I’m Mike Meissner, host of KRFY’s 70’s Classics show. The IRS knows me as Mike Bauer. I am a late baby boomer, having grown up as a suburban kid in the suburbs of Detroit spending my formative years worshipping my idol rockstars. I was a latchkey child, whose parents were a bit absent at times, but I had friends with whom I would hang out and wear out the vinyl. After receiving Jethro Tull’s Thick as a Brick for my 13th birthday, I was hooked on music.
In ’74, I was 15 and staying off the streets, but I was legally loitering at the hometown record store, having been “adopted” by a kindly young childless couple who owned the joint. I spent my days frolicking among the albums, which contained the endless bits of information I craved. I organized all of the albums meticulously by artist, and then in alphabetical order by the name of the album. For those of you who are 70s audiophiles, you’ll remember 1974 was one of the best years ever for classic albums. Steely Dan’s Pretzel Logic. Bad Company. Robin Trower’s Bridge of Sighs. Big singles from Steve Miller, John Denver, Elton John, Gladys Knight and Redbone.
One day, toward the end of that memorable summer, my mentor invited me to a trip to a wholesale record outlet in Detroit. He said, “I want to buy you an album, just pick one.” My eyes grew wide and my excitement quickly turned into the realization that I was about to make a monumental decision. The verdict: Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. As with all things, the summer came to an end, they closed the record store, and I had a good cry.
Now, back to the show. If you’re in my demographic, I hope my rambling has stirred your memories of the great music of the 70’s. Or, perhaps you’re a bit younger and you have found yourself humming along to some Pink Floyd. If either sounds like you, tune in to 70’s Classics every Saturday night at 7 pm on KRFY 88.5 for a commercial free hour of some of your favorite 70’s tunes. I’ll be there, as the good folks at KRFY have given me a place to go to keep me off the streets.l;
At first, I was nervous. What if “he” won the debate? What if “he” won the election? “No”, I thought to myself, “try not to think about it.” Reaching for a slurp of Maker’s 46, I sat down to a surreal 98 minutes of indecipherable television. I recorded it for posterity. I recorded it so I could watch it later and try to make some sense of it. It was like being at a party at which I drank a little too much; it was a little blurry, too surreal to process all at once.
Well, I had a couple, and maybe because I had a couple, I tapped into the same absurdity Hillary noticed and maybe all but 43% of the rest of the country noticed; I started to laugh a little on the inside. Huh, I wonder what he would look like with a funny red nose, and maybe some rosy cheeks and big floppy shoes. Nope, I don’t think he would be as funny. His seriousness is what makes him funny.
No, it’s his temperament, it’s a great temperament really. No, wait, it’s his stamina. He has great stamina. You need lots of stamina to be President of the United States. And Trump has shown that he has GREAT stamina many times over. Hillary Clinton, on the other hand, has NO stamina. (To my descendants find this blog many generations from now: This paragraph is an extreme example of 21st century sarcasm. You may now have a book discussion or write your college paper).
So, no, with all of my sarcasm drained from my body, I can say that I cannot wait for the next debate on October 9, where I will once again record the event, but while I watch live I have every intention of playing the Debate Drinking Game like so many disgruntled American electorate. I highly recommend it. Basically, you will drink each time your chosen candidate utters a key word (personally, I like “stamina”). Once you awaken from your coma, you will find you have recorded the conflagration and if you choose to, you can watch it sober and try to make sense of it. Or, you can get drunk again and go vote on November 8.
Every day, like so many others, I stop and appreciate one of my best friends, my cat, Oliver. We have been together for a long time; as a matter of fact, my friendship with Oliver is the longest I have ever had with that of another species. When he was 4, he got out of the house, I tried to get him back in but couldn’t, and after I got to work, he tried to kiss the bumper of a car on the highway. The landlord called me at work and said the highway worker saw him drag his two back feet into the woods.
For two days I looked hither and yon, and just as the search mission was turning into a recovery mission, he came out from under one of the old single wide trailers with his lower jaw at a curious right angle to his upper jaw. His tongue was hanging out. Not good. Off to the vet. The local Vet said – Hmmm take him to a specialist in Denver and see if he is interested in putting JigJaw Puzzles together today. I called and he said – sure for lots of money I’ll do it, and of course, money didn’t mean anything, so, off to Denver we went.
He looked at me the whole way, with his jaw that way, and the look on his face as if he was asking me, “Uh, are you going to take me to the dentist, or what?” Two weeks and some bank financing later my little feline work of surgical art came home. Perfect jaw with two pins in it. If you know anything about a cat’s lower jaw, it’s like, made out of four toothpicks glued together. The guy was a…well…a surgeon. Two days later, his jaw sunk down and two the left – but just a little. Just enough to give him some character. Just enough for me to call him, from time to time, “Ol’ Crooked Mouf”. Meet Oliver. He will be 15 in December.
I let a half day slip irretrievably away yesterday at one of America’s favorite retail venues. I may have felt that I could have done a lot of other things with my time other than walk around Wal Mart, but I have to admit I did learn a few things. I learned if it after Labor Day, it’s time for Halloween, that celebration of all things dead, rotting and flesh-eating.
I was delighted to see the display of guitar playing skeletons that could be members of the Grateful Dead.
I soon found out the best place to pass gas was the fragrance aisle.
When you come across sushi that’s on sale because it’s past it’s expiration date – probably a good idea to pass.
I learned that toilet paper can be soft, or it can be strong, but it can never be both. Life is so unfair.
This is where I am supposed to make my first blog post. Instead of being anonymous, which takes all the fun out of being naughty, I am supposed to identify myself, tell about my background, yadda yadda yadda. So here goes.
Mike Bauer. Born Wayne, Michigan, 6/15/1959. Model number white male, serial number ***-**-4364. 2 credit cards. Average health, average income, average anxiety level. Too old to be this immature. Clings to humor to stay sane, which is the mission of this blog. Hmmm. What else?
I very well could be called Mike Meissner as my paternal grandfather took on the Bauer name although his father’s surname was Meissner. Why? We’ll never know. So – that name is small part of me. I use it to disguise who I really am when I mess up on my 70s music show on the community radio station KRFY here in Sandpoint, Idaho. Yep, that’s where I live. Lucky me. When he moved here a friend of mine said “I’ll leave here when they take me away in a box.” Now he lives in Alaska. Life is funny.
So- I wonder if that’s enough of an introduction? Let’s get on with it already. I’m socially awkward enough and alcohol does not translate well over a blog. There’s nobody here to read this anyway.