Whew! I guess Lane Ramsey and the Chesterfield Chamber gang that couldn't shoot straight are breathing a sigh of relief today. Thanks to Steve Johnson, famed semi-porno prince of Richmond's school board, the guys in Chesterfield are looking pretty good.
What's an $18,000 chartered plane trip, followed by what some are calling nothing less than attempted bribery, compared to the ongoing shenanigans of Johnson. You remember, back in late 2005, he's the guy who stepped down as president of the city school board when it was discovered he had posted a semi-nude snapshot of himself on a gay porn internet dating site. And now, while embarking on a school board-related business trip, Johnson is discovered by airport police to be carrying three joints of marijuana.
But,hold on. Don't start jumping to conclusions. As school board member Carol Wolf is so quick to remind us, we shouldn't be judgmental. Johnson, she says, is one heckuva great guy. In fact, Wolf says it so sternly, that I'm feeling somewhat guilty for having been judgmental of poor, misunderstood Mr. Johnson.
Now, I will admit that Johnson has stated that he uses the marijuana for medicinal purposes. If memory serves, I think that's the same reason one of my uncles kept a little flask in his back pocket at all times.
But,what's Johnson's medical problem? Addiction to marijuana? I guess that would be many junkies' treatment of choice.
Anyway, Johnson has now resigned from the board, but heaven forbid you get the idea he's doing so because he's so filled with remorse over his ongoing wrongdoing. Nope, the only reason the guy's resigning is because he has to treat this "medical problem."
Oh yeah, there's one more reason Steve Johnson says he's resigning. In fact, he says he's been thinking about resigning for quite some time. His decision has nothing to do with the fact he's caught trying to sneak pot onto a plane. Nope, it's not about that at all.
He says he's lost his passion ever since the porn site incident forced him to give up his spot as president of the board. Poor thing. He's lost his passion. Seems to me that lack of passion has never been a problem. Maybe misplaced passion, now that might be a problem. From what I hear, he was pretty passionate when telling other visitors to that gay dating site just what he was looking for.
Of course, I'm not going to be judgmental. I don't want Carol Wolf to be able to accuse me of such a horror. And, obviously, if I become judgmental of someone who continues to do one stupid thing after another, there's really only one reason I would do so. Yep, you caught me. I must be homophobic.
Gee, how that term grates on my nerves. I'll tell you who's homophobic. It'd be anyone who is so afraid to somehow give the appearance that she condemns homosexuality that she'll wink at just about any horrendous, or just plain stupid, thing that the homosexual might do.
Hey, Ms. Wolf, if you condemn me for being judgmental, you must be heterophobic. You better watch out, you wouldn't want that moniker hung on you, would you?
Here's the deal. If you do something stupid, regardless of who or what you're sexually attracted to, we ought to be able to call you stupid. And, Steve Johnson is stupid.
He was carrying (hiding) illegal drugs. And, even after he's caught, he tries to minimize his stupidity as well as his arrogance by attempting to claim it was for medicinal purposes. Let the students in those schools he's supposed to be working for try and pull a stunt like that. Let's see how far the "medicinal purposes" excuse gets them.
Next thing we'll hear is that that female school teacher in Roanoke who was arrested for molesting teenage boys was doing that for medicinal purposes. And, we had better not be judging the poor lady, or else we might be accused of being pedophobic.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
A Deeper, More Introspective Steve
Since I’m not in an overly humorous mood today, I’ll just tell you a joke and then get on with what I want to write about. Now, don’t let my mood ruin your day. I’m not unhappy, it’s just that I’ve discovered one of the secrets of life, about which I have pondered since I turned forty.
I’ll get to that in a minute, but first the joke, which kinda highlights what I’ve been thinking about.
This ritzy woman pulls up to the front door of an exclusive hotel in Beverly Hills in her fancy schmancy automobile and starts directing the bellboys to unpack her luggage. Her fat little ten-year-old son is buckled up in the passenger seat next to her. She orders one of the bellboys to pick up her son and carry him to her suite.
“What’s the matter,” the bellhop asks, “can’t he walk?”
“Of course he can,” the mother snaps back, “But, thank God, he’ll never have to.”
Okay, enough hilarity. That joke encapsulates my recent epiphany. I’ve been wondering, for more than a decade now, why our parents and grandparents (by “our” I’m speaking basically about us Boomers), never warned us about what it would be like to get old. As miserable as it is to acquire a new pain every day, and a new pill at least once a year, it seems that somebody should have told us that this getting old thing was not going to be a lot of fun.
Truth is, I don’t think I ever thought I would get old. I thought old age was for old people. I thought my parents and grandparents were somehow just born to be old, but not me or my generation.
In retrospect, I feel kind of stupid, but I have somewhat been blaming it on my forbears (this has nothing to do with the Maymont Park thing). I kept wondering why they didn’t warn me.
Well, now I’ve figured out the answer. I think those earlier generations had a much greater sense of their own mortality from their childhood on, than do those of my generation and offspring.
Think about it, our parents and grandparents had experienced the Spanish Flu pandemic. They had lived through the Great Depression and World War II. They were survivors in the true sense of the word. And, they had plenty of friends and relatives who did not survive.
Then, World War II ends and things suddenly look rosy, by comparison anyway. The men come home from the war, marry the women, and start having us. And one thing they wanted to make sure of is that we’d never (“thank God”) have to experience the things they’d gone through. And they did (make sure) and we didn’t (suffer like them).
Those in my age group were never terrified at the mention of two little letters – TB. My generation rarely heard the word “polio” without the word “vaccine” right behind it. The only thing we had to fear was the fear of the needle, which immunized us from all those dread diseases with which our parents and their parents and their peers had contended.
Yep, we were immunized from what life had really been like. Some of our immunizations came in the form of a serum, or a pill. Others came from the hard work of our parents, determined to give us a better life than they had endured.
Somehow, along the way, these medical miracle workers of the fifties and sixties, didn’t live long enough to come up with a vaccine against old age. And so, we got old. Suddenly, unexpectedly, we looked in the mirror and we were old.
We had spent our early years relishing our presumed immortality. We figured it would just keep getting better and better. And, now, when it seems we should be fully enjoying our lives, we discover we’re fat (and likely to die that way), we’re diabetic, we’re arthritic, we have heart disease, and the list could go on and on. I’ll spare you any additional gory details.
I remember vacationing with my grandfather and step-grandmother when I was a kid. When they opened their suitcase, the prescription drugs took up more room than did their clothes. How pathetic, I remember thinking at the time. But, I concluded that’s what old people had to put up with. Thankfully, I wasn’t going to get old.
I may not have been quite that shortsighted about it, but if you’re a fellow-Boomer, I’m guessing you get the picture. Well, the joke was on me. Ha Ha. I’m laughing all the way to the emergency room.
I hope this hasn’t been too depressing. Actually, I’m happy I’ve figured out why I was never told what to expect. The only problem is, I’ve learned enough now, to be able to look at my 81 year-old mother and know that I’m looking at the coming attractions. And, to be perfectly honest, I’m not giddy with anticipation.
I’ll get to that in a minute, but first the joke, which kinda highlights what I’ve been thinking about.
This ritzy woman pulls up to the front door of an exclusive hotel in Beverly Hills in her fancy schmancy automobile and starts directing the bellboys to unpack her luggage. Her fat little ten-year-old son is buckled up in the passenger seat next to her. She orders one of the bellboys to pick up her son and carry him to her suite.
“What’s the matter,” the bellhop asks, “can’t he walk?”
“Of course he can,” the mother snaps back, “But, thank God, he’ll never have to.”
Okay, enough hilarity. That joke encapsulates my recent epiphany. I’ve been wondering, for more than a decade now, why our parents and grandparents (by “our” I’m speaking basically about us Boomers), never warned us about what it would be like to get old. As miserable as it is to acquire a new pain every day, and a new pill at least once a year, it seems that somebody should have told us that this getting old thing was not going to be a lot of fun.
Truth is, I don’t think I ever thought I would get old. I thought old age was for old people. I thought my parents and grandparents were somehow just born to be old, but not me or my generation.
In retrospect, I feel kind of stupid, but I have somewhat been blaming it on my forbears (this has nothing to do with the Maymont Park thing). I kept wondering why they didn’t warn me.
Well, now I’ve figured out the answer. I think those earlier generations had a much greater sense of their own mortality from their childhood on, than do those of my generation and offspring.
Think about it, our parents and grandparents had experienced the Spanish Flu pandemic. They had lived through the Great Depression and World War II. They were survivors in the true sense of the word. And, they had plenty of friends and relatives who did not survive.
Then, World War II ends and things suddenly look rosy, by comparison anyway. The men come home from the war, marry the women, and start having us. And one thing they wanted to make sure of is that we’d never (“thank God”) have to experience the things they’d gone through. And they did (make sure) and we didn’t (suffer like them).
Those in my age group were never terrified at the mention of two little letters – TB. My generation rarely heard the word “polio” without the word “vaccine” right behind it. The only thing we had to fear was the fear of the needle, which immunized us from all those dread diseases with which our parents and their parents and their peers had contended.
Yep, we were immunized from what life had really been like. Some of our immunizations came in the form of a serum, or a pill. Others came from the hard work of our parents, determined to give us a better life than they had endured.
Somehow, along the way, these medical miracle workers of the fifties and sixties, didn’t live long enough to come up with a vaccine against old age. And so, we got old. Suddenly, unexpectedly, we looked in the mirror and we were old.
We had spent our early years relishing our presumed immortality. We figured it would just keep getting better and better. And, now, when it seems we should be fully enjoying our lives, we discover we’re fat (and likely to die that way), we’re diabetic, we’re arthritic, we have heart disease, and the list could go on and on. I’ll spare you any additional gory details.
I remember vacationing with my grandfather and step-grandmother when I was a kid. When they opened their suitcase, the prescription drugs took up more room than did their clothes. How pathetic, I remember thinking at the time. But, I concluded that’s what old people had to put up with. Thankfully, I wasn’t going to get old.
I may not have been quite that shortsighted about it, but if you’re a fellow-Boomer, I’m guessing you get the picture. Well, the joke was on me. Ha Ha. I’m laughing all the way to the emergency room.
I hope this hasn’t been too depressing. Actually, I’m happy I’ve figured out why I was never told what to expect. The only problem is, I’ve learned enough now, to be able to look at my 81 year-old mother and know that I’m looking at the coming attractions. And, to be perfectly honest, I’m not giddy with anticipation.
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