A Deeper, More Introspective Steve

Since I’m not in an overly humorous mood today, I’ll just tell you a joke and then get on with what I want to write about. Now, don’t let my mood ruin your day. I’m not unhappy, it’s just that I’ve discovered one of the secrets of life, about which I have pondered since I turned forty.
I’ll get to that in a minute, but first the joke, which kinda highlights what I’ve been thinking about.

This ritzy woman pulls up to the front door of an exclusive hotel in Beverly Hills in her fancy schmancy automobile and starts directing the bellboys to unpack her luggage. Her fat little ten-year-old son is buckled up in the passenger seat next to her. She orders one of the bellboys to pick up her son and carry him to her suite.
“What’s the matter,” the bellhop asks, “can’t he walk?”
“Of course he can,” the mother snaps back, “But, thank God, he’ll never have to.”

Okay, enough hilarity. That joke encapsulates my recent epiphany. I’ve been wondering, for more than a decade now, why our parents and grandparents (by “our” I’m speaking basically about us Boomers), never warned us about what it would be like to get old. As miserable as it is to acquire a new pain every day, and a new pill at least once a year, it seems that somebody should have told us that this getting old thing was not going to be a lot of fun.
Truth is, I don’t think I ever thought I would get old. I thought old age was for old people. I thought my parents and grandparents were somehow just born to be old, but not me or my generation.
In retrospect, I feel kind of stupid, but I have somewhat been blaming it on my forbears (this has nothing to do with the Maymont Park thing). I kept wondering why they didn’t warn me.
Well, now I’ve figured out the answer. I think those earlier generations had a much greater sense of their own mortality from their childhood on, than do those of my generation and offspring.
Think about it, our parents and grandparents had experienced the Spanish Flu pandemic. They had lived through the Great Depression and World War II. They were survivors in the true sense of the word. And, they had plenty of friends and relatives who did not survive.
Then, World War II ends and things suddenly look rosy, by comparison anyway. The men come home from the war, marry the women, and start having us. And one thing they wanted to make sure of is that we’d never (“thank God”) have to experience the things they’d gone through. And they did (make sure) and we didn’t (suffer like them).
Those in my age group were never terrified at the mention of two little letters – TB. My generation rarely heard the word “polio” without the word “vaccine” right behind it. The only thing we had to fear was the fear of the needle, which immunized us from all those dread diseases with which our parents and their parents and their peers had contended.
Yep, we were immunized from what life had really been like. Some of our immunizations came in the form of a serum, or a pill. Others came from the hard work of our parents, determined to give us a better life than they had endured.
Somehow, along the way, these medical miracle workers of the fifties and sixties, didn’t live long enough to come up with a vaccine against old age. And so, we got old. Suddenly, unexpectedly, we looked in the mirror and we were old.
We had spent our early years relishing our presumed immortality. We figured it would just keep getting better and better. And, now, when it seems we should be fully enjoying our lives, we discover we’re fat (and likely to die that way), we’re diabetic, we’re arthritic, we have heart disease, and the list could go on and on. I’ll spare you any additional gory details.
I remember vacationing with my grandfather and step-grandmother when I was a kid. When they opened their suitcase, the prescription drugs took up more room than did their clothes. How pathetic, I remember thinking at the time. But, I concluded that’s what old people had to put up with. Thankfully, I wasn’t going to get old.
I may not have been quite that shortsighted about it, but if you’re a fellow-Boomer, I’m guessing you get the picture. Well, the joke was on me. Ha Ha. I’m laughing all the way to the emergency room.
I hope this hasn’t been too depressing. Actually, I’m happy I’ve figured out why I was never told what to expect. The only problem is, I’ve learned enough now, to be able to look at my 81 year-old mother and know that I’m looking at the coming attractions. And, to be perfectly honest, I’m not giddy with anticipation.

Man's Best Friend. Yeah, right.

Let me say right at the outset, if any of you out there mention this column to my wife, I'm going to be very upset. And you know who you are out there. And, I know who you are.
Next, let me next say that I have a lovely, kind, caring, thoughtful, brave, reverent, thrifty wife. At least she's many of those things. But sometimes she'll make a statement that just completely baffles me.
Like the time (and, yes, I've already related this one in the current issue of Chesterfield Living) she and my daughter were watching television and Freddie Prinz, Jr. was on, and my wife says to my daughter, "His father was also a TV star, but I can't remember his name."
I repeat that story just to give you an idea of how her thinking goes (and, just in case you do see this, Julie, I mean how beautifully your thinking goes). But she said something the other day that I'm still pondering. Let me preface this by telling you that we (she) have (has) two dogs, Tory and Toby. My wife loves those dogs. She fixes them snacks while we're watching TV. I'm sitting there starving and she's prepared some delicious looking tasty treats for the dogs.
It's not that I don't like the dogs. It's just that they're...well, they're dogs. But, all in all, these two dogs (both labs) are beautiful animals.
But anyway, the other day my wife says, "I think if Tory were a human, she and I would not be very good friends." Huh?
Just bask in that statement for a moment. Does it kinda not make sense? I really have tried to get my mind around that statement, but with no success. How can my wife look at the dog and know what sort of human she would make. I guess I just don't have the lovely ability to imagine as does my wife. But I can't humanize the dog no matter how hard I try.
I mean if Tory were a human, I'd be really upset, I mean even more upset than I am, when I'd step in her deposits in the back yard. And, when I'm trying to eat, if a human Tory were lying on the floor, looking up at me, begging for a bite, I would have kicked her out long ago.
And, I would not, for even one minute, tolerate another human in the house who was sniffing me all over. I also wouldn't tolerate a human who drank out of the toilet. At least, I don't think I would.
I guess my point is, how can you even imagine how you would feel about an animal if it were a human? And yet, my wife feels very comfortable making that statement.
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not for one moment suggesting that there's any defect in my wife's thinking. I'm sure it's all me. I know that I don't have a full appreciation for animals. It's just that it's hard for me to look at an animal and imagine how he or she would be as a human.
I had a goldfish once. I never thought of him (I'm guessing it was a him, we never were that close), as a guy. When he died, I flushed him down the toilet. If I had had a friend living in a bowl in my bedroom, I swear I would never flush him down the toilet. And, if I did, I'd be more careful to make sure he really was dead when I flushed him. Now, that I think about it, I'm not sure the goldfish was dead. He could have just been catching some rays on the surface of the water.
We also had two hamsters once. They got loose and somehow ended up in the walls of the house. Where they went from there is anybody's guess. They may still be there. But, I know for an absolute certainty that if two of my friends had crawled in the walls of my house, I would have made sure that they were rescued, unless of course it meant tearing up the walls. Friendship only goes so far.
Now, that I reflect on this rather vast difference between my puny, miserable way of thinking and the elevated, caring thinking of my wife,l I think this means that my wife is a better person than I am. That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking with it. Because my wife is a human, and unlike Tory and Toby, she can throw a pretty mean punch.

Maybe It Is Just Me, But...

You know just when I think I have this thing called life figured out, something happens that proves to me just how stupid I really am. There seems to be a plethora of stories in the news lately that just leaves me scratching my head.
Now, I understand part of that is due to itchy scalp disease, but it’s more than that. I read the news and I’m thinking everybody can’t be a moron, so it must be me. Sometimes I feel like Oliver on Green Acres. You know, it’s like everyone around me is crazy, when in all likelihood it probably is me.
But, take for instance this deal with Bode Miller. The guy couldn’t have done a more pathetic job at the Olympics if he had tried, and, come to think of it, based on his comments, maybe he did try to fail. I never met anyone who seems to so joyously embrace failure as does this guy. And if someone enjoys putting his worst foot forward, it certainly should be his prerogative.
What I don’t understand, however, is why anyone would choose to give him an all-expense-paid vacation to Italy as a member of the U.S. Olympic team. I’m not the most competitive guy in the world, but I would think that the United States would like to make as good a showing as possible.
It would have been a lot less expensive to have given the guy a little cocktail expense money and let him stay here and have his own little "Miller Time." As he would say, "That rocks." Then there would have been room on the team for someone who really would like to win. But, maybe it’s just me.
On to bigger news. I don’t really have an opinion on the United Arab Emirates taking over the ports in the U.S., but I do have to wonder how the President can spend five years putting an Arabic face on terrorism, and then say, “Oh, by the way, the Arabs are taking over our ports.” It seems that it may have occurred to him or to one of his advisors that there may be a little fall-out over that, but, again, maybe it’s just me.
What really has me scratching my head today is all the hubbub regarding the Maymont Park bears. Hey, stuff happens. Move on.
Over the weekend, two Henrico County teenagers were killed in an auto accident and two Chesterfield kids are missing after having gone canoeing, but all anyone can talk about is those two bears that were euthanized.
I think it’s a shame that it happened. I think it’s foolish that the parent or parents of the four-year-old who stuck his hand through the fence, weren’t supervising the kid any better. But, as I have already so wisely put it, stuff does happen.
Some are even pointing a finger at Maymont officials for being so quick to put the bears down in order to determine if they had rabies. Yes, it’s true that the chances were slim that either bear did, but inasmuch as rabies treatments can be excruciatingly painful (or so they tell me), did Maymont officials really have any other choice? And, even if the shots are not as painful as they used to be, why subject a kid to unnecessary medical treatments. Do you take the attitude that the kid and/or his parents were so irresponsible that he deserves a little pain? Somehow that just doesn’t’ make sense to me. Or, am I being silly again?
Just think of the uproar if Maymont had come out and said they had decided to wait and see if the four-year-old kid started foaming at the mouth. Sometimes you just can’t win for losing, and this was a no-win situation for Maymont. I suppose the folks at Maymont could have come out and requested that the kids parents be put in front of a firing squad, but, even that position would have met with an outcry from some, albeit not many, Richmonders.
Now the mayor is in a turmoil. I hear he’s calling for some sort of an investigation into this whole thing. Personally, regardless of what Richmond Mayor Governor Wilder thinks, I feel Maymont did exactly the right thing. I’m sure Wilder is involved because he’s such a great bear humanitarian, and not because it’s another photo op.
Maybe it is just me, but if I’m the moron here, then so be it. In fact I think I’d rather be a moron in my own sane little world, than be viewed as politically correct out there in this Hooterville world of 2006.
But, then again, maybe that’s just me.

The Bear Facts (Yep, this one was just too easy)

I was watching the local early morning news today. I like to do that whenever I get worried that my blood pressure may be getting a little too low. For some reason, the folks at Channel 6 raise my dander (and blood pressure) more than the others.
They sensationalize everything. It's not that I mind sensationalism, but unless the story is somewhat sensational, it's just a let down by the time they tell the story they've been hyping.
This morning the story that had Julie Bragg just about ready to start hyperventilating had to do with Maymont Park's decision to euthanize its two bears, after one of the bears bit a child. It's pretty standard to do that when a wild animal bites a human, as the only way to test for rabies is to examine the brain of the animal. I guess they're trying to figure out what the animal must have been thinking.
Anyway, Julie Bragg and company kept hyping the story, proclaiming public outrage over the bears being put down. Greg McQuaid, who began the story by saying one of the bears "allegedly" had bitten the child (you don't want to falsely accuse a dead bear), was calling it a "firestorm." I admit, I was a little confused, inasmuch as the life of the child was riding on discovering if he could have rabies.
However, the real story was not about the outrage over the bears being put to sleep, but over the parents allowing their child to climb a restrictive outer fence and get close enough to be bitten. That I can understand. Although I do think some people tend to overreact just a tad.
One thing you can always count on around these parts is stupid people getting their viewpoint aired on the local news. Regardless of the story, the news people can find someone who is ready to get in front of the camera and tell you, "that it just ain't fair, and I'm mad." I'm convinced that channel six keeps a mobile news truck in one of the local trailer parks so as to be able to put some angry illiterate on the air at a moment's notice. If you live in a trailer park and are reading this, then obviously, I'm not talking about you or your park.
Anyway, back to the bear story...one viewer, a woman named Faye, had emailed the station and proclaimed that the parents of the child should have been put down instead of the bears. What brilliance! Listen Faye they didn't kill the bears in an attempt to punish them. They had to examine their brains. Killing the parents, while perhaps making Faye happy, would do little to help medical authorities determine if the child needed painful rabies treatments.
Let me say right up front that it just ain't fair that these bears had to be killed, but, I think in the grand scheme of things, a child's life, even a stupid child with even more stupid parents, probably comes just a bit ahead of that of bears. I know you PETA folks won't agree with this. But, if there's one thing that I have never let bother me it's the opinion of PETA folks.
A spokeswoman from Maymont was interviewed and she did seem very sad that the bears had been killed. I think she would have been more believable, however, had she not been picking her teeth as she was interviewed.
Anyway, I feel my heart slowing down, so I'm going back to watch the news. Hope you have a nice day.

Funny, You Don't Sound Druidish

So I was sitting at my desk, deep in thought, contemplating life’s many mysteries, when who should phone me, but my old (and I do mean old) friend Lochru. You may recall that Lochru is a Druid who was frozen for centuries at the bottom of Falling Creek Reservoir, and only recently thawed out.
After exchanging pleasantries, I ask him, “So, how are you adjusting to life in the twenty-first century?”
“It’s not bad,” he says, “but there are some things I don’t understand.”
“You and every other Druid,” I reply. I had been waiting to use that line. And, I figured this was as good a chance as any.
“Huh?” he says.
“Nothing,” I reply, “I was just being funny.”
“That’s one of the things I don’t understand,” he says. “You people don’t know the first thing about comedy.”
“And I suppose the Druids are famous for their humor,” I reply dryly. At least I think I said it dryly. I’ve never been sure exactly what that means.
“I take it you’ve never heard of Calatin ‘Slappy’ Son of Myrrdin,” he says somewhat defensively.
“And, who might he be,” I ask.
“Only THE funniest stand-up comic of his day,” Lochru says, and then, adds with what I detect to be a tear in his voice, “Although I’m sure he’s been dead for quite some time.”
If there’s one thing that makes me uncomfortable, it’s a crying Druid, so trying to change the subject, I say, “You mentioned that there were some things you don’t understand?”
“Yeah, I did,” he says. “For instance, I’ve been watching the Olympics, and while they’re not as exciting as our Taillteann Games, I am somewhat intrigued.”
Lochru continued, “But I totally don’t get curling.”
“You, me, and every other Druid,” I reply. Lochru laughs. Now he gets it.
“Actually, I thought it was a game you folks invented,” I reply.
“Well, the Scottish had something similar,” he tells me, “but this curling I see on TV has to be about as boring as spending several centuries encased in a block of ice.”
“You’re the authority on that,” I retort.
“Well curling just looks like a bunch of grown men crawling around on the ice,” Lochru says. “But, the event I really don’t understand is ice falling.”
“Ice falling?” I ask.
“Well, maybe that’s not the name, but they have these women in these tiny little dresses and they come out on the ice, and the music starts and they skate around and every few minutes they fall down.”
“Oh, you mean figure skating,” I say. “I don’t think the falling down is intentional.”
“What!” Lochru exclaims. “I thought that must be the most important part, as often as it’s done.”
“Go figure.” I say. I really don’t know why I say it, but it’s the sort of thing you say when you really can’t think of anything intelligent to say.
“One more question before I have to scat,” Lochru says.
“If it’s about the Olympics, I’m really not much of an authority,” I say.
“No, no. I really just want your opinion,” Lochru says. “What do you think about the County’s Chamber of Commerce paying the $18,000 for Lane Ramsey’s chartered flight?”
“Why, Lochru,” I exclaim, “I’m impressed. I didn’t realize you would be interested in matters like that.”
“Hey, I may be outdated,” he says, “but I’m not stupid. If there’s one thing we Druids appreciate it’s fiscal responsibility.”
“So, do you think the Chamber should have anted up the money,” I ask him.
“Well, it reminds me of the time Pompinius Mela was down in Gaul and he got the report that one of his friends was about to become a human sacrifice,” Lochru says.
“What happened?” I ask
“Well, he spends one hundred cattle to charter an ox to bring him back, and when word got out…well, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Let me just say that.”
Before I can reply, Lochru continues, “But, hey I gotta run. American Idol is coming on, and I’m kinda rooting for Elliott."
"You and every other Druid," I say dryly.

A Heroin-Free Column That Won't Cost You $18,000 (Sorry it's the best title I could come up with)

Good morning Americans! Stand by for my totally warped opinions which I'll try to pass off as news.
First story comes from Roanoke (Virginia): I think WSLS, the NBC afilliate in the Star City, has come up with a masterful plan. TV stations are so competitive these days when it comes to their meteorologists. Each station wants to proclaim that their weather guessers are more accurate than the other guys. They keep adding dopplers and radars and all the fancy stuff to prove how accurately they can tell you whether it's going to rain or snow or whatever.
In actuality, none of these weather people do all that great a job. They're almost perfect at giving you the current temperature and wind speed, and they can calculate that wind chill factor perfectly, although we all know wind chill is a made up thing.
But WSLS is, evidently, tired of playing those little games of who has the best weathermen. If someone accuses their weather guys of getting it wrong, WSLS has the perfect excuse. They can just say, "Yes, you're right, but they do a pretty good job considering they're on heroin."
So far WSLS has two heroin-addicted meterologists, but, who knows, they may find it so effective from a marketing standpoint, that they'll go out and get some more. Before you know it all the stations will be following suit. Rather than spending big bucks on sophisticated equipment, they can spend the small bucks and hire drunks and other chemically-addicted personalities.
I kind of like the possiblities of some rather in-your-face promotional opportunities. Things like, "Okay, we got it wrong again, but our meterologists were being booked on possession charges just minutes before the eleven o'clock news." Or, try this one on for size, "Our meterologist was high on crack last night, but he still was pretty close."
It's a take it or leave it approach. And, as I said, I like it.
On to a totally different story - What's up with Chesterfield County administrator, Lane Ramsey? The guy must have some sort of Superman complex. Here he was, out in Kansas (which is where Smallville is located, by the way), when he gets word that Ed Barber, the chairman of the county's Board of Supervisors had been arrested on child abuse charges.
So, what does Ramsey do? He flies back to town. Trouble is, he couldn't get a commercial flight until the next day, so, at taxpayer's expense, he charters an airplane for $18,000 and heads home.
First of all, what did he think he could he do that was so important that he get had to get back home immediately? Was he planning on busting Barber out of jail? I don't recall anything of monumental importance happening upon Ramsey's return.
Maybe he was just being a good friend, but it seems to me that a reasonably intelligent man, who is holding a $300 ticket (or thereabouts) in his hot little hand for a flight the next day, will stop and think when he's given a quote of $18,000.
It'd be like me going in McDonald's and asking them to really supersize the hamburger, and then they ring up a bill for eight hundred and fifty bucks. Am I really going to think that's not that much difference from my normal five dollar lunch? And, if I'm putting it on the company card, am I really going to think that the boss won't notice that today's bill is just a tad higher?
I don't know what county administrators do, but I hope they don't deal with the financial matters for the county. Ramsey probably hear's reports of the U.S. government spending ten thousand for a toilet seat and says, "Sweet! Where can I find a bargain like that?"
I wonder at what point does a public servant of the citizens begin to think he's so important that he can throw $18,000 away and no one should question him, or that he's so important that he has to be here regardless of the cost. I don't think I'm that important, yet. But I am somewhat impressed with my brilliant observations. So impressed, that I think I'll treat myself and go get the best cup of coffee in town. Can anyone lend me a couple hundred? Never mind, this column is so good, I'll just put it on the company card.

The Poet's Corner

I’m getting myself some culture. Or, at least I’m trying to. I’ve decided to become a Haiku poet. I’ve always been kinda put off by the idea because I figured it was just too Japanese for me to comprehend.
And, I admit, I still don’t fully understand it. But, I’ve been reading some of this Haiku stuff and it would appear that writing it is as easy as falling off a log. In fact, that might be a Haiku line right there.
Now, if you’re not a devotee of the art, you might appreciate a little refresher course on just what Haiku is. So here goes:
It’s one of the most ancient forms of poetry. Basically it’s a poem with seventeen syllables, arranged in three lines – five syllables in the first and third lines and seven in the middle line.
Also, Haiku is supposed to allude to a season. You don’t come right out and say the season. That would spoil it all. You just infer.
And, one more thing, it doesn’t rhyme. That’s always been the biggest off-putter for me. Poetry that don’t rhyme ain’t really poetry, I always say. But, evidently really smart people know that good poetry isn’t supposed to rhyme.
Also really smart people get their thrills, evidently, from this Haiku stuff. I was reading about Haiku on this one Internet site, lit.org. And, they were raving about this particular piece of Haiku. Here’s what they said:

The poet's “Napalm Memories” is an excellent Haiku with a depth of meaning that transcends the words. It is well worth the read, it is multilayered in its meaning, and an excellent example of haiku at its best.

Okay, you had me at multilayered. I’m anxious to read this Haiku thing. So, I click on the title and here’s what I read:

aces over eights
a slow walk in the jungle
tears fire and rain

Yep, that’s it. I thought my Internet connection had frozen up on me. Where are those multilayers? And, by the way, that napalm memories stuff ended with “tears fire and rain.” That’s only four syllables unless you’re from the deep South, then it’s about ten syllables. I think this Haiku writer was cheating.
Anyway, I’ve decided to try my hand. The only problem is that I haven’t written any poetry since the third grade. Back in those days, I considered it high humor if I mentioned underwear in my poems. And, I guess I kind of got stuck in a pattern. Now, it’s impossible for me to write poetry without mentioning underwear. But, anyway. I’m going to try my hand at this Haiku thing.

Fire storms ablazing
And here I fear for my life
Boxers on the ground

The firestorms refer to summer. I think. And the underwear inclusion is somewhat subtle. I think it has a nice ring to it. But, I’d appreciate your input. Here’s another of my original works:

Cold poem don’t you rhyme
But it’s a poem anyway
At least I have briefs

Did you catch the multilayered inferrences? It’s a “cold poem,” so it’s winter. Get it?
And, since I have a poem that doesn’t rhyme, I, the poet, feel somewhat naked, but, at least, I have my underwear on.
Of course, you may have your own interpretation. I just broke one of the cardinal rules of Haiku. Don’t try and explain it to the reader. Let him or her bask in the glory of his or her own interpretation.
Well, I’m going to leave you with what I consider my best work to date. But don’t worry, I’m sure I have more Haiku in me. Enjoy.

Cold and flu season
Buzzard bites at my big neck
My shorts are too tight

Watch Out! This Little Prick Might Hurt

You know, we really do live in a mixed-up world. In other words, as the old saying goes, "Everyone here is crazy except me and you, and I'm not so sure about you." Have you heard about this execution by lethal injection being postponed out in California. Now, first of all, just about anything that goes on in California is going to be filed under the "Strange" department.
But this story is just plain ludicrous. There's this murderer out there by the name of Michael Morales. Morales has been sentenced to die. In fact, he was supposed to have been put to death last night. But, nooooo. Morales is still breathing and we have the lawyers to thank.
Morales' lawyers are concerned about the possibility that their client might feel a little pain when he's injected with the lethal doses that will kill him. Let me make it clear that I'm not in favor of intentionally inflicting pain. You know, I'm not suggesting that this rapist's body parts be put in a vise and that the vise be slowly turned so as to deliberately cause undue suffering, in a somewhat slow and excruciating manner.
Such a thought would never even occur to me. What do you think I am, a sadist or masochist or whatever the correct term would be?
But, hey, if the guy's only a moment or so away from death, I really don't care too much if he feels a tad bit of pain. I feel pain every morning just climbing out of bed. Besides, we're not talking about some poor little fellow who has spent his entire life seeking to alleviate the pain of others.
Besides raping his victim, Morales also was accused (and found guilty) of murdering a teenage girl, back in 1981, by trying to strangle her and then beating her with a hammer and stabbing her. How dare Mr. Morales' lawyers waste the court's time by charging the government with cruel and unusual punishment.
I'm sure those attorneys are patting themselves and each other on the back this morning. They succeeeded in at least delaying the execution. Seems the anaestheseiologists, who were charged with certifying that poor Mr. Morales would be unconscious before he was painfully injected with lethal poisons, couldn't understand exactly how unconscious the guy had to be, so they walked.
You know, if the lawyers and their client are all that worried that the poor torturer of a teenage girl will have a moment of suffering before he buys the farm, why don't those guys in the penal system just offer to shoot him in the head as he walks towards the death chamber? It's quick, probably painless (I've never been shot in the head, so I'm not an authority). That should make everyone happy. Shouldn't it?
I admit I haven't thought this out completely. Why should I start doing something like that at this late date? But, on the surface, I don't see any problems with it. Besides, think of all the taxpayer money that will be saved.
You do agree with me, don't you? Or am I really the only sane one left?

Problems With Race

Well, the Great American Redneck Whinefest started yesterday. It will continue until November, and you can bet the whine will be flowing freely. I am, of course, talking about NASCAR. Did you ever hear so many grown men whine and moan about just about everything that happens?
And, another thing...why is it that no matter where these guys are from they sound like they stepped right out of the movie Deliverance? You would think all of these NASCAR guys from North Carolina, the home of southern whining. But, some of these guys are from New England and California and other equally strange places. Yet they all have that same whiny southern twang.
"I don't unnerstan why DJ ran up on top o' me like he did. I mean if he was a rookie or sump'n I could unnerstan it, but that boy knowed better than to do what he did." They all say virtually the same thing, they just change the initials to whomever was the last one to run them off the track.
Why can't they just do drugs and abuse women like the other big sports celebrities? No, these good ol' boys love their mammas, the flag, their Hooters Chevrerlay and the entire Hooters Chevrerlay team, and they love to whine.
Speaking of auto crashes, as I segue into something comfortable, did any of you drive in to Richmond from the Williamsburg area this morning? I've never seen so little snow do so much damage to so many fool drivers. I truly do believe that the most ignorant so and so's on the road are the SUV drivers. I bet I counted fifteen SUVs in ditches, lying on their sides or tops, crashed into trees and whatever else 1/16th of an inch of snow can do to you.
How fast must these morons have been going? Are they so stupid that they truly don't realize that having a big fancy car does not protect you from ice? Interstate 64 was a nightmare this morning and primarily because of pick-up truck and SUV drivers. And, I'm sure since most of these guys fancy themselves as would-be NASCAR stars, they'll all whine about someone else forcing them off the road.
Well, here's a little tip to you SUVers, you did it all by yourself. When there's ice on the road, reasonably intelligent drivers slow down, but not you guys. You come flying past us at 65 or 70 mph, thinking your big shiny tank-like vehicles come with a license to drive like a maniac. And then thirty minutes later we come creeping past you as you examine your smashed up front or rear end. I would laugh at you, but I'm just too nice a guy.
What I would love to see, even pay dear money to see, is a race featuring a bunch of them dang fool SUV drivers. Get them out on the track and let 'em at it. Now, you'd see some crashes. And, yep, I bet you'd hear some good whining as well. And that always makes for an entertaining combination.

Did I Order Mountain Dew or Mountain Doo

You know, I don't know how I do it. Sometimes I even amaze myself. Take right now for example. I woke up this morning worrying about two stories in the news. But, voila! I've come up with an idea that could perhaps turn these negatives into positives. Let me explain. I have a feeling you're going to be as impressed with me as I am with myself.
First, there is this story in the news about this bratty kid in Tampa, Florida who did this experiment for her science fair. The kid went to four different fast food restaurants and took samples of the ice and the toilet water, and, as you would guess, the ice had more bacteria than did the toilet water.
Now, let me say right off the bat, that this kid should be expelled. Why go meddling? Why give us normal humans just something else to worry about? I haven't even gotten my emotions around this whole bird flu thing, and, now I have to start worrying about contaminated ice.
But enough complaining. That's not my style. Let's move on to story number two. Seems that according to scientists (why don't we just get rid of the scientists and we could all sleep better?), Greenland's glaciers are melting into the sea twice as fast as previously believed. That wouldn't worry me so much, but I did see that movie about tornadoes in Los Angeles and New York being sunk and all that. And, if memory serves me correctly, it had to do with glaciers. So, now I've got another little issue stuck in my pretty little head.
But, here's what I've come up with. I'll admit this is just a temporary fix, but why don't the McDonald's and Burger Kings and Wendy's and all the rest get together and go take some of those glaciers and use them in their drinks? Do you see the brilliance here?
I don't think we really need all those glaciers. And, I'm sure anyone on a cruise ship who has ever heard of the Titanic, would be delighted to know the glaciers were being destroyed. What we don't want is those glaciers melting and causing the oceans to rise.
I feel pretty sure there are enough glaciers to fill all of our cups for many generations to come. And, here's the icing on my beautiful cake, the ice from the glaciers is really really pure. We won't have to worry about what we're chewing on when we finish our drinks. When we see a speck in our Pepsi, we can rest assured that it's just some kind of a bug.
The way I see it, if all the fast food restaurants got together and shared the cost, the expense of chipping the glaciers and flying the ice back would be less than the electricity it takes to run all their ice machines. And, you tell me you wouldn't want to buy a big drink that was advertised as being "chilled by the pure glacial ice that came straight from Greenland into your cup."
I think we have a win-win situation here. I'm also thinking Nobel Prize, or whatever they call those awards they give to really smart people who come up with great ideas. It might be called the Emmy. I can't remember. Anyway, I'm dusting off my mantle as we speak.
However, I was a Boy Scout in my younger days, and I believe in being prepared. Just in case my glacier idea doesn't pan out, I'm also working on a way to freeze toilet water into little cubes. You may as well kill two birds with one stone, I always say.

An Open Letter To Illegal Aliens

Dear Illegal Aliens,

I really hate to have to come right out and say some things, for which, I’m sure some may brand me as a bigot. But you’ve forced my hand. Your actions over the past few years have not gone unnoticed by me, as well as many others, let me assure you.
I’ve watched the way you’ve slipped in. I’ve watched you drink our beer, ogle our women, take our jobs. I know what you’re up to. And, personally, it makes me sick.
So, rather than continuing to beat around the bush, or even worse, pretend you don’t even exist, I’m going to address you openly. You’re a disgrace to the human race, if, indeed, I should call you human at all.
Oh dear! I just reread what I’ve written so far. Maybe I didn’t make it clear that I’m only speaking to you illegal aliens from other planets. To the rest of you illegal aliens, I say, “Never mind. Go back to whatever you were doing.”
But to you strange visitors from another planet, to those of you who have no appreciation for truth, justice, and the American way, I have a few things to say. And, I’ll take the consequences for saying these things. If you zap me, or vaporize me, or lay a big bean pod next to me that becomes a shallow, insensitive version of me, and then you discard me (but be careful, that shallow insensitive version, might still be me), so be it.
It wasn’t enough for you to probe our bodies. That, I didn’t object to so much, primarily because it was never my body you were probing. But, this mind control thing has gotten completely out of hand.
Your attempts to drive us insane are working. I know I shouldn’t admit it, but, hey, even you illegal aliens can tell how crazy we’re becoming. You should know. It’s exactly what you’ve been planning. Drive us crazy and this big beautiful planet (which, yes, I like to call Earth), will be yours.
You may succeed, but I’m using this forum to inform mankind of your plans. Ha! Take that. Do you think I don’t know that Larry King is one of you. Who could not know? He barely disguises his lizard-like form behind that disgustingly grotesque human facemask he wears.
I saw him last night. His show was devoted to a serious investigation of the Dick Cheney shooting incident. And, yes, I’m sure millions of your duped minions hung on every word he grunted from somewhere deep down in that reptilian body of his. I honestly don’t know about the other news people. Are they from your planet, or are they mere simple-minded humans over whom you’ve already gained complete mind control? Time will tell, I suppose.
I admit, you almost got my mind hooked with all that Bode Miller hype. I was even contemplating watching the Olympics. I was almost convinced he could win the gold. But, thankfully, my brain is just too supercharged to be fooled by you. I now realize that he is probably of your race…your kind. I went back and looked at the hours of interviews with the guy that I had captured on my DVR. It should be obvious to even the most casual observer that he’s not human.
You aliens are clever, clever creatures. You started us off by filling our heads with hours and hours of brainless television, video games, and, let us not forget your Harlequin Romances. You got our mushy little heads right where you wanted them. And, now you’re ready to completely, and for all time, destroy our ability to think sanely.
Well, maybe you’ll fool some, perhaps even the majority. I’m sure there are plenty of mindless viewers out there who would do your bidding regardless of the consequences. You’re just that good.
But, you’re not perfect. You haven’t taken control of me. My mind is way too sharp, way too focused, to be controlled by your kind. I’ve sat and watched you in action. I gave you time to adapt to our ways. I even had hope for you after watching E.T. and ALF. But, now I know you simply used such friendly alien characterizations to try and make us believe you were harmless…cute, if you will.
I’m here to tell you that your plan may succeed to a point, but there are more like me out here. We will never be controlled. We will take whatever action is necessary to send you home. I’m here to tell you right now, in no uncertain terms, “America…love it or leave it.”
So, just take heed, all of you galactic ne’er-do-wells. I will not be overtaken. I am right now devising a plan of action. A plan so remarkable, so brilliant, that your demise is virtually assured.
I should go back to the garage and continue working on my plan. But that will have to wait. Skating With the Celebrities is coming on right now. And, this is one episode I do not want to miss. I'll get back to you on this.

Love,

Steve

A Special Steve Cook Investigative Journalism Kind of Blog

Now this is just speculation on my part, but, based on the reports I'm hearing from the major network news guys, I'm wondering if maybe Dick Cheney was plotting to kill that lawyer by taking him along on a hunting trip. One female anchor on one of those overnight news shows on CBS said, "APPARENTLY Cheney shot Harry Whittington unintentionally." I caught her inference. That's what Cheney is saying, but (wink, wink) we know the real truth.
Cheney probably had no idea that when he shot the guy it would make the news, or that anyone along on the trip, including Secret Service agents, would ever tell on him. That's pathetically obvious when you consider that as soon as Cheney shot the guy, he didn't immediately call NBC's David Gregory from his cell-phone and announce the shooting. What's also obvious is that the entire White House tried to suppress this major story of international importance. Don't they realize that the media will hear about such things?
So, all the evidence comes back to my original point. Dick Cheney was trying to kill Mr. Whittington. Now, keep in mind I am only speculating, but as long as I am, let's think about why Cheney would want the guy dead.
At first I chalked it off simply to the fact that the guy's a lawyer. But Cheney probably deals with lots of lawyers, and so far it doesn't appear he's killed any. Unless he's been killing lawyers for years and this time he just messed up.
So, if it's not just an all-out vendetta against lawyers, what is the reason Cheney was trying to kill the man?
His age? I considered and rejected that idea. I can see the rationale in trying to get one more elderly person off Social Security. You know, save a little for himself, once his term is over. But again, unless the vice president has been killing scores of elderly, just one old lawyer probably won't make much of a difference.
So, not being able to figure this little attempted murder mystery out, I decided to do a little investigating. You'll never believe what I found. In 1999 a Texas governor by the name of George W. Bush, appointed Harry Whittington as head of the Texas Funeral Service Commission. That commission was charged with investigating improprieties in the funeral industry and fingers were pointed at some of Bush's staff. In fact, it was implied that Bush had looked the other way when certain funeral homes were engaged in wrongdoing.
Now, I know that this was a Governor Bush, and not our President Bush, but, can't you see how Cheney could have gotten confused with the names so similar? Could Cheney have figured that if he killed this Whittington that no one would ever connect President Bush with the Texas governor with the very same name?
I know. It's a wild speculation and requires a giant leap of faith, but, when you consider how Cheney probably plotted to kill Whittington, it all makes sense.
I have to admit that I'm somewhat proud of myself for doing this research. I haven't heard any of the big-time reporters make the connection, but, then, maybe they've never thought about how similar the President's name is to that Texas governor.
Kudos to you, Mr. Cook...kudos to you.

Watch Out For the Flakes

Whew! I thought I'd never make it to work today...what with all that snow. We Richmonders really got hit hard, as usual.
And, a special tip of the hat to WWBT. On Sunday morning they had their Slush Team 12 on the air at 5:30 or so. As you already know if you live around these parts, we had a major snow dusting Saturday night into Sunday morning. True, it wasn't quite as major as what New York City faced, but those two inches scared more than a few of us here.
Evidently it downright petrified the good folks at channel 12. Every reporter was just a little more traumatized than the preceeding one. I saw one gal in the field showing us all the slush that had accumulated on a back alley. It was probably almost as much ice as that time I emptied out onto the ground my McDonald's Diet Pepsi cup before throwing it in the trash. I know there had to be at least 1/32 of an inch of accumulation on whatever roadway the lady was standing beside. I wish I knew her name. I'd like to thank her personally for sacrificing her own safety to bring us that report.
I woke up and saw all the church closings crawling across the bottom of the screen and figured we'd gotten a wallop. I guess there are a lot of preachers out there who would do anything to not have to get up on a cold Sunday morning. You'd think if you worked only one day a week you'd be anxious to go to work that day. Think again.
Channel 12 was scrambling desperately to turn the overnight dusting into a reason for a special newscast. They sent one reporter out to the airport. He breathlessly filed a story on how the weather was playing havoc with the airlines' schedules. And to prove it, he interviewed a guy who had braved the slushzard to go meet his wife who was flying in.
The guy said he expected his wife's plane to land in about ten minutes. Imagine that sort of wait. But wait, there's more. The reporter then went on to admit that the gentleman's wife's plane had not been delayed, but he assured us that some planes were delayed. Evidently he just couldn't find anyone who was actually impacted by that.
Jim Duncan had gotten up early to tell us that we had dodged another bullet. I hate that. Boy, did he have egg on his face. No, I don't mean he was embarrassed. I think that really was a little yoke stuck to the corner of his mouth.
Anyway, we surived this one...somehow. But don't start feeling too comfortable just yet. I hear the weather gurus are calling for frost later on in the week. Be careful out there, and whatever you do, no matter how harmless the weather might seem to be, there's one thing WWBT's trauma team kept reminding us of, and, I'll pass that reminder on to you. I'll come right out and say those two terrifying words that will keep all sane folks off the road until at least mid-March...black ice.

Toying With the News

As you may know by now, I'm none too fond of most of the news media, especially the local guys and gals. I hate the way they tease a story in order to get you to stay tuned, as in, "Will meteor showers destroy all life on earth this weekend? Tune in at Eleven." I hate that.
I also hate the fact that even the supposedly hard-hitting news and talk shows have become obsessed with celebrities. I don't really think they need to interrupt King of Queens to tell me that Nick and Jessica have broken up. And, what's with this Queen Latifah fixation?
I'm sure the fact that there are about 150 talk shows on the air has a lot to do with the hype and tripe that are constantly thrown at us, the innocent, viewing public. And what about those so-called debates that they have on Hannity and Colmes or Bill O'Reilly, or whomever. They're not debates at all. It's just ten minutes of "Let's scream at one another."
One guy says, "The president is a lying, scheming thief."
The other intellectually replies, "Oh yeah, what about Bill Clinton. He had his enemies put to death."
And the first guy comes back,"Well, Bush is secretly murdering our guys in Iraq."
And then the second guys says, "Oh yeah, what about Bill Clinton. He had his enemies put to death."
Why can't any of the hosts moderate an honest-to-goodness, intelligent debate. If one guy makes a ridiculous assertion, stop him and ask him what proof he has. When the other guy responds by hurling accusations about someone else, stop him and make him respond to the first guy's assertions.
That would be revolutionary television. But, my opinion is it ain't going to happen, because there's still plenty of spinning, and wiggling even in the no-spin zones.
But, as bad as television news has been for the last several years, something has happened recently that helps me realize that no matter how inane the news guys are, there's always room to sink further.
Case in point: On two or three newscasts recently...yes, you heard me correctly...I'm talking about what's supposed to be legitimate newscasts. I'm not talking about Access Hollywood or anything like that.
But, on two newscasts, they did a story about this couple that broke up a couple of years ago. The girl left her long-time beau and started hanging out with another guy. But now, after two years, it appears the gal has got eyes for the original guy again. He's supposedly back in the picture, better than ever.
Pretty asanine story for the network news, wouldn't you say. But you'll never guess who the couple is. Tune in tomorrow.
No, I'm just kidding. I'll tell you now. It's not some rock star and his live-in lover. It's not a Hollywood duo. Nope, this couple that broke up and are now getting back together are, (ready?) Ken and Barbie!
Ken and Barbie? Please. It's bad enough you news idiots think Jessica and Nick are newsworthy, but now you're doing stories on toys...pieces of plastic, semi-anatomically correct (or so they tell me) dolls.
This is just too absurd. What, with all the fighting and killing in the world, with the Muslims upset about cartoons, with the war in Iraq and the ongoing war on terror, don't you think that we, the intelligent viewers deserve better. Come on. Pull out the heavy artillery, for heaven's sake. We want to know what's going on with G.I. Joe.

More of Those Not-So-Sweet Mysteries of Life

I spend a lot of time in my car. I'm not really going anywhere, it's just that I get a kick out of the luxurious feeling that comes from sitting in a 1993 Saturn. Plus, I keep my Hostess cupcake stash under the torn uphostery, and I like to be close to that.
But, enough bragging about my material possessions. I really came here to brag about my deep thoughts. While riding, I do a lot of thinking. It's kind of an occupational hazzard. And, as I'm thinking, I'm coming up with questions that I simply can't answer. Maybe you can help. I know a lot of you are a lot deeper than I, so put your thinking caps on and help me out.
First question, am I crazy or what? Let me explain what I mean. Every time I'm riding down the highway and I see one of those driver ed cars, you know the ones that say "Student Driver," I get this urge to jerk in front of the car and slam on brakes. It's just my way of giving the student a little pop quiz. I never do it. But, I get this urge.
Now, is that just me, or does that happen to all of you, too? That's what I want to know. I guess what I'm asking is if my reaction is pretty normal, or what?
But, on to other thoughts and questions...Are the Grammy Awards really disgusting to you too? I like most music genres. So, it's cool to see pop and country stars together, but then they bring out all the hip hop thugs and all the people I like are applauding and acting like they're just fine being in a room with all those criminals.
It's kind of like if the Chamber of Commerce had it's citizens of the year awards dinner and they merged that event with the state penal system's convicts of the year awards, and they all sat down together and had a great time. And all the citizens were applauding the criminals for something that semi resembled talent, like carving guns out of soap, or hiding cigarettes or whatever. Does that make sense to you?
What I don't get is that the people who seem to think hip-hopping thugs are okay, are the same people who think it's a crime to wiretap terrorists. Maybe it's just me. Maybe that all makes perfect sense. Maybe that mind-numbing fragrance of rich Corinthian terry cloth which fills the interior of my Saturn is playing with my brain. Who knows?
There is one more thing about which I am a little puzzled. In fact, it's left me scratching my head. I heard recently that this Catholic priest in Italy wants Michael Jackson to record some of Pope John Paul II's poems or something. I've been trying to figure out what a Catholic priest and Michael Jackson could possibly have in common. I mean are there any shared interests at all? If so, I sure can't think of what it could be. You out there...any ideas?

No Cellin' But I'm Still Gellin'

I'm convinced that if you brought in the top business consultants and asked them to devise a customer service program that was totally inept, completely inefficient, and devoid of any concern or compassion for the customer, they would not be able to come close to what Sprint Telephone has done, apparently unintentionally. From the moment you walk in the door, their retail center reeks of apathy, no make that disdain.
For starters you walk in, but you're not allowed to ask any questions or speak with a representative until some punky little teenager decides she's ready to take your name, password, social security number, blood type, mother's maiden name, and whatever else she wants. She then enters you in a system and your name pops up on a giant screen proclaiming to all that you are the latest victim of their sadistic customer service games.
Next, you stand around and watch as the various Sprint employees engage in conversation with one another, and apparently school chums, boyfriends, and whomever else happens to be sitting around. There doesn't appear to be any rhyme or reason as to when they decide to call your name.
It's not like they're finishing up with someone else or working on something. They're just sort of wandering around the store, sipping cokes and downing Subway sandwiches.
Finally they call your name. It's just a tad more difficult having access to one of their reps than obtaining an audience with the Pope. And then you step forward to one of their work stations (and I use the term "work" quite loosely).
Now you go through the same set of questions in order to be allowed to tell them what your problem is. And finally, you've cleared security and they take your phone and tell you that sometime in the not too distant future there's a chance you'll get it back.
I had to leave my phone with them overnight because by the time I had jumped through all their hoops their technicians had gone home. The next day I make a thirty minute drive back to their store to pick up my repaired phone. Only one problem. They couldn't fix it. They couldn't tell me that the night before because the representative who looked at the phone only knows how to punch buttons on his computer.
So then I'm told that a replacement phone will arrive in three to five business days. They have a store filled with phones, but I have to wait three to five days for my replacement to come in.
Eventually, I get the phone call telling me my new phone has arrived. I spend another thirty minutes driving to the store. After going through top level security clearance one more time, my rep wanders around the store, looking for my new phone. Evidently they play a little game of hide the phones with each other. My rep went from work station to work station and finally found my phone.
I asked him about getting the phone numbers from my old phone transferred into my new phone. He told me that would take three hours. Three hours? I could enter everything manually in thirty minutes, but it's going to take them three hours to hook a little wire up and download numbers. I told them to forget it, and asked that they just print out a list of my phone numbers. They agreed, but that also takes three hours. I guess I just didn't understand how busy these people are, what with entering names, drinking Cokes, and chatting with friends, and all.
So, I told them I'd come back later to pick up my list of numbers. Before I leave my rep informs me that it could take anywhere from fifteen minutes to two hours for my phone to be activated.
About an hour later my phone rings. I answer but the caller can't hear me. I try calling the caller back. He answers. I can hear him, but he can't hear me. So, I go to a land line and call Sprint's Customer Service Department. Yes, I agree, I am a glutton for punishment.
The lady tells me that the reason no one can hear me is that my phone hasn't completely been activated. Being the fool I am, I believe her. "If it's not working within two hours of the time you got it, call us back," she says. She sounds pleasant. I thank her and hang up. I look at my watch. It had been an hour and fifty-eight minutes, but, hey, I'm a patient guy. I wait another half hour. My phone still doesn't work, so I call Sprint back.
This time a lady with only a rudimentary working knowledge of the English language listens to my complaint and glibly informs me that it takes four hours to activate.
"Four hours?" I ask. I was told it would be no more than two hours.
She listens patiently, and then explains, "Four hours is what it takes."
"Well, why did two people tell me it would be two hours, maximum?" I ask. "Four hours is twice as long as two hours," I explain.
This time she understands my frustration and replies, "Four hours. That's what it takes." Yes, my blood is now boiling.
"I need to speak with your manager," I say.
"Currently there are no managers here," she says. At least she can say something other than "four hours."
"I don't believe that," I say, now somewhat screaming. "You're not working in a vacuum. Put a manager on the phone."
"That will take thirty to forty-five minutes," she says.
I know their games. I've played them before with the Sprint folks. "I'll give you five minutes," I demand. Although I have no idea what I'd do when the five minutes are up. But, she puts me on hold and, lo and behold, within five minutes one of their non-existent managers is on the line.
I explain my concerns. He apologizes and says that my inability to be heard on my phone has nothing to do with activation. I ask him if it's Sprint's policy to just give any answer that succeeds in getting the customer off the phone.
He's actually pretty nice. He doesn't really give me a straight answer, but he does offer to credit my account thirty dollars to compensate for my frustration. Actually, my frustration had reached about the forty-five dollar range, but I've learned from experience to take the money and run before they get mad at me and withdraw the offer.
Anyway, I had to make another thirty minute drive back to the Sprint store. By now, I've had enough. I demand satisfaction. I want a working phone now and I let them know, in no uncertain terms, that I will not settle for anything else.
Long story short: I get to go back in three to five busines days and pick up another new phone.
Now, you tell me...could you come up with anything that begins to compare with that degree of service?

Don't Read This. Please!

I’ve come to a rather shocking conclusion. It’s taken me half a century to get to this point, but due to a series of experiences recently, I’ve been forced to conclude that reading is fundamentally dangerous.
If I were you, I wouldn’t even read this. But, in case you haven’t quite reached the same conclusion as I have, I’ll explain. Up until now, I’ve always been a rather avid reader. I love (or loved) reading.
I didn’t really get hooked on it until the first grade when I was introduced to Dick, Jane, and Sally, and let’s not forget Sally’s teddy bear, Tim (I think). My first textbook was “The New Here We Come and Go.” Talk about a good read, a real page-turner, if you will, that book had it all…suspense, intrigue, a warm close family, everything.
But, that was yesterday and yesterday’s gone. I came across a children’s book recently. It was right there on the shelf in the children’s section of a major book retailer. The title of the book was, “Daddy Has a New Roommate.” I’m sorry to inform you that “The New Here We Come and Go” has Come and Gone.
When I saw the title, my mind instantly jumped to a conclusion. But, I also concluded that I must just have a sick, twisted mind. So, I picked the book up mainly to assure myself that it wasn’t what I was thinking it was about. Guess what. It was exactly what I was thinking it was about.
Seems that in this story, written for third or fourth graders, Billy’s dad has moved out of the home and is now living with his new love. It’s not Dick and Jane anymore, kids. It’s Dick and Ed. Obviously the book is designed for kids who have a parent who has decided to come out of the closet.
The book glosses over the emotional trauma of parents splitting up. Even if one takes the Seinfeldian approach regarding homosexuality that “there’s nothing wrong with that,” isn’t there something wrong with a dad leaving his family so he can go have sex with someone else?
Based on the message of this book, the answer would be a resounding, “NO.” Not only is there nothing wrong with it, this book promotes the idea that it’s only natural to give in to those primal urges regardless of the implications. The last page of the heavily illustrated book shows the son sitting on the floor watching TV. Behind him, on the couch, are his dad and his dad’s male partner snuggled up with each other. Ah, young love. The perfect nuclear family, I guess. The text on the last page reads, “Mom says Dad is happy now. And, if Dad is happy, I’m happy.” If Dad is gay, are you gay, too?
What a heartwarming message. Do you see why I’m giving up on reading?
There are other valid reasons for concluding that reading is fundamentally dangerous. For instance, if all those Muslims never read the newspaper, they would never have seen those cartoons. All this rioting and murdering could have been avoided if they just had stopped reading. Wake up people.
I had been thinking about all these things recently, and had even been toying with the idea that reading might not be all that it’s cracked up to be, but what really drove the whole thing home was my recent visit to the Richmond Public Library’s main branch on Franklin Street. If you want a real wake-up call as to the dangers of reading, just visit the library.
I had always been under the assumption that reading bred success. But, based on my library visit, I’m not so sure. When I was there the other day, the only people (other than myself and the librarians) there were homeless people. They were sitting around reading newspapers and magazines. This may sound rude, but the stench was nauseating. These people were filthy, truly. And, they were all reading. Do you see my point? If reading led these people to become what they have become, then my advice is, “Stop reading!” Stop now before it’s too late.
I’ll tell you how bad it’s gotten at the public library. And, I’m not making this up. There’s now a Richmond Sheriff’s office in the main lobby of the library. Reading has such a negative impact on folks, that just bringing readers together in a public place necessitates police protection.
So, please, listen to me. Make this the last thing you ever read. Stop reading today or it may be too late. If you’re so addicted to reading, and you can’t stop, and you wake up one day, lying in the gutter, and you find yourself homeless and dirty and wandering the public library, looking for something to give you some sort of temporary literary fix, just don’t come whining to me. And don’t even bother to write me a letter of complaint, because I assure you, I won’t be reading it.

Go East Young Anonymous

I did a blog last week in which I mentioned Richmond's East End. Anonymous, from who knows where, replied that he or she had always thought the stories of the East End were merely fables. Obviously, Anonymous has never visited the East End. In this regard he or she is not unlike many who have lived in Richmond for years.
So, as a public service, I will take you on a virtual tour of Richmond's East End. First, the question always comes up in any discussion of the East End, "How do you get there?" This is the tricky part, because in order to get there, from virtually any part of the Metro area, you're almost going to have to head East. If you go in the morning, just head towards the sun. In the afternoon, the sun will be at your back. Keep that simple rule in mind, and keep heading east. Yes, you'll probably travel through some sections of town you've never seen, but just keep going.
Next question, "How will I know when I get there?" That's easy. Look for the Confederate flags. Admittedly, there are some sections of the East End where you'll never see the Stars and Bars, but that's only the geographical East End. The true East End is a state of mind as much as it's a physical location.
And, in that state of mind, the South doesn't need to rise again...it's never fallen. True, the war still rages, but the South still reigns supreme. In the true East End, the term "boys in the hood," has an entirely different meaning than Spike Lee had in mind.
There is one thing that you'll find to be more prevalent in the East End than the Rebel flag, and that's Dale Earnhardt memorabilia. I'm not talking about Junior, although he's also very big in the East End. I'm talking the real thing, Dale, Sr. Don't be fooled, every other street in the East End is not really Dale Earnhardt Boulevard. Those are fake signs, and they're as popular in the East End as satellite dishes are in West Virginia.
East Enders are very inventive. You won't believe the number of different ways you can pay homage to "Number Three" on personalized license plates.
Something else that you'll find in great abundance in the East End are Bubbas. Every family has at least one Bubba, and often there are two or three, as in Little Bubba and Bubba, Junior. If you don't believe me, just go in the middle of any Dollar General store and yell, "Bubba." Watch how many heads you'll turn.
However, I have to warn you, before you enter Dollar General, or any of the other upscale boutiques in the East End, if you have any allergies to hairspray, don't go. The East End women have an affinity for the stuff, and they are particularly partial to the industrial strength sprays. I know that if you were to fire a bullet into their beehives or buns (not that you should ever contemplate anything like that), the bullet would be unable to penetrate East End hair.
Anonymous stated that he/she had thought of the East End as the stuff fables are made of. Not at all. The East End is real. It's made up of real people, living real lives. They drive real cars, watch real TV shows (not that skating with the celebreties garbage) and listen to real music (like Hank, Sr.) The East End is worlds apart from the West End, but as far as being real, it has the West End beat hands down.
In the East End, an upscale restaurant is one where the toothpicks come in protective cellophane wrapping. East End restaurants don't have no-smoking sections. In order to comply with the law, they will offer a no-smoking table, but that's only for West Enders and other foreigners who stop by. And, here's a little hint to you non-smokers, don't ask for the no-smoking table, ask for the smoking table closest to the no-smoking table.
There are East Enders who will come into the West End to shop, or work, or even play. But in the East End they'll honestly tell you, "The West End's a great place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there."
If you've never visited the East End, why not get the family together and make plans to spend your next vacation there. There's a great little motel. It still advertises that it offers free TV and steam heat, and It even has those magic finger beds.

"May I Have No More Food, Sir" or "Don't Be Gruel"

Congratulate me. This afternoon I succeeded in locating the worst restaurant in town, perhaps the worst in Virginia. The only problem is that I didn't realize just what a treasure I had found, until I'd already been seated and started eating.
The restaurant has been around for years, but the original owner retired and someone, who evidently hates both food and people, took it over.
I wonder what it would be like to be absolutely horrible at what you do, and yet you keep on doing it, perhaps even thinking you're doing it well. What? What's everyone looking at me for?
Anyway, I found myself in Richmond's East End this afternoon at lunchtime. I know, you're wondering how anyone could think so little of themselves to eat in Richmond's East End. But that's just the prejudices of you West Enders. The East End is a wonderful place, and despite the apprehension of many, it's a perfectly safe place to pass through, even at night...if you're a bullet.
But, I was in the mood for barbecue, and this restaurant used to serve pretty decent barbecue. The sign out front said they had a lunch buffet, and that sealed the deal. I went in.
The buffet, which was about $6.25 or so, consisted of relatively edible fried chicken, the dryest minced barbecue I've ever tasted in my life, mashed potatoes, corn, butter beans, cole slaw, and dinner rolls. Yep, you heard me correctly. That was it...nothing else.
Based on the way the food tasted, I guess it was a blessing in disguise that there weren't more items. As I mentioned the minced barbecue was exceptionally dry. It wasn't as dry as it was tasteless, but it was dry. The corn was fresh out of a can, with that extra syrupy sweetness they sometimes add to really cheap canned corn. I don't eat butter beans so I can't tell you about them, and the cole slaw was typical commercially produced cole slaw.
But, I have to tell you about the mashed potatoes, or the pseudo-mashed potatoes. Have you ever taken styrofoam packing, perhaps out of a carton your new TV came in? And, then, taken that styrofoam packing and melted it down, and then served it to your family, or guests, for dinner? Well, the folks at that restaurant have done just that. And they call it mashed potatoes.
This white lump of horror tasted very much like plastic. No, in fairness to the plastics industry, I'll take that back. I've enjoyed better tasting plastic. I can't really describe the potato-like substance they served on the buffet. All in all, it was a rather unpleasant meal.
However, I guess as a shrewd marketing ploy, the restaurant succeeded in making the food seem good in comparison with the service. As a child,I never was abandoned by my parents, but I felt very much like Hansel and Gretel must have felt sitting in that restaurant. The hostess led me to my table, the waiter took my order, brought my flatware and ice water, and then abandoned me.
Somehow I lost my napkin, or perhaps when it touched the mashed potatoes it disintegrated. Anyway, I figured when the waiter came back, I'd just ask for a few extra napkins. I'm willing to bet that waiter hasn't returned to my table yet. I sat and sat and sat.
Since the chicken was edible, I peeled the skin off and ate the white meat, but my fingers became excessively greasy. I probably should have saved the chicken skin to lubricate my car, but I didn't think about that at the time. Ultimately, I was forced to start wiping my grease-encrusted fingers on the dinner roll, which was about the only thing the roll was good for.
After I had finished dining, I patiently waited another ten minutes or so, and finally gave up. I went to the register, told the lady what I had eaten, and she rang me up. I then high-tailed it out of the restaurant, spent about five minutes gagging out in the parking lot, and then went on my way.
Because I'm such a nice guy, I won't mention the name of the restaurant. It has been around for quite a while, and as I said, it used to be very good. But, since the original owner, whom I shall call Andy, retired, it's really taken a downhill turn.
But, you're on your own. I really won't mention the establishment by name, he said, AND HE didn't.

You Know What I Hate? Now, That's a Stupid Question

You know what I hate? Apparently, just about everything anymore. I realize I have become a grumpy old man. It’s not just an act. I really have a sour disposition. The funny thing is (not ha ha funny), I was that way as a child, then at about thirty I became exceptionally pleasant. But now, I’m back to being grumpy.
But, anyway, I was going to share with you some of the things that really get under my skin. One thing I truly loathe is when someone, a workmate, a family member, whomever, asks me, “Are you in a bad mood today?”
I wasn’t until you asked that stupid question. You know, even if I am in a bad mood…no, make that especially if I’m in a bad mood, why ask the question? Unless you really just want to pick a fight.
And speaking of stupid questions, I hate it when someone condescendingly says, “There’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Yeah, right. I hear stupid questions every day. I ask stupid questions every day. I like to tell people, “There’s no such thing as a stupid question, just stupid people who ask questions.” The people I say that to usually just smile and thank me. You see what I mean about stupid?
Another question I hate is, “Mind if I sit here?” Unless they’re referring to my lap, what business is it of mine where they sit? And, on a related note, if I’m going to sit down at a lunch counter (sometimes pronounced bar), and I ask the person sitting next to an empty stool, “Is anyone sitting here?” please understand that obviously I don’t mean is there an invisible patron sitting on this stool right now. I’m trying to ascertain if, perhaps, someone is sitting there, but had to go to the men’s room or whatever. And one more thing, if I ask you that question, don’t say, “You are.” It’s not funny anymore. Okay?
Something else I hate to be asked by a waiter or waitress is, “Smoking preference?” I usually reply, “Marlboro.” That’s just a joke. I don’t really smoke (glad I cleared that up). But, hey, just ask, “Smoking or non-smoking?” I don’t consider choosing to sit in the non-smoking section a “smoking preference.” If anything, it’s a non-smoking preference.
Here’s another restaurant related question I hate (if you consider McDonald’s a restaurant, anyway),. When I go through the drive-thru, and order my meal, don’t ask me if I want an apple pie with that. It sounds too desperate. Believe me, if I wanted one of those things you call an apple pie, I’d ask for it. Now, if you ask me if I want to super-size my meal, that I can understand, but what correlation is there between a hamburger and an apple pie.
It reminds me of a job I had, many years ago, at Sears. In training, we were instructed to always try and upsell a customer. If the customer bought a shirt, we’d ask if he’d like a tie to go with that. Or, if he bought a pair of slacks, we’d try and sell him a belt to go with it. It all seemed to make perfect sense.
Then, after training, I was put in a department that sold two items…men’s top hats and men’s underwear. That’s like selling apple pies with hamburgers. “Would you like a nice pair of boxers to go with that hat, sir?”
Now, that’s a stupid question. And even I wasn’t stupid enough to ask that one.

Tuesday Morning at the Movies

I just heard the Oscar nominations announced. I guess I must have died several months ago, but nobody has ever gotten around to telling me. I'd never even heard of most of these actors/movies. And, what I have heard does not, in any way, make me want to see those movies.
Is it just me? I mean, really, do most of you out there go to see Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Good Night and Good Luck, and the rest of that heap of garbage? If those Hollywood folks and/or those who enjoy these movies, think they're impressing us common folk by claiming to enjoy this year's nominees, forget it. You don't. At least I'm not impressed.
And, if these really are the movies that most Americans enjoy, wow! We're certainly have become a rather morbid group of people. No wonder there's so much drama and trauma and violence and depression in the world today.
Although, I don't truly believe that the movies nominated this year are a true reflection on what Americans enjoy. I would like to think we're much more shallow than that. The most thought provoking movie I've seen in recent months is The Terminal with Tom Hanks, and I slept through a good portion of that.
The absolutely best movie in the past year was Flightplan. You remember that part when the heart appeared when Jodie Foster breathed on the window? Now that's a movie. And yet, how many times did you hear Mia Sorvino or that other guy mention Flightplan this morning? Exactly. That's my point.
I'm thinking about making a movie about a gay cowboy who becomes a gay writer and investigates a mass murder, and then, when he gets bored he begins a Communist witch hunt, and then he and his daughter (don't ask me how he has a daughter) get on this plane and she disappears, and then the plane lands and he gets stuck at the terminal for a year, and then this giant ape breaks out its cage and terrorizes the terminal, and the gay cowboy saves the day, but then he falls off the Empire State Building, and makes a big splash on Broadway, and then from that point, it kind of becomes a musical. Can you imagine how successful that would be? It would appeal to virtually every movie-goer on earth. I'd pay good money to see that kind of show.
On second thought, I think I'll just stay home and watch reruns of Law and Order and King of Queens. Talk about Oscar contenders. So what if they're not movies, they're entertaining, and I would think that's what the movies should be about.
It probably is just me, isn't it?

That's Not Funny, That's Schtick

Years ago, TV personality (sort of), Dick Cavett, was explaining in an interview that his early days as a stand-up comic were less than spectacular. He told of an occasion when, while doing his stand-up in a New York nightclub, an older woman left during his routine. The woman told a waiter on her way out, “Thank the young man for his lecture.”
I was reminded of that anecdote yesterday when the publisher of our magazines forwarded me an email from a West End woman who had read my recent column in the January/February issue of West End’s Best. Evidently, she was not amused.
The column was about an exciting cab ride I had “enjoyed” during my visit to China last fall. It was actually just an elaboration of a blog I’d done back in October.

Here’s that blog, in case you’re interested:

It’s difficult to type right now, as I reflect on a somewhat life-threatening ordeal we have just come through here in Communist China. Our adventure began after we passed through immigration and customs. On our way out of the train station, we were stopped by a man who asked us where we were going. The man wasn’t wearing any type of uniform, but being a little unsure of what to expect, we gave him the name of our hotel. He ran and grabbed another guy and said he’d obtained a taxi for us. He quoted a price, which seemed a little high, but, hey, we’re newcomers in town. So we said if the ride would be no more than the price he’d quoted, that was fine. He and the other guy then grab our bags and head down the steps. We’re following closely behind as the two guys and our luggage careen through an area under construction and into a restaurant adjoining the train station.
We’re right behind them, through the restaurant, around the tables, past the booths, diners staring at the sight of two Americans chasing their luggage through the restaurant. We leave the restaurant and enter a small parking lot. This doesn’t seem like it would be the place to catch a cab, and I’m starting to get a little suspicious; but again, we’re in a whole new world.
The guy starts packing our luggage into the trunk of a fairly modern Toyota. The car has no markings to indicate it is a cab, nor is there any driver’s I.D. posted in the car. I’m getting a little antsy, but figure by this point, if these guys weren’t on the up and up, it was just a matter of whether they’d kill us in the parking lot or in some out-of-the-way spot that had been predetermined.
The first guy who approached us gets in the front passenger seat, and the other guy is sitting behind the wheel. The first guy says I’ll take my money now. I go ahead and pay him, hoping that he’ll just make this quick and painless.
He takes our money and hops out of the car. The cab driver starts the engine and immediately becomes a raving maniac. He’s weaving between cars, trucks, bikes, motorcyclists, pedestrians, blaring his horn, gunning the engine and slamming on brakes…somewhat simultaneously.
My friend, Rob, who is traveling with me on this leg of our trip, observes that it doesn’t appear the driver has the foresight to realize that if he changes lanes, he’s only going to have to almost immediately change again because of traffic blocking the lane he’s just changed to. I think the guy just doesn’t care. It’s like playing a video game. The driver takes one obstacle at a time and moves on to the next.
But my mind is on more important matters. I’m sitting there thinking about how I can prevent our being murdered. I’m pretty positive that we’re about to meet with foul play. We pass a policeman in his cruiser. I think maybe I can use some sort of international symbol for, “Hey, I think this pseudo-cab driver is going to kill us.” Being unable to recall that particular hand gesture, I contemplate taking my shoelaces out of my shoes and strangling the driver. I’m sitting right behind him and, from reading a good many mysteries, I think I know how to pull it off. The only problem is that I’m wearing loafers.
So, I begin to determine if I could quickly grab him by his hair and slam his face into the steering wheel. Now keep in mind, I wouldn’t do that until he, the driver, made the first move. But, as soon as it looked like he was ready to kill us, I was ready to be the hero. I was halfway daydreaming and worrying at the same time…daydreaming about crushing the driver’s skull and worrying that I might not grab his head just right and just end up irritating him. I was also wondering just what that first move on the driver’s part would be and would I recognize it in time. After all, when it comes to killing a cab driver/kidnapper, timing is everything.
All of a sudden he starts shouting and slams on the brakes. I came that close to grabbing the driver’s head and slamming it into the steering wheel, when I realize he’s shouting at a school kid who has come running out in front of the cab. I was so unnerved, that I decided that should anything happen, the driver could just go ahead and kill me. I just wasn’t up to any head-slammings.
Within a few minutes we pull up to the hotel. The driver gets our luggage out of the trunk and drives away. I have to admit I’m relieved, but slightly disappointed.
Later in the day, when I confess to Rob that I was on the verge of killing the our driver, he admits that he was trying to figure out what he had on him that he could use to defend us. “I figured he didn’t have a gun,” Rob said, “but, he might have a knife. I was trying to decide what I had in my pocket that would be a good match for a knife.”
Fortunately, neither of us had to kill anyone…on this particular day. We lived to tell the story. But, just barely. Besides, did I mention that there were no seatbelts in the back seat?

Anyway, here is what Elizabeth K., from the West End, had to say regarding my adventure:

“What was the purpose for the article titled, "My Chinese Connection," in the Jan/Feb 06 magazine? The whole article is premised upon the author's experience of coming "close to being murdered." Although it's clear that he only believes he is going to be murdered, it's unclear whether the author understands he was never at risk of any heinous crime outside of the paranoia and suspicion he created in his own mind. Additionally, I'm curious if the author has ever ridden in a cab in New York City. The cab driver from China sounds like a typical cab driver from NYC. The author appears too eager to criticize others (come'on -- hasn't he seen Richmond drivers talking on their cell phones unaware that the light has turned green already?) and suspect others of ill will when the only ill will existed in his fantasies of becoming a "hero." If the author travels outside our country representing Americans as a Richmonder, I suggest he does so minus his biases and truly attempt to "connect" with others as he infers in the title of his article.”

Here’s my response to Ms. K:

Ms. K., all I can say is that unless you’ve traveled into the belly of the beast, that is, the very heart of Communism, you can’t understand the unspeakable terrors to which I was subjected. My column only touched on those unspeakable terrors. I would tell you more about them now, but they’re unspeakable.
But, I will tell you this…prior to this adventure, I had gone several days with less than seven hours sleep each night. I was deprived of my regular morning Grape Nuts breakfast, being subjected to gourmet buffets in the waterfront hotel, in which I was forced to spend many a night.
I had been required on more than one occasion to display my passport, which only served as a hideous reminder of man’s inhumanity to man. I had tried, often in vain, to have conversations with Chinese men and women, but their refusal to speak English, even their pretense not to understand English, made that all but impossible.
I was coerced into using funny-looking money with pictures of Chinese dictators on it. Many of the merchants just scoffed at the real money I had brought with me.
So, yes, I may have overreacted, but cut me some slack. I was tired, hungry (it had been three hours since breakfast), and confused. I am thankful that I didn’t kill that cab driver. I’m sure I would still be regretting having done something so foolish, even now, almost a half year later.
I hope this explanation puts you in a better position to “walk in my moccasins,” so to speak. Let's get together and do a Chinese buffet some day, okay?

If It's Eight P.M. Here, It Must Be Nine in Bombay

Are the major corporations of the world in some sort of league with the psychiatrists, in an effort to drive us all completely insane? If so, it’s a brilliant ploy. I just spent an hour trying to straighten out a cell-phone issue. But it’s not just cell phones. It’s everything I do anymore.
Take almost any corporation’s customer service department, as an example. Honestly, have you had a truly satisfying experience anywhere? If so, I’d love to hear about it.
First of all, you have that asinine voice mail system. Talk about stupid! I really hate those automated, computerized voices that try to fool you into believing they’re human.
You know the ones. They ask you to say your account number.
“Three-four-seven-eight-nine-two-three-zero-one,” I say.
Then computer voice says, “Alright, now I’ll repeat that number back to you. Did you say ‘Four-zero-two-seven-nine-zero-six-zero-one?’ Is that correct?”
And, I shriek, “NO!”
“Sorry, my mistake,” the computer says. Now, you tell me, how can a computer feel even a little remorse? It insults me that I have to listen to a computer apologize. Are the programmers so stupid that they think I’m going to be placated by Robbie the Robot?
I make several more attempts to enunciate my account number, all unsuccessful. And, the company’s pseudo-human becomes more and more distraught over it’s inability to understand me. I begin to worry about the stress I’m putting on their answering system.
Sometimes, I find myself forgetting it’s not a real person I’m having a conversation with. When the computer voice apologizes, I’ll say, “Don’t worry about it,” as if some manmade electronic device needed consoling. Amtrak’s “Julie” sounds so real that I almost invited her out for a cup of coffee.
Anyway, you finally discover the secret code that enables you to get past the system and allows you the privilege of being put on hold, waiting to speak with a real human. Another computer voice warns you that your call may be monitored. The companies say it’s for training purposes, but I’m onto that little game. What they’re subtly doing is telling you that no matter how frustrated you get by the horrendous customer service, you better not threaten anyone with bodily harm, because it’s all on tape.
Finally, after being on hold for three to ten minutes, a true human comes online and announces, “Hailue, theeese ees Ranjeet. How may eee hailp you?” I’ve waited ten minutes for a connection to Bombay. Now, don’t get me wrong. Those Indians are lovely people, but I really prefer to speak with someone who speaks and understands English. Call me old fashioned, but that’s my language of choice.
“I have a question about my account,” I begin, knowing that this is only going to get more frustrating, but what can I do?
“May I have your account number please?” Ranjeet asks. Or, at least, that’s what I’m guessing he’s asking. I still don’t understand about 60% of what he’s saying.
“Three-four-seven-eight-nine-two-three-zero-one,” I say.
“Did you say ‘Four-zero-two-seven-nine-zero-six-zero-one?” Ranjeet asks.
I begin to wonder if I’d been speaking with Ranjeet all along. Maybe he was just pretending to be a computer at the onset of my call.
Finally, we get past the account numbers, passwords, addresses, blood types, name of my first girlfriend, and what not, and Ranjeet is ready to get down to business. “So, how may I help you? He asks again, in that little sing-songy voice of his. I hate that kind of voice. He’s just a little too happy, and any happiness I had has evaporated completely.
So, I ask him, “Can you tell me what time I get free telephone calls?”
“Let me check,” he says. “Oooh, you get free calls beginning at nine-o-clock.” He says it in a way that implies that I must be one of the lucky ones.
“Well, I was told my free calls begin at eight-o-clock,” I tell him.
“No, sorry. Nine-o-clock,” he replies.
Now, this is when I really get ticked off. It doesn’t matter whether I’m calling my cell-phone company, the cable company, the electric company, the credit card company, or whomever. It’s all the same.
No matter what you were promised on a previous call, it’s never going to be the same when you call back. And, it never dawns on these idiotic customer service reps that maybe that would be upsetting, or irritating.
They never say, “Oh, let me see what I can do about that.” They just say, “Sorry. You’re wrong.” Evidently, the business philosophy for the twenty-first century is that the customer is always wrong.
“May I speak with a manager?” I demand.
“Have I not helped you?” Ranjeet asks. He seems genuinely hurt that I need to enlist the help of someone else. In fact, while I’m on hold, he comes back on line two or three times and asks if there’s something he can do for me. But no matter what I say in trying to explain that I had been promised an earlier free phone call time, Ranjeet always says, “No, sorry. You get free calls at nine.”
Ranjeet, just like Chandani and Deepak and the rest of them don’t care. I guess if I lived in a country where the company restroom was the curb out in front of my building, I wouldn’t care if some American were getting free calls at eight or nine.
Of course, the ones that really don’t care are the cell phone companies, and the cable companies, and the electric companies, and the credit card companies.
Time was, and not that long ago, these companies put a lot of money into training customer service reps to provide exceptional service. Where have those days gone?
As I said at the outset, if you’ve had a good customer service experience, I’d really love to hear about it. Give me a call sometime. But don’t call until after nine, because that’s when I get free calls.

The Most Important Blog You'll Ever Read - Guaranteed!

Call me public spirited, if you will, but I like to take time out of my busy, exciting schedule, and give back to others. One way I do this is by devoting this space to matters of personal guidance, instruction, and direction. All of this I do on a voluntary basis, and without expecting any thanks whatsoever. That’s just who I am.
I like to call these little forays into helping others, my “How To” blogs. Today, for your mental edification, I offer “How To Lie.”
Gone are the good old days when we could get by with such simple lies as “The check’s in the mail,” or “My dog ate my homework.” Nope, most people are just too smart for an out-and-out, bold-faced lie. Believe me, I know this from personal experience.
We live in an age of enlightenment. You, and those to whom you wish to lie, are just too smart, too educated, too savvy to be fooled by the old lies. But, that doesn’t mean that lying can’t be done anymore. Perish that thought. Here are some rules for modern day lying:

1) Use statistics. You can make them up, but they have to sound real. Percentages are good, but to guarantee optimum success, always have a “point” in there. In other words, if you tell me that 50% of all people are liars, I’m not impressed. But, if you tell me that 61 point 2 % of all people are liars, you’ve got my attention. I’m thinking you are some sort of a brainiac to not only know, but to remember the exact figure.
2) Create an association to back you up, and ALWAYS include either the word, “National,” or “of America” in that association. I don’t know if there are any laws about fraudulently pretending to represent a non-existent association or not, so you may want to consult an attorney. They are experts when it comes to lying. They should be able to help you big-time. But, to illustrate, let’s say I wanted you to send me $5.00 to help me buy a car. How many of you would chip in? That’s what I thought. But, suppose I called you and said I represented the S. Cook Automobile Financing Association of America, and any donation you could offer would be appreciated? Huh? Gotcha, didn’t I? Well, hold on. Put your wallets away, it’s just me, lying.
3) Blame anything you do on a mental condition. Mental conditions are big right now. And, who knows, in all probability, you do have a mental condition; so technically, it’s not even a lie. For instance, you didn’t yell at your wife when dinner wasn’t ready on time because you’re a nasty, rotten human. You did it because you have been diagnosed with Sociopathetic Deprivation Disorder (or SDD), stemming from your mother not serving meals at regularly scheduled times when you were a child. I kid you not; your wife will be on her knees begging for forgiveness. I always find that if I can muster up a tear and maybe a slight whimper in my voice when I do this, it’s even more effective. But the whimper has to sound as if you’re trying to hold it back. Practice this alone, or into a tape recorder a few times before attempting to use it with your wife, or she’ll catch on and proceed to show you what a real sociopathetic deprivation disorder is all about.
4) Use the word “guarantee.” (Hint: pronounce it gar-own’ tee, like the late Cajun chef, Justin Wilson, and people will believe you even more because you’re just so cute) You don’t have to say what you will do if your word proves unreliable. You don’t promise to give money back or something equally stupid. You just guarantee it.
5) Fifth, and perhaps most important – Preface any subject, about which you are going to speak or write, with high praise for the intended recipient(s) of your balderdash. For instance, tell them they’re “too smart, too educated, too savvy to be duped”. This one works every time. I gar-own-tee it.

A Shocking Steve Cook Expose

With all the recent hubbub surrounding the Samuel Alito Supreme Court nomination hearings, I feel that maybe it’s time that I make a little admission. Alito has been accused of belonging to an all-male organization in his younger days. Interestingly, one of his accusers, Ted Kennedy, was discovered as also belonging to an all-male organization.
I did a little soul searching, and while I don’t think there’s a Supreme Court judgeship in my future (although, I think I’d make a good one), I feel that it would be the course of wisdom to admit that I too belonged to an all-male organization in my younger days.
In retrospect, it was probably not a wise idea to join, but, in all fairness, most of us have done some dumb things in our youth. While the organization to which I belonged was not really a secret society, we did have our own little special secret gestures to identify ourselves to fellow members. In our rather clandestine meetings, we even wore special garments, no doubt in an effort to create solidarity.
At the time, I didn’t think of this organization as being a breeding ground for terrorism. But, I have to admit, I was trained in the use of ropes and knives, which, as we all know, are the mainstays of a good many terrorists.
We were also taught survival skills, no doubt to equip us for excursions behind enemy lines. But, again, due to the foolishness of youth, I just didn’t comprehend the evil scope of the training I was receiving at the time.
In an effort, no doubt, to suppress any doubts or guilt that I, or my comrades, might be feeling, this organization used a very cunning reward system. Our achievements in honing these potentially murderous skills were celebrated. We even received badges, which we proudly pinned to our uniforms.
I know. I know. I should have figured it all out, but I didn’t. I never suspected the hideously deceitful aims of this malevolent organization. I have somewhat of an explanation as to how I could have so unwisely allowed myself to be completely duped. But, the explanation is so shameful that I hate to bring it up. However, I truly do want to get this whole sordid affair from my younger days out in the open, so I’m going to reveal something now, which I don’t think I’ve ever discussed with anyone, at least not since I left this all-male organization. If you hate me after reading this, so be it. At least, in my mind and heart, I’m doing the honorable thing.
I’ve said it was an all-male organization. That’s not entirely true. What is true is that all of my comrades-in-arms were male. But, we were directed, trained, brainwashed (if you will) by a woman. That’s right. We pathetic little males let a woman lead us down a path that could have been potentially disastrous, not only for ourselves, but for countless others, victims of our unspeakable aims.
You would think that having admitted all this, that it would be fairly easy to tell you the rest of the story. The truth is the next, the final secret, is almost unbearable to think about. You see, in my own, very disturbing personal case, that woman, yes, the very woman who trained me, who directed me, who cajoled me into developing skills that could only be fully utilized by a fanatic, bent on world destruction, that woman (gulp, I’m going to say it), was my very own mother.
And that my friends, is truly the rest of the story of my involvement, many years ago, in the Cub Scouts.