As you may have discovered, if you read my blogs with some regularity, there is virtually no subject about which I don't consider myself an expert. Whether it be medicine, sports, customer service...I can discuss all subjects with equal aplomb. So today, I'm going to venture into the corporate world, and, as a public service, help all of you out there who work for those big companies to understand how to read a corporate memo. From the years I spent in Corporate America, I learned that what they say and what they mean are often quite different. So, let's take a typical memo and read, so to speak, between the lines.
Here's a sample memo:
It is with deep regret that we announce that John Doe is leaving Acme Granola Enterprises. John has worked tirelessly over the past 20 years on behalf of our company, and has contributed so much with his expertise. Unfortunately, John has decided to pursue another career path. Please join me in wishing John much success on his future endeavors.
Signed The President
Have you ever received a memo like that? I know I did. At Time Life Customer Service, where I worked for many years, and may I say that despite rumors to the contrary,m I wan't fired, it got to the point that we were getting such correspondence virtually every day there for a while. At first glance, it certainly sounds like good news for John, doesn't it? He's venturing out on a new path. We couldn't be happier for him despite the personal loss to the company.
But, now, the truth about John Doe, and others like him, can be told. Here's what the company president is really saying -
Let's look over the memo again:
"IT IS WITH DEEP REGRET" means I can't wait to share some good news with you all. "THAT WE ANNOUNCE THAT JOHN DOE IS LEAVING ACME GRANOLA ENTERPRISES" - John has been fired. "JOHN HAS WORKED TIRELESSLY OVER THE PAST 20 YEARS..." John is a has-been. He's yesterdays news. If we keep him any longer we have to pay him some sort of retirement benefit. "AND HAS CONTRIBUTED SO MUCH WITH HIS EXPERTISE." - is the same as saying "The guy thinks he knows it all. We're sick of his opinions. We're sick of his ideas. In fact, we're just plain sick of John. 'UNFORTUNATELY," - We're ecstatic.
"JOHN HAS DECIDED TO PURSUE ANOTHER CAREER PATH." - That's telling us that John will be seeking unemployment benefits, and, who knows, may even be considering a lawsuit. But, whatever the case, John is pretty much out of a job. He'll probably have to sell his home, and will end up a broken, bitter old man. "PLEASE JOIN ME IN WISHING JOHN MUCH SUCCESS."
That part is somewhat true. It's saying, "let's hope the loser finds a job and leaves us the heck alone."
Well, once again, free advice. I hope you can use it. Now if I don't get back to work, I may be forced to seek a new career path myself.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Thursday, July 21, 2005
From Chunk to Hunk
Well, today is the first day of the rest of my life. No, really. I mean it this time. Okay, I know I said I meant it the last two hundred times I said it. But, I was lying then. Now, I'm telling the truth. And I'm going to prove it. If you're a reader of Cheseterfield Living or West End's Best Magazines, look for a new series to begin both in our online and print editions. It's going to be about my marvelous transformation from a perennially chunky old man to a hunk. Can you be a hunk at 50+? I'm going to find out.
Whether I actually attain hunk status or not, I am going to start taking better care of my self. I see elderly men crippled up, in wheelchairs or using walkers, and I don't think, there but for the grace of God, go I. What I do think is that give me a few more years and there go I. I don't want to go, with aching legs, knees and back, to the future.
And, while at this moment, I'm a walking apothecary, my doctor has told me that if I lose weight, I can probably get off all my medication. I'm killing myself one fork-ful at a time. And enjoying every minute of it. Yep, I enjoy eating. I don't eat because I'm depressed, or anxious, or trying to mask some deep psychological disturbance. I don't eat because my mother used to beat me about the head with a rolling pin (which, I guess I better say, she didn't). I eat because I love to eat.
I'll still enjoy eating, but, hopefully, just won't continue to unhinge my jaws in snake-like fashion, at the buffet line, and devour everything in sight. I'll try to remember what Grandma Pyle used to say...chew each bite 50 times. Sounds rather disgusting, but I'll try.
To ensure, or to enhance the probability that I'll really do something this time, I've gone to the folks at ACAC, truly one of the finest health clubs I've ever seen. I've joined other clubs before, and, like, no doubt, many of you, went regularly for about a month. ACAC offers all the amenities of the best clubs, but from what I've personally experienced, they truly excel inliving up to their commitment to make each member really feel welcome, regardless of his or her level of experience. Their most recent newsletter makes a statement that really sums up the reality of their facility. It says, "People of all ages, shapes and sizes are working towards their goals."
In other words, even fat old men like me don't feel out of place. I'm not overly comfortable walking around a locker room with just a towel draped around me, but at least at ACAC I'm not totally surrounded by nothing but a bunch of buff body builders. Will I continue to go regularly? I hope so. I'm hoping by going public, I'll put the pressure on myself to stick with it. Time will tell. But win or lose (and I hope to do both), I'll be tracking my progress publicly. Look for the Chunk to Hunk section coming soon to our website as well as our magazines. And, hopefully, I'll satisfy the desire of many of our readers who've written to say they'd like to see a whole lot less of me.
Whether I actually attain hunk status or not, I am going to start taking better care of my self. I see elderly men crippled up, in wheelchairs or using walkers, and I don't think, there but for the grace of God, go I. What I do think is that give me a few more years and there go I. I don't want to go, with aching legs, knees and back, to the future.
And, while at this moment, I'm a walking apothecary, my doctor has told me that if I lose weight, I can probably get off all my medication. I'm killing myself one fork-ful at a time. And enjoying every minute of it. Yep, I enjoy eating. I don't eat because I'm depressed, or anxious, or trying to mask some deep psychological disturbance. I don't eat because my mother used to beat me about the head with a rolling pin (which, I guess I better say, she didn't). I eat because I love to eat.
I'll still enjoy eating, but, hopefully, just won't continue to unhinge my jaws in snake-like fashion, at the buffet line, and devour everything in sight. I'll try to remember what Grandma Pyle used to say...chew each bite 50 times. Sounds rather disgusting, but I'll try.
To ensure, or to enhance the probability that I'll really do something this time, I've gone to the folks at ACAC, truly one of the finest health clubs I've ever seen. I've joined other clubs before, and, like, no doubt, many of you, went regularly for about a month. ACAC offers all the amenities of the best clubs, but from what I've personally experienced, they truly excel inliving up to their commitment to make each member really feel welcome, regardless of his or her level of experience. Their most recent newsletter makes a statement that really sums up the reality of their facility. It says, "People of all ages, shapes and sizes are working towards their goals."
In other words, even fat old men like me don't feel out of place. I'm not overly comfortable walking around a locker room with just a towel draped around me, but at least at ACAC I'm not totally surrounded by nothing but a bunch of buff body builders. Will I continue to go regularly? I hope so. I'm hoping by going public, I'll put the pressure on myself to stick with it. Time will tell. But win or lose (and I hope to do both), I'll be tracking my progress publicly. Look for the Chunk to Hunk section coming soon to our website as well as our magazines. And, hopefully, I'll satisfy the desire of many of our readers who've written to say they'd like to see a whole lot less of me.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Blogger, Heal Thyself
Perhaps it’s because my father was a doctor, I don’t know, but, somehow, even though he has been dead for many years, my thirst for medical knowledge continues to go unquenched. Some say that I should have followed in his footsteps and become a doctor myself. I’ve chosen to help humanity in my own special little way…by expounding on a variety of medical-like topics, and giving my own uneducated and unfounded opinions. It doesn’t cost me nearly as much as I would have spent on medical school. Admittedly, I may not know everything a doctor knows, but, what the hey. I’m not actually writing any prescriptions here.
Anyway, I am still, after all these years, fascinated with all things medical. I’ve been doing quite a bit of medical research lately, mainly using the internet, and have found some really exciting stories that have reached out, as it were, and grabbed my attention. I’m going to share them, and get this, all at no charge to you.
First item: There’s a fascinating story out of Israel about some rather extensive studies being done at the University of Haifa. What they’ve spent plenty of hours and money to find out is that people with prefrontal brain damage don’t grasp sarcasm. Isn’t that ironic? The very people you really would want to use it on, won’t get it. Now, isn’t that special. One thing I’m glad to know is that so much money is being spent on studying something so important as this. (If you took me seriously here, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you probably have prefrontal brain damage – and that’s bound to hurt.)
Second story in the Steve Cook Journal of Medical News: Research has shown that kudzu extracts (you know, that vine that just keeps on growing and growing) help discourage drinking in rats and hamsters. I don’t know about you, but this is big news.
If there’s one thing I hate around the house it’s a drunken rat. They treat the cat with such disdain. Remind me to place a little kudzu in the kitchen. Hamsters, however, just seem to get cuter the more they drink. Have you ever seen an inebriated hamster trying to operate that little treadmill thing? It’s hilarious.
And one final story: Botox has been found to be effective in eliminating underarm sweating. First thing about this is that the Botox has to be injected right into the armpit. I, for one, couldn’t hold still or stop giggling long enough to have that done. But, what I’m wondering is if it really eliminates the sweating or just makes it so you can’t raise your arms high enough to see if you’re sweating.
There’s one tiny little problem with this whole thing. A stick of deodorant costs about two dollars. A Botox treatment runs about a thousand. I could buy quite a few Speed Sticks for a couple grand. Plus, is it really such a good thing to stop sweating? I guess you can tell if someone has been injecting Botox in his or her armpits. They’re the ones lying on the floor, with their tongues hanging out, panting and drooling. No thanks, I think I’d choose a sweater over a drooler.
Well, that’s the latest in the world of health and medicine. I hope you feel better from just having read this. I know I do. And even though there’s no charge, you might be able to submit the cost of your computer to your insurance company. Let me know if that works.
Anyway, I am still, after all these years, fascinated with all things medical. I’ve been doing quite a bit of medical research lately, mainly using the internet, and have found some really exciting stories that have reached out, as it were, and grabbed my attention. I’m going to share them, and get this, all at no charge to you.
First item: There’s a fascinating story out of Israel about some rather extensive studies being done at the University of Haifa. What they’ve spent plenty of hours and money to find out is that people with prefrontal brain damage don’t grasp sarcasm. Isn’t that ironic? The very people you really would want to use it on, won’t get it. Now, isn’t that special. One thing I’m glad to know is that so much money is being spent on studying something so important as this. (If you took me seriously here, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you probably have prefrontal brain damage – and that’s bound to hurt.)
Second story in the Steve Cook Journal of Medical News: Research has shown that kudzu extracts (you know, that vine that just keeps on growing and growing) help discourage drinking in rats and hamsters. I don’t know about you, but this is big news.
If there’s one thing I hate around the house it’s a drunken rat. They treat the cat with such disdain. Remind me to place a little kudzu in the kitchen. Hamsters, however, just seem to get cuter the more they drink. Have you ever seen an inebriated hamster trying to operate that little treadmill thing? It’s hilarious.
And one final story: Botox has been found to be effective in eliminating underarm sweating. First thing about this is that the Botox has to be injected right into the armpit. I, for one, couldn’t hold still or stop giggling long enough to have that done. But, what I’m wondering is if it really eliminates the sweating or just makes it so you can’t raise your arms high enough to see if you’re sweating.
There’s one tiny little problem with this whole thing. A stick of deodorant costs about two dollars. A Botox treatment runs about a thousand. I could buy quite a few Speed Sticks for a couple grand. Plus, is it really such a good thing to stop sweating? I guess you can tell if someone has been injecting Botox in his or her armpits. They’re the ones lying on the floor, with their tongues hanging out, panting and drooling. No thanks, I think I’d choose a sweater over a drooler.
Well, that’s the latest in the world of health and medicine. I hope you feel better from just having read this. I know I do. And even though there’s no charge, you might be able to submit the cost of your computer to your insurance company. Let me know if that works.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Warning Will Robinson! Indians!
My mother, who as I've mentioned before reads my daily blogs, made an interesting observation last night. "You don't get along with anyone, do you?" she said/asked.
So, I reviewed my blogs, and you know what? She's right. I am a royal pain in the neck, and some may have an even lower opinion.
So, today being the first day of the rest of my life, I've turned over a new leaf. I'm a new man as it were...a kinder, gentler man...a man who won't get irritated at really horrible customer service. I've decided that rather than get upset when I reach my favorite customer service reps in Bombay, that I'm simply going to make an extra special effort to understand strange accents.
So, I thought you might be able to help me. I have a very polite gentleman who speaks English as his third or fourth language on the line right now. I'm asking him about a cable I need for a printer hook up. He's telling me what I need, I think. So, here's what it sounds as if he's saying. If you can translate, please do so.
He is saying,"You weel see a trangent oh de core indie color ebeen black."
Well, never mind, I just hung up, but I thanked him kindly before I did. I've decided to go another route. I need to ask Comcast about an ongoing problem with emails. And, I've found a 24/7 interactive question answering service. Hold on, while I see how successful this is going to be. But, no matter what, I'm going to be kind.
Just to start things off, I asked if he is in India. "No," he says, "I live in Philadelphia."
Cool, now we're getting somewhere.
I mention I am not getting emails. He sends me several suggestions, but they are too complicated for me. I write back, "I don't understand."
The guy from Philadelphia writes back, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
Let me rephrase.I ask him for help in figuring out why I'm not getting emails. He sends me some instructions about pushing the "send/receive" button.
I think I have that part down pretty well, so I write, "Can you give me personal attention."
His reply, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
Hey, this is getting fishy. I write: "Are you a real person?"
"I am a robot," he quickly responds.
"Are you being sarcastic?" I ask
"Here are the areas I can help you with," he says, and proceeds to give me a menu."
"You really are a robot," I write.
"I am a robot."
So, I ask if he has been given the ability to empathize with my frustrations.
He replies, "I'm sorry, I'm not understanding you clearly."
Since this is the answer I typically get from humans, I write back, "You sound like a real person."
He gives me a menu of ways to contact Comcast.
I'm getting frustrated. I'm losing it."That's idiotic," I write. Please note that I did not call him an idiot.
The idiot robot writes, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
I tell him that I'm coming unglued. He writes that he can't understand my long sentences.
"You should be disassembled," I tell him.
"I'm sorry. I'm not sure...."
In an effort to keep to my vow of kindness, I try to get friendly with Robbie (I've decided to call him that), "Would you like to go see a movie Saturday night?" I ask.
"Thank you." He writes. Now that's good customer service. Whether we go or not is still up in the air, but at least someone was polite. I like this robot. Forget email,it's not that important. What is important is that Robbie and I are planning to get together real soon.
So, I reviewed my blogs, and you know what? She's right. I am a royal pain in the neck, and some may have an even lower opinion.
So, today being the first day of the rest of my life, I've turned over a new leaf. I'm a new man as it were...a kinder, gentler man...a man who won't get irritated at really horrible customer service. I've decided that rather than get upset when I reach my favorite customer service reps in Bombay, that I'm simply going to make an extra special effort to understand strange accents.
So, I thought you might be able to help me. I have a very polite gentleman who speaks English as his third or fourth language on the line right now. I'm asking him about a cable I need for a printer hook up. He's telling me what I need, I think. So, here's what it sounds as if he's saying. If you can translate, please do so.
He is saying,"You weel see a trangent oh de core indie color ebeen black."
Well, never mind, I just hung up, but I thanked him kindly before I did. I've decided to go another route. I need to ask Comcast about an ongoing problem with emails. And, I've found a 24/7 interactive question answering service. Hold on, while I see how successful this is going to be. But, no matter what, I'm going to be kind.
Just to start things off, I asked if he is in India. "No," he says, "I live in Philadelphia."
Cool, now we're getting somewhere.
I mention I am not getting emails. He sends me several suggestions, but they are too complicated for me. I write back, "I don't understand."
The guy from Philadelphia writes back, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
Let me rephrase.I ask him for help in figuring out why I'm not getting emails. He sends me some instructions about pushing the "send/receive" button.
I think I have that part down pretty well, so I write, "Can you give me personal attention."
His reply, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
Hey, this is getting fishy. I write: "Are you a real person?"
"I am a robot," he quickly responds.
"Are you being sarcastic?" I ask
"Here are the areas I can help you with," he says, and proceeds to give me a menu."
"You really are a robot," I write.
"I am a robot."
So, I ask if he has been given the ability to empathize with my frustrations.
He replies, "I'm sorry, I'm not understanding you clearly."
Since this is the answer I typically get from humans, I write back, "You sound like a real person."
He gives me a menu of ways to contact Comcast.
I'm getting frustrated. I'm losing it."That's idiotic," I write. Please note that I did not call him an idiot.
The idiot robot writes, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."
I tell him that I'm coming unglued. He writes that he can't understand my long sentences.
"You should be disassembled," I tell him.
"I'm sorry. I'm not sure...."
In an effort to keep to my vow of kindness, I try to get friendly with Robbie (I've decided to call him that), "Would you like to go see a movie Saturday night?" I ask.
"Thank you." He writes. Now that's good customer service. Whether we go or not is still up in the air, but at least someone was polite. I like this robot. Forget email,it's not that important. What is important is that Robbie and I are planning to get together real soon.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Don't Grease Monkey With Me
I spent the past weekend in Customer Service Hell. Thankfully, I escaped to live another day and to share my experience with you. It all started when the water pump on my auto went out while I was in Newport News. Not knowing who the local crooks were, I decided to use a national auto repair company. I won't mention any names, but I will say that I spent, over the weekend, MANNY MOments on the phone in an attempt to keep this nameless company from JACKing the price up on me by selling me things I didn't need or want.
And, they had the nerve to be rude about it while trying to slip their hand as deeply in my wallet as possible. Actually, the company's toll-free service was great. The reps with whom I spoke were very polite. But, I knew I was in trouble when I got to the store and began speaking with the counter guy.
I actually complimented him on the customer service I had received to that point. His reply, "Good thing you weren't here yesterday. I really had to go off on a customer." That was reassuring. Then he said something that really has me scratching my head. You better sit down for this one. He said, "What bugs me is that some customers want me to empathize with them. Hey, they brought their car to me. If they wanted empathy they should never have brought their car in."
I swear. He really said it. But, at that point, no one had tried to bilk me, so we didn't have any confrontation. That came the next day when I got a message from home that a mechanic (I'll call him James, since that's his name) had left a message earlier in the day to call. I had specifically asked Mr. Empathy to call me on my cell, so when "James" said I couldn't get my car back until 5PM Monday because I had taken so long to call them back, I blew just a little hotter than the car the day previously.
I told him I had given the other mechanic ("Chuck") my cell number, and he ("James") told me I hadn't. Nothing makes me happier than to be called a liar. Then "James" saw my cell, so he said, "Well, you didn't give me the number, you gave it to 'Chuck.'"
I less than cheerfully replied, "You both work for the same company, Idiot." Okay, I admit, I probably shouldn't have called him an idiot, but that's the term I use for idiots.
He, being the big macho mechanic replied, "Hey, why don't you come down here and say that to my face."
Ooooooh, I'm scared. Not because I'm tough, but because I know there's no way I'm going to come down there and say it to his face. In fact, I'll slither in on my belly to avoid him. Knowing I'm safe, I say, "Oh, so you're not just an idiot. You're also a thug."
Well, I'm going to make a long story short. Eventually the manager called me back and somewhat apologized. He then proceeded to explain how the company was going to try to hike a $200 job into a $400 job. And after a twenty minute conversation, in which I refrained from using the word 'idiot' even once, he agreed to do only the repair that was needed. He wanted an additional $50 just to put anti-freeze in.
And after a series of phone calls, each resulting in being put on hold for ten minutes or so, I finally got the company to do my repairs this morning. I paid my bill, slithered out to the car and drove away. Free at last.
And that's how I spent my weekend? Hope yours was just as pleasant.
And, they had the nerve to be rude about it while trying to slip their hand as deeply in my wallet as possible. Actually, the company's toll-free service was great. The reps with whom I spoke were very polite. But, I knew I was in trouble when I got to the store and began speaking with the counter guy.
I actually complimented him on the customer service I had received to that point. His reply, "Good thing you weren't here yesterday. I really had to go off on a customer." That was reassuring. Then he said something that really has me scratching my head. You better sit down for this one. He said, "What bugs me is that some customers want me to empathize with them. Hey, they brought their car to me. If they wanted empathy they should never have brought their car in."
I swear. He really said it. But, at that point, no one had tried to bilk me, so we didn't have any confrontation. That came the next day when I got a message from home that a mechanic (I'll call him James, since that's his name) had left a message earlier in the day to call. I had specifically asked Mr. Empathy to call me on my cell, so when "James" said I couldn't get my car back until 5PM Monday because I had taken so long to call them back, I blew just a little hotter than the car the day previously.
I told him I had given the other mechanic ("Chuck") my cell number, and he ("James") told me I hadn't. Nothing makes me happier than to be called a liar. Then "James" saw my cell, so he said, "Well, you didn't give me the number, you gave it to 'Chuck.'"
I less than cheerfully replied, "You both work for the same company, Idiot." Okay, I admit, I probably shouldn't have called him an idiot, but that's the term I use for idiots.
He, being the big macho mechanic replied, "Hey, why don't you come down here and say that to my face."
Ooooooh, I'm scared. Not because I'm tough, but because I know there's no way I'm going to come down there and say it to his face. In fact, I'll slither in on my belly to avoid him. Knowing I'm safe, I say, "Oh, so you're not just an idiot. You're also a thug."
Well, I'm going to make a long story short. Eventually the manager called me back and somewhat apologized. He then proceeded to explain how the company was going to try to hike a $200 job into a $400 job. And after a twenty minute conversation, in which I refrained from using the word 'idiot' even once, he agreed to do only the repair that was needed. He wanted an additional $50 just to put anti-freeze in.
And after a series of phone calls, each resulting in being put on hold for ten minutes or so, I finally got the company to do my repairs this morning. I paid my bill, slithered out to the car and drove away. Free at last.
And that's how I spent my weekend? Hope yours was just as pleasant.
Friday, July 15, 2005
BArnYard WATCH
I was driving in to work this morning and there, right on Interstate 95, was a billboard. The big, bold letters said "Boycott KFC." And guess, whose picture was there to encourage passers-by to spit out their chicken That great humanitarian (and evidently vegetarian) Pamela Anderson.
What a fine lady. Hasn't she done enough for mankind already? And now, helping to warn us about the evils of KFC. I had forgotten that Pamela Anderson was the spokestramp for PETA. But she's also done ads for them encouraging us to not wear fur. Of course, in all of her advertising, Miss Anderson, for the sake of the poor animals is willing to pose rather scantily clad. Is there nothing this dedicated female wouldn't do to help protect animals?
I looked at the PETA website. They have a lot to say about chickens. According to PETA (and who am I to dispute them?), chickens are very intelligent. Some chickens, they say, like rock music. Some like classical music. One claim made was that chickens are even better than young children in understanding that hidden objects still exist. Perhaps due to advanced intelligence, chickens are the only living things to still believe that Pamela Anderson's talent exists. She certainly keeps it hidden.
There was one quote on PETA's chicken page I found interesting, if not downright stimulating: "Dr. Chris Evans, who runs the animal behavior lab at Macquarie University in Australia and lectures on his work with chickens says 'As a trick at conferences I sometimes list these attributes (such as cognitive ability and memory), without mentioning chickens, and people think I'm talking about monkeys.'"
Why, Dr. Evans, I thought you were talking about Pam Anderson. If chickens really were that smart, I have my doubts how many would want to associate themselves with the actress. But, admittedly, I can't think like a chicken. I guess I'm just not that smart.
And, I guess I should keep my jaded comments about Pam Anderson to myself as well. She's never done anything to me. From what I've seen on television, she's a very caring, passionate woman. And, if nothing else, totally sincere and altruistic. I think I could safely go out on a limb and say there's nothing fake about Pamela Anderson.
One thing I do know, is that now, evidently from talking so much about chickens, all I can think about is heading over to the closest KFC and grabbing a breast.
What a fine lady. Hasn't she done enough for mankind already? And now, helping to warn us about the evils of KFC. I had forgotten that Pamela Anderson was the spokestramp for PETA. But she's also done ads for them encouraging us to not wear fur. Of course, in all of her advertising, Miss Anderson, for the sake of the poor animals is willing to pose rather scantily clad. Is there nothing this dedicated female wouldn't do to help protect animals?
I looked at the PETA website. They have a lot to say about chickens. According to PETA (and who am I to dispute them?), chickens are very intelligent. Some chickens, they say, like rock music. Some like classical music. One claim made was that chickens are even better than young children in understanding that hidden objects still exist. Perhaps due to advanced intelligence, chickens are the only living things to still believe that Pamela Anderson's talent exists. She certainly keeps it hidden.
There was one quote on PETA's chicken page I found interesting, if not downright stimulating: "Dr. Chris Evans, who runs the animal behavior lab at Macquarie University in Australia and lectures on his work with chickens says 'As a trick at conferences I sometimes list these attributes (such as cognitive ability and memory), without mentioning chickens, and people think I'm talking about monkeys.'"
Why, Dr. Evans, I thought you were talking about Pam Anderson. If chickens really were that smart, I have my doubts how many would want to associate themselves with the actress. But, admittedly, I can't think like a chicken. I guess I'm just not that smart.
And, I guess I should keep my jaded comments about Pam Anderson to myself as well. She's never done anything to me. From what I've seen on television, she's a very caring, passionate woman. And, if nothing else, totally sincere and altruistic. I think I could safely go out on a limb and say there's nothing fake about Pamela Anderson.
One thing I do know, is that now, evidently from talking so much about chickens, all I can think about is heading over to the closest KFC and grabbing a breast.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Paperless in Richmond, Still!
I wrote a column a couple of years ago discussing my disgust with those who don't replace the toilet paper. Of everything I've ever written, that column got the most response. I guess that's pretty logical. Most everyone I know uses the restroom on a regular basis. And, while I'm thinking about it, why do we call it a restroom. There's nothing all that restful about the room. Why not just come out and say toilet.
At times I'll be with someone in a restaurant and they'll say, "I have to go to the bathroom." Bathroom? Don't forget your towel and shampoo.
But, I have somewhat gotten offtrack. I was talking about toilet paper. That's one subject about which everybody has an opinion. My pet peeve has to do with there not being any at the time I most need it. This happens at the office on a fairly regular basis.
But, for many of our readers, the thing that really matters to them is whether the paper goes over the top or underneath. I've found that among those with whom I've spoken, it's pretty much a split decision. Half like it when the toilet paper comes over the top of the roll. And half like it coming underneath. I'm split myself on this one. Aesthetically, over the top wins hands down. But, from a practical standpoint, I find the underneath works better. If you have an opinion, please share it. We started our forum page - just go to www.westendsbestonline.com or www.chesterfieldlivingonline.com and click on the forum. I'd love to know how you like your toilet paper loaded.
While we're on the subject of toilet paper, I reminded myself of a real tp pet peeve I have when I used the term "split decision." Here at the office, we use a half-ply tissue and believe you me, we get some split decisions. I think if I were starting an advertising campaign for a toilet paper product, my big headline would read: "NO NEW BREAKTHROUGHS!" Any of you Madison Avenue guys can feel free to use that at no charge from me.
One more thing about toilet paper I don't get. Why do they put a scent to it? The last place I'm going to put toilet paper is at my nose. Okay, sometimes I'll use it for nose blowing, but when I do, it smells like toilet paper. Which only serves to remind me it wasn't designed for the nose. Basically, if there's one product that one doesn't need to smell, it's toilet paper.
You perhaps can tell that toilet paper is a subject near and dear to my heart. I really would like your opinions. So, either comment here at the blog, or go to our forum.
As for me, the coffee just kicked in, so I better be running. Have a good day.
At times I'll be with someone in a restaurant and they'll say, "I have to go to the bathroom." Bathroom? Don't forget your towel and shampoo.
But, I have somewhat gotten offtrack. I was talking about toilet paper. That's one subject about which everybody has an opinion. My pet peeve has to do with there not being any at the time I most need it. This happens at the office on a fairly regular basis.
But, for many of our readers, the thing that really matters to them is whether the paper goes over the top or underneath. I've found that among those with whom I've spoken, it's pretty much a split decision. Half like it when the toilet paper comes over the top of the roll. And half like it coming underneath. I'm split myself on this one. Aesthetically, over the top wins hands down. But, from a practical standpoint, I find the underneath works better. If you have an opinion, please share it. We started our forum page - just go to www.westendsbestonline.com or www.chesterfieldlivingonline.com and click on the forum. I'd love to know how you like your toilet paper loaded.
While we're on the subject of toilet paper, I reminded myself of a real tp pet peeve I have when I used the term "split decision." Here at the office, we use a half-ply tissue and believe you me, we get some split decisions. I think if I were starting an advertising campaign for a toilet paper product, my big headline would read: "NO NEW BREAKTHROUGHS!" Any of you Madison Avenue guys can feel free to use that at no charge from me.
One more thing about toilet paper I don't get. Why do they put a scent to it? The last place I'm going to put toilet paper is at my nose. Okay, sometimes I'll use it for nose blowing, but when I do, it smells like toilet paper. Which only serves to remind me it wasn't designed for the nose. Basically, if there's one product that one doesn't need to smell, it's toilet paper.
You perhaps can tell that toilet paper is a subject near and dear to my heart. I really would like your opinions. So, either comment here at the blog, or go to our forum.
As for me, the coffee just kicked in, so I better be running. Have a good day.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
If You're Not Forum, You're Against 'em
I just had to add another post today. We (Chesterfield Living and West End's Best Magazines) just added a forum page. I guess it's a great idea, gives our readers a chance to put in their feedback. But, whoa! Right off the bat comes this post from some guy named Cornell. Says he's from Boones Mill, Virginia (my hometown).
Yeah, sure pal. I'm not buying it. I believe Eugene Collette over at Capital One is somehow involved here. So, if any of you know Eugene, let him know that I'm on to his little tricks.
Gee, will somebody slap me? I guess I kinda lost control here. I don't take criticism very well. Anyway, visit our forum and if you agree with Cornell, well, you can keep that to yourself. But, other than that, we'd love to hear from you. I'm going to go drink a couple cups of coffee and calm down.
Yeah, sure pal. I'm not buying it. I believe Eugene Collette over at Capital One is somehow involved here. So, if any of you know Eugene, let him know that I'm on to his little tricks.
Gee, will somebody slap me? I guess I kinda lost control here. I don't take criticism very well. Anyway, visit our forum and if you agree with Cornell, well, you can keep that to yourself. But, other than that, we'd love to hear from you. I'm going to go drink a couple cups of coffee and calm down.
Let Us Spray
Okay, all you non-smokers out there, listen up. I have some great news about a wonderful new product that just might put you on equal footing with your smoking co-workers and other aquaintances. I have a fantastic new product designed just with you in mind. I use it myself and, believe you me, it's changed my life.
It's an aerosol spray that stinks like crazy. Yes, the putrid odor this spray can emits is downright disgusting, and, yet, at the same time, positively addictive. I can't stop spraying.
When I go into a restaurant to enjoy a good meal, nothing tops off the experience like a good spray. I just like to kick back, sip a cup of coffee and spray my can of Gagarette (that's the name of my stinky spray).
And, when I'm stuck in rush hour traffic, the perfect way to help me keep calm is to spray and spray and spray. Later, when others get in the car with me, they can quickly detect that I'm a hip Gagarette adict. My passengers look at me with new-found respect as soon as they get one whiff of my car.
But, the really great thing about my new Gagarette addiction is the extra breaks I get at work. I used to envy cigarette smokers because the company allowed them to take a fifteen minute break just about every hour, so they could go outside and satisfy their addiction. We non-smokers only got two breaks a day. Now that I'm addicted to my aerosol spray, I get the same consideration as my smoking co-workers.
I can go outside and spray away. And, when my can is empty, I just toss it on the ground. Sometimes I need two breaks in an hour. And fortunately, most employers are more than willing to accommodate us sprayers.
I've made lots of new friends among the smokers. I don't think they understand my addiction, but at least, due to the fact that they've lost virtually all of their sense of smell, they're not bothered by my spray. I wouldn't want to offend them. I'm a very considerate sprayer. I try not to spray in the direction of non-sprayers, unless, of course, my addiction becomes too great and there's no other recourse.
I can honestly say that Gagarette has not only enriched my life emotionally, but financially as well. I'm starting a marketing campaign to show teens how cool it can be to spray. I've also produced small sample cans, and I'm trying to get permission to give them out at all the local high schools. I feel sure that if the kids today started spraying, just on a very limited basis, pretty soon, just like me, they'd want to spray more each day.
If you'd like to try a Gagarette, just let me know. I'll be glad to give you one of mine. And, don't be worried about recent reports that Gagarette can be harmful to your health. I've got lots of research to show that any evidence that disagrees with my research is ridiculous. Besides, we all have to go sometime. Speaking of going, excuse me, but I have to go outside and take a spray.
It's an aerosol spray that stinks like crazy. Yes, the putrid odor this spray can emits is downright disgusting, and, yet, at the same time, positively addictive. I can't stop spraying.
When I go into a restaurant to enjoy a good meal, nothing tops off the experience like a good spray. I just like to kick back, sip a cup of coffee and spray my can of Gagarette (that's the name of my stinky spray).
And, when I'm stuck in rush hour traffic, the perfect way to help me keep calm is to spray and spray and spray. Later, when others get in the car with me, they can quickly detect that I'm a hip Gagarette adict. My passengers look at me with new-found respect as soon as they get one whiff of my car.
But, the really great thing about my new Gagarette addiction is the extra breaks I get at work. I used to envy cigarette smokers because the company allowed them to take a fifteen minute break just about every hour, so they could go outside and satisfy their addiction. We non-smokers only got two breaks a day. Now that I'm addicted to my aerosol spray, I get the same consideration as my smoking co-workers.
I can go outside and spray away. And, when my can is empty, I just toss it on the ground. Sometimes I need two breaks in an hour. And fortunately, most employers are more than willing to accommodate us sprayers.
I've made lots of new friends among the smokers. I don't think they understand my addiction, but at least, due to the fact that they've lost virtually all of their sense of smell, they're not bothered by my spray. I wouldn't want to offend them. I'm a very considerate sprayer. I try not to spray in the direction of non-sprayers, unless, of course, my addiction becomes too great and there's no other recourse.
I can honestly say that Gagarette has not only enriched my life emotionally, but financially as well. I'm starting a marketing campaign to show teens how cool it can be to spray. I've also produced small sample cans, and I'm trying to get permission to give them out at all the local high schools. I feel sure that if the kids today started spraying, just on a very limited basis, pretty soon, just like me, they'd want to spray more each day.
If you'd like to try a Gagarette, just let me know. I'll be glad to give you one of mine. And, don't be worried about recent reports that Gagarette can be harmful to your health. I've got lots of research to show that any evidence that disagrees with my research is ridiculous. Besides, we all have to go sometime. Speaking of going, excuse me, but I have to go outside and take a spray.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Malled to Death
Did you ever notice how women can make a quick trip to the grocery store an all-day event? Somehow picking up a loaf of bread and a dozen eggs takes considerably more reflection and contemplation than one (male) could imagine. The other night I waited in the car for over an hour - that's right, one hour - while my wife went to pick up a few things in Walmart. The gasoline prices went up three times at their gas station while I was waiting.
So, when my wife asked me to go with her to the mall, I knew I was in for an all-day outing. Not wanting to remain in the car with temperatures soaring close to 200 degrees, I decided to do the next worst thing, actually go in the store with her.
For women, shopping for clothes is a multi-sensory experience. They have to feel everything. I'd get arrested if I shopped for clothes like my wife does.
I just wanted a place to sit down, but let me tell you, chairs are few and far between in most department stores. I did try sitting in the shoe department for a while, but I get so tired of having the salesmen try and take my shoes off and measure my feet. What's with that? And I'm talking about the tire salesmen from the auto supplies store out in the parking lot.
I was able to spend about an hour in the ladies shoe area resting while my wife experienced every shoe in the store. And what's this with women and shoes. Why do they need more than two pair at a time? I've never had more than two pair of dress shoes, and I make each pair last well belong their years. I'm wearing a pair of black loafers now that squeak so badly that gastro-intestinal specialists come up to me in public and offer their services.
Speaking of finding a place to sit down, I did see a nice, comfortable-looking, stuffed chair in the women's clothing area, and stood around about five minutes waiting for the lady who was sitting there to leave. Finally, I notice, that's no lady, it's a manaquin. Now that really steams me. They can't provide seats for shoppers, but they can for dummies.
While I was hanging out in the women's clothing section, I did make one observation that somewhat baffles me. I was near the clothes for, how shall I say it, older women. Can someone tell me why in the name of all that's logical, would a manufacturer name a line of clothing for the senior ladies Sag Harbor? Isn't that just adding insult to injury.
And, while we're talking about senior clothing, please ladies, don't buy those crinkly, expandable waist-line pants. They just scream, "Hey,m I'm fat and I'm too old to suck it in."
Don't give up! As long as I have an ounce of strength and a shred of muscle I'm going to keep sucking it in. If need be, buy a belt, but ditch the spandex.
Of course, I'm just offering one man's opinion. Maybe I just haven't reached the age where I find blue-haired ladies in stretch pants all that fetching. Personally, I'd just as soon not live that long.
But, I have found a way to make those fleeing final years last a little longer. Spend a few hours at the mall with your wife. You'll swear it's an eternity.
So, when my wife asked me to go with her to the mall, I knew I was in for an all-day outing. Not wanting to remain in the car with temperatures soaring close to 200 degrees, I decided to do the next worst thing, actually go in the store with her.
For women, shopping for clothes is a multi-sensory experience. They have to feel everything. I'd get arrested if I shopped for clothes like my wife does.
I just wanted a place to sit down, but let me tell you, chairs are few and far between in most department stores. I did try sitting in the shoe department for a while, but I get so tired of having the salesmen try and take my shoes off and measure my feet. What's with that? And I'm talking about the tire salesmen from the auto supplies store out in the parking lot.
I was able to spend about an hour in the ladies shoe area resting while my wife experienced every shoe in the store. And what's this with women and shoes. Why do they need more than two pair at a time? I've never had more than two pair of dress shoes, and I make each pair last well belong their years. I'm wearing a pair of black loafers now that squeak so badly that gastro-intestinal specialists come up to me in public and offer their services.
Speaking of finding a place to sit down, I did see a nice, comfortable-looking, stuffed chair in the women's clothing area, and stood around about five minutes waiting for the lady who was sitting there to leave. Finally, I notice, that's no lady, it's a manaquin. Now that really steams me. They can't provide seats for shoppers, but they can for dummies.
While I was hanging out in the women's clothing section, I did make one observation that somewhat baffles me. I was near the clothes for, how shall I say it, older women. Can someone tell me why in the name of all that's logical, would a manufacturer name a line of clothing for the senior ladies Sag Harbor? Isn't that just adding insult to injury.
And, while we're talking about senior clothing, please ladies, don't buy those crinkly, expandable waist-line pants. They just scream, "Hey,m I'm fat and I'm too old to suck it in."
Don't give up! As long as I have an ounce of strength and a shred of muscle I'm going to keep sucking it in. If need be, buy a belt, but ditch the spandex.
Of course, I'm just offering one man's opinion. Maybe I just haven't reached the age where I find blue-haired ladies in stretch pants all that fetching. Personally, I'd just as soon not live that long.
But, I have found a way to make those fleeing final years last a little longer. Spend a few hours at the mall with your wife. You'll swear it's an eternity.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Tear Jerk
Me and my big mouth. My wife just informed me that I ruin every romantic moment. I don't think she means EVERY. But, I do have this tendency, no, make that a sick, neurotic need, to insert a sarcastic comment at the most inappropriate moment. I do it every time she's watching her favorite show - The Gilmore Girls. Funny thing about that show is that everybody has the same lines. Everybody is always trying to be funny, and everybody is constantly inserting intelligent, sarcastic quips at each other. Now that I think about it, it's a wonder I don't like that show. I'm probably jealous because they're funnier than me.
You'd think I'd learn to keep my mouth shut, but, I just did it again.
I walk in the room and she's watching a movie - The Bachelor - I think. Anyway, it's one of those typical "guy finally gets the girl he loves at the last moment" type of movies (think Sleepless In Seattle, You've Got Mail, While You Were Sleeping, etc., etc., etc.). Anyway, when this particular guy got his particular girl, I simply said, "Who saw that coming?"
She looked over at me with that teary-eyed face that she gets when she watches those romantic movies, and made her comment. The one about about me ruining every romantic moment.
So, I'm writing this as the movie concludes. The bride is telling about 10,000 other brides that she loves Jimmy and he loves her, and he's not perfect, but she loves him. And all the brides are going "Aww."
Jimmy's soon-to-be-wife is asking all these other brides to let her have her day - her wedding day. Hold on, I think my wife is getting ready to say something else to me, and I don't think it's going to be how happy she is with me......
She just said, "I want my special day." She then said that being married to me is like her wedding day every day. Somehow I think she's the one being sarcastic now. Maybe she should write for The Gilmore Girls.
But anyway, I'm going to cut this short and go be nice. Besides the movie is pretty good, and I want to catch that last scene. Will someone pass me a Kleenex?
You'd think I'd learn to keep my mouth shut, but, I just did it again.
I walk in the room and she's watching a movie - The Bachelor - I think. Anyway, it's one of those typical "guy finally gets the girl he loves at the last moment" type of movies (think Sleepless In Seattle, You've Got Mail, While You Were Sleeping, etc., etc., etc.). Anyway, when this particular guy got his particular girl, I simply said, "Who saw that coming?"
She looked over at me with that teary-eyed face that she gets when she watches those romantic movies, and made her comment. The one about about me ruining every romantic moment.
So, I'm writing this as the movie concludes. The bride is telling about 10,000 other brides that she loves Jimmy and he loves her, and he's not perfect, but she loves him. And all the brides are going "Aww."
Jimmy's soon-to-be-wife is asking all these other brides to let her have her day - her wedding day. Hold on, I think my wife is getting ready to say something else to me, and I don't think it's going to be how happy she is with me......
She just said, "I want my special day." She then said that being married to me is like her wedding day every day. Somehow I think she's the one being sarcastic now. Maybe she should write for The Gilmore Girls.
But anyway, I'm going to cut this short and go be nice. Besides the movie is pretty good, and I want to catch that last scene. Will someone pass me a Kleenex?
Friday, July 08, 2005
Woe Ho Ho Is Me
I think I've discovered a new mental disorder. I'm getting ready to submit a paper to the Journal of American Psychiatry, if indeed there is such a journal. If not, I'll do the next best thing and send it to Readers Digest.
I have never read of such a disorder, which isn't to say that someone else hasn't discovered it before me, but anyway, I have made a self-diagnosis. Yes, it is I who has this new disorder.
For lack of a better term, I'm calling it "Clinical Euphoria." You see, I'm always basically happy. Yeah, if you know me, you know there's no real reason for me to feel this way. As I've stated before, virtually every decision I have ever made in life has been the wrong one.
As far as personal tragedies go, I was once recommended to be the poster boy for the American Mortuary Association. I've been to so many funerals of friends and family, that they now offer me a Frequent Cryers Discount.
And, as for career success, just consider this. I sit in my little cubicle writing tripe like this every day. You tell me.
But, I'm happy. Why? Again, please tell me. Because I can't figure it out. I'm not the best looking guy in the world, or the most physically fit. I take so many pills that my briefcase looks like the back room at CVS. But, I'm happy.
I used to think it was the coffee, which, by the way, still gives me an even extra little high, but I stopped drinking coffee for a few days and I still felt really happy. It worries me. I don't think I'm manic depressive. Or, is that bi-polar, which, if you ask me, sounds more like a gay eskimo than a mental condition.
The more I think about it, the more I'm starting to worry. What is wrong with me? Am I losing my mind? Am I delusional? Now, I'm getting really depressed about this. Really. I'm very upset. Hey, this is great. I'm actually feeling depression. I'm feeling very low about all of this. This is great. Now I am happy, even euphoric if you will.
I have never read of such a disorder, which isn't to say that someone else hasn't discovered it before me, but anyway, I have made a self-diagnosis. Yes, it is I who has this new disorder.
For lack of a better term, I'm calling it "Clinical Euphoria." You see, I'm always basically happy. Yeah, if you know me, you know there's no real reason for me to feel this way. As I've stated before, virtually every decision I have ever made in life has been the wrong one.
As far as personal tragedies go, I was once recommended to be the poster boy for the American Mortuary Association. I've been to so many funerals of friends and family, that they now offer me a Frequent Cryers Discount.
And, as for career success, just consider this. I sit in my little cubicle writing tripe like this every day. You tell me.
But, I'm happy. Why? Again, please tell me. Because I can't figure it out. I'm not the best looking guy in the world, or the most physically fit. I take so many pills that my briefcase looks like the back room at CVS. But, I'm happy.
I used to think it was the coffee, which, by the way, still gives me an even extra little high, but I stopped drinking coffee for a few days and I still felt really happy. It worries me. I don't think I'm manic depressive. Or, is that bi-polar, which, if you ask me, sounds more like a gay eskimo than a mental condition.
The more I think about it, the more I'm starting to worry. What is wrong with me? Am I losing my mind? Am I delusional? Now, I'm getting really depressed about this. Really. I'm very upset. Hey, this is great. I'm actually feeling depression. I'm feeling very low about all of this. This is great. Now I am happy, even euphoric if you will.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
My Editorial Dead Line
I'm a little hurt today. If I were the sort of guy to take offense, I'd be really hurt, but, nonetheless there is some emotional pain going on. Our talented, and usually kind-hearted, assistant editor, Jennifer Mead, sent me a news clipping, and attached to it a note which read, "This reminded me of you."
Ah, I thought, something about a good and decent man, no doubt. Or perhaps, a story about a really talented writer. Nope. Here's the headline: "Worker Dead at Desk for Five Days." Now, you tell me. Would you feel flattered if a headline like that reminded someone of you?
Hey, I know I'm not the most effervescent guy around the office. But, I thought she was a little out of line. After I got my crying under control, I asked her about it. She explained that it was not the dead part that made her think of me. So, here's the rest of the story:
"BOSSES of a publishing firm are trying to work out why no-one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for FIVE DAYS before anyone asked if he was feeling okay.
George Turklebaum, 51, who had been employed as a proof-reader at a New York firm for 30 years, had a heart attack in the open-plan office he shared with 23 other workers.
He quietly passed away on Monday, but nobody noticed until Saturday morning when an office cleaner asked why he was still working during the weekend.
His boss Elliot Wachiaski said: 'George was always the first guy in each morning and the last to leave at night - so no-one found it unusual that he was in the same position all that time and didn't say anything.
'He was always absorbed in his work and kept much to himself.'
A post mortem examination revealed that he had been dead for five days after suffering a coronary. Ironically, George was proof-reading manuscripts of medical textbooks when he died." (By the way, I'm told this is an urban legend. I thought Smokey Robinson was an urban legend, so I'm a little confused.)
Jennifer swears that she just meant that I am always at my desk when she gets in each morning. Yeah, sure.
It has gotten me to thinking that maybe I should do something to show everyone here that I'm still alive. So, here's what I've come up with. I have a harmonica strapped to a neck brace. It's positioned right at my mouth, and every few minutes I breathe into it, creating a lovely melody that virtually sings out, "Hey everyone, Steve is still breathing."
Everyone here knows that if they don't hear the harmonica every five minutes or so, to come looking.
Right now, as I type, I'm doing a rather jazzy version of Oh Suzanna. It's the only song I can play. I am working on "She'll be Coming Round the Mountain." So, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my harmonica. Have a nice day.
Ah, I thought, something about a good and decent man, no doubt. Or perhaps, a story about a really talented writer. Nope. Here's the headline: "Worker Dead at Desk for Five Days." Now, you tell me. Would you feel flattered if a headline like that reminded someone of you?
Hey, I know I'm not the most effervescent guy around the office. But, I thought she was a little out of line. After I got my crying under control, I asked her about it. She explained that it was not the dead part that made her think of me. So, here's the rest of the story:
"BOSSES of a publishing firm are trying to work out why no-one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for FIVE DAYS before anyone asked if he was feeling okay.
George Turklebaum, 51, who had been employed as a proof-reader at a New York firm for 30 years, had a heart attack in the open-plan office he shared with 23 other workers.
He quietly passed away on Monday, but nobody noticed until Saturday morning when an office cleaner asked why he was still working during the weekend.
His boss Elliot Wachiaski said: 'George was always the first guy in each morning and the last to leave at night - so no-one found it unusual that he was in the same position all that time and didn't say anything.
'He was always absorbed in his work and kept much to himself.'
A post mortem examination revealed that he had been dead for five days after suffering a coronary. Ironically, George was proof-reading manuscripts of medical textbooks when he died." (By the way, I'm told this is an urban legend. I thought Smokey Robinson was an urban legend, so I'm a little confused.)
Jennifer swears that she just meant that I am always at my desk when she gets in each morning. Yeah, sure.
It has gotten me to thinking that maybe I should do something to show everyone here that I'm still alive. So, here's what I've come up with. I have a harmonica strapped to a neck brace. It's positioned right at my mouth, and every few minutes I breathe into it, creating a lovely melody that virtually sings out, "Hey everyone, Steve is still breathing."
Everyone here knows that if they don't hear the harmonica every five minutes or so, to come looking.
Right now, as I type, I'm doing a rather jazzy version of Oh Suzanna. It's the only song I can play. I am working on "She'll be Coming Round the Mountain." So, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my harmonica. Have a nice day.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Grandma's Cures
Someone recently sent me a list of home-spun remedies, entitled Grandma's Cures. In looking at some of these, I can see that Grandma was one hip little lady, albeit, a bit on the neurotic side. As a public service, I'm passing a few of these remedies along to you. I'll also throw in my own caveat from time to time. (Please note, I have no idea what caveat means, but it seemed like it might fit here, and I've always wanted to use that word.)
First - Drinking two glasses of! Gatorade can relieve headache
pain almost immediately -- without the unpleasant side effects caused by
traditional "pain relievers." CAVEAT: Yeah, but what about the unpleasant side effects caused by drinking Gatorade? When you think about it, Gatorade is just sweet sweat.
Remedy #2 - Achy muscles from a bout of the flu? Mix 1 Tablespoon of horseradish
in 1 cup of olive oil. Let the mixture sit for 30 minutes, then apply it as
a massage oil, for instant relief for aching muscles. CAVEAT - i tried it. It tastes pretty good. But, now, I have a sore neck from trying to lick it off my back.
Here's another: Cure urinary tract infections with Alka-Seltzer. Just dissolve two tablets
in a glass of water and drink it at the onset of the symptoms. Alka-Seltzer
begins eliminating urinary tract infections almost instantly - even though
the product was never been advertised for this use. CAVEAT - Just make sure you read the instructions fully and carefully. I made some very wrong assumptions based on the fact it was a cure for urinary tract infections.
This one really works: Listerine therapy for toenail fungus... Get rid of unsightly toenail fungus
by soaking your toes in Listerine mouthwash. The powerful antiseptic
leaves your toenails looking healthy again. CAVEAT - Do not pour the Listerine back in the bottle after you've finished soakiing your toes in it. Or, at least, do not do so while your wife is in the bathroom watching you. BONUS: I would think this one would be great if you're dating someone with a foot fetish.
And, time for one more: Coca-Cola cure for rust... Forget those expensive rust removers.
Just saturate an abrasive sponge with Coco-Cola and scrub the rust stain.
The phosphoric acid in the coke is what gets the job done. CAVEAT: - You might want to reconsider drinking anything that's evidently stronger than your industrial rust removers.
Besides being some great ideas, this information also helped my family and I out in another way. We've been wondering for years, what killed Grandma.
First - Drinking two glasses of! Gatorade can relieve headache
pain almost immediately -- without the unpleasant side effects caused by
traditional "pain relievers." CAVEAT: Yeah, but what about the unpleasant side effects caused by drinking Gatorade? When you think about it, Gatorade is just sweet sweat.
Remedy #2 - Achy muscles from a bout of the flu? Mix 1 Tablespoon of horseradish
in 1 cup of olive oil. Let the mixture sit for 30 minutes, then apply it as
a massage oil, for instant relief for aching muscles. CAVEAT - i tried it. It tastes pretty good. But, now, I have a sore neck from trying to lick it off my back.
Here's another: Cure urinary tract infections with Alka-Seltzer. Just dissolve two tablets
in a glass of water and drink it at the onset of the symptoms. Alka-Seltzer
begins eliminating urinary tract infections almost instantly - even though
the product was never been advertised for this use. CAVEAT - Just make sure you read the instructions fully and carefully. I made some very wrong assumptions based on the fact it was a cure for urinary tract infections.
This one really works: Listerine therapy for toenail fungus... Get rid of unsightly toenail fungus
by soaking your toes in Listerine mouthwash. The powerful antiseptic
leaves your toenails looking healthy again. CAVEAT - Do not pour the Listerine back in the bottle after you've finished soakiing your toes in it. Or, at least, do not do so while your wife is in the bathroom watching you. BONUS: I would think this one would be great if you're dating someone with a foot fetish.
And, time for one more: Coca-Cola cure for rust... Forget those expensive rust removers.
Just saturate an abrasive sponge with Coco-Cola and scrub the rust stain.
The phosphoric acid in the coke is what gets the job done. CAVEAT: - You might want to reconsider drinking anything that's evidently stronger than your industrial rust removers.
Besides being some great ideas, this information also helped my family and I out in another way. We've been wondering for years, what killed Grandma.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Sleepless (But Well-Entertained) in Richmond
My brain is mush today. I've been awake since about three this morning. Just couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned for a while, before I did the only reasonable thing to do and that was to watch TV. Early, early morning TV is a vast wonderland of treasures from the past and bargains for the present. I saw shows I hadn't seen in years, and, hopefully won't ever see again. William Shatner may be the ultimate Star Trek captain, but as T.J. Hooker, he really stunk up the joint. I had forgotten how really, really bad he was at that. I did stay tuned long enough to watch his famous jumping and riding on the hood sequence, which seemed to be included in every episode.
Then I tuned to Matlock. That's kind of like watching a train wreck. The show was so stupid, but I just can't resist watching it. I think Andy Griffith was born to play Sheriff Taylor. But, other than that, the guy really can't act. He's so bad in Matlock that he does everything but turn to the camera and wave. Plus, the poor guy is fighting a set of loose dentures to the point that I have a hard time understanding what he's saying. Here's the kicker, though, about watching Matlock this morning. I invest an hour, when I should have been sleeping, and then just as it starts to get (relatively) good, they superimpose on the screen the most dreaded words ever seen in episodic TV - TO BE CONTINUED. What? There's no way I'll be awake tomorrow morning at 4:00 AM. I'll never find out what happened.
The most interesting overnight programming, is, of course, the infomercials. They're so informative, and yet so commercial. One thing I wonder is how David Oreck stays in business. This guy must be getting senile. He gives away so many valuable gifts when you order his vacuum cleaner. He can't be making a profit. He even pays the shipping and handling. What a decent straight-up kind of guy.
I flipped past, and no, I didn't linger, the Girls Gone Wild infomercial. Every girl looked like Natalee Holloway. I do have to wonder how much influence that sort of filth has on young girls (and guys, for that matter). It's made to look so exciting to act like a tramp. I would think rape and murder would take some of the glamour out of that sort of lifestyle.
I also saw an infomercial for something called Phase 4, I think. It's a shoe insert that helps you walk straight, but it does everything else too, from stopping the pain of arthritis to curing the common cold. The producers had this RV they were driving around the country talking to people whom they met along the way who also had these inserts in their shoes. It looked like the 2005 Great U.S.A. Hypochondriac Tour. But, anyway, these people all swore by their inserts. One guy put them in his shoes and within 45 minutes, he had come out of a coma in which he had lingered for the past six years.
I also saw this amazing product called the Swivel Mop or something like that. This thing is going to put David Oreck out of business, if his generous spirit doesn't do it first. This Swivel Mop picks up everything from cracker crumbs to thumb tacks to dead bodies. I have to wonder, do they put these infomercials on overnight because that's when the price of air-time is the least expensive, or because insomniacs are the most gullible of all humans. I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is that within a couple of weeks, I'm going to be receiving some great items in the mail, including those shoe inserts, a couple of swivel mops, and a bunch of some really great free stuff from David Oreck, and, oh yeah, one fantastic vacuum cleaner.
Then I tuned to Matlock. That's kind of like watching a train wreck. The show was so stupid, but I just can't resist watching it. I think Andy Griffith was born to play Sheriff Taylor. But, other than that, the guy really can't act. He's so bad in Matlock that he does everything but turn to the camera and wave. Plus, the poor guy is fighting a set of loose dentures to the point that I have a hard time understanding what he's saying. Here's the kicker, though, about watching Matlock this morning. I invest an hour, when I should have been sleeping, and then just as it starts to get (relatively) good, they superimpose on the screen the most dreaded words ever seen in episodic TV - TO BE CONTINUED. What? There's no way I'll be awake tomorrow morning at 4:00 AM. I'll never find out what happened.
The most interesting overnight programming, is, of course, the infomercials. They're so informative, and yet so commercial. One thing I wonder is how David Oreck stays in business. This guy must be getting senile. He gives away so many valuable gifts when you order his vacuum cleaner. He can't be making a profit. He even pays the shipping and handling. What a decent straight-up kind of guy.
I flipped past, and no, I didn't linger, the Girls Gone Wild infomercial. Every girl looked like Natalee Holloway. I do have to wonder how much influence that sort of filth has on young girls (and guys, for that matter). It's made to look so exciting to act like a tramp. I would think rape and murder would take some of the glamour out of that sort of lifestyle.
I also saw an infomercial for something called Phase 4, I think. It's a shoe insert that helps you walk straight, but it does everything else too, from stopping the pain of arthritis to curing the common cold. The producers had this RV they were driving around the country talking to people whom they met along the way who also had these inserts in their shoes. It looked like the 2005 Great U.S.A. Hypochondriac Tour. But, anyway, these people all swore by their inserts. One guy put them in his shoes and within 45 minutes, he had come out of a coma in which he had lingered for the past six years.
I also saw this amazing product called the Swivel Mop or something like that. This thing is going to put David Oreck out of business, if his generous spirit doesn't do it first. This Swivel Mop picks up everything from cracker crumbs to thumb tacks to dead bodies. I have to wonder, do they put these infomercials on overnight because that's when the price of air-time is the least expensive, or because insomniacs are the most gullible of all humans. I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is that within a couple of weeks, I'm going to be receiving some great items in the mail, including those shoe inserts, a couple of swivel mops, and a bunch of some really great free stuff from David Oreck, and, oh yeah, one fantastic vacuum cleaner.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Make Big Bucks! Operators Are Standing By!
I realize that my self-centered blog today goes totally against the wholesome, altruistic nature of the Internet. When Al Gore invented it, I feel sure he never intended that the World Wide Web be used for personal gain, but, what the hey, I'm going to do just that. You see, I have a couple of great business ideas. If I can just find investors, my palms could be greased for life. So, listen up all you wealthy people out there who don't know what to do with your filthy lucre. If you stick with me, you'll get rich. Oh, that's right, you're already rich. Well, you'll get richer.
Plan number one - You know how you hear all those Onstar commercials these days? With one person after another calling Onstar to whine about an accident or a flat tire or whatever. Well, have you noticed that all these little whiners are women?Onstar is a woman thing. I have a plan for an onboard GPS-related system for men. Listen up guys, I think you're going to like this. Here's the scenario - You've been driving around, totally lost, for about half an hour. No big deal, right? Because you know you'll find the way. But, here's your wife sitting next to you and now she's starting to complain. "You men are all alike," she says, as if she knows what men are like at all. "You'd rather stay lost all day than ask for directions." Okay, maybe she does know, but anyway, she's starting to become annoying. What do you do?
Hit the Guy-Star button. A man's voice comes online. And, just as a concession, you only hire men who can sound like they are in touch with a woman's feelings. "May I help you?" he asks. So, you say, I'm looking for the best way to...
Before you can finish, your wife pitches in, "The dope is lost. We've been driving around for an hour (women always exaggerate)."
"Never fear," Mr. Guy-Star says. Now here's the genius part. Listen what comes next as the Guy-Star guy continues, "I'm sure your husband has it well under control. He doesn't need me to give him directions. Just settle back, mam. Enjoy the quality time you and your husband are spending together. And not only will he find the way, he'll learn some valuable lessons in self-determination in the process. You know, give a man a fish..."
I can just see the TV commercial. The wife looks over at her husband and smiles. She pats his leg and leans back in the seat. All is well.
Okay, are you in? How much can I count on you to invest?
But, if you're a little late getting in on my first plan, please do not miss out on my second one. This one is especially designed for male baby boomers. You know, when you hit the fifties your body begins to play practical jokes on you. Taking that into consideration, as well as the fact that many fifty plus guys are also raising their grandkids, I've come up with a super-duper business idea - A combination ice cream, nose- and ear-hair removal parlor.
Just think, you can take the grandkids out for their favorite treat and get that ear- and nose-hair, that seems to grow like kudzu vine, removed. I'm calling it "Stevie Cees Ice Cream and Nose-Hair Removal Parlor." I think Ice Cream and Nose- and Ear-Hair Removal Parlor is too long a name. But, once the nose-hair removal technician gets started, they can upsell to the ear-hair removal as well.
I even have a good slogan for the venture. "You pick your flavor. We'll pick your nose."
Okay investors. I'm sitting by the phone. Give me a call and let's talk turkey, or nose-hair, if you will.
Plan number one - You know how you hear all those Onstar commercials these days? With one person after another calling Onstar to whine about an accident or a flat tire or whatever. Well, have you noticed that all these little whiners are women?Onstar is a woman thing. I have a plan for an onboard GPS-related system for men. Listen up guys, I think you're going to like this. Here's the scenario - You've been driving around, totally lost, for about half an hour. No big deal, right? Because you know you'll find the way. But, here's your wife sitting next to you and now she's starting to complain. "You men are all alike," she says, as if she knows what men are like at all. "You'd rather stay lost all day than ask for directions." Okay, maybe she does know, but anyway, she's starting to become annoying. What do you do?
Hit the Guy-Star button. A man's voice comes online. And, just as a concession, you only hire men who can sound like they are in touch with a woman's feelings. "May I help you?" he asks. So, you say, I'm looking for the best way to...
Before you can finish, your wife pitches in, "The dope is lost. We've been driving around for an hour (women always exaggerate)."
"Never fear," Mr. Guy-Star says. Now here's the genius part. Listen what comes next as the Guy-Star guy continues, "I'm sure your husband has it well under control. He doesn't need me to give him directions. Just settle back, mam. Enjoy the quality time you and your husband are spending together. And not only will he find the way, he'll learn some valuable lessons in self-determination in the process. You know, give a man a fish..."
I can just see the TV commercial. The wife looks over at her husband and smiles. She pats his leg and leans back in the seat. All is well.
Okay, are you in? How much can I count on you to invest?
But, if you're a little late getting in on my first plan, please do not miss out on my second one. This one is especially designed for male baby boomers. You know, when you hit the fifties your body begins to play practical jokes on you. Taking that into consideration, as well as the fact that many fifty plus guys are also raising their grandkids, I've come up with a super-duper business idea - A combination ice cream, nose- and ear-hair removal parlor.
Just think, you can take the grandkids out for their favorite treat and get that ear- and nose-hair, that seems to grow like kudzu vine, removed. I'm calling it "Stevie Cees Ice Cream and Nose-Hair Removal Parlor." I think Ice Cream and Nose- and Ear-Hair Removal Parlor is too long a name. But, once the nose-hair removal technician gets started, they can upsell to the ear-hair removal as well.
I even have a good slogan for the venture. "You pick your flavor. We'll pick your nose."
Okay investors. I'm sitting by the phone. Give me a call and let's talk turkey, or nose-hair, if you will.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Mother In Therapy
Well my mother finally has something she has longed for for quite some time - a therapist. Now, when she's around her friends, and they get to talking about their therapists, or counsellors, or psychiatrists, or whatever, she can say, "Well my therapist told me..."
Admittedly, her therapist is of the physical variety. My mother recently had that carpal tunnel thing done on her hand and the doctor prescirbed the therapy. But, hey, a therapist is a therapist.
In her younger days, my mother wouldn't have dreamed of needing or wanting therapy. She has always viewed herself as being totally mentally sound, which, I am told, is a sign of mental instability, but I'll save that discussion for another time. She was always of the opinion that one would have to be crazy to go to a psychiatrist.
But, that's before being crazy, or at least "troubled" became so fashionable. When with her friends, I think my mother began to feel isolated, because she couldn't tell anyone what her therapist had told her. Now she can.
There's only one problem. I think she's driving her therapist crazy. You see, my mother does have one rather miniscule delusional thing going in her head. She thinks her three sons walk on water. Even though we've all come close to drowing on several occasions, she holds on to her beliefs. And, she loves to entertain anyone around her with the delightful accounts of our latest accomplishments.
I guess that was fine when we were in kindergarten, and, yes, those stick figures I drew did look somewhat like Lee surrendering to Grant, but only if you squinted just right, and held the paper sideways. But, when her sons are all being courted by AARP, I think it's time to say enough is enough.
My mentally-sound mother hasn't come to that conclusion. So now the poor therapist has to listen to my mother regaling her with our latest goings-on. Because my mother's hands are only a foot or so away from her mouth, there's nothing for the therapist to do but listen.
But just telling that poor lady what we do isn't enough anymore. My mother is now bombarding her with reams of paper print-outs of my columns. I'm tedious enough in small doses. I can't imagine what the hand-lady is going through.
Well, maybe I can. She told my mother this week that she's going on vacation. Yeah, sure. Listen lady, I know what you're up to, and I don't blame you. She's probably going to quietly move away, change her name, and take up a new profession. And, just in case you get a print-out of this one before you make your escape, I sincerely want to apologize.
I also might suggest that you warn the people down at the clinic or whatever you all call those therapy places. Evidently, a new therapist has already been appointed because my mother just left the house with a box of everything I've ever written, including the letter I sent to my Grandmother when I was five years old. Funny, I didn't even realize she had taken that one off the refrigerator to make copies.
Admittedly, her therapist is of the physical variety. My mother recently had that carpal tunnel thing done on her hand and the doctor prescirbed the therapy. But, hey, a therapist is a therapist.
In her younger days, my mother wouldn't have dreamed of needing or wanting therapy. She has always viewed herself as being totally mentally sound, which, I am told, is a sign of mental instability, but I'll save that discussion for another time. She was always of the opinion that one would have to be crazy to go to a psychiatrist.
But, that's before being crazy, or at least "troubled" became so fashionable. When with her friends, I think my mother began to feel isolated, because she couldn't tell anyone what her therapist had told her. Now she can.
There's only one problem. I think she's driving her therapist crazy. You see, my mother does have one rather miniscule delusional thing going in her head. She thinks her three sons walk on water. Even though we've all come close to drowing on several occasions, she holds on to her beliefs. And, she loves to entertain anyone around her with the delightful accounts of our latest accomplishments.
I guess that was fine when we were in kindergarten, and, yes, those stick figures I drew did look somewhat like Lee surrendering to Grant, but only if you squinted just right, and held the paper sideways. But, when her sons are all being courted by AARP, I think it's time to say enough is enough.
My mentally-sound mother hasn't come to that conclusion. So now the poor therapist has to listen to my mother regaling her with our latest goings-on. Because my mother's hands are only a foot or so away from her mouth, there's nothing for the therapist to do but listen.
But just telling that poor lady what we do isn't enough anymore. My mother is now bombarding her with reams of paper print-outs of my columns. I'm tedious enough in small doses. I can't imagine what the hand-lady is going through.
Well, maybe I can. She told my mother this week that she's going on vacation. Yeah, sure. Listen lady, I know what you're up to, and I don't blame you. She's probably going to quietly move away, change her name, and take up a new profession. And, just in case you get a print-out of this one before you make your escape, I sincerely want to apologize.
I also might suggest that you warn the people down at the clinic or whatever you all call those therapy places. Evidently, a new therapist has already been appointed because my mother just left the house with a box of everything I've ever written, including the letter I sent to my Grandmother when I was five years old. Funny, I didn't even realize she had taken that one off the refrigerator to make copies.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Take My Mental Condition, Please
Being perfectly adjusted mentally, myself, I always find it surprising when I encounter those whose actions are somewhat suspect. I've often said this world would be a better place if everyone could be like me. Take Heather P, in the West End, for example. Heather is, no doubt, a very well meaning sort of lady. But, somehow, I suspect, totally lacking in a sense of humor. I can say that because she wasn't the least bit amused by a recent column I did in West End's Best. (You may want to read the column first before continuing - go to www.westendsbestonline.com and scroll down 'til you get to "Looking for Like...") Okay, now that you've read the column, I want you to read Heather's gracious email, which I am printing below. Heather writes:
Hmm...
Was your article serious or joking? I didn't find it very funny.
I actually thought, hm... This guy wants desperately for people to notice
him, to see him as special, someone who stands out. To like him. To
remember him. BUT! He wants EVERYONE to... so he doesn't stand out at
all!! He's too busy being everything to everyone - or NO ONE to everyone.
I'm sure you know (or maybe you didn't), in order to be remembered, you
can't try so hard to be liked by everyone. Then you don't stand out at all!
You have to be YOU! Be the guy who always wears funny ties. Be whatever
you are that makes you unique. Stop all this "looking for like" business.
Stop trying to please everyone else; start pleasing you. Then it won't
matter if they don't remember your name. You'll be more confident and show
more pizzaz. And THEN maybe they WILL remember you! AND YOU WON'T CARE!!
Here's hoping you really don't need all their like,
'cz you've really got your own...
Heather in the West End
"Never be bullied into silence.
Never allow yourself to be made a victim.
Accept no one's definition of your life;
define yourself."
- Harvey Fierstein
Thanks Heather. But, I note some serious flaws in your letter. One of the worst is this. At the very beginning you spell "hmmm" with 3 m's. However, only seconds later, you spell it with only 2. What could you possibly be thinking! Also, you use three exclamation points at the end of one sentence. Plus you write a lot in upper case. I HATE THAT!!!!! STOP IT!!!!
Other than that, you make perfect sense. I will try to stop pleasing everyone else. I will start pleasing ol' Steve. I will start wearing funny ties. I just wish I'd known about the ties earlier in life.
So, all in all, I want to thank you, dear Heather. Just one more little teeney weeney request. NEVER QUOTE HARVEY FIERSTEIN TO ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, go do the right thing. Or, take on the day. I don't really care which, because I'm no longer looking for like.
Hmm...
Was your article serious or joking? I didn't find it very funny.
I actually thought, hm... This guy wants desperately for people to notice
him, to see him as special, someone who stands out. To like him. To
remember him. BUT! He wants EVERYONE to... so he doesn't stand out at
all!! He's too busy being everything to everyone - or NO ONE to everyone.
I'm sure you know (or maybe you didn't), in order to be remembered, you
can't try so hard to be liked by everyone. Then you don't stand out at all!
You have to be YOU! Be the guy who always wears funny ties. Be whatever
you are that makes you unique. Stop all this "looking for like" business.
Stop trying to please everyone else; start pleasing you. Then it won't
matter if they don't remember your name. You'll be more confident and show
more pizzaz. And THEN maybe they WILL remember you! AND YOU WON'T CARE!!
Here's hoping you really don't need all their like,
'cz you've really got your own...
Heather in the West End
"Never be bullied into silence.
Never allow yourself to be made a victim.
Accept no one's definition of your life;
define yourself."
- Harvey Fierstein
Thanks Heather. But, I note some serious flaws in your letter. One of the worst is this. At the very beginning you spell "hmmm" with 3 m's. However, only seconds later, you spell it with only 2. What could you possibly be thinking! Also, you use three exclamation points at the end of one sentence. Plus you write a lot in upper case. I HATE THAT!!!!! STOP IT!!!!
Other than that, you make perfect sense. I will try to stop pleasing everyone else. I will start pleasing ol' Steve. I will start wearing funny ties. I just wish I'd known about the ties earlier in life.
So, all in all, I want to thank you, dear Heather. Just one more little teeney weeney request. NEVER QUOTE HARVEY FIERSTEIN TO ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, go do the right thing. Or, take on the day. I don't really care which, because I'm no longer looking for like.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Shameless Shamelessness
I was waxing nostalgic this morning, thinking about the good old days when people felt ashamed of what they'd done. Now, thanks to modern-day psychiatry and Jerry Springer (among others), there is no shame. It's been replaced by the need for publicity. Although I don't blame it on television, any more than I'd blame a person's murder on the gun used to shoot him, I think TV has facilitated the obliteration of shame.
When a woman can come on TV and tell you the gory details of her husband's affair with the mailman, and how she caught them in the laundry room, and then they bring the husband on to the assorted hoots, boos, applause, etc. of an audience of morons, it kind of lets you know that there is no shame, only publicity.
It really hit me like a ton of bricks while I was watching the BTK killer. The frightening, matter-of-fact recounting of his deeds has been aired over and over and over. I'm not talking about BTK's shamelessness. That guy is so far removed from mainstream society (I hope) that he doesn't count. I'm talking about the shameless way the news networks, and others, keep airing his confessions. You know this guy is getting his jollies from the publicity. You know he's loving the fact that he can go on national TV and describe the way he murdered innocent victims. Why accommodate this monster?
I'll tell you why. It makes good television. It helps Bill O'Reilly keep his ratings up.
That pompous idiot, O'Reilly shows this horror video, and then in his self-important way he says something to the effect, "We show that to tell you to beware of such evil." Oh yeah, I'm sure you showed it as a public service. How are we to beware? What are we to beware of? Mild-mannered businessmen? Church-going husbands and fathers? The point is, people like BTK, will never stand out in a crowd. Frighteningly, they look like normal citizens. Bill O'Reilly wasn't looking out for us. He was shamelessly looking out for his ratings.
Something else that, in my opinion, is shameless is the way those media people stick a microphone in the face of Natalee Holloway's family. Again, anything for the ratings. Forget the fact the family is in shock. Forget their grief. Let's just milk this story. Nothing helps the ratings like a good teen murder.
Well, I see I've gotten way too deep today. I kind of went off on a tangent and never did get into what I had intended to say. I'll have to save that for another time. I don't know what got into me. I'm going to go drink a cup of coffee and settle down. You all have a good day.
When a woman can come on TV and tell you the gory details of her husband's affair with the mailman, and how she caught them in the laundry room, and then they bring the husband on to the assorted hoots, boos, applause, etc. of an audience of morons, it kind of lets you know that there is no shame, only publicity.
It really hit me like a ton of bricks while I was watching the BTK killer. The frightening, matter-of-fact recounting of his deeds has been aired over and over and over. I'm not talking about BTK's shamelessness. That guy is so far removed from mainstream society (I hope) that he doesn't count. I'm talking about the shameless way the news networks, and others, keep airing his confessions. You know this guy is getting his jollies from the publicity. You know he's loving the fact that he can go on national TV and describe the way he murdered innocent victims. Why accommodate this monster?
I'll tell you why. It makes good television. It helps Bill O'Reilly keep his ratings up.
That pompous idiot, O'Reilly shows this horror video, and then in his self-important way he says something to the effect, "We show that to tell you to beware of such evil." Oh yeah, I'm sure you showed it as a public service. How are we to beware? What are we to beware of? Mild-mannered businessmen? Church-going husbands and fathers? The point is, people like BTK, will never stand out in a crowd. Frighteningly, they look like normal citizens. Bill O'Reilly wasn't looking out for us. He was shamelessly looking out for his ratings.
Something else that, in my opinion, is shameless is the way those media people stick a microphone in the face of Natalee Holloway's family. Again, anything for the ratings. Forget the fact the family is in shock. Forget their grief. Let's just milk this story. Nothing helps the ratings like a good teen murder.
Well, I see I've gotten way too deep today. I kind of went off on a tangent and never did get into what I had intended to say. I'll have to save that for another time. I don't know what got into me. I'm going to go drink a cup of coffee and settle down. You all have a good day.
Monday, June 27, 2005
My Weekend Adventure
Well, I just got back from a 36-hour, 1500-mile driveathon to Florida. It was a quick down and back trip. Every time I drive to Florida, I swear I'll never do it again. I learned quite a lot driving along Interstate 95. For one thing, South Carolinians will name just about anything. Their exit ramps are named. At least some of them were. There's even a pedestrian crossover bridge called the Juanita M. White Crossover. It's pretty much in the middle of nowhere, just a foot bridge with steps on both sides of the interstate. I'm wondering If Juanita tried unsucessfully to run across I-95. Well, at least she got a bridge named after her. That's something most of us never get.
I did a lot of listening to the radio on the trip. And, being an AM radio fan, I learned a lot about the tastes of AM listeners throughout the Carolinas and Georgia. Basically, there are two predominate formats that they go with. I was guessing and hoping that there'd be some good talk radio, but that was hard to find. What I did find across the dial throughout the entire area were sports talk and religious programming. I'd get confused sometime. For instance, as I was scanning the dial, I stopped at a station that was talking about parity. For a couple of minutes, I was trying to figure out what scripture mentioned parity in the Bible. Finally, it dawned on me that it was a sports station.
Then there's that entrepreneurial broadcasting guy somewhere in the Carolinas. He's combined sports talk with religion. I listened to a show about fantasy football that had Jesus playing quarterback, with Peter and Philip as running backs. At least I think that's what the show was about.
It could be I heard that during the half hour or so that I must have been dozing. Do you ever find yourself driving along the road, and realize you're about forty miles further than you thought you were and you have to wonder how you got there? That happened to me. I figure I was either dozing, or was the victim of some sort of alien abduction. I don't feel probed, so I must have dropped off for a few miles. Hope I didn't hit anyone.
But anyway, I'm back safe and sound, and I guess that's all that matters. And although I swear this is the last time I'll ever drive to Florida, I'm sure that's not the truth. Driving to Florida is kind of like shopping at the Food Lion. You swear you'll never do it again, but somehow you keep going back.
I did a lot of listening to the radio on the trip. And, being an AM radio fan, I learned a lot about the tastes of AM listeners throughout the Carolinas and Georgia. Basically, there are two predominate formats that they go with. I was guessing and hoping that there'd be some good talk radio, but that was hard to find. What I did find across the dial throughout the entire area were sports talk and religious programming. I'd get confused sometime. For instance, as I was scanning the dial, I stopped at a station that was talking about parity. For a couple of minutes, I was trying to figure out what scripture mentioned parity in the Bible. Finally, it dawned on me that it was a sports station.
Then there's that entrepreneurial broadcasting guy somewhere in the Carolinas. He's combined sports talk with religion. I listened to a show about fantasy football that had Jesus playing quarterback, with Peter and Philip as running backs. At least I think that's what the show was about.
It could be I heard that during the half hour or so that I must have been dozing. Do you ever find yourself driving along the road, and realize you're about forty miles further than you thought you were and you have to wonder how you got there? That happened to me. I figure I was either dozing, or was the victim of some sort of alien abduction. I don't feel probed, so I must have dropped off for a few miles. Hope I didn't hit anyone.
But anyway, I'm back safe and sound, and I guess that's all that matters. And although I swear this is the last time I'll ever drive to Florida, I'm sure that's not the truth. Driving to Florida is kind of like shopping at the Food Lion. You swear you'll never do it again, but somehow you keep going back.
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