It's A Big Beautiful Stupid World Out There And I'm Loving It.

Well, I'm back. And I think I'm man enough that the truth can be told now. I've been in a rest home over the past few weeks. Special thanks to Lars Kirkengaard, a rising sixty-grader at Maude Trevette Elementary School in Henrico for so capably filling in for me.
I didn't, in the truest sense of the word, have a comlete breakdown. But, I had a nervous condition brought on by the lack of really funny stuff about which to write.
You see, truth be known, I have no genuine sense of humor. I just recognize something stupid when I see it. But the stupidity has to have a measure of funniness. I mean with the nations of the world at each other's throats, there's lots of stupid going on, but none of it is all that funny.
I was about to give up all hope, and then I heard Jimmy Barrett interviewing Chad Siewert on WRVA this morning. As soon as the interview was concluded, I unfastened my straight jacket, and headed back to the keyboard. I'm a new man. I'm reinvigorated. Yessireebob, there is stupid news tonight.
Siewert, in case you haven't heard is a South Richmond guy, a former soldier, in fact, who has posted a sign in the yard of his Jahnke Road home encouraging people to just take a minute and stop and think about the whole 9-11 controversy. Siewert, evidently just by looking at a few websites, has pretty much figured this whole 9-11 conspiracy theory out.
"It was an inside job." That's what Siewert has discovered. He even knows the reason why the United States government decided to destroy the World Trade Center and a portion of the Pentagon. It was to gain support for a war in Afgahanistan. Makes sense to me. I'm just glad Bush was able to convince us that Sadam had WOMD. Who knows what the President would have done to get support for a war in Iraq. I'm thinking he may have even have had to have himself bombed.
Now, I admit, as brilliant as Siewert's reasoning seems to be, I do see a loophole or two. Let me, if you will, play devil's advocate for just a sec.
If the government was so willing to kill millions of its citizens on September 11th, why don't they just pop Siewert's little head off next time he sits out in his front yard? Now, keep in mind, I'm not recommending that. I'm just trying to think presidentially.
Siewert, based on what he told Barrett, sits outside quite a bit. Apparently when motorists drive by, they'll often stop and want to engage him in intellectual debate. From what I could discern, that would be tantamount to me trying to debate relativity with Einstein himself.
Chad Siewert, when it comes to conspiracies, is a mental giant. So much so, that he says that everyone - and he means EVERYONE - who debates him comes away convinced he's right on target. I'd say that's a pretty good batting average. I mean, even Jesus couldn't convince everyone. Of course, Jesus never, to my knowledge, ever thought to use yard signs.
Now, keep in mind that not everyone stops to debate Siewert. Many, he says, just honk their horn as they go by to tell him they're on his side. I think Jesus did come up with that bumper sticker first.
Anyway, Chad Siewert is a powerfully convincing guy. But, again, I do have a few questions. Obviously, Siewert has the answers, but what I'd like to know is this: The guy says that one of the reasons he knows the whole 9-11 thing is a hoax is because he's been on the official FBI website and they don't even mention Osama Ben Ladin as being most wanted.
It kind of makes sense, but before I join Siewert's Army, I would like to know why George Bush doesn't just make that guy doing the FBI's website put Ben Ladin on the most wanted list. And, if the guy didn't want to do it, Bush could just have him killed. In fact, Bush could hire himself another plane and just destroy the whole FBI building if the feds weren't willing to help him with his coverup.
Really, once you've killed several thousand citizens, why wimp out now? I'm sure that after I've massacred my first thousand people, there'd be no stopping me. But, then I'm not the president. Maybe George Bush has some diabolical plan that involves keeping Chad Siewert alive.
If so, that's fine with me. Personally, I want to tell Mr. Siewert how much I appreciate him. Had it not been for him, and Jimmy Barrett, of course, I'd at this very moment be sitting in the Shady Meadows' basket weaving for seniors class. And, do you have any idea how difficult it is to weave a basket with your hands strapped behind your back?

Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave, When First We Practice to Be Clever

So, I’m sitting at the computer with my wife Francesca. She is checking out my latest blog.
“What do you mean by blaming your stupid ideas on me having a dream?” she asked inquisitively.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied sardonically.
“There’s no need for you to be sardonic,” she says thesaurically. “And don’t avoid my question. You’ve made me look foolish. I had no such dream about your being missing. And, what is more, who is this Morgan Fairchild?”
I prudently ignored the Morgan Fairchild question. “I’m being totally sincere,” I said totally sincerely. “I really don’t know what you mean about your dream.”
“Sure you don’t,” she said, semi-sardonically. “You got into some stupid story line about your being missing and the best way you could think of to get out of it was to make up some idiocy about it all being my dream.”
“Honey,” I said sweetly, “I really don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, look here on my computer,” she said bytingly. “See right here,” she said pointedly, pointing to a blog about her dream.
My eyes bugged out of my head, so to speak. She was right. I began to read in an undertone. The more I read, the more confused I became. I surely never wrote any of this, I thought.
“I surely never wrote any of this,” I echoed.
“Well who do you think wrote it?” she asked derisively, “…M. Bob Freeley?”
“Imbibe freely?” I asked, using a cute ploy to make sure that no pun goes overlooked.
“I’m sick and tired of your stupid antics,” Francesca said angrily. With that she started to pound me about the face with her fists.
“Stop. Please Francesca, stop,” I began to scream. “Stop, Francesca, stop, please stop.”
Suddenly someone began to shake me vigorously. “Steve, wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was my wife Helmi.
“What’s wrong. You must have been having a dream,” Helmi asked me anxiously. “And, who is this Francesca?”

TO BE CONTINUED?

Sneak Preview Part 2

And now, another exciting scene from the upcoming blockbuster motion picture "Short Pump."

FRANCESCA, WIFE OF INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER STEVE COOK (PLAYED BY MORGAN FAIRCHILD, YEAH, THAT'S THE TICKET) IS STANDING AT THE SHOWER DOOR, DISPLAYING THAT DEER IN THE HEADLIGHT LOOK. SHE SPEAKS

FRANCESCA: Good morning. I had the strangest dream.

HER HUSBAND, STEVE, THE INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER (PLAYED BY ANTONIO BANDERAS), IS STANDING IN THE SHOWER, DRIPPING WET, YET STILL MIGHTY HANDSOME. HE SMILES.

STEVE: Tell me about it.

FRANCESCA: I dreamed you and a monkey were missing.

STEVE: Missing what? (STEVE CHUCKLES AT HIS QUICK WIT)

FRANCESCA: You and the monkey were missing in the Fan district. I was so lost and alone.

STEVE: Francesca, darling. It was just a dream.

FRANCESCA: But, I read your blogs about being missing.

STEVE: They were just a dream.

FRANCESCA: How about those six other people who read them too.

STEVE: They must have been dreaming too.

FRANCESCA: And the monkey chow mein meal at the Wok of Gibraltar Restaurant...?

STEVE: Just more dreams.

STEVE NOW DRIES HIS FACE WITH A TOWEL AND LOOKS CLOSELY AT FRANCESCA. HE GASPS.

STEVE: Oh my!

FRANCESCA IS SOMEWHAT PUZZLED AT STEVE'S SHOCK AND AWE.

FRANCESCA: What is it?

STEVE: I had never before noticed how much you look like Suzanne Pleshette.

THE CAMERA PANS IN ON FRANCESCA (MORGAN FAIRCHILD). SHE TURNS TO LOOK IN THE MIRROR. SHE GASPS. THE CAMERA SHOWS THE REFLECTION OF FRANCESCA IN THE MIRROR. THE REFLECTION IS PLAYED BY SUZANNE PLESHETTE.

SCENE DISSOLVES

A Sneak Preview

And now an exciting scene from the upcoming blockbuster motion picture “Short Pump."

SCENE - BEDROOM OF FRANCESCA COOK, WIFE OF MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER, STEVE COOK. FRANCESCA AWAKENS. SHE HEARS THE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER AND GOES INTO THE BATHROOM. THE SHOWER IS RUNNING AND WE SEE THE SHADOWY, YET PORTLY IMAGE OF SOMEONE IN THE SHOWER. FRANCESCA OPENS THE SHOWER DOOR AND SPEAKS

FRANCESCA: Oh! (Shocked expression on her face)

THE CAMERA REVEALS WHAT FRANCESCA HAS SEEN. IN THE SHOWER STANDS HER MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER HUSBAND, STEVE. STEVE SPEAKS

STEVE: Good morning.

Scene fades.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

All The News That's Apt to Scare

GREG: Hi, I’m Greg McQuake, local TV news anchor. I’m filling in for the missing Steve Cook and I just want to say right up front, I’m afraid. I’m very afraid. There are so many frightening things in the news and I thought I’d use this space to promote our morning news show and to let you know just how terrified I am. For starters, the weather scares me. Have you noticed just how hot it is? How hot will it get tomorrow? For the answer, tune in to our “I’m Scared as Heck” alerts each morning on our local news program.

JULIE: Excuse me, Greg. Hi, folks. I’m Julie Fearmonger, Greg’s capable co-host, and I just want to reiterate that this heat could kill you. In fact, probably most of you could die unless you tune into our early morning newscast.

GREG: Thanks, Julie, but I can handle this. It’s just a little-read blog, not our stellar early morning newscast. But, Julie’s right folks. If you don’t listen to our segment tomorrow morning dealing with staying cool through this killer heat wave, chances are you will be dead by this weekend.

JULIE: Enough with the weather, Greg. There are other things to be scared about.

GREG: Again, I can handle this, Julie. And, yes, there are other things going on in our fair city that scare me to death. For instance, have you heard about the ongoing search for a train that may be buried in a tunnel under a hill? Scary stuff. I mean if there’s one abandoned tunnel there could be millions of others. Could your house be ready to cave in on an abandoned tunnel? That would likely kill you, you know. Tune in tomorrow morning and I’ll have the answer.

JULIE: Now, you have me scared, Greg. In fact, every time I hear you do the news, I cringe.

GREG: Well, gee, thanks Julie. I guess you can stick around and help me do the blog. I am pretty good as an alarmist, aren’t I?

JULIE: The best I’ve ever worked with. Of course, my previous experience was working with Gene Cox. He wouldn’t get alarmed if his mouth were on fire.

GREG: Ha, Ha. Good one, Julie. But, we’ve gotten somewhat off-track here. There’s a bunch of other scary stuff in the news. For instance, there’s the warning from the NAACP, to stay out of Target Stores. I don’t know who this NAACP is but when they sound the alarm, this reporter is going to be listening. I wonder how close is too close to get to a Target store.

JULIE: You don’t know who the NAACP is, Greg? It’s the National Association of people who don’t like to be called Colored People. They’re urging blacks to boycott Target because Target didn’t fill out an NAACP-sponsored survey regarding diversity.

GREG: Oooh! I didn’t know that. Thanks for the background info, Julie. That tells me that surveys might be harmful to one’s health. Watch out folks. You may be confronted with a survey when you least expect it. Julie, maybe we can do a piece on tomorrow’s newscast providing our viewers with some helpful hints as how to protect themselves from surveys.

JULIE: Uh, yeah, right you are Greg. I’ll get on it, if you’d like.

GREG: There you have it, folks. You don’t want to miss our “I’m Scared as Heck” alerts on tomorrow’s news.

JULIE: By the way, Greg, I heard you say that Steve Cook is missing. I wonder if something terrible happened to him. Aren’t you terrified just thinking about it?

GREG: Nah.

Lochru Again, Naturally

Hello, this is Lochru, the four hundred year old Druid and now man about town. With Steve Cook still missing, the publishers of the magazine asked me if I'd fill in for a day or two.
As you may know from reading Steve's columns, I was recently found frozen at the bottom of Swift Creek Reservoir. Since my de-thawing, or coming out party, as I like to call it, I have enjoyed actually breathing again.
People ask me, "Lochru," they say, "Is it hard getting used to modern civilization?"
To that oft-asked question, I must reply that it really hasn't been all that difficult. We used to have an old Druid expression, "The more things change, the more things stay the same." How true that has proven to be. For instance, since I'm virtually unemployed (I do hang out at the 7/11 sometimes, hoping to pick up an odd job or two), I've been watching a lot of TV. I enjoy all those nature shows, but I'm a little baffled as to whom this god Evolution is. Constantly, I hear the narrator's crediting Evolution with this or that.
I've done a little research, and while most Evolutionists are reluctant to come right out and say it's a religion, it sure seems like one to me. We Druids were a bunch of nature-worshiping freaks if you ask me. Actually, among my Druid friends, I was viewed as somewhat of a monotheistic heretic. The worship of this god Evolution is very similar to our beliefs. I just don't understand why Evolution's devotees are so reluctant to acknowledge their unquestioning devotion as being a religion.
We Druids were proud of our religious beliefs. I'm sure that if the real Druids were around today we would quickly fall at the feet of Evolution and pay him honor. In a way he reminds me of Ginnugagap. Now, admittedly, we stole this one from the Germans. Basically, the teaching was that in the beginning was the great void, Ginnungagap. A fiery region developed to the south and a windy, icy region to the north. Together they produced chaos and out of chaos sprang life. Doesn't that remind you of what your "enlightened modern thinkers" say the great God Evolution did? It sure does me. I've listened to some of your TV evangelists and the way they describe faith - just believe it because we say it, is very similar to both our ancient beliefs and the worship of Evolution.
Of course, on the other hand, you have those who believe that all life was the product of some great designer. Now, does that make sense? I mean look at a baby's little finger. Does that seem like something that was designed? Or the petals on a dogwood tree...would you have me believe there's some great master artist who created that? Hmmm. Excuse me. I've got some thinking to do, and, personally there's no better place to think than while encrusted in a block of ice. I'll talk to you later. And, if Steve ever shows up, tell him I said hi.

A Letter Poured In

(TEMPORARY EDITOR'S NOTE: The following email was received following our posting of today's blog which was guest written by our wine columnist, M. Bob Freeley. We found it interesting to say the least.)

Dear Sirs:

I read with great interest your column today in which your columnist, Mr. Freeley, mentioned our "Mystery Meat" chow mein. If Mr. Freeley was insinuating that we, somehow, stole your precious monkey for our mystery meat of the week special, I have to say that I am somewhat offended.
We run a reputable operation here at Wok of Gibraltar. We are aboveboard in all of our activities, and get very few severe filth violation write-ups from the city's health department.
I want to go on record right now as saying we paid good money for that monkey...more than he was worth judging from the overall reviews of last night's special. Besides, I'm not even sure he was your monkey.
I demand an apology immediately.

Sincerely,

Elmo Chan, Jr.
Owner,
Wok of Gibraltar Asian/African Fusion Restaurant and Snack Bar


OUR PUBLISHER RESPONDS:

Mr. Chan,

Thank you for your kind letter. We appreciate your loyalty to our publications. If there is anything we can ever do for you, please let us know.

Sincerely,

Guy Cerwilhelm
Publisher

The Steve Cook Tragedization - Day II (2 if you're not Roman)

Well, hello everyone. M. Bob Freeley here. Hope you remember me. I'm the wine columnist for West End's Best Magazine, and today I'm here filling in for the still-missing Steve Cook.
I must say I missed bringing you my regular reviews of great wines over the past few weeks. I was away on a somewhat forced "vacation." I won't say much about where I was. Suffice it to say that Betty Ford and I don't totally see eye to eye as to what constitutes a problem.
Anyway, I get back in town last night, and first thing I hear is that Steve and his monkey are missing in the Fan. Speaking of the Fan, I enjoyed a Fantastic evening at that new Fan eatery. It's an Asian/African fusion place called Wok of Gibraltar.
I'm not sure just what was in the Mystery Meat Chow Mein, but what I can tell you is that it provided the perfect pairing for a frisky little bottle of a merlot, which teased me to "go on and have a second bottle." I resisted that tantalizing temptation, but what I couldn't resist was a naughty little shiraz that, by the third or fourth glass, was shouting "G'day Mate."
The lovely waitress suggested I give the bottle a little time to breathe. I told her I'd do even better than that, I'd give the bottle mouth-to-mouth. Ha Ha. That one's always good for a laugh down at the corner watering hole. Although the waitress didn't seem to find it as funny as do my fellow wine lovers. Perhaps, something got lost in the translation.
Anyway, the meal was a true delight, as were the wines. I topped the evening off with a randy little dessert wine that was so easy to sip in to, before I knew it, I was pounding on the bottle, much as I would on a bottle of Heinz Catsup, to make sure I didn't miss a drop.
I just might head back downtown today. You know...to help look for Steve, and to check out that new wine and beer bar, Brewjolais. I enjoy a good wine, but, truth be told, there isn't anything more thirst quenching than a gourmet can of PBR. So, if you're out and about, and we happen to meet, you can buy me a drink. And, if you happen to see Steve, give us a shout.
Until next time, this is M. Bob Freeley, saying "Bottoms up!"

STEVE COOK'S DISAPPEARANCE - DAY ONE

Hello. This is staff writer, Felipe Schwartz, of West End's Best Magazine. I've been asked to fill in while Steve Cook is missing. As you may know,in a shameless effort to increase web traffic, Cook has disappeared a la Oops the Mill Mountain monkey. When last seen, he was heading into Richmond's Fan district with some sort of a monkey on his back.
To be perfectly honest, I am not sure what I should be writing about here. I generally cover the fashion beat for Richmond's West End. I could tell you that when last seen, Steve Cook was wearing green and orange plaid trousers, similar to those seen on many of the West End's most fashionable golf courses, such as Patterson Mini-Golf, and the Two-Buckets-For-A-Buck Driving Range. There's something about golfing and loud, gaudy pants that just seem to naturally go together. And, I'm not exactly sure what that attraction is. I mean, I could understand such attire in a bowling alley. Bright plaid pants work well with the stylish bowling shoes which can be rented for about ten bucks a pair these days. Speaking of which, have you ever been tempted to stick one of those rented bowling shoes up to your nose and whiff it prior to putting it on? Well, take it from someone who has, don't do it.
I'm not exactly sure what those bowling alleys do that they call cleaning their rental shoes, but descenting or rescenting must not be part of the package. Regardless of smell, those multi-colored bowling shoes make a fashion statement. Look for a future fashion feature in our magazine in which we pair the plaid polyester-blend pants with the bowling shoes. Making the combo work is not as easy as many of you may think. In fact, my advise, as a professional in what I like to call the fashion arena, is don't try this at home.
Steve, as I was saying, was wearing the plaid pants when last seen. To complement the trousers he had a black and white checked flannel shirt. So, I'm thinking he would not be so hard to spot. Steve, it would appear, has finally hit what we in the fashion industry refer to as that really lousy old man stage in life. You know, the age when men Steve's age just reach in the closet and pick out any two items and put them on. He's been known to come to work wearing Bermuda shorts...as a shirt. At least, unlike most of the shirts he wears, there were no food stains on the shorts.
As a fashion guru, so to speak, I notice the little things, and one thing I've noticed is that Steve is one sloppy guy. He spills so much food throughout the day, that he has to hang his clothes in the refrigerator at night. As a word of advice, if you should spot Steve, don't go to lunch with him. It's a disgusting sight. He's one of those guys who talks while he eats. I won't go into detail, but suffice it to say that at company luncheons, I wear a sneeze-guard if I'm sitting anywhere near him.
If you live anywhere near the Fan,m and if you should see Steve, check his collar. He's wearing a name tag with our phone number. I have to be honest though, his disappearance is a rather welcome event for many of us here in the office. But, please give us a call if you see him. We would like to get the monkey back.

Oops.

You know, we Virginians love our animals. We have all sorts of horrible things going on all around us, but the thing that seems to create the most attention are those pesky zoo animals. First we had the Maymont bear tragedy that tragedized the entire city, as Mayor Governor Wilder put it. And now we have the Mill Mountain Monkey mess.
And, according to the folks at the Roanoke children's zoo, it wasn't just Virginians, it was the entire world...waiting, worrying, wondering about Oops, the mischevious monkey that (who) escaped from the zoo recently. Mill Mountain Zoo evidently saw a huge increase in visitors to their website, which got me to thinking. My genius machine is up and running 24/7, so to speak.
You see, we've been trying to think of ways to increase traffic to our websites (westendsbestonline.com and chesterfieldlivingonline.com). It seems that my sparkling commentary is simply not enough. Go figure.
Anyway, I'm thinking we ought to get us some sort of an animal and let it escape and run amok in Richmond, terrorizing the populace and driving up website visits. Now it can't be something like a bear because if it were to kill anyone, our insurance rates would sky rocket.
I'm thinking, with a tip of the cap to Mill Mountain, that maybe we should get us some sort of monkey-type animal...perhaps Freddie, the Fecal-Flinging Chimp. It has a nice ring to it. And while fecal flinging is terrorizing, I don't think that many people have died from it. That should make the national news. I bet even Greta Van Whatever would want in on that story. We could let Freddie loose down in the VCU area so that everyday the feces would hit the Fan. Of course, there are some who would say (not I, of course) that this happens every week when the latest Style Weekly is published.
Maybe we can give the local folks an option...either you start going to our websites regularly or we get us a monkey. I have to admit that as a non-pet person, I'm not crazy about monkeys. They're cute, but don't you think they're just a little too cute? Monkeys are probably the most egotistical animals I know. I mean, you'd have to be pretty egotistical to hurl your waste at others.
Cats are more egoists than egotists. In other words, a cat pretty much thinks all other life forms, including humans, are just here to cater to its needs.
Monkeys,on the other hand, want everyone to see how cute they are, how clever. Why do you think monkeys go around impersonating humans? Because they know humans will ooh and ahh over them. Really, if you just ignored them, they'd probably just give up and go back to being monkeys.
I have kind of wandered all over the place here. It's just that the more I think about monkeys, the more steamed I get. I can just imagine how impressed Oops was with himself...at least until that tranquilizer dart hit him. And if he finds out that people from as far away as Australia were calling Mill Mountain Zoo to find out how he was doing, it would go straight to his ugly little monkey head.
And, I bet you that Mill Mountain Zoo will have an increase in visitors because everyone is so concerned about poor little Oops. Hey, I went 24 hours without anyone knowing where I was once, and no one even realized I was missing. I can run around and scratch my chest. I can peel bananas with my feet, but does anyone care?
I'm going to find out. Forget about getting a monkey. I have a better way to drive traffic to our website. Starting today, STEVE COOK IS MISSING. Oops, he was here just a minute ago. What's happened to him? To find out go to our website. And, if our traffic doesn't pick up, you may never hear from him again. That'll show you.

Driving Me Nuts

Well, well, well...Richmonders are killing each other on the highways at a record pace. I guess congratulations are in order. The newscaster sounded mighty excited when he reported the story. Personally, I think we should be doing a lot better than we are. I mean, have you seen the way Richmonders drive?
A transplanted New Yorker once told me that Richmonders were the worst drivers he had ever encountered. After I backed up and unpinned his leg, he elaborated. "Richmonders never stop at stop signs," he said. I think he might be onto something. I'm not so sure about stop signs, but I will tell you, from personal observation, Richmond area drivers (except me) never, ever stop before making a right turn on red.
I almost hit an idiot last night. I kind of wished I had. The moron didn't even slow down for the red light. He was determined to make a right turn in front of me. He succeeded. When I pulled along side him, I showed him. I looked over at him and gave him the sternest look I could muster. I know, you were thinking I made some sort of obscene gesture. Nope. I kind of figure, again from personal observation, that the one-finger saluters are probably proudly using sign language to tell you their I.Q.
Admittedly, a stern look is not as effective at night, but I think the guy could feel my glaring baby blues burning a hole in the side of his face.
There are other absurdities that I see along life's highway, that really is a highway. For instance, the bumper-to-bumper-lane-changing-buffoon really gets on my nerves. Do these idiots not realize that if they just stick in one lane it'll be much safer for everyone than constantly squeezing into whatever lane they're not in because it's moving two miles per hour faster than the lane they were in? At best, they might save five or six seconds. But, they've raised my ire in the process, and here's fair warning...you don't want to make me mad. I have IBS.
Then there's the type (99% of all drivers) who, when merging onto a busy interstate highway, don't realize how much better it would be to use the entire acceleration lane rather than stopping as soon as they get anywhere close to the lane they want to be in and waiting for a chance to squeeze in. Why doesn't the DMV give real, practical tests to new drivers? Even imbeciles can tell you what color a stop sign is. But, the majority of drivers have no idea of what true defensive driving is all about.
If you recognize yourself here (and, just a quick personal piece of business to my wife - I wasn't thinking about you in writing this. Really, I wasn't), go ahead and risk your own life if you must, but stay out of my way. If not, I swear, if you should ever get in my way on a lonely dark road, be prepared for a really, really stern look.

Have I Shown You Pictures...

I kept my grandson, Jacob, this weekend. He’s only seven weeks old, so watching him was a full-time job for my wife and me. Now, it goes without saying that he’s the cutest and smartest baby on earth today.
But he’s much more than that. He’s a human sucking machine. That baby spends 50% of his time drinking formula, 50% of his time sleeping, and 100% of his time eliminating waste materials.
Even in his sleep, he’s practicing his sucking skills for the next bottle. I made the mistake of cootchie-cooing his chin and the next thing I knew my finger was being devoured. He might not have teeth, but he’s got some iron jaws going for him.
Have you ever noticed (gee, I’m sounding like Andy Rooney) how infants can make adults act like total idiots? I was sitting in a restaurant with the baby, trying to get him to look at the camera as my wife took his picture. I didn’t realize I was making these moronic boop boop boop sounds in an effort to get Jacob’s attention. I didn’t realize until a woman at the next table asked about the strange sound coming from our table.
Since infants don’t speak anyway, why do adults naturally assume that a baby is going to understand baby talk? And why do I think it’s attractive for me to say, “Does him want something to drink? Oh yes him does?”
The kid’s probably thinking, “This man uses the most atrocious grammar of any human I’ve ever met.” I mean my grandson is already confused that he has such a youngish-looking grandfather. I hate to confound him further.
I don’t understand the power a little nine-pound, toothless, speechless, almost-hairless human has. How can something (or someone) who just lies there and pees, manipulate fairly intelligent adults. It must be some sort of mind control thing they have. Why, I even found myself using the word “cutie-patootie.” I actually said it out loud. I looked around immediately to see if there were any other adults around who could have possibly heard me. Thankfully there weren’t. But, I looked down at Jacob. He was grinning…not a cute little baby grin, but an almost evil grin, as if to say, “You’re in my control now old man. You’ll do what I say.”
I have to admit, the look he gave me sent chills up my spine. I felt like those guys on Star Trek must have felt when Spock had them in that Vulcan Mind Meld thing. I was starting to panic, but then I looked at Jacob again. On second thought, it was probably just gas. His...not mine.

Before You Do Anything, Check Your Fly

So my wife says, “Let’s go shopping.”
“It’s the fourth of July,” I remind her. “Nothing’s open. She reminds me that I’m always wrong. So, into the car we go and off to the shopping center. As we pull in, I immediately notice it’s packed. My wife is right. I am always wrong.
“Well, who would have thunk it?” I ask somewhat rhetorically. “I wonder what Thomas Jefferson would say if he were alive today.”
“He wouldn’t mind,” a little tinny voice buzzes in my ear. It didn’t sound like my wife’s voice.
“Did you say something?” I ask her anyway.
“Nope. Let me out in front of the shoe store,” she says.
“Well somebody said something,” I say. My wife is totally ignoring me now, perusing the ads.
“It was me,” replied the little buzzing voice.
I look around, somewhat frightened to be honest. “Who’s ‘me’?” I ask.
“Me. That little fly you’ve been swatting at,” the fly(?) answers.
Now, you would think at a moment like that my first interest would be could a fly really be talking to me. But, sometimes when we’re faced with shocking situations, our thinking gets a little off kilter. So, I ask (rather quietly since I don’t want my wife to know I’m talking to a fly), “How do you know how Thomas Jefferson would have felt about the stores being open today?”
“I was there. I’m a time-traveling fly. One of those time flies.”
“Time flies?” I exclaim.
“It sure does,” my wife replies. “So hurry up and let me out.” I do. I want to continue my conversation with the fly. My wife hops out and I go find a parking space.
“So, you were where?” I ask the fly.
“I was there with the whole gang…Jefferson, Adams, Lynch, the Lee Brothers, and, of course, Ben. I especially liked Ben,” the fly says wistfully, as if remembering times past. He continues, “I was the fly on the wall on July 4, 1777.”
“You mean a year after the signing of the Declaration of Independence?” I ask.
“Yep,” the fly says. “I remember it as if it were yesterday. Why there we all were at Monticello…” (INSTRUCTION TO THE READER: HUM THE TWILIGHT ZONE THEME AND PICTURE THE SCENE OF ME AND THE FLY DISSOLVING AND MORPHING INTO MONTICELLO, JULY 4TH, 1777.)

JEFFERSON: Hey guys, it’s been a year since we did the D.O.I. thing. We really ought to have a celebration.

FRANKLIN: Cool. How should we celebrate?

JEFFERSON: Why don’t we shoot off some fireworks?

ADAMS: Fireworks? Pray tell me what are fireworks?

FRANKLIN: Heavens, John. Don’t you read…ever? The Chinese have had them for years. They’re like…oh, like little rockets, that you light and they produce marvelous colors in the sky.
ADAMS: They sound like a good way for someone to lose a hand, or an eye. I think there are better ways to celebrate freedom than to shoot off fireworks.

LYNCH: You worry too much John. I think it’s a grand way to say, “Hey, we’re free. We’re all free.” And, don’t worry about the danger. We’ll just have a slave light them.

JEFFERSON: Sounds like a plan fellows. Why don’t you all come back about six this evening and we’ll have a cookout?

ADAMS: Well, count me in. I do have to do some shopping first, however. I want to get a pair of trunks in case we decide to cool off in the pond.

JEFFERSON: Shopping? Hey guys, it’s the fourth of July. The stores will be closed.

FRANKLIN: Not necessarily Tom. My craft stores are all open today. In fact, we’re having some fantastic Fourth of July sales going on.

JEFFERSON: Well, sounds good, but I think it’s a shame, you having to work on the fourth and all. This is a day to celebrate being a free people.

LYNCH: You worry too much, Tom. I’m sure he has the slaves running the store today.

JEFFERSON: Well, if you all are okay with it, let’s all get together.

ADAMS: I’ll bring the hotdogs and hamburgers.

FRANKLIN: Hey, John. I bet I can eat more hot dogs than you. Let’s have us a little contest.

LYNCH: Well, you should be able to Ben. You’re humongous.

FRANKLIN: You’re as ignorant as John. It’s not about size; it’s about metabolism. Why, one day, I can foresee that those little Japanese folks will be winning all the Fourth of July Hot Dog eating contests.

LYNCH: Japanese? Who are the Japanese?

FRANKLIN: I swear you guys really are ignorant. I’m surprised you knew how to write your name.

What Richmond Really Needs

I think I know what Richmond needs to take this area to the next level...to take us to that point where people are saying, "Richmond is better than Charlotte."
After all, isn't that what we all want? Everytime someone puts our fair city down, they compare it with Charlotte. I've only been to Charlotte a couple of times, but evidently, I missed something, because to hear virtually everyone else in Richmond tell it, Charlotte is the nirvanna of southern U.S. cities.
Anyway, here's what we need. A mascot. Cool idea, huh?
Think about how big mascots are these days. Why the Diamond Duck, mascot for the Richmond Braves ball club, draws dozens of excited fans to the Diamond regularly.
I think my mascot, whichever one I decide upon, could be sold to the city as a way of Charlottizing us.
I've come up with several ideas, inasmuch as the metro area is so fragmented and segregated. I've even written scripts for those who wish to audition. So, if you want to take a chance on becoming the biggest thing to hit this city since Chuck Richardson, rehearse one of these scripts, give me a call, and we'll do lunch, or something.
Here are the scripts for various possible mascots:

ARTIE
Hi, I'm Artie the Artist Renderings. I'm here to show you just what Richmond might have been if my renderings had ever gotten off the drawing board. See this one. It's the Performing Arts Center. Neat. Of course, it's just a hole in the ground now, but if the city had given me a chance, we could have gone places. And look at this rendering. Yep, it's the Shockoe Bottom ball park. You can almost hear the crowds cheering. But listen again, boys and girls. What do you hear down there now. Just drunks vomiting on the hallowed grounds following a night of barhopping. Well, at least we have our dreams, and I'm the mascot of those broken dreams. Stick around, you never know what I'll have to show you next.

PHOENIX
Hi, I'm Phoenix the bear, the wonderful, wonderful bear. I live in Maymont Park, one of Richmond's many beautiful parks. As Richmond's official mascot, my job is to greet you, to make you feel welcome, to perhaps tell you about the many things that make Richmond such a wonderful place to live. Of course, I'm a bear. What do I really know about parks? I think I'll go back to doing what I do best. I do live in the woods you know. Oh yeah, even though I've been named Phoenix, and people tend to view me as a furry but friendly mascot, I will tear your child from limb to limb as I hungrily devour him. Just a warning.

WINDSOR
Hello. My name is Windsor Farm. I don't imagine I need to elaborate as to what portion of the city I represent. Notice my silk smoking jacket. It's a gift from my wife, McDonald Hadda. We truly relish the prestigious lifestyle we enjoy here in the western portion of the city. My part-time position as Richmond's mascot, is not born of necessity, just a little something I dabble in while McDonald tends to her many social activities. I'm not really here to welcome you, as much as to simply let you know that I enjoy a lifestyle which about 98% of my fellow Richmonders could not even dream of. However, please keep in mind that we are very Richmond here, although, I will issue a fair warning. If you're not of our kind (and I think you know what I mean), don't even think of driving through our community, or we may be required to notify the appropriate law enforcement agencies. The only exception, of course, is if you're one of our hired domestics. But, please enter through the rear door of our palatial abode.
Well, I must scurry. Please enjoy your visit to Richmond, but remember my home is not a tourist attraction. Just keep moving.

DIAMOND DUCK
Hi. Remember me? I'm still at the Diamond for every R-Braves home game, although you no longer come. I'm not the brightest duck in the pond, but I see the handwriting on the wall. I suspect I'll soon be out of a job. And, I heard you folks were looking for a mascot. Hey, I'm a talented duck, and versatile. I can change my name to Byrd Park Duck, if you like. Or, how about Here Comes a Bullet...Duck!
Just a little duck humor. It's true. I am somewhat of a wisequacker. But anyway, when you're selecting a mascot for the city, you could do worse than a duck. Hold on one minute. What's that bear doing coming this way? Who let that moron Phoenix in here. You idiots. He's a bear. I'm outta here.

Red, White, and Blew Right By You

I spend a lot of time on the road...well, actually, in my car on the road. And as I ride, I observe. Just call me observant, if you will, but I do.
Here's something I've noticed. I've actually noticed this for nearly five years, but I've wanted to give this observation plenty of time before I said anything about it.
But, I think it's time I can make my findings public.
Here goes. I hope this doesn't offend anyone, especially you flag-wavers. But, it seems to me that virtually every person that has a flag decal on their automobile is a horrific driver.
My observation has been proven to be true time and again. Invariably, if I'm riding down the interstate and the traffic backs up in the passing lane because some moron is out there doing about 45 mph, when I get behind said moron, he or she almost always has a flag stuck on the back of his or her vehicle.
Back, right after 9-11, when so many had flags on their cars, it was hard to prove my point, although even then I tended to notice it. But, today, when those flags are few and far between it becomes more obvious. If you haven't noticed it, pay attention and let me know what you find.
I've been trying to figure out a correlation. Could it be that mainly older folks put flag decals on their cars? Of course, that would imply that older folks are, as a class, bad drivers. I don't believe that is true, although I will have to admit that often those flags are on the cars that are being driven by what I lovingly refer to as blue-haired brake riders.
You know the type. They love that passing lane. They just don't love to pass. They get out there and tap the brakes every fifteen seconds or so, regardless of the traffic conditions in front of them. I guess they just want to make sure the brakes are still there, or ensure that they haven't forgotten how to use them.
Often they'll have a passenger with them, even older than they, and these two precious souls are just having a delightful chat as they crawl down the highway, totally oblivious to the traffic piling up behind them. When you get behind such a driver, check and see if he or she has a flag decal on their car. You'll probably also see some sort of decal indicative of the lodge to which they belong.
But, don't get me wrong, it's not necessarily older drivers who have the flag decals. Although it's often older cars. Come to think of it, I see few flags stuck to new Lexuses (Lexi?).
Now, far be it from me to ridicule those who drive older cars. I proudly drive a '94 Saturn. No, my hair isn't blue yet, but there's a fantastic rinse in the Walgreen's that I've had my eye on. It would give me just a hint of tint. That can't be so bad, can it? Or should I go with a pink? Decisions, decisions.
Maybe those who drive those clunkers use the decals to hold their cars together. Heaven knows, I could use a decal or two. Maybe it would stop the rattling. So far, the only thing I've found that successfully gets rid of the horrible sound my car makes is to turn the radio up louder.
I may be on to something regarding just who is driving cars with flags, and why they're driving so poorly, but I have a suspicion that there's more to it than meets the eye. Maybe you have some ideas. If so, please share them. Or, if you have a flag on your car, just write and tell me why you are such a miserable driver. I honestly would love to know.

TV Broad Casting

Well, I'm no Michael Ausiellio. I'm straight. But, I do have some exciting TV news. Okay, it's not really all that exciting, and it's not actually news. But I do have some things to say about television.
First of all...I caught a portion of Last Comic Standing. Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't the word "comic" used to have the connotation of someone who was funny? These people last night were pathetic. And, it's not just the wannabe stand-up comedian in me rearing his ugly head. Even if I weren't the envious, jealous type, I still wouldn't have found anything funny about the two "comedians" I saw on the show.
One was a woman. First of all, women should not attempt comedy. I know that will iritate many of you, but there are very, very few women who can pull it off. But, like so many comics, this gal last night obviously thinks that mentioning parts of the human anatomy is good for a laugh. Hey lady (and I use that term loosely), you're not funny. Ha Ha. You said the word (CENSORED). That's a riot. I ain't never heard no lady say that word before. Guffaw.
The guy I heard, who was thankfully voted off, started off clean...humorless, but clean. Then, right at the end he got bleeped. I could figure out what he had bleeped, but it still wasn't funny. Since these idiots are doing a network TV show, don't they have enough self-control or confidence in their ability to create humor, than to use expletives?
On to other news, I am now into day 20,271 of having not watched The View. Just when you think it's safe to go back - ie Meredith Vieira's departure - they go and hire Rosie O'Donnell. If anyone could make me long to see Meredith Vieira, it would be Rosie O'Donnell. It's not because of her orientation, if you know what I'm trying to say. I really enjoy Ellen DeGeneris. It's the fact that she's...well, she's Rosie O'Donnell, who happens to be one of the most obnoxious, disgusting humans ever to appear on television.
I mean think about it. If Rosie O'Donnell can drive someone like Star Jones off the show, how hideous must she be. And, no, her ability to exterminate Star from the show does not bring her up enough in my opinion that I'd ever want to see her bloated mug.
I did see The View once. I wasn't able to watch TV at all for a month afterwards. Does anyone really think watching a bunch of egotisitical women sitting around talking about themselves makes for interesting television? I don't.
Now, in case I seem hardened, I want to say that I did watch the Everwood series finale and cried like a baby. I'm glad no one was around when I was watching. I didn't just have a tear or two slip out of my eye, I wept openly, longly, and loudly. I don't want to seem hardened, but I also don't want to come across like some emotional old man, but I hadn't cried that much since I watched Mr. Holland's Opus. It's really not fair for those television writers to manipulate us that way.
Everwood was a kind, gentle show with what I felt were pretty real emotions. Not that I know much about real emotions. I'd have to say, in sitting here and thinking about it, that the only thing I've seen recently that was sadder than Everwood's final episode, was last night's Last Comic Standing. Now, that really was sad.

Takes a Licking and Keeps on Licking

My wife and I are having a slight difference of opinion. I think I'm a pretty good husband. She can't stand the sight of me. No, just kidding. What we don't quite see eye to eye on has to do with our dogs...Sheddy and Poopy. I've changed the dogs name so that my wife won't know who I'm writing about.
I see dogs differently than does she. And I know that there are many of you pet lovers out there who will be totally in her corner. While you're there, how about helping to clean up the mess the dogs have made.
They're not bad dogs...I mean, they don't drink or smoke or curse. But, they're dogs. They have hair that falls off their bodies in great quantity. They love to lick, even though I've done or said nothing that could possibly give them the idea I was inviting their licks. And they love to jump in the bed...on me.
My wife finds this behavior perfectly acceptable. Although I'm willing to bet that she wouldn't look as favorably on me if my hair was all over the house, or if I went around licking her and anyone else that walks in the house. She does let me on the bed, but only after I've showered, and then she has to put a towel on the pillow so my wet head doesn't leave stains.
The two precious pups, however, can go right from drinking out of their porcelain water bowl in the bathroom to the bed, no questions asked. Where, I ask you, is the justice in that.
Now, keep in mind, I'm not criticizing my wife. I understand that there are many dog lovers and she's one of them. It's just that I'm not. And, no matter how much she might wish I were, it's just not in my makeup. Sometimes she'll ask me to say something nice to the dogs. I swear, I would, but I just don't know what dogs like to hear. If I tell them how pretty they are and how much I love them, I think they'll detect the insincerity in my voice. Dogs hate hypocrites, I'm told.
I try to like the dogs. Sometimes I'll even pat one of them on the head. But, how do they repay me? They lick me. Look, I'm just patting you on the head, that's all. That wet feel on my hand or, heaven forbid, face, is downright gross.
Dogs don't understand that. They take the least little display of affection as an invitation to bond...to form some sort of a relationship. I could walk in the room, kick the dog (which I never would), and then say, "Hey Poopy," and Poopy would come running as if we were long lost friends.
I guess there's something to be said for that sort of forgiving, accepting attitude. Maybe it would be nice if humans were so willing to offer their affection so unconditionally. Who knows, maybe the dogs will help me to be a kinder, gentler sort of guy. Maybe I'll be able to make a few friends, rather than keeping everyone at arm's length. I feel like going right out and making some friends right now. Who knows, maybe you and I could really bond. I'm ready for that. Just one request, even if you do find me somewhat likeable, please just don't lick me.

To Dream The Improbable Dream

First, I want to apologize for not getting back to you yesterday. I know you were glued to your computer, waiting, breathlessly, to hear more of my fascinating tales of unfulfilled goals and ambitions. I meant to write, but I was tied up most all day yesterday getting a petition drive going to try and change the name of the Maymont bear.
You know, if someone had held a contest to come up with the most asanine, the most ridiculous name you would give a bear who lived in a park in Richmond, Virginia, I would have thought Phoenix to be a pretty good choice. The name has nothing to do with bears, with Richmond, with Virginia (there is a small town named Phenix, but that's about as close as you could get). It's not an especially pretty name. It doesn't say "wild and growly" to me. I am dumbfounded.
But we'll leave that to another day. If you do want to sign my petition, please let me know. And, if you're like me and adore the name, Bobby the Baby Biting Bear, give me a shout out.
I was talking previously about jobs I always wanted, no, make that careers, but for one reason or another, never achieved. I mentioned the circus. I think I would have loved that, even if I was just shoveling elephant droppings. I really would have liked to have been a hobo, but hopping freights, as enjoyable as it must be, would probably not have been my forte. I'd have probably lost a leg on my first hop, and there's nothing more pathetic than a one-legged hobo.
But my all-time most favorite career would be a book-mobile driver. I remember my first book-mobile. (Who doesn't?) I remember as a first grader at Boones Mill Elementary School, in Franklin County, a book-mobile came to the school. I remember thinking to myself, "Why, this is almost like a library on wheels."
I remember climbing on board, and seeing all those beautiful books. I knew from that day on that when I grew up I'd be a book-mobile driver. Sometimes you just know things. And, sometimes you're absolutely wrong. This was one of those times, because for whatever reason, I never became a book-mobile driver. Maybe it's because I have poor depth perception. Those big side-mounted mirrors stick out way too far on the big rigs. I think I could have been a book-mobile host. You know, riding along and then when the book-mobile got to wherever it was going, I could open the door and welcome people aboard and even make some recommendations. As strange as it may seem, whenever I would apply for such a job, the book-mobile people would just stare at me and shake their heads. Maybe I was just a little too ahead of my time.
When I was about twenty, I dabbled with the idea of starting my own book-mobile company. I thought maybe I could buy a cargo van, and install shelves, and go buy some discount books at the book store and drive around town. Some of my friends discouraged me saying that no one would want to crawl around in a van looking for books. I felt that if I kept the really good books on the bottom shelf, perhaps my customers wouldn't notice.
That was another sticking point...customers. It seems that most people who use the services of a book-mobile are very tight with their money. They expect book-mobiles to just lend out their books at no charge! How in the world can a guy make a living doing that? Why just the cost of gasoline would put me out of business within about three days.
So that was that. My dream burst like one of those big bubbles that the truly professional bubble blowers whom you see on TV can blow. Hey, now, that's a career I hadn't thought of. Excuse me. I'm going to go do a little research.
.

The Gift of Gabby Hayes

I'm going through a three-quarter-life crisis. It's too late to be a mid-life one. I have been analyzing my life and virtually everything I ever wanted to be or do I haven't been or done. I know all kids, or at least most kids, set rather lofty goals as to what they want to be when they grow up. I didn't want to be a doctor. My father was a doctor and he was always rushing out of the house at all hours saving lives. Too inconvenient for me. Just a quick aside, I do wonder at what point in life does a person decide, "Hey, I want to be a proctologist." Not that we don't need proctologists. I just wonder if there's a turning point, where certain people know that's their calling in life. It would have been my luck to spend years in medical school and then get such a calling.
I also didn't want to be a movie star. What I wanted to be was a sidekick. I loved sidekicks. Andy Devine was one of my favorites. He was Jingles on Wild Bill Hickock. Remember? His voice sounded like he had swallowed a curtain rod, which is what my mother told me he had done. I don't know if that was true or not. My mother tended to make things up when she didn't have the facts, or just to scare me. For instance, it wasn't until I was in my twenties that it finally dawned on me that playing with a rubber band couldn't hardly put your eye out. She always swore she knew a kid that that had happened to.
But the very best sidekick ever was Gabby Hayes. I think I could have made a pretty good Gabby Hayes. I could, and still can, say "Dag nab it," so perfectly, that you'd swear Hayes had risen from his grave and was speaking.
That's the only impersonation I could ever really master. I thought about getting up a lounge act doing impersonations. That was another goal of mine, but with the inability to really do anything other than "dag nab i," I felt my range was just a little too limited. I know that personally, I wouldn't want to spend twenty bucks to hear someone come on stage and say, "Dag nab it," and then exit. So, I felt that it wouldn't be fair for me to do that.
I have worked on a few other impersonations, but just don't have them down all that well. I can do a great Lauren Bacall doing an impersonation of Mr. Ed. "Wilburrrrr!" Somehow impersonations just don't translate that well in print, but try doing Lauren Bacall doing Mr. Ed at home. It may not be as good as mine, but at least you'll get the idea.
I can also do John Wayne, but only for the one word..."Pilgrim." Again, it's hard to pull off a really dazzling performance with just a few words.
But, back to the sidekick idea. I would have pursued that, but I could tell, as early as twenty five years ago that sidekicks were a dying breed. The last really true sidekick was Ed McMahon. By the way, I can say, "Ohhhhhhahhhh," like him, at least it sounds somewhat like him.
There just aren't any good sidekicks anymore. I don't really consider Robin a sidekick to Batman. He's more like an apprentice. Gabby Hayes is dead and gone, and there's no one who can replace him. True, I can say "Dag nab it," but I could never duplicate his beard. I'm just too hairless. If I shave on Monday, I get Thursday shadow. And, a really good western movie sidekick has to have a beard.
There are other goals I had, that for one reason or another I had to abandon along this meandering highway I like to call "life." Maybe I'll tell you more about that tomorrow. Or, possibly, in keeping with my true character, I may decide not to bother with it. Or, I may have packed up and run off with the circus. Oops, I guess I kind of gave away one of my lifelong ambitions. But, if I'm still around, we'll talk tomorrow. Maybe.

Take a Number and Rot

First, before I begin my tale of unparalleled stupidity by a government agency, I just want to say how proud I am of Mayor Governor Wilder and the entire bunch who came up with the name for Maymont's new bear. People are always accusing Richmonders of being too localized in their thinking...of thinking that if it's not from Richmond, it ain't worth much. But, I think it's safe to go out on a limb after this past weekend and say, "You're very Richmond, if you name the Richmond bear after a southwestern United States city.
Okay, really, what did you truly name the bear? Come on. It's a cute joke...naming the bear Phoenix, but this is carrying a joke too far. I could understand that some of the judges weren't crazy about my suggestion, Bobby, the Baby-Biting Bear, but really, that name makes a lot more sense, and is a heck of a lot cuter than Phoenix.
Is it some sort of symbolism? I know the dead bears were cremated, so is this saying that the new bear rose from the ashes of those child-devouring bears that used to terrorize visitors to Maymont? Could this be a way of scaring the kids. You know, as if to say, "Ha Ha. You thought you killed the bears, but they're back in one bigger, meaner, child biting furry machine."
If so, then, hmmm, I'm all for it. I like it, actually. Forget what I said. Maybe this was a good decision on the part of city officials.
Now, on to the issue at hand. My wife and I have been living at the DMV over the past few days, trying to get a matter straightened out. Those folks there are not only the rudest, crudest, most arrogant group of government-payroll leeches, but they're also exceptionally stupid. And them's there good points.
My wife sent off her check weeks ago for her new decals. She got the new registration but not the decals. So, she calls DMV - Dirty Moronic Vultures...of course vultures only eat the flesh after the animal has died. The folks at DMV slay you then devour you.
Anyway, she calls DMV and after about a 30 minute wait, she's told she has to come in and pick up replacement decals, so she goes, gets in the drive through line and waits about an hour. Finally, she has to give up, because there are other things happening in her life. So we go back the next day. Unbelieveably, there's hardly any line in the drive through. We pull up, give the woman the registration - a new registration I might add, and the woman tells my wife that she can't give her the decals because that car was sold to someone in North Carolina in November.
The fact that my wife is driving the car, and holding a new registration that DMV sent her in May means absolutely nothing to the barely English-speaking customer service rep. One thing to keep in mind when you go to DMV, yes, it is a Virginia governmental agency, but they don't speak English.
My wife's car is leased, so, home we go and call Honda Finance. We have to be transferred three times, but each rep is very polite, and they speak beautiful English. The irony is not lost on me that the only company in America with English speaking reps is a Japanese company. Not one person even so much as said, "Ah so..."
The final word from Honda is that they had never notified DMV of any change in the lease status. They insist it must be the fault of DMV. Having had previous dealings with DMV, I have no trouble believing that.
The next day is Saturday. My wife gets up early and gets to DMV at eight AM...opening time. Already there is a line around the interior of the building...not waiting to be served, just waiting to get a number so you can go somewhere else and wait to be served. It took an hour just to get a number.
At the window, my wife explains the problem. The rep is new and asks a fellow rep what should she do. That rep says to go ahead and give her the decals. But, the new rep calls a manager who refuses to do that. In other words, there are no real rules. Everyone just kind of makes it up as they go along. If my wife had gotten the other window, she would have had her decals. Makes perfect sense to me.
So, anyway, my wife has to get Honda to fax her some paper, then she has to go back down to DMV and spend another morning. I think the next time she needs to take along something I like to call an intimidator. Something that gets the DMV morons motivated. I wonder if Phoenix might be available.

There's A Song In My Heart - But It's a Sad One

I'm sad today. You ask me why I'm sad. You wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back, And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

Oops, a little Johnny Cash got in the way there.
But, I think you can tell that this is something deep in my own heart.
I'm nothing if not sincere.

And the reason I'm sad today is, as many of you, no doubt, also are, is because of our two dearly departed Maymont bears. Up until today, I thought I had an ally. I thought Mayor Governor Wilder felt the pain that I did. But, apparently, I've been horribly deceived. I guess you heard the news already.
Saturday is Welcome the New Bear day at Maymont. That's right. It's like our two friends never existed. See ya black bears, we have us a new cute little cub now.
How can people be so heartless. How can people be so cruel.
Easy
Easy to be hard.

Oops, a little Three Dog Night got in the way there.
But you do see my point. Don't you?
They say when you lose a bear, you should pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.
That, my friend, is easier said than done. Sure, it might have worked for Goldilocks. But, hey, Steve Cook is human. Cut Steve Cook and he bleeds. And, internally, I'm bleeding. Wait, don't call the paramedics. I speak figuratively, even somewhat allegorically.
I guess I'm just a little bewildered to think that all of these Richmonders who were crying about the bears only weeks ago, are going to go out and celebrate the new bear this weekend.
Well, let me tell you my friends. I might go. It might be therapeutic. I guess. I want to hear the Mayor reveal the new name. Oh please let it be my suggestion - Bobby, the Baby Biting Bear. I hear the Mayor is also going to announce that he's legally adopted the bear. So whatever it's first name, it's last name will be Wilder.
Oh yes, I'll go. I'll smile.
But if there's a smile on my face
It's only there trying to fool the public
But when it comes down to fooling you
Now honey that's quite a different subject

But don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Cos really I'm sad, Oh I'm sadder than sad
Well I'm hurt and I want you so bad
Like a clown I appear to be glad ooh yeah

Well there're some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown when there's noone around
Oh yeah, baby baby, oh yeah baby baby

I really need to cut off my radio at night.

But, look for me at Maymont. Oh yes, I'll stand in the face-painting line, but don't be surprised when you see me. I'll be the one with the big frown painted on my sad little face.

Now That's Just Stupid

How about those suicides in Guantanomo? I guess those terrorist really showed us a thing or two, huh? That'll teach us to try and imprison those fellows.
And, hey, what about that big bus boycott in Richmond today? What if they gave a boycott and nobody didn't come? That's kind of the way it was. Although the local head of the NAACP did have a clever line. He said city officials (as in Mayor Governor Wilder) think more of black bears than they do black people. You know, when folks come up with such brilliant sound bites, it just naturally makes you to respect them and their cause all the more.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is that there seems to be an international pandemic of stupidity. It's like virtually everyone has lost the ability to think reasonably and to keep their big mouths shut when all they have to say is something asanine.
Even Ann Coulter seems to have lost it. I always kind of liked her, and, I think she makes a lot of sense most of the time, but why would she publicly call 9/11 widows "witches" and accuse them of using their husbands' deaths for their own political gain? I mean, for heaven's sake, even if you believe it (even if it's partially true), keep your big mouth shut. You just come off looking stupid.
Of course compared to that idiot in California who sued to have the phrase "In God We Trust" taken off of currency, because, he said, as an atheist, the phrase violated his consitutional rights, Coulter seems downright brilliant.
Really, I'm not kidding. There's a super-normal plague of stupidity that's settled in on the world. Did you hear the press conference regarding the bombing of Zarqawi?
Some of the journalist were more concerned about the obese (now dead) terrorist master mind than they were about the Maymont bears. Go figure.
I believe if Hitler were alive today, there'd be a large number of media folks who'd view him as simply misunderstood and in need of some TLC. It's funny, on one hand, we're becoming a more violent world, and on the other hand, we want to pollycoddle every ne'er do well who straps on the dynamite and decides to blow himself and a bunch of his enemies up.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe everybody else gets it, and I'm just an uneducated boob. Perhaps I'm losing it. Next thing you know, I'll be getting up at three in the morning to watch the World Cup. If it comes to that...just shoot me.

Let Them Eat Cake

You know something that I just can't stand? Besides people in general, that is? It's people who make a big to do about their birthday, or about birthdays in general. What is the big deal? That you lived another year?
I used to work in corporate America, in large offices, and virtually every day someone was having a birthday. So, virtually every day someone thought they should be given special treatment. When 55 year old women go around calling each other the "birthday girl" it makes me wanna gag. Wait, don't tell me how old you are. Let me count the wrinkles.
And whoever came up with this oh, so hilarious over-the-hill black balloon craze ought to be shot. It's not just the black balloons. It's the black streamers, and the black confetti, and the black cards. I'd like to give 'em a black eye.
What I really hate are those happy birthday spontaneous combustion outbursts you hear in restaurants. I know there are no-smoking sections, I wish they'd have no birthday celebration sections in restaurants.
Every dog-gone time I go out to eat I encounter at least one of the unruly displays of celebratory excitement. It starts by a gang of waiters (who should be pouring me some more ice water) marching through the restaurant clapping their hands.
As soon as I hear the clapping begin, I want to dive through the plate glass window. I know what's in store.
This roving gang of limited-talent birthday thugs converge on the "birthday girl's" table and begin this "Happy Birthday" chant. They can't sing Happy Birthday to You because that song is copyrighted and they'd have to pay a fee everytime they sing it.
So they do the next worse thing. They have this hideous, tuneless cacophony of random notes that goes something like, "Happy happy" clap-clap "Happy happy" clap-clap "Happy hapy birthday." And then after the hubbub dies down, everyone in the restaurant is supposed to stop what they're doing (such as gagging) and applaud. I'm not sure if we're supposed to applaud the performance or the fact that someone in the place is having a birthday.
Go ahead. Ask me if I appl....NOPE.
Here's a little advice to the birthday celebrant, and I mean this is the nicest way possible. Shut up. No one cares. We all have birthdays. They mean nothing. I've had one each year since I was born. And, it's really nothing to get so excited about.
One more thing, what's with the birthday cake? I've seen grown women giggling hysterically at the thought of putting one candle for each year on the cake of a co-worker.
The only person who should get a little excited over that would be the fire marshall. But nothing seems to delight forty plus (age, not size, although...) women like birthday candles. They light the candles, the birthday girl blows her saliva all over the cake, everyone applauds, and then they all eat the saliva-drenched cake. Wow, what a great idea.
The whole thing is ridiculous. So, my final word. When June 29th comes around this year, I don't want you to do anything for me. Remember that. On June 29th, I don't want anyone to say anything. Not on June 29th. And, now I have to stop writing and go look at neckties. I sure do like neckties.

Just Call Me Steve Cool

I ran into an old school mate today…hadn’t seen him since 1967. He doesn’t look like a teenager anymore, but he didn’t look all that old. That disappoints me. I want to be the youngest looking person in my age group.
When I meet up with someone with whom I went to school, and identify myself, they always ask what basically amounts to the same question: “Steve who?” Today, the question was, “What year were you?”
“Same as you,” I answered. His puzzled look spoke volumes. Trying to put him at ease, I added, “I was recently voted the most unmemorable person to ever attend Hermitage High School.”
“Oh really?” he asked. I got the impression he had no trouble at all believing that. To be honest, I wasn’t voted most unmemorable. I’m not sure that they even give that sort of an award, but truth is, someone would have to remember you to vote for you. So, the fact that I’ve never been voted the most unmemorable, is a good indication that I am.
I’m not throwing myself a pity party here, but I had very few friends in high school. Maybe like zero.
I was a pretty shy sort of guy, although I always found myself to be rather humorous. I think I would have made a good friend. I never stole anyone’s girlfriend. Of course, that wasn’t for lack of trying.
I never really got in any trouble. Maybe that was part of my unpopularity, especially with the girls. Girls always seem to like the bad boys…the troublemakers. I was too afraid to make trouble. I was afraid that if anyone ever scolded me, I’d just break down and cry.
Girls don’t seem to be especially turned on by guys who cry. Believe me, I know.
I probably should have carried a switchblade or something when I was in school. You could in those days. Today, you get expelled for having a plastic butter knife in your pocket. Back when I went to school, I think machine guns were allowed. Although, I never thought to bring one to school.
I should have kept a pack of smokes rolled up in my t-shirt sleeve. I would have, except I didn’t smoke and we weren’t allowed to wear t-shirts, at least not on the outside. We weren’t even allowed to have our shirttails out. That was okay by me. I always dressed neatly in the latest fashions from the Sears Huskies department.
I know some of the uppity kids used to make fun of me because I didn’t wear something called Weejuns, or something like that. I think they were shoes, but it may have been some sort of sweater.
I wouldn’t say I was a total geek, but I do know that when, years later, the movie American Graffiti came out, Richard Dreyfuss’ character wore the exact shirt I wore in high school. And, he seemed kinda geeky.
But, even geeks have a personality and I think I probably didn’t. I just sort of existed. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking…”and he seems so suave and debonair today.” Yep, go figure. I think I’m even well known enough today to be voted most unmemorable. Cool, eh? I’ve come a long way. Now, maybe I can work on my bad boy image. Do bad boys wear trusses?

Another One Doesn't Ride the Bus

Did you ever hear the joke about the guy who got through high school just by the skin of his teeth? No one thought he'd ever amount to anything. And yet, twenty-five years later, he arrives at his school reunion, riding in a quarter-million dollar vehicle...a Greyhound Bus. Well, I was reminded of that story today.
I don't know if it's a flaw in my personality...probably not. But, I get really irked when people do stupid things. You're probably thinking that I'm about to start lambasting someone. You're right. Actually, a bunch of someones. It's the state NAACP and a group calling themselves Youth for Social Change. Have you heard how they plan to protest a decision made by the city's Commonwealth Attorney which cleared two police officers in the shooting death of a young man who fled on foot when police tried to stop him for a traffic violation.
I'm not irritated that these people think it's a cover-up. Maybe it is. Maybe not. Personally, I don't think so, but that's not the point. What flabbergasts me is HOW they plan to protest. Get this...this is priceless. They're encouraging the city's black population to not ride the city buses on Monday.
Now think about that. While riding a city bus is no disgrace, it doesn't really portray a picture of success. To my way of thinking, it'd be like if the NAACP encouraged its devotees to not cash their welfare checks this month, or not to use food stamps on Monday. Why do something that emphasizes a somewhat negative stereotype?
Maybe what this Youth for Social Change group ought to do is ask the citizens not to try struggling with police when they attempt to stop them. Maybe they should say, "Let's protest by not trying to outrun the law."
I know. I'm old fashioned when it comes to such things. But to say let's don't ride the bus just doesn't seem to send the sort of message I'd want to send. Now don't you go saying, "Well Steve, you're not black. You don't know how it is."
It is true that I'm not black. But I have enough sense to know a negative stereotype when I see one. And telling blacks to stay home from work makes about as much sense as that recent illegal immigrants day off. The one boycotting is primarily hurting himself, besides making himself look downright stupid.
If you youths want social change, why not make it a change that dignifies those you're supposedly trying to help. Don't hold up a banner in the newspaper that proclaims, "Hey, we still ride buses cause we can't afford an automobile." And, that's exactly what you're doing.
Listen folks, I may be lilly-white, but I can still give you some good advice. Just ask me. I've got plenty. For instance, that NAACP name. That's an idea whose time has come and gone. That's gotta go. Give me a call. Let's talk about it.

Come to Grandpa

I have a special affinity for grandparents. There's nothing more special in most children's lives than a doting grandfather (or grandmother). That's why I was so deeply moved by the heartwarming tale coming out of Lake County, Florida.
It's a story that will warm every cockle of your heart. It's the story of two grandparents, Robert and Versie Johnson.
Things apparently haven't been all rosey with the Johnsons. Their son is in jail. But who hasn't had a skeleton or two in their closets from time to time?
Anyway, their son asked them for a favor...a favor regarding his wife and three kids. And, bless their hearts, these two loving grandparents did everything in their power to help fulfill their son's one wish. You see, the son, the father of the kids, simply wanted his parents to hire someone to kill the three children and their mother, and, oh yes (forgive me PETA), the family dog.
So Robert and Versie went out and found a hit man. They even offered him a whopping one hundred dollars to do the killings. I'm figuring that's about twenty-five bucks a person with the dog being done in for free (again, PETA, forgive me).
As loving, and as generous as Robert and Versie are, they're evidently somewhat lacking in the gray matter, if you know what I mean. Because these two doting grandparents slipped up and contacted an undercover officer.
They even met with him at a local Best Western and gave him the hundred. Well, at least Versie did. Apparently Robert was too timid to actually meet the guy who was going to kill his grandkids. Sentimental old fool.
The mother of the kids doesn't sound any too bright herself. When informed that her loving hubby had tried to get her and the young'uns killed, she was shocked. "I never saw this coming," said said. "I loved (him) with all my heart. (He) was good to me and good to the kids. (He) was a nice guy, everybody's friend."
This nice guy is in jail awaiting trial on child abuse charges. His kids are slated to testify against him. And she loves him with all her heart. I don't know if Child Protective Services can take kids away because of parental stupidity, but this is one time when I wish they'd at least give it a try.
Of course, the ones I really feel sorry for are the grandparents. This loving couple is now in jail. Why? For simply trying to help their son. They're a lovely couple. Check the link to take a look at 'em... http://www.local6.com/news/9296581/detail.html. And now, in their golden years, they're behind bars. Isn't there any justice left in this wicked old world?

Every Dog Must Have Its Day (or Two Days in This Case)

Did you see that NBC mini-series this past week? I think its title was "10.5 Cliche Apocalypse." It had to be perhaps the worst TV movie ever, and, yet, at the same time, absolutely riveting.
It was like every cliche ever done in every B movie joins forces with the worst special effects Hollywood has ever produced (at least in the past 50 years) and attacks every landmark that the average semi-brain-dead TV viewer could possibly imagine. In one action-packed mini-series you get to see nature in all its fury attack Hawaii, Las Vegas, the Hoover Dam, Mount Rushmore and much more. How cool can you get? The only thing the writers forgot was to give someone a mild case of bird flu. There, my friend, would go the perfect screenplay.
What was particularly touching about the movie though was that in the midst of absolutely devastating destruction and unparalleled loss of life, the key characters took the time to have meaningful dialogue with one another. For instance, there was the President's semi-homely (think an ugly Amy Carter, if your mind will allow you to do that) daughter who feels over protected and wants to prove she's up to the challenge of helping to save lives. The only problem is she really can't save lives. In fact, she can't do much more than carry towels around the earthquake torn areas. First, why would FEMA waste money sending someone to a disaster relief site who had no more skills than carrying towels? Oops, I guess I answered my own question.
Anyway the daughter gets out into the field and immediately realizes she can't put her finger in the open wound of another person without nearly passing out. So the good doctor stops trying to help the injured and begins his own special process of helping the President's daughter to heal emotionally. I'm sure that if I were bleeding to death I'd be more than understanding if such a thing were to happen.
Then there was this lady scientist who is evidently fighting the emotional demons of having a brilliant scientist father who after getting his feelings hurt parlays his genius into a successful poker career. Finally, as fate would have it, the father and daughter are reunited. And, as the United States splits into two killing everyone in the path of a fast-moving cartoon crevice, father and daughter take a little time out to reflect on their troubled past. Very touching, I must say.
There were other great story lines masterfully woven into the spellbinding plot. And I stayed in a constant state of amazement that all of the main characters had time to resolve their silly little personal issues while virtually everyone they knew was lying dead around them. Wouldn't it be nice if in real life, we stopped worrying about trivialities like people dying, and took the time to really get in touch with our feelings?
The most amazing thing about the whole story was that there was no hero...no one came along and saved the day. Despite the fact that the brilliant card-playing ex-scientist proclaims, "Hey, we have a great big world to save," in the end, the rift in the earth's substrata (or whatever) won. It tore the U.S. in two, in a most animated way.
But, and here's the really touching part, just before the credits (blames) roll, President Beau Bridges states rather philosophically, in so many words, "Well the country has been cut in half, but we're still one country." Nothing truly unites a nation like a new fault line creating a permanent geo-physical split down its center. I guess the basic moral of the story was it doesn't really matter how many people die. As long as you can end up with a comforting cliche all is right in the world.
I, for one, don't buy into that theory. As my old pappy used to tell me, "Son," he said. "Avoid cliches like the plague." I've always subscribed to his (my pappy's) theory, and all I can say is that all's well that ends well. Or, do I say if life hands you a lemon, make lemonade? Funny, I can't remember what it is I always say, but I'm always saying it, that's for sure.

Feeling a Little Horse

So, I'm sitting at my desk, banging my head on the keyboard, as it were, trying to figure out why we say "as it were," instead of "as it was." But, I was also trying to come up with something clever to write about today, and I kept coming up empty. My head hurts. My throat is sore. I think I'm coming down with something and, to tell the truth I was about to totally throw in the towel, as it were, when my phone rings.
Aha! I say, somewhat hoarsely. Maybe this is my inspiration. So, I pick up the phone, the talk/listen part, anyway, and I say, "
Steve, here."
"Steve," the deep, somewhat familiar voice on the other end of the line says.
"Yes," I say in my rather soprano-ish voice. My voice always goes up a couple of octaves when I'm on the phone. And, I'm getting pretty sick of people replying, "Yes, mam," to me.
Anyway, the voice on the other end of the line continues, "I bet you don't know who this is."
I now know who the voice reminds me of, so I take a guess. "Mr. Ed?" I say, half-jokingly.
"Close, but no cigar," he answers.
"Sir, you have me at a disadvantage," I say.
"Let me introduce myself then," he says. "I'm Barbaro. At least that's what you folks call me."
"Barbaro...as in the horse?" I ask with skepticism.
"You got it," he says.
"A horse is a horse," I say.
"Of course, of course," he says.
"And no one can talk to a horse, of course," I say.
"That is, of course," he continues, "unless the horse is the famous Barbaro."
"You do have a nice singing voice," I compliment him.
"A little too baritone for my tastes," he says modestly.
"Okay," I say. "I'll play your little game. Let's say you are Barbaro, why are you calling me?"
"I need a public forum, and I've heard that up to three people read your blog each day."
"Why thanks," I say. I'm blushing. It's not often one gets complimented by a Kentucky Derby winner. "So, why do you need a public forum," I ask.
"Well, I just want to thank everyone for their cards and letters."
"Cards and letters?" I ask, being totally in the dark.
"Oh yes," Barbaro says, "and flowers too. The outpouring of concern and condolences has been truly amazing."
"You mean," I ask, "that humans are sending get-well cards to a horse?"
"And, I take it you have a problem with that?" Barbaro asks me.
"Well, you are a horse," I say.
"Perhaps, you don't believe horses have feelings. Hey, cut me, I bleed. I gotta tell you those cards have done a lot to cheer me up."
"You do sound pretty chipper for a horse that has just lost any chance of ever racing again."
"You think I like racing?" Barbaro asks.
"You don't?" I say incredulously.
"Heavens no!" he answers. "It's hard work. I'm just in it for the perks."
"The perks?" I ask.
"I'm guessing you've never tried to impress a filly," he says.
"You would be correct," I quickly assure him.
"Listen, pal," he says, "nothing turns a pretty little filly's head like a Kentucky Derby win."
"I've heard you have quite an eye for the ladies," I say.
"Big time," he says. "I don't know if its the Percocet, or what, but I'm feeling friskier than a teenager on prom night."
"I don't need the analogies," I say. "This is a G-rated blog.
"Sorry," he says. "I do get carried away sometimes."
"Yeah, in an ambulance," I joke.
"That's not funny," he says. "I almost died out there."
"Well, you're still not out of the woods," I say.
"What? Do you know something I don't know?" He sounds scared, and I'm wishing I had kept my mouth shut.
"Uh, no, not at all," I say. I probably should have left it at that, but with my big mouth, I keep on. "But you are a horse, and they shoot horses, don't they?"
"What are you suggesting?" he asks with genuine terror in his voice. I know I've gone too far.
"Nothing...nothing at all. It's just an old movie. Forget I ever said it." I try to be reassuring, but somehow I think this horse sees right through my charade.
"Stop playing charades," he says. "This is serious. What do you mean they shoot horses?"
"Well, in the old days...I mean many many years ago, they would shoot horses when they broke a leg." I continue, "But they say you're doing well. In fact, I heard you have a fifty-fifty chance of not being shot." I realize instantly that that didn't come out the way I had hoped.
"Fifty-fifty?" He asks. "And, that's supposed to make me feel good?"
"Hey, I wouldn't worry about it," I say.
"I'm sure you wouldn't," he says. "You're not a horse."
"Come on. Calm down," I encourage him. "Besides I bet there's a cute little filly nearby that could get your mind off your leg problems."
"Suddenly, that doesn't interest me so much," he says. "I guess you think I'm just some shallow stud who only wants to hang around the stable waiting to mate. There's a lot more to me than that. You humans are all alike."
"Hey, I'm sorry," I say. "Maybe I am a horse bigot."
"Apology accepted," he says graciously. "I guess the realization that I might not make it has hit me rather hard. I really don't know what I'm going to.....well, hellooo there."
"Who are you talking to?" I ask.
"Hey, gotta go," he says, his mood seems markedly improved. "This little filly just sauntered over, and I have a Derby medal I think she just might want to see. I hope she doesn't notice my limp. That can really turn the gals off."
With that, the phone went dead. And, now I'm back to trying to come up with something to write about. I'm still drawing blanks.

Beauty's Only Skin Deep, But Skin is the Best Part

I spent some time over the past few days in a local hospital maternity ward. It's fascinating to watch new parents parade in and out...to see the joy, the wonderment. It's not only very touching, but the experience gets my somewhat philosophical mind to thinking deep thoughts.
My observations have me pondering one of life's biggest questions - Why do ugly people tend to marry ugly people? Now, that may seem to be a question with an obvious answer, but when you think deeply, you'll see that the answer is not so obvious.
You might think that it's only natural for ugly people to marry ugly people, but, why is it natural? Here's where my questions come in. Do ugly people realize they're ugly? Does one come to a point in life where he says, "Hey, I'm ugly. I'll never have a pretty wife, so let me go get an ugly one."?
And if that's so, does the ugly guy work his way down...starting with pretty, then going to attractive, then plain, then kinda ugly, and so on?
I'm not a good looking guy, but I'd never marry ugly. Oh sure, it's nice to say that it's what one looks like inside that counts. But hey, I'm not kissing the person inside. I'm kissing the lips on the outside and if those lips are hooked to an ugly face, it's not as pleasant.
I saw some really ugly couples this weekend, and I'm guessing that since they're new parents, they had to have been doing some kissing. Maybe there's a genetic thing in ugly people that causes them to be less shallow. I don't think so. When about 75% of the ugly ones have packs of Marlboros wrapped up in the sleeve of their t-shirts and Confederate flags sewn on the seat of their jeans, I'm thinking they're probably not your deepest thinkers. But, maybe that's my own prejudices shining through.
Maybe, since you look at your face in the mirror every day, you get sort of immunized to ugly, so much so, that when you see ugly on someone else, it doesn't even register. That sort of makes sense to me. I've looked at my face for so many years, that I don't really see the true ugliness until I look at a picture of myself. I wonder how can such a good looking guy be so un-photogenic. I guess the point is that I'm not a good looking guy.
Even though I can accept that, and have for many years, there's no way I could have an ugly wife. I'd rather be alone. Does that sound shallow? Maybe so. But, at least I'm honest. That counts for something, doesn't it?
And, if nothing else, I'm bound to have made some points with my wife today. I'm saying she's pretty. Doesn't that make up for all those other times? I'm hoping. I sure don't want to lose the wife I have. At this point in my life, there's little chance I could get another pretty one.

The Man Who Knew Too Much

Before I get into the matter at hand (conspiracy theories), I want to apologize if I sound just a trifle irritated today. I had a very traumatizing experience yesterday...perhaps one of the worst experiences of my life...well, maybe not. I went to McDonald's for lunch. No, wait, that was not the trauma, in itself. Here's what happened. I go in. There's a young, somewhat attractive girl behind the counter.
I order a dollar hamburger and a small diet cola. I can swing two bucks for lunch. Anyway, the girl smiles at me. I can tell she's digging me. I realize that I still must have it.
Well, the girl rings up the order. "That'll be $1.56," she says, kinda winking at me.
"Just $1.56," I exclaim, being the honest guy I am.
Hold on, here comes the trauma part. "I gave you the senior drink discount," she says pleasantly.
Okay, so maybe she's not digging me. I had not asked for the senior discount. What in the name of all that's good and right in the world could have prompted this young woman to imagine that I would qualify for a senior discount.
Initially, I was so stunned I was speechless. But, after a few seconds, I asked, "What's the age limit for seniors?"
I was hoping against hope that she would say it was around thirty-five or so. Instead, "I don't know," she answered. "I just thought you'd qualify."
I spent the afternoon pre-planning my funeral. I'm history. It was a good run. Well, it really hasn't been that good, but it was a run.
But enough about me. On to the really important stuff...conspiracy therories. I guess I've been living under a rock, but I did not know until yesterday that there are a bunch of wackos who honestly believe that the United States government is responsible for the 9-11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Some even believe that strategically placed detonation devices brought the twin towers down.
Really, how absurd can you be? These people believe that all of the airplane passengers who died that day have been hidden in a witness protection program and their families have been paid off to pretend their loved ones are dead and to never see them again. Gee, that really makes a lot of sense. I think if you waved some bucks under my nose I'd abandon my family for the rest of my life.
You know the government can't even keep a clandestine phone tapping operation secret. How in the world could they go five years and not one of the thousands of people involved in this conspiracy has ever spilled the beans? Do you know what most conspiracy theories are? Well, here's something kind of uncanny itself. The word "conspiracy" contains a secret message explaining what most of these theories amount to. Let's play a little anagram game to deciper the secret message hidden within the word "conspiracy." Take the word and eliminate the letters o, n, s, i, y, and the second c. Now, take the remaining letters and rearrange them to get your secret answer.
Now, while I don't believe in conspiracy theories in general, there is one I'm sure is real. There is a legitimate reason to believe that American Idol is rigged. Everyone knows (and I do mean everyone) that Elliott Yamin was the very best singer. Taylor looked like some twisted pathetic creature trying to do Joe Cocker the other night and that McFee girl imagines herself a brilliant song stylist.
Listen, even Frank Sinatra stank up the joint at times when he tried to do his own interpretation of a classic song. If you haven't heard his improv of Mrs. Robinson, you need to listen to it to know what I'm talking about. McFee did this horrendous Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Sure, I know the judges loved it, or so they said.
In reality, the judges are just pawns themselves in a conspiracy to take some prancing clown to the throne. Taylor is a parody of poor Las Vegas entertainers. Call him "Having a Good Time Taylor" all you want, or whatever it was that Randy Jackson was blathering the other night. He may be having fun, but that's mainly because he's in on the conspiracy.
Couldn't you tell that all of the judges had been drugged the other night? Come one people, does no one see this besides myself. Simon is being bribed by a coalition of aging Wayne Newton wannabes who are determined to catapault Taylor to the top. You had better listen to me before it is too late. I have researched this thoroughly, and while I am not allowed to reveal my sources, I can assure you that this thing has been rigged for quite some time.
In a legitimate competition, Elliott Yamin would have been declared the American Idol weeks ago. There is no competition. And, I'm not just saying this because I want to suck up to him in order to get an interview with him. Okay, maybe I am, but that's totally beside the point.
Next week, Taylor will be the American Idol. Next month, it will be Taylor who? In fact, it kinda already is because I can't think of his last name and I'm surely not going to take the time to look it up.
I think it's a total shame what's happening in the world today. Don't any of you out there feel the outrage that I'm feeling. Just think about it people. Think about what's happening. Can you imagine...offering me a senior discount?

Another Visit To Inspirational Point

And now another visit to a place I like to call Steve's Inspirational Point. Here friends is our very own Brother Steve.

Thank you Steve. Friends, I was reminded recently of a lovely story that was told to me personally by a close friend who had returned from a trip to Africa. My dear friend swears that the story is the absolute truth. Whether it is or not, it certainly contains a message that each and every one of us should take seriously to heart. Can you say, "Yaaess, Brother Steve. I am ready to take your story to heart"?

It seems that these two cannibals took a little walk after dinner. And, let me interrupt myself for a moment to say how important it is for us to walk with our friends, to talk with our friends. If we were to take the time from our schedules to do that, we would be much happier people.

Anyway, these two cannibals, and just a quick side point, isn't it heartwarming to know that even our cannibal friends have friends? But, I do digress. Can you say, "Yaess, Brother Steve, you surely do"?

Back to the story...these two cannibals decided after enjoying a refreshing, wholesome meal together, that they would take a little walk, perhaps they wished to commune with nature. I surely do not know the real reason for this stroll. But, I have heard previously that cannibals are wont to walk into the woods after a meal. Another dear friend tells me of a cannibal who finished a particularly delightful meal and took a walk in the woods. It seems that while on this walk he passed his best friend.

But, that is a totally different story than the one I am telling you today. These two cannibals were strolling through the woods and one of them turns to the other. In other words, friends, he looked at his cannibal acquaintance as he spoke to him. So often in today's world, we simply do not take the time to look at our friends. Eye contact is so important. Can you say, "Yaaess, Brother Steve. I believe! I believe in eye contact"?

The first cannibal looks at the second and then he says, "Your wife sure does make good soup." How kind of that cannibal. Perhaps you have been laboring under the delusion that cannibals do not take the time for such niceties. You must remove such harmful thinking. Get it out of your head. Say to yourself, "Harmful thinking, I command you to come out of my head." Be sure to shout when you say, "Out!" It's that shout that really gets the harmful thinking thinking about coming out.

So, when we left our two cannibal friends, one had just told the other that his wife made good soup. The second cannibal looks at his friend for a moment, as if contemplating just what he should say. Finally, after what may have seemed agonizing minutes, when, in actuality it was probably only a few seconds, the second cannibal says, "Yes, she does. But, I'm going to miss her."

Do you get the point, friends? Do you see the reason I have taken my time to share this story? The second cannibal was more concerned with his own personal loss than he was with the feelings of his friend. Let me tell you, my friends...if someone compliments you, you should always say, "Thank you." That should be number one.

Before you start whining about how much you'll miss your wife, or whatever else is bothering you in life, before you start feeling sorry for yourself, you should always remember to say, "Thank you."

My daddy, God rest his soul, once told me, "Son (he always called me 'son'), if you want a friend, you have to be a friend." Do you understand that. If not, say it to yourself, but emphasize the word "be." That's what my daddy got me to do, because when he told me I didn't understand it at all. Go ahead try it. Can you say, "Yaaess, Brother Steve, you have opened my eyes to greater understanding'?

I hope so. I hope that you feel these few moments we have spent together, here at Inspirational Point have helped you to deal with whatever problems you may be facing in your personal life. And, if I have helped you in some small way, all I can say is that it sure would be nice for you to say, "Thank you, Brother Steve." And, friends, what better way to thank me than to send me a small love gift, if you will (and you should).

It doesn't matter how small. I will tell you I can't break a twenty, but send what you can. And, before I go, I just want to say to each and every one of you..."Thank YOU."