If you have never visited www.thesmokinggun.com, it's a site you might enjoy checking out. They do a couple of things which I find entertaining. One thing is their showing mugshots of the stars. If you ever get to feeling that you're just too ugly for words, you'll be much cheered to look at some of the "beautiful people" in their less beautiful moments.
But my favorite pages at thesmokinggun.com are those containing hotel riders for celebrities. These are demands the privileged few make when traveling. They've just posted riders for John and Teresa Heinz Kerry. You can check them out at http://www.thesmokinggun.com//archive/0327061kerry1.html.
Apparently the former Democratic candidate for the presidency loves to be able to watch the pay movies and wants to have access to such available at all times. He also demands bottled water to be on hand constantly. His wants seem spartan in comparison with those of his wife, who, among other things demands green bananas, filet mignon, stone crab, flax bread, and power peanut butter.
But, I'm not criticizing, mind you. Truth be known, I'm somewhat of a celebrity myself, with a blog that has been read by as many as 5 different people in one day. When I travel I have certain demands, and the motel staff just better meet them or they'll get a piece of my mind.
For instance, I will not stay in any motel that has not removed dead rats from the traps under the bed. I feel that if I'm paying $26.00 a night (or more sometimes), that I shouldn't have to dump the rats myself. I know, it sounds a bit haughty, but that's the way I am.
I also refuse to sleep in any bed that another guest is still occupying. I know I'm not royalty, but I need some alone time when I'm on the road.
There are some things I don't demand, but I've been known to whine when I don't have them. Magic Fingers on the bed is one of those things. I never take an overnight trip without taking along a pocketful of quarters. There's something so soothing about those vibrating beds. Plus, it usually forces the cockroaches off the bed and back into the tub.
I also enjoy a warm room, that's why I'm always on the lookout for a motel that advertises steam heat. Where's there steam, there's almost always heat. I like that.
Here's a little tip from a seasoned traveler who has come to expect only the best when spending the night away from home (that's me, in case you didn't figure that out): Always hold out (if possible) for a motel named the Cadillac. As you know Cadillac is the most prestigious name in autos, but what many don't know is that this generally holds true for a motel with the same moniker.
I've stayed in many a Cadillac Motel, from Maine to Florida, and I can attest to this. Virtually everyone of them has free TV, and most now have color TV. While I don't expect such luxuries, it's nice to veg out on the bed and watch color TV. It's a treat, and one of the reasons I enjoy staying in motels. It's also nice if the motel offers some sort of satellite dish.
At home, I'm usually the one who has to hold the rabbit ears in just the right position so that my wife can watch her favorite shows with minimal snow. And, at my house, that generally involves standing on one leg and leaning against the window, while holding a fork in my mouth. It really frosts my wife when I drop (or worse, swallow) the fork just at the crucial moments in the show. So, cable, color TV in a first class room at the Cadillac is something I really appreciate.
I tried to make sure that my celebrity status doesn't go to my head, but as I read this, I realize that, yes, just like the Kerrys, I probably am a little too demanding. But, hey, that's just one of the perks that comes with my fame. And, I'm going to keep on milking it.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
She's With Stupid and Stupid Would Be Me
I had an eye opening experience last night. I went shopping with my wife at the MacArthur Center in Norfolk. It's a beautiful mall or whatever the current, in vogue term is for shopping centers, but it's a little too swanky for my blood.
Our first stop was Nordstrom. That place is so high class I'm surprised they let me in there at all. And, with my inability to keep my mouth shut, I'm sure they won't let me in next time.
We were casually looking at women's clothing. Well, mainly my wife was, but I'd stop from time to time to look at an item. I saw this red sweater or coat. I'm not sure exactly what it was, but it was pretty. And, as I always do when shopping, I immediately reached for the price tag.
You wanna take a guess at how much this piece of clothing was selling for? Are you sitting down? The asking price was $1450.00. That's right. I gasped, and the saleslady mistook that for my expressing interest. She comes trotting right over. I'm guessing not too many people linger at that item, but I was too stunned to move.
"May I help you," she asks politely.
"Can you help me get my heart restarted?" I reply equally politely.
"He doesn't get out much," my wife tells the lady. Yeah, my wife is acting like she pays $1450 every day for a dress. I'm betting she was just as shocked, but women are better at pretending to know prices.
"I've never seen any article of clothing that cost over a thousand bucks," I tell them both. As I say, I really am not very good at keeping my mouth shut.
"Well this is a designer fashion," the saleslady says.
The designer must have been busy because there are about ten of the same coats on the rack.
"Besides this is made of magic fabric," the saleslady continues.
"I hope that means you can keep pulling gold coins out of the pocket," I say. I thought that was a pretty funny line, but I was the only one in our little group laughing.
My wife apologizes for me once again, which is a good thing, because I wasn't aware I had done anything that needed an apology. I guess I really don't get out that much.
Our next stop is the Aveda store. My wife beats me there, as I'm in need of a rest stop after leaving the magic dress. When I get into Aveda, my wife is already lathered up with about fifteen of their cremes and lotions.
"Would you go get me a cup of coffee?" she asks me when I wander in.
I'm so stupid, I start asking her what she wants in her coffee. It doesn't dawn on me until I go outside the Aveda store that she doesn't want coffee. She just doesn't want me to see how much she's buying.
So, I go back in and tell her I couldn't find a coffee shop. That much was true. By this time she's standing at the cash register.
"Oh," says, "why don't you go over there and see what sort of men's lotions they have.
I'm so stupid, I forget why she sent me away the first time and I go over to the men's stuff. As I'm standing there looking at lotions that I'd never in a million years use, it dawns on me again. This time I can't be sidetracked.
"I know what you're doing," I say wisely. "You don't want me to know how much you're spending."
She acts hurt. "No, not at all," she says. "I was buying you something as a surprise."
I'm so stupid I walk away again, so as not to spoil her surprise. It doesn't dawn on me until hours later, at home, as she's sitting on the bed moisturizing herself, that she never showed me my surprise.
"Hey," I say (still being stupid), "where's my surprise?"
She looks at me as if she has no idea what I'm talking about.
"My surprise. Remember, from Aveda," I say, still thinking there's a gift for me in the bag from which she has been pulling one lotion after another and applying to various locations - on her.
"Oh yeah," she says. She fumbles in the bag and pulls out some little sample pack the woman gave her. "Here, it's a foot lotion for you." She says it in such an excited manner...and I'm so stupid...that the next thing you know I'm gayly applying foot lotion on my feet.
Well, that was last night, and as I'm sitting here thinking about the matter, I'm beginning to realize that there never was a surprise for me in the bag. But, hey, at least there was no $1450.00 dress in there either.
I'm not that stupid.
Our first stop was Nordstrom. That place is so high class I'm surprised they let me in there at all. And, with my inability to keep my mouth shut, I'm sure they won't let me in next time.
We were casually looking at women's clothing. Well, mainly my wife was, but I'd stop from time to time to look at an item. I saw this red sweater or coat. I'm not sure exactly what it was, but it was pretty. And, as I always do when shopping, I immediately reached for the price tag.
You wanna take a guess at how much this piece of clothing was selling for? Are you sitting down? The asking price was $1450.00. That's right. I gasped, and the saleslady mistook that for my expressing interest. She comes trotting right over. I'm guessing not too many people linger at that item, but I was too stunned to move.
"May I help you," she asks politely.
"Can you help me get my heart restarted?" I reply equally politely.
"He doesn't get out much," my wife tells the lady. Yeah, my wife is acting like she pays $1450 every day for a dress. I'm betting she was just as shocked, but women are better at pretending to know prices.
"I've never seen any article of clothing that cost over a thousand bucks," I tell them both. As I say, I really am not very good at keeping my mouth shut.
"Well this is a designer fashion," the saleslady says.
The designer must have been busy because there are about ten of the same coats on the rack.
"Besides this is made of magic fabric," the saleslady continues.
"I hope that means you can keep pulling gold coins out of the pocket," I say. I thought that was a pretty funny line, but I was the only one in our little group laughing.
My wife apologizes for me once again, which is a good thing, because I wasn't aware I had done anything that needed an apology. I guess I really don't get out that much.
Our next stop is the Aveda store. My wife beats me there, as I'm in need of a rest stop after leaving the magic dress. When I get into Aveda, my wife is already lathered up with about fifteen of their cremes and lotions.
"Would you go get me a cup of coffee?" she asks me when I wander in.
I'm so stupid, I start asking her what she wants in her coffee. It doesn't dawn on me until I go outside the Aveda store that she doesn't want coffee. She just doesn't want me to see how much she's buying.
So, I go back in and tell her I couldn't find a coffee shop. That much was true. By this time she's standing at the cash register.
"Oh," says, "why don't you go over there and see what sort of men's lotions they have.
I'm so stupid, I forget why she sent me away the first time and I go over to the men's stuff. As I'm standing there looking at lotions that I'd never in a million years use, it dawns on me again. This time I can't be sidetracked.
"I know what you're doing," I say wisely. "You don't want me to know how much you're spending."
She acts hurt. "No, not at all," she says. "I was buying you something as a surprise."
I'm so stupid I walk away again, so as not to spoil her surprise. It doesn't dawn on me until hours later, at home, as she's sitting on the bed moisturizing herself, that she never showed me my surprise.
"Hey," I say (still being stupid), "where's my surprise?"
She looks at me as if she has no idea what I'm talking about.
"My surprise. Remember, from Aveda," I say, still thinking there's a gift for me in the bag from which she has been pulling one lotion after another and applying to various locations - on her.
"Oh yeah," she says. She fumbles in the bag and pulls out some little sample pack the woman gave her. "Here, it's a foot lotion for you." She says it in such an excited manner...and I'm so stupid...that the next thing you know I'm gayly applying foot lotion on my feet.
Well, that was last night, and as I'm sitting here thinking about the matter, I'm beginning to realize that there never was a surprise for me in the bag. But, hey, at least there was no $1450.00 dress in there either.
I'm not that stupid.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Play Ball With Doug
I have a question weighing heavily on my mind this morning. As much as I enjoy having the Richmond Braves in Richmond, I'd like to know just who this Braves organization think they are making demands on Mayor Governor Wilder? Here's my open letter to Mike Plant, Bruce Baldwin, and the rest of those baseball upstarts:
Listen guys, if the Mayor says you'll be satisfied with a ballpark in the slums, then you'd better believe him. Perhaps you Atlanta fellers don't realize that we're not just talking any old Tim Kaine version of mayor. This is Mayor Governor Wilder. He says play on top of an abandoned gas tank. And, he means it.
The Richmond Times Dispatch has gone to the trouble of publishing an artist's rendering of a new ballpark. What more could you guys possibly want or need in order to give your approval? But, noooooooo. You big city folks want more.
When I was a kid (stay with me, there's a point here), and all the neighborhood kids played ball in my yard, I ruled the roost. If the other kids didn't do what I wanted, I'd lie down on home plate. That'd put a crimp in their game.
And, you know what? It was my yard. I had every right to make the rules. If the other kids wanted to go play elsewhere, they could. They did, actually. But, my yard was my castle, so to speak. And, if I wanted to lie on home plate all day long while the other kids played down the street, it was my right. I reckon I taught them a thing or two about power.
I'd like to think Mayor Governor Wilder and I are very much alike. He realizes that it's his yard, so you Atlanta guys better play by his rules. And, if you think you can threaten us with the idea that you can go find another yard, then just go right ahead. You think you're the only team that wants to play ball here?
Think again, bigshots. Mayor Governor Wilder says there are plenty of teams, just knocking on the door, begging to play ball with him. Just because the Mayor won't say who they are doesn't mean anything. After all, we're talking Doug Wilder. And, who does this Randy Mobley think he is? You put the title "president" in front of someone's name, and immediately he starts acting like he has some sort of authority. Mobley, the President (big deal) of the International League, implies that no other teams had better be talking to the Mayor. He says it's against minor league baseball rules.
Rules, schmules, we're talking Doug Wilder here. He don't need no stinking rules.
I, for one, am proud to be living in a city as progressive and as enlightened as Richmond...a city that realizes that an abandon excavated pit on Broad Street is just as good as a performing arts center. Richmond is the sort of city that doesn't mind building a glass-enclosed pedestrian bridge over Broad Street and then tearing it down. Mayor Governor Wilder, here's to you. Hip Hip Hooray! I say keep lying on home plate. We'll show those Richmond Braves a thing or two.
Listen guys, if the Mayor says you'll be satisfied with a ballpark in the slums, then you'd better believe him. Perhaps you Atlanta fellers don't realize that we're not just talking any old Tim Kaine version of mayor. This is Mayor Governor Wilder. He says play on top of an abandoned gas tank. And, he means it.
The Richmond Times Dispatch has gone to the trouble of publishing an artist's rendering of a new ballpark. What more could you guys possibly want or need in order to give your approval? But, noooooooo. You big city folks want more.
When I was a kid (stay with me, there's a point here), and all the neighborhood kids played ball in my yard, I ruled the roost. If the other kids didn't do what I wanted, I'd lie down on home plate. That'd put a crimp in their game.
And, you know what? It was my yard. I had every right to make the rules. If the other kids wanted to go play elsewhere, they could. They did, actually. But, my yard was my castle, so to speak. And, if I wanted to lie on home plate all day long while the other kids played down the street, it was my right. I reckon I taught them a thing or two about power.
I'd like to think Mayor Governor Wilder and I are very much alike. He realizes that it's his yard, so you Atlanta guys better play by his rules. And, if you think you can threaten us with the idea that you can go find another yard, then just go right ahead. You think you're the only team that wants to play ball here?
Think again, bigshots. Mayor Governor Wilder says there are plenty of teams, just knocking on the door, begging to play ball with him. Just because the Mayor won't say who they are doesn't mean anything. After all, we're talking Doug Wilder. And, who does this Randy Mobley think he is? You put the title "president" in front of someone's name, and immediately he starts acting like he has some sort of authority. Mobley, the President (big deal) of the International League, implies that no other teams had better be talking to the Mayor. He says it's against minor league baseball rules.
Rules, schmules, we're talking Doug Wilder here. He don't need no stinking rules.
I, for one, am proud to be living in a city as progressive and as enlightened as Richmond...a city that realizes that an abandon excavated pit on Broad Street is just as good as a performing arts center. Richmond is the sort of city that doesn't mind building a glass-enclosed pedestrian bridge over Broad Street and then tearing it down. Mayor Governor Wilder, here's to you. Hip Hip Hooray! I say keep lying on home plate. We'll show those Richmond Braves a thing or two.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The Fat and the Dead
This whole dieting thing is getting old. I've been on Weight Watchers for 9 days now, and I gotta tell you, I'd rather be eating. Hey, that would make a great bumper sticker.
As diets go, Weight Watchers is not so bad. And, in case you've been biting your nails wondering how I'm doing...I lost 4.6 pounds the first week. Applause applause!
Weight Watchers takes the attitude that you don't need to lose weight quickly. Our leader (that's what they call the formerly fat women who teach) asked us the other night, "Why do you need to lose weight so quickly?"
My immediate response was that with all my health problems, I wanted to lose weight quickly so I'd look good in my coffin. I worry about that. I have several less than attractive chins and when I'm lying down, my face looks fat...fatter.
Now think about taking that fat face and neck, letting rigor mortis set in, and then strangling my cadaver with a necktie. I'll have a face that looks like a pasty white blob of toothpaste squeezed mercilessly out of the tube.
And, what is more, all my friends will stand around looking at it, and patting me on my stiff dead hand, and telling my wife how much I look like myself...fat.
Before I check out, I need to lose about 50 pounds. I want to get so thin that my friends will tell my wife at the funeral home that they weren't aware I'd been so sick.
Now, you may be thinking that my thinking is rather morbid. Maybe so, but I think I'm just being realistic. I'm not overly proud, but I really don't want everyone looking at my fat face in the coffin.
When you think about it, this whole custom of laying people out, fully dressed in a casket is rather silly. I don't lie down to take a nap in a suit. I think I'll request that the mortician either dress me in pajamas, or prop my eyes open so I won't look like I'm napping in my suit, or, better yet, why not sit me up in one of the chairs in the funeral parlor. I'd look a lot better sitting up. Maybe they could put a magazine in my lap, or, perhaps a TV remote in my hand.
I know a lot of funeral homes are promoting this celebration of life idea and the best way to celebrate my life would be to sit me up, put a bowl of popcorn by my side, and have a television in the room showing an episode of Law And Order.
If they showed a pretty good episode I have a feeling most of my friends wouldn't even realize I was fat. Heck, they might not even realize I'm dead.
As diets go, Weight Watchers is not so bad. And, in case you've been biting your nails wondering how I'm doing...I lost 4.6 pounds the first week. Applause applause!
Weight Watchers takes the attitude that you don't need to lose weight quickly. Our leader (that's what they call the formerly fat women who teach) asked us the other night, "Why do you need to lose weight so quickly?"
My immediate response was that with all my health problems, I wanted to lose weight quickly so I'd look good in my coffin. I worry about that. I have several less than attractive chins and when I'm lying down, my face looks fat...fatter.
Now think about taking that fat face and neck, letting rigor mortis set in, and then strangling my cadaver with a necktie. I'll have a face that looks like a pasty white blob of toothpaste squeezed mercilessly out of the tube.
And, what is more, all my friends will stand around looking at it, and patting me on my stiff dead hand, and telling my wife how much I look like myself...fat.
Before I check out, I need to lose about 50 pounds. I want to get so thin that my friends will tell my wife at the funeral home that they weren't aware I'd been so sick.
Now, you may be thinking that my thinking is rather morbid. Maybe so, but I think I'm just being realistic. I'm not overly proud, but I really don't want everyone looking at my fat face in the coffin.
When you think about it, this whole custom of laying people out, fully dressed in a casket is rather silly. I don't lie down to take a nap in a suit. I think I'll request that the mortician either dress me in pajamas, or prop my eyes open so I won't look like I'm napping in my suit, or, better yet, why not sit me up in one of the chairs in the funeral parlor. I'd look a lot better sitting up. Maybe they could put a magazine in my lap, or, perhaps a TV remote in my hand.
I know a lot of funeral homes are promoting this celebration of life idea and the best way to celebrate my life would be to sit me up, put a bowl of popcorn by my side, and have a television in the room showing an episode of Law And Order.
If they showed a pretty good episode I have a feeling most of my friends wouldn't even realize I was fat. Heck, they might not even realize I'm dead.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Going Along the Highway
I made a quick trip to New York City this weekend, and, being the deep, insightful thinker that I am, I have made one very startling observation. Times Square in Manhattan is cleaner, much, much cleaner, than your average Virginia rest stop.
I’m usually right happy with Virginia. It’s centrally located, which mean you can get out of the state and to some really cool places in short order. Even within the state, we have mountains and beaches and natures and history and culture and all that good stuff. So, all in all, Virginia is okay.
But, the rest stops in Virginia suck sewage down their dirty pipes and that’s about all they’re good for. Why is it that Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey have such great rest stops and we have these putrid, cold, uninviting shanties along the Interstate?
I would say that the very utilitarian rest stops in Virginia are what you might expect to find in some Communist country, but I’ve been to China and the public restrooms there are much nicer than what you’ll find at Virginia’s rest stops. (Side note to the gang of 54 – hope you’re reading this)
When you get north of Virginia, you find rest stops along the Interstate that have restaurants, gift shops, ice cream counters, Starbucks, and very, very clean, warm restrooms. In Virginia, you get vending machines and metal urinals. You get signs warning you that the water in the restroom is unfit for consumption. You get lurking places for every unclean beast-like wanderer who might chance along the highway. I mean there’s some filthy vermin hanging out in the Virginia rest stops. They’re almost as bad as what you’ll find in the city of Richmond’s main library.
I really would like to know why we can’t have some of these nice rest stops that are maintained by corporate business that make money off of us travelers. And, it’s really not like the travelers are being gouged. In fact, along the New Jersey Turnpike, gasoline prices were about 15 to 20 cents cheaper per gallon than what you’ll pay in the Richmond area. And, as far as food, it’s not the cheapest, but it ain’t bad. Besides, I’d pay a few extra pennies for the privilege of using a clean restroom. Virginia’s rest stop restrooms stink. And, again, I don’t understand why. Well, scientifically, I understand the reason why.
I can’t imagine it costs New Jersey more to provide what they provide than what it costs Virginia to give us these horrid rest stops. In fact, I’m guessing they make a few bucks off their rest areas. Why can’t we do that?
The Baby Boomer generation is taking to the road more than ever, as they approach retirement. And, if there’s one thing a Baby Boomer appreciates it’s a convenient bathroom with plenty of warm seats. Or, am I in some sort of IBS isolation on this one? I think not.
I’m not trying to start some kind of movement here. Oops, poor choice of words. I’m not trying to make some political statement. I just don’t understand why Virginia always has to be the last state to catch up with the times. I think our rest stops have always been inferior; it just never mattered quite so much as it does now. But next time that I’m heading north and get the urge, I’m going to try and wait ‘til I get up north. After all that’s kinda what the north has been doing to us for years.
I’m usually right happy with Virginia. It’s centrally located, which mean you can get out of the state and to some really cool places in short order. Even within the state, we have mountains and beaches and natures and history and culture and all that good stuff. So, all in all, Virginia is okay.
But, the rest stops in Virginia suck sewage down their dirty pipes and that’s about all they’re good for. Why is it that Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey have such great rest stops and we have these putrid, cold, uninviting shanties along the Interstate?
I would say that the very utilitarian rest stops in Virginia are what you might expect to find in some Communist country, but I’ve been to China and the public restrooms there are much nicer than what you’ll find at Virginia’s rest stops. (Side note to the gang of 54 – hope you’re reading this)
When you get north of Virginia, you find rest stops along the Interstate that have restaurants, gift shops, ice cream counters, Starbucks, and very, very clean, warm restrooms. In Virginia, you get vending machines and metal urinals. You get signs warning you that the water in the restroom is unfit for consumption. You get lurking places for every unclean beast-like wanderer who might chance along the highway. I mean there’s some filthy vermin hanging out in the Virginia rest stops. They’re almost as bad as what you’ll find in the city of Richmond’s main library.
I really would like to know why we can’t have some of these nice rest stops that are maintained by corporate business that make money off of us travelers. And, it’s really not like the travelers are being gouged. In fact, along the New Jersey Turnpike, gasoline prices were about 15 to 20 cents cheaper per gallon than what you’ll pay in the Richmond area. And, as far as food, it’s not the cheapest, but it ain’t bad. Besides, I’d pay a few extra pennies for the privilege of using a clean restroom. Virginia’s rest stop restrooms stink. And, again, I don’t understand why. Well, scientifically, I understand the reason why.
I can’t imagine it costs New Jersey more to provide what they provide than what it costs Virginia to give us these horrid rest stops. In fact, I’m guessing they make a few bucks off their rest areas. Why can’t we do that?
The Baby Boomer generation is taking to the road more than ever, as they approach retirement. And, if there’s one thing a Baby Boomer appreciates it’s a convenient bathroom with plenty of warm seats. Or, am I in some sort of IBS isolation on this one? I think not.
I’m not trying to start some kind of movement here. Oops, poor choice of words. I’m not trying to make some political statement. I just don’t understand why Virginia always has to be the last state to catch up with the times. I think our rest stops have always been inferior; it just never mattered quite so much as it does now. But next time that I’m heading north and get the urge, I’m going to try and wait ‘til I get up north. After all that’s kinda what the north has been doing to us for years.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Some Of My Best Friends Were Women
My friend, Lochru, the three hundred year old (give or take a century) Druid, phoned me last night. “I have a bone to pick with you,” he said as soon as I answered.
“Well, hello to you, too,” I replied caustically. “What have I done now?”
“I have to admit, I’m somewhat disappointed in your mysoginistic attitude,” he said.
“Excuse me,” I replied.
“Excuse you?” he asked.
“Yes, you’ll need to excuse me while I look the word up in my dictionary. How do you spell it?” I asked.
“A misogynist,” Lochru said, “is one characterized by a hatred of women.”
“Well, that’s not me,” I responded, somewhat defensively. “I love women. At least some of them.”
“Well, you could certainly fool me, based on your recent blogs,” he answered.
“I think you’re totally off-base,” I replied, even more defensively.
“Well one day you’re blasting fat women, the next day you seem to be obsessed with women who are obsessed with their doctors. Need I go on?” Lochru says.
“Just because I’m not fond of them, doesn’t mean I hate them,” I say.
“You have some serious issues,” Lochru tells me.
“One Druid’s opinion,” I retort. “Actually, I have great respect for women. In fact, one of my bosses is a lady.”
Before he could reply, who should pop her head in my door, but Cheryl, our vice-president. “Speak of the devil,” I say to Lochru. “Here’s my lady boss, whom I deeply respect, right now.”
“Steve, I need to see you now in my office,” Cheryl demands.
“Be with you in a minute, Hon,” I reply. “I’m on the phone. Be a dear and grab me a cup of java, will you?”
I hate interruptions when I’m on the phone. So, I quickly get back to my old Druid pal. “Cheryl and I have a great relationship,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I can tell,” he says. “But, hey, I want you to help me understand something.”
“Be glad to help,” I say. I’m always there to lend a helping hand.
“What’s with the R-Braves and Doug Wilder?” he asks. “Who is at fault on this one.”
“Well,” I reply, “Wilder says he’s done so much to help the Braves and they just don’t seem to appreciate him.”
“Yeah,” Lochru says. “Wasn’t he the one who sandbagged their move to Shockoe Bottom?”
“Listen, my old friend,” I say, somewhat condescendingly to Lochru, ”You’re out of the loop. You just don’t understand. Doug Wilder knows what’s best for everyone. If he had thought a move to Shockoe would have been in the team’s best interests, he’d have made it happen.”
“So,” Lochru replies, “a move to a vacant lot in the slums is in their best interest?”
“If Doug Wilder says it is, then it must be,” I reply innocently.
“Well, listen, pal,” he says. “The arrogance of you people is going to cost you a great minor league operation.”
“What do you care about minor league baseball,” I ask him.
“Steve, my poor little naïve friend,” he says, “to you barbarians, it’s just a game. To us Druids, it was one of our greatest fertility rituals. And, you know how much I like them fertility rituals.”
“This is a conversation I don’t think I want to have,” I tell Lochru, “Especially with a thawed out Druid.”
“Just because there’s snow on the roof, don’t mean there’s no fire in the furnace,” he sneers. Did I ever tell you about Aoifa, the Druidess priestess? Wow, if anybody knew how to wear a ritual robe!”
I gently put the phone on the cradle. And he calls me a misogynist.
“Well, hello to you, too,” I replied caustically. “What have I done now?”
“I have to admit, I’m somewhat disappointed in your mysoginistic attitude,” he said.
“Excuse me,” I replied.
“Excuse you?” he asked.
“Yes, you’ll need to excuse me while I look the word up in my dictionary. How do you spell it?” I asked.
“A misogynist,” Lochru said, “is one characterized by a hatred of women.”
“Well, that’s not me,” I responded, somewhat defensively. “I love women. At least some of them.”
“Well, you could certainly fool me, based on your recent blogs,” he answered.
“I think you’re totally off-base,” I replied, even more defensively.
“Well one day you’re blasting fat women, the next day you seem to be obsessed with women who are obsessed with their doctors. Need I go on?” Lochru says.
“Just because I’m not fond of them, doesn’t mean I hate them,” I say.
“You have some serious issues,” Lochru tells me.
“One Druid’s opinion,” I retort. “Actually, I have great respect for women. In fact, one of my bosses is a lady.”
Before he could reply, who should pop her head in my door, but Cheryl, our vice-president. “Speak of the devil,” I say to Lochru. “Here’s my lady boss, whom I deeply respect, right now.”
“Steve, I need to see you now in my office,” Cheryl demands.
“Be with you in a minute, Hon,” I reply. “I’m on the phone. Be a dear and grab me a cup of java, will you?”
I hate interruptions when I’m on the phone. So, I quickly get back to my old Druid pal. “Cheryl and I have a great relationship,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I can tell,” he says. “But, hey, I want you to help me understand something.”
“Be glad to help,” I say. I’m always there to lend a helping hand.
“What’s with the R-Braves and Doug Wilder?” he asks. “Who is at fault on this one.”
“Well,” I reply, “Wilder says he’s done so much to help the Braves and they just don’t seem to appreciate him.”
“Yeah,” Lochru says. “Wasn’t he the one who sandbagged their move to Shockoe Bottom?”
“Listen, my old friend,” I say, somewhat condescendingly to Lochru, ”You’re out of the loop. You just don’t understand. Doug Wilder knows what’s best for everyone. If he had thought a move to Shockoe would have been in the team’s best interests, he’d have made it happen.”
“So,” Lochru replies, “a move to a vacant lot in the slums is in their best interest?”
“If Doug Wilder says it is, then it must be,” I reply innocently.
“Well, listen, pal,” he says. “The arrogance of you people is going to cost you a great minor league operation.”
“What do you care about minor league baseball,” I ask him.
“Steve, my poor little naïve friend,” he says, “to you barbarians, it’s just a game. To us Druids, it was one of our greatest fertility rituals. And, you know how much I like them fertility rituals.”
“This is a conversation I don’t think I want to have,” I tell Lochru, “Especially with a thawed out Druid.”
“Just because there’s snow on the roof, don’t mean there’s no fire in the furnace,” he sneers. Did I ever tell you about Aoifa, the Druidess priestess? Wow, if anybody knew how to wear a ritual robe!”
I gently put the phone on the cradle. And he calls me a misogynist.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Living Off the Fat of the Land
Well, I finally did it. I bit the bullet, took the plunge, as it were. Yes, I have gone and done it. I’ve rejoined Weight Watchers. There’s really only one good thing about Weight Watchers. It works. I can attest to that. I’ve lost hundreds of pounds with Weight Watchers. Of course in the past I’ve put them back on again. This time will be different. I promise.
Here’s why I am so sure this time will be different. The last time I joined, I merely said, “I really, really, really promise that this time I’ll stick with it.” You see. I only used “really” three times. This time I’m taking “really” to the fourth power. So, as you can see, this time will be different.
I like Weight Watchers philosophy. I even enjoy counting points. I get 28 a day, by the way, if you’re keeping score. Yesterday, I only had 23. Plus, Weight Watchers has a new plan that gives you 35 extra points a week. Gee, I don’t know what sort of influence they have that they can give away points like that. But, if they’re giving, I’m taking. I see one buffet a week in my future.
The thing I don’t like about Weight Watchers is that there are so many fat people there. And, all they talk about is their weight. “I lost 1.1 pounds this week.” Applause applause. Or, “I’m now down to a svelte 265.” Applause, applause.
And pray tell me, why does a fat woman who has lost a couple of pounds think she should immediately jump back into the spandex? There are some dimples I’d just as soon not see.
I hope I don’t sound bigoted, but I really don’t enjoy spending an evening a week surrounded by fat women. And, if I am going to spend that time, can’t we find something more interesting to talk about than that new lightweight popcorn that is made of 65% cardboard?
But, I’ll tell you who are even more tedious than fat women…formerly fat women. You see, in order to be a Weight Watchers instructor you have to be one of their success stories. You have to have gotten to your goal weight, and then stuck with their maintenance plan for so many weeks.
I think they make that rule, not to see if these gals will keep the weight off, but to ensure that they can drone on for hours about their weight loss. They say there’s nothing more tiresome than spending time with a reformed prostitute. To my knowledge, I don’t know any reformed prostitutes, but I do know some Weight Watchers instructors, and I’d pit them against the prostitutes any day. Come to think of it, that could make for some pretty good reality TV.
Something else about Weight Watchers that gets me, they’ve become worse than Walt Disney at trying to squeeze every dime they possibly can out of a guy. First, they charge you to join. Then they take $12 a week for the privilege of weighing in and listening to their formerly fat instructor cheer on the group. But, that’s just the beginning. They sell candy and pastries and smoothies. They sell measuring cups that are better than the measuring cups that fat people use because they have the Weight Watchers logo on the side. They sell pedometers and they sell books, lots of books. They’ll even sell you a password to a secret Weight Watchers Internet site, where you can spend time with virtual fat people. The Weight Watchers program is so effective that I lost two pounds in my wallet on my first visit.
But, hey, I’m losing weight. I feel great. As you can tell, even my disposition is better. And, come to think of it, fat women aren’t all that bad – in little doses. This time I’m going to get back to my original weight – 6 pounds, 13 ounces. And this time, I really, really, really, really mean it.
Here’s why I am so sure this time will be different. The last time I joined, I merely said, “I really, really, really promise that this time I’ll stick with it.” You see. I only used “really” three times. This time I’m taking “really” to the fourth power. So, as you can see, this time will be different.
I like Weight Watchers philosophy. I even enjoy counting points. I get 28 a day, by the way, if you’re keeping score. Yesterday, I only had 23. Plus, Weight Watchers has a new plan that gives you 35 extra points a week. Gee, I don’t know what sort of influence they have that they can give away points like that. But, if they’re giving, I’m taking. I see one buffet a week in my future.
The thing I don’t like about Weight Watchers is that there are so many fat people there. And, all they talk about is their weight. “I lost 1.1 pounds this week.” Applause applause. Or, “I’m now down to a svelte 265.” Applause, applause.
And pray tell me, why does a fat woman who has lost a couple of pounds think she should immediately jump back into the spandex? There are some dimples I’d just as soon not see.
I hope I don’t sound bigoted, but I really don’t enjoy spending an evening a week surrounded by fat women. And, if I am going to spend that time, can’t we find something more interesting to talk about than that new lightweight popcorn that is made of 65% cardboard?
But, I’ll tell you who are even more tedious than fat women…formerly fat women. You see, in order to be a Weight Watchers instructor you have to be one of their success stories. You have to have gotten to your goal weight, and then stuck with their maintenance plan for so many weeks.
I think they make that rule, not to see if these gals will keep the weight off, but to ensure that they can drone on for hours about their weight loss. They say there’s nothing more tiresome than spending time with a reformed prostitute. To my knowledge, I don’t know any reformed prostitutes, but I do know some Weight Watchers instructors, and I’d pit them against the prostitutes any day. Come to think of it, that could make for some pretty good reality TV.
Something else about Weight Watchers that gets me, they’ve become worse than Walt Disney at trying to squeeze every dime they possibly can out of a guy. First, they charge you to join. Then they take $12 a week for the privilege of weighing in and listening to their formerly fat instructor cheer on the group. But, that’s just the beginning. They sell candy and pastries and smoothies. They sell measuring cups that are better than the measuring cups that fat people use because they have the Weight Watchers logo on the side. They sell pedometers and they sell books, lots of books. They’ll even sell you a password to a secret Weight Watchers Internet site, where you can spend time with virtual fat people. The Weight Watchers program is so effective that I lost two pounds in my wallet on my first visit.
But, hey, I’m losing weight. I feel great. As you can tell, even my disposition is better. And, come to think of it, fat women aren’t all that bad – in little doses. This time I’m going to get back to my original weight – 6 pounds, 13 ounces. And this time, I really, really, really, really mean it.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
My Health Is No Laughing Matter
I went to see my doctor last week. Again. It’s becoming a regular thing. I go in to the big waiting room and sign in. I sit there for a few minutes and enjoy a February, 1997 Sports Illustrated, and then the nurse calls me to the small waiting room…you know the one with the little tissue-paper-covered bed. And I sit there for about forty-five minutes. Only now there’s nothing to read.
I hate sitting in that sterile little cubicle, with nothing to entertain me. There is a needlepoint on the wall that obviously was done by one of the doctor’s female patients. You know the type…they fall in love with their doctor because, “he’s so kind and patient and…and (sigh) just so wonderful.” And then these obsessed women start applying whatever skill they have in order to show their doctors how crazy (and I do mean crazy) they are about him.
When a woman has no known skills, such as cooking or gardening or sewing, she can always do needlepoint. It’s designed to look like a skill.
My doctor’s needle pointed patient came up with this cutesy little picture entitled, “The Doctor’s Alphabet.” There’s something about that picture that makes me simply want to vomit…even on a good day.
The needlepoint is divided up into 26 boxes. Each box has a letter of the alphabet, and next to it a little squiggly line designed to show the way the doctor is supposed to scribble that letter. By the time I get to “H” I get it. And, it’s not funny. Why would anyone, even someone with no known talent, go to the trouble of needle pointing all 26 letters along with 26 scribblings?
Of course, what does it say about the doctor who would hang something that horrible on his wall. How little must he think of himself and his other patients…the one’s that don’t lie in bed at night and fantasize that their doctor has asked for her hand in marriage.
But, each time I’m confined to the little waiting room I’m reduced to examining that needlepoint. I guess that’s why the doctor calls it the “examining room.”
There are not many other options in that little room. I could weigh myself, but I’d rather go bobbing for needles in the Bio-Hazard waste receptacle than come face to face with my weight. Sometimes I will play with the little hammer. I’ll bang on my knees and watch my feet fly up, but these days my feet don’t fly very high, and that just gives me something else about which to worry. Occasionally I’ll stick a tongue depressor down my throat to see how far I can stick it before I start to gag.
Finally, the nurse comes in and tells me to strip to the waist. I hate that. I especially hate it when the nurse is attractive. I don’t think attractive people should have to look at my body. Ugly people are used to looking at ugly, so I don’t mind that. Besides, they know that if they are thinking how fat and hideous I look, that I could be thinking the same thing about them. We ugly people play a little game. It’s called “You don’t notice how gross I am and I won’t notice how gross you are. Sometimes I cheat, and notice them.
Then after the nurse does my EKG and I practice my typical humor by asking if my heart is still beating, and we both have a good laugh, she leaves me there to get dressed and wait some more for the doctor. Sometimes the doctor will walk past my door. I can hear him talking to the nurses. I think he deliberately stands right outside my door and engages in trivial conversation just to irritate me…you know, to let me know that if he wanted to he could be in the room taking care of my many illnesses. The other day I heard him ask someone to pass him another bottle of Bud. Doctors can be so cruel.
This past visit the doctor finally comes in and proceeds to tell me how poor my condition is. He didn’t look like he was joking. He even let me see the lab results. I don’t think they were joking. That only left one person to tell the jokes. Well, somebody has to do it.
My doctor doesn’t appreciate my humor.
But, fortunately his nurse does. On my way out, I tell her that my doctor asked if I knew a good mortician. The nurse is into that sort of humor. In fact, no joke, she showed me her scrapbook of obituaries of all of the doctor’s dead patients. Somehow, I don’t think that makes for particularly good P.R. for the doctor. But at least we got a good laugh. The nurse and I, anyway. I don’t think my doctor saw the humor.
I hate sitting in that sterile little cubicle, with nothing to entertain me. There is a needlepoint on the wall that obviously was done by one of the doctor’s female patients. You know the type…they fall in love with their doctor because, “he’s so kind and patient and…and (sigh) just so wonderful.” And then these obsessed women start applying whatever skill they have in order to show their doctors how crazy (and I do mean crazy) they are about him.
When a woman has no known skills, such as cooking or gardening or sewing, she can always do needlepoint. It’s designed to look like a skill.
My doctor’s needle pointed patient came up with this cutesy little picture entitled, “The Doctor’s Alphabet.” There’s something about that picture that makes me simply want to vomit…even on a good day.
The needlepoint is divided up into 26 boxes. Each box has a letter of the alphabet, and next to it a little squiggly line designed to show the way the doctor is supposed to scribble that letter. By the time I get to “H” I get it. And, it’s not funny. Why would anyone, even someone with no known talent, go to the trouble of needle pointing all 26 letters along with 26 scribblings?
Of course, what does it say about the doctor who would hang something that horrible on his wall. How little must he think of himself and his other patients…the one’s that don’t lie in bed at night and fantasize that their doctor has asked for her hand in marriage.
But, each time I’m confined to the little waiting room I’m reduced to examining that needlepoint. I guess that’s why the doctor calls it the “examining room.”
There are not many other options in that little room. I could weigh myself, but I’d rather go bobbing for needles in the Bio-Hazard waste receptacle than come face to face with my weight. Sometimes I will play with the little hammer. I’ll bang on my knees and watch my feet fly up, but these days my feet don’t fly very high, and that just gives me something else about which to worry. Occasionally I’ll stick a tongue depressor down my throat to see how far I can stick it before I start to gag.
Finally, the nurse comes in and tells me to strip to the waist. I hate that. I especially hate it when the nurse is attractive. I don’t think attractive people should have to look at my body. Ugly people are used to looking at ugly, so I don’t mind that. Besides, they know that if they are thinking how fat and hideous I look, that I could be thinking the same thing about them. We ugly people play a little game. It’s called “You don’t notice how gross I am and I won’t notice how gross you are. Sometimes I cheat, and notice them.
Then after the nurse does my EKG and I practice my typical humor by asking if my heart is still beating, and we both have a good laugh, she leaves me there to get dressed and wait some more for the doctor. Sometimes the doctor will walk past my door. I can hear him talking to the nurses. I think he deliberately stands right outside my door and engages in trivial conversation just to irritate me…you know, to let me know that if he wanted to he could be in the room taking care of my many illnesses. The other day I heard him ask someone to pass him another bottle of Bud. Doctors can be so cruel.
This past visit the doctor finally comes in and proceeds to tell me how poor my condition is. He didn’t look like he was joking. He even let me see the lab results. I don’t think they were joking. That only left one person to tell the jokes. Well, somebody has to do it.
My doctor doesn’t appreciate my humor.
But, fortunately his nurse does. On my way out, I tell her that my doctor asked if I knew a good mortician. The nurse is into that sort of humor. In fact, no joke, she showed me her scrapbook of obituaries of all of the doctor’s dead patients. Somehow, I don’t think that makes for particularly good P.R. for the doctor. But at least we got a good laugh. The nurse and I, anyway. I don’t think my doctor saw the humor.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Humane Has Nothing To Do With Humans
You know, one thing I have learned from this recent Maymont Park bear thing is that I have misjudged Richmond's Mayor Governor Wilder. This man cares deeply, not only about all of his subjects, but even their animals. If anything, Mr. Mayor, Governor Wilder cares too deeply, so deeply, in fact, that I have been inspired to produce my first ever play.
So, here to entertain, and, hopefully inspire you with the wonderment of all that is Doug Wilder, I present the Steve Cook Ensemble Players, with a short play, I like to call, Mayor Governor Wilder and the Pet Project.
Scene: Mayor Governor Wilder is asleep in bed in the Mayor Governor's Mansion. One of his chief aides enters the room, shakes Mr. Wilder and speaks:
MANOLI
Mayor Governor Wilder, wake up. Wake up sir.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
What is it Rocheste...uh, Manoli? What's wrong?
MANOLI
I hate to bother you at this early hour, sir.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER (interrupting)
What time is it?
MANOLI
It's 3:07 in the morning, sir.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Three AM! For heavens sake, this better be important.
MANOLI
I'm afraid it is, Sir. You see, we've just found a dead bird in your back yard.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
What is it? Bird flu?
MANOLI
No sir. If the bird flew it wouldn't have been attacked by the cat.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Are you sure the bird is dead? Bring it here. Maybe I can help it.
MANOLI
No sir, I think it's a little too late for that.
(sound of someone knocking on bedroom door)
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Now what is it? (shouting) Come in.
PAUL GOLDMAN (entering the room)
Sorry to disturb you Mr. Mayor Governor Wilder.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
What is it Paul?
PAUL GOLDMAN
I have just been informed that a dog was hit by a car in Windsor Farms...
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER (interrupting)
That figures.
PAUL GOLDMAN
Excuse me, sir?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Oh, nothing, just that whole area...nothing but a bunch of thugs. But, how's the dog?
PAUL GOLDMAN
I hear that it's dead, sir.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Heard that it was dead? You haven't checked it out?
PAUL GOLDMAN
No sir. Should I have?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Of course you should have. Now get down to Windsor Farms and get that dog. I want it brought back here immediately. And, oh, Paul...
PAUL GOLDMAN
Yes sir?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
You better take some police protection. It is Windsor Farms, you know.
PAUL GOLDMAN
Yes sir, right away sir. (leaves)
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
My lord, what's going on Rocheste..I, er, mean Manoli?
MANOLI
What do you mean, Mr. Mayor Governor Wilder?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
I mean it's like some sort of dead pet pandemic. We've got to put a stop to this and we have to do it now! (stops, listens to hubub offstage) Hey, what's all that hubub offstage?
MANOLI
You mean the dogs? They're the ones you had removed from the SPCA. You didn't think the folks down there cared deeply enough.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
No, I hear the dogs, but I also hear the sounds of what sounds like a youngster. What's going on?
MANOLI
Oh, it's just Governor Mayor Tim Kaine. He says it's an emergency, but, don't worry, your staff is keeping him at bay.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
How many times have I told you people, 'suffer the young children unto me'?
MANOLI
I know you've told us, but we aren't quite sure what that means.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
It means let Tim Kaine in.
MANOLI (walking to door, opens it and speaks to Tim Kaine)
You can come on in, Mr. Kaine.
TIM KAINE (enters room carrying a goldfish bowl)
Mr. Mayor Governor Wilder, ordinarily I wouldn't disturb you at this hour of the night, but...
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
What is it Timmy. You can tell me.
TIM KAINE
It's my son's goldfish, Whitey. I think...well, sir...(Kaine starts to cry)
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER (getting off bed, comes over and puts his arm around Kaine)
It'll be okay. Now tell me what's wrong?
TIM KAINE (whimpering)
I think it's...I'm afraid it's...er, uh, I think it's dead.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
My gosh, son. Why didn't you say so. Here let me take a look at it. (grabs the bowl from Kaine and pulls the goldfish out. Wilder holds the fish up to the light and examines it.)
Hold on one minute here!
MANOLI
What is it sir?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
I think there may still be some hope for Whitey. (Wilder begins to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation)
TIM KAINE
Oh, could it be? Dare I hope?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER (holding a wiggling goldfish up for all to see)
Now! Do you see why I want to be advised immediately about all of our four legged friends. There's a chance I may be able save 'em.
MANOLI
Yes, Mr. Mayor Governor Wilder. And, I guess (Manoli points at goldfish, now back in bowl) that even goes for our no-legged friends as well.
(All laugh and high-five the Mayor - as the curtain descends)
Well, that's my little play. I hope you appreciate the fact that I have dressed up like Loretta Young this morning in order to add to the overall show biz feel to this presentation. And, even more, I hope all of you have been somewhat inspired.
So, here to entertain, and, hopefully inspire you with the wonderment of all that is Doug Wilder, I present the Steve Cook Ensemble Players, with a short play, I like to call, Mayor Governor Wilder and the Pet Project.
Scene: Mayor Governor Wilder is asleep in bed in the Mayor Governor's Mansion. One of his chief aides enters the room, shakes Mr. Wilder and speaks:
MANOLI
Mayor Governor Wilder, wake up. Wake up sir.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
What is it Rocheste...uh, Manoli? What's wrong?
MANOLI
I hate to bother you at this early hour, sir.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER (interrupting)
What time is it?
MANOLI
It's 3:07 in the morning, sir.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Three AM! For heavens sake, this better be important.
MANOLI
I'm afraid it is, Sir. You see, we've just found a dead bird in your back yard.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
What is it? Bird flu?
MANOLI
No sir. If the bird flew it wouldn't have been attacked by the cat.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Are you sure the bird is dead? Bring it here. Maybe I can help it.
MANOLI
No sir, I think it's a little too late for that.
(sound of someone knocking on bedroom door)
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Now what is it? (shouting) Come in.
PAUL GOLDMAN (entering the room)
Sorry to disturb you Mr. Mayor Governor Wilder.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
What is it Paul?
PAUL GOLDMAN
I have just been informed that a dog was hit by a car in Windsor Farms...
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER (interrupting)
That figures.
PAUL GOLDMAN
Excuse me, sir?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Oh, nothing, just that whole area...nothing but a bunch of thugs. But, how's the dog?
PAUL GOLDMAN
I hear that it's dead, sir.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Heard that it was dead? You haven't checked it out?
PAUL GOLDMAN
No sir. Should I have?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
Of course you should have. Now get down to Windsor Farms and get that dog. I want it brought back here immediately. And, oh, Paul...
PAUL GOLDMAN
Yes sir?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
You better take some police protection. It is Windsor Farms, you know.
PAUL GOLDMAN
Yes sir, right away sir. (leaves)
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
My lord, what's going on Rocheste..I, er, mean Manoli?
MANOLI
What do you mean, Mr. Mayor Governor Wilder?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
I mean it's like some sort of dead pet pandemic. We've got to put a stop to this and we have to do it now! (stops, listens to hubub offstage) Hey, what's all that hubub offstage?
MANOLI
You mean the dogs? They're the ones you had removed from the SPCA. You didn't think the folks down there cared deeply enough.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
No, I hear the dogs, but I also hear the sounds of what sounds like a youngster. What's going on?
MANOLI
Oh, it's just Governor Mayor Tim Kaine. He says it's an emergency, but, don't worry, your staff is keeping him at bay.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
How many times have I told you people, 'suffer the young children unto me'?
MANOLI
I know you've told us, but we aren't quite sure what that means.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
It means let Tim Kaine in.
MANOLI (walking to door, opens it and speaks to Tim Kaine)
You can come on in, Mr. Kaine.
TIM KAINE (enters room carrying a goldfish bowl)
Mr. Mayor Governor Wilder, ordinarily I wouldn't disturb you at this hour of the night, but...
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
What is it Timmy. You can tell me.
TIM KAINE
It's my son's goldfish, Whitey. I think...well, sir...(Kaine starts to cry)
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER (getting off bed, comes over and puts his arm around Kaine)
It'll be okay. Now tell me what's wrong?
TIM KAINE (whimpering)
I think it's...I'm afraid it's...er, uh, I think it's dead.
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
My gosh, son. Why didn't you say so. Here let me take a look at it. (grabs the bowl from Kaine and pulls the goldfish out. Wilder holds the fish up to the light and examines it.)
Hold on one minute here!
MANOLI
What is it sir?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER
I think there may still be some hope for Whitey. (Wilder begins to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation)
TIM KAINE
Oh, could it be? Dare I hope?
MAYOR GOVERNOR WILDER (holding a wiggling goldfish up for all to see)
Now! Do you see why I want to be advised immediately about all of our four legged friends. There's a chance I may be able save 'em.
MANOLI
Yes, Mr. Mayor Governor Wilder. And, I guess (Manoli points at goldfish, now back in bowl) that even goes for our no-legged friends as well.
(All laugh and high-five the Mayor - as the curtain descends)
Well, that's my little play. I hope you appreciate the fact that I have dressed up like Loretta Young this morning in order to add to the overall show biz feel to this presentation. And, even more, I hope all of you have been somewhat inspired.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Now, That's Just Mean
I’ve been thinking about few stories that have been in the news recently. You know what? There are some mean folks out there. I’m not talking about violent criminals, who rape and pillage and do all those things violent criminals do. They’re evil, through and through.
But, some folks are just plain mean. Take the story coming out of Norfolk. Seems vandals went to the Ronald McDonald House and broke the arm off of the Ronald McDonald statue. Now why in the world would anyone want to do that? I can’t figure it out. Haven’t these kids and their families suffered enough? The happy face of Ronald has no doubt been a source of encouragement. Now, they look at a less than perfect Ronald and realize that silly grin is just a mask…a mask, perhaps hiding an inner pain., a pain so deep that the poor clown is unable to take off his mask and face head on. To the vandals it may have been just a little joke. But, I’m not laughing.
Some people really don’t seem to understand the meaning of the word “joke.” Take those college students in Alabama. They thought they’d play a joke, so they set a few churches on fire. Gee, I wish I could tell a joke like that. What a gift.
Of course, what happens when you burn down a few churches? Yep, you gotta go burn down some more to keep the police baffled. So, that rash of church burnings in Alabama was just the playful antics of some good ol’ college pranksters. Are they making college students smarter these days or what?
But, the story that really drives home how mean some folks can be has to do with the Henrico County man, Adrian Chelliah. The poor guy is paralyzed from the waist down. So what does some no-good go and do? They steal his wheelchair. That just doesn’t make sense.
You know if a guy goes in and robs a bank and, to protect himself, he ends up shooting a couple dozen folks, as evil as that might be, it kinda does make sense. I’m not saying I’d do it. But, I can’t really say what I do, until I walked a mile (or at least seven tenths of a mile) in the thief’s shoes, which are probably stolen too. I’m sure that if I were brandishing a gun, and got scared, then you better watch out. All bets are off.
But, why go and steal someone’s wheelchair? Now, I guess I’m being a little pre-judgmental. Maybe the guy has a good friend who needs a wheelchair. Maybe he’s sort of a Robin Hood for the disabled. But, I’m betting he’s just plain mean.
I tell you who else is mean. It’s Joe Mahoney. Joe is the newspaper writer who wrote the story. And, if it’s mean to try and make people cry, then Joe is mean. He didn’t just tell the story of a crippled guy who had his wheelchair stolen. Nope, Joe used every trick in the journalistic playbook to try and make the me cry.
Take for instance, the picture on the Times-Dispatch’s website. It shows Mr. Chelliah, sitting in an old dilapidated wheelchair, and the caption reads, “Adrian Chelliah says he hopes his backup wheelchair, which he had kept for spare parts, will last until he can replace one that was recently stolen from his home.”
Now, is that mean or not? Joe had to know readers would chip in, and buy the guy a new wheelchair, which they did (along with listeners to B103.7’s morning show with Jack and Linda). Heck, he could have bought the guy a nice new shiny wheelchair himself, but nope. He’d rather take a picture of a crippled guy in a salvage-yard wheelchair. I don’t think that was very nice.
I know this is not a thought-provoking blog today, but I really couldn’t think of anything to write about, so I thought I’d capitalize on Mr. Chelliah’s stolen wheelchair. Come to think of it, that’s pretty mean.
But, some folks are just plain mean. Take the story coming out of Norfolk. Seems vandals went to the Ronald McDonald House and broke the arm off of the Ronald McDonald statue. Now why in the world would anyone want to do that? I can’t figure it out. Haven’t these kids and their families suffered enough? The happy face of Ronald has no doubt been a source of encouragement. Now, they look at a less than perfect Ronald and realize that silly grin is just a mask…a mask, perhaps hiding an inner pain., a pain so deep that the poor clown is unable to take off his mask and face head on. To the vandals it may have been just a little joke. But, I’m not laughing.
Some people really don’t seem to understand the meaning of the word “joke.” Take those college students in Alabama. They thought they’d play a joke, so they set a few churches on fire. Gee, I wish I could tell a joke like that. What a gift.
Of course, what happens when you burn down a few churches? Yep, you gotta go burn down some more to keep the police baffled. So, that rash of church burnings in Alabama was just the playful antics of some good ol’ college pranksters. Are they making college students smarter these days or what?
But, the story that really drives home how mean some folks can be has to do with the Henrico County man, Adrian Chelliah. The poor guy is paralyzed from the waist down. So what does some no-good go and do? They steal his wheelchair. That just doesn’t make sense.
You know if a guy goes in and robs a bank and, to protect himself, he ends up shooting a couple dozen folks, as evil as that might be, it kinda does make sense. I’m not saying I’d do it. But, I can’t really say what I do, until I walked a mile (or at least seven tenths of a mile) in the thief’s shoes, which are probably stolen too. I’m sure that if I were brandishing a gun, and got scared, then you better watch out. All bets are off.
But, why go and steal someone’s wheelchair? Now, I guess I’m being a little pre-judgmental. Maybe the guy has a good friend who needs a wheelchair. Maybe he’s sort of a Robin Hood for the disabled. But, I’m betting he’s just plain mean.
I tell you who else is mean. It’s Joe Mahoney. Joe is the newspaper writer who wrote the story. And, if it’s mean to try and make people cry, then Joe is mean. He didn’t just tell the story of a crippled guy who had his wheelchair stolen. Nope, Joe used every trick in the journalistic playbook to try and make the me cry.
Take for instance, the picture on the Times-Dispatch’s website. It shows Mr. Chelliah, sitting in an old dilapidated wheelchair, and the caption reads, “Adrian Chelliah says he hopes his backup wheelchair, which he had kept for spare parts, will last until he can replace one that was recently stolen from his home.”
Now, is that mean or not? Joe had to know readers would chip in, and buy the guy a new wheelchair, which they did (along with listeners to B103.7’s morning show with Jack and Linda). Heck, he could have bought the guy a nice new shiny wheelchair himself, but nope. He’d rather take a picture of a crippled guy in a salvage-yard wheelchair. I don’t think that was very nice.
I know this is not a thought-provoking blog today, but I really couldn’t think of anything to write about, so I thought I’d capitalize on Mr. Chelliah’s stolen wheelchair. Come to think of it, that’s pretty mean.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Stupid Is As Stupid Does
I rarely fail to amaze myself. But, this time, I have somehow come up with an idea that’s so ahead of its time, so utterly fabulous, that I’ve had to step back and gaze with wonderment and awe at my brain. And, the truly marvelous thing about this is that it only took me about five minutes to conceive. It’s a project that, I’m sure, most of you in the Richmond area are going to embrace with great enthusisasm.
So, dear reader, fasten your seatbelts, and get read to take a rocket ship ride to glory. You, not unlike me, have probably been spending many sleepless nights lamenting our surprising failure to get the NASCAR Hall of Fame. We were this close.
But that’s yesterday’s news. I have an idea so fantastic that we’ll be thankful we’re not saddled with something as uninspired as that race car thing.
As I said I was feeling sad about losing out to Charlotte, which, in my opinion, is one of the most boring cities in America. I was blaming our loss on the fact that Richmond does some pretty stupid things. Then, like that proverbial bolt out of the blue, it hit me. Why get upset at our stupidity? Why not embrace it, celebrate it, if you will. I mean Lucille Ball made a fortune out of stupidity.
Other great cities promote the things for which they’re famous. Washington has its monuments. New York has Broadway. Boston, of course, has its baked beans. Why can’t Richmond be known as the Stupid City? Think about it. It’s brilliant, if I must say so myself.
So, here’s my big idea. We build a Stupid Museum to honor the asinine things for which this area has become so famous. I’m suggesting naming the museum after Richmond’s mayor, Governor Wilder. I mean if it’s a success he’s going to find some way to take over and name if after himself anyway. So, let’s save him the trouble.
I have some germs of ideas for what you’d find in the museum, but I certainly welcome your suggestions. I can see not only lifeless exhibits, but a host of interactive, hands-on stuff to do as well.
For starters, I’m suggesting the Chuck Richardson’s Public Servants Hall of Shame. (You notice the cute play on words – shame instead of fame? I thought that up myself) This could probably be a wax museum sort of thing with the crooked politicians in lifelike action-figure poses. In addition to the king of crooked politics, just think of all the others who could be depicted. Obviously the “Reverend” Gwen Hedgepath’s name comes to mind.
I also see some interactive things in this hall, such as a Stephen Johnson “Create Your Own Personal Ad” booth, and for you old timers, how about a Raymond Royal dunking booth. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go ask your parents or some other old person who has lived around here most of their life. And the Lane Ramsey Plane Ride Game could also provide hours of enjoyment for old and young alike.
I also think the museum should have an Artists’ Renderings That Never Got Built art museum. We could marvel at the Performing Arts Center and the Shockoe Bottom Ball Field. There probably should also be a section devoted to things that did get built, but never should have, such as the Sixth Street Bridge over Broad.
Or, how about a Philip Morris Dubious Do-Gooders Wing? Obviously this should be sponsored by the cigarette-manufacturer who spends millions to tell folks how bad cigarettes are for their health. They could use a large portion of the space to display used lungs, oxygen tanks, and other collateral materials left by dead smokers. As an aside, I just want to say how proud I am of the folks at Philip Morris. It's like they're doing just about everything humanly possible to stop people from smoking. I can't think of anything further they could do. Oh yeah, except manufacturing cigarettes. But, beyond that, I'm sure those fine folks are at wit's end trying to figure out how to stop this cigarette blight.
Now, I know you have your own ideas for the Mayor Governor Wilder Stupid Museum. There’s plenty of stupid in the area that I’m obviously overlooking.
But, the big question – are you with me on this? I’m going to do an artist’s rendering and take it to the next city council meeting. I think they'll be pretty impressed. I hope to see you there.
So, dear reader, fasten your seatbelts, and get read to take a rocket ship ride to glory. You, not unlike me, have probably been spending many sleepless nights lamenting our surprising failure to get the NASCAR Hall of Fame. We were this close.
But that’s yesterday’s news. I have an idea so fantastic that we’ll be thankful we’re not saddled with something as uninspired as that race car thing.
As I said I was feeling sad about losing out to Charlotte, which, in my opinion, is one of the most boring cities in America. I was blaming our loss on the fact that Richmond does some pretty stupid things. Then, like that proverbial bolt out of the blue, it hit me. Why get upset at our stupidity? Why not embrace it, celebrate it, if you will. I mean Lucille Ball made a fortune out of stupidity.
Other great cities promote the things for which they’re famous. Washington has its monuments. New York has Broadway. Boston, of course, has its baked beans. Why can’t Richmond be known as the Stupid City? Think about it. It’s brilliant, if I must say so myself.
So, here’s my big idea. We build a Stupid Museum to honor the asinine things for which this area has become so famous. I’m suggesting naming the museum after Richmond’s mayor, Governor Wilder. I mean if it’s a success he’s going to find some way to take over and name if after himself anyway. So, let’s save him the trouble.
I have some germs of ideas for what you’d find in the museum, but I certainly welcome your suggestions. I can see not only lifeless exhibits, but a host of interactive, hands-on stuff to do as well.
For starters, I’m suggesting the Chuck Richardson’s Public Servants Hall of Shame. (You notice the cute play on words – shame instead of fame? I thought that up myself) This could probably be a wax museum sort of thing with the crooked politicians in lifelike action-figure poses. In addition to the king of crooked politics, just think of all the others who could be depicted. Obviously the “Reverend” Gwen Hedgepath’s name comes to mind.
I also see some interactive things in this hall, such as a Stephen Johnson “Create Your Own Personal Ad” booth, and for you old timers, how about a Raymond Royal dunking booth. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go ask your parents or some other old person who has lived around here most of their life. And the Lane Ramsey Plane Ride Game could also provide hours of enjoyment for old and young alike.
I also think the museum should have an Artists’ Renderings That Never Got Built art museum. We could marvel at the Performing Arts Center and the Shockoe Bottom Ball Field. There probably should also be a section devoted to things that did get built, but never should have, such as the Sixth Street Bridge over Broad.
Or, how about a Philip Morris Dubious Do-Gooders Wing? Obviously this should be sponsored by the cigarette-manufacturer who spends millions to tell folks how bad cigarettes are for their health. They could use a large portion of the space to display used lungs, oxygen tanks, and other collateral materials left by dead smokers. As an aside, I just want to say how proud I am of the folks at Philip Morris. It's like they're doing just about everything humanly possible to stop people from smoking. I can't think of anything further they could do. Oh yeah, except manufacturing cigarettes. But, beyond that, I'm sure those fine folks are at wit's end trying to figure out how to stop this cigarette blight.
Now, I know you have your own ideas for the Mayor Governor Wilder Stupid Museum. There’s plenty of stupid in the area that I’m obviously overlooking.
But, the big question – are you with me on this? I’m going to do an artist’s rendering and take it to the next city council meeting. I think they'll be pretty impressed. I hope to see you there.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Owed To Steve Johnson
Well, it’s a rather sad day down at City Hall, and especially for Stephen Johnson. No, I’m not referring to Brokeback Mountain’s dismal showing at the Oscars. I am, of course, talking about the impending resignation of Mr. Johnson.
I guess, it’s really a relief to the poor guy. After all, he’s lost his passion. Personally, I hope there wasn’t a whole lot of passion going on down at the school board, if you know what I mean. It creates a mental image I’d just as soon not have to live with.
The other morning I woke up with an old tune playing in my head. Now, this may seem totally unrelated, but hang with me a minute and you’ll see that it’s not. I was humming an old Glen Campbell tune. I couldn’t think of the name, but as I began to hum, some of the lyrics started to work their way from the inner recesses of my mind.
So, I got on the Internet, did a little googling, and voila! I came up with the song. Here’s the eerie part. The name of the song is “The Straight Life.” And, this all happened at about the same time (give or take a few days) that Mr. Stephen Johnson was trying to get through security at the airport with the marijuana. Weird, huh?
Well, you don’t have to hit me over the head with a brick to get my attention. I realize that some sort of thing must have been going on in my head for that very song to have come to mind. Now, you may be thinking that I’ve lost my mind. If you remember the song “The Straight Life,” you may be asking yourself what in the world am I talking about.
Well, here’s the even eerier part. I have come to realize that new lyrics to that old song were also running through my head. Strange? Yes, strange! So, I’ve copied those lyrics down and am actually submitting them for your perusal below. I’m thinking that maybe we all go down to City Hall tonight and sing the song to Mr. Johnson and to the school board. It'd kind of be my own humble way of saying, "Thanks for all you've done." It’s just a thought, but are you with me or not?
If you don’t remember the song, just give me a call (804 796-9767) and I’ll hum it to you. I’ll even sing you the song if you like. It’s the least I can do.
Anyway, here’s my new version of The Straight Life, dedicated, of course, to Stephen Johnson, soon-to-be former Richmond school board member.
Sometimes I imagine myself on the school board
Impressing the others with my brilliant mind
Looking so good in my suit and my tie
Looking just like your average guy
Living the straight life, so fine.
Sometimes my thoughts find me down at the city hall
It sure beats doing some real prison time
Making decisions for all of those kids
Saying do as I say and not as I did
Living the straight life so fine.
Suddenly all my silly thoughts go up in smoke
I’m down at the airport a-hiding my tokes
The cops are patting me down from my head to my toe
Now, that won’t the worst part, don’t you know
The school board I did love, what must have I been thinking of
Leaving the straight life behind
I must have been out of my mind
I guess, it’s really a relief to the poor guy. After all, he’s lost his passion. Personally, I hope there wasn’t a whole lot of passion going on down at the school board, if you know what I mean. It creates a mental image I’d just as soon not have to live with.
The other morning I woke up with an old tune playing in my head. Now, this may seem totally unrelated, but hang with me a minute and you’ll see that it’s not. I was humming an old Glen Campbell tune. I couldn’t think of the name, but as I began to hum, some of the lyrics started to work their way from the inner recesses of my mind.
So, I got on the Internet, did a little googling, and voila! I came up with the song. Here’s the eerie part. The name of the song is “The Straight Life.” And, this all happened at about the same time (give or take a few days) that Mr. Stephen Johnson was trying to get through security at the airport with the marijuana. Weird, huh?
Well, you don’t have to hit me over the head with a brick to get my attention. I realize that some sort of thing must have been going on in my head for that very song to have come to mind. Now, you may be thinking that I’ve lost my mind. If you remember the song “The Straight Life,” you may be asking yourself what in the world am I talking about.
Well, here’s the even eerier part. I have come to realize that new lyrics to that old song were also running through my head. Strange? Yes, strange! So, I’ve copied those lyrics down and am actually submitting them for your perusal below. I’m thinking that maybe we all go down to City Hall tonight and sing the song to Mr. Johnson and to the school board. It'd kind of be my own humble way of saying, "Thanks for all you've done." It’s just a thought, but are you with me or not?
If you don’t remember the song, just give me a call (804 796-9767) and I’ll hum it to you. I’ll even sing you the song if you like. It’s the least I can do.
Anyway, here’s my new version of The Straight Life, dedicated, of course, to Stephen Johnson, soon-to-be former Richmond school board member.
Sometimes I imagine myself on the school board
Impressing the others with my brilliant mind
Looking so good in my suit and my tie
Looking just like your average guy
Living the straight life, so fine.
Sometimes my thoughts find me down at the city hall
It sure beats doing some real prison time
Making decisions for all of those kids
Saying do as I say and not as I did
Living the straight life so fine.
Suddenly all my silly thoughts go up in smoke
I’m down at the airport a-hiding my tokes
The cops are patting me down from my head to my toe
Now, that won’t the worst part, don’t you know
The school board I did love, what must have I been thinking of
Leaving the straight life behind
I must have been out of my mind
Friday, March 03, 2006
Oscarred for Life
Are you as psyched as I am? I can’t imagine you wouldn’t be. Oooooh, I’m positively giddy. We’re only two days away from the Oscars. The only thing that could increase my excitement and anticipation is if I had actually seen one of the movies that’s up for an award.
In the past year, I’ve seen two motion pictures. I saw The Terminal and Flight Plan. I think, based on my personal experience, I’d give Tom Hanks the best Actor Oscar and, as for best Actress, I say the award goes to (are you ready?) Jodie Foster.
Best Picture of the year? That was a tough one. I can’t wait to find out who I picked. May I have the envelope, please?
And, the winner is…well, would you lookee. It’s a tie between The Terminal and Flight Plan. Congratulations to all of you winners.
I bet the real Oscars won’t have that sort of intrigue. In fact, I can’t really imagine anyone, anywhere, outside of Hollywood, being the least bit interested.
Think about it. Take Broke Back Mountain. Now, I’m not going to go for some cheap gay joke, but really, think about it.
How many people are into cowboy movies these days? And, if you reflect on the type of people who are into cowboy movies, how many of them are really going to dig that gay angle? Of course, John Wayne’s real name was Marion, so I could be barking up the wrong tree totally, here.
But, the way I see it, it’d be like making a movie about a football team where all the players are also ballerinos (or whatever you call guy ballerinas), and the movie kinda mixes touchdowns with tutus, and playoffs with plies.
Or how about that blockbuster motion picture, Munich? Wow! After 600 hours of non-stop Olympic action from Italy, I need to get away and see a movie about an Olympic massacre. If I want to see an Olympic-related tragedy, I’ll take the Bode Miller story.
Then there’s Crash. I read a synopsis of this movie, and I really don’t know how I let this one slip past me. It’s about, according to what I read, a Persian storekeeper and a Mexican locksmith. I don’t know if my poor heart could handle that sort of tension. Oh, there’s also a Korean couple in the movie too. So, really it has just about everything a good ol’ Southern white boy, like myself relishes in a movie.
Of course, personally, I can’t imagine there’d be any more exciting movie than Good Night and Good Luck. I mean, just think, a story about Edward R. Murrow…Why just the car chase scenes alone would be worth the price of admission.
This year’s contenders are going to make for some high drama. And, it all comes together in one action-packed evening of glamour, suspense, humor, and a boat load of surprises. It’s definitely must-see TV, and I'm so excited, I just don’t know how I’m going to get a moment’s sleep between now and Sunday night. But, not to worry. Once the broadcast comes on, I’m sure I’ll be sleeping like a baby.
In the past year, I’ve seen two motion pictures. I saw The Terminal and Flight Plan. I think, based on my personal experience, I’d give Tom Hanks the best Actor Oscar and, as for best Actress, I say the award goes to (are you ready?) Jodie Foster.
Best Picture of the year? That was a tough one. I can’t wait to find out who I picked. May I have the envelope, please?
And, the winner is…well, would you lookee. It’s a tie between The Terminal and Flight Plan. Congratulations to all of you winners.
I bet the real Oscars won’t have that sort of intrigue. In fact, I can’t really imagine anyone, anywhere, outside of Hollywood, being the least bit interested.
Think about it. Take Broke Back Mountain. Now, I’m not going to go for some cheap gay joke, but really, think about it.
How many people are into cowboy movies these days? And, if you reflect on the type of people who are into cowboy movies, how many of them are really going to dig that gay angle? Of course, John Wayne’s real name was Marion, so I could be barking up the wrong tree totally, here.
But, the way I see it, it’d be like making a movie about a football team where all the players are also ballerinos (or whatever you call guy ballerinas), and the movie kinda mixes touchdowns with tutus, and playoffs with plies.
Or how about that blockbuster motion picture, Munich? Wow! After 600 hours of non-stop Olympic action from Italy, I need to get away and see a movie about an Olympic massacre. If I want to see an Olympic-related tragedy, I’ll take the Bode Miller story.
Then there’s Crash. I read a synopsis of this movie, and I really don’t know how I let this one slip past me. It’s about, according to what I read, a Persian storekeeper and a Mexican locksmith. I don’t know if my poor heart could handle that sort of tension. Oh, there’s also a Korean couple in the movie too. So, really it has just about everything a good ol’ Southern white boy, like myself relishes in a movie.
Of course, personally, I can’t imagine there’d be any more exciting movie than Good Night and Good Luck. I mean, just think, a story about Edward R. Murrow…Why just the car chase scenes alone would be worth the price of admission.
This year’s contenders are going to make for some high drama. And, it all comes together in one action-packed evening of glamour, suspense, humor, and a boat load of surprises. It’s definitely must-see TV, and I'm so excited, I just don’t know how I’m going to get a moment’s sleep between now and Sunday night. But, not to worry. Once the broadcast comes on, I’m sure I’ll be sleeping like a baby.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
What's A Nice Guy Like You Doing With A Joint Like This
Whew! I guess Lane Ramsey and the Chesterfield Chamber gang that couldn't shoot straight are breathing a sigh of relief today. Thanks to Steve Johnson, famed semi-porno prince of Richmond's school board, the guys in Chesterfield are looking pretty good.
What's an $18,000 chartered plane trip, followed by what some are calling nothing less than attempted bribery, compared to the ongoing shenanigans of Johnson. You remember, back in late 2005, he's the guy who stepped down as president of the city school board when it was discovered he had posted a semi-nude snapshot of himself on a gay porn internet dating site. And now, while embarking on a school board-related business trip, Johnson is discovered by airport police to be carrying three joints of marijuana.
But,hold on. Don't start jumping to conclusions. As school board member Carol Wolf is so quick to remind us, we shouldn't be judgmental. Johnson, she says, is one heckuva great guy. In fact, Wolf says it so sternly, that I'm feeling somewhat guilty for having been judgmental of poor, misunderstood Mr. Johnson.
Now, I will admit that Johnson has stated that he uses the marijuana for medicinal purposes. If memory serves, I think that's the same reason one of my uncles kept a little flask in his back pocket at all times.
But,what's Johnson's medical problem? Addiction to marijuana? I guess that would be many junkies' treatment of choice.
Anyway, Johnson has now resigned from the board, but heaven forbid you get the idea he's doing so because he's so filled with remorse over his ongoing wrongdoing. Nope, the only reason the guy's resigning is because he has to treat this "medical problem."
Oh yeah, there's one more reason Steve Johnson says he's resigning. In fact, he says he's been thinking about resigning for quite some time. His decision has nothing to do with the fact he's caught trying to sneak pot onto a plane. Nope, it's not about that at all.
He says he's lost his passion ever since the porn site incident forced him to give up his spot as president of the board. Poor thing. He's lost his passion. Seems to me that lack of passion has never been a problem. Maybe misplaced passion, now that might be a problem. From what I hear, he was pretty passionate when telling other visitors to that gay dating site just what he was looking for.
Of course, I'm not going to be judgmental. I don't want Carol Wolf to be able to accuse me of such a horror. And, obviously, if I become judgmental of someone who continues to do one stupid thing after another, there's really only one reason I would do so. Yep, you caught me. I must be homophobic.
Gee, how that term grates on my nerves. I'll tell you who's homophobic. It'd be anyone who is so afraid to somehow give the appearance that she condemns homosexuality that she'll wink at just about any horrendous, or just plain stupid, thing that the homosexual might do.
Hey, Ms. Wolf, if you condemn me for being judgmental, you must be heterophobic. You better watch out, you wouldn't want that moniker hung on you, would you?
Here's the deal. If you do something stupid, regardless of who or what you're sexually attracted to, we ought to be able to call you stupid. And, Steve Johnson is stupid.
He was carrying (hiding) illegal drugs. And, even after he's caught, he tries to minimize his stupidity as well as his arrogance by attempting to claim it was for medicinal purposes. Let the students in those schools he's supposed to be working for try and pull a stunt like that. Let's see how far the "medicinal purposes" excuse gets them.
Next thing we'll hear is that that female school teacher in Roanoke who was arrested for molesting teenage boys was doing that for medicinal purposes. And, we had better not be judging the poor lady, or else we might be accused of being pedophobic.
What's an $18,000 chartered plane trip, followed by what some are calling nothing less than attempted bribery, compared to the ongoing shenanigans of Johnson. You remember, back in late 2005, he's the guy who stepped down as president of the city school board when it was discovered he had posted a semi-nude snapshot of himself on a gay porn internet dating site. And now, while embarking on a school board-related business trip, Johnson is discovered by airport police to be carrying three joints of marijuana.
But,hold on. Don't start jumping to conclusions. As school board member Carol Wolf is so quick to remind us, we shouldn't be judgmental. Johnson, she says, is one heckuva great guy. In fact, Wolf says it so sternly, that I'm feeling somewhat guilty for having been judgmental of poor, misunderstood Mr. Johnson.
Now, I will admit that Johnson has stated that he uses the marijuana for medicinal purposes. If memory serves, I think that's the same reason one of my uncles kept a little flask in his back pocket at all times.
But,what's Johnson's medical problem? Addiction to marijuana? I guess that would be many junkies' treatment of choice.
Anyway, Johnson has now resigned from the board, but heaven forbid you get the idea he's doing so because he's so filled with remorse over his ongoing wrongdoing. Nope, the only reason the guy's resigning is because he has to treat this "medical problem."
Oh yeah, there's one more reason Steve Johnson says he's resigning. In fact, he says he's been thinking about resigning for quite some time. His decision has nothing to do with the fact he's caught trying to sneak pot onto a plane. Nope, it's not about that at all.
He says he's lost his passion ever since the porn site incident forced him to give up his spot as president of the board. Poor thing. He's lost his passion. Seems to me that lack of passion has never been a problem. Maybe misplaced passion, now that might be a problem. From what I hear, he was pretty passionate when telling other visitors to that gay dating site just what he was looking for.
Of course, I'm not going to be judgmental. I don't want Carol Wolf to be able to accuse me of such a horror. And, obviously, if I become judgmental of someone who continues to do one stupid thing after another, there's really only one reason I would do so. Yep, you caught me. I must be homophobic.
Gee, how that term grates on my nerves. I'll tell you who's homophobic. It'd be anyone who is so afraid to somehow give the appearance that she condemns homosexuality that she'll wink at just about any horrendous, or just plain stupid, thing that the homosexual might do.
Hey, Ms. Wolf, if you condemn me for being judgmental, you must be heterophobic. You better watch out, you wouldn't want that moniker hung on you, would you?
Here's the deal. If you do something stupid, regardless of who or what you're sexually attracted to, we ought to be able to call you stupid. And, Steve Johnson is stupid.
He was carrying (hiding) illegal drugs. And, even after he's caught, he tries to minimize his stupidity as well as his arrogance by attempting to claim it was for medicinal purposes. Let the students in those schools he's supposed to be working for try and pull a stunt like that. Let's see how far the "medicinal purposes" excuse gets them.
Next thing we'll hear is that that female school teacher in Roanoke who was arrested for molesting teenage boys was doing that for medicinal purposes. And, we had better not be judging the poor lady, or else we might be accused of being pedophobic.
A Deeper, More Introspective Steve
Since I’m not in an overly humorous mood today, I’ll just tell you a joke and then get on with what I want to write about. Now, don’t let my mood ruin your day. I’m not unhappy, it’s just that I’ve discovered one of the secrets of life, about which I have pondered since I turned forty.
I’ll get to that in a minute, but first the joke, which kinda highlights what I’ve been thinking about.
This ritzy woman pulls up to the front door of an exclusive hotel in Beverly Hills in her fancy schmancy automobile and starts directing the bellboys to unpack her luggage. Her fat little ten-year-old son is buckled up in the passenger seat next to her. She orders one of the bellboys to pick up her son and carry him to her suite.
“What’s the matter,” the bellhop asks, “can’t he walk?”
“Of course he can,” the mother snaps back, “But, thank God, he’ll never have to.”
Okay, enough hilarity. That joke encapsulates my recent epiphany. I’ve been wondering, for more than a decade now, why our parents and grandparents (by “our” I’m speaking basically about us Boomers), never warned us about what it would be like to get old. As miserable as it is to acquire a new pain every day, and a new pill at least once a year, it seems that somebody should have told us that this getting old thing was not going to be a lot of fun.
Truth is, I don’t think I ever thought I would get old. I thought old age was for old people. I thought my parents and grandparents were somehow just born to be old, but not me or my generation.
In retrospect, I feel kind of stupid, but I have somewhat been blaming it on my forbears (this has nothing to do with the Maymont Park thing). I kept wondering why they didn’t warn me.
Well, now I’ve figured out the answer. I think those earlier generations had a much greater sense of their own mortality from their childhood on, than do those of my generation and offspring.
Think about it, our parents and grandparents had experienced the Spanish Flu pandemic. They had lived through the Great Depression and World War II. They were survivors in the true sense of the word. And, they had plenty of friends and relatives who did not survive.
Then, World War II ends and things suddenly look rosy, by comparison anyway. The men come home from the war, marry the women, and start having us. And one thing they wanted to make sure of is that we’d never (“thank God”) have to experience the things they’d gone through. And they did (make sure) and we didn’t (suffer like them).
Those in my age group were never terrified at the mention of two little letters – TB. My generation rarely heard the word “polio” without the word “vaccine” right behind it. The only thing we had to fear was the fear of the needle, which immunized us from all those dread diseases with which our parents and their parents and their peers had contended.
Yep, we were immunized from what life had really been like. Some of our immunizations came in the form of a serum, or a pill. Others came from the hard work of our parents, determined to give us a better life than they had endured.
Somehow, along the way, these medical miracle workers of the fifties and sixties, didn’t live long enough to come up with a vaccine against old age. And so, we got old. Suddenly, unexpectedly, we looked in the mirror and we were old.
We had spent our early years relishing our presumed immortality. We figured it would just keep getting better and better. And, now, when it seems we should be fully enjoying our lives, we discover we’re fat (and likely to die that way), we’re diabetic, we’re arthritic, we have heart disease, and the list could go on and on. I’ll spare you any additional gory details.
I remember vacationing with my grandfather and step-grandmother when I was a kid. When they opened their suitcase, the prescription drugs took up more room than did their clothes. How pathetic, I remember thinking at the time. But, I concluded that’s what old people had to put up with. Thankfully, I wasn’t going to get old.
I may not have been quite that shortsighted about it, but if you’re a fellow-Boomer, I’m guessing you get the picture. Well, the joke was on me. Ha Ha. I’m laughing all the way to the emergency room.
I hope this hasn’t been too depressing. Actually, I’m happy I’ve figured out why I was never told what to expect. The only problem is, I’ve learned enough now, to be able to look at my 81 year-old mother and know that I’m looking at the coming attractions. And, to be perfectly honest, I’m not giddy with anticipation.
I’ll get to that in a minute, but first the joke, which kinda highlights what I’ve been thinking about.
This ritzy woman pulls up to the front door of an exclusive hotel in Beverly Hills in her fancy schmancy automobile and starts directing the bellboys to unpack her luggage. Her fat little ten-year-old son is buckled up in the passenger seat next to her. She orders one of the bellboys to pick up her son and carry him to her suite.
“What’s the matter,” the bellhop asks, “can’t he walk?”
“Of course he can,” the mother snaps back, “But, thank God, he’ll never have to.”
Okay, enough hilarity. That joke encapsulates my recent epiphany. I’ve been wondering, for more than a decade now, why our parents and grandparents (by “our” I’m speaking basically about us Boomers), never warned us about what it would be like to get old. As miserable as it is to acquire a new pain every day, and a new pill at least once a year, it seems that somebody should have told us that this getting old thing was not going to be a lot of fun.
Truth is, I don’t think I ever thought I would get old. I thought old age was for old people. I thought my parents and grandparents were somehow just born to be old, but not me or my generation.
In retrospect, I feel kind of stupid, but I have somewhat been blaming it on my forbears (this has nothing to do with the Maymont Park thing). I kept wondering why they didn’t warn me.
Well, now I’ve figured out the answer. I think those earlier generations had a much greater sense of their own mortality from their childhood on, than do those of my generation and offspring.
Think about it, our parents and grandparents had experienced the Spanish Flu pandemic. They had lived through the Great Depression and World War II. They were survivors in the true sense of the word. And, they had plenty of friends and relatives who did not survive.
Then, World War II ends and things suddenly look rosy, by comparison anyway. The men come home from the war, marry the women, and start having us. And one thing they wanted to make sure of is that we’d never (“thank God”) have to experience the things they’d gone through. And they did (make sure) and we didn’t (suffer like them).
Those in my age group were never terrified at the mention of two little letters – TB. My generation rarely heard the word “polio” without the word “vaccine” right behind it. The only thing we had to fear was the fear of the needle, which immunized us from all those dread diseases with which our parents and their parents and their peers had contended.
Yep, we were immunized from what life had really been like. Some of our immunizations came in the form of a serum, or a pill. Others came from the hard work of our parents, determined to give us a better life than they had endured.
Somehow, along the way, these medical miracle workers of the fifties and sixties, didn’t live long enough to come up with a vaccine against old age. And so, we got old. Suddenly, unexpectedly, we looked in the mirror and we were old.
We had spent our early years relishing our presumed immortality. We figured it would just keep getting better and better. And, now, when it seems we should be fully enjoying our lives, we discover we’re fat (and likely to die that way), we’re diabetic, we’re arthritic, we have heart disease, and the list could go on and on. I’ll spare you any additional gory details.
I remember vacationing with my grandfather and step-grandmother when I was a kid. When they opened their suitcase, the prescription drugs took up more room than did their clothes. How pathetic, I remember thinking at the time. But, I concluded that’s what old people had to put up with. Thankfully, I wasn’t going to get old.
I may not have been quite that shortsighted about it, but if you’re a fellow-Boomer, I’m guessing you get the picture. Well, the joke was on me. Ha Ha. I’m laughing all the way to the emergency room.
I hope this hasn’t been too depressing. Actually, I’m happy I’ve figured out why I was never told what to expect. The only problem is, I’ve learned enough now, to be able to look at my 81 year-old mother and know that I’m looking at the coming attractions. And, to be perfectly honest, I’m not giddy with anticipation.
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