Tuesday Morning at the Movies

I just heard the Oscar nominations announced. I guess I must have died several months ago, but nobody has ever gotten around to telling me. I'd never even heard of most of these actors/movies. And, what I have heard does not, in any way, make me want to see those movies.
Is it just me? I mean, really, do most of you out there go to see Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Good Night and Good Luck, and the rest of that heap of garbage? If those Hollywood folks and/or those who enjoy these movies, think they're impressing us common folk by claiming to enjoy this year's nominees, forget it. You don't. At least I'm not impressed.
And, if these really are the movies that most Americans enjoy, wow! We're certainly have become a rather morbid group of people. No wonder there's so much drama and trauma and violence and depression in the world today.
Although, I don't truly believe that the movies nominated this year are a true reflection on what Americans enjoy. I would like to think we're much more shallow than that. The most thought provoking movie I've seen in recent months is The Terminal with Tom Hanks, and I slept through a good portion of that.
The absolutely best movie in the past year was Flightplan. You remember that part when the heart appeared when Jodie Foster breathed on the window? Now that's a movie. And yet, how many times did you hear Mia Sorvino or that other guy mention Flightplan this morning? Exactly. That's my point.
I'm thinking about making a movie about a gay cowboy who becomes a gay writer and investigates a mass murder, and then, when he gets bored he begins a Communist witch hunt, and then he and his daughter (don't ask me how he has a daughter) get on this plane and she disappears, and then the plane lands and he gets stuck at the terminal for a year, and then this giant ape breaks out its cage and terrorizes the terminal, and the gay cowboy saves the day, but then he falls off the Empire State Building, and makes a big splash on Broadway, and then from that point, it kind of becomes a musical. Can you imagine how successful that would be? It would appeal to virtually every movie-goer on earth. I'd pay good money to see that kind of show.
On second thought, I think I'll just stay home and watch reruns of Law and Order and King of Queens. Talk about Oscar contenders. So what if they're not movies, they're entertaining, and I would think that's what the movies should be about.
It probably is just me, isn't it?

That's Not Funny, That's Schtick

Years ago, TV personality (sort of), Dick Cavett, was explaining in an interview that his early days as a stand-up comic were less than spectacular. He told of an occasion when, while doing his stand-up in a New York nightclub, an older woman left during his routine. The woman told a waiter on her way out, “Thank the young man for his lecture.”
I was reminded of that anecdote yesterday when the publisher of our magazines forwarded me an email from a West End woman who had read my recent column in the January/February issue of West End’s Best. Evidently, she was not amused.
The column was about an exciting cab ride I had “enjoyed” during my visit to China last fall. It was actually just an elaboration of a blog I’d done back in October.

Here’s that blog, in case you’re interested:

It’s difficult to type right now, as I reflect on a somewhat life-threatening ordeal we have just come through here in Communist China. Our adventure began after we passed through immigration and customs. On our way out of the train station, we were stopped by a man who asked us where we were going. The man wasn’t wearing any type of uniform, but being a little unsure of what to expect, we gave him the name of our hotel. He ran and grabbed another guy and said he’d obtained a taxi for us. He quoted a price, which seemed a little high, but, hey, we’re newcomers in town. So we said if the ride would be no more than the price he’d quoted, that was fine. He and the other guy then grab our bags and head down the steps. We’re following closely behind as the two guys and our luggage careen through an area under construction and into a restaurant adjoining the train station.
We’re right behind them, through the restaurant, around the tables, past the booths, diners staring at the sight of two Americans chasing their luggage through the restaurant. We leave the restaurant and enter a small parking lot. This doesn’t seem like it would be the place to catch a cab, and I’m starting to get a little suspicious; but again, we’re in a whole new world.
The guy starts packing our luggage into the trunk of a fairly modern Toyota. The car has no markings to indicate it is a cab, nor is there any driver’s I.D. posted in the car. I’m getting a little antsy, but figure by this point, if these guys weren’t on the up and up, it was just a matter of whether they’d kill us in the parking lot or in some out-of-the-way spot that had been predetermined.
The first guy who approached us gets in the front passenger seat, and the other guy is sitting behind the wheel. The first guy says I’ll take my money now. I go ahead and pay him, hoping that he’ll just make this quick and painless.
He takes our money and hops out of the car. The cab driver starts the engine and immediately becomes a raving maniac. He’s weaving between cars, trucks, bikes, motorcyclists, pedestrians, blaring his horn, gunning the engine and slamming on brakes…somewhat simultaneously.
My friend, Rob, who is traveling with me on this leg of our trip, observes that it doesn’t appear the driver has the foresight to realize that if he changes lanes, he’s only going to have to almost immediately change again because of traffic blocking the lane he’s just changed to. I think the guy just doesn’t care. It’s like playing a video game. The driver takes one obstacle at a time and moves on to the next.
But my mind is on more important matters. I’m sitting there thinking about how I can prevent our being murdered. I’m pretty positive that we’re about to meet with foul play. We pass a policeman in his cruiser. I think maybe I can use some sort of international symbol for, “Hey, I think this pseudo-cab driver is going to kill us.” Being unable to recall that particular hand gesture, I contemplate taking my shoelaces out of my shoes and strangling the driver. I’m sitting right behind him and, from reading a good many mysteries, I think I know how to pull it off. The only problem is that I’m wearing loafers.
So, I begin to determine if I could quickly grab him by his hair and slam his face into the steering wheel. Now keep in mind, I wouldn’t do that until he, the driver, made the first move. But, as soon as it looked like he was ready to kill us, I was ready to be the hero. I was halfway daydreaming and worrying at the same time…daydreaming about crushing the driver’s skull and worrying that I might not grab his head just right and just end up irritating him. I was also wondering just what that first move on the driver’s part would be and would I recognize it in time. After all, when it comes to killing a cab driver/kidnapper, timing is everything.
All of a sudden he starts shouting and slams on the brakes. I came that close to grabbing the driver’s head and slamming it into the steering wheel, when I realize he’s shouting at a school kid who has come running out in front of the cab. I was so unnerved, that I decided that should anything happen, the driver could just go ahead and kill me. I just wasn’t up to any head-slammings.
Within a few minutes we pull up to the hotel. The driver gets our luggage out of the trunk and drives away. I have to admit I’m relieved, but slightly disappointed.
Later in the day, when I confess to Rob that I was on the verge of killing the our driver, he admits that he was trying to figure out what he had on him that he could use to defend us. “I figured he didn’t have a gun,” Rob said, “but, he might have a knife. I was trying to decide what I had in my pocket that would be a good match for a knife.”
Fortunately, neither of us had to kill anyone…on this particular day. We lived to tell the story. But, just barely. Besides, did I mention that there were no seatbelts in the back seat?

Anyway, here is what Elizabeth K., from the West End, had to say regarding my adventure:

“What was the purpose for the article titled, "My Chinese Connection," in the Jan/Feb 06 magazine? The whole article is premised upon the author's experience of coming "close to being murdered." Although it's clear that he only believes he is going to be murdered, it's unclear whether the author understands he was never at risk of any heinous crime outside of the paranoia and suspicion he created in his own mind. Additionally, I'm curious if the author has ever ridden in a cab in New York City. The cab driver from China sounds like a typical cab driver from NYC. The author appears too eager to criticize others (come'on -- hasn't he seen Richmond drivers talking on their cell phones unaware that the light has turned green already?) and suspect others of ill will when the only ill will existed in his fantasies of becoming a "hero." If the author travels outside our country representing Americans as a Richmonder, I suggest he does so minus his biases and truly attempt to "connect" with others as he infers in the title of his article.”

Here’s my response to Ms. K:

Ms. K., all I can say is that unless you’ve traveled into the belly of the beast, that is, the very heart of Communism, you can’t understand the unspeakable terrors to which I was subjected. My column only touched on those unspeakable terrors. I would tell you more about them now, but they’re unspeakable.
But, I will tell you this…prior to this adventure, I had gone several days with less than seven hours sleep each night. I was deprived of my regular morning Grape Nuts breakfast, being subjected to gourmet buffets in the waterfront hotel, in which I was forced to spend many a night.
I had been required on more than one occasion to display my passport, which only served as a hideous reminder of man’s inhumanity to man. I had tried, often in vain, to have conversations with Chinese men and women, but their refusal to speak English, even their pretense not to understand English, made that all but impossible.
I was coerced into using funny-looking money with pictures of Chinese dictators on it. Many of the merchants just scoffed at the real money I had brought with me.
So, yes, I may have overreacted, but cut me some slack. I was tired, hungry (it had been three hours since breakfast), and confused. I am thankful that I didn’t kill that cab driver. I’m sure I would still be regretting having done something so foolish, even now, almost a half year later.
I hope this explanation puts you in a better position to “walk in my moccasins,” so to speak. Let's get together and do a Chinese buffet some day, okay?

If It's Eight P.M. Here, It Must Be Nine in Bombay

Are the major corporations of the world in some sort of league with the psychiatrists, in an effort to drive us all completely insane? If so, it’s a brilliant ploy. I just spent an hour trying to straighten out a cell-phone issue. But it’s not just cell phones. It’s everything I do anymore.
Take almost any corporation’s customer service department, as an example. Honestly, have you had a truly satisfying experience anywhere? If so, I’d love to hear about it.
First of all, you have that asinine voice mail system. Talk about stupid! I really hate those automated, computerized voices that try to fool you into believing they’re human.
You know the ones. They ask you to say your account number.
“Three-four-seven-eight-nine-two-three-zero-one,” I say.
Then computer voice says, “Alright, now I’ll repeat that number back to you. Did you say ‘Four-zero-two-seven-nine-zero-six-zero-one?’ Is that correct?”
And, I shriek, “NO!”
“Sorry, my mistake,” the computer says. Now, you tell me, how can a computer feel even a little remorse? It insults me that I have to listen to a computer apologize. Are the programmers so stupid that they think I’m going to be placated by Robbie the Robot?
I make several more attempts to enunciate my account number, all unsuccessful. And, the company’s pseudo-human becomes more and more distraught over it’s inability to understand me. I begin to worry about the stress I’m putting on their answering system.
Sometimes, I find myself forgetting it’s not a real person I’m having a conversation with. When the computer voice apologizes, I’ll say, “Don’t worry about it,” as if some manmade electronic device needed consoling. Amtrak’s “Julie” sounds so real that I almost invited her out for a cup of coffee.
Anyway, you finally discover the secret code that enables you to get past the system and allows you the privilege of being put on hold, waiting to speak with a real human. Another computer voice warns you that your call may be monitored. The companies say it’s for training purposes, but I’m onto that little game. What they’re subtly doing is telling you that no matter how frustrated you get by the horrendous customer service, you better not threaten anyone with bodily harm, because it’s all on tape.
Finally, after being on hold for three to ten minutes, a true human comes online and announces, “Hailue, theeese ees Ranjeet. How may eee hailp you?” I’ve waited ten minutes for a connection to Bombay. Now, don’t get me wrong. Those Indians are lovely people, but I really prefer to speak with someone who speaks and understands English. Call me old fashioned, but that’s my language of choice.
“I have a question about my account,” I begin, knowing that this is only going to get more frustrating, but what can I do?
“May I have your account number please?” Ranjeet asks. Or, at least, that’s what I’m guessing he’s asking. I still don’t understand about 60% of what he’s saying.
“Three-four-seven-eight-nine-two-three-zero-one,” I say.
“Did you say ‘Four-zero-two-seven-nine-zero-six-zero-one?” Ranjeet asks.
I begin to wonder if I’d been speaking with Ranjeet all along. Maybe he was just pretending to be a computer at the onset of my call.
Finally, we get past the account numbers, passwords, addresses, blood types, name of my first girlfriend, and what not, and Ranjeet is ready to get down to business. “So, how may I help you? He asks again, in that little sing-songy voice of his. I hate that kind of voice. He’s just a little too happy, and any happiness I had has evaporated completely.
So, I ask him, “Can you tell me what time I get free telephone calls?”
“Let me check,” he says. “Oooh, you get free calls beginning at nine-o-clock.” He says it in a way that implies that I must be one of the lucky ones.
“Well, I was told my free calls begin at eight-o-clock,” I tell him.
“No, sorry. Nine-o-clock,” he replies.
Now, this is when I really get ticked off. It doesn’t matter whether I’m calling my cell-phone company, the cable company, the electric company, the credit card company, or whomever. It’s all the same.
No matter what you were promised on a previous call, it’s never going to be the same when you call back. And, it never dawns on these idiotic customer service reps that maybe that would be upsetting, or irritating.
They never say, “Oh, let me see what I can do about that.” They just say, “Sorry. You’re wrong.” Evidently, the business philosophy for the twenty-first century is that the customer is always wrong.
“May I speak with a manager?” I demand.
“Have I not helped you?” Ranjeet asks. He seems genuinely hurt that I need to enlist the help of someone else. In fact, while I’m on hold, he comes back on line two or three times and asks if there’s something he can do for me. But no matter what I say in trying to explain that I had been promised an earlier free phone call time, Ranjeet always says, “No, sorry. You get free calls at nine.”
Ranjeet, just like Chandani and Deepak and the rest of them don’t care. I guess if I lived in a country where the company restroom was the curb out in front of my building, I wouldn’t care if some American were getting free calls at eight or nine.
Of course, the ones that really don’t care are the cell phone companies, and the cable companies, and the electric companies, and the credit card companies.
Time was, and not that long ago, these companies put a lot of money into training customer service reps to provide exceptional service. Where have those days gone?
As I said at the outset, if you’ve had a good customer service experience, I’d really love to hear about it. Give me a call sometime. But don’t call until after nine, because that’s when I get free calls.

The Most Important Blog You'll Ever Read - Guaranteed!

Call me public spirited, if you will, but I like to take time out of my busy, exciting schedule, and give back to others. One way I do this is by devoting this space to matters of personal guidance, instruction, and direction. All of this I do on a voluntary basis, and without expecting any thanks whatsoever. That’s just who I am.
I like to call these little forays into helping others, my “How To” blogs. Today, for your mental edification, I offer “How To Lie.”
Gone are the good old days when we could get by with such simple lies as “The check’s in the mail,” or “My dog ate my homework.” Nope, most people are just too smart for an out-and-out, bold-faced lie. Believe me, I know this from personal experience.
We live in an age of enlightenment. You, and those to whom you wish to lie, are just too smart, too educated, too savvy to be fooled by the old lies. But, that doesn’t mean that lying can’t be done anymore. Perish that thought. Here are some rules for modern day lying:

1) Use statistics. You can make them up, but they have to sound real. Percentages are good, but to guarantee optimum success, always have a “point” in there. In other words, if you tell me that 50% of all people are liars, I’m not impressed. But, if you tell me that 61 point 2 % of all people are liars, you’ve got my attention. I’m thinking you are some sort of a brainiac to not only know, but to remember the exact figure.
2) Create an association to back you up, and ALWAYS include either the word, “National,” or “of America” in that association. I don’t know if there are any laws about fraudulently pretending to represent a non-existent association or not, so you may want to consult an attorney. They are experts when it comes to lying. They should be able to help you big-time. But, to illustrate, let’s say I wanted you to send me $5.00 to help me buy a car. How many of you would chip in? That’s what I thought. But, suppose I called you and said I represented the S. Cook Automobile Financing Association of America, and any donation you could offer would be appreciated? Huh? Gotcha, didn’t I? Well, hold on. Put your wallets away, it’s just me, lying.
3) Blame anything you do on a mental condition. Mental conditions are big right now. And, who knows, in all probability, you do have a mental condition; so technically, it’s not even a lie. For instance, you didn’t yell at your wife when dinner wasn’t ready on time because you’re a nasty, rotten human. You did it because you have been diagnosed with Sociopathetic Deprivation Disorder (or SDD), stemming from your mother not serving meals at regularly scheduled times when you were a child. I kid you not; your wife will be on her knees begging for forgiveness. I always find that if I can muster up a tear and maybe a slight whimper in my voice when I do this, it’s even more effective. But the whimper has to sound as if you’re trying to hold it back. Practice this alone, or into a tape recorder a few times before attempting to use it with your wife, or she’ll catch on and proceed to show you what a real sociopathetic deprivation disorder is all about.
4) Use the word “guarantee.” (Hint: pronounce it gar-own’ tee, like the late Cajun chef, Justin Wilson, and people will believe you even more because you’re just so cute) You don’t have to say what you will do if your word proves unreliable. You don’t promise to give money back or something equally stupid. You just guarantee it.
5) Fifth, and perhaps most important – Preface any subject, about which you are going to speak or write, with high praise for the intended recipient(s) of your balderdash. For instance, tell them they’re “too smart, too educated, too savvy to be duped”. This one works every time. I gar-own-tee it.

A Shocking Steve Cook Expose

With all the recent hubbub surrounding the Samuel Alito Supreme Court nomination hearings, I feel that maybe it’s time that I make a little admission. Alito has been accused of belonging to an all-male organization in his younger days. Interestingly, one of his accusers, Ted Kennedy, was discovered as also belonging to an all-male organization.
I did a little soul searching, and while I don’t think there’s a Supreme Court judgeship in my future (although, I think I’d make a good one), I feel that it would be the course of wisdom to admit that I too belonged to an all-male organization in my younger days.
In retrospect, it was probably not a wise idea to join, but, in all fairness, most of us have done some dumb things in our youth. While the organization to which I belonged was not really a secret society, we did have our own little special secret gestures to identify ourselves to fellow members. In our rather clandestine meetings, we even wore special garments, no doubt in an effort to create solidarity.
At the time, I didn’t think of this organization as being a breeding ground for terrorism. But, I have to admit, I was trained in the use of ropes and knives, which, as we all know, are the mainstays of a good many terrorists.
We were also taught survival skills, no doubt to equip us for excursions behind enemy lines. But, again, due to the foolishness of youth, I just didn’t comprehend the evil scope of the training I was receiving at the time.
In an effort, no doubt, to suppress any doubts or guilt that I, or my comrades, might be feeling, this organization used a very cunning reward system. Our achievements in honing these potentially murderous skills were celebrated. We even received badges, which we proudly pinned to our uniforms.
I know. I know. I should have figured it all out, but I didn’t. I never suspected the hideously deceitful aims of this malevolent organization. I have somewhat of an explanation as to how I could have so unwisely allowed myself to be completely duped. But, the explanation is so shameful that I hate to bring it up. However, I truly do want to get this whole sordid affair from my younger days out in the open, so I’m going to reveal something now, which I don’t think I’ve ever discussed with anyone, at least not since I left this all-male organization. If you hate me after reading this, so be it. At least, in my mind and heart, I’m doing the honorable thing.
I’ve said it was an all-male organization. That’s not entirely true. What is true is that all of my comrades-in-arms were male. But, we were directed, trained, brainwashed (if you will) by a woman. That’s right. We pathetic little males let a woman lead us down a path that could have been potentially disastrous, not only for ourselves, but for countless others, victims of our unspeakable aims.
You would think that having admitted all this, that it would be fairly easy to tell you the rest of the story. The truth is the next, the final secret, is almost unbearable to think about. You see, in my own, very disturbing personal case, that woman, yes, the very woman who trained me, who directed me, who cajoled me into developing skills that could only be fully utilized by a fanatic, bent on world destruction, that woman (gulp, I’m going to say it), was my very own mother.
And that my friends, is truly the rest of the story of my involvement, many years ago, in the Cub Scouts.

I'm Baaack! (Sort of)

I've been rereading my columns over the last few days, and one word keeps coming to mind..."booorrrriing." To get the full effect, say "boring" in that cute little sing-songy voice. I've evidently been totally self-absorbed with my health. And, it's evidently much worse than I thought. I apparently have really been outside the loop the last few days, maybe even weeks, or months.
For instance, last night I was watching Jeopardy and one of the contestants told Alex that he was born in a country that no longer existed. I don't know what country I was thinking he might say he was born in, but when he told Alex he had been born in Czechoslovakia, you could have knocked me over with a feather.
My head started reeling, and, truth be told, it hasn't come to a complete stop yet. Czechoslovakia? It's gone? Where did it go? How could a country the size of Czechoslovakia just disappear and I never hear about it, unless, of course, my mind has been preoccupied with my pitiable physical state? I mean big countries like that just don't go "Poof, I'm gone." Do they?
It's got me questioning what else may have been going on in this big wide world which I like to call "Earth." Have other countries disappeared as well. I guess there's no chance Eastern Henrico is gone, is there?
What other major, earthshaking events have taken place over the past few months...events which I have been totally oblivious to? I'm hoping you can help me catch up. For instance, did they ever build that ballpark downtown? I think I had some sort of dream that Mayor Governor Wilder had found some vacant lot over an abandoned gas tank. I know that couldn't have actually taken place.
And, I also had a very disturbing dream about Dick Clark. Seems like he was about 150 years old, semi-comatose, and still doing that New Year's Eve show. Talk about medications playing tricks on your mind, I've had some real headbanging experiences as of late. I even imagined I was watching a TV show called, "Skating With the Celebrities." And, if I told you who one of the celebrities was, I know you'd have me committed. You remember that actor turned gunslinger, Todd...well, never mind, I feel foolish even telling you what tricks my sick little brain was playing on me.
You won't even believe what I imagined I heard Pat Robertson saying while I was in my health-obsessed, Lipitor-popping, stupor. Thankfully, I've snapped out of it. Thankfully, I'm once again a functioning human being in the real world...a world where logic reigns supreme.
I'm just glad that I've finally left my delusional self behind and am now back to my old self. I gotta call my wife and tell her the good news. You know my wife, don't you...Morgan Fairchild?

It Takes a Big Man to Say This

I previously filled you in on all the exciting events surrounding my recent visit to the emergency room. I had an opportunity to reflect on the state of my health this weekend, as I subsisted on avocado and peanut butter.
It seems like only yesterday, I was a fat teenager. And, now, look at me. Well, you don’t really have to go that far. But, almost overnight, I’ve become a fat old man. The only difference is my heart and my other organs have pretty much said, “Enough is enough. Stop the madness!”
It really is stupid to abuse one’s body with lard and beef and sugar. When you’re young, you keep assuring yourself that one day you’ll really get proactive (okay, that wasn’t a word when I was young, but you know what I mean) about your health. At one time in my life, I truly believed I’d be a normal-sized human before I hit 50.
Well, that didn’t come true. And, so, now I have high blood pressure, and stents in my arteries, and diabetes…everything but wrinkles, because, as we know, fat don’t wrinkle.
I felt a little embarrassed to be lying in the emergency room bed, letting female doctors and nurses prod and poke my less than perfect-sized body. When you’re fat, you fool yourself into thinking that if you joke about it, it’ll be a little less revolting. So, when the doctor, a pleasant young woman, asked me what was wrong, I told her I had fat man’s disease. She asked me if I had ever been diagnosed with some fancy sounding disease. I told her I didn’t think so. She then said, “Well, I guess not. If you had that, you’d have sausage digits.”
I told her that if I had had sausage digits, I would probably have eaten them. I tell you, there’s no humor like the humor of a fat man who thinks he’s having a stroke. And, there are no tears like the tears of a clown.
Does that earn a little pity from you normal people? I didn’t think so.
But, anywho, I got to thinking this weekend about how I have gotten so out of shape. I asked myself just why I had allowed myself to overeat for nearly half a century. And, I came up with the answer.
I had Depression-era parents. My mother came up during the Depression. Food was scarce. By the time I came along, it was plentiful (within reason). So she fed me. She allowed me to eat myself into a frenzy. I’ve seen pictures of me as a baby. By the time I was two, my mother didn’t need a stroller for me. She could bounce me to the store.
I also ate because the kids in Africa, or China, or wherever couldn’t. My mother used to shame me into eating because I just didn’t know how lucky I was to have enough food to eat.
Now, in all fairness, I think she was talking about eating my vegetables, but, hey, those kids overseas didn’t have Eskimo Pies or chocolate chip cookies either. So, what could I do? I had to show my appreciation. I ate…and ate…and ate some more.
I could make a few more jokes, but somehow it’s not all that funny. Here we are in 2006, and, if I don’t get a handle on this, well, I don’t even want to think about it. The idiotic thing about this is that all it takes is some self control. My doctor says I could get off all medication if I lost weight. He told me that a year and a half ago. I did little or nothing about it.
So, when I promise myself I’m going to change, should I believe me? I wouldn’t, if I were me. But, hey, everyone deserves a 203rd chance. So here I go. Will someone pass the cottage cheese, please?

To E.R. Is Human

Here's some free advice for those of you who write your own blog, and, from time to time, can't think of anything new or interesting about which to write. Get yourself admitted to the emergency room for a few hours. You'll come away with a font of ideas.
That's what I did on Friday. I really didn't want to go. But, just mention to your doctor that you have pains in your chest, and watch him panic. He insisted. Had I realized how enlightening the visit would be, I'd have made up the chest pain thing just to go.
I had so many interesting experiences in the course of three short hours. I got to listen to doctors and nurses and technicians discuss their own personal lives. One nurse had to go home because her washing machine was overflowing. And another told of her toilet running constantly, which drained her well dry, so she couldn't take a shower, and because she had baby spittle all over her, she couldn't come to work. All these folks had so many personal problems that I came to the conclusion that the reason it's called an emergency room is because everybody that works there has so many of them.
It certainly wasn't like the emergency room on E.R. There was no hostage taking, or bomb scares, or escaped prisoners, or crashing heliocopters whatsoever. There was an elderly woman dying in the bed next to me (not my bed, another bed altogether).
She was just a curtain away, and was responsible for me having quite a scare early on in my visit. I was lying there on my little bed. Nurses and others were hooking me up, and I heard someone ask, "If your heart should stop, do you want us to take measures to revive you?"
"Of course," I shreiked. Someone pointed out that I was overhearing the conversation on the other side of the curtain.
It seemed to me that if a nurse was going to be having such a conversation, it would have been thoughtful to not subject me to it. But, perhaps I'm thinking too much of myself.
Anyway, this poor old woman's blood count was down to three, which I take it was not so good. What was worse than her blood count was the non-stop mouth of the nurse attending to her. I lost count of the number of times the nurse reminded the old lady that she might die. I think it's nice to try and encourage someone, but telling the patient that she had lived a good life and that it might be time to go home to meet her maker seemed to be a bit distasteful. Maybe it's just me.
This death-obsessed nurse was also telling all the other nurses how badly the old gal was doing. The nurse seemed just a little too excited if you ask me. I fully expected at any moment she would invite me to participate in an emergency room pool to guess the exact minute the old lady would check out, so to speak.
At least the old lady was getting constant attention. I guess the personnel in the emergency room figured I was just faking it. They virtually ignored me. I tried looking dead to see if I could get some attention.
I laid my head back, opened my mouth and let my tongue hang out, and rolled my eyes back in my head. I couldn't see myself, but I have the feeling I was looking pretty dead. Nurses would walk right by, glance at me and keep on going. Sure, they could see on the monitor that my heart was still beating, but you'd have thought they'd have at least asked me if I was still alive.
Finally, after about three hours, the doctor came in, told me that, based on the tests they had taken, I was suffering from acute hypochondria and sent me home.I apologized for not having some mysterious tropical disease. I would like to have been as exciting to my nurses as was the lady in the next bed.
I dressed and left the emergency room. I tried to look as pathetic as I could, so if anyone in the waiting room should see me, they'd think I must have had something really bad.
When I left, the old lady was still holding her own. I don't know what happened to her, but I'm really hoping she disappointed her nurse.

My Big Accomplishment This Week

I watched the entire Golden Globe awards the other night. I gotta tell you, it was a thrill to discover just what that Hollywood Foreign Press Association was thinking this year. After having so successfully watched the program, I'm moved to make a few comments. First of all, I want to thank my many friends who made it possible for me to watch the show. Without their total lack of interest in me and my life, I'm sure I would have been interrupted by phone calls and invitations to go out to dinner and what not.
I also want to thank the publishers of our magazines. They allow me a few hours off in the evenings for relaxation and to grab a quick bite. Without that sort of support, I never would have been able to watch the show.
I'd also like to take a moment to thank my mother. When I was just a child, she taught me how to operate the television. I can control the horizontal and vertical, the brightness, and the contrast. Had it not been for her tireless efforts in my behalf, never could I have had the full enjoyment of the show, and, oh yeah, since I don't have cable, her instructions on adjusting the rabbit ears proved invaluable. Now, I will admit, the remote, I had to learn on my own. My mother never liked those new-fangled devices. I think she thinks they cause cancer by sending invisible rays through the house.
And, of course, where would I be without my wife. She actually bought the TV. And, without the TV, my enjoyment of the Golden Globes would have been tremendously diminished. It's a nice TV, too. It's a flat-screen HDTV wannabe. And (don't tell my mother this), it has a remote.
I'm sure there are many of the little people that contributed so much, that I'm forgetting in the emotion of the moment. I'm speaking, of course, of the family of midgets who live next door. I never can remember their names, but they're always there, willing to lend a helping hand. Why just last night, they knocked on the door to tell me I had left the lights on in my car. Now, you may be wondering how that helped me enjoy the awards program.
I can answer that in three words, my friend... "peace of mind." I could sit in the comfort of my bedroom, reclining on my sleep number bed (which my wife also bought), and enjoy the awards, knowing that if I had, indeed, forgotten to turn the light off in my car, they'd be right there knocking on the lower portion of the door, reminding me to turn off the light.
You see, my ability to have successfully enjoyed the Golden Globes, as I did, was much more than a one-man effort. True, I was the one who turned the TV on. I poured my Diet Coke and made me a peanut butter sandwich. I even raised my bed to a level of optimum viewing comfort. And, of course, I did the viewing. But, had it not been for the tireless efforts of all these others, the success would simply not be there.
Well, my boss is giving me the signal to wrap this up. So let me just conclude by saying that I am duly humbled. I am grateful. I am indebted to each of you. Thank you, one and all. God bless.

The God, The Bad, And The Ugly

If I were a professional wrestling promoter, I think I could come up with some great matches, and some great angles. For instance, just think about a tag team competition with George Bush, the dad, and George Bush, the son going up against Bill and Hillary Clinton. Sounds exciting, huh? But, wait. I have a great angle for this.
In the middle of the match, after Hillary has whupped up on both the Bushes, she tries to tag out to Bill, but Bill is so busy ogling the ladies in the crowd, that he isn't paying attention. As Hillary is looking at him with disgust, Bush, the younger is regaining his strength. He gets up and drop kicks Hillary into Bill and both hubby and wife topple onto the concrete floor. Both Clintons are down, and the Georges are looking poised for a win. George, Jr. goes down to the floor and is beating on Bill and Hillary. He throws Bill back into the ring, and jumps back in for the pin and win.
But, remember this is pro wrestling. There's always a hook. And here's mine. Just as the referee is about to bring his hand down for the third count, Bush, Sr. pulls his son off, stomps him into the mat, and then takes the prone body of Bill Clinton, who's totally knocked out, mind you, and puts him on top of George, Jr. The referee has missed all this for whatever reason. He turns around, sees Clinton on top of Bush and counts Bush out. The Clintons get the win, and George Bush, the older is celebrating with them in the middle of the ring. Wow! What a finish.
But, that's just the first match for the night. Here's my idea for the main event. It would be a handicap match, because one of the participants is in a constant state of dementia.
But, anyway, the big event of the night could be one of the most interesting tag team events ever. Here's the premise. In one corner, you have Pat "the Moron" Robertson. Although he would be unseen, God would be his partner. At least that would be Robertson's claim. In the other corner, you'd have New Orleans mayor, Ray "The Idiot" Nagin, and in his corner...yes, you may have already guessed it, would also be God.
Both men evidently feel they can speak for God. Let them get in the ring, duke it out, and see if God comes to the aid of either wrestler. Of course, I'm talking pro-wrestling here, but since pro-wrestling is really a microcosm of the real world, I'd think both Roberson and Nagin would be shocked to learn that they're fighting alone. By the way, I have no idea what this word "microcosm" really means, but I had a little bet with myself that I could use it today. And I did. So, I won my bet.
Back to the ring action. I see Robertson holding his own against Nagin for the first fifteen minutes or so. Both men are bloody as they go blow for blow. For theatrics, on several occasions, both go to their corner and try and tag out, but never does either guy's god jump into the fray.
As the audience boos Robertson, he could call down evil upon them, but gradually it dawns on him that he's alone. Nothing ever dawns on Nagin as he's totally oblivious. As for the conclusion, here's how I have it figured out. Robertson's age catches up with him. He keeps getting up, but Nagin keeps beating him back down.
But, just when it looks like he's down for the long count, Pat Robertson finds renewed energy. He turns to the one thing that he's always turned to in times of trouble. He does the one thing that has kept him going through all the years. Yes, once again, you're probably way ahead of me on this. Just as Robertson looks to be out, he pulls himself up, crawls out of the ring, and in true Pat Robertson form, he goes into the crowd and passes the plate.

Is Fat Finally Where It's At?

I heard on the news the other day the results of a survey that I'm just not believing. I would like to believe it, but I don't. According to some survey, taken by someone, in some city, somewhere, the majority of Americans don't think fat people are any less attractive than more normal-sized people. I would love to believe that, but there's one big, big reason I don't believe it.
And, that's because I'm fat and I still hate looking at fat people. No matter how you slice it, fat is ugly. I'm sorry to have to say this to you, especially if you're fat, but facts is facts, and the fact is fat is not as attractive as normal-sized. I don't think I'm a fat bigot, but if I am, I'm a fat fat bigot.
I hate looking at myself. Don't get me wrong, i still think highly of myself. I wish I could have a friend like me, except that he not be so fat, of course. But when I get out of the shower, I'm hoping the steam stays on the mirror until I'm dressed.
Something else I don't like are those clinical terms for fat. You're either overweight, or obese, or, at the top of the fat scale, you're morbidly obese. That's not a nice thing to say to anyone. "Morbid" is such a foreboding word.
I have my own scale. You're either fat, or (next step up) you're gross, or (at the top of the fat scale), you're "Hey, is that a Big Mac caught in the folds of your flesh?" That sounds so much nicer.
I had to go to the doctor this morning. It was a routine thing, so don't start getting too upset. But, anyway, I was lying on that little table they put you on, with my shirt off, trying to suck in so as to fool the nurse into thinking I was normal. And, then she says, "Oh, I forgot. I need to get your weight."
"Can't you just take my word for it?" I asked her. But, no, she couldn't. So, I had to wallow around on that little tissue paper they spread across these little examining beds, trying to get myself up. By the time I'm up, the tissue is torn and crumpled. I hate that paper. It's like the doctor telling you, "Even though I'll have you as a patient, I still think you're too dirty to lie on my furniture."
Anyway, this nurse wants me to go across the hallway to the scale with no shirt or t-shirt on. No way. So, I have to get dressed in order to walk to the scale. Then I have to come back and take my shirt off and plop back down on the table. It's not fair, I tell you.
I'm sure somehow, in this whole process, she noticed I was about 50 pounds overweight. That sounds like a lot, but I like to think I carry it well. I just retain a lot of water...that and the big-boned thing, of course. And, no, I don't have any Big Macs caught in the folds of my flesh.
We were talking about fat in the office today, and Alaina, the office-Nazi (okay, she's really very nice, but she does write some nasty memos), said she had seen some report on TV about some 650-pound man. Now, that's ridiculous. It would seem to me that when you hit 500 pounds, you'd think to yourself, maybe I'd better do something. This is getting out of control. I feel confident that when I hit 500, I'm going to go on a strict fitness program. Unless, by that time, 500 is considered looking good.
I would like to believe that Americans are beginning to dig that overweight look. And, if you do, good for you. Maybe you could invite me over for a meal sometime. Unless, of course, you're fat too.

And The Survey Says...

On those rare occasions when I get to feeling that, in the grand scheme of things, my job is not all that important to mankind, I stop to reflect that it really isn't all that bad. After all, I console myself, I could have been a poll taker, you know one of those surveyors who is constantly amazing us with statistical facts that we would never have imagined.
Take for instance a report this morning. I heard it on the radio. Here are the facts (and you'd better sit down, because you would never have guessed this in a million years): According to a recent survey more black Americans than white Americans are likely to question racial equality in this country. Now, if you're not reeling with amazement yet, get this...more black Americans are going to observe Martin Luther King day than white Americans.
Talk about startling! I'm gasping for breath. I sure am glad we had those surveyors do that survey, or I'd have had that one totally turned around.
What kind of person grows up and decides to go out and ask inane questions on subjects about which few really do care in the first place? I can imagine these pollsters, as kids, calling the family together and solemnly announcing, "I've surveyed every member of the family and it appears that the majority of the family chooses to put syrup on their pancakes rather than horseradish. These kids probably asked for a show of hands when their mother asked, "Do you want me to tell your father what you've done when he gets home?"
I did a little research on the web and here are some survey results published recently. Now, these are actual surveys, folks. I'm not making this up.

"About 93% of physicians say they would prescribe birth control to any adult patients that request them and for whom they are medically appropriate," You mean a doctor would prescribe an appropriate drug? That's kinda revolutionary.

How about this one? In Scotland someone did a survey of students who were studying to be social workers. They were asked what they wanted to do with their lives. And, get this, 96% said they wanted to be social workers. Now, that was a poll that was just begging to be taken.

And, a business magazine surveyed CFOs from some of the nation's top corporations. They were asked what their primary goal is for the new year. The vast majority said to grow revenue. That one suprised me. I'd have sworn they'd have wanted to make more money.

However, realizing that I have a mental condition that requires me to look at everything negatively, I want to try something positive. I want to see how rewarding it might be to take a survey. So, if you don't mind, please answer the following questions - honestly.

Do you eat popcorn with:

1) your hands
2) a spoon
3) I didn't know you were supposed to eat it. I just enjoy listening to it pop.

I think a ball park in Shockoe Bottom would be:

1) a real incentive to go downtown
2) fun
3) a roadblock to the thousands who visit the slave trail in Shockoe each day

The best thing about living in the West End or Chesterfield County is that:

1) It's close to so many great things
2) It's a vibrant, growing community
3) It's outside the city limits

The most exciting events in the Richmond area are:

1) The two annual NASCAR races
2) UR and VCU athletic competitions
3) Indictments of city officials

The most useless career imaginable is:

1) Writing a daily blog
2) Taking surveys
3) Raising funds to build a Performing Arts Center

Sheriff Woody and Michelle are

1) Two great people with opposing views
2) Probably now having an affair
3) Characters on the new FOX animated comedy, King of Church Hill


I look forward to the results.

I Don't Want to Complain...

I had a little time on my hands this weekend, so, in an effort to make myself useful, I invented a new mental illness. I guess I didn't really invent it as much as I identified it. That sounds like the term they'd use down at the Mental Health Association offices.
It's a mental illness with which I have contended for years, except, until this weekend, I didn't realize it was a mental thing. I just thought I had a bad disposition. I'm calling this condition Chronic Complaint Syndrome. It manifests itself by causing the sufferer (me, being the first sufferer identified) to complain about virtually everything from his own health to television newscasters, to virtually every action of every individual with whom said sufferer comes in contact.
What I've come to realize, is that I don't want to complain. I try not to complain. But, alas, my condition forces me into doing so. That makes sense when you analyze it, which is what I've been doing. Why would anyone want to be a complainer. I don't enjoy being around complainers, and I'm really not proud of myself when I complain. So, it must be something over which I have little or no control. I complain because of CCS (Chronic Complain Syndrome, for those with very short memories).
I complain about aches and pains in my own body. They're not fantasy pains, but intellectually, I realize that no one, especially my wife, wants to hear my constant belly-aching. I complain about the stupidity of other people. Again, the stupidity is real, but common sense should tell me the shut up about it. The thing is, as I've discovered, CCS is stronger than common sense. I can sit there and tell myself not to complain, but then the CCS takes over.
I'm thinking that now that you know about my condition, you'll actually come to love me even more than you already do. I could say I don't want your pity, but truth be known, I really do want it. If I can get by with more complainng because you pity me, then, by all means, pity me.
At least understand me. Understand that when I'm complaining incessantly, I have no more control over my condition (CCS), than that guy in a coma has on his. Just as you wouldn't dare ask the man in the iron lung to crawl out of his lung, or the woman with prickly heat to stop scratching, you shouldn't expect me to stop complaining.
I'm know that the Mental Health gurus will want to study my findings a little more closely, and, sure they're gonna be really ticked (if you know what I mean) that a rank amateur discovered this thing, but at the end of the day, I'm kinda thinking this CCS thing will come to be known as Cook's Syndrome.
Wouldn't that be a hoot? Just imagine fifty years from now, somebody is in a restaurant just really griping about the food and the service, and the waitress is about to cry, when the kindly, old, seasoned waitress comes up to the perky young waitress, and says, "Don't let him get to you. He's just suffering from Cook's Syndrome."

It Just Doesn't Get Any Worse Than This

I think I saw a television program this morning that I'd never seen before. I say "think" because it was so horridly bad, that I'm also thinking I may have dreamed this show up. In fact, before I go any further, I'm going do a little research. If I started telling you about the program (if it's not just a very bad dream), and you've never seen it, there's no way you're going to believe me.
I'm back. And, guess what folks! It really is a TV show.
It's one of those courtroom shows, and it's called An Eye for An Eye. It stars this lawyer from Charleston, Akim Anastopoulo. He's Judge "Extreme Akim." He carries a baseball bat with the word "justice" written on it. He didn't actually use the bat while I was watching, but true justice would be taking the bat and putting everyone connected with the show out of my misery.
And do you know who's connected with the show? This is the part I thought sure I was dreaming...none other than Kato Kaelin. Yep, that Kato Kaelin. Kaelin is playing the Doug Llewelyn role, only while the judge is out deliberating, Kato is stirring up the courtroom, allowing the idiots in the audience to interrogate the plaintiffs and defendants.
Then when the judge re-enters the courtroom, everyone stands and chants, "Extreme Akim, Extreme Akim..." If Judge Wapner were dead, he'd be rolling over in his grave. And, if he saw the episode I saw today, he very well could be dead by now.
The case involved a video of a baby or was it a porn video? That never was clear. Both the plaintiffs and defendants, married couples, looked rather smarmy, and it was clear both couples were auditioning for something bigger.
One couple evidently destroyed the other's TV set. If An Eye For An Eye had been on at the time of the altercation, I'm sure any real judge would have viewed it as a mercy killing. But this Judge Extreme Akim orders the one smarmy couple to pay the other smarmy couple. He doesn't just make a monetary award. Evidently, on this show, the judge comes up with some cutesy form of retribution for each loser.
Through the use of a rather stupid inuendo, Extreme orders one couple to enter a calf-roping contest in order to win the money to pay the damages. That's when the real hilarity begins.
The final portion of the program shows the defendants preparing for the calf roping. Seems Kaelin has a rodeo friend, probably his new roommate. Anyway, this rodeo friend is supposed to train the couple to rope a calf. I didn't see all of this. I had to excuse myself to go throw up.
When I come back, both couples are going to enter the contest, and then the next time I get back to the TV, the two couples are riding little stick horses around the rodeo arena, terrorizing little calves. Where's PETA when you need them?
I didn't see the (no doubt) thrilling end, so I don't know who roped what. What I do know is that this has to be the absolutely dumbest, most inane TV program in the history of the medium, and that's saying a a lot.
An Eye For An Eye should be taken to some sort of court and forced to pay damages. The only retribution that could come close to being adequate, is to tie Akim and Kaelin together, along with "Sugar Ray," some former boxer in the baliff role, and force them to watch every episode of What's Happening, oh yeah, and,a Celine Dion video.

Life's A Gas, And Then You Belch

My blog today was going to blast the laxative industry for producing totally non-effective products. But, all I can say about that is, “never mind,” and “yes, I do feel much better.” What I will talk about is how quickly one goes from being a virile, healthy, young man to a doddering old idiot standing in Walgreen’s carefully perusing the labels on the various antacids, stool softeners, and laxatives, as if it were the most important concern in life, which, at the moment it may be.
As I’m standing there, it hits me…what a pathetic creature I’ve become. Not too many years ago, I’d have been ridiculing the 2006 version of me. But, I’ve been chastened. Laxatives were once merely a topic for humor. Now, they’re serious business.
One thing I have learned is that there are a great many products on the market for digestive issues. I’m sure the Boomer generation has really messed its plumbing systems up with years of junk and fast food consumption. I’m calling it the Golden Arches Syndrome.
McDonald’s (and then its many imitators and emulators) came along, at least here in Richmond, when I was in my late teens. And, like a shrewd drug pusher, they started off simply enough. I was content with a hamburger and an order of fries. The cost was less than a dollar, and that included a Coke.
But, then McDonald’s started supersizing. Why settle for the miniscule hamburger when I could have the Big Mac, and since you wanted to have a balanced meal, that is, a meal where you finished the burger and the fries at about the same time, you needed the large McDrum of Fries. Before I knew it I was consuming massive quantities of lard on a regular basis.
I did that for years. I didn’t know what was going on inside. I thought plaque, at its worst, was just something that I had to scrape off my teeth. Two angioplasties and several stents later, I realize that there’s a big McPrice to pay for my indulgences.
And that price has me popping antacids like I used to pop M&Ms. One thing I will say, is that, perhaps because of the Boomers who were raised on orange-flavored aspirin and cherry-flavored cough syrup, the antacid and laxative makers are coming up with some nice flavors
For a diabetic, the idea of vanilla Rolaids and chocolate laxatives is delightful. And, I must say, Rolaids’ new chewy vanilla-flavored medicine is delicious. It almost has a cake-batter tastiness. However, the chocolate laxative tastes eerily like the very thing it’s trying to generate.
But, as is so often the case, I digress. I think I’m trying to have a little moral to my column today. And that is, if you haven’t already destroyed most of your body’s organs with junk, don’t do it.
But if you have already done the damage, and you lie awake at night listening to the acid gushing through your system, then, why not do, as I’m about to do right now, and enjoy a tasty Rolaids chewy. Even at this point in life, there are still some small, simple pleasures.

Mr. Fix-It

Once in a while, I feel compelled to take some time out from my rather mundane schedule and provide solutions to the world's problems. Now, keep in mind, folks, that I can't do this every time a problem arises, but I will help out whenever I get a few minutes. I think I have time for three today.
Problem #1 - How to enforce seat belt laws. In Virginia, the driver and front-seat passenger are required by law to wear a seatbelt, but law enforcement officers can't stop a car, simply because the seat belt law is being ignored. Lawmakers have tried to get that changed, but with no success. The solution is simple. If law enforcement officers would simply hold non-seat belt wearing drivers to the letter of the law, we'd all wear seat belts. I went through radar this morning on I-64. I was doing about 70 in a 65 mile-per-hour zone. I didn't even blink an eye. Well, that's not true, I blink a lot, but I didn't worry about going five miles over the limit. I've seen drivers, especially on the interstate, go through radar at well over ten miles above the speed limit and police didn't budge.
Now suppose the police started pulling over anyone on I-64 who wasn't wearing a seat belt, and who was going just one mile over the limit. Just let the word get out that that's what the police were doing, and I bet there'd be a lot more buckling up. Okay, one problem down.
Problem #2 - The Richmond Braves/NASCAR messes. We can't do anything about getting NASCAR, but Henrico should go after the Braves. I think it's doable. Build a nice park where the Hall was going to be. Put in some hotels, office buildings, restaurants and stuff, and, oh yeah, a slave museum, and voila, you have yourself a neat Henrico County sports/entertainment/cultural center. Maybe they could even build a performing arts center while they're at it. Then, instead of worrying about having to go downtown, everyone would flock to Henrico. And, as for funding this whole thing, I have the solution to that to (this is a freebie), sell more laptops.
Problem #3 - Here's the big one...an issue that's been debated for years, and, this week, will get a lot more airplay, with that supreme court nomination thing going on. Let me use an illustration to once and forever settle this huge debate. If scientists found a rock on Mars and within that rock, they could hear a heartbeat, and when they poked at the rock, something inside it moved, and when they spoke to the rock, something inside it moved, what would the headline in all the papers proclaim? "Life found on Mars!" Right? Of course, right.
So, if you find the same thing, here on earth, in a woman's womb, what should we proclaim? Exactly. Problem resolved.
Next?

NASCAR's Hall...It's a Shame

Well, Richmond didn't get the NASCAR Hall of Fame. Gee, you could knock me over with a feather. Who saw that coming? I mean besides just about anyone with a lick of sense? Do you think it may have something to do with the fact that the city of Richmond screws up just about everything it touches?
Really, think about it. Can you think of one really exciting project that has not met with political in-fighting, downright arrogance, and, often total rejection? I can't.
Maybe, one day, the city's leaders will wake up to the fact that when you air all your dirty laundry in public, and when you demonstrate a resistance to genuine efforts to make Richmond a more exciting, vibrant place to live, work, and play, that others are watching.
NASCAR is one of the hottest commodities out there. They can go just about anywhere they want with their Hall of Fame. And, truth be told, Richmond offers an awful lot. It's that vacant one where there ought to be a ballpark, down in Shockoe. Just kidding. Richmond really does have much to offer. For starters, there's probably more tobacco juice spit into the streets of Richmond, than any other city on NASCAR's list.
But, that's just for starters. Drive through Richmond on I-95, and look at the signs - Virginia Beach and Williamsburg this way, Charlottesville, that way, and the nation's capital, the other way. We are right in the middle of so much. And right here in the city, great museums (for NASCAR fans, that's those big buildings where they hang pretty pictures), lots of history (and, again, for NASCAR fans that means stars and bars [I'm not talking about Rusty Wallace in Hooters, either] and CSA belt buckles all over town), cultural arts (NASCAR fans, that means...well, nevermind).
We have it all, except, of course, for a nice ballpark and a new Performing Arts Center. But, the city does offer much that would seemingly, especially when combined with our proximity to much of the nation's population, make this area the number one choice for NASCAR.
It's a crying shame what has been done to the city of Richmond by self-aggrandizing politicians and others. It wasn't that many years ago, that a Saturday night downtown was something special, now it's more about a Saturday Night Special.
A couple of years ago, Brad Armstrong (remember him?) told me that members of the Royal family were expected to tour Richmond in 2007. "We want to make sure we have something to show them," he said. Well, Brad, you just might get your wish. In fact, maybe we should start a tour business, to showcase all of those vacant lots and excavation pits around town.
You know, I feel a song coming on...I'd like to dedicate it to our mayor, Governor Wilder. It goes something like this:

We don't have plans and schemes.
We don't have much of anything
Except for a few discarded artist's renderings
Since we have had you (you-who, you-who)

We don't have a new ball park
And, we don't have a center for the performing arts
We still have politicians throwing darts
Since we have had you (you-who, you-who)

I can't think of anything else to write. I get started on something and then I just kind of fizzle out. Gee, I might qualify as a candidate for city council.

I Couldn't Sleep And That's No Laughing Matter

I had one of those insomniac nights last night. You know what that means - lots of late night television. And, let me tell you, as bad as TV is during primetime, it's much worse between midnight and six in the morning.
The first thing I realized as I watched a late-night repeat of the Tonight Show, is that I'm so old, I actually remember when Jay Leno was funny. Nowadays he's just a pathetic old man trying to act like he's young. Leno is not alone, however. There is very little intentional humor on TV overnight.
Conan had this smarmy little actor on. The guy looked like he should have been baking Keebler cookies, he was so tiny, and he had that typical "small-man" ego. He was talking about his great adventure in an underwater cage, photographing sharks. He was just beaming with excitement at hearing himself speak. He also showed a clip of a new TV show he's starring in. I think it's called Four Kings, but I'm not sure. But, let me warn you. If you see a show by that title, don't, I repeat, don't watch it.
He showed a clip of the show. Now, wouldn't you think that if you were going to show a clip of a new show, you'd pick the funniest moment to show? If the clip that ran is the funniest, you don't want to be anywhere near the program when it comes on.
I really do think most comedy writers today are guys, who when about age four or five, learned that if they said the word "poo-poo" they could get a laugh. Unfortunately, they progressed (from bad to worse) from "poo-poo" long ago. Each new show seems to try to out-rank the last show, and I do mean rank. If one believes that real humor is basically using dirty, or shocking, words, then that one should shy away from any comedy writing whatsoever.
Something that is funny on late night television are those commercials for telephone chat lines. These commercials show the most beautiful women and most handsome men sitting around the most gorgeous houses chatting it up with other beautiful people. There really should be some sort of truth-in-advertising laws to prohhibit that. Can you imagine what sort of people really do resort to those chat lines? If they looked like the people on TV, I can assure you, they're not sitting around the house alone at night talking to complete (and moronic) strangers.
On one commercial, the lovely woman was covered from head to toe with soap suds. She was saying, "I like to get in my bubble bath and call Tramp-Line." The real gals who use those chat lines probably get a bubble bath by being hosed down and brushed off with one of those industrial brooms.
The types of commercials shown on late-night TV doesn't say much about the median I.Q. of the late-night viewer. There was one infomercial from some organization called Professional Education Association. Wow! What an impressive-sounding company that is. I started to call and get me some of that education they were offering, but then I saw it was really Carlton Sheets. I guess he's giving instructions on operating a gas station. I'm not sure.
Anyway, I was finally lulled to sleep by Jay Leno's dulcet tones. That guy really isn't funny...at all...not even a little bit. And, it's not that I've lost my sense of humor. Actually, my sense of humor is as keen as it ever was. It must be. I still laugh uproariously at all of my jokes.

Great Expectorations

I'm going to be a bit daring today and broach a subject from which almost everyone shies away. It's something close to my heart, and yours too, for that matter, if you're like me, anyway. I'm going to talk about phlegm. Now don't run from this. It's time to face this subject head on.
I'm certainly not going to belittle those with excessive phlegm. Indeed, if phlegm had some sort of monetary value, I'd be a national treasure. What I am going to do is belittle those who think nothing of expelling their phlegm in public.
I have a friend who may be one of the great phlegm manufacturers of all times. He keeps a Dixie cup with him wherever he goes. Need I say more.
I'll sometimes visit this friend to watch a football game on TV, but as soon as I see he's having one of those Dixie cup days, I have to leave. I'm thinking to myself, what sort of barn were you raised in. Actually, he was raised on a farm, but I don't think that has anything to do with it.
I don't know about you, but once I see someone hacking up phlegm into a receptical which they then keep by their side, I can't concentrate on anything else. It has to be one of the most disgusting practices imaginable. If I have to remove phlegm, which we all do from time to time, I excuse myself, go into the bathroom and swoosh, it's down the drain. I can't stand to be around my own phlegm, much less the phlegm of friends and family.
Now, I recognize that phlegm is a necessity. They say it keeps the lungs lubricated, or something like that. It's not my job to teach a medical course here. In its place, I'm sure phlegm is a wonderful thing, but its place is not in some cup next to me.
If there's one thing you've learned about me by now it's that I'm not one to complain. I believe in finding solutions to problems. And, while I don't really know the solution to this problem, I'm sure there are some brilliant minds out there working on a polite phlegm removal system right now.
What I want to do is form a research group. I'm calling it the Society of Phlegm Eradicators Worldwide, or SPEW for short. I am using this blog, which I'm sure is read by millions daily, to put the call out for those who want to get involved. Maybe you've been wanting to contribute to a good cause, but just can't find one you feel is worthy of your time or assets. I'm confident SPEW is just what you are looking for.
I'm thinking of doing some sort of telethon, but I'm not sure that most viewers would be willing to devote that much time to watching people spit. So, a telethon may need a little fine tuning, but I think the details can be worked out. I would like to hear from those who have developed their own phlegm removal program that doesn't offend or nauseate others. Please feel free to share your thoughts and ideas, and, hopefully, in our lifetime, public phlegm will become a thing of the past.
Too ambitious? Perhaps, but even if I don't live to see a phlegm-free world, I would like to think that centuries from now, whenever my name is mentioned, people will associate me with SPEW. One can only hope.

Today is the First Day Blah Blah Blah

So, I wake up this morning, and I gotta tell you, I'm feeling good. It's a new year. I'm a new man. Today, I'm thinking to myself, is the first day of the rest of my life. And what a life it's going to be. I'm done with complaining. I'm just going to look on the bright side of things and, if I can't think of something nice to say, then I'll simply refrain from speaking. I get in the car, whistling a happy tune, and drive to work.
And then, I get behind a school bus. That does it for me. I made it twenty minutes, but some things just really irk me. The school bus is going down some residential street, I use as a short cut to work. Doesn't the school board realize that my getting to work is more important than getting these little brats to school?
And, why can't these kids walk a few feet and all catch the bus at the same spot? When I was a kid (and this is the total truth), I had to climb a mountain to get to school, and I'm talking first grade here. If you don't believe me, ask anyone who attended Boones Mill Elementary. The dilapidated old school house sat on top of a mountain. There were 186 narrow, steep steps that we little kids had to climb just to get us some education.
Admittedly, that character-building exercise didn't build all that much character in me, but at least I did it. These kids in Chesterfield, don't even have to walk a block. I'm surprised the bus driver didn't stop at each house, go inside, and carry the poor little things out on her back. In the course of three blocks, the bus stopped five times. That's ridiculous.
It's not only ridiculous, it's the reason this year will not be any better than the last. It's the sole cause of me reverting back to my rather contentious 2005 self. You can appreciate, I'm sure, that it's not my fault.
So, as long as I'm complaining, here a a few more things I might as well get off my chest. Have you seen where they want to put a new ballpark now? I didn't think there was a more unattractive section of the city than the location of the Diamond, but, lo and behold, the city has found some place even worse in which to build a stadium...the Fulton Gas Works, or whatever that section is called.
It's not even near a Greyhound station. There's absolutely nothing nearby. Not even decent roads. You know how some women are abused by their husbands for so long, that they begin to think they deserve being abused? Well, I think the R-Braves are suffering from abused local sports franchise syndrome. They must be buying into the belief that they deserve to be stuck in some desolate, seedy section of town. Admittedly, the new site is fairly close to the proposed Rockett's Landing development. But, is there any reason to believe that will eventually become a reality? I know artist's renderings have been produced, which generally is the downtown Richmond kiss of death for a project.
I think I'm on to the mayor's dirty little secret. I think he wants to propose a site so horrible, that the existing location will look great. Well, I'm too smart for that, Mr. Mayor. I know what you're trying to pull.
I think Shockoe Bottom is a great place for a ballpark. There are already entrepreneurs who have invested big sums down that way. I think what has made Shockoe Bottom succeed is that there never were any artist's renderings.
I tell you what. Build a stadium in the Bottom and I'll personally build a slave trail museum down there. I'll even go down on Sunday afternoons and conduct tours. Just, please build me a nice ball park. That's all I ask.
I could go on with a laundry list of gripes, but, hey, we have a whole year to air out my grievances. But, come 2007, I'm a new man. In 2007, you won't hear one complaint from my lips. I promise.