Perhaps, it’s because I’m so apolitical, so completely out of the loop, politically speaking, that I’m so highly respected by both Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain. There are other sterling qualities of mine that have led to these two gentlemen holding me in such high esteem, but whatever the case, suffice it to say that they like me…they really like me, so much so, that they asked me to interview them for this highly popular blog, a blog, which I must boast, is read by upwards of a dozen people each day or month or so.
I met with the Presidential candidates recently and here is the result of a very insightful interview:
ME: First, thank you both for allowing me this opportunity
MR. OBAMA: Steve, you’re quite welcome.
MR. MCCAIN: Steve, you’re even more welcome with me.
MR. OBAMA: Steve, I hope you noticed who said “you’re welcome” first. So, Mr. McCain, is simply acknowledging my saying it and agreeing with me.
MR. MCCAIN: Steve, if you’ll look at my record, you will clearly see that I said, “You’re welcome,” back in 1982, which was just a couple of decades after I returned from my imprisonment on behalf of my country.
ME: Well, I think I understand both of your positions on that subject. Let’s move on.
BOTH MEN: Sure
MR. MCCAIN: I said it first.
MR. OBAMA; No, I did.
ME: Both of you said it well, I must admit. But, let’s continue. Mr. Obama, why do you think you should be president?
MR. OBAMA: Well, I think the most important reason that Americans should elect me President, is that I will invite every American to my inaugural party. I seriously doubt that Mr. McCain would do that.
ME: But, sir, you’re talking about inviting millions and millions of people. Where could you hold such a party as that? You don’t have anyplace that would be big enough.
MR. OBAMA: Steve, that sounds like a pretty racist thing for you to say.
ME: Well, the only race I’m interested in right now is the…
MR. MCCAIN: Let me guess this one, Steve. You’re going to say the human race, right?
ME: No, although that would be trite enough, I was actually going to say the race for President.
MR. MCCAIN: (LAUGHING) Oh, that’s a good one. I like a good laugh. You know when I was being tortured, it always helped to have a good laugh. Did you know I was tortured?
ME: Yes, I read that somewhere. But, back to you Mr. Obama. Even if you couldn’t invite everyone in America to your party, what are the chances that editors of local magazines might get to go?
MR. OBAMA: Let me just say that only in America could an editor get an invitation. This is a great country and for the first time in my adult life, I’m proud to say so.
ME: What sort of food do you anticipate serving? Finger sandwiches are always good, and chicken wings, and, oh yeah meatballs.
MR. MCCAIN: Hey, if you’re having meatballs, I might be interested. You know, when I was being held in prison…you did know I was being held in prison, didn’t you?
MR. OBAMA: We know that John, and let me just say that only in America could a former prisoner be defeated by a 50% black man for the position of the highest office in the land.
MR. MCCAIN: Yeah, yeah, sure, okay, good. But, I think we were talking about me and, of course meatballs. Do you think you’ll be serving meatballs? And, if so, do you think you could get some of those multi-colored toothpicks.
MR. OBAMA: Multi-colored, eh? That’s rather racist isn’t it?
MR. MCCAIN: Well, maybe I misspoke. You know, as a result of my years of being tortured, sometimes I say things I don’t mean.
ME: Whoa, you two. I think I’m conducting the interview around here. Mr. Obama, you’ve been dodging any questions about Mr. Ayers. I’ve done a little research and I’d like to ask you a question.
MR. OBAMA: Hold on, young man. I’ll not stand for such racist questioning.
ME: Well, I haven’t actually asked anything yet? And besides, from my research I have discovered that Mr. Ayers is white, isn’t he?
MR. OBAMA: And furthermore, you can leave my wife, Michelle (WAVING TO MICHELLE WHO IS WAITING IN THE WINGS) out of this. I’ll not stand for that, or for any racism. I’m only for change.
MR. MCCAIN: Speaking of which, did you know that because of the severe treatment I received during the war, it’s difficult for me to grasp change?
ME: Huh?
MR. MCCAIN: It’s really very difficult. I can hang on to dollar bills and such, but I can barely pick up a quarter off the floor. But, I was proud to do my part in serving my country.
MR. OBAMA: I was even prouder, Steve. Honest. And, furthermore, I’m not a racist, like some Presidential candidates I could mention (MR OBAMA POINTS AT MR MCCAIN, BUT HIDES HIS POINTING FINGER BEHIND HIS OTHER HAND AS A DIPLOMATIC MEASURE)
MR. MCCAIN: Well, if you’re suggesting I am a racist, I think we have come to a parting of our minds, or whatever. There’s not a racist bone in my previously tortured body. But, I would like to ask just one more question…at this party you’re going to have, you’re not planning on serving chitterlings…are you?
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Thursday, August 07, 2008
I'VE SAID IT BEFORE AND I'LL SAY IT AGAIN. HEY IT BEATS COMING UP WITH SOMETHING NEW
The subject of reparations has, once again, reared its head. And, while you may be surprised to hear this, I’m kind of in favor of it. But, let me explain. I’m only in favor of reparations if it’s done fairly. About three years ago or so, I wrote a column on the subject. And, while I’m extremely humble, I have to say my idea is without a doubt the most brilliantly thought out idea I’ve heard anywhere. So, as a public service, I’m posting my column below. You can tell at the end of the piece that it’s somewhat dated. But hey, pure genius is timeless.
A STEVE COOK BLAST FROM THE PAST
PAYBACKS ARE HELLISH
Here's a little personal tidbit you might not be aware of. I'm a black man. Not 100%, probably less than 5%, but I am. At least I'm pretty sure of that. I'm also a white man, and, I think, just a wee bit Eskimo. I'm not sure about the Eskimo part, but I know I really love their pies.
So, what's my point? It's this...I think it's high time we all stopped making race an issue. That goes for this reparation foolishness. And it really is foolishness when you think about it...I mean really think, not just emote.
First question, who gets repared. I guess that's the word. Or, maybe it's just repaid. But who gets the money? The obvious answer is descendants of slaves get it. Okay. great. I'm for that. At least the black man part of me is for that. The white guy part isn't all that thrilled. But, I have always been a little stingy on my white side.
Consider this, ever since the first Afro-Africans were brought to this country in the early 1600s, there's been a lot of intermingling, if you get my drift. Can anyone today truly claim to be 100% anything? I don't think so.
So, who gets the money? Wouldn't everyone who had an ancestor who was a slave be entitled? That only seems fair. So, where do I line up for my money?
Next question, who pays? Does everyone who has a shred of white blood in him have to pay? Again, I'd think that would be the fair thing to do. So, all the descendants of slaves who want reparations, are you willing to pay it too, because I bet most of you have some white blood in you.
So, I have an idea. I think it would save a lot of time fighting and figuring to do this: Let each of us descendants of slaves decide how much money we'd want in reparations. Then let us have our slave-owner-descendant-side write us a check. I think if we're repaying ourselves, we're going to bend over backwards to be fair to ourselves, and, after all, isn't that what everyone wants...fairness?
Call me the great peace maker, please. Yes, I'm a modern day Rodney King. Can't we all just get along?
I mean aren't there more important things to worry about. For instance, why is it that on one side of the street gas is selling for $1.97 a gallon and on the other side of the street, there's a station selling it for $2.14 a gallon? And furthermore, why are there two guys filling their cars on the $2.14 side?
Now that's the sort of person who needs some sort of reparation.
A STEVE COOK BLAST FROM THE PAST
PAYBACKS ARE HELLISH
Here's a little personal tidbit you might not be aware of. I'm a black man. Not 100%, probably less than 5%, but I am. At least I'm pretty sure of that. I'm also a white man, and, I think, just a wee bit Eskimo. I'm not sure about the Eskimo part, but I know I really love their pies.
So, what's my point? It's this...I think it's high time we all stopped making race an issue. That goes for this reparation foolishness. And it really is foolishness when you think about it...I mean really think, not just emote.
First question, who gets repared. I guess that's the word. Or, maybe it's just repaid. But who gets the money? The obvious answer is descendants of slaves get it. Okay. great. I'm for that. At least the black man part of me is for that. The white guy part isn't all that thrilled. But, I have always been a little stingy on my white side.
Consider this, ever since the first Afro-Africans were brought to this country in the early 1600s, there's been a lot of intermingling, if you get my drift. Can anyone today truly claim to be 100% anything? I don't think so.
So, who gets the money? Wouldn't everyone who had an ancestor who was a slave be entitled? That only seems fair. So, where do I line up for my money?
Next question, who pays? Does everyone who has a shred of white blood in him have to pay? Again, I'd think that would be the fair thing to do. So, all the descendants of slaves who want reparations, are you willing to pay it too, because I bet most of you have some white blood in you.
So, I have an idea. I think it would save a lot of time fighting and figuring to do this: Let each of us descendants of slaves decide how much money we'd want in reparations. Then let us have our slave-owner-descendant-side write us a check. I think if we're repaying ourselves, we're going to bend over backwards to be fair to ourselves, and, after all, isn't that what everyone wants...fairness?
Call me the great peace maker, please. Yes, I'm a modern day Rodney King. Can't we all just get along?
I mean aren't there more important things to worry about. For instance, why is it that on one side of the street gas is selling for $1.97 a gallon and on the other side of the street, there's a station selling it for $2.14 a gallon? And furthermore, why are there two guys filling their cars on the $2.14 side?
Now that's the sort of person who needs some sort of reparation.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Is It The Folks at Walgreen's? Or, Is It Just Me?
Hey, it’s time to play America’s number one family-favorite game, “Is It Just Me, Or What!” Today’s subject: The folks at Walgreen’s.
Okay, here’s the way we play, I tell you what happened to me the other night at Walgreen’s and you tell me if it’s just me…or what! Maybe it is just me. But, I don’t think so.
So, I go in to Walgreen’s, make some wise purchasing decisions (based upon sales signage on the products), and take my wise purchases to the not-so-wise guy at the counter.
First item: Two packs of Wal-Sharp razor blades. These sturdy, stainless steel, double-bladed razors normally retail for $4.99 a pack, but the sign says, “Buy one pack at $3.99 and get a second pack free.”
I’m buying. The guy rings up the first pack: $4.99. Before I can gasp, he rings up the second pack: $4.99. “Whoa!” I shout. The sign says, ‘Buy one pack…blah, blah, blah.’”
The guy looks at me as if to say, “Oh boy. Here’s another idiot.” He sighs and asks me to show him. He follows me to the back of the store.
Beaming like a giant beacon in a sea of morons, I point to the sign under the razors.
“Hey,” he says, as if he’s just spotted one of those guys on America’s Most Wanted, “this sale doesn’t start until tomorrow.” He’s proud. He just made $6.00 for Walgreen’s. And, truth be told, in very, very small print under the huge sale print, it lists the dates for the sale. It does start tomorrow, which is about 30 minutes away by this time.
“Well, that’s pretty stupid,” I say. “Why would you announce a sale price that’s coming? If you have the price up there, you should honor it.” Make sense to me. So, first question to you, “Is it just me, or what?”
By this time, the young, assistant manager has arrived on the scene. Maybe the guy pushed some sort of Idiot Alert button. She hears my protestations and says, “That sale starts tomorrow.” I know that…now, but I don’t say anything. Okay, I do say, “Well it seems pretty stupid to have the sign up tonight.”
“You don’t expect us to just slap the signs up in the morning, do you?” she asks me.
“I don’t care when you slap ‘em up,” I say. “But, I do think if they’re up, you’re wrong to not honor the price.”
“Sorreeee!” she says. I think it sounds sarcastic, but, my motto is “Never start an argument you can’t prove.” So I remain quiet. I select a cheaper package of razors and return to the register.
Several other items don’t ring up properly, but the guy makes adjustments, because, in these other instances, I’m totally right. Finally, he gives me my total. It’s over $40.00 bucks. I’m surprised, but I pay it. The guy virtually flings my change at me and doesn’t say a word.
“You’re welcome,” I say cheerily, and, yes, sarcastically. I go home and decide to look at my receipt, because $40.00 bucks does seem high. Sure enough, once again, I’m right. He charged me twice for a $10.00 item.
It’s late, and I’m tired, but I head back over to Walgreen’s. I approach the same clerk. “I know you’re irritated with me,” I say, “but I should be irritated with you. You charged me twice for the bathroom scales.”
He looks at the receipt, calls the dumb, young manager, and goes to get the same pack of razor blades. I guess, despite what I had just pointed out to him, he feels he has a winning argument with the razor blades.
The manager storms over, looks at me as if I’m the most annoying human on the planet and asks the young clerk why I’m still upset about the razor blades.
“It’s not the razor blades!” I shout. I’m exasperated, but, my question to you is, “Is it just me, or what!”
“It’s the bathroom scale. You charged me twice.” She, the manager, peruses the receipt. I know she’s hoping that if she holds it long enough the second charge for the scales will disappear. Finally, she gives up and gets my refund, which she flings on the counter. She then thrusts a form in my face and shouts, “Fill this out.”
"No," I tell her. Of course, I pick up my ten plus tax before I tell her that.
She grabs the form back. She knows she’s lost that one.
“I know you all are irritated with me,” I say again. “But, I’m the one who had to come all the way back here because of your mistake. And besides,” I continue, “you didn’t even apologize.”
I’m almost done, but I have one more point to make. I don’t think I’m wrong to make it, but you tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
“Not only are you totally incompetent,” I tell them both, “but you’re very rude.”
“Incompetent?” the clerk says incredulously. I guess he agrees with the rude part. Or, perhaps he thinks I’ve just made some attack on his manhood. I’m not sure which.
“Yes, totally,” I announce as I walk out. So, was I rude? Or, did I do the right thing? Should I expect more, or should this service be viewed as standard operating procedure these days? You tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
Okay, here’s the way we play, I tell you what happened to me the other night at Walgreen’s and you tell me if it’s just me…or what! Maybe it is just me. But, I don’t think so.
So, I go in to Walgreen’s, make some wise purchasing decisions (based upon sales signage on the products), and take my wise purchases to the not-so-wise guy at the counter.
First item: Two packs of Wal-Sharp razor blades. These sturdy, stainless steel, double-bladed razors normally retail for $4.99 a pack, but the sign says, “Buy one pack at $3.99 and get a second pack free.”
I’m buying. The guy rings up the first pack: $4.99. Before I can gasp, he rings up the second pack: $4.99. “Whoa!” I shout. The sign says, ‘Buy one pack…blah, blah, blah.’”
The guy looks at me as if to say, “Oh boy. Here’s another idiot.” He sighs and asks me to show him. He follows me to the back of the store.
Beaming like a giant beacon in a sea of morons, I point to the sign under the razors.
“Hey,” he says, as if he’s just spotted one of those guys on America’s Most Wanted, “this sale doesn’t start until tomorrow.” He’s proud. He just made $6.00 for Walgreen’s. And, truth be told, in very, very small print under the huge sale print, it lists the dates for the sale. It does start tomorrow, which is about 30 minutes away by this time.
“Well, that’s pretty stupid,” I say. “Why would you announce a sale price that’s coming? If you have the price up there, you should honor it.” Make sense to me. So, first question to you, “Is it just me, or what?”
By this time, the young, assistant manager has arrived on the scene. Maybe the guy pushed some sort of Idiot Alert button. She hears my protestations and says, “That sale starts tomorrow.” I know that…now, but I don’t say anything. Okay, I do say, “Well it seems pretty stupid to have the sign up tonight.”
“You don’t expect us to just slap the signs up in the morning, do you?” she asks me.
“I don’t care when you slap ‘em up,” I say. “But, I do think if they’re up, you’re wrong to not honor the price.”
“Sorreeee!” she says. I think it sounds sarcastic, but, my motto is “Never start an argument you can’t prove.” So I remain quiet. I select a cheaper package of razors and return to the register.
Several other items don’t ring up properly, but the guy makes adjustments, because, in these other instances, I’m totally right. Finally, he gives me my total. It’s over $40.00 bucks. I’m surprised, but I pay it. The guy virtually flings my change at me and doesn’t say a word.
“You’re welcome,” I say cheerily, and, yes, sarcastically. I go home and decide to look at my receipt, because $40.00 bucks does seem high. Sure enough, once again, I’m right. He charged me twice for a $10.00 item.
It’s late, and I’m tired, but I head back over to Walgreen’s. I approach the same clerk. “I know you’re irritated with me,” I say, “but I should be irritated with you. You charged me twice for the bathroom scales.”
He looks at the receipt, calls the dumb, young manager, and goes to get the same pack of razor blades. I guess, despite what I had just pointed out to him, he feels he has a winning argument with the razor blades.
The manager storms over, looks at me as if I’m the most annoying human on the planet and asks the young clerk why I’m still upset about the razor blades.
“It’s not the razor blades!” I shout. I’m exasperated, but, my question to you is, “Is it just me, or what!”
“It’s the bathroom scale. You charged me twice.” She, the manager, peruses the receipt. I know she’s hoping that if she holds it long enough the second charge for the scales will disappear. Finally, she gives up and gets my refund, which she flings on the counter. She then thrusts a form in my face and shouts, “Fill this out.”
"No," I tell her. Of course, I pick up my ten plus tax before I tell her that.
She grabs the form back. She knows she’s lost that one.
“I know you all are irritated with me,” I say again. “But, I’m the one who had to come all the way back here because of your mistake. And besides,” I continue, “you didn’t even apologize.”
I’m almost done, but I have one more point to make. I don’t think I’m wrong to make it, but you tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
“Not only are you totally incompetent,” I tell them both, “but you’re very rude.”
“Incompetent?” the clerk says incredulously. I guess he agrees with the rude part. Or, perhaps he thinks I’ve just made some attack on his manhood. I’m not sure which.
“Yes, totally,” I announce as I walk out. So, was I rude? Or, did I do the right thing? Should I expect more, or should this service be viewed as standard operating procedure these days? You tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Least Angry Man
I feel that I have, somehow, totally created a false impression of myself. And it’s all due to my charming little stories that I gladly share with you from time to time. It appears that some of you have gotten the impression that I have a mean streak in me. Nothing could be further (or is it farther) from the truth.
For instance, my cousin asked my mother recently, “Is Steve always angry?” I hate that. It’s like when someone says, “Are you in a bad mood.”
I reply, “I am now.” I mean, really, why would anyone suggest that I’m disgruntled. Actually, I prefer to think of myself as totally gruntled. But, nothing puts me in a bad mood like someone asking if I'm in a bad mood.
I was at a wedding this weekend. Now, admittedly, in the past, when I attended weddings, I have shared my observations as to the idiocy of some of the people in attendance. I’m not angry about it. Amused is probably more what I am.
But, anyway, I was sitting with some old friends during the reception and one of them says, “Please don’t say anything ugly about me in your column.” I just stared. I thought she was talking to someone else.
This woman, I’ll call her ‘Donna,’ went on to say, “But, if you do say anything nasty, please don’t use my last name, (Tillett).In fact, don't use my first name either. Just call me ‘DT.' Better yet, just call me ‘D.’”
So, in order to accommodate her, I’ll just say that I had no intention of saying anything bad about D, except that she misjudges me. I would never say anything bad about an old, old friend.
I will say I found her daughter quite charming. She (the daughter) told me how much she enjoys my columns. I didn't hang on her every word like some egomaniac, but it seems she said something like, “I laugh uncontrollably.” I don’t know what it is, but when I’m around people who like me (admittedly, that’s not often), I find them so fascinating. When people are raving about me, I could sit and listen all day. When she changed the subject, I politely said, "Don't stop on my account."
I definitely can’t say anything bad about the wedding either. That’s mainly because it was my boss’ son getting married. Actually, it was a lovely wedding, with great food. I enjoy food. This was the first wedding reception I went to that served Chinese food and fortune cookies. My cookie said, “Avoid the egg rolls.” Unfortunately, I didn’t read it until I had actually eaten one. But, everything else was great.
True, the bride and groom were quite young. I won’t say too young, but I sure would like to have had the Clearasil concession at the event. It was the first wedding I’ve been to where, instead of wedding cake, they served ice cream cones with clown faces on the ice cream. This was the first wedding I went to where the bride and groom were registered for gifts at Toys R Us. I hear they are getting a discount on their honeymoon suite because they were on the honor roll last semester.
But the young couple were quite lovely. They seemed very happy. So happy, that they giggled their vows. But, I’m not saying anything negative. I’m certainly not angry. I mean, after all, these fine folks gave me all the food and grape-flavored Kool Aid I could consume. I was enthralled with the entire event.
So there, to all of you naysayers who besides saying, “Nay,” also say I am an angry man. I guess you all are eating those words this morning, eh?
For instance, my cousin asked my mother recently, “Is Steve always angry?” I hate that. It’s like when someone says, “Are you in a bad mood.”
I reply, “I am now.” I mean, really, why would anyone suggest that I’m disgruntled. Actually, I prefer to think of myself as totally gruntled. But, nothing puts me in a bad mood like someone asking if I'm in a bad mood.
I was at a wedding this weekend. Now, admittedly, in the past, when I attended weddings, I have shared my observations as to the idiocy of some of the people in attendance. I’m not angry about it. Amused is probably more what I am.
But, anyway, I was sitting with some old friends during the reception and one of them says, “Please don’t say anything ugly about me in your column.” I just stared. I thought she was talking to someone else.
This woman, I’ll call her ‘Donna,’ went on to say, “But, if you do say anything nasty, please don’t use my last name, (Tillett).In fact, don't use my first name either. Just call me ‘DT.' Better yet, just call me ‘D.’”
So, in order to accommodate her, I’ll just say that I had no intention of saying anything bad about D, except that she misjudges me. I would never say anything bad about an old, old friend.
I will say I found her daughter quite charming. She (the daughter) told me how much she enjoys my columns. I didn't hang on her every word like some egomaniac, but it seems she said something like, “I laugh uncontrollably.” I don’t know what it is, but when I’m around people who like me (admittedly, that’s not often), I find them so fascinating. When people are raving about me, I could sit and listen all day. When she changed the subject, I politely said, "Don't stop on my account."
I definitely can’t say anything bad about the wedding either. That’s mainly because it was my boss’ son getting married. Actually, it was a lovely wedding, with great food. I enjoy food. This was the first wedding reception I went to that served Chinese food and fortune cookies. My cookie said, “Avoid the egg rolls.” Unfortunately, I didn’t read it until I had actually eaten one. But, everything else was great.
True, the bride and groom were quite young. I won’t say too young, but I sure would like to have had the Clearasil concession at the event. It was the first wedding I’ve been to where, instead of wedding cake, they served ice cream cones with clown faces on the ice cream. This was the first wedding I went to where the bride and groom were registered for gifts at Toys R Us. I hear they are getting a discount on their honeymoon suite because they were on the honor roll last semester.
But the young couple were quite lovely. They seemed very happy. So happy, that they giggled their vows. But, I’m not saying anything negative. I’m certainly not angry. I mean, after all, these fine folks gave me all the food and grape-flavored Kool Aid I could consume. I was enthralled with the entire event.
So there, to all of you naysayers who besides saying, “Nay,” also say I am an angry man. I guess you all are eating those words this morning, eh?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Back In The Day
On occasion, and mainly because I’m a public spirited sort of guy, I’ll gather the children in the neighborhood together, my wife will fix them some knockwurst sandwiches, and I’ll tell ‘em about the good ol’ days.
They seem to enjoy it. “Kids,” I’ll start, “would you like to hear about the good ol’ days?”
“Yippee!” They’ll exclaim. “Please grandpa,” they’ll say. They like to call me “grandpa” because they know how much it hurts me. I try and pretend it doesn’t. But, often, as my tears well up, they can tell. Nevertheless, I continue to regale them with tales of days gone by.
“Okay, kids,” I’ll say, doing my best to hide the tears. “I can remember a time when we could go down to the local filling station…”
“Filling station?” they ask as if they’ve never heard of it.
“Well, that’s what I call ‘em,” I’ll say, with a twinkle in my eye.
“Yeah, he still says, ‘icebox,’” Jimmy Witherspoon will pipe up. I don’t know why I keep inviting Jimmy. He’s obnoxious. But, hey, that’s the sort of guy I am. All the kids get a good laugh over my calling the refrigerator an icebox.
“Jimmy, you’re not only obnoxious, but you’re also fat,” I’ll laugh. I think my scorn will, one day, make a man out of the little brat.
Anyway, by this time, I will have forgotten what we were talking about. “What were we talking about?” I ask the kids.
“The good ol’ days,” they sing together.
“That’s right,” I say, beaming, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s the good ‘ol days.
“Where were we?” I inquire. I’m not that old, but memory is among my souvenirs, so to speak.
“The filling station, Gramps,” Jimmy says. Sometimes when he walks past me, I’ll “accidentally” knee him in the head.
“Yes we were,” I agree vigorously, and continue. “Well, back in the day…” I say before I’m quickly interrupted.
“What day?” Sally Kimchuck asks. Sally’s a sweet little girl, but, well, she is blonde.
“Huh?” I ask, scrunching up my nose in a way that still makes me look rather cute.
“What day?” Sally repeats. “What day are you talking about?”
“No particular day,” I’ll say.
“Well, what did you mean when you said, ‘back in the day’?”
“He doesn’t know what he means,” Jimmy interjects. “He still calls the refrigerator an ‘icebox.’”
“That wasn’t funny when you told it two minutes ago,” I say, somewhat educatingly. But, interestingly, all the kids still laugh. Why can’t I seem to remember before I call the kids and invite them over, just how obnoxious kids can be?
“Back in the day,” I say, continuing to educate, “simply means in a time gone by, a bygone era, if you will.”
“If we will what,” Sally asks?
“Sally, did your mom drop you on your head when you were a baby?” I’ll ask inquiringly. Now the kids are all laughing. I do so love children.
“’If you will’ is just an expression,” I say. “It means, that, well…It’s kind of like saying, ‘if you…’ well, I don’t exactly know what it means. But regardless…”
“Don’t you mean ‘irregardless’?” Billy Wells asks innocently.
“No, there’s no such word as ‘irregardless,’” I say, thinking this must be how a college professor feels. “Sometimes people use that word…”
“Use what word?” Sally asks.
“Irregardless,” I answer.
“I thought you said there was no such word as ‘irregardless,” Billy says.
“Well, there isn’t really.” I’m getting somewhat frustrated by this point.
“Well, why did you call it a word?” Billy asks.
“He still calls a refrigerator…”
“Shut up or go home, Porky,” I snap
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. Jimmy starts to cry.
Trying to change the subject, I speak up, “Let’s all sit back down and let me tell you about the good ol’ days.”
“Oh boy,” they all kinda say, or something to that effect. Anyway, I go to the ice box and pour them some milk. I get the Oreo cookies out. As the kids start to pull their Oreos apart, licking the creamy center filling in a way that reminds me of the time when I didn’t have diabetes, I start my story again.
“Back in the good ol’ days," I say, "I could go down to the local filling station and the gasoline only cost three dollars a gallon.”
“Wow!” they’ll shout in disbelief. “Really?”
“Really!” I answer them, knowing they’re looking at me admiringly. I think they think it’s cool that they know someone who can remember those good ol’ days. “Why, I could fill my car up and drive a whole week for less than sixty dollars.” I know this impresses them.
“Gee, Grandpa,” they’ll say, “Do you think we’ll ever return to those good ol’ days of yesteryear?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Life just keeps on changing. Now, take my cell phone,” I say, pulling my cell phone out my pocket.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sally says, grabbing my phone.
“What the hey,” I shriek, grabbing the phone back from her sticky little hands. “Leave my phone alone.”
“But you said take it,” she wails.
“Yeah,” I say, “but I didn’t mean ‘take it.’”
“Well, what did you mean?” she asks.
“I just mean consider it. I mean think about cell phones. Used to be…”
“You mean back in the day,” Sally asks, smiling because she’s learned something new, and, for that, I’m proud.
“Exactly,” I smile. “Back in the day, a cell phone was only good for making phone calls.
“That’s all it would do?” Bobby Barry asks in total shock and disbelief.
“Well, you could also use it as a flashlight,” I say, “but other than that, it didn’t do much else.”
“Wow, you are old,” Bobby says.
“And, you have a big ugly birthmark on your arm,” I remind him. “But, anyway, take this cell phone I have now. Leave my phone alone, Sally,” I yell.
“But…” she starts to explain.
“Shut up,” I remind her.
“My new-fangled phone shows TV programs. It has games. It plays music. It sends text messages. I can check my email and get the sports scores and keep appointments. It’s marvelous. I just wonder one thing,” I say. “Do you think one of you could show me how to make a phone call?”
They seem to enjoy it. “Kids,” I’ll start, “would you like to hear about the good ol’ days?”
“Yippee!” They’ll exclaim. “Please grandpa,” they’ll say. They like to call me “grandpa” because they know how much it hurts me. I try and pretend it doesn’t. But, often, as my tears well up, they can tell. Nevertheless, I continue to regale them with tales of days gone by.
“Okay, kids,” I’ll say, doing my best to hide the tears. “I can remember a time when we could go down to the local filling station…”
“Filling station?” they ask as if they’ve never heard of it.
“Well, that’s what I call ‘em,” I’ll say, with a twinkle in my eye.
“Yeah, he still says, ‘icebox,’” Jimmy Witherspoon will pipe up. I don’t know why I keep inviting Jimmy. He’s obnoxious. But, hey, that’s the sort of guy I am. All the kids get a good laugh over my calling the refrigerator an icebox.
“Jimmy, you’re not only obnoxious, but you’re also fat,” I’ll laugh. I think my scorn will, one day, make a man out of the little brat.
Anyway, by this time, I will have forgotten what we were talking about. “What were we talking about?” I ask the kids.
“The good ol’ days,” they sing together.
“That’s right,” I say, beaming, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s the good ‘ol days.
“Where were we?” I inquire. I’m not that old, but memory is among my souvenirs, so to speak.
“The filling station, Gramps,” Jimmy says. Sometimes when he walks past me, I’ll “accidentally” knee him in the head.
“Yes we were,” I agree vigorously, and continue. “Well, back in the day…” I say before I’m quickly interrupted.
“What day?” Sally Kimchuck asks. Sally’s a sweet little girl, but, well, she is blonde.
“Huh?” I ask, scrunching up my nose in a way that still makes me look rather cute.
“What day?” Sally repeats. “What day are you talking about?”
“No particular day,” I’ll say.
“Well, what did you mean when you said, ‘back in the day’?”
“He doesn’t know what he means,” Jimmy interjects. “He still calls the refrigerator an ‘icebox.’”
“That wasn’t funny when you told it two minutes ago,” I say, somewhat educatingly. But, interestingly, all the kids still laugh. Why can’t I seem to remember before I call the kids and invite them over, just how obnoxious kids can be?
“Back in the day,” I say, continuing to educate, “simply means in a time gone by, a bygone era, if you will.”
“If we will what,” Sally asks?
“Sally, did your mom drop you on your head when you were a baby?” I’ll ask inquiringly. Now the kids are all laughing. I do so love children.
“’If you will’ is just an expression,” I say. “It means, that, well…It’s kind of like saying, ‘if you…’ well, I don’t exactly know what it means. But regardless…”
“Don’t you mean ‘irregardless’?” Billy Wells asks innocently.
“No, there’s no such word as ‘irregardless,’” I say, thinking this must be how a college professor feels. “Sometimes people use that word…”
“Use what word?” Sally asks.
“Irregardless,” I answer.
“I thought you said there was no such word as ‘irregardless,” Billy says.
“Well, there isn’t really.” I’m getting somewhat frustrated by this point.
“Well, why did you call it a word?” Billy asks.
“He still calls a refrigerator…”
“Shut up or go home, Porky,” I snap
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. Jimmy starts to cry.
Trying to change the subject, I speak up, “Let’s all sit back down and let me tell you about the good ol’ days.”
“Oh boy,” they all kinda say, or something to that effect. Anyway, I go to the ice box and pour them some milk. I get the Oreo cookies out. As the kids start to pull their Oreos apart, licking the creamy center filling in a way that reminds me of the time when I didn’t have diabetes, I start my story again.
“Back in the good ol’ days," I say, "I could go down to the local filling station and the gasoline only cost three dollars a gallon.”
“Wow!” they’ll shout in disbelief. “Really?”
“Really!” I answer them, knowing they’re looking at me admiringly. I think they think it’s cool that they know someone who can remember those good ol’ days. “Why, I could fill my car up and drive a whole week for less than sixty dollars.” I know this impresses them.
“Gee, Grandpa,” they’ll say, “Do you think we’ll ever return to those good ol’ days of yesteryear?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Life just keeps on changing. Now, take my cell phone,” I say, pulling my cell phone out my pocket.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sally says, grabbing my phone.
“What the hey,” I shriek, grabbing the phone back from her sticky little hands. “Leave my phone alone.”
“But you said take it,” she wails.
“Yeah,” I say, “but I didn’t mean ‘take it.’”
“Well, what did you mean?” she asks.
“I just mean consider it. I mean think about cell phones. Used to be…”
“You mean back in the day,” Sally asks, smiling because she’s learned something new, and, for that, I’m proud.
“Exactly,” I smile. “Back in the day, a cell phone was only good for making phone calls.
“That’s all it would do?” Bobby Barry asks in total shock and disbelief.
“Well, you could also use it as a flashlight,” I say, “but other than that, it didn’t do much else.”
“Wow, you are old,” Bobby says.
“And, you have a big ugly birthmark on your arm,” I remind him. “But, anyway, take this cell phone I have now. Leave my phone alone, Sally,” I yell.
“But…” she starts to explain.
“Shut up,” I remind her.
“My new-fangled phone shows TV programs. It has games. It plays music. It sends text messages. I can check my email and get the sports scores and keep appointments. It’s marvelous. I just wonder one thing,” I say. “Do you think one of you could show me how to make a phone call?”
Monday, May 19, 2008
My Wait Problem
CONTINUED
Okay, so where were we? That’s right. I had spent about an hour of my morning drive into work waiting for someone at Sprint to help me. Little did I know that waiting would be the order of the day.
I bet I have lost several years of my lifetime just waiting...waiting in lines, waiting on the phone, waiting for someone to assist me. For instance, later that same day, I headed over to Best Buy. I needed to find some kind of connector to tie my XM Radio in with my new receiver.
Before I even got there, I encountered a stop light, out on Hull Street near our office. This stoplight works about as well as the customer service reps at Sprint. Or else, I’m just so skinny that my car fails to trip the light. I sat through three changes of the light before I got my left turn arrow.
Finally, I get to Best Buy. Talk about service with a stall. I think the company should change its slogan to “The K-Mart of Home Electronics.” I honestly feel that my body puts off some sort of magnetic interference that not only disables stoplights, but also renders me invisible when I enter a store. I stood around looking like I was anxious to buy something for about 60 minutes. I’d go from sales associate to sales associate. I did my best to give an appearance of part helpless and part very wealthy and ready to spend.
No one even looked at me. I know how Jimmy Stewart felt in that Wonderful Life movie. But just let me try to sneak out carrying a home theater in my arms and bells and whistles will go off all over the place. I’ll get some attention then. As I found out.
Finally, I tired of Best Buy and decided to head over to the Chinese Restaurant for lunch. Usually my waiter, a pleasant, older, Chinese gentleman is overly attentive. He can’t stop filling my water glass. He’ll even follow me out to the parking lot and hose down my car as I drive away.
But, on this particular day…the day of waiting…he was nowhere to be found. I kept waiting for him to bring my bill and he never came. I figured if I shook my waterless water glass, the sounds of clinking ice would summon him. But nope.
I was in a hurry to get back to work. Finally he happened by, totally oblivious to me or my empty glass. “Hey,” I shouted, “stop bowing to everyone in the building and bring me my check.”
He bowed, and went to get my check. I was feeling pretty badly. I hate being rude, and this guy is so nice. Anyway, he brings me my check and my fortune cookie. Although I was in a hurry, I’m never too busy to stoop to open a fortune cookie. I pulled my cookie apart and read my “fortune.”
It really got to me. For there on my cookie fortune, this little, old gentleman had given me, was this sentence: “People are drawn to you because of your charm and courtesy.”
Despite my ill temperedness, I had to smile. I guess I’m not so bad after all.
Okay, so where were we? That’s right. I had spent about an hour of my morning drive into work waiting for someone at Sprint to help me. Little did I know that waiting would be the order of the day.
I bet I have lost several years of my lifetime just waiting...waiting in lines, waiting on the phone, waiting for someone to assist me. For instance, later that same day, I headed over to Best Buy. I needed to find some kind of connector to tie my XM Radio in with my new receiver.
Before I even got there, I encountered a stop light, out on Hull Street near our office. This stoplight works about as well as the customer service reps at Sprint. Or else, I’m just so skinny that my car fails to trip the light. I sat through three changes of the light before I got my left turn arrow.
Finally, I get to Best Buy. Talk about service with a stall. I think the company should change its slogan to “The K-Mart of Home Electronics.” I honestly feel that my body puts off some sort of magnetic interference that not only disables stoplights, but also renders me invisible when I enter a store. I stood around looking like I was anxious to buy something for about 60 minutes. I’d go from sales associate to sales associate. I did my best to give an appearance of part helpless and part very wealthy and ready to spend.
No one even looked at me. I know how Jimmy Stewart felt in that Wonderful Life movie. But just let me try to sneak out carrying a home theater in my arms and bells and whistles will go off all over the place. I’ll get some attention then. As I found out.
Finally, I tired of Best Buy and decided to head over to the Chinese Restaurant for lunch. Usually my waiter, a pleasant, older, Chinese gentleman is overly attentive. He can’t stop filling my water glass. He’ll even follow me out to the parking lot and hose down my car as I drive away.
But, on this particular day…the day of waiting…he was nowhere to be found. I kept waiting for him to bring my bill and he never came. I figured if I shook my waterless water glass, the sounds of clinking ice would summon him. But nope.
I was in a hurry to get back to work. Finally he happened by, totally oblivious to me or my empty glass. “Hey,” I shouted, “stop bowing to everyone in the building and bring me my check.”
He bowed, and went to get my check. I was feeling pretty badly. I hate being rude, and this guy is so nice. Anyway, he brings me my check and my fortune cookie. Although I was in a hurry, I’m never too busy to stoop to open a fortune cookie. I pulled my cookie apart and read my “fortune.”
It really got to me. For there on my cookie fortune, this little, old gentleman had given me, was this sentence: “People are drawn to you because of your charm and courtesy.”
Despite my ill temperedness, I had to smile. I guess I’m not so bad after all.
Friday, May 16, 2008
And You Think You Have Problems
You don’t want to hear about the day I had yesterday. Don’t even get me started. Okay, I’ll tell you.
It was frustration personified. To start it off, let me say that my wife just bought me a new Touch phone. That’s the name. It’s through Sprint. This phone has so many bells and whistles. I just wish I knew how to operate it.
Even more so, I wish either the manufacturer (HTC) knew how to write a manual to explain how to operate it, or that Sprint would hire people that knew anything at all.
I called Sprint. They must hold classes showing their customer service people how to deliver absolutely miserable customer service. No one could be that bad by accident.
The first person I got had a lovely Bangladesh accent. And, I’m sure that if I spoke her language, I would have understood every word she said. I was trying to find out how to make something on the phone work.
Finally she said (in that lovely accent), “You mooost hive eee take-nee-kool proh-blem. I wheel kewnect you.
“Hold on,” I screamed as she went, “Click.” I didn’t have a technical problem, but I guess I’d have to wait and tell the person in the Technical Problem department that. I looked around the house while I waited to see if I had an English to Swahili translation book, just in case.
While I waited, I got to listen to the lovely hold music Sprint uses. I guess the same people who write instruction manuals on delivering horrible customer service, must also produce CDs of one tone hold music. Actually it was about 3 or 4 notes, repeated constantly during my fifteen minute (by my watch), three minute (by their calculation) wait. The music just kept going “Diddle-lee dop,” diddle-lee dop, diddle-lee dop.”
Finally someone who spoke English came on line. Hey, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Can I get the mobile phone number you are having a problem with,” she asked in about the same tone as the music.
“Didn’t the woman I just spoke with give you that?” I asked good-naturedly.
“No sir,” she responded in a way that suggested I was keeping her from her cigarette break.
So, I give her the number.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“I just gave that to the last person,” I informed her.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“Don’t you people have enough sense to let each other know when you’ve already qualifed someone?” I asked sincerely.
“No sir,” she answered honestly.
I gave her the password and started to explain that I didn’t have a technical problem, I just wanted some information.
“What is the problem with your phone?” she interrupts to ask.
“May I speak with someone who is not a moron?” I ask.
“Sir, I want to help you.”
“I don’t want you to help me. Let me speak with a manager.” I’m getting ticked.
Finally the manager comes on the phone.
“When my wife bought this Touch phone,” I say, “I should have right then and there slashed my wrists. It would have been quicker and less painful.”
He actually laughed. Hey, I’m thinking, I like this guy. Anyway, he puts me on hold and goes to find his Touch book. He tells me how to solve the problem.
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll call you back,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to have to call us back,” he laughs.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’d rather be pecked to death by geese than call Sprint.”
Anyway I do what he says. It doesn’t work.
TO BE CONTINUED
It was frustration personified. To start it off, let me say that my wife just bought me a new Touch phone. That’s the name. It’s through Sprint. This phone has so many bells and whistles. I just wish I knew how to operate it.
Even more so, I wish either the manufacturer (HTC) knew how to write a manual to explain how to operate it, or that Sprint would hire people that knew anything at all.
I called Sprint. They must hold classes showing their customer service people how to deliver absolutely miserable customer service. No one could be that bad by accident.
The first person I got had a lovely Bangladesh accent. And, I’m sure that if I spoke her language, I would have understood every word she said. I was trying to find out how to make something on the phone work.
Finally she said (in that lovely accent), “You mooost hive eee take-nee-kool proh-blem. I wheel kewnect you.
“Hold on,” I screamed as she went, “Click.” I didn’t have a technical problem, but I guess I’d have to wait and tell the person in the Technical Problem department that. I looked around the house while I waited to see if I had an English to Swahili translation book, just in case.
While I waited, I got to listen to the lovely hold music Sprint uses. I guess the same people who write instruction manuals on delivering horrible customer service, must also produce CDs of one tone hold music. Actually it was about 3 or 4 notes, repeated constantly during my fifteen minute (by my watch), three minute (by their calculation) wait. The music just kept going “Diddle-lee dop,” diddle-lee dop, diddle-lee dop.”
Finally someone who spoke English came on line. Hey, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Can I get the mobile phone number you are having a problem with,” she asked in about the same tone as the music.
“Didn’t the woman I just spoke with give you that?” I asked good-naturedly.
“No sir,” she responded in a way that suggested I was keeping her from her cigarette break.
So, I give her the number.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“I just gave that to the last person,” I informed her.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“Don’t you people have enough sense to let each other know when you’ve already qualifed someone?” I asked sincerely.
“No sir,” she answered honestly.
I gave her the password and started to explain that I didn’t have a technical problem, I just wanted some information.
“What is the problem with your phone?” she interrupts to ask.
“May I speak with someone who is not a moron?” I ask.
“Sir, I want to help you.”
“I don’t want you to help me. Let me speak with a manager.” I’m getting ticked.
Finally the manager comes on the phone.
“When my wife bought this Touch phone,” I say, “I should have right then and there slashed my wrists. It would have been quicker and less painful.”
He actually laughed. Hey, I’m thinking, I like this guy. Anyway, he puts me on hold and goes to find his Touch book. He tells me how to solve the problem.
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll call you back,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to have to call us back,” he laughs.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’d rather be pecked to death by geese than call Sprint.”
Anyway I do what he says. It doesn’t work.
TO BE CONTINUED
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Global Whining
I’ve been away. Or, didn’t you notice? I decided, several weeks ago, to solve the global warming problem. I’m not exactly sure I believe there is a global warming problem, but since perception is reality, it must be a big one…problem, that is. And, the Steve Cook motto is, “Where there’s a problem, Steve’s got a solution.” Or, something like that. I haven’t really given much thought to my motto.
Anyway, I put my mind to solving the problem. First, I studied the situation. It’s always good to study situations. So, that’s what I did. I did a lot of reading, mainly cereal boxes, but, hey, there’s some good stuff out there, especially on those organic cereal boxes.
I basically came to the conclusion, initially, that in some parts of the world it was cooler this year, and in some areas, it’s been warmer. What I think we are really experiencing today is what I call, “Global Staying Pretty Much the Same.” But, again, since so many people are so scared about global warming, I may as well solve it.
Personally, I say, “Bring it on.” I think it would be great to be able to take a vacation in the tropics and see the sights of Manhattan, all at the same time. I just hope global warming kicks in before I get too old to enjoy that.
But, anyway, I digress. Here’s the solution: Do you remember, back in the seventies, when everyone was whining about global cooling? I do. So, here’s what I did. I read some stuff, including a very well-written piece on Wikipedia, about global cooling. I read what the experts of thirty years ago thought was causing global cooling. And, I decided that the secret to ending global warming, is to do the things we were doing in the seventies to cause global cooling.
Pretty clever, eh? I thought so. For instance, it seems that aerosol cans were blamed on global cooling. So, for starters, if you’re really worried about your carbon footprint, and all that, everyone should go get themselves an aerosol can and spray it everyday. It doesn’t matter what it is. Maybe deodorant, or room freshener would do. And, if manufacturers took out those fleurocarbons, then Congress, or someone like that, should demand they be put back in. I firmly believe that if we all cooperated on this, we could end the threat of global warming almost overnight. I think we should all be encouraged to spray regularly. In fact, I’ve already come up with a great campaign slogan. Are you ready for this? “If you want to end global warming, let us spray.” Huh? Cool or what?
Now, there was something else that the scientific gurus were suggesting thirty years ago that might be causing global cooling. It had something to do with the earth’s tilt getting just slightly off kilter. I am not sure if that was caused by anything, or just one of those things that happens. But, anyway, if the earth tilts too much one way and it gets cooler, then logically if it tilts the other way, it’d get warmer. Even an idiot could figure that one out, as I proved. Now, what I haven’t been able to figure out, is how the earth’s tilting affects the whole earth. I’d think the people on one side would get cooler, while the folks on the other side got warmer, but that’s one of those issues I leave for those far wiser than I to figure out.
But, here is what I did figure out. If we simply set off some bombs or something, it should be an easy thing to cause the earth to tilt the right way. And, since we have plenty of bombs lying around, if we tilt too far one way, we can just set off some bombs on the other side of the earth and adjust it. It might take several detonations to tweak things just right, but obviously it’s an easy fix.
So, there you go. While the various political candidates do nothing but whine and complain, I look for solutions. As Bobby Kennedy said, “Some men look at things and say something or another, I look at things and say something else.” Hey, maybe that should be my motto.
Anyway, I put my mind to solving the problem. First, I studied the situation. It’s always good to study situations. So, that’s what I did. I did a lot of reading, mainly cereal boxes, but, hey, there’s some good stuff out there, especially on those organic cereal boxes.
I basically came to the conclusion, initially, that in some parts of the world it was cooler this year, and in some areas, it’s been warmer. What I think we are really experiencing today is what I call, “Global Staying Pretty Much the Same.” But, again, since so many people are so scared about global warming, I may as well solve it.
Personally, I say, “Bring it on.” I think it would be great to be able to take a vacation in the tropics and see the sights of Manhattan, all at the same time. I just hope global warming kicks in before I get too old to enjoy that.
But, anyway, I digress. Here’s the solution: Do you remember, back in the seventies, when everyone was whining about global cooling? I do. So, here’s what I did. I read some stuff, including a very well-written piece on Wikipedia, about global cooling. I read what the experts of thirty years ago thought was causing global cooling. And, I decided that the secret to ending global warming, is to do the things we were doing in the seventies to cause global cooling.
Pretty clever, eh? I thought so. For instance, it seems that aerosol cans were blamed on global cooling. So, for starters, if you’re really worried about your carbon footprint, and all that, everyone should go get themselves an aerosol can and spray it everyday. It doesn’t matter what it is. Maybe deodorant, or room freshener would do. And, if manufacturers took out those fleurocarbons, then Congress, or someone like that, should demand they be put back in. I firmly believe that if we all cooperated on this, we could end the threat of global warming almost overnight. I think we should all be encouraged to spray regularly. In fact, I’ve already come up with a great campaign slogan. Are you ready for this? “If you want to end global warming, let us spray.” Huh? Cool or what?
Now, there was something else that the scientific gurus were suggesting thirty years ago that might be causing global cooling. It had something to do with the earth’s tilt getting just slightly off kilter. I am not sure if that was caused by anything, or just one of those things that happens. But, anyway, if the earth tilts too much one way and it gets cooler, then logically if it tilts the other way, it’d get warmer. Even an idiot could figure that one out, as I proved. Now, what I haven’t been able to figure out, is how the earth’s tilting affects the whole earth. I’d think the people on one side would get cooler, while the folks on the other side got warmer, but that’s one of those issues I leave for those far wiser than I to figure out.
But, here is what I did figure out. If we simply set off some bombs or something, it should be an easy thing to cause the earth to tilt the right way. And, since we have plenty of bombs lying around, if we tilt too far one way, we can just set off some bombs on the other side of the earth and adjust it. It might take several detonations to tweak things just right, but obviously it’s an easy fix.
So, there you go. While the various political candidates do nothing but whine and complain, I look for solutions. As Bobby Kennedy said, “Some men look at things and say something or another, I look at things and say something else.” Hey, maybe that should be my motto.
Friday, April 18, 2008
An Ox is an Ox, Of Course, Of Course
As publishers of several magazines in the Richmond area, we receive a lot of press releases from various organizations, including Colonial Williamsburg. Generally speaking, they’re doing some interesting things down there in Williamsburg, and we will often include their upcoming events on our events website – www.flavorcalendar.com.
However, I received a press release from there this morning that leaves me somewhat underwhelmed. I’m pasting the release into this blog, just so you’ll know I’m not making this up. Here goes:
The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation will host its first symposium on oxen and their crucial
role as beasts of burden through the centuries.
Now, let me stop right there. Are you fascinated? Do you know anyone who might be? I can picture the scene at the offices of the Colonial Williamsburg organization. Someone pipes up in a meeting, “Hey, let’s do a symposium on oxen.” Heads start bobbing up and down.
“Yeah!”
“Oh my yes”
“Bully for you, ol chap.”
Well anyway, once they got through congratulating themselves on the idea, they actually came up with a name for the symposium. The release continues:
“Oxen in the Old and New Worlds,” consisting of lectures, demonstrations and
panel discussions by oxen experts from America and Great Britain.
Lectures! Wow! Hope they’ll be serving lots of coffee. Demonstrations? What will they consist of? Will the bigger guys take turns riding the little guys around on their back. Or maybe they’ll just bring in some long sticks and take turns goading one another. That might be fun.
Of course, I hope I’m not too winded from the goading to prevent me from getting to the panel discussion. I hope they take questions from the audience. I have a few I’d like to ask, such as “Why are you doing this?” And, “Like, really, why are you doing this?”
Something else in that release enthralls me. I really, truly want to meet some oxen experts from America and Great Britain. I have long wanted to know more about oxen. For instance, was Babe the blue ox, really blue? Was she as big as people say she was? And, this Paul Bunyan guy, what was he really like, you know, in everyday life?
I Googled “oxen experts” just to see what might come up. Apparently this oxen thing is big right now. They’re having panel discussions all around the world on oxen. And to think I almost slept right through it.
As I continue to read the press release, I’m becoming more and more fascinated. For instance, the release goes on to say:
Relied upon for strength and intelligence, as well as a food source, oxen were
man’s main beasts of burden until the late 19th century, when horses and mules
replaced them.
Now, if the oxen were so intelligent, how did they let horses and mules replace them? Hold on there. I get it. They were so intelligent, that they played dumb so that the horses and mules did all the dirty work. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t recall seeing any oxen plowing the fields these days. I bet they’re all in some resort, somewhere, playing oxen games, drinking milk cocktails, and flicking fruit flies with their tales.
I wonder if any of the more intelligent oxen will be invited to participate in the panel discussion. This might not be so bad after all.
However, I received a press release from there this morning that leaves me somewhat underwhelmed. I’m pasting the release into this blog, just so you’ll know I’m not making this up. Here goes:
The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation will host its first symposium on oxen and their crucial
role as beasts of burden through the centuries.
Now, let me stop right there. Are you fascinated? Do you know anyone who might be? I can picture the scene at the offices of the Colonial Williamsburg organization. Someone pipes up in a meeting, “Hey, let’s do a symposium on oxen.” Heads start bobbing up and down.
“Yeah!”
“Oh my yes”
“Bully for you, ol chap.”
Well anyway, once they got through congratulating themselves on the idea, they actually came up with a name for the symposium. The release continues:
“Oxen in the Old and New Worlds,” consisting of lectures, demonstrations and
panel discussions by oxen experts from America and Great Britain.
Lectures! Wow! Hope they’ll be serving lots of coffee. Demonstrations? What will they consist of? Will the bigger guys take turns riding the little guys around on their back. Or maybe they’ll just bring in some long sticks and take turns goading one another. That might be fun.
Of course, I hope I’m not too winded from the goading to prevent me from getting to the panel discussion. I hope they take questions from the audience. I have a few I’d like to ask, such as “Why are you doing this?” And, “Like, really, why are you doing this?”
Something else in that release enthralls me. I really, truly want to meet some oxen experts from America and Great Britain. I have long wanted to know more about oxen. For instance, was Babe the blue ox, really blue? Was she as big as people say she was? And, this Paul Bunyan guy, what was he really like, you know, in everyday life?
I Googled “oxen experts” just to see what might come up. Apparently this oxen thing is big right now. They’re having panel discussions all around the world on oxen. And to think I almost slept right through it.
As I continue to read the press release, I’m becoming more and more fascinated. For instance, the release goes on to say:
Relied upon for strength and intelligence, as well as a food source, oxen were
man’s main beasts of burden until the late 19th century, when horses and mules
replaced them.
Now, if the oxen were so intelligent, how did they let horses and mules replace them? Hold on there. I get it. They were so intelligent, that they played dumb so that the horses and mules did all the dirty work. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t recall seeing any oxen plowing the fields these days. I bet they’re all in some resort, somewhere, playing oxen games, drinking milk cocktails, and flicking fruit flies with their tales.
I wonder if any of the more intelligent oxen will be invited to participate in the panel discussion. This might not be so bad after all.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Stupid Is as Stupid Says
You know, there are some really dumb people out there. Not you and I, of course. But, virtually everyone else. Especially is this so among the media elite.
For instance, just this morning a national broadcaster on CBS Television made the comment that he would be interviewing the son of Martin Luther King, Jr. later in the show. He identified the late civil rights leader's son as Martin Luther King, Jr., the third. I'm thinking that's kinda dumb.
And, while I enjoy the Fox News Network talk shows, have you ever stopped to analyze just how dumb most of the people who appear on those shows really are? Here's what I mean. Have you ever heard two people arguing on that show, persons who have very different viewpoints. Have you ever heard one say to the other, "You know, you're right. You've convinced me."?
In real life, people listen to one another. They learn from one another. They grow from their disagreements with others.
On TV that never happens. One guy says, "Your candidate is a total idiot. Here's his I.Q. test. It shows he's a moron."
Now, if someone were to say that to me, at least I'd want to look at his proof. But on Fox, that never happens. The second guy will shout back, "Well, your mother is an idiot."
There's no reasoning. There's no acknowledgment of anything the other guy said. It's just yelling.
So, guy two just called guy one's mother an idiot. What does guy one say? He retorts, "Oh yeah. Well, what about Reverend Wright?"
So, does guy two stop to reflect on Reverend Wright? Nope. He snaps back, "Yeah, and I guess Hillary has never lied." By this time these two guys have about four different arguments going and the only losers are the viewers. Whatever happened to intellectual, thoughtful discussion? It simply doesn't exist on television, or probably anywhere else nowadays.
But, no discussion of media idiots would be complete without taking a moment to honor one of the great idiots of all times. Of course, I'm speaking of Ted Turner. Sure this guy is a billionaire, but he adds new meaning to the term, "Southern hick." He sounds like one. He acts like one. He really must be one...a rich one, but a hick, nonetheless.
Did you hear the latest from Turner? He's talking about global warming with Charlie Rose, on Rose's TV talk show and he says that because we're not concerned with global warming it's going to be 8 degrees warmer. Turner, you can tell, is just making this stuff up. He starts to say (with authority) that it'll be 8 degrees warmer in ten years. But, you can see, he catches himself, as any good liar can do, and kinda tells himself, "Hey, that's too soon. Let me make up another number." He then says, "Not ten, but thirty years." He says it as if to say, "Hey, who really cares. Ten, thirty, they're all the same when you're just making this stuff up.
But Turner can be even more stupid than that. He continues. "Basically," he says, "(Due to those 8 degrees) none of the crops will grow." Now I have to wonder about that. For instance, sometimes in the summer, it can get ten to twenty degrees warmer on some days. The crops don't die. And, what about folks in Florida? Can they not grow anything? I bet summers in Southern Florida are always eight degrees warmer than here. And, when you think about it, aren't the rain forests, which are lush with growth, in even warmer climates? Of course, Ted Turner is a horticultural genius, so who am I to question.
But, Turner gets even stupider, which is the correct term for when you're too stupid to be "more stupid." He says, "Most people will die." Now, I'm getting scared. I could still be around in 30 years, and, for all we know, it might just be ten years if Turner really gets his way. Most people on earth will be dead in thirty years. That's pretty bleak. But, wait. It gets the stupidest at this point. Ted Turner isn't content to just predicting a global warming so severe that most people will die. He goes on to predict that, "The rest of us will be cannibals."
Now that's the scary part. I'm not so scared about mass cannibalism in thirty years. I'm afraid to be anywhere near Ted Turner today. His solution to deal with global warming, for "the rest of us - note, he includes himself - is cannibalism. So, what happens if Ted Turner wakes up hungry in the middle of the night and the hotel restaurant is closed. Who does he eat?
Or, let's say he's sitting at one of his ranches and he suddenly gets a pang of hunger. His cupboard is bare, and the nearest Food Lion is twenty miles away. And, as luck would have it, you have a flat tire in front of his house. My guess is that Ted Turner is gonna see you out there, lugging a lug wrench, and think, "Tasty!"
What may be even more stupid about this whole thing is that Charlie Rose is just sitting there nodding as if he's engaged in some deep, intellectual discussion. He's looking at Ted Turner as if he might be the next Stephen Hawking. Which, when you think about it, if Turner really is a closet cannibal, might not be such a bad idea. I know. I guess I'm rather stupid, myself.
For instance, just this morning a national broadcaster on CBS Television made the comment that he would be interviewing the son of Martin Luther King, Jr. later in the show. He identified the late civil rights leader's son as Martin Luther King, Jr., the third. I'm thinking that's kinda dumb.
And, while I enjoy the Fox News Network talk shows, have you ever stopped to analyze just how dumb most of the people who appear on those shows really are? Here's what I mean. Have you ever heard two people arguing on that show, persons who have very different viewpoints. Have you ever heard one say to the other, "You know, you're right. You've convinced me."?
In real life, people listen to one another. They learn from one another. They grow from their disagreements with others.
On TV that never happens. One guy says, "Your candidate is a total idiot. Here's his I.Q. test. It shows he's a moron."
Now, if someone were to say that to me, at least I'd want to look at his proof. But on Fox, that never happens. The second guy will shout back, "Well, your mother is an idiot."
There's no reasoning. There's no acknowledgment of anything the other guy said. It's just yelling.
So, guy two just called guy one's mother an idiot. What does guy one say? He retorts, "Oh yeah. Well, what about Reverend Wright?"
So, does guy two stop to reflect on Reverend Wright? Nope. He snaps back, "Yeah, and I guess Hillary has never lied." By this time these two guys have about four different arguments going and the only losers are the viewers. Whatever happened to intellectual, thoughtful discussion? It simply doesn't exist on television, or probably anywhere else nowadays.
But, no discussion of media idiots would be complete without taking a moment to honor one of the great idiots of all times. Of course, I'm speaking of Ted Turner. Sure this guy is a billionaire, but he adds new meaning to the term, "Southern hick." He sounds like one. He acts like one. He really must be one...a rich one, but a hick, nonetheless.
Did you hear the latest from Turner? He's talking about global warming with Charlie Rose, on Rose's TV talk show and he says that because we're not concerned with global warming it's going to be 8 degrees warmer. Turner, you can tell, is just making this stuff up. He starts to say (with authority) that it'll be 8 degrees warmer in ten years. But, you can see, he catches himself, as any good liar can do, and kinda tells himself, "Hey, that's too soon. Let me make up another number." He then says, "Not ten, but thirty years." He says it as if to say, "Hey, who really cares. Ten, thirty, they're all the same when you're just making this stuff up.
But Turner can be even more stupid than that. He continues. "Basically," he says, "(Due to those 8 degrees) none of the crops will grow." Now I have to wonder about that. For instance, sometimes in the summer, it can get ten to twenty degrees warmer on some days. The crops don't die. And, what about folks in Florida? Can they not grow anything? I bet summers in Southern Florida are always eight degrees warmer than here. And, when you think about it, aren't the rain forests, which are lush with growth, in even warmer climates? Of course, Ted Turner is a horticultural genius, so who am I to question.
But, Turner gets even stupider, which is the correct term for when you're too stupid to be "more stupid." He says, "Most people will die." Now, I'm getting scared. I could still be around in 30 years, and, for all we know, it might just be ten years if Turner really gets his way. Most people on earth will be dead in thirty years. That's pretty bleak. But, wait. It gets the stupidest at this point. Ted Turner isn't content to just predicting a global warming so severe that most people will die. He goes on to predict that, "The rest of us will be cannibals."
Now that's the scary part. I'm not so scared about mass cannibalism in thirty years. I'm afraid to be anywhere near Ted Turner today. His solution to deal with global warming, for "the rest of us - note, he includes himself - is cannibalism. So, what happens if Ted Turner wakes up hungry in the middle of the night and the hotel restaurant is closed. Who does he eat?
Or, let's say he's sitting at one of his ranches and he suddenly gets a pang of hunger. His cupboard is bare, and the nearest Food Lion is twenty miles away. And, as luck would have it, you have a flat tire in front of his house. My guess is that Ted Turner is gonna see you out there, lugging a lug wrench, and think, "Tasty!"
What may be even more stupid about this whole thing is that Charlie Rose is just sitting there nodding as if he's engaged in some deep, intellectual discussion. He's looking at Ted Turner as if he might be the next Stephen Hawking. Which, when you think about it, if Turner really is a closet cannibal, might not be such a bad idea. I know. I guess I'm rather stupid, myself.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
A Few Corrections From Things I've Said Previously
I'm not a political sort of guy at all. However, as a lifelong observer of human nature, I have learned a few things by following the goings on among the presidential contenders...especially from Mrs. Clinton. I've seen her sniper fire comments backfire spraying political shrapnel all over the place. I don't want to have anything I may have inadvertently said in the past, come back to haunt me. So. I'm here to clear the air.
Remember a year or so back, when I wrote about having gone into my bank, and gotten caught up in a bank robbery? "Bullets were flying over my head," I wrote at the time. I misspoke. What I had meant to say is that I went to the bank and I got there right after the bank had closed. And I looked at the teller through the glass door and pointed to my watch to say, "Excuse me, ma'm, but it's two minutes til closing time." And she had mouthed back to me, "Sorry." That's what actually happened. Close, but not exactly the way I had described it. But, let's be honest. Don't we all, from time to time, when we're under pressure, or we're trying to hide our personal failures and foibles, tend to totally lie about a matter? I'm not trying to justify anything, but, tell me, that if you weren't trying to find some excuse for something you'd done, you wouldn't just embellish the story a bit to make yourself look better. With that said, let's move on.
A couple of years ago, I told you about having a driver run me off the road, then get out of his car, come back to my car, open my door, yank me out, and beat me about the arms and face. Do you remember that? I misspoke. Although, that is what the guy had intended to do, had he gotten the opportunity, in truth, he only flipped the proverbial bird at me. I have an excuse for misspeaking on that one, though. Mrs. Clinton inspired me. I, too, was suffering from sleep depravation when I wrote that column.
And, while I'm not political, let me digress for just a moment. Mrs. Clinton said that the reason she said she had come under sniper fire when she hadn't, was that she was suffering from sleep deprivation at the time. Huh? Wasn't she the one who produced the TV spot about the phone ringing in the White House at three in the morning? Suppose the call comes in when she's sleepy. I hope she doesn't decide to nuke California because she gets a call that the Governor has criticized her. You know sleep depravation can do that. All of a sudden, through no fault of their own, the people of California are wiped off the map. Hmm, maybe sleep depravation is not all bad.
Anyway, I'm not here to talk about Hillary Clinton. This is all about me, baby. I'm trying to get a few things off my chest. One of those things is more a personal note to my family. Do y'all remember how I told you that when Uncle Eddie had that seizure I had called 911 and they never responded? Do you remember how at Uncle Eddie's funeral, I had railed against the local 911 people for their lack of professionalism? Do you remember how I had threatened to sue someone?
Well, I misspoke. Now, to be totally fair to myself, I had meant to call 911. Actually, I dialed 411. Then when the operator asked me what number I was looking for, I asked her to give me the local 911 number. She muttered something under her breath and hung up. That made me so mad that I took off in my car to do down to the phone company and give them a piece of my mind. I honestly forgot all about Uncle Eddie until the next morning. But, hey, nobody's human. We all make mistakes.
And sometimes my mistake is that i misspeak. I think it all stems from that time when I was a kid and was kidnapped and held hostage in an underground bunker for three weeks. That can scar a kid sometimes, you know.
Remember a year or so back, when I wrote about having gone into my bank, and gotten caught up in a bank robbery? "Bullets were flying over my head," I wrote at the time. I misspoke. What I had meant to say is that I went to the bank and I got there right after the bank had closed. And I looked at the teller through the glass door and pointed to my watch to say, "Excuse me, ma'm, but it's two minutes til closing time." And she had mouthed back to me, "Sorry." That's what actually happened. Close, but not exactly the way I had described it. But, let's be honest. Don't we all, from time to time, when we're under pressure, or we're trying to hide our personal failures and foibles, tend to totally lie about a matter? I'm not trying to justify anything, but, tell me, that if you weren't trying to find some excuse for something you'd done, you wouldn't just embellish the story a bit to make yourself look better. With that said, let's move on.
A couple of years ago, I told you about having a driver run me off the road, then get out of his car, come back to my car, open my door, yank me out, and beat me about the arms and face. Do you remember that? I misspoke. Although, that is what the guy had intended to do, had he gotten the opportunity, in truth, he only flipped the proverbial bird at me. I have an excuse for misspeaking on that one, though. Mrs. Clinton inspired me. I, too, was suffering from sleep depravation when I wrote that column.
And, while I'm not political, let me digress for just a moment. Mrs. Clinton said that the reason she said she had come under sniper fire when she hadn't, was that she was suffering from sleep deprivation at the time. Huh? Wasn't she the one who produced the TV spot about the phone ringing in the White House at three in the morning? Suppose the call comes in when she's sleepy. I hope she doesn't decide to nuke California because she gets a call that the Governor has criticized her. You know sleep depravation can do that. All of a sudden, through no fault of their own, the people of California are wiped off the map. Hmm, maybe sleep depravation is not all bad.
Anyway, I'm not here to talk about Hillary Clinton. This is all about me, baby. I'm trying to get a few things off my chest. One of those things is more a personal note to my family. Do y'all remember how I told you that when Uncle Eddie had that seizure I had called 911 and they never responded? Do you remember how at Uncle Eddie's funeral, I had railed against the local 911 people for their lack of professionalism? Do you remember how I had threatened to sue someone?
Well, I misspoke. Now, to be totally fair to myself, I had meant to call 911. Actually, I dialed 411. Then when the operator asked me what number I was looking for, I asked her to give me the local 911 number. She muttered something under her breath and hung up. That made me so mad that I took off in my car to do down to the phone company and give them a piece of my mind. I honestly forgot all about Uncle Eddie until the next morning. But, hey, nobody's human. We all make mistakes.
And sometimes my mistake is that i misspeak. I think it all stems from that time when I was a kid and was kidnapped and held hostage in an underground bunker for three weeks. That can scar a kid sometimes, you know.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
I Haven't the Remotest
As much as i bend over backwards to avoid hurting others' feelings or irritating anyone, I have a suspicion that I will make some folks unhappy today, especially women. But, I think it's time someone stepped up to the plate and told the truth. And, it looks like I'm the designated truth teller here.
The subject at hand is the TV remote. Now, men have been getting a bad rap (or is that "wrap") for years when it comes to their flippant (get it, a pun) attitude towards the remote. Men are accused of running non-stop through the channels and not ever staying on one channel long enough to know what's going on. I've come to the conclusion, however, that either women are worse than men, or else my wife is really a guy. I'm hoping it's the former.
My wife, bless her heart, has to have the remote in her hand if she's anywhere near the TV. Even if she's not watching, she wants to control the remote. And, if we're lying in bed watching television late at night, her last act before she falls asleep is to roll over and wedge the remote between her body and the bed, so that even after she's sawing logs, there's still no way I can control the remote.
My wife, bless her heart, has a really weird, woman-like way of using the remote, too. For instance, let's say she's flipping through the channels. Now, admittedly, she doesn't go as quickly as I do through them, but here is what she will do. She'll flip to a program. And leave that program on just long enough for me to get involved. And just as the detective says, "I have figured out who murdered Colonel Mustard. It has to be..." FLIP. I'm not lying. She does it every time.
And I'll tell you something else. Remember, now, we have this pact, you and me...we don't mention these columns to my wife. Okay? She never reads 'em, unless someone says, "Oh, you'll never guess what Steve said about you." Anyway, here's my little secret. I think she knows full well what she's doing. I think it's a form of torture.
It's particularly bad when I'm trying to watch a baseball game. I love baseball. If I'm watching, she'll come in the room and tenderly take my hand, and after she's pried my fingers open, she'll take the remote. She'll hold it...tauntingly, as if to say, "I have it. Don't make me use it."
After a few minutes, I'll relax, as much as a man can relax when he's watching TV and his wife is holding the remote. I'll get involved in the game. And, just as the Braves are about to stage a fantastic comeback, with the bases loaded and Chipper Jones at the plate, with a count of 3 and 2, and here comes the pitch. FLIP.
I kid you not. Now don't tell me she doesn't understand baseball. She understands just fine, thank you.
She also does the FLIP when I'm watching the news. You know how the news guys love to tease us. She's in on it. The newscaster will say, "You'll never guess who was assassinated tonight. Full details when we come back." Then we'll watch the fifteen commercials and then the news will finally come back on and the guy says, "A horrible tragedy tonight." FLIP. If I had been married in 1963, I probably still wouldn't know that Kennedy was dead.
But it's not just her flipping. It's what she'll choose to flip to. She has an uncanny ability to flip to a channel that's as uninteresting as the previous channel was interesting. Last night, for instance, my wife, bless her heart, decided, while I was trying to watch David Letterman, to switch to Arthur. Now, I'm not talking about the Dudley Moore movie. I'm talking about the animated adventures of Arthur the Aardvark, which has to be the cutest, sweetest, most boring show on TV. I never knew my wife was so enthralled with Arthur. She lay there watching it for fifteen minutes, while I keep reminding her that Letterman is on. At least I thought she was watching it until I heard her snoring.
Of course, by that time, the remote was nestled safely under her body. So there I was, just me and Arthur. The show was pretty good. You see, Emily really wanted this sparkly ball that D.W. found, so she tells a little white lie about how Marie-Helene actually gave it to her. No harm done, right? But then Emily has to tell even bigger lies to cover her story! Have you seen that one?
The subject at hand is the TV remote. Now, men have been getting a bad rap (or is that "wrap") for years when it comes to their flippant (get it, a pun) attitude towards the remote. Men are accused of running non-stop through the channels and not ever staying on one channel long enough to know what's going on. I've come to the conclusion, however, that either women are worse than men, or else my wife is really a guy. I'm hoping it's the former.
My wife, bless her heart, has to have the remote in her hand if she's anywhere near the TV. Even if she's not watching, she wants to control the remote. And, if we're lying in bed watching television late at night, her last act before she falls asleep is to roll over and wedge the remote between her body and the bed, so that even after she's sawing logs, there's still no way I can control the remote.
My wife, bless her heart, has a really weird, woman-like way of using the remote, too. For instance, let's say she's flipping through the channels. Now, admittedly, she doesn't go as quickly as I do through them, but here is what she will do. She'll flip to a program. And leave that program on just long enough for me to get involved. And just as the detective says, "I have figured out who murdered Colonel Mustard. It has to be..." FLIP. I'm not lying. She does it every time.
And I'll tell you something else. Remember, now, we have this pact, you and me...we don't mention these columns to my wife. Okay? She never reads 'em, unless someone says, "Oh, you'll never guess what Steve said about you." Anyway, here's my little secret. I think she knows full well what she's doing. I think it's a form of torture.
It's particularly bad when I'm trying to watch a baseball game. I love baseball. If I'm watching, she'll come in the room and tenderly take my hand, and after she's pried my fingers open, she'll take the remote. She'll hold it...tauntingly, as if to say, "I have it. Don't make me use it."
After a few minutes, I'll relax, as much as a man can relax when he's watching TV and his wife is holding the remote. I'll get involved in the game. And, just as the Braves are about to stage a fantastic comeback, with the bases loaded and Chipper Jones at the plate, with a count of 3 and 2, and here comes the pitch. FLIP.
I kid you not. Now don't tell me she doesn't understand baseball. She understands just fine, thank you.
She also does the FLIP when I'm watching the news. You know how the news guys love to tease us. She's in on it. The newscaster will say, "You'll never guess who was assassinated tonight. Full details when we come back." Then we'll watch the fifteen commercials and then the news will finally come back on and the guy says, "A horrible tragedy tonight." FLIP. If I had been married in 1963, I probably still wouldn't know that Kennedy was dead.
But it's not just her flipping. It's what she'll choose to flip to. She has an uncanny ability to flip to a channel that's as uninteresting as the previous channel was interesting. Last night, for instance, my wife, bless her heart, decided, while I was trying to watch David Letterman, to switch to Arthur. Now, I'm not talking about the Dudley Moore movie. I'm talking about the animated adventures of Arthur the Aardvark, which has to be the cutest, sweetest, most boring show on TV. I never knew my wife was so enthralled with Arthur. She lay there watching it for fifteen minutes, while I keep reminding her that Letterman is on. At least I thought she was watching it until I heard her snoring.
Of course, by that time, the remote was nestled safely under her body. So there I was, just me and Arthur. The show was pretty good. You see, Emily really wanted this sparkly ball that D.W. found, so she tells a little white lie about how Marie-Helene actually gave it to her. No harm done, right? But then Emily has to tell even bigger lies to cover her story! Have you seen that one?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Something Spooky in Gloucester
I’m afraid. I’m very afraid. I have just moved to Gloucester Courthouse. Have you ever been there? It’s a quaint little town about an hour east of Richmond. On my first visit there, and even on subsequent visits, I thought it somewhat reminded me of Mayberry.
However, since I’ve moved there, I’m thinking it’s more like one of those small towns you see in the horror movies. In fact, with its rustic charm and backwoodsy feel, I’m going to call my story, “Return to the Village of the Dag-Nabbited.” I don’t like to use the word, “damned.” You know, with the Jeremiah Wright thing so much in everyone’s minds.
Anyway, the more I get to know Gloucester, the more frightened I become. For instance, sometimes I’ll drive through the town square at about 8:00 in the evening. Now, for a small town, by this time you’d expect everyone to be home, in bed. But, in Gloucester, there are cars, many cars, parked along the curb. Nothing so bad in itself, but, there are men walking in somewhat of a zombie-like stupor through town. Maybe there’s some sort of town meeting going on, but I think it’s much more sinister. I truly believe that some sort of Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like alien force is at work here.
My wife and I went in a little sandwich shop the other night. There was an acoustic duo playing and the place was fairly crowded. When we walked in, the duo stopped playing and everyone turned to look at us. But wait! It gets even more frightening. We stand at the counter to order a sandwich and the woman smiles at us with a blank-eyed stare and says, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“But, it’s not closing time,” I start to say. My wife hushes me up. She is afraid I’ll make a scene. Or, could it be that some human-transforming pod has already overtaken her body? I’m not sure. Anyway, we leave.
Then there’s the newspaper, the Glo-Quips. Now with a name like Glo-Quips itself, I think there is plenty of reason to believe that some alien force is in play here, but since I’m not one to jump to conclusions, I’ll present more evidence and let you decide.
Glo-Quips has to be either a) the worst newspaper in the world; b) an Onion-like satire on newspapers; or c) a devious, cleverly-encrypted collection of coded messages designed to destroy one’s brain cells. I’m picking selection “c” here.
I had written a column on Glo-Quips a couple of years ago. I thought it was just funny the first time I read it, that a newspaper could be written as poorly as this publication. But, I picked up another copy the other day. And, seriously folks, it’s pretty scary.
For one thing, there’s a rant and rave section, where readers can phone in their complaints. These people complain about everything and they don’t mince words. In the latest issue, someone is accusing a post office employee of being a convicted forger. Another caller is suggesting that virtually everyone in the county administration is involved in, or covering up child abuse. One complaint comes from someone who is afraid of a man who walks along Route 17 and talks to people in the Walmart Shopping Center. Hmm, maybe there’s some validity to that one.
But, there’s even more about Glo-Quips that frightens me. For instance, what would you think about a newspaper in a small Virginia town that has a columnist who writes about what a great guy Hitler was? I’m not making this stuff up. I’ll show you the paper if you want. Or, a front page story that is merely about a county employee who showed up for work three sheets to the wind? The biting investigative piece in this issue asked the burning question, "Have you ever eaten green eggs and ham?"
I tell you something is happening in Gloucester...something very, very weird. Scoff if you will. Ridicule me. But, if I suddenly show up missing one day, I hope you’ll remember this. And go get help. My wife is still there, or, at least, that alien pod that looks like her.
However, since I’ve moved there, I’m thinking it’s more like one of those small towns you see in the horror movies. In fact, with its rustic charm and backwoodsy feel, I’m going to call my story, “Return to the Village of the Dag-Nabbited.” I don’t like to use the word, “damned.” You know, with the Jeremiah Wright thing so much in everyone’s minds.
Anyway, the more I get to know Gloucester, the more frightened I become. For instance, sometimes I’ll drive through the town square at about 8:00 in the evening. Now, for a small town, by this time you’d expect everyone to be home, in bed. But, in Gloucester, there are cars, many cars, parked along the curb. Nothing so bad in itself, but, there are men walking in somewhat of a zombie-like stupor through town. Maybe there’s some sort of town meeting going on, but I think it’s much more sinister. I truly believe that some sort of Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like alien force is at work here.
My wife and I went in a little sandwich shop the other night. There was an acoustic duo playing and the place was fairly crowded. When we walked in, the duo stopped playing and everyone turned to look at us. But wait! It gets even more frightening. We stand at the counter to order a sandwich and the woman smiles at us with a blank-eyed stare and says, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“But, it’s not closing time,” I start to say. My wife hushes me up. She is afraid I’ll make a scene. Or, could it be that some human-transforming pod has already overtaken her body? I’m not sure. Anyway, we leave.
Then there’s the newspaper, the Glo-Quips. Now with a name like Glo-Quips itself, I think there is plenty of reason to believe that some alien force is in play here, but since I’m not one to jump to conclusions, I’ll present more evidence and let you decide.
Glo-Quips has to be either a) the worst newspaper in the world; b) an Onion-like satire on newspapers; or c) a devious, cleverly-encrypted collection of coded messages designed to destroy one’s brain cells. I’m picking selection “c” here.
I had written a column on Glo-Quips a couple of years ago. I thought it was just funny the first time I read it, that a newspaper could be written as poorly as this publication. But, I picked up another copy the other day. And, seriously folks, it’s pretty scary.
For one thing, there’s a rant and rave section, where readers can phone in their complaints. These people complain about everything and they don’t mince words. In the latest issue, someone is accusing a post office employee of being a convicted forger. Another caller is suggesting that virtually everyone in the county administration is involved in, or covering up child abuse. One complaint comes from someone who is afraid of a man who walks along Route 17 and talks to people in the Walmart Shopping Center. Hmm, maybe there’s some validity to that one.
But, there’s even more about Glo-Quips that frightens me. For instance, what would you think about a newspaper in a small Virginia town that has a columnist who writes about what a great guy Hitler was? I’m not making this stuff up. I’ll show you the paper if you want. Or, a front page story that is merely about a county employee who showed up for work three sheets to the wind? The biting investigative piece in this issue asked the burning question, "Have you ever eaten green eggs and ham?"
I tell you something is happening in Gloucester...something very, very weird. Scoff if you will. Ridicule me. But, if I suddenly show up missing one day, I hope you’ll remember this. And go get help. My wife is still there, or, at least, that alien pod that looks like her.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A Moving Experience
I just moved to a new house. And, it's been a rather eye-opening experience. For one thing, having lived in this house for about a week without television (the cable people haven't gotten around to hooking me up), I think I've come to have some sort of mind meld with our forefathers...you know the rugged, pioneer, Little-House-on-the-Prairie-Michael-Landon types,
I think I can feel their pain, their anguish. I also think I know why our ancestors died so young. They were bored to death.
This sitting around the house talking to one another thing gets old rather quickly. I can just imagine past generations sitting around the house and thinking, there's bound to be something better to do than this.
I've also learned something about the construction workers of today. They stink. I think the young men and women of today's work-force have spent so much time watching television, they've never taken the time to learn to do a job well. For instance, I have a brand-new home (not bragging, just stating fact), with no door knobs. It seems that these guys forgot about the door knobs. Now, I am exaggerating. Many of the doors have them. It's only a few doors that they overlooked.
For instance, there's a door going to the laundry area, and it has a knob. The only problem is, I really won't ever need the knob because the door won't go past the washer and dryer. You know, it seems like someone would have gotten a tape measure out and figured those things out. And speaking of the washer and dryer, these nincompoops put in the vents and plumbing so that the washer and dryer are forced to be positioned in a way that the doors open into each other. If they had positioned them the opposite way, there would have been an open space between the two, which would make for an easy transfer from washer to dryer. It may seem like a little thing, but really, can't someone just use a little forethought?
Also, there are no light bulbs in the house. I guess the workers figure that their workmanship looks a lot better in the dark. And, once I put a bulb in, I discovered that the light switch in the walk-in closet is positioned behind the door, so you have to open the door and walk around it in the dark in order to get to the light switch. And, there are no drawers in the bathroom. Where do they think I'm going to put my toothbrush? No towel racks either.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit of a whiner, but this is the first home I've ever lived in that wasn't sitting on wheels, or, at least, cinderblocks, and I want it to be just right. But, I guess I should be thankful for what I have. Actually, since I've gone without TV for several days, I discovered I have a wife. Who knew?
Forget everything i just saId. Everything is fine. I'm perfectly happy. And, if I get too bored, I can always pull up a stool and watch my underwear spinning in the washer. And, actually, that's more entertaining than a lot of today's TV programming. But maybe I'm biased.
I think I can feel their pain, their anguish. I also think I know why our ancestors died so young. They were bored to death.
This sitting around the house talking to one another thing gets old rather quickly. I can just imagine past generations sitting around the house and thinking, there's bound to be something better to do than this.
I've also learned something about the construction workers of today. They stink. I think the young men and women of today's work-force have spent so much time watching television, they've never taken the time to learn to do a job well. For instance, I have a brand-new home (not bragging, just stating fact), with no door knobs. It seems that these guys forgot about the door knobs. Now, I am exaggerating. Many of the doors have them. It's only a few doors that they overlooked.
For instance, there's a door going to the laundry area, and it has a knob. The only problem is, I really won't ever need the knob because the door won't go past the washer and dryer. You know, it seems like someone would have gotten a tape measure out and figured those things out. And speaking of the washer and dryer, these nincompoops put in the vents and plumbing so that the washer and dryer are forced to be positioned in a way that the doors open into each other. If they had positioned them the opposite way, there would have been an open space between the two, which would make for an easy transfer from washer to dryer. It may seem like a little thing, but really, can't someone just use a little forethought?
Also, there are no light bulbs in the house. I guess the workers figure that their workmanship looks a lot better in the dark. And, once I put a bulb in, I discovered that the light switch in the walk-in closet is positioned behind the door, so you have to open the door and walk around it in the dark in order to get to the light switch. And, there are no drawers in the bathroom. Where do they think I'm going to put my toothbrush? No towel racks either.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit of a whiner, but this is the first home I've ever lived in that wasn't sitting on wheels, or, at least, cinderblocks, and I want it to be just right. But, I guess I should be thankful for what I have. Actually, since I've gone without TV for several days, I discovered I have a wife. Who knew?
Forget everything i just saId. Everything is fine. I'm perfectly happy. And, if I get too bored, I can always pull up a stool and watch my underwear spinning in the washer. And, actually, that's more entertaining than a lot of today's TV programming. But maybe I'm biased.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Great Ukrop's Beer Scare of 2008
Wow! What about that beer scare at Ukrop's? "Fortunately," says a Ukrop's spokesman, "it turned out to be nothing more serious than a bomb." The spokesman, Harv Pinkle, went on to say,"Considering the type of world in which we live today, you never know. It could have been a six-pack."
Quickly Pinkle asked, "That is how theose heathen stores sell beer, isn't it? In six-packs?"
Pinkle and the entire Ukrop's team have every right to be alarmed. Beer is prevalent everywhere these days. You can buy it on the open market. And, so, I'm told, there are sights on the Internet that even give detailed instructions on making your own beer.
So, when someone from Ukrop's found an abandoned bag outside one of their West End groceries recently, he immediately suspected beer. Ukrop's called in their own beer squad, replete with beer-sniffing dogs, and within a couple hours, to the relief of all Ukrop's employees, the suspicious-looking bag was found to be just a bomb.
The Ukrop's family has toiled tirelessly through the years to ensure that lips that touch alcohol never touch them...or something like that. Smokes? No problem. The Ukrop's make a pretty hefty profit on cigarettes, but when it comes to beer and wine, it's nosiree bob.
Which leaves me scratching my head. Well, I'm not literally scratching my head, except on those occasions when it itches. But I do wonder where the Ukrop's got their abomination for alcohol. I know, I know, it's a religious thing.
From what I've been told, the Ukrop's have a doctored picture of the Last Supper. All of the wine has been painted over. And, or so I'm told, the picture shows Jesus lighting Peter's cigarette.
Now, I couldn't make this sort of stuff up, folks. Oh, wait, hold on. I guess I could make it up. But, even if I were, and I along with the governor of New York, am not admitting anything right now, but, even if I were making it up, you have to admit that,somehow, it seems rather hypocritical to refuse to sell wine, the drink of prophets, and sell cigarettes, the carcinogen of profits.
If you want to shun all alcohol, I say more power to you. There's nothing in the Bible that condemns the moderate use of alcohol, but there's nothing in there that says you have to drink either.
But, how, with all the statistics, and with the horrendous odor, and with those ugly yellow teeth, so prevalent in the mouths of many Ukrop's employees and shoppers,how do you condemn alcohol and promote tobacco?
But, I shan't worry my pretty little head over it. I'll keep shopping at Ukrop's because, truth be told, they are nice to deal with. And, if I ever want a drink, I'll go to Food Lion, which, truth be told, by the time I leave a Food Lion, I need a drink.
Quickly Pinkle asked, "That is how theose heathen stores sell beer, isn't it? In six-packs?"
Pinkle and the entire Ukrop's team have every right to be alarmed. Beer is prevalent everywhere these days. You can buy it on the open market. And, so, I'm told, there are sights on the Internet that even give detailed instructions on making your own beer.
So, when someone from Ukrop's found an abandoned bag outside one of their West End groceries recently, he immediately suspected beer. Ukrop's called in their own beer squad, replete with beer-sniffing dogs, and within a couple hours, to the relief of all Ukrop's employees, the suspicious-looking bag was found to be just a bomb.
The Ukrop's family has toiled tirelessly through the years to ensure that lips that touch alcohol never touch them...or something like that. Smokes? No problem. The Ukrop's make a pretty hefty profit on cigarettes, but when it comes to beer and wine, it's nosiree bob.
Which leaves me scratching my head. Well, I'm not literally scratching my head, except on those occasions when it itches. But I do wonder where the Ukrop's got their abomination for alcohol. I know, I know, it's a religious thing.
From what I've been told, the Ukrop's have a doctored picture of the Last Supper. All of the wine has been painted over. And, or so I'm told, the picture shows Jesus lighting Peter's cigarette.
Now, I couldn't make this sort of stuff up, folks. Oh, wait, hold on. I guess I could make it up. But, even if I were, and I along with the governor of New York, am not admitting anything right now, but, even if I were making it up, you have to admit that,somehow, it seems rather hypocritical to refuse to sell wine, the drink of prophets, and sell cigarettes, the carcinogen of profits.
If you want to shun all alcohol, I say more power to you. There's nothing in the Bible that condemns the moderate use of alcohol, but there's nothing in there that says you have to drink either.
But, how, with all the statistics, and with the horrendous odor, and with those ugly yellow teeth, so prevalent in the mouths of many Ukrop's employees and shoppers,how do you condemn alcohol and promote tobacco?
But, I shan't worry my pretty little head over it. I'll keep shopping at Ukrop's because, truth be told, they are nice to deal with. And, if I ever want a drink, I'll go to Food Lion, which, truth be told, by the time I leave a Food Lion, I need a drink.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Help Me Make It Through The Write
A letter poured in the other day from little Jimmy Melmer in Mechanicsville. Jimmy writes:
Steve, you have to be in your mid-thirties by now. And yet, your writing is better than ever. How do you do it?
Just to interrupt for a moment, at this point in the letter I was beaming with pride. But, Jimmy continued…
Are you using any performance enhancing substances?
Now my first reaction was to deny it. But, taking a page from the Roger Clemens playbook, I have decided to come clean. I guess I owe my gratitude to little Jimmy in Mechanicsville. I have been using performance enhancing substances, and, I think I’ll feel much better after I confess it all to you. The way I look at it, it's either you or Congress. And I'll pick you. So, here goes:
First, I’m using coffee. This caffeine thing is absolutely mind boggling. Sometimes I come in to work and I’m mad at the world. Nothing seems right. Then I have a cup of coffee and all of a sudden it’s a new day. The sun is shining, and I’m positively radiant.
You may have wondered what gives me that bright Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm attitude. It’s coffee.
But, I haven’t limited myself to coffee. There are other little “tricks” that I use to enhance my performance. There is one substance, which, interestingly is available over the counter at Walgreens. It’s powerful, so if you choose to use, I’d advise you to proceed with caution. I’ll admit, my years of using this substance have played havoc with my health and well-being, but emotionally and mentally, it has made me the man I am today.
Yes, I feel a little awkward going public with all this, but little Jimmy Melmer, and his child-like innocence, has helped me find, deep within my personal recesses, the strength to admit my substance abuse.
Anyway, I have, for several years, been addicted to a little treat that I discovered several years ago. Harmful? Yes, I suppose. Mind-altering? Definitely! I hope you won’t think less of me when you hear my full confession, but here goes.
I’m hooked on Peeps. I don’t care whether they’re heart-shaped and pink, or little yellow bunny rabbits. Give me a Peep and I’ll ingest it. I had gotten up to three packs a day, but because I was destroying my health, I have slowed down.
I would like to think that often I’ve done my best work while under the influence of Peeps. I know that, like caffeine, when I’m down and out,
When I’m on the street,
When evening falls so hard
Peeps will comfort me.
When darkness comes
And pain is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
You see? Do you see how Peeps inspire me? As I say, I do my best work with a Peep in me.
So, there you have it. Yes, little Jimmy Melmer, you nosy little brat, you got it out of me. Are you happy? Here, let me have a sip of coffee. Good. I hope you’re happy, li’l fellow, because I sure am. Thanks for your kind letter. Now, let me get back to the ol’ typewriter.
Steve, you have to be in your mid-thirties by now. And yet, your writing is better than ever. How do you do it?
Just to interrupt for a moment, at this point in the letter I was beaming with pride. But, Jimmy continued…
Are you using any performance enhancing substances?
Now my first reaction was to deny it. But, taking a page from the Roger Clemens playbook, I have decided to come clean. I guess I owe my gratitude to little Jimmy in Mechanicsville. I have been using performance enhancing substances, and, I think I’ll feel much better after I confess it all to you. The way I look at it, it's either you or Congress. And I'll pick you. So, here goes:
First, I’m using coffee. This caffeine thing is absolutely mind boggling. Sometimes I come in to work and I’m mad at the world. Nothing seems right. Then I have a cup of coffee and all of a sudden it’s a new day. The sun is shining, and I’m positively radiant.
You may have wondered what gives me that bright Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm attitude. It’s coffee.
But, I haven’t limited myself to coffee. There are other little “tricks” that I use to enhance my performance. There is one substance, which, interestingly is available over the counter at Walgreens. It’s powerful, so if you choose to use, I’d advise you to proceed with caution. I’ll admit, my years of using this substance have played havoc with my health and well-being, but emotionally and mentally, it has made me the man I am today.
Yes, I feel a little awkward going public with all this, but little Jimmy Melmer, and his child-like innocence, has helped me find, deep within my personal recesses, the strength to admit my substance abuse.
Anyway, I have, for several years, been addicted to a little treat that I discovered several years ago. Harmful? Yes, I suppose. Mind-altering? Definitely! I hope you won’t think less of me when you hear my full confession, but here goes.
I’m hooked on Peeps. I don’t care whether they’re heart-shaped and pink, or little yellow bunny rabbits. Give me a Peep and I’ll ingest it. I had gotten up to three packs a day, but because I was destroying my health, I have slowed down.
I would like to think that often I’ve done my best work while under the influence of Peeps. I know that, like caffeine, when I’m down and out,
When I’m on the street,
When evening falls so hard
Peeps will comfort me.
When darkness comes
And pain is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
You see? Do you see how Peeps inspire me? As I say, I do my best work with a Peep in me.
So, there you have it. Yes, little Jimmy Melmer, you nosy little brat, you got it out of me. Are you happy? Here, let me have a sip of coffee. Good. I hope you’re happy, li’l fellow, because I sure am. Thanks for your kind letter. Now, let me get back to the ol’ typewriter.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Gwinnett County, Georgia - The Land of the Free and the Home of the Braves
Do you remember where you were and what you were doing when you learned the R-Braves were leaving R? I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was in my car. I think I was on the cell phone at the time. I've only recently begun using the cell phone while driving. But since I heard that drivers who use cell phones drive more slowly than drivers who don't, and they also don't change lanes as often, it seems like using the cell phone while driving is the safe thing to do.
Anyway, I digress. So the Braves are leaving town. Wow! I feel like I've been blindsided. No, wait! It was Richmond city officials who were blindsided. They didn't see this coming. Huh? My Uncle Earl could have seen this coming and he's been dead for 25 years.
I'll tell you who I feel the most sorry for. Charlie Diradour. He's a Richmond real estate investor, who was quoted in the Richmond Times Dispatch as saying, "What do I tell my 6-year-old who says, 'I want to go to a baseball game.'? I have to say, 'Honey, there are no baseball games.'"
Oh the humanity! I can't imagine any parent having to endure something like that. I'm glad my daughter is grown.
But, anyway, the Braves are leaving town. There are some positives to that, you know. For one thing, now that Mayor Governor Wilder doesn't have to worry his pretty little head about such things as building new ball parks, the entire city government along with the entire Braves organization can get back to the real National Pastime...pointing fingers.
I don't really blame Mayor Governor Wilder. He can't go around building ball parks for every minor league franchise that's been playing ball in the city for over four decades. Who do the Braves think he is...Daddy Warbucks?
And, I also have to say that Bruce Baldwin, GM for the local team, can be one of the most abrasive, arrogant individuals I've ever had the pleasure to meet. That's one of the good things about the Braves leaving...saying, "Bye-bye Bruce."
But, there are some negatives to this whole thing, even from the perspective of someone as positive as myself. I remember 1965. That was the last year with no baseball in the city. I was just a kid at the time and a huge baseball fan. The Yankees had their Triple-A farm team, the Virginians, who called Parker Field, "home." But after the 1964 season, the Yanks yanked the Virginians and moved them to Toledo. Shortly after that, the Milwaukee Braves announced that they were moving to Atlanta and that their farm team, the Atlanta Crackers would be relocated here. In 1966, the Atlanta Crackers became the Richmond Braves. But, 1965 was a very bad year for pimply-faced, fat teenage boys who didn't date, but who spent every Summer evening either at the ball park, or with their respective ears glued to the game on the radio.
So, I guess the real victims here are today's youngsters, pimply-faced and otherwise. I don't follow the Braves as faithfully as I did in 1966 and for many years thereafter, but I've always been glad they were a part of the city. I loved Parker Field, even when I did sit behind one of those poles that blocked my view. I love the Diamond, even when the concrete rains upon my head. But, most of all, I love baseball. There's something very special about sitting at the park with your friends and family, drinking a big orange soda, eating a five dollar hot dog, and whooping it up for the home team.
It's hard to imagine the Diamond going dark in 2009. The Mayor says we will have baseball. At least, I think that was the Mayor I heard on the soundbite on the radio. It sounded more like Weezie Jefferson, but Paul Bottoms assured us it was Mayor Wilder.
Maybe we will have baseball, but I think the chances are pretty good we won't. I'd be greatly surprised if we ever get Triple-A baseball back in the city. It really doesn't matter who is at fault here. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. What matters is that come 2009 a bunch of strangers in Gwinnett County, Georgia will be sitting in some fancy ball park rooting for our Richmond Braves. Somehow that just doesn't seem right.
Oh yeah, I guess there is one more good thing that comes from all this. We won't have to listen to a bunch of local whiners asking, "What's Charlotte got that we don't?" From now on, we'll listen to them whining, "What's Gwinnett County got that we don't?" And, of course, the answer to that is simple...The Richmond Braves.
Anyway, I digress. So the Braves are leaving town. Wow! I feel like I've been blindsided. No, wait! It was Richmond city officials who were blindsided. They didn't see this coming. Huh? My Uncle Earl could have seen this coming and he's been dead for 25 years.
I'll tell you who I feel the most sorry for. Charlie Diradour. He's a Richmond real estate investor, who was quoted in the Richmond Times Dispatch as saying, "What do I tell my 6-year-old who says, 'I want to go to a baseball game.'? I have to say, 'Honey, there are no baseball games.'"
Oh the humanity! I can't imagine any parent having to endure something like that. I'm glad my daughter is grown.
But, anyway, the Braves are leaving town. There are some positives to that, you know. For one thing, now that Mayor Governor Wilder doesn't have to worry his pretty little head about such things as building new ball parks, the entire city government along with the entire Braves organization can get back to the real National Pastime...pointing fingers.
I don't really blame Mayor Governor Wilder. He can't go around building ball parks for every minor league franchise that's been playing ball in the city for over four decades. Who do the Braves think he is...Daddy Warbucks?
And, I also have to say that Bruce Baldwin, GM for the local team, can be one of the most abrasive, arrogant individuals I've ever had the pleasure to meet. That's one of the good things about the Braves leaving...saying, "Bye-bye Bruce."
But, there are some negatives to this whole thing, even from the perspective of someone as positive as myself. I remember 1965. That was the last year with no baseball in the city. I was just a kid at the time and a huge baseball fan. The Yankees had their Triple-A farm team, the Virginians, who called Parker Field, "home." But after the 1964 season, the Yanks yanked the Virginians and moved them to Toledo. Shortly after that, the Milwaukee Braves announced that they were moving to Atlanta and that their farm team, the Atlanta Crackers would be relocated here. In 1966, the Atlanta Crackers became the Richmond Braves. But, 1965 was a very bad year for pimply-faced, fat teenage boys who didn't date, but who spent every Summer evening either at the ball park, or with their respective ears glued to the game on the radio.
So, I guess the real victims here are today's youngsters, pimply-faced and otherwise. I don't follow the Braves as faithfully as I did in 1966 and for many years thereafter, but I've always been glad they were a part of the city. I loved Parker Field, even when I did sit behind one of those poles that blocked my view. I love the Diamond, even when the concrete rains upon my head. But, most of all, I love baseball. There's something very special about sitting at the park with your friends and family, drinking a big orange soda, eating a five dollar hot dog, and whooping it up for the home team.
It's hard to imagine the Diamond going dark in 2009. The Mayor says we will have baseball. At least, I think that was the Mayor I heard on the soundbite on the radio. It sounded more like Weezie Jefferson, but Paul Bottoms assured us it was Mayor Wilder.
Maybe we will have baseball, but I think the chances are pretty good we won't. I'd be greatly surprised if we ever get Triple-A baseball back in the city. It really doesn't matter who is at fault here. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. What matters is that come 2009 a bunch of strangers in Gwinnett County, Georgia will be sitting in some fancy ball park rooting for our Richmond Braves. Somehow that just doesn't seem right.
Oh yeah, I guess there is one more good thing that comes from all this. We won't have to listen to a bunch of local whiners asking, "What's Charlotte got that we don't?" From now on, we'll listen to them whining, "What's Gwinnett County got that we don't?" And, of course, the answer to that is simple...The Richmond Braves.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Now That's Using the Old Noodle
You know, I'm really, really irritated. That's not an emotion I'm used to. Typically, I'm an easy-going, unruffled guy.
I tend to take life as it comes and not sweat the small stuff and all that other mumbo jumbo "let's take a positive view of life" philosophy. But, I'm irritated.
And I'll tell you why. It all has to do with Sesame Street. You've probably heard that the first couple of seasons of the popular kids TV show have been rated unacceptable for kids. Seems that Cookie Monster is too politically incorrect, as is Oscar the Grouch and a bunch of the other original characters.
Now, admittedly, that's asanine. But, that's not what irritates me. If these idiots who justify their jobs by making stupid rulings want to put an "Adults Only" rating on Sesame Street, who is it going to hurt? Not me. Not the producers of the show. In fact, the rating will probably make more people go out and buy the DVDs.
But, here's what gets me: If today's Sesame Street is so much more "acceptable," if it's so much more in-tune with people's feelings, if it's supposed to be a kinder, gentler Sesame Street, then why Mr. Noodle?
Have you seen Mr. Noodle? The original Noodle died of AIDS. And since I censor my own stuff, I won't comment on that. The new Noodle, actor/clown/mime, Bill Irwin is a good actor. But, as Mr. Noodle, he plays a mildly retarded guy. Really! I saw him trying to hold a violin. This brainiac couldn't tell the difference between his chin and his ear.
So, here's my question: Why is it politically correct, in the 21st century, to depict a retarded guy? Why is retarded okay when grouchy is taboo? I'll tell you why. It's because Mr. Noodle is an old white guy.
There, I said it. You see, in today's world, it's okay to make fun of old white guys. They deserve it. Old white guys have abused every non-old-white-guy group of people for centuries.
All of us old white guys used to own slaves, don't you know. At least, that seems to be the opinion of many. All of us old white guys belong to the Ku Klux Klan, mistreat women, abuse Hispanics, and, as a group, are responsible for global warming.
So, we deserve to be depicted as retarded. You couldn't show a young, black guy acting retardedly. Unless, of course, it was a movie produced, written, directed, and starring young black guys.
You couldn't show a retarded woman...no matter what color she happens to be. But when it comes to old white guys, piling on is allowed. And so, Sesame Street, when they want to do something that would probably be viewed as politically incorrect, just hauls out Mr. Noodle. Mr. Noodle can be as stupid as one would desire. He can prance around and point at his nose when asked where his chin is located. He can act downright foolishly. Because, of course, he's an old white guy.
I had considered the idea of starting an organization to be known as the NAAOWG. We were going to march and picket and demonstrate and protest and do all those cool things all the other groups do. Then it dawned on us that that would mean putting down the chips and dip, getting off the couch and going outside. Ouch. I guess Mr. Noodle isn't all that bad. He is kinda funny...even cute, if you will. So what if he can't identify the parts of his face. He's an old white guy. He doesn't have to. He can always hire a minority to do that for him.
I tend to take life as it comes and not sweat the small stuff and all that other mumbo jumbo "let's take a positive view of life" philosophy. But, I'm irritated.
And I'll tell you why. It all has to do with Sesame Street. You've probably heard that the first couple of seasons of the popular kids TV show have been rated unacceptable for kids. Seems that Cookie Monster is too politically incorrect, as is Oscar the Grouch and a bunch of the other original characters.
Now, admittedly, that's asanine. But, that's not what irritates me. If these idiots who justify their jobs by making stupid rulings want to put an "Adults Only" rating on Sesame Street, who is it going to hurt? Not me. Not the producers of the show. In fact, the rating will probably make more people go out and buy the DVDs.
But, here's what gets me: If today's Sesame Street is so much more "acceptable," if it's so much more in-tune with people's feelings, if it's supposed to be a kinder, gentler Sesame Street, then why Mr. Noodle?
Have you seen Mr. Noodle? The original Noodle died of AIDS. And since I censor my own stuff, I won't comment on that. The new Noodle, actor/clown/mime, Bill Irwin is a good actor. But, as Mr. Noodle, he plays a mildly retarded guy. Really! I saw him trying to hold a violin. This brainiac couldn't tell the difference between his chin and his ear.
So, here's my question: Why is it politically correct, in the 21st century, to depict a retarded guy? Why is retarded okay when grouchy is taboo? I'll tell you why. It's because Mr. Noodle is an old white guy.
There, I said it. You see, in today's world, it's okay to make fun of old white guys. They deserve it. Old white guys have abused every non-old-white-guy group of people for centuries.
All of us old white guys used to own slaves, don't you know. At least, that seems to be the opinion of many. All of us old white guys belong to the Ku Klux Klan, mistreat women, abuse Hispanics, and, as a group, are responsible for global warming.
So, we deserve to be depicted as retarded. You couldn't show a young, black guy acting retardedly. Unless, of course, it was a movie produced, written, directed, and starring young black guys.
You couldn't show a retarded woman...no matter what color she happens to be. But when it comes to old white guys, piling on is allowed. And so, Sesame Street, when they want to do something that would probably be viewed as politically incorrect, just hauls out Mr. Noodle. Mr. Noodle can be as stupid as one would desire. He can prance around and point at his nose when asked where his chin is located. He can act downright foolishly. Because, of course, he's an old white guy.
I had considered the idea of starting an organization to be known as the NAAOWG. We were going to march and picket and demonstrate and protest and do all those cool things all the other groups do. Then it dawned on us that that would mean putting down the chips and dip, getting off the couch and going outside. Ouch. I guess Mr. Noodle isn't all that bad. He is kinda funny...even cute, if you will. So what if he can't identify the parts of his face. He's an old white guy. He doesn't have to. He can always hire a minority to do that for him.
Monday, January 07, 2008
The New Improved Organic Steve
Well, let me begin by saying how great it is to be back. I've been away for the past month or so for some special schooling. The school is a division of Ohio State. It's called the Cincinnati Remedial Academic Program...better known as, well, that's not important. Anyway, I took part in an intensive 4-week course designed to help students better understand how to use the word, "Organic."
I have to admit, I'm still pretty confused, but not nearly as confused as I was a month ago when my wife brought home a special box of organic cereal she had bought at the health food store. Back then, in my unenlightened days, as I'm wont to call them, back then I have to admit I was a little upset that she spent $12.95 for a box of cereal.
Imagine my chagrin now. Now that I have a deeper appreciation for "organic," that is. Back in the old days, using my own limited understanding, the only thing "organic" meant to me is that it must have to do with one organ or another. Ha Ha. I laugh at myself...my old self, that is.
The new Steve is enlightened. I see things as a whole much more clearly. I guess you could say my thinking has become more organic. I now, seeing the whole picture, can understand why thirteen bucks for a box of cereal is a sweetheart of a deal. I can now enjoy that cereal much better knowing that before I ate it, it had been smothered in chicken manure. I think about that with every bite. I smack my lips and say, "thank you," to my wife. She's begun to call me "organic breath" as a term of endearment. So that school thing is a win-win all the way around.
And, I'm only beginning to reap the rewards of my education. Actually, you are just beginning to reap the rewards of my education. In the months to come, I think you'll be seeing me use the word, "organic" much more frequently. For instance, when reading a column I've written about architecture, I'll sneak the word in. "Huh?" you're probably saying right now. I don't blame you. But, let me make you feel better by telling you that your confusion only stems from the fact that you're still very ignorant. There, do you feel better now?
You see, organic can also mean (and I'm quoting here, from my textbook, which came free with the three thousand dollar course), noting or pertaining to any work of architecture regarded as analogous to plant or animal forms in having a structure and a plan that fulfill perfectly the functional requirements for the building and that form in themselves an intellectually lucid, integrated whole.
It's so clear now. How could I have been so unenlightened? I feel like a real boob. And, by that, I mean a stupid or foolish person, a dolt.
I could continue to regale you with ways in which my "organic" education will benefit you in weeks to come. For instance, in one of my upcoming columns on fine art, a subject I thought I was already somewhat of an expert on, I'll be using "organic." When I do so, of course, I'll mean, something pertaining to the shapes or forms in a work of art that are of irregular contour and seem to resemble or suggest forms found in nature. From now on, thanks to my education, if I see a big blob of paint on a canvas, I'll know it's organic. Because it almost has to resemble something in nature, if nothing more than a cloud. Because, you see, clouds are a part of nature. I want to make sure you understand that, because it took me about three days to really let that fact sink in. I'd have to say some in the class picked up on that much more rapidly.
For some reason, the only thing I could think of in nature was a monkey. I kept telling the professor, "but that doesn't look like a monkey," and he kept looking at me as if I were some sort of dolt, that is a dull stupid person, a blockhead, a boob, as it were.
Anyway, I come back to you a much wiser man than I was a month ago. I'm so wise now that I'll think nothing of spending twenty bucks on a box of organic cereal. In fact, I picked up a box this morning. It's delicious and, according to the box, it's lightly sweetened with pure chicken manure.
I have to admit, I'm still pretty confused, but not nearly as confused as I was a month ago when my wife brought home a special box of organic cereal she had bought at the health food store. Back then, in my unenlightened days, as I'm wont to call them, back then I have to admit I was a little upset that she spent $12.95 for a box of cereal.
Imagine my chagrin now. Now that I have a deeper appreciation for "organic," that is. Back in the old days, using my own limited understanding, the only thing "organic" meant to me is that it must have to do with one organ or another. Ha Ha. I laugh at myself...my old self, that is.
The new Steve is enlightened. I see things as a whole much more clearly. I guess you could say my thinking has become more organic. I now, seeing the whole picture, can understand why thirteen bucks for a box of cereal is a sweetheart of a deal. I can now enjoy that cereal much better knowing that before I ate it, it had been smothered in chicken manure. I think about that with every bite. I smack my lips and say, "thank you," to my wife. She's begun to call me "organic breath" as a term of endearment. So that school thing is a win-win all the way around.
And, I'm only beginning to reap the rewards of my education. Actually, you are just beginning to reap the rewards of my education. In the months to come, I think you'll be seeing me use the word, "organic" much more frequently. For instance, when reading a column I've written about architecture, I'll sneak the word in. "Huh?" you're probably saying right now. I don't blame you. But, let me make you feel better by telling you that your confusion only stems from the fact that you're still very ignorant. There, do you feel better now?
You see, organic can also mean (and I'm quoting here, from my textbook, which came free with the three thousand dollar course), noting or pertaining to any work of architecture regarded as analogous to plant or animal forms in having a structure and a plan that fulfill perfectly the functional requirements for the building and that form in themselves an intellectually lucid, integrated whole.
It's so clear now. How could I have been so unenlightened? I feel like a real boob. And, by that, I mean a stupid or foolish person, a dolt.
I could continue to regale you with ways in which my "organic" education will benefit you in weeks to come. For instance, in one of my upcoming columns on fine art, a subject I thought I was already somewhat of an expert on, I'll be using "organic." When I do so, of course, I'll mean, something pertaining to the shapes or forms in a work of art that are of irregular contour and seem to resemble or suggest forms found in nature. From now on, thanks to my education, if I see a big blob of paint on a canvas, I'll know it's organic. Because it almost has to resemble something in nature, if nothing more than a cloud. Because, you see, clouds are a part of nature. I want to make sure you understand that, because it took me about three days to really let that fact sink in. I'd have to say some in the class picked up on that much more rapidly.
For some reason, the only thing I could think of in nature was a monkey. I kept telling the professor, "but that doesn't look like a monkey," and he kept looking at me as if I were some sort of dolt, that is a dull stupid person, a blockhead, a boob, as it were.
Anyway, I come back to you a much wiser man than I was a month ago. I'm so wise now that I'll think nothing of spending twenty bucks on a box of organic cereal. In fact, I picked up a box this morning. It's delicious and, according to the box, it's lightly sweetened with pure chicken manure.
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