It’s Monday night. I’m about ready to turn in for the night. Tomorrow is the worst day of the year. If I had the ability to put myself in hibernation mode and go to sleep tonight and not wake up until Wednesday morning, I’d do so.
Tomorrow, if I go into the bank, my financial matters will be cared for by a witch. If I go to the doctor’s office, the nurse will be a pirate, and, the doctor may well be Satan the Devil himself. The folks down at the DMV especially make a big to do about the day. They actually will go to work disguised as intelligent people.
Not to mention that about one fourth of all the males in many offices around town will be dressed like women. Earl “Gloria” Schmep, president of the NAACD, The National Association for the Advancement of Cross Dressers, says Halloween is the most glorious day of the year. It certainly is a day that cross dressers can spread their wings and fly. I just wish so many of them weren’t flying right into me.
If there were one argument to be made to prove that human brains were being taken over by alien life forces, it would be Halloween. It’s the day (night) when normally semi-sane people think it’s quite alright to have fake blood dripping from their mouths as they take my order at Burger King. Hey, I don’t care if it is fake blood, keep your drool out of my fries. Oh, that’s right. It’s Halloween. Anything goes.
For 364 days a year (365 during leap year) parents tell their kids not to play in the street, to be home before dark, and not to take candy from strangers. But, on Halloween, all these rules fly out the window. Not only is it fine and dandy to play in the streets after dark, and to go to the homes of strangers, and then, later, devour anything those strangers may choose to drop into your bag, but it’s perfectly fine to be wearing dark clothing and a mask. It’s a field day for serial hit and run drivers. And, if Johnny doesn’t make it home in one piece, oh well, it is, after all, Halloween.
I hate Halloween. I hate everything about it. When I was a child, I was not especially religious. Well, I was more religious than the rest of my family. I used to lay my hands on the TV, hoping that Oral Roberts could clear up my sinuses. Yes, even as a child I was a hypochondriac. Anyway, my family really wasn’t a churchgoing family. But, I remember going to church on Halloween. They had candy and punch and ice cream and witches and ghosts and even a fortune teller.
It’s like the preacher and the deacons got together and made a list of all the ungodly things they could do in the church. And then they invited all of the kids into the church to do them. Somehow, I can’t picture Jesus dressed in a skeleton costume giving the sermon on the mount. But, maybe I just lack a good imagination.
Now, the truth is many men of the cloth have never met a pagan festival they didn’t take a shine to, but Halloween is just so blatant. I am baffled how anyone could not find it offensive. If you see your preacher tomorrow, why don’t you ask him what he thinks about Halloween. By the way, he’ll be the one dressed like a stripper.
Monday, October 30, 2006
The Ghoul of Some People
It’s Monday night. I’m about ready to turn in for the night. Tomorrow is the worst day of the year. If I had the ability to put myself in hibernation mode and go to sleep tonight and not wake up until Wednesday morning, I’d do so.
Tomorrow, if I go into the bank, my financial matters will be cared for by a witch. If I go to the doctor’s office, the nurse will be a pirate, and, the doctor may well be Satan the Devil himself. The folks down at the DMV especially make a big to do about the day. They actually will go to work disguised as intelligent people.
Not to mention that about one fourth of all the males in many offices around town will be dressed like women. Earl “Gloria” Schmep, president of the NAACD, The National Association for the Advancement of Cross Dressers, says Halloween is the most glorious day of the year. It certainly is a day that cross dressers can spread their wings and fly. I just wish so many of them weren’t flying right into me.
If there were one argument to be made to prove that human brains were being taken over by alien life forces, it would be Halloween. It’s the day (night) when normally semi-sane people think it’s quite alright to have fake blood dripping from their mouths as they take my order at Burger King. Hey, I don’t care if it is fake blood, keep your drool out of my fries. Oh, that’s right. It’s Halloween. Anything goes.
For 364 days a year (365 during leap year) parents tell their kids not to play in the street, to be home before dark, and not to take candy from strangers. But, on Halloween, all these rules fly out the window. Not only is it fine and dandy to play in the streets after dark, and to go to the homes of strangers, and then, later, devour anything those strangers may choose to drop into your bag, but it’s perfectly fine to be wearing dark clothing and a mask. It’s a field day for serial hit and run drivers. And, if Johnny doesn’t make it home in one piece, oh well, it is, after all, Halloween.
I hate Halloween. I hate everything about it. When I was a child, I was not especially religious. Well, I was more religious than the rest of my family. I used to lay my hands on the TV, hoping that Oral Roberts could clear up my sinuses. Yes, even as a child I was a hypochondriac. Anyway, my family really wasn’t a churchgoing family. But, I remember going to church on Halloween. They had candy and punch and ice cream and witches and ghosts and even a fortune teller.
It’s like the preacher and the deacons got together and made a list of all the ungodly things they could do in the church. And then they invited all of the kids into the church to do them. Somehow, I can’t picture Jesus dressed in a skeleton costume giving the sermon on the mount. But, maybe I just lack a good imagination.
Now, the truth is many men of the cloth have never met a pagan festival they didn’t take a shine to, but Halloween is just so blatant. I am baffled how anyone could not find it offensive. If you see your preacher tomorrow, why don’t you ask him what he thinks about Halloween. By the way, he’ll be the one dressed like a stripper.
Tomorrow, if I go into the bank, my financial matters will be cared for by a witch. If I go to the doctor’s office, the nurse will be a pirate, and, the doctor may well be Satan the Devil himself. The folks down at the DMV especially make a big to do about the day. They actually will go to work disguised as intelligent people.
Not to mention that about one fourth of all the males in many offices around town will be dressed like women. Earl “Gloria” Schmep, president of the NAACD, The National Association for the Advancement of Cross Dressers, says Halloween is the most glorious day of the year. It certainly is a day that cross dressers can spread their wings and fly. I just wish so many of them weren’t flying right into me.
If there were one argument to be made to prove that human brains were being taken over by alien life forces, it would be Halloween. It’s the day (night) when normally semi-sane people think it’s quite alright to have fake blood dripping from their mouths as they take my order at Burger King. Hey, I don’t care if it is fake blood, keep your drool out of my fries. Oh, that’s right. It’s Halloween. Anything goes.
For 364 days a year (365 during leap year) parents tell their kids not to play in the street, to be home before dark, and not to take candy from strangers. But, on Halloween, all these rules fly out the window. Not only is it fine and dandy to play in the streets after dark, and to go to the homes of strangers, and then, later, devour anything those strangers may choose to drop into your bag, but it’s perfectly fine to be wearing dark clothing and a mask. It’s a field day for serial hit and run drivers. And, if Johnny doesn’t make it home in one piece, oh well, it is, after all, Halloween.
I hate Halloween. I hate everything about it. When I was a child, I was not especially religious. Well, I was more religious than the rest of my family. I used to lay my hands on the TV, hoping that Oral Roberts could clear up my sinuses. Yes, even as a child I was a hypochondriac. Anyway, my family really wasn’t a churchgoing family. But, I remember going to church on Halloween. They had candy and punch and ice cream and witches and ghosts and even a fortune teller.
It’s like the preacher and the deacons got together and made a list of all the ungodly things they could do in the church. And then they invited all of the kids into the church to do them. Somehow, I can’t picture Jesus dressed in a skeleton costume giving the sermon on the mount. But, maybe I just lack a good imagination.
Now, the truth is many men of the cloth have never met a pagan festival they didn’t take a shine to, but Halloween is just so blatant. I am baffled how anyone could not find it offensive. If you see your preacher tomorrow, why don’t you ask him what he thinks about Halloween. By the way, he’ll be the one dressed like a stripper.
Friday, October 27, 2006
What's A Nice Guy Like Me Doing...
You know what my biggest problem is? I'm too nice for my own good. Yep. It's a curse. As you have probably garnered, just from our brief time together, I am very reluctant to ever say anything negative. And yet, sometimes, I feel that it's in the best interest of others to hear the painful truth.
I'll give you a for instance. I was sitting in CiCi's Pizza the other day. There were a couple of semi-attractive women. Actually, they were probably more quarter attractive than semi, but I digress. One of the women had a little boy with her. I'm guessing he was her son. She looked at him like she loved him. And, let me tell you, the kid had a face only a mother could love.
I'm being sincere when I tell you the little tyke was the epitome of ugly. Now, I'm sure all you mothers out there are furious with me. But, if you are, stop and ask yourself why. For telling the truth? Hmm, me thinks I may have struck a nerve there.
There are ugly people in the world. That includes a fairly large number of ugly kids. Sometimes these kids grow up to be handsome adults. However, truth be told, they generally grow uglier.
So, how does all this relate to my being too nice? Well, it's like this...I was so worried that I would upset the mother that I didn't go up and offer some sort of condolences. I'm sure the mom must look at Junior sleeping in his bed at night, and think, "he really is ugly." Wouldn't it have been a kindness on my part to go up and tell the woman I'm sorry she has an ugly kid. I could maybe even hold out some false hope that he'll get better looking. That may have brightened her day.
But, did I do that? Nope. Why? You guessed it, I'm just too nice...too afraid of hurting someone's feelings.
Even if the woman did not realize her son was ugly, wouldn't it be good to call that to her attention now, while the kid is still quite young.
I know that if I'd been an ugly kid (thankfully, even the idea is laughable), I'd have appreciated my mother conditioning me so as to accept the painful truth. Actually, my problems growing up were similar to those of ugly kids, but for opposite reasons. Ugly kids can't get dates because they're too ugly. Really good looking people can't get dates because our looks are too intimidating. I discovered in my teen years, that my good looks were often off-putting. Girls wouldn't even call me back when I'd call their homes and leave a message with their mothers. I'm guessing they just didn't feel as if they could hold up their end of the conversation when speaking with a really good looking guy.
And sometimes when the girls would answer the phone (remember this was pre caller ID days), they'd nervously hang up as soon as they realized it was me. I didn't try and humiliate them. I didn't call attention to their deficiencies, because even as a youth, I was just too nice.
Why am I bringing all this up now? I've been doing some thinking. I've decided no more Mr. Nice-Guy. From now on, if I see an ugly kid, I'll proudly go right up to his mother and tell her. And, when you think about it, in some ways that's being even nicer.
And, since I'm so nice, I'm on a mission. I'm off to find ugly kids. If you know of some, let me know. I'll have a word with their mothers.
I'll give you a for instance. I was sitting in CiCi's Pizza the other day. There were a couple of semi-attractive women. Actually, they were probably more quarter attractive than semi, but I digress. One of the women had a little boy with her. I'm guessing he was her son. She looked at him like she loved him. And, let me tell you, the kid had a face only a mother could love.
I'm being sincere when I tell you the little tyke was the epitome of ugly. Now, I'm sure all you mothers out there are furious with me. But, if you are, stop and ask yourself why. For telling the truth? Hmm, me thinks I may have struck a nerve there.
There are ugly people in the world. That includes a fairly large number of ugly kids. Sometimes these kids grow up to be handsome adults. However, truth be told, they generally grow uglier.
So, how does all this relate to my being too nice? Well, it's like this...I was so worried that I would upset the mother that I didn't go up and offer some sort of condolences. I'm sure the mom must look at Junior sleeping in his bed at night, and think, "he really is ugly." Wouldn't it have been a kindness on my part to go up and tell the woman I'm sorry she has an ugly kid. I could maybe even hold out some false hope that he'll get better looking. That may have brightened her day.
But, did I do that? Nope. Why? You guessed it, I'm just too nice...too afraid of hurting someone's feelings.
Even if the woman did not realize her son was ugly, wouldn't it be good to call that to her attention now, while the kid is still quite young.
I know that if I'd been an ugly kid (thankfully, even the idea is laughable), I'd have appreciated my mother conditioning me so as to accept the painful truth. Actually, my problems growing up were similar to those of ugly kids, but for opposite reasons. Ugly kids can't get dates because they're too ugly. Really good looking people can't get dates because our looks are too intimidating. I discovered in my teen years, that my good looks were often off-putting. Girls wouldn't even call me back when I'd call their homes and leave a message with their mothers. I'm guessing they just didn't feel as if they could hold up their end of the conversation when speaking with a really good looking guy.
And sometimes when the girls would answer the phone (remember this was pre caller ID days), they'd nervously hang up as soon as they realized it was me. I didn't try and humiliate them. I didn't call attention to their deficiencies, because even as a youth, I was just too nice.
Why am I bringing all this up now? I've been doing some thinking. I've decided no more Mr. Nice-Guy. From now on, if I see an ugly kid, I'll proudly go right up to his mother and tell her. And, when you think about it, in some ways that's being even nicer.
And, since I'm so nice, I'm on a mission. I'm off to find ugly kids. If you know of some, let me know. I'll have a word with their mothers.
Monday, October 23, 2006
You Name It
I know I had pledged never to use this space for monetary gain, but I've hit upon an idea so brilliant, and so potentially profitable, that I think I'm going to have to reconsider that pledge. Come to think of it, I don't think I ever got around to making the pledge, so we're cool.
Here's my new business idea. I think you're going to like it, except for those of you who are green with envy that I thought it up first. Well, I didn't actually think it up on my own. You could say I was inspired.
Have you heard those commercials for the National Star Registry. They're the people who will name a star after you if you send them fifty bucks or so. I used to think that their idea was ridiculous. After all, they don't own the stars. They can't force anyone to call the stars by the names they give them. They just basically give you a piece of paper that says such and such a star is named Henry, or whatever. I used to think those people at National Star Registry were crazy, then it dawned on me, they're crazy alright, crazy like a fox. They're making money. I'm sure they make more than I do.
At least until now. I am, here, today, introducing the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry. That's right. I'll name anything after you or a loved one. Would you like a day of the week named after you, or perhaps, you'd like to give that as a gift to someone near and dear? Just send me twenty-five dollars and I'll name the day after you. Pretty cheap, eh?
I'll even send you an authentic looking letter and a calendar showing that day named for you. Just send me the money. I'll do the rest.
Or, perhaps, you'd like a planet named after you. I can do that, too, and for a mere twenty-five dollars. Heck, I'll give you a discount for Pluto since it's not a real planet.
I'll name anything. How about a number? For instance, you send me the money, and I'll send you back a sheet of paper that proves I've named a number for you. Imagine your wife's delight to get this authentic notification.
Here are the numbers: One, Two, Hilda, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.
Can you imagine the love you'll be feeling from Hilda when she gets a letter like that? With the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry, I'll name anything. Spices? Imagine the excitement around your house, when you're sitting around the dinner table, and someone says, "Pass the salt and Bobby, please." How is Bobby going to feel then?
The beauty of my company is that we're not limited to just a few trillion stars. I'll name anything. You know that atomic table of the elements? How about if one of those elements were named Jim? Pretty cool, huh?
Or Einstein's Theory of Relativitiy? Suppose, around your house it looked like this E=Mike c2. Mike would get quite a tingle out of that.
Just use your imagination. I'm using mine. I'll even rename people for you. Did you know the first president of the United States was Herb Schmidlap? Well, when Mrs. Schmidlap sends me her twenty-five bucks, that could become a reality. Or how about this...in 1492 Columbus discovered Mary Wilson? That's right, I'll name continents, oceans, mountains, anything, and all for just twenty-five bucks. And, as I said earlier, for a limited time, I'll give you a discount on Pluto.
When we say the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry will name anything, we mean anything. I'll even rename the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry if that's what you want.
This thing is going to be big. I can feel it. In fact, just since I started writing this, I've had a dozen orders pour in. So, I better run. I have some renaming to do. I'll talk to you again on Myrtle.
Here's my new business idea. I think you're going to like it, except for those of you who are green with envy that I thought it up first. Well, I didn't actually think it up on my own. You could say I was inspired.
Have you heard those commercials for the National Star Registry. They're the people who will name a star after you if you send them fifty bucks or so. I used to think that their idea was ridiculous. After all, they don't own the stars. They can't force anyone to call the stars by the names they give them. They just basically give you a piece of paper that says such and such a star is named Henry, or whatever. I used to think those people at National Star Registry were crazy, then it dawned on me, they're crazy alright, crazy like a fox. They're making money. I'm sure they make more than I do.
At least until now. I am, here, today, introducing the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry. That's right. I'll name anything after you or a loved one. Would you like a day of the week named after you, or perhaps, you'd like to give that as a gift to someone near and dear? Just send me twenty-five dollars and I'll name the day after you. Pretty cheap, eh?
I'll even send you an authentic looking letter and a calendar showing that day named for you. Just send me the money. I'll do the rest.
Or, perhaps, you'd like a planet named after you. I can do that, too, and for a mere twenty-five dollars. Heck, I'll give you a discount for Pluto since it's not a real planet.
I'll name anything. How about a number? For instance, you send me the money, and I'll send you back a sheet of paper that proves I've named a number for you. Imagine your wife's delight to get this authentic notification.
Here are the numbers: One, Two, Hilda, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.
Can you imagine the love you'll be feeling from Hilda when she gets a letter like that? With the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry, I'll name anything. Spices? Imagine the excitement around your house, when you're sitting around the dinner table, and someone says, "Pass the salt and Bobby, please." How is Bobby going to feel then?
The beauty of my company is that we're not limited to just a few trillion stars. I'll name anything. You know that atomic table of the elements? How about if one of those elements were named Jim? Pretty cool, huh?
Or Einstein's Theory of Relativitiy? Suppose, around your house it looked like this E=Mike c2. Mike would get quite a tingle out of that.
Just use your imagination. I'm using mine. I'll even rename people for you. Did you know the first president of the United States was Herb Schmidlap? Well, when Mrs. Schmidlap sends me her twenty-five bucks, that could become a reality. Or how about this...in 1492 Columbus discovered Mary Wilson? That's right, I'll name continents, oceans, mountains, anything, and all for just twenty-five bucks. And, as I said earlier, for a limited time, I'll give you a discount on Pluto.
When we say the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry will name anything, we mean anything. I'll even rename the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry if that's what you want.
This thing is going to be big. I can feel it. In fact, just since I started writing this, I've had a dozen orders pour in. So, I better run. I have some renaming to do. I'll talk to you again on Myrtle.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Something's Rotten in Daytona
I've always wanted to be one of those hard-hitting, investigative journalists...you know, one of those embittered, crusty old veteran writers who is always smelling a scandal. And, I would have done that. There was just one thing, which, in my opinion, held me back...talent. I also lacked a nose for news. For instance, for years I wondered what was so bad about plumbers being in the Watergate Hotel. It finally dawned on me a couple of years ago that those guys probably weren't plumbers at all.
Anyway, I think my nose for news is improving, and while my talent isn't, the talent of most reporters these days is so low that I'm not looking nearly as bad as I once did. Hence, I've been sniffing out a good story, or at least trying to find something that might win me a Pulitzer, or some kind of prize.
So, you can imagine my glee, when, just the other day, I heard a story that immediately sent my scandal-radar blipping like crazy. It was a piece done about a race car driver who, all of a sudden has gotten quite popular. The guy is in his forties, but, it seems that in just the past year he's gone from being a nobody to a somebody. Sounds innocent enough, huh? Well maybe to you novices out there who don't have the nose I do.
You won't believe what I'm about to tell you. Here's the freaky part...the driver's name is...are you ready...Philip Morris. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Do you see what's going on here folks? It's time to wake up and smell the cigarettes.
You know how for years the tobacco industry was so closely intertwined with NASCAR, and then, due to government regulations, the Winston Cup mysteriously became the Nextel Cup? Well, do you suppose the big money people at the tobacco companies just decided to give up? Call me Ed Bradley, but I don't think so. I smell a rat, and rat spelled backwards is tar. Something to think about.
So, this Philip Morris just suddenly bursts onto the scene. Me thinks, that if you look at the guy's driver's license, you might find he's really, oh, I don't know, KYLE PETTY! Do you see what the cigarette people are doing? It's really brilliant in a diabolical sort of way. They're changing the names of the drivers. What's next? Maybe Mark Martin disappears, but a driver bearing a strange resemblance comes on the scene, a driver by the name of Winston Tastegood, perhaps.
The scary part is that they (they being the tobacco guys) almost pulled this thing off. If it hadn't been for my newly-developed keen sense of smell, they would have.
You think I'm crazy, don't you? Well, I have confirmation. I called a couple of the big tobacco manufacturing giants and confronted them with my theory. Do you know what they said? They said I was crazy. That answer is just a little to pat if you ask me. People are always telling me I'm crazy. How simple would it be for these tobacco people to parrot that response?
But, I'll not be deterred. I did a little snooping and found an informant....someone who works for one of the cigarette makers. Now, the guy wouldn't tell me his name. We had to meet in a parking lot, behind the Richmond Convention Center at three in the morning, and he was dressed in one of those old Lucky Strike packages that the Lucky Strike dancers used to wear on TV many moons ago, so all I could see were his legs, but they sure looked like the legs of a tobacco informant.
He would only identify himself as Deep Cough. Here is a bit of my interview with him.
ME: So, how can I be sure you really work for a tobacco company?
DC: (DC stands for Deep Cough) Well (MUFFLED RESPONSE HERE - HE WAS SPEAKING THROUGH A GIANT CIGARETTE CARTON WHICH COVERED HIS FACE)...in 1958 I spoke with (I COULDN'T TELL WHO HE SAID) and he told me, 'Deep, (MUFFLED) until we reach our goal.'
ME: So, you're saying that this guy had a goal?
DC: (NODS)
ME: So, how is NASCAR involved?
DC: I knew this (MUFFLED, HE MAY HAVE SAID DRIVER, OR OWNER), who (SOMETHING, SOMETHING, SOMETHING) and people died.
ME: Thank you. You've been quite helpful.
DC: (HE SAID SOMETHING, BUT I'M NOT SURE WHAT)
There you have it. Obviously something is going on. And, I, singlehandedly have uncovered it. I am afraid to say more because I don't know who may do what to me. I read Runaway Jury, so I'm pretty savvy on these matters. But, as a respected investigative journalist, I felt I needed to pass this on to you. My advice...be afraid. Be very afraid.
Anyway, I think my nose for news is improving, and while my talent isn't, the talent of most reporters these days is so low that I'm not looking nearly as bad as I once did. Hence, I've been sniffing out a good story, or at least trying to find something that might win me a Pulitzer, or some kind of prize.
So, you can imagine my glee, when, just the other day, I heard a story that immediately sent my scandal-radar blipping like crazy. It was a piece done about a race car driver who, all of a sudden has gotten quite popular. The guy is in his forties, but, it seems that in just the past year he's gone from being a nobody to a somebody. Sounds innocent enough, huh? Well maybe to you novices out there who don't have the nose I do.
You won't believe what I'm about to tell you. Here's the freaky part...the driver's name is...are you ready...Philip Morris. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Do you see what's going on here folks? It's time to wake up and smell the cigarettes.
You know how for years the tobacco industry was so closely intertwined with NASCAR, and then, due to government regulations, the Winston Cup mysteriously became the Nextel Cup? Well, do you suppose the big money people at the tobacco companies just decided to give up? Call me Ed Bradley, but I don't think so. I smell a rat, and rat spelled backwards is tar. Something to think about.
So, this Philip Morris just suddenly bursts onto the scene. Me thinks, that if you look at the guy's driver's license, you might find he's really, oh, I don't know, KYLE PETTY! Do you see what the cigarette people are doing? It's really brilliant in a diabolical sort of way. They're changing the names of the drivers. What's next? Maybe Mark Martin disappears, but a driver bearing a strange resemblance comes on the scene, a driver by the name of Winston Tastegood, perhaps.
The scary part is that they (they being the tobacco guys) almost pulled this thing off. If it hadn't been for my newly-developed keen sense of smell, they would have.
You think I'm crazy, don't you? Well, I have confirmation. I called a couple of the big tobacco manufacturing giants and confronted them with my theory. Do you know what they said? They said I was crazy. That answer is just a little to pat if you ask me. People are always telling me I'm crazy. How simple would it be for these tobacco people to parrot that response?
But, I'll not be deterred. I did a little snooping and found an informant....someone who works for one of the cigarette makers. Now, the guy wouldn't tell me his name. We had to meet in a parking lot, behind the Richmond Convention Center at three in the morning, and he was dressed in one of those old Lucky Strike packages that the Lucky Strike dancers used to wear on TV many moons ago, so all I could see were his legs, but they sure looked like the legs of a tobacco informant.
He would only identify himself as Deep Cough. Here is a bit of my interview with him.
ME: So, how can I be sure you really work for a tobacco company?
DC: (DC stands for Deep Cough) Well (MUFFLED RESPONSE HERE - HE WAS SPEAKING THROUGH A GIANT CIGARETTE CARTON WHICH COVERED HIS FACE)...in 1958 I spoke with (I COULDN'T TELL WHO HE SAID) and he told me, 'Deep, (MUFFLED) until we reach our goal.'
ME: So, you're saying that this guy had a goal?
DC: (NODS)
ME: So, how is NASCAR involved?
DC: I knew this (MUFFLED, HE MAY HAVE SAID DRIVER, OR OWNER), who (SOMETHING, SOMETHING, SOMETHING) and people died.
ME: Thank you. You've been quite helpful.
DC: (HE SAID SOMETHING, BUT I'M NOT SURE WHAT)
There you have it. Obviously something is going on. And, I, singlehandedly have uncovered it. I am afraid to say more because I don't know who may do what to me. I read Runaway Jury, so I'm pretty savvy on these matters. But, as a respected investigative journalist, I felt I needed to pass this on to you. My advice...be afraid. Be very afraid.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Of All The Things I Miss, I Miss Ogyny The Most
A subject that I steer away from is women drivers. Normally, one (a male one, that is) can only heap troubles upon his head by bringing the matter up. But, since some of you out there have decided to open that can of worms, let me dig in.
First, by way of disclaimer, let me say that generally speaking, I like women. I think they deserve to share the oxygen and other resources the earth has to offer.
I even think many of them are qualified to drive automobiles. Although I think a separate lane for women and truck drivers would make this old world a little bit better place to live.
However, until that glorious day, I’m willing to share the highway with both. Although if I had my choice, I’d say keep the women and get rid of the truck drivers. The problem with women drivers is that they’re, well, they’re women. Again, please hear me. I love women, generally only one at a time, but I love them. But, women do think differently from men. And, based solely on my experiences in life, many women never entertain the idea that they might be wrong about anything.
So, if you were to suggest to a woman, not necessarily my wife, that using the cell phone, putting on makeup, and looking up a phone number in her address book while cruising down the Interstate at 75 miles per hour, is not such a good idea, she (not necessarily my wife) can’t even comprehend what could possibly be wrong with that. Because she (not necessarily my wife) has done it before and didn’t kill anyone, she (not….) automatically assumes that it’s a safe practice.
Then there's one of our sales consultants here in the office. I'll call her Mandy. Mandy comes in yesterday, absolutely furious because someone almost hit her on the highway. Seems Mandy was lost. Now, in Mandy's mind (remember, Mandy is a woman) her being lost automatically calls for the suspension of all driving rules and regulations. So, because Mandy was lost, everyone else on the road should recognize that if she needs to make a left turn from the right lane, she has every right to do so. That's how Mandy saw it. She even says she yelled at those drivers who were too rude, or too stupid to understand the logic there. You do see her logic, don't you. I know women who would and they're not necessarily my wife.
That’s really my only complaint about women drivers. Other than that little “I’m always right” flaw in their otherwise sparkling personalities, women make great drivers. Actually, they make wonderful drivers. How else could you explain a woman’s ability to travel twenty miles and not even one time glance at the highway in front of her. And, try to convince a woman that the rear view mirror is not simply there for makeup application. Can’t be done.
There is one other little bitty teeny weeny complaint. I hesitate to bring it up. I know I’ll be touching a raw nerve, but since I’m somewhat of a senior citizen myself, I think I can chance it. Here’s my question, why is it that the bluer a woman’s hair gets the more she shrinks? Have you ever passed one of those blue-haired brake riders on the highway? First glance into their car is rather scary. It looks as if the car is being driven by a blue doily. I mean, all you see is this little blue mop. I guess there’s a woman beneath it.
I think the DMV should start giving tests to drivers once they reach seventy or so. Not an eye exam, but a hair color test. If your hair is above a pre-set blue safety zone, you don’t get to drive. Now, this is merely a suggestion, but I think it’s a pretty good one. And, so that you don’t think I’m discriminating, I think you could give the same test to older men (wink wink). If there hair is blue, they should be held to the same standards.
Well, I hope I haven’t stepped on any toes today. Far be it from me to ruffle feathers. But, since some of you opened the door, I just stepped right in. And, now, it may be best for me to step right back out.
First, by way of disclaimer, let me say that generally speaking, I like women. I think they deserve to share the oxygen and other resources the earth has to offer.
I even think many of them are qualified to drive automobiles. Although I think a separate lane for women and truck drivers would make this old world a little bit better place to live.
However, until that glorious day, I’m willing to share the highway with both. Although if I had my choice, I’d say keep the women and get rid of the truck drivers. The problem with women drivers is that they’re, well, they’re women. Again, please hear me. I love women, generally only one at a time, but I love them. But, women do think differently from men. And, based solely on my experiences in life, many women never entertain the idea that they might be wrong about anything.
So, if you were to suggest to a woman, not necessarily my wife, that using the cell phone, putting on makeup, and looking up a phone number in her address book while cruising down the Interstate at 75 miles per hour, is not such a good idea, she (not necessarily my wife) can’t even comprehend what could possibly be wrong with that. Because she (not necessarily my wife) has done it before and didn’t kill anyone, she (not….) automatically assumes that it’s a safe practice.
Then there's one of our sales consultants here in the office. I'll call her Mandy. Mandy comes in yesterday, absolutely furious because someone almost hit her on the highway. Seems Mandy was lost. Now, in Mandy's mind (remember, Mandy is a woman) her being lost automatically calls for the suspension of all driving rules and regulations. So, because Mandy was lost, everyone else on the road should recognize that if she needs to make a left turn from the right lane, she has every right to do so. That's how Mandy saw it. She even says she yelled at those drivers who were too rude, or too stupid to understand the logic there. You do see her logic, don't you. I know women who would and they're not necessarily my wife.
That’s really my only complaint about women drivers. Other than that little “I’m always right” flaw in their otherwise sparkling personalities, women make great drivers. Actually, they make wonderful drivers. How else could you explain a woman’s ability to travel twenty miles and not even one time glance at the highway in front of her. And, try to convince a woman that the rear view mirror is not simply there for makeup application. Can’t be done.
There is one other little bitty teeny weeny complaint. I hesitate to bring it up. I know I’ll be touching a raw nerve, but since I’m somewhat of a senior citizen myself, I think I can chance it. Here’s my question, why is it that the bluer a woman’s hair gets the more she shrinks? Have you ever passed one of those blue-haired brake riders on the highway? First glance into their car is rather scary. It looks as if the car is being driven by a blue doily. I mean, all you see is this little blue mop. I guess there’s a woman beneath it.
I think the DMV should start giving tests to drivers once they reach seventy or so. Not an eye exam, but a hair color test. If your hair is above a pre-set blue safety zone, you don’t get to drive. Now, this is merely a suggestion, but I think it’s a pretty good one. And, so that you don’t think I’m discriminating, I think you could give the same test to older men (wink wink). If there hair is blue, they should be held to the same standards.
Well, I hope I haven’t stepped on any toes today. Far be it from me to ruffle feathers. But, since some of you opened the door, I just stepped right in. And, now, it may be best for me to step right back out.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Ron Popeil Move Over
So, I was lying there, in bed, at three-thirty this morning watching television and out of the blue they show this commercial for a company that promotes inventions…
Acme Inventor’s Club, I believe they called it, but I’m not sure. The guy was saying that if you had a new invention, or even an idea to make an existing product better to give them a call.
I called.
“Acme Inventor’s Club (or whatever),” the guy answered the phone.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Go ahead,” he says.
“Well,” I continue, “you know how when you go out to a steak restaurant and they have the ten-ounce steak with baked potato and the sixteen-ounce steak with baked potato, and you really want the sixteen-ounce steak, but you just can’t afford it?”
After a pause, the guy at the inventor’s club says, “I’m listening.”
“Well,” I say, “if you put A-1 Sauce on the baked potato it’s like you’re getting more steak.” I stop waiting for the significance of what I’ve said to sink in with the guy. I’m wondering how much money I can make with this idea.
Finally, after what seemed like five minutes, the guy says, “That’s not an invention.”
“No,” I answer. I’m ready for this reply. “But, it is an idea to make an existing product even better.” I’m beaming by now.
“That’s not the sort of idea we were talking about,” he says rather gruffly.
“Why not,” I ask, now somewhat deflated, but not destroyed.
“In all my years working here,” he says, “that’s the most asinine idea I’ve ever had anyone call in with.”
“Agree to disagree,” I say and hang up. But, I’ll not be deterred. Thomas Edison’s light bulb was laughed at until someone invented a lamp to put it in. I got up out of bed, grabbed a pen and piece of paper and began to write down all the other ideas that course through my brain. After about an hour, I call the guy back.’
“It’s me again,” I say.
“This is my lucky night,” he says.
“Okay, what about this idea,” I say. “You know those hand buzzer gizmos?” I ask.
“You mean the prank thing where you shake a guy’s hand and the buzzer buzzes?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, thankful that he and I are beginning to make a connection. “Well, suppose you replaced the buzzer with a doorbell…”
“Wait,” he interrupts. “Your idea to improve an existing product is to take a hand buzzer and replace it with a doorbell? You are putting me on, right?”
“No,” I reply. “Think about it. Everyone knows the hand-buzzer. But, suppose someone came to your door and you opened the door and held out your hand, and they shook it and the doorbell went off. You could then say, ‘Excuse me, I have to get the door.’ Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Is that all you got,” he asks.
“No,” I say enthusiastically, encouraged by his desire to hear more. You know those bow-ties that squirt water?”
“The kind clowns wear?” he asks.
“Yep, one and the same,” I say. “The problem is no one except clowns wear bow-ties. If you see someone coming towards you wearing a bow-tie, you know you’re going to get squirted.”
“So, you’re thinking that we should make a necktie that squirts,” the guy says.
“Whoa,” I laugh. “Did I call the Psychic Hotline or the Inventor’s Club?”
“Is that all?” the guy asks, ignoring my humor.
“You got time for another?” I ask politely.
“It’s a slow night,” he says. “Go ahead.”
“You know false teeth?” I ask.
“You mean the prank kind…the really ugly ones?” he asks.
”No, I’m talking real false teeth,” I say.
“Already invented,” he says. “Or do you have an idea to improve them?”
“Yeah, kind of,” I say. “I think it would be good to make false teeth blue.”
“You mean color them blue?” he asks. I can tell he’s interested. “Why would you do that?”
“Well,” I say, “suppose you’re dating this woman and she has false teeth, but you can’t tell. And, then you get married, and on your honeymoon night, the two of you are getting ready for bed and she just casually slips her teeth out. That would be a horrible time to find that sort of thing out.”
“I’m with you there pal,” he says, “but, why would someone want to wear blue false teeth. Wouldn’t that just advertise the fact that their teeth weren’t real?”
That question came at me from left field. I had to think for a moment. “Well, you could pass a law requiring it,” I suggest.
“We’re not in the legislation business,” he says. “If you’re done, I gotta run.”
“Wait,” I say. “One more.”
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll give you one more shot.”
“You know when you’re driving down the road and some truck driver gets right on your rear bumper and he has his brights on?”
“Yeah,” he says. “That really galls me.”
“Well,” I continue, “I think you could put a laser on your trunk and when that happens, you could turn the laser on, and maybe you’d even have some sort of way to control it, so you could burn the laser right into the guys eyeballs, maybe even destroy a retina or two. That would sure get him off your tail.”
“Hey,” he says, “you may be onto something.”
Long story short…I have a meeting with this guy from the Inventor’s Club. I can smell big bucks in my future.
Acme Inventor’s Club, I believe they called it, but I’m not sure. The guy was saying that if you had a new invention, or even an idea to make an existing product better to give them a call.
I called.
“Acme Inventor’s Club (or whatever),” the guy answered the phone.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Go ahead,” he says.
“Well,” I continue, “you know how when you go out to a steak restaurant and they have the ten-ounce steak with baked potato and the sixteen-ounce steak with baked potato, and you really want the sixteen-ounce steak, but you just can’t afford it?”
After a pause, the guy at the inventor’s club says, “I’m listening.”
“Well,” I say, “if you put A-1 Sauce on the baked potato it’s like you’re getting more steak.” I stop waiting for the significance of what I’ve said to sink in with the guy. I’m wondering how much money I can make with this idea.
Finally, after what seemed like five minutes, the guy says, “That’s not an invention.”
“No,” I answer. I’m ready for this reply. “But, it is an idea to make an existing product even better.” I’m beaming by now.
“That’s not the sort of idea we were talking about,” he says rather gruffly.
“Why not,” I ask, now somewhat deflated, but not destroyed.
“In all my years working here,” he says, “that’s the most asinine idea I’ve ever had anyone call in with.”
“Agree to disagree,” I say and hang up. But, I’ll not be deterred. Thomas Edison’s light bulb was laughed at until someone invented a lamp to put it in. I got up out of bed, grabbed a pen and piece of paper and began to write down all the other ideas that course through my brain. After about an hour, I call the guy back.’
“It’s me again,” I say.
“This is my lucky night,” he says.
“Okay, what about this idea,” I say. “You know those hand buzzer gizmos?” I ask.
“You mean the prank thing where you shake a guy’s hand and the buzzer buzzes?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, thankful that he and I are beginning to make a connection. “Well, suppose you replaced the buzzer with a doorbell…”
“Wait,” he interrupts. “Your idea to improve an existing product is to take a hand buzzer and replace it with a doorbell? You are putting me on, right?”
“No,” I reply. “Think about it. Everyone knows the hand-buzzer. But, suppose someone came to your door and you opened the door and held out your hand, and they shook it and the doorbell went off. You could then say, ‘Excuse me, I have to get the door.’ Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Is that all you got,” he asks.
“No,” I say enthusiastically, encouraged by his desire to hear more. You know those bow-ties that squirt water?”
“The kind clowns wear?” he asks.
“Yep, one and the same,” I say. “The problem is no one except clowns wear bow-ties. If you see someone coming towards you wearing a bow-tie, you know you’re going to get squirted.”
“So, you’re thinking that we should make a necktie that squirts,” the guy says.
“Whoa,” I laugh. “Did I call the Psychic Hotline or the Inventor’s Club?”
“Is that all?” the guy asks, ignoring my humor.
“You got time for another?” I ask politely.
“It’s a slow night,” he says. “Go ahead.”
“You know false teeth?” I ask.
“You mean the prank kind…the really ugly ones?” he asks.
”No, I’m talking real false teeth,” I say.
“Already invented,” he says. “Or do you have an idea to improve them?”
“Yeah, kind of,” I say. “I think it would be good to make false teeth blue.”
“You mean color them blue?” he asks. I can tell he’s interested. “Why would you do that?”
“Well,” I say, “suppose you’re dating this woman and she has false teeth, but you can’t tell. And, then you get married, and on your honeymoon night, the two of you are getting ready for bed and she just casually slips her teeth out. That would be a horrible time to find that sort of thing out.”
“I’m with you there pal,” he says, “but, why would someone want to wear blue false teeth. Wouldn’t that just advertise the fact that their teeth weren’t real?”
That question came at me from left field. I had to think for a moment. “Well, you could pass a law requiring it,” I suggest.
“We’re not in the legislation business,” he says. “If you’re done, I gotta run.”
“Wait,” I say. “One more.”
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll give you one more shot.”
“You know when you’re driving down the road and some truck driver gets right on your rear bumper and he has his brights on?”
“Yeah,” he says. “That really galls me.”
“Well,” I continue, “I think you could put a laser on your trunk and when that happens, you could turn the laser on, and maybe you’d even have some sort of way to control it, so you could burn the laser right into the guys eyeballs, maybe even destroy a retina or two. That would sure get him off your tail.”
“Hey,” he says, “you may be onto something.”
Long story short…I have a meeting with this guy from the Inventor’s Club. I can smell big bucks in my future.
Monday, October 09, 2006
It Was a Dark and Dreary Night
I'm going to tell you a story...a true story that I think will shock you. You will gasp in horror as the story unfolds. Because the story is so unbelieveable, I'm going to change the name of the main character...a handsome man, in his fifties...a man whom I will call Kevin Stook.
You had better take a seat, perhaps place a cold compress to your forehead, because the gruesome story is being told with no holds barred. Every miserable word is true. Here goes my story...are you ready?
Kevin Stook had to spend the night at his mother's house. It was because he worked out of town and it was cheaper to stay at his mother's house than at a hotel...a whole lot cheaper.
Kevin arrived at his mother's house at about 7:00 PM. He ate dinner. His mother loved to cook. You're such a good cook, people would tell her, that's why your name is Stook. She would laugh. Kevin never thought it very funny.
Anyway, Kevin ate his meal and in order to avoid conversation...Kevin hated conversation...he went upstairs to the guest room to watch television. Kevin lay on the bed. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. The TV came on to the local channel showing Jeopardy. Because the twelve-year-olders were no longer on, Kevin was unable to answer any questions. So, he thought, I'll see what's on the cable. He pushed the "up channel" button. It went right to the local NBC channel. Kevin froze in fear.
"What's the matter?" he shrieked. His mother came running, as well as she could run. "What's wrong?" she asked nervously. She had never heard such anguish in another human. She may have thought it sounded like the howl of a werewolf as the silver stake was buried into its heart. Kevin didn't ask her if it sounded like that, but he hoped it did.
"What's wrong?" he asked somewhat sarcastically, as if his mother had asked, "Why are there two holes in your nose?"
"What's wrong?" he repeated. "Only that the cable is not working."
"Oh, I took it out," his mother said. Kevin thought, with utter contempt, that she sounded almost happy to have removed the cable. "There's nothing but filth on there anyway," she said.
His mother loved the word filth. She said it with such disdain it was as if she had literally spit a wad of letters out of her mouth that when they tumbled to the floor, fell into a pattern that spelled "F I L T H." She used the word to describe every show on TV except Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. In years past she wouldn't apply the word to Dateline either, but since they got hooked on pedophilia, that had changed. "There's nothing worth watching anymore," she said. "Except Vanna."
Kevin had heard some tales about Vanna, but he didn't want to burst his mom's bubble. Down deep, he was a good son.
"But there's nothing on," Kevin wailed. He briefly considered throwing a tantrum, but thought that might bring on vertigo and he'd just end up throwing up.
"Calm down," his mother said. "You can watch King of Queens."
For a brief moment Kevin cheered up, then he remembered that King of Queens wouldn't be back on until mid-season. But, he thought, I can watch that new CBS comedy. What was it called? The Class?
So, Kevin stopped whimpering, wiped his, by now, fogged up glasses on his necktie and lay back down. He was ready to be entertained. He was ready for a good CBS comedy. Yes, he was still vulnerable, due to the shocking discovery that his mother no longer had cable, but he thought that if the rest of the evening went smoothly, he'd be okay.
It was 8:00 PM. Time for The Class. Then the real horror began. The terror he had felt previously, compared with this new terror, was only like the terror you get when you realize that you've come back into the office, from the restroom, without remembering to zip. The terror Kevin felt now was unlike any he'd ever encountered before in his life.
If one could take terror and roll it up into a ball and examine it under a light, Kevin would have been too afraid to do that to this particular ball of terror...it was that bad.
"We interrupt tonight's regularly scheduled program...." the voice on the TV said, "to bring you this special programming."
Kevin thought at first that maybe it was a ball game, but, no, that wouldn't make sense. The voice continued:
"This is the final in a series of debates between George Allen and Jim Webb. Blah blah blah blah blah blah..." the voice continued.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!" Kevin screamed, reaching for the remote. He turned to channel 12. The same voice was speaking, "Your host for tonight's debate is blah blah blah blah blah."
This was like a scene right out of The Outer Limits. They've taken over the TV Kevin thought. Maybe this is Armageddon. Kevin brightened up for a moment. But it wasn't. This was a real, live debate between Allen and Webb. And here was Kevin, forced to watch it. He felt his head going numb. His ears began to tingle. Either blood was gushing out of his mouth, or he was drooling. He started to wipe his mouth to find out. At this point Kevin lost consciousness. I'll tell you the rest, as soon as Kevin comes to.
You had better take a seat, perhaps place a cold compress to your forehead, because the gruesome story is being told with no holds barred. Every miserable word is true. Here goes my story...are you ready?
Kevin Stook had to spend the night at his mother's house. It was because he worked out of town and it was cheaper to stay at his mother's house than at a hotel...a whole lot cheaper.
Kevin arrived at his mother's house at about 7:00 PM. He ate dinner. His mother loved to cook. You're such a good cook, people would tell her, that's why your name is Stook. She would laugh. Kevin never thought it very funny.
Anyway, Kevin ate his meal and in order to avoid conversation...Kevin hated conversation...he went upstairs to the guest room to watch television. Kevin lay on the bed. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. The TV came on to the local channel showing Jeopardy. Because the twelve-year-olders were no longer on, Kevin was unable to answer any questions. So, he thought, I'll see what's on the cable. He pushed the "up channel" button. It went right to the local NBC channel. Kevin froze in fear.
"What's the matter?" he shrieked. His mother came running, as well as she could run. "What's wrong?" she asked nervously. She had never heard such anguish in another human. She may have thought it sounded like the howl of a werewolf as the silver stake was buried into its heart. Kevin didn't ask her if it sounded like that, but he hoped it did.
"What's wrong?" he asked somewhat sarcastically, as if his mother had asked, "Why are there two holes in your nose?"
"What's wrong?" he repeated. "Only that the cable is not working."
"Oh, I took it out," his mother said. Kevin thought, with utter contempt, that she sounded almost happy to have removed the cable. "There's nothing but filth on there anyway," she said.
His mother loved the word filth. She said it with such disdain it was as if she had literally spit a wad of letters out of her mouth that when they tumbled to the floor, fell into a pattern that spelled "F I L T H." She used the word to describe every show on TV except Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. In years past she wouldn't apply the word to Dateline either, but since they got hooked on pedophilia, that had changed. "There's nothing worth watching anymore," she said. "Except Vanna."
Kevin had heard some tales about Vanna, but he didn't want to burst his mom's bubble. Down deep, he was a good son.
"But there's nothing on," Kevin wailed. He briefly considered throwing a tantrum, but thought that might bring on vertigo and he'd just end up throwing up.
"Calm down," his mother said. "You can watch King of Queens."
For a brief moment Kevin cheered up, then he remembered that King of Queens wouldn't be back on until mid-season. But, he thought, I can watch that new CBS comedy. What was it called? The Class?
So, Kevin stopped whimpering, wiped his, by now, fogged up glasses on his necktie and lay back down. He was ready to be entertained. He was ready for a good CBS comedy. Yes, he was still vulnerable, due to the shocking discovery that his mother no longer had cable, but he thought that if the rest of the evening went smoothly, he'd be okay.
It was 8:00 PM. Time for The Class. Then the real horror began. The terror he had felt previously, compared with this new terror, was only like the terror you get when you realize that you've come back into the office, from the restroom, without remembering to zip. The terror Kevin felt now was unlike any he'd ever encountered before in his life.
If one could take terror and roll it up into a ball and examine it under a light, Kevin would have been too afraid to do that to this particular ball of terror...it was that bad.
"We interrupt tonight's regularly scheduled program...." the voice on the TV said, "to bring you this special programming."
Kevin thought at first that maybe it was a ball game, but, no, that wouldn't make sense. The voice continued:
"This is the final in a series of debates between George Allen and Jim Webb. Blah blah blah blah blah blah..." the voice continued.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!" Kevin screamed, reaching for the remote. He turned to channel 12. The same voice was speaking, "Your host for tonight's debate is blah blah blah blah blah."
This was like a scene right out of The Outer Limits. They've taken over the TV Kevin thought. Maybe this is Armageddon. Kevin brightened up for a moment. But it wasn't. This was a real, live debate between Allen and Webb. And here was Kevin, forced to watch it. He felt his head going numb. His ears began to tingle. Either blood was gushing out of his mouth, or he was drooling. He started to wipe his mouth to find out. At this point Kevin lost consciousness. I'll tell you the rest, as soon as Kevin comes to.
Bed Panned
It seems as if my health has become the number one topic in my life and I'm sure that delights you no end. There's nothing I enjoy more than listening to someone complain about how poorly he feels. Actually, for someone in so miserable a shape as I am, I feel pretty good...most of the time.
Saturday night was an exception to that. I was getting ready for bed and my heart started pounding. At first I thought that was because I had a new pair of Superman Returns pajamas with footies. But by the time I got into bed, my heart was racing so rapidly that I felt I was about to pass out. This happened just a few weeks ago. I finally told my wife...well, I didn't actually tell her. I clutched at my heart and began to moan. Within thirty minutes she got the picture.
When I explained what was happening, she lovingly said, "We can't afford to be taking you to the emergency room every time you feel a little faint." Well, she didn't actually say those exact words, but I could tell that's what she was thinking. Anyway, I finally crawled back to the closet, took my Supermans off and redressed.
I get to the hospital, and after they do an EKG, they put me in one of those little gurney beds in the emergency room. They hooked me up to a monitoring device, stuck a needle in my hand, just to be sticking something somewhere, and abandoned me.
I lay there for the next 4 hours waiting. They did leave the TV on, but by this time of night, all that was on were infomercials. I kept trying to get someone's attention because after the first hour, nature began to call, first softly, then louder and louder. Finally, I was able to grab hold of the side railing of the bed with one hand and lean over, suspending my body in mid-air, while I reached for the call button. I couldn't reach it, but I could jab at it, which started the button swaying on the cord. Acrobatically, I finally got it to swing to within my grasp. After I had punched the button, I waited no more than another half hour until a nurse comes in my room to see why I was interrupting their card game.
"Can you unhook me so I can use the restroom," I asked with about the same meekness Oliver Twist displayed in asking for more gruel. The woman leaves the room, as if she needs to get permission for me to go to the bathroom. She comes back with a plastic pitcher. I was hoping that wouldn't happen. I had a gown on, about 20 wires attached to various parts of my body, a plastic tumbler, hooked to a needle sticking out of my arm, and a blood pressure cuff sliding down the other arm. And, they expect me to use this little narrow-mouth pitcher? Since I had been feeling the urge for over an hour, I used the pitcher.
I got back into bed, readjusted all my wires and watched my heart rate on the monitor, only because that was more interesting than the infomercial for a course in stock trading. And I waited...and waited...and waited. Finally the doctor came in and said the heart doctor wanted to see me before they would release me. So I waited some more. I tried to sleep but the nurses (male and female) were having such a rollicking good time out in the hall that I couldn't fall asleep. I've been in quieter pool halls than this emergency room.
Finally, at about three-thirty Sunday morning I decided I had to get out of there. It wasn't a matter of wanting to leave. I had to. I really thought I was going to have some sort of panic attack. I pulled one of the wires off my chest. That started the bell ringing. I figured when a nurse responded to the ringing, I'd tell her I wanted to leave. No one ever came. I guess they figured that if I were dead, there was nothing they could do anyway, and if a wire were just loose, it was no cause for alarm.
I don't know why the nurses didn't get tired of the ringing. Maybe the clanking of glasses as they toasted one another drowned out the noise of my alarm bell. So, I pulled off another wire, and then another, until, before long, like Eric Clapton, I was unplugged.
I removed the little clip from my finger and the cuff from my arm. Still no one showed up. The only thing that stood between me and freedom was this needle sticking out of my hand. I started peeling off the bandages, and then grabbed the needle and ripped it from my flesh. Sure, I bled profusely, but it felt so good to be free. I put my clothes on and scurried out the door. I cleverly skulked down the hall, and out of the building. My wife was waiting outside, and in a scene that would remind one of the raid on Entebbe, I was gone.
I giggled like a teenager. Sometimes doing something daring and bold is refreshing. The cool thing is that my heart didn't skip a beat through the entire escape. Actually, I felt better than I had in years.
My wife thinks I'm crazy. I say, go ahead put me in an asylum. Lock me up in a straight jacket. I'm ready for my next great escape.
Saturday night was an exception to that. I was getting ready for bed and my heart started pounding. At first I thought that was because I had a new pair of Superman Returns pajamas with footies. But by the time I got into bed, my heart was racing so rapidly that I felt I was about to pass out. This happened just a few weeks ago. I finally told my wife...well, I didn't actually tell her. I clutched at my heart and began to moan. Within thirty minutes she got the picture.
When I explained what was happening, she lovingly said, "We can't afford to be taking you to the emergency room every time you feel a little faint." Well, she didn't actually say those exact words, but I could tell that's what she was thinking. Anyway, I finally crawled back to the closet, took my Supermans off and redressed.
I get to the hospital, and after they do an EKG, they put me in one of those little gurney beds in the emergency room. They hooked me up to a monitoring device, stuck a needle in my hand, just to be sticking something somewhere, and abandoned me.
I lay there for the next 4 hours waiting. They did leave the TV on, but by this time of night, all that was on were infomercials. I kept trying to get someone's attention because after the first hour, nature began to call, first softly, then louder and louder. Finally, I was able to grab hold of the side railing of the bed with one hand and lean over, suspending my body in mid-air, while I reached for the call button. I couldn't reach it, but I could jab at it, which started the button swaying on the cord. Acrobatically, I finally got it to swing to within my grasp. After I had punched the button, I waited no more than another half hour until a nurse comes in my room to see why I was interrupting their card game.
"Can you unhook me so I can use the restroom," I asked with about the same meekness Oliver Twist displayed in asking for more gruel. The woman leaves the room, as if she needs to get permission for me to go to the bathroom. She comes back with a plastic pitcher. I was hoping that wouldn't happen. I had a gown on, about 20 wires attached to various parts of my body, a plastic tumbler, hooked to a needle sticking out of my arm, and a blood pressure cuff sliding down the other arm. And, they expect me to use this little narrow-mouth pitcher? Since I had been feeling the urge for over an hour, I used the pitcher.
I got back into bed, readjusted all my wires and watched my heart rate on the monitor, only because that was more interesting than the infomercial for a course in stock trading. And I waited...and waited...and waited. Finally the doctor came in and said the heart doctor wanted to see me before they would release me. So I waited some more. I tried to sleep but the nurses (male and female) were having such a rollicking good time out in the hall that I couldn't fall asleep. I've been in quieter pool halls than this emergency room.
Finally, at about three-thirty Sunday morning I decided I had to get out of there. It wasn't a matter of wanting to leave. I had to. I really thought I was going to have some sort of panic attack. I pulled one of the wires off my chest. That started the bell ringing. I figured when a nurse responded to the ringing, I'd tell her I wanted to leave. No one ever came. I guess they figured that if I were dead, there was nothing they could do anyway, and if a wire were just loose, it was no cause for alarm.
I don't know why the nurses didn't get tired of the ringing. Maybe the clanking of glasses as they toasted one another drowned out the noise of my alarm bell. So, I pulled off another wire, and then another, until, before long, like Eric Clapton, I was unplugged.
I removed the little clip from my finger and the cuff from my arm. Still no one showed up. The only thing that stood between me and freedom was this needle sticking out of my hand. I started peeling off the bandages, and then grabbed the needle and ripped it from my flesh. Sure, I bled profusely, but it felt so good to be free. I put my clothes on and scurried out the door. I cleverly skulked down the hall, and out of the building. My wife was waiting outside, and in a scene that would remind one of the raid on Entebbe, I was gone.
I giggled like a teenager. Sometimes doing something daring and bold is refreshing. The cool thing is that my heart didn't skip a beat through the entire escape. Actually, I felt better than I had in years.
My wife thinks I'm crazy. I say, go ahead put me in an asylum. Lock me up in a straight jacket. I'm ready for my next great escape.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Now, That's Sick
After you read what I’m about to say, you’re going to think I’m a real hypochondriac. You would, of course, be wrong, but you’re going to think it. Here goes: I am just recovering from the worst case of flu any human has ever had to endure. Now you’re probably thinking, “Hey Steve, that’s absurd. Millions have died from flu.”
To that, I respond, true, but they weren’t as sick as I was. I really believe that. I ached in places I didn’t even know existed. My toenails hurt. My hair hurt.
I also know what a hot fudge sundae would feel like if a hot fudge sundae could feel. I was burning up and freezing at the same time. I don’t think that sort of thing has ever happened to anyone else before.
I was so sick I thought my internal organs were shutting down. I started to get up and write my will, but hey, let my wife and daughter figure out how to divide up the buck fifty-seven in my savings account.
One thing I got to do while I was recuperating was watch a lot of TV. I saw all sorts of shows, and since I couldn’t sleep at night I had the privilege of watching some of the late night stuff. Let me tell you, as bad as daytime and primetime TV is, overnight is downright horrible.
I saw some sort of Hollywood Insider show. Gee those folks in show business are a boring lot. I kind of get the impression that this Anna Nicole Smith person is just a wee bit self-obsessed. But maybe my ill health affected my disposition. I also saw Farrah Fawcett. Wow! Has she ever aged? When it comes to a time-ravaged face, I’d say Farah is the modern day Lucille Ball.
What’s really horrid are the late night commercials. There sure must be a lot of people interested in telephone dating. I saw one commercial after another for phone dating. Evidently there must be a lot of very beautiful women who are afraid that their looks intimidate men, so they’re forced to sit at home alone, and, if they’re lucky, to date via the phone. I’m just basing that on the commercials.
And besides dating ads, there must be a lot of lonely guys out there who just need friends because they kept running ads showing this guy who talked about how hard it was to hook up with other guys. So, they have a phone number guys can call and talk to other guys. I guess they’re talking about football, hunting, and stuff like that.
There was also a “Mark Foley Date-A-Senator line. I take that back. That was just a joke and I don’t think I should joke about it. Foley has said he’s sorry. He said he’s put that part of his life behind him and has turned to a new page. I think I should believe him. After all, it wasn’t him hitting on boys, it was the alcohol. Oh yeah, and he was a victim of clergy abuse too.
I was a victim of clergy abuse last night. I flipped to a channel that showed a group of people waving green handkerchiefs in the air. There was a guy on stage whooping it up. I thought he must be some sort of raunchy comedian. But, I soon learned (and my apologies to all raunchy comedians), the guy was a TV evangelist. He was hawking this green prayer handkerchief…said it would heal just about anything. Judging from the guy’s looks, I’m thinking maybe he should try wiping his face with it.
Anyway, to wrap this up, I’m feeling much better. And without the help of a green hanky. I know you’re glad to hear that I’m all well now. Except I do have a slight pain in my neck. You don’t suppose that could be meningitis, do you?
To that, I respond, true, but they weren’t as sick as I was. I really believe that. I ached in places I didn’t even know existed. My toenails hurt. My hair hurt.
I also know what a hot fudge sundae would feel like if a hot fudge sundae could feel. I was burning up and freezing at the same time. I don’t think that sort of thing has ever happened to anyone else before.
I was so sick I thought my internal organs were shutting down. I started to get up and write my will, but hey, let my wife and daughter figure out how to divide up the buck fifty-seven in my savings account.
One thing I got to do while I was recuperating was watch a lot of TV. I saw all sorts of shows, and since I couldn’t sleep at night I had the privilege of watching some of the late night stuff. Let me tell you, as bad as daytime and primetime TV is, overnight is downright horrible.
I saw some sort of Hollywood Insider show. Gee those folks in show business are a boring lot. I kind of get the impression that this Anna Nicole Smith person is just a wee bit self-obsessed. But maybe my ill health affected my disposition. I also saw Farrah Fawcett. Wow! Has she ever aged? When it comes to a time-ravaged face, I’d say Farah is the modern day Lucille Ball.
What’s really horrid are the late night commercials. There sure must be a lot of people interested in telephone dating. I saw one commercial after another for phone dating. Evidently there must be a lot of very beautiful women who are afraid that their looks intimidate men, so they’re forced to sit at home alone, and, if they’re lucky, to date via the phone. I’m just basing that on the commercials.
And besides dating ads, there must be a lot of lonely guys out there who just need friends because they kept running ads showing this guy who talked about how hard it was to hook up with other guys. So, they have a phone number guys can call and talk to other guys. I guess they’re talking about football, hunting, and stuff like that.
There was also a “Mark Foley Date-A-Senator line. I take that back. That was just a joke and I don’t think I should joke about it. Foley has said he’s sorry. He said he’s put that part of his life behind him and has turned to a new page. I think I should believe him. After all, it wasn’t him hitting on boys, it was the alcohol. Oh yeah, and he was a victim of clergy abuse too.
I was a victim of clergy abuse last night. I flipped to a channel that showed a group of people waving green handkerchiefs in the air. There was a guy on stage whooping it up. I thought he must be some sort of raunchy comedian. But, I soon learned (and my apologies to all raunchy comedians), the guy was a TV evangelist. He was hawking this green prayer handkerchief…said it would heal just about anything. Judging from the guy’s looks, I’m thinking maybe he should try wiping his face with it.
Anyway, to wrap this up, I’m feeling much better. And without the help of a green hanky. I know you’re glad to hear that I’m all well now. Except I do have a slight pain in my neck. You don’t suppose that could be meningitis, do you?
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Age Rage
Okay, I told you I had made an important self discovery, and since many of you are, like me, in that ever popular Baby Boomer demographic, I'd be interested in knowing if you agree.
Here's what I've discovered...We (we, being Baby Boomers), are a very self-absorbed bunch of people. I thought about it last week while visiting some old friends in Florida. Did I mention I had a fabulous vacation? Not as fabulous as my fabulous trip to China last year, but fabulous.
Anyway, we were sitting around whining about getting old...how unfair...how miserable we were. You know the typical stuff we Baby Boomers are wont to do. Then it dawned on me. Hey, I thought to myself, if memory serves me correctly, we're not the first generation to get old.
Clever, huh? We're just the first generation to, as a generation, whine about it. True, no one, I suppose, enjoys getting old, but our parents and grandparents did it and I don't ever remember them complaining, or acting as if some unbelieveable plague had infected them. They just got old...and died (many of them).
We, on the other hand, want to document every wrinkle, every gray hair, every liver spot. We want some sort of miracle goo to pour on those wrinkles and gray hair (or bald scalp) or liver spots and make everything magically disappear.
We want to be virile and cool and with it and happening people.
And all the while that we're thinking we're still pretty cool, we're whining about being old. At least that's my observation. Maybe I"m wrong. Maybe I was too absorbed in myself ten, twenty, thirty years ago to hear my mother complain about her gray hair and liver spots. But, I think I'm right.
I don't know if it's television, movies, Madison Avenue, or what, but we act like old age is not something we thought would ever happen. We look at our tired, prune-like old faces and wonder what's going on. We act like we're in some sort of science fiction movie and the aliens are doing something horrible to us.
I don't want to be like that. I want to be cool, but cool in a "hey, I AM old" sort of way. I want to embrace my liver spots...maybe even take a magic marker and play connect the dots with them. I'm tired of the magic goo. There really isn't much magic in it.
In my mind, I think of myself as thirty, until I move or breathe or catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I want to start thinking of myself as 70. Even though I'm still more than a decade away from that age, if I think of myself as 70, I'll be really impressed when I look in the mirror. It is true, I look pretty good for a 70 year old man, and if I live another 30 years, I'll be a hundred in my mind. That'll be cool. Maybe Willard Scott will say hello to me.
What's the use of trying to pretend I'm thirty? It ain't working. I know it and you know it. And, while I have a few aches and pains, it's not so bad for this 70 year-old body.
So, I'm going to go out and embrace the day as an old man. Okay, I will dab just a little of that mushroom facial elixir on first, but then I'm out of here.
Here's what I've discovered...We (we, being Baby Boomers), are a very self-absorbed bunch of people. I thought about it last week while visiting some old friends in Florida. Did I mention I had a fabulous vacation? Not as fabulous as my fabulous trip to China last year, but fabulous.
Anyway, we were sitting around whining about getting old...how unfair...how miserable we were. You know the typical stuff we Baby Boomers are wont to do. Then it dawned on me. Hey, I thought to myself, if memory serves me correctly, we're not the first generation to get old.
Clever, huh? We're just the first generation to, as a generation, whine about it. True, no one, I suppose, enjoys getting old, but our parents and grandparents did it and I don't ever remember them complaining, or acting as if some unbelieveable plague had infected them. They just got old...and died (many of them).
We, on the other hand, want to document every wrinkle, every gray hair, every liver spot. We want some sort of miracle goo to pour on those wrinkles and gray hair (or bald scalp) or liver spots and make everything magically disappear.
We want to be virile and cool and with it and happening people.
And all the while that we're thinking we're still pretty cool, we're whining about being old. At least that's my observation. Maybe I"m wrong. Maybe I was too absorbed in myself ten, twenty, thirty years ago to hear my mother complain about her gray hair and liver spots. But, I think I'm right.
I don't know if it's television, movies, Madison Avenue, or what, but we act like old age is not something we thought would ever happen. We look at our tired, prune-like old faces and wonder what's going on. We act like we're in some sort of science fiction movie and the aliens are doing something horrible to us.
I don't want to be like that. I want to be cool, but cool in a "hey, I AM old" sort of way. I want to embrace my liver spots...maybe even take a magic marker and play connect the dots with them. I'm tired of the magic goo. There really isn't much magic in it.
In my mind, I think of myself as thirty, until I move or breathe or catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I want to start thinking of myself as 70. Even though I'm still more than a decade away from that age, if I think of myself as 70, I'll be really impressed when I look in the mirror. It is true, I look pretty good for a 70 year old man, and if I live another 30 years, I'll be a hundred in my mind. That'll be cool. Maybe Willard Scott will say hello to me.
What's the use of trying to pretend I'm thirty? It ain't working. I know it and you know it. And, while I have a few aches and pains, it's not so bad for this 70 year-old body.
So, I'm going to go out and embrace the day as an old man. Okay, I will dab just a little of that mushroom facial elixir on first, but then I'm out of here.
Monday, October 02, 2006
I'm Baaaaccccck (or however you spell "back" when you drag it out in that pseudo-frightening way)
Hi. Did you miss me? Don't you hate it when someone asks you that question? What are you supposed to say, "Oh, have you been gone?" I hope so, because that's what I always say. Anyway, I just returned from a fabulous vacation in Florida. I would have written sooner, but my laptop was on vacation as well - actually in the shop.
I went eight days without even touching a computer. And, you know what? I loved it.
But, anyway I'm back. I don't know where to start. So many ideas hit me while I was gone, but without a computer, I wasn't able to write them down. Didn't we used to keep little sticks in our pocket that produced a colored liquid that you could use to write on paper? I vaguely remember having one of those one time, long ago.
Anyway, I'd love to tell you about the exceptional service we received from Avis Rent a Car. Unfortuantately, their new slogan is We Hardly Try. So, there isn't much to tell. I could tell you about my battle with swimmer's ear but that might only disgust you. It sure did my wife, who looked in my ear and shreiked that there must be a small animal growing near my brain. I did spend the entire week responding, Huh?" to any and all questions asked me. I could tell you about all the new attractions at the Orlando theme parks. However we didn't visit even one. That's right...a whole week in Orlando and no Disney. Personally, I'd feel better if Mickey Mouse just held a gun on me when I entered the park and demanded all my money, rather than charging me fifteen bucks for a hot dog and a drink.
I would love to regale you with exciting stories about how I spent my summer (make that fall) vacation, but all I did was lie by the pool. Oh, I did finish my first book. I'd been working on it for quite some time. I'm delighted to have finished it. Maybe next year I'll read another one.
The book, a novel by Dean Koontz, contained about six pages of quotes from various book reviewers around the country. Have you ever noticed how book reviewers all use the same cliches? "It was a real page-turner." "I couldn't put it down." "(Insert author's name here) is a master at his/her craft."
I think book reviewers must be, for the most part, frustrated writers...people who think if they write a sparkling review, the author will take notice of him (or her) and take him (or her) under his (or her) wing. When you read the reviews you can see why the reviewers are not published authors. They can't even write decent reviews.
I hate cliches. My father used to tell me to avoid cliches like the plague, and I've tried to follow his advice.
I would like to try my hand at writing a review. Tell me what you think....Dean Koontz writes pretty good. I really liked the story except for the boring parts. He does tend to use too many big words. But, other than that I like the book. It was nice. The cover was pretty, too. I wouldn't mind reading another one of his novels, if someone gave it to me as a gift.
Now, that's a review you just don't see every day. But, personally, I like it. It has enough zing to get you to go buy the book. Oh yeah, the name of the book is Sole Survivor...just in case you're zinged.
I had a lot of other cool stuff to tell you, but this is the first time I've typed in a week and my hand is getting tired. Oh yeah, one word of advice...if you're over fifty, don't go bowling. It's too hard on the hands. I took my wife's nephew bowling while on vacation and I still can't move my fingers. There ought to be some sort of warning that comes on the bowling balls.
I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, that I had other things I wanted to talk about. I made an interesting self-discovery (and it has nothing to do with the folds of my flesh) while on vacation. I'll share that with you tomorrow, unless I forget all about it, or change my mind. Anyway, it's nice to be back. Kind of.
I went eight days without even touching a computer. And, you know what? I loved it.
But, anyway I'm back. I don't know where to start. So many ideas hit me while I was gone, but without a computer, I wasn't able to write them down. Didn't we used to keep little sticks in our pocket that produced a colored liquid that you could use to write on paper? I vaguely remember having one of those one time, long ago.
Anyway, I'd love to tell you about the exceptional service we received from Avis Rent a Car. Unfortuantately, their new slogan is We Hardly Try. So, there isn't much to tell. I could tell you about my battle with swimmer's ear but that might only disgust you. It sure did my wife, who looked in my ear and shreiked that there must be a small animal growing near my brain. I did spend the entire week responding, Huh?" to any and all questions asked me. I could tell you about all the new attractions at the Orlando theme parks. However we didn't visit even one. That's right...a whole week in Orlando and no Disney. Personally, I'd feel better if Mickey Mouse just held a gun on me when I entered the park and demanded all my money, rather than charging me fifteen bucks for a hot dog and a drink.
I would love to regale you with exciting stories about how I spent my summer (make that fall) vacation, but all I did was lie by the pool. Oh, I did finish my first book. I'd been working on it for quite some time. I'm delighted to have finished it. Maybe next year I'll read another one.
The book, a novel by Dean Koontz, contained about six pages of quotes from various book reviewers around the country. Have you ever noticed how book reviewers all use the same cliches? "It was a real page-turner." "I couldn't put it down." "(Insert author's name here) is a master at his/her craft."
I think book reviewers must be, for the most part, frustrated writers...people who think if they write a sparkling review, the author will take notice of him (or her) and take him (or her) under his (or her) wing. When you read the reviews you can see why the reviewers are not published authors. They can't even write decent reviews.
I hate cliches. My father used to tell me to avoid cliches like the plague, and I've tried to follow his advice.
I would like to try my hand at writing a review. Tell me what you think....Dean Koontz writes pretty good. I really liked the story except for the boring parts. He does tend to use too many big words. But, other than that I like the book. It was nice. The cover was pretty, too. I wouldn't mind reading another one of his novels, if someone gave it to me as a gift.
Now, that's a review you just don't see every day. But, personally, I like it. It has enough zing to get you to go buy the book. Oh yeah, the name of the book is Sole Survivor...just in case you're zinged.
I had a lot of other cool stuff to tell you, but this is the first time I've typed in a week and my hand is getting tired. Oh yeah, one word of advice...if you're over fifty, don't go bowling. It's too hard on the hands. I took my wife's nephew bowling while on vacation and I still can't move my fingers. There ought to be some sort of warning that comes on the bowling balls.
I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, that I had other things I wanted to talk about. I made an interesting self-discovery (and it has nothing to do with the folds of my flesh) while on vacation. I'll share that with you tomorrow, unless I forget all about it, or change my mind. Anyway, it's nice to be back. Kind of.
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