Red, White, and Blew Right By You

I spend a lot of time on the road...well, actually, in my car on the road. And as I ride, I observe. Just call me observant, if you will, but I do.
Here's something I've noticed. I've actually noticed this for nearly five years, but I've wanted to give this observation plenty of time before I said anything about it.
But, I think it's time I can make my findings public.
Here goes. I hope this doesn't offend anyone, especially you flag-wavers. But, it seems to me that virtually every person that has a flag decal on their automobile is a horrific driver.
My observation has been proven to be true time and again. Invariably, if I'm riding down the interstate and the traffic backs up in the passing lane because some moron is out there doing about 45 mph, when I get behind said moron, he or she almost always has a flag stuck on the back of his or her vehicle.
Back, right after 9-11, when so many had flags on their cars, it was hard to prove my point, although even then I tended to notice it. But, today, when those flags are few and far between it becomes more obvious. If you haven't noticed it, pay attention and let me know what you find.
I've been trying to figure out a correlation. Could it be that mainly older folks put flag decals on their cars? Of course, that would imply that older folks are, as a class, bad drivers. I don't believe that is true, although I will have to admit that often those flags are on the cars that are being driven by what I lovingly refer to as blue-haired brake riders.
You know the type. They love that passing lane. They just don't love to pass. They get out there and tap the brakes every fifteen seconds or so, regardless of the traffic conditions in front of them. I guess they just want to make sure the brakes are still there, or ensure that they haven't forgotten how to use them.
Often they'll have a passenger with them, even older than they, and these two precious souls are just having a delightful chat as they crawl down the highway, totally oblivious to the traffic piling up behind them. When you get behind such a driver, check and see if he or she has a flag decal on their car. You'll probably also see some sort of decal indicative of the lodge to which they belong.
But, don't get me wrong, it's not necessarily older drivers who have the flag decals. Although it's often older cars. Come to think of it, I see few flags stuck to new Lexuses (Lexi?).
Now, far be it from me to ridicule those who drive older cars. I proudly drive a '94 Saturn. No, my hair isn't blue yet, but there's a fantastic rinse in the Walgreen's that I've had my eye on. It would give me just a hint of tint. That can't be so bad, can it? Or should I go with a pink? Decisions, decisions.
Maybe those who drive those clunkers use the decals to hold their cars together. Heaven knows, I could use a decal or two. Maybe it would stop the rattling. So far, the only thing I've found that successfully gets rid of the horrible sound my car makes is to turn the radio up louder.
I may be on to something regarding just who is driving cars with flags, and why they're driving so poorly, but I have a suspicion that there's more to it than meets the eye. Maybe you have some ideas. If so, please share them. Or, if you have a flag on your car, just write and tell me why you are such a miserable driver. I honestly would love to know.

TV Broad Casting

Well, I'm no Michael Ausiellio. I'm straight. But, I do have some exciting TV news. Okay, it's not really all that exciting, and it's not actually news. But I do have some things to say about television.
First of all...I caught a portion of Last Comic Standing. Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't the word "comic" used to have the connotation of someone who was funny? These people last night were pathetic. And, it's not just the wannabe stand-up comedian in me rearing his ugly head. Even if I weren't the envious, jealous type, I still wouldn't have found anything funny about the two "comedians" I saw on the show.
One was a woman. First of all, women should not attempt comedy. I know that will iritate many of you, but there are very, very few women who can pull it off. But, like so many comics, this gal last night obviously thinks that mentioning parts of the human anatomy is good for a laugh. Hey lady (and I use that term loosely), you're not funny. Ha Ha. You said the word (CENSORED). That's a riot. I ain't never heard no lady say that word before. Guffaw.
The guy I heard, who was thankfully voted off, started off clean...humorless, but clean. Then, right at the end he got bleeped. I could figure out what he had bleeped, but it still wasn't funny. Since these idiots are doing a network TV show, don't they have enough self-control or confidence in their ability to create humor, than to use expletives?
On to other news, I am now into day 20,271 of having not watched The View. Just when you think it's safe to go back - ie Meredith Vieira's departure - they go and hire Rosie O'Donnell. If anyone could make me long to see Meredith Vieira, it would be Rosie O'Donnell. It's not because of her orientation, if you know what I'm trying to say. I really enjoy Ellen DeGeneris. It's the fact that she's...well, she's Rosie O'Donnell, who happens to be one of the most obnoxious, disgusting humans ever to appear on television.
I mean think about it. If Rosie O'Donnell can drive someone like Star Jones off the show, how hideous must she be. And, no, her ability to exterminate Star from the show does not bring her up enough in my opinion that I'd ever want to see her bloated mug.
I did see The View once. I wasn't able to watch TV at all for a month afterwards. Does anyone really think watching a bunch of egotisitical women sitting around talking about themselves makes for interesting television? I don't.
Now, in case I seem hardened, I want to say that I did watch the Everwood series finale and cried like a baby. I'm glad no one was around when I was watching. I didn't just have a tear or two slip out of my eye, I wept openly, longly, and loudly. I don't want to seem hardened, but I also don't want to come across like some emotional old man, but I hadn't cried that much since I watched Mr. Holland's Opus. It's really not fair for those television writers to manipulate us that way.
Everwood was a kind, gentle show with what I felt were pretty real emotions. Not that I know much about real emotions. I'd have to say, in sitting here and thinking about it, that the only thing I've seen recently that was sadder than Everwood's final episode, was last night's Last Comic Standing. Now, that really was sad.

Takes a Licking and Keeps on Licking

My wife and I are having a slight difference of opinion. I think I'm a pretty good husband. She can't stand the sight of me. No, just kidding. What we don't quite see eye to eye on has to do with our dogs...Sheddy and Poopy. I've changed the dogs name so that my wife won't know who I'm writing about.
I see dogs differently than does she. And I know that there are many of you pet lovers out there who will be totally in her corner. While you're there, how about helping to clean up the mess the dogs have made.
They're not bad dogs...I mean, they don't drink or smoke or curse. But, they're dogs. They have hair that falls off their bodies in great quantity. They love to lick, even though I've done or said nothing that could possibly give them the idea I was inviting their licks. And they love to jump in the bed...on me.
My wife finds this behavior perfectly acceptable. Although I'm willing to bet that she wouldn't look as favorably on me if my hair was all over the house, or if I went around licking her and anyone else that walks in the house. She does let me on the bed, but only after I've showered, and then she has to put a towel on the pillow so my wet head doesn't leave stains.
The two precious pups, however, can go right from drinking out of their porcelain water bowl in the bathroom to the bed, no questions asked. Where, I ask you, is the justice in that.
Now, keep in mind, I'm not criticizing my wife. I understand that there are many dog lovers and she's one of them. It's just that I'm not. And, no matter how much she might wish I were, it's just not in my makeup. Sometimes she'll ask me to say something nice to the dogs. I swear, I would, but I just don't know what dogs like to hear. If I tell them how pretty they are and how much I love them, I think they'll detect the insincerity in my voice. Dogs hate hypocrites, I'm told.
I try to like the dogs. Sometimes I'll even pat one of them on the head. But, how do they repay me? They lick me. Look, I'm just patting you on the head, that's all. That wet feel on my hand or, heaven forbid, face, is downright gross.
Dogs don't understand that. They take the least little display of affection as an invitation to bond...to form some sort of a relationship. I could walk in the room, kick the dog (which I never would), and then say, "Hey Poopy," and Poopy would come running as if we were long lost friends.
I guess there's something to be said for that sort of forgiving, accepting attitude. Maybe it would be nice if humans were so willing to offer their affection so unconditionally. Who knows, maybe the dogs will help me to be a kinder, gentler sort of guy. Maybe I'll be able to make a few friends, rather than keeping everyone at arm's length. I feel like going right out and making some friends right now. Who knows, maybe you and I could really bond. I'm ready for that. Just one request, even if you do find me somewhat likeable, please just don't lick me.

To Dream The Improbable Dream

First, I want to apologize for not getting back to you yesterday. I know you were glued to your computer, waiting, breathlessly, to hear more of my fascinating tales of unfulfilled goals and ambitions. I meant to write, but I was tied up most all day yesterday getting a petition drive going to try and change the name of the Maymont bear.
You know, if someone had held a contest to come up with the most asanine, the most ridiculous name you would give a bear who lived in a park in Richmond, Virginia, I would have thought Phoenix to be a pretty good choice. The name has nothing to do with bears, with Richmond, with Virginia (there is a small town named Phenix, but that's about as close as you could get). It's not an especially pretty name. It doesn't say "wild and growly" to me. I am dumbfounded.
But we'll leave that to another day. If you do want to sign my petition, please let me know. And, if you're like me and adore the name, Bobby the Baby Biting Bear, give me a shout out.
I was talking previously about jobs I always wanted, no, make that careers, but for one reason or another, never achieved. I mentioned the circus. I think I would have loved that, even if I was just shoveling elephant droppings. I really would have liked to have been a hobo, but hopping freights, as enjoyable as it must be, would probably not have been my forte. I'd have probably lost a leg on my first hop, and there's nothing more pathetic than a one-legged hobo.
But my all-time most favorite career would be a book-mobile driver. I remember my first book-mobile. (Who doesn't?) I remember as a first grader at Boones Mill Elementary School, in Franklin County, a book-mobile came to the school. I remember thinking to myself, "Why, this is almost like a library on wheels."
I remember climbing on board, and seeing all those beautiful books. I knew from that day on that when I grew up I'd be a book-mobile driver. Sometimes you just know things. And, sometimes you're absolutely wrong. This was one of those times, because for whatever reason, I never became a book-mobile driver. Maybe it's because I have poor depth perception. Those big side-mounted mirrors stick out way too far on the big rigs. I think I could have been a book-mobile host. You know, riding along and then when the book-mobile got to wherever it was going, I could open the door and welcome people aboard and even make some recommendations. As strange as it may seem, whenever I would apply for such a job, the book-mobile people would just stare at me and shake their heads. Maybe I was just a little too ahead of my time.
When I was about twenty, I dabbled with the idea of starting my own book-mobile company. I thought maybe I could buy a cargo van, and install shelves, and go buy some discount books at the book store and drive around town. Some of my friends discouraged me saying that no one would want to crawl around in a van looking for books. I felt that if I kept the really good books on the bottom shelf, perhaps my customers wouldn't notice.
That was another sticking point...customers. It seems that most people who use the services of a book-mobile are very tight with their money. They expect book-mobiles to just lend out their books at no charge! How in the world can a guy make a living doing that? Why just the cost of gasoline would put me out of business within about three days.
So that was that. My dream burst like one of those big bubbles that the truly professional bubble blowers whom you see on TV can blow. Hey, now, that's a career I hadn't thought of. Excuse me. I'm going to go do a little research.
.

The Gift of Gabby Hayes

I'm going through a three-quarter-life crisis. It's too late to be a mid-life one. I have been analyzing my life and virtually everything I ever wanted to be or do I haven't been or done. I know all kids, or at least most kids, set rather lofty goals as to what they want to be when they grow up. I didn't want to be a doctor. My father was a doctor and he was always rushing out of the house at all hours saving lives. Too inconvenient for me. Just a quick aside, I do wonder at what point in life does a person decide, "Hey, I want to be a proctologist." Not that we don't need proctologists. I just wonder if there's a turning point, where certain people know that's their calling in life. It would have been my luck to spend years in medical school and then get such a calling.
I also didn't want to be a movie star. What I wanted to be was a sidekick. I loved sidekicks. Andy Devine was one of my favorites. He was Jingles on Wild Bill Hickock. Remember? His voice sounded like he had swallowed a curtain rod, which is what my mother told me he had done. I don't know if that was true or not. My mother tended to make things up when she didn't have the facts, or just to scare me. For instance, it wasn't until I was in my twenties that it finally dawned on me that playing with a rubber band couldn't hardly put your eye out. She always swore she knew a kid that that had happened to.
But the very best sidekick ever was Gabby Hayes. I think I could have made a pretty good Gabby Hayes. I could, and still can, say "Dag nab it," so perfectly, that you'd swear Hayes had risen from his grave and was speaking.
That's the only impersonation I could ever really master. I thought about getting up a lounge act doing impersonations. That was another goal of mine, but with the inability to really do anything other than "dag nab i," I felt my range was just a little too limited. I know that personally, I wouldn't want to spend twenty bucks to hear someone come on stage and say, "Dag nab it," and then exit. So, I felt that it wouldn't be fair for me to do that.
I have worked on a few other impersonations, but just don't have them down all that well. I can do a great Lauren Bacall doing an impersonation of Mr. Ed. "Wilburrrrr!" Somehow impersonations just don't translate that well in print, but try doing Lauren Bacall doing Mr. Ed at home. It may not be as good as mine, but at least you'll get the idea.
I can also do John Wayne, but only for the one word..."Pilgrim." Again, it's hard to pull off a really dazzling performance with just a few words.
But, back to the sidekick idea. I would have pursued that, but I could tell, as early as twenty five years ago that sidekicks were a dying breed. The last really true sidekick was Ed McMahon. By the way, I can say, "Ohhhhhhahhhh," like him, at least it sounds somewhat like him.
There just aren't any good sidekicks anymore. I don't really consider Robin a sidekick to Batman. He's more like an apprentice. Gabby Hayes is dead and gone, and there's no one who can replace him. True, I can say "Dag nab it," but I could never duplicate his beard. I'm just too hairless. If I shave on Monday, I get Thursday shadow. And, a really good western movie sidekick has to have a beard.
There are other goals I had, that for one reason or another I had to abandon along this meandering highway I like to call "life." Maybe I'll tell you more about that tomorrow. Or, possibly, in keeping with my true character, I may decide not to bother with it. Or, I may have packed up and run off with the circus. Oops, I guess I kind of gave away one of my lifelong ambitions. But, if I'm still around, we'll talk tomorrow. Maybe.

Take a Number and Rot

First, before I begin my tale of unparalleled stupidity by a government agency, I just want to say how proud I am of Mayor Governor Wilder and the entire bunch who came up with the name for Maymont's new bear. People are always accusing Richmonders of being too localized in their thinking...of thinking that if it's not from Richmond, it ain't worth much. But, I think it's safe to go out on a limb after this past weekend and say, "You're very Richmond, if you name the Richmond bear after a southwestern United States city.
Okay, really, what did you truly name the bear? Come on. It's a cute joke...naming the bear Phoenix, but this is carrying a joke too far. I could understand that some of the judges weren't crazy about my suggestion, Bobby, the Baby-Biting Bear, but really, that name makes a lot more sense, and is a heck of a lot cuter than Phoenix.
Is it some sort of symbolism? I know the dead bears were cremated, so is this saying that the new bear rose from the ashes of those child-devouring bears that used to terrorize visitors to Maymont? Could this be a way of scaring the kids. You know, as if to say, "Ha Ha. You thought you killed the bears, but they're back in one bigger, meaner, child biting furry machine."
If so, then, hmmm, I'm all for it. I like it, actually. Forget what I said. Maybe this was a good decision on the part of city officials.
Now, on to the issue at hand. My wife and I have been living at the DMV over the past few days, trying to get a matter straightened out. Those folks there are not only the rudest, crudest, most arrogant group of government-payroll leeches, but they're also exceptionally stupid. And them's there good points.
My wife sent off her check weeks ago for her new decals. She got the new registration but not the decals. So, she calls DMV - Dirty Moronic Vultures...of course vultures only eat the flesh after the animal has died. The folks at DMV slay you then devour you.
Anyway, she calls DMV and after about a 30 minute wait, she's told she has to come in and pick up replacement decals, so she goes, gets in the drive through line and waits about an hour. Finally, she has to give up, because there are other things happening in her life. So we go back the next day. Unbelieveably, there's hardly any line in the drive through. We pull up, give the woman the registration - a new registration I might add, and the woman tells my wife that she can't give her the decals because that car was sold to someone in North Carolina in November.
The fact that my wife is driving the car, and holding a new registration that DMV sent her in May means absolutely nothing to the barely English-speaking customer service rep. One thing to keep in mind when you go to DMV, yes, it is a Virginia governmental agency, but they don't speak English.
My wife's car is leased, so, home we go and call Honda Finance. We have to be transferred three times, but each rep is very polite, and they speak beautiful English. The irony is not lost on me that the only company in America with English speaking reps is a Japanese company. Not one person even so much as said, "Ah so..."
The final word from Honda is that they had never notified DMV of any change in the lease status. They insist it must be the fault of DMV. Having had previous dealings with DMV, I have no trouble believing that.
The next day is Saturday. My wife gets up early and gets to DMV at eight AM...opening time. Already there is a line around the interior of the building...not waiting to be served, just waiting to get a number so you can go somewhere else and wait to be served. It took an hour just to get a number.
At the window, my wife explains the problem. The rep is new and asks a fellow rep what should she do. That rep says to go ahead and give her the decals. But, the new rep calls a manager who refuses to do that. In other words, there are no real rules. Everyone just kind of makes it up as they go along. If my wife had gotten the other window, she would have had her decals. Makes perfect sense to me.
So, anyway, my wife has to get Honda to fax her some paper, then she has to go back down to DMV and spend another morning. I think the next time she needs to take along something I like to call an intimidator. Something that gets the DMV morons motivated. I wonder if Phoenix might be available.

There's A Song In My Heart - But It's a Sad One

I'm sad today. You ask me why I'm sad. You wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back, And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

Oops, a little Johnny Cash got in the way there.
But, I think you can tell that this is something deep in my own heart.
I'm nothing if not sincere.

And the reason I'm sad today is, as many of you, no doubt, also are, is because of our two dearly departed Maymont bears. Up until today, I thought I had an ally. I thought Mayor Governor Wilder felt the pain that I did. But, apparently, I've been horribly deceived. I guess you heard the news already.
Saturday is Welcome the New Bear day at Maymont. That's right. It's like our two friends never existed. See ya black bears, we have us a new cute little cub now.
How can people be so heartless. How can people be so cruel.
Easy
Easy to be hard.

Oops, a little Three Dog Night got in the way there.
But you do see my point. Don't you?
They say when you lose a bear, you should pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.
That, my friend, is easier said than done. Sure, it might have worked for Goldilocks. But, hey, Steve Cook is human. Cut Steve Cook and he bleeds. And, internally, I'm bleeding. Wait, don't call the paramedics. I speak figuratively, even somewhat allegorically.
I guess I'm just a little bewildered to think that all of these Richmonders who were crying about the bears only weeks ago, are going to go out and celebrate the new bear this weekend.
Well, let me tell you my friends. I might go. It might be therapeutic. I guess. I want to hear the Mayor reveal the new name. Oh please let it be my suggestion - Bobby, the Baby Biting Bear. I hear the Mayor is also going to announce that he's legally adopted the bear. So whatever it's first name, it's last name will be Wilder.
Oh yes, I'll go. I'll smile.
But if there's a smile on my face
It's only there trying to fool the public
But when it comes down to fooling you
Now honey that's quite a different subject

But don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Cos really I'm sad, Oh I'm sadder than sad
Well I'm hurt and I want you so bad
Like a clown I appear to be glad ooh yeah

Well there're some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown when there's noone around
Oh yeah, baby baby, oh yeah baby baby

I really need to cut off my radio at night.

But, look for me at Maymont. Oh yes, I'll stand in the face-painting line, but don't be surprised when you see me. I'll be the one with the big frown painted on my sad little face.

Now That's Just Stupid

How about those suicides in Guantanomo? I guess those terrorist really showed us a thing or two, huh? That'll teach us to try and imprison those fellows.
And, hey, what about that big bus boycott in Richmond today? What if they gave a boycott and nobody didn't come? That's kind of the way it was. Although the local head of the NAACP did have a clever line. He said city officials (as in Mayor Governor Wilder) think more of black bears than they do black people. You know, when folks come up with such brilliant sound bites, it just naturally makes you to respect them and their cause all the more.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is that there seems to be an international pandemic of stupidity. It's like virtually everyone has lost the ability to think reasonably and to keep their big mouths shut when all they have to say is something asanine.
Even Ann Coulter seems to have lost it. I always kind of liked her, and, I think she makes a lot of sense most of the time, but why would she publicly call 9/11 widows "witches" and accuse them of using their husbands' deaths for their own political gain? I mean, for heaven's sake, even if you believe it (even if it's partially true), keep your big mouth shut. You just come off looking stupid.
Of course compared to that idiot in California who sued to have the phrase "In God We Trust" taken off of currency, because, he said, as an atheist, the phrase violated his consitutional rights, Coulter seems downright brilliant.
Really, I'm not kidding. There's a super-normal plague of stupidity that's settled in on the world. Did you hear the press conference regarding the bombing of Zarqawi?
Some of the journalist were more concerned about the obese (now dead) terrorist master mind than they were about the Maymont bears. Go figure.
I believe if Hitler were alive today, there'd be a large number of media folks who'd view him as simply misunderstood and in need of some TLC. It's funny, on one hand, we're becoming a more violent world, and on the other hand, we want to pollycoddle every ne'er do well who straps on the dynamite and decides to blow himself and a bunch of his enemies up.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe everybody else gets it, and I'm just an uneducated boob. Perhaps I'm losing it. Next thing you know, I'll be getting up at three in the morning to watch the World Cup. If it comes to that...just shoot me.

Let Them Eat Cake

You know something that I just can't stand? Besides people in general, that is? It's people who make a big to do about their birthday, or about birthdays in general. What is the big deal? That you lived another year?
I used to work in corporate America, in large offices, and virtually every day someone was having a birthday. So, virtually every day someone thought they should be given special treatment. When 55 year old women go around calling each other the "birthday girl" it makes me wanna gag. Wait, don't tell me how old you are. Let me count the wrinkles.
And whoever came up with this oh, so hilarious over-the-hill black balloon craze ought to be shot. It's not just the black balloons. It's the black streamers, and the black confetti, and the black cards. I'd like to give 'em a black eye.
What I really hate are those happy birthday spontaneous combustion outbursts you hear in restaurants. I know there are no-smoking sections, I wish they'd have no birthday celebration sections in restaurants.
Every dog-gone time I go out to eat I encounter at least one of the unruly displays of celebratory excitement. It starts by a gang of waiters (who should be pouring me some more ice water) marching through the restaurant clapping their hands.
As soon as I hear the clapping begin, I want to dive through the plate glass window. I know what's in store.
This roving gang of limited-talent birthday thugs converge on the "birthday girl's" table and begin this "Happy Birthday" chant. They can't sing Happy Birthday to You because that song is copyrighted and they'd have to pay a fee everytime they sing it.
So they do the next worse thing. They have this hideous, tuneless cacophony of random notes that goes something like, "Happy happy" clap-clap "Happy happy" clap-clap "Happy hapy birthday." And then after the hubbub dies down, everyone in the restaurant is supposed to stop what they're doing (such as gagging) and applaud. I'm not sure if we're supposed to applaud the performance or the fact that someone in the place is having a birthday.
Go ahead. Ask me if I appl....NOPE.
Here's a little advice to the birthday celebrant, and I mean this is the nicest way possible. Shut up. No one cares. We all have birthdays. They mean nothing. I've had one each year since I was born. And, it's really nothing to get so excited about.
One more thing, what's with the birthday cake? I've seen grown women giggling hysterically at the thought of putting one candle for each year on the cake of a co-worker.
The only person who should get a little excited over that would be the fire marshall. But nothing seems to delight forty plus (age, not size, although...) women like birthday candles. They light the candles, the birthday girl blows her saliva all over the cake, everyone applauds, and then they all eat the saliva-drenched cake. Wow, what a great idea.
The whole thing is ridiculous. So, my final word. When June 29th comes around this year, I don't want you to do anything for me. Remember that. On June 29th, I don't want anyone to say anything. Not on June 29th. And, now I have to stop writing and go look at neckties. I sure do like neckties.

Just Call Me Steve Cool

I ran into an old school mate today…hadn’t seen him since 1967. He doesn’t look like a teenager anymore, but he didn’t look all that old. That disappoints me. I want to be the youngest looking person in my age group.
When I meet up with someone with whom I went to school, and identify myself, they always ask what basically amounts to the same question: “Steve who?” Today, the question was, “What year were you?”
“Same as you,” I answered. His puzzled look spoke volumes. Trying to put him at ease, I added, “I was recently voted the most unmemorable person to ever attend Hermitage High School.”
“Oh really?” he asked. I got the impression he had no trouble at all believing that. To be honest, I wasn’t voted most unmemorable. I’m not sure that they even give that sort of an award, but truth is, someone would have to remember you to vote for you. So, the fact that I’ve never been voted the most unmemorable, is a good indication that I am.
I’m not throwing myself a pity party here, but I had very few friends in high school. Maybe like zero.
I was a pretty shy sort of guy, although I always found myself to be rather humorous. I think I would have made a good friend. I never stole anyone’s girlfriend. Of course, that wasn’t for lack of trying.
I never really got in any trouble. Maybe that was part of my unpopularity, especially with the girls. Girls always seem to like the bad boys…the troublemakers. I was too afraid to make trouble. I was afraid that if anyone ever scolded me, I’d just break down and cry.
Girls don’t seem to be especially turned on by guys who cry. Believe me, I know.
I probably should have carried a switchblade or something when I was in school. You could in those days. Today, you get expelled for having a plastic butter knife in your pocket. Back when I went to school, I think machine guns were allowed. Although, I never thought to bring one to school.
I should have kept a pack of smokes rolled up in my t-shirt sleeve. I would have, except I didn’t smoke and we weren’t allowed to wear t-shirts, at least not on the outside. We weren’t even allowed to have our shirttails out. That was okay by me. I always dressed neatly in the latest fashions from the Sears Huskies department.
I know some of the uppity kids used to make fun of me because I didn’t wear something called Weejuns, or something like that. I think they were shoes, but it may have been some sort of sweater.
I wouldn’t say I was a total geek, but I do know that when, years later, the movie American Graffiti came out, Richard Dreyfuss’ character wore the exact shirt I wore in high school. And, he seemed kinda geeky.
But, even geeks have a personality and I think I probably didn’t. I just sort of existed. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking…”and he seems so suave and debonair today.” Yep, go figure. I think I’m even well known enough today to be voted most unmemorable. Cool, eh? I’ve come a long way. Now, maybe I can work on my bad boy image. Do bad boys wear trusses?

Another One Doesn't Ride the Bus

Did you ever hear the joke about the guy who got through high school just by the skin of his teeth? No one thought he'd ever amount to anything. And yet, twenty-five years later, he arrives at his school reunion, riding in a quarter-million dollar vehicle...a Greyhound Bus. Well, I was reminded of that story today.
I don't know if it's a flaw in my personality...probably not. But, I get really irked when people do stupid things. You're probably thinking that I'm about to start lambasting someone. You're right. Actually, a bunch of someones. It's the state NAACP and a group calling themselves Youth for Social Change. Have you heard how they plan to protest a decision made by the city's Commonwealth Attorney which cleared two police officers in the shooting death of a young man who fled on foot when police tried to stop him for a traffic violation.
I'm not irritated that these people think it's a cover-up. Maybe it is. Maybe not. Personally, I don't think so, but that's not the point. What flabbergasts me is HOW they plan to protest. Get this...this is priceless. They're encouraging the city's black population to not ride the city buses on Monday.
Now think about that. While riding a city bus is no disgrace, it doesn't really portray a picture of success. To my way of thinking, it'd be like if the NAACP encouraged its devotees to not cash their welfare checks this month, or not to use food stamps on Monday. Why do something that emphasizes a somewhat negative stereotype?
Maybe what this Youth for Social Change group ought to do is ask the citizens not to try struggling with police when they attempt to stop them. Maybe they should say, "Let's protest by not trying to outrun the law."
I know. I'm old fashioned when it comes to such things. But to say let's don't ride the bus just doesn't seem to send the sort of message I'd want to send. Now don't you go saying, "Well Steve, you're not black. You don't know how it is."
It is true that I'm not black. But I have enough sense to know a negative stereotype when I see one. And telling blacks to stay home from work makes about as much sense as that recent illegal immigrants day off. The one boycotting is primarily hurting himself, besides making himself look downright stupid.
If you youths want social change, why not make it a change that dignifies those you're supposedly trying to help. Don't hold up a banner in the newspaper that proclaims, "Hey, we still ride buses cause we can't afford an automobile." And, that's exactly what you're doing.
Listen folks, I may be lilly-white, but I can still give you some good advice. Just ask me. I've got plenty. For instance, that NAACP name. That's an idea whose time has come and gone. That's gotta go. Give me a call. Let's talk about it.

Come to Grandpa

I have a special affinity for grandparents. There's nothing more special in most children's lives than a doting grandfather (or grandmother). That's why I was so deeply moved by the heartwarming tale coming out of Lake County, Florida.
It's a story that will warm every cockle of your heart. It's the story of two grandparents, Robert and Versie Johnson.
Things apparently haven't been all rosey with the Johnsons. Their son is in jail. But who hasn't had a skeleton or two in their closets from time to time?
Anyway, their son asked them for a favor...a favor regarding his wife and three kids. And, bless their hearts, these two loving grandparents did everything in their power to help fulfill their son's one wish. You see, the son, the father of the kids, simply wanted his parents to hire someone to kill the three children and their mother, and, oh yes (forgive me PETA), the family dog.
So Robert and Versie went out and found a hit man. They even offered him a whopping one hundred dollars to do the killings. I'm figuring that's about twenty-five bucks a person with the dog being done in for free (again, PETA, forgive me).
As loving, and as generous as Robert and Versie are, they're evidently somewhat lacking in the gray matter, if you know what I mean. Because these two doting grandparents slipped up and contacted an undercover officer.
They even met with him at a local Best Western and gave him the hundred. Well, at least Versie did. Apparently Robert was too timid to actually meet the guy who was going to kill his grandkids. Sentimental old fool.
The mother of the kids doesn't sound any too bright herself. When informed that her loving hubby had tried to get her and the young'uns killed, she was shocked. "I never saw this coming," said said. "I loved (him) with all my heart. (He) was good to me and good to the kids. (He) was a nice guy, everybody's friend."
This nice guy is in jail awaiting trial on child abuse charges. His kids are slated to testify against him. And she loves him with all her heart. I don't know if Child Protective Services can take kids away because of parental stupidity, but this is one time when I wish they'd at least give it a try.
Of course, the ones I really feel sorry for are the grandparents. This loving couple is now in jail. Why? For simply trying to help their son. They're a lovely couple. Check the link to take a look at 'em... http://www.local6.com/news/9296581/detail.html. And now, in their golden years, they're behind bars. Isn't there any justice left in this wicked old world?