they asked how I knew the property owner. "Oh, he's a friend of my dad's" I told them. I wasn't about to say it was my old girlfriend's dad.

 Then we proceeded to the ticket gate. "Well, this is where we climb over" MP said. The girls looked at us like we were crazy, "what do you mean?"

MP explained that we never pay for admission. I told them it was easy and we'd help them. They refused. They told us that they were'nt about to climb the fence. That they would pay like everyone else and if we must climb, they'd meet us on the other side.

 "OK, you guys pay, but Lindsay and I are climbing and we'll meet you on the other side" MP said. So they got in line and MP and I waited until they were almost to the gate before we climbed. And that seemed to be the fault in our otherwise ironclad plan. You see, as I said before, we always jumped at the same place about thirty yards from the gate. But this time, we waited in line with our dates until we were only a few feet from the gate. And being twenty years old, and cocky as a couple of roosters, we figured we could jump wherever we wanted. So we jumped  the fence only about thirty feet from the gate.

 Not only did about 100 people in line see us, but so did security. As I landed on the other side, I saw four security guards pointing at us and starting to run. MP was a few steps ahead of me, and I tried to draft him into the crowd. I remember some of the people in line were hollering to catch us, others were yelling "go, go, go!" The security guys were literally feet from catching us, or at least me. But, we ran hard for about thirty seconds, then blended into the flow of the crowd. We both stripped off our jackets and acted like we were part of the crowd. We walked for awhile until we felt like the pressure was off us. Then we circled back towards the gate to find our dates.

 We loitered around the gate watching for our dates but never saw them. The coast was clear for us, but where were the girls? After about fifteen minutes, they clearly must have entered. MP and I spent about an hour looking for them without success. We finally decided to have some fun and hoped we would run into them.

 Three hours later we left the fair and drove my starfire home. We knocked at their door and found they were home. But they refused to let us in and we never learned exactly what happened. So we saved the price of admission at the price of companionship.

 We eventually took them out again, but never lived it down. MP and I laughed about it for years. So, back to my morning trek.

 I ran and jumped onto the fence as if I were twenty years old. Imagining that a bear was hot on my heels. My verticle leap was much shorter than I had imagined, and the fence links were digging into my fingers. I tried to pull myself up but the force of gravity was working against me. Obviously, had there been any security guys there, I was busted. And, if a bear truly was at my heels, I was now his lunch.

 I released the fence, looked around to see if anyone was watching, and continued on my trek. Note to self......You are old now!

Until next time, see ya.

Got this from the Anchorage Daily News, it's not original. Just thought it was interesting.

Whatever Deep Throat is, he is. . . No hero

Published: June 2nd, 2005
Last Modified: June 2nd, 2005 at 11:37 PM

THE LEFT’s rush to lionize former FBI official Mark Felt after he stepped from the shadows this week and outed himself as the Watergate era’s Deep Throat is at once predictable and pathetic.

Predictable in that his betrayal of his office helped bring down a Republican president. Pathetic because, for that betrayal, the left now is panting to brand him a hero.

Whatever else he might be, Felt is no hero.

He and others in the FBI believed the White House was using the CIA in an attempt to block the agency’s investigation of what had been called a third-rate burglary at the Democrats’ offices in the Watergate Hotel.

As second-in-command of the FBI — he had been passed over by President Richard Nixon for the agency’s top post — Felt began meeting in darkened garages with Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein to pass information about the White House’s actions. “Follow the money,” he supposedly told them.

Finally, in the face of a possible impeachment spurred by the roiling scandal, Nixon resigned in 1975.

Despite the Nixon White House’s obstruction of justice and other illegal acts, Felt was no innocent. He turned his back on his responsibilities, his position and his public trust as a senior FBI official.

Aside from waiting until now to reveal his Watergate role — and lying about it over the years — you have to wonder why Felt did not choose another, more appropriate and honorable way to make the information public if he felt it necessary. Why not, for instance, simply go public and resign? That would have been heroic by most measures. Any reasonable person must wonder why, if he did not feel ashamed of what he had done, he kept his actions secret for more than three decades.

His long-delayed admission is no real surprise for some. Scandal buffs casting about for Deep Throat over the years have suspected a small group of people who had access to the information passed to the Post, and Felt was on the short list. But his identity was jealously guarded by Woodward, Bernstein and editor Ben Bradley, the only three who knew who he was.

Perhaps it is no surprise — and somehow fitting — that, in the end, Felt betrayed them as well, taking his story to the magazine “Vanity Fair,” scooping the Post on its largest Watergate story yet.

The left unabashedly is busy trying to portray Felt as a man who saved the nation, who somehow risked it all by hiding in the shadows. But it is clear that he is nothing more than a 91-year-old guy who betrayed his trust when he could have done the honorable thing and now, after all these years and perhaps at the behest of his family, is looking for a payday.

Books and movies soon in stores and theaters near you.

Ka-ching!