CROSSROADS TO SOMEWHERE: Eeny Meany Mina Mo, Catcha Riter by the Woe

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By W.T. WIMPY HIROTO

Just to prove (to myself) that Crossroads to Somewhere can be more than a one-trick pony and certainly more than an “O-bah-keh” columnist, allow me to entertain you with…

Okay, harrumph, give me another minute to eat crow. So I drew a blank; my mind failed me. I’m staring at a screen and nothing scintillating appears. Zounds! Don’t tell me you can come up with a response every time when in dire need. I guess humility is an everyday need; a stumble every now and again is good for the soul, if not the ego. Now that we have defeat behind us, let’s hold hands and travel down the Yellow Brick Road together to see if it’s wise to follow Toto.

No matter your political persuasion, I’ll bet you’re relieved the first Tuesday in November only comes around every four years. And though there is much hand-wringing over the billion$ of dollars wasted on the campaigns, I’m bored but not upset. Regardless of whether it’s well spent or not, the bulk of the money goes to advertising, one kind or another.  Mainly it goes into the coffers of television networks, newspapers, magazines and printers. Staff, consultants of every ilk, researchers and specialized pollsters eat up what is left. So yeah, the dollars might be considered non-productive, but real live people benefit from the madne$$. It isn’t siphoned off to China, India or the Mexican Mafia.

I mean, hey, it ain’t like shooting off a cacophony of fireworks, poof and its gone; or investing millions in an unproductive thoroughbred stud horse. I don’t know when I started being a Pollyanna, but it sure beats getting bent out of shape over things you can’t control. [Remember that old bamboo adage, bend but don’t break. Was it bamboo or something else, like Oregon’s defense?]

CR2S joins the Li’l Tokio community in mourning the passing of Frances Hashimoto Friedman. Much too soon, too young and too many cigarettes.

Example of an oddball sleeping condition: I had a dream last night that featured Ndamukong Suh and David H. Petraeus.  Can you imagine the combination of a pro football defensive tackle and the ex-CIA director? My creepy apnea sojourn made no sense at all (which is usually the case). The Detroit Lions player and disgraced military hero were being cast is some sort of television reality show. Don’t expect any more than that brief outline because my dreams are so weird they defy real world description. The only explanation would be having watched a Sunday slate of pro games (but not Detroit), and being intrigued by the sexsational downfall of a national icon who-might-have-become-president.  I guess even four-star generals can be tempted. But twice? That we know of.  Anyway, thought I’d throw that at you now, anticipating a column on dreams one of these days.

Xavier Cugat was born 01-01-1900.  But he won’t be 113 next New Year’s Day. Because unfortunately, he’s dead. (For the bewildered:  He was a pre-war bandleader who introduced Cuban music to the mainland before Desi Arnaz, who was Lucille Ball’s philandering husband.]   

Some things never change. Like my distaste, to put it mildly, for the likes of Tiger and Kobe. Yeah, I know, who cares?  But, hey, there’s an intangible, imponderable strength that comes from being free to write whatever strikes your fancy. It doesn’t matter if you’re a blowhard, phony SOB but you’re a blowhard, phony SOB with a byline. A great influencer. The likes of Bill Gates and Warren Buffet could be writers, probably. But they’re not. Bill Hosokawa could have been a professor had he chosen; but he didn’t. It’s a good bet Sen. Daniel K. Inouye will write a memoir upon retirement, but I’ll bet it’ll be ghosted.

But, enuf’ already. This all started as a segue from my dislike of two wildly popular sports figures, Woods and Bryant. In case you didn’t know, I’ve put a hex on both; with great success. That’s why TW hasn’t won a major in years and KB has become an aging, soured has-been. All you rabid fans of theirs can put it all on me, because I’m not going to relent. And to make sure CR2S isn’t looked upon as a slant-eyed bigot, I have added a new target: Lane Kiffen.

Picked up the phone and heard a familiar voice: “Hey, how it is? Old man?!?! Elated to hear from such a dear friend absent for too long, I ranted and raved, “was just thinking about you,” and rattled off a burst of whats and wherefores, finally taking a deep breath to finally ask “How it is?” with him. It didn’t take long to figure out I didn’t know who I was talking to! Worse yet, I still don’t.

W.T. Wimpy Hiroto can be reached at [email protected] Opinions expressed in this column are not necessarily those of The Rafu Shimpo.

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