Painting: The CEO and his two lieutenants

click to enlarge

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Three new Jeri Kehn photos; links to Jeri photos; and Fred Thompson describes the beauty of having a hot first lady;

If Elected, I Will Have The Hottest First Lady In U.S. History

My fellow Americans, in the coming presidential election, the voters of this nation will plot a course for the future. There are many candidates,...

Yes, Fred Thompson, in an article in The Onion describes just what it will be like having a babe-a-licious First Lady. Click on the article to jump to The Onion and Fred's smoking opinion piece. Thanks to Steve Albertson for pointing out this article!

"I urge each and every one of you to run a Google image search and see the evidence for yourself: photo after photo of a tall but wrinkled and sagging 64-year-old man—that's me—standing at various gala events, his arm wrapped around a stunning woman with glowing orange skin and beautiful platinum-highlighted hair. A bold woman, squeezed into a dress with a plunging neckline so low her enormous breasts seem almost ready to leap out and scream, "Hey world—look at us! We are married to a famous man we saw in Die Hard 2 when we were in college!"

Here are the latest Jeri Kehn photos we've found (all recent, on the campaign trail):


Jeri in green


Fred up front, Jeri in deep focus (this seem totally wrong)


Practising for the Republican convention next summer

Two more Jeri Kehn Thompson Photos
A Jeri Kehn Thompson cameo appearance in a Fred Thompson campaign video, four new Jeri Kehn photographs, and a Mrs. Fred Thompson photo roundup
Three additional photos of Mrs. Fred Thompson a/k/a Jeri Kehn
Meet the Thompson Twins: Fred Thompson's wife, Jeri Kehn (with photos)
One More Jeri Kehn Thompson photo
Jeri Kehn Photos, Part 3: Three more photos of Mrs. Fred Thompson
More Jeri Kehn photos--> A follow-up to "Meet the Thompson Twins: Fred Thompson's wife, Jeri Kehn (with photos) "New photographs of Jeri Kehn Thompson on the campaign trail (and a couple of her husband Fred too)

"Go on, close your eyes and try picturing Jackie Kennedy on the cover of some magazine spilling out of a bikini. You can't do it, can you? Now try the same mental experiment with Mrs. Fred. The results speak for themselves."

Jeri Kehn
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Painting: 1721 Iron Street

...Click 1721 Iron Street to enlarge...

A rendition of our house at 1721 Iron Street, mentioned in several recent articles (The big party and the only time I ever saw Phil Kendall fight; Poem: On seeing the photo of a long lost friend; Further ruminations on Phil Kendall ; Phil Kendall at both ends of his football career ; and on the In Memory of Phil Kendall blog.
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Bush numbers plunge again: President hits an all-time low

The mood of Americans has turned increasingly ugly and sent Bush's approval rating plunging deeper and deeper into the toilet bowl to another record low this month, according to a Reuters/Zogby poll that came out today.

The number of Americans who believe the country is on the wrong track jumped four points to 66 percent.

Bush's job approval rating fell to 24 percent from last month's record low for a Zogby poll of 29 percent. Dick Nixon, with the Vietnam war raging and Watergate hearings underway...well, he only sank to 31%.

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Dean Ericksen of Almost There In No Time: spawn of Eraserhead, or Chuck Manson?

Click to enlarge--if you dare!

Dean Ericksen of Almost There In No Time: spawn of Eraserhead, or Chuck Manson?

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The big party and the only time I ever saw Phil Kendall fight

I only remember seeing Philip fight once, although I do not believe he was a complete stranger to fisticuffs. He was no shrinking violet, certainly. I don't think he was averse to fighting, but thought along the same lines as I did. What could ever be the point of duking it out with some brain-damaged moron? To teach him a lesson he would forget the instant he awoke from his beer-fogged stupor the next morning? To have another great tale to toss in when the fellas were chewing the fat? To gain credibility among the gang of knuckleheads we chose as our virtual family?

In fact, the one time I did see him fight was not so much a fight as him coming to the defense of a friend who was being pummeled on the ground by a nearly-retarded ex-football player from Kent, Washington. I remember watching some fights with him and I believe we also discussed the omniscient satisfaction of watching others pummel it out from a comfortable perch, beer in hand, on the sidelines. And we did indeed have several opportunities to watch memorable dust ups outside parties, and most often, outside bars and taverns.

I don't know if Philip and I were on the same page on fights or not, but my feeling was similar to how some of the lesser animals probably felt as they watched a couple of Tyrannosaurus Rex decimate each other. If they actually did succeed in seriously injuring themselves, well, then, the world would be just a little bit safer.

Within a few weeks of when Phil, Kevin, Jerry, and I moved in together at 1721 Iron Street, we decided to have a party to inaugurate the place. We wanted to meet more people. People, as used here, specifically refers to girls. We also wanted to have a good excuse to entice our old pals back in Kent, Washington to make the 80 mile trek up to Bellingham. And what was better enticement than two kegs of Rainier beer, college girls, and the various sundries that people brought along to enhance the merrymaking? As a side note, the party also occurred at the height of the Psilocybe semilanceata mushroom season.

We saved our money to buy plenty of beer. I also recall putting out some sorts of snacks--we did not create canapes, but did put out bowls of potato chips. Maybe even some clam dip. And salt peanuts. Ah, but we're moving ahead too quickly.

A couple of weeks before the party, we contacted everyone we knew in Bellingham and Kent. A lot of our old gang were still around the old home town and most agreed to make the trek north. We chatted up everyone we knew in Bellingham (alas, I knew about eight people there, since I'd only arrived at WWU a few weeks ago). It was looking good. Everyone we knew or had met was coming to the party.

That Friday, we broke out the Pine Sol™, mops, Windex™, and rags, and swabbed out 1721 Iron Street in the first and last serious cleaning she underwent that year. We didn't place vases of flowers around the house or put up candles and streamers, but the place was modestly respectable for a houseful of grungy bohos.

Also on Friday, unbeknown to us, Jerry made a run to campus and around town with dozens of Xeroxed™ fliers, to insure full attendance.
_____________________

3 KEGS ● 3 KEGS ● 3 KEGS
Beer on ice, food,
rock and roll, dates, etc.,
BIG FUN!
1721 Iron Street 8:00 October 8, 1973
Bring friends, leaf, and your thirst
______________________

Jerry stapled fliers to bulletin boards, on the doors of bathroom stalls, outside classrooms at college, in the hallways of dormitories, at the student union building, in the cafeteria, around the music listening room, in the gym, near the bars and taverns of State Street, and even on the telephone poles lining the streets of downtown Bellingham and Fairhaven. He papered every square inch of town where people were not likely to have previous plans, and it worked. They all began arriving at our crib promptly at 8:00.

There is nothing more nerve-racking, as you know, than waiting for your own party to start. Those kegs were singing out to us from the back porch. By 7:00, pre-party jitters prompted us to tap the first keg, and by the time of the first arrivals, we felt no pain.

By 10:00, 1721 Iron Street was throbbing wall to wall with hundreds of people. The rented sound system pumped out Led Zeppelin, The Grateful Dead, Joni Mitchell, Humble Pie, Nils Lofgren, and The Beatles at about 120 decibels. It was fantastic! A dozen cars arrived from Kent, filled with old friends, friends of friends, and people who didn't know any of us but were providing transport, or other sundries. The house was elbow to elbow, the backyard was full of people, the front yard was full of people smoking, chugging beer, groping each other, laughing hysterically, firing up bongs, and drinking shots of Jack Daniels, Mescal, and Hennessey's. The party was better than we'd ever imagined. We were cooking with gas! There were hordes of women from the dorms, and every girl we'd ever met who succumbed to our invitation. High school girls from Kent rolled in. Dozens of boys and girls from the dorms showed up, on their first foray off campus.

Around 11:00, one of the visitors from Kent drove his Road Runner through the fence in our front yard and parked inches from our front door. In the backyard, one of our old classmates was crawling across the lawn, in the throes of an angel dust (a/k/a PCP) vision. Inside the house, things began to go awry. People were getting in snits over perceived and imaginary affronts. The ex-jocks and red-doggers (red-doggers: folks who enjoyed losing all control under the influence of barbiturates or Quaalude) from Kent, frustrated by a lack of success scoring with the college girls, and compounded with massive brewski intake, an unending succession of pipes and joints, and other comestibles, began to get surly. I remember Mort having a heated discussion regarding literacy with one of the knuckleheads from Kent. "He's literate. I'm literate. She's literate. You're illiterate." His name was Ace. Of course it was.

The best party ever suddenly pivoted and it was like the Sword of Damocles was hanging over the entire gathering. The vibe shifted dramatically following the demolition of our fence and events just ran downhill from there. Some of the more sensible folk began to sense violence in Pepperland--like the animals sense an incipient earthquake--and began easing toward the doors.

By midnight, the first fight erupted. The fights, naturally, were initiated by or mainly involved the attendees from our home town, and most of the culprits were friends of friends or friends of friends of friends. In any case, by the witching hour the beer, drugs, xenophobia, romantic frustration, noise, and even the long work week had taken their toll. A few preliminary dust-ups occurred, mostly settled before any serious damage was done. Twin brothers from Kent made it a mission to peg someone. They did. Mostly the attacked walked away, and were allowed to walk away.

Ace, with whom Mort was discussing literacy, soon decided to even the score for Mort's accusation of illiteracy ("whatever the f*** that is!"). And the first all out fight began.

They were rolling on the ground and Ace somehow got the advantage despite the barbiturates roiling his melon. He was about to bang on Mort's head with some object when Phil came charging from across the yard yelling. He put a workboot to the head of Ace, and ended the fight by dragging Ace off and leaving him in a heap on the lawn (Ace had a nice shiner the next morning...incredibly, he stayed overnight at our house). Other fights broke out now that the taste of blood was in the water. One departing car from Kent dug a doughnut in our front yard as they left, and hurled a wine bottle against the house. By the time the police arrived, there was no one to arrest and the minors were either gone, or safely hidden away.

Keelin remembers the party as being absolutely frightening and mortifying "scary and weird." Between Jerry's fliers and the belligerent out-of-towners, the party was doomed from the start.

The wreckage the next morning was, of course, considerable. We angrily swabbed out the place just as we had lovingly cleaned it the day before. We drank tomato juice and the leftover beer and the boys relived their moments of combat the night before. Either Phil or Kevin had a shiner (although nothing like Ace's). Mostly we were stunned. For a couple hours, our planned for party triumph actually looked like it would succeed. We would become the party masters of Western Washington University--a band of convivial Hugh Hefners who hosted the best parties in town. By the end of the party, virtually every guest fled in hopes of saving their own skins.

We had a party the next month. Mort recalled that party in an email to me. By nine o'clock about four guests had shown up. We sat huddled with the keg of beer around the wretched oil burner in our front room that supplied all the heat for the house. And four people showed! Thinking this was an anomaly, we threw another party a month later. If anything, even less people showed up. There was Phil, Mort, Jerry, me, and a couple of our most die-hard friends staring dejectedly at a door that never opened. More people would have shown up to an open house at a Leper Colony. We now had a reputation even worse than that of the rugby player's house at 1000 Indian Street. The word was out. If you want to take your life into your hands, go to a party at 1721 Iron Street. Thus ended our days as party hosts extraordinaire. We were scarred for life, or at least as long as we remained in that house.

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Fred Thompson, the real deal

Republican presidential wannabe Fred Thompson took a few jabs last night rival Rudy Giuliani in a speech on the ex-mayor's home turf. "Some think the way to beat the Democrats in November is to be more like them. I could not disagree more," the one-time Tennessee senator says in remarks he is to deliver to the Conservative Party of New York.

"I believe that conservatives beat liberals only when we challenge their outdated positions, not embrace them. This is not a time for philosophical flexibility, it is a time to stand up for what we believe in," said the late entrant into the Presidential sweepstakes.

Thompson never specifically mentions Giuliani in the leaked speechmade available to The Associated Press, but he's clearly trying to position himself against the rival who is--incredibly-- leading in national Republican polls. Giuliani was once a Democrat. Unlike Thompson, the New Yorker backs abortion rights and gay rights. He's waffled on gun control. His bobbing and weaving makes John Kerry look absolutely resolute.

Fred, if you want to win the election, you need to do two things. 1) Bring Jeri out on the campaign trail! and 2) Ask Rudy in a public debate why he is an expert on combating terrorism. Does being the victim of an act really make you The Expert on all aspects of that act? Rudy may be able to build a megamillion dollar business based on his alleged expertise, but can he really pull the wool over our eyes on this one?

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All This Is That reheated: Hucking eggs in Kent, Washington

"Hucking Eggs in Kent, Washington," originally published in All This Is That in December, 2004.

For a couple of years, one of our favorite pastimes was hucking eggs at cars. Not that we were particularly destructive, but we were boys, and destruction was part of our makeup...whether it was instilled by nature, or nurture. Eggs were the perfect vehicle--a dozen cost fifty-three cents, they wouldn't kill anyone, didn't dent sheet metal, and did no real damage to the finish of those 50's and 60's behemoths with leaded, toxic, permanent paint.

Eggs were peripheral to the fun; they were the catalyst. Eggs triggered behaviors in drivers that tapped into our fight or flight response. The egged driver had one of three responses:

They drove on obliviously, or tapped their brakes and kept moving.
They stopped and maybe got out, checked the egged fender, and drove off.
They went completely ballistic; crazy as a s**those rat.
We aimed for Response Number 3. It was about the adrenaline. Ours and theirs.

Those most likely to respond were also the most likely to inflict serious damage if they actually caught you. They were big and they were dumb. The men who gave chase were brain-damaged palookas who fly off the handle, berating clerks and starting fights in taverns; the dolts who bullied anyone that bisected their arc. These knuckleheads were chronically pissed-off guys with quarter-inch fuses and were always ready for-- and, indeed, welcomed--a fight. After all, we weren't exactly innocent bystanders. This would be a righteous stomping of The Guilty.

We could have saved a lot of eggs if we had figured out a way to profile these guys. Any of the victims could be turned, or converted into a Number 3 if they departed the relative safety of their car. As they walked around the car, inspecting the egg on the windshield or fender, a second fusillade of eggs flew from the bushes. If you hucked five or six eggs at a stationary target at least a few would make the target...perhaps splattering on their coat, or hitting the car and doing peripheral damage when they splattered. If they actually stopped or slowed down, we always launched a second volley. A driver who was willing to turn the other cheek was suddenly pushed to the brink.

It was all about the chase, and the resultant adrenaline rush. When you hit the the right guy's car, he came after you. The best ones slammed on their brakes and immediately began driving around in circles, revving their V8s, screeching around corners, trying to find the perpetrators. It added an aural element to the rush.

We always had proximate hiding spots and a loose escape plan. There was always a vacant garage, a boxcar, an abandoned car, or a hedge to hide behind. Once in a while, 'though, we'd be walking along the street, and someone--usually Lonnie Edwards--would attack a house or car as we were walking around. With no plan, and no cover, there was chaos as we scrambled for shelter anywhere. It was almost more scary to hit a house, because you were out in the open, and you never knew when someone would open the door, jacking shells into a ten gauge shotgun. Back in the 60's, not a lot of people were packing heat in their cars. These days egg hucking could very well be fatal.

Some victims would comb the neighborhood relentlessly for half an hour, racing up and down the streets. Sometimes we would would end up exposed. As the car rushed up and slammed on its brakes, we played innocent. They hadn't actually seen us, after all. "We did see four, five guys were running right over there..."

The Police would frequently be called of course, and we'd give them a blast of eggs too. Answering a complaint, or after having an egg tossed at their prowl car, they would drive around the neighborood too, sometimes cruising with their lights off, hoping we would show our faces. If they'd pursued us on foot, they might have found us, but on foot just wasn't real big in 1965. After the police showed, we would, naturally, switch locations.

One night, we stumbled on a fresh delivery of eggs, sitting on the loading dock of Westland Hatchery [1]. Each case contained a gross (a dozen dozen), or 144 eggs. We spirited away several boxes, and suddenly had 600 eggs to toss. Our first attack came as we hid to the side of the hatchery in overgrown bushes. The first hundred eggs were fired as cars passed the hatchery, as if the hatchery itself were waging war. Central Avenue was littered with hundreds of eggshells before the night was over.

We lobbed all 600 eggs that night and the beast was sated. We took the sport as far as it could go. We never hucked eggs again, and retired at the top of our game, just barely unbeaten and unarrested.

[1] The Westland Hatchery. Scene of the upcoming blog entry "My Worst Jobs, Part 6: My name is boy."
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Portrait of Dean Ericksen

click Dean to enlarge

Recent articles from All This Is That on Dean Ericksen:

The picture Dean Ericksen and Almost There In No Time did not want you to see

Painting: Dean Ericksen - portrait of a madman

The Curran and Ericksen family in Nicaragua

The Blog Wars are on hiatus?::::::Dean Ericksen has hightailed it into Central America

Word about Dean Ericksen Spreads Around The Internet

Further reader submissions of Dean Ericksen Stories And Photos

The Gathering Storm Around Dean Ericksen

Blog Wars--> Boycott This Blog: Almost There In No Time

At Last! Dean Ericksen Begins Blogging!

Dean Ericksen's review of the Grammys

Dean Ericksen's Metro Melodrama

Photograph: Dean & Jack In California

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Painting of my insurance guy

Click to enlarge

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Video games! Why waste good technology on science and medicine?

VP Gore: Nobel Laureate

Former Vice President Al Gore and the U.N.'s climate change panel won the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize today for educating folks about climate change and possibly how to fix it, or at least arrest it.

The Prize is normally awarded to peacemakers. Clearly the panel feels what he has done is exceptional, even though it falls outside the traditional Nobel peace prize framework[1]. "We face a true planetary emergency," Gore said. "The climate crisis is not a political issue, it is a moral and spiritual challenge to all of humanity."

The Nobel committee chairman, Ole Danbolt Mjoes, swears that the prize was not a jab at Presidents Bush and Cheney, who laughed off the Kyoto protocols, and have generally treated global warming like a hippy/fringie delusion.

The prize, of course, re-ignited the Gore-istas who still hold out hope he will run for the Presidency. Two Gore advisers told the Associated Press, on condition of anonymity, because that the award will not make it any more likely that he will seek the presidency in 2008. True. a) He doesn't want to run again; and b) the last time I checked, his numbers were low. Obviously those numbers will soar now, but I don't think that will change Al's mind...

[1] But then, Peace Prize winners Yassir Arafat, Mehachem Begin, and Anwar Sadat weren't exactly peace-freaks, were they?
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