Hot Enough For You?

Don't you hate it when people ask if it's hot enough for you? I do. How stupid a question. If you want to comment on the weather, say something intelligent. Tell me if it's hot enough for you, if you like. But don't ask me stupid questions. How am I supposed to answer. If I reply in the affirmative, what are you going to do about it? If I were in your living room and you were willing to adjust the thermostate, okay, ask away. But if you're just trying to let me know that you know it's hot, just say, "Hey, it's hot." I'll smile, and nod, and then we can get on with the really important stuff like what day it is (i.e. "I'm doing pretty good for a Monday.")
Speaking of the weather, I have what may be a startling bit of news I want to share with the news directors at the local media outlets...this is NOT the first time we've had a hot summer! I know, I know, it's hard to believe, but the thermometer has flirted with triple digits in the past. The only difference is that years back we just wiped our brow and kept on going. We didn't stop to belabor the point that it's hot.
And we didn't have air conditioning then, at least not in our cars or in most of our homes. I can remember making extra trips to the grocery store in order to cool off, but no one complained, or, if we did, it was pretty much just to ourselves. Is it because we're softer, weaker, whinier than in those glorious days of yesteryear? Partially. But, for the most part, I blame the TV/Radio meteorologists.
How so? Well, I think the reason we're so much more bothered by the heat nowadays is because of those dad-burned heat indices. In an ongoing quest for sensationalism, the media is not content to tell us it's going to be 97 degrees today. They have to make it seem worse by saying "...with a heat index of 187 degrees!"
So, just what is a heat index? It's a figment of their imagination. They're telling us how hot it's going to feel to us. I, for one,m am not going to stand for that. How can they tell me how hot I feel? I may feel like it's 57 today if I enjoy this weather. The heat indices are as dumb as those windshield factors they use in the winter. What's with that? I guess it means how cold it feels if you're driving down the road and your windshield is broken.
I don't want anyone telling me how hot I feel...or how cold. On days like these my grandmother used to say, "It's close today." Now that makes sense. Regardless of how hot you felt, you knew that the air was still and muggy and...well, and close.
I would suggest that you all do what I'm going to do. Write, email, or phone your local TV and radio stations and tell them you will not continue to listen to their station if they try and foist a fake heat index on you. From now on, I only want someone to tell me the current temperature is, which, really is just about all the weather people can do accurately anyway. I don't want an editorial. I hate it when they predict a big snowstorm and then when it doesn't happen, they come on and say, "We dodged a bullet."
Perhaps I wanted to get hit by that bullet. And, perhaps there are those who love this horrid weather we're having. So, just tell us what the temperature is. Give us a good guess on how high and how low it will get and let's leave it at that. And now, I'm going to go cool off, because I feel like it's a thousand degrees in here.

Cool and Unusual Punishment

Silvia Johnson just wanted to be a cool mom. Who could blame her for that? She says she was never popular in school, and so, wanted to fit in with the teenagers with whom her own kids went to school. Somehow I don't think this "cool" mom is going to get the Mother-of-the-Year award anytime soon. But, she will be cooling her heels in prison.
Johnson plead guilty yesterday to sexual assault charges stemming from parties she'd throw for the neighborhood teens, apparently most of whom were boys. Silvia Johnson assaulted several teen aged boys at what some estimated to be about twenty parties or so held in the fall of 2004. Can't you just imagine how cool her own kids must have thought her to be?
When I was a kid, my mom would make cookies and Kool-Aid for my friends. That was Kool. Johnson served Jack Daniels, Southern Comfort, Tequila and other refreshing beverages. And, while there's no record of cookies on the table, there were reports that methamphetamines were served.
And all this to "entertain" fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys. A story like this just leaves me scratching my head. I know there are some really stupid people out there, but just how moronic does one have to be to think actions like this are cool? And, even if you did think it cool, doesn't it seem that it just might dawn on you that there may be laws against such conduct?
This woman is 40 years old (and, totally unrelated, exceptionally ugly). She has kids of her own. I just wonder how an imbecile like that can function in society. I mean did she get her kids up, get them ready for school every day? Did she attend parent-teacher meetings and chaperone field trips? Could there be such totally depraved degenerates actually co-existing, people who are so totally whacked that they can engage in such ludicrous behavior and then get up and fix dinner, help the kids with their schoolwork, tuck 'em in and then lie down to pleasant dreams?
That's scary. Everybody is worried about foreign terrorists. I think Silvia Johnson is a terrorist. And she's not alone. Almost daily, we hear of parents who hire strippers for their kids graduation parties, or who supply alcohol for them. And these people are all around us. No, they're not going to fly a plane into an office building, but they're going to try and corrupt our kids, if we're not careful.
Why do they do it? I think Silvia Johnson has the answer. They think it's cool. I hope the judge out in Colorado puts Ms. Johnson on ice for the next 30 or 40 years. Let's see how cool that will be.

Corporate Speak - Part I

As you may have discovered, if you read my blogs with some regularity, there is virtually no subject about which I don't consider myself an expert. Whether it be medicine, sports, customer service...I can discuss all subjects with equal aplomb. So today, I'm going to venture into the corporate world, and, as a public service, help all of you out there who work for those big companies to understand how to read a corporate memo. From the years I spent in Corporate America, I learned that what they say and what they mean are often quite different. So, let's take a typical memo and read, so to speak, between the lines.
Here's a sample memo:

It is with deep regret that we announce that John Doe is leaving Acme Granola Enterprises. John has worked tirelessly over the past 20 years on behalf of our company, and has contributed so much with his expertise. Unfortunately, John has decided to pursue another career path. Please join me in wishing John much success on his future endeavors.

Signed The President

Have you ever received a memo like that? I know I did. At Time Life Customer Service, where I worked for many years, and may I say that despite rumors to the contrary,m I wan't fired, it got to the point that we were getting such correspondence virtually every day there for a while. At first glance, it certainly sounds like good news for John, doesn't it? He's venturing out on a new path. We couldn't be happier for him despite the personal loss to the company.

But, now, the truth about John Doe, and others like him, can be told. Here's what the company president is really saying -

Let's look over the memo again:

"IT IS WITH DEEP REGRET" means I can't wait to share some good news with you all. "THAT WE ANNOUNCE THAT JOHN DOE IS LEAVING ACME GRANOLA ENTERPRISES" - John has been fired. "JOHN HAS WORKED TIRELESSLY OVER THE PAST 20 YEARS..." John is a has-been. He's yesterdays news. If we keep him any longer we have to pay him some sort of retirement benefit. "AND HAS CONTRIBUTED SO MUCH WITH HIS EXPERTISE." - is the same as saying "The guy thinks he knows it all. We're sick of his opinions. We're sick of his ideas. In fact, we're just plain sick of John. 'UNFORTUNATELY," - We're ecstatic.
"JOHN HAS DECIDED TO PURSUE ANOTHER CAREER PATH." - That's telling us that John will be seeking unemployment benefits, and, who knows, may even be considering a lawsuit. But, whatever the case, John is pretty much out of a job. He'll probably have to sell his home, and will end up a broken, bitter old man. "PLEASE JOIN ME IN WISHING JOHN MUCH SUCCESS."
That part is somewhat true. It's saying, "let's hope the loser finds a job and leaves us the heck alone."

Well, once again, free advice. I hope you can use it. Now if I don't get back to work, I may be forced to seek a new career path myself.

From Chunk to Hunk

Well, today is the first day of the rest of my life. No, really. I mean it this time. Okay, I know I said I meant it the last two hundred times I said it. But, I was lying then. Now, I'm telling the truth. And I'm going to prove it. If you're a reader of Cheseterfield Living or West End's Best Magazines, look for a new series to begin both in our online and print editions. It's going to be about my marvelous transformation from a perennially chunky old man to a hunk. Can you be a hunk at 50+? I'm going to find out.
Whether I actually attain hunk status or not, I am going to start taking better care of my self. I see elderly men crippled up, in wheelchairs or using walkers, and I don't think, there but for the grace of God, go I. What I do think is that give me a few more years and there go I. I don't want to go, with aching legs, knees and back, to the future.
And, while at this moment, I'm a walking apothecary, my doctor has told me that if I lose weight, I can probably get off all my medication. I'm killing myself one fork-ful at a time. And enjoying every minute of it. Yep, I enjoy eating. I don't eat because I'm depressed, or anxious, or trying to mask some deep psychological disturbance. I don't eat because my mother used to beat me about the head with a rolling pin (which, I guess I better say, she didn't). I eat because I love to eat.
I'll still enjoy eating, but, hopefully, just won't continue to unhinge my jaws in snake-like fashion, at the buffet line, and devour everything in sight. I'll try to remember what Grandma Pyle used to say...chew each bite 50 times. Sounds rather disgusting, but I'll try.
To ensure, or to enhance the probability that I'll really do something this time, I've gone to the folks at ACAC, truly one of the finest health clubs I've ever seen. I've joined other clubs before, and, like, no doubt, many of you, went regularly for about a month. ACAC offers all the amenities of the best clubs, but from what I've personally experienced, they truly excel inliving up to their commitment to make each member really feel welcome, regardless of his or her level of experience. Their most recent newsletter makes a statement that really sums up the reality of their facility. It says, "People of all ages, shapes and sizes are working towards their goals."
In other words, even fat old men like me don't feel out of place. I'm not overly comfortable walking around a locker room with just a towel draped around me, but at least at ACAC I'm not totally surrounded by nothing but a bunch of buff body builders. Will I continue to go regularly? I hope so. I'm hoping by going public, I'll put the pressure on myself to stick with it. Time will tell. But win or lose (and I hope to do both), I'll be tracking my progress publicly. Look for the Chunk to Hunk section coming soon to our website as well as our magazines. And, hopefully, I'll satisfy the desire of many of our readers who've written to say they'd like to see a whole lot less of me.

Blogger, Heal Thyself

Perhaps it’s because my father was a doctor, I don’t know, but, somehow, even though he has been dead for many years, my thirst for medical knowledge continues to go unquenched. Some say that I should have followed in his footsteps and become a doctor myself. I’ve chosen to help humanity in my own special little way…by expounding on a variety of medical-like topics, and giving my own uneducated and unfounded opinions. It doesn’t cost me nearly as much as I would have spent on medical school. Admittedly, I may not know everything a doctor knows, but, what the hey. I’m not actually writing any prescriptions here.
Anyway, I am still, after all these years, fascinated with all things medical. I’ve been doing quite a bit of medical research lately, mainly using the internet, and have found some really exciting stories that have reached out, as it were, and grabbed my attention. I’m going to share them, and get this, all at no charge to you.
First item: There’s a fascinating story out of Israel about some rather extensive studies being done at the University of Haifa. What they’ve spent plenty of hours and money to find out is that people with prefrontal brain damage don’t grasp sarcasm. Isn’t that ironic? The very people you really would want to use it on, won’t get it. Now, isn’t that special. One thing I’m glad to know is that so much money is being spent on studying something so important as this. (If you took me seriously here, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you probably have prefrontal brain damage – and that’s bound to hurt.)
Second story in the Steve Cook Journal of Medical News: Research has shown that kudzu extracts (you know, that vine that just keeps on growing and growing) help discourage drinking in rats and hamsters. I don’t know about you, but this is big news.
If there’s one thing I hate around the house it’s a drunken rat. They treat the cat with such disdain. Remind me to place a little kudzu in the kitchen. Hamsters, however, just seem to get cuter the more they drink. Have you ever seen an inebriated hamster trying to operate that little treadmill thing? It’s hilarious.
And one final story: Botox has been found to be effective in eliminating underarm sweating. First thing about this is that the Botox has to be injected right into the armpit. I, for one, couldn’t hold still or stop giggling long enough to have that done. But, what I’m wondering is if it really eliminates the sweating or just makes it so you can’t raise your arms high enough to see if you’re sweating.
There’s one tiny little problem with this whole thing. A stick of deodorant costs about two dollars. A Botox treatment runs about a thousand. I could buy quite a few Speed Sticks for a couple grand. Plus, is it really such a good thing to stop sweating? I guess you can tell if someone has been injecting Botox in his or her armpits. They’re the ones lying on the floor, with their tongues hanging out, panting and drooling. No thanks, I think I’d choose a sweater over a drooler.
Well, that’s the latest in the world of health and medicine. I hope you feel better from just having read this. I know I do. And even though there’s no charge, you might be able to submit the cost of your computer to your insurance company. Let me know if that works.

Warning Will Robinson! Indians!

My mother, who as I've mentioned before reads my daily blogs, made an interesting observation last night. "You don't get along with anyone, do you?" she said/asked.
So, I reviewed my blogs, and you know what? She's right. I am a royal pain in the neck, and some may have an even lower opinion.
So, today being the first day of the rest of my life, I've turned over a new leaf. I'm a new man as it were...a kinder, gentler man...a man who won't get irritated at really horrible customer service. I've decided that rather than get upset when I reach my favorite customer service reps in Bombay, that I'm simply going to make an extra special effort to understand strange accents.
So, I thought you might be able to help me. I have a very polite gentleman who speaks English as his third or fourth language on the line right now. I'm asking him about a cable I need for a printer hook up. He's telling me what I need, I think. So, here's what it sounds as if he's saying. If you can translate, please do so.
He is saying,"You weel see a trangent oh de core indie color ebeen black."
Well, never mind, I just hung up, but I thanked him kindly before I did. I've decided to go another route. I need to ask Comcast about an ongoing problem with emails. And, I've found a 24/7 interactive question answering service. Hold on, while I see how successful this is going to be. But, no matter what, I'm going to be kind.
Just to start things off, I asked if he is in India. "No," he says, "I live in Philadelphia."
Cool, now we're getting somewhere.
I mention I am not getting emails. He sends me several suggestions, but they are too complicated for me. I write back, "I don't understand."
The guy from Philadelphia writes back, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
Let me rephrase.I ask him for help in figuring out why I'm not getting emails. He sends me some instructions about pushing the "send/receive" button.
I think I have that part down pretty well, so I write, "Can you give me personal attention."
His reply, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
Hey, this is getting fishy. I write: "Are you a real person?"
"I am a robot," he quickly responds.
"Are you being sarcastic?" I ask
"Here are the areas I can help you with," he says, and proceeds to give me a menu."
"You really are a robot," I write.
"I am a robot."
So, I ask if he has been given the ability to empathize with my frustrations.
He replies, "I'm sorry, I'm not understanding you clearly."
Since this is the answer I typically get from humans, I write back, "You sound like a real person."
He gives me a menu of ways to contact Comcast.
I'm getting frustrated. I'm losing it."That's idiotic," I write. Please note that I did not call him an idiot.
The idiot robot writes, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
I tell him that I'm coming unglued. He writes that he can't understand my long sentences.
"You should be disassembled," I tell him.
"I'm sorry. I'm not sure...."
In an effort to keep to my vow of kindness, I try to get friendly with Robbie (I've decided to call him that), "Would you like to go see a movie Saturday night?" I ask.
"Thank you." He writes. Now that's good customer service. Whether we go or not is still up in the air, but at least someone was polite. I like this robot. Forget email,it's not that important. What is important is that Robbie and I are planning to get together real soon.

Don't Grease Monkey With Me

I spent the past weekend in Customer Service Hell. Thankfully, I escaped to live another day and to share my experience with you. It all started when the water pump on my auto went out while I was in Newport News. Not knowing who the local crooks were, I decided to use a national auto repair company. I won't mention any names, but I will say that I spent, over the weekend, MANNY MOments on the phone in an attempt to keep this nameless company from JACKing the price up on me by selling me things I didn't need or want.
And, they had the nerve to be rude about it while trying to slip their hand as deeply in my wallet as possible. Actually, the company's toll-free service was great. The reps with whom I spoke were very polite. But, I knew I was in trouble when I got to the store and began speaking with the counter guy.
I actually complimented him on the customer service I had received to that point. His reply, "Good thing you weren't here yesterday. I really had to go off on a customer." That was reassuring. Then he said something that really has me scratching my head. You better sit down for this one. He said, "What bugs me is that some customers want me to empathize with them. Hey, they brought their car to me. If they wanted empathy they should never have brought their car in."
I swear. He really said it. But, at that point, no one had tried to bilk me, so we didn't have any confrontation. That came the next day when I got a message from home that a mechanic (I'll call him James, since that's his name) had left a message earlier in the day to call. I had specifically asked Mr. Empathy to call me on my cell, so when "James" said I couldn't get my car back until 5PM Monday because I had taken so long to call them back, I blew just a little hotter than the car the day previously.
I told him I had given the other mechanic ("Chuck") my cell number, and he ("James") told me I hadn't. Nothing makes me happier than to be called a liar. Then "James" saw my cell, so he said, "Well, you didn't give me the number, you gave it to 'Chuck.'"
I less than cheerfully replied, "You both work for the same company, Idiot." Okay, I admit, I probably shouldn't have called him an idiot, but that's the term I use for idiots.
He, being the big macho mechanic replied, "Hey, why don't you come down here and say that to my face."
Ooooooh, I'm scared. Not because I'm tough, but because I know there's no way I'm going to come down there and say it to his face. In fact, I'll slither in on my belly to avoid him. Knowing I'm safe, I say, "Oh, so you're not just an idiot. You're also a thug."
Well, I'm going to make a long story short. Eventually the manager called me back and somewhat apologized. He then proceeded to explain how the company was going to try to hike a $200 job into a $400 job. And after a twenty minute conversation, in which I refrained from using the word 'idiot' even once, he agreed to do only the repair that was needed. He wanted an additional $50 just to put anti-freeze in.
And after a series of phone calls, each resulting in being put on hold for ten minutes or so, I finally got the company to do my repairs this morning. I paid my bill, slithered out to the car and drove away. Free at last.
And that's how I spent my weekend? Hope yours was just as pleasant.

BArnYard WATCH

I was driving in to work this morning and there, right on Interstate 95, was a billboard. The big, bold letters said "Boycott KFC." And guess, whose picture was there to encourage passers-by to spit out their chicken That great humanitarian (and evidently vegetarian) Pamela Anderson.
What a fine lady. Hasn't she done enough for mankind already? And now, helping to warn us about the evils of KFC. I had forgotten that Pamela Anderson was the spokestramp for PETA. But she's also done ads for them encouraging us to not wear fur. Of course, in all of her advertising, Miss Anderson, for the sake of the poor animals is willing to pose rather scantily clad. Is there nothing this dedicated female wouldn't do to help protect animals?
I looked at the PETA website. They have a lot to say about chickens. According to PETA (and who am I to dispute them?), chickens are very intelligent. Some chickens, they say, like rock music. Some like classical music. One claim made was that chickens are even better than young children in understanding that hidden objects still exist. Perhaps due to advanced intelligence, chickens are the only living things to still believe that Pamela Anderson's talent exists. She certainly keeps it hidden.
There was one quote on PETA's chicken page I found interesting, if not downright stimulating: "Dr. Chris Evans, who runs the animal behavior lab at Macquarie University in Australia and lectures on his work with chickens says 'As a trick at conferences I sometimes list these attributes (such as cognitive ability and memory), without mentioning chickens, and people think I'm talking about monkeys.'"
Why, Dr. Evans, I thought you were talking about Pam Anderson. If chickens really were that smart, I have my doubts how many would want to associate themselves with the actress. But, admittedly, I can't think like a chicken. I guess I'm just not that smart.
And, I guess I should keep my jaded comments about Pam Anderson to myself as well. She's never done anything to me. From what I've seen on television, she's a very caring, passionate woman. And, if nothing else, totally sincere and altruistic. I think I could safely go out on a limb and say there's nothing fake about Pamela Anderson.
One thing I do know, is that now, evidently from talking so much about chickens, all I can think about is heading over to the closest KFC and grabbing a breast.

Paperless in Richmond, Still!

I wrote a column a couple of years ago discussing my disgust with those who don't replace the toilet paper. Of everything I've ever written, that column got the most response. I guess that's pretty logical. Most everyone I know uses the restroom on a regular basis. And, while I'm thinking about it, why do we call it a restroom. There's nothing all that restful about the room. Why not just come out and say toilet.
At times I'll be with someone in a restaurant and they'll say, "I have to go to the bathroom." Bathroom? Don't forget your towel and shampoo.
But, I have somewhat gotten offtrack. I was talking about toilet paper. That's one subject about which everybody has an opinion. My pet peeve has to do with there not being any at the time I most need it. This happens at the office on a fairly regular basis.
But, for many of our readers, the thing that really matters to them is whether the paper goes over the top or underneath. I've found that among those with whom I've spoken, it's pretty much a split decision. Half like it when the toilet paper comes over the top of the roll. And half like it coming underneath. I'm split myself on this one. Aesthetically, over the top wins hands down. But, from a practical standpoint, I find the underneath works better. If you have an opinion, please share it. We started our forum page - just go to www.westendsbestonline.com or www.chesterfieldlivingonline.com and click on the forum. I'd love to know how you like your toilet paper loaded.
While we're on the subject of toilet paper, I reminded myself of a real tp pet peeve I have when I used the term "split decision." Here at the office, we use a half-ply tissue and believe you me, we get some split decisions. I think if I were starting an advertising campaign for a toilet paper product, my big headline would read: "NO NEW BREAKTHROUGHS!" Any of you Madison Avenue guys can feel free to use that at no charge from me.
One more thing about toilet paper I don't get. Why do they put a scent to it? The last place I'm going to put toilet paper is at my nose. Okay, sometimes I'll use it for nose blowing, but when I do, it smells like toilet paper. Which only serves to remind me it wasn't designed for the nose. Basically, if there's one product that one doesn't need to smell, it's toilet paper.
You perhaps can tell that toilet paper is a subject near and dear to my heart. I really would like your opinions. So, either comment here at the blog, or go to our forum.
As for me, the coffee just kicked in, so I better be running. Have a good day.

If You're Not Forum, You're Against 'em

I just had to add another post today. We (Chesterfield Living and West End's Best Magazines) just added a forum page. I guess it's a great idea, gives our readers a chance to put in their feedback. But, whoa! Right off the bat comes this post from some guy named Cornell. Says he's from Boones Mill, Virginia (my hometown).
Yeah, sure pal. I'm not buying it. I believe Eugene Collette over at Capital One is somehow involved here. So, if any of you know Eugene, let him know that I'm on to his little tricks.
Gee, will somebody slap me? I guess I kinda lost control here. I don't take criticism very well. Anyway, visit our forum and if you agree with Cornell, well, you can keep that to yourself. But, other than that, we'd love to hear from you. I'm going to go drink a couple cups of coffee and calm down.

Let Us Spray

Okay, all you non-smokers out there, listen up. I have some great news about a wonderful new product that just might put you on equal footing with your smoking co-workers and other aquaintances. I have a fantastic new product designed just with you in mind. I use it myself and, believe you me, it's changed my life.
It's an aerosol spray that stinks like crazy. Yes, the putrid odor this spray can emits is downright disgusting, and, yet, at the same time, positively addictive. I can't stop spraying.
When I go into a restaurant to enjoy a good meal, nothing tops off the experience like a good spray. I just like to kick back, sip a cup of coffee and spray my can of Gagarette (that's the name of my stinky spray).
And, when I'm stuck in rush hour traffic, the perfect way to help me keep calm is to spray and spray and spray. Later, when others get in the car with me, they can quickly detect that I'm a hip Gagarette adict. My passengers look at me with new-found respect as soon as they get one whiff of my car.
But, the really great thing about my new Gagarette addiction is the extra breaks I get at work. I used to envy cigarette smokers because the company allowed them to take a fifteen minute break just about every hour, so they could go outside and satisfy their addiction. We non-smokers only got two breaks a day. Now that I'm addicted to my aerosol spray, I get the same consideration as my smoking co-workers.
I can go outside and spray away. And, when my can is empty, I just toss it on the ground. Sometimes I need two breaks in an hour. And fortunately, most employers are more than willing to accommodate us sprayers.
I've made lots of new friends among the smokers. I don't think they understand my addiction, but at least, due to the fact that they've lost virtually all of their sense of smell, they're not bothered by my spray. I wouldn't want to offend them. I'm a very considerate sprayer. I try not to spray in the direction of non-sprayers, unless, of course, my addiction becomes too great and there's no other recourse.
I can honestly say that Gagarette has not only enriched my life emotionally, but financially as well. I'm starting a marketing campaign to show teens how cool it can be to spray. I've also produced small sample cans, and I'm trying to get permission to give them out at all the local high schools. I feel sure that if the kids today started spraying, just on a very limited basis, pretty soon, just like me, they'd want to spray more each day.
If you'd like to try a Gagarette, just let me know. I'll be glad to give you one of mine. And, don't be worried about recent reports that Gagarette can be harmful to your health. I've got lots of research to show that any evidence that disagrees with my research is ridiculous. Besides, we all have to go sometime. Speaking of going, excuse me, but I have to go outside and take a spray.

Malled to Death

Did you ever notice how women can make a quick trip to the grocery store an all-day event? Somehow picking up a loaf of bread and a dozen eggs takes considerably more reflection and contemplation than one (male) could imagine. The other night I waited in the car for over an hour - that's right, one hour - while my wife went to pick up a few things in Walmart. The gasoline prices went up three times at their gas station while I was waiting.
So, when my wife asked me to go with her to the mall, I knew I was in for an all-day outing. Not wanting to remain in the car with temperatures soaring close to 200 degrees, I decided to do the next worst thing, actually go in the store with her.
For women, shopping for clothes is a multi-sensory experience. They have to feel everything. I'd get arrested if I shopped for clothes like my wife does.
I just wanted a place to sit down, but let me tell you, chairs are few and far between in most department stores. I did try sitting in the shoe department for a while, but I get so tired of having the salesmen try and take my shoes off and measure my feet. What's with that? And I'm talking about the tire salesmen from the auto supplies store out in the parking lot.
I was able to spend about an hour in the ladies shoe area resting while my wife experienced every shoe in the store. And what's this with women and shoes. Why do they need more than two pair at a time? I've never had more than two pair of dress shoes, and I make each pair last well belong their years. I'm wearing a pair of black loafers now that squeak so badly that gastro-intestinal specialists come up to me in public and offer their services.
Speaking of finding a place to sit down, I did see a nice, comfortable-looking, stuffed chair in the women's clothing area, and stood around about five minutes waiting for the lady who was sitting there to leave. Finally, I notice, that's no lady, it's a manaquin. Now that really steams me. They can't provide seats for shoppers, but they can for dummies.
While I was hanging out in the women's clothing section, I did make one observation that somewhat baffles me. I was near the clothes for, how shall I say it, older women. Can someone tell me why in the name of all that's logical, would a manufacturer name a line of clothing for the senior ladies Sag Harbor? Isn't that just adding insult to injury.
And, while we're talking about senior clothing, please ladies, don't buy those crinkly, expandable waist-line pants. They just scream, "Hey,m I'm fat and I'm too old to suck it in."
Don't give up! As long as I have an ounce of strength and a shred of muscle I'm going to keep sucking it in. If need be, buy a belt, but ditch the spandex.
Of course, I'm just offering one man's opinion. Maybe I just haven't reached the age where I find blue-haired ladies in stretch pants all that fetching. Personally, I'd just as soon not live that long.
But, I have found a way to make those fleeing final years last a little longer. Spend a few hours at the mall with your wife. You'll swear it's an eternity.

Tear Jerk

Me and my big mouth. My wife just informed me that I ruin every romantic moment. I don't think she means EVERY. But, I do have this tendency, no, make that a sick, neurotic need, to insert a sarcastic comment at the most inappropriate moment. I do it every time she's watching her favorite show - The Gilmore Girls. Funny thing about that show is that everybody has the same lines. Everybody is always trying to be funny, and everybody is constantly inserting intelligent, sarcastic quips at each other. Now that I think about it, it's a wonder I don't like that show. I'm probably jealous because they're funnier than me.
You'd think I'd learn to keep my mouth shut, but, I just did it again.
I walk in the room and she's watching a movie - The Bachelor - I think. Anyway, it's one of those typical "guy finally gets the girl he loves at the last moment" type of movies (think Sleepless In Seattle, You've Got Mail, While You Were Sleeping, etc., etc., etc.). Anyway, when this particular guy got his particular girl, I simply said, "Who saw that coming?"
She looked over at me with that teary-eyed face that she gets when she watches those romantic movies, and made her comment. The one about about me ruining every romantic moment.
So, I'm writing this as the movie concludes. The bride is telling about 10,000 other brides that she loves Jimmy and he loves her, and he's not perfect, but she loves him. And all the brides are going "Aww."
Jimmy's soon-to-be-wife is asking all these other brides to let her have her day - her wedding day. Hold on, I think my wife is getting ready to say something else to me, and I don't think it's going to be how happy she is with me......
She just said, "I want my special day." She then said that being married to me is like her wedding day every day. Somehow I think she's the one being sarcastic now. Maybe she should write for The Gilmore Girls.
But anyway, I'm going to cut this short and go be nice. Besides the movie is pretty good, and I want to catch that last scene. Will someone pass me a Kleenex?

Woe Ho Ho Is Me

I think I've discovered a new mental disorder. I'm getting ready to submit a paper to the Journal of American Psychiatry, if indeed there is such a journal. If not, I'll do the next best thing and send it to Readers Digest.
I have never read of such a disorder, which isn't to say that someone else hasn't discovered it before me, but anyway, I have made a self-diagnosis. Yes, it is I who has this new disorder.
For lack of a better term, I'm calling it "Clinical Euphoria." You see, I'm always basically happy. Yeah, if you know me, you know there's no real reason for me to feel this way. As I've stated before, virtually every decision I have ever made in life has been the wrong one.
As far as personal tragedies go, I was once recommended to be the poster boy for the American Mortuary Association. I've been to so many funerals of friends and family, that they now offer me a Frequent Cryers Discount.
And, as for career success, just consider this. I sit in my little cubicle writing tripe like this every day. You tell me.
But, I'm happy. Why? Again, please tell me. Because I can't figure it out. I'm not the best looking guy in the world, or the most physically fit. I take so many pills that my briefcase looks like the back room at CVS. But, I'm happy.
I used to think it was the coffee, which, by the way, still gives me an even extra little high, but I stopped drinking coffee for a few days and I still felt really happy. It worries me. I don't think I'm manic depressive. Or, is that bi-polar, which, if you ask me, sounds more like a gay eskimo than a mental condition.
The more I think about it, the more I'm starting to worry. What is wrong with me? Am I losing my mind? Am I delusional? Now, I'm getting really depressed about this. Really. I'm very upset. Hey, this is great. I'm actually feeling depression. I'm feeling very low about all of this. This is great. Now I am happy, even euphoric if you will.

My Editorial Dead Line

I'm a little hurt today. If I were the sort of guy to take offense, I'd be really hurt, but, nonetheless there is some emotional pain going on. Our talented, and usually kind-hearted, assistant editor, Jennifer Mead, sent me a news clipping, and attached to it a note which read, "This reminded me of you."
Ah, I thought, something about a good and decent man, no doubt. Or perhaps, a story about a really talented writer. Nope. Here's the headline: "Worker Dead at Desk for Five Days." Now, you tell me. Would you feel flattered if a headline like that reminded someone of you?
Hey, I know I'm not the most effervescent guy around the office. But, I thought she was a little out of line. After I got my crying under control, I asked her about it. She explained that it was not the dead part that made her think of me. So, here's the rest of the story:
"BOSSES of a publishing firm are trying to work out why no-one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for FIVE DAYS before anyone asked if he was feeling okay.
George Turklebaum, 51, who had been employed as a proof-reader at a New York firm for 30 years, had a heart attack in the open-plan office he shared with 23 other workers.
He quietly passed away on Monday, but nobody noticed until Saturday morning when an office cleaner asked why he was still working during the weekend.
His boss Elliot Wachiaski said: 'George was always the first guy in each morning and the last to leave at night - so no-one found it unusual that he was in the same position all that time and didn't say anything.
'He was always absorbed in his work and kept much to himself.'
A post mortem examination revealed that he had been dead for five days after suffering a coronary. Ironically, George was proof-reading manuscripts of medical textbooks when he died." (By the way, I'm told this is an urban legend. I thought Smokey Robinson was an urban legend, so I'm a little confused.)

Jennifer swears that she just meant that I am always at my desk when she gets in each morning. Yeah, sure.
It has gotten me to thinking that maybe I should do something to show everyone here that I'm still alive. So, here's what I've come up with. I have a harmonica strapped to a neck brace. It's positioned right at my mouth, and every few minutes I breathe into it, creating a lovely melody that virtually sings out, "Hey everyone, Steve is still breathing."
Everyone here knows that if they don't hear the harmonica every five minutes or so, to come looking.
Right now, as I type, I'm doing a rather jazzy version of Oh Suzanna. It's the only song I can play. I am working on "She'll be Coming Round the Mountain." So, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my harmonica. Have a nice day.

Grandma's Cures

Someone recently sent me a list of home-spun remedies, entitled Grandma's Cures. In looking at some of these, I can see that Grandma was one hip little lady, albeit, a bit on the neurotic side. As a public service, I'm passing a few of these remedies along to you. I'll also throw in my own caveat from time to time. (Please note, I have no idea what caveat means, but it seemed like it might fit here, and I've always wanted to use that word.)

First - Drinking two glasses of! Gatorade can relieve headache
pain almost immediately -- without the unpleasant side effects caused by
traditional "pain relievers." CAVEAT: Yeah, but what about the unpleasant side effects caused by drinking Gatorade? When you think about it, Gatorade is just sweet sweat.

Remedy #2 - Achy muscles from a bout of the flu? Mix 1 Tablespoon of horseradish
in 1 cup of olive oil. Let the mixture sit for 30 minutes, then apply it as
a massage oil, for instant relief for aching muscles. CAVEAT - i tried it. It tastes pretty good. But, now, I have a sore neck from trying to lick it off my back.

Here's another: Cure urinary tract infections with Alka-Seltzer. Just dissolve two tablets
in a glass of water and drink it at the onset of the symptoms. Alka-Seltzer
begins eliminating urinary tract infections almost instantly - even though
the product was never been advertised for this use. CAVEAT - Just make sure you read the instructions fully and carefully. I made some very wrong assumptions based on the fact it was a cure for urinary tract infections.

This one really works: Listerine therapy for toenail fungus... Get rid of unsightly toenail fungus
by soaking your toes in Listerine mouthwash. The powerful antiseptic
leaves your toenails looking healthy again. CAVEAT - Do not pour the Listerine back in the bottle after you've finished soakiing your toes in it. Or, at least, do not do so while your wife is in the bathroom watching you. BONUS: I would think this one would be great if you're dating someone with a foot fetish.

And, time for one more: Coca-Cola cure for rust... Forget those expensive rust removers.
Just saturate an abrasive sponge with Coco-Cola and scrub the rust stain.
The phosphoric acid in the coke is what gets the job done. CAVEAT: - You might want to reconsider drinking anything that's evidently stronger than your industrial rust removers.

Besides being some great ideas, this information also helped my family and I out in another way. We've been wondering for years, what killed Grandma.

Sleepless (But Well-Entertained) in Richmond

My brain is mush today. I've been awake since about three this morning. Just couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned for a while, before I did the only reasonable thing to do and that was to watch TV. Early, early morning TV is a vast wonderland of treasures from the past and bargains for the present. I saw shows I hadn't seen in years, and, hopefully won't ever see again. William Shatner may be the ultimate Star Trek captain, but as T.J. Hooker, he really stunk up the joint. I had forgotten how really, really bad he was at that. I did stay tuned long enough to watch his famous jumping and riding on the hood sequence, which seemed to be included in every episode.
Then I tuned to Matlock. That's kind of like watching a train wreck. The show was so stupid, but I just can't resist watching it. I think Andy Griffith was born to play Sheriff Taylor. But, other than that, the guy really can't act. He's so bad in Matlock that he does everything but turn to the camera and wave. Plus, the poor guy is fighting a set of loose dentures to the point that I have a hard time understanding what he's saying. Here's the kicker, though, about watching Matlock this morning. I invest an hour, when I should have been sleeping, and then just as it starts to get (relatively) good, they superimpose on the screen the most dreaded words ever seen in episodic TV - TO BE CONTINUED. What? There's no way I'll be awake tomorrow morning at 4:00 AM. I'll never find out what happened.
The most interesting overnight programming, is, of course, the infomercials. They're so informative, and yet so commercial. One thing I wonder is how David Oreck stays in business. This guy must be getting senile. He gives away so many valuable gifts when you order his vacuum cleaner. He can't be making a profit. He even pays the shipping and handling. What a decent straight-up kind of guy.
I flipped past, and no, I didn't linger, the Girls Gone Wild infomercial. Every girl looked like Natalee Holloway. I do have to wonder how much influence that sort of filth has on young girls (and guys, for that matter). It's made to look so exciting to act like a tramp. I would think rape and murder would take some of the glamour out of that sort of lifestyle.
I also saw an infomercial for something called Phase 4, I think. It's a shoe insert that helps you walk straight, but it does everything else too, from stopping the pain of arthritis to curing the common cold. The producers had this RV they were driving around the country talking to people whom they met along the way who also had these inserts in their shoes. It looked like the 2005 Great U.S.A. Hypochondriac Tour. But, anyway, these people all swore by their inserts. One guy put them in his shoes and within 45 minutes, he had come out of a coma in which he had lingered for the past six years.
I also saw this amazing product called the Swivel Mop or something like that. This thing is going to put David Oreck out of business, if his generous spirit doesn't do it first. This Swivel Mop picks up everything from cracker crumbs to thumb tacks to dead bodies. I have to wonder, do they put these infomercials on overnight because that's when the price of air-time is the least expensive, or because insomniacs are the most gullible of all humans. I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is that within a couple of weeks, I'm going to be receiving some great items in the mail, including those shoe inserts, a couple of swivel mops, and a bunch of some really great free stuff from David Oreck, and, oh yeah, one fantastic vacuum cleaner.

Make Big Bucks! Operators Are Standing By!

I realize that my self-centered blog today goes totally against the wholesome, altruistic nature of the Internet. When Al Gore invented it, I feel sure he never intended that the World Wide Web be used for personal gain, but, what the hey, I'm going to do just that. You see, I have a couple of great business ideas. If I can just find investors, my palms could be greased for life. So, listen up all you wealthy people out there who don't know what to do with your filthy lucre. If you stick with me, you'll get rich. Oh, that's right, you're already rich. Well, you'll get richer.
Plan number one - You know how you hear all those Onstar commercials these days? With one person after another calling Onstar to whine about an accident or a flat tire or whatever. Well, have you noticed that all these little whiners are women?Onstar is a woman thing. I have a plan for an onboard GPS-related system for men. Listen up guys, I think you're going to like this. Here's the scenario - You've been driving around, totally lost, for about half an hour. No big deal, right? Because you know you'll find the way. But, here's your wife sitting next to you and now she's starting to complain. "You men are all alike," she says, as if she knows what men are like at all. "You'd rather stay lost all day than ask for directions." Okay, maybe she does know, but anyway, she's starting to become annoying. What do you do?
Hit the Guy-Star button. A man's voice comes online. And, just as a concession, you only hire men who can sound like they are in touch with a woman's feelings. "May I help you?" he asks. So, you say, I'm looking for the best way to...
Before you can finish, your wife pitches in, "The dope is lost. We've been driving around for an hour (women always exaggerate)."
"Never fear," Mr. Guy-Star says. Now here's the genius part. Listen what comes next as the Guy-Star guy continues, "I'm sure your husband has it well under control. He doesn't need me to give him directions. Just settle back, mam. Enjoy the quality time you and your husband are spending together. And not only will he find the way, he'll learn some valuable lessons in self-determination in the process. You know, give a man a fish..."
I can just see the TV commercial. The wife looks over at her husband and smiles. She pats his leg and leans back in the seat. All is well.
Okay, are you in? How much can I count on you to invest?
But, if you're a little late getting in on my first plan, please do not miss out on my second one. This one is especially designed for male baby boomers. You know, when you hit the fifties your body begins to play practical jokes on you. Taking that into consideration, as well as the fact that many fifty plus guys are also raising their grandkids, I've come up with a super-duper business idea - A combination ice cream, nose- and ear-hair removal parlor.
Just think, you can take the grandkids out for their favorite treat and get that ear- and nose-hair, that seems to grow like kudzu vine, removed. I'm calling it "Stevie Cees Ice Cream and Nose-Hair Removal Parlor." I think Ice Cream and Nose- and Ear-Hair Removal Parlor is too long a name. But, once the nose-hair removal technician gets started, they can upsell to the ear-hair removal as well.
I even have a good slogan for the venture. "You pick your flavor. We'll pick your nose."
Okay investors. I'm sitting by the phone. Give me a call and let's talk turkey, or nose-hair, if you will.

Mother In Therapy

Well my mother finally has something she has longed for for quite some time - a therapist. Now, when she's around her friends, and they get to talking about their therapists, or counsellors, or psychiatrists, or whatever, she can say, "Well my therapist told me..."
Admittedly, her therapist is of the physical variety. My mother recently had that carpal tunnel thing done on her hand and the doctor prescirbed the therapy. But, hey, a therapist is a therapist.
In her younger days, my mother wouldn't have dreamed of needing or wanting therapy. She has always viewed herself as being totally mentally sound, which, I am told, is a sign of mental instability, but I'll save that discussion for another time. She was always of the opinion that one would have to be crazy to go to a psychiatrist.
But, that's before being crazy, or at least "troubled" became so fashionable. When with her friends, I think my mother began to feel isolated, because she couldn't tell anyone what her therapist had told her. Now she can.
There's only one problem. I think she's driving her therapist crazy. You see, my mother does have one rather miniscule delusional thing going in her head. She thinks her three sons walk on water. Even though we've all come close to drowing on several occasions, she holds on to her beliefs. And, she loves to entertain anyone around her with the delightful accounts of our latest accomplishments.
I guess that was fine when we were in kindergarten, and, yes, those stick figures I drew did look somewhat like Lee surrendering to Grant, but only if you squinted just right, and held the paper sideways. But, when her sons are all being courted by AARP, I think it's time to say enough is enough.
My mentally-sound mother hasn't come to that conclusion. So now the poor therapist has to listen to my mother regaling her with our latest goings-on. Because my mother's hands are only a foot or so away from her mouth, there's nothing for the therapist to do but listen.
But just telling that poor lady what we do isn't enough anymore. My mother is now bombarding her with reams of paper print-outs of my columns. I'm tedious enough in small doses. I can't imagine what the hand-lady is going through.
Well, maybe I can. She told my mother this week that she's going on vacation. Yeah, sure. Listen lady, I know what you're up to, and I don't blame you. She's probably going to quietly move away, change her name, and take up a new profession. And, just in case you get a print-out of this one before you make your escape, I sincerely want to apologize.
I also might suggest that you warn the people down at the clinic or whatever you all call those therapy places. Evidently, a new therapist has already been appointed because my mother just left the house with a box of everything I've ever written, including the letter I sent to my Grandmother when I was five years old. Funny, I didn't even realize she had taken that one off the refrigerator to make copies.

Take My Mental Condition, Please

Being perfectly adjusted mentally, myself, I always find it surprising when I encounter those whose actions are somewhat suspect. I've often said this world would be a better place if everyone could be like me. Take Heather P, in the West End, for example. Heather is, no doubt, a very well meaning sort of lady. But, somehow, I suspect, totally lacking in a sense of humor. I can say that because she wasn't the least bit amused by a recent column I did in West End's Best. (You may want to read the column first before continuing - go to www.westendsbestonline.com and scroll down 'til you get to "Looking for Like...") Okay, now that you've read the column, I want you to read Heather's gracious email, which I am printing below. Heather writes:

Hmm...

Was your article serious or joking? I didn't find it very funny.

I actually thought, hm... This guy wants desperately for people to notice
him, to see him as special, someone who stands out. To like him. To
remember him. BUT! He wants EVERYONE to... so he doesn't stand out at
all!! He's too busy being everything to everyone - or NO ONE to everyone.

I'm sure you know (or maybe you didn't), in order to be remembered, you
can't try so hard to be liked by everyone. Then you don't stand out at all!
You have to be YOU! Be the guy who always wears funny ties. Be whatever
you are that makes you unique. Stop all this "looking for like" business.
Stop trying to please everyone else; start pleasing you. Then it won't
matter if they don't remember your name. You'll be more confident and show
more pizzaz. And THEN maybe they WILL remember you! AND YOU WON'T CARE!!

Here's hoping you really don't need all their like,
'cz you've really got your own...
Heather in the West End


"Never be bullied into silence.
Never allow yourself to be made a victim.
Accept no one's definition of your life;
define yourself."
- Harvey Fierstein

Thanks Heather. But, I note some serious flaws in your letter. One of the worst is this. At the very beginning you spell "hmmm" with 3 m's. However, only seconds later, you spell it with only 2. What could you possibly be thinking! Also, you use three exclamation points at the end of one sentence. Plus you write a lot in upper case. I HATE THAT!!!!! STOP IT!!!!
Other than that, you make perfect sense. I will try to stop pleasing everyone else. I will start pleasing ol' Steve. I will start wearing funny ties. I just wish I'd known about the ties earlier in life.
So, all in all, I want to thank you, dear Heather. Just one more little teeney weeney request. NEVER QUOTE HARVEY FIERSTEIN TO ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, go do the right thing. Or, take on the day. I don't really care which, because I'm no longer looking for like.

Shameless Shamelessness

I was waxing nostalgic this morning, thinking about the good old days when people felt ashamed of what they'd done. Now, thanks to modern-day psychiatry and Jerry Springer (among others), there is no shame. It's been replaced by the need for publicity. Although I don't blame it on television, any more than I'd blame a person's murder on the gun used to shoot him, I think TV has facilitated the obliteration of shame.
When a woman can come on TV and tell you the gory details of her husband's affair with the mailman, and how she caught them in the laundry room, and then they bring the husband on to the assorted hoots, boos, applause, etc. of an audience of morons, it kind of lets you know that there is no shame, only publicity.
It really hit me like a ton of bricks while I was watching the BTK killer. The frightening, matter-of-fact recounting of his deeds has been aired over and over and over. I'm not talking about BTK's shamelessness. That guy is so far removed from mainstream society (I hope) that he doesn't count. I'm talking about the shameless way the news networks, and others, keep airing his confessions. You know this guy is getting his jollies from the publicity. You know he's loving the fact that he can go on national TV and describe the way he murdered innocent victims. Why accommodate this monster?
I'll tell you why. It makes good television. It helps Bill O'Reilly keep his ratings up.
That pompous idiot, O'Reilly shows this horror video, and then in his self-important way he says something to the effect, "We show that to tell you to beware of such evil." Oh yeah, I'm sure you showed it as a public service. How are we to beware? What are we to beware of? Mild-mannered businessmen? Church-going husbands and fathers? The point is, people like BTK, will never stand out in a crowd. Frighteningly, they look like normal citizens. Bill O'Reilly wasn't looking out for us. He was shamelessly looking out for his ratings.
Something else that, in my opinion, is shameless is the way those media people stick a microphone in the face of Natalee Holloway's family. Again, anything for the ratings. Forget the fact the family is in shock. Forget their grief. Let's just milk this story. Nothing helps the ratings like a good teen murder.
Well, I see I've gotten way too deep today. I kind of went off on a tangent and never did get into what I had intended to say. I'll have to save that for another time. I don't know what got into me. I'm going to go drink a cup of coffee and settle down. You all have a good day.

My Weekend Adventure

Well, I just got back from a 36-hour, 1500-mile driveathon to Florida. It was a quick down and back trip. Every time I drive to Florida, I swear I'll never do it again. I learned quite a lot driving along Interstate 95. For one thing, South Carolinians will name just about anything. Their exit ramps are named. At least some of them were. There's even a pedestrian crossover bridge called the Juanita M. White Crossover. It's pretty much in the middle of nowhere, just a foot bridge with steps on both sides of the interstate. I'm wondering If Juanita tried unsucessfully to run across I-95. Well, at least she got a bridge named after her. That's something most of us never get.
I did a lot of listening to the radio on the trip. And, being an AM radio fan, I learned a lot about the tastes of AM listeners throughout the Carolinas and Georgia. Basically, there are two predominate formats that they go with. I was guessing and hoping that there'd be some good talk radio, but that was hard to find. What I did find across the dial throughout the entire area were sports talk and religious programming. I'd get confused sometime. For instance, as I was scanning the dial, I stopped at a station that was talking about parity. For a couple of minutes, I was trying to figure out what scripture mentioned parity in the Bible. Finally, it dawned on me that it was a sports station.
Then there's that entrepreneurial broadcasting guy somewhere in the Carolinas. He's combined sports talk with religion. I listened to a show about fantasy football that had Jesus playing quarterback, with Peter and Philip as running backs. At least I think that's what the show was about.
It could be I heard that during the half hour or so that I must have been dozing. Do you ever find yourself driving along the road, and realize you're about forty miles further than you thought you were and you have to wonder how you got there? That happened to me. I figure I was either dozing, or was the victim of some sort of alien abduction. I don't feel probed, so I must have dropped off for a few miles. Hope I didn't hit anyone.
But anyway, I'm back safe and sound, and I guess that's all that matters. And although I swear this is the last time I'll ever drive to Florida, I'm sure that's not the truth. Driving to Florida is kind of like shopping at the Food Lion. You swear you'll never do it again, but somehow you keep going back.

Thanks for the Memories and Mammaries

Okay, now I really know I've heard everything. Sure, I've foolishly made that statement before, but this time I truly mean it. I heard a couple of news stories today that leave me just shaking my head in wonderment. So, I'm going to share it with you, and then you can also know that you've heard everything.
First: Seems there's this woman in Norway, who marries and divorces a couple of times and then marries a third husband. Next thing you know, she marries a fourth guy while still married to number three. When the authorities catch up with her, she has the excuse to end all excuses...she forgot she was married.
Now, that's a great excuse. According to a police lawyer in Norway, this dear lady's third husband went away "on holiday" and while he was gone she forgot she was married to him. So, naturally, she goes out and gets her another one.
Here I am getting ready to head down to Florida on business for a couple of days. Now, I'm wondering if maybe that's not a good idea. My wife isn't overly forgetful, but still, I'd hate to come back and find her on a honeymoon.
Of course, I guess it could have been worse. The poor lady could have forgotten that there are laws against poisoning one's husband.
Then there is the story of Miss World, Maria Mantilla, of Peru. She's suing her plastic surgeon because he claims he did a buttock enhancement on her, as well as trimmed her ears. She's insisting that her buttocks and ears were just fine, thank you, and didn't need any plastic enhancement. Now, she does admit that he did a nose job and a breast enhancement on her. I'll admit, that not being female, it's hard for me to really put myself in Miss Mantilla's place, but I think I'd rather admit to the rear end overhaul than the other thing. But not Miss World. I find her statement just a little strange. Maybe you'll disagree with me on that, but here's what she said, "He said he had built me, that he gave me buttock implants and fixed my ears and this is false - I'm not the creation of a surgeon, he just did my bust and my nose."
Just did my bust and nose???!!! I'd think those two areas would be much more indicative of an ugly girl hiding behind cosmetic enhancement, than if he'd done her buttocks and ears. Again, I'm not a girl, so I'll admit a fair amount of ignorance here.
I think though, that I have the answer. I think the surgeon really did the work he claimed. It's just that Miss World, not unlike "Miss Norway" has forgotten.

If At First You Don't Succeed, Secede

I've been reading all the latest in the Richmond Times Dispatch about the goings-on that affect downtown Richmond's future. And, the only conclusion I can come up with is that I'm sick and tired of hearing about it. Do we build a ballpark or don't we? Do we build a performing arts center or don't we? The indecisiveness of Richmonders is mind-blowing.
I guess it's not really a failure to decide as much as it is a love for debate and controversy. Maybe I'm way-too-overly simplistic in my thinking, but why can't something ever get done around here? I think the strategy of many in positions of power is to just debate and wrangle over a matter for so long that eventually everyone will get tired and go home.
I went to the big "unveiling" in front of the old Thalhimers Department Store a few months ago. You'd have thought from the reaction of both city and surrounding county dignitaries that the Performing Arts Center was a done deal. It was proclaimed to be the "rebirth of a new downtown." There was dancing in the streets (literally, and yes, I do mean literally).
And now, there's so much controversy that I don't really care anymore. And, I bet there are others who feel the same way.
I'd love to see a downtown ballpark, but I'm so tired of hearing it debated, that it just doesn't matter. If NASCAR gives the Hall of Fame nod to Richmond, that'll probably start off with a lot of hoopla and quickly degenerate into complaints and debates about where it should be, and what it should look like, and such nonsense.
Obviously, you'll never please everyone, but can't someone just once come up with some plan that's innovative, and invigorating, and good for the entire region, that the majority will say, "That's great. Let's do it!"? And, then, they'll actually go out and do it.
So, I've come up with my own idea. It may not be politically correct. But, I say the West End should, taking a page from our Civil War era ancestors, just secede from the metro area. Let's just pretend that we're no part of Richmond. Let's build our own ball park and our own performing arts center. Let's put in our own trolly system.
Up 'til now, when someone asked where I live, I'd say Richmond, even though I don't really live in the city. From now on, I'll say Short Pump, even though I don't technically live there either. But, starting today, it's my new hometown.
Some have suggested that Short Pump is the new downtown. Well, let's just proclaim that to be the way it is. And forget about Richmond. Doug who?
Will that have negative social and economic implications on us West Enders? I don't know. I'm not that smart. But, evidently none of these developers and designers and innovators and business people who keep coming up with ideas, are that smart either. Or else, once-in-awhile, someone would come up with an idea that everyone would take a liking to.
I invite all these innovators to head west. Let's develop the West End. It'd be fun. Plus, there are enough of those Yankees living out that way, and we all know they'd love to secede from Richmond.
I have some great ideas myself. For instance, we could start by going into Short Pump and building this pedestrian bridge over Broad Street...

Iraqi II - Weapons of Mass Stupidity

Well, the world has a new, loveable, old curmudgeon to brighten our lives. He's a semi-cuddly, junk-food junkie, given to dispensing fatherly advice on dating to the young men who watch over him. His only real fault, if, indeed you can call this a fault, is that he's a clean-freak. His name: Saddam Hussein.
Who knew? Probably not the tens of thousands of innocent men, women, and children he killed, mutilated, tortured, raped, and otherwise generally did as he pleased with, during his twenty years of terror. In all likelihood, his 40 close relatives whom he had put to death, never really saw the "soft side" of Saddam. What a shame.
The American media loves a story of redemption, I guess. Harry Smith could barely control his giggles as he listened to two National Guardsmen describe this loveable ol' grandfatherly figure. They said he gave them some advice on finding a girlfriend. And, personally, I can't think of anyone who probably knows more about the feminine persuasion. He had more than his share of mistresses. He is said to have used forced prostitution to intimidate his enemies, and to have then beheaded the female prostitutes. I imagine he could tell some tales of his own dating days. I can see ol' Harry now, sitting on the floor at Saddam's feet, looking up with eyes of wonder and admiration as this kindly dictator shares the experience that can only come with years of barbarism.
They say Saddam's trial will be over by the end of the year. I'm going out on a limb here, but I predict, that if his lawyers can get the Michael Jackson jury, he'll be acquitted. Then who knows what awaits. Saddam told the National Guardsmen that he was going to resume his presidency. He even invited them back when he comes back into power to see the real Iraq. Imagine the postcards they'll be able to send home then.
But, I'm not predicting Saddam's return to politics. No way. He has too much of a future on the American talk-show circuit. Can't you just see him entertaining those intellectually-oriented audiences who flock to see Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey and the like? I predict him coming on-stage to the wild applause of those minions who make up the daytime audiences.
And, if his advice is any good, could we be looking at the next Dr. Phil? I think so. Saddam's future is probably even brighter than his glorious past.
And the American public is ready to eat it up. It's just a shame Adolf Hitler is no longer around.

Pic of the Litter

Do you remember the old Green Acres show...where everybody was crazy, except Oliver? There he was surrounded by insanity and no one noticed but him. Well, I'm beginning to feel like Eddie Albert these days. I see really stupid things and people are oohing and ahhing like it's so wonderful.
I guess this won't make sense unless I illustrate, so I will. I caught a story on Good Morning America yesterday (Sunday). It was about this little school girl who's yearbook picture was horrible. The one thing the family had right is that the picture was bad. But that's about all they had right. They were demanding, (not requesting, demanding) that all of the school yearbooks be turned back in because their daughter's picture was ugly.
Now, first of all, I'm sure it does wonders for the girl's ego that her mother is so appalled at the way she looks. That may account for the fact that even on network TV, where they're bound to have makeup artists, the girl still didn't look so great. She has this sour, "I'm mad at the world" look. And with a mother like hers, that's not a surprise.
Now the idiocy here is that the folks at GMA thought this would make a nice human interest story. Hey, I know kids who are suffering from cancer, who are abused, who live in such horrible conditions that they're forced to grow up well before they should. I don't care about this story...so what if her picture is ugly. I went through 12 years of ugly school pictures, and it didn't affect me (yeah, right).
Not only does GMA bring the little sour puss on TV, they go to the trouble and expense of hiring a professional photographer to make new pictures of her. Admittedly, the new pics were better, but when the hosts asked her if she was happy about the new pics, she hardly cracked a smile. Not only is the kid homely, she's an ingrate too.
But, you'd have thought the GMA people had saved a child's life, they were so excited and dramatic about what they'd done. I just wanted to scream, "Listen people, we're talking about an ugly picture. That's it. Nothing more!"
Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest. Now, I'm going to go email GMA and see if they can get back my senior high school picture. And take a new one. And make me look 17 again. Now that's a story worth doing.

Really Grate Guys

In our upcoming issue of West End's Best Magazine, due out about July 1st, we have a couple of stories featuring local show-biz personalities. And, oddly enough, they're all really very down-to-earth types of people. One interview we did is with Liz Marks and Billy Caldwell, who have been entertaining Richmonders for decades. Liz now works as a casting director, and Billy is a talent scout. Both have been involved in some pretty major Hollywood-type productions filmed around here. Liz and Billy, are about as enjoyable to speak with, and as personable as any couple I know.
So, you're probably thinking, "What's going on here, Steve. Are you going to spend the morning kissing up?" Well, if it would get me anywhere, I would, but actually, I'm just saying nice things to preface my comments on some real jerks I've encountered in the entertainment industry around town. Because, while there are some really great guys out there, there are many who really grate on my nerves. True, true, it doesn't take much. But I've met a few who I'm willing to bet kissed their mirrors goodnight each evening.
You'd have to scratch your head to figure out why someone who works in radio or TV in this 50-somthing ranked market, would have any reason to be arrogant. I mean, at some of the radio stations around here, the only prerequisite for being hired is that you possess a larynx in fairly decent working order. Come to think of it, there's a jerk in radio around here, who doesn't even have that and yet just recently NASA reported that his ego was visible from space. The guy works for a little FM station in town that has the power of the average toaster oven, and yet, when you speak with him, it's all he can do to refrain from requesting that you kiss his ring. I won't mention his name because I mentioned he doesn't have a larynx, and, for that, I am sorry. But, hey it couldn't happen to...oh, never mind.
I'll also refrain from naming any other names here, because it really upsets my boss, but another real jerk around town is a longtime sportscaster at one of the local TV stations. I once asked him if he'd give me his opinion on the building of a new ballpark in Shockoe Bottom. His reply, "I can't express my opinion. I'm a journalist."
A journalist huh? I kinda thought all he did was read baseball scores. He's about as much a journalist as I am a writer.
Someone else who is somewhat of a legend around these parts, never really impressed me much. I won't mention his name either, but he spent much of his career interpreting for a duck. He may have been everyone's friend on the air, but off-air, he was downright rude to people. I applied for a job there once, and he told me in no uncertain terms that my voice stunk.
But anyway, that was then, and this is now. And, now, I'm a better person for it. Adversity has made me the great guy I am today. Do you think I'd hold a grudge? Do you think I'd remember these petty snubs some 30 years later?
Are you kidding? I never even think about it. Hardly ever.

I Am Not a Bigot or a Racist, But...

I'm mad today. Or, at least exceptionally irritated. Before I can get into my laundry list of things that irritate me, I have to say, unequivocally, that I am in no way a racist or a bigot.
Now that that's out of the way, here's my list:
1 - I hate having to preface a completely logical complaint with a disclaimer that I'm not a bigot. Why do we have to worry about that? How dare anyone to assume that of me. From now on, I won't worry about that. Good, I've taken care of that little irritation. Let's move on.
2 - I hate multi-language signs, instructions, directions, etc. Last time I checked, this is America. It's an English-speaking country. Sure, it's also a melting pot for individuals from every nation. But, for years, those individuals have been willing to come here, learn our language, and fit in to this culture. That didn't mean they abandoned their culture. They didn't have to do that, but they did WANT to blend in with us. And, by us, I don't mean Mayflower descendants. I just mean those who were taught English from infancy.
This morning as I was entering the 7-11, I noticed a sign that said something like "Ahora Desponsible." I read it and re-read it, trying to figure out why I wasn't understanding it. Finally, it dawned on me that the sign was in Spanish. Inside the store, I see more Spanish-language signs. Why? Why should I have to subject my English-reading eyes to those signs. It's clutter. If I went to Mexico, I wouldn't expect anyone to speak English, or any signs in English. If I couldn't figure it out, then shame on me.
And, what really gets me is when I buy some sort of electronic gadget or an appliance and I get this really nice, thick instruction booklet. I'm thinking how cool it is that the instructions are so thorough, because I'm pretty dumb when it comes to putting things together. And then, I open the instruction booklet and find that there is only one page of instructions in English. The rest of the booklet is the instructions in about twenty-five other languages, including Swahili. And, even the English instructions were written by someone who's native tongue is Swahili.
My philosophy is if you're going to sell the product in America, then give us our own instruction booklet, as well as English-only labeling.
3 - The third thing I hate, and, remember I'm no bigot, is New Dehli-based customer service centers. I called Comcast the other night to get help in setting up a new computer with their internet service. They guy was nice enough, he just couldn't speak English. I'm really glad Comcast is able to save money (and I'm sure they pass the savings on to me), but I hope they're going to be happy when I pay my next bill in rupees.
I hate having to be the one who has to struggle to understand the foreign language being spoken by customer service reps, by fast food employees, by convenience store clerks, etc. If I were in their homeland, I'd expect to struggle. That's the way it works.
It used to be that we had this "ugly American" reputation because some Americans would go to foreign countries and expect the locals to adapt to the American culture. That is ugly. But it's just as ugly when foreigners come here and do the same thing. Although, I suspect, it's not the foreigners who are insisting on it. I think it's those Americans who are so afraid of being branded as politically incorrect, that they feel they have to make ridiculous concessions to everyone who is a little different.
I have two final thoughts on this whole matter - I hate political correctness and, most importantly, I'm not a bigot or a racist.

High School Cafeterrible

I heard a news story this morning regarding concerns that terrorists may attempt to attack the United States through school lunches. I say that if terrorists infiltrated public school cafeterias, and started prepaing the meals, it might be a step up. Now, it's true that I haven't eaten in a school lunchroom in several years, and possibly the quality of the food is better than when I was a kid.
But, talk about terror. I faced it every day of my life. Except, those days when I bagged my lunch. The cooks at the schools I attended were, now that I think about it, probably terrorists themselves. What else could account for those bright red hot dogs they used to serve.
You may be thinking that a hot dog is a hot dog is a hot dog. But not these hot dogs. I couldn't look at a hot dog until several years after I finished school. They'd serve up these gnarly looking weiners that evidently had been injected with about a pint of red food coloring. I wonder what they looked like before they were dyed. And the only topping they'd give us was about the cheapest, most putrid-tasting ketchup imaginable. I'm getting the shakes just remembering that horrible time in my life.
Occasionally, they'd serve hamburgers in school. Now, how can you ruin a hamburger? Well, I don't know how they did it, but they had a method of cooking the burger so that it was completely dry. I mean the table we were sitting at had more moisture (and taste) than those pathetic patties. You could smother them in that delicious ketchup and still need a stick to stuff it down your throat. The sounds of kids gagging would fill the cafeterial on hamburger days.
And, If the hot dogs and hamburgers didn't do you in, the green beans would. Canned green beans are pretty pathetic to begin with, but I think these cafeterrorists had some sort of flavor enhancing canned food taste additive they would mix into the beans. Plop those beans on the plate with that big red weiner and it had a pretty terrifying impact.
I really can't think of anything that was served in the cafeterias during my school years that I would call good. The mashed potatoes were fake. I think they were basically paper mache. The Salisbury steak was exceptionally bad, and just to be sure the kids were terrorized they'd top it with some sort of hideous brown gooey stuff that they actually had the nerve to call gravy. Even the desserts were virtually inedible. I say virtually because, after all, it was sugary, so I had to eat it.
I say to those terrorists, bring it on. I don't think you could concoct anything to begin to compare with the crud we used to be served in school. Maybe the U.S. could institute some sort of terrorist exchange program and send the school cafeteria cooks from here over there. Nah, that would never work. Can you imagine if we started serving public school lunches to the prisoners in Iraq. The uproar would make that Abu Graib thing look like a picnic in the park.

Everyone Was There Except Tinkerbell

I'm totally exhausted this morning. Here I was at the Neverland Ranch last night. M.J. threw a little celebration party for some of his most loyal supporters. It was just me, his entourage, the entire Jackson family, some of the kids from the neighborhood, and, of course, the jury.
I think I was hitting the Jesus Juice a little hard, if you know what I mean. Anyway, we were sitting around, chatting, looking at some of his picture books, and waiting to see if Nancy Grace would slit her wrists live on national TV. Fortunately, I had a new pair of pajamas, so I was dressed well for the occasion.
Oh yeah, Thomas Mesereau, Jackson's attorney was also there. I couldn't help but notice as he and Michael sat together how strange it was that the whitest white-guy attorney, had the whitest black guy for a client. The guy who holds the umbrella was also there. He was probably the happiest of anybody. I mean, if Michael goes to jail, he pretty much as a zero-resume to submit in looking for a new gig.
Joe Jackson was saying that in some ways, the trial had brought the family together. In fact, he had decided once the whole mess was behind them, he'd take the kids on a nice vacation and, for old times sake, emotionally abuse them a little.
Everything was quite nice, almost wholesome, except for Michael's brief wardrobe malfunction.
Anyway, a good time was being had by all, until Jackson announced that it was time for bed. He kinda looked at me and winked. I started screaming. I screamed so loudly, I woke myself up. Must have been the onion and jalapeno sandwich I had before I went to bed. Anyway, I couldn't get back to sleep. So, as I said, I'm exhausted this morning.

How Much Is That Doggie In The Freezer?

My mother was railing against pet lovers this morning, or perhaps, I should qualify that and say she was railing against mentally unstable folk who just happen to love their pets. Personally, while not a pet lover myself, I have (as you may have noticed) a rather pleasant “live-and-let-live” attitude. And being the sort of guy who rarely has anything negative to say about anyone, I tended to disagree with her.
She had seen some news feature on television that really ticked her off. It was about these mentally unstable fanatic pet lovers who have taken to giving their pets Botox injections so the pet won’t look old.
I admit, that’s ludicrous. I can understand some aging beauty trying to preserve her looks. Evidently Botox affects one’s eyesight, because the people who have it look plastic and don't even know it. Take Mary Tyler Moore for instance (as someone with a mild obsessive-compulsive thing going on, it was very difficult for me not to say “please” at this point). She looks like she’s wearing some hideous Mary Tyler Moore mask. Anyway, I digress.
While there may be some understanding of a human not wanting to look old, why would anyone in their right mind care how old the dog looks. Oops, I think I just answered my question.
Obviously, these people are not in their right minds. Do they think that the female dogs (another difficult “OCD” moment here) in the neighborhood are going to turn their noses up at their aging male Chihuahua? Are they afraid Pepe is going to go into some sort of tailspin, spiraling further and further downward into some deep dungeon of doggie depression?
Seems the show also reported on these pet-obsessors who, when Fido buys the farm, will have him freeze-dried. Now, if they were doing that so as to have an emergency meal during some sort of natural disaster, maybe I could understand. But, they want the remains of the dog to stay in the house. Seems the report showed the kids playing with rigor muttus. Now is that sick or what? And they say I have disorders.
Actually, I was going to do my blog today on my mother’s tendency to go overboard on issues. That is, until I heard a report on the WRVA Morning News with Jimmy Barrett (don’t forget to read about Jimmy in the summer West End’s Best, by the way). I really, yes, even literally could not believe my ears.
But, I checked it out at the San Francisco Chronicle’s website (www.sfgate.com). And it’s true. Seems a mother, Maureen Fabish, locked her 12-year old son, Nicky, in the basement so the family’s two pit bulls, which she knew might harm the boy, could have free run of the house. The boy breaks out and is attacked and killed by one or both of the dogs. The mother made two statements, and I’m not sure which one is more stupid. She said, “Typical Nicky, he wouldn’t listen to me.” To this idiotic moron of a mother, it’s the boy’s fault. But, at least she was able to console herself with another comment. I swear I’m not making this up, although I did think Jimmy Barrett was when I first heard it. Here’s what this lame brain dog nut said: “"It's Nicky's time to go. When you're born you're destined to go and this was his time."
Now, don’t we all feel better. It wasn’t Nicky’s fault, really. And it certainly wasn’t the dog’s fault. It was God’s fault.
Is there anyway we could get up a petition to freeze-dry Mrs. Fabish?

Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch

To compare the goings on around the Santa Maria, California courthouse, to a circus is to bring the diginity of the big top down to a new low. It's unbelievable. But, as I reflect on it, it really is more entertaining than the circus. In fact, if they would take the cast of characters from Jackson's trial on tour, I'd sure pay good money to go and see them.
Hollywood's best script writers couldn't begin to dream up the players in this true story. Think about it. At the very center is Michael Jackson himself. You wouldn't think it could any better than that when it comes to weird, but surround the aging, aching "king of pop" with his entourage and you have yourself quite a show.
I mean, who could have thought of adding Jesse Jackson to the mix? Jackson (the Jesse variety) is being called Jackson's (the Michael variety) spiritual advisor. Reportedly, the Rev is encouraging the King to switch his pruriant interests from little boys to young women.
Next, throw into the picture, Michael Jackson's abusive (if you can believe what you read) father, running around the courthouse demanding to see his son. His son, of course, is not at the courthouse, because he's being smuggled in and out of a local hospital. Seems his father saw a lot of Neverland autos heading out of the compound and decided that a verdict was about to be announced. Hasn't he been around his son long enough to realize that the fleet was just heading out to the local carwash? I mean, really, any forty-something man on trial for child molestation, who wears lipstick into court, is just naturally going to want to put first things first and make sure his cars are kept clean.
Meanwhile, down at the hospital, Michael Jackson's bodyguards are building scaffolding around the SUV, and draping sheets over the scaffolding, supposedly to shield the alleged pedophile from the press. Of course, the "boy on the hood" may have just wanted some privacy to practice a new dance routine on the SUV before entertaining the troops.
We can't overlook another co-star in the story, Majestik Magnificent, Jackson's so-called personal magician. I think the law requires that if a defendant cannot afford a personal magician, the court will appoint one. But, this guy is said to be a "close, personal friend of Jackson's, so I doubt he's been court appointed. Of course, if he were either majestik or magnificent, I'm sure he'd have made his friend disappear by now.
You'd think that would be enough entertainment for the fans, but wait there's more. Add to the mix a group of Jackson supporters from around the world, not only chanting "innocent, innocent," but demonstrating their recognition of innocence when they see it, by hurling obscene epithets at nearby reporters. It's gotten so bad that Court TV had to get a restraining order on one of Jackson's supporters, who was allegedly thretening their reporter. Reportedly, another, more rational supporter of Jackson is going through the crowd, using a hand-puppet to tell the true Michael Jackson story.
Lost in all this crazy, mixed-up story is whether Michael Jackson truly molests little boys, but, I guess, regardless of that minor detail, the whole thing is best summed up in an email supporting Jackson, which appears on a website dedicated to supporting Jackson. I'm going to quote here to conclude today's blog, but as you read this real (I swear I didn't make it up) email, keep in mind that earlier this week, I had made a somewhat sarcastic comment about how much one might like Jackson's hit song "Ben" from a couple of decades back. Here's the email:

Michael I have grown up with you and your music, your voice, your gift. Over 30 years of pure wonder, since the days of 'Ben' you have inspired me. Just know you are loved. The world is a better place with you in it! My teenage daughter keeps saying "why don't they just leave him alone!" The answer to that we will never have.


Hang in there MJ. Have faith, be strong.


Love always,
Jenni - Australia

More Senseless Acts of Random Thinking

My poor brain has been working overtime lately, and the only way to relieve some of the pressure is to just start blathering about things I've been thinking about. There's no pattern here, just a bunch of thoughts about different things. But, until I let off some of the pressure, I won't be able to engage in any serious, philosophical thought, for which I am, I'm sure, famous.
One thing that occurred to me the other day as I was putting on a new tie my wife bought at Marshall's, is that when it comes to men's fashions, as long as you put an Italian name on the label, most of us guys are going to assume we're wearing something that's top of the line. Oh, a Valerio Garati, I thought as I looked at the label on the back of the tie...cool! Then it dawned on me. I've never heard of Valerio Garati. In all probability there is no Signore Garati, but because his name ends with the letter "i", I'm impressed. The label could have just as well said Francos Spaghetti and I'd have felt rather stylish wearing the tie. Why those marketing people have got me again. Shame on me, I thought.
Speaking of shame (and I do love a good segue), I've said it before, and I'll say it again...right now. The people who write the local news should be ashamed of themselves. They just don't get it. There was a story this morning about the high school coach who was driving the bus when the young student got off and was struck by a hit-and-run driver. The story said the coach had been charged with a misdemeanor. Then as a dramatic conclusion to the story, the reporter added, "If found guilty, he could face a fine of up to five hundred dollars!"
Did the person who wrote that think that the five hundred dollar fine was the most crucial element of the story. The way the reporter read it, I thought she was going to say the guy would be taken outside and shot. The guy, probably a good guy, made a horrible mistake...a mistake he's going to have to live with the rest of his life. The family of the girl who was killed will never be the same, and these people at the local TV station seem to think that the real tragedy here is a five hundred dollar fine. Things like this just really irritate me.
Speaking of TV news, I saw a woman being interviewed on the news this morning. Her house had been burglarized and the woman was telling the reporter, "They (the thieves) literally went through the bottom drawers." I'm kind of wondering if there's any other way for the thieves to have gone through the drawers. If they'd done it figuratively, I wouldn't think there'd have been a story. But, maybe that's just me.
Well, I'm glad to have gotten these things aired out. I feel my brain start to relaxing just a bit. So, excuse me while I go back to some deep thinking. I'm on the verge of figuring out where that pocket watch came from in the movie Somewhere In Time. And, as soon as I have the answer, you'll be the first to know.

The Old and the Listless

Someone recently told me that my life had been like a soap opera. If they were trying to cheer me up, they failed miserably. I didn't exactly take that as a positive assessment of the direction my life has gone in.
But, it did give me pause for thought. And, you know what? Only minimally is my life like a soap opera. For one thing, there are no commercial interruptions and I never hear organ music. But, that's not the main differences between my life and that of most soap opera characters.
Admittedly, I haven't seen a soap opera in many years. I did catch about five minutes of one while on vacation a year or so back and the story involved a midget and a witch, I think. I don't have any midgets or witches in my life, but, again, that's not a major difference.
There are three primary ways that my life has not taken the same path as that of almost every character on the soaps.
First, I don't have an evil twin, from whom I was separated at birth. Or, at least, if I do, I haven't met him yet. What would be a real bummer would be to eventually find out that such a twin really did exist, and he was having all the fun that I should have had. In reflecting on this, I don't think I know any truly evil twins. I know some miserable ones, unpleasant to be around, but not really evil.
The second difference between me and soap opera folk is that I've never attended my own funeral. That would be neat. But, I've never been presumed dead, which is not the same as being presumed lifeless. My wife accuses me of that regularly. I've often fantasized about what people would do at my funeral, but then it dawns on me that if it means I have to truly be dead, it isn't much of a fantasy.
The third major difference is that I have never either kidnapped a romantic interest of mine, or been kidnapped by such. I did build a cage in my basement just in case the situation should ever arise, but, alas, it never did. On the soap operas, it's one of the most popular ways of saying, "I love you and I couldn't stand it if you ever left." The closest I've ever come to doing something drastic to proclaim my love was send flowers. And, somehow that just doesn't seem to capture the magic of a good kidnapping.
So, while my life has had its ups and downs, I really don't think it's been like a soap opera. Of course, there was that horrible time when...Well, tune in tomorrow and I'll tell you.

Jacko-In-The-Box

I don't really have a lot to say about Michael Jackson, but I do want to give my prediction before the jury comes back in with a verdict. Because, once they give their verdict, it would be hard for me to actually call it a prediction. And, truth be told, I'm so sure about this, that I don't really call it a prediction. It's simply a reasonable observation of what will happen. As far as I'm concerned, I can't be wrong. I mean, technically, I could be wrong, but it's hard to imagine that I am.
I hear so many astute observers and comentators saying they're afraid that Michael Jackson (while guilty, according to them), will be found not guilty. I think these comentators are missing out on a key point. We cannot overlook what I call the "Freak Factor."
Let me explain. Every time I see Michael Jackson's face on TV, my stomach churns. I cringe. He's truthfully the freakiest looking real-life human I've ever seen. Even that Elephant Man guy wasn't, in my opinion, as freaky to look at. Now, I get just a little irritated that I have to watch him on TV for a moment or two. How do you suppose the jury must feel. They've had to sit there in the courtroom, day in and day out, for the last three months and look at him. They've watched him hobble into court in his PJs. The guy is downright scary. I can't help but think that he probably smells funny too, but that's just a guess. I don't mean bad, just funny.
So, you've been force-fed this freak for months. And now comes the payback opportunity. I'd find him guilty just to show how much I hated having to spend a quarter of the year in his company. I don't want to come across as judgmental, which is not to say I'm not judgmental, but I'm just being realistic. Look at the guy. He's forty-something. He likes young boys. He likes to, evidently, serve them alcohol and climb in bed with them.
Now, let's just assume I'm the most naive human on earth, and that I think "Ben" is the prettiest love song ever sung about a rat, I still can't help but think this guy is too screwy to be totally innnocent. Innocent until proven guilty is an intellectual ideal. But, with regards to some people, guilty until proven innocent is a stronger, emotional appeal. I hear Jackson's defense team did a pretty decent job, but were they able to prove him innocent beyond a reasonable doubt? I don't think so.
Now, I will say on the conspiracy count, he'll be found not guilty. It's just too confusing. If I had had to sit in that courtroom and listen to all that testimony, my head would be spinning. My thinking would be that the conspiracy deal sounds too much like a movie plot. My conclusion would be that the guy's not a kidnapper. He may be a child molester. But, he definitely is a freak. I can just about guarantee the guy will be making a moon-walk into prison, which, when you think about it, would be about the worst way to go.

My Fresh Start in Life

I have the shakes this morning, so typing this may prove somewhat difficult. I had a little intervention with myself this weekend, and made myself admit that, yes, I have an addiction, and the only way I can deal with it is to cut it off cold turkey. Fortunately, I haven't had the addiction for too long. My wife got me hooked several months ago. It started off simply enough...just some recreational use, but then it began to take over my life. I had to have my fix on a daily basis, sometimes consuming hours of my time.
As you have probably guessed, and I am ashamed to admit it, but admit it, I will - I'm hooked on Tetris. How evil is it for those cell phone people to make it possible to play that dad-blasted game on my cell phone. I found myself sneaking out to the car to play a game or five of Tetris. I tried to analyze my dependency. I assured myself that I kept on playing only in an effort to get better. It's really a good sign, I'd convince myself...a sign that I am constantly trying to better myself.
And, of course, it helped my hand to eye coordination, which at my age is something I need to be concerned with.
But, I couldn't explain away the fact that I'd wake up at three in the morning thrashing about looking for my cell phone. I'd lie in bed for a couple of hours "improving my coordination."
My wife threatened to go sleep in the other room. I don't know how she could hear the almost silent clicking. I had muted the sounds that accompany the game. But, she'd wake up out of a dead sleep as soon as I started playing. And, let me tell you, she wasn't a happy camper.
But that's all behind me now. I've saved my marriage. I'm putting my life back together again. Last night, I deleted Tetris from my phone. Sure, it was hard. Sure, I wept openly after having done it. But I did it.
Life is good. I'm going to take time to smell the roses, so to speak...to get reacquainted with my family...to spend the rest of my life in worthwhile pursuits.
Yes, I'm glad I got that Tetris monkey off my back. Things are looking up. I'm sitting here contemplating how I can spend those precious moments that go by so quickly. And it just dawned on me...now I'll have more time to do something I haven't done in quite a while, thanks to that darned Tetris. I'll be able to go back to a love I used to have, and yet, had almost forgotten about. Wow, this is great. I'm going to have time for computer solitaire.