Race Related Decision

After much deliberation, I am ready to announce my decision as to which city will get the NASCAR Hall of Fame. Admittedly, my decision carries absolutely no weight, but given the fact that I am hardly, if ever, wrong, I think you will be (or should be) quite anxious to hear my decision.
I've reviewed each city in the running. Let me tell you why, or why not, for each city.
Daytona - Don't they have enough NASCAR stuff going on already? They don't need the Hall of Fame. It would be overkill. The France family has already taken the dingy-motel capital of the world and turned it into a stock-car racing junkie's mecca. So, Daytona will not get the nod.
Atlanta - Too far from the population base needed to make the facility a huge success. Besides, Atlanta is the Coca Cola capital of the world. You may not believe this, but I know all the capitals of the world. What self-respecting NASCAR fan wants to be associated with a SOFT drink. Milwaukee would be a better choice. But, Milwaukee isn't in the race.
Charlotte - Charlotte should really be named South Atlanta. It's just a smaller, even more boring, version of Atlanta. Don't get me wrong, Charlotte has done lots of things right and has far surpassed Richmond in many ways. Actually, if Richmond could get all it's council persons out of jail at the same time, it could give Charlotte a good fight for many businesses that have relocated there. But, Charlotte is not in the right location for the NASCAR Hall of Fame. And, one more thing, the France family may have some personal reasons not to want Charlotte...like a little bad blood thing. But, I won't go into that here.
Kansas City, Kansas - Huh? KC says it should get the Hall because it's centrally located. Yeah, right in the middle of nowhere. Put the Hall in Kansas and everybody has to drive a long (albeit somewhat equal) distance to get there. But, really, I can sum up my main reason Kansas City won't get the Hall in five words - "Hey, it's in Kansas, people." Not since Dorothy, has anyone wanted to go to Kansas. I spent the longest day of my life driving through Kansas one time. Now, if you have a corn and wheat fetish, it is THE place for you, but if not, forget it.
Which brings us to Richmond. I think the group trying to get the Hall in Richmond should do one thing. And, this is free advice, so you guys better listen up. Call it the Richmond Region. Thankfully, RIR is in Henrico. If the proposal was to build the hall within the Richmond city limits, you can bet that it would be nixed...by Richmond officials. I envision a day when, as you drive through Richmond, you'll see billboards, amidst run-down, abandoned buildings. The billboards will proclaim: "Here is where the stadium would have been," or "Here is where a Performing Arts Center was supposed to be built." Richmond, the only city in the United States to be ruled by a governor, is the biggest drawback to having the Hall in Richmond. But, if those NASCAR guys can be made to appreciate that the Hall is only NEAR Richmond, I think we have a good chance.
The Richmond Region is good. In fact it's so good that not even Richmond city officials can ruin it. It is near virtually anything and everything that anyone could ever want. And this area does indeed have a great NASCAR history.
I haven't seen the plans presented by the other cities. I don't like to clutter my brain up with too many facts. But, the plan presented by the local guys is good enough for any NASCAR fan.
Really, and I'm not prejudiced at all, Richmond is the only logical choice for the Hall of Fame. I am going to go out on a pretty strong limb and say Richmond will be the home of the Hall. You can take that to the bank. It's a done deal.
And, if for any reason the choice is not Richmond, there will be only one reason. It's the reason I use to help me deal with those many occasions when everyone else disagrees with me. If NASCAR doesn't pick Richmond, then clearly that organization is run by idiots.

Grin and Bare It

As you may or may not know, I've joined a local gym (ACAC). It's a great place...perhaps the best physical fitness facility I've ever belonged to. And, believe me, I've belonged to some doozies through the years. Unlike most of the places I've joined in the past, the trainers at ACAC seem to really care about the customer.
Most of these fitness centers are so sales oriented that by the time I leave from myh first visit, I've not only signed up for the lifetime supreme membership, but I've also purchased a used car from the sales guy, and have committed to be his next tier down for his Amway business.
Another complaint I have about the trainers in some of the other facilities is that I have a suspicion they worked in concentration camps or, at the very least, marine boot camps, prior to joining the club. They seem to have a sadistic little streak which they love to display when working with fat, out-of-shape guys. I remember one experience where I spent the first part of my first visit to the club gasping for breath as the trainer put me through the paces, and the second half throwing up. Needless to say, I didn't go back, despite the fact I did have the supreme lifetime membership.
Even though I love ACAC, there are a few things I still have some difficulty with. For one, when I'm doing my strength training, I never can remember when I'm supposed to exhale and when I'm supposed to inhale. I hear all the other guys (the manly men) grunting and poofing and I can't figure out when I grunt and when I poof. I try, but it generally comes out as the sound of an anguished animal caught in some kind of a trap in the woods.
Something else that's getting a bit easier, but still gives me a little problem is naked men. I've never been all that comfortable around a bunch of naked guys. It probably goes back to high school when the big guys would take us little guys and dunk our heads in the toilet. Anyway, even to this day, when I see a big naked guy, I wanna run.
There's this modesty thing as well. I believe in wrapping a towel around me as I walk from the locker room to the showers or steam room. A lot of guys don't believe in that. And I'm talking some pretty old guys, too. For some reason, it's just plain difficult for me to ask a naked man how he's doing.
Everytime I step into the communal shower, I'm reminded of an old Seinfeld episode where George let nature take it's course in the communal shower. That show should have gotten some sort of a public service award, because it calls me to my senses when the hot water hits me. The whole time I'm in the shower, Im just hoping all the other guys in the shower saw that episode as well.

I Stink, Therefore I Am

People can be so cruel. Why do people, especially my co-workers, have to be that way. Yes, I admit it, I have a problem that plays havoc with my social life. It's probably a problem I've had much of my life, but, either I've become more aware of it, or it has, indeed worsened in the past few years. I would write Dear Abby about it, but, I can't remember if she's the dead twin, and if she is dead, I'm pretty sure any advice she might offer would be greatly limited.
Whether my problem has worsened or not, one thing for sure, I get ridiculed by my co-workers a lot more these days. Basically, I guess you could describe my problem as an eating disorder. I can't seem to transport food from my plate to my mouth without spilling massive quantities on my clothes. It doesn't matter what I'm eating, or which utensil I choose to do the job, I spill. I spill soup. I spill mashed potatoes. You name it, I've probably spilled it.
But, again, I ask, why do those with whom I spend eight hours or more a day, find such delight in making fun of me. I'm just not that sort of person I guess. For instance, one of our assistant editors, whom I'll call Alaina, spilled something on her blouse yesterday. It was horrible looking, really messy. But, would I hold her up to public humiliation? Would I be so ungentlemanly to mention it? No. My lips are sealed. Sure, she was really ridiculous looking, but I wouldn't say that to anyone. That's just not me.
What is me, is a messy slob. If I'm eating a hamburger and there's a slice of tomato on the burger, wanna guess where the tomato ends up? That's right, in my lap. Maybe I grip my burgers too tightly, because whatever is on the burger, from ketchup to pickles to lettuce, seems to squirt from between the bun and onto me.
You can imagine how I look by the end of the day. That's what everyone chides me about. Evidently my clothes smell like a cheap Chinese buffet at closing time. It's gotten so bad, when I undress in the evening, I hang my ties in the refrigerator.
Needless to say, going out in public, basking in the odors of my daily repast, does not make me especially popular among fellow employees, business acquaintances, or even my family.
It's the same way with any beverage I drink. I cannot for the life of me figure out how I manage to fling coffee from that little hole in the top of the 7-11 cup just by bringing said cup to my lips. I think I hold the cup and move the cup and position the cup in a normal, every-day sort of way. But it is virtually impossible for me to drink coffee without having it all over my shirt. And, have you ever smelled stale coffee? If you answered "yes" to that, then you have, in effect smelled me.
I don't think there's something terribly wrong with me. I just think it's who I am. Some people lisp. Some people are excessively gaseous. I'm a spiller. I don't like it. But, I can't seem to be able to change it. So, I live with it, and I guess, by extension, everyone with whom I come in contact, lives with it too.
I guess I'm saying all this as a sort of way to warn you. If I'm coming your way, I'd love to meet you. But, just know that what you're smelling is not some medical disorder, it's just me being me. And, if you do have an appointment with me coming up, let me know your favorite foods, and I'll make an effort to spill it before we get together. Hey, that's the least I can do.

Sr. Steve Habla Espanol

Everything I really ever needed to know about the Spanish language I've learned from reading the Charmin package. I know, I know, I used to rail against multi-language packaging, but that was the old, unenlightened Steve. Now, I'm more accepting. I spent some quality time recently reading the package of Charmin and, quite frankly, I learned a lot.
For instance, do you know what "Papel Higienico" is? You may be thinking it's some sort of edict from the Catholic Chuch. Nope, it's spanish for "toilet paper." Cool, huh? Much nicer than toilet paper. If I were to say, "Hey, look at me, I have some toilet paper," you probably wouldn't even pay me any attention. But, if were to say, "Hey look at me, I have some papel higienico," I bet you'd look at me with a new found respect.
And, that's just the tip of the iceberg (which is Spanish for "iceberg"). On the Charmin package it says that Charmin is safe for your sewer. But, in Spanish it's seguro for your drenaje. Drenage sounds nice. It almost sounds like something you might see on the menu in a Mexican restaurant. But, just suppose, you found a menu item that said "Sewer Surprise." You see what I'm talking about?
Even those Spanish verbs are much neater sounding. Again, referring back to my Charmin, the package comes with a toilet spindle extender for the new Charmin mega roll (rollos to my Spanish-speaking friends). You know, those new rolls are so big that now they need new toilet paper holders to contain them. One day soon, we'll probably have to have our roll of toilet paper delivered by UPS. Anway, in English the Charmin folks say, to "place" the Charmin Extender through the Mega Roll. But, in Spanish, we are instructed to "Introduzca" it. How polite. You're really introducing the extender to the toilet paper. Mr. Extender, I'd like you to meet Mr. Mega Roll. Nice to meet you Mr. Extender - well, you get the point.
I'm excited about this Spanish-speaking thing. I've come to the conclusion, and I admit, some of you will probably not agree with me here, but I truly think we should all start speaking Spanish. Even though you may not agree, hear me out. If we all started speaking Spanish, no woman would ever be called ugly again. They'd simply be feo. Kinda cute sounding, huh? I wouldn't be fat. I'd just be gordo. And believe you me, I'd much rather be called "Gordo."
You wouldn't tell anyone their breath stinks. It hedors. And, if you have to break some bad news to someone, imagine how much nicer it would be to say, "Su gato es muerto," than "Your cat is dead."
Are you on the same page with me yet? If we all started speaking Spanish overnight, what a much nicer world this would be. There'd be no more hate, only some "odio." Anger would give way to colero. And wars would cease, being replaced by a helping of guerra.
I love it. From now on, no more English for me. Hablare espanol. Adios.

Book Him, Danno

Well,I really want to send my heartfelt thanks out to William Knapp, of Elmira, New York. Knapp has single-handedly destroyed a lifelong ambition of mine. For virtually as long as I can remember, I've wanted to drive a book-mobile. I remember my first book-mobile - the first one I had the extreme pleasure of climbing aboard and perusing the collection of books.
I remember thinking that this had to be the neatest thing on the face of the planet. A library on wheels - what would they think of next. For years I dreamed of driving a book-mobile...of proudly donning the book-mobile driver's gray uniform...of pinning the book-mobile driver's badge on my chest (well on my shirt, anyway).
There was only one other career path that had almost as much allure, and that was being an air-conditioner salesman. Alas, I never attained either position in life.
The a/c dream kind of faded through the years, but the idea of driving a book-mobile remained steady, strong. Somehow I think I had never given up on the possibility that one day, yes one glorious,splendid day,I would be hired to drive a book-mobile.
I had toyed with the idea, several years ago, of starting my own book-mobile, but I only had enough money for a cargo van. I was afraid that my patrons would not be exceptionally pleased with the notion of having to crawl around my book-mobile on their hands and knees. My mother, on the other hand, who always thinks I have fantastic ideas, encouraged me to go ahead and do it. "Just put the good books on the bottom shelves," she encouraged me. "And, most people won't even notice they're crawling.
That almost convinced me. There was still one roadblock, which, to tell the truth, I never could get around...how to make money doing it. All the book-mobiles I had been on were free, unless, of course, there were those nasty late fees. I toyed with the idea of charging $10.00 a day for late fees, but, somehow, that just seemed to go against the creed of the book-mobile driver. That creed, I'm guessing, is "Bringing the glory of books to the public without charge, except for those nasty late fees."
So, anyway,I just kept on dreaming that one day I would be a book-mobile driver. It's a dream I had until this morning. Yes,it was only this morning that I learned about William Knapp. If you haven't heard, and I'm sure that soon it will be splattered across all the front pages, Mr. Knapp (and I use the term loosely) was arrested while IN HIS BOOK-MOBILE, for loitering with the intent to solicit sex. Is there nothing sacred left anywhere?
Imagine, a book-mobile driver, proudly wearing his book-mobile driver uniform, sitting in his book-mobile, trying to procure a prostitute. I have to admit my faith in humanity has been shaken to its very core.
The news reported that Knapp is also a Democratic candidate for some local office in Elmira. I've never run for office, (except for that 4-H presidency back in the 3rd grade), but my guess is that soliciting prostitutes is not the most savvy campaign move. But, that's just a guess.
And, to tell you the truth, I'm way too shaken by the whole book-mobile angle to have the energy to dispense political advice this morning.
I just hope William Knapp is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. I hope, to coin a pun (if, indeed one can coin a pun) they throw the book at him.
As for me, I'm left a shattered man...a man who has lost his dream. I wonder if it's too late to rekindle that air conditioning thing.

Play It As It Lies

I saw Baltimore Oriole's star Rafael Palmeiro on television this morning. The sound was down, and I saw a video from this past March. He was pointing his finger and it was clear he was in the process of denying. At first, I didn't recognize him (he was in a business suit) and I thought he was a politician saying he had not had sex with someone. Then I turned the volume up and realized it was Palmeiro adamantly denying that he had ever taken steroids. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it, he had NEVER EVER done such a thing.
In so doing, Palmeiro proved that he is among the best at the national pastime. No, I'm not talking about baseball. I'm talking about the new national pastime...lying. Of course, lying has gone beyond being merely a dversion to help one pass time. It's become a way of life for many.
Saying politicans lie, is tantamount to saying snakes bite. It's both a defensive as well as offensive weapon which can turned on at the drop of a hat (in the ring). But, obviously, it's not just politicians and baseball players. It's everywhere.
Which brings me to a painful confession. I lie. There, I've said it. I'm an habitual liar. Come on, don't act like you're shocked. Could anyone really have all the horrible experiences I claim to have? Could someone really receive totally rude, outrageously bad customer service every day? I have to make this stuff up.
And, I think I do it quite well. One problem though. My wife gets mad if I make up something about her. If, for instance, I say she spends too much time shopping, I'll hear about it for a month. "You know I'm not that bad," she'll say. "Why did you say that about me?"
I'll tell you why, dear. I'm a liar. I do it for a living...albeit, not a great one.
Actually, truth be told, I have no interesting experiences in my pathetically, lonely, little life. I've been living in my cellar for the past 7 years, never venturing out into the real world. All I have is my imagination and my computer. And between those two babies, I'm ready to roll. Oh yes, I do have my lovely wife, Morgan Fairchild. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Okay, enough's enough. I'm making this up. I'm not a liar. Every word you read here is the truth...unlike some baseball players and politicians and lawyers I know. When I said I'm a liar, I was lying. But, I'm going to have to cut this short. What many of you don't know is that I'm an emergency room physician on the side and I just got paged. Seems there's some baseball player with a steroid overdose. I'm coming! And, I'll talk to you tomorrow.

Who Are They Kidding?

There've been two or three news stories recently about police officers being charged with using excessive force (some even resulting in death) in connection with their apprehension of alleged lawbreakers. In each story the police claim that the individual they were trying to arrest had threatened them in one way or another. And, in each story, the individual's family are quick to reply, "My son would never do anything like that."
Who really knows what the truth is? And, while I don't condone the use of excessive force by police officers, I think that generally these guys do an excellent job, often putting their lives on the line for those who are so anxious to crucify them. But, when it comes to the testimony of family members that Johnny wouldn't do anything like beat up a police officer, I'm reminded of a much more innocent event many years ago, in a much more innocent time period...or, at least it seemed more innocent to me as a pre-teen.
My father was a country doctor in Franklin County, Virginia, back in the fifties, back in the days when doctors made housecalls. Back in the days when Franklin County was known as the "moonshine capital of the world."
Anyway, one night, in the middle of the night, my father was awakened by the sounds of someone pounding on the front door. He trudges downstairs in his robe and opens the door to find the very concerned parents of a young man, by the name (or nickname) of Shorty. "Doctor, you gotta come quick," Shorty's father said as my father opened the door.
"What's wrong?" my father asked.
"It's Shorty," Shorty's mom said. "Something's terrible wrong with Shorty."
"Yeah, Doc," Shorty's father spoke. "He can't stand up. He keeps falling down."
"And he can't stop throwing up," Shorty's mom added.
"Could Shorty be drunk?" my father asked.
"No, Sir, Doctor," Shorty's father said, somewhat indignantly, "Shorty don't drink."
"That's right," the mother said, "My Shorty don't drink at all."
So, my father goes upstairs, gets dressed, and as he leaves the house with Shorty's parents, he asks once more if it could be possible that Shorty has had something to drink.
Again Shorty's parents agree, "Shorty don't drink."
The parents I referred to previously are probably convinced that their sons would never break the law, much less (or is it more?) attempt to run from a police officer. They probably in all sincerity believe that the police used excessive force. But, the belief of the parents, no matter how strong, isn't a true indicator of what their children may or may not do.
I'm sure many parents would be, and many others have been, shocked to find out what their kids are capable of. It's not necessarily that the kids are bad, often times just the total inexperience of youth, and peer pressure, along with impaired thinking abilities, whether induced by teen-age hormones or some external substance, or both, can result in teens doing some down-right stupid things.
But just in case you're wondering about Shorty. Here, as Paul Harvey might say, is the rest of the story. When my father returned home following a lengthy trip out into the country to Shorty's rural home, my mother was anxious to find out how the young man was doing.
My father spoke just two words as he climbed back into bed, "Shorty drinks."

Bursting the Dam

You know how we all tend to chuckle when we reflect on the uproar Clark Gable incited, back in 1939, when he used the "d" word at the end of Gone With The Wind? Well, that's the problem with the world today, or at least one of the problems.
What's the problem, you may be asking. I'll answer. Our chuckling.
You see, if society had clamped down right then and there and said we're not going to allow such profanity, who knows how much better we'd be today. Today, when it comes to profanity, and vulgarity, and just plain public crudeness, everyone pretty much takes much the same attitude Rhett Butler displayed when he uttered his famous line to Scarlett O'Hara. Nobody seems much to care.
While Gone With the Wind was not the first motion picture to include the word in its script, the widespread popularity of that epic motion picture provided an impetus for scriptwriters to become more and more daring. In a sense, when Clark Gable uttered his famous line, it allowed the dam of decency to burst resulting in a flood of profanity.
It is true that "d___" (and, if I used it here, I'd be going against my own argument) is quite mild in relation to the words we hear on television, public, network television, today. I can't think of any of the most well-known dirty words that I haven't heard on network TV. Sometimes they slip out on live programming, but some of the most vile are included in the scripts of pre-recorded dramas and comedies (and I use that term loosely).
I hate profanity. That doesn't make me a saint. It doesn't even make me an especially good person. It's just a fact. I hate cursing. I won't go to an R-rated movie because I can't see paying $7.00 or more to have people curse at me. I can get that for free on a daily basis. And PG-13 movies aren't any better. They're filled with filthy language.
I heard a movie critic discussing the remake of The Bad News Bears. He called it a hard PG-13, which means it borders on an R-rating. He said the language was pretty strong, and then he said, "so, you'd want to keep the younger kids away from it."
In other words our teens are fine being exposed to it. It's the teens that need the most protection, I think. For some reason even a reasonably intelligent kid's brain turns to mush when he or she hits 17 or 18. They're so intent on fitting in with the crowd that they'd do virtually anything to be accepted. And, by today's standards, acceptance requires the use of the filthiest of language.
Something else that really gets to me is the idea that one can slightly change a vulgar word to a non-vulgar word and that makes it okay to say it. The word "freakin'" and it's cousin, "friggin" disgust me. If you're so anxious to show people you know how to curse, just use the real word and bask in the glory. What's sad is that many individuals use the dirty words or their sound-alikes to express the depth of emotion. What they don't realize, is that it only shows the depth of their ignorance.
Why not learn some real words that have real meaning. They do a much better job of getting attention. For instance, rather than saying someone is "freakin' stupid," try "abundantly ignorant." Such words as "absurdly," "gloriously," "profoundly," sound so much better and can be used just as effectively in expressing your emotions, unless, of course, you're speaking to an individual who is abysmally ignorant himself.
If you truly want to criticize someone, grab a good thesaurus and go at it. You can find some real doozies. You may leave the cretin scratching his head in bewilderment, but you'll feel much better about yourself and your vocabulary.
The point is vulgarity has become so commonplace, that it doesn't really have the shock value it once had anyway. And, you only lower yourself by stooping to use it. It may be true that most people don't care anymore. It may be so that you hear it everywhere, but regardless of how accepted profanity is in society today, frankly my dear, I do find it cause for fulmination.

Small-Fried Lungs

Well those fine folks who make Camel Cigarettes are up to their old tricks again. With a tip of the cap to Joe Camel, the marketing gurus at R.J. Reynolds have developed candy-flavored cigarettes. Gee, I wonder to whom they’re marketing these sweet treats. Obviously, it’s a pretty brilliant, albeit, diabolical campaign. I’ve never smoked and yet I have this burning desire to try the “Kauai Kolada,” with its “Hawaiian hints of cocoanut and pineapple.” There’s also a “Twista Lime” version of the cigarette, both being labeled as the “official cigarettes of summer.” I think Reynolds is also putting coupons on the back of each pack. Save enough coupons and you can redeem them for a Don Ho Digital Artificial Larynx that plays Tiny Bubbles when the user isn’t attempting to speak. So, the whole idea is pretty cool if you ask me.
In fact, I would think that maybe the alcoholic-beverage marketing people could take a lesson from R.J. Reynolds Tobacco. For instance, and I’m just thinking out loud here, why not introduce Jack Daniels, Jr.? It could be a fruity-flavored bourbon with a surprise in every bottle. Or, how about Little Buddyweiser – promoted as having a tropical taste, straight from Gilligan’s Isle.
Speaking of staggering, which in a roundabout way, we kinda are, what is truly staggering to me, are the statistics released by the American Lung Association. In a recent press release, they say, “Each day more than 5,000 kids under 18 try their first cigarette.” According to statistics I’ve seen, only about 11,000 kids in America turn 18 each day. That means nearly half of these kids will have tried a cigarette by the time they turn 18. The American Lung Association goes on to report that about 2,000 children become established smokers each day. Think about that. I don’t really know what a pack of cigarettes costs, but just kind of guessing at a low figure of $2.50 a pack, and figuring each kid smokes 3 to 4 packs a week, the tobacco industry is making enough money (and I’m just estimating here) to pay for a decent funeral for about 200,000 kids a year.
And, one more thing, since I’ve already ticked off the local tobacco supporters…if I had just landed on this planet, and everything I knew about American culture I learned from radio and television, I’d conclude that this Phillip Morris guy must be the most decent man on earth. I’d be duly impressed that this generous, giving soul was taking his hard-earned money and spending it to try and keep kids, as well as adults, from smoking. I guess that’s why he changed the name of his company to Altruistic, or something pretty close to that.
Kudos to Mr. Morris and Joe Camel as well. Kudos, indeed! You have come up with some truly amazing ways to push your products. And, who knows how many countless thousands of kids are just dying to try them?

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.