There Is A Point In All This

Just as a general rule, I hate spending time in doctors' offices. I hate waiting, and, since that's what a visit to the doctor usually entails, I only go when I absolutely must. Sitting in the big waiting room, waiting to go to the small waiting room, sometimes called the examining room, gives me plenty of time to contemplate all the things I hate about going to the doctor. And, I'd have to say, that number one, I hate needlepoint. As far as I'm concerned, it's rather needlepointless. Evidently, every doctor in town has at least one patient who thinks a needlepoint picture on the office wall would be the ultimate.
Needlepoint must have been designed by someone who wished she (or he, yeah right) had some artistic talent, and who decided that if the picture was stitched on cloth, it could pass as art. Here's a head's up - it isn't art. At best it's a cartoon done with string.
On my doctor's office wall today was a needlepoint that was entitled the "Physicians' Alphabet." It consisted of each letter of the alphabet neatly stitched and then below that, a squiggly line that was supposed to "hillariously" represent the sloppy handwriting of the doctor. Now, first of all, making fun of doctors' handwriting skills has been overdone. But, to take the time to stitch it out seems absolutely absurd.
Maybe I just have a bad attitude. And, I'm sure that many needlepointers are fine people. But, please, wake up and smell the 21st century coffee. Go find another way to express your semi-artistic abilities. Fingerpainting would be better...or maybe balloon animals. Now, that would be kind of cool. Just please back away from the needlepoint.
And a word for you doctors: Your patients are not impresssed with needlepoint. We are already worrying about needles when we come in, we don't want people taking needles and doodling with them. At least that's my opinion. If you're a big needlepoint fan, I'd love to hear from you.
Well, I was going to give you a litany of the things I hate about visiting the doctor, but, this needlepoint crisis has taken all my time. I'll resume this subject at a later time.

Gee Whizzinator

I've done columns in our magazines on things I hate, and I admit that there are any number of things which really irritate me. But, I've recently discovered something I really hate, and yet, never in a million years would I have ever guessed that this "thing" even existed. If I were to work on a comprehensive list of things I hate, this particular item would never have been listed, because I don't think any relatively decent human could have ever thought such a thing up.
But, someone did. I really think I've lived too long, when I see advertisements for a device called the Whizzinator. Without going into detail, the Whizzinator is designed to allow steroid/drug-filled men to pass a SUPERVISED urine test. Need I say more. If the answer to that is yes, just go to the website, you can figure it out.
There are even testimonials at the website including one by a Robin B. in Virginia, who said: "I have to test while being observed, and not only was it undetectable, but I passed with flying colors. This product is AMAZING!! Thanks again!!"
I guess people flaunt the law all the time, but I think this is taking flaunting to new heights. Tell me, would you have ever thought up the possibility of mixing warm water with dried urine? Would you have ever come up with the idea for a prosthetic that could dispense such?
The thing that really makes me mad is that, from now on, whenever i write about things I hate, the things I hate will be so far below this thing, that it'll be hard to get really riled. The Whizzinator takes disgusting to such a new level that previously disgusting things will be only mildly annoying by comparison. And, where's the humor in writing about things that mildly annoy you?
As far as I'm concerned, the Whizzinator may allow athletes to continue doing their job, but it's making it difficult for me to do mine. As long as such things as the Whizzinator exist in the world, there is no humor. I can't even make jokes about it, because then I'd be as disgusting as it is.
So, thanks to the Whizzinator, I can never be funny again. So, the next time you read my column and think, wow, that wasn't funny at all, just know that it's all because of the Whizzinator.

Rooting for Root Canals

I have never used a recreational drug in my life, and, truth be told, I really don't like taking any kind of pill (although, my briefcase does look like it belongs to a pharaceutical salesman), but I had sedation dentistry recently, and I'm here to tell you it's great. I may devote the rest of my life touting the benefits of sedation dentistry.
I had to have a root canal. Just the thoughts of it sent chills up my spine, or down my spine, I'm not sure which direction they were heading. It was my first time with a new dentist - and, if I may, let me send some shout-outs to Dr. Baxter Perkinson's team. They're fantastic. The doctor scheduled me for the root canal, and then gave me a prescription for a little pill - Halcyon, I think - to take about 2 hours before the procedure.
By the time I was dropped off at the dentist office (I'd been told not to drive), I was feeling a little care-free, but still relatively in control of my actions. When I sat down in the chair, I was offered the gas, or whatever it is and I gladly took it. The next thing of which I'm aware is being told the procedure was done. I hope I wasn't asked to spit, because I'm sure that would not have been done with maximum proficiency.
I have fuzzy memories of my wife picking me up when I left.
I have no memory of falling asleep in the mashed potatoes she claims I had for dinner. I slept like a baby that night and the next day I was refreshed and ready for work.
This is not an ad for my dentist, but I'd be happy to do one. Everything about my visit was very pleasant. The people are pleasant, the pills are pleasant, the gas was pleasant.
My only complaint is that all of the females in the office are very attractive, including my dentist. For whatever reason, I'm not crazy about pretty woman looking up my nose, and the position you're in when you're lying back in the dentist chair is optimum for looking up one's nose.
Except for that, my root canal is probably one of the nicest experiences I've had in quite some time. Maybe that says something about my life, I don't know. What I do know, is that I just felt a slight pain in another tooth. I hope I need another root canal.

Non-Scents and Rubbish!

Well, there's a new study out, and you know how much I love these studies. And, it shows that when asked to sniff male testosterone (which kinda grosses me out to begin with), homosexual men's brains responded more like women's brains. Now, I'm not about to touch this subject, except it did give me an idea.
You know how you're always seeing these wives on daytime TV (ie Jerry Springer, Oprah, etc.) who find out after years of marriage that their husbands are gay? And, of course, they then have to come on television and proudly talk about how humiliated they were. You've seen these women, I'm sure. They describe every gory detail of their husband's outing, usually in some local park or school, while the audience, in its typical dignified manner, hoots and hollers and eggs them on to tell more.
Well, why not invent some sort of homomometer? So, let's say this guy asks you out (we're assuming you're a female in this scenario), and you want to be sure that you're not going to end up on the Jerry Springer show in five years or so. All you do is have him sniff into the device and it tells you instantly - gay or straight. Maybe it could even have some sort of dial that tells you how gay or how straight, because maybe the really straight guys are the ones who end up on Jerry Springer for beating their wives senseless when she burns the toast.
Now, I may be going out on some sort of genetic limb here, since I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. I'm just sort of thinking out loud. But, I believe there really could be some sort of commercial application to a device such as this.
And, while we're talking about those inane daytime talk shows, I wish someone would do a show examining those emotionally-troubled audience members who applaud at the most inappropriate moments. You know the type I'm talking about. The low-life guest will say something like, "So, Jerry, I caught my husband with the mailman (no offense to the USPS)." And, the audience will go wild. "So, Jerry, I got back at him by setting the house on fire." (more wild applause)
Then some idiot in the audience will be given the microphone, and she'll shout out, "I'm offended that you get upset because your husband was with the mailman. My husband works for the Post Office. What do you have against postal workers?" And then the audience will go crazy applauding that statement. They'll applaud anything and everything - on both sides of the issue.
What's with these people who come to see these shows? Well, I guess I really answered my question with my question. What we really need is a device that could predict if your future mate is someone who is going to really love watching the Jerry Springer show. Now, that's the type of person I'd hate to end up marrying.

Tunnel Vision

Did you see the news story yesterday about the supposed image of the Virgin Mary on a tunnel in Chicago? It's causing real congestion problems because so many people are crowding into the tunnel, the traffic can't get through. Now, I'm not here to challenge other's religious beliefs (I do that somwhere else). But, it seems to me that if Mary was going to have her image revealed, why pick a tunnel in Chicago? Of course, I realize I can't speak for Mary, but it just seems...
One of the persons interviewed on television was this guy who was somewhat skeptical. "It doesn't even look like Mary," he said. And, you know, he was right. I saw the image, and it looked more like Mary's cousin Elizabeth...you know John the Baptizer's mother. Okay, I'm being facetious. The point is, there are no real pictures of Mary. So, who really can say?
Another woman interviewed was up in arms over the fact that vandals had defaced the image, which, keep in mind, is really a stain on the tunnel wall. But, this woman was crying, "It's not fair what they've done to Mary."
Hey, if you really believe Mary is in heaven (and, again, I'm not here to challenge or debate the religious implications here), I would think Mary could take care of herself. She really doesn't need to go around spray painting her image on walls, nor is she affected by vandals.
The whole thing boils down to the silliness of taking religion to such a mundane level. With all the problems in the world, regardless of your religious convictions, does it really seem that God would be using some vague, fuzzy, stain as a means of bringing people to him? And, if he did, wouldn't he have the ability to prevent vandals from defacing that vague, fuzzy stain?
I guess the whole brouhaha really shows how much some people have a need to see and touch something in order to have faith. But, if I go into that subject, I'll be revealing my serious side. And heaven knows, I wouldn't want that to happen.

Finders Creepers

Brandon Fizer has got to be one of the unluckiest guys I've heard of. Or, at the very least, he's having a bad week. Fizer is the ice cream shop employee who lost a finger in a mixing machine earlier this week. Now, that's relatively unlucky. But, of all the customers who frequent the popular Wilmington, N.C. shop, it's also just Fizer's (bad) luck that the creep who gets the finger in his pint of custard won't give it back.
Now, I know there are a lot of bad people in the world today, but I really believe that most of us would have given Fizer his finger. Most, but not Clarence Stowers. Seems Stowers is so concerned about making big bucks in a lawsuit, that he's hidden the finger which could possibly still be of some use to its owner.
I've heard the old "finders keepers" poem, and I've also heard it said that possession is nine tenths of the law, which I totally don't understand, but it would seem to me that if you wound up with another guy's finger in your mouth, you'd give it back to him.
Really, is a judge going to reward Stowers a larger settlement if he the finger into court with him? No one is disputing that Stowers found the finger in his custard, and, in my opinion, if I were the judge, I'd give him more money for letting the finger's original owner have it back.
Now, it's true that medical authorities have said that it's probably too late for the finger to be reattached to Fizer's hand, but, even so, it's bound to have more sentimental value to Fizer than to just about anyone else. So come on Clarence, take a picture of you with the finger in your mouth, and take the picture into court with you. And then give the poor guy his digit back.
And, by the way, to those of you creeped out by this story, you may feel better that it's being reported in the news that those who study such things are offering assurance that finding human body parts in food items is somewhat rare. Gee, I'm glad that piece of information came across the wire, I was getting hungry.

It's All About Me

I had the privilege to sit down with WRVA's Jimmy Barrett and Mac Watson, hosts of the station's (1140 AM) morning and afternoon drive programs, respectively. We'll be featuring the two in the Summer issue of West End's Best Magazine. Both of these guys do a great job, and, in person, come across like real people, very down-to-earth. One of them made the comment about how much he enjoyed working at WRVA, saying there were no egos among the personalities.
Now, while both Jimmy and Mac are credible folks, I have to wonder just a bit about that one. I've worked in radio, and it's a seething hotbed of egoism. At least it was back in my day.
I started in radio as a pimply-faced 18-year-older, and even though my first job was putting a long-playing Mantovani album on the turntable, and then replacing it with a long-playing 1001 Strings album when it was done, I still thought I was the coolest thing in town.
I was a disc jockey! Here I was, some fat, dorky guy, with a face for radio and a voice for print and I had an ego. So, it's just a tad bit hard to believe there are no egos at WRVA. Why, even the guy that came in once a week and scrubbed the toilets, had an ego.
I worked at one station where the program director/on-air afternoon drive guy had to be the dumbest human alive. This was in West Virginia, and even the natives living way back in the hollers (hollows, for East Virginians) shook their head in disbelief at some of the things this guy would say. He couldn't read one sentence without stumbling over the big words, and for him, "West Virginia" was a big word. And yet, he had a massive ego. Every time he would complete a sentence, he'd lift his head up, in a proud-peacock-like way and look towards the window separating the studio from the lobby and beam. You could tell he fully expected legions of fans to be gathered at the window just for a chance to see him in action. The fact that nobody every paid him a bit of attention was no deterrent.
The guy was a real slob, too. Watching him eat, which he did incessantly, stopping only long enough to introduce the next record, was disgusting. He would end up with about a third of his sandwich dangling from his mustache. Actually, that was a good thing, because the sandwich would hide other disgusting items that were in his moustache. I never looked closely enough to prove it, but I suspect those other items had been hurled from his rather bulbous nose. Another third of the sandwich was left lying on the control board.
Whenever I had to follow him on-air, I'd have to hose down the studio before I'd touch anything. And the studio always smelled like a deli...a dirty deli, but a deli none-the-less.
There was only one other jock at the station who had a bigger ego than this guy, and he was that fat, pimply-faced teenaged dork from Richmond. So, Jimmy, Mac, it's not that I don't believe you, but I've been there. I've seen the ego (from both sides now, to quote Judy Collins). Of course, that's just my opinion, but don't forget, I'm most always right. I am a former disc jockey, you know.

Ugly Baby Syndrome

Why am I surprised? I mentioned just last week how much I despise those stupid surveys that show that fat people don't get treated as well as thin people, and so forth. But the latest survey is the mother of all stupid surveys. In fact it has to do with mothers...and fathers...and ugly kids.
Seems this researcher in Canada sat in parking lots and skulked around grocery stores and watched how parents treated their kids. His conclusion: Parents don't treat ugly kids as well as they treat the pretty ones.
Now the very premise is stupid, but let's think about this just a little more deeply. Here's this one man (or maybe a few of his equally asanine researchers) who goes in the store and starts labeling kids as being pretty, or ugly, or pretty ugly. And, then he watches how much attention the parents pay to each kid, or how far they let them get away from the cart, or how often they buckle the kids up in the car. But all of his conclusions are based on what his definition of pretty is.
First thing I'd want to know is what does this guy look like, and what does his wife look like, and his kids? You know how sometimes you'll be out in public and you'll run into a couple where one is quite attractive, and the other looks like he/she has been beat with an ugly stick? And yet the pretty mate is looking at the ugly one like he/she is the most beautiful person I've ever seen.
Or, has anyone ever shown you a picture of their kid and the tyke is just ugly warmed over. And yet some sentimental woman (seldom a man) looks over your shoulder at the same picture and coos, "Awww, isn't she the cutest little thing?" Now, maybe this person is laboring under the delusion that all babies are cute, but just maybe this person really thinks that this ugly baby is, indeed, cute.
The point is (and, yes, I do have a point), how can one man set himself up as the judge of what's ugly and what's cute? For instance, when I was a teen-ager, I did an unscientific survey that concluded that all good-looking girls were grossed out by me. But, as I get older, and maybe this is because my tastes have changed, I now realize that even a lot of ugly females are grossed out by me.
So, who really is to say? One thing for certain. From now on, when someone stands trial for some grisly murder, there'll be some shyster lawyer who'll argue that the defendant was deprived of a decent upbringing because he was ugly and his parents didn't treat him as well as they did his pretty sibling. And, there'll be juries who buy that. And before you know it, you'll have a bunch of ugly thugs roaming the streets because...hold on, we already do have that. Well, I guess I rest my case.

Radio Dazed

I always enjoy hearing a good story on the radio in the morning, as it gives me something to rant and rave about in the blog. But enough already. I'm suffering from personal opinion overload. There are just too many stories in the last 24 hours that I want to chime in on. So let's get started:
The first two stories come under the "Gee, doesn't anyone get embarrassed about anything anymore?" department
First, Pat O'Brian, the host of Access Hollywood, is getting out of rehab and going on Dr. Phil's primetime special. Evidently, O'Brian is just going to sit there and let Dr. Phil tell him how screwed up he is in the head. What? Is he addicted to humiliation too?
And, then there's that Georgia loser, John Mason going on Sean Hannity's radio show and discussing his screwed-up-in-the head girlfriend, Jennifer Wilbanks. You know, I've been dumped by a few girls myself, but I sure didn't want to go on radio and talk about it. I had enough pride to hang my head in shame and lay low for awhile.
And did you hear the latest finger foods story? Evidently this time, unlike the Wendy's incident, there really was a finger in the food. It happened to a guy in Wilmington, North Carolina. He found the finger in some ice cream. The guy says he thought it was ice cream coated candy, so he put it in his mouth and sucked the ice cream off. It didn't taste like candy, so he took it out and discovered he was sucking on someone's finger.
Don't you hate it when that happens? I'd be tasting that finger in my mouth for a week. There wouldn't be enough Listerine in town to get that taste out of my mouth. The reason this story is believable is that an employee had, indeed, lost a finger in a food processor. Doesn't it seem to you that maybe the store would have shut down until they found the finger? Or, at least, put up a sign that read: "Find Bob's finger and win a free pint of ice cream." I guess the management was just hoping the finger would slide on down with the ice cream and never be recognized.
The funniest thing I heard on the radio was on the Mac Watson show yesterday. This was priceless. I wish I could have written something this clever. This guy from Windsor Farms calls complaining about crime in Shockoe Bottom. He says he's been the victim of crime several times in the Bottom. So Mac asks him to elaborate.
Now get this...the guy says on several occasions he's had beggars come up to him asking for a handout. "They wouldn't leave me alone," he says, "so I've had to pepper spray them."
Now, if I know my law, and I've watched enough Law and Order to be pretty knowledgeable here, I'd say it was the Windsor-Farmite that broke the law, and those poor beggars were the victims of crime. So, while technically, there may be crime in the Bottom, the criminals are coming out of Windsor Farms.
So, please, please, be careful if you find yourself out in the Windsor Farms area. It's a good thing no one is suggesting a ballpark be built there. Who'd want to go into Windsor Farms after dark. The place is a hot-bed of crotchety old pepper-spraying criminals. If you have to drive through the area, be sure to lock your doors.
Well, that's it for today. I'm going back to the radio.

Runaway Media

Did you hear the news about that bride who ran off to New Mexico? It was only on the news channels about 48 straight hours - and I mean after they learned she had runaway. I rail against the stupidity that's running rampant in the world, and a lot of that stupidity is found among the decision makers at Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, and other news organizations.
Why in the world would these channels go wall-to-wall with a story about a spoiled little rich girl who gets cold feet? As soon as it was learned that she ran away, close it up. It's old news. Maybe a brief mention here and there, but we're talking all day long Saturday and much of Sunday.
And talk about stupid! Where do you find all these angry experts that they bring on to interview? These so-called authorities are taking the runaway bride story so personally. You'd think she'd left them standing at the altar. First, there was this guy who thought she should be locked up. Then you had someone who would never forgive her for saying that it was an hispanic that kidnapped her. If she had said it was an oriental, he could have forgiven her. But then she'd have had a fringe element of the Asian community against her. She also said a white woman had kidnapped her. As a white man, I'm somewhat offended by that. Doesn't she think a white male has enough sense to kidnap someone? I mean, the nerve of her.
Whatever is done or not done to the girl, whatever her fiance decides to do, is really none of my concern or business. Has the human brain really become so dumbed down that we need to know all the intimate, personal details of other peoples' lives in order to be entertained?
Or, maybe we're just so tired of hearing about bombings in Baghdad that we're burnt out. Hey, perhaps I've hit on something here. But, let's find something more interesting or positive to talk about than a childish bride-not-to-be in Atlanta. Really, there are enough foolish people right here in Richmond to talk about.
In fact, if you want to know all the minutiae of my life, give me a call, or email me, I'll tell you everything you want to know and maybe a few things you'd rather not know about. For instance, do you know what my blood sugar was this morning? And, you'll never guess what I found in my ear...

A Diamond In the Rough

Gee, do you think there could be just a little more dissension and bickering with regard to a downtown ballpark? Excuse me, but did baseball suddenly become a blight in the community? I can't understand why there is so much negativity with regards to building a multi-faceted complex in the slums (and, really, that's what much of Shockoe Bottom looks like) that will bring thousands into the area.
Now, before I get a lot of complaints from Shockoeians(?), let me say, Shockoe Bottom has a few excellent restaurants, and a whole lot of potential. I'd love to have a reason to go down into that area on a regular basis, but for me (and a good many suburbanites) to drive 20 minutes or so into downtown Richmond, it's going to take more than restaurants.
Why not a ballpark? When Phillip Morris announced plans for a research facility downtown, you'd have thought that someone told Mayor Wilder that the Messiah was setting up his kingdom in Jackson Ward. So, let's get this straight, cigarette smoking is a better pastime than ball playing? That's the message I'm getting.
I'm fascinated listening to the callers on the Mac Watson program (1140 WRVA 3:00 - 7:00 PM). One listener told Mac that Shockoe was sacred ground. Too sacred for baseball, it would appear, but not too sacred for the drunks who vomit and urnitate behind the bars they crawl out of at two in the morning.
And where did all these history buffs come from. It seems that the mention of a ballpark has them crawling out of the woodwork, and phoning Watson's program in an effort to tout, and to preserve, and to honor the history in Shockoe. Funny, the schools never take kids on field trips down there. At least not when I was a kid. We'd go to Jamestown and Williamsburg and D.C., but no one ever thought of the historically-rich Shockoe Bottom.
And, now you've got all these reps from the city touring Louisville and their downtown ballpark. I guess the new riddle is how many Richmonders does it take to change the mind of a egomaniacal mayor?
Just build the ballpark and the surrounding complex. We'll all go down there, we'll enjoy a game, we'll eat and drink at the restaurants, and who knows, if you make me, I'll go look at something historical.

It Just Ain't Right

I think there must be some secret memo at the local TV stations to the effect that whenever any sort of crime, tragedy, or disaster strikes, the field reporter is to go find the dumbest, angriest, most frightened person in the area and put him or her on camera. Regardless of the event, you can be assured that some toothless wonder of a neighbor is going to be in front of the camera telling you how frightened she is that Junior has to grow up in that neighborhood, now that "this" has happened.
If Mr. and Mrs. Smith down the street get into some sort of domestic dispute and discharge a few rounds into each other, there'll be somebody's mother, wearing a Budweiser t-shirt telling the reporter how angry she is that this sort of thing has happened. And it doesn't have to be anything as big as a shooting.
A housefire? That same mother is frightened to be living in that neighborhood. "It just ain't right," she's telling the guy with the microphone. "I got kids growing up in this neighborhood, and now they're going to be frightened that something else is going to catch fire."
Or, if the ice-cream truck breaks down, there she is, only now she's changed into a tasteful Brew-Through sweat shirt she picked up last time she was in North Carolina.
"I'm angry," she says, choking back the tears. "My young'uns look forward to getting their popcycle each afternoon. Now,what are they going to do."
The mother looks plaintively at the camera. You can tell she's thinking that maybe the viewers will start some sort of special fund to get her kids ice cream.
Where do they get these people. Does every neighborhood have mothers like that? Are you telling me that there's one right here in my neighborhood. Because, if there is, then I'm frightened. My kids have to play in this neighborhood. I tell you, it just ain't right.

American Idle

Have you been keeping up with all the dirt from Hollywood regarding ABC Television's "scathing expose" of Fox TV's American Idol? Big whoop! ABC is apparently going to say the show is rigged. How do they know that, they spoke with losers. Now, that's a group that I'd really put my trust in.
Actually, when you think about it, are there any real winners on that show? I mean look at the winners. They get a few minutes of fame, and then for all intents and purposes they go back to being second-rate entertainers. Kelly Clarkson, as an example...now, gee, what is the name of that super-hit movie she made? Oh yeah, From Justin to Kelly, or From Kelly to Justin, something like that. Now that's a classic!
And, I challenge you to name three, no make that two hit songs Clarkson has done. I bet 95% of you can't even name two hit songs of all American Idol winners combined.
I hear Fox is threatening to sue ABC. Why? As one promoter once said, there's no such thing as bad publicity. So what if American Idol is rigged. Why not play that angle. Vince McMahon has made millions with WWE, and, they tell me that's fake. American Idol may be a top TV show, but who really gets that excited by it? I mean excited enough to get up and show their support for the American Idols.
Television is a sedentary experience. With remote controls, we don't even have to get up to change channels. It's obvious that all those viewers are not getting up and going to see From Justin to Kelly, or getting up to buy the records of Clay Aiken or Reuben Stoddard or any of these wannabes.
So, let the fur fly. I suggest that Paula Abdul and Simon Whats-his-name challenge Diane Sawyer and John Quinones to a Texas Death Match. They could broadcast it on both networks. Put a fence around them and let 'em have at it. Now, that would be a television program to get excited about. Gee, I wish I could write the script. I'd have Diane Sawyer saved from the fury of Paula Abdul by a masked wrestler. Then after several weeks of threats and challenges, the masked wrestler could be unmasked in a Pay-Per-View event. And, really, now, think about this...wouldn't it be cool if the masked wrestler was Barbara Walters?
Come on Rubert Murdoch (head of Fox) think about this. Why waste time with boring court litigation. Go on American Idol and challenge those news wimps at ABC. Let's get some real excitement going. You do that, and I'll even get up and go pay good money to see From Justin to Kelly.

Rubbing Salt in the Wound

I've heard a couple of news reports in just the last two or three days that attempt to explain why losers are losers. For instance, one report said short men don't get paid as much as tall men, and ugly people don't get the recognition of pretty people, and that fat women are discriminated against in the workplace. Then there was another study that found that people who treat other people nicely don't get as much respect as obnoxious people.
Whether these studies are accurate or not is not the thing that matters to me. What matters is why would people take the time to conduct studies just so they can rub it in to fat, ugly, short, and (apparently) nice people that they are losers. You know what, most of us losers already know it. We don't need reminders as to how our shortness, ugliness or fatness is really impacting us in virtually every aspect of life.
When the TV news programs air these reports, they simply serve as a reminder. They're like mirrors that force us to take another look at ourselves. And frankly, once I've combed my hair and made sure there's nothing stuck in my teeth, I don't want to look in the mirror any more that day.
It's like when you're a teenager, and every show you watch has an ad for acne medication. I always figured those commercials just reminded everyone else in the room that I had acne. Maybe if we just didn't talk about it, no one would pay much attention to it.
So here's a heads-up to you researchers: Fat people know they don't get the breaks that skinny and otherwise normal people do. And skinny people know they don't like to be around fat people. So forget your stupid research. You're not proving anything that everyone doesn't already know.
Go spend your time doing something constructive like studying the sex life of skunks, which, if you think about it, must be somewhat dicey. In fact, I think I'll go do a study on that. Of course, no one will have any respect for my study, because I'm fat.

PICKING YOUR FRIENDS

I had a somewhat uneventful weekend, unless you consider a series of naps eventful. But, I did venture out Saturday afternoon for a bit, and decided I'd try a little hamburger place - really a pool hall - on Jeff Davis Highway. I don't know why I was in the mood for such an adventure, but anyway, I was. I pass the place several times a week, and have wondered what sort of a honky-tonk it might be.
It's fascinating to just sit and watch the people, and listen to their conversations. "Bubba, you still have that car you're selling for four hundred?" "I'm getting ready to go meet an old friend down the pike, but I had to have me a Bud first."
Why am I fascinated by such mundane things? I'm glad you asked. I really don't know, but I really am.
While I was sitting in the establishment something happened that really seemed to pique the interest and excitement of several of the diners (drinkers). The manager came in with a fresh supply of toothpicks.
It was like a feeding frenzy. "Hey, give me a few of those," one man called out. A woman sitting on the other side of the bar, joined in, "I could use a few of those myself." And before you know it a flock of teeth-pickers had gathered at the bar.
At first, I didn't know what all the excitement was about. I even got up to take a look at what everyone wanted. True, these were those high-class toothpicks that come individually wrapped in cellophane. But, I don't think they were even mint-flavored. Just wooden toothpicks.
You could tell it was a proud moment for the manager as he doled out the toothpicks to his patrons. One of the men must have been an especially good friend of his, or someone he wanted to impress, because he poured out about ten toothpicks in front of the man's spot at the bar. "Here," the manager said, "put a few in your pocket for later."
And, he couldn't have said it with more pride and joy had he been dispensing diamonds and rubies.
I started to ask for one, but I really didn't feel it was my place. I was a stranger in a strange land. Everybody there knew everyone else by their nickname. Of course when 70% are nicknamed "Bubba" it's relatively easy to remember, but no one knew my name.
I debated the matter. Decided I could forego picking my teeth (or, at least do as I usually do, and use a business card) and I just quietly left the establishment. But, I can't wait to go back next Saturday. Maybe I'll be a regular by then. Maybe they'll call me "Bubba." Maybe I'll share a good pick with good new friends.

The Sweet Smell of Failure

I had a somewhat traumatic experience yesterday, and I'm not quite sure how to deal with it. Our publishing company participated in a business trade show in Ashland for the Hanover/Ashland Chamber of Commerce. That wasn't the traumatic part, as the show was very nice. And, just as an aside, the crabcakes served by Tim McGhee with Catering by Jill, were absolutely the best I've ever had anywhere. No kidding! The only trauma there was to my stomach for stuffing so many crabcakes into it over a three hour period.
But, that's not the trauma of which I speak. Something happened at the show that has never happened to me before...ever. Our booth won "Best in Show." That's right. I was involved in an endeavor that actually succeeded, and rather well, I might add.
This is troubling. I've built my reputation on being a loser. It's not what I intended to do, it's just the way things have turned out. George Castanza (Seinfeld) made a statement in one of the episodes that perfectly epitomizes my life. He said, "I've never made a right decision in my life." Voila! There you have it.
If there's one wrong lane to get in while driving on I-95, I'm going to get in it. When I choose a particular checkout aisle at the grocery store, it's the kiss of death for anyone who happens to be unfortunate enough to be in the line I'm in. The register will break down, or the check-out person will break down, often both. The person in front of me will have about 200 coupons, and then want to pay with Lithuanian currency.
Virtually everything I do ends in frustration. And, now, here come these folks with the Ashland Showcase. I think the judges were students from Randolph Macon, but since I think that, I'm probably wrong. Anyway, here they come and give us this very attractive award.
When they come to take our picture accepting the award, I happen to be the one with the company standing next to the guy who's handing out the award. Another wrong decision on where to stand, because I realize as they're about to take our picture, that I don't know how to receive an award. Do I point to the award with glee? Do I shake the presenter's hand? What is a winner supposed to do? I really don't know. We'll have to post the picture on our website, so you can see the look of utter confusion on my face.
But anyway, that was yesterday and yesterday's gone. Yesterday was a fluke Today's a new day. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. So let me get busy and see just what I can mess up today.

The Rich Luxurious Feel of Driving a '90 Buick

I was thinking this morning, as I turned on my windshield wipers to dry-erase the pollen (yes, the windshield washer isn't working), that the thing I like best about this time of year, is that everyone's car looks as bad as mine. Of course, that's an exaggeration. Once you cut through the pollen, you quickly realize that I have quite the classic auto.
As I was lying back in the driver's seat on my way to work, I had an opportunity to reflect on the joys of driving a 15 year old car. I say lying back because the once luxurious electronic seat adjustment is busted. The seat was working when I put it in the shop, but it stayed there so long, that I'm guessing the mechanic and his family were living in it for a couple of months. The way I figure it is that the mechanic must have enjoyed reclining the seat fully, so that it's virtually lying straight back. And, it appears he wore out the motor playing with the thing because now my seat is permanently reclining.
It does make for a relaxing, if not entirely safe drive to work. But, if I position the rear view mirror just right, I can almost see the oncoming traffic, stop lights and several of those other things that it's good to be able to see as one is driving.
But, anyway, as I was lying back, listening to the rich tones of the AM radio, I got to thinking how great life is. Here I am in a richly appointed 1990 Buick Park Avenue, that is almost paid for. I'm relaxing, even dozing occasionally, as I make my way to work. True, the electronic, adjustable side-view mirrors don't move anymore, but if I grab hold of the steering wheel, and pull myself up, and then tuck one leg under me for support, I can see some of the traffic in the other lanes.
Appearance-wise, the car isn't bad at all...considering its age. Almost 100% of this beauty still has its original paint on it, and the rest has a very dignified primer coat. What more could a man wish for at this point in his life? Only in America, eh?
Speaking of only in America, what's this with Joseph Ratzinger being made the new Pope. Pardon me if I'm mistaken, but, if memory serves, didn't he play Cliff Claven on Cheers? Talk about your all-American success stories.
But again, I've digressed. It's time to wrap this up with what I guess is my message for today. And that message is (drumroll, please): "Be sure to wipe the pollen off your windshield before you head out, because if you're going to be sharing the highway with me, it would be good if one of us has an unobstructed view."

Adventures in Dining (and more)

I have a lot on my mind today, but I'll try to be relatively brief. I had a rather traumatic experience last night. It involved dining out. Somehow, it's rather disconcerting to have the waitress continually give you an update on all the turmoil going on in the kitchen. "Sorry, for your wait," she kept saying, "but we have issues in the kitchen."
Now I've heard all those horror stories of what the kitchen staff might do to the meals being prepared when something ticks them off. And, I'm sure I've eaten stuff served by unhappy cooks and waiters that I don't want to know about. So, please just keep your issues to yourself and don't share that with me.
I would have said that last night's adventures in eating out had to be among the worst I've experienced. But the owner and the waitress were so nice, that it made it difficult to be but so mad. During our 2 hour wait, they continually apologized. They gave us free desserts while waiting for some of the meals, and they kept taking so many items off the bill, that when we got ready to leave, they owed us $1.98. So, all in all, I shouldn't complain. And, the food was pretty good. At least my crabcake was. I did try the fried shrimp off of someone else's plate (someone at our table, not a stranger's), and I must admit, they tasted much like a piece of cardboard might taste if it was battered up and fried golden brown. Not bad, but not excellent.
Before I go, I do have one more thing I want to get off my chest. About 20 pounds. No, just kidding, but it is a good lead-in to the news story I heard this morning that has me scratching my head. The reporter said that according to the latest statistics, if you weigh a few more pounds than you should weigh, you'll live longer than someone who weighs exactly what they should weigh. Huh?
So, that means that those medical type people who figure these things out, think it would be better if we were all just a little skinnier and died just a tad sooner? I guess it would make it somewhat easier for our pallbearers, but frankly, I don't care if mine all get hernias. I won't be around to worry about it.
Well, that's about all for now. But, please, let me hear from you. I have very few friends, and a couple of anonymous posts would really make my day.

Welcome

Well, stick a fork in me, I'm done. I finally have my own blog. This is something I've wanted since I was a child, growing up in the mountains of Southwest Virginia, back in the 50s. It's practically all I ever thought of...dreamt of. When my father asked me what I wanted for my fifth birthday, I meekly replied, "Please sir, may I have a blog?"
And now half a century later, here it is. Okay, I lied. Actually what I asked for was a Thunderbird, Jr, which was only the coolest thing in the world back then. And, to be totally (or at least more partially honest), I never even heard of a blog until about a year ago. I definitely am not a child of the high-tech era. I'm just now beginning to understand how to work the rabbit ears on the television.
And now, here I am with my own blog, which, by the way, is just a small part of our new website look. Admittedly, there is still a little tweaking to do, and there are new features for which we have great buttons, but, as of this minute, no content. Please be patient. It's coming. And, we want your feedback. Test drive our website, tell us what you like, and what you'd like to see.
And, please, please add your comments to the blog. Why? Because that would be like the coolest thing that could happen. Okay, I can think of a couple cooler things, but I'd really like to see your feedback. So, bring it on.

Steve Cook's Daily Ramblings Goes Live!

Steve Cook's Daily Ramblings is now online!