I think I've discovered a new mental disorder. I'm getting ready to submit a paper to the Journal of American Psychiatry, if indeed there is such a journal. If not, I'll do the next best thing and send it to Readers Digest.
I have never read of such a disorder, which isn't to say that someone else hasn't discovered it before me, but anyway, I have made a self-diagnosis. Yes, it is I who has this new disorder.
For lack of a better term, I'm calling it "Clinical Euphoria." You see, I'm always basically happy. Yeah, if you know me, you know there's no real reason for me to feel this way. As I've stated before, virtually every decision I have ever made in life has been the wrong one.
As far as personal tragedies go, I was once recommended to be the poster boy for the American Mortuary Association. I've been to so many funerals of friends and family, that they now offer me a Frequent Cryers Discount.
And, as for career success, just consider this. I sit in my little cubicle writing tripe like this every day. You tell me.
But, I'm happy. Why? Again, please tell me. Because I can't figure it out. I'm not the best looking guy in the world, or the most physically fit. I take so many pills that my briefcase looks like the back room at CVS. But, I'm happy.
I used to think it was the coffee, which, by the way, still gives me an even extra little high, but I stopped drinking coffee for a few days and I still felt really happy. It worries me. I don't think I'm manic depressive. Or, is that bi-polar, which, if you ask me, sounds more like a gay eskimo than a mental condition.
The more I think about it, the more I'm starting to worry. What is wrong with me? Am I losing my mind? Am I delusional? Now, I'm getting really depressed about this. Really. I'm very upset. Hey, this is great. I'm actually feeling depression. I'm feeling very low about all of this. This is great. Now I am happy, even euphoric if you will.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Thursday, July 07, 2005
My Editorial Dead Line
I'm a little hurt today. If I were the sort of guy to take offense, I'd be really hurt, but, nonetheless there is some emotional pain going on. Our talented, and usually kind-hearted, assistant editor, Jennifer Mead, sent me a news clipping, and attached to it a note which read, "This reminded me of you."
Ah, I thought, something about a good and decent man, no doubt. Or perhaps, a story about a really talented writer. Nope. Here's the headline: "Worker Dead at Desk for Five Days." Now, you tell me. Would you feel flattered if a headline like that reminded someone of you?
Hey, I know I'm not the most effervescent guy around the office. But, I thought she was a little out of line. After I got my crying under control, I asked her about it. She explained that it was not the dead part that made her think of me. So, here's the rest of the story:
"BOSSES of a publishing firm are trying to work out why no-one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for FIVE DAYS before anyone asked if he was feeling okay.
George Turklebaum, 51, who had been employed as a proof-reader at a New York firm for 30 years, had a heart attack in the open-plan office he shared with 23 other workers.
He quietly passed away on Monday, but nobody noticed until Saturday morning when an office cleaner asked why he was still working during the weekend.
His boss Elliot Wachiaski said: 'George was always the first guy in each morning and the last to leave at night - so no-one found it unusual that he was in the same position all that time and didn't say anything.
'He was always absorbed in his work and kept much to himself.'
A post mortem examination revealed that he had been dead for five days after suffering a coronary. Ironically, George was proof-reading manuscripts of medical textbooks when he died." (By the way, I'm told this is an urban legend. I thought Smokey Robinson was an urban legend, so I'm a little confused.)
Jennifer swears that she just meant that I am always at my desk when she gets in each morning. Yeah, sure.
It has gotten me to thinking that maybe I should do something to show everyone here that I'm still alive. So, here's what I've come up with. I have a harmonica strapped to a neck brace. It's positioned right at my mouth, and every few minutes I breathe into it, creating a lovely melody that virtually sings out, "Hey everyone, Steve is still breathing."
Everyone here knows that if they don't hear the harmonica every five minutes or so, to come looking.
Right now, as I type, I'm doing a rather jazzy version of Oh Suzanna. It's the only song I can play. I am working on "She'll be Coming Round the Mountain." So, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my harmonica. Have a nice day.
Ah, I thought, something about a good and decent man, no doubt. Or perhaps, a story about a really talented writer. Nope. Here's the headline: "Worker Dead at Desk for Five Days." Now, you tell me. Would you feel flattered if a headline like that reminded someone of you?
Hey, I know I'm not the most effervescent guy around the office. But, I thought she was a little out of line. After I got my crying under control, I asked her about it. She explained that it was not the dead part that made her think of me. So, here's the rest of the story:
"BOSSES of a publishing firm are trying to work out why no-one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for FIVE DAYS before anyone asked if he was feeling okay.
George Turklebaum, 51, who had been employed as a proof-reader at a New York firm for 30 years, had a heart attack in the open-plan office he shared with 23 other workers.
He quietly passed away on Monday, but nobody noticed until Saturday morning when an office cleaner asked why he was still working during the weekend.
His boss Elliot Wachiaski said: 'George was always the first guy in each morning and the last to leave at night - so no-one found it unusual that he was in the same position all that time and didn't say anything.
'He was always absorbed in his work and kept much to himself.'
A post mortem examination revealed that he had been dead for five days after suffering a coronary. Ironically, George was proof-reading manuscripts of medical textbooks when he died." (By the way, I'm told this is an urban legend. I thought Smokey Robinson was an urban legend, so I'm a little confused.)
Jennifer swears that she just meant that I am always at my desk when she gets in each morning. Yeah, sure.
It has gotten me to thinking that maybe I should do something to show everyone here that I'm still alive. So, here's what I've come up with. I have a harmonica strapped to a neck brace. It's positioned right at my mouth, and every few minutes I breathe into it, creating a lovely melody that virtually sings out, "Hey everyone, Steve is still breathing."
Everyone here knows that if they don't hear the harmonica every five minutes or so, to come looking.
Right now, as I type, I'm doing a rather jazzy version of Oh Suzanna. It's the only song I can play. I am working on "She'll be Coming Round the Mountain." So, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my harmonica. Have a nice day.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Grandma's Cures
Someone recently sent me a list of home-spun remedies, entitled Grandma's Cures. In looking at some of these, I can see that Grandma was one hip little lady, albeit, a bit on the neurotic side. As a public service, I'm passing a few of these remedies along to you. I'll also throw in my own caveat from time to time. (Please note, I have no idea what caveat means, but it seemed like it might fit here, and I've always wanted to use that word.)
First - Drinking two glasses of! Gatorade can relieve headache
pain almost immediately -- without the unpleasant side effects caused by
traditional "pain relievers." CAVEAT: Yeah, but what about the unpleasant side effects caused by drinking Gatorade? When you think about it, Gatorade is just sweet sweat.
Remedy #2 - Achy muscles from a bout of the flu? Mix 1 Tablespoon of horseradish
in 1 cup of olive oil. Let the mixture sit for 30 minutes, then apply it as
a massage oil, for instant relief for aching muscles. CAVEAT - i tried it. It tastes pretty good. But, now, I have a sore neck from trying to lick it off my back.
Here's another: Cure urinary tract infections with Alka-Seltzer. Just dissolve two tablets
in a glass of water and drink it at the onset of the symptoms. Alka-Seltzer
begins eliminating urinary tract infections almost instantly - even though
the product was never been advertised for this use. CAVEAT - Just make sure you read the instructions fully and carefully. I made some very wrong assumptions based on the fact it was a cure for urinary tract infections.
This one really works: Listerine therapy for toenail fungus... Get rid of unsightly toenail fungus
by soaking your toes in Listerine mouthwash. The powerful antiseptic
leaves your toenails looking healthy again. CAVEAT - Do not pour the Listerine back in the bottle after you've finished soakiing your toes in it. Or, at least, do not do so while your wife is in the bathroom watching you. BONUS: I would think this one would be great if you're dating someone with a foot fetish.
And, time for one more: Coca-Cola cure for rust... Forget those expensive rust removers.
Just saturate an abrasive sponge with Coco-Cola and scrub the rust stain.
The phosphoric acid in the coke is what gets the job done. CAVEAT: - You might want to reconsider drinking anything that's evidently stronger than your industrial rust removers.
Besides being some great ideas, this information also helped my family and I out in another way. We've been wondering for years, what killed Grandma.
First - Drinking two glasses of! Gatorade can relieve headache
pain almost immediately -- without the unpleasant side effects caused by
traditional "pain relievers." CAVEAT: Yeah, but what about the unpleasant side effects caused by drinking Gatorade? When you think about it, Gatorade is just sweet sweat.
Remedy #2 - Achy muscles from a bout of the flu? Mix 1 Tablespoon of horseradish
in 1 cup of olive oil. Let the mixture sit for 30 minutes, then apply it as
a massage oil, for instant relief for aching muscles. CAVEAT - i tried it. It tastes pretty good. But, now, I have a sore neck from trying to lick it off my back.
Here's another: Cure urinary tract infections with Alka-Seltzer. Just dissolve two tablets
in a glass of water and drink it at the onset of the symptoms. Alka-Seltzer
begins eliminating urinary tract infections almost instantly - even though
the product was never been advertised for this use. CAVEAT - Just make sure you read the instructions fully and carefully. I made some very wrong assumptions based on the fact it was a cure for urinary tract infections.
This one really works: Listerine therapy for toenail fungus... Get rid of unsightly toenail fungus
by soaking your toes in Listerine mouthwash. The powerful antiseptic
leaves your toenails looking healthy again. CAVEAT - Do not pour the Listerine back in the bottle after you've finished soakiing your toes in it. Or, at least, do not do so while your wife is in the bathroom watching you. BONUS: I would think this one would be great if you're dating someone with a foot fetish.
And, time for one more: Coca-Cola cure for rust... Forget those expensive rust removers.
Just saturate an abrasive sponge with Coco-Cola and scrub the rust stain.
The phosphoric acid in the coke is what gets the job done. CAVEAT: - You might want to reconsider drinking anything that's evidently stronger than your industrial rust removers.
Besides being some great ideas, this information also helped my family and I out in another way. We've been wondering for years, what killed Grandma.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Sleepless (But Well-Entertained) in Richmond
My brain is mush today. I've been awake since about three this morning. Just couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned for a while, before I did the only reasonable thing to do and that was to watch TV. Early, early morning TV is a vast wonderland of treasures from the past and bargains for the present. I saw shows I hadn't seen in years, and, hopefully won't ever see again. William Shatner may be the ultimate Star Trek captain, but as T.J. Hooker, he really stunk up the joint. I had forgotten how really, really bad he was at that. I did stay tuned long enough to watch his famous jumping and riding on the hood sequence, which seemed to be included in every episode.
Then I tuned to Matlock. That's kind of like watching a train wreck. The show was so stupid, but I just can't resist watching it. I think Andy Griffith was born to play Sheriff Taylor. But, other than that, the guy really can't act. He's so bad in Matlock that he does everything but turn to the camera and wave. Plus, the poor guy is fighting a set of loose dentures to the point that I have a hard time understanding what he's saying. Here's the kicker, though, about watching Matlock this morning. I invest an hour, when I should have been sleeping, and then just as it starts to get (relatively) good, they superimpose on the screen the most dreaded words ever seen in episodic TV - TO BE CONTINUED. What? There's no way I'll be awake tomorrow morning at 4:00 AM. I'll never find out what happened.
The most interesting overnight programming, is, of course, the infomercials. They're so informative, and yet so commercial. One thing I wonder is how David Oreck stays in business. This guy must be getting senile. He gives away so many valuable gifts when you order his vacuum cleaner. He can't be making a profit. He even pays the shipping and handling. What a decent straight-up kind of guy.
I flipped past, and no, I didn't linger, the Girls Gone Wild infomercial. Every girl looked like Natalee Holloway. I do have to wonder how much influence that sort of filth has on young girls (and guys, for that matter). It's made to look so exciting to act like a tramp. I would think rape and murder would take some of the glamour out of that sort of lifestyle.
I also saw an infomercial for something called Phase 4, I think. It's a shoe insert that helps you walk straight, but it does everything else too, from stopping the pain of arthritis to curing the common cold. The producers had this RV they were driving around the country talking to people whom they met along the way who also had these inserts in their shoes. It looked like the 2005 Great U.S.A. Hypochondriac Tour. But, anyway, these people all swore by their inserts. One guy put them in his shoes and within 45 minutes, he had come out of a coma in which he had lingered for the past six years.
I also saw this amazing product called the Swivel Mop or something like that. This thing is going to put David Oreck out of business, if his generous spirit doesn't do it first. This Swivel Mop picks up everything from cracker crumbs to thumb tacks to dead bodies. I have to wonder, do they put these infomercials on overnight because that's when the price of air-time is the least expensive, or because insomniacs are the most gullible of all humans. I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is that within a couple of weeks, I'm going to be receiving some great items in the mail, including those shoe inserts, a couple of swivel mops, and a bunch of some really great free stuff from David Oreck, and, oh yeah, one fantastic vacuum cleaner.
Then I tuned to Matlock. That's kind of like watching a train wreck. The show was so stupid, but I just can't resist watching it. I think Andy Griffith was born to play Sheriff Taylor. But, other than that, the guy really can't act. He's so bad in Matlock that he does everything but turn to the camera and wave. Plus, the poor guy is fighting a set of loose dentures to the point that I have a hard time understanding what he's saying. Here's the kicker, though, about watching Matlock this morning. I invest an hour, when I should have been sleeping, and then just as it starts to get (relatively) good, they superimpose on the screen the most dreaded words ever seen in episodic TV - TO BE CONTINUED. What? There's no way I'll be awake tomorrow morning at 4:00 AM. I'll never find out what happened.
The most interesting overnight programming, is, of course, the infomercials. They're so informative, and yet so commercial. One thing I wonder is how David Oreck stays in business. This guy must be getting senile. He gives away so many valuable gifts when you order his vacuum cleaner. He can't be making a profit. He even pays the shipping and handling. What a decent straight-up kind of guy.
I flipped past, and no, I didn't linger, the Girls Gone Wild infomercial. Every girl looked like Natalee Holloway. I do have to wonder how much influence that sort of filth has on young girls (and guys, for that matter). It's made to look so exciting to act like a tramp. I would think rape and murder would take some of the glamour out of that sort of lifestyle.
I also saw an infomercial for something called Phase 4, I think. It's a shoe insert that helps you walk straight, but it does everything else too, from stopping the pain of arthritis to curing the common cold. The producers had this RV they were driving around the country talking to people whom they met along the way who also had these inserts in their shoes. It looked like the 2005 Great U.S.A. Hypochondriac Tour. But, anyway, these people all swore by their inserts. One guy put them in his shoes and within 45 minutes, he had come out of a coma in which he had lingered for the past six years.
I also saw this amazing product called the Swivel Mop or something like that. This thing is going to put David Oreck out of business, if his generous spirit doesn't do it first. This Swivel Mop picks up everything from cracker crumbs to thumb tacks to dead bodies. I have to wonder, do they put these infomercials on overnight because that's when the price of air-time is the least expensive, or because insomniacs are the most gullible of all humans. I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is that within a couple of weeks, I'm going to be receiving some great items in the mail, including those shoe inserts, a couple of swivel mops, and a bunch of some really great free stuff from David Oreck, and, oh yeah, one fantastic vacuum cleaner.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Make Big Bucks! Operators Are Standing By!
I realize that my self-centered blog today goes totally against the wholesome, altruistic nature of the Internet. When Al Gore invented it, I feel sure he never intended that the World Wide Web be used for personal gain, but, what the hey, I'm going to do just that. You see, I have a couple of great business ideas. If I can just find investors, my palms could be greased for life. So, listen up all you wealthy people out there who don't know what to do with your filthy lucre. If you stick with me, you'll get rich. Oh, that's right, you're already rich. Well, you'll get richer.
Plan number one - You know how you hear all those Onstar commercials these days? With one person after another calling Onstar to whine about an accident or a flat tire or whatever. Well, have you noticed that all these little whiners are women?Onstar is a woman thing. I have a plan for an onboard GPS-related system for men. Listen up guys, I think you're going to like this. Here's the scenario - You've been driving around, totally lost, for about half an hour. No big deal, right? Because you know you'll find the way. But, here's your wife sitting next to you and now she's starting to complain. "You men are all alike," she says, as if she knows what men are like at all. "You'd rather stay lost all day than ask for directions." Okay, maybe she does know, but anyway, she's starting to become annoying. What do you do?
Hit the Guy-Star button. A man's voice comes online. And, just as a concession, you only hire men who can sound like they are in touch with a woman's feelings. "May I help you?" he asks. So, you say, I'm looking for the best way to...
Before you can finish, your wife pitches in, "The dope is lost. We've been driving around for an hour (women always exaggerate)."
"Never fear," Mr. Guy-Star says. Now here's the genius part. Listen what comes next as the Guy-Star guy continues, "I'm sure your husband has it well under control. He doesn't need me to give him directions. Just settle back, mam. Enjoy the quality time you and your husband are spending together. And not only will he find the way, he'll learn some valuable lessons in self-determination in the process. You know, give a man a fish..."
I can just see the TV commercial. The wife looks over at her husband and smiles. She pats his leg and leans back in the seat. All is well.
Okay, are you in? How much can I count on you to invest?
But, if you're a little late getting in on my first plan, please do not miss out on my second one. This one is especially designed for male baby boomers. You know, when you hit the fifties your body begins to play practical jokes on you. Taking that into consideration, as well as the fact that many fifty plus guys are also raising their grandkids, I've come up with a super-duper business idea - A combination ice cream, nose- and ear-hair removal parlor.
Just think, you can take the grandkids out for their favorite treat and get that ear- and nose-hair, that seems to grow like kudzu vine, removed. I'm calling it "Stevie Cees Ice Cream and Nose-Hair Removal Parlor." I think Ice Cream and Nose- and Ear-Hair Removal Parlor is too long a name. But, once the nose-hair removal technician gets started, they can upsell to the ear-hair removal as well.
I even have a good slogan for the venture. "You pick your flavor. We'll pick your nose."
Okay investors. I'm sitting by the phone. Give me a call and let's talk turkey, or nose-hair, if you will.
Plan number one - You know how you hear all those Onstar commercials these days? With one person after another calling Onstar to whine about an accident or a flat tire or whatever. Well, have you noticed that all these little whiners are women?Onstar is a woman thing. I have a plan for an onboard GPS-related system for men. Listen up guys, I think you're going to like this. Here's the scenario - You've been driving around, totally lost, for about half an hour. No big deal, right? Because you know you'll find the way. But, here's your wife sitting next to you and now she's starting to complain. "You men are all alike," she says, as if she knows what men are like at all. "You'd rather stay lost all day than ask for directions." Okay, maybe she does know, but anyway, she's starting to become annoying. What do you do?
Hit the Guy-Star button. A man's voice comes online. And, just as a concession, you only hire men who can sound like they are in touch with a woman's feelings. "May I help you?" he asks. So, you say, I'm looking for the best way to...
Before you can finish, your wife pitches in, "The dope is lost. We've been driving around for an hour (women always exaggerate)."
"Never fear," Mr. Guy-Star says. Now here's the genius part. Listen what comes next as the Guy-Star guy continues, "I'm sure your husband has it well under control. He doesn't need me to give him directions. Just settle back, mam. Enjoy the quality time you and your husband are spending together. And not only will he find the way, he'll learn some valuable lessons in self-determination in the process. You know, give a man a fish..."
I can just see the TV commercial. The wife looks over at her husband and smiles. She pats his leg and leans back in the seat. All is well.
Okay, are you in? How much can I count on you to invest?
But, if you're a little late getting in on my first plan, please do not miss out on my second one. This one is especially designed for male baby boomers. You know, when you hit the fifties your body begins to play practical jokes on you. Taking that into consideration, as well as the fact that many fifty plus guys are also raising their grandkids, I've come up with a super-duper business idea - A combination ice cream, nose- and ear-hair removal parlor.
Just think, you can take the grandkids out for their favorite treat and get that ear- and nose-hair, that seems to grow like kudzu vine, removed. I'm calling it "Stevie Cees Ice Cream and Nose-Hair Removal Parlor." I think Ice Cream and Nose- and Ear-Hair Removal Parlor is too long a name. But, once the nose-hair removal technician gets started, they can upsell to the ear-hair removal as well.
I even have a good slogan for the venture. "You pick your flavor. We'll pick your nose."
Okay investors. I'm sitting by the phone. Give me a call and let's talk turkey, or nose-hair, if you will.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Mother In Therapy
Well my mother finally has something she has longed for for quite some time - a therapist. Now, when she's around her friends, and they get to talking about their therapists, or counsellors, or psychiatrists, or whatever, she can say, "Well my therapist told me..."
Admittedly, her therapist is of the physical variety. My mother recently had that carpal tunnel thing done on her hand and the doctor prescirbed the therapy. But, hey, a therapist is a therapist.
In her younger days, my mother wouldn't have dreamed of needing or wanting therapy. She has always viewed herself as being totally mentally sound, which, I am told, is a sign of mental instability, but I'll save that discussion for another time. She was always of the opinion that one would have to be crazy to go to a psychiatrist.
But, that's before being crazy, or at least "troubled" became so fashionable. When with her friends, I think my mother began to feel isolated, because she couldn't tell anyone what her therapist had told her. Now she can.
There's only one problem. I think she's driving her therapist crazy. You see, my mother does have one rather miniscule delusional thing going in her head. She thinks her three sons walk on water. Even though we've all come close to drowing on several occasions, she holds on to her beliefs. And, she loves to entertain anyone around her with the delightful accounts of our latest accomplishments.
I guess that was fine when we were in kindergarten, and, yes, those stick figures I drew did look somewhat like Lee surrendering to Grant, but only if you squinted just right, and held the paper sideways. But, when her sons are all being courted by AARP, I think it's time to say enough is enough.
My mentally-sound mother hasn't come to that conclusion. So now the poor therapist has to listen to my mother regaling her with our latest goings-on. Because my mother's hands are only a foot or so away from her mouth, there's nothing for the therapist to do but listen.
But just telling that poor lady what we do isn't enough anymore. My mother is now bombarding her with reams of paper print-outs of my columns. I'm tedious enough in small doses. I can't imagine what the hand-lady is going through.
Well, maybe I can. She told my mother this week that she's going on vacation. Yeah, sure. Listen lady, I know what you're up to, and I don't blame you. She's probably going to quietly move away, change her name, and take up a new profession. And, just in case you get a print-out of this one before you make your escape, I sincerely want to apologize.
I also might suggest that you warn the people down at the clinic or whatever you all call those therapy places. Evidently, a new therapist has already been appointed because my mother just left the house with a box of everything I've ever written, including the letter I sent to my Grandmother when I was five years old. Funny, I didn't even realize she had taken that one off the refrigerator to make copies.
Admittedly, her therapist is of the physical variety. My mother recently had that carpal tunnel thing done on her hand and the doctor prescirbed the therapy. But, hey, a therapist is a therapist.
In her younger days, my mother wouldn't have dreamed of needing or wanting therapy. She has always viewed herself as being totally mentally sound, which, I am told, is a sign of mental instability, but I'll save that discussion for another time. She was always of the opinion that one would have to be crazy to go to a psychiatrist.
But, that's before being crazy, or at least "troubled" became so fashionable. When with her friends, I think my mother began to feel isolated, because she couldn't tell anyone what her therapist had told her. Now she can.
There's only one problem. I think she's driving her therapist crazy. You see, my mother does have one rather miniscule delusional thing going in her head. She thinks her three sons walk on water. Even though we've all come close to drowing on several occasions, she holds on to her beliefs. And, she loves to entertain anyone around her with the delightful accounts of our latest accomplishments.
I guess that was fine when we were in kindergarten, and, yes, those stick figures I drew did look somewhat like Lee surrendering to Grant, but only if you squinted just right, and held the paper sideways. But, when her sons are all being courted by AARP, I think it's time to say enough is enough.
My mentally-sound mother hasn't come to that conclusion. So now the poor therapist has to listen to my mother regaling her with our latest goings-on. Because my mother's hands are only a foot or so away from her mouth, there's nothing for the therapist to do but listen.
But just telling that poor lady what we do isn't enough anymore. My mother is now bombarding her with reams of paper print-outs of my columns. I'm tedious enough in small doses. I can't imagine what the hand-lady is going through.
Well, maybe I can. She told my mother this week that she's going on vacation. Yeah, sure. Listen lady, I know what you're up to, and I don't blame you. She's probably going to quietly move away, change her name, and take up a new profession. And, just in case you get a print-out of this one before you make your escape, I sincerely want to apologize.
I also might suggest that you warn the people down at the clinic or whatever you all call those therapy places. Evidently, a new therapist has already been appointed because my mother just left the house with a box of everything I've ever written, including the letter I sent to my Grandmother when I was five years old. Funny, I didn't even realize she had taken that one off the refrigerator to make copies.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Take My Mental Condition, Please
Being perfectly adjusted mentally, myself, I always find it surprising when I encounter those whose actions are somewhat suspect. I've often said this world would be a better place if everyone could be like me. Take Heather P, in the West End, for example. Heather is, no doubt, a very well meaning sort of lady. But, somehow, I suspect, totally lacking in a sense of humor. I can say that because she wasn't the least bit amused by a recent column I did in West End's Best. (You may want to read the column first before continuing - go to www.westendsbestonline.com and scroll down 'til you get to "Looking for Like...") Okay, now that you've read the column, I want you to read Heather's gracious email, which I am printing below. Heather writes:
Hmm...
Was your article serious or joking? I didn't find it very funny.
I actually thought, hm... This guy wants desperately for people to notice
him, to see him as special, someone who stands out. To like him. To
remember him. BUT! He wants EVERYONE to... so he doesn't stand out at
all!! He's too busy being everything to everyone - or NO ONE to everyone.
I'm sure you know (or maybe you didn't), in order to be remembered, you
can't try so hard to be liked by everyone. Then you don't stand out at all!
You have to be YOU! Be the guy who always wears funny ties. Be whatever
you are that makes you unique. Stop all this "looking for like" business.
Stop trying to please everyone else; start pleasing you. Then it won't
matter if they don't remember your name. You'll be more confident and show
more pizzaz. And THEN maybe they WILL remember you! AND YOU WON'T CARE!!
Here's hoping you really don't need all their like,
'cz you've really got your own...
Heather in the West End
"Never be bullied into silence.
Never allow yourself to be made a victim.
Accept no one's definition of your life;
define yourself."
- Harvey Fierstein
Thanks Heather. But, I note some serious flaws in your letter. One of the worst is this. At the very beginning you spell "hmmm" with 3 m's. However, only seconds later, you spell it with only 2. What could you possibly be thinking! Also, you use three exclamation points at the end of one sentence. Plus you write a lot in upper case. I HATE THAT!!!!! STOP IT!!!!
Other than that, you make perfect sense. I will try to stop pleasing everyone else. I will start pleasing ol' Steve. I will start wearing funny ties. I just wish I'd known about the ties earlier in life.
So, all in all, I want to thank you, dear Heather. Just one more little teeney weeney request. NEVER QUOTE HARVEY FIERSTEIN TO ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, go do the right thing. Or, take on the day. I don't really care which, because I'm no longer looking for like.
Hmm...
Was your article serious or joking? I didn't find it very funny.
I actually thought, hm... This guy wants desperately for people to notice
him, to see him as special, someone who stands out. To like him. To
remember him. BUT! He wants EVERYONE to... so he doesn't stand out at
all!! He's too busy being everything to everyone - or NO ONE to everyone.
I'm sure you know (or maybe you didn't), in order to be remembered, you
can't try so hard to be liked by everyone. Then you don't stand out at all!
You have to be YOU! Be the guy who always wears funny ties. Be whatever
you are that makes you unique. Stop all this "looking for like" business.
Stop trying to please everyone else; start pleasing you. Then it won't
matter if they don't remember your name. You'll be more confident and show
more pizzaz. And THEN maybe they WILL remember you! AND YOU WON'T CARE!!
Here's hoping you really don't need all their like,
'cz you've really got your own...
Heather in the West End
"Never be bullied into silence.
Never allow yourself to be made a victim.
Accept no one's definition of your life;
define yourself."
- Harvey Fierstein
Thanks Heather. But, I note some serious flaws in your letter. One of the worst is this. At the very beginning you spell "hmmm" with 3 m's. However, only seconds later, you spell it with only 2. What could you possibly be thinking! Also, you use three exclamation points at the end of one sentence. Plus you write a lot in upper case. I HATE THAT!!!!! STOP IT!!!!
Other than that, you make perfect sense. I will try to stop pleasing everyone else. I will start pleasing ol' Steve. I will start wearing funny ties. I just wish I'd known about the ties earlier in life.
So, all in all, I want to thank you, dear Heather. Just one more little teeney weeney request. NEVER QUOTE HARVEY FIERSTEIN TO ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, go do the right thing. Or, take on the day. I don't really care which, because I'm no longer looking for like.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Shameless Shamelessness
I was waxing nostalgic this morning, thinking about the good old days when people felt ashamed of what they'd done. Now, thanks to modern-day psychiatry and Jerry Springer (among others), there is no shame. It's been replaced by the need for publicity. Although I don't blame it on television, any more than I'd blame a person's murder on the gun used to shoot him, I think TV has facilitated the obliteration of shame.
When a woman can come on TV and tell you the gory details of her husband's affair with the mailman, and how she caught them in the laundry room, and then they bring the husband on to the assorted hoots, boos, applause, etc. of an audience of morons, it kind of lets you know that there is no shame, only publicity.
It really hit me like a ton of bricks while I was watching the BTK killer. The frightening, matter-of-fact recounting of his deeds has been aired over and over and over. I'm not talking about BTK's shamelessness. That guy is so far removed from mainstream society (I hope) that he doesn't count. I'm talking about the shameless way the news networks, and others, keep airing his confessions. You know this guy is getting his jollies from the publicity. You know he's loving the fact that he can go on national TV and describe the way he murdered innocent victims. Why accommodate this monster?
I'll tell you why. It makes good television. It helps Bill O'Reilly keep his ratings up.
That pompous idiot, O'Reilly shows this horror video, and then in his self-important way he says something to the effect, "We show that to tell you to beware of such evil." Oh yeah, I'm sure you showed it as a public service. How are we to beware? What are we to beware of? Mild-mannered businessmen? Church-going husbands and fathers? The point is, people like BTK, will never stand out in a crowd. Frighteningly, they look like normal citizens. Bill O'Reilly wasn't looking out for us. He was shamelessly looking out for his ratings.
Something else that, in my opinion, is shameless is the way those media people stick a microphone in the face of Natalee Holloway's family. Again, anything for the ratings. Forget the fact the family is in shock. Forget their grief. Let's just milk this story. Nothing helps the ratings like a good teen murder.
Well, I see I've gotten way too deep today. I kind of went off on a tangent and never did get into what I had intended to say. I'll have to save that for another time. I don't know what got into me. I'm going to go drink a cup of coffee and settle down. You all have a good day.
When a woman can come on TV and tell you the gory details of her husband's affair with the mailman, and how she caught them in the laundry room, and then they bring the husband on to the assorted hoots, boos, applause, etc. of an audience of morons, it kind of lets you know that there is no shame, only publicity.
It really hit me like a ton of bricks while I was watching the BTK killer. The frightening, matter-of-fact recounting of his deeds has been aired over and over and over. I'm not talking about BTK's shamelessness. That guy is so far removed from mainstream society (I hope) that he doesn't count. I'm talking about the shameless way the news networks, and others, keep airing his confessions. You know this guy is getting his jollies from the publicity. You know he's loving the fact that he can go on national TV and describe the way he murdered innocent victims. Why accommodate this monster?
I'll tell you why. It makes good television. It helps Bill O'Reilly keep his ratings up.
That pompous idiot, O'Reilly shows this horror video, and then in his self-important way he says something to the effect, "We show that to tell you to beware of such evil." Oh yeah, I'm sure you showed it as a public service. How are we to beware? What are we to beware of? Mild-mannered businessmen? Church-going husbands and fathers? The point is, people like BTK, will never stand out in a crowd. Frighteningly, they look like normal citizens. Bill O'Reilly wasn't looking out for us. He was shamelessly looking out for his ratings.
Something else that, in my opinion, is shameless is the way those media people stick a microphone in the face of Natalee Holloway's family. Again, anything for the ratings. Forget the fact the family is in shock. Forget their grief. Let's just milk this story. Nothing helps the ratings like a good teen murder.
Well, I see I've gotten way too deep today. I kind of went off on a tangent and never did get into what I had intended to say. I'll have to save that for another time. I don't know what got into me. I'm going to go drink a cup of coffee and settle down. You all have a good day.
Monday, June 27, 2005
My Weekend Adventure
Well, I just got back from a 36-hour, 1500-mile driveathon to Florida. It was a quick down and back trip. Every time I drive to Florida, I swear I'll never do it again. I learned quite a lot driving along Interstate 95. For one thing, South Carolinians will name just about anything. Their exit ramps are named. At least some of them were. There's even a pedestrian crossover bridge called the Juanita M. White Crossover. It's pretty much in the middle of nowhere, just a foot bridge with steps on both sides of the interstate. I'm wondering If Juanita tried unsucessfully to run across I-95. Well, at least she got a bridge named after her. That's something most of us never get.
I did a lot of listening to the radio on the trip. And, being an AM radio fan, I learned a lot about the tastes of AM listeners throughout the Carolinas and Georgia. Basically, there are two predominate formats that they go with. I was guessing and hoping that there'd be some good talk radio, but that was hard to find. What I did find across the dial throughout the entire area were sports talk and religious programming. I'd get confused sometime. For instance, as I was scanning the dial, I stopped at a station that was talking about parity. For a couple of minutes, I was trying to figure out what scripture mentioned parity in the Bible. Finally, it dawned on me that it was a sports station.
Then there's that entrepreneurial broadcasting guy somewhere in the Carolinas. He's combined sports talk with religion. I listened to a show about fantasy football that had Jesus playing quarterback, with Peter and Philip as running backs. At least I think that's what the show was about.
It could be I heard that during the half hour or so that I must have been dozing. Do you ever find yourself driving along the road, and realize you're about forty miles further than you thought you were and you have to wonder how you got there? That happened to me. I figure I was either dozing, or was the victim of some sort of alien abduction. I don't feel probed, so I must have dropped off for a few miles. Hope I didn't hit anyone.
But anyway, I'm back safe and sound, and I guess that's all that matters. And although I swear this is the last time I'll ever drive to Florida, I'm sure that's not the truth. Driving to Florida is kind of like shopping at the Food Lion. You swear you'll never do it again, but somehow you keep going back.
I did a lot of listening to the radio on the trip. And, being an AM radio fan, I learned a lot about the tastes of AM listeners throughout the Carolinas and Georgia. Basically, there are two predominate formats that they go with. I was guessing and hoping that there'd be some good talk radio, but that was hard to find. What I did find across the dial throughout the entire area were sports talk and religious programming. I'd get confused sometime. For instance, as I was scanning the dial, I stopped at a station that was talking about parity. For a couple of minutes, I was trying to figure out what scripture mentioned parity in the Bible. Finally, it dawned on me that it was a sports station.
Then there's that entrepreneurial broadcasting guy somewhere in the Carolinas. He's combined sports talk with religion. I listened to a show about fantasy football that had Jesus playing quarterback, with Peter and Philip as running backs. At least I think that's what the show was about.
It could be I heard that during the half hour or so that I must have been dozing. Do you ever find yourself driving along the road, and realize you're about forty miles further than you thought you were and you have to wonder how you got there? That happened to me. I figure I was either dozing, or was the victim of some sort of alien abduction. I don't feel probed, so I must have dropped off for a few miles. Hope I didn't hit anyone.
But anyway, I'm back safe and sound, and I guess that's all that matters. And although I swear this is the last time I'll ever drive to Florida, I'm sure that's not the truth. Driving to Florida is kind of like shopping at the Food Lion. You swear you'll never do it again, but somehow you keep going back.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Thanks for the Memories and Mammaries
Okay, now I really know I've heard everything. Sure, I've foolishly made that statement before, but this time I truly mean it. I heard a couple of news stories today that leave me just shaking my head in wonderment. So, I'm going to share it with you, and then you can also know that you've heard everything.
First: Seems there's this woman in Norway, who marries and divorces a couple of times and then marries a third husband. Next thing you know, she marries a fourth guy while still married to number three. When the authorities catch up with her, she has the excuse to end all excuses...she forgot she was married.
Now, that's a great excuse. According to a police lawyer in Norway, this dear lady's third husband went away "on holiday" and while he was gone she forgot she was married to him. So, naturally, she goes out and gets her another one.
Here I am getting ready to head down to Florida on business for a couple of days. Now, I'm wondering if maybe that's not a good idea. My wife isn't overly forgetful, but still, I'd hate to come back and find her on a honeymoon.
Of course, I guess it could have been worse. The poor lady could have forgotten that there are laws against poisoning one's husband.
Then there is the story of Miss World, Maria Mantilla, of Peru. She's suing her plastic surgeon because he claims he did a buttock enhancement on her, as well as trimmed her ears. She's insisting that her buttocks and ears were just fine, thank you, and didn't need any plastic enhancement. Now, she does admit that he did a nose job and a breast enhancement on her. I'll admit, that not being female, it's hard for me to really put myself in Miss Mantilla's place, but I think I'd rather admit to the rear end overhaul than the other thing. But not Miss World. I find her statement just a little strange. Maybe you'll disagree with me on that, but here's what she said, "He said he had built me, that he gave me buttock implants and fixed my ears and this is false - I'm not the creation of a surgeon, he just did my bust and my nose."
Just did my bust and nose???!!! I'd think those two areas would be much more indicative of an ugly girl hiding behind cosmetic enhancement, than if he'd done her buttocks and ears. Again, I'm not a girl, so I'll admit a fair amount of ignorance here.
I think though, that I have the answer. I think the surgeon really did the work he claimed. It's just that Miss World, not unlike "Miss Norway" has forgotten.
First: Seems there's this woman in Norway, who marries and divorces a couple of times and then marries a third husband. Next thing you know, she marries a fourth guy while still married to number three. When the authorities catch up with her, she has the excuse to end all excuses...she forgot she was married.
Now, that's a great excuse. According to a police lawyer in Norway, this dear lady's third husband went away "on holiday" and while he was gone she forgot she was married to him. So, naturally, she goes out and gets her another one.
Here I am getting ready to head down to Florida on business for a couple of days. Now, I'm wondering if maybe that's not a good idea. My wife isn't overly forgetful, but still, I'd hate to come back and find her on a honeymoon.
Of course, I guess it could have been worse. The poor lady could have forgotten that there are laws against poisoning one's husband.
Then there is the story of Miss World, Maria Mantilla, of Peru. She's suing her plastic surgeon because he claims he did a buttock enhancement on her, as well as trimmed her ears. She's insisting that her buttocks and ears were just fine, thank you, and didn't need any plastic enhancement. Now, she does admit that he did a nose job and a breast enhancement on her. I'll admit, that not being female, it's hard for me to really put myself in Miss Mantilla's place, but I think I'd rather admit to the rear end overhaul than the other thing. But not Miss World. I find her statement just a little strange. Maybe you'll disagree with me on that, but here's what she said, "He said he had built me, that he gave me buttock implants and fixed my ears and this is false - I'm not the creation of a surgeon, he just did my bust and my nose."
Just did my bust and nose???!!! I'd think those two areas would be much more indicative of an ugly girl hiding behind cosmetic enhancement, than if he'd done her buttocks and ears. Again, I'm not a girl, so I'll admit a fair amount of ignorance here.
I think though, that I have the answer. I think the surgeon really did the work he claimed. It's just that Miss World, not unlike "Miss Norway" has forgotten.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
If At First You Don't Succeed, Secede
I've been reading all the latest in the Richmond Times Dispatch about the goings-on that affect downtown Richmond's future. And, the only conclusion I can come up with is that I'm sick and tired of hearing about it. Do we build a ballpark or don't we? Do we build a performing arts center or don't we? The indecisiveness of Richmonders is mind-blowing.
I guess it's not really a failure to decide as much as it is a love for debate and controversy. Maybe I'm way-too-overly simplistic in my thinking, but why can't something ever get done around here? I think the strategy of many in positions of power is to just debate and wrangle over a matter for so long that eventually everyone will get tired and go home.
I went to the big "unveiling" in front of the old Thalhimers Department Store a few months ago. You'd have thought from the reaction of both city and surrounding county dignitaries that the Performing Arts Center was a done deal. It was proclaimed to be the "rebirth of a new downtown." There was dancing in the streets (literally, and yes, I do mean literally).
And now, there's so much controversy that I don't really care anymore. And, I bet there are others who feel the same way.
I'd love to see a downtown ballpark, but I'm so tired of hearing it debated, that it just doesn't matter. If NASCAR gives the Hall of Fame nod to Richmond, that'll probably start off with a lot of hoopla and quickly degenerate into complaints and debates about where it should be, and what it should look like, and such nonsense.
Obviously, you'll never please everyone, but can't someone just once come up with some plan that's innovative, and invigorating, and good for the entire region, that the majority will say, "That's great. Let's do it!"? And, then, they'll actually go out and do it.
So, I've come up with my own idea. It may not be politically correct. But, I say the West End should, taking a page from our Civil War era ancestors, just secede from the metro area. Let's just pretend that we're no part of Richmond. Let's build our own ball park and our own performing arts center. Let's put in our own trolly system.
Up 'til now, when someone asked where I live, I'd say Richmond, even though I don't really live in the city. From now on, I'll say Short Pump, even though I don't technically live there either. But, starting today, it's my new hometown.
Some have suggested that Short Pump is the new downtown. Well, let's just proclaim that to be the way it is. And forget about Richmond. Doug who?
Will that have negative social and economic implications on us West Enders? I don't know. I'm not that smart. But, evidently none of these developers and designers and innovators and business people who keep coming up with ideas, are that smart either. Or else, once-in-awhile, someone would come up with an idea that everyone would take a liking to.
I invite all these innovators to head west. Let's develop the West End. It'd be fun. Plus, there are enough of those Yankees living out that way, and we all know they'd love to secede from Richmond.
I have some great ideas myself. For instance, we could start by going into Short Pump and building this pedestrian bridge over Broad Street...
I guess it's not really a failure to decide as much as it is a love for debate and controversy. Maybe I'm way-too-overly simplistic in my thinking, but why can't something ever get done around here? I think the strategy of many in positions of power is to just debate and wrangle over a matter for so long that eventually everyone will get tired and go home.
I went to the big "unveiling" in front of the old Thalhimers Department Store a few months ago. You'd have thought from the reaction of both city and surrounding county dignitaries that the Performing Arts Center was a done deal. It was proclaimed to be the "rebirth of a new downtown." There was dancing in the streets (literally, and yes, I do mean literally).
And now, there's so much controversy that I don't really care anymore. And, I bet there are others who feel the same way.
I'd love to see a downtown ballpark, but I'm so tired of hearing it debated, that it just doesn't matter. If NASCAR gives the Hall of Fame nod to Richmond, that'll probably start off with a lot of hoopla and quickly degenerate into complaints and debates about where it should be, and what it should look like, and such nonsense.
Obviously, you'll never please everyone, but can't someone just once come up with some plan that's innovative, and invigorating, and good for the entire region, that the majority will say, "That's great. Let's do it!"? And, then, they'll actually go out and do it.
So, I've come up with my own idea. It may not be politically correct. But, I say the West End should, taking a page from our Civil War era ancestors, just secede from the metro area. Let's just pretend that we're no part of Richmond. Let's build our own ball park and our own performing arts center. Let's put in our own trolly system.
Up 'til now, when someone asked where I live, I'd say Richmond, even though I don't really live in the city. From now on, I'll say Short Pump, even though I don't technically live there either. But, starting today, it's my new hometown.
Some have suggested that Short Pump is the new downtown. Well, let's just proclaim that to be the way it is. And forget about Richmond. Doug who?
Will that have negative social and economic implications on us West Enders? I don't know. I'm not that smart. But, evidently none of these developers and designers and innovators and business people who keep coming up with ideas, are that smart either. Or else, once-in-awhile, someone would come up with an idea that everyone would take a liking to.
I invite all these innovators to head west. Let's develop the West End. It'd be fun. Plus, there are enough of those Yankees living out that way, and we all know they'd love to secede from Richmond.
I have some great ideas myself. For instance, we could start by going into Short Pump and building this pedestrian bridge over Broad Street...
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Iraqi II - Weapons of Mass Stupidity
Well, the world has a new, loveable, old curmudgeon to brighten our lives. He's a semi-cuddly, junk-food junkie, given to dispensing fatherly advice on dating to the young men who watch over him. His only real fault, if, indeed you can call this a fault, is that he's a clean-freak. His name: Saddam Hussein.
Who knew? Probably not the tens of thousands of innocent men, women, and children he killed, mutilated, tortured, raped, and otherwise generally did as he pleased with, during his twenty years of terror. In all likelihood, his 40 close relatives whom he had put to death, never really saw the "soft side" of Saddam. What a shame.
The American media loves a story of redemption, I guess. Harry Smith could barely control his giggles as he listened to two National Guardsmen describe this loveable ol' grandfatherly figure. They said he gave them some advice on finding a girlfriend. And, personally, I can't think of anyone who probably knows more about the feminine persuasion. He had more than his share of mistresses. He is said to have used forced prostitution to intimidate his enemies, and to have then beheaded the female prostitutes. I imagine he could tell some tales of his own dating days. I can see ol' Harry now, sitting on the floor at Saddam's feet, looking up with eyes of wonder and admiration as this kindly dictator shares the experience that can only come with years of barbarism.
They say Saddam's trial will be over by the end of the year. I'm going out on a limb here, but I predict, that if his lawyers can get the Michael Jackson jury, he'll be acquitted. Then who knows what awaits. Saddam told the National Guardsmen that he was going to resume his presidency. He even invited them back when he comes back into power to see the real Iraq. Imagine the postcards they'll be able to send home then.
But, I'm not predicting Saddam's return to politics. No way. He has too much of a future on the American talk-show circuit. Can't you just see him entertaining those intellectually-oriented audiences who flock to see Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey and the like? I predict him coming on-stage to the wild applause of those minions who make up the daytime audiences.
And, if his advice is any good, could we be looking at the next Dr. Phil? I think so. Saddam's future is probably even brighter than his glorious past.
And the American public is ready to eat it up. It's just a shame Adolf Hitler is no longer around.
Who knew? Probably not the tens of thousands of innocent men, women, and children he killed, mutilated, tortured, raped, and otherwise generally did as he pleased with, during his twenty years of terror. In all likelihood, his 40 close relatives whom he had put to death, never really saw the "soft side" of Saddam. What a shame.
The American media loves a story of redemption, I guess. Harry Smith could barely control his giggles as he listened to two National Guardsmen describe this loveable ol' grandfatherly figure. They said he gave them some advice on finding a girlfriend. And, personally, I can't think of anyone who probably knows more about the feminine persuasion. He had more than his share of mistresses. He is said to have used forced prostitution to intimidate his enemies, and to have then beheaded the female prostitutes. I imagine he could tell some tales of his own dating days. I can see ol' Harry now, sitting on the floor at Saddam's feet, looking up with eyes of wonder and admiration as this kindly dictator shares the experience that can only come with years of barbarism.
They say Saddam's trial will be over by the end of the year. I'm going out on a limb here, but I predict, that if his lawyers can get the Michael Jackson jury, he'll be acquitted. Then who knows what awaits. Saddam told the National Guardsmen that he was going to resume his presidency. He even invited them back when he comes back into power to see the real Iraq. Imagine the postcards they'll be able to send home then.
But, I'm not predicting Saddam's return to politics. No way. He has too much of a future on the American talk-show circuit. Can't you just see him entertaining those intellectually-oriented audiences who flock to see Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey and the like? I predict him coming on-stage to the wild applause of those minions who make up the daytime audiences.
And, if his advice is any good, could we be looking at the next Dr. Phil? I think so. Saddam's future is probably even brighter than his glorious past.
And the American public is ready to eat it up. It's just a shame Adolf Hitler is no longer around.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Pic of the Litter
Do you remember the old Green Acres show...where everybody was crazy, except Oliver? There he was surrounded by insanity and no one noticed but him. Well, I'm beginning to feel like Eddie Albert these days. I see really stupid things and people are oohing and ahhing like it's so wonderful.
I guess this won't make sense unless I illustrate, so I will. I caught a story on Good Morning America yesterday (Sunday). It was about this little school girl who's yearbook picture was horrible. The one thing the family had right is that the picture was bad. But that's about all they had right. They were demanding, (not requesting, demanding) that all of the school yearbooks be turned back in because their daughter's picture was ugly.
Now, first of all, I'm sure it does wonders for the girl's ego that her mother is so appalled at the way she looks. That may account for the fact that even on network TV, where they're bound to have makeup artists, the girl still didn't look so great. She has this sour, "I'm mad at the world" look. And with a mother like hers, that's not a surprise.
Now the idiocy here is that the folks at GMA thought this would make a nice human interest story. Hey, I know kids who are suffering from cancer, who are abused, who live in such horrible conditions that they're forced to grow up well before they should. I don't care about this story...so what if her picture is ugly. I went through 12 years of ugly school pictures, and it didn't affect me (yeah, right).
Not only does GMA bring the little sour puss on TV, they go to the trouble and expense of hiring a professional photographer to make new pictures of her. Admittedly, the new pics were better, but when the hosts asked her if she was happy about the new pics, she hardly cracked a smile. Not only is the kid homely, she's an ingrate too.
But, you'd have thought the GMA people had saved a child's life, they were so excited and dramatic about what they'd done. I just wanted to scream, "Listen people, we're talking about an ugly picture. That's it. Nothing more!"
Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest. Now, I'm going to go email GMA and see if they can get back my senior high school picture. And take a new one. And make me look 17 again. Now that's a story worth doing.
I guess this won't make sense unless I illustrate, so I will. I caught a story on Good Morning America yesterday (Sunday). It was about this little school girl who's yearbook picture was horrible. The one thing the family had right is that the picture was bad. But that's about all they had right. They were demanding, (not requesting, demanding) that all of the school yearbooks be turned back in because their daughter's picture was ugly.
Now, first of all, I'm sure it does wonders for the girl's ego that her mother is so appalled at the way she looks. That may account for the fact that even on network TV, where they're bound to have makeup artists, the girl still didn't look so great. She has this sour, "I'm mad at the world" look. And with a mother like hers, that's not a surprise.
Now the idiocy here is that the folks at GMA thought this would make a nice human interest story. Hey, I know kids who are suffering from cancer, who are abused, who live in such horrible conditions that they're forced to grow up well before they should. I don't care about this story...so what if her picture is ugly. I went through 12 years of ugly school pictures, and it didn't affect me (yeah, right).
Not only does GMA bring the little sour puss on TV, they go to the trouble and expense of hiring a professional photographer to make new pictures of her. Admittedly, the new pics were better, but when the hosts asked her if she was happy about the new pics, she hardly cracked a smile. Not only is the kid homely, she's an ingrate too.
But, you'd have thought the GMA people had saved a child's life, they were so excited and dramatic about what they'd done. I just wanted to scream, "Listen people, we're talking about an ugly picture. That's it. Nothing more!"
Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest. Now, I'm going to go email GMA and see if they can get back my senior high school picture. And take a new one. And make me look 17 again. Now that's a story worth doing.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Really Grate Guys
In our upcoming issue of West End's Best Magazine, due out about July 1st, we have a couple of stories featuring local show-biz personalities. And, oddly enough, they're all really very down-to-earth types of people. One interview we did is with Liz Marks and Billy Caldwell, who have been entertaining Richmonders for decades. Liz now works as a casting director, and Billy is a talent scout. Both have been involved in some pretty major Hollywood-type productions filmed around here. Liz and Billy, are about as enjoyable to speak with, and as personable as any couple I know.
So, you're probably thinking, "What's going on here, Steve. Are you going to spend the morning kissing up?" Well, if it would get me anywhere, I would, but actually, I'm just saying nice things to preface my comments on some real jerks I've encountered in the entertainment industry around town. Because, while there are some really great guys out there, there are many who really grate on my nerves. True, true, it doesn't take much. But I've met a few who I'm willing to bet kissed their mirrors goodnight each evening.
You'd have to scratch your head to figure out why someone who works in radio or TV in this 50-somthing ranked market, would have any reason to be arrogant. I mean, at some of the radio stations around here, the only prerequisite for being hired is that you possess a larynx in fairly decent working order. Come to think of it, there's a jerk in radio around here, who doesn't even have that and yet just recently NASA reported that his ego was visible from space. The guy works for a little FM station in town that has the power of the average toaster oven, and yet, when you speak with him, it's all he can do to refrain from requesting that you kiss his ring. I won't mention his name because I mentioned he doesn't have a larynx, and, for that, I am sorry. But, hey it couldn't happen to...oh, never mind.
I'll also refrain from naming any other names here, because it really upsets my boss, but another real jerk around town is a longtime sportscaster at one of the local TV stations. I once asked him if he'd give me his opinion on the building of a new ballpark in Shockoe Bottom. His reply, "I can't express my opinion. I'm a journalist."
A journalist huh? I kinda thought all he did was read baseball scores. He's about as much a journalist as I am a writer.
Someone else who is somewhat of a legend around these parts, never really impressed me much. I won't mention his name either, but he spent much of his career interpreting for a duck. He may have been everyone's friend on the air, but off-air, he was downright rude to people. I applied for a job there once, and he told me in no uncertain terms that my voice stunk.
But anyway, that was then, and this is now. And, now, I'm a better person for it. Adversity has made me the great guy I am today. Do you think I'd hold a grudge? Do you think I'd remember these petty snubs some 30 years later?
Are you kidding? I never even think about it. Hardly ever.
So, you're probably thinking, "What's going on here, Steve. Are you going to spend the morning kissing up?" Well, if it would get me anywhere, I would, but actually, I'm just saying nice things to preface my comments on some real jerks I've encountered in the entertainment industry around town. Because, while there are some really great guys out there, there are many who really grate on my nerves. True, true, it doesn't take much. But I've met a few who I'm willing to bet kissed their mirrors goodnight each evening.
You'd have to scratch your head to figure out why someone who works in radio or TV in this 50-somthing ranked market, would have any reason to be arrogant. I mean, at some of the radio stations around here, the only prerequisite for being hired is that you possess a larynx in fairly decent working order. Come to think of it, there's a jerk in radio around here, who doesn't even have that and yet just recently NASA reported that his ego was visible from space. The guy works for a little FM station in town that has the power of the average toaster oven, and yet, when you speak with him, it's all he can do to refrain from requesting that you kiss his ring. I won't mention his name because I mentioned he doesn't have a larynx, and, for that, I am sorry. But, hey it couldn't happen to...oh, never mind.
I'll also refrain from naming any other names here, because it really upsets my boss, but another real jerk around town is a longtime sportscaster at one of the local TV stations. I once asked him if he'd give me his opinion on the building of a new ballpark in Shockoe Bottom. His reply, "I can't express my opinion. I'm a journalist."
A journalist huh? I kinda thought all he did was read baseball scores. He's about as much a journalist as I am a writer.
Someone else who is somewhat of a legend around these parts, never really impressed me much. I won't mention his name either, but he spent much of his career interpreting for a duck. He may have been everyone's friend on the air, but off-air, he was downright rude to people. I applied for a job there once, and he told me in no uncertain terms that my voice stunk.
But anyway, that was then, and this is now. And, now, I'm a better person for it. Adversity has made me the great guy I am today. Do you think I'd hold a grudge? Do you think I'd remember these petty snubs some 30 years later?
Are you kidding? I never even think about it. Hardly ever.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
I Am Not a Bigot or a Racist, But...
I'm mad today. Or, at least exceptionally irritated. Before I can get into my laundry list of things that irritate me, I have to say, unequivocally, that I am in no way a racist or a bigot.
Now that that's out of the way, here's my list:
1 - I hate having to preface a completely logical complaint with a disclaimer that I'm not a bigot. Why do we have to worry about that? How dare anyone to assume that of me. From now on, I won't worry about that. Good, I've taken care of that little irritation. Let's move on.
2 - I hate multi-language signs, instructions, directions, etc. Last time I checked, this is America. It's an English-speaking country. Sure, it's also a melting pot for individuals from every nation. But, for years, those individuals have been willing to come here, learn our language, and fit in to this culture. That didn't mean they abandoned their culture. They didn't have to do that, but they did WANT to blend in with us. And, by us, I don't mean Mayflower descendants. I just mean those who were taught English from infancy.
This morning as I was entering the 7-11, I noticed a sign that said something like "Ahora Desponsible." I read it and re-read it, trying to figure out why I wasn't understanding it. Finally, it dawned on me that the sign was in Spanish. Inside the store, I see more Spanish-language signs. Why? Why should I have to subject my English-reading eyes to those signs. It's clutter. If I went to Mexico, I wouldn't expect anyone to speak English, or any signs in English. If I couldn't figure it out, then shame on me.
And, what really gets me is when I buy some sort of electronic gadget or an appliance and I get this really nice, thick instruction booklet. I'm thinking how cool it is that the instructions are so thorough, because I'm pretty dumb when it comes to putting things together. And then, I open the instruction booklet and find that there is only one page of instructions in English. The rest of the booklet is the instructions in about twenty-five other languages, including Swahili. And, even the English instructions were written by someone who's native tongue is Swahili.
My philosophy is if you're going to sell the product in America, then give us our own instruction booklet, as well as English-only labeling.
3 - The third thing I hate, and, remember I'm no bigot, is New Dehli-based customer service centers. I called Comcast the other night to get help in setting up a new computer with their internet service. They guy was nice enough, he just couldn't speak English. I'm really glad Comcast is able to save money (and I'm sure they pass the savings on to me), but I hope they're going to be happy when I pay my next bill in rupees.
I hate having to be the one who has to struggle to understand the foreign language being spoken by customer service reps, by fast food employees, by convenience store clerks, etc. If I were in their homeland, I'd expect to struggle. That's the way it works.
It used to be that we had this "ugly American" reputation because some Americans would go to foreign countries and expect the locals to adapt to the American culture. That is ugly. But it's just as ugly when foreigners come here and do the same thing. Although, I suspect, it's not the foreigners who are insisting on it. I think it's those Americans who are so afraid of being branded as politically incorrect, that they feel they have to make ridiculous concessions to everyone who is a little different.
I have two final thoughts on this whole matter - I hate political correctness and, most importantly, I'm not a bigot or a racist.
Now that that's out of the way, here's my list:
1 - I hate having to preface a completely logical complaint with a disclaimer that I'm not a bigot. Why do we have to worry about that? How dare anyone to assume that of me. From now on, I won't worry about that. Good, I've taken care of that little irritation. Let's move on.
2 - I hate multi-language signs, instructions, directions, etc. Last time I checked, this is America. It's an English-speaking country. Sure, it's also a melting pot for individuals from every nation. But, for years, those individuals have been willing to come here, learn our language, and fit in to this culture. That didn't mean they abandoned their culture. They didn't have to do that, but they did WANT to blend in with us. And, by us, I don't mean Mayflower descendants. I just mean those who were taught English from infancy.
This morning as I was entering the 7-11, I noticed a sign that said something like "Ahora Desponsible." I read it and re-read it, trying to figure out why I wasn't understanding it. Finally, it dawned on me that the sign was in Spanish. Inside the store, I see more Spanish-language signs. Why? Why should I have to subject my English-reading eyes to those signs. It's clutter. If I went to Mexico, I wouldn't expect anyone to speak English, or any signs in English. If I couldn't figure it out, then shame on me.
And, what really gets me is when I buy some sort of electronic gadget or an appliance and I get this really nice, thick instruction booklet. I'm thinking how cool it is that the instructions are so thorough, because I'm pretty dumb when it comes to putting things together. And then, I open the instruction booklet and find that there is only one page of instructions in English. The rest of the booklet is the instructions in about twenty-five other languages, including Swahili. And, even the English instructions were written by someone who's native tongue is Swahili.
My philosophy is if you're going to sell the product in America, then give us our own instruction booklet, as well as English-only labeling.
3 - The third thing I hate, and, remember I'm no bigot, is New Dehli-based customer service centers. I called Comcast the other night to get help in setting up a new computer with their internet service. They guy was nice enough, he just couldn't speak English. I'm really glad Comcast is able to save money (and I'm sure they pass the savings on to me), but I hope they're going to be happy when I pay my next bill in rupees.
I hate having to be the one who has to struggle to understand the foreign language being spoken by customer service reps, by fast food employees, by convenience store clerks, etc. If I were in their homeland, I'd expect to struggle. That's the way it works.
It used to be that we had this "ugly American" reputation because some Americans would go to foreign countries and expect the locals to adapt to the American culture. That is ugly. But it's just as ugly when foreigners come here and do the same thing. Although, I suspect, it's not the foreigners who are insisting on it. I think it's those Americans who are so afraid of being branded as politically incorrect, that they feel they have to make ridiculous concessions to everyone who is a little different.
I have two final thoughts on this whole matter - I hate political correctness and, most importantly, I'm not a bigot or a racist.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
High School Cafeterrible
I heard a news story this morning regarding concerns that terrorists may attempt to attack the United States through school lunches. I say that if terrorists infiltrated public school cafeterias, and started prepaing the meals, it might be a step up. Now, it's true that I haven't eaten in a school lunchroom in several years, and possibly the quality of the food is better than when I was a kid.
But, talk about terror. I faced it every day of my life. Except, those days when I bagged my lunch. The cooks at the schools I attended were, now that I think about it, probably terrorists themselves. What else could account for those bright red hot dogs they used to serve.
You may be thinking that a hot dog is a hot dog is a hot dog. But not these hot dogs. I couldn't look at a hot dog until several years after I finished school. They'd serve up these gnarly looking weiners that evidently had been injected with about a pint of red food coloring. I wonder what they looked like before they were dyed. And the only topping they'd give us was about the cheapest, most putrid-tasting ketchup imaginable. I'm getting the shakes just remembering that horrible time in my life.
Occasionally, they'd serve hamburgers in school. Now, how can you ruin a hamburger? Well, I don't know how they did it, but they had a method of cooking the burger so that it was completely dry. I mean the table we were sitting at had more moisture (and taste) than those pathetic patties. You could smother them in that delicious ketchup and still need a stick to stuff it down your throat. The sounds of kids gagging would fill the cafeterial on hamburger days.
And, If the hot dogs and hamburgers didn't do you in, the green beans would. Canned green beans are pretty pathetic to begin with, but I think these cafeterrorists had some sort of flavor enhancing canned food taste additive they would mix into the beans. Plop those beans on the plate with that big red weiner and it had a pretty terrifying impact.
I really can't think of anything that was served in the cafeterias during my school years that I would call good. The mashed potatoes were fake. I think they were basically paper mache. The Salisbury steak was exceptionally bad, and just to be sure the kids were terrorized they'd top it with some sort of hideous brown gooey stuff that they actually had the nerve to call gravy. Even the desserts were virtually inedible. I say virtually because, after all, it was sugary, so I had to eat it.
I say to those terrorists, bring it on. I don't think you could concoct anything to begin to compare with the crud we used to be served in school. Maybe the U.S. could institute some sort of terrorist exchange program and send the school cafeteria cooks from here over there. Nah, that would never work. Can you imagine if we started serving public school lunches to the prisoners in Iraq. The uproar would make that Abu Graib thing look like a picnic in the park.
But, talk about terror. I faced it every day of my life. Except, those days when I bagged my lunch. The cooks at the schools I attended were, now that I think about it, probably terrorists themselves. What else could account for those bright red hot dogs they used to serve.
You may be thinking that a hot dog is a hot dog is a hot dog. But not these hot dogs. I couldn't look at a hot dog until several years after I finished school. They'd serve up these gnarly looking weiners that evidently had been injected with about a pint of red food coloring. I wonder what they looked like before they were dyed. And the only topping they'd give us was about the cheapest, most putrid-tasting ketchup imaginable. I'm getting the shakes just remembering that horrible time in my life.
Occasionally, they'd serve hamburgers in school. Now, how can you ruin a hamburger? Well, I don't know how they did it, but they had a method of cooking the burger so that it was completely dry. I mean the table we were sitting at had more moisture (and taste) than those pathetic patties. You could smother them in that delicious ketchup and still need a stick to stuff it down your throat. The sounds of kids gagging would fill the cafeterial on hamburger days.
And, If the hot dogs and hamburgers didn't do you in, the green beans would. Canned green beans are pretty pathetic to begin with, but I think these cafeterrorists had some sort of flavor enhancing canned food taste additive they would mix into the beans. Plop those beans on the plate with that big red weiner and it had a pretty terrifying impact.
I really can't think of anything that was served in the cafeterias during my school years that I would call good. The mashed potatoes were fake. I think they were basically paper mache. The Salisbury steak was exceptionally bad, and just to be sure the kids were terrorized they'd top it with some sort of hideous brown gooey stuff that they actually had the nerve to call gravy. Even the desserts were virtually inedible. I say virtually because, after all, it was sugary, so I had to eat it.
I say to those terrorists, bring it on. I don't think you could concoct anything to begin to compare with the crud we used to be served in school. Maybe the U.S. could institute some sort of terrorist exchange program and send the school cafeteria cooks from here over there. Nah, that would never work. Can you imagine if we started serving public school lunches to the prisoners in Iraq. The uproar would make that Abu Graib thing look like a picnic in the park.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Everyone Was There Except Tinkerbell
I'm totally exhausted this morning. Here I was at the Neverland Ranch last night. M.J. threw a little celebration party for some of his most loyal supporters. It was just me, his entourage, the entire Jackson family, some of the kids from the neighborhood, and, of course, the jury.
I think I was hitting the Jesus Juice a little hard, if you know what I mean. Anyway, we were sitting around, chatting, looking at some of his picture books, and waiting to see if Nancy Grace would slit her wrists live on national TV. Fortunately, I had a new pair of pajamas, so I was dressed well for the occasion.
Oh yeah, Thomas Mesereau, Jackson's attorney was also there. I couldn't help but notice as he and Michael sat together how strange it was that the whitest white-guy attorney, had the whitest black guy for a client. The guy who holds the umbrella was also there. He was probably the happiest of anybody. I mean, if Michael goes to jail, he pretty much as a zero-resume to submit in looking for a new gig.
Joe Jackson was saying that in some ways, the trial had brought the family together. In fact, he had decided once the whole mess was behind them, he'd take the kids on a nice vacation and, for old times sake, emotionally abuse them a little.
Everything was quite nice, almost wholesome, except for Michael's brief wardrobe malfunction.
Anyway, a good time was being had by all, until Jackson announced that it was time for bed. He kinda looked at me and winked. I started screaming. I screamed so loudly, I woke myself up. Must have been the onion and jalapeno sandwich I had before I went to bed. Anyway, I couldn't get back to sleep. So, as I said, I'm exhausted this morning.
I think I was hitting the Jesus Juice a little hard, if you know what I mean. Anyway, we were sitting around, chatting, looking at some of his picture books, and waiting to see if Nancy Grace would slit her wrists live on national TV. Fortunately, I had a new pair of pajamas, so I was dressed well for the occasion.
Oh yeah, Thomas Mesereau, Jackson's attorney was also there. I couldn't help but notice as he and Michael sat together how strange it was that the whitest white-guy attorney, had the whitest black guy for a client. The guy who holds the umbrella was also there. He was probably the happiest of anybody. I mean, if Michael goes to jail, he pretty much as a zero-resume to submit in looking for a new gig.
Joe Jackson was saying that in some ways, the trial had brought the family together. In fact, he had decided once the whole mess was behind them, he'd take the kids on a nice vacation and, for old times sake, emotionally abuse them a little.
Everything was quite nice, almost wholesome, except for Michael's brief wardrobe malfunction.
Anyway, a good time was being had by all, until Jackson announced that it was time for bed. He kinda looked at me and winked. I started screaming. I screamed so loudly, I woke myself up. Must have been the onion and jalapeno sandwich I had before I went to bed. Anyway, I couldn't get back to sleep. So, as I said, I'm exhausted this morning.
Monday, June 13, 2005
How Much Is That Doggie In The Freezer?
My mother was railing against pet lovers this morning, or perhaps, I should qualify that and say she was railing against mentally unstable folk who just happen to love their pets. Personally, while not a pet lover myself, I have (as you may have noticed) a rather pleasant “live-and-let-live” attitude. And being the sort of guy who rarely has anything negative to say about anyone, I tended to disagree with her.
She had seen some news feature on television that really ticked her off. It was about these mentally unstable fanatic pet lovers who have taken to giving their pets Botox injections so the pet won’t look old.
I admit, that’s ludicrous. I can understand some aging beauty trying to preserve her looks. Evidently Botox affects one’s eyesight, because the people who have it look plastic and don't even know it. Take Mary Tyler Moore for instance (as someone with a mild obsessive-compulsive thing going on, it was very difficult for me not to say “please” at this point). She looks like she’s wearing some hideous Mary Tyler Moore mask. Anyway, I digress.
While there may be some understanding of a human not wanting to look old, why would anyone in their right mind care how old the dog looks. Oops, I think I just answered my question.
Obviously, these people are not in their right minds. Do they think that the female dogs (another difficult “OCD” moment here) in the neighborhood are going to turn their noses up at their aging male Chihuahua? Are they afraid Pepe is going to go into some sort of tailspin, spiraling further and further downward into some deep dungeon of doggie depression?
Seems the show also reported on these pet-obsessors who, when Fido buys the farm, will have him freeze-dried. Now, if they were doing that so as to have an emergency meal during some sort of natural disaster, maybe I could understand. But, they want the remains of the dog to stay in the house. Seems the report showed the kids playing with rigor muttus. Now is that sick or what? And they say I have disorders.
Actually, I was going to do my blog today on my mother’s tendency to go overboard on issues. That is, until I heard a report on the WRVA Morning News with Jimmy Barrett (don’t forget to read about Jimmy in the summer West End’s Best, by the way). I really, yes, even literally could not believe my ears.
But, I checked it out at the San Francisco Chronicle’s website (www.sfgate.com). And it’s true. Seems a mother, Maureen Fabish, locked her 12-year old son, Nicky, in the basement so the family’s two pit bulls, which she knew might harm the boy, could have free run of the house. The boy breaks out and is attacked and killed by one or both of the dogs. The mother made two statements, and I’m not sure which one is more stupid. She said, “Typical Nicky, he wouldn’t listen to me.” To this idiotic moron of a mother, it’s the boy’s fault. But, at least she was able to console herself with another comment. I swear I’m not making this up, although I did think Jimmy Barrett was when I first heard it. Here’s what this lame brain dog nut said: “"It's Nicky's time to go. When you're born you're destined to go and this was his time."
Now, don’t we all feel better. It wasn’t Nicky’s fault, really. And it certainly wasn’t the dog’s fault. It was God’s fault.
Is there anyway we could get up a petition to freeze-dry Mrs. Fabish?
She had seen some news feature on television that really ticked her off. It was about these mentally unstable fanatic pet lovers who have taken to giving their pets Botox injections so the pet won’t look old.
I admit, that’s ludicrous. I can understand some aging beauty trying to preserve her looks. Evidently Botox affects one’s eyesight, because the people who have it look plastic and don't even know it. Take Mary Tyler Moore for instance (as someone with a mild obsessive-compulsive thing going on, it was very difficult for me not to say “please” at this point). She looks like she’s wearing some hideous Mary Tyler Moore mask. Anyway, I digress.
While there may be some understanding of a human not wanting to look old, why would anyone in their right mind care how old the dog looks. Oops, I think I just answered my question.
Obviously, these people are not in their right minds. Do they think that the female dogs (another difficult “OCD” moment here) in the neighborhood are going to turn their noses up at their aging male Chihuahua? Are they afraid Pepe is going to go into some sort of tailspin, spiraling further and further downward into some deep dungeon of doggie depression?
Seems the show also reported on these pet-obsessors who, when Fido buys the farm, will have him freeze-dried. Now, if they were doing that so as to have an emergency meal during some sort of natural disaster, maybe I could understand. But, they want the remains of the dog to stay in the house. Seems the report showed the kids playing with rigor muttus. Now is that sick or what? And they say I have disorders.
Actually, I was going to do my blog today on my mother’s tendency to go overboard on issues. That is, until I heard a report on the WRVA Morning News with Jimmy Barrett (don’t forget to read about Jimmy in the summer West End’s Best, by the way). I really, yes, even literally could not believe my ears.
But, I checked it out at the San Francisco Chronicle’s website (www.sfgate.com). And it’s true. Seems a mother, Maureen Fabish, locked her 12-year old son, Nicky, in the basement so the family’s two pit bulls, which she knew might harm the boy, could have free run of the house. The boy breaks out and is attacked and killed by one or both of the dogs. The mother made two statements, and I’m not sure which one is more stupid. She said, “Typical Nicky, he wouldn’t listen to me.” To this idiotic moron of a mother, it’s the boy’s fault. But, at least she was able to console herself with another comment. I swear I’m not making this up, although I did think Jimmy Barrett was when I first heard it. Here’s what this lame brain dog nut said: “"It's Nicky's time to go. When you're born you're destined to go and this was his time."
Now, don’t we all feel better. It wasn’t Nicky’s fault, really. And it certainly wasn’t the dog’s fault. It was God’s fault.
Is there anyway we could get up a petition to freeze-dry Mrs. Fabish?
Friday, June 10, 2005
Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch
To compare the goings on around the Santa Maria, California courthouse, to a circus is to bring the diginity of the big top down to a new low. It's unbelievable. But, as I reflect on it, it really is more entertaining than the circus. In fact, if they would take the cast of characters from Jackson's trial on tour, I'd sure pay good money to go and see them.
Hollywood's best script writers couldn't begin to dream up the players in this true story. Think about it. At the very center is Michael Jackson himself. You wouldn't think it could any better than that when it comes to weird, but surround the aging, aching "king of pop" with his entourage and you have yourself quite a show.
I mean, who could have thought of adding Jesse Jackson to the mix? Jackson (the Jesse variety) is being called Jackson's (the Michael variety) spiritual advisor. Reportedly, the Rev is encouraging the King to switch his pruriant interests from little boys to young women.
Next, throw into the picture, Michael Jackson's abusive (if you can believe what you read) father, running around the courthouse demanding to see his son. His son, of course, is not at the courthouse, because he's being smuggled in and out of a local hospital. Seems his father saw a lot of Neverland autos heading out of the compound and decided that a verdict was about to be announced. Hasn't he been around his son long enough to realize that the fleet was just heading out to the local carwash? I mean, really, any forty-something man on trial for child molestation, who wears lipstick into court, is just naturally going to want to put first things first and make sure his cars are kept clean.
Meanwhile, down at the hospital, Michael Jackson's bodyguards are building scaffolding around the SUV, and draping sheets over the scaffolding, supposedly to shield the alleged pedophile from the press. Of course, the "boy on the hood" may have just wanted some privacy to practice a new dance routine on the SUV before entertaining the troops.
We can't overlook another co-star in the story, Majestik Magnificent, Jackson's so-called personal magician. I think the law requires that if a defendant cannot afford a personal magician, the court will appoint one. But, this guy is said to be a "close, personal friend of Jackson's, so I doubt he's been court appointed. Of course, if he were either majestik or magnificent, I'm sure he'd have made his friend disappear by now.
You'd think that would be enough entertainment for the fans, but wait there's more. Add to the mix a group of Jackson supporters from around the world, not only chanting "innocent, innocent," but demonstrating their recognition of innocence when they see it, by hurling obscene epithets at nearby reporters. It's gotten so bad that Court TV had to get a restraining order on one of Jackson's supporters, who was allegedly thretening their reporter. Reportedly, another, more rational supporter of Jackson is going through the crowd, using a hand-puppet to tell the true Michael Jackson story.
Lost in all this crazy, mixed-up story is whether Michael Jackson truly molests little boys, but, I guess, regardless of that minor detail, the whole thing is best summed up in an email supporting Jackson, which appears on a website dedicated to supporting Jackson. I'm going to quote here to conclude today's blog, but as you read this real (I swear I didn't make it up) email, keep in mind that earlier this week, I had made a somewhat sarcastic comment about how much one might like Jackson's hit song "Ben" from a couple of decades back. Here's the email:
Michael I have grown up with you and your music, your voice, your gift. Over 30 years of pure wonder, since the days of 'Ben' you have inspired me. Just know you are loved. The world is a better place with you in it! My teenage daughter keeps saying "why don't they just leave him alone!" The answer to that we will never have.
Hang in there MJ. Have faith, be strong.
Love always,
Jenni - Australia
Hollywood's best script writers couldn't begin to dream up the players in this true story. Think about it. At the very center is Michael Jackson himself. You wouldn't think it could any better than that when it comes to weird, but surround the aging, aching "king of pop" with his entourage and you have yourself quite a show.
I mean, who could have thought of adding Jesse Jackson to the mix? Jackson (the Jesse variety) is being called Jackson's (the Michael variety) spiritual advisor. Reportedly, the Rev is encouraging the King to switch his pruriant interests from little boys to young women.
Next, throw into the picture, Michael Jackson's abusive (if you can believe what you read) father, running around the courthouse demanding to see his son. His son, of course, is not at the courthouse, because he's being smuggled in and out of a local hospital. Seems his father saw a lot of Neverland autos heading out of the compound and decided that a verdict was about to be announced. Hasn't he been around his son long enough to realize that the fleet was just heading out to the local carwash? I mean, really, any forty-something man on trial for child molestation, who wears lipstick into court, is just naturally going to want to put first things first and make sure his cars are kept clean.
Meanwhile, down at the hospital, Michael Jackson's bodyguards are building scaffolding around the SUV, and draping sheets over the scaffolding, supposedly to shield the alleged pedophile from the press. Of course, the "boy on the hood" may have just wanted some privacy to practice a new dance routine on the SUV before entertaining the troops.
We can't overlook another co-star in the story, Majestik Magnificent, Jackson's so-called personal magician. I think the law requires that if a defendant cannot afford a personal magician, the court will appoint one. But, this guy is said to be a "close, personal friend of Jackson's, so I doubt he's been court appointed. Of course, if he were either majestik or magnificent, I'm sure he'd have made his friend disappear by now.
You'd think that would be enough entertainment for the fans, but wait there's more. Add to the mix a group of Jackson supporters from around the world, not only chanting "innocent, innocent," but demonstrating their recognition of innocence when they see it, by hurling obscene epithets at nearby reporters. It's gotten so bad that Court TV had to get a restraining order on one of Jackson's supporters, who was allegedly thretening their reporter. Reportedly, another, more rational supporter of Jackson is going through the crowd, using a hand-puppet to tell the true Michael Jackson story.
Lost in all this crazy, mixed-up story is whether Michael Jackson truly molests little boys, but, I guess, regardless of that minor detail, the whole thing is best summed up in an email supporting Jackson, which appears on a website dedicated to supporting Jackson. I'm going to quote here to conclude today's blog, but as you read this real (I swear I didn't make it up) email, keep in mind that earlier this week, I had made a somewhat sarcastic comment about how much one might like Jackson's hit song "Ben" from a couple of decades back. Here's the email:
Michael I have grown up with you and your music, your voice, your gift. Over 30 years of pure wonder, since the days of 'Ben' you have inspired me. Just know you are loved. The world is a better place with you in it! My teenage daughter keeps saying "why don't they just leave him alone!" The answer to that we will never have.
Hang in there MJ. Have faith, be strong.
Love always,
Jenni - Australia
Thursday, June 09, 2005
More Senseless Acts of Random Thinking
My poor brain has been working overtime lately, and the only way to relieve some of the pressure is to just start blathering about things I've been thinking about. There's no pattern here, just a bunch of thoughts about different things. But, until I let off some of the pressure, I won't be able to engage in any serious, philosophical thought, for which I am, I'm sure, famous.
One thing that occurred to me the other day as I was putting on a new tie my wife bought at Marshall's, is that when it comes to men's fashions, as long as you put an Italian name on the label, most of us guys are going to assume we're wearing something that's top of the line. Oh, a Valerio Garati, I thought as I looked at the label on the back of the tie...cool! Then it dawned on me. I've never heard of Valerio Garati. In all probability there is no Signore Garati, but because his name ends with the letter "i", I'm impressed. The label could have just as well said Francos Spaghetti and I'd have felt rather stylish wearing the tie. Why those marketing people have got me again. Shame on me, I thought.
Speaking of shame (and I do love a good segue), I've said it before, and I'll say it again...right now. The people who write the local news should be ashamed of themselves. They just don't get it. There was a story this morning about the high school coach who was driving the bus when the young student got off and was struck by a hit-and-run driver. The story said the coach had been charged with a misdemeanor. Then as a dramatic conclusion to the story, the reporter added, "If found guilty, he could face a fine of up to five hundred dollars!"
Did the person who wrote that think that the five hundred dollar fine was the most crucial element of the story. The way the reporter read it, I thought she was going to say the guy would be taken outside and shot. The guy, probably a good guy, made a horrible mistake...a mistake he's going to have to live with the rest of his life. The family of the girl who was killed will never be the same, and these people at the local TV station seem to think that the real tragedy here is a five hundred dollar fine. Things like this just really irritate me.
Speaking of TV news, I saw a woman being interviewed on the news this morning. Her house had been burglarized and the woman was telling the reporter, "They (the thieves) literally went through the bottom drawers." I'm kind of wondering if there's any other way for the thieves to have gone through the drawers. If they'd done it figuratively, I wouldn't think there'd have been a story. But, maybe that's just me.
Well, I'm glad to have gotten these things aired out. I feel my brain start to relaxing just a bit. So, excuse me while I go back to some deep thinking. I'm on the verge of figuring out where that pocket watch came from in the movie Somewhere In Time. And, as soon as I have the answer, you'll be the first to know.
One thing that occurred to me the other day as I was putting on a new tie my wife bought at Marshall's, is that when it comes to men's fashions, as long as you put an Italian name on the label, most of us guys are going to assume we're wearing something that's top of the line. Oh, a Valerio Garati, I thought as I looked at the label on the back of the tie...cool! Then it dawned on me. I've never heard of Valerio Garati. In all probability there is no Signore Garati, but because his name ends with the letter "i", I'm impressed. The label could have just as well said Francos Spaghetti and I'd have felt rather stylish wearing the tie. Why those marketing people have got me again. Shame on me, I thought.
Speaking of shame (and I do love a good segue), I've said it before, and I'll say it again...right now. The people who write the local news should be ashamed of themselves. They just don't get it. There was a story this morning about the high school coach who was driving the bus when the young student got off and was struck by a hit-and-run driver. The story said the coach had been charged with a misdemeanor. Then as a dramatic conclusion to the story, the reporter added, "If found guilty, he could face a fine of up to five hundred dollars!"
Did the person who wrote that think that the five hundred dollar fine was the most crucial element of the story. The way the reporter read it, I thought she was going to say the guy would be taken outside and shot. The guy, probably a good guy, made a horrible mistake...a mistake he's going to have to live with the rest of his life. The family of the girl who was killed will never be the same, and these people at the local TV station seem to think that the real tragedy here is a five hundred dollar fine. Things like this just really irritate me.
Speaking of TV news, I saw a woman being interviewed on the news this morning. Her house had been burglarized and the woman was telling the reporter, "They (the thieves) literally went through the bottom drawers." I'm kind of wondering if there's any other way for the thieves to have gone through the drawers. If they'd done it figuratively, I wouldn't think there'd have been a story. But, maybe that's just me.
Well, I'm glad to have gotten these things aired out. I feel my brain start to relaxing just a bit. So, excuse me while I go back to some deep thinking. I'm on the verge of figuring out where that pocket watch came from in the movie Somewhere In Time. And, as soon as I have the answer, you'll be the first to know.
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