(I was reminded of this earlier report written during the days when I was undergoing treatment and boozing big time on cancer-killing cocktails at the Chemo Bar as I called it. I posted it here nearly three ago. What a time it was, at least the parts I can remember. No complaints. I’m a very proud and very grateful pancreatic cancer survivor, three words that too rarely appear together. I’m still dealing with side effects, or after shocks as I call them, but no big deal:. I’m here to gripe about them.

(Know this: CANCER SUCKS! It doesn’t discriminate. Any time, anywhere, anybody. And I continue to preach: Get regular cancer screenings. Find it early. It can save your life. It did mine. Betting on cancer not coming your way? Think twice. That’s a bet only a damn fool would make.)

And there silently knitting all alone in our corner of the Chemo Bar sat Nana Mangia, the sweetest Italian grandmother EVER! But then, aren’t they all?

“It’s a about time! Where’ve you been, Mr. Beyond Beautiful?” her name for me after I previously was bemoaning my burgeoning beyond baldness after my sudden hair shedding, one of chemotherapy’s many surprise gifts, much like the message on this button I made to remind others at the Chemo Bar of another potentially messy side effect.

“I was downstairs getting my labs done. That damn waiting room! I would think by now we’d have VIP status and go right to the front of the line. I mean they know us by name and who our doctors are and where we’re going. But oh hell no. Just sit and wait and wait. Obviously they don’t who I am!

“Hey Nana! Where is everybody? Just us here today?”

 “Mr. Robinson got done early. Mrs. D is downstairs at an appointment. Haven’t seen Bio. So just us for now. Here. I saved this for you,” and motioned to her almost empty basket of freshly baked goods she makes for our every-other-week Cool Kids on Chemo Club.

“Nana Mangia! Pita con sarde! You know the way to my heart.”

I quickly grabbed and unwrapped the heavenly treat: a bready base that’s curly-qued around this fabulous filling. Think cinnamon roll-ish but then forget about it. It’s nothing like that. Sort of. But not at all. The yeasty spiral outside, sure. But any similarity stops right there. One bite will tell you that.

Oh that inside! An unbelievable unctuous union of crushed red pepper, a lot of garlic, a bit of tomato paste, a toss of dried basil, a flick of oregano and never enough anchovies. Anchovies! Off-putting to many which simply means more for me.

As I was finishing the last bite of the crumbles that had tumbled on my shirt---oh how those anchovies stain; I’m a dry cleaner’s dream---I heard Nana Mangia say over the clickety clack of her knitting needles….actually she giggled it rather than said it.

“Poot! Poot!”

“Huh?”

“That button you’re wearing. Poot! Poot!”

“Oh! That! ‘Poot?’ Not ‘toot?’”

“Not in our house. My godson. It’s been his favorite thing ever since sitting on his grandfather’s lap as a toddler. His grandfather. No manners, and always gassy. Every Sunday, like every Sunday, we all got together. Too much food! And after, we’d sit around the table, and Big Tony would start in with his flatulence which was always met with his wife Mama Mia yelling, ‘Damn it Tony! We’re at the table!’

“And then he’d pipe up, “Oh relax! It’s just a little poot. There’s no harm in that.” And my godson, Little Tiny Tony, would chime in his with little boy voice, ‘Poot! Poot!’” He was so small and so cute then.

“Of course everyone laughed and encouraged it every Sunday after. And so we all started calling Little Tiny Tony, Poot. And it stuck. Most people never knew it wasn’t his real name. Many still don’t. Even Father Frank calls him Poot.

An overwhelming sense of being overwhelmed overwhelmed me.

“Wait! Your godson’s name is Poot?”

“Yes. And he sure lived up to his name. Such a stronz’! (Not a term of endearment.) He even won a gold medals for doing ‘Jingle Bells,’ ‘Oh Tannenbaum’ and ‘Lady of Spain’ in the Knights of Columbus Christmas talent show three years running.”

“Gold medals? How?” I was afraid to ask but obviously not that afraid to ask.

“Under his arm. Armpit pooting,” he calls it.

“He still entertains the kids. His mother Cha-Cha doesn’t like it much. And his dad Little Tony, well he just pours another glass of wine. He’s a smart man. He knows better. If he were to laugh, he gets in trouble. He’s knows what would happen, not that that has stopped him very often. He always says if he gets a tattoo, it’s going to say: ‘Picka you battles.’ And with Cha-Cha, he knows which ones to pick and which ones to avoid.”

I had to interrupt.

“Hang on a minute. Your godson is Poot? His mother is Cha-Cha and his dad is Little Tony?”

“Well yes.”

“Last name Saputo?”

“It is. Do you know them?”

“Know them? Were related. Kind of. That’s my Uncle Little Tony!! He’s my dad’s cousin somehow removed. And Poot is my kind of my cousin. Somehow.

“You don’t say,” she said. “So how come I’ve never known that?”

“You know families. One thing happens and then who knows what happens? And in Italian families, well you know that happens a lot.”

”Oh I know.“

“I know you know.”

“I know. So what are you doing Sunday?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I know. But you do now. You’re coming to my house. I’ll get everyone together. We’ll eat. We’ll talk. We’ll be family. Bring some of those buttons too. I’ll have Poot entertain.”

“Oh. He’ll be there? Last I heard he was in jail.”

“Which time? He’s such a stronz.’ You know, you and him are lot  alike. Well not a lot. Actually not so much. Really not at all. But he sure loves my pita con sarde. How about if I make a batch Sunday. Will you come?”

“Sure! Can’t say no to that?”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“Actually…can I get a raincheck? My immune system is messed up from this chemo and this Covid stuff has me freaked out. It’s one thing being here all masked up but being in a group worries me.”

“You’re a smart boy. I keep forgetting. Okay so when we’re done here and we’re better, well do it.”

“So will Uncle Little Tony be there? It’s been forever since I’ve seen him.”

“Me too. For good reason. And if I never see him again, it’ll be too soon. Hell no. He’s never coming for Sunday dinner at my house. Ever.”

“Oh. Something happen?”

“What do you think? You know how we are.”

Indeed I do. Just when was going to ask what had happened between them….

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Nana Mangia finished the last of her cocktail. Time for her to go home.

As she was leaving she handed me the last pita con sarde and said “Alla famiglia” with a wink.

Two steps further, she turned…

“Poot! Poot!”

I love her so much. Even if we weren’t almost family, we will always be family as we will be with all the Cool Kids on Chemo. It’s another surprise gift of chemotherapy.

Next to fighting cancer, it’s the best one.

Alla famiglia!

Des Moines had been hoping and praying that George the Chili King would reopen after closing its doors in October, 2019 following the death of owner George Karaidos, Jr.

But, sadly, it wasn’t meant be. After sitting vacant and deteriorating since that time, the building has been sold and is being repaired, cleaned out and cleaned up by a new owner who is planning to lease it to a similar type of eatery.

Most called it a greasy spoon. And that it was. A whole bunch of not-so-good-for-you food that tasted oh-so good. From a bowl of chili to a chili dog to a hamburger coney-style to the hand-dredged onion rings to a pork tenderloin that could be simply dressed or dressed up so fancy that it became a Fat Man Special .

Healthy food? Absolutely not! Fine dining? Seriously? It was drive-in with a 13-stool counter. Spotlessly clean? Oh hell no, not be a long shot. But nobody seemed to care.

For three generations of my family, it was health food for our souls served up to us at our home away from home, the four stools on the north end of the counter, usually by George himself.

This George was not the original chili king, that was his father George, Sr. who was crowned by The Des Moines Register in the 1920s. But the crown was passed George, Jr. who continued the tradition by cooking the same chili recipe in the same stock pot that reportedly had come off of a World War II battleship.

But after nearly 100 years, that tradition has stopped. (I hope that that new owner saved that piece of Des Moines history and the pot didn’t get tossed out during the clean out.)

While George the Chili King is no more, its delicious memories will always be with those who ate there. For those who didn’t, boy did you miss out.

Long live the King. Another Des Moines icon…gone.

I’m most proud of the ones that elicit responses from passersby. Maybe a smile. Or a nod. Or a positive comment. Or like those during Covid: the all-too-often verbal attacks when I would proudly wear my pro-vaxxing/pro-masking shirts, one experience of which I posted on Substack earlier. (If interested, search for this: WE ARE WHAT WE WEAR: T-shirts speak loudly; opposites still do not attract.)

Oh yes, and my “I’m a Cancer SURVIVOR” shirt. Standing in line at the grocery store, the little boy in front of me pointed at it and asked what it meant. His mother turned and snarled, “We don’t talk about such things in our house. It’s nothing our kids need to know about.”

I had a two-word response ready to go, but I swallowed it. The kid didn’t need to learn that. Yet.

Needless to say, I’m a big fan of walking billboard t-shirts.

During a week of working a food booth at the Iowa State Fair, I saw all kinds.

If only I had had a camera.

Not one to judge what people wear, because a fashionista I am not by a long shot and nor do I want to be and am ambivalent about those who are. But sometimes it’s hard for me not to judge. So many glamour-do’s but oh-so many, many more people in ”you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me” wardrobes with not even a glimmer of glamour that are just begging for commentary…but I keep it to myself. Some things are not worth a black eye. Or worse. However, I do keep extensive mental notes because it’s such good fodder for future reportage.

From my vantage point at the fair, I could see t-shirts galore. Some great, some stupid and one in particular, a bit inappropriate.

And that coming from me is shocking, an indication of just how tasteless I found the shirt to be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a staunch freedom of speech flag waver with a prolific and persistent potty mouth, but sometimes people really need to consider where they’ll be going and who they may run into while selecting their wardrobe for the day. Des Moines’ legendary and always dapper haberdasher Bill Reichardt’s motto was “You never get a second chance to make a first impression.” In other words, “Dress well. People will remember. Dress like a slob, people will remember that too.”

My mother was more to the point. “Oh hell no! Did you look in the mirror? No son of mine is leaving the house dressed like that. Now go change your clothes. Actually don’t bother. You’re grounded. Oy! Your grandmother would be so disappointed.”

So this shirt that caught my attention. It’s the Iowa State Fair, for God’s sake. It’s a family affair with lots and lots of kids. The guy wearing it was surrounded by a large group of people hog-mouthing all kinds of fair treats, whether on a stick, in a bowl, from a wrapper, out of a paper bag, from a straw or bare-handing something like a turkey leg.

He was a big guy: big head to toe and big all the way around. And big guys wear big clothes. His attire for the day? A big red t-shirt with big white words perfectly centered in big Helvetica letters that read:

SMILE IF YOU LIKE TO MASTURBATE!

Again, I try not to judge and I am a borderline moralist, but I questioned the appropriateness of this shirt considering the audience. Don’t get me wrong, there were lots of people smiling at him but there were quite a few scowlers too. Mostly moms and dads praying that their kids wouldn’t ask them to explain the shirt’s message.

The big guy couldn’t have cared less and probably never gave it a thought, neither a first one nor a second one. He was too busy deep-throating a footlong corndog that had a ketchup squiggle on it which I found even more inappropriate than his shirt. Mustard is the only appropriate hot dog condiment. I thought everyone knew that. Well apparently not this jagoff, as we say in Pittsburgh.

When he started to walk away, I heard two drunk guys tell him they loved his shirt and they all high-fived with a manly grunt.

Then(!), a group of equally drunk young women ran up to him.

“Can we get a selfie with you?”

The big guy nodded yes.

They all got into the sorority sister half-crouch-hands-on-the-knees pose around the big guy.

“READY?” one them slurred. “One, two, THREE!”

CLICK!!!!

“Thank you, sir. It’s perfect,” they giggled and headed back to the craft beer tent.

Four of five steps away, they suddenly turned back to him.

“Hey mister! “WE LOVE TO MASTURBATE TOO!”

The big guy smiled and waved and gave them a big double thumbs up, which seemed very appropriate the time.

But then, I’m not one to judge.

Where my fair days have started for years, especially those when I’d be judging food contests. I always considered it the most important part of my morning workout. Besides, it’s the best place for belly rubs on the whole fairgrounds.

Welcome to the tens of thousands of bicylists from around the world that have converged upon Onawa, Iowa for the start of The Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa (RAGBRAI).

Sorry, but it sounds like it could be a pretty shitty week for biking.

It’s going to be real hot (90+) for the first couple of days and then mostly Iowa uncomfortable (80+ and humid) for the duration. To be expected. It’s the middle July here. You signed up for this.

But at least now you can breathe a bit easier. While it’s not as much of the major annoyance and health hazard as it was, the smoke from the Canadian wildfires is still affecting our air quality but has greatly lessened. President Trump is taking credit for it thanks to his threats of tariff weaponization against Canada for apparently not having a huge exhaust fan venting system up and running to deal with such things. How rude and inconsiderate of them for not!

However, it seems to me we have Mother Nature to thank for cleaning up the ashy haze with her own effective, less-theatening way: naturally, with nary a rant of rigging. Now that’s weaponization.

And then, of course, just as everyone was preparing for this legendary bike ride, in comes the very scary threat of Cyclosporiasis thanks to some funky infected shredded lettuce. Despite a massive recall, the intestinal disease, while not life-threatening nor contagious, still should be of concern to RAGBRAIers.

For those who know, I’m sorry that you do; and for those who don’t know, lucky you, but please know: diarrhea on a bike is no fun and is always quite messy and quite embarrassing. From someone who knows this all too well, take extra biking shorts; some cleanup towelettes (we swear by Dude Wipes and yes, they’re dudette approved); and a hazmat disposal bag. May none of this be necessary, but remember: “Preparedness is next to Godliness.”

Or something like that.

Pack preventably, just in case. Be respectful of your fellow bikers and your bike seat. You’ll be together all week.

And please, do yourself a favor: no lettuce.

Besides Cyclosporiasis, there’s another uncomfortable and potentially very painful condition that will be coming to most riders. While it’s not RAGBRAI-specific, it is RAGBRAI-induced. It can hurt like hell and it’s their own damn fault. The symptoms start about Tuesday morning and grow worse as the week goes on. More than simply saddle sores, it’s like a muscle thing and that’s bad enough. And hopefully comes on without developing chafing, boils and/or ingrown hairs. That’s really bad.

The medical term for this condition says it all.

Cyclomysoreassis.

It’s not terminal by any means and there’s lots of treatments along the route that have been discovered by riders who’ve been afflicted on previous tours and are masochistic enough to come again for more. The most effective doctoring seems to involve beer, applied both internally through drinking a lot and externally by soaking a lot in a community tub of suds that travels to each overnight town.

However, those riders who have experienced Cyclosporiasis symptoms earlier, get a high-pressure water treatment administered by the local fire department. While it may not do much for their affliction, it does clean them up a bit and then they can hop in the beer bath.

Cyclomysoreassis has only one real cure: no biking for at least a week. Maybe some ibuprofen. And for those who are impatient, it’s recommended they wash the pill down with a beer. Or two.

While unreported, there seems to be a consistent side effect with this condition: the intense desire to pay a lot of money to do RAGBRAI the next year and get it all over again.

That’s a totally different yet related condition: Cyclomaniac.

There’s no cure for that.

Welcome to Iowa, RAGBRAIers. Ride on!

Remember: No lettuce for the week!

Every single day.

We drove by this landmark lodging along the historic Lincoln Highway on the outskirts of Toledo, Iowa at least 100 times on our way to and from photo shoots in northeast Iowa and beyond; each time with a snicker and an “I swear-to-God” promise that we’d stay there one night. Maybe two.

”I swear to God! We will.”

One of those, “next time" things.

And the next time…

Well, there wasn’t a next time. The L-Ranko suddenly became a Budget Inn. Not the same. Not interested.

And then it was developed into the Broadway Apartments with the lure of a “coin-op laundry, off-street parking, and pet-friendly.”

Definitely not the same. Definitely not interested. Most definitely a heartbreaking missed opportunity.

Damn it.

But at least I had this photo.

I gifted it to my travel partner, an ad agency creative director/exec, who proudly had it hanging in his office, right behind his desk, for all to see.

We loved the name. Who wouldn’t? We were hoping it was the product of a tongue-in-cheek, late-night-up-at-the-bar conjuring, but turns out it was just an amalgam of the two the owners names: “L” for Leonard, the first name of one; “R” for Rank, the other guy’s last name.

But still…

L-Ranko. Loved it. So snickerable.

Months later we were in my client’s office having a meeting with his big-time client from a major Midwest corporation to discuss an upcoming project. We liked him, he liked us and his bosses liked us all and the work we did together.

Good ol’ Rich. Brilliant, creative, funny, super-friendly and a teddy bear of a guy.
He was the survivor of two corporate buyouts that catapulted him from a very small-town company right into the big leagues. And yet he was true to roots. More than a little bit “aw-shucksy" without a glint of glamor. JC Penney was his clothier of choice and he always looked forward to our dinners at his favorite place in town: the Ponderosa Steakhouse.

“It wouldn’t be dinner without their chocolate pudding,” he’d always say as he tucked a napkin into the collar of his white shirt. “Me and the missus love it here. She really likes the meatloaf. I always tell her that the one she makes is much better and it is. Then she tells me I’m her sweet, little angel. I love that woman.”

Humble. A little schlumpy. Frugal. With a limitless American Express card and expense account he barely touched. An innocent caught up in the evils of corporate America. He was true to his rural Iowa self.

Hell, he was rural Iowa.

Midway though our meeting, Rich leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head rather deep in thought and suddenly sat straight up and pointed to the photo on the wall.

”The L-Ranko! That’s where me and the missus spent our honeymoon. Right there in Room 6. Well look at that. Right here in your office. Wait ‘til tell her. She’ll be so excited. Look at that. The L-Ranko!”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Your honeymoon?”

“Yep.”

I went over and took the photo off the wall and handed it to him.

“Here. I think it’ll look better in your house,” I told him.

It did.

He sent us a photo of the two of them alongside it in their living room with a note. “Thank you from me and the missus. Every time we look at it, it’s like reliving our honeymoon all over again.”

Their honeymoon…

..at the L-Ranko.

That’s rather sweet.

I’ve always wondered if Room 6 was the honeymoon suite.

Regardless, at least for one night it was.

Right underneath a big American flag there was a handwritten sign in the front window of my neighborhood bar stuck on the inside with scraps of yellow emergency tape

“Spend Memoreal Day Here! Specal today. Jumbo Sauage Sandwich.”

Not to worry. Their food is much better than their spelling.

Especially these sandwiches. Graziano Italian sausage that’s been manhandled into ½-pound zeppelins napping under a weighted blanket of garlicky marinara and almost-melted mozzarella with little throw pillows of banana peppers scattered about and topped with a shake or two of parmesan fairy dust from the magical green container and then it’s all cuddled up in a Rotella hoagie bun.

I don’t know if it’s that shape of the meat or the flavor of the sauce or everything all together, but it’s among the very best I’ve had. Greasy? Well it wouldn’t be a good sausage sandwich if it wasn’t.

When I see that “Specal today. Jumbo Sauage Sandwich” sign, I always try to stop. It’s usually on Tuesdays, but it can be most any day. And if the sign is there on a Wednesday, more than likely they forgot to take it down, same as most any other day. Even some Tuesdays if you ask for the special, Margot the cook may serve you the chicken-and-noodles-on-french-fries special leftover from Sunday.

”Quit yer griping. It’s been in the crockpot for a couple of days. It’s piping hot and good as fresh. But if you really want a sausage sandwich you can either sit here and starve until next week or come back. This is my special today. Take it or leave it.”

I had run into that freight train a time or two. It’s best just to take what she’s serving up and compliment her profusely. You do not want to get on her bad side. We call that going to Margot Hell. Once you go there, you’ll never come back.

While I’d love nothing more than to sit at the bar and have a couple of beers with my sandwich, we’re deep into the pandemic with little hope that it’ll be over anytime soon. The daily White House press briefings that bubble up with so many far-flung claims of miracle cures are bound to win a Daytime Emmy for best new sitcom. The colon-sunlamp treatment is my favorite so far and truly warms the cockles of my heart, well at least those in my lower intestines. Cockles? Probably more like hemorrhoids but I’m sure I heard the president say this treatment would help them too. I do have my doubts. Until Dr. Fauci says it’s a go, it’s a no go for me.

I’m beyond COVID shy. It’s certainly nothing I want to tangle with. And now that we’re caught up in a brand new, bigger surge brought to us by Iowa’s governor, the undisputed Queen of COVID.

“I trust Iowans will do the right thing,” is her Covid-19 watchword and she sure preaches it. Whether she actually believes it or not, I didn’t. I’m not sure she even knew what “the right thing” was but that’s what the script she was supposed to read to us said.

It was no time to let one’s guard down, especially mine.

I kept wearing my Covid mask, despite the constant ridicule from those who thought they knew better.

After seeing the bar’s special sign, I called in my order to go---“Two sausage sandwiches, please! Peppers on both. And on one, can I get some bleu cheese and maybe some onion rings on top?”

“You bet, Wildcat. Gimme 25 minutes.”

I have a reputation here too. It’s the bleu cheese thing...every bit as polarizing as the obnoxious, loud-mouth drunken regulars at the end of the bar. He dripping from head-to-toe in Iowa Hawkeye black and gold schlock and she in a “I’m With Stupid” crimson and gold ISU-ish sweatshirt with a V-neck cut into into the crew-neck apparently in hopes of making it sexier. It did not. (FUN FACT: underneath the “I’m With Stupid,” is a white arrow pointing to the left. (If by chance you find an empty barstool next to her, think twice if it’s the one on her left. Don’t be stupid, there’s plenty of that up here to go around.)

Afternoons are usually quiet up here. One of the regulars, Squint, known for his refusal for eyesight assistance, was in his usual spot right in front of the big TV. From his perch there, he offers up his opinion on just about anything and everything that’s on the news. And if there’s anyone involved with the current White House administration and especially the POTUS, he pops like a shaken bottle of soda and spews out a bubbling anything-but-sugary flow of uncharitable comments: profane, obscene and pretty much right on the money. It’s a performance worthy of Broadway. And it only pauses for commercials, a glug of beer and a trip to the bathroom.

But today he was uncharacteristically quiet. I said hello to him from behind my Covid mask. I always do. He usually doesn’t respond but he looked up. His forehead furrowed a bit, eyes so sad and a bit red with tears in their corners.

He had on his “PROUD VIETNAM VET” cap, well-worn but quite clean and the bill meticulously cupped just so. He also had on a more-than-well-worn fatigue jacket with a patch that said “Johnson” over the right breast pocket and one that said “U.S. Army” on the left.

“Were you there?” he asked me.

I shook my head no. “High draft number.”

“Lucky you,” he said. “Memorial Day is a bitch. I hate it every year. Always so hard. So many memories of good friends gone. Such a ridiculous war.”

“Let me buy you a beer to thank you for your service,” I offered.

He smiled a bit. He nodded and added “How about we do a shot too? I’ll buy that.”

To use a phrase I’ve heard him say so many times before, ”Like hell you will. You’re money’s no good today.” And I added, “…especially on Memorial Day.”

I yelled to the bartender, “Hey Frisco! How about some bottles of Bud and a couple shots of Jack for Squint and me. And set yourself up too.”

Frisco strolled over, one-handing a tray in a very uncharacteristic display of balance and class.

”Hmmmm,” I thought. Three beers, nine shots. It had every indication of a colorful afternoon ahead. We socially-distanced and clunked our shots.

“To America’s heroes,” Squint said, and we downed the Jack Daniels. Those two guys just tipped them straight back and down. I lifted up a corner of my mask and slurped it in.

“Here’s to the friends and family we lost. Friends always! My brothers forever,” he hollered.

We clunked again, tossed down the shots and all three of us slammed the empty glasses on the table in unison.

“I’ve got one more thing to say. Here we go. Glasses up high!”

We held the shot glasses over our heads. Squint tilted his head back and let loose, “Let’s drink to America. The one we knew and loved. Not this horrible mess that’s been made. We want our American back.”

We all shouted “AMEN!” and clunked our shot glasses like the drunks we were well on our way to be.

“God damnit, Wildcat!” It was Margot the bar’s cook. ”You taking these sandwiches home? They’ve been under the warmer for an hour!”

I had forgotten.

“Oh crap! Yep. Settle me up, Frisco. Get me outta here. Wait! Another shot, guys?”

Suddenly three more shots appeared.

“My turn to toast,” I said. “Here we go’ fellas. ­­Pick ‘em up. Here’s to Squint, a real hero.”

“Like hell I am.”

“Like hell you’re not! You’re a true hero, Squint—our true hero—and we can’t thank you enough for your service. Here’s to you!”

Clunk! One more on our way to just about one past drunk o’clock.

I bid them farewell.

“Hey, Wildcat,” Squint said. “Thanks for today. I really appreciated it. No one has ever talked to me about the war.”

“Any time, my friend. Take care.”

As I was adjusting my mask in the vestibule,

I heard Frisco the bartender, “Hey Squint? You crying?”

“Crying? Me? You know Frisco, why don’t you go straight to hell on a rocket but drop me off a beer on your way by.”

“Like hell I will. You come up and get your own damn beer.”

“What the hell? A minute ago I was a hero. Now I’ve got to get my own beer?”

“Well yep. Hey, I’m buying you a beer, hero. So come and get it.”

“You’re buying me a beer? How about a shot too? Come on Frisco, who’s your favorite hero?”

I didn’t stick around to hear the end of that conversation.

I can only imagine.

These are my people. I’m so anxious to go back and stay for awhile without fear of Covid and it becomes my safe place again.

Now I want to make a toast.

Glasses up!

“To all who have served our country and the active military folks around the world:

“Here’s to you, heroes. America can’t thank you enough.”

Clunk!

It was my first big assignment as a freelancer. Actually, as an independent contractor. Sounds more like a dedicated professional, even though at that point I didn’t know an aperture from shinola. I had just switched careers from being a writer to becoming a photographer. Focus and composition first, the technical stuff whenever.

I had been contacted by an ad agency’s art director who had seen my work at an early Art in the Park show when they were on the grounds of the Des Moines Art Center.

”Hey man, I love what you do. We’re going to pitch the Iowa Tourism Bureau to do next year’s big brochure of all things visitors should see. We’d like to try you out on a couple of assignments. Hey, it if was what up to me, I’d have you do the whole thing but. well, you know clients.

“So if you’re interested, I’d like to have you shoot Tulip Time in Pella. Not so much the pretty flowers but people enjoying the festivities. And I know you do people well. I want you to just shoot a whole bunch of photos your way. Nothing specific. Just your fun style. Here’s the deal though, since this is just a trial, I’m hoping you’ll do it at a reduced rate. And if we’re selected there’s a pretty healthy budget. As far as I’m concerned, you’re our photographer.”

(In Independent Contractor talk, I later learned that’s called blowing smoke up your lens case.)

So I jumped at it. I spent two days capturing lots of Tulip Time lifestyle. My way. When it came time to present my work, I told the art director I had many images for him to look at. He told me to pick my very favorite for an agency meeting.

“I’ve got the perfect one for you. It’s a big group of women sitting on bleachers along the parade route. There’s such an overwhelming look of joy.”

“Sounds perfect. Can you bring it in tomorrow?”

I walked into the meeting of agency hot shots, some not-so hots and few tater tots barely out of college, with the print that I had had professionally mounted and matted under wraps in my presentation folder.

The art director made a very flattering speech about me and my work, no doubt covering his ass and then I made a speech about the print they were about to see and how I felt that it showed the true essence of Tulip Time.

“Tulip Time I know. I was the editor of the Pella Chronicle during two festivals and I even have wooden shoes.”

I pulled out the print and hung it on an easel.

“Gentlemen, I call this “The Ladies.” They come in busloads from all over the midwest to enjoy the sights, the sounds and the smells of Tulip Time that give them the joy you can see of their faces here.

”Any questions?” I asked.

Not a word was spoken. An uncomfortable cough or two. And a whole lot of blank stares.

And then it came.

“Thanks for you for your time. We’ll get back to you,” one of the big guys in charge said to me.

I’m still waiting for the call.

It wasn’t a total waste of time though. The art director did get in touch with me a couple of months later wanting to buy a framed print of “The Ladies.”

“The boss wants to hang in the executive bathroom.”

Forty-six years later it’s still there.

Tulip Time 2026 in Pella runs May 7-9, 8 a.m. to 9 p.m.

And in the next one, he said on Friday that he would ask Congress to approve about $1.5 trillion for defense in the 2027 fiscal year as part of his new proposed budget, according to the New York Times, “that also calls for $73 billion in cuts across domestic agencies, including the elimination of some climate, housing and education programs.”

I’m breathless.

Again.

Well, still.

So much for his campaign promises to make day care more affordable and not making changes to Medicare and Medicaid.

It just takes my breath away.

Oh, and, “I’m not going to start wars, I’m going to stop wars.”

Waiting for that.

And waiting to exhale.

Voters? Are you breathing?

March 28

From the New York Times…

“An Iranian strike injured 12 U.S. troops in Saudi Arabia, two of them seriously, on the Prince ​Sultan Air Base, two U.S. officials, who were not authorized to speak publicly, said on Friday.

“The combined missile and drone attack amounted to one of the most serious breaches of American air defenses in the course of the monthlong war with Iran.”

When the “incursion” started, we were told, “No boots on the ground!” It was just going to be quick “in and out” mission.

Secretary of State Marco Rubio said on Friday (3/27) that the United States did not need ground troops to succeed in the war in Iran, which he said would end within weeks rather than months.

And yet the U.S. has reportedly started to send thousands of Marines and sailors to the region. At least 1,000 Airborne troops are poised to be deployed as well.

So much for a quickie. It’s getting worser and worser.

And I fear it’s going to get far worse.

Well shit. Here come Houtis.

”President Trump escalated his attacks on judges Wednesday, calling on Republican lawmakers to pass a crime bill that “cracks down on rogue judges.”

“Mr. Trump and top aides have been railing against judges who have ruled against him, including justices on the Supreme Court, but he had not yet called for a legal crackdown on sitting judges.”

Wonder if there’ll be a crackdown on any rogue folks roaming around the White House…

Silly me.

In the next breath, he votes with a mail-in ballot in a Florida special election.

A classic case of "don't do what I do, do what I say."

It’s so confusing.

Not really.

Oh. And the Democrat won the election.

From the New York Times:

“‘Robert S. Mueller III, 81, Dies; Rebuilt F.B.I. and Led Trump Inquiry...

.”’..After he concluded that Russia had interfered in the 2016 election, he became a target of the president’s anger.

“‘Mr. Trump remained unforgiving of Mr. Mueller’s investigation even after Mr. Mueller’s death. On learning of it on Saturday, he posted on Truth Social: “Good, I’m glad he’s dead. He can no longer hurt innocent people!’”

Modern day politics.

Sadly.

My neighborhood dive bar pal, Squint, is a left-leaning, well-meaning, future-seeing political pundit. Beer soaked, mind you, but quite astute. Politics he knows well. He should, he’s watches the news all day and all night from his perch at the hightop table just a foot or two from the 60-inch TV right in front of him. He even has own remote, thanks to Frisco the bartender. Although he doesn’t need it, he seldom changes channel except for some back-to-back epsidoes of “Bar Rescue.”

Squint’s never one to hold back his opinions that up here aren’t well received by most of the regulars. Shouting matches are an every hour occurrence. Squint has an uncanny knack of them shutting down the “wretched idiots” as he calls them, with a look, a bark and a growl, “Enough!” And everyone instantly calms down and goes back to the business at hand: beer drinking and trash talking. They know better than to tangle with Squint for very long. It’s a fight they’d never win. Strictly verbal, mind you.

After watching the House Judiciary Committee on Oversight of the Justice Department, Squint just shook his head and said to me, “Wildcat, let me give you a piece of advice. If by chance you ever get invited to that Pam Bondi’s home for dinner, don’t criticize her cooking. She’ll skewer you like she did Thomas Massie and the all the Democrats.

“Steak too well done? Just eat it. Ask for ketchup? Bad idea! Potatoes undercooked? Choke ‘em down! It’s better than her blow-torching you for having Trump Derangement Syndrome, threatening to have you investigated for your fake news hate-speech and she’d call you a washed up loser and a disgrace. It’d be ugly. You’re too good for that.

“Can you image if John Taffer was there too? All that yelling? That’d put you off your supper for sure.”

“So Squint,” I asked, “what are the chances of me going to dinner at her house?”

“About the same as mine,” he said. “Definitely no chance in hell. But it never hurts to be prepared.”

That Squint. A very wise man. He’s always right.

“Thanks for the advice, just in case. Buy you a beer?”

“Well sure, Wildcat. Thanks. Here’s to you”

Cheap advice and worth every penny.

I’m easily distracted.

Just like that, my attention is drawn to the flitter of activity on the bird feeders right outside the windows in front of me. The cardinals grab and go, the red-bellied woodpecker is poking away alongside a cute little chickadee and those picky, most particular sparrows keep digging for just the right seeds and discard those that aren’t, creating a mounding mess below.

And beyond them is a walking/biking path. An elderly woman is slow jogging along, all cozy in her white parka with yellow reflective stripes and black zigzags; the hood pulled up tight so only her mid-forehead to just below her lower lip is visible. Big white mittens; baggy thick white pants matching her coat, more reminiscent of a snowsuit I had as a child than today’s jogging attire; and white thick-soled running shoes. Arms slowly pumping in rhythm with her graceful clip-clopping like that of a Clydesdale on parade.

Slowly, she was gone on her way down the path.

And then, maybe 20 steps behind, comes her husband. Slower pace, same attire with his hood pulled up tight too so just his face is pooching out. Bright blue running shoes with an orange stripe at the top of the thick soles. Obviously a very cool man in a fashionable sort of way. Not quite as graceful and not quite as fast as his wife. But content. And he didn’t seem to give a good God damn about catching up to her.

More slowly, he too was gone on his way down the path.

Impressive and inspiring. There they were. Slow jogging. Good for their health.
Good for them for being out there.

That could be me. Hell, it should me. I’ve got the clothing, I’ve got the shoes, I’ve got the walking path right over there. But I’ve got this ADHD that needs to be tended to so I simply don’t have time for exercise.

A good excuse? Maybe not so good, but an excuse nonetheless.

Maybe I’ll go out there tomorrow. Or the day after that. Oh wait. Can’t. Next week? Perfect! I’ll put on my calendar.

And will no doubt ignore it. I’ll probably be all cozy with a fire in the fireplace, a hot cup of coffee with a laptop on my lap. Searching and researching things that don’t really matter but will seem very important at the time.

Some call it a time suck. I call it just another day.

I know that should be me out there slow jogging. Or even just walking.

Some day.

Most likely never. But with good intentions and a bad excuse.

I’m easily distracted.

RIP Jesse Jackson. You kept hope alive.
We sure could use it now.

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Here’s one. I suspect it’s the first in a series. Pure fiction, based on nothing but my wandering mind

Tamara Rowetter was down at the end of the bar ordering her third martini.. ”Very dirty please, I like them nasty,” she winked and giggled and went back to tending to her Tinder.

She was mostly a swipe lefter. Being quite particular, she was looking for much more than a dinner date. She had plenty of those.

She had hopes of finding that special companion to spend life with; laughing, loving and luxuriating with each other every minute of every day; anxious to break out of her listlessness to begin living out the dream she had longed for.

She swiped left, swiped left, swiped left, swiped left and paused and backed up. She thought she found the one.

It was going well, then something went amiss. She stabbed him to death with a flathead screwdriver.

She rolled him in a quilt, put him in the back of her Honda Pilot and took him to to meet her parents…

…and then buried him in the backyard behind the barn.

Although she thought she had found the one, he turned out to be just another one, like quite a few before him.

Her search continues.

“A martini. Very dirty please, I like them nasty.”

A little background. In late October 2021. after more than 20 years of screenings and tests, I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the worst of the worst that killed my grandmother, two of her sisters, my mother, her twin sister, their brother and then my brother. I vowed then that it wouldn’t take me. After the early detection, a little surgery and a bunch of chemotherapy, it didn’t.

I’m a pancreatic cancer survivor, three words that sadly do not appear together very often. I have now vowed to help others facing the disease by spreading the word about my cancer journey that will hopefully save lives. I have an important story to tell and a big mouth to do it with. I talk about cancer. A lot. Knowledge is power.

During the six months I was getting treatments at the Chemo Bar, what I call the cancer center’s infusion room, I made a lot of friends.

While I don’t go there for cancer-killing cocktails any more, I still stop in to say hello and to chat with those who are there, hopefully providing hope and encouragement.

I’m living proof that cancer doesn’t always win.

My last time visiting, I saw a friend from my time getting treated at the Chemo Bar. Her cancer has come back. She’s fighting like hell and told me she’s reminded every day of the very powerful weapon we both believe in: a bit of humor.

“Look,” she said. “I’m wearing the buttons you gave me. And look! No hair just like you!”

Overcome with emotion and unsuccessfully holding back tears while trying not to get tangled up in all her IV tubes and hoses, I gave her a big hug.

That’s Caroline. But of course I call her Sweet Caroline because she is and, well, just because.

Part of this post appeared in an earlier Substack. Seeing Caroline, sadly back the Chemo Bar, I thought the story needs to be retold…just because.

While getting my fill at the Chemo Bar, nature called. That’s one thing you learn about chemo very early. What goes in, very often comes out with a vengeance. One way or another.

I dashed out the door roiling my portable IV stand with the bags flapping in the wind and I damn near collided with my brand new friend Sweet Caroline who too was racing to the restroom at the end of the hall---also transporting her cocktail containers. There was one other restroom in the middle of the hallway but I was a quick learner: if the door is closed for more than five minutes, move on. The ventilation is not very good. At all. Chemo is okay going in, but coming out well, pleasantly perfumed it is not.

“Excuse me. Go ahead,” I told her. Even cancer couldn’t erase my gentlemanly ways.

“No you.”

“No you.”

“No you.”

“No you.”

“No you. I think you need it more than I do,” she said.

“Oh really? How?”

“You’ve got that panicky look in your eyes and you’re kind of doing what we call the potty dance.”

Awfully perceptive she was. Her eyes, while trying to twinkle through tiredness, were incandescent with kindness; her head was wrapped tightly with a scarf.

I asked her if she had a sense of humor.

“I do. And going through this it does help.”

Helps? It’s an absolute necessity.

I reached in a pocket and pulled out a button I made just for this type of situation and handed it to her.

“I don’t have my glasses. What does it say?”

“Hairstyling by Chemotherapy.”

“It does not!”

“Yes. It does.”

Caroline let out a laugh so loud that her surgical face mask ballooned out and just about everyone in the room turned and stared. And one of the nurses even “Shhhhhed” her.

“Can keep it? I love it!”

“Of course! And these too,” I said handing her a few more humorous buttons, “Chemo? I’ll take a shot of that” and “Cancer Sucks.”

It’s true. That laughter is the best medicine thing. Whether it’s for cancer or life itself. It works.

“Hurry up and go to the bathroom already,” she barked “I’ve got to go.”

“You first.”

“No you.”

So off I went.

About 45 minutes later I was off to the restroom. Again. Born Mr. Busy Body, I looked in every room along the way. And there in #5 was Caroline, sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for a ride home, bedazzled with the buttons I gave her.

Just as she waved at me a nurse rushed into the room with a very important document.

A Certificate of Completion.

Today was Caroline’s last day of chemo. She’s done. She won. No more cancer.

The smile behind her surgical mask was easy to see without being able to see it, and her eyes were twinkling bright through the tiredness and tears.

“How much longer for you?” she asked.

“This is my first treatment. Only 11 more. Almost done!”

With one treatment ever other week, in less than six months I would graduate and get my Certificate of Completion. Well that’s like a blink of the eye.

Always the optimist.

Cancer came. We fought.

I won.

Just as I knew I would.

Day 4 of my 6-day Prednisone treatment. Besides giving me major league munchies, I think it may be messing with my mind. I’m not sure if the following really happened, was just a dream or just wishful thinking. Whichever way, it sure would be great. And tax deductible.

The doctor’s warning that “…it may increase your appetite” was way understated. He should have said, “it will greatly increase your appetite and will cause you to gain lots of weight and take away any sense of fashion you may have had, forcing you to buy pants with elastic stretchy waistbands and wear a bathrobe in public because that’s all that will fit. However, it will take away your pain, so it has that going for it.”

What he didn’t tell me, and what I learned too late, was that one of the drug manufacturers along with a couple of distributors teamed up with autonomous automakers to provide Prednisone patients a prescription upgrade that includes a self-driving car that is programmed with the names and directions to every drive-thru food option within a 50-miles radius along with menus from each ready to be punched up on the infotainment screen.

It’s an interesting concept. It’s a hidden option that you have to ask for and it has a hidden cost: $6,500 that covers the 6-day drug supply as well as car usage for the duration which is a great deal considering all the convenient benefits. But what makes it even greater is that it’s covered by health insurance. The companies quickly rubber-stamp the claim “APPROVED.” It makes one wonder not only if there are kickbacks involved, but just how many.

I see no problem with that. Works for me. Here’s a drug that takes my pain away that comes with transportation to drive me to wherever I want to go to help tame the feeding frenzy it causes. It’s simply a winning situation for everyone involved.

Whoever came up with this idea is a genius who obviously has experienced being made miserable by the war with the munchies. It’s truly a brilliant system. I’d suggest the Nobel Peace Prize but I see no point in involving this mastermind in that squabble.

You simply push the green “Hungry?” button on the steering wheel. The infotainment screen starts flashing photos of food and it has an electro-voice that has a variety of names to choose from and can be programmed to speak in variety of accents.

I call mine Mona. She’s from Australia.

I push the button.

“So what sounds good?”

“Mona, let’s go to Ted’s Coney Island. On Ingersoll!”

And off we go.

The menu popped up on the screen for me to browse, order and pay undistracted while the car does all the driving. It slows as it pulls into Ted’s drive-thru, I yell my name into the order kiosk, a tattooed arm comes out of the pick-up window dangling the bag with my order, we coast up to it so I can grab it and off we go without ever stopping.

The car keeps driving and I start eating to quiet my munchies.

Details, details, details.This car has everything. A push of the green “Spill?” button brings up a tray from the center console with a napkin dispenser, a few Handi Wipes, a Tide To Go Stain Stick and a bib for especially messy foods. “Fooking brilliant!” as Mona would say and I couldn’t agree more.

Next level patient care to be sure.

Another miracle of modern medicine.

Too good to be true? Maybe. Maybe not…

Regardless. This Prednisone has not only messed with my metabolism but it seems to have muddled my mind too, reminiscent of daze gone by when we knew nothing about steroids. However, while in an advanced extra-curricular/non-credit geography college course, we studied Acapulco Gold, Panama Red, Maui Wowie and even Thai Stick. It was quite an education and we sure learned a lot…and forgot even more.

But like Prednisone, they sure took the pain away and increased our appetites much like mine in the past four days.

My munchies came home to roost.

Only two more days of Prednisone.

Thank goodness.