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Happy Father's Day, Dad.

I won't bore the rest of the readers with what I've told you already, but I will just give some advice- if you love your father, tell him so. Tell him every day. For him, for yourself. Don't wait for some unknown moment in the future, or think it's too sappy and sentimental. Go, pick up the phone. If you're close enough, get in the car and drive over there. And I'm not talking about only on Father's Day, either.

What are you doing still reading this? Go call Dad. And, if she's still around, tell your mother you love her, too. Everything else can wait.

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Proof some things never change. This is an ad for a show that aired on CBS, March 8, 1966. They were trouble back then, too. You'd think we'd have learned our lesson back then- barely 20 years after the U.S. helped save their asses- but there are still people who expect better from them. History would dictate otherwise.

Bonus: it was "in Color"!

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The illness that has been plaguing me for the last week is almost gone, except for the cough. It comes from the top of the lungs and rips through my throat and sinuses, leaving me slightly dizzy.

Needless to say, this is not an ideal situation, especially when expected to work normal hours (which are long in any event). It's a chest cold, meaning cough suppressants aren't wise- you WANT the cough to kick up phlegm and clear you out. Unfortunately for the other denizens of this house, this has resulted in huge, plaster-cracking hacks at 5 am. Can't help it. Gotta breathe, you know.

So, naturally, I want this to end as soon as possible, but it's not over yet. Meanwhile, you'll know where to find me at all times. just get within 30 miles of Los Angeles and listen for me. You'll know it when you hear it.

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There was a story in the paper today about a woman who lost her suit against a tobacco company. She'd been a smoker for 30 years, and she claimed that the tobacco company was responsible for her cancer because she didn't know that tobacco was that dangerous when she started. The jury correctly surmised that she was full of it. 30 years ago- that would be 1973, for the mathematically-impaired- there were already Surgeon General's warnings on cigarette packs. Cigarette commercials had been taken off American TV. It was common knowledge that smoking was a very bad thing for your health.

Some cases, however, go back to the 50's, when, ostensibly, people didn't know any better. But they did. First, look at this ad from the back cover of the October 4-10, 1958 TV Guide:



Yep, the Marshal there is enjoying the "rich tobacco flavor," yes sir, "easy to get along with." The Deputy, back in the shadows, is undoubtedly wishing he could be the Marshal, that he could grow a mustache and wear a really tight shirt and have not just a pistol in his holster but a great big thobbing rifle jutting up right out of his crotch, yes, that WOULD be the life, but no, he's just a Deputy, comic relief with a stupid gray hat and, apparently, no right foot. You'd surmise from this ad that 50's people thought smoking was harmless, even good for you. And then you see this inside the magazine:



If people in the 50's were so ill-informed about the dangers of smoking, why is there an ad for a cure for nicotine addiction? Why does it specifically talk about nicotine causing a craving for tobacco? How could someone not know smoking was bad for you when they were already selling ways to break you of the addiction?

Maybe the jury in this case is signaling a change in the way juries will treat these smokers' suits. Maybe they'll realize that the plaintiffs made a choice, a bad choice, a choice of something that society already knew was harmful, and that these suits are a way to profit from one's own error of judgment. Or maybe the next case will go right back to the deep pockets. In any case, I wonder if the lawyers and state Attorneys General in these tobacco cases sit there and really, truly believe that people who started smoking in the 50's and 60's didn't know they were playing with fire. I think they know the truth. And that's another reason my law degree sits in a frame wrapped in brown paper in a storage space by the garage. I couldn't be part of that. I'd rather sleep at night and be able to look myself in the face every morning.

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Relapse!

Gotta sleep it off. More tom'w.

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I never quite made it out of the house today. This is the longest I've been under the weather for ages- I normally don't get sick too often- and the neverending cough is driving me up a wall. What's weird about it is that for most of the day, the rest of me is fine. I can walk, run, carry heavy objects, drive, whatever, except for anything that requires breathing, which has become somewhat of a chore. Ah, well, that's show biz.

Speaking of which, there's a convention of radio folks in town. I have to go at some point Friday, make an appearance, do the rounds, then slip back out into the night. I'm hopeful that the gallons of Long's Drugs Generic Robitussin Knockoff will take effect by then and I won't cause problems, especially at the big awards ceremony. No, I'm not up for an award. That isn't going to happen. I don't do the kind of things that people hold award shows about. The only way I'm going to win any award is if I enter my mom's Beef, Beans, 'n' Beer Chili into a cookoff. Strike that- I DID win an award a couple of years ago. I had the Dirtiest Car in the Parking Lot at a Rancho Cucamonga Quakes-Visalia Oaks game. I got a case of motor oil and a coupon for a free car wash. Beyond that, it's an Honorable Mention kind of life.

So I'm going to have a lot on the schedule for the next 48 hours, between work, the convention, and coughing. Wish me luck. Say, what do you think would happen if i mixed NyQuil and Red Bull?

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Big activity night tonight, and I feel like I've been repeatedly run over by a bus. But you're as tired of hearing me whine about it as I am tired of hearing myself cough. So I'm armed with a fistful of medication that won't do anything, a case of water in the trunk, and away I go. The convention first- I'm never good at these things, because I never know anyone and I'm always sick and tired and...

...well, maybe it's because I don't get to go to a REAL convention. All of my conventions are either the kind with Guys in Suits or Bald Middle-Aged Guys With Ponytails and Suede Jackets. That's not a real convention.

I want to go to a convention where everyone wears a fez. Really. Everyone wears a fez and rides little minicars in circles, then goes and gets blasted at the hotel pool tiki bar with a couple of stewardesses on layover. "Room Service? Send up a hamburger, a case of Old Milwaukee, and your finest whore!" Guys in fezzes and short-sleeved shirts and clip-on ties with badges that really do say "HELLO! My Name Is..." THAT's a convention.

Anyway, I gotta go to this, so let's see how long I'm able to hold up. If I'm coherent after the fact, I'll report on the action here.

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Well, at least I had good intentions. I was going to go to the convention today like I did yesterday, do the schmingle thing, show my face, but it's hard to do that when you sleep straight through to 4:30 in the afternoon. Yes, the ordeal continues.

I did get out last night, though, and was able to get to the convention for a little bit. It's a radio convention, one geared towards the DJ and programmer side of music radio, so it was a pageant of age-inappropriate attire. Guys in their 30s and 40s wearing the stuff 16 year old kids wear, baggy and labeled, throwback jerseys and Sean John, a Ruben Studdard dress-alike contest sometimes using his actual-size clothes. I've observed this for a long time, and I think I've figured this out. While these guys SAY they dress this way because they "live the lifestyle" of their listeners, I think it's really that they're living the lifestyle they never got to lead when most people do it. Let's face it, these guys were the nerds and outcasts of their high schools, the geeky, goofy, awkward guys who never got dates and never went out on Saturday nights. Now, they actually have JOBS where they get to be the cool kids, and there you have it, hundreds of guys with thinning hair, scraggly goatees, and those shorts that balloon out like Scarlett O'Hara's ball gown and reach their ankles.

Not that I wasn't a nerd. I'm STILL a nerd. But I know it.

And I'm a tired nerd with a persistent couch and indigestion, so I'm going to go now. It's Saturday night. You're supposed to be out partying. Turn off the computer. Talk to you tomorrow. Go!

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