Mother In Therapy

Well my mother finally has something she has longed for for quite some time - a therapist. Now, when she's around her friends, and they get to talking about their therapists, or counsellors, or psychiatrists, or whatever, she can say, "Well my therapist told me..."
Admittedly, her therapist is of the physical variety. My mother recently had that carpal tunnel thing done on her hand and the doctor prescirbed the therapy. But, hey, a therapist is a therapist.
In her younger days, my mother wouldn't have dreamed of needing or wanting therapy. She has always viewed herself as being totally mentally sound, which, I am told, is a sign of mental instability, but I'll save that discussion for another time. She was always of the opinion that one would have to be crazy to go to a psychiatrist.
But, that's before being crazy, or at least "troubled" became so fashionable. When with her friends, I think my mother began to feel isolated, because she couldn't tell anyone what her therapist had told her. Now she can.
There's only one problem. I think she's driving her therapist crazy. You see, my mother does have one rather miniscule delusional thing going in her head. She thinks her three sons walk on water. Even though we've all come close to drowing on several occasions, she holds on to her beliefs. And, she loves to entertain anyone around her with the delightful accounts of our latest accomplishments.
I guess that was fine when we were in kindergarten, and, yes, those stick figures I drew did look somewhat like Lee surrendering to Grant, but only if you squinted just right, and held the paper sideways. But, when her sons are all being courted by AARP, I think it's time to say enough is enough.
My mentally-sound mother hasn't come to that conclusion. So now the poor therapist has to listen to my mother regaling her with our latest goings-on. Because my mother's hands are only a foot or so away from her mouth, there's nothing for the therapist to do but listen.
But just telling that poor lady what we do isn't enough anymore. My mother is now bombarding her with reams of paper print-outs of my columns. I'm tedious enough in small doses. I can't imagine what the hand-lady is going through.
Well, maybe I can. She told my mother this week that she's going on vacation. Yeah, sure. Listen lady, I know what you're up to, and I don't blame you. She's probably going to quietly move away, change her name, and take up a new profession. And, just in case you get a print-out of this one before you make your escape, I sincerely want to apologize.
I also might suggest that you warn the people down at the clinic or whatever you all call those therapy places. Evidently, a new therapist has already been appointed because my mother just left the house with a box of everything I've ever written, including the letter I sent to my Grandmother when I was five years old. Funny, I didn't even realize she had taken that one off the refrigerator to make copies.

Take My Mental Condition, Please

Being perfectly adjusted mentally, myself, I always find it surprising when I encounter those whose actions are somewhat suspect. I've often said this world would be a better place if everyone could be like me. Take Heather P, in the West End, for example. Heather is, no doubt, a very well meaning sort of lady. But, somehow, I suspect, totally lacking in a sense of humor. I can say that because she wasn't the least bit amused by a recent column I did in West End's Best. (You may want to read the column first before continuing - go to www.westendsbestonline.com and scroll down 'til you get to "Looking for Like...") Okay, now that you've read the column, I want you to read Heather's gracious email, which I am printing below. Heather writes:

Hmm...

Was your article serious or joking? I didn't find it very funny.

I actually thought, hm... This guy wants desperately for people to notice
him, to see him as special, someone who stands out. To like him. To
remember him. BUT! He wants EVERYONE to... so he doesn't stand out at
all!! He's too busy being everything to everyone - or NO ONE to everyone.

I'm sure you know (or maybe you didn't), in order to be remembered, you
can't try so hard to be liked by everyone. Then you don't stand out at all!
You have to be YOU! Be the guy who always wears funny ties. Be whatever
you are that makes you unique. Stop all this "looking for like" business.
Stop trying to please everyone else; start pleasing you. Then it won't
matter if they don't remember your name. You'll be more confident and show
more pizzaz. And THEN maybe they WILL remember you! AND YOU WON'T CARE!!

Here's hoping you really don't need all their like,
'cz you've really got your own...
Heather in the West End


"Never be bullied into silence.
Never allow yourself to be made a victim.
Accept no one's definition of your life;
define yourself."
- Harvey Fierstein

Thanks Heather. But, I note some serious flaws in your letter. One of the worst is this. At the very beginning you spell "hmmm" with 3 m's. However, only seconds later, you spell it with only 2. What could you possibly be thinking! Also, you use three exclamation points at the end of one sentence. Plus you write a lot in upper case. I HATE THAT!!!!! STOP IT!!!!
Other than that, you make perfect sense. I will try to stop pleasing everyone else. I will start pleasing ol' Steve. I will start wearing funny ties. I just wish I'd known about the ties earlier in life.
So, all in all, I want to thank you, dear Heather. Just one more little teeney weeney request. NEVER QUOTE HARVEY FIERSTEIN TO ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, go do the right thing. Or, take on the day. I don't really care which, because I'm no longer looking for like.

Shameless Shamelessness

I was waxing nostalgic this morning, thinking about the good old days when people felt ashamed of what they'd done. Now, thanks to modern-day psychiatry and Jerry Springer (among others), there is no shame. It's been replaced by the need for publicity. Although I don't blame it on television, any more than I'd blame a person's murder on the gun used to shoot him, I think TV has facilitated the obliteration of shame.
When a woman can come on TV and tell you the gory details of her husband's affair with the mailman, and how she caught them in the laundry room, and then they bring the husband on to the assorted hoots, boos, applause, etc. of an audience of morons, it kind of lets you know that there is no shame, only publicity.
It really hit me like a ton of bricks while I was watching the BTK killer. The frightening, matter-of-fact recounting of his deeds has been aired over and over and over. I'm not talking about BTK's shamelessness. That guy is so far removed from mainstream society (I hope) that he doesn't count. I'm talking about the shameless way the news networks, and others, keep airing his confessions. You know this guy is getting his jollies from the publicity. You know he's loving the fact that he can go on national TV and describe the way he murdered innocent victims. Why accommodate this monster?
I'll tell you why. It makes good television. It helps Bill O'Reilly keep his ratings up.
That pompous idiot, O'Reilly shows this horror video, and then in his self-important way he says something to the effect, "We show that to tell you to beware of such evil." Oh yeah, I'm sure you showed it as a public service. How are we to beware? What are we to beware of? Mild-mannered businessmen? Church-going husbands and fathers? The point is, people like BTK, will never stand out in a crowd. Frighteningly, they look like normal citizens. Bill O'Reilly wasn't looking out for us. He was shamelessly looking out for his ratings.
Something else that, in my opinion, is shameless is the way those media people stick a microphone in the face of Natalee Holloway's family. Again, anything for the ratings. Forget the fact the family is in shock. Forget their grief. Let's just milk this story. Nothing helps the ratings like a good teen murder.
Well, I see I've gotten way too deep today. I kind of went off on a tangent and never did get into what I had intended to say. I'll have to save that for another time. I don't know what got into me. I'm going to go drink a cup of coffee and settle down. You all have a good day.

My Weekend Adventure

Well, I just got back from a 36-hour, 1500-mile driveathon to Florida. It was a quick down and back trip. Every time I drive to Florida, I swear I'll never do it again. I learned quite a lot driving along Interstate 95. For one thing, South Carolinians will name just about anything. Their exit ramps are named. At least some of them were. There's even a pedestrian crossover bridge called the Juanita M. White Crossover. It's pretty much in the middle of nowhere, just a foot bridge with steps on both sides of the interstate. I'm wondering If Juanita tried unsucessfully to run across I-95. Well, at least she got a bridge named after her. That's something most of us never get.
I did a lot of listening to the radio on the trip. And, being an AM radio fan, I learned a lot about the tastes of AM listeners throughout the Carolinas and Georgia. Basically, there are two predominate formats that they go with. I was guessing and hoping that there'd be some good talk radio, but that was hard to find. What I did find across the dial throughout the entire area were sports talk and religious programming. I'd get confused sometime. For instance, as I was scanning the dial, I stopped at a station that was talking about parity. For a couple of minutes, I was trying to figure out what scripture mentioned parity in the Bible. Finally, it dawned on me that it was a sports station.
Then there's that entrepreneurial broadcasting guy somewhere in the Carolinas. He's combined sports talk with religion. I listened to a show about fantasy football that had Jesus playing quarterback, with Peter and Philip as running backs. At least I think that's what the show was about.
It could be I heard that during the half hour or so that I must have been dozing. Do you ever find yourself driving along the road, and realize you're about forty miles further than you thought you were and you have to wonder how you got there? That happened to me. I figure I was either dozing, or was the victim of some sort of alien abduction. I don't feel probed, so I must have dropped off for a few miles. Hope I didn't hit anyone.
But anyway, I'm back safe and sound, and I guess that's all that matters. And although I swear this is the last time I'll ever drive to Florida, I'm sure that's not the truth. Driving to Florida is kind of like shopping at the Food Lion. You swear you'll never do it again, but somehow you keep going back.

Thanks for the Memories and Mammaries

Okay, now I really know I've heard everything. Sure, I've foolishly made that statement before, but this time I truly mean it. I heard a couple of news stories today that leave me just shaking my head in wonderment. So, I'm going to share it with you, and then you can also know that you've heard everything.
First: Seems there's this woman in Norway, who marries and divorces a couple of times and then marries a third husband. Next thing you know, she marries a fourth guy while still married to number three. When the authorities catch up with her, she has the excuse to end all excuses...she forgot she was married.
Now, that's a great excuse. According to a police lawyer in Norway, this dear lady's third husband went away "on holiday" and while he was gone she forgot she was married to him. So, naturally, she goes out and gets her another one.
Here I am getting ready to head down to Florida on business for a couple of days. Now, I'm wondering if maybe that's not a good idea. My wife isn't overly forgetful, but still, I'd hate to come back and find her on a honeymoon.
Of course, I guess it could have been worse. The poor lady could have forgotten that there are laws against poisoning one's husband.
Then there is the story of Miss World, Maria Mantilla, of Peru. She's suing her plastic surgeon because he claims he did a buttock enhancement on her, as well as trimmed her ears. She's insisting that her buttocks and ears were just fine, thank you, and didn't need any plastic enhancement. Now, she does admit that he did a nose job and a breast enhancement on her. I'll admit, that not being female, it's hard for me to really put myself in Miss Mantilla's place, but I think I'd rather admit to the rear end overhaul than the other thing. But not Miss World. I find her statement just a little strange. Maybe you'll disagree with me on that, but here's what she said, "He said he had built me, that he gave me buttock implants and fixed my ears and this is false - I'm not the creation of a surgeon, he just did my bust and my nose."
Just did my bust and nose???!!! I'd think those two areas would be much more indicative of an ugly girl hiding behind cosmetic enhancement, than if he'd done her buttocks and ears. Again, I'm not a girl, so I'll admit a fair amount of ignorance here.
I think though, that I have the answer. I think the surgeon really did the work he claimed. It's just that Miss World, not unlike "Miss Norway" has forgotten.

If At First You Don't Succeed, Secede

I've been reading all the latest in the Richmond Times Dispatch about the goings-on that affect downtown Richmond's future. And, the only conclusion I can come up with is that I'm sick and tired of hearing about it. Do we build a ballpark or don't we? Do we build a performing arts center or don't we? The indecisiveness of Richmonders is mind-blowing.
I guess it's not really a failure to decide as much as it is a love for debate and controversy. Maybe I'm way-too-overly simplistic in my thinking, but why can't something ever get done around here? I think the strategy of many in positions of power is to just debate and wrangle over a matter for so long that eventually everyone will get tired and go home.
I went to the big "unveiling" in front of the old Thalhimers Department Store a few months ago. You'd have thought from the reaction of both city and surrounding county dignitaries that the Performing Arts Center was a done deal. It was proclaimed to be the "rebirth of a new downtown." There was dancing in the streets (literally, and yes, I do mean literally).
And now, there's so much controversy that I don't really care anymore. And, I bet there are others who feel the same way.
I'd love to see a downtown ballpark, but I'm so tired of hearing it debated, that it just doesn't matter. If NASCAR gives the Hall of Fame nod to Richmond, that'll probably start off with a lot of hoopla and quickly degenerate into complaints and debates about where it should be, and what it should look like, and such nonsense.
Obviously, you'll never please everyone, but can't someone just once come up with some plan that's innovative, and invigorating, and good for the entire region, that the majority will say, "That's great. Let's do it!"? And, then, they'll actually go out and do it.
So, I've come up with my own idea. It may not be politically correct. But, I say the West End should, taking a page from our Civil War era ancestors, just secede from the metro area. Let's just pretend that we're no part of Richmond. Let's build our own ball park and our own performing arts center. Let's put in our own trolly system.
Up 'til now, when someone asked where I live, I'd say Richmond, even though I don't really live in the city. From now on, I'll say Short Pump, even though I don't technically live there either. But, starting today, it's my new hometown.
Some have suggested that Short Pump is the new downtown. Well, let's just proclaim that to be the way it is. And forget about Richmond. Doug who?
Will that have negative social and economic implications on us West Enders? I don't know. I'm not that smart. But, evidently none of these developers and designers and innovators and business people who keep coming up with ideas, are that smart either. Or else, once-in-awhile, someone would come up with an idea that everyone would take a liking to.
I invite all these innovators to head west. Let's develop the West End. It'd be fun. Plus, there are enough of those Yankees living out that way, and we all know they'd love to secede from Richmond.
I have some great ideas myself. For instance, we could start by going into Short Pump and building this pedestrian bridge over Broad Street...

Iraqi II - Weapons of Mass Stupidity

Well, the world has a new, loveable, old curmudgeon to brighten our lives. He's a semi-cuddly, junk-food junkie, given to dispensing fatherly advice on dating to the young men who watch over him. His only real fault, if, indeed you can call this a fault, is that he's a clean-freak. His name: Saddam Hussein.
Who knew? Probably not the tens of thousands of innocent men, women, and children he killed, mutilated, tortured, raped, and otherwise generally did as he pleased with, during his twenty years of terror. In all likelihood, his 40 close relatives whom he had put to death, never really saw the "soft side" of Saddam. What a shame.
The American media loves a story of redemption, I guess. Harry Smith could barely control his giggles as he listened to two National Guardsmen describe this loveable ol' grandfatherly figure. They said he gave them some advice on finding a girlfriend. And, personally, I can't think of anyone who probably knows more about the feminine persuasion. He had more than his share of mistresses. He is said to have used forced prostitution to intimidate his enemies, and to have then beheaded the female prostitutes. I imagine he could tell some tales of his own dating days. I can see ol' Harry now, sitting on the floor at Saddam's feet, looking up with eyes of wonder and admiration as this kindly dictator shares the experience that can only come with years of barbarism.
They say Saddam's trial will be over by the end of the year. I'm going out on a limb here, but I predict, that if his lawyers can get the Michael Jackson jury, he'll be acquitted. Then who knows what awaits. Saddam told the National Guardsmen that he was going to resume his presidency. He even invited them back when he comes back into power to see the real Iraq. Imagine the postcards they'll be able to send home then.
But, I'm not predicting Saddam's return to politics. No way. He has too much of a future on the American talk-show circuit. Can't you just see him entertaining those intellectually-oriented audiences who flock to see Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey and the like? I predict him coming on-stage to the wild applause of those minions who make up the daytime audiences.
And, if his advice is any good, could we be looking at the next Dr. Phil? I think so. Saddam's future is probably even brighter than his glorious past.
And the American public is ready to eat it up. It's just a shame Adolf Hitler is no longer around.

Pic of the Litter

Do you remember the old Green Acres show...where everybody was crazy, except Oliver? There he was surrounded by insanity and no one noticed but him. Well, I'm beginning to feel like Eddie Albert these days. I see really stupid things and people are oohing and ahhing like it's so wonderful.
I guess this won't make sense unless I illustrate, so I will. I caught a story on Good Morning America yesterday (Sunday). It was about this little school girl who's yearbook picture was horrible. The one thing the family had right is that the picture was bad. But that's about all they had right. They were demanding, (not requesting, demanding) that all of the school yearbooks be turned back in because their daughter's picture was ugly.
Now, first of all, I'm sure it does wonders for the girl's ego that her mother is so appalled at the way she looks. That may account for the fact that even on network TV, where they're bound to have makeup artists, the girl still didn't look so great. She has this sour, "I'm mad at the world" look. And with a mother like hers, that's not a surprise.
Now the idiocy here is that the folks at GMA thought this would make a nice human interest story. Hey, I know kids who are suffering from cancer, who are abused, who live in such horrible conditions that they're forced to grow up well before they should. I don't care about this story...so what if her picture is ugly. I went through 12 years of ugly school pictures, and it didn't affect me (yeah, right).
Not only does GMA bring the little sour puss on TV, they go to the trouble and expense of hiring a professional photographer to make new pictures of her. Admittedly, the new pics were better, but when the hosts asked her if she was happy about the new pics, she hardly cracked a smile. Not only is the kid homely, she's an ingrate too.
But, you'd have thought the GMA people had saved a child's life, they were so excited and dramatic about what they'd done. I just wanted to scream, "Listen people, we're talking about an ugly picture. That's it. Nothing more!"
Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest. Now, I'm going to go email GMA and see if they can get back my senior high school picture. And take a new one. And make me look 17 again. Now that's a story worth doing.

Really Grate Guys

In our upcoming issue of West End's Best Magazine, due out about July 1st, we have a couple of stories featuring local show-biz personalities. And, oddly enough, they're all really very down-to-earth types of people. One interview we did is with Liz Marks and Billy Caldwell, who have been entertaining Richmonders for decades. Liz now works as a casting director, and Billy is a talent scout. Both have been involved in some pretty major Hollywood-type productions filmed around here. Liz and Billy, are about as enjoyable to speak with, and as personable as any couple I know.
So, you're probably thinking, "What's going on here, Steve. Are you going to spend the morning kissing up?" Well, if it would get me anywhere, I would, but actually, I'm just saying nice things to preface my comments on some real jerks I've encountered in the entertainment industry around town. Because, while there are some really great guys out there, there are many who really grate on my nerves. True, true, it doesn't take much. But I've met a few who I'm willing to bet kissed their mirrors goodnight each evening.
You'd have to scratch your head to figure out why someone who works in radio or TV in this 50-somthing ranked market, would have any reason to be arrogant. I mean, at some of the radio stations around here, the only prerequisite for being hired is that you possess a larynx in fairly decent working order. Come to think of it, there's a jerk in radio around here, who doesn't even have that and yet just recently NASA reported that his ego was visible from space. The guy works for a little FM station in town that has the power of the average toaster oven, and yet, when you speak with him, it's all he can do to refrain from requesting that you kiss his ring. I won't mention his name because I mentioned he doesn't have a larynx, and, for that, I am sorry. But, hey it couldn't happen to...oh, never mind.
I'll also refrain from naming any other names here, because it really upsets my boss, but another real jerk around town is a longtime sportscaster at one of the local TV stations. I once asked him if he'd give me his opinion on the building of a new ballpark in Shockoe Bottom. His reply, "I can't express my opinion. I'm a journalist."
A journalist huh? I kinda thought all he did was read baseball scores. He's about as much a journalist as I am a writer.
Someone else who is somewhat of a legend around these parts, never really impressed me much. I won't mention his name either, but he spent much of his career interpreting for a duck. He may have been everyone's friend on the air, but off-air, he was downright rude to people. I applied for a job there once, and he told me in no uncertain terms that my voice stunk.
But anyway, that was then, and this is now. And, now, I'm a better person for it. Adversity has made me the great guy I am today. Do you think I'd hold a grudge? Do you think I'd remember these petty snubs some 30 years later?
Are you kidding? I never even think about it. Hardly ever.

I Am Not a Bigot or a Racist, But...

I'm mad today. Or, at least exceptionally irritated. Before I can get into my laundry list of things that irritate me, I have to say, unequivocally, that I am in no way a racist or a bigot.
Now that that's out of the way, here's my list:
1 - I hate having to preface a completely logical complaint with a disclaimer that I'm not a bigot. Why do we have to worry about that? How dare anyone to assume that of me. From now on, I won't worry about that. Good, I've taken care of that little irritation. Let's move on.
2 - I hate multi-language signs, instructions, directions, etc. Last time I checked, this is America. It's an English-speaking country. Sure, it's also a melting pot for individuals from every nation. But, for years, those individuals have been willing to come here, learn our language, and fit in to this culture. That didn't mean they abandoned their culture. They didn't have to do that, but they did WANT to blend in with us. And, by us, I don't mean Mayflower descendants. I just mean those who were taught English from infancy.
This morning as I was entering the 7-11, I noticed a sign that said something like "Ahora Desponsible." I read it and re-read it, trying to figure out why I wasn't understanding it. Finally, it dawned on me that the sign was in Spanish. Inside the store, I see more Spanish-language signs. Why? Why should I have to subject my English-reading eyes to those signs. It's clutter. If I went to Mexico, I wouldn't expect anyone to speak English, or any signs in English. If I couldn't figure it out, then shame on me.
And, what really gets me is when I buy some sort of electronic gadget or an appliance and I get this really nice, thick instruction booklet. I'm thinking how cool it is that the instructions are so thorough, because I'm pretty dumb when it comes to putting things together. And then, I open the instruction booklet and find that there is only one page of instructions in English. The rest of the booklet is the instructions in about twenty-five other languages, including Swahili. And, even the English instructions were written by someone who's native tongue is Swahili.
My philosophy is if you're going to sell the product in America, then give us our own instruction booklet, as well as English-only labeling.
3 - The third thing I hate, and, remember I'm no bigot, is New Dehli-based customer service centers. I called Comcast the other night to get help in setting up a new computer with their internet service. They guy was nice enough, he just couldn't speak English. I'm really glad Comcast is able to save money (and I'm sure they pass the savings on to me), but I hope they're going to be happy when I pay my next bill in rupees.
I hate having to be the one who has to struggle to understand the foreign language being spoken by customer service reps, by fast food employees, by convenience store clerks, etc. If I were in their homeland, I'd expect to struggle. That's the way it works.
It used to be that we had this "ugly American" reputation because some Americans would go to foreign countries and expect the locals to adapt to the American culture. That is ugly. But it's just as ugly when foreigners come here and do the same thing. Although, I suspect, it's not the foreigners who are insisting on it. I think it's those Americans who are so afraid of being branded as politically incorrect, that they feel they have to make ridiculous concessions to everyone who is a little different.
I have two final thoughts on this whole matter - I hate political correctness and, most importantly, I'm not a bigot or a racist.

High School Cafeterrible

I heard a news story this morning regarding concerns that terrorists may attempt to attack the United States through school lunches. I say that if terrorists infiltrated public school cafeterias, and started prepaing the meals, it might be a step up. Now, it's true that I haven't eaten in a school lunchroom in several years, and possibly the quality of the food is better than when I was a kid.
But, talk about terror. I faced it every day of my life. Except, those days when I bagged my lunch. The cooks at the schools I attended were, now that I think about it, probably terrorists themselves. What else could account for those bright red hot dogs they used to serve.
You may be thinking that a hot dog is a hot dog is a hot dog. But not these hot dogs. I couldn't look at a hot dog until several years after I finished school. They'd serve up these gnarly looking weiners that evidently had been injected with about a pint of red food coloring. I wonder what they looked like before they were dyed. And the only topping they'd give us was about the cheapest, most putrid-tasting ketchup imaginable. I'm getting the shakes just remembering that horrible time in my life.
Occasionally, they'd serve hamburgers in school. Now, how can you ruin a hamburger? Well, I don't know how they did it, but they had a method of cooking the burger so that it was completely dry. I mean the table we were sitting at had more moisture (and taste) than those pathetic patties. You could smother them in that delicious ketchup and still need a stick to stuff it down your throat. The sounds of kids gagging would fill the cafeterial on hamburger days.
And, If the hot dogs and hamburgers didn't do you in, the green beans would. Canned green beans are pretty pathetic to begin with, but I think these cafeterrorists had some sort of flavor enhancing canned food taste additive they would mix into the beans. Plop those beans on the plate with that big red weiner and it had a pretty terrifying impact.
I really can't think of anything that was served in the cafeterias during my school years that I would call good. The mashed potatoes were fake. I think they were basically paper mache. The Salisbury steak was exceptionally bad, and just to be sure the kids were terrorized they'd top it with some sort of hideous brown gooey stuff that they actually had the nerve to call gravy. Even the desserts were virtually inedible. I say virtually because, after all, it was sugary, so I had to eat it.
I say to those terrorists, bring it on. I don't think you could concoct anything to begin to compare with the crud we used to be served in school. Maybe the U.S. could institute some sort of terrorist exchange program and send the school cafeteria cooks from here over there. Nah, that would never work. Can you imagine if we started serving public school lunches to the prisoners in Iraq. The uproar would make that Abu Graib thing look like a picnic in the park.

Everyone Was There Except Tinkerbell

I'm totally exhausted this morning. Here I was at the Neverland Ranch last night. M.J. threw a little celebration party for some of his most loyal supporters. It was just me, his entourage, the entire Jackson family, some of the kids from the neighborhood, and, of course, the jury.
I think I was hitting the Jesus Juice a little hard, if you know what I mean. Anyway, we were sitting around, chatting, looking at some of his picture books, and waiting to see if Nancy Grace would slit her wrists live on national TV. Fortunately, I had a new pair of pajamas, so I was dressed well for the occasion.
Oh yeah, Thomas Mesereau, Jackson's attorney was also there. I couldn't help but notice as he and Michael sat together how strange it was that the whitest white-guy attorney, had the whitest black guy for a client. The guy who holds the umbrella was also there. He was probably the happiest of anybody. I mean, if Michael goes to jail, he pretty much as a zero-resume to submit in looking for a new gig.
Joe Jackson was saying that in some ways, the trial had brought the family together. In fact, he had decided once the whole mess was behind them, he'd take the kids on a nice vacation and, for old times sake, emotionally abuse them a little.
Everything was quite nice, almost wholesome, except for Michael's brief wardrobe malfunction.
Anyway, a good time was being had by all, until Jackson announced that it was time for bed. He kinda looked at me and winked. I started screaming. I screamed so loudly, I woke myself up. Must have been the onion and jalapeno sandwich I had before I went to bed. Anyway, I couldn't get back to sleep. So, as I said, I'm exhausted this morning.

How Much Is That Doggie In The Freezer?

My mother was railing against pet lovers this morning, or perhaps, I should qualify that and say she was railing against mentally unstable folk who just happen to love their pets. Personally, while not a pet lover myself, I have (as you may have noticed) a rather pleasant “live-and-let-live” attitude. And being the sort of guy who rarely has anything negative to say about anyone, I tended to disagree with her.
She had seen some news feature on television that really ticked her off. It was about these mentally unstable fanatic pet lovers who have taken to giving their pets Botox injections so the pet won’t look old.
I admit, that’s ludicrous. I can understand some aging beauty trying to preserve her looks. Evidently Botox affects one’s eyesight, because the people who have it look plastic and don't even know it. Take Mary Tyler Moore for instance (as someone with a mild obsessive-compulsive thing going on, it was very difficult for me not to say “please” at this point). She looks like she’s wearing some hideous Mary Tyler Moore mask. Anyway, I digress.
While there may be some understanding of a human not wanting to look old, why would anyone in their right mind care how old the dog looks. Oops, I think I just answered my question.
Obviously, these people are not in their right minds. Do they think that the female dogs (another difficult “OCD” moment here) in the neighborhood are going to turn their noses up at their aging male Chihuahua? Are they afraid Pepe is going to go into some sort of tailspin, spiraling further and further downward into some deep dungeon of doggie depression?
Seems the show also reported on these pet-obsessors who, when Fido buys the farm, will have him freeze-dried. Now, if they were doing that so as to have an emergency meal during some sort of natural disaster, maybe I could understand. But, they want the remains of the dog to stay in the house. Seems the report showed the kids playing with rigor muttus. Now is that sick or what? And they say I have disorders.
Actually, I was going to do my blog today on my mother’s tendency to go overboard on issues. That is, until I heard a report on the WRVA Morning News with Jimmy Barrett (don’t forget to read about Jimmy in the summer West End’s Best, by the way). I really, yes, even literally could not believe my ears.
But, I checked it out at the San Francisco Chronicle’s website (www.sfgate.com). And it’s true. Seems a mother, Maureen Fabish, locked her 12-year old son, Nicky, in the basement so the family’s two pit bulls, which she knew might harm the boy, could have free run of the house. The boy breaks out and is attacked and killed by one or both of the dogs. The mother made two statements, and I’m not sure which one is more stupid. She said, “Typical Nicky, he wouldn’t listen to me.” To this idiotic moron of a mother, it’s the boy’s fault. But, at least she was able to console herself with another comment. I swear I’m not making this up, although I did think Jimmy Barrett was when I first heard it. Here’s what this lame brain dog nut said: “"It's Nicky's time to go. When you're born you're destined to go and this was his time."
Now, don’t we all feel better. It wasn’t Nicky’s fault, really. And it certainly wasn’t the dog’s fault. It was God’s fault.
Is there anyway we could get up a petition to freeze-dry Mrs. Fabish?

Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch

To compare the goings on around the Santa Maria, California courthouse, to a circus is to bring the diginity of the big top down to a new low. It's unbelievable. But, as I reflect on it, it really is more entertaining than the circus. In fact, if they would take the cast of characters from Jackson's trial on tour, I'd sure pay good money to go and see them.
Hollywood's best script writers couldn't begin to dream up the players in this true story. Think about it. At the very center is Michael Jackson himself. You wouldn't think it could any better than that when it comes to weird, but surround the aging, aching "king of pop" with his entourage and you have yourself quite a show.
I mean, who could have thought of adding Jesse Jackson to the mix? Jackson (the Jesse variety) is being called Jackson's (the Michael variety) spiritual advisor. Reportedly, the Rev is encouraging the King to switch his pruriant interests from little boys to young women.
Next, throw into the picture, Michael Jackson's abusive (if you can believe what you read) father, running around the courthouse demanding to see his son. His son, of course, is not at the courthouse, because he's being smuggled in and out of a local hospital. Seems his father saw a lot of Neverland autos heading out of the compound and decided that a verdict was about to be announced. Hasn't he been around his son long enough to realize that the fleet was just heading out to the local carwash? I mean, really, any forty-something man on trial for child molestation, who wears lipstick into court, is just naturally going to want to put first things first and make sure his cars are kept clean.
Meanwhile, down at the hospital, Michael Jackson's bodyguards are building scaffolding around the SUV, and draping sheets over the scaffolding, supposedly to shield the alleged pedophile from the press. Of course, the "boy on the hood" may have just wanted some privacy to practice a new dance routine on the SUV before entertaining the troops.
We can't overlook another co-star in the story, Majestik Magnificent, Jackson's so-called personal magician. I think the law requires that if a defendant cannot afford a personal magician, the court will appoint one. But, this guy is said to be a "close, personal friend of Jackson's, so I doubt he's been court appointed. Of course, if he were either majestik or magnificent, I'm sure he'd have made his friend disappear by now.
You'd think that would be enough entertainment for the fans, but wait there's more. Add to the mix a group of Jackson supporters from around the world, not only chanting "innocent, innocent," but demonstrating their recognition of innocence when they see it, by hurling obscene epithets at nearby reporters. It's gotten so bad that Court TV had to get a restraining order on one of Jackson's supporters, who was allegedly thretening their reporter. Reportedly, another, more rational supporter of Jackson is going through the crowd, using a hand-puppet to tell the true Michael Jackson story.
Lost in all this crazy, mixed-up story is whether Michael Jackson truly molests little boys, but, I guess, regardless of that minor detail, the whole thing is best summed up in an email supporting Jackson, which appears on a website dedicated to supporting Jackson. I'm going to quote here to conclude today's blog, but as you read this real (I swear I didn't make it up) email, keep in mind that earlier this week, I had made a somewhat sarcastic comment about how much one might like Jackson's hit song "Ben" from a couple of decades back. Here's the email:

Michael I have grown up with you and your music, your voice, your gift. Over 30 years of pure wonder, since the days of 'Ben' you have inspired me. Just know you are loved. The world is a better place with you in it! My teenage daughter keeps saying "why don't they just leave him alone!" The answer to that we will never have.


Hang in there MJ. Have faith, be strong.


Love always,
Jenni - Australia

More Senseless Acts of Random Thinking

My poor brain has been working overtime lately, and the only way to relieve some of the pressure is to just start blathering about things I've been thinking about. There's no pattern here, just a bunch of thoughts about different things. But, until I let off some of the pressure, I won't be able to engage in any serious, philosophical thought, for which I am, I'm sure, famous.
One thing that occurred to me the other day as I was putting on a new tie my wife bought at Marshall's, is that when it comes to men's fashions, as long as you put an Italian name on the label, most of us guys are going to assume we're wearing something that's top of the line. Oh, a Valerio Garati, I thought as I looked at the label on the back of the tie...cool! Then it dawned on me. I've never heard of Valerio Garati. In all probability there is no Signore Garati, but because his name ends with the letter "i", I'm impressed. The label could have just as well said Francos Spaghetti and I'd have felt rather stylish wearing the tie. Why those marketing people have got me again. Shame on me, I thought.
Speaking of shame (and I do love a good segue), I've said it before, and I'll say it again...right now. The people who write the local news should be ashamed of themselves. They just don't get it. There was a story this morning about the high school coach who was driving the bus when the young student got off and was struck by a hit-and-run driver. The story said the coach had been charged with a misdemeanor. Then as a dramatic conclusion to the story, the reporter added, "If found guilty, he could face a fine of up to five hundred dollars!"
Did the person who wrote that think that the five hundred dollar fine was the most crucial element of the story. The way the reporter read it, I thought she was going to say the guy would be taken outside and shot. The guy, probably a good guy, made a horrible mistake...a mistake he's going to have to live with the rest of his life. The family of the girl who was killed will never be the same, and these people at the local TV station seem to think that the real tragedy here is a five hundred dollar fine. Things like this just really irritate me.
Speaking of TV news, I saw a woman being interviewed on the news this morning. Her house had been burglarized and the woman was telling the reporter, "They (the thieves) literally went through the bottom drawers." I'm kind of wondering if there's any other way for the thieves to have gone through the drawers. If they'd done it figuratively, I wouldn't think there'd have been a story. But, maybe that's just me.
Well, I'm glad to have gotten these things aired out. I feel my brain start to relaxing just a bit. So, excuse me while I go back to some deep thinking. I'm on the verge of figuring out where that pocket watch came from in the movie Somewhere In Time. And, as soon as I have the answer, you'll be the first to know.

The Old and the Listless

Someone recently told me that my life had been like a soap opera. If they were trying to cheer me up, they failed miserably. I didn't exactly take that as a positive assessment of the direction my life has gone in.
But, it did give me pause for thought. And, you know what? Only minimally is my life like a soap opera. For one thing, there are no commercial interruptions and I never hear organ music. But, that's not the main differences between my life and that of most soap opera characters.
Admittedly, I haven't seen a soap opera in many years. I did catch about five minutes of one while on vacation a year or so back and the story involved a midget and a witch, I think. I don't have any midgets or witches in my life, but, again, that's not a major difference.
There are three primary ways that my life has not taken the same path as that of almost every character on the soaps.
First, I don't have an evil twin, from whom I was separated at birth. Or, at least, if I do, I haven't met him yet. What would be a real bummer would be to eventually find out that such a twin really did exist, and he was having all the fun that I should have had. In reflecting on this, I don't think I know any truly evil twins. I know some miserable ones, unpleasant to be around, but not really evil.
The second difference between me and soap opera folk is that I've never attended my own funeral. That would be neat. But, I've never been presumed dead, which is not the same as being presumed lifeless. My wife accuses me of that regularly. I've often fantasized about what people would do at my funeral, but then it dawns on me that if it means I have to truly be dead, it isn't much of a fantasy.
The third major difference is that I have never either kidnapped a romantic interest of mine, or been kidnapped by such. I did build a cage in my basement just in case the situation should ever arise, but, alas, it never did. On the soap operas, it's one of the most popular ways of saying, "I love you and I couldn't stand it if you ever left." The closest I've ever come to doing something drastic to proclaim my love was send flowers. And, somehow that just doesn't seem to capture the magic of a good kidnapping.
So, while my life has had its ups and downs, I really don't think it's been like a soap opera. Of course, there was that horrible time when...Well, tune in tomorrow and I'll tell you.

Jacko-In-The-Box

I don't really have a lot to say about Michael Jackson, but I do want to give my prediction before the jury comes back in with a verdict. Because, once they give their verdict, it would be hard for me to actually call it a prediction. And, truth be told, I'm so sure about this, that I don't really call it a prediction. It's simply a reasonable observation of what will happen. As far as I'm concerned, I can't be wrong. I mean, technically, I could be wrong, but it's hard to imagine that I am.
I hear so many astute observers and comentators saying they're afraid that Michael Jackson (while guilty, according to them), will be found not guilty. I think these comentators are missing out on a key point. We cannot overlook what I call the "Freak Factor."
Let me explain. Every time I see Michael Jackson's face on TV, my stomach churns. I cringe. He's truthfully the freakiest looking real-life human I've ever seen. Even that Elephant Man guy wasn't, in my opinion, as freaky to look at. Now, I get just a little irritated that I have to watch him on TV for a moment or two. How do you suppose the jury must feel. They've had to sit there in the courtroom, day in and day out, for the last three months and look at him. They've watched him hobble into court in his PJs. The guy is downright scary. I can't help but think that he probably smells funny too, but that's just a guess. I don't mean bad, just funny.
So, you've been force-fed this freak for months. And now comes the payback opportunity. I'd find him guilty just to show how much I hated having to spend a quarter of the year in his company. I don't want to come across as judgmental, which is not to say I'm not judgmental, but I'm just being realistic. Look at the guy. He's forty-something. He likes young boys. He likes to, evidently, serve them alcohol and climb in bed with them.
Now, let's just assume I'm the most naive human on earth, and that I think "Ben" is the prettiest love song ever sung about a rat, I still can't help but think this guy is too screwy to be totally innnocent. Innocent until proven guilty is an intellectual ideal. But, with regards to some people, guilty until proven innocent is a stronger, emotional appeal. I hear Jackson's defense team did a pretty decent job, but were they able to prove him innocent beyond a reasonable doubt? I don't think so.
Now, I will say on the conspiracy count, he'll be found not guilty. It's just too confusing. If I had had to sit in that courtroom and listen to all that testimony, my head would be spinning. My thinking would be that the conspiracy deal sounds too much like a movie plot. My conclusion would be that the guy's not a kidnapper. He may be a child molester. But, he definitely is a freak. I can just about guarantee the guy will be making a moon-walk into prison, which, when you think about it, would be about the worst way to go.

My Fresh Start in Life

I have the shakes this morning, so typing this may prove somewhat difficult. I had a little intervention with myself this weekend, and made myself admit that, yes, I have an addiction, and the only way I can deal with it is to cut it off cold turkey. Fortunately, I haven't had the addiction for too long. My wife got me hooked several months ago. It started off simply enough...just some recreational use, but then it began to take over my life. I had to have my fix on a daily basis, sometimes consuming hours of my time.
As you have probably guessed, and I am ashamed to admit it, but admit it, I will - I'm hooked on Tetris. How evil is it for those cell phone people to make it possible to play that dad-blasted game on my cell phone. I found myself sneaking out to the car to play a game or five of Tetris. I tried to analyze my dependency. I assured myself that I kept on playing only in an effort to get better. It's really a good sign, I'd convince myself...a sign that I am constantly trying to better myself.
And, of course, it helped my hand to eye coordination, which at my age is something I need to be concerned with.
But, I couldn't explain away the fact that I'd wake up at three in the morning thrashing about looking for my cell phone. I'd lie in bed for a couple of hours "improving my coordination."
My wife threatened to go sleep in the other room. I don't know how she could hear the almost silent clicking. I had muted the sounds that accompany the game. But, she'd wake up out of a dead sleep as soon as I started playing. And, let me tell you, she wasn't a happy camper.
But that's all behind me now. I've saved my marriage. I'm putting my life back together again. Last night, I deleted Tetris from my phone. Sure, it was hard. Sure, I wept openly after having done it. But I did it.
Life is good. I'm going to take time to smell the roses, so to speak...to get reacquainted with my family...to spend the rest of my life in worthwhile pursuits.
Yes, I'm glad I got that Tetris monkey off my back. Things are looking up. I'm sitting here contemplating how I can spend those precious moments that go by so quickly. And it just dawned on me...now I'll have more time to do something I haven't done in quite a while, thanks to that darned Tetris. I'll be able to go back to a love I used to have, and yet, had almost forgotten about. Wow, this is great. I'm going to have time for computer solitaire.

So Smart It's Scary.

Women frighten me. I tried to do a column in West End's Best Magazine on that subject, but my boss (or should I say, his wife) nixed it. I really wasn't denigrating women. I was simply commenting on the fact that the way they think frightens me. At least, that's what I thought I was trying to say. In retrospect, and having been sincerely humbled, I now know that what I meant to say is that women amaze me...maybe even intimidate me with a brilliance and a way of reasoning that goes far beyond that of the mortal male.
So, while I had intended to write a column praising the modern-day woman, it evidently came out in a somewhat less than flattering way. And, for that, I'm truly sorry.
The reason I bring this up, is that just yesterday the brilliance of women was driven home to me. I was speaking with a brilliant lady at a local private school. She is a client of the magazine. And, we were discussing my columns. I was telling her an anecdote that I had included in my banned column about my wife. Just for perspective, I'll relate that anecdote:
One evening we had the television on, but no one was watching. As we came into the room with the TV blaring, a particular show was ending. "That's not fair," my wife said.
"What's not fair?" I asked.
"Well," she answered, "this show will get the credit for us having watched it, and we didn't"
"Huh?" I said politely. "Who knows we had the show on our TV?"
"They do," she replied, as if that solved everything. But, when I questioned her as to who "they" were. She gave me a look to suggest I was a moron. "The Nielsens."
Well to make a long story, just a tad shorter, I explained that the Nielsen ratings households were electronically wired to record their viewing habits, and that participants were aware of the fact their viewing habits were being monitored.
There's more to the original sotry, but that will do for now. The reason I bring it up, is because of the conversation I had yesterday with this lady at the school. And, I will reiterate, she is, by all indications, a very intelligent, peresonable young woman. But, as I started to tell her about my wife's reaction to being monitored, the lady exclaimed, "That's right, the Neilsens. I never thought about that. We are being watched."
What could I say. I could only commend her for being as brilliant as my wife. I walked away scratching my head. I can only wonder, "Why can't men be that intelligent."

Weather or Not

I was watching the local early morning news today, and I can't help but marvel at some of the "tricks" they resort to in order to convince you that they got the weather forecast right, or, if they didn't get it right, they really did, you just can't feel it.
I know this sounds a bit confusing, but, don't worry, I'll explain. For the past couple of days, they (they, being the local meterologists)have been predicting rain for this morning. So, this morning, at least around here, it's not raining. So the weather lady is saying, "Hey, it IS drizzling. And it's really raining down south of here, but high pressure is drying the heavy moisture up before it hits us."
Now, do you get what she's doing? She's covering herself by saying that it's raining close to us. Hey, lady, we know it's probably raining somewhere in the world, but you're supposed to be doing the local weather. And this trick of trying to tell us that it's really raining two thousand feet above us, but not reaching the ground, is not going to work. If we were birds, great info, but for us earthbound viewers, who cares?
In the fifteen minute period I was watching, the weather lady came on at least three times trying to defend her forecast. Finally, she said (and I'm really quoting here) "You'll be getting rain today, but if you don't, you'll feel drizzle, but if you don't, there are going to be clouds overhead." Now, that's what I call a definitive forecast.
If the rest of us were allowed such a wide margin of accuracy in our jobs, this really would be a screwed up world. I think I'll try and get by with these tactics. I'll go out on a limb and say that today's blog will have you rolling on the floor laughing, but if not, you will smile sometime while reading it, but if not, there will be words on the screen. Now, prove me wrong.

Everything is Beautiful, Darn It

This is one of those days when I have absolutely no opinions on anything. I've tried to come up with something that disgusts me, and the disgusting thing is, I can't think of anything. I know the problem. I had a cup of coffee this morning. I should never drink coffee before trying to write this blog thing. Why? Because coffee has me feeling so euphoric that I can't do my job. I feel that I've been entrusted with a great responsibility...that of pointing out the random acts of stupidity that go on all around us. But, give me one cup of coffee and I just want to embrace my fellowman in some sort of group hug and say, "I love you all."
As the great philosopher, Rodney King, so eloquently put it, "Can't we all just get along." That's really how I feel at this moment as I'm riding the crescendo of a caffein-induced high. I find myself humming "Everything is Beautiful," which makes me wonder what ever happened to Ray Stevens. Talk about talent, now that man had it. And, here I am not even knowing if he's dead or alive. I find a tear welling up in my eye. I know it's just the coffee talking, but, somehow I feel that I never fully let Ray Stevens know just how much joy he brought into my life.
For that matter, I never let Rodney King know how much he influenced my life, as, I'm sure, he did so many of you. If ever anyone qualified for speedy entry into sainthood, somehow, I feel it should be Rodney King. I wonder if Pope Benedict has thought about that.
While I'm feeling so up, maybe I should take a moment and apologize to all the local TV news writers and reporters. I know that I've said some nasty things about you. I know that I've hinted on more than on occasion that most of you are, in all likelihood, idiots. And, even though that is how I truly feel, somehow, I find myself tuning in to see your work on a nightly basis. You do bring happiness to my life, and all I ever do is mock you, deride you, belittle you. And, for that, I'm deeply sorry.
Yes, I come to you this morning doing penance for my past transgressions against you. There's only one thing I'm more sorry for, and that's that you haven't done anything really stupid in the past couple of days that I can write about. Thanks. Just when I need you, you desert me. You reduce me to writing tripe like this.
Hey, the coffee must be wearing off. I'm getting really irritated again. It's going to be a great day after all.