I’m in pain as I write. I think if you knew the pain I was in, you’d step back and admire me admiringly. You’d be thinking, “What a trooper he is. How does he keep on typing when he is in such pain?”
I’ll answer that. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m hurting right now. It’s my own fault. I chose to put myself in harm’s way. No, I didn’t step in front of a speeding locomotive, or anything quite that drastic. And yet, on an emotional level, that’s exactly what I did.
I chose to watch that stupid ABC special tonight. It’s on right now, showing ways humans could be destroyed. I didn’t see it all, I started watching while they were doing this piece on gamma ray bursts. Ouch.
When they got to the part showing how your intestines would dry up, I was doubled over in pain. I would actually have been in better shape if I’d just gone somewhere and asked someone to kick me in the groin for 30 minutes or so.
Okay, they’ve gone to commercial. I’m beginning to feel a bit better. They’re showing a pizza commercial. I’m getting my appetite back. Whew, that was close.
Now, they’re talking about black holes. I’ve always been afraid of black holes, at least since I first heard about them, back in the seventies. I may have told you before, I’m very susceptible to the power of suggestion. Couple that with the fact that I worry about everything, and you have a very unhappy little TV viewer right now.
When I was a kid, I saw a TV show about deserts. For about two weeks, I’d pray every night when I went to bed that God wouldn’t let a desert come to Virginia. Talk about the power of prayer, eh?
Anyway, now they’re talking about what would happen if a black hole came rushing through the Milky Way. I wish they hadn’t mentioned Milky Way. Now I want chocolate.
The good thing about a black hole is that we’d evidently be given several days warning that we were about to die. Hold on. Did I say “good thing”? The more I look at this graphic representation, knowing that my life was about to be snuffed out doesn’t seem like such a good thing. Some wise guy scientist talks about it being fun at first. He says your body would start stretching. He says that would be a fun way to go. I think this guy must be some idiot they found at the bus station and stuck in front of a camera. I have a feeling that by the end of the show, this so-called scientist will be sitting in a padded room with his arms strapped around him.
They’ve been interviewing Stephen Hawking. Talk about being surprised. I’m sure he is the same guy who does the traffic reports for the state’s highway radio station. I think that’s just a pure waste of such a good mind.
Okay, they just announced that the earth will be struck by a meteorite on April 13, 2036. I plan to spend that day trying to remember my name. Please don’t interrupt me to tell me that I’m about to be destroyed.
Hey, I just realized that this is some sort of countdown...kind of like the top ten ways we could die. That’s just sick. Who’d ever do a countdown like this and not include Casey Kasem.
I’m gonna shut the TV off, grab a candy bar and go to bed. Have a good night.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Tharrrrrrrrrr she blows !!!!!!!!!!!!!! Again….. By Becky Robinette Wright
WITH TROPICAL SHOWERS ERNESTO HEADING OUR WAY, WE PRESENT THE FOLLOWING - FROM OUR ONLINE CHESTERFIELD REPORTER BECKY WRIGHT... (CALL IT A PUBLIC SERVICE, AND WE CAN TAKE THIS AS A TAX WRITE OFF)
Batten down the hatches Mother Nature is going to smack us again, I'm thinking about building an underground bunker with access to local pizza parlors and fast food establishments. You know the tubes at the drive through bank lanes? The ones you put money in? Why can't we hide underground away from the storms, and have connecting tunnels to McDonalds, Hardees, Wendys, Burger King and so on? Just put my food in a plastic container, drop it in the tube and whoosh! I’m fed without having to travel out in a raft.
I feel like I’m stuck in a rainy-day version of Groundhog Day. That was an enlightening film starring Bill Murray as a temperamental-high strung news journalist-weatherman who gets stuck repeating the same day over and over and until he gets it right. In the movie, Murray is the only one who remembers this is the same day. He uses this advantage to save a life,learn a lifetime of piano concerts in days, become refined and begin a romance.
Is Virginia deemed to end up as a sponge? Are we turning into a tropical rainforest filled with subdivisions? Those who are pulled to a life of fisherman persuasion must be leaping for joy. Can you imagine opening your front door and a record breaking bass is swimming past your front porch? How would you feel to look out your window and Flipper is smiling back at you?
Think of the money you could save parking your cabin cruiser in your yard instead of at the marina. Do boats get better gas mileage than cars? We could always canoe down Chippenham if our gas gets low.
What about seaweed ? There are markets for that stuff now. Between the fish in our yard lakes, saving money by not having to store boats at the marina, we could make a fortune farming seaweed. Just ponder the possibilities.
The rainfall estimates keep changing as fast as Elizabeth Taylor changes husbands. Two inches, six inches, maybe more? The storm tracking lines keeping swerving like the beam from Luke Skywalker’s light saber.
Just where will the storm ‘s target be? It’s a game of storm roulette; just where will that wheel stop?
On the anniversary dates of Gaston and the heels of Isabel’s anniversary, what can we expect? Add to that the fact that the local fair has started and we should have been planning on the deluge weeks ago.
I just should have bought flippers instead of tennis shoes, but I’ll never learn, Virginia seems destined to become a waterworld.
Batten down the hatches, Chesterfield, thar she blows,again.
#
Batten down the hatches Mother Nature is going to smack us again, I'm thinking about building an underground bunker with access to local pizza parlors and fast food establishments. You know the tubes at the drive through bank lanes? The ones you put money in? Why can't we hide underground away from the storms, and have connecting tunnels to McDonalds, Hardees, Wendys, Burger King and so on? Just put my food in a plastic container, drop it in the tube and whoosh! I’m fed without having to travel out in a raft.
I feel like I’m stuck in a rainy-day version of Groundhog Day. That was an enlightening film starring Bill Murray as a temperamental-high strung news journalist-weatherman who gets stuck repeating the same day over and over and until he gets it right. In the movie, Murray is the only one who remembers this is the same day. He uses this advantage to save a life,learn a lifetime of piano concerts in days, become refined and begin a romance.
Is Virginia deemed to end up as a sponge? Are we turning into a tropical rainforest filled with subdivisions? Those who are pulled to a life of fisherman persuasion must be leaping for joy. Can you imagine opening your front door and a record breaking bass is swimming past your front porch? How would you feel to look out your window and Flipper is smiling back at you?
Think of the money you could save parking your cabin cruiser in your yard instead of at the marina. Do boats get better gas mileage than cars? We could always canoe down Chippenham if our gas gets low.
What about seaweed ? There are markets for that stuff now. Between the fish in our yard lakes, saving money by not having to store boats at the marina, we could make a fortune farming seaweed. Just ponder the possibilities.
The rainfall estimates keep changing as fast as Elizabeth Taylor changes husbands. Two inches, six inches, maybe more? The storm tracking lines keeping swerving like the beam from Luke Skywalker’s light saber.
Just where will the storm ‘s target be? It’s a game of storm roulette; just where will that wheel stop?
On the anniversary dates of Gaston and the heels of Isabel’s anniversary, what can we expect? Add to that the fact that the local fair has started and we should have been planning on the deluge weeks ago.
I just should have bought flippers instead of tennis shoes, but I’ll never learn, Virginia seems destined to become a waterworld.
Batten down the hatches, Chesterfield, thar she blows,again.
#
I See Weird People
I have a great idea for a new blockbuster motion picture. Personally, I think it has “hit” written all over it, but I figure it might be good to run it past you all.
My inspiration came from an experience I had last night...a rather chilling experience, I might add. A friend invited me to join him at a local civic or social club. I’m not really sure what these people are, but to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings, I’ll just call it the Goose Club. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be too interested, but curiosity coupled with the fact that they were having fifty cent hot dog night proved too much a temptation. Off I went.
When I get to the club, and get my guest sticker stuck on me, that’s very important...wearing the sticker at all times, I join my friend at the bar. I take a seat and look around. (Here’s the part where they’ll play some of that really scary-type music, in the movie version of this)
I see the strangest sort of people. If you’ve wondered where all the rednecks have disappeared to, I can tell you. It’s the Goose Club. It’s not that these folks were just a little country-fied, they were strange looking. It was kind of like a cross between Cheers and Deliverance.
My friend pointed out someone else at the bar and told me the guy looked like a caricature of a real person. Except (more scary music), he was a real person. My mind boggled, which can be rather painful. I started to look more closely at the other people at the bar. It’s as if they were all cartoon characters, and grotesque ones at that. I’m serious. The characters in King of the Hill looked more real than did these folks.
It’s as if a Li’l Abner comic strip had come to life. And there they all were...staring at me...me, with the guest sticker. After a rather sudden, and equally brief, panic attack, I calmed down. The music could get softer here. The people seemed friendly enough. One woman seemed particularly friendly to my friend. But, since he’s only in his mid-fifties, and she had to be, oh I’d say, at least twice his age, I don’t think he was especially interested in her.
I was in someone’s home, on business, many years ago. These people lived out on Jeff Davis Highway, in a delightful little trailer. When I went into their living room, I noticed they had two pictures on the wall. The pictures had been, it would seem, torn from a magazine, perhaps, and thumb tacked to the living room wall. There was a picture on each side of the couch. On the left side was Jesus Christ. I recognized him immediately. On the right side of the couch was a picture of Haystack Calhoun. For those who don’t remember Haystack Calhoun, he was a 601 pound wrestler who wore bib overalls, had a wild, wooly beard, and about a handful of teeth left in his mouth.
Last night, I’m thinking that maybe I’m at the Calhoun-family reunion. The only way you could tell the women from the men was the facial hair. The gals had more of it.
I'm thinking of calling my movie “The Hicks Sense.” What do you think?
Now, just so I don’t offend anyone, let me say that the people were very nice, and the bartender, I’ll call him Ed, seemed to realize that he was caring for people who were just a little off-center. I’m thinking that maybe “Ed” is some sort of scientist, maybe even from another planet, who has been sent here to observe earthlings. I’m sure he’ll have some stories to tell when he gets back.
Anyway, I ate me a couple of good fifty cent dogs, wiped the chile and mustard from my face, and told my friend I’d see him later. “Not if I don’t see you first,” he laughed, slapping his knee to add to the hilarity.
I slapped my knee, laughed, and grabbed a toothpick, sticking it in my mouth. As I walked towards the door, I glanced at myself in the mirror. (Horrifying music here). And then it hit me, like a bolt out of the blue. Could it be that I also was one of...Nah. That’s ridiculous.
My inspiration came from an experience I had last night...a rather chilling experience, I might add. A friend invited me to join him at a local civic or social club. I’m not really sure what these people are, but to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings, I’ll just call it the Goose Club. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be too interested, but curiosity coupled with the fact that they were having fifty cent hot dog night proved too much a temptation. Off I went.
When I get to the club, and get my guest sticker stuck on me, that’s very important...wearing the sticker at all times, I join my friend at the bar. I take a seat and look around. (Here’s the part where they’ll play some of that really scary-type music, in the movie version of this)
I see the strangest sort of people. If you’ve wondered where all the rednecks have disappeared to, I can tell you. It’s the Goose Club. It’s not that these folks were just a little country-fied, they were strange looking. It was kind of like a cross between Cheers and Deliverance.
My friend pointed out someone else at the bar and told me the guy looked like a caricature of a real person. Except (more scary music), he was a real person. My mind boggled, which can be rather painful. I started to look more closely at the other people at the bar. It’s as if they were all cartoon characters, and grotesque ones at that. I’m serious. The characters in King of the Hill looked more real than did these folks.
It’s as if a Li’l Abner comic strip had come to life. And there they all were...staring at me...me, with the guest sticker. After a rather sudden, and equally brief, panic attack, I calmed down. The music could get softer here. The people seemed friendly enough. One woman seemed particularly friendly to my friend. But, since he’s only in his mid-fifties, and she had to be, oh I’d say, at least twice his age, I don’t think he was especially interested in her.
I was in someone’s home, on business, many years ago. These people lived out on Jeff Davis Highway, in a delightful little trailer. When I went into their living room, I noticed they had two pictures on the wall. The pictures had been, it would seem, torn from a magazine, perhaps, and thumb tacked to the living room wall. There was a picture on each side of the couch. On the left side was Jesus Christ. I recognized him immediately. On the right side of the couch was a picture of Haystack Calhoun. For those who don’t remember Haystack Calhoun, he was a 601 pound wrestler who wore bib overalls, had a wild, wooly beard, and about a handful of teeth left in his mouth.
Last night, I’m thinking that maybe I’m at the Calhoun-family reunion. The only way you could tell the women from the men was the facial hair. The gals had more of it.
I'm thinking of calling my movie “The Hicks Sense.” What do you think?
Now, just so I don’t offend anyone, let me say that the people were very nice, and the bartender, I’ll call him Ed, seemed to realize that he was caring for people who were just a little off-center. I’m thinking that maybe “Ed” is some sort of scientist, maybe even from another planet, who has been sent here to observe earthlings. I’m sure he’ll have some stories to tell when he gets back.
Anyway, I ate me a couple of good fifty cent dogs, wiped the chile and mustard from my face, and told my friend I’d see him later. “Not if I don’t see you first,” he laughed, slapping his knee to add to the hilarity.
I slapped my knee, laughed, and grabbed a toothpick, sticking it in my mouth. As I walked towards the door, I glanced at myself in the mirror. (Horrifying music here). And then it hit me, like a bolt out of the blue. Could it be that I also was one of...Nah. That’s ridiculous.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
You Remember When Melanie Died And All Ashley Wilkes Could Talk About Were Baby Booties And...
My mother said something this morning that has me just a little bit worried, even scared, if you will. First, a little background. Because I live 90 miles from where I work, I spend two nights a week at my mother’s house in the West End.
My mother is almost 82 years young (don’t you hate it when people say it that way?) and still going pretty strong. She still drives her car, although by Braille. She picks up her aunts and takes them shopping. Even when they don’t want to go. I think it’s kind of neat that there’s an 81-year-old woman with three aunts still living.
Anyway, my mother has gotten on a sewing jag lately. She’s always loved to sew. She even once made a sports coat for me, which, to show my appreciation, I actually had to wear in public on an occasion or two. It was made of some fabric that was a cross between polyester and rubber. I think she bought the material at the Ringling Brothers surplus store.
Now she’s sewing baby blankets and bibs. She thinks she could start a little cottage industry, and I think it’s great that an 81-year-old woman is interested in starting a business. Maybe she’ll make a fortune, which I could inherit.
Anyway, last night she comes upstairs from her sewing room and shows me her little blankets. I tell her how nice they are. I am a good son, and actually, they did look rather cute. I’m thinking that she’s still a pretty sharp old woman.
A half hour later she comes back upstairs. “Let me show you what I’m doing,” she says proudly. She then shows me the same blankets and bibs she had showed me earlier. Hey, she is 81.
This morning at breakfast, she says, “Let me show you some blankets I’ve made.”
“Mom,” I say kindly, “you’ve already shown me twice.” I believe in sparing someone’s feelings, but not if it means I have to look at blankets three times.
She took it pretty well. She even laughed about it, but then she said something that scared me. She said, “I worry sometimes about losing it (her mind, I guess), but then I think maybe I already have and I just don’t know it.”
Now she has me worried. She’s right. If you lose your mind, how would you ever know it. For instance, I could be sitting here at my keyboard typing in gibberish, and yet it looks like a piece of brilliant writing to me.
You could even write back and tell me I must be losing my mind, but I read it and think you said, “Steve, you’re brilliant.” I could even be sitting in a padded room twiddling my thumbs and just imagine that you and I are having this delightful repartee.
Heck, maybe you don’t even exist. Maybe, it’s all just a little world I created. If that’s so, I think I’d just as soon keep this little game going with myself.
But, as I ponder on this even more fully, something else is bothering me. If my world is all in my warped little brain, why couldn’t I have created a world where I’m really successful? I’d prefer to have a false reality where I’m a big Hollywood writer. No, forget being a writer. I wish I lived in a little world where I was a big Hollywood star…handsome, successful, popular, mentally sound in every way. In other words, why can’t I just be in a world where I’m Tom Cruise?
My mother is almost 82 years young (don’t you hate it when people say it that way?) and still going pretty strong. She still drives her car, although by Braille. She picks up her aunts and takes them shopping. Even when they don’t want to go. I think it’s kind of neat that there’s an 81-year-old woman with three aunts still living.
Anyway, my mother has gotten on a sewing jag lately. She’s always loved to sew. She even once made a sports coat for me, which, to show my appreciation, I actually had to wear in public on an occasion or two. It was made of some fabric that was a cross between polyester and rubber. I think she bought the material at the Ringling Brothers surplus store.
Now she’s sewing baby blankets and bibs. She thinks she could start a little cottage industry, and I think it’s great that an 81-year-old woman is interested in starting a business. Maybe she’ll make a fortune, which I could inherit.
Anyway, last night she comes upstairs from her sewing room and shows me her little blankets. I tell her how nice they are. I am a good son, and actually, they did look rather cute. I’m thinking that she’s still a pretty sharp old woman.
A half hour later she comes back upstairs. “Let me show you what I’m doing,” she says proudly. She then shows me the same blankets and bibs she had showed me earlier. Hey, she is 81.
This morning at breakfast, she says, “Let me show you some blankets I’ve made.”
“Mom,” I say kindly, “you’ve already shown me twice.” I believe in sparing someone’s feelings, but not if it means I have to look at blankets three times.
She took it pretty well. She even laughed about it, but then she said something that scared me. She said, “I worry sometimes about losing it (her mind, I guess), but then I think maybe I already have and I just don’t know it.”
Now she has me worried. She’s right. If you lose your mind, how would you ever know it. For instance, I could be sitting here at my keyboard typing in gibberish, and yet it looks like a piece of brilliant writing to me.
You could even write back and tell me I must be losing my mind, but I read it and think you said, “Steve, you’re brilliant.” I could even be sitting in a padded room twiddling my thumbs and just imagine that you and I are having this delightful repartee.
Heck, maybe you don’t even exist. Maybe, it’s all just a little world I created. If that’s so, I think I’d just as soon keep this little game going with myself.
But, as I ponder on this even more fully, something else is bothering me. If my world is all in my warped little brain, why couldn’t I have created a world where I’m really successful? I’d prefer to have a false reality where I’m a big Hollywood writer. No, forget being a writer. I wish I lived in a little world where I was a big Hollywood star…handsome, successful, popular, mentally sound in every way. In other words, why can’t I just be in a world where I’m Tom Cruise?
Monday, August 28, 2006
Move Over Katie Couric
I hope this won't disappoint too many of you out there, but it looks like my columnist days are soon to be a thing of the past. I cut a demo tape today to do the news for Channel 6. They don't know about it yet, but once they get the tape, it's bye bye Smallville, hello Metropolis.
I did ask one of my nearest and dearest friends, morning anchor guy, Greg McQuake, to sit in, and critique me as I went along. And, just because I knew you all would be interested, I sat down and transcribed the tape for your reading pleasure. Without further ado, here is STEVE COOK AND THE DAILY NEWS:
STEVE: Good morning. Hey everybody. I'm going to read you the news for today. Here goes. It looks like it's going to be another hot one today, with the weatherman calling for temperatures in the low nineties.
GREG: Whoa! Hold on there, Steve. You don't give the viewers too much information all at once. If you did, they'd be out of here in a flash.
STEVE: All I did was say the temperature would be in the low...
GREG: Shhh. Keep that info under wraps for now, little Buddy. What you should say is, "It's going to be a scorcher today. How hot will it get? Stick around and we'll tell you. But, keep in mind, it's going to be horrible." Do you see how much better that sounds?
STEVE: Kinda. But, anyway, let me continue with the news. NBC is taking some flak today over its plane crash sketch that opened last night's Emmy telecast. Many complaints were received as the sketch came on the heels of a real plane crash.
GREG: Steve, may I be the first to say that you really are very bad at this?
STEVE: Well, I appreciate your frankness. I guess. But what's so bad?
GREG: You took a fairly good story and made it booorrrring. Here, tell me why this is so much better..."Why do so many people hate NBC this morning? Stickaround and we'll tell you. But, keep in mind, NBC will probably have to lay most of its employees off." Yes! I nailed it! Did you hear the anguish, the horror in my voice?
STEVE: Yeah, I heard it, but I'm not so sure it's what was needed for that story.
GREG: Steve, Steve, Steve. My naive, and untalented little friend. You're telling me, Greg McQuake, what makes for a good story. Why that's like the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?
STEVE: No, I don't really think it's like a pot calling a kettle black. It might be like John Bernier telling Jim Duncan that it's going to be in the low nineties today.
GREG: Stop it! You're just plain evil. You just had to give the temperature again, didn't you. And you had to mention those two guys, as if our weatherman, you know, what's his name, wasn't as important as they are. You really do have a cruel streak in you. Now I know why Julie never liked you.
STEVE: Can I just get back to this audition tape?
GREG: Yeah, right. As if you had a chance in, well, nevermind. Let me show you a thing or two about news reporting. "Greg McQuake here. What local editor of some puny little magazine had his lights punched out today by Richmond's leading morning anchor? Stick around and I'll tell you, but first, I have to go punch someone's lights out.
Well, the tape abruptly ends at this point. But, I've watched it a few times, and, personally, I think it's pretty good. But, now that I've had a chance to play it for you, sort of, I'd like your opinion. If you really like it, you'll call channel 6 and ask them to fire Greg McQuake, my nearest and dearest friend, and give me a shot at this news thing. I think I'm kind of a natural. But, that's just one man's (me) opinion.
I did ask one of my nearest and dearest friends, morning anchor guy, Greg McQuake, to sit in, and critique me as I went along. And, just because I knew you all would be interested, I sat down and transcribed the tape for your reading pleasure. Without further ado, here is STEVE COOK AND THE DAILY NEWS:
STEVE: Good morning. Hey everybody. I'm going to read you the news for today. Here goes. It looks like it's going to be another hot one today, with the weatherman calling for temperatures in the low nineties.
GREG: Whoa! Hold on there, Steve. You don't give the viewers too much information all at once. If you did, they'd be out of here in a flash.
STEVE: All I did was say the temperature would be in the low...
GREG: Shhh. Keep that info under wraps for now, little Buddy. What you should say is, "It's going to be a scorcher today. How hot will it get? Stick around and we'll tell you. But, keep in mind, it's going to be horrible." Do you see how much better that sounds?
STEVE: Kinda. But, anyway, let me continue with the news. NBC is taking some flak today over its plane crash sketch that opened last night's Emmy telecast. Many complaints were received as the sketch came on the heels of a real plane crash.
GREG: Steve, may I be the first to say that you really are very bad at this?
STEVE: Well, I appreciate your frankness. I guess. But what's so bad?
GREG: You took a fairly good story and made it booorrrring. Here, tell me why this is so much better..."Why do so many people hate NBC this morning? Stickaround and we'll tell you. But, keep in mind, NBC will probably have to lay most of its employees off." Yes! I nailed it! Did you hear the anguish, the horror in my voice?
STEVE: Yeah, I heard it, but I'm not so sure it's what was needed for that story.
GREG: Steve, Steve, Steve. My naive, and untalented little friend. You're telling me, Greg McQuake, what makes for a good story. Why that's like the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?
STEVE: No, I don't really think it's like a pot calling a kettle black. It might be like John Bernier telling Jim Duncan that it's going to be in the low nineties today.
GREG: Stop it! You're just plain evil. You just had to give the temperature again, didn't you. And you had to mention those two guys, as if our weatherman, you know, what's his name, wasn't as important as they are. You really do have a cruel streak in you. Now I know why Julie never liked you.
STEVE: Can I just get back to this audition tape?
GREG: Yeah, right. As if you had a chance in, well, nevermind. Let me show you a thing or two about news reporting. "Greg McQuake here. What local editor of some puny little magazine had his lights punched out today by Richmond's leading morning anchor? Stick around and I'll tell you, but first, I have to go punch someone's lights out.
Well, the tape abruptly ends at this point. But, I've watched it a few times, and, personally, I think it's pretty good. But, now that I've had a chance to play it for you, sort of, I'd like your opinion. If you really like it, you'll call channel 6 and ask them to fire Greg McQuake, my nearest and dearest friend, and give me a shot at this news thing. I think I'm kind of a natural. But, that's just one man's (me) opinion.
My Very Elderly Mother Just Stood Up Near Regency Square
Well, they’ve gone and done it. We talked about it last week. Pluto is gone. Just like that. A bunch of brainiacs get together for some international geek-fest and they decide for the rest of us that Pluto is not a planet.
I will not take this sitting down. They want to call Pluto a dwarf planet. What happened to political correctness? If I were to call Jeff Gordon a dwarf NASCAR driver, I’d be branded as being some sort of midget bigot.
But, if these scientists want to call Pluto a dwarf, that’s a different story. Sure, go right ahead. Well, Pluto will always be a full-fledged planet in my book.
But, enough about Pluto, I have other things on my mind today. For one thing, have you been to Regency Square shopping center lately? If not, don’t. It’s kinda sad, to us long time Richmond area residents, anyway, just how dilapidated Regency Square has become. I didn’t notice it until last week, but I think it would be appropriate to start calling Regency Square Cloverleaf Mall, Junior.
I’ve seen this coming for some time. The nice clothing stores are being replaced by such upscale establishments as the As Seen on TV Store. Can dollar-a-week-TV-rental stores be far behind? Or, perhaps Cash-A-Check Centers?
And the kiosks are hideous. The merchants hide behind their stalls and then as you stroll past them, they jump out at you and try to entice you to come over and play with their tumbling trucks, or smell their knock-off perfumes, or feel some sort of spongy thing. Maybe, Regency Square should be called Tijuana East.
I know they have done some sprucing up inside, but on the outside, it’s downright shabby. And, even though they’ve spruced it up inside, it’s still, in my humble opinion, dirty. I was unable to make use of the restroom facilities yesterday because there wasn’t a non-filthy stall in the house…at least in the men’s room. I hesitate to use the ladies’ room. If you’re wondering why restrooms play such an important role in my life, go ask anyone still living who is over fifty.
There is one renovation the folks at Regency Square have made that sort of leaves me scratching my head. I saw it for the first time on Friday. As I was entering the Sears store, I noticed a sign on the big glass doors. It read, “Automatic Door. Pull to Operate.” Excuse me, but isn’t that pretty much how the non-automatic doors operate? Anyway, I pulled on the door and it opened right up. Isn’t modern technology wonderful?
You see, I would think that operating an automatic door by pulling it open, would be pretty much like if I had this stick and I told you the stick was a remote control device for my TV. Then, to demonstrate how my stick worked, I’d walk over to the television set and use the stick to press the power button. Then, I’d use the stick to press the channel button…I guess you get the picture. In other words, why spend money on manually operated automatic doors? Use that money to clean the restrooms.
You know, now that I reflect on all this, it seems that Regency Square has become the Pluto of shopping centers. It once was considered right up there with the big boys. It was THE big boy of area shopping centers. If something isn't soon done, something besides putting up signs that say the doors are automatic, that is, before you know it, Regency will be Azalea Mauled. And, if you're old enough to remember Azalea, then I'd better stop right now, because chances are, you need to run to the restroom.
I will not take this sitting down. They want to call Pluto a dwarf planet. What happened to political correctness? If I were to call Jeff Gordon a dwarf NASCAR driver, I’d be branded as being some sort of midget bigot.
But, if these scientists want to call Pluto a dwarf, that’s a different story. Sure, go right ahead. Well, Pluto will always be a full-fledged planet in my book.
But, enough about Pluto, I have other things on my mind today. For one thing, have you been to Regency Square shopping center lately? If not, don’t. It’s kinda sad, to us long time Richmond area residents, anyway, just how dilapidated Regency Square has become. I didn’t notice it until last week, but I think it would be appropriate to start calling Regency Square Cloverleaf Mall, Junior.
I’ve seen this coming for some time. The nice clothing stores are being replaced by such upscale establishments as the As Seen on TV Store. Can dollar-a-week-TV-rental stores be far behind? Or, perhaps Cash-A-Check Centers?
And the kiosks are hideous. The merchants hide behind their stalls and then as you stroll past them, they jump out at you and try to entice you to come over and play with their tumbling trucks, or smell their knock-off perfumes, or feel some sort of spongy thing. Maybe, Regency Square should be called Tijuana East.
I know they have done some sprucing up inside, but on the outside, it’s downright shabby. And, even though they’ve spruced it up inside, it’s still, in my humble opinion, dirty. I was unable to make use of the restroom facilities yesterday because there wasn’t a non-filthy stall in the house…at least in the men’s room. I hesitate to use the ladies’ room. If you’re wondering why restrooms play such an important role in my life, go ask anyone still living who is over fifty.
There is one renovation the folks at Regency Square have made that sort of leaves me scratching my head. I saw it for the first time on Friday. As I was entering the Sears store, I noticed a sign on the big glass doors. It read, “Automatic Door. Pull to Operate.” Excuse me, but isn’t that pretty much how the non-automatic doors operate? Anyway, I pulled on the door and it opened right up. Isn’t modern technology wonderful?
You see, I would think that operating an automatic door by pulling it open, would be pretty much like if I had this stick and I told you the stick was a remote control device for my TV. Then, to demonstrate how my stick worked, I’d walk over to the television set and use the stick to press the power button. Then, I’d use the stick to press the channel button…I guess you get the picture. In other words, why spend money on manually operated automatic doors? Use that money to clean the restrooms.
You know, now that I reflect on all this, it seems that Regency Square has become the Pluto of shopping centers. It once was considered right up there with the big boys. It was THE big boy of area shopping centers. If something isn't soon done, something besides putting up signs that say the doors are automatic, that is, before you know it, Regency will be Azalea Mauled. And, if you're old enough to remember Azalea, then I'd better stop right now, because chances are, you need to run to the restroom.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Mayor Knows Best
I received a beautiful announcement in the mail yesterday. And, being the type of guy I am, I wanted to share it with you, my closest and dearest friends. You know those birth announcements that new parents send out? Well, this is similar.
It was a beautifully engraved off-white card stating, “Mayor Governor Doug Wilder wishes to announce that he has adopted the entire Richmond City Council.” It went on to give the combined weight of the council at the time of adoption, along with a little blurb by the Mayor to the effect that because members of Richmond's city council were just too young and too inexperienced to handle such matters as Shockoe Bottom drainage, he, the mayor, felt it in the best interests of the city and the council members to take the adoption action.
My only regret is that Wilder just doesn’t adopt all city residents. He’s certainly taken it upon himself to be the father figure. If a problem needs correcting, Dad Wilder is there. And, in his own kindly way, he doesn’t want to have council members worry their pretty little heads with such issues.
Shockingly, not all city council members are happy with the adoption. But, I hear from child psychologists, or else my mechanic (I can't remember where I heard it), that some children often resent the ones who try to help them the most. I guess that's the real problem here. And I say kudos to the mayor-governor for his willingness to accept the challenge of raising such an uruly and ungracious bunch.
Being the relentless journalist, whom you know me to be, I attempted to contact several council members to ask them when they’d be moving into the Mayor’s Mansion on Belle Isle. So far, none have contacted me. But, I hear Wilder is putting in a game room for his newly adopted family. Perhaps, with the cares and worries of running a city that virtually runs itself behind them, council members can better spend their time in the mansion’s art studio designing new artist renderings of structures that will never get built. I’d like to suggest that they come up with an idea for a domed baseball stadium that doubles as a performing arts center/slave museum/NASCAR Hall of Fame when the local team isn’t playing. I think that would make a neat drawing. I think such a facility could really make it here in Richmond, especially if they served barbecue and limeades.
Interestingly, Virginia senator George Allen did have offer an opinion on the aforementioned adoption. Allen stated, “I wouldn’t want any coloreds raising me.” Later, Allen explained that when he used the word “coloreds” he was simply coining a cute cacophony of sounds, and that the word had no meaning whatsoever. When it was suggested to the senator that his remarks could be mistaken as racist, Allen expressed shock, outrage, and even a wee bit of dismay that anyone could see anything racist in his comment.
Despite the fact that recent statements by Allen, who has been considered one of the top contenders for the 2008 Republican presidential nomination, have caused an overall dip in his poll rankings, interestingly, in the near West End of Richmond, Allen’s numbers have actually gone up. Inasmuch as I know absolutely nothing about politics and care even less, I’m not in a position to explain this apparent phenomenon.
Perhaps, the now useless city council folks could spend some time coining new phrases for George Allen to throw out at political gatherings. But then again, perhaps I should just keep my ideas to myself.
It was a beautifully engraved off-white card stating, “Mayor Governor Doug Wilder wishes to announce that he has adopted the entire Richmond City Council.” It went on to give the combined weight of the council at the time of adoption, along with a little blurb by the Mayor to the effect that because members of Richmond's city council were just too young and too inexperienced to handle such matters as Shockoe Bottom drainage, he, the mayor, felt it in the best interests of the city and the council members to take the adoption action.
My only regret is that Wilder just doesn’t adopt all city residents. He’s certainly taken it upon himself to be the father figure. If a problem needs correcting, Dad Wilder is there. And, in his own kindly way, he doesn’t want to have council members worry their pretty little heads with such issues.
Shockingly, not all city council members are happy with the adoption. But, I hear from child psychologists, or else my mechanic (I can't remember where I heard it), that some children often resent the ones who try to help them the most. I guess that's the real problem here. And I say kudos to the mayor-governor for his willingness to accept the challenge of raising such an uruly and ungracious bunch.
Being the relentless journalist, whom you know me to be, I attempted to contact several council members to ask them when they’d be moving into the Mayor’s Mansion on Belle Isle. So far, none have contacted me. But, I hear Wilder is putting in a game room for his newly adopted family. Perhaps, with the cares and worries of running a city that virtually runs itself behind them, council members can better spend their time in the mansion’s art studio designing new artist renderings of structures that will never get built. I’d like to suggest that they come up with an idea for a domed baseball stadium that doubles as a performing arts center/slave museum/NASCAR Hall of Fame when the local team isn’t playing. I think that would make a neat drawing. I think such a facility could really make it here in Richmond, especially if they served barbecue and limeades.
Interestingly, Virginia senator George Allen did have offer an opinion on the aforementioned adoption. Allen stated, “I wouldn’t want any coloreds raising me.” Later, Allen explained that when he used the word “coloreds” he was simply coining a cute cacophony of sounds, and that the word had no meaning whatsoever. When it was suggested to the senator that his remarks could be mistaken as racist, Allen expressed shock, outrage, and even a wee bit of dismay that anyone could see anything racist in his comment.
Despite the fact that recent statements by Allen, who has been considered one of the top contenders for the 2008 Republican presidential nomination, have caused an overall dip in his poll rankings, interestingly, in the near West End of Richmond, Allen’s numbers have actually gone up. Inasmuch as I know absolutely nothing about politics and care even less, I’m not in a position to explain this apparent phenomenon.
Perhaps, the now useless city council folks could spend some time coining new phrases for George Allen to throw out at political gatherings. But then again, perhaps I should just keep my ideas to myself.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Throne For a Loop
I think that if I ever decided to become a sadist, and really took the hobby seriously, I’d probably go get a job in a toilet paper manufacturing company. I’d like the job of sealing that first precious sheet of paper onto the roll.
If I were a good sadist (I mean good at what I did), I’d make that starter sheet stick so tightly to the roll that even the most seasoned bathroom-goer would go batty trying to figure out how to get the roll started.
I got hold of a sadist-produced roll this morning. It took me about two hours (or, so it seemed) to get the paper going. I got so frustrated, I was about to rip the whole roll off the wall and use it as need be. Finally after twirling the roll several dozen times, I found that there really was a starter sheet.
I was beginning to think I had found a roll that defied the laws of physics and had no beginning. I was thinking it was one of those whatchamaycallits – you know that thing that has only one side. I know at least one of you out there knows what I’m talking about. Had I not been sitting in the bathroom, I’d have been proud to make such a discovery. But there are certain times in a person’s life (two to three times a day, in my case) where one is simply not interested in scientific discovery. In fact, at those times, most normal people would rather not discover anything that was new or unusual.
Something I did discover as I had my face up against the toilet paper searching for a starting point is that toilet paper has a scent. Why? I would think that if used as intended, toilet paper would be about the last item on earth that would come anywhere close to its user's nose.
I have blown my nose on the toilet paper once or twice in my life, but I learned recently that there are special tissues just for that. I came across a KLEENEX tissue that said it contained cold medication. I swallowed three of the tissues before someone explained their proper use. I still can’t understand how blowing one’s mucus on tissue paper with cold medication in it is supposed to help.
But, back to toilet paper. I really would appreciate it if someone would explain the rationale behind scented toilet paper. I’ve smelled it before, but never knew where it was coming from, until my close encounter of a (There’s a great pun here, but I won’t use it. Maybe you can figure it out) toilet paper kind.
Actually I’ve always associated that toilet paper scent with a bathroom smell, so when I smell it, it somewhat nauseates me. At least I know now that it’s something the toilet paper people have deliberately done. I told you they are sadists.
I wonder who came up with a particular scent and then determined that it would be a great smell for toilet paper. Who makes such decisions? It’s probably the same people who come up with the scents in those horrid bathroom deodorizer sprays. I hate those smells. I don’t care if they do call them such names as Piney Pleasure or Woodsy Wafts, they give off an odor that says, “Hey, this is what a forest suffering from IBS would smell like.
Well, I guess I’ve said more than I should. But, I had all this time for reflection as I was trying to peel off the toilet paper. Maybe next time I’m on a roll, I’ll actually be on a roll.
If I were a good sadist (I mean good at what I did), I’d make that starter sheet stick so tightly to the roll that even the most seasoned bathroom-goer would go batty trying to figure out how to get the roll started.
I got hold of a sadist-produced roll this morning. It took me about two hours (or, so it seemed) to get the paper going. I got so frustrated, I was about to rip the whole roll off the wall and use it as need be. Finally after twirling the roll several dozen times, I found that there really was a starter sheet.
I was beginning to think I had found a roll that defied the laws of physics and had no beginning. I was thinking it was one of those whatchamaycallits – you know that thing that has only one side. I know at least one of you out there knows what I’m talking about. Had I not been sitting in the bathroom, I’d have been proud to make such a discovery. But there are certain times in a person’s life (two to three times a day, in my case) where one is simply not interested in scientific discovery. In fact, at those times, most normal people would rather not discover anything that was new or unusual.
Something I did discover as I had my face up against the toilet paper searching for a starting point is that toilet paper has a scent. Why? I would think that if used as intended, toilet paper would be about the last item on earth that would come anywhere close to its user's nose.
I have blown my nose on the toilet paper once or twice in my life, but I learned recently that there are special tissues just for that. I came across a KLEENEX tissue that said it contained cold medication. I swallowed three of the tissues before someone explained their proper use. I still can’t understand how blowing one’s mucus on tissue paper with cold medication in it is supposed to help.
But, back to toilet paper. I really would appreciate it if someone would explain the rationale behind scented toilet paper. I’ve smelled it before, but never knew where it was coming from, until my close encounter of a (There’s a great pun here, but I won’t use it. Maybe you can figure it out) toilet paper kind.
Actually I’ve always associated that toilet paper scent with a bathroom smell, so when I smell it, it somewhat nauseates me. At least I know now that it’s something the toilet paper people have deliberately done. I told you they are sadists.
I wonder who came up with a particular scent and then determined that it would be a great smell for toilet paper. Who makes such decisions? It’s probably the same people who come up with the scents in those horrid bathroom deodorizer sprays. I hate those smells. I don’t care if they do call them such names as Piney Pleasure or Woodsy Wafts, they give off an odor that says, “Hey, this is what a forest suffering from IBS would smell like.
Well, I guess I’ve said more than I should. But, I had all this time for reflection as I was trying to peel off the toilet paper. Maybe next time I’m on a roll, I’ll actually be on a roll.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Pluto, We Hardly Knew Ye
I’m feeling just a little sad right now. I know. I know. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions which I ought not...to jump to, that is. Maybe I’ve come to expect the worst, when indeed, the end result is not always the worst. Although most of the time in my life, even when I was expecting the second or third thing from the worst, I ended up with the worst. (I'm not talking about my wife here)
Whatever my particular emotions may be or from whence they spring, the truth is I feel like I’m losing an old friend. I, of course, am referring to my dear friend, the planet Pluto. Yes, for the time being I’ll still call Pluto a planet, although it appears that might not be the case.
Very soon a handful of scientists will make a final decision. And, if my worst fears come to fruition, it’s bye bye Pluto.
Now, admittedly, that solar body named Pluto will still exist, but once you take it away from the other planets, the real planets, if you will, it’ll never be the same. I’ve grown up saying (not constantly, but on occasion) “My Very Elderly Mother Just Stood Up Near Pluto.” What do I say now? “My Very Elderly Mother Just Stood Up Near”? It just doesn’t have the same ring.
Taking Pluto out of the planet group is the beginning of breaking up a set we’ve all come to love...as a set. It’s kinda like when the Mary Tyler Moore show ended. Sure, in the show the characters were going on to other things, but it never was the same. We saw Mr. Grant, but where were Mary and Murray, and, before we knew it Ted was dead. And he wasn’t just acting.
That’s what’s going to happen on a planetary level. First they take Pluto away and then the next thing you know, Paul Harvey will be concluding his news and opinion radio program with that last story, the cute little story about the Pluto formerly known as planet that had disintegrated. It won’t hardly be noticed, because our little friend Pluto had become so insignificant that no one cared. Sure, we’d care if a planet blew up, but Pluto, hey, who cares. It’s a nothing. A ball of ice. That’s all.
I don’t think planets should be treated that way. Who are these upstart scientists to come along and say a planet can’t be a planet?. Suppose I came along and said they couldn’t be scientists. I guess that would show ‘em a thing or two. To say Pluto can’t be a planet because it’s so insignificant compared to the other planets, would be like saying that John Rocker can’t be called a ballplayer because, hey, Babe Ruth...now that was a ballplayer.
Even if they finish up this big-wig scientists meeting and say, “Okay, we’ll still consider Pluto a planet,” the damage will have already been done. It’s already too late to un-ring this bell. From now on when you think of Pluto, you know you’ll feel differently towards him. Maybe he’s a she, because we do call earth Mother Earth. But Pluto could be the younger brother. Anyway, poor Pluto. He has a stain on his name that will never be erased.
Scientists will be whispering about him whenever scientists get together and do the things they do when they get together. “Ha ha,” they’ll laugh. “Come here, fellow scientists,” they’ll say. “Look through the telescope and look at this teeney-weeney little thing we used to call a planet.” Scientists are known for their sick sense of humor. It’s all very sad.
I, for one, will go on calling Pluto a planet, but, I know, in all reality, every time I look up in the sky and don’t see Pluto, I’ll know I’ll be not seeing what’s probably not a planet. And, somehow, I think I’ll be a little less a person for not knowing and not seeing. And that makes me sad.
Whatever my particular emotions may be or from whence they spring, the truth is I feel like I’m losing an old friend. I, of course, am referring to my dear friend, the planet Pluto. Yes, for the time being I’ll still call Pluto a planet, although it appears that might not be the case.
Very soon a handful of scientists will make a final decision. And, if my worst fears come to fruition, it’s bye bye Pluto.
Now, admittedly, that solar body named Pluto will still exist, but once you take it away from the other planets, the real planets, if you will, it’ll never be the same. I’ve grown up saying (not constantly, but on occasion) “My Very Elderly Mother Just Stood Up Near Pluto.” What do I say now? “My Very Elderly Mother Just Stood Up Near”? It just doesn’t have the same ring.
Taking Pluto out of the planet group is the beginning of breaking up a set we’ve all come to love...as a set. It’s kinda like when the Mary Tyler Moore show ended. Sure, in the show the characters were going on to other things, but it never was the same. We saw Mr. Grant, but where were Mary and Murray, and, before we knew it Ted was dead. And he wasn’t just acting.
That’s what’s going to happen on a planetary level. First they take Pluto away and then the next thing you know, Paul Harvey will be concluding his news and opinion radio program with that last story, the cute little story about the Pluto formerly known as planet that had disintegrated. It won’t hardly be noticed, because our little friend Pluto had become so insignificant that no one cared. Sure, we’d care if a planet blew up, but Pluto, hey, who cares. It’s a nothing. A ball of ice. That’s all.
I don’t think planets should be treated that way. Who are these upstart scientists to come along and say a planet can’t be a planet?. Suppose I came along and said they couldn’t be scientists. I guess that would show ‘em a thing or two. To say Pluto can’t be a planet because it’s so insignificant compared to the other planets, would be like saying that John Rocker can’t be called a ballplayer because, hey, Babe Ruth...now that was a ballplayer.
Even if they finish up this big-wig scientists meeting and say, “Okay, we’ll still consider Pluto a planet,” the damage will have already been done. It’s already too late to un-ring this bell. From now on when you think of Pluto, you know you’ll feel differently towards him. Maybe he’s a she, because we do call earth Mother Earth. But Pluto could be the younger brother. Anyway, poor Pluto. He has a stain on his name that will never be erased.
Scientists will be whispering about him whenever scientists get together and do the things they do when they get together. “Ha ha,” they’ll laugh. “Come here, fellow scientists,” they’ll say. “Look through the telescope and look at this teeney-weeney little thing we used to call a planet.” Scientists are known for their sick sense of humor. It’s all very sad.
I, for one, will go on calling Pluto a planet, but, I know, in all reality, every time I look up in the sky and don’t see Pluto, I’ll know I’ll be not seeing what’s probably not a planet. And, somehow, I think I’ll be a little less a person for not knowing and not seeing. And that makes me sad.
Plenty of Nothing
My mind is like a blank screen, a notebook with nary a single letter entered on a page. That might be nice if I didn't have to write a column. See, the truth is, nothing is coming to mind. I'm drawing blanks this morning. I'm not particularly upset about anything. Or the things that I am upset about are subjects I will never try to get a laugh out of.
So, I'm in somewhat of a quandry. I guess I could complain about cell phone voice messages. You know, when the automated voice starts giving you options. "If you want to leave a phone number, press star. If you want to send a fax, push pound. If you don't really have anything important to say, press pound and star together. If you want to send an email, press 1, and think about why you didn't just do that in the first place." Finally, after about three minutes of options, you get a beep to leave a message. But, complaints about voice messaging have been over done. I won't even bring it up.
I could mention that I bought some shampoo in one of those dollar stores. It said right on the bottle, "Great for dandruff." And boy were they right. I have more dandruff than ever. But, that's too disgusting a topic, so let's leave that alone.
Oh yeah, there is one little matter I've been wanting to bring up. It has to do with the comments I get on these little daily pieces. I like the comments. Admittedly, some of you out there have some serious mental issues. But, I think you already recognize that. I'm hoping you'll get the help you need. Regardless, don't stop commenting. The only thing that I don't like is that most of you just use "anonymous." Hey, you don't have to give me your name, address, phone number, and social security information, but can't you at least make up a name that let's me get to know you a little better?
For instance, if you're a dog lover, you could sign yourself "Mentally unbalanced." That's just a little inside joke. I don't mean it. But use a nickname of some sort.
I heard something on the radio yesterday about nicknames. According to some new book on names, people who use nicknames are viewed by others as being friendlier, more approachable. Maybe that's why no one likes me. I don't have a really cool nickname. Some people say "Steve" is a nickname. To that I reply, that's stupid. "Steve" is a shortened version of my name, Herbert. But it's not a nickname.
I need a good nickname. From now on, could you refer to me by my new nickname - Buster. Or, should it be Sluggo. I always liked Sluggo in the Nancy comic strip. No, wait, how about Steve-arino? That kind of says my name, but also says "Steve is a friendly approachable guy" at the same time.
Maybe I should have a nickname that tells you a little about myself. What do you think of Big Boy? No, that reminds me of that freakish statue that used to be outside Shoney's. That kid really let himself go.
Speaking of kids letting themselves go, whatever happened to Jared on Subway. Now they have John Lovitz. He's really one over-the-hill has been. I bet Jared let himself go. I bet he went off the Subway wagon and is now blimping out. Or else, the Subway diet finally killed him. But that's just my guess.
Anyway, I still haven't come up with anything to write about. So until I do, this is Buster Cook saying, "Good Day!"
So, I'm in somewhat of a quandry. I guess I could complain about cell phone voice messages. You know, when the automated voice starts giving you options. "If you want to leave a phone number, press star. If you want to send a fax, push pound. If you don't really have anything important to say, press pound and star together. If you want to send an email, press 1, and think about why you didn't just do that in the first place." Finally, after about three minutes of options, you get a beep to leave a message. But, complaints about voice messaging have been over done. I won't even bring it up.
I could mention that I bought some shampoo in one of those dollar stores. It said right on the bottle, "Great for dandruff." And boy were they right. I have more dandruff than ever. But, that's too disgusting a topic, so let's leave that alone.
Oh yeah, there is one little matter I've been wanting to bring up. It has to do with the comments I get on these little daily pieces. I like the comments. Admittedly, some of you out there have some serious mental issues. But, I think you already recognize that. I'm hoping you'll get the help you need. Regardless, don't stop commenting. The only thing that I don't like is that most of you just use "anonymous." Hey, you don't have to give me your name, address, phone number, and social security information, but can't you at least make up a name that let's me get to know you a little better?
For instance, if you're a dog lover, you could sign yourself "Mentally unbalanced." That's just a little inside joke. I don't mean it. But use a nickname of some sort.
I heard something on the radio yesterday about nicknames. According to some new book on names, people who use nicknames are viewed by others as being friendlier, more approachable. Maybe that's why no one likes me. I don't have a really cool nickname. Some people say "Steve" is a nickname. To that I reply, that's stupid. "Steve" is a shortened version of my name, Herbert. But it's not a nickname.
I need a good nickname. From now on, could you refer to me by my new nickname - Buster. Or, should it be Sluggo. I always liked Sluggo in the Nancy comic strip. No, wait, how about Steve-arino? That kind of says my name, but also says "Steve is a friendly approachable guy" at the same time.
Maybe I should have a nickname that tells you a little about myself. What do you think of Big Boy? No, that reminds me of that freakish statue that used to be outside Shoney's. That kid really let himself go.
Speaking of kids letting themselves go, whatever happened to Jared on Subway. Now they have John Lovitz. He's really one over-the-hill has been. I bet Jared let himself go. I bet he went off the Subway wagon and is now blimping out. Or else, the Subway diet finally killed him. But that's just my guess.
Anyway, I still haven't come up with anything to write about. So until I do, this is Buster Cook saying, "Good Day!"
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Save Big When You Read This Column
The one thing I especially admire about myself is that no matter how high I fly…no matter how successful I become, I’ve never lost touch with the little people. You know who I’m talking about…those people who really don’t matter much at all, and yet, in their own special way are so very…well, so very special.
True, I work for a powerful magazine publisher. I drive a 1994 Saturn. I shop at the S&K Crazy Warehouse for most of my clothing. My shoes are the very best pair of $15.00 shoes that Walmart has to offer. And yet, I’m still, in so many ways, just one of the common folk.
So, to demonstrate my “every-day-sort-of-guy-who-happens-to-love-hyphens” persona, I’ve gone to the trouble of preparing what I like to call, “Steve’s Handy Guide to Economizing.”
“What does a successful guy like you, Steve, know about economizing,” you’re thinking, while, at the same time, I’m wondering if you put thoughts in quotation marks. But, anyhow, I think you’ll find by the time you finish reading my guide, that there’s quite a bit I know about saving money. So, without further ado (you may want to print this out and keep it with you at all times), here’s my guide:
1) Save money by using over-the-counter medications as food. Why? Because there’s no tax on medicine. Clever, eh? For instance, rather than expensive chocolates, try Exlax. They offer a rich, chocolatey pill that could rival the finest Swedish chocolates. OH YEAH, THE DISCLAIMER – I’M NOT A DOCTOR. DO NOT DO ANYTHING I SAY. NOW BACK TO THE GUIDE. – For a fruity little treat, Tums and Rolaids tablets are great. And those Tums chewables will delightfully melt right in your mouth. If you’re serving ice cream, don’t waste precious tax dollars on syrup. Use Pepto Bismol. One warning – it can cause some darkening of the stools, and I’m not talking about your dining room furniture.
2) Many people waste money by filling their entire toothbrush with toothpaste. Go only half the way, a demi-squiggle if you will. You really can’t tell any discernable difference and you’ll save big on toothpaste.
3) While we’re on hygiene, I’ve found that I can get by on using deodorant every other day. Now, you may already know that, but here’s the big secret, use the deodorant under your left arm one day and your right arm the next. Alternate every day. That way, if you really do work up a stink, you can simply make sure you stand next to other people on your “today’s pit” side. Even if people think you stink, you can let them smell the good pit to convince them that the odor must be coming from someone else in the room.
4) The last suggestion is one that I found helps get me over the hump when the funds run low and that is…Ignore your bills. You recognize them when they come in the mail. Just throw them away. Don’t open them. There may be verbiage in the letter that will only hurt your feelings. And, when bill collectors call, simply tell them you’re dead. Works like a charm.
Well, these are my tips for today. Perhaps you’d like to share some of your own. And, if you find these helpful, let me know. I’ll share some others with you some day. Well, I gotta run. It’s time for the Saturn’s 12,000 mile oil change.
True, I work for a powerful magazine publisher. I drive a 1994 Saturn. I shop at the S&K Crazy Warehouse for most of my clothing. My shoes are the very best pair of $15.00 shoes that Walmart has to offer. And yet, I’m still, in so many ways, just one of the common folk.
So, to demonstrate my “every-day-sort-of-guy-who-happens-to-love-hyphens” persona, I’ve gone to the trouble of preparing what I like to call, “Steve’s Handy Guide to Economizing.”
“What does a successful guy like you, Steve, know about economizing,” you’re thinking, while, at the same time, I’m wondering if you put thoughts in quotation marks. But, anyhow, I think you’ll find by the time you finish reading my guide, that there’s quite a bit I know about saving money. So, without further ado (you may want to print this out and keep it with you at all times), here’s my guide:
1) Save money by using over-the-counter medications as food. Why? Because there’s no tax on medicine. Clever, eh? For instance, rather than expensive chocolates, try Exlax. They offer a rich, chocolatey pill that could rival the finest Swedish chocolates. OH YEAH, THE DISCLAIMER – I’M NOT A DOCTOR. DO NOT DO ANYTHING I SAY. NOW BACK TO THE GUIDE. – For a fruity little treat, Tums and Rolaids tablets are great. And those Tums chewables will delightfully melt right in your mouth. If you’re serving ice cream, don’t waste precious tax dollars on syrup. Use Pepto Bismol. One warning – it can cause some darkening of the stools, and I’m not talking about your dining room furniture.
2) Many people waste money by filling their entire toothbrush with toothpaste. Go only half the way, a demi-squiggle if you will. You really can’t tell any discernable difference and you’ll save big on toothpaste.
3) While we’re on hygiene, I’ve found that I can get by on using deodorant every other day. Now, you may already know that, but here’s the big secret, use the deodorant under your left arm one day and your right arm the next. Alternate every day. That way, if you really do work up a stink, you can simply make sure you stand next to other people on your “today’s pit” side. Even if people think you stink, you can let them smell the good pit to convince them that the odor must be coming from someone else in the room.
4) The last suggestion is one that I found helps get me over the hump when the funds run low and that is…Ignore your bills. You recognize them when they come in the mail. Just throw them away. Don’t open them. There may be verbiage in the letter that will only hurt your feelings. And, when bill collectors call, simply tell them you’re dead. Works like a charm.
Well, these are my tips for today. Perhaps you’d like to share some of your own. And, if you find these helpful, let me know. I’ll share some others with you some day. Well, I gotta run. It’s time for the Saturn’s 12,000 mile oil change.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
It's a Bird, It's a Plane, No, I Was Right the First Time
You know, when scientists announced that they had frozen mouse sperm for up to fifteen years and then thawed it out and used it to fertilize a little mousie egg, I wasn't all that concerned. I figured that they (they, being the scientists, not the mice) had better things to do. After all, mice seem to reproduce relatively well on their own, and I couldn't see any real reason to go around helping mice to make more mice.
Besides, and this may be from growing up watching the Mickey Mouse Club, I tend to think fertilizing eggs in the laboratory takes some of the rodent romance away. Who can forget Muskrat Love, by Captain and Tenille?
I've seen the way Mickey looks at Minnie, and his eyes aren't saying go get the test tube, if you get my drift. Hmmm, I'm just wondering. Did they ever tie the knot? I'm assuming so.
But anyway, if scientists want to freeze mouse sperm, I've always been the first to say, "Let them do it." But, now, they're carrying things just a bit too far. I guess you've spent a sleepless night or two recently, as have I, just thinking about what those sperm-freezing scientists are up to now.
I, of course, am talking about their exploring the possibility of thawing out the sperm of wooly mammoths, which have been found buried in the permafrost of Siberia. I think it's Siberia. It could be Minneapolis, but I don't think so.
Anyway the scientists want to take that wooly mammoth sperm, inject it in the egg of an Asian elephant and get an animal that would be 50% wooly mammoth.
First of all, I say the Asians are having enough problems right now without their elephants running around giving birth to prehistoric creatures. If China will only allow human couples to have one child, why would they let their elephants start producing wooly mammoths?
I think, and admittedly this shows the softer side of Steve Cook, but I think that the world would be better off with a few more Chinese children than even one wooly mammoth. I mean, really. We've all seen Jurassic Park. Do you want dinosaurs and those pterodactyls back here on earth? I think there's a good reason those birds were extinct before windshields came along. And forget hanging the laundry on the line to dry.
But, if scientists have their way, I'm predicting we'll have a wooly mammoth invasion within the next month or two. I'll be the first to tell you that I'm not the brightest bulb in the...whatever bulbs are in...so my prediction could be off by a week or two, but you just better wake up and smell the pterodactyl droppings and stop science before it's too late.
I think we should have a year or two moratorium on scientists doing anything. We pretty much have everything we need. Oh yeah, I think those guys who are working on 3-D televisions should be allowed to keep that up, but other than that, there's really nothing that man needs right now. We sure don't need a wooly mammoth.
At least that's this man's opinion. Anyone care to disagree?
Besides, and this may be from growing up watching the Mickey Mouse Club, I tend to think fertilizing eggs in the laboratory takes some of the rodent romance away. Who can forget Muskrat Love, by Captain and Tenille?
I've seen the way Mickey looks at Minnie, and his eyes aren't saying go get the test tube, if you get my drift. Hmmm, I'm just wondering. Did they ever tie the knot? I'm assuming so.
But anyway, if scientists want to freeze mouse sperm, I've always been the first to say, "Let them do it." But, now, they're carrying things just a bit too far. I guess you've spent a sleepless night or two recently, as have I, just thinking about what those sperm-freezing scientists are up to now.
I, of course, am talking about their exploring the possibility of thawing out the sperm of wooly mammoths, which have been found buried in the permafrost of Siberia. I think it's Siberia. It could be Minneapolis, but I don't think so.
Anyway the scientists want to take that wooly mammoth sperm, inject it in the egg of an Asian elephant and get an animal that would be 50% wooly mammoth.
First of all, I say the Asians are having enough problems right now without their elephants running around giving birth to prehistoric creatures. If China will only allow human couples to have one child, why would they let their elephants start producing wooly mammoths?
I think, and admittedly this shows the softer side of Steve Cook, but I think that the world would be better off with a few more Chinese children than even one wooly mammoth. I mean, really. We've all seen Jurassic Park. Do you want dinosaurs and those pterodactyls back here on earth? I think there's a good reason those birds were extinct before windshields came along. And forget hanging the laundry on the line to dry.
But, if scientists have their way, I'm predicting we'll have a wooly mammoth invasion within the next month or two. I'll be the first to tell you that I'm not the brightest bulb in the...whatever bulbs are in...so my prediction could be off by a week or two, but you just better wake up and smell the pterodactyl droppings and stop science before it's too late.
I think we should have a year or two moratorium on scientists doing anything. We pretty much have everything we need. Oh yeah, I think those guys who are working on 3-D televisions should be allowed to keep that up, but other than that, there's really nothing that man needs right now. We sure don't need a wooly mammoth.
At least that's this man's opinion. Anyone care to disagree?
Monday, August 14, 2006
The Devil Wears Thin
Sometimes I’m just too nice for my own good. Take this Saturday night as an example. My wife, who had worked all day, calls me on the way home and asks if I want to go see a movie. Even though I really wanted to watch the Atlanta Braves lose a game on TV, and, even though I have never had sensitivity training, I replied, “Sure, that sounds great.”
I used to love going to the movies, but nowadays, it’s just a matter, generally of paying close to ten dollars to have someone cuss at me. I can get that free all day every day. But, there are a few good movies out right now, so I figured what the hey. This could be fun.
“What do you want to see?” I asked ever so kindly. “Talladega Nights?” I hear that’s pretty good. I’m hoping she won’t say the one movie I have absolutely no interest in seeing – “The Devil Wears Prada.
“Then there’s World Trade Center,” I say. “I hear that’s really good. My wife still hasn’t responded and I’m hoping she has forgotten about The Devil Wears Prada. She had mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, but I’m thinking and hoping she has changed her mind.
I almost mentioned The Ant Bully, but I have my principles and one of them is that I won’t pay that much money to watch a cartoon. But, please, I’m thinking, not The Devil, anything but The Devil.
“We could see Superman Returns again,” I say, rather half-heartedly. I know she won’t go for that.
“How about we go see,” she says,(and I’m thinking not The Devil, please not The Devil), “The Devil Wears Prada.”
I shriek, but only to myself. “Sure, that’ll be great,” I lie. And so, off we go to see The Devil Wears Prada. On the way to our screen (if that’s the word) we pass Talladega Nights and The World Trade Center. I look at each door to these screens longingly. But, as the great husband I am, I don’t sigh, I don’t whimper. I just march right in to the Devil room and take a seat. To add insult to injury, they’re showing previews of World Trade Center before The Devil starts.
Anyway, I sit there and watch the movie. And, you know what? Even though I thought it would be a bad movie, in reality, it was a horrible movie.
Now, I’m a macho sort of guy, but I won’t use the term “Chick Flick.” I love the Lifetime Channel. I could watch it all day, so chick flicks can be pretty good. This was just a bad movie. Even my wife hated it.
For starters, there were no really likeable characters. I mean none. Stanley Tucci’s character was the best, but not the sort of guy I’d want to spend any time with.
Meryl Streep was merely playing the non-animated version of her role as Cruella De Vil. Of course, she was using her other name, Glenn Close, when she did that role. The female lead, I don’t remember her name and it wasn’t worth looking up, was such a poor actress, she did everything but turn to the camera and wave.
There was absolutely no chemistry between anyone. Timothy Leary himself couldn’t have added enough chemistry to make this thing work. By the time the movie was over, I could not have cared less who, if anyone, she ended up with. Her boyfriend was a totally uninteresting, unappealing character.
He pouts because she doesn’t make it to his birthday party. What? Is he six-years old?
And the other guy who is trying to steal her away offers nothing to the movie. There were no characters whom you’d really like to get to know.
The only good thing about the way the movie ended was that it ended. I’m not a movie critic, but I think I’ve written some pretty good stuff here. I’d consider turning this column into a movie review page, but that would mean I’d have to watch all the tripe they’re putting out these days. And, I’m willing to bet that there are even worse movies than The Devil out there. I just hope my wife doesn’t hear about them.
I used to love going to the movies, but nowadays, it’s just a matter, generally of paying close to ten dollars to have someone cuss at me. I can get that free all day every day. But, there are a few good movies out right now, so I figured what the hey. This could be fun.
“What do you want to see?” I asked ever so kindly. “Talladega Nights?” I hear that’s pretty good. I’m hoping she won’t say the one movie I have absolutely no interest in seeing – “The Devil Wears Prada.
“Then there’s World Trade Center,” I say. “I hear that’s really good. My wife still hasn’t responded and I’m hoping she has forgotten about The Devil Wears Prada. She had mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, but I’m thinking and hoping she has changed her mind.
I almost mentioned The Ant Bully, but I have my principles and one of them is that I won’t pay that much money to watch a cartoon. But, please, I’m thinking, not The Devil, anything but The Devil.
“We could see Superman Returns again,” I say, rather half-heartedly. I know she won’t go for that.
“How about we go see,” she says,(and I’m thinking not The Devil, please not The Devil), “The Devil Wears Prada.”
I shriek, but only to myself. “Sure, that’ll be great,” I lie. And so, off we go to see The Devil Wears Prada. On the way to our screen (if that’s the word) we pass Talladega Nights and The World Trade Center. I look at each door to these screens longingly. But, as the great husband I am, I don’t sigh, I don’t whimper. I just march right in to the Devil room and take a seat. To add insult to injury, they’re showing previews of World Trade Center before The Devil starts.
Anyway, I sit there and watch the movie. And, you know what? Even though I thought it would be a bad movie, in reality, it was a horrible movie.
Now, I’m a macho sort of guy, but I won’t use the term “Chick Flick.” I love the Lifetime Channel. I could watch it all day, so chick flicks can be pretty good. This was just a bad movie. Even my wife hated it.
For starters, there were no really likeable characters. I mean none. Stanley Tucci’s character was the best, but not the sort of guy I’d want to spend any time with.
Meryl Streep was merely playing the non-animated version of her role as Cruella De Vil. Of course, she was using her other name, Glenn Close, when she did that role. The female lead, I don’t remember her name and it wasn’t worth looking up, was such a poor actress, she did everything but turn to the camera and wave.
There was absolutely no chemistry between anyone. Timothy Leary himself couldn’t have added enough chemistry to make this thing work. By the time the movie was over, I could not have cared less who, if anyone, she ended up with. Her boyfriend was a totally uninteresting, unappealing character.
He pouts because she doesn’t make it to his birthday party. What? Is he six-years old?
And the other guy who is trying to steal her away offers nothing to the movie. There were no characters whom you’d really like to get to know.
The only good thing about the way the movie ended was that it ended. I’m not a movie critic, but I think I’ve written some pretty good stuff here. I’d consider turning this column into a movie review page, but that would mean I’d have to watch all the tripe they’re putting out these days. And, I’m willing to bet that there are even worse movies than The Devil out there. I just hope my wife doesn’t hear about them.
Friday, August 11, 2006
To Errrrrrrrr is Human - by Becky Robinette Wright
Becky Wright is our normally sane writer for Chesterfield Living Magazine. Today, however, she's just a tad bit upset. I've invited her to use this space to vent. So, here goes:
Errrrrrr,errrrrrr,errrrrrr… no, that’s not the sound of my klunker trying to start in the torrents of a rainstorm or in a winter wind howling with huge drifts of snow blowing in mounds around me. It’s not the sound of my klunker after a blistering journey across the desert heaving its last sigh.
Please excuse me, I’m growling, not something I usually do in public.
Do you have any personal Pet Peeves? Just for the record here are a few of mine. 1)Telemarketers. 2)Telemarketers. 3)Telemarketers. 4)Calling a business and a computer answers. 5)Calling a business and being put on hold by a machine. 6)Telemarketers. 7)Telemarketers who call extremely early or late.
This morning, on a rare occasion I wasn't up yet, the phone rings...Loudly.I wasn't ready for loudly yet. Because of the time frame I figured it was one of my kids and jumped up to answer. Caller ID said unknown, I should have picked up on not to answer.
As a victim suffering from Sleep Deprivation from Overworkation,I answered. Besides, you just never know. What if one of the kids has broken down, the cell phone is in a dead zone and who knows what else they could be challenged with? My offspring could be using someone else's phone...parental instincts kick in and I answer anyway.
Telemarketers have risen to a new low.
Stifling a yawn, trying to unstick my eyes, I answer.
Me:"Hello?"
Them: Thank you for calling so and so....all of our customer service representatives are busy, please hold.
Me: PLEASE HOLD?????? They called me!! And it was a computer voice no less (unless now we have women who speak with a electronic accent).Please hold???
Oh,I was going to hold okay, for this call anyway. When the living, breathing human finally came to the phone we had a little "discussion" on their selling tactics. I'll leave it at that.
Errrrrrrrrrr...now where is that bed???
Errrrrrr,errrrrrr,errrrrrr… no, that’s not the sound of my klunker trying to start in the torrents of a rainstorm or in a winter wind howling with huge drifts of snow blowing in mounds around me. It’s not the sound of my klunker after a blistering journey across the desert heaving its last sigh.
Please excuse me, I’m growling, not something I usually do in public.
Do you have any personal Pet Peeves? Just for the record here are a few of mine. 1)Telemarketers. 2)Telemarketers. 3)Telemarketers. 4)Calling a business and a computer answers. 5)Calling a business and being put on hold by a machine. 6)Telemarketers. 7)Telemarketers who call extremely early or late.
This morning, on a rare occasion I wasn't up yet, the phone rings...Loudly.I wasn't ready for loudly yet. Because of the time frame I figured it was one of my kids and jumped up to answer. Caller ID said unknown, I should have picked up on not to answer.
As a victim suffering from Sleep Deprivation from Overworkation,I answered. Besides, you just never know. What if one of the kids has broken down, the cell phone is in a dead zone and who knows what else they could be challenged with? My offspring could be using someone else's phone...parental instincts kick in and I answer anyway.
Telemarketers have risen to a new low.
Stifling a yawn, trying to unstick my eyes, I answer.
Me:"Hello?"
Them: Thank you for calling so and so....all of our customer service representatives are busy, please hold.
Me: PLEASE HOLD?????? They called me!! And it was a computer voice no less (unless now we have women who speak with a electronic accent).Please hold???
Oh,I was going to hold okay, for this call anyway. When the living, breathing human finally came to the phone we had a little "discussion" on their selling tactics. I'll leave it at that.
Errrrrrrrrrr...now where is that bed???
Something's In the Air
I really don't have the time nor the energy to solve all the world's problems. But, somehow I muddle through. Now we have this terrorist thing going on. And, I have the solution. I don't say this in an arrogant, yes-I-know-it-all, sort of way. Although, perhaps I should. Then, maybe folks would sit up and listen.
I've passed along my suggestions before and no one, and I mean no one, has paid any attention. But, being the public-spirited sort of guy I am, I'm going to say this one more time. The solution to the misuse of aircraft by terrorists can be summed up in 5 words (including a hyphenated one) - Colorless, odorless, non-toxic, knockout gas. There! I've said it again. Maybe someone will wake up and smell the odorless gas this time and realize that I know that of which I speak.
If all airlines would simply make it their modus operandi (I think I'm close on this latin) to fill the cabin with the gas, think of all the benefits that could be realized, and I'm not talking about just ending terrorism as we know it today.
I spent 16 hours crammed into a window seat during my fabulous trip to China. How I would have preferred to have been sedated and awakened just moments before touchdown.
The airlines would save millions on peanuts alone. They could cut down on the number of stewardesses. Yes, I know they want to be called flight attendants these days. I know they hate being addressed, "Oh stewardess," especially the guys (most of 'em anyway), that is exactly why I call them stewardesses, but I'll save this one for another day.
Think about it. You need probably fifteen stewardesses on those big international 747 flights. If all the passengers were comatose, you could probably get by with just a couple. I think in first-class you could offer catheters, where coach class passenger would just get a Depends. That way you wouldn't lose your first-class revenue. Admittedly, there are a few kinks to be worked out here, but I can't do everything.
There'd be no unruly children running through the aisles, and those formerly screaming babies would be sleeping like babies. That alone should be enough reason to knock out the passengers. You could also probably squeeze a fourth person into those three people rows. So there's some extra money for the airlines right there.
Listen to me people. This is a win-win situation.
No need for headsets, movies, magazines. No trash to pick up. No drunks. No lines waiting to use those teeney-weeney restrooms. And, who wants to take a seat in a room where a drunk being jostled in the air has just visited? I think you get the picture.
Airline sedation could become a whole new industry unto itself. More people would fly, especially those who are terrified of flying. Just imagine the scenario. The head stewardess gets on the P.A. system and says, "Welcome aboard Sleepy Time Airlines. Don't worry about life jackets or oxygen masks because you won't need them, and even if you do, you'll never know it. It doesn't really matter how high we'll be flying and of course there will be no in-flight...." By that point the passengers are out. The plane takes off and all is well.
I can see this idea taking off as well. Who knows, it may become so popular that airline seating as we know it today will become non-existent. The passengers could actually be sedated right at baggage check. They could become part of the baggage themselves.
Before you know it, non-traditional air service will be available, bringing the cost of a ticket even lower. I bet within a year or two, FedEx would be offering a "Passenger as Freight Package," with a special envelope to stuff yourself in. Oh, yeah. FedEx shipping people. Never mind.
I've passed along my suggestions before and no one, and I mean no one, has paid any attention. But, being the public-spirited sort of guy I am, I'm going to say this one more time. The solution to the misuse of aircraft by terrorists can be summed up in 5 words (including a hyphenated one) - Colorless, odorless, non-toxic, knockout gas. There! I've said it again. Maybe someone will wake up and smell the odorless gas this time and realize that I know that of which I speak.
If all airlines would simply make it their modus operandi (I think I'm close on this latin) to fill the cabin with the gas, think of all the benefits that could be realized, and I'm not talking about just ending terrorism as we know it today.
I spent 16 hours crammed into a window seat during my fabulous trip to China. How I would have preferred to have been sedated and awakened just moments before touchdown.
The airlines would save millions on peanuts alone. They could cut down on the number of stewardesses. Yes, I know they want to be called flight attendants these days. I know they hate being addressed, "Oh stewardess," especially the guys (most of 'em anyway), that is exactly why I call them stewardesses, but I'll save this one for another day.
Think about it. You need probably fifteen stewardesses on those big international 747 flights. If all the passengers were comatose, you could probably get by with just a couple. I think in first-class you could offer catheters, where coach class passenger would just get a Depends. That way you wouldn't lose your first-class revenue. Admittedly, there are a few kinks to be worked out here, but I can't do everything.
There'd be no unruly children running through the aisles, and those formerly screaming babies would be sleeping like babies. That alone should be enough reason to knock out the passengers. You could also probably squeeze a fourth person into those three people rows. So there's some extra money for the airlines right there.
Listen to me people. This is a win-win situation.
No need for headsets, movies, magazines. No trash to pick up. No drunks. No lines waiting to use those teeney-weeney restrooms. And, who wants to take a seat in a room where a drunk being jostled in the air has just visited? I think you get the picture.
Airline sedation could become a whole new industry unto itself. More people would fly, especially those who are terrified of flying. Just imagine the scenario. The head stewardess gets on the P.A. system and says, "Welcome aboard Sleepy Time Airlines. Don't worry about life jackets or oxygen masks because you won't need them, and even if you do, you'll never know it. It doesn't really matter how high we'll be flying and of course there will be no in-flight...." By that point the passengers are out. The plane takes off and all is well.
I can see this idea taking off as well. Who knows, it may become so popular that airline seating as we know it today will become non-existent. The passengers could actually be sedated right at baggage check. They could become part of the baggage themselves.
Before you know it, non-traditional air service will be available, bringing the cost of a ticket even lower. I bet within a year or two, FedEx would be offering a "Passenger as Freight Package," with a special envelope to stuff yourself in. Oh, yeah. FedEx shipping people. Never mind.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
You Bored Me With Hello
My wife thinks I talk too much. Well, maybe not too much, but that I'm just too boring. When I'm in a crowd of her friends, I am able to regale them with tales of my youth. She thinks my joke about my having just learned how to adjust the rabbit ears on the TV dates me...makes me look like an old man, as it were. She says I remind her of those blathering old men who don't know when to shut up.
I don't get mad at my wife when she says those things. I just pity her. She doesn't grasp the subtle nuances of my repartee. Silly girl...she thinks I'm boring. Or could it be that she's just a little too jealous that her friends think I'm a clever sort of guy? Either way, there's no need for me to get angry.
On the other hand, there are many people I know...even work with, who do talk too much. They aren't able to just answer a simple question and move on. You ask them how they're doing, and instead of saying, "Fine," they proceed to actually tell you how they're doing. Hey people, if I wanted to know how you were doing, I'd ask you. I mean I'd ask you in a way that showed I really cared.
For the life of me, I cannot understand why some people (no, not just women - you misogynists really irritate me sometimes) seem to feel that my only purpose in coming to work is to sit and listen to them tell me each day's episode of their rather drab life. Again, if I were interested in knowing every little detail, I would definitely convey my interest to you.
I think one of the really big evils in today's world is cell phones. Used to be we'd get a little break from these chatterboxes (no, not necessarily women. stop thinking that) when they were in their cars. Nowadays riding in the car just gives them more time to call me up and drone on and on.
It's not that I don't like people. It's not that I'm just one sour-dispositioned old man. It's not that I don't enjoy a good conversation, but for the most part, for most people, I have just one simple credo - SHUT UP. Is that really asking too much?
However, if you have had a fascinating experience, or if your life, like mine, is filled with truly amazing and amusing antecdotes, then that's a different story.
I, for one, can tell you some tales...true life experiences, that will have you rolling on the floor, or as they say in the AOL offices "ROFL." Well, they used to say that. Now they say, "IJGFSINDML," which, basically means, "I just got fired so I'm not doing much laughing."
I'm reminded of a time back in the third grade, when Mrs. Webster asked me to...hold on, I don't have time right now, but send me your phone number and when I get in the car, I'll give you a buzz and share this story. You're going to love it.
I don't get mad at my wife when she says those things. I just pity her. She doesn't grasp the subtle nuances of my repartee. Silly girl...she thinks I'm boring. Or could it be that she's just a little too jealous that her friends think I'm a clever sort of guy? Either way, there's no need for me to get angry.
On the other hand, there are many people I know...even work with, who do talk too much. They aren't able to just answer a simple question and move on. You ask them how they're doing, and instead of saying, "Fine," they proceed to actually tell you how they're doing. Hey people, if I wanted to know how you were doing, I'd ask you. I mean I'd ask you in a way that showed I really cared.
For the life of me, I cannot understand why some people (no, not just women - you misogynists really irritate me sometimes) seem to feel that my only purpose in coming to work is to sit and listen to them tell me each day's episode of their rather drab life. Again, if I were interested in knowing every little detail, I would definitely convey my interest to you.
I think one of the really big evils in today's world is cell phones. Used to be we'd get a little break from these chatterboxes (no, not necessarily women. stop thinking that) when they were in their cars. Nowadays riding in the car just gives them more time to call me up and drone on and on.
It's not that I don't like people. It's not that I'm just one sour-dispositioned old man. It's not that I don't enjoy a good conversation, but for the most part, for most people, I have just one simple credo - SHUT UP. Is that really asking too much?
However, if you have had a fascinating experience, or if your life, like mine, is filled with truly amazing and amusing antecdotes, then that's a different story.
I, for one, can tell you some tales...true life experiences, that will have you rolling on the floor, or as they say in the AOL offices "ROFL." Well, they used to say that. Now they say, "IJGFSINDML," which, basically means, "I just got fired so I'm not doing much laughing."
I'm reminded of a time back in the third grade, when Mrs. Webster asked me to...hold on, I don't have time right now, but send me your phone number and when I get in the car, I'll give you a buzz and share this story. You're going to love it.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Striking a Happy Medias Show
Well, for those of you who have been anxiously waiting to hear, I'm happy to report that FedEx found our Plinko game. Were our salespeople ever relieved! It's a lot easier to show someone how to drop chips down a Plinko board than to ask that same person if he or she wants to buy an ad.
For those of you just joining us, I don't feel like repeating myself. Go back and read yesterday's blog. But, for those of you too lazy to do that, I'll just briefly say that we were at the Richmond Media show at the convention center yesterday.
Now, I'm not one to complain, but some of the exhibitors had some pretty lame exhibits.
Kudos to the radio station that did exactly what we did last year. I guess next year you'll have a tiki hut and a Plinko game. You know who you are. And to the folks in the booth that had an electronic sign reading, "We offer a variety of advertising medias," go back to Latin class, or is that Greek. I know it's not Spanish.
One booth, promoting an exciting new advertising venue, had an attractive, hand-lettered (no, make that hand-scribbled) sign that read, "For more imfo call 555-5555." I made up the number, so if you want more imformation, don't bother to dial. Now, not only am I not one to complain, I'm definitely not one to make fun of stupid people, but really, these folks are supposed to be advertising experts and they can't even spell "info."
I feel that our company went the extra mile to produce an interesting, entertaining exhibit. I mean, when you have Plinko, what more could one possibly want, but some of the advertising "giants" in the Richmond area did little more than set up a card table with a few photocopies of imfo sheets...excuse me, info sheets.
One local TV station had, as the centerpiece of their booth, a big bowl of M&Ms. Okay, I have to admit, they may have been Skittles. But, who, in their right mind, is going to plunge a hand in to a bowl that hundreds of other hands (which you don't know where they may have been) have plunged into for a big sweaty wad of candy? I know it sounds tempting.
I think Gene Cox was at the show, but it could have been a wax likeness of the venerable newscaster. I don't think so, though, it looked to lifelike to be wax.
I was hoping Mac Watson would have been there. He could have found plenty of stuff to make fun of, and he does it so much better than I do. I'm just too nice. That's something Watson will never be accused of. But Clear Channel didn't send any personalities, just salespeople, who, as you probably know, are the very antithesis of personality.
Now, I'm not suggesting that there weren't any other interesting booths at the show. One advertising agency had little bottles of what looked like Jack Daniels. That was nice. I'm guessing it's really honey in the bottle. Hold on. I'll find out.
Well, now, I'm going to do all my shopping at that agency. It's the real stuff. I gotta run. This typing has worked up a mighty thirst, and I'd better go quench it.
For those of you just joining us, I don't feel like repeating myself. Go back and read yesterday's blog. But, for those of you too lazy to do that, I'll just briefly say that we were at the Richmond Media show at the convention center yesterday.
Now, I'm not one to complain, but some of the exhibitors had some pretty lame exhibits.
Kudos to the radio station that did exactly what we did last year. I guess next year you'll have a tiki hut and a Plinko game. You know who you are. And to the folks in the booth that had an electronic sign reading, "We offer a variety of advertising medias," go back to Latin class, or is that Greek. I know it's not Spanish.
One booth, promoting an exciting new advertising venue, had an attractive, hand-lettered (no, make that hand-scribbled) sign that read, "For more imfo call 555-5555." I made up the number, so if you want more imformation, don't bother to dial. Now, not only am I not one to complain, I'm definitely not one to make fun of stupid people, but really, these folks are supposed to be advertising experts and they can't even spell "info."
I feel that our company went the extra mile to produce an interesting, entertaining exhibit. I mean, when you have Plinko, what more could one possibly want, but some of the advertising "giants" in the Richmond area did little more than set up a card table with a few photocopies of imfo sheets...excuse me, info sheets.
One local TV station had, as the centerpiece of their booth, a big bowl of M&Ms. Okay, I have to admit, they may have been Skittles. But, who, in their right mind, is going to plunge a hand in to a bowl that hundreds of other hands (which you don't know where they may have been) have plunged into for a big sweaty wad of candy? I know it sounds tempting.
I think Gene Cox was at the show, but it could have been a wax likeness of the venerable newscaster. I don't think so, though, it looked to lifelike to be wax.
I was hoping Mac Watson would have been there. He could have found plenty of stuff to make fun of, and he does it so much better than I do. I'm just too nice. That's something Watson will never be accused of. But Clear Channel didn't send any personalities, just salespeople, who, as you probably know, are the very antithesis of personality.
Now, I'm not suggesting that there weren't any other interesting booths at the show. One advertising agency had little bottles of what looked like Jack Daniels. That was nice. I'm guessing it's really honey in the bottle. Hold on. I'll find out.
Well, now, I'm going to do all my shopping at that agency. It's the real stuff. I gotta run. This typing has worked up a mighty thirst, and I'd better go quench it.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
When You Absolutely, Positively Don't Need It
Well, today is a big day for Advertising Concepts - the parent company of our two magazines. We’re participating in a media show at the Richmond Convention Center. We have worked for months to produce a (we feel) top-notch exhibit.
We ordered a custom-made Plinko game, because nothing says “buy advertising from us” like a good game of Plinko. Everyone in the office has been on a Plinko-high, just anticipating the arrival of our Plinko game.
But, alas, thanks to FedEx, it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. They’ve lost it. They won’t say so. It’s just been on their truck here in Richmond since Friday morning, but they can’t get in touch with their driver. I think I’d call 9-1-1 if I were they, but, they seem about as concerned about their driver as they are about our Plinko game.
One thing FedEx does well is apologize. But, after speaking with about a dozen FedEx employees, I’ve learned to translate. When they say, “I’m sorry,” they mean, “I’m not the least bit sorry.” When they say, “I’m very sorry,” they mean, “Hey, I’ll say ‘I’m sorry’ again if that makes you feel better, but I couldn’t care less.”
But, when you finally reach a customer advocate, you’ve reached the creme de la crap. They’ll tell you, “I certainly apologize for that,” which means, “Evidently saying ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t enough to get you to go away.”
Of course, not all of their people are so well trained. There’s this guy named Patrick who is some sort of supervisor in the Richmond depot (a French word that means “place where you lose things"). Patrick told me that I shouldn’t be mad at him because he hadn’t personally done anyway with my package. That was comforting. It’s nice to know that FedEx has so many truly dedicated company people.
There were nicer people than Patrick. Take Lizzie, for instance. She’s an advocate. She promised to stay on top of things and call me back as soon as the Richmond office could get in touch with their missing delivery guy. So far, I’m waiting to hear from Lizzie. Maybe she’s missing too.
Here’s the world’s largest (I’m just guessing on this) delivery company and not only do they lose packages, they lose people. They advertise “the world on time.” Too bad Richmond isn’t part of their little world.
So anyway, we’re Plinko-less. Now, our salespeople might actually have to talk to visitors to our booth, rather than just play games with them.
Whatever, we have a boat-load of prizes to give away. I suggested we play Pin the Brain on the FedEx Guy, but no one liked that idea.Not grounded in reality, I guess. So, tell you what...come on down to the Richmond Convention Center. The show is free and runs from 11 this morning until 5 tonight. Just ask me about our Plinko and I’ll give you a prize. One little caveat. I’m heading out to FedEx right now. So, this might be the last you’ll ever hear of me.
We ordered a custom-made Plinko game, because nothing says “buy advertising from us” like a good game of Plinko. Everyone in the office has been on a Plinko-high, just anticipating the arrival of our Plinko game.
But, alas, thanks to FedEx, it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. They’ve lost it. They won’t say so. It’s just been on their truck here in Richmond since Friday morning, but they can’t get in touch with their driver. I think I’d call 9-1-1 if I were they, but, they seem about as concerned about their driver as they are about our Plinko game.
One thing FedEx does well is apologize. But, after speaking with about a dozen FedEx employees, I’ve learned to translate. When they say, “I’m sorry,” they mean, “I’m not the least bit sorry.” When they say, “I’m very sorry,” they mean, “Hey, I’ll say ‘I’m sorry’ again if that makes you feel better, but I couldn’t care less.”
But, when you finally reach a customer advocate, you’ve reached the creme de la crap. They’ll tell you, “I certainly apologize for that,” which means, “Evidently saying ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t enough to get you to go away.”
Of course, not all of their people are so well trained. There’s this guy named Patrick who is some sort of supervisor in the Richmond depot (a French word that means “place where you lose things"). Patrick told me that I shouldn’t be mad at him because he hadn’t personally done anyway with my package. That was comforting. It’s nice to know that FedEx has so many truly dedicated company people.
There were nicer people than Patrick. Take Lizzie, for instance. She’s an advocate. She promised to stay on top of things and call me back as soon as the Richmond office could get in touch with their missing delivery guy. So far, I’m waiting to hear from Lizzie. Maybe she’s missing too.
Here’s the world’s largest (I’m just guessing on this) delivery company and not only do they lose packages, they lose people. They advertise “the world on time.” Too bad Richmond isn’t part of their little world.
So anyway, we’re Plinko-less. Now, our salespeople might actually have to talk to visitors to our booth, rather than just play games with them.
Whatever, we have a boat-load of prizes to give away. I suggested we play Pin the Brain on the FedEx Guy, but no one liked that idea.Not grounded in reality, I guess. So, tell you what...come on down to the Richmond Convention Center. The show is free and runs from 11 this morning until 5 tonight. Just ask me about our Plinko and I’ll give you a prize. One little caveat. I’m heading out to FedEx right now. So, this might be the last you’ll ever hear of me.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Take My Advice, Please
I love giving advice. I especially like it when someone asks for my advice. But, even when they don’t (and they usually don’t), I still love giving it. The amazing thing about me is that I can give advice on subjects about which I know absolutely nothing.
You have a medical problem? Ask me what I would do. I’ll be glad to tell you in great detail what you should do.
Or, perhaps you’re facing a legal issue. Maybe your entire future is at stake. Come to me, or just write, if you prefer. I’ll tell you exactly what you should do. Now, I do offer this disclaimer, if you follow my advice and end up in jail, then that’s probably because you didn’t do exactly as I said.
But, whatever, the results of following my advice are not my responsibility. If you do go to jail, though, let me know. I think I have some neat ideas as to how to break out. I have not tested these, but still, I’m pretty sure, they’re good ideas.
If you take my advice and try to break out, and you end up getting shot as you make your escape, give me a call. I also have some ideas as to where you could go to have a bullet removed.
Or, better yet, come see me. I’m pretty sure I know how to remove a bullet. And I would love having the opportunity to experiment with my bullet-removal ideas.
I really wish the marketing folks at McDonald’s had come to me for advice before spending millions of dollars marketing a new product. They’re calling it a Snack Wrap. Looks good on paper, but if you’re listening to a radio ad, or hear it on TV (when you’re not actually looking at the screen), all you hear is that McDonald’s is now offering Snack Crap. Oh, if you people would just take my advice.
My whole point here is that I have ideas. My brain is like some non-stop sponge-like organ.
I’ve said all that as a way of explaining why I’m offering advice to aliens (more of the Martian than the Mexican variety) as to how to take over the world. This does not mean that I want an alien race to take over the world, but I think I have a pretty good idea of how to go about doing it.
If an alien came to me and asked what he should do to dominate Earth, the first thing I’d want to know is how much time does he have. I have a sure-fire plan but it would take about four generations (human life span) to get it done. So, if the alien didn’t have a lifespan of at least a couple hundred of our earth-years, it wouldn’t do him any good to listen to me.
But, since you’re here, reading this blog, I’m guessing I have your interest and you would like to know how to take over the world. I will share my secret, but I’m asking you not to try this at home.
Okay, here is my four-generation program for world domination.
First generation – fill with wars and economic hardship. Have this generation grow up knowing what it’s like to do without. Then, at about the age this generation starts to have children, bring about vastly improved living conditions.
Second generation – make this a generation that is given everything on a silver platter because their parents “don’t want my children to do without all the things I had to do without.” Create an environment where material things matter most…an environment where both parents feel they have to work, or want to work so as to get those things.
Third generation – is raised by the second generation. This generation should be almost completely abandoned, with the parents spending only a few minutes a week actually talking to and instructing their children. Of course, those few minutes would be quality time and really, isn’t that all that matters? The third generation should be spoon fed large doses of violent and/or immoral entertainment so that by the time they have kids, they’ll have absolutely no idea what real values are all about.
Fourth generation - Will grow up almost totally brain dead. At that point, the aliens can take over. The kids' parents won’t even notice. After that, it’s just a matter of the aliens doing as they please.
Now, this is just theory, of course. I’m not promising any of you aliens out there that it will work. But, I feel pretty confident there’s some usable stuff in here.
One more piece of advice, again to aliens…if you only have one generation – create a cable TV system that’s “All Jerry Springer, All The Time.”
You have a medical problem? Ask me what I would do. I’ll be glad to tell you in great detail what you should do.
Or, perhaps you’re facing a legal issue. Maybe your entire future is at stake. Come to me, or just write, if you prefer. I’ll tell you exactly what you should do. Now, I do offer this disclaimer, if you follow my advice and end up in jail, then that’s probably because you didn’t do exactly as I said.
But, whatever, the results of following my advice are not my responsibility. If you do go to jail, though, let me know. I think I have some neat ideas as to how to break out. I have not tested these, but still, I’m pretty sure, they’re good ideas.
If you take my advice and try to break out, and you end up getting shot as you make your escape, give me a call. I also have some ideas as to where you could go to have a bullet removed.
Or, better yet, come see me. I’m pretty sure I know how to remove a bullet. And I would love having the opportunity to experiment with my bullet-removal ideas.
I really wish the marketing folks at McDonald’s had come to me for advice before spending millions of dollars marketing a new product. They’re calling it a Snack Wrap. Looks good on paper, but if you’re listening to a radio ad, or hear it on TV (when you’re not actually looking at the screen), all you hear is that McDonald’s is now offering Snack Crap. Oh, if you people would just take my advice.
My whole point here is that I have ideas. My brain is like some non-stop sponge-like organ.
I’ve said all that as a way of explaining why I’m offering advice to aliens (more of the Martian than the Mexican variety) as to how to take over the world. This does not mean that I want an alien race to take over the world, but I think I have a pretty good idea of how to go about doing it.
If an alien came to me and asked what he should do to dominate Earth, the first thing I’d want to know is how much time does he have. I have a sure-fire plan but it would take about four generations (human life span) to get it done. So, if the alien didn’t have a lifespan of at least a couple hundred of our earth-years, it wouldn’t do him any good to listen to me.
But, since you’re here, reading this blog, I’m guessing I have your interest and you would like to know how to take over the world. I will share my secret, but I’m asking you not to try this at home.
Okay, here is my four-generation program for world domination.
First generation – fill with wars and economic hardship. Have this generation grow up knowing what it’s like to do without. Then, at about the age this generation starts to have children, bring about vastly improved living conditions.
Second generation – make this a generation that is given everything on a silver platter because their parents “don’t want my children to do without all the things I had to do without.” Create an environment where material things matter most…an environment where both parents feel they have to work, or want to work so as to get those things.
Third generation – is raised by the second generation. This generation should be almost completely abandoned, with the parents spending only a few minutes a week actually talking to and instructing their children. Of course, those few minutes would be quality time and really, isn’t that all that matters? The third generation should be spoon fed large doses of violent and/or immoral entertainment so that by the time they have kids, they’ll have absolutely no idea what real values are all about.
Fourth generation - Will grow up almost totally brain dead. At that point, the aliens can take over. The kids' parents won’t even notice. After that, it’s just a matter of the aliens doing as they please.
Now, this is just theory, of course. I’m not promising any of you aliens out there that it will work. But, I feel pretty confident there’s some usable stuff in here.
One more piece of advice, again to aliens…if you only have one generation – create a cable TV system that’s “All Jerry Springer, All The Time.”
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Talking Dirty
You know, it was traumatic enough when they (they being the ones who do all the surveys and tests and what not) told us that the candy in the dish by the cash register in restaurants has been tested positive to contain the bacteria or whatever in human urine. I think it's downright cruel for someone to give any kind of candy such a bad name, but, hey, if them's the facts, what can I say.
But then "they" tested the ice in the cups at the fast food restaurants and told us it had more bacteria than the water in the toilets in those same restaurants. You could have gagged me with a spoon on that one. Again, I have to wonder why someone is doing this to me. Can't people just leave well enough alone...even when well enough is pretty disgusting?
But, now "they" have gone too far. I guess you've heard the latest report. They say that in tests, a cell phone is filthier than the toilet seat in public restrooms.
My first reaction is why "they" are so interested in public restrooms. Talk about dead end jobs, how would you like to be the tester?
But, back to the issue at hand - filth. They tell us that cell phones are dirtier than toilet seats. But do "they" really believe that themselves. I'd like to take one of "them" and hold him or her at gunpoint (if I could borrow someone's gun), and give them a choice - either lick your cell phone or lick the toilet seat.
Then let them put their tongue where their mouth is or something like that. Maybe on a micro-biological level cell phones are dirtier than toilet seats, but I do know what no one has ever been allowed to do on or around my cell phone and the same can't be said of the toilets.
Maybe if there were some sort of law passed that all bacteria had to glow orange, then we'd be more disgusted, but until we can see it, I don't think "they" are really having any long term impact on our habits. I still grab a handful of the pee-mints when I leave the restaurant. Why, I'll even grab a toothpick that's already lying in the cradle of those high tech toothpick dispensers.
I still eat ice. I chew it with glee. But, I will never be tempted to freeze toilet water and chew on it. Call me old fashioned, but I won't. And, I'll still go on holding my cell phone to my face. And that's not just because I know it's only my bacteria on it. If I had a toilet seat that no one had ever used but me, I wouldn't hold it to my face. Although I will admit to doing something that some people might think strange behavior. If I buy a brand new (not used) toilet seat, wrapped in a plastic protective coating, once I unwrap it, I'll lick it because I know that's the only time I could ever lick a toilet seat. I do the same thing with the soles of a new pair of shoes.
I'm supposing everyone does that. I am right, aren't I?
So, I guess, in retrospect, this new report has helped me. From now on, when I get a brand new cell phone, first thing I'm going to do, is lick it.
But then "they" tested the ice in the cups at the fast food restaurants and told us it had more bacteria than the water in the toilets in those same restaurants. You could have gagged me with a spoon on that one. Again, I have to wonder why someone is doing this to me. Can't people just leave well enough alone...even when well enough is pretty disgusting?
But, now "they" have gone too far. I guess you've heard the latest report. They say that in tests, a cell phone is filthier than the toilet seat in public restrooms.
My first reaction is why "they" are so interested in public restrooms. Talk about dead end jobs, how would you like to be the tester?
But, back to the issue at hand - filth. They tell us that cell phones are dirtier than toilet seats. But do "they" really believe that themselves. I'd like to take one of "them" and hold him or her at gunpoint (if I could borrow someone's gun), and give them a choice - either lick your cell phone or lick the toilet seat.
Then let them put their tongue where their mouth is or something like that. Maybe on a micro-biological level cell phones are dirtier than toilet seats, but I do know what no one has ever been allowed to do on or around my cell phone and the same can't be said of the toilets.
Maybe if there were some sort of law passed that all bacteria had to glow orange, then we'd be more disgusted, but until we can see it, I don't think "they" are really having any long term impact on our habits. I still grab a handful of the pee-mints when I leave the restaurant. Why, I'll even grab a toothpick that's already lying in the cradle of those high tech toothpick dispensers.
I still eat ice. I chew it with glee. But, I will never be tempted to freeze toilet water and chew on it. Call me old fashioned, but I won't. And, I'll still go on holding my cell phone to my face. And that's not just because I know it's only my bacteria on it. If I had a toilet seat that no one had ever used but me, I wouldn't hold it to my face. Although I will admit to doing something that some people might think strange behavior. If I buy a brand new (not used) toilet seat, wrapped in a plastic protective coating, once I unwrap it, I'll lick it because I know that's the only time I could ever lick a toilet seat. I do the same thing with the soles of a new pair of shoes.
I'm supposing everyone does that. I am right, aren't I?
So, I guess, in retrospect, this new report has helped me. From now on, when I get a brand new cell phone, first thing I'm going to do, is lick it.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
As A Matter Of Fact, It Is Hot Enough For Me
Well, I guess I’m just a wee bit embarrassed this morning. I’m sure there’s a dab of egg on my face, and, given the weather, it’s no doubt fried. My embarrassment stems from this whole weather situation we’re in.
I should be too chagrinned to talk about it, but you know me. Anyway, I was walking from my car, across the shopping center parking lot, to the local grocery store yesterday afternoon. I enjoy going in grocery stores in this weather. They’re always so cool.
But, as I was walking, I was thinking to myself that while I didn’t know what the actual temperature was, it felt like it had to be 101 degrees. So, while I’m in the store, I get to chatting with the cashier…about the weather, of course, because what else is there to talk about? She didn’t seem to care that much about Mel Gibson. And, I mention to the lady that it feels like 101 degrees.
“Oh no!” she corrects me. The heat index is 100. I heard that on the radio.”
I wanted to take one of those plastic grocery bags and put it over my head in shame. I probably would have had my mother not warned me many, many years ago that doing so could kill me.
Here I was speculating about the heat index. True, I really thought that it felt like 101 degrees to me, but boy was I ever wrong. It only felt like 100 degrees to me. That’s what the grocery lady was telling me and when I scurried back to my car and turned on the radio, Mac Watson was confirming what she had said.
How I long for the good old days prior to heat indices. Do you remember when you were younger, and for many of us that means BAC (Before Air Conditioning), and you got so hot on those summer days? There were little tricks you could play on yourself to make you feel cooler. I remember my mother telling me to think about being outside on a snowy day with no coat on and I’d feel cooler. Somehow, since the heat index had not yet been invented, her suggestion actually worked. I remember one particularly warm July afternoon when I took my mother’s advice so well that I actually got gangrene in my little finger. Ah, how I long for those times.
Now, you can’t pretend you feel comfortable because there’s that dag-blasted weatherman telling you how hot you feel. They tell me today I’m going to feel like it’s 110 degrees. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that hot before, and, frankly I’m worried.
For those of you who are not as knowledgeable about these meteorological terms as am I, let me explain. The heat index is the very opposite of the windshield factor. The windshield factor is what they use in the winter. What that means is that if you were riding down the road and your windshield wasn’t in, you’d feel a certain degree of coldness. The windshield factor, like its summer cousin, the heat index, was invented so that no matter how cold or hot we were, we’d feel even colder or hotter than we should have had to feel.
I guess it’s some sadistic form of government mind control. That’s the only way I can figure it out. I mean what real purpose does it serve to enforce the way we feel? I don’t think President Eisenhower would have allowed such a thing. He seemed like a nice old man. That’s about all I remember about him. But, he kind of reminded me of my grandfather, and I’m sure my grandfather would not have stood still for either the heat index or the windshield factor.
Anyway, I think I learned a valuable lesson yesterday in the grocery store. Maybe my horrifying experience will give you cause to pause before you start blathering on about the weather. If someone asks you if it’s hot enough for you, and believe you me they will, don’t say a word until you make sure you know what the heat index is. Take it from a man who has been there. It’s better just to keep your mouth shut.
I should be too chagrinned to talk about it, but you know me. Anyway, I was walking from my car, across the shopping center parking lot, to the local grocery store yesterday afternoon. I enjoy going in grocery stores in this weather. They’re always so cool.
But, as I was walking, I was thinking to myself that while I didn’t know what the actual temperature was, it felt like it had to be 101 degrees. So, while I’m in the store, I get to chatting with the cashier…about the weather, of course, because what else is there to talk about? She didn’t seem to care that much about Mel Gibson. And, I mention to the lady that it feels like 101 degrees.
“Oh no!” she corrects me. The heat index is 100. I heard that on the radio.”
I wanted to take one of those plastic grocery bags and put it over my head in shame. I probably would have had my mother not warned me many, many years ago that doing so could kill me.
Here I was speculating about the heat index. True, I really thought that it felt like 101 degrees to me, but boy was I ever wrong. It only felt like 100 degrees to me. That’s what the grocery lady was telling me and when I scurried back to my car and turned on the radio, Mac Watson was confirming what she had said.
How I long for the good old days prior to heat indices. Do you remember when you were younger, and for many of us that means BAC (Before Air Conditioning), and you got so hot on those summer days? There were little tricks you could play on yourself to make you feel cooler. I remember my mother telling me to think about being outside on a snowy day with no coat on and I’d feel cooler. Somehow, since the heat index had not yet been invented, her suggestion actually worked. I remember one particularly warm July afternoon when I took my mother’s advice so well that I actually got gangrene in my little finger. Ah, how I long for those times.
Now, you can’t pretend you feel comfortable because there’s that dag-blasted weatherman telling you how hot you feel. They tell me today I’m going to feel like it’s 110 degrees. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that hot before, and, frankly I’m worried.
For those of you who are not as knowledgeable about these meteorological terms as am I, let me explain. The heat index is the very opposite of the windshield factor. The windshield factor is what they use in the winter. What that means is that if you were riding down the road and your windshield wasn’t in, you’d feel a certain degree of coldness. The windshield factor, like its summer cousin, the heat index, was invented so that no matter how cold or hot we were, we’d feel even colder or hotter than we should have had to feel.
I guess it’s some sadistic form of government mind control. That’s the only way I can figure it out. I mean what real purpose does it serve to enforce the way we feel? I don’t think President Eisenhower would have allowed such a thing. He seemed like a nice old man. That’s about all I remember about him. But, he kind of reminded me of my grandfather, and I’m sure my grandfather would not have stood still for either the heat index or the windshield factor.
Anyway, I think I learned a valuable lesson yesterday in the grocery store. Maybe my horrifying experience will give you cause to pause before you start blathering on about the weather. If someone asks you if it’s hot enough for you, and believe you me they will, don’t say a word until you make sure you know what the heat index is. Take it from a man who has been there. It’s better just to keep your mouth shut.
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