I'm Talking And I Can't Shut Up

As I’ve stated before, I think I’m a pretty fun guy (insert your favorite mushroom joke here). I’m not a party animal, and, I do dislike parties where I don’t know anyone, but when family and friends get together, I’d like to think I’m rather entertaining.
Therefore, it’s with rather sad feelings that I’ve come to realize that I’m losing it. I used to enjoy telling a joke or two around the table at get togethers. But, these days, everyone just stares at me strangely, as if to say, “what in the world is he talking about and when will he ever stop?”
And it’s not just my jokes either. Time was I could bring down the house by lying in the floor and doing my impression of bacon frying. It was a comedy sketch I’d seen on TV, but if I do say so myself, nobody did bacon frying better than I. Not anymore. I guess the idea of a fat old man twitching on the floor is just not that amusing to most folks. Or, could it be that most of my friends do, after seeing my bacon thing over and over again, grow tired of seeing my timeless humor. It’s a moot point, I guess, because just doing the bacon shtick hurts so badly, I can’t move for about an hour after the performance.
There’s something about asking your friends to lift you off the floor and lay you on the coffee table that makes for a less-than-satisfying ending to a comedy routine. And something else, when I was younger I never got nauseatingly dizzy when I did the bacon thing.
But, then too, when I was younger, we’d hold our nose and spin around in a circle to make us dizzy. Now, all I need to do is eat a Hostess Twinkie and forget to take my diabetes medicine and I get the same effect. I guess it’s true, what they say about an ill wind blowing no good, or is it that the ill wind blows some good. That makes more sense, but since, I’m not positive what an ill wind is, I really don’t know much about that old saying.
Anyway, I’ve gotten way off the subject. Hey, maybe this is the subject. Maybe I’m not entertaining anymore because I ramble. You know, I think I’ve hit on something here. I do know that I have become a rambling old man. Really, I have.
I wouldn’t have believed it until I got a tape recorder to record the interviews I do for our magazine articles. When I play the interviews back, I find that I’m doing 90% of the talking. I’m sitting there trying to transcribe the interview and I find myself screaming at myself, “Will you shut up and let the other guy speak.”
I’ve become very self-conscious of my rambling. I’m sitting at a table, with a group of friends, and I notice that I have an opinion on just about everything. I also find I’m telling people more than they’d ever want to know about virtually any topic. I’ll spend hours recounting the most boring details in what had begun (or so I thought) as a very entertaining conversation. But no, I ruin it. I just keep talking. I get frantic. The more I want to stop, the more I seem egged on by some old man fixation to keep on chattering away. I’m thinking to myself, I’m talking and I can’t shut up.
I used to hate to be around old men who’d get you in a corner and talk and talk and talk about the most mundane, boring things. I bet those old coots thought they were as entertaining as I have been thinking I’ve been.
Well, I don’t know if I made any points here, but I do think writing this has been rather therapeutic. I feel I’m more in touch with myself right now. Have I learned anything? Well, that’s an interesting question. Let’s discuss it in greater depth. You got a few more minutes?

The Dukes of Downtown

I think I have a great idea for a new-comedy adventure series for network TV. Now, if I can only find someone who knows how to write, I'm ready to roll with this. The working title is The Dukes of Downtown Richmond. It's the ongoing rip-snorting funny story about a group of hillbilly, public servant outcasts, who are so back-woodsy in their approach to running a small southern city, that they'd make those original Dukes look like Manhattan sophisticates.
I'm working on my cast of characters as well as a few storylines right now, but, if you have any writing skills, and want to help out, here's an opportunity to make it big in show biz, and I’m talking really big.
The Richmond political folks certainly provide enough fodder for plenty of great stories. For instance, in one episode Boss Wilder-Boar, giddy with success in having worked his way down from governor to mayor, decides that if he bares his chest for a gay dating site, he might be able to get elected further down to a member of the school board. I think the laughs would be fast and furious for that one.
As a subplot to that one, the ever-lovely Daisy (don’t call me Reva) Trammell is sent by Mayor Wilder-Boar to flirt with the current school board chairman in order to get some secret information. But, for some inexplicable reason, regardless of the many feminine wiles Daisy uses on the chairman, she fails to elicit any reaction. I know if I were at home watching that episode I’d be laughing my fool head off.
Then how about an episode where the newly-elected Sheriff Woody has to go to court to get the outgoing sheriff to let him in his own jailhouse? A tad unbelievable, but nonetheless, hilarious.
As an underlying theme to run throughout each show, I think you could have the two brothers, or cousins, or whatever, Brad Armstrong Duke and Bruce Baldwin Duke as the stars. They would constantly be trying to outwit Mayor Wilder-Boar in an effort to have a ballpark and a performing arts center built downtown. But, Wilder-Boar has bigger plans up his sleeve…maybe even putting in casinos in Shockoe Bottom. That’s just a possibility.
I could spend the entire day sharing my story ideas with you. I think in one episode, Wilder-Boar hires the two Duke boys to repossess a top aide’s city-owned vehicle because the aide was using the car to do consulting for a political candidate. Or tell me what you think about this one. Wilder-Boar agrees to let a bunch of former city council members hold a reunion, and he deputizes Brad and Bruce to help make sure that none of the members escape from jail during the reunion. It’s a non-stop laugh riot, I tell you.
So, are you in or not? I’m looking for a few more good ideas. In fact, I have the morning paper right here. It should provide me with plenty of inspiration. Maybe I could get Robbin Thompson and Steve Bassett to write the theme song.

Mr. Popularity Strikes Again

I attended a cocktail reception the other night. It was hosted by the Richmond Association of Realtors, which is an excellent association, even if it is made up primarily of real estate agents. One quick sidepoint before I get into the real meat of this column. Doesn't it seem to you that realtors should know how to pronounce what they are. I cringe every time a realtor calls himself a "real-a-tor."
Anyway, back to my main gripe. Why I don't like cocktail receptions, or virtually any social gathering, for that matter. I'll admit right up front, I'm not very good at cocktail receptions, so I don't very often go. But this one was held at the Country Club of Virginia. I've never been there. And, I was curious. Just how do the other half live?
First to answer that question, I wasn't all that impressed by the CCV. Its urinals were no better than any Shoney's I've visited. When you get my age, you measure all experiences by the quality of the restrooms. Actually the stalls were a little small. Maybe all rich people are small. They did have cotton towels rather than paper ones. But, since you can't (or I won't) blow my nose on a cotton towel, again, I wasn't overly impressed.
The food was also not up to what I would have thought rich folks eat. It was all rather bland, I'm guessing since the average age of the members at the club is somewhere near 82, the culinary staff is more intent on providing hors d'oeuvres that can be gummed, rather than worrying about taste.
But, the food and toilets were passable (no pun intended). The real thing I hated about the party is the thing I hate about all such gatherings, nobody ever talks to me. Regardless of the function I attend (including my own wedding), everybody else seems to be chatting it up with everyone else, and I'm just kinda standing around looking pathetic.
I try to stand right next to others who are engaged in conversation in order to create the impression that I'm part of their happy little group. I even laugh when they laugh. But invariably, within moments, they'll notice me and, en masse, move away.
I sometimes get the feeling that I must have a sign on my back that reads, "ignore me." Even if I run into people I know, they'll just smile and move on along so as to be with the fun people. I've even come up with some ice-breaking conversation starters, hoping to get someone to acknowledge my existance. I'll go up to a group sitting at one of the small tables. I'll point to an empty chair and cleverly ask, "Is anyone sitting there?" The least they could do is smile and tell me someone is indeed sitting there. They don't even do that. They barely look up.
The other night I felt like I was playing the Jimmy Stewart role in It's a Wonderful Life, except I didn't even have an angel around to chat with. I don't know what it is. I was dressed okay. My teeth had been brushed relatively recently. Even my deodorant was working pretty well. But I spent an hour-and-a-half pretending I was talking to other people. Sometimes I'd even carry two glasses with me to make others think I was taking a drink to a companion. The more I reflect on my experiences the other night, the clearer it becomes just how unpopular I really am. Think about it. You know you're really at the acme of your unpopularity when you can't even get a real estate agent to talk to you.

The Socio-Political Implications of Investing in Chinese Manufacturing (NOT!)

Although my real strength lies in writing well-thought-out social commentary, the only blog I've written recently that anyone seemed to enjoy was the one about big hairy armpits (not mine, just armpits in general). And, while I don't really have much more to say on the subject of big hairy armpits, I do have lots of thoughts on subjects that are equally as disgusting.
For instance, spitting when talking. Don't you just hate it when that happens? If you answered "yes," then here's a piece of advice. Don't talk to me. Or, if you do, keep your distance. I catch myself spitting quite frequently when engaged in conversation. Now, I'm not talking about a big, throat-clearing, gut-wrenching, let'er rip, type of spitting. I just spray it when I say it, so to speak.
I think it's because I have an extremely wet mouth. My dentist once told me I had the wettest mouth he'd ever seen. I quickly informed that dentist that, under no circumstances, was he ever to try and kiss me again.
Speaking of dentists, here's something else that grosses me out. It's looking up a dentist's nose. Invariably, when I'm sitting in that dental chair, and look up at the dentist, there'll be something hanging out of his nose, or at least coming dangerously close to being hurled out of his nose. I become transfixed seeing the object moving up and down in his nose as he speaks. And there I am, mouth wide open, right beneath that nose. Dentists are wearing rubber gloves these days. Which kind of bothers me. It's like saying, I'll take your money, but I don't want to touch your saliva." I think someone should invent some sort of rubber nose guard for the dentist and his/her assistants to wear to protect us patients from them.
Speaking of things hanging from someone else's nose, do you find that if you're talking to that person, you can't concentrate on the conversation? I do. All I can do is stare at his nose. I really have mixed emotions. I'm not sure whether I want the dangling object to be launched or not. That would mean I wouldn't have to look at it, but it would also mean that the object would now be a part of my environment. Also, do you say something about it to the person or not. I worry about such things.
And, if I'm speaking with someone and they can't keep their eyes off my nose, I become very self-conscious. I begin to imagine I feel something dangling. Often, they're simply just admiring my statuesque nose, I think. But, I can't help wondering if there just might be something hanging out of my nose.
These days when someone is staring intently at my face, there's no telling what he or she may be looking at. I used to think I was pretty good looking, well, at least, that I was not revolting to look at. But, recently, while washing my hands in the restroom on an airplane (did I mention that I took a fabulous trip to China in October?) I looked in the mirror with a fluorescent light hanging just over my head. I literally screamed. I have more flaws on my face than Mary Tyler Moore has plastic surgery incisions. And, if it's not the flaws, there's probably some wild hair growing out of my ears. So, going back to what I said earlier, for any number of reasons, if you're talking to me, don't stand too closely.
Well, I hope this satisfies all my friends who prefer that I take a less than intellectual approach in my columns. It's hard, because I'm such a deep thinker, but this is my best effort. If you don't like it, then come just a little bit closer. I have something I want to tell you.

Took Took Tookie, Goodbye

Rumor has it that washed up television star and political activist, Ed Asner is slated to take over Paul Harvey’s Rest of the Story program once network officials discover that Harvey has been dead for over five years. I say this is a rumor, but, truth be told (or, maybe not), I have obtained Asner’s script he used to audition for the job. And, I’m going to share it with you. Here goes:

Tookie grew up in rough neighborhoods. In order to protect himself and others from gangs, he started his own gang. In February 1979, Tookie holds up a 7-Eleven, and, in the process, he kills a clerk. The clerk is taken into the backroom and shot twice in the back at close range.
Less than two weeks later, Tookie kills again. This time a motel owner, his wife, and daughter. And, again, he shoots them at close range. Witnesses later testify that Tookie laughs at the gurgling sound the man made while dying.
Tookie is convicted or murder and sentenced to die. While in prison, Tookie claims he’s seen the light. He claims to have turned his life around. Tookie even writes children’s books denouncing violence. But there are many doubters. Many are convinced there is no true repentance. The governor refuses to stay his execution.
Perhaps, you’ve guessed by now. This lying murderer is none other than George “Tookie” Bush. Only now you know the rest of the story.

Okay, I admit it. I made that whole thing up. But, there is an underlying point here. I don’t make many valid points, so I hope you’ll take note of this one. My point is totally non-political, but does it seem strange that entertainers like Asner, Ted Danson, Richard Dreyfuss, Elliott Gould, and others, rail against the President of the United States, some even comparing him to Hitler, while petitioning for mercy for a cold-blooded killer?
Asner, who has supported Planned Parenthood, an organization that wholeheartedly endorses abortion, doesn’t seem to mind the murder of innocent babies, innocent 7-Eleven clerks and innocent motel owners. But he’s offended by the execution – not the murder, but the execution – of Tookie Williams. Go figure.
Ted Danson has campaigned to “keep abortions safe,” using the coat hanger in a back alley scare tactic employed by so many pro-choicers (sometimes pronounced pro-abortionists). He wants to keep abortions safe. He wants to keep Tookie Williams alive (or wanted to, anyway). Too bad he isn’t interested in keeping our children safe from gang members like Tookie Williams.
It really is a crazy, mixed-up world. I can understand concerns about capital punishment. There are obvious flaws and inconsistencies in our judicial systems, but what I can’t understand is why so many of those who are against capital punishment are in favor of abortion. Okay, let’s assume that Tookie Williams really did change. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. I could believe your sincerity if you were also in favor of giving that fetus the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it really is a human life growing in the womb. Gee, what a shocking thought.
I read an interesting comment once that compared the ancient pagan ritual of sacrificing children in the fire, to modern-day abortions. The comment basically was that in ancient times, women sacrificed their children on the altar of Molech. Today, many women sacrifice their unborn children on the altar of convenience. I think there’s a lot of truth to that. In fact, I think that comment may very well be the rest of the story.

A Dining Tip

Well my day is ruined. And, I'm hoping you want to hear all about it. I'm going to tell you about it, regardless. If I didn't, I would have absolutely nothing to write about today. I had planned to tell you a little horror story about an experience my daughter and her friends had at a local restaurant last night. Seems that, after being seated by the hostess, they waited at the table while two of the waitstaff argued about who would be forced to serve them.
Gee, I was going to jump all over that. I had some really clever lines. It would have been uproarious. I giggled all the way to work this morning regaling myself with excerpts from the column I was going to be writing.
Then I got this brainstorm idea. I figured to make it even funnier, I'd phone the restaurant and tell the manager about my daughter's awful experience. His or her nonchalant attitude would be further fodder to fuel my article. I don't usually go to any effort to research my columns. Believe it or not, it all comes directly from this genius machine residing inside my head. But, since I figured the manager would inspire me, I decided to call.
Bad idea. The manager, a very congenial woman by the name of Carmen, was quite attentive. She sympathized and empathized and did all those nice things that aren't done all that often these days. She even offered to send my daughter a certificate for a complimentary meal at the restaurant. "I want to make sure she'll come back to see us," Carmen said.
I was blown away. I've had less (much less) successful encounters with managers in the past. I remember one occasion when the waitress (at a restaurant that's no longer in business) gave us really horrible service. When I informed her that the meal I had ordered was supposed to come with a salad, she simply said, "You're wrong." She never even offered to check it out. I compensated, somewhat, by not offering to leave a tip. As I'm walking through the parking lot, she comes out and accosts us and says, "You didn't tip me. I'm not going to stand for that."
At that point, I asked to speak to her manager. He was totally unconcerned. His basic reply was, "Well, our waitresses do work for tips." I had a little tip for him, but my wife pulled me out of the restaurant before I had a chance to offer it.
I'm a good tipper, maybe even a semi-great tipper, but I don't tip for poor service.
I dined in a high-falutin restaurant in New York City some time back. I was with a group of about ten, and because we didn't order alcohol the waitstaff stood right behind us and made fun of us and our delightful southern accents. You'd have thought we'd stepped right off the set of Deliverance and into their restaurant. "Those stupid hicks," one said to the other loud enough for us to hear. "Just drinking water..." Well, when it came time to tip, we figured we'd show 'em how stupid we were.
As we were leaving, one of the waitstaff comes up and says, "I just want to let you know that the gratuity is not included in the price of the meal." We thanked her for the education. And, as we walked past the maitre 'd, one in our group said, "Wonder what they meant there were no croutons on the bill?" I guess we showed them.
Well, when I called Carmen (at Champps in Stony Point), I was hoping she'd treat me miserably, you know, give me another hilarious tale to add to my repertoire. Unfortunately no. She was polite. She stressed how sorry she was, and assured me the matter would be addressed, and, as I said, she offered to compensate.
She wasn't good for laughs, but, from a customer service and P.R. standpoint, she was great. I might not have gotten around to eating at Champps, but now, I'll make a special point to do so. So all you waiters and waitresses down at Champps, listen up. I'm a huge tipper. Phenomenol tipper, in fact. You can argue about who gets to serve me, but not over who has to serve me, and there may even be some croutons in your future.

Give Credit Where Credit Is Due

So, I’m sitting at my desk this morning, and, in all honesty, I’m coming up empty on something to write about. Then out of the blue, the phone rings. Although it’s early, before business hours, I pick up the phone.
“Is this Mr. Steve Cook?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.
“Yes,” I reply honestly.
“The Mr. Steve Cook?” he says.
I get that instant throbbing feeling one gets as his head starts to swell. “Yes, but you can call me ‘The,’” I say.
“My name is Lochru,” he says. “And, I’m hoping you can help me out.”
“Lochru? “ I question. “Sounds rather Druidish.”
“Bingo,” he says.
“Bingo?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers. “I’m a Druid.”
“Sure you are,” I say with a certain degree of sarcasm.
“No, honestly,” he continues. “I’m Druid, actually half-Druid, half-Nordic…and half-Roman.” He laughs. “That’s an old Druid joke.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” I ask him. The Druids have been extinct for centuries.” I say. I’m not so sure that’s accurate, but I throw it out there.
“You’re basically correct,” he answers. “I was frozen for centuries at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir, and only just recently thawed out.”
Now I know he’s lying. “The Falling Creek Reservoir hardly ever freezes,” I say.
“Thin blood, I guess,” he answers.
I decide to play along. “So where are you living now,” I ask.
“I’ve been renting a room from Rufus T. Matthews,” he says.
“You mean the Chesterfield guy…”
“Yeah, the guy who won’t sell his house to them coloreds,” he says, doing a pretty decent Rufus T. Matthews impersonation. “What antiquated thinking,” he adds, in his own voice. “But, all in all, the guy’s not so bad, just a little behind in the times.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about ‘the times’ for someone who’s been frozen for centuries,” I say, congratulating myself on the quick retort.
“I read,” he says.
“So, you said you wanted my help,” I say, changing the subject.
“Yeah, exactly,” he says. “I’ve been following this ongoing debate about whether to call it a Christmas tree or a holiday tree, and whether to say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy Holidays.’”
“So?” I ask him.
“Well,” he continues, “I heard this woman on TV say since it’s Christian, it ought to be called a Christmas tree. I have to admit, that gets my goat.”
“What do you mean, Mr….Is it Lochru,” I ask.
“Yeah, but you can call me what everyone else does, or did…back in the day,” he says.
“And, what’s that?”
“Sonny,” he answers.
“Okay, Sonny,” I say. “What do you mean it gets your goat?”
“Everybody’s talking about all these holiday festivities, but nobody ever stops to thank us Druids,” he says. He does sound sincerely upset.
“Could you explain?” I ask him.
“Hey,” he continues. “A lot of these things started with us Druids, although I admit, we stole some of ‘em from the Romans.”
“What kind of things?” I ask him.
“You know, the holly, the mistletoe, that sort of stuff.”
“Really?” I ask somewhat incredulously.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “We were big on the nature stuff. We specialized in the worship of trees and bushes and the like.”
“Tell me more.” I’m getting interested in what Sonny has to say.
“We even had a Holly King,” he explains. “He wears red, lives just one night a year, and drives a team of eight deer.”
“You’re kidding,” I say. “That sounds like…”
“Don’t it though,” he interrupts.
“I’d like to know more,” I tell him.
“Well, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You know, let’s give credit where credit is due,” he says. “Give us the credit for all these traditions you folks stole from us, and, if, I run into any re-thawed fellow Druids, I’ll let them know that this idea of not selling your home to ‘them coloreds,' originated with you all.”
With that he hung up. I really don’t know whether to say anything about this or not.

Did You Hear the One About the School Board Chairman?

Okay, all you supporters of a ballpark in Shockoe Bottom, I have some great news. I think I have come up with a virtually sure-fire plan to get city officials, as well as city residents, to come out in full support of the Atlanta/Richmond Braves proposal for a new stadium in the Bottom.
Being an astute student of history, I've learned from the recent goings-on in Richmond. And, it's all very simple. Here's what has to be done. R-Braves general manager, Bruce Baldwin, simply has to announce that he, and the entire Braves team are all gay. Just for a little insurance, he may want to post semi-nude pictures of himself and the players on a pornographic internet site. That's not mandatory, but it would be a nice touch.
Do you see the logic here? Just look at the reaction to the Stephen Johnson deal. Here, you have the chairman of the Richmond School Board posting a semi-nude picture of himself, along with what has been termed an explicitly worded profile of himself on a pornographic, gay, Internet website. When word gets out about his little indiscretion, he does resign his chairmanship, but feels it appropriate to stay on the school board.
Now, if you're thinking there'd be public outrage, you'd better check your calendar. The times, they are a-changing. Here we are in a city that prides itself on being slow to change. We're so slow that when Bruce Baldwin announced a proposal to build a mega-complex in downtown Richmond, centered around a beautiful new ballpark, you'd have thunk he was calling for the repeal of the Emancipation Proclamation.
The guy's virtually tarred and feathered by everyone including the city's own mayor, Governor Wilder. But what happens when Stephen Johnson steps down as chairman of the school board, and then proceeds to blast the Richmond Times Dispatch for telling on him? He gets a standing ovation.
According to the story in the TD, the crowd, including fellow board members did everything but hoist him on their shoulders and carry him out of the room, singing "For he's a jolly gay fellow."
You think I'm exaggerating? Well, here's what school superintendent, Deborah Jewell-Sherman, was quoted as saying, "I want to publicly thank Mr. Stephen B. Johnson for the tremendous job he has done over the last year as chairman of the School Board." Forget the fact that Mr. Stephen B. Johnson has set a horrible example for the city's youth, you know the ones who go to those schools he's working for. Let's just concentrate on that tremendous job he's done.
Bruce Baldwin, are you getting this? The ballpark is in the bag if you'll just bare your chest for the camera. The Times Dispatch went on to continue Ms. Jewell-Sherman's quote: ""I have never been prouder of you, Mr. Johnson, than I am tonight when you put before your own personal feelings the well-being of the Richmond Public School Board." Next, the newspaper writes: "She (she, being the school superintendent, don't forget) stood and began applauding. Nearly everyone in the packed room joined her."
I don't seem to recall Bruce Baldwin getting a standing O when he proposed an exciting, dynamic project for the city. I don't seem to recall anyone telling him what a tremendous job he's done in providing the city with a first-class professional sports organization over the past several years.
But, Stephen B. Johnson, now that's another story. Deborah Jewell-Sherman is so proud of the former school board chairman that she couldn't resist embracing him, much the way a city that hates change has embraced homosexuality. And, let's be honest, that's really what this is all about. One thing you have to say about the gay community, they've done a great job making heterosexuals feel embarrassed for opposing homosexuality...so embarrassed that now, seemingly normal, good, decent everyday folks are too scared to come right out and tell Stephen B. Johnson that they're repulsed by his actions.
People today are so scared about being branded homophobic that they'll sell their own kids down the river (the James River, in this instance) rather than risk offending a gay guy.
My personal feelings (or anyone else's) about homosexuality are not at the heart of this story. WRVA's afternoon talk show host, Mac Watson, has summed this up well. He's basically stated that if Johnson were straight and had posted his evidently titilating profile on a heterosexual porn dating site, he would not have received the same, warm, accepting reaction from the public. Mac's exactly right.
I know that a city like Richmond has not been turned into an east coast version of San Francisco overnight. But, I also know that many Richmonders are just too gutless to let their true feelings be known. According to the TD, when one Richmond resident began circulating a petition urging Johnson to resign from the board, she only got five signatures.
So, bottom line, Bruce Baldwin, you know what you gotta do. Listen to me, and before you know it, we'll be watching baseball in the Bottom and enjoying three-dollar beer night.

It's the Most Horrible Time of the Year (Ding Dong Ding Dong)

Maybe you don't know this about me, but I belong to a minority...actually, it seems, one of the most hated minorities, in this part of the world anyway. Through much of the year, the abject discrimination to which my minority is subjected, goes virtually unnoticed. I even forget that I'm in this minority during the spring, summer, and most of the fall. But along about this time of the year, the hate speech starts.
That's right. I said it. The sort of rhetoric to which I'm subjected at this time of the year is nothing short of hate speech. People who would never stoop to make racist remarks think nothing of hurling ridicule at my minority. And, I have to be honest, it hurts.
It hurts so much, that for years I've been reluctant to admit that I am a part of a minority group that is so despised. When I have, in the past, admitted who I truly am, people scrunch up their faces as if I just offered them a vial of bird flu.
But the gloves are coming off. I've come to the realization that I'm proud of who I am. Let the critics take their best shots. I just don't care anymore. I've closeted my true feelings through the years, but now I'm coming out of the closet...so to speak.
Here goes. I'm admitting publicly. My name is Steve C. and I love snow.
There, I said it. And, no, I don't think it shows a warped side of me to love snow. Yes, I've heard all the arguments, mainly from my bigoted mother, "Don't you care about all the people who are killed in accidents in the snow?"
Yes, I do care. But, I also care about those people who die of heat strokes in the summer. That doesn't mean I'm going to be prejudiced against sun lovers. But maybe I'm just a little more tolerant than most.
What really gets my goat, are those weathermen who hate snow. I would think almost all meterologists would love a weather event as beautiful as snow. And, secretly, they probably do. But, unlike me, they're too afraid to admit their love for snow. So, what do they do? They go on air and utter one of the most horrific statements that a snow-lover must ever be forced to listen to.
Listen for it this year. You'll hear it everytime the forecasters have promised snow, only for us (here in Central Virginia) to get cold rain. I truly think Richmond could be called the Cold Rain Capital of the World. Anyway, after the beautiful fluffy white stuff has failed to fall, despite all the meterological promises made, these weather jerks will come on and say, "Well, we dodged a bullet this time."
In other words they are rejoicing that they got the forecast wrong. In fact, when it comes to snow, the weather forecasters are wrong virtually every single time. But, they have an excuse. No matter how long they've been doing the weather in Richmond, they continue to predict snow that never comes. And, then, after rejoicing about that dodged bullet, they'll proclaim, as if they just came up with this, "Well, we're right on the rain/snow line and it's so hard to predict."
If it's so hard to predict, then stop predicting it, unless you are sure. These weather guys just love to rub it in to us snow lovers. They're so happy to report that just thirty miles west or thirty miles north of town, they're getting a ton of snow. And here, in the Richmond area, we're getting cold rain. Big whoop! Cold rain is the most boring of all meterological events. Every drop is just a cruel reminder that just north of here there's a blizzard going on.
As I write this, it's snowing. But will it turn to cold rain in a few moments? If history is any indicator, probably. I'll get my hopes up. I'll be dreaming of a white Tuesday and there'll probably be just a wet Tuesday. This is a cruel time of year.
Speaking of which, just a little side gripe. As I flip through the radio dial, looking for something worth listening to, I keep landing on Christmas music, of which I'm not a huge fan. But, one thing I would like to know. Is there any Christmas music being played that was recorded by people still living. This is truly a Burl Ives/Karen Carpenter time of year. And, yet, somehow, the radio programmers think we want to listen to all this dead guy and gal music, nonstop for thirty days.
This is a miserable time of year...Brenda Lee and cold rain. It's too much. I think I'll go outside and try to build a cold rainman.
Better yet, I think I'll write a new song for the season. Tell me what you think:

It’s the most horrible time of the year
With the weathermen saying
That we will go sleighing
Yet nothing appears.
It's the most horrible time of the year

It's the sap-sappiest season of all
With non-stop Christmas music
Enough to make you sick
And only cold rain falls
It's the sap- sappiest season of all

There'll be lots of forecasting
For snow that will not be lasting
But no one takes the fall
It’s the most horrible time of them all

Okay, it needs a little work, but it’ll at least give you something to hum through the day.

Yes Virginia, There Is A Downtown Performing Arts Center

I take pleasure in being able to respond to our many loyal readers. Here’s another little visit to the West End’s Best Magazine mailbag:

Dear Mr. Cook:
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no valid plan to have a Performing Arts Center in downtown Richmond. Papa says, "If you see it in West End’s Best Magazine, it's so." Please tell me the truth, is there a Performing Arts Center in the city’s future?

Signed,
Virginia Richmond

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great big metropolitan region of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless multi-community initiatives about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. Or, as defined by our mayor/governor.
Yes, Virginia, there is a future Performing Arts Center.
It exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion and a love for the arts, and a misuse of funds, and an ability to demand safety inspections on a building while it is under construction exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy, and fodder for great news stories on the local six-o-clock TV newscasts. Which, by the way, Virginia, you’ll never guess what tonight’s big story is.
Alas! how dreary would be the city and its surrounding counties if there were no hope for a downtown Performing Arts Center! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias, or no downtown ballpark, or no Sixth Street Marketplace…oops forget that one. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance, no piano bar, no crude drawings that are foisted on an unsuspecting public under the guise of art, to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight, and of course in a NASCAR Hall of Fame, which, I’m sure, if we can scrape together the funds to go to whatever city it will be put in, we will certainly enjoy. The external light with which Mayor Governor Wilder’s revised plans fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in a Performing Arts Center! You might as well not believe in fairies (and I won’t touch this line with a ten-foot pole). You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the vacant downtown lots over the next few months to catch Brad Armstrong, single-handedly laying the brick, that will give us hope that the Center is on its way, but even if you did not see Mr. Armstrong laying brick, what would that prove? Nobody sees downtown Richmond Performing Arts Centers, but that is no sign that there is no Performing Arts Center. Have you not seen artist renderings? Richmond is coming to be known as the “City of Artists’ Renderings. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see, except through architectural drawings. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn (outside of Carytown, that is)? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in this big beautiful city of ours.
You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen Greater Richmond Metropolitan area which not the strongest man, not even the Mayor, nor even the united strength of all the strongest city councilmen (imprisoned or not) that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, higher restaurant sales taxes, floating bonds, trans-municipality conflagrations, and effete businessmen with self-serving dreams can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this city there is nothing else real and abiding, except for toll roads, and a slave trail, which nobody seems to know just where it is.
No Performing Arts Center? Thank God it lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, the ever crumbling Thalhimers Department Store ruins will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Signed

Steve Cook (with assistance from Francis P. Church)

Pit Stop

I think I want to talk about armpits today. I tell you that, so, just in case you're one of those people who doesn't enjoy a good armpit conversation, you can tune out now. I think, though, you'll have to admit, that this is a subject about which I don't write often.
I've been thinking about armpits since I read a news story recently about this guy in England. He was, according to a British news report, wearing a vest while being shown how to use a new piece of equipment at a gym to which he had belonged for a couple of years. I'm thinking that what the Brits call a vest, is what we call a wife-beater, or a tank top. I can't imagine a real vest on a guy in a gym, but I am not savvy to all those English customs.
Anyway, this guy was working out at the gym when one of the female instructors approaches him and requests that he wear a tee shirt rather than the vest. Apparently, this lady told him that the sight of his "big hairy armpits" would be offensive to other members of the fitness club.
Now, you're probably asking yourself the same question, I've been wondering about. By using the term, "big hairy armpits," was this woman saying that his armpits were big, or that he had big hair growing under them? Or, was the problem that his armpits were both big and hairy? You see the dilemma here. How can you blame a man if his armpits are big. I mean maybe that's why he joined the gym for heavens sake. Although, come to think of it, I've never heard anyone complain about big armpits. I have a lot of weight to lose in several different parts of my body, but I don't think even once in my life have I looked in the mirror and said, "I've got to do something about these huge armpits." In fact, not that I go around boasting, but I think my armpits are a very nice size.
If the woman was saying he had big hair growing under his armpits, that, too, wouldn't make sense. Maybe she meant long hair, or hair in abundance. But could this guy have so much more hair than what you'd find under the average male armpit that he alone would be asked to cover his pits up? I'm guessing he was not Rapunzel-like as regards his armpit hair. I mean if he had armpit hair down to his waist, then I, too, would ask him to cover it up. But, I would like to see it first.
This hairy armpit guy, Anthony Ward, by name, had the most erudite comment. He said, "To me, an armpit is just part of the body." You know, he's bloody right about that. And, I don't think anyone can really argue with him on that point. I'm not sure that his point is germane. I would imagine there are other parts of the body we'd all want to keep covered in the gym, but you can't argue with him when he contends that the armpit is a part of the human body.
Being the great journalist I am, I researched this story a little further. Seems that the female instructor added the offensive big hairy armpit line as an addendum to her main point. What she had told all of the exercisers is that they should keep their armpits covered because their sweat could rust the equipment. If these guys and gals are sloshing so much armpit sweat around the gym as to cause harm to the equipment, it kind of makes me afraid to go back to my gym. At the very least I'm going to wear goggles.
This whole story reminds me of a girl I knew in high school. She was one of those people that made even me look not so dorky. Poor thing, her face gave a whole new meaning to the word ugly. But, the thing I remember most about her is that by 8:30 in the morning, she had armpit sweat rings that went down to her hips. I mean this gal was putting out some major sweat. You'd think if you sweated like that, you'd be somewhat reluctant to raise your hand in class. Not this one. Her hand was raised high for every question. She was the original, "Pick me! Pick me!" girl. I've often wondered what happened to her. She sat next to me in typing class. Now that I'm thinking about all this, I'm wondering if she's the reason my typewriter keys kept sticking.

But I Can Walk and Chew Gum, Almost at the Same Time

I've made some important self-discoveries over the past few months. One of the most important is that I've come to the realization that I am a total oaf. Nary a day goes by that I don't knock something over, or spill a drink, especially on my white shirts, or do something else to totally embarrass myself.
I would love to picture myself as sauve, debonair...even Fred Astair-like. But I know that's not true. Even in simple, daily activities, I manage to botch things up. Take the other night, for instance. My wife and I were preparing to leave the house to attend an important meeting. It was during the recent cold spell, so, in order to be thoughtful, I went out and started the car. Actually, it was a truck I started because my wife's car was in the shop. She had recently gone hunting for venison along Interstate 64, using the hood of her car as a weapon.
Anyway, I start this rental truck and close the door. Simple, eh? All of a sudden I hear this clicking sound. For some reason, without my having even touched anything, all the doors locked. There I was, locked out of a truck, with its engine running. I had to call the auto rental company and confess my stupidity. They sent a guy out to unlock it, but the truck ran for an hour-and-a-half until he got there.
I may have told you about my oafish incident on the United Airlines jet, during my (fabulous) trip to China. I know I mentioned that I had been squeezed into a seat which would have been extremely comfortable for a double amputee. But, even with my stubby little legs, it was very painful. Anyway, I finally, after suffering in silence for about two hours, mustered enough courage to ask the two guys who were sitting beside me (I was by the window), if they would let me out to use the restroom. As they maneuvered to let me out, I quickly slipped on my shoes and headed down the aisle. After walking past dozens of passengers, I heard something dragging behind me. I looked down, and to my chagrin, I noticed that when I had slipped on my shoe, I had caught a plastic bag, containing all my snacks, between my foot and the inside of the shoe. Here I was dragging this bag behind me down the aisle, leaving an M and M trail, in a somewhat Hansel and Gretel manner.
I don't know how many of the other passengers noticed me, but I do know I felt like a fool. I redeemed myself though, by neglecting to zip up before I exited the restroom. I'm glad I was able to, at least, provide a little entertainment on a long, boring flight.
I'm constantly doing something stupid. I was in the drive-through line at a bank not too long ago. I was riding with a friend, and, for some reason, I decided while the friend waited in line, I would jump out, use the ATM and then hop back in the car. Everything went smoothly. Too smoothly. I was out of their car, completed my banking, and back in their car before the friend ever made it to the teller window. Only problem...I jumped in someone else's car. I swear the car's looked too much alike. Well, at least they were the same color...almost.
Anyway, I hopped in the passenger side and said, "See I told you I could do it." And then, the horror. I looked over at the friend. Only it wasn't my friend. It was a terror-struck woman, who I'm sure was not expecting a strange man to hop in her car. At least, from the look she gave me, that's what I surmised. Fortunately, I jumped out before she could scream, or, at least, before I could hear her scream.
That was one of my more embarrassing oafish moments, but there have been, and continue to be others...like the time I went for a job interview with mismatched shoes, or that business luncheon where I managed to knock over three glasses of iced tea, with just one errant knee banging into the table leg. I try to comfort myself by telling myself that these things happen to everyone. But, I really think I have more than my share of such occurrences.
I wonder if there is any way to make money out of this. You know, how you can hire clowns for children's parties? I don't suppose any of you would like to rent an oaf for an afternoon, would you? I'm sure your guests would quite amused.

A Retraction is Definitely in Order

You know, I really shouldn’t criticize anyone who takes the time to comment on one of my blogish columns. I really do appreciate all who read, and especially those who respond. And that even goes for a guy in the Martinsville, Virginia area who commented on a recent column dealing with the callous way injuries are dealt with in professional sports. Mr. “I’m Not Emeril” began his response by quoting me. Apparently, what I said got under his skin. Here are his comments:

"'In NASCAR, they'll hose the remains of a fellow driver off the track, as the other drivers do laps under the caution flag. As soon as the mess is gone, the green flag comes back out.'(that’s what I had said. The writer continues…)
Really? When has this happened?
To my recollection after over 40 years of close scrutiny of NASCAR, I can't recall anything remotely similar ever happening. In my memory, the incident most similar to your account occurred in 1964 when Joe Weatherly was killed at about the halfway point of a race in Riverside California. Yes, that race resumed, but without the gory spectacle you describe.
While your observation on football, both NFL and college is correct, I'm afraid you have exaggerated a bit too much in your previous paragraph.
A little "literary license" is okay, but that one is ridiculous.
I fully expect to see a retraction."

Okay, Mr. Emeril, I will admit that there probably hasn’t been a true hosing incident in NASCAR. But, for those of you who thought I was speaking literally, let me explain that I was using hyperbole to make my point, which I reiterate, rather than retract: NASCAR thinks nothing of putting the race ahead of any individual’s life.
Mr. Emeril has scrutinized NASCAR for years, he says. I haven’t scrutinized NASCAR, but I was attending races in Martinsville more than forty years ago. I remember many a death or serious injury, at various tracks through the years, but I can't recall one incident where the race was stopped because someone had been injured. Can you?
Please take a look at a few NASCAR related news stories over the past few years. Here’s something written for Flak Magazine by Ben Welch, following the death of NASCAR superstar Dale Earnhardt in the final lap of the Daytona 500, in February, 2001:

"In a little more than 11 years, 10 NASCAR drivers have died while driving close to 200 mph on racetracks around the country. What has been NASCAR's response time and time again? 'Oh well, they died doing what they loved. The show must go on.'
"When Adam Petty died on turn three of a Loudon, New Hampshire, racetrack in 2000, the NASCAR tour continued without a hitch. Two months later, wouldn't you know, Kenny Irwin died on turn three of that very same track. The week after Earnhardt died in Daytona, in fact, there was a NASCAR race in Michigan in which Dale Earnhardt's son, Dale Earnhardt Jr., was involved in a crash eerily similar to his father's. The show must go on, indeed!"

Those are Ben Welch’s words not mine. Reflect on this news report following a NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series race, in which driver Tony Roper had been killed. Again, we go back to the year 2000.

"FORT WORTH, Texas -- It was a night of triumph and tragedy at Friday's running of the O'Reilly 400 NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series race at Texas Motor Speedway. On the positive side, Bryan Reffner won the first truck race of his 112-start career and Greg Biffle was crowned as series champion. That was all darkened, however, by an accident which claimed the life of 35-year-old driver Tony Roper of Fair Grove, Mo. Roper, driving the No. 26 Mittler Brothers Ford, tried to squeeze between two other trucks on lap 31, made contact with one of them and shot hard into the outside wall on the front stretch. His truck came to rest near turn one and rescue crews were forced to cut Roper free from the wreckage. He was reported "unconscious and unresponsive" when he was transported to a local hospital via helicopter. He was officially pronounced dead the following morning."

Since Tony Roper didn’t actually die until the next day, obviously there was no need to hose him off the track. But, the tone of the story is clear. Great night for Bryan Reffner and Greg Biffle. Too bad about Tony. As the old joke goes, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”

But, the closest example to virtually hosing off the remains of a driver and ensuring that “the show goes on,” goes back to Watkins Glen, New York, August 11, 1991.

On the fifth lap of the race, something broke on driver J.D. McDuffie’s car, leaving him with no brakes. His car careened out of control, struck another driver’s car, and after striking a tire barrier went airborne. McDuffie was killed instantly. Following the completion of the race…oh yes, the race must go on…Ernie Irvan, the eventual winner, remembered to mention McDuffie in Victory Lane with the words, "After all I've been through, this is a great victory, but winning is tempered by J.D.'s death. I dedicate this victory to him. Every time we went through the turn where he crashed, I thought about him. I've known what it is like to struggle in this sport without a sponsor just like he did, and I'll always remember him."
Gee Ernie, that’s mighty big of you. You've been through so much, but you still managed to think about McDuffie every time you passed the spot where he had been impaled on his steering column. Of course, it had to be a fleeting thought; you had a race to win. And, that was a nice little extra touch, reminding everyone that McDuffie was not one of the more successful drivers on the circuit.
I rest my case. Mr. Emeril you ask for a retraction. I agree. One is needed. And, you may use the comments section to make it.

Not So Smooth Saling

Oh, by the way, did you hear that yesterday was Black Friday? Unless you spent the day under a rock, you probably heard it over and over and over again. It's all they could talk about on the radio. Big deal. It's a huge shopping day. And that's supposed to be news?
I'm surprised the NAACP hasn't protested. Black Friday is like this really violent day of shopping. People are rioting in the malls. Isn't it just a tad racist to call it Black Friday? Or, am I just being overly sensitive. I have been called a true empath on more than one occasion. Well, I've never heard anyone call me that, but I can just feel it.
On one of the network morning news shows they were giving the worst lines uttered by retail clerks. They had such mundane stuff as "Go ask the clerk over there," or "Sorry, I'm on break," or "If it's not on the shelf, it's not in stock."
Yeah, I've heard all of those, but I think I've heard at least two worse lines by retailers...lines that have somewhat traumatized me for life.
Just a couple of years ago, I decided to check out Men's Wearhouse. I'd heard how attentive they were and what great customer service they offered, so in I went to get me a suit.
I'd been in the store about a minute or two when this very lady-like salesman yells across the store, "May I help you?"
Of course, my reply was, "I'm just looking for a suit."
His response was so shocking, I left the store immediately. Do you know what he asked me? He said, "Do you wear a 48?"
A 48! At the time I was wearing a 43, or squeezing into a 42 if need be. What an absolute moron. I've never been a suit salesman, but even I know that you never guess higher than the person's actual size. Why, I'd never been so insulted in my life. I hauled freight out of that store. And, I've never set foot in a Men's Wearhouse again. It hurt, but I've consoled myself with the realization that I just wasn't his type.
Several years ago, and I mean like thirty years ago, a girl I was dating took me to S&K to help me find a suit. She didn't care much for my taste in clothes. We get into the store and the salesman approaches and my friend says, "I want him to have a suit that's really him."
Now, if you were a commissioned salesman, wouldn't you think this is my opportunity to make a sale? I mean this girl(friend) didn't even use the "just looking" phrase. She asked the guy for help in finding, and then, of course, selling, me a suit. But do you know what this idiot says?
Here she has just asked him to find me a suit that was really me. Here I was, the dork of the early seventies, with this big, stupid grin on my face that said I'm ready to be suited up.
And the salesman of the century looks me up and down, turns to my girlfriend and says, "I'm afraid we don't have anything that drab."
After these two experiences in shopping, every day is Black Friday to me.

It's More Than I Can Bare

Well, I've restarted my From Chunk to Hunk Quest. I've started my exercise regime at ACAC, a really great fitness center in Chesterfield County. I'll be telling you more about the center in upcoming issues of Chesterfield Living Magazine. This time i intend to stick with the program.
I know I said that last time, but this time I really mean it. I know I said I really meant it last time, but this time I really, truly do mean it. I didn't use the word "truly" last time, so, as you can tell, this time is for real.
I was helped, by one of the center's senior fitness guys, Chris Henry, to set realistic goals. One of the goals I didn't mention, and really didn't even think about until the first time I took a shower at ACAC, is to lose enough weight so I can make the towels they have there fit around my waist. I envy those guys who can tuck the towels in and walk around without fear of the towels falling off.
Not that I pay attention to other guys walking around with towels. Tim Allen wrote a book entitled, "Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man." I never read his book, so I don't know if he touched on this subject or not, but I take the philosophy a step further. My credo is "Don't Even Acknowledge the Existance of a Naked Man." Some of these naked guys in the locker room can stand around and chat it up with other guys as if they're fully clothed. I can't. I don't even nod at the other guys.
I'm not a fan of public nudity, even if it's an all-men's locker room. At home, I take a shower with my overcoat on. It's not that I'm phobic anything. I am just uncomfortable in a naked environment. I have to walk about 20 feet from my locker to the shower, trying to non-chalantly drape a towel over my body. I don't want to look like I'm uncomfortable about this whole thing. It's kind of like pictures of Adam and Eve you see in some children's Bible story books. They're always hiding the couple behind a tree or a rock or whatever. Well, I do the same thing with towels. I try to look as if I'm just casually carrying my towel, although, in reality, I may have spent ten minutes strategically arranging it. The towels are not so big. So, it takes real skill. I think I pull it off with aplomb.
The worst part is in the steam room, which I love by the way. But you get a bunch of flabby old men, and it sounds like a butcher shop with slabs of meat being thrown on the carving table, as we plop down on the ceramic benches. Then, you sit in this small, steamy room, sweating like a pig, and try to make small talk with a bunch of naked guys. It's not easy.
But, it'll get better. I'm going to lose the weight this time. (I really truly am) I'm going to be able wrap those tiny towels around me and proudly march through the locker room, holding my head high, which, come to think of it, is the best way to walk around naked guys anway.

Heart Stopping Sports Action

I think most of you know me well enough by now to know that if I had a dead horse, I'd beat it. I realize that this is a mental aberration with which I must live. And, so, I honestly make a conscious effort not to continually harp on those few things that peeve me. So, anyway, I'm watching the news last night and Chip Tarkenton, the WRIC sports guy is teasing his upcoming sports report. "You'll never guess what happened during the Red Wings/Predators hockey match tonight," he says.
So, trying not to let that "you'll never guess" tease irritate me, I figure that it's probably some cute little story about a bird that gets loose in the arena, or a drunk that wanders on the ice, or something else equally as entertaining. Turns out the little guessing game about which Tarkenton is so excited has to do with one of the Detroit players, Jirl Fischer, having a seizure during the game. The guy is sitting on the bench and his heart stops...I mean his literal heart literally stopped. And, Chip is treating it like a cute little anecdote.
Now the real reason I mention this story is not to slam Tarkenton. It's to comment on the way the NHL and the Detroit and Nashville teams handled this. Hockey has not been a favorite sport of mine. In fact, last season was my favorite NHL season. I'm just not crazy about toothless, French-speaking guys.
But, based on last night's events, I think I'll make the NHL my favorite professional sports league for a couple of days. After Fischer was hooked up to an auto defibrillator, and his heart was restarted, he was carried out of the arena on a stretcher. The P.A. guy told the crowd that he was okay, but that the game was being postponed. Hooray for hockey.
In NASCAR, they'll hose the remains of a fellow driver off the track, as the other drivers do laps under the caution flag. As soon as the mess is gone, the green flag comes back out.
I've seen football games, pro and college, where a guy will appear to be totally paralyzed. They'll hook him up to oxygen, cart him off and the game goes on. I've often thought that to be a rather callous attitude. After all, it is just a game. If I had a teammate hauled to the hospital in what appeared to be critical condition, I don't think I'd have much interest in continuing to play for the time being. And, if I was the opposing player who had just, perhaps, permanently crippled another player, I think my mind would be on more serious things, plus I'd be reluctant to take a chance on destroying another players life in the same game. But then, I'm a sentimental old fool.
So, I really want to commend the Detroit Red Wings and the Nashville Predators. Hockey can be an ugly sport. It's kind of like wrestling on ice, except the blood is real. It's nice to know that to some athletes there are some things more important than the game.
I did read that Jirl Fischer had been diagnosed with heart abnormalities back in 2002. He had said at the time that his heart is just a little thicker than most. But, the guy keeps playing. Seems the same might be said about his head as well.

Aisle Be Seeing You

I've spent some quality time hanging around the grocery store recently. I had no devious motives. I just wanted check out something a friend of mine mentioned to me. He asked if I had ever noticed shoppers, especially women, who grab a cart when they enter the store and hang on for dear life. "The cart becomes an extension of themselves," he said. "Wherever they go, the cart goes...even into tiny little corners."
He's right. What I have observed is that it's typically the women I get behind out in traffic. I affectionately call them "blue-haired brake riders." These little ladies, unlike the younger women, really dress up to shop for groceries. That, I like. All it takes is to get behind one 250-pound beauty dressed in spandex, and wearing curlers in her hair, to appreciate a lady who dresses nicely to go shopping.
But, I have gotten way off-topic. These little ladies cling to their grocery carts like barnacles to the bottom of a boat. I think one reason is that they have their purses in their carts, and nothing is going to pry them away. Actually, these women can maneuver their carts into tiny little corners where not even the best truck drivers would think a cart could go. Of course, if they have to knock a few bottles of salad dressing or a box or two of Pop Tarts off the shelves, they're willing to make that sacrifice.
Something else I noticed while hanging around one of the local groceries is that they now have these huge carts for kids. In the old days, you just squeezed junior into that top part. No matter how large my legs were, I mean his legs are, they're going to fit through those tiny openings, even if mom has to butter his legs to make it work. It hurts...I would imagine. Now, they have carts shaped like race cars, and just about as large as a race car. I saw a mother plowing through the aisles the other day. She must have had three or four kids crammed in this huge race car cart. And she was pushing it through the store like she was in contention for the Nextel Cup. I had to dive under a display stand to keep from being run over.
While we're discussing grocery carts, could someone explain to me why I always get one with a wheel that maneuvers as if it had a small child stuck under it? My carts never work right. Usually the cart squeaks, and wobbles, and veers to one side or the other. I know all the carts can't be that bad, but I always choose the worst cart in the store. I know it's not truly a reflection on me, but I always feel as if the other shoppers are looking down their noses at me because of my cart.
My friend, and come to think of it, I don't know why he hangs around grocery stores so much, also asked me if I noticed the way many shoppers get so impatient when forced to wait for another shopper blocking the aisle. I get the feeling he holds such impatient shoppers in derision. I was too ashamed to admit that I'm one of those impatient types. I can't, for the life of me, understand why some shoppers think they can park their cart in the middle of an aisle and then spend twenty minutes wandering the store. At least pull off to one side.
Of course, if you're shopping in Food Lion it doesn't matter. They're going to have the aisles blocked with stockers anyway. I think they strategically plan to put their stockers in the aisles during the busiest shopping times. I've always said Food Lion's motto should be, "You swore you'd never come back, but look at you. Here you are." I'm trying to trim that down. It's good, but a tad too wordy.
Anyway, I'm blocking the aisle right now. I decided to subtly station myself in an area where I could check out the shoppers. I don't think many noticed me sitting here typing on my laptop. The only problem is that now I can't get my legs out of those tiny openings in the dad-blasted cart. Could someone get me a stick of butter?

If You Can't Say Something Bad About Someone...

Some people! I just don't understand the mentality of those who cherish and embrace the negative. I guess it's because I'm such a positive, glass-half-full sort of guy. I've always lived by the credo that if you can't say something nice about someone, say something bad, but try to get a laugh out of it.
But, on many occasions, you can find good things to say about a number of folks. I don't want to sound like Polyanna here, but most people whom I interview for our magazines, are down-right interesting, decent human beings. They may have a skeleton or two in their closets, but that's not what I'm looking for.
Now, you may be wondering, at this point, why I'm rambling on in such a manner. Okay, you forced it out of me. I'll tell you. Twice in recent weeks, after we'd done a story on an individual, we've received phone calls from others questioning us as to why we'd said such nice things about someone. Huh?
I could understand it if I had said something negative. But, how can you get upset when someone's stellar characteristics are discussed? I guess there are those who are so petty, so retributive (I think that's a word. If not, it should be), that it just galls them to hear good things about people they despise.
Come to think of it, on both occasions, the nay-sayers were friends of the ex-spouses of the individuals about whom we'd written. They say hell hath no fury blah blah blah. Must be some truth to that. (and yes, in both cases the ex-spouses were of the female variety)
I'm sure that in virtually all messy divorces there is enough fault to be able to apply some to both parties. Although, I do believe that in many, many such divorces, one of the mates is a lot more at fault than the other. I also believe that it's usually the guiltiest mate who is the angriest. Next time one of their close friends calls to complain because we said something nice about their friend's ex, I'll pretend to be interested in righting (and writing) my wrong.
I'll arrange to do an interview with the ex-mate. Let her (or, him) tell me their side. I'll act like I really believe them, then I'll write this great article really ripping them up one side and down the other.
Not only will it be fun, but I believe it's the least I can do to demonstrate how much I hate negativity. I don't know if they give any humanitarian awards out to people like me, but unless you're a close friend of an ex-spouse, maybe you can recommend me to be thusly honored. Thanks.

Moron Tax

It’s been called addictive. I say, “it’s been called,” because I’m not sure just what I believe about addictions. Sometimes I think it’s a nice term we use to excuse inexcusable behavior. But, there are many mental health professionals, who are much more educated than I, who believe in addictions. In fact, the American Psychiatric Association has termed this particular activity as resulting in a “disorder of impulse control” for about 3 to 4% of those who engage in it.
That would mean this addiction affects over three million Americans, with many millions more having a serious problem with it. These Americans are much more likely to also have problems with drinking, drugs, and depression. And, a higher incidence of suicide has been noted among those suffering with this addiction.
There are many stories of devastating financial, emotional, and mental effects - not only upon the one addicted, but also on his or her loved ones. And yet, many responsible TV and radio news programs promote it. Newscasters and other broadcast personalities present it as fun, exciting, something to be enjoyed.
There are billboards on the highways encouraging the activity. They even play cute little jingles on the radio to get you excited about participating.
One comedian called it a special tax for morons. Perhaps, you’ve figured out what I’m rambling about. Gambling.
Time was when gambling was considered a vice. I remember, years ago, when prominent Richmonders were arrested for participating in what was then called “numbers games.”
That was before the state decided to take advantage of those who have a problem with out-of-control gambling. And, let’s face it, it’s not the casual, occasional one-dollar lottery player who is making it possible to give away over three hundred million dollars. I don’t know the statistics, but if the giveaway is three hundred million, what are the participating states making on this?
Do state legislators not realize that many adults are taking food out of their children’s mouths in order to play the lottery? Of course they recognize that fact. In fact, they’re counting on you gambling addicts. Without you, they wouldn’t be able to fill the school coffers with millions of dollars annually.
But listen to Bill Bevins and Jimmy Barrett and others hype it. Would they hype the best liquor prices in town to encourage drunks to go out and give in to their addiction? Or would they tell you where to find the prettiest prostitutes? Because, they say sex can be addictive too.
Of course, alcohol can have a healthy effect, when done in moderation, or so I’ve been told. And sex, well it certainly has its place. But gambling is always unhealthy. Why? Well, think about it. When you gamble, you are trying to get rich at the expense of others. It’s not like playing the stock market, where your money is actually used to allow businesses to create jobs, produce goods, etc. Those folks who won three hundred million are going to be enjoying money that many, many idiots have squandered. There are babies who won’t get their clean diaper or their needed bottle of milk because their mommas felt lucky. I’m not making this up. Okay, maybe I am. I’m not an authority. But, let’s say there are a million Virginians who spend a dollar a week on a lottery ticket. That wouldn’t be too devastating to anyone. But, with that level of spending, there’s no way the Virginia lottery could exist. The amount spent has to be phenomenal.
I could go on, and I haven’t even touched on the main reason I’m against gambling. It’s because when I go into 7-11 to buy a cup of coffee, I’m forced to wait in the addicts line for fifteen minutes for these morons to buy their tickets. And, that my friends, is totally inexcusable.

Random Thoughts

Someone asked my wife the other day what my column was all about. She replied that it was about nothing. Well, even if that is true, perhaps she doesn't remember a modest little TV show called Seinfeld. But, as you know, if you read this regularly, I do not write about nothing. I write very deep, serious stuff, about, well, you know, about deep serious stuff. Take today for instance.
I may appear to be rambling, but a lot of deep stuff has gone through my head over the past 24 hours. It is somewhat random, but that doesn't detract from its depth. So, here, in no particular order, are the things that I've been reflecting on.
First, from the With Friends Like This....Department, I want to "thank" a so-called friend. I'll call her Jennifer. The other day I politely requested in a column that if you see my wife, don't mention that particular column to her. I didn't say anything especially offensive about my wife. It's just that she doesn't like to be quoted.
Well, what does "Jennifer" do when she sees my wife last night. Yep. She immediately tells her that I didn't want her (my wife, that is) to see that column.
So, now this morning, I get this email from my wife. Responding to a statement that I had made that she seldom reads anything I write, my wife has this to say,"I may not read them every day, but when I get a moment,I do read them. I can't help it if when I'm at work I actually work."
Ouch. I admit she works harder than I do. But thinking is work too, isn't it?
Anyway, on to deeper things. Have you heard about another local PTA president (or vice-president, or whatever) who has been caught embezzling PTA funds. Stop the insanity. I really do believe that some thieves are deliberately having children so they can join the PTAs when the kids get school age and then start embezzling money. Otherwise, how do you account for the rash of PTA crimes? I mean are these PTAs such a hotbed of illicit activties that good, honest parents are corrupted just by association? Something to think about, I guess.
This is a new thought that just ran through my head, but did you notice what a fun word "embezzling" is. Say it out loud a few times. It feels really good in your mouth.
But, back to the deep stuff. I heard a news report about a state-wide election that may result in a recount. The news guy (and you know how much I love news guys) said, "Only the apparent loser in the election is allowed to request a recount." Wow, that's a shocker. I wonder how many winners request a recount. I'd think the number would be somewhat small, but, based on some of the ignorant things public officials do, it may be a larger number than I'd expect.
I could write about more stuff today, but, when I'm at work, I actually have work to do myself. Of course, first, I must neutralize my mental palette...you know clear away the old thoughts so I can turn my attention to the work at hand. I find that about an hour of playing Tetris on my cell phone helps me to do that. I am not addicted to Tetris, mind you. But, in an effort to always be a better man, I'm intent on beating my high score of 102673. Pretty good, huh? And my wife says I write about nothing.