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This past weekend I bought a 1974 issue of Sunset magazine at a garage sale. I needed a flashback and the only drugs in the house were Estrogen and BenGay.

What struck me most as I browsed through the issue was how much things have changed and how much they have remained the same. For example, there was an ad for "The New Datsun 710." Amazingly, the car came in both orange AND yellow. The tagline read, "The driving man's economy car." The driving woman, on the other hand, was forced to drive the Pinto station wagon a few pages further back in the magazine, and apparently she did so while wearing a long flowing skirt and flowers in her hair. Oddly enough, there wasn't a soccer ball in sight. The wealthy folk - with felt hats, cigars and long sideburns - tooled around town in the Caprice Classic, whose ad boasted "For people who think driving is something the car should do."

TEN DAYS IN ASIA - DAY 3 - MFOHG (PT. 2 )

Good day, Quirkee readers!   It's time for another installment of the adventures of a comic on a week and a half tour, entertaining U.S. troops stationed in Japan and Korea.  Better known as "Ten Days In Asia", our first chapter has our protagonist (JR) at a ‘hell gig' on a tiny Naval Base in Chinhae, Korea.  From there, he and his comedy partner (Slade) travel to Osan, where they are met by Desmond, a U.S. Air Force Military Entertainment Coordinator (aka the story's antagonist).

OSAN, KOREA - EVENING

We are on our way to Osan Air Force Base, and our talent escort jams his foot down on the gas pedal of his pimped out KIA Sportage, as we head for the "Motherfucker Of Hell Gigs".  Ironically, we're running late because apparently Desmond's brand new $10 Korean Rolex knockoff can't keep correct time.   We approach the main gate and step inside for further inquiry.

It has been said that most politicians are out of touch with the average working man or woman. Having been one all my life (working woman, that is - although, when my estrogen dips and my voice gets low and gravelly, I might be able to pass for a working man), I thought I'd help fill in some of the gaps for those who think "work" is something done by domestics and illegal aliens.

Use this quick translation guide to convert working class issues into rich people-speak:

For two months, I looked forward to playing in Denver, and finally that day had come.  I was scheduled to fly from Austin Bergstrom to Houston Hobby, and connect with another flight to Denver International.  Over the years, I've learned to minimize check in times and prevent stalls at security.  I only wish the lady in front of me had done the same, because seriously - how many times were they going to tell her that every piece of jewelry she had on was going to set off the metal detector?  Finally, she made it through, and it was my turn.  Now again, being an old pro at this, I was positive that I had the routine down to a tee.  I took my laptop out of its case and put it in the plastic tub, I took my shoes off, I removed all metal objects from my pockets and put everything into another tub.  I waved ‘bye-bye' to them and said, "See you on the other side!"  The TSA agent asked where I was going, and I replied, "Denver, eventually."  She said, "Mm-hm.  You and everybody else today.  Have a good flight, sir," and then asked me what was in the case shaped like a guitar.  I said, "A guitar."

Babies hate my guts. That's what I was thinking as my girlfriend (er . . . fiancée) Barbara and I watched my seven-month-old niece Jane E. Frazier two Sundays ago. My sister had gone out for a few hours, leaving the infant in our care. For a while, Jane E. Frazier, honked off that her mom had left, cried and looked at me like everything was my fault.

I don't know nothing about baby-sitting babies. It's a good thing Barbara was around, because that baby would still be crying if I'd been there by myself. She'd be crying through adolescence and into college. I never would have thought of turning down the sound on the TV and putting on soothing music, as Barbara did. I would have continued to sit on the sofa, waving my arms around and going "woo woo" to calm her down. What a waste of time. The baby had no interest in my tepid riffs. What's seeing some guy bounce around on a couch making stupid noises, compared to nursing on a mother's soft breast? If I was a baby, I'd think, "There's no comparison." I'm just glad Barbara came up with the music idea.

Take today's fun news item... An Italian priest is organizing the world's first beauty pageant for nuns. So what if the economy is going down and taking your pension plan with it? Forget the presidential conventions and all bloviates that come with them. (BTW, isn't "bloviate" a great word? I'm going to try to use it in every conversation this week.) Forget all the bad news because nun of it matters when you realize that soon we'll have a nun beauty contest to distract us. Just when you thought you'd seen every type of reality programming anyone could dream up, too!

I don't know what the Pope thinks about this, but I assume he disapproves because he and I don't see eye-to-eye on anything.  Perhaps because I'm not a Catholic, but a lapsing Mormon-Southern Baptist-Reincarnationist. Or maybe because I don't have to wear a full length gown and funny hat except on special occasions, like Arbor Day.

Let's everybody put our little fingers in our ears and feel around in there. Do you feel a bone sticking out? I do. At the age of 32, I'm growing an antler. Some people worry about hair growing in their ears or their noses. Compared to growing an antler, these concerns seem petty, don't they? I'm talking perspective here. Think about me when you're troubled by nose hairs, think about me in the supermarket weeping quietly as I knock products over with my horn or my antler or what have you. Look, Mommy, the man has an antler! I know, Jimmy shh . . . Of course, that's the worst case scenario.

I think a lot about worst case scenarios. They rarely come true, so they're an odd comfort. For example. I think about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. You may know that a few other cities are not sitting quietly by and accepting that Cleveland is the designated site for the Rock Hall of Fame and Museum. San Francisco and Memphis want it, too, and they're not giving up. There's no way of knowing what's going to happen with this thing.