The Gang's All Here!

Wow! Been a long time since I last imparted any words of wisdom on this blog. Maybe it's because I really and truly don't possess any words of wisdom to pass along. And that's OK!
But I just experienced a weekend and though I gained no wisdom from it, I gained the vision of why we should maintain solid-gold friendships with those who were instrumental to our development in the formative years and beyond. You see, following my college days, I spent a few lean years trying to figure out what I was trying to accomplish in life. How would I maintain my lavish lifestyle? Fulltime employment? Hmmm...not so much. How about playing softball with a bunch of rag-tag friends, working as a liquor store clerk and subsidizing my income by participating in a weekly poker game with aforementioned amigos? A couple of my teammates were elementary school chums, a few friends of friends, a sibling and even my "pater." Yes, Big George, my dad, strapped it on and lead this bunch of misfits (who had conned a local trucking company to pay for our jerseys and league fees.) My dad loved baseball/softball but due to some health issues could no longer play his favorite sport. But, he did enjoy sitting in the dugout wearing his "Big George" jersey and trying to get us to "get off our lazy asses and run out the grounders" and "quit looking at the ball." Did we ever learn? I doubt it. Just maybe we went deaf just so we could hear him continuously get on our cases. He loved it and so did we. Anyway............
Our team was mediocre and below but we had the times of our lives. And perhaps the meeting of the baseball minds after each game at the local pub, the Village Inn, was the real reason for our attempts at capturing the coveted $12 gold plated championship trophy. I made some tight, solid friendships during the years playing third base for our team. We shared weddings, births, even a couple of deaths in our early years. Then as usually happens, life gets in the way and no matter how hard we tried to stay together, it wasn't meant to be...(fast forward from the mid- 70's to the present; listen for that familiar whirling sound like you hear in the movies)...until this past weekend! Yes we held a reunion of the Orozco Trucking softball team and the Sunday Night Poker Posse. It took about 3 months to plan and finally it was here. Most of us had not seen each other in 30+ years...so we rented a penthouse suite in the OC and got her done!
Weezer flew in from Nebraska; the rest of us were still in SoCal. Oh, did I mention that not one in the group has a real name. That's right, for the years we were together nary a real name was ever used. And it had nothing to do with outwitting the law! So that tradition continued during the reunion...mostly because our memories are shot and we couldn't remember each others names if our collective lives depended on it. I would love to give you the sordid details of the weekend but "what happens in the OC..." Here's the roster of attendees:
Weezer
King
Large Lewis
Boomer
Lizard
MooseNose
Johnny 3 Fingers
Wheels
Simone
Roach (who stiffed us and pulled a no-show)
Great White (deceased)
Tony the Dick (Deceased)
Sounds like an episode from the Sopranos doesn't it?
Quite a conglomeration of interesting human beings who were attracted under the auspices of softball 3 1/2 decades ago. Our gathering last Saturday night resumed conversations that were begun 35 years ago and continued with incredible continuity 35 years later. We all experienced the power of the best friend. An amazing power and an equally amazing bond.
Orozco Trucking hit one out of the park this past weekend. One of our most sensational wins of all time. Hopefully we can get the team together again next year with the same strong lineup of men...er...boys who love each other and would do anything for each other.
So maybe I did gain some wisdom from our reunion and would like to impart these words of wisdom:
Your oldest and dearest friends are a deep-rooted connection to a past that created who you are today. Treasure and cherish them.

July...already? My favorite month is drawing to a close!

July...my birth month...summertime. I have always loved July. No school. Hot weather. Baseball races in full swing. It's been my favorite month forever....and I ought to know having just celebrated my 58th July. It's the best month of the year. Fourth of July fireworks, picnics, potato salad, burgers and dogs to excess! Pepto Bismol in 55 gallon drums. I fondly remember spending Independence Day with my family, brother, neighbors Albert & Gordon Ting, M-80's in their banana tree (which we felled after drilling holes around it's base, packing M-80's in each hole, intertwining the fuses and "letting her blow!" Picture a two foot stump and an 8 foot banana tree on its side. To this day it's a mystery as to what happened to that poor tree. Let's all celebrate July!!! I've had another excellent July. Luckily I have my iPhone to chronicle just how good it's been. Here we go:











Sonny meets Tangi in Honolulu at his ukulele workshop. He hand built my favorite concert uke.















Back in my walking regimen (following that heart 'thang') and nearly making it to the top of Cowles Mountain. Maybe next month.
















Hanging with Man-Ram...Manny Ramirez. Learing all the ins and outs of taking female hormones and how they might affect my home run swing.
















Finding out how a three-inch splinter skewering the middle finger affects my home run swing.
















Taking a little money from Viejas Casino by getting dealt 10 straight flushes. (My first "ever" straight flush and I just happened to be playing ten hands at one time. Got a nice little $125 payout on this baby. Still not enough to get 10-99'd but I'll take it!)












Enjoying scenic Sardine Lake near Sierra City, CA.












Having an intimate birthday celebration at PetCo with yet another Padre loss to the Rockies.

Now you know why I love July. Hope you have a month that means as much to you.

Lazy Blogger

I have been one lazy blogger. Sorry about that. But I've really had nothing to say. Even today...nada...blank.....zero....zilch...damn! There was something! It happened out of my pie hole because I am preparing to sign a check to the plumber for a newly installed water heater. Damn! In the day I could easily put one of these bad boys in. Now, though, I'm either too lazy, too old, too sore, too weak, too afraid that after I try I'll have to have the plumber come out anyway and repair my repair job. The older I get the more this happens lately. But the great part is with age you don't give a damn as much. When I was younger I had perfectionist tendencies (that still linger, slightly.) But now? Hell I could have installed the water heater. Connected it to my digital cable. Had the cold going to hot and vice versa. And left a stick of dynamite next to the pilot light. As long as Monday morning at 3AM when I got into the shower, there was some semblance of "warmish" water, I would have done the Snoopy Dance. But alas, I don't even try anymore. You see, when I "f" up now it's usually larger than life...or nearly so. A few weeks ago I was trying to put a few new cedar boards on my dilapidated fence and nearly took a knuckle off my thumb with a Skil Saw. That wakes a guy up! This would have never happened in my youth...but now, stuff like that hinders everything I attempt. I use to be "the handyman" in my wife's eyes. Now I'm just the guy who strokes the check. Hell, I don't even make the phone call to set up the plumber appointment. I may accidentally call Pizza Hut and order 12 pepperoni P-Zones! Which, to quote the late, great Chris Farley, would be "AWESOME!" So back to this blog....my job supervisor has advised me to become a Twitterererer! Yeah, that's right! I am becoming the king of the Tweets. (Follow me at sonnywest.) Gotta run and pay the plumbing piper. Be back later.

Can you say "adios $12 hundred bucks?"

The plumber Dan, from Ideal Plumbing really did a good job. All the fittings fit, all the pipes piped, no gas leaks, no water leaks...and it took him 4 hours to complete the job. Had I undertaken this little projects....besides 43 trips to Home Depot...the water heater would be installed horizontally and the ripe odor of natural gas would be something we'd just have to learn to live with. Gotta light?

So getting back to being the master Twitterererer....this social application is the newest media darling but to be honest with you, in my humble opinion (IMHO), why am I wasting time with it? Is it something that's gonna make me a better morning radio guy? Is it something that's gonna translate into $$$ to help pay for my water heater? Is it something that will be beyond passe in 6 months? But the boss said jump into the Twitter gene-pool...so I went in head first. Ow! Think I cracked my dome on a "hash tag." (Not even gonna' try and explain that one.) A survey recently came out indicating that 90% of all Tweets (that's what socially networked who-hahs call messages on Twitter) are created by 10% of the users...and...that most who sign up on Twitter are abandoning their Twit-sonality within 30 days. So Re-Tweet that to someone who cares. But I'm making the most of my time with all the Twits. Just not spending a lot of it. You'll never catch a Tweet from me telling you I prefer Hidden Valley Ranch Fat Free Dressing on my sweet potato fries because I really don't think you care one way or another. But I will Tweet interesting tidbits happening around San Diego and to San Diegans.

Jeez, for not having anything to say I sure am blubbering along. So I'll stop now and try to stop in again sometime sooner than the 60 days between my last blog entry.

Enjoy whatever you want to enjoy. Find cheer from it and never hold me accountable. Now go Tweet and be happy. Or not!

Happy Opening Day...My 58th Baseball Season!

Ok, so I'm a baseball fanatic. Maybe, IMHO it's because it's such a pure sport. Guy throws round object at guy holding cylindrical object trying to crush round object. It is truly THE most difficult sport to play....well. Although ESPN ranks boxing as the sport with the highest degree of difficulty, baseball defies the laws of physics in so many ways. Hey, Pete Rose summed it up best, "It's a round ball and a round bat, and you've got to hit it square!" OK. So he's not a Rhodes Scholar but he's got a point. And if I were a betting man, I'd lay odds that most ball players would agree with Pete. Pete may even take some of that action.

I grew up loving baseball because my dad and his dad and my grandmother made sure that I would love this American game. Every chance there was I'd be with the aforementioned family unit listening to an old bakelite Silvertone in the garage while doing chores (younger readers may be asking "what the hell are chores?") listening to the Dodgers try to take a game away from the San Francisco Giants. So give me a break, I grew up in LA and the Angels were still a minor league club. The Blue Wrecking Crew was my team until I moved to San Diego in 1975.
I have fond memories of attending Dodger games at the LA Coliseum. Oh yeah, a 250 foot left field shot over an 80 foot fence. Wally Moon shots we're something special. Then we catch a game at LA's Wrigley Field where the Angels played. The ballpark was an exact replica of Chicago's basilica of baseball. I even have a faint recollection of attending a couple of Hollywood Stars games (a Pacific Coast League team) at Gilmore Field where the present CBS Television City now stands (Beverly & Fairfax).

Baseball was everywhere in my life. It was my life. It's what I longed for during the Fall/Winter months. "Dad, when are little league tryouts?" His answer always the same, "still four months and 13 days away." My optimism shone a bit brighter. Yesterday tryouts were four months and 14 days away.

My auspicious little league career started off "like a balsa wood bat against Nolan Ryan." Drafted by the Fireballs, I was the biggest kid on the team. Expectations were always heightened by being the "big" i.e. chubby, kid on the team. He must be a long-ball bopper. Au contraire...I struck out 44 straight times that season. Batted a giant goose egg and really only got in the games because third base coach Big George was my dad. He never really got on me for being so crappy. He worked with me on my stance, my approach to hitting, keeping my eye on the ball...he was my personal Tony Gwynn. The only difference Tony gets results from his understudies. Then it happened. We figured out why my hitting style resembled that of an immigrant grandma beating the dust out of a carpet on a clothesline. It wasn't hitting mechanics. I was visually challenged. I had to grow into my new nickname.....Four Eyes. So here I was, the second year in the league, this time drafted by the Yanks but sporting a reputation that screamed "big boy, no game!" Now remember, the previous year, 44 at bats, 44 strikeouts, 44 long walks back to the dugout head hung low, bat dragging behind me, an invisible tear in my eyes. This year, it's a new me. Sporting some stylish Clark Kent eye wear but still unproven at the dish. First at bat, whiff, whiff, whiff...strike three. Second at bat, whiff, whaff, wuff...strike three. What the hell is going on here. My optometrist said I could see now. Why wasn't I able to hit that little round ball with my little round bat. My dad sensed my dejection but was always certain I had a skill set. Maybe it wasn't a baseball skillset.....but that day, he found the answer to my whiffing woes. My last at bat that day he pulled me aside as I was stepping into the batter's box. I wish I could tell you it was the last inning, bases were loaded and it was up to me to point to center field and knock one outta' 'da park. But I can't recall the circumstances. All I know that my dad's words changed my life that day. His words have carried me through life. Poignant. Succinct. Meaningful. Wise. It wasn't a diatribe. It wasn't a litany. It was eight little words that I carry with me yet today. Big George bent down, looked me straight in those tortoise shell specs and said, "Try it with your eyes open this time." I looked at him incredulously as if to say, "What are you nuts? Of course my eyes have been open." He put his finger to my mouth to shush me and he just nodded his head. I nodded back and stepped into the batter's box. Whiff....whiff....WHACK! Yeah, it was a Barry Bonds moment sans HGH. I watched a high drive to left field sail to that three foot fence and bounce off the top and onto the field. I hit that bastard! As hard as I could! My dad was yelling at me to "run." Oh yeah, I forgot. So like any chubby kid who runs like he has a Steinway strapped to his back, I legged out my first little league triple complete with a slide into third base. My dad smiled. I about peed my pants. And we went for ice cream after the game. By the way, that season we won the championship. I went 35 for 52...which is a sweet .712 batting average. And my love affair for the game of baseball grew even stronger.

Which brings me to why I wrote today's blog. The Padres invited us to PetCo Park to take some batting practice. Here's the video (along with co-workers Sam Bass and Kevin Dean.) Unfortunately for me I don't have that .712 form any longer. Hell, I barely got wood on the ball. But it didn't matter one bit. Just for that instance I was back at Barnes Park, digging in and trying to hit a round ball with a round bat WITH my eyes open.
Play Ball.

Not the Brightest Beacon on the Tower!

It was a small Northern California town. The kind you only dream about one day living...and this young, upstart radio "genius" was moving there. This was his third radio job and this time he was sewing Program Director stripes on his polyester disco shirt. Look out here comes a renaissance Marconi! Not quite sure if the industry could handle this upstart...it wasn't ready for him! First week on the job he spent living in a motel room listening to his "new" radio stations...the ones he would fingerprint with his personal wizardry, the ones that would create his broadcast legacy, the ones that would pay him $14,400 per annum. This was the most money he had ever made. He was on his way. So what would be his first move? After much thought, mental deliberation and reams of legal pads listing pros/cons his first foray into radio programming would be to clean up the noon hour where that "load" Paul Harvey was desecrating this hotshot's airwaves. Hell, this guy couldn't put a sentence together without annoying pauses, long-winded breaths, and claptrap he called "news." Hey I've got news for you Paul Harvey "you're done in my town!" Pack up your Bose Wave Machine and take a hike! Come back when you've got an act that plays in "my" Smallville, USA.
Yes, my first action as Program Director was in motion....that is until the General Manager said he wanted to "chat" with me. So into the palatial office I saunter, thumbs under my suspenders expecting accolades of a warrior who had returned with the spoils of radio wars. But before I even rested my proudest asset on his "davenport of doom" he posed a question to me. "How many people live in our county?" Smart-assedly I responded, "Enough to know that these two radio stations have become better in the last three days!" He didn't listen. He answered his own question, "125,000 people...that's how many." The he fired off another one. "How many people do you think listen to that so-called "load" Paul Harvey on a daily basis in our town and across the country?" Knowing he was serious I set aside my self-assured manner and tried to answer his query accurately and succinctly. "I'm guessing a few hundred thousand because you know it IS (hard emphasis) a nationally syndicated piece of tripe!" I couldn't let it go (a trait I would learn to corral following this meeting and forever thereafter.) With an angered wave of his bony hand he once again answered his own question. "30 G-damn million"!!! (Notice the three exclamation points...I actually think when he spoke there were more like 150 of them but for space and time constraints three should cover his exuberance nicely.)
That was the day I learned about Paul Harvey. That was the day I learned to listen to Paul Harvey. That was the year I went to the National Association of Broadcasters Convention in Chicago and met Paul Harvey. That was the year I learned to appreciate a great man dedicated to his craft, his wife, his family, his life....that's the the year I learned I wasn't the brightest beacon on the the tower...that's the year I learned the "rest of the story."

PS: Paul Harvey remained on the station for a mere 30 years following my departure. I guess I showed him!

Take a Whiff...It's Springtime...Almost.

So it seems it's always springtime or summertime in San Diego. It's how we roll on the left coast. Isn't that why we all pay the extra sunshine tax to live in our little niche of Nirvana? Putting up with state legislators refusing to come to grips with astronomical budgets and playing to our sympathies because the poor babies had to catch their zzzzs in chambers. But it did make for auspicious photo ops. The Herculean efforts of these long-winded martyrs. I am giving them my personal one-handed applause. Why not furlough these State employees rather than DMV clerks? At least I'd still be able to get my license and they'd still be able to collect their paltry $110,000 yearly salary and $138 per diem minus one day a week. But fahgetabout all that. These hard working salt-of-the-earth types pressed on in one of the longest sessions in the history of the world Part II and passed a budget. Funny, I wonder how long I'd last if I merely pushed my home budget process aside and filibustered my creditors? Mayhaps I'd be writing this diatribe from the sanctity of a debtor's prison lockup. But then again, would it matter? Most likely not because it's springtime (almost), I'm feeling better physically after my doctors performed my mid-life tuneup, checked the fluid levels and the pressure AND the Padres have reported to Peoria for spring training. It makes me feel warm all over. Just like when I was a kid in Monterey Park trying out for Little League at Barnes Park. Hey I got drafted by the Fireballs! First practice is Monday. Wow, I'd better re-lace my glove with new shoe strings (who needed cow hide). Maybe this year I'll replace the white ones with waxy black laces. Get out the Shinola and put a dozen layers of polish on the rubber cleats--that were more rubber than cleat. And with my size and girth...well, like cleats would even make a difference. Ever see anyone try to run while carrying a Steinway Baby Grand on their back? I might beat them by a step or a step-and-a-half (if I just visited the Rotary Club Memorial Restrooms.) Little League was my yearly renaissance--my reason for putting up with school work, home work, yard work the rest of the year. It was a simpler time. And maybe that's why Major League Baseball spring training means so much to me. A simpler time. Time spent in the dirt, on the grass with friends and my dad--who dearly loved baseball. A kinder, gentler and healthier time in my life. Here's hoping I can regain that threesome again...I'm trying. But there are some things that truly are genetic; that being, the Steinway Baby Grand on my back. I never could run that fast and I don't think I ever will be able to. Now I'm satisfied with a 3 mile power walk and a fresh, new look at a healthier life. Play ball!

Two "Construction" Workers Saved My Life

So throughout my life I've experienced many landmark events. Getting a driver's license at 16; registering for the draft at 18; my first (legal) drink at 21; first time doing a radio show on the air; first tv appearance; marriage; births; deaths; awards. I'm not braggin'...I'm just sayin'! My landmarks are of no less or no greater importance than yours, his or the guy walking down Main Street (to quote Sister Veronica Rose, St. Stephen's Catholic School in Monterey Park, California.) I experienced another such landmark January 22 at 2 A.M. My first, and hopefully my last, heart attack. A 100% occluded left anterior descending coronary artery. Yep, the cardiologist (Dr. Nassir Azimi at Grossmont Hospital) cheerfully told my wife he'd never seen the "widow maker" blocked quite like this one. And that he'd remember it for the rest of his career (and he's only 38.) He, along with Dr. Hassankhani, surmised they needed to perform an angioplasty and see if they could unclog this bugger. Why two doctors? Because I'm so damned important! Thankfully they think ALL their patients are so DAMNED important. So it really wasn't an "egotastic" moment. You see, Dr. Hassankhani is "the electrician" -- he's an electro-cardiologist who had performed two cardiac ablations on me in the past 24 months. Dr. Azimi is "the plumber" --he's the guy who unclogs the pipes. So together these two journeymen tradesmen set out to make me better. I didn't need to look for their union label, I simply needed to have the chest pain stop. And they did. And now, two weeks hence, I am planning my return to work to the KyXy Morning Show, Monday February 9th and a lifelong struggle against weight gain, salt over usage and consistent exercise regimens.

Along with a heart attack and it's subsequent physical recovery (glad I can use both those words/phrases in the same sentence) come psychological mending, too. Will I wake up in the morning? Will that artery clog again? Will I need a transfusion if I nick myself shaving (damn blood thinners)? What's that little pain in my chest? Oh, it's nothi....beeeeep...flatline!

So this is one of my landmark landmarks. Unlike my first "legal" cocktail, I could have done without this episode helping define my pretty much ordinary life. I could have done without the stress it had shoveled onto my Florence Nightingale wife. I could have done without the card I now must carry saying I belong to the "two stent gent's club." I could have done without all this had I only done without salt, sugar, excess calories and sendentarianism (not to be confused with Libertarianism, vegetarianism or disestablishmentarianism.)

I am thankful for all the landmark events in my life but none greater than this one. For along with this one comes the landmark opportunity to truly become "renaissance man" literally. In some regards a lot like Benjamin Button who grows younger and smaller with age. I'll never get younger, but I intend to grow smaller.

I am thankful to my electrician and my plumber for the chance to be reborn.

Socially Not-worked...er....Networked?

All right already, I've stepped into the realm of Facebook. I tired...er...tried MySpace but never really embraced it the way the music industry is now hanging on to it. Of course, now, rather than being a cool place to hang, MySpace has transitioned into a portal for indie music acts to post new songs in hopes they gain traction among the hipper-than-hip crowd. Which by the way, now considers MySpace to be "your father's website." And does dear old dad really want to see you sucking on a beer-bong, sporting a new pelvic tat and having your navel jewel polished by RanDee the pale-faced Goth? I guess everyone wants to be "seen." Never mind that these snaps may come back and bite you on the butt (your butt...the one tattooed with the profile of Marilyn Manson. Nice!) Anyone, everyone can see your MySpace. Enter Facebook.
Now only "friends" can view your pictorial adventures at Spring Break. Safer? Yes. Still, what's the obsession with wanting your 15 minutes of infamy? I guess it's always been a pounding urge in many of us to "be somebody!" Yo! I coulda' been somebody. Are we that desperate for fame? A basic need bubbling under along with food, clothing and shelter. Meh.
I guess it's just cool...and a lot of us just want to show the world exactly how "wacky" we are. I will say, there are some pretty creative videos I've seen posted on all the aforementioned social networks along with YouTube. But some? Just more candidates for a Darwin Award...numbskulls that continue chlorinating the gene pool. Anyway...back to Facebook. I now have a Facebook account and am lording over the social network kingdom. I have rekindled unnecessary acquaintances with superficial "friends" by posting a note on their virtual "wall"; and I have labored over their posted "status" reports ad nauseum (I really don't care to be updated on your whereabouts or your fractured feelings twice per hour...I've lived this long without knowing, I believe I can muddle through another day without knowing.) But to be honest, I am enjoying the Facebook experience. I have even added the Facebook app on my iPhone so I can receive status updates whether I'm shopping at Target or over-taxing my heart trekking up Cowles Mountain. Man, I am socially networked. So, I will continue to lurk, sneer, chuckle, grin and enjoy what now has become an obsession among 30, 40, 50, 60 somethings. My only lament is knowing that now that I am into Facebook it must be on it's way out.

Well....Hi There!

As I think about being on the radio I reminisce back to when the radio seed was first sowed in my "garden of ether." As a kid I never went to bed with out my transistor--a GE with a crappy earphone--under my covers. I'd listen to the disc jockeys and not the music. Who cared about the music, you could find that at Arbuckles Music Store on Garvey Ave. in Monterey Park where I spent my (de)formative years. My first 45 RPM--It's My Party by Lesley Gore. My hots for Lesley were torrid...and yes she knew how I felt. I wrote her letters everyday for a year, mailed them to Mercury Records, her record company, and told them over and over how I felt about this "older" woman; after all, she was born in 1946. And in 1963 I was a mere pup of 12 but knew in my heart of hearts I could satisfy this older 17 year-old minx. After nearly 300 letters it finally came. The sound of trumpets accompanied my treasure. Much like when Ralphie received his "Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle" in The Christmas Story. Although I knew my first rock n' roll love would NEVER shoot My eye out! Maybe a few gouges here and there..... My treasure was an autographed 8 x 10 black and white glossy of my true love. Yes, touched by her own hand. Signed just for me...even though my name didn't appear anywhere on this masterpiece. Later in life I had the opportunity to interview my sweetheart. I still felt the pangs of a Montague yearning for the Capulet. We spoke. I gushed. We felt the warmth of our words melt into each other then she hit me with it. She had not personally signed any of her PR photos in 1963--none that went out in the mail anyway. After I removed Cupid's arrow and broke it over my knee I let her go. Now she and I could continue our lives--albeit without each other--in bitter emptiness. Ten minutes after the interview concluded I was over her. Yes, dropped like a hot rock, I must move on. Much like in this blog. So now I come to the real reason for this diatribe.

Much like the connection I had with radio dj's of old and certain female singers as well, I must say goodbye to a radio colleague. Harry "Happy Hare" Martin lost his battle with liver cancer yesterday. Now here was a radio icon. Even though I never knew Harry in his heyday on KCBQ when 60% of all radios were tuned to his morning show, I had the opportunity to know him in 1979 till the day he left this earth. He was a gracious man who some say would make you always feel like the "star in the room." And others would say, they never knew him...but upon accepting a first handshake and a hearty "well hi there" they BECAME the star in the room. Happy Hare also had the uncanny ability to make those who listened to him feel the same way. He was larger than life, louder than life and kept his "positive meter" always pegged. This city is a better place for the likes of Happy Hare...and his home in the afterlife? We'll the decibel meter up there is 100% with "well hi there" to every spirit he comes in contact with. You are missed Harry.