Just yesterday, I was saying that I cannot, for the life of me, understand why reasonably intelligent people will say really stupid things. I don't mean in a casual conversation. And, I certainly don't mean in my columns, because, as you all know, I'm not reasonably intelligent.
What I do mean is when public figures make public announcements, or make a speech, or give a quote, and they say something that only an imbecile would say, and an asanine imbecile at that. I chalk it up to two reasons that this happens so often, no wait, make that three reasons.
First, they must be so impresssed with the way words form in their mouth that they feel that virtually every utterance is so magnificent that even if it sounds stupid to them, it'll sound smart to their audience.
Second reason: They have lost all ability to control their mouths. They get to talking and hear themselves thinking something stupid, and, perhaps even try to stifle, but are unable.
Thirdly - They really are not very intelligent. They've had secretaries and speech writers and PR guys and whomever telling them what to say for so long, they begin to believe that they, themselves, have the ability to formulate intelligent ideas. So, they get out in public and are asked to expound on something, and before a manager can run in and shut them up, they just come right out and say it. These are the ones that verbalize their stupidity and then smile proudly as if to say, "Did you hear what I just said?'
Yeah, we heard you alright, Bill Bennet. To be fair, I think Mr. Bennett's comments have been taken out of context. But, the guy should be smart enough to know that what he said was going to make a great sound bite. He's not an idiot (unless he falls into category number three). He knows how the media works.
The primary job (in my humble opinion) of the media today, is to find the dumbest person or the dumbest comment and to promote him/her or it. If you can find some real moron, you have a goldmine of comments. Just look at the situation in Louisiana. Don't you imagine that somewhere down there an intelligent person lost everything he/she owned? But, have you heard or seen even one interview with an intelligent person, explaining calmly how he is coping...not complaining, not blaming, not crying...just intelligently discussing the situation. I don't think I've seen anyone on the news who fits into that category.
Of course, it's always better if you can find a public figure, who, it's perceived by many, is intelligent, and catch him saying something stupid. As, I've stated above, I really cannot understand why people don't think before they say something that can only come back to haunt them.
I think it's a shame that all people who fit into any of my three categories were not aborted. Oops.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Two Dirty Words I Should Never Use
I've been wanting to do a column on the way kids spout profanities these days, but have held off because I think I'm becoming too Andy Rooney-like in my ranting and raving these days. It is a subject that really galls me because I hate profanity. I hate going to movies because I don't want to pay to hear people curse.
But, a recent news story in the Richmond Times Dispatch motivated me to go ahead and write about it. The story is totally baffling to me. It seems the principal at Ecoff Elementary School, JoAnn Crowell-Redd, got so fed up with the kids cursing that she called all the students into the auditorium and gave them a lecture. The only problem is, she used the words she didn't want to hear in her lecture. I'm wondering if George Carlin wrote the speech for her.
Now, is it just me, or is this the epitome of ignorance? What's wrong with so-called intelligent people. Would anyone in his or her right mind think it would be appropriate, for whatever reason, to recite a litany of curse words to a bunch of six-year-olders?
Even if you think it's appropriate, you might want to consider the fact that a number of parents are just looking for something to complain about. I mean, did this woman think the kids didn't know which words that they had been using were the dirty ones?
I guess that could possibly be true. I had a personal experience when I was eight years old that I think is germain to the subject. I was in the fifth grade in Mrs. Gruver's class at Boones Mill Elementary School. This country school covered grades one through nine, which means there were students attending the school who ranged, in age, from six years on up to about twenty-one years (and I'm not kidding).
Now, Mrs. Gruver's husband was the school princial. They were a very religious couple. In fact, he was also a Methodist minister. Mrs. Gruver talked to our class about the dirty words that were written on the bathroom walls. I don't know what she was doing in the boy's restroom, but I don't want to worry my pretty head with that concern right now.
Anyway, Mrs. Gruver said that since we were fifth graders, we were right in the middle. She said the older boys were the ones writing dirty words on a wall (remind me that I want to do a column on the stupidty of grafiti, sometime). She asked us to keep our eyes open for bathroom-wall profanity and to let her husband know, so that the words could be cleaned off before any first- or second-graders saw them.
I loved being the protector, the enforcer, the Terminator, if you will. So, the next time I was in the restroom, I scoured the walls (visually, not physically), hoping to find some words I could report to the principal.
And, boy did I hit paydirt. I saw two words that, while I didn't know what they meant, sure sounded dirty. I have since learned that one of those words was the million dollar four-letter word. You know the worst one...the one they won't even use on NYPD Blue.
So, I headed off to the principal's office and asked the secretary if I could see Mr. Gruver. "What do you want to see him for," I was asked.
"I want to tell him about some dirty words," I said politely and innocently. Evidently, this was a regular part of Mr. Gruver's day, so I was ushered right in.
"Mr. Gruver," I said, "I saw two words on the bathroom wall that I think might be dirty."
Mr. Gruver, who was perhaps the meekest little mousy man I ever knew, didn't say anything. I took his silence to mean "tell me the words."
So, I did. "They are '*#%%&' and '^/$*," I said.
I'll never forget the look on Mr. Groover's face, which had immediately turned beet red. Just like in the cartoons, the redness started at his weak little chin and spread up to and covered his shiny bald head.
Mr. Gruver trembled, nodded, and gulped. I could tell I'd really said something horrible. "They're dirty, alright," he squeaked out. I turned and headed out the door as quickly as I could. I don't think I ever understood the power of words as clearly before that day. In fact, the whole event is so traumatic, I've never been able to say those two words since then.
Maybe that's why I hate profanity so much. I was scared and scarred by that emotional event.
So, maybe Mrs. Crowell-Redd (and, remind me, I want to do a column on hypenated names, sometime) did need to tell the kids what words are dirty. I just hope she didn't use those two words. And, if she did, I'm just glad Mr. Gruver was not around to hear her.
But, a recent news story in the Richmond Times Dispatch motivated me to go ahead and write about it. The story is totally baffling to me. It seems the principal at Ecoff Elementary School, JoAnn Crowell-Redd, got so fed up with the kids cursing that she called all the students into the auditorium and gave them a lecture. The only problem is, she used the words she didn't want to hear in her lecture. I'm wondering if George Carlin wrote the speech for her.
Now, is it just me, or is this the epitome of ignorance? What's wrong with so-called intelligent people. Would anyone in his or her right mind think it would be appropriate, for whatever reason, to recite a litany of curse words to a bunch of six-year-olders?
Even if you think it's appropriate, you might want to consider the fact that a number of parents are just looking for something to complain about. I mean, did this woman think the kids didn't know which words that they had been using were the dirty ones?
I guess that could possibly be true. I had a personal experience when I was eight years old that I think is germain to the subject. I was in the fifth grade in Mrs. Gruver's class at Boones Mill Elementary School. This country school covered grades one through nine, which means there were students attending the school who ranged, in age, from six years on up to about twenty-one years (and I'm not kidding).
Now, Mrs. Gruver's husband was the school princial. They were a very religious couple. In fact, he was also a Methodist minister. Mrs. Gruver talked to our class about the dirty words that were written on the bathroom walls. I don't know what she was doing in the boy's restroom, but I don't want to worry my pretty head with that concern right now.
Anyway, Mrs. Gruver said that since we were fifth graders, we were right in the middle. She said the older boys were the ones writing dirty words on a wall (remind me that I want to do a column on the stupidty of grafiti, sometime). She asked us to keep our eyes open for bathroom-wall profanity and to let her husband know, so that the words could be cleaned off before any first- or second-graders saw them.
I loved being the protector, the enforcer, the Terminator, if you will. So, the next time I was in the restroom, I scoured the walls (visually, not physically), hoping to find some words I could report to the principal.
And, boy did I hit paydirt. I saw two words that, while I didn't know what they meant, sure sounded dirty. I have since learned that one of those words was the million dollar four-letter word. You know the worst one...the one they won't even use on NYPD Blue.
So, I headed off to the principal's office and asked the secretary if I could see Mr. Gruver. "What do you want to see him for," I was asked.
"I want to tell him about some dirty words," I said politely and innocently. Evidently, this was a regular part of Mr. Gruver's day, so I was ushered right in.
"Mr. Gruver," I said, "I saw two words on the bathroom wall that I think might be dirty."
Mr. Gruver, who was perhaps the meekest little mousy man I ever knew, didn't say anything. I took his silence to mean "tell me the words."
So, I did. "They are '*#%%&' and '^/$*," I said.
I'll never forget the look on Mr. Groover's face, which had immediately turned beet red. Just like in the cartoons, the redness started at his weak little chin and spread up to and covered his shiny bald head.
Mr. Gruver trembled, nodded, and gulped. I could tell I'd really said something horrible. "They're dirty, alright," he squeaked out. I turned and headed out the door as quickly as I could. I don't think I ever understood the power of words as clearly before that day. In fact, the whole event is so traumatic, I've never been able to say those two words since then.
Maybe that's why I hate profanity so much. I was scared and scarred by that emotional event.
So, maybe Mrs. Crowell-Redd (and, remind me, I want to do a column on hypenated names, sometime) did need to tell the kids what words are dirty. I just hope she didn't use those two words. And, if she did, I'm just glad Mr. Gruver was not around to hear her.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Adventures in Telemarketing
So, there I was sitting at the dinner table, eating my fried oysters the other evening when out of the blue this guy with a foreign accent phones me and asks to speak to my brother. He asked for my brother by name. I knew immediately that this was some sort of sales call. My brother, who used to live with me, for some reason, is on every telemarketing list in this country and, evidently, in several other countries, as well.
When I told the gentleman that my brother didn't live here, he apologized (the caller, not my brother) and said he was looking for the homeowner. "What!" I cried. "Are you telling me my brother has stolen my home from me now? Is there no end to his cruelty?"
"No, sir," the polite telemarketer said. "I got my information from a data base It must be in error."
"Then it must be true," I corrected him, wailing pathetically into the phone. "My brother has somehow gotten his name on the title to my house."
"I was just trying to reach the homeowner," the salesman explained.
"Well, if my brother is the homeowner, then I'm going to have to get a lawyer and go to court."
"I don't know anything about that," the man who called and interrupted my dininer was explaining.
"You're going to have to come and be a witness for me when I take my brother to court?" I told the nice man.
"I am calling from India," he said, as if somehow that was enough for me not to demand he appear in court in my behalf.
"What!" I shreiked again. I shreik a lot. "How can someone in India know about my brother stealing my home and here I am in Richmond and I hadn't heard about it."
"But sir," he tried to explain, "I'm just calling from a data base.
"Well, I guess I'm going to have to subpoena that data base," I said. I went on to explain to the guy that I watched a lot of Law and Order on TV and that from what I'd learned from that show, I could subpoena his preciosus data base. I'm not sure if I could or not, but since I was making the whole thing up, it seemed like the right thing to say.
I asked the man if he watched Law and Order. I was going to ask him which version of the show he liked best, but he pretended not to know what I was talking about.
He did stammer and apologize quite a bit. Finally, as if to make me think he was sorry he had disturbed me, he said he would hang up and never call my number again.
You'd think that would make me happy. But, I think I'm really going to miss the little fellow.
When I told the gentleman that my brother didn't live here, he apologized (the caller, not my brother) and said he was looking for the homeowner. "What!" I cried. "Are you telling me my brother has stolen my home from me now? Is there no end to his cruelty?"
"No, sir," the polite telemarketer said. "I got my information from a data base It must be in error."
"Then it must be true," I corrected him, wailing pathetically into the phone. "My brother has somehow gotten his name on the title to my house."
"I was just trying to reach the homeowner," the salesman explained.
"Well, if my brother is the homeowner, then I'm going to have to get a lawyer and go to court."
"I don't know anything about that," the man who called and interrupted my dininer was explaining.
"You're going to have to come and be a witness for me when I take my brother to court?" I told the nice man.
"I am calling from India," he said, as if somehow that was enough for me not to demand he appear in court in my behalf.
"What!" I shreiked again. I shreik a lot. "How can someone in India know about my brother stealing my home and here I am in Richmond and I hadn't heard about it."
"But sir," he tried to explain, "I'm just calling from a data base.
"Well, I guess I'm going to have to subpoena that data base," I said. I went on to explain to the guy that I watched a lot of Law and Order on TV and that from what I'd learned from that show, I could subpoena his preciosus data base. I'm not sure if I could or not, but since I was making the whole thing up, it seemed like the right thing to say.
I asked the man if he watched Law and Order. I was going to ask him which version of the show he liked best, but he pretended not to know what I was talking about.
He did stammer and apologize quite a bit. Finally, as if to make me think he was sorry he had disturbed me, he said he would hang up and never call my number again.
You'd think that would make me happy. But, I think I'm really going to miss the little fellow.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Really Bad Radio
I was driving in to work this morning, listening to Jimmy Barrett on the radio. And, before I go any further, I want to inject that Barrett must be quite happy with the brainiac programming decision made at WTOX radio 1480 AM. They had been carrying Imus in the Morning, which can be both entertaining and informative, at times. But somebody at WTOX decided Richmond needed a local morning talk show in the worst possible way. So, they brought us the worst talk show possible. I guess there could be a talk show host worse than Tony Booth, but he'd have to be totally mute. No, come to think of it, a mute would be a step up.
I really didn't start this blog off today with the idea of talking about Tony Booth, but now that you have got me started... Tony Booth has been in radio around town for decades, and he is a prime example of succeeding through mediocrity. Although, I wouldn't say doing a morning talk show on WTOX would be anyone's idea of success. He has the style of the breathless radio announcers of the thirties and forties...you know, the sort of guy who gives the time and temperature as if he were officially announcing the end of the world.
I hadn't heard him on the air in recent months. Evidently he was stinking up the airwaves in Charlottesville, because he keeps saying things like, "The temperature in downtown Charlottesville, er, uh, I mean Richmond is..." Listening to the guy is somewhat like watching a train wreck. You're so intrigued by the horror that you can't turn away.
This guy is a real dinosaur in radio. I'm surprised he hasn't been stuffed, mounted and put on display at the Smithsonian. As I said, I'm sure Jimmy Barrett is pleased to have him as competition. Although, when you consider WTOX has the power of a toaster oven, I don't guess Barrett really considers the station as competition.
WTOX, Richmond's other talk station, is evidently being programmed by a plant from Clear Channel. Some of the decisions they've made lately are unfathomable. Their late afternoon talk show seems to be hosted by whomever is hanging around the studio at 4 PM. Or, by whomever is willing to pay fifty bucks to have his own talk show.
Now, before you go getting all hot and bothered thinking I'm some arrogant egomaniac, let me say that I'm in a unique position to opine on this subject. I have been involved in some of the worst radio in Richmond. I have the distinct honor of being the only person to be fired by the management at WXGI radio twice. Now, keep in mind, that the only prerequisite for being hired as an on-air personality at WXGI is that one possess a voice box.
I was so bad that the station brought in one of the sponsors, a local restaurant owner by the name of Tex, to help me do the show. I was so bad that they fired me and offered the job to Tex. So, don't tell me I don't know bad radio. I AM bad radio.
I was told I'd never work in radio again. And, I've lived with that pain for years. But, I'm going to put all the hurt and all the bitterness behind me. Writing this has given me a fresh look at my little pathetic life.
From this moment on I'm going to move upward and onward. Yep. I've made my decision. I'm going after Tony Booth's job. Watch out Barrett.
I really didn't start this blog off today with the idea of talking about Tony Booth, but now that you have got me started... Tony Booth has been in radio around town for decades, and he is a prime example of succeeding through mediocrity. Although, I wouldn't say doing a morning talk show on WTOX would be anyone's idea of success. He has the style of the breathless radio announcers of the thirties and forties...you know, the sort of guy who gives the time and temperature as if he were officially announcing the end of the world.
I hadn't heard him on the air in recent months. Evidently he was stinking up the airwaves in Charlottesville, because he keeps saying things like, "The temperature in downtown Charlottesville, er, uh, I mean Richmond is..." Listening to the guy is somewhat like watching a train wreck. You're so intrigued by the horror that you can't turn away.
This guy is a real dinosaur in radio. I'm surprised he hasn't been stuffed, mounted and put on display at the Smithsonian. As I said, I'm sure Jimmy Barrett is pleased to have him as competition. Although, when you consider WTOX has the power of a toaster oven, I don't guess Barrett really considers the station as competition.
WTOX, Richmond's other talk station, is evidently being programmed by a plant from Clear Channel. Some of the decisions they've made lately are unfathomable. Their late afternoon talk show seems to be hosted by whomever is hanging around the studio at 4 PM. Or, by whomever is willing to pay fifty bucks to have his own talk show.
Now, before you go getting all hot and bothered thinking I'm some arrogant egomaniac, let me say that I'm in a unique position to opine on this subject. I have been involved in some of the worst radio in Richmond. I have the distinct honor of being the only person to be fired by the management at WXGI radio twice. Now, keep in mind, that the only prerequisite for being hired as an on-air personality at WXGI is that one possess a voice box.
I was so bad that the station brought in one of the sponsors, a local restaurant owner by the name of Tex, to help me do the show. I was so bad that they fired me and offered the job to Tex. So, don't tell me I don't know bad radio. I AM bad radio.
I was told I'd never work in radio again. And, I've lived with that pain for years. But, I'm going to put all the hurt and all the bitterness behind me. Writing this has given me a fresh look at my little pathetic life.
From this moment on I'm going to move upward and onward. Yep. I've made my decision. I'm going after Tony Booth's job. Watch out Barrett.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
That Wasn't Me, That Was the Male Menopause Talking
It just dawned on me this morning that I have been an idiot. I mean it dawned on me that in one very important aspect of my life, I've been an idiot. I'm sure there is a plethora of idiotic things I've done. But, I'm driving to work, and, all of a sudden, I have this kind of slap-yourself-in-the-forehead epiphany.
You see for years, I've scoffed at the idea of male menopause, assuming it's just an excuse for bad behavior. Then, today, I realize I need a good excuse for my behavior. Why didn't I think of this before. I've let people tell me how grumpy, or boorish, or opinionated, or whatever negative they can think of, I am. And, I've just taken it, like the meek guy I really am.
No more. I have an excuse. I'm going to blame everything on male menopause. Instead of mocking it, I'm going to milk it. Although I don't normally believe in research, I decided to see what the symptoms are so I can see how far I can carry this thing. Depression and mood swings are two of the emotional symptoms. I think I can pull this off.
If I criticize someone, from now on, it's not because I'm a bad person. I'm just depressed. If I speak harshly to someone, well, excuse me, but I'm having a mood swing today. This is great. Let me do a little more research on this. I'm going ride this menopause thing as far as it will take me.
Never mind. I started reading about physical symptoms. It's like these experts really believe in male menopause. I don't know what I believe about it, but I don't want any of the believers to think I'm going through all the things associated with the condition. I knew this was too good to be true.
Why couldn't these so-called experts have left well-enough alone. I don't mind being thought of as moody, but I'm not going to venture down some of the other roads. I guess I'm going to have to continue to let people think I'm just a naturally grumpy guy.
Because, believe you me, even though I'm no expert, there's no truth to this male menopause myth. Men don't go through these physiological changes just because they may have a few years on them. It's a lie, I tell you. Don't believe a word you read about it. Better yet, don't even read about it. Why waste your time? Gee, I've kinda gotten myself worked up over these ridiculous assertions. I think I'm having a hot flash. I need to go lie down.
You see for years, I've scoffed at the idea of male menopause, assuming it's just an excuse for bad behavior. Then, today, I realize I need a good excuse for my behavior. Why didn't I think of this before. I've let people tell me how grumpy, or boorish, or opinionated, or whatever negative they can think of, I am. And, I've just taken it, like the meek guy I really am.
No more. I have an excuse. I'm going to blame everything on male menopause. Instead of mocking it, I'm going to milk it. Although I don't normally believe in research, I decided to see what the symptoms are so I can see how far I can carry this thing. Depression and mood swings are two of the emotional symptoms. I think I can pull this off.
If I criticize someone, from now on, it's not because I'm a bad person. I'm just depressed. If I speak harshly to someone, well, excuse me, but I'm having a mood swing today. This is great. Let me do a little more research on this. I'm going ride this menopause thing as far as it will take me.
Never mind. I started reading about physical symptoms. It's like these experts really believe in male menopause. I don't know what I believe about it, but I don't want any of the believers to think I'm going through all the things associated with the condition. I knew this was too good to be true.
Why couldn't these so-called experts have left well-enough alone. I don't mind being thought of as moody, but I'm not going to venture down some of the other roads. I guess I'm going to have to continue to let people think I'm just a naturally grumpy guy.
Because, believe you me, even though I'm no expert, there's no truth to this male menopause myth. Men don't go through these physiological changes just because they may have a few years on them. It's a lie, I tell you. Don't believe a word you read about it. Better yet, don't even read about it. Why waste your time? Gee, I've kinda gotten myself worked up over these ridiculous assertions. I think I'm having a hot flash. I need to go lie down.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Drink Up!
Have you noticed that very subtly we have become a beverage-driven nation? Oh sure, Americans, at least most, have been drinking water since time immemorial. But just look how drinking has become the national pastime, almost. I like to cover myself with words like almost and virtually.
Who would have thought that thirty years ago, that so many manufacturers could make so much money selling bottled water. Rather than taking time to investigate the facts, I'll just say that the sale of bottled water rakes in at least a thousand dollars a year. And, when you start talking four figures, you have my attention.
But, it's not just water. Look at coffee. I'm sure the boomer generation has a lot to do with coffee consumption. When I was in kindergarten, my mother limited me to two cups a day. But now, I could drink the brew all day long. Not because i like the taste. In fact, look how Seven-Eleven has made a fortune (yes, at least a thousand dollars), providing all the stuff that will help their coffee not taste like coffee. I think the real success of coffee is its ability to produce a euphoria that most of us boomers haven't felt naturally since we graduated from high school with the foolish notion that we were going to make a success of life. Give me enough coffee, and I even begin to think I can write.
Speaking of Seven-Eleven, I do love their multi-flavor coffee bar. I'm partial to that sugar-free raspberry syrup. Sometimes, I just drink it straight (the syrup, not the coffee). The other day I noticed a mocha syrup, and my first thought was, hey, that's cool. Then it dawned on me. Isn't mocha coffee flavored? So what they're really offering is coffee-flavored coffee. I figured I didn't need that syrup.
Back to this beverage thing though. What's with this new obsession with high-energy drinks? They have to have the dumbest names. Red Bull. If it's red and came from a bull, I don't want to drink it. There are others too, such as Kronik and Rock Star, and one called I Can't Believe This Is Legal. Experts say these drinks are dangerous. But hey, they've been saying the same thing about red meat for years, and I'm still alive...thanks, of course to angioplasty and stents.
I'll tell you the main thing, though, that has me convinced that we are now such a beverage-oriented society. I heard a radio commercial for a new car, and the primary selling feature was not the air-conditioning, the CD player, or the twin-turbo, multi-rimmed wheels (I just made that up). It was the fact that the vehicle came with eight cupholders. I knew beverage holders were the thing that turned my wife on about cars, but I thought that was just her. I envision a day when, along with the gas tank, cars will come equipped with the beverage tank. It will hold about 15 gallons of your favorite beverage, and in the luxury models will be able to both heat and cool that beverage of choice. Then, instead of cupholders, there'd be a straw for the driver and passengers. You could just drive and suck at the same time. Which, come to think of it, well never mind.
I could go on, but there's another pot of the java waiting in the kitchen. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Who would have thought that thirty years ago, that so many manufacturers could make so much money selling bottled water. Rather than taking time to investigate the facts, I'll just say that the sale of bottled water rakes in at least a thousand dollars a year. And, when you start talking four figures, you have my attention.
But, it's not just water. Look at coffee. I'm sure the boomer generation has a lot to do with coffee consumption. When I was in kindergarten, my mother limited me to two cups a day. But now, I could drink the brew all day long. Not because i like the taste. In fact, look how Seven-Eleven has made a fortune (yes, at least a thousand dollars), providing all the stuff that will help their coffee not taste like coffee. I think the real success of coffee is its ability to produce a euphoria that most of us boomers haven't felt naturally since we graduated from high school with the foolish notion that we were going to make a success of life. Give me enough coffee, and I even begin to think I can write.
Speaking of Seven-Eleven, I do love their multi-flavor coffee bar. I'm partial to that sugar-free raspberry syrup. Sometimes, I just drink it straight (the syrup, not the coffee). The other day I noticed a mocha syrup, and my first thought was, hey, that's cool. Then it dawned on me. Isn't mocha coffee flavored? So what they're really offering is coffee-flavored coffee. I figured I didn't need that syrup.
Back to this beverage thing though. What's with this new obsession with high-energy drinks? They have to have the dumbest names. Red Bull. If it's red and came from a bull, I don't want to drink it. There are others too, such as Kronik and Rock Star, and one called I Can't Believe This Is Legal. Experts say these drinks are dangerous. But hey, they've been saying the same thing about red meat for years, and I'm still alive...thanks, of course to angioplasty and stents.
I'll tell you the main thing, though, that has me convinced that we are now such a beverage-oriented society. I heard a radio commercial for a new car, and the primary selling feature was not the air-conditioning, the CD player, or the twin-turbo, multi-rimmed wheels (I just made that up). It was the fact that the vehicle came with eight cupholders. I knew beverage holders were the thing that turned my wife on about cars, but I thought that was just her. I envision a day when, along with the gas tank, cars will come equipped with the beverage tank. It will hold about 15 gallons of your favorite beverage, and in the luxury models will be able to both heat and cool that beverage of choice. Then, instead of cupholders, there'd be a straw for the driver and passengers. You could just drive and suck at the same time. Which, come to think of it, well never mind.
I could go on, but there's another pot of the java waiting in the kitchen. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
My Brave Experiment
I want to try something today...a brave, daring (if you will), (and I will) experiment. I'm sitting here with absolutely no thoughts in my head. That's right. I'm not thinking about anything. As of this moment, I have no opinion on any subject. What I am going to do here is something an amateur should never attempt to do. Please do not try this at home. I'm going to open up a book, with my eyes closed. That's not the tricky part, but, yes, it does require a certain degree of skill. I'm going to point to a spot in the book, at random. And whatever word I'm pointing at (oh yeah, I'll open my eyes at this point) will be the catalyst to a beautifully, if not eloquently-written, treatise. Are you ready? Here goes.
My eyes are closed. I'm typing this with my eyes closed. Pretty skillful, eh? I'm reaching for a book. Darn it. I can't feel one. Hold on, while I open my eyes just long enough to find a book. Okay, my eyes are shut again. And I'm opening and pointing. And the key word is "salsa."
Well, that's not fair. Because I'm not sure if it's the sauce or the dance. How can one write about something if they're not sure if it's something they eat, or something they do with their feet? Everything I've ever attempted to do in life has been met with a degree of futility. Why couldn't I have pointed to a word like "president"? Now, that would have been easy. Some may say too easy, but I believe that in any course of life, it's always best to take the easy route. I've always said that if a job is worth doing, it's worth doing adequately, but let's not insist on it being done exactly right. For one thing, who is to say what is the exact right way to do something? Like in the song, "You say potato and I say potato." You know when you look at that in print, it makes absolutely no sense, unless you're writing about two people who are making some sort of agreement to say the word "potato."
I like potatoes. Did you notice though, that when you pluralize "potato" you add an "e"? Dan Quail noticed that. Do you remember Dan Quail? I think he was the only vice-president ever who had the name of a bird. I'm sitting here scratching my head trying to think if there's ever been a president or vice-president named after any other animal. As far as here in the United States goes, I don't think so, although maybe a lincoln is an animal. It'd be a good name for something like a mink or a chinchilla. But, unless it is, I can't think of an American president with an animal name.
Of course, Mexico's president is named Fox, which is the name of an animal, although Fox doesn't sound like a Mexican word, does it? Try this sentence: "El fox es bueno." Doesn't "fox" stick out like a sore, anglican thumb? Fox definitely does not have the ring of authentic Mexican. I tell you what does sound like a Mexican word...no matter whether you're talking about food or dance. It's "salsa."
My eyes are closed. I'm typing this with my eyes closed. Pretty skillful, eh? I'm reaching for a book. Darn it. I can't feel one. Hold on, while I open my eyes just long enough to find a book. Okay, my eyes are shut again. And I'm opening and pointing. And the key word is "salsa."
Well, that's not fair. Because I'm not sure if it's the sauce or the dance. How can one write about something if they're not sure if it's something they eat, or something they do with their feet? Everything I've ever attempted to do in life has been met with a degree of futility. Why couldn't I have pointed to a word like "president"? Now, that would have been easy. Some may say too easy, but I believe that in any course of life, it's always best to take the easy route. I've always said that if a job is worth doing, it's worth doing adequately, but let's not insist on it being done exactly right. For one thing, who is to say what is the exact right way to do something? Like in the song, "You say potato and I say potato." You know when you look at that in print, it makes absolutely no sense, unless you're writing about two people who are making some sort of agreement to say the word "potato."
I like potatoes. Did you notice though, that when you pluralize "potato" you add an "e"? Dan Quail noticed that. Do you remember Dan Quail? I think he was the only vice-president ever who had the name of a bird. I'm sitting here scratching my head trying to think if there's ever been a president or vice-president named after any other animal. As far as here in the United States goes, I don't think so, although maybe a lincoln is an animal. It'd be a good name for something like a mink or a chinchilla. But, unless it is, I can't think of an American president with an animal name.
Of course, Mexico's president is named Fox, which is the name of an animal, although Fox doesn't sound like a Mexican word, does it? Try this sentence: "El fox es bueno." Doesn't "fox" stick out like a sore, anglican thumb? Fox definitely does not have the ring of authentic Mexican. I tell you what does sound like a Mexican word...no matter whether you're talking about food or dance. It's "salsa."
Monday, September 19, 2005
Many Thoughts To Go Before I Sleep
My car tried to kill me again today. When something like that happens, it makes you realize how quickly our whole lives can turn around. You know, like one minute you have one (a life) and the next minute you're dead. I think I've told you about my Saturn's attempts at murder on previous occasions, but, just in case I haven't, and just in case you care...I have one of those automatic seat belt things. When I turn the car off, the seat belt disengages, sliding away from me. But, on occasion, including this morning, the seat belt actually lunged for my throat when I turned the ignition off. Thanks only to my Indiana Jones-like reflexes, I've been able to escape whenever this happens.
Sometimes, they say, when death stares one squarely in the face, one's whole life flashes before him. Not with me. What flashed before me were a bunch of column ideas that aren't developed enough for a stand-alone piece. So, having narrowly escaped with my life, I've decided that, prior to my demise, I'll just put a bunch of disjointed ideas into one piece.
You know, this is really a clever ploy to use when I don't have anything to write. And, let me say, that if you should hear of my death, please report my car to the FBI.
But, anyway, here are some recent thoughts I've had. First, I heard that Mexico's El Presidente Fox has offered to send Mexican workers into Louisiana to help with the recovery/cleanup. I sincerely think that's a generous offer. What I want to know is does anyone really think those workers are going to go there and work until the Seven-Elevens reopen?
Something else regarding the New Orleans disaster, I read that the mayor is promoting the idea that the French Quarter will be back on its feet in time for next year's Mardi Gras. It seems to me that if I'd just been hit with one of the worst natural disasters in history, I'd be a little cautious about planning a pagan debauchery. In fact, I'd want to go on record that maybe we had better hold off on any major drunken revelries/orgies. I'm not in any way suggesting that God did this to New Orleans. I don't think he did. But, if I lived there, I wouldn't be in the mood to take any chances right now.
On another completely different note, I think anyone who gets a caller ID for their phone should have to take lessons in the proper use of the contraption, and then get a license to use it. We are regularly getting phone calls, here at the office, from morons who say, "Somebody there just tried to call me." And then the caller will wait for us to figure out who it might be that phoned.
Well congratulations. You got a phone call. Hey, we have ten people making phone calls here. How do you expect our receptionist to know who called you? If the caller didn't leave a message, then forget about it. Don't be so anxious. They'll call back.
And, one more thought. Is Robby Gordon just about the biggest idiot in the sports world today? What an imbecile. I do have one bit of advice for him. Next time, Robby, rather than just hurling your helmet, why not throw yourself in front of the mean old car that hurt you. That'll show 'em. On second thought. Why not just strap yourself into my Saturn. Now that could really be fun.
Sometimes, they say, when death stares one squarely in the face, one's whole life flashes before him. Not with me. What flashed before me were a bunch of column ideas that aren't developed enough for a stand-alone piece. So, having narrowly escaped with my life, I've decided that, prior to my demise, I'll just put a bunch of disjointed ideas into one piece.
You know, this is really a clever ploy to use when I don't have anything to write. And, let me say, that if you should hear of my death, please report my car to the FBI.
But, anyway, here are some recent thoughts I've had. First, I heard that Mexico's El Presidente Fox has offered to send Mexican workers into Louisiana to help with the recovery/cleanup. I sincerely think that's a generous offer. What I want to know is does anyone really think those workers are going to go there and work until the Seven-Elevens reopen?
Something else regarding the New Orleans disaster, I read that the mayor is promoting the idea that the French Quarter will be back on its feet in time for next year's Mardi Gras. It seems to me that if I'd just been hit with one of the worst natural disasters in history, I'd be a little cautious about planning a pagan debauchery. In fact, I'd want to go on record that maybe we had better hold off on any major drunken revelries/orgies. I'm not in any way suggesting that God did this to New Orleans. I don't think he did. But, if I lived there, I wouldn't be in the mood to take any chances right now.
On another completely different note, I think anyone who gets a caller ID for their phone should have to take lessons in the proper use of the contraption, and then get a license to use it. We are regularly getting phone calls, here at the office, from morons who say, "Somebody there just tried to call me." And then the caller will wait for us to figure out who it might be that phoned.
Well congratulations. You got a phone call. Hey, we have ten people making phone calls here. How do you expect our receptionist to know who called you? If the caller didn't leave a message, then forget about it. Don't be so anxious. They'll call back.
And, one more thought. Is Robby Gordon just about the biggest idiot in the sports world today? What an imbecile. I do have one bit of advice for him. Next time, Robby, rather than just hurling your helmet, why not throw yourself in front of the mean old car that hurt you. That'll show 'em. On second thought. Why not just strap yourself into my Saturn. Now that could really be fun.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Intelligent Fools
Is there any president of any Parent-Teacher organization that hasn't, at one time or another, embezzled thousands of dollars from that organization? I'm beginning to wonder. Just yesterday, there was another story about some PTA president in some school, somewhere, who'd done it.
What I can't understand is how someone so smart can be so stupid. I'd think you'd have to have a degree of intelligence to figure out how to steal so much money and get by with it. If I were in charge of money for an organization, I'm sure that if I borrowed thirty cents for a pack of gum, the FBI would be at my door before I could finish the pack.
How do these people figure out how to embezzle tens of thousands of dollars and not get caught? How do you tell the other parents, "You know how we thought we had made $5,000 on the pie sale? Well, actually, we lost $20,000"? Evidently they are able to convince the people they have to answer to, at least for a period of time.
So, these embezzelers must be intelligent, and yet, they have to know that eventually they'll be caught, so they're also pretty stupid. I just can't figure it out.
Of course, I want to make it clear, before anyone starts investigating me, lack of ability to pull it off is not the main reason I don't embezzle. Somehow, call me old fashioned, it just seems like the wrong thing to do. To my knowledge, I've never stolen anything in my life, not even a pack of gum (you can tell I'm partial to gum). I have a feeling it would bother my conscience. And yet, you have what one would expect to be fairly normal moms and dads, getting a position of responsibility in the PTA and then start stealing the money.
Where did it begin? I can't imagine they decided to have kids with the thought that when those kids start school, they can start stealing money. I can't even imagine they plan to do it when they get involved in the PTA. My guess is that they start out with a sincere desire to be involved in their children's lives, even to make a difference. But, somewhere along the way, the idea hits them. As I say, I just can't figure out how that happens. If it were a one-time thing, that's understandable, but it's a story one reads over and over again.
Of course, it's not just PTA. We regularly hear of little league treasurers, church officials, and others who are given a trust, helping themselves to the till. According to the Association of Certified Fraud Examiners, fraud and abuse costs U.S. organizations more than $400 billion annually. That's unbelievable. It also adds up to over 1.3 trillion packs of Juicy Fruit. And, when you look at it that way, I guess I can kinda understand it.
What I can't understand is how someone so smart can be so stupid. I'd think you'd have to have a degree of intelligence to figure out how to steal so much money and get by with it. If I were in charge of money for an organization, I'm sure that if I borrowed thirty cents for a pack of gum, the FBI would be at my door before I could finish the pack.
How do these people figure out how to embezzle tens of thousands of dollars and not get caught? How do you tell the other parents, "You know how we thought we had made $5,000 on the pie sale? Well, actually, we lost $20,000"? Evidently they are able to convince the people they have to answer to, at least for a period of time.
So, these embezzelers must be intelligent, and yet, they have to know that eventually they'll be caught, so they're also pretty stupid. I just can't figure it out.
Of course, I want to make it clear, before anyone starts investigating me, lack of ability to pull it off is not the main reason I don't embezzle. Somehow, call me old fashioned, it just seems like the wrong thing to do. To my knowledge, I've never stolen anything in my life, not even a pack of gum (you can tell I'm partial to gum). I have a feeling it would bother my conscience. And yet, you have what one would expect to be fairly normal moms and dads, getting a position of responsibility in the PTA and then start stealing the money.
Where did it begin? I can't imagine they decided to have kids with the thought that when those kids start school, they can start stealing money. I can't even imagine they plan to do it when they get involved in the PTA. My guess is that they start out with a sincere desire to be involved in their children's lives, even to make a difference. But, somewhere along the way, the idea hits them. As I say, I just can't figure out how that happens. If it were a one-time thing, that's understandable, but it's a story one reads over and over again.
Of course, it's not just PTA. We regularly hear of little league treasurers, church officials, and others who are given a trust, helping themselves to the till. According to the Association of Certified Fraud Examiners, fraud and abuse costs U.S. organizations more than $400 billion annually. That's unbelievable. It also adds up to over 1.3 trillion packs of Juicy Fruit. And, when you look at it that way, I guess I can kinda understand it.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The Great Divide
Well, I'm taking the lazy route today. Rather than come up with something fresh, witty and insightful...you know like i usually do, I'm going to share an email I received. The other day I alluded to having received a press release from a group protesting the supposedly racially-motivated failure to respond to the victim's of Hurricane Katrina in a timely manner. I mentioned that when I replied by voicing my concerns about the sincerity of such a protest, I had received a three-word response. Well, I must admit, the individual (whom I won't name) has sent me a somewhat more thoughtful reply. In all fairness, I will pass that on for you to read:
Dear Steve Cook,
Or, should I address you as "West End's Best"?
Now that the protest is over, I thought I'd give a more thoughtful answer to your e-mail -- mainly because I hate to write off anyone, no matter how boorish.
It's not necessary to go over the reasons why the Defenders called the demonstration about the government's response to Hurricane Katrina. The news media has made the situation very clear: One-third of New Orleans lived below the poverty line, but there was no attempt to get those without transportation out of the city. After the storm passed, up to a week went by before there was a serious attempt at rescue and relief. Then a virtual state of martial law was imposed. So we -- along with dozens of other groups around the country -- held a vigil demanding "Real Relief, not Repression."
Two weeks earlier, I had sent out a press release about an anti-war vigil in solidarity with Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a GI killed in Iraq who was asking for a meeting with President Bush. About 35 people came to that event, along all three major TV networks, the Times-Dispatch, Style Weekly and two or three radio stations.
For the Sept. 12 vigil on Katrina, I sent a press release to the exact same media list. We got about the same number of participants, but no media, except for WRIR, a small community-based radio station.
We did get your e-mail, accusing us of staging the protest to garner publicity.
My point is that the rules change when the issue is race. Katrina has exposed the deep divisions in this country based on race and class. It's relatively easy now to protest the war in Iraq -- it's increasingly unpopular, and sections of the power elite are getting nervous about where it is going.
But Katrina is different. It's potentially dangerous, opening up deep volcanoes of anger. I think that may have been why we got so much coverage on a little peace demo and practically nothing on Katrina. In this context, it doesn't surprise me that we got one e-mail accusing us of opportunism on the issue of Katrina.
I don't intend to carry on a dialogue with you. Both your e-mails were inane and hostile and didn't deserve any more response than the first one I sent. But you may benefit from thinking a bit about why it was that this particular issue got you so upset. Was it really concern that some group might be trying to make political hay off a disaster? Or was it because the issue dealt with race?
And if so, what does that say about you?
END OF EMAIL
I started to reply in my typical sarcastic manner, but in all seriousness, I felt the issue was too important to try for a cheap laugh. To me, the issue is so clear, and I am so right, that I wonder why everyone doesn't see it this way. Perhaps, my arrogance is clouding my vision. I would appreciate your feedback. Am I missing something here. I really would like to know.
Here is my reply:
Mr. ___________,
Admittedly, I am not overly happy with the way you have insulted me. However, I can appreciate that when emotions run high, one can respond in a manner that really does not reflect their true character. I’m going to assume that this is what happened. I really don’t think insults from either side is the solution.
I must admit, I do find it insulting to make the response to Hurricane Katrina a race issue. Admittedly, there are inequities in society, and obviously the minorities are, by far, the more frequent victims of such inequities. However, the generosity displayed by many Americans, has been totally devoid of racial under- or overtones. Americans saw scenes of predominantly poor, black fellow Americans, and opened up their hearts and pocketbooks.
To make this a racial issue, in the midst of this spirit of caring, is very wrong. It is counter-productive. Perhaps, there will be a time to explore the possibility that racial divisiveness has been at the root of the situation that put these victims of Katrina in such a pitiable plight. But, do you really think protests at this point are going to make white Americans more willing to help? I truly don’t.
If anything, I think it could cause many to reconsider. I feel that racial divisions are quite frequently based on our stereotyping those of a different skin color, ethnicity, or even economic background. And, I think your actions help to promote the stereotype of the “angry black American.” Certainly, the media promotes that image as they seek out stories of evacuees complaining and arguing and fighting.
I can’t imagine what it must be like to endure what these folks must have gone through and are continuing to go through. But, if I were you, and to be honest, I don’t know what your skin color or ethnic background is, I would be seeking to help paint a picture of the courage, the pride, the dignity, of the evacuees. Why waste your time making issues that, at this point in time, should not be made. There will be a time for that, I’m sure.
I just honestly believe that if you truly care about those displaced by Katrina, there are so many more worthwhile things you could be doing...things that would generate even greater generosity by persons of every racial background. Even, if you felt my original response to your press release was “inane and hostile,” why not reflect your high ideals by refraining from telling me to “go f_____ myself”?
I’m not upset by your response. Actually, I found it somewhat amusing. But I am upset because I feel your actions are not only a waste of time, but ultimately hurt those you seek to help. I don’t think your protest causes even one person to change his or her point of view, at least not in a way that’s positive towards your cause. If you had expended the same energy to go downtown and publicly thank Richmonders for their non-racially motivated generosity, and, at the same time, taken additional donations, you would have done so much more good. You would have demonstrated that while you have genuine concerns about racial issues, you realize that at this point in time, we’re all pulling together. And, if you don’t see that, or believe that, then I truly feel very sorry for you.
By the way, you don’t have to call me “West End’s Best.” Steve is just fine.
Sincerely,
Steve Cook
Dear Steve Cook,
Or, should I address you as "West End's Best"?
Now that the protest is over, I thought I'd give a more thoughtful answer to your e-mail -- mainly because I hate to write off anyone, no matter how boorish.
It's not necessary to go over the reasons why the Defenders called the demonstration about the government's response to Hurricane Katrina. The news media has made the situation very clear: One-third of New Orleans lived below the poverty line, but there was no attempt to get those without transportation out of the city. After the storm passed, up to a week went by before there was a serious attempt at rescue and relief. Then a virtual state of martial law was imposed. So we -- along with dozens of other groups around the country -- held a vigil demanding "Real Relief, not Repression."
Two weeks earlier, I had sent out a press release about an anti-war vigil in solidarity with Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a GI killed in Iraq who was asking for a meeting with President Bush. About 35 people came to that event, along all three major TV networks, the Times-Dispatch, Style Weekly and two or three radio stations.
For the Sept. 12 vigil on Katrina, I sent a press release to the exact same media list. We got about the same number of participants, but no media, except for WRIR, a small community-based radio station.
We did get your e-mail, accusing us of staging the protest to garner publicity.
My point is that the rules change when the issue is race. Katrina has exposed the deep divisions in this country based on race and class. It's relatively easy now to protest the war in Iraq -- it's increasingly unpopular, and sections of the power elite are getting nervous about where it is going.
But Katrina is different. It's potentially dangerous, opening up deep volcanoes of anger. I think that may have been why we got so much coverage on a little peace demo and practically nothing on Katrina. In this context, it doesn't surprise me that we got one e-mail accusing us of opportunism on the issue of Katrina.
I don't intend to carry on a dialogue with you. Both your e-mails were inane and hostile and didn't deserve any more response than the first one I sent. But you may benefit from thinking a bit about why it was that this particular issue got you so upset. Was it really concern that some group might be trying to make political hay off a disaster? Or was it because the issue dealt with race?
And if so, what does that say about you?
END OF EMAIL
I started to reply in my typical sarcastic manner, but in all seriousness, I felt the issue was too important to try for a cheap laugh. To me, the issue is so clear, and I am so right, that I wonder why everyone doesn't see it this way. Perhaps, my arrogance is clouding my vision. I would appreciate your feedback. Am I missing something here. I really would like to know.
Here is my reply:
Mr. ___________,
Admittedly, I am not overly happy with the way you have insulted me. However, I can appreciate that when emotions run high, one can respond in a manner that really does not reflect their true character. I’m going to assume that this is what happened. I really don’t think insults from either side is the solution.
I must admit, I do find it insulting to make the response to Hurricane Katrina a race issue. Admittedly, there are inequities in society, and obviously the minorities are, by far, the more frequent victims of such inequities. However, the generosity displayed by many Americans, has been totally devoid of racial under- or overtones. Americans saw scenes of predominantly poor, black fellow Americans, and opened up their hearts and pocketbooks.
To make this a racial issue, in the midst of this spirit of caring, is very wrong. It is counter-productive. Perhaps, there will be a time to explore the possibility that racial divisiveness has been at the root of the situation that put these victims of Katrina in such a pitiable plight. But, do you really think protests at this point are going to make white Americans more willing to help? I truly don’t.
If anything, I think it could cause many to reconsider. I feel that racial divisions are quite frequently based on our stereotyping those of a different skin color, ethnicity, or even economic background. And, I think your actions help to promote the stereotype of the “angry black American.” Certainly, the media promotes that image as they seek out stories of evacuees complaining and arguing and fighting.
I can’t imagine what it must be like to endure what these folks must have gone through and are continuing to go through. But, if I were you, and to be honest, I don’t know what your skin color or ethnic background is, I would be seeking to help paint a picture of the courage, the pride, the dignity, of the evacuees. Why waste your time making issues that, at this point in time, should not be made. There will be a time for that, I’m sure.
I just honestly believe that if you truly care about those displaced by Katrina, there are so many more worthwhile things you could be doing...things that would generate even greater generosity by persons of every racial background. Even, if you felt my original response to your press release was “inane and hostile,” why not reflect your high ideals by refraining from telling me to “go f_____ myself”?
I’m not upset by your response. Actually, I found it somewhat amusing. But I am upset because I feel your actions are not only a waste of time, but ultimately hurt those you seek to help. I don’t think your protest causes even one person to change his or her point of view, at least not in a way that’s positive towards your cause. If you had expended the same energy to go downtown and publicly thank Richmonders for their non-racially motivated generosity, and, at the same time, taken additional donations, you would have done so much more good. You would have demonstrated that while you have genuine concerns about racial issues, you realize that at this point in time, we’re all pulling together. And, if you don’t see that, or believe that, then I truly feel very sorry for you.
By the way, you don’t have to call me “West End’s Best.” Steve is just fine.
Sincerely,
Steve Cook
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
I'll Have a Cheeseburger, But Hold the Cheese
I want to take a few moments today to talk about HMOs. No, I'll quickly assure you this has nothing to do with insurance plans. Although, come to think of it, I have plenty I'd like to say about insurance companies. Life insurance companies treat me as if I'm already dead. With a history of heart problems and diabetes, the best I could afford is a policy that, should I die, doesn't exactly give my wife a cash payout, but she does get free oil changes for two years.
But, as I said, I'm not here to talk about insurance, I'm here to talk about HMOs. Take my aforementioned wife for example. She's an HMO. I've found in most marriages, one party is an HMO and the other isn't. So what's an HMO? I thought you'd never ask.
It's the term I've coined for my wife. It simply means High Maintenance Orderer. I'm referring to her typical routine whenever we eat out. We eat out quite frequently, and I can honestly say that I've never heard her just tell the waitress what she wants. I'm not complaining mind you (wink wink). I think it's a beautiful trait. It endears me to her.
It's just that the act of placing an order for a meal can sometimes take longer than the wait for said meal, and the consumption of that meal, combined. First, my wife asks the waitress for her experience in eating the food on the menu. My wife doesn't just want to know what the lady likes on the menu. She wants a blow-by-blow description of the waitress' total sensory experience in eating that meal.
Once, she (my wife) narrows down the basic item she wants, she then begins to play the substitution game. "Can I exchange the french fries for the baked potato?" That's not too bad, but that's just the beginning. She may want to exchange the salad for a bowl of tapioca pudding, and the green beans for the crab dip. She's just into customization.
Once all the substitutions have been arranged, it's time to name the salad dressings. I love it when the waitress names fifteen different exotic dressings, and my wife scrunches up her face, as if to say, "Is that all?". And then my wife will say, "Just give me oil and vinegar."
Sometimes my wife will get the waitress to repeat the list of dressings. The first time through was just for an overview. After that, it's time to bask in the idea of the dressings. She may ask the waitress to repeat "that third dressing you mentioned." I fully expect she'll one day ask the lady to recite the dressings in Italian or maybe Pig Latin.
My wife, bless her lovely heart, doesn't stop being high maintenance after she's ordered. She likes things just so. She may ask for an extra cup of ice, no make that shaved ice. And, it would be lovely if the waitress could substitute the little plastic tubs of cream for a silver pitcher of half and half.
And, I'm not talking about just those fancy walk-in-and-sit-down restaurants. My wife is an HMO at the drive-thru as well. When we were dating, I tried to impress her by remembering to ask for any condiment I could possibly imagine she might want for the specific sandwich. I never got it right. I could have the server put extra mustard, mayonnaise, butter, salt, and pepper in the bag, and my wife would ask, "Did you get any tartar sauce?"
"No," I'd reply sheepishly, "I didn't know you put tartar sauce on a hamburger."
"I usually don't," she'd say, "but I was kind of in the mood for tartar sauce."
The next time I'd ask for tartar sauce, and she'd ask me to see if they had vinegar. What amazes me is that some of the restaurants really stock up for HMOs. I've reluctantly asked for strange sauces and the server just reaches down and drops it in my bag.
My wife almost always asks for unsalted french fries in the fast food places. Her reasoning being that they won't have any, so they'll have to put on a fresh batch just for her. For some reason, it galls some of the order takers when they hand her a bag of fresh-cooked, unsalted fries and then she asks for salt. It's actually kinda fun watching that. And, truth be told, her fries are always better than the dried out grease sticks they give me.
So, I guess there's a benefit to having an HMO in the family. And, I'm not criticizing her. I'm really just using this space to tell you all what a delight it is to go out to eat with her (wink wink).
But, as I said, I'm not here to talk about insurance, I'm here to talk about HMOs. Take my aforementioned wife for example. She's an HMO. I've found in most marriages, one party is an HMO and the other isn't. So what's an HMO? I thought you'd never ask.
It's the term I've coined for my wife. It simply means High Maintenance Orderer. I'm referring to her typical routine whenever we eat out. We eat out quite frequently, and I can honestly say that I've never heard her just tell the waitress what she wants. I'm not complaining mind you (wink wink). I think it's a beautiful trait. It endears me to her.
It's just that the act of placing an order for a meal can sometimes take longer than the wait for said meal, and the consumption of that meal, combined. First, my wife asks the waitress for her experience in eating the food on the menu. My wife doesn't just want to know what the lady likes on the menu. She wants a blow-by-blow description of the waitress' total sensory experience in eating that meal.
Once, she (my wife) narrows down the basic item she wants, she then begins to play the substitution game. "Can I exchange the french fries for the baked potato?" That's not too bad, but that's just the beginning. She may want to exchange the salad for a bowl of tapioca pudding, and the green beans for the crab dip. She's just into customization.
Once all the substitutions have been arranged, it's time to name the salad dressings. I love it when the waitress names fifteen different exotic dressings, and my wife scrunches up her face, as if to say, "Is that all?". And then my wife will say, "Just give me oil and vinegar."
Sometimes my wife will get the waitress to repeat the list of dressings. The first time through was just for an overview. After that, it's time to bask in the idea of the dressings. She may ask the waitress to repeat "that third dressing you mentioned." I fully expect she'll one day ask the lady to recite the dressings in Italian or maybe Pig Latin.
My wife, bless her lovely heart, doesn't stop being high maintenance after she's ordered. She likes things just so. She may ask for an extra cup of ice, no make that shaved ice. And, it would be lovely if the waitress could substitute the little plastic tubs of cream for a silver pitcher of half and half.
And, I'm not talking about just those fancy walk-in-and-sit-down restaurants. My wife is an HMO at the drive-thru as well. When we were dating, I tried to impress her by remembering to ask for any condiment I could possibly imagine she might want for the specific sandwich. I never got it right. I could have the server put extra mustard, mayonnaise, butter, salt, and pepper in the bag, and my wife would ask, "Did you get any tartar sauce?"
"No," I'd reply sheepishly, "I didn't know you put tartar sauce on a hamburger."
"I usually don't," she'd say, "but I was kind of in the mood for tartar sauce."
The next time I'd ask for tartar sauce, and she'd ask me to see if they had vinegar. What amazes me is that some of the restaurants really stock up for HMOs. I've reluctantly asked for strange sauces and the server just reaches down and drops it in my bag.
My wife almost always asks for unsalted french fries in the fast food places. Her reasoning being that they won't have any, so they'll have to put on a fresh batch just for her. For some reason, it galls some of the order takers when they hand her a bag of fresh-cooked, unsalted fries and then she asks for salt. It's actually kinda fun watching that. And, truth be told, her fries are always better than the dried out grease sticks they give me.
So, I guess there's a benefit to having an HMO in the family. And, I'm not criticizing her. I'm really just using this space to tell you all what a delight it is to go out to eat with her (wink wink).
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
People Who Really Irritate Me
I am not an angry guy. I have to provide that disclaimer, or else parts of today's blog would seem somewhat hypocritical. I get irritated easily. I get really irritated at stupid people...not persons with low I.Q.s, necessarily. Sometimes they are the least stupid. I get irritated with people who, for whatever reason, do stupid things. That includes myself at times. That should cover me enough to proceed with my list of people who really irritate me.
1) I am irritated by the toll takers on the Pocahontas Parkway. For those unacquainted with this highway, it's basically a ten minute shortcut for which one must pay a $2.00 toll. That, in itself, is irritating. If I was a toll taker, I'd treat my customers like they were good gold. I mean here they are shelling out two bucks each way. But everytime I hit the toll booth (not literally), the toll taker acts as if I'm interrupting her. Sometimes she'll take a minute to put down the newspaper, or she'll finish filling out a report, or, at least, acting like that's what she's doing. Regardless of their particular activity, they always want to make me wait. Perhaps that's their way of saying I should get an EZ Pass, or whatever they call those things. If I were a toll taker, I'd be the best darn toll taker in the history of turnpikes. My hand would be ready and waiting. And, I'd smile and thank each toll payer. I'd make people want to drive across my bridge just to see me. That's always been a dream of mine. I guess I got sidetracked there. Sorry.
2) I get irritated at drivers who don't know how to play Squeeze 'Em Out. I don't try to squeeze other drivers out as a rule. But I do try to squeeze out those maniacs who come flying up behind me, zipping from one lane to the next. There's a skill to leading them into the false sense of security that they can pass me on the right and then squeeze back into the passing lane in front of me. I love knowing I've slowed these idiots down. What irritates me is when the driver in front of me doesn't play along. How can he (or she) be so unaware of the aggressive maniac weaving all over the road? Sometimes the driver in front of me will even slow down to purposely allow that maniac to squeeze in. That really irritates me.
3) My biggest irritation this week is at those who are wont to make this hurricane relief thing a racial issue. I hear both blacks and whites suggesting that if the New Orleans' victims who were stranded at the Superdome had been white, there never would have been any problems. That's a bunch of crud (to put it mildly). I agree that things were not handled well. That's primarily because most bureaucrats (regardless of political persuasion or anything else) are totally inept themselves. They're really just glorified toll takers. But, while I know there are some really crumby people out there, I don't really believe that even the dumbest bureaucrat is going to say, "Let's deprive those folks of needed help because they're black." Yes, I'm certain there is some bigotry in the world. But, perhaps the biggest bigots are those who would accuse us non-blacks of being so vile that we would deliberately withold aid from another person because of his skin color or his economic status.
Come to think of it, that doesn't just irritate me, it makes me angry.
1) I am irritated by the toll takers on the Pocahontas Parkway. For those unacquainted with this highway, it's basically a ten minute shortcut for which one must pay a $2.00 toll. That, in itself, is irritating. If I was a toll taker, I'd treat my customers like they were good gold. I mean here they are shelling out two bucks each way. But everytime I hit the toll booth (not literally), the toll taker acts as if I'm interrupting her. Sometimes she'll take a minute to put down the newspaper, or she'll finish filling out a report, or, at least, acting like that's what she's doing. Regardless of their particular activity, they always want to make me wait. Perhaps that's their way of saying I should get an EZ Pass, or whatever they call those things. If I were a toll taker, I'd be the best darn toll taker in the history of turnpikes. My hand would be ready and waiting. And, I'd smile and thank each toll payer. I'd make people want to drive across my bridge just to see me. That's always been a dream of mine. I guess I got sidetracked there. Sorry.
2) I get irritated at drivers who don't know how to play Squeeze 'Em Out. I don't try to squeeze other drivers out as a rule. But I do try to squeeze out those maniacs who come flying up behind me, zipping from one lane to the next. There's a skill to leading them into the false sense of security that they can pass me on the right and then squeeze back into the passing lane in front of me. I love knowing I've slowed these idiots down. What irritates me is when the driver in front of me doesn't play along. How can he (or she) be so unaware of the aggressive maniac weaving all over the road? Sometimes the driver in front of me will even slow down to purposely allow that maniac to squeeze in. That really irritates me.
3) My biggest irritation this week is at those who are wont to make this hurricane relief thing a racial issue. I hear both blacks and whites suggesting that if the New Orleans' victims who were stranded at the Superdome had been white, there never would have been any problems. That's a bunch of crud (to put it mildly). I agree that things were not handled well. That's primarily because most bureaucrats (regardless of political persuasion or anything else) are totally inept themselves. They're really just glorified toll takers. But, while I know there are some really crumby people out there, I don't really believe that even the dumbest bureaucrat is going to say, "Let's deprive those folks of needed help because they're black." Yes, I'm certain there is some bigotry in the world. But, perhaps the biggest bigots are those who would accuse us non-blacks of being so vile that we would deliberately withold aid from another person because of his skin color or his economic status.
Come to think of it, that doesn't just irritate me, it makes me angry.
Monday, September 12, 2005
The Offenders
I received a press release this morning from a local (Richmond, VA) group calling themselves The Defenders for Freedom Justice and Equality. Man, how self-important must these folks be? I bet their biggest concern is exposure to Kryptonite. But, anyway, they were notifying me of a protest rally they're holding in town on behalf of the victims of Hurricane Katrina.
How comforting. I know that if I had lost everything, and were living in a baseball stadium, the first thing I'd need is someone to be protesting for me.
I think this group should, first of all, demand that hurricanes be outlawed. It's just not right that some storm, that started as a wave off the African coast, should hurt innocent Americans. I have a feeling, though, that these Defenders might not want to acknowledge the origins of most Atlantic hurricanes. I went to their website, and they're also up in arms about the idea of building a new stadium in Shockoe Bottom. Why? I'll quote from their site:
"This was once the site of one of the largest slave-trading areas in the United States. It was here that, in the decades before the end of the Civil War, thousands of enslaved Africans were sold into lives of brutal exploitation. This is Sacred Ground that must not be further desecrated for commercial profit."
Shockoe Bottom sacred ground? Just go down there on a Friday night around midnight and see how many drunken revelers, of all races, are littering, regurgitating, and otherwise "desecrating" that sacred ground. The Defenders want to build a museum down there...a museum that tells the history of slavery. That might draw a couple dozen tourists a year. I'm not being a racist, only a realist. A slavery museum, on its own, will do absolutely nothing to bring significant revenue into downtown Richmond. However, if there were a major sports venue, featuring the talents of professional athletes of all races, athletes, who are making a pretty good living (or should we say athletes that desecrate for commercial profit?), by the way, then you'd have an attraction that would draw tens of thousands into the area.
Some of these would, in all probability, take note of the fact that there's a museum nearby, and schedule a visit, perhaps before or after the game. They'd also spend money in restaurants and shops...money that would be used to provide decent jobs for many who lived in the area, as would the ballpark itself. That's not speculation. That's a fact. The problem is, producing entertainment for the masses and jobs for many of the inner city's blacks (and whites, and others) is not what people like The Defenders are really interested in.
They enjoy protesting. It makes them look important. It gets their picture in the paper. It creates a stink, letting everyone know how angry they are.
Hurricane Katrina produced a real stink, and thankfully, there are many Richmonders of all races who think it's more important to actually do something constructive, whether it be donating money or their time, to really help. These are the people who really make a difference, not those constantly-angry egomaniacs who think a protest in downtown Richmond is going to make one iota of a difference. Get real. Why let your anger cripple you? Why spend your entire life whining about your lot in life?
Take the time you are planning to protest and have a car wash or a bake sale or whatever to raise money for the victims of Katrina. You won't get the same publicity. But, you know what, you may find out you'll feel pretty good about yourself.
PS: When I received the email from The Defenders, I emailed them back and voiced my disdain for their approach. I just received a three-word replay from their spokesperson. It's not the sort of thing I can print. But, I will have to say that if I were to follow the suggestion given to me, that exercise in self-copulation would be about as meaningful as their protest demonstration. Thanks, Defenders, but I'm going to have to pass on this one.
How comforting. I know that if I had lost everything, and were living in a baseball stadium, the first thing I'd need is someone to be protesting for me.
I think this group should, first of all, demand that hurricanes be outlawed. It's just not right that some storm, that started as a wave off the African coast, should hurt innocent Americans. I have a feeling, though, that these Defenders might not want to acknowledge the origins of most Atlantic hurricanes. I went to their website, and they're also up in arms about the idea of building a new stadium in Shockoe Bottom. Why? I'll quote from their site:
"This was once the site of one of the largest slave-trading areas in the United States. It was here that, in the decades before the end of the Civil War, thousands of enslaved Africans were sold into lives of brutal exploitation. This is Sacred Ground that must not be further desecrated for commercial profit."
Shockoe Bottom sacred ground? Just go down there on a Friday night around midnight and see how many drunken revelers, of all races, are littering, regurgitating, and otherwise "desecrating" that sacred ground. The Defenders want to build a museum down there...a museum that tells the history of slavery. That might draw a couple dozen tourists a year. I'm not being a racist, only a realist. A slavery museum, on its own, will do absolutely nothing to bring significant revenue into downtown Richmond. However, if there were a major sports venue, featuring the talents of professional athletes of all races, athletes, who are making a pretty good living (or should we say athletes that desecrate for commercial profit?), by the way, then you'd have an attraction that would draw tens of thousands into the area.
Some of these would, in all probability, take note of the fact that there's a museum nearby, and schedule a visit, perhaps before or after the game. They'd also spend money in restaurants and shops...money that would be used to provide decent jobs for many who lived in the area, as would the ballpark itself. That's not speculation. That's a fact. The problem is, producing entertainment for the masses and jobs for many of the inner city's blacks (and whites, and others) is not what people like The Defenders are really interested in.
They enjoy protesting. It makes them look important. It gets their picture in the paper. It creates a stink, letting everyone know how angry they are.
Hurricane Katrina produced a real stink, and thankfully, there are many Richmonders of all races who think it's more important to actually do something constructive, whether it be donating money or their time, to really help. These are the people who really make a difference, not those constantly-angry egomaniacs who think a protest in downtown Richmond is going to make one iota of a difference. Get real. Why let your anger cripple you? Why spend your entire life whining about your lot in life?
Take the time you are planning to protest and have a car wash or a bake sale or whatever to raise money for the victims of Katrina. You won't get the same publicity. But, you know what, you may find out you'll feel pretty good about yourself.
PS: When I received the email from The Defenders, I emailed them back and voiced my disdain for their approach. I just received a three-word replay from their spokesperson. It's not the sort of thing I can print. But, I will have to say that if I were to follow the suggestion given to me, that exercise in self-copulation would be about as meaningful as their protest demonstration. Thanks, Defenders, but I'm going to have to pass on this one.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
The Summer of My Japanese Salesman
So, I'm just sitting at my desk, trying to think of any kind of a recent interesting experience that could delight and entertain you. I'm drawing a blank. Maybe I'll tell another boring story from days gone by. And then I hear a knock on the door. Our office has a rear entrance off the parking lot,so we keep the front door locked. I go to the door and there a young man is standing on the front stoop. He's really just a kid with the very early beginnings of a beard. He kinda looks like a Japanese Shaggy (from Scooby Doo). The guy is wearing baggy pants and a t-shirt, and is carrying a backpack.
"May I help you?" I politely ask the young man.
"Here's who I am," he says, handing me his drivers license along with his John Tyler Community College library card.
"Uh, okay," I intelligently reply. "What can I do for you?"
He then says something about advertising his computer business, and begins to explain how he and his brother and his sister, Jenny, are starting some sort of business. It sounds somewhat like they're trying to reinvent the Internet, but I'm not sure.
"Interesting," I say, always the one who desires to encourage and motivate others, even if it means taking time from my busy schedule of thinking. "But, I don't see how we (we, being the company I work for) can help you."
"Well, do you have a photocopier?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, being somewhat caught off guard by that question.
"That might work," he says, leaving me even more confused. He continues on. "I may need copies and at the library they charge ten cents a copy. And, they only have a black and white copier."
I'm scratching my head, mainly because it really did itch. I'm also bewildered. I'm not sure if he wants to set up his office in our office.
"Our copier is only black and white," I say, wondering how I've ended up having a discussion about our photocopier with a strange Japanese man on our front porch.
I guess this kid thinks I'm acting rather unfriendly. So he pulls out his wallet again and shows me that has eight dollars and a debit card. Now he has my attention. I didn't know we were talking big bucks here. But since I figure that I'd be no match for him in a fist fight, I decide not to try and grab his money. So,I just say, "I don't think we'll be able to help you."
He thanks me, and I gently close and lock the door. Five minutes later I notice he's stiill standing on the porch. He must have noticed that I noticed, because he flips me off and walks away.
Now tell me my life isn't filled with excitement.
"May I help you?" I politely ask the young man.
"Here's who I am," he says, handing me his drivers license along with his John Tyler Community College library card.
"Uh, okay," I intelligently reply. "What can I do for you?"
He then says something about advertising his computer business, and begins to explain how he and his brother and his sister, Jenny, are starting some sort of business. It sounds somewhat like they're trying to reinvent the Internet, but I'm not sure.
"Interesting," I say, always the one who desires to encourage and motivate others, even if it means taking time from my busy schedule of thinking. "But, I don't see how we (we, being the company I work for) can help you."
"Well, do you have a photocopier?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, being somewhat caught off guard by that question.
"That might work," he says, leaving me even more confused. He continues on. "I may need copies and at the library they charge ten cents a copy. And, they only have a black and white copier."
I'm scratching my head, mainly because it really did itch. I'm also bewildered. I'm not sure if he wants to set up his office in our office.
"Our copier is only black and white," I say, wondering how I've ended up having a discussion about our photocopier with a strange Japanese man on our front porch.
I guess this kid thinks I'm acting rather unfriendly. So he pulls out his wallet again and shows me that has eight dollars and a debit card. Now he has my attention. I didn't know we were talking big bucks here. But since I figure that I'd be no match for him in a fist fight, I decide not to try and grab his money. So,I just say, "I don't think we'll be able to help you."
He thanks me, and I gently close and lock the door. Five minutes later I notice he's stiill standing on the porch. He must have noticed that I noticed, because he flips me off and walks away.
Now tell me my life isn't filled with excitement.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
All's Fair in Syracuse
Well, I've just returned from four fabulous, fun-filled days in Syracuse, New York. I've passed through Syracuse on previous occasions, but never had the privilege to actually be stuck there. Well, I really wasn't stuck. I was visiting my wife's grandparents. We spent every night playing cards. I was glad to take the time to brighten the lives of this lovely elderly couple. Even though they live very simple lives, they are content with their lot in life. They enjoy the simple things. They didn't even complain, when I won all their grocery money in a card game.
Syracuse is an interesting place. The name, itself, comes from an Indian word meaning "Land of Big-Haired Women." At least, that's my guess. For some reason, the woman there all have long, thick, course hair. Some wear it in a bun, which more closely resembles an entire bread box, attached to their scalps. Others wear it long and flowing down their back. I have to admit, there are few things in life more disappointing than to see beautiful, long, flowing hair cascading down the back of an eighty-year old woman.
Syracuse is also famous for its University and the school's excellence in sports. But judging from SYU's football game with West Virginia this past weekend, my guess is that excellence in sports thing is more history than present or future. I was watching the game with my wife's grandfather, and, of course, had to pretend I was rooting for Syracuse. It's not that I love West Virginia, but, hey, it does have the name "Virginia" in it.
In addition to hairy women and football, Syracuse is also well known for the State Fair. Everywhere I went people would ask me if we were in town for the fair. "You've got to see our State Fair," I was told over and over again, especially by my wife who hadn't spent so much time with me in months, and, I suspect, wanted me to spend some quality time alone. Finally, I gave in and went to the fair.
I'll admit, it's bigger than the Virginia State Fair. Since I haven't been to the fair here in Richmond for several years, I won't say the New York fair is better, but I suspect it probably is. Still, all in all, the New York State Fair has one big thing going against it. It's a fair. And let's face it, there's nothing fair about a fair.
It's perhaps the most hyped event in town (here or Syracuse). The posters depict non-stop fun. In reality, my fun stopped about three minutes after I arrived. The first building I saw was the Verizon Hall of Progress. "This ought to be cool," I told myself. I hurried in to see what technological marvels would be in store. Boy was I dazzled. You'll never believe what they're doing with mops these days...and with anti-fog cloths, and candles, and cookware, and gold chains. I guess you get the picture. The whole thing was so state-fairian.
My next stop was the Coca-Cola International Food Pavilion, sometimes pronounced "food court." I was hoping to see and to sample fantastic culinary delights from around the world. And, I guess I could have, had I been willing to shell out seven bucks for the Japanese beef dish, or the Italian pizza, or the French fries. They even had somewhat of a salute to Chesterfield County at the food pavilion - fried Twinkies. I didn't buy any food there, but in the dairy pavilion next door, someone was giving out free meatballs on toothpicks. I wasn't sure what meatballs were doing in a dairy pavilion. To me, it was like telling the cow, "hey, give us milk, or look what we can do to you." I kept sneaking back into line for the meatballs. They were rather good.
I entered another building at the fair and heard strange music coming from an auditorium. I decided to check it out. On stage was a belly dancer. The woman may have been Greek, but she had that Syracuse hair thing going. She was also just about as old and as heavy as me. You may not want to even try and picture this in your head.
When I first went in, she was completely enshrouded in her silk garments. But then she removed the outer garment so as to really get into that belly dancing thing. I'd call it more of a belly flopping routine. This girl was not exactly what you'd call easy on the eyes, and besides she had absolutely zero rhythm. After she floundered around the stage for a while, a bunch of ladies came on with baskets on their heads. Some Indian (think Bombay) music was played and they trounced around the stage for about five minutes. I decided that my heart couldn't take too much excitement, so I left.
I then came to one of the seven natural wonders of the world. They had this city consisting entirely of toothpicks. In fact, the sign said that 1.3 million toothpicks had been used. There were skyscrapers, ships, cars, even the Eiffel Tower, all made of nothing but toothpicks and glue. The sign also said that after the fair, the owner was going to try and sell it on E-Bay with a starting bid of $65,000. I was thinking that by the time I was through with the meatballs, those folks at the dairy building might want to make a bid.
Finally, after passing the cow barn (I decided I had too little time left in life to keep looking at cows. I've seen enough of them through the years), I arrived at the most exciting show at the fair. Who says there's no quality entertainment out there anymore. I actually just accidently happened upon the stage just as it was beginning. Yes, it was the cheerleading competition.
Why, I guess i must have stood there mesermized for over two minutes. But, by then, I got to thinking where has that last hour gone. I figured it was about time to leave. So I did. Besides I had to get back to the grand-folk's home. It was getting close to card time.
Syracuse is an interesting place. The name, itself, comes from an Indian word meaning "Land of Big-Haired Women." At least, that's my guess. For some reason, the woman there all have long, thick, course hair. Some wear it in a bun, which more closely resembles an entire bread box, attached to their scalps. Others wear it long and flowing down their back. I have to admit, there are few things in life more disappointing than to see beautiful, long, flowing hair cascading down the back of an eighty-year old woman.
Syracuse is also famous for its University and the school's excellence in sports. But judging from SYU's football game with West Virginia this past weekend, my guess is that excellence in sports thing is more history than present or future. I was watching the game with my wife's grandfather, and, of course, had to pretend I was rooting for Syracuse. It's not that I love West Virginia, but, hey, it does have the name "Virginia" in it.
In addition to hairy women and football, Syracuse is also well known for the State Fair. Everywhere I went people would ask me if we were in town for the fair. "You've got to see our State Fair," I was told over and over again, especially by my wife who hadn't spent so much time with me in months, and, I suspect, wanted me to spend some quality time alone. Finally, I gave in and went to the fair.
I'll admit, it's bigger than the Virginia State Fair. Since I haven't been to the fair here in Richmond for several years, I won't say the New York fair is better, but I suspect it probably is. Still, all in all, the New York State Fair has one big thing going against it. It's a fair. And let's face it, there's nothing fair about a fair.
It's perhaps the most hyped event in town (here or Syracuse). The posters depict non-stop fun. In reality, my fun stopped about three minutes after I arrived. The first building I saw was the Verizon Hall of Progress. "This ought to be cool," I told myself. I hurried in to see what technological marvels would be in store. Boy was I dazzled. You'll never believe what they're doing with mops these days...and with anti-fog cloths, and candles, and cookware, and gold chains. I guess you get the picture. The whole thing was so state-fairian.
My next stop was the Coca-Cola International Food Pavilion, sometimes pronounced "food court." I was hoping to see and to sample fantastic culinary delights from around the world. And, I guess I could have, had I been willing to shell out seven bucks for the Japanese beef dish, or the Italian pizza, or the French fries. They even had somewhat of a salute to Chesterfield County at the food pavilion - fried Twinkies. I didn't buy any food there, but in the dairy pavilion next door, someone was giving out free meatballs on toothpicks. I wasn't sure what meatballs were doing in a dairy pavilion. To me, it was like telling the cow, "hey, give us milk, or look what we can do to you." I kept sneaking back into line for the meatballs. They were rather good.
I entered another building at the fair and heard strange music coming from an auditorium. I decided to check it out. On stage was a belly dancer. The woman may have been Greek, but she had that Syracuse hair thing going. She was also just about as old and as heavy as me. You may not want to even try and picture this in your head.
When I first went in, she was completely enshrouded in her silk garments. But then she removed the outer garment so as to really get into that belly dancing thing. I'd call it more of a belly flopping routine. This girl was not exactly what you'd call easy on the eyes, and besides she had absolutely zero rhythm. After she floundered around the stage for a while, a bunch of ladies came on with baskets on their heads. Some Indian (think Bombay) music was played and they trounced around the stage for about five minutes. I decided that my heart couldn't take too much excitement, so I left.
I then came to one of the seven natural wonders of the world. They had this city consisting entirely of toothpicks. In fact, the sign said that 1.3 million toothpicks had been used. There were skyscrapers, ships, cars, even the Eiffel Tower, all made of nothing but toothpicks and glue. The sign also said that after the fair, the owner was going to try and sell it on E-Bay with a starting bid of $65,000. I was thinking that by the time I was through with the meatballs, those folks at the dairy building might want to make a bid.
Finally, after passing the cow barn (I decided I had too little time left in life to keep looking at cows. I've seen enough of them through the years), I arrived at the most exciting show at the fair. Who says there's no quality entertainment out there anymore. I actually just accidently happened upon the stage just as it was beginning. Yes, it was the cheerleading competition.
Why, I guess i must have stood there mesermized for over two minutes. But, by then, I got to thinking where has that last hour gone. I figured it was about time to leave. So I did. Besides I had to get back to the grand-folk's home. It was getting close to card time.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Life As We Knew It...
As I sit here staring at my fingers, resting on the keyboard, I can't really think of anything to joke about. To ramble on about the mundane things in life that bug me would seem so totally wrong in view of what's going on in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. It's hard to even begin to understand just what those folks are enduring.
I went a day without taking a shower recently, and I was absolutely miserable. I complain if I'm out in public and can't find a restroom that's clean enough to "suit my standards." I get upset if the bottle of water in the refrigerator is not cold enough. I wonder how I would stand up to the ordeals those folks down there are facing.
One thing for certain, the people who have gone through what these people have gone through in the past few days will never be the same. They can't be. Their whole world has been turned upside down. I panic when I can't reach my wife or daughter on the telephone. There are people along the Gulf Coast who don't know if their loved ones are dead or alive, and, for the present, have no way of finding out. There are others who know their loved ones didn't survive, some even watching persons they care for being swept off of roofs or out of windows, our right out of their arms, to their death.
The survivors don't even have time to mourn, at least not in the way most of us are accustomed to mourning. They're too busy striving to remain survivors. It does say something about the human will to go on, even in the face of horrible circumstances. And, somehow, I guess, most of these folks will survive. They will go on. They'll rebuild their lives, either there or somewhere else. But, there's no way they will ever be the same.
It's been stated over and over during the past few days, how such tragedies bring out the worst in some, and the best in some. Those for whom Katrina has brought out the worst aren't even worth me taking the time to write about. But I will say this, while I totally detest those who are looting for TVs, jewelry, and other luxuries, I have to wonder how many of those who are condemning the looters, have been guilty of greedily engaging in dishonest business practices in the corporate world. I'm not saying that to downplay, or justify, or minimize the horror caused by those greedy individuals in New Orleans who are terrorizing their neighbors, and making rescue even more difficult. But greed is greed. And, while I believe there are countless numbers who simply want a handout, I also think that corporate and poliltical greed has, at least to some extent, played a role in keeping the downtrodden down. I can only hope that if I were among the many in New Orleans who were too poor to leave town, I wouldn't be among those looters.
One thing that's clear, given the right (or the wrong) circumstances, "normal" everyday citizens, can quickly become vicious, violent criminals. And those who are already vicious, violent criminals will take advantage of those circumstances to do whatever they want, to whomever they want...all the while justifying their actions because of the inability of others to meet their demands. It's pretty scary.
It's like watching one of those horrible futuristic movies about the deterioration of human society. Only we can't get up and go get popcorn and remind ourselves it's just a movie. This is real life. And, from what I can see from a distance, I think it's worse than any movie I've ever seen.
And, while the movie trailer proclaims, "Coming soon to a theater near you," the reality of the past few days screams, "This could be you." Would our neighbors, our public officials, we, ourselves, act any differently than those whom we are watching on television, if this were happening in our hometown?
In the past, including September 11, 2001, life, for the most part, and for the majority, returned to normal. Will that happen again? Or is this somehow so totally different, so much more horrible, that life for most of us will never be the same? I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
I went a day without taking a shower recently, and I was absolutely miserable. I complain if I'm out in public and can't find a restroom that's clean enough to "suit my standards." I get upset if the bottle of water in the refrigerator is not cold enough. I wonder how I would stand up to the ordeals those folks down there are facing.
One thing for certain, the people who have gone through what these people have gone through in the past few days will never be the same. They can't be. Their whole world has been turned upside down. I panic when I can't reach my wife or daughter on the telephone. There are people along the Gulf Coast who don't know if their loved ones are dead or alive, and, for the present, have no way of finding out. There are others who know their loved ones didn't survive, some even watching persons they care for being swept off of roofs or out of windows, our right out of their arms, to their death.
The survivors don't even have time to mourn, at least not in the way most of us are accustomed to mourning. They're too busy striving to remain survivors. It does say something about the human will to go on, even in the face of horrible circumstances. And, somehow, I guess, most of these folks will survive. They will go on. They'll rebuild their lives, either there or somewhere else. But, there's no way they will ever be the same.
It's been stated over and over during the past few days, how such tragedies bring out the worst in some, and the best in some. Those for whom Katrina has brought out the worst aren't even worth me taking the time to write about. But I will say this, while I totally detest those who are looting for TVs, jewelry, and other luxuries, I have to wonder how many of those who are condemning the looters, have been guilty of greedily engaging in dishonest business practices in the corporate world. I'm not saying that to downplay, or justify, or minimize the horror caused by those greedy individuals in New Orleans who are terrorizing their neighbors, and making rescue even more difficult. But greed is greed. And, while I believe there are countless numbers who simply want a handout, I also think that corporate and poliltical greed has, at least to some extent, played a role in keeping the downtrodden down. I can only hope that if I were among the many in New Orleans who were too poor to leave town, I wouldn't be among those looters.
One thing that's clear, given the right (or the wrong) circumstances, "normal" everyday citizens, can quickly become vicious, violent criminals. And those who are already vicious, violent criminals will take advantage of those circumstances to do whatever they want, to whomever they want...all the while justifying their actions because of the inability of others to meet their demands. It's pretty scary.
It's like watching one of those horrible futuristic movies about the deterioration of human society. Only we can't get up and go get popcorn and remind ourselves it's just a movie. This is real life. And, from what I can see from a distance, I think it's worse than any movie I've ever seen.
And, while the movie trailer proclaims, "Coming soon to a theater near you," the reality of the past few days screams, "This could be you." Would our neighbors, our public officials, we, ourselves, act any differently than those whom we are watching on television, if this were happening in our hometown?
In the past, including September 11, 2001, life, for the most part, and for the majority, returned to normal. Will that happen again? Or is this somehow so totally different, so much more horrible, that life for most of us will never be the same? I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
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