I’m Possessed, and Don’t Touch the Red Phone

I’m possessed! I have tried ceremonies of self-exorcism, but nothing has worked. I considered blowing up my TV—I had a drummer friend who actually did that with a squirt seltzer bottle. It’s the John Prine solution, where he contended that the pyrotechnical disembowelment of one’s television, using your newspaper as kindling, then starting a farm with a stripper and living happily ever after is the only way to go. I have never abandoned that plan.

So what is it I’ve done to disgrace myself so badly? Did I go to a strip show, watch pornography, do drugs, or go to a rock-and-roll party? No, none of these (or if I did, that’s not the issue). And no, I did not watch Fox News with the sound up. What I did was start paying attention to politicians again, in spite of weeks of verbal purging and swearing that I was laying off Sarah Palin (take that as you may), and ignoring Ted Cruz and Rand Paul and other jugglers and clowns in the big-top circus that is Washington, D.C.

As hard as I try, I can’t help but be concerned about those frayed around the mental edges and running loose in D.C., which if you haven’t heard, has now legalized marijuana for recreational use. The “Columbia” of District of Columbia might be changed soon to “Columbian” or “Panama Red,” and the 1973 song “Panama Red” by New Riders of the Purple Sage might become the alternate national anthem.  I think marijuana should be legal everywhere, and even John Boehner might agree, just as long as they don’t shut down the martini fountain.

Imagine this. Sarah Palin and Teddy “ The Cruzer” Cruz kicking back in the oval office toking on a number, doing the usual, (there are a lot of usuals to do in the oval office, as Bubba Clinton might attest), and Sarah gets a wicked case of munchies, picks up the RED phone, and orders a steak bomb.

One more thing has me sleepless in Seattle and everywhere else. They have developed driverless cars. Why? Isn’t the point of a car to drive someone someplace? Now we can drive air to nowhere. There’s also a plan to build a 12,400-mile highway from Britain to America that would cross Russia with the American end in Alaska. I wonder if Sarah Palin is planning on going “Cruzing” from her house? After all, she can already see Russia from there. 

There are more thoughts on politicians, some music news, and other things on the shores of Rambling Harbor. Sit back and hit the Play button, but don’t touch the RED phone.



It’s Rambling Harbor, Not Pigeonhole Cove

One definition of “pigeonhole” is a small compartment in a desk or wall for storing letters or papers. Another definition is a category assigned to someone that focuses on a particular characteristic, not the whole person, so it’s often unfair. I fear that second definition.

I have spent two weeks sounding like I might be morphing into a news commentator ranting about some government lunacy or other dog-and-pony show, all played out by that big-top circus called Washington, D.C. That’s a place where, when you use the term “seat of government,” it’s used in polite company and does not refer to the asses running our country.

I don’t want anyone to get the idea they would necessarily come to these shores and find Dan’s latest diatribe about this world issue or that one—yes, sometimes, but by no means all the time. Now that Rambling Harbor is gaining some foothold in the big, wide, scary world of blogging and podcasting. I want to say this about that. One week, I might focus on Kanye West and Kimmie K.’s ass or on Donald “The Duck” Trump. I might tell you a story from my life—a trip to Greenwich Village in the 1960’s or Harvard Square in the 1970’s or, having been a DJ, something on music and musicians. As I said last week, I’m not Rachel.

This week the biggest issue in my life was my closet. I’m convinced there are small people living there. I don’t see them, but they are there and always leave it a mess. My cat Chloe sees them at night. I have seen her dart from inside the darkest depths of her closet kingdom, where she has a warm safe bed, and run to the kitchen and back, and at times I swear I hear other tufted footfalls besides Chloe’s. It always sounds like fun, especially when they have fights with my socks! How else could such a mess happen?

My podcast sometimes has very little to do with my blog. After writing 500 words or so, why in heck would I want to talk about the same subject for 15 more minutes, and why would you listen to it? Remember, variety makes life spicy.

As I’m gaining new followers (thank you! thank you!), I thought it necessary to let you know that this is Rambling Harbor, emphasis on “rambling.” Just add variety, stir in a dash of lunacy, and a pinch of WTF, and there you go.

I’m not sure what you’ll find on the shores of Rambling Harbor this time, but join me there, won’t you?



I’m Not Rachel

I called this blog “I’m not Rachel,” as in Rachel Maddow, but also thought about ”I’m not Jon,” as in Jon Stewart, and the one I liked best, “Thank God I’m Not Rush Limbaugh,” the ever-obtuse blunderbuss. By now, of course, you’re asking, Dan, what is the meaning of this? Are you knee-deep in an identity crisis?

The answer is no. My identity is, as it has always been, curious but intact, which is also one of the things my cat Chloe loves about me, curiosity.  But in the last few weeks, I’ve been getting too serious about the news. Now don’t misunderstand “too serious.” We earthlings have many very serious issues to deal with and many very serious news types, a kaleidoscope of news types.

Lately I have ranted about Rand Paul and his anti-vaccine idiocy. That was two weeks ago. Last week I vented on the expense of a needless hunk of steel called the F-35 fighter jet, which has not left the ground since the project began in 2006, at least not successfully, and now has suffered another setback—until the year 2018, sometime? I went into great detail about the cost and what $1.5 trillion could be better spent on. However, you have options to get that news from a world far greater than my little cabin in a mystical place called Rambling Harbor. You can listen to Rachel Maddow, who is a newsy type I very much like, and the lord of repetitive verbiage knows that from 4 pm to 8 pm in any city in America you have ample opportunity to get depressed over the world’s dilemmas on your own.

Broadcasters come in many types—blondes, brunettes, and redheads—or is that just on “Foxy” News?  IQ doesn’t count, honey, you must have hair, and they proceed to tell us all about the news and then tell us some more. (Have you noticed you never see any balding female news people? I tend to trust the balding ones.) As I said on Facebook the other day, I like Fox News (gasp from my friends) because of the bodacious babes, which I can watch with the sound off while listening to Robert Plant’s “Ship of Fools.” Try it. It’s a trip. It’s like dessert after “NBC Nightly News.” Speaking of nightly news, have you heard? Brian Williams said he was in the plane that Harrison Ford crash-landed in the golf course. Well, that is the last Brian Williams joke I intend to tell (and yes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions). I actually wish him well. For whatever reason, in a cutthroat world of dirty laundry, he felt compelled to stretch the truth and is in enough personal hell without help from me.

So I’m not Rachel or Jon or Rush. I’m just a guy with opinions in a place called Rambling Harbor, and I will ease up on the ram-it-down-your-throat approach. Besides, my doctor says I need to lower my blood pressure. Now, where is that recording of “Green Eggs and Ham” by Ted Cruz?  Oops! Wrong choice!

Join me on the shores of Rambling Harbor.


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