Well, I guess I'm treading on sacred ground here, at least among many, if not most, Richmonders. And, by the way, if you're not in the Richmond area, today's blog will mean absolutely nothing to you. But, if you are in the Richmond, Virginia area, then here goes. Like it or not, I'm going to tell you the things I DON'T like about Ukrops.
Admittedly, there are things I do like. Who could not like their great customer service? And, as for their prices, well, sometimes they're substantially higher than the other guys, but generally, I feel their prices are fair. But, enough of Mr. Goodbar here. Now for the things I don't like.
3. No beer or wine sales. Now, it's not that I need a can of Bud Light so badly that I get the shakes when I go into Ukrop's. But, my gripe is with the hypocrisy (more hypocrisy to follow) of claiming to be so driven by Christian ethics that they won't sell alcohol, when they'll sell you all the cigarettes you can cram in your mouth. I've seen pictures of the Last Supper. I know they might not be entirely accurate, but Jesus and his Apostles are drinking wine. I've never seen a picture of them lighting up after enjoying a good meal. I have no beef with someone who, for whatever reason, is against alcohol consumption. I don't think a person can get into trouble by not drinking alcohol. But I find it hard to understand how one can proclaim that smoking tobacco is more acceptable than the moderate drinking of alcohol.
2. No West End's Best or Chesterfield Living Magazines available. Our readers are constantly telling us they have picked up our magazines at Ukrop's. The only problem is, our magazines aren't in Ukrop's. Personally, I wish they were. But, we choose not to put them in their nearly hidden wooden racks when Ukrop's allows Style Magazine, and only Style Magazine, to be in a rack at the entrance. Why only Style? Their official answer is that they have a grandfather clause with Style. I don't understand stupid answers like that. Are they saying, "Hey, grandpa made a dumb decision and we can't change it,"? That wouldn't make any sense. It's like when companies give you the pat answer, "We can't do such and such." I always ask them if they mean they can't do it, or they WON'T do it. If you choose not to do it, then just say so. Don't hide behind a "can't." It's your company, you can do just about anything you want, within reason, of course.
What really irritates me about the Style magazine deal is that the back portion of Style magazine is filled with sexually-oriented ads. And, I'm told, by Ukrop's personnel, that Ukrop's is the number one distribution spot for the weekly tabloid. That mean's this Christians-ethics-driven organization is the leading supplier of sexually-oriented materials in Richmond. No beer, mind you, but lots of sex, regardless of your personal sexual orientation. I asked one of the Ukrops how he could justify distributing Style inasmuch as it contained so much filth in the magazine, especially in the classified section in the back. His reply was, "That's why I don't look in the back of Style." Hey, if you can live with that double standard, go right ahead.
1. The main thing I hate about Ukrop's is their bank. Talk about customer service...I consistently get horrible customer service at the Ukrop's banks. Okay, before someone corrects me, I know the bank isn't really run by Ukrop's, but for a company that prides itself on its customer service, and well they should, they made a rotten decision on a banking partner. I had to go into a Ukrop's last Friday, to do some banking. The bank teller was, perhaps, the most unpleasant, unconcerned, uncaring, rude human I've encountered in quite some time.
I can't point to one particular thing she did, it was more just a total disdain for the customer. Instead of saying, "May I see your ID," it was "I need to see your driver's license." And she stared at it for so long, I made the off-handed comment that I was glad I hadn't been wearing my turban when the DMV took my picture. She, by the way, failed to see the humor in that. In fact, I have a feeling this woman had never seen the humor in anything for a long time.
Without boring you with boring details, I will say I went to the bank with my wife to have my name added to her account. I had been in before, after my wife opened the account, but the bank wouldn't put me on the account unless she was there. Okay, I guess that makes sense. They also won't let her put my paycheck in her account. Even when we both have signed the check, they won't let her deposit it in her account. THAT doesn't make any sense.
So, we go in together. We both show our ID; the woman looks at me as if she is thinking I'm some sort of terrorist. After finally deciding that I am who I say I am, she announces, "I have to get approval now."
She calls some secret number where someone gives her an approval number. Now, that tells me that I'm approved. Hey, big whoop. Now, I've earned the right to let them take my money.
After the approval, the woman demands to see another form of ID. I have it, but I choose not to give it to her. She's already asked for my driver's license. She's already gotten that magical approval number. So, either for the sake of principle, or because I'm a real jerk, I say I won't give it to her. I ask her why I need to do that.
I'm ready for the answer. It's the same stupid answer I hear everywhere since September 11, 2001. "For national security," she tells me. I tell her I don't believe it. I tell her that I've opened accounts before without having to have two forms of ID. By the way, she was asking that the second form be a major credit card. My feeling is what right does she have to see my credit card. I'm not going to be using it at the bank. Why should I let someone else have that number? If she'd asked for my library card, I may have been willing.
Anyway, she tells me in her oh-so-condescending tone, "Well, the Patriot Act is rather new. Maybe you haven't heard of it."
"I've heard of it," I say. "I also remember nine eleven."
"So, do you want to be added to your wife's account or not?" she asks.
"Nope, I choose not to," I say. I know I was a total embarrassment to my wife. I couldn't even give her a good explanation for my conduct, except to say, "I'm looking out for the little guy." How I'm doing that I'm not sure, but somehow I think I am.
So, bottom line, it's basically my banking experiences that make me hate Ukrop's. But, I was able to pick up a jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice before I stormed out of the store. So I guess it's not all bad.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Thursday, August 18, 2005
the Night I Slept With Cy Dillon's Mother - Conclusion
There’s a not-so-famous line from a 1976 motion picture, entitled, “The Big Bus.” In this parody of the many catastrophe movies of that day, a commercial bus driver had earned an undeserved reputation following a bus accident in which some of the passengers had been eaten by others. In the movie, the driver says, “You eat one lousy foot and they call you a cannibal.”
Nearly two decades before that movie was made, I was the victim of similar prejudice. After just one failed attempt to spend the entire night with a schoolmate, I was branded a “momma’s boy.” I was ridiculed for my cowardice. Completely overlooked were the pertinent details of that failed attempt, namely that I would have had to spend the night in the house with that dead grandmother in the piano bench, and with a grandfather that would have made Oral Roberts look like Madeline Murray O’Hare.
But, admittedly, after my second failed attempt at a sleepover, I was a legitimate failure at the art of spending the night away from home. My sleepover social life had dried up. When word got around (and my brothers made sure it did) that the Bowmans had to pull their car out of the mud with a tractor in order to take me home, no one would invite me to spend the night. My brothers, both younger, continued to get the invitations. And, they continued to make it clear to any who would listen, that I was “that kid who couldn’t make it through the night.”
So, you can perhaps imagine my joy, and yes, some apprehension, when my best friend, Cy Dillon, invited me to spend the night. Redemption was at hand. Sure, I was a little concerned that if I blew this one, it would all be over for me. But, Cy didn’t seem to be the Captain Kangaroo type. I did wonder what I’d do if he showed me any pictures of non-living relatives, but I needed this chance to once-and-for-all-time shed this image of the guy who couldn’t do a sleepover.
For the third time, I packed some clean underwear. “I’m really going to need the underwear this time,” I told myself. I was convinced I could do it. Mickey, my brother assured me I’d be home before bedtime. But I was undeterred by his ridicule. Even his chicken squawking didn’t bother me. I KNEW. I absolutely was sure I could spend the night with Cy Dillon. And, I almost did.
When we got to Cy’s house after school, I felt good. I was pacing myself. Only about five more hours and we’d go to bed. I was counting down the moments, and feeling good. I really had a good time. We did our homework. We played some softball. We watched some TV. And then, it was bedtime.
I put on my pajamas with a sense of pride. I was no longer the kid who couldn’t spend the night away from home. I was a success. It was oh, so close. We climbed into bed, and, before I knew it, I was asleep.
At about three in the morning I woke up. It quickly dawned on me that I was in the midst of a major accomplishment. I smiled. I looked over to the other side of the bed where Cy was sleeping.
Except, there was one major problem. Cy was gone! I’ll admit that I have an overactive imagination. I’ll also admit that I probably watched too many police shows on television. Because, immediately I jumped to the conclusion that Cy had been kidnapped. But, being a somewhat reasonable child, I tried to quell those fears. Maybe he’s just playing hide-and-seek, I told myself.
Yeah, right. In retrospect that made about as much sense as believing he could have been kidnapped. But, I was willing to buy into that belief for the moment. I got up and looked under Cy’s bed. I looked behind the curtains. I looked in his closet. No Cy.
“Alley alley umpkin free,” I shouted. That, of course, is the international signal that the hider has succeeded in stumping the hidee. Cy didn’t umpkin free. In fact, there was no response from Cy at all. The sickening dread hit me at that moment. My worst and first fears were true. Cy had indeed been kidnapped.
And, I knew it was up to me to break that news to his parents. I started down the hallway that led from Cy’s room to that of his parents. I heard someone coming. A kidnapper?
Fortunately, I could see from a nightlight that it was Mrs. Dillon. I mustered up all the courage one must muster up when given the responsibility to be the bearer of bad news.
“Mrs. Dillon,” I gulped. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but Cy’s been kidnapped.”
There I said it. Now, I’d just sit back and see how she and Mr. Dillon handled this piece of rather disturbing news.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Dillon didn’t scream. She didn't even put her hand to her mouth and gasp. She just smiled. “No, Steve,” she said reassuringly. “Cy just came and got in bed with his father and me.”
Oh yeah, there was that possibility, I guess. Relieved, I replied, “Oh good.” I then turned around and started back to bed.
Mrs. Dillon called after me, “Steve, do you want me to come get in bed with you?”
“No, ma’m,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
With that, I headed back into Cy’s bedroom, climbed back into bed and immediately fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, the first thing that hit me was the fact that I’d made it. I had really spent the night with a friend...the whole night! My reputation would do a complete turnaround. My social life would make a comeback. A feeling of warmth and joy flooded through my body. In the back of my mind was some foggy recollection of having played hide and seek with Cy during the night, but I couldn’t remember all the details. Perhaps, it was just a dream.
I turned to look at Cy, and that’s when the horror hit me. If this had been a movie, I would have screamed as long and as loudly as any eight-year-old boy had ever screamed before. But, this was no movie. This was real life. And, for all intents and purposes, mine was over.
For there, next to me, was not Cy, but his mother. Looking back over the years, I realize how kind she was to be concerned about me being alone. My parents, no doubt, had warned her, that I might not make it through the night.
But, at that moment…at that horrible, awful moment, I could think of just one thing. Yes, from now on, I would never again be known as the kid who couldn’t sleep away from home. From this day on and forever, I would be known as the kid who spent the night with Cy Dillon’s mother.
Nearly two decades before that movie was made, I was the victim of similar prejudice. After just one failed attempt to spend the entire night with a schoolmate, I was branded a “momma’s boy.” I was ridiculed for my cowardice. Completely overlooked were the pertinent details of that failed attempt, namely that I would have had to spend the night in the house with that dead grandmother in the piano bench, and with a grandfather that would have made Oral Roberts look like Madeline Murray O’Hare.
But, admittedly, after my second failed attempt at a sleepover, I was a legitimate failure at the art of spending the night away from home. My sleepover social life had dried up. When word got around (and my brothers made sure it did) that the Bowmans had to pull their car out of the mud with a tractor in order to take me home, no one would invite me to spend the night. My brothers, both younger, continued to get the invitations. And, they continued to make it clear to any who would listen, that I was “that kid who couldn’t make it through the night.”
So, you can perhaps imagine my joy, and yes, some apprehension, when my best friend, Cy Dillon, invited me to spend the night. Redemption was at hand. Sure, I was a little concerned that if I blew this one, it would all be over for me. But, Cy didn’t seem to be the Captain Kangaroo type. I did wonder what I’d do if he showed me any pictures of non-living relatives, but I needed this chance to once-and-for-all-time shed this image of the guy who couldn’t do a sleepover.
For the third time, I packed some clean underwear. “I’m really going to need the underwear this time,” I told myself. I was convinced I could do it. Mickey, my brother assured me I’d be home before bedtime. But I was undeterred by his ridicule. Even his chicken squawking didn’t bother me. I KNEW. I absolutely was sure I could spend the night with Cy Dillon. And, I almost did.
When we got to Cy’s house after school, I felt good. I was pacing myself. Only about five more hours and we’d go to bed. I was counting down the moments, and feeling good. I really had a good time. We did our homework. We played some softball. We watched some TV. And then, it was bedtime.
I put on my pajamas with a sense of pride. I was no longer the kid who couldn’t spend the night away from home. I was a success. It was oh, so close. We climbed into bed, and, before I knew it, I was asleep.
At about three in the morning I woke up. It quickly dawned on me that I was in the midst of a major accomplishment. I smiled. I looked over to the other side of the bed where Cy was sleeping.
Except, there was one major problem. Cy was gone! I’ll admit that I have an overactive imagination. I’ll also admit that I probably watched too many police shows on television. Because, immediately I jumped to the conclusion that Cy had been kidnapped. But, being a somewhat reasonable child, I tried to quell those fears. Maybe he’s just playing hide-and-seek, I told myself.
Yeah, right. In retrospect that made about as much sense as believing he could have been kidnapped. But, I was willing to buy into that belief for the moment. I got up and looked under Cy’s bed. I looked behind the curtains. I looked in his closet. No Cy.
“Alley alley umpkin free,” I shouted. That, of course, is the international signal that the hider has succeeded in stumping the hidee. Cy didn’t umpkin free. In fact, there was no response from Cy at all. The sickening dread hit me at that moment. My worst and first fears were true. Cy had indeed been kidnapped.
And, I knew it was up to me to break that news to his parents. I started down the hallway that led from Cy’s room to that of his parents. I heard someone coming. A kidnapper?
Fortunately, I could see from a nightlight that it was Mrs. Dillon. I mustered up all the courage one must muster up when given the responsibility to be the bearer of bad news.
“Mrs. Dillon,” I gulped. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but Cy’s been kidnapped.”
There I said it. Now, I’d just sit back and see how she and Mr. Dillon handled this piece of rather disturbing news.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Dillon didn’t scream. She didn't even put her hand to her mouth and gasp. She just smiled. “No, Steve,” she said reassuringly. “Cy just came and got in bed with his father and me.”
Oh yeah, there was that possibility, I guess. Relieved, I replied, “Oh good.” I then turned around and started back to bed.
Mrs. Dillon called after me, “Steve, do you want me to come get in bed with you?”
“No, ma’m,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
With that, I headed back into Cy’s bedroom, climbed back into bed and immediately fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, the first thing that hit me was the fact that I’d made it. I had really spent the night with a friend...the whole night! My reputation would do a complete turnaround. My social life would make a comeback. A feeling of warmth and joy flooded through my body. In the back of my mind was some foggy recollection of having played hide and seek with Cy during the night, but I couldn’t remember all the details. Perhaps, it was just a dream.
I turned to look at Cy, and that’s when the horror hit me. If this had been a movie, I would have screamed as long and as loudly as any eight-year-old boy had ever screamed before. But, this was no movie. This was real life. And, for all intents and purposes, mine was over.
For there, next to me, was not Cy, but his mother. Looking back over the years, I realize how kind she was to be concerned about me being alone. My parents, no doubt, had warned her, that I might not make it through the night.
But, at that moment…at that horrible, awful moment, I could think of just one thing. Yes, from now on, I would never again be known as the kid who couldn’t sleep away from home. From this day on and forever, I would be known as the kid who spent the night with Cy Dillon’s mother.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
The Night I Slept With Cy Dillon's Mother - Part III
Well, I’ve already heard some complaints that I’m taking too long to tell about the night I slept with Cy Dillon’s mother. Please, just be patient. A good story (and this is a good story, isn’t it?), like a fine wine, is meant to be savored. You don’t buy a good five-dollar bottle of wine and just start swigging it. You have to take the top off first. And, I’ve been taking the top off of the story, if you will. I promise you, all in good time, my friends, all in god time.
Rather than repeating myself, if you haven’t read parts I and II, or if you’ve forgotten what you read, just go back and skim those two thrilling chapters before you go any further. I’ll wait right here.
Okay, ready?
Here I am, the butt of all the neighborhood kids’ jokes – Steve the chicken, Steve the sissy-boy. Steve can’t spend the night away from his mommy. I heard ‘em all. Can you imagine how that scars a precious little eight-year-older? Well, I was being scarred. I needed another sleepover. Finally, my chance came, no, not Cy Dillon yet. Otho Bowman, who I believe was some kin to Cy, but I can’t remember. I know he was kin to somebody…anyway, Otho Bowman invited me to spend the night at his house. Like the Kingerys, the Bowmans lived on a farm. Otho and I really weren’t that close, but, hey, I needed a place to spend the night. I needed to redeem myself, to prove, as it were, I was a man, albeit an eight-year-old one.
Otho had one particular claim to fame. He had memorized Andy Griffith’s routine, "What It Was Was Football." It was hilarious the first time I heard Otho recite it. It was pretty funny the second through the tenth times he recited it, which he did every chance he got. But, after a while, I just got tired of hearing it. Not that I blame Otho. I’ve been known to run a joke into the ground myself.
Back in Boones Mill, in the fifties, there were still a lot of folks who didn’t have television sets. And even radio reception was not too good. So Otho, along with Charles Wimmer, another kid in town, would go door to door entertaining the locals. Otho would do his "What It Was Was Football" bit and Charles would sing "How Great Thou Art." It was quality entertainment from top to bottom, as they say in show-biz. Charles would also chew ABC gum to entertain the other kids, but that’s a whole other story to be saved for another day.
Well, anyway, Otho invited me to his house for a sleepover. I was a little apprehensive, since he and I were not all that close, but I knew his family, and they seemed nice. I did ask him if he had any pictures of dead grandmothers lying around the house. He didn’t.
So, on the big day, I once again packed me some clean underwear and left for school. The whole day every time I ran into Mickey (my brother), he would do his chicken dance, telling me that I’d never make it through the night.
To kill the suspense, I’ll say right now, Mickey was right. I would have been surprised had I made it through the night myself. For starters, when the sun went down it was just too dark out on Otho’s farm. Plus, it was storming badly that night, and, yes, I did miss my parents.
Otho could tell I wasn’t having a good time. He tried to cheer me up by telling me that in the morning he and his brother took turns watching for the school bus, while the other watched Captain Kangaroo. This may sound like blasphemy, but I hated Captain Kangaroo. I guess I really didn’t even like people who watched Captain Kangaroo.
When I learned about the morning visits to the Treasure House, I’d heard enough. “I need to go home,” I told Otho. I’m happy to say he didn’t cry.
He did tell his parents they needed to take me home. In retrospect, I suspect Otho was not enjoying my company.
There was one rather large hitch in my plans to go home. The Bowmans lived down a long dirt driveway and the heavy rain had made it all but impossible to get the car to the road. I heard Otho’s parents discussing this little situation. I politely informed them that I really needed to go home. I don’t even think I said I was sick, just that I needed to go home. My need to go home probably wasn’t as much a motivating factor as were my tears. Because, I was the one who started to cry.
Finally, Mr. Bowman goes out in the torrential downpour, gets his tractor, and pulls the car out of the mud, and takes me home. In all the confusion, I don’t think the Bowmans even remembered to tell me how much they enjoyed my visit. I didn’t care. I was so anxious to leave, I would have ridden the tractor back into town.
After what seemed like an hour or two ride in the storm, I was home. There was only one problem. Both of my brothers would still be up. They would take such delight in my second failure at sleeping over. But, heck. I’d deal with that tomorrow. All that mattered to me as I climbed the porch steps to my front door, was that I was home.
TOMORROW – I SLEEP WITH CY DILLON’S MOTHER – I PROMISE.
Rather than repeating myself, if you haven’t read parts I and II, or if you’ve forgotten what you read, just go back and skim those two thrilling chapters before you go any further. I’ll wait right here.
Okay, ready?
Here I am, the butt of all the neighborhood kids’ jokes – Steve the chicken, Steve the sissy-boy. Steve can’t spend the night away from his mommy. I heard ‘em all. Can you imagine how that scars a precious little eight-year-older? Well, I was being scarred. I needed another sleepover. Finally, my chance came, no, not Cy Dillon yet. Otho Bowman, who I believe was some kin to Cy, but I can’t remember. I know he was kin to somebody…anyway, Otho Bowman invited me to spend the night at his house. Like the Kingerys, the Bowmans lived on a farm. Otho and I really weren’t that close, but, hey, I needed a place to spend the night. I needed to redeem myself, to prove, as it were, I was a man, albeit an eight-year-old one.
Otho had one particular claim to fame. He had memorized Andy Griffith’s routine, "What It Was Was Football." It was hilarious the first time I heard Otho recite it. It was pretty funny the second through the tenth times he recited it, which he did every chance he got. But, after a while, I just got tired of hearing it. Not that I blame Otho. I’ve been known to run a joke into the ground myself.
Back in Boones Mill, in the fifties, there were still a lot of folks who didn’t have television sets. And even radio reception was not too good. So Otho, along with Charles Wimmer, another kid in town, would go door to door entertaining the locals. Otho would do his "What It Was Was Football" bit and Charles would sing "How Great Thou Art." It was quality entertainment from top to bottom, as they say in show-biz. Charles would also chew ABC gum to entertain the other kids, but that’s a whole other story to be saved for another day.
Well, anyway, Otho invited me to his house for a sleepover. I was a little apprehensive, since he and I were not all that close, but I knew his family, and they seemed nice. I did ask him if he had any pictures of dead grandmothers lying around the house. He didn’t.
So, on the big day, I once again packed me some clean underwear and left for school. The whole day every time I ran into Mickey (my brother), he would do his chicken dance, telling me that I’d never make it through the night.
To kill the suspense, I’ll say right now, Mickey was right. I would have been surprised had I made it through the night myself. For starters, when the sun went down it was just too dark out on Otho’s farm. Plus, it was storming badly that night, and, yes, I did miss my parents.
Otho could tell I wasn’t having a good time. He tried to cheer me up by telling me that in the morning he and his brother took turns watching for the school bus, while the other watched Captain Kangaroo. This may sound like blasphemy, but I hated Captain Kangaroo. I guess I really didn’t even like people who watched Captain Kangaroo.
When I learned about the morning visits to the Treasure House, I’d heard enough. “I need to go home,” I told Otho. I’m happy to say he didn’t cry.
He did tell his parents they needed to take me home. In retrospect, I suspect Otho was not enjoying my company.
There was one rather large hitch in my plans to go home. The Bowmans lived down a long dirt driveway and the heavy rain had made it all but impossible to get the car to the road. I heard Otho’s parents discussing this little situation. I politely informed them that I really needed to go home. I don’t even think I said I was sick, just that I needed to go home. My need to go home probably wasn’t as much a motivating factor as were my tears. Because, I was the one who started to cry.
Finally, Mr. Bowman goes out in the torrential downpour, gets his tractor, and pulls the car out of the mud, and takes me home. In all the confusion, I don’t think the Bowmans even remembered to tell me how much they enjoyed my visit. I didn’t care. I was so anxious to leave, I would have ridden the tractor back into town.
After what seemed like an hour or two ride in the storm, I was home. There was only one problem. Both of my brothers would still be up. They would take such delight in my second failure at sleeping over. But, heck. I’d deal with that tomorrow. All that mattered to me as I climbed the porch steps to my front door, was that I was home.
TOMORROW – I SLEEP WITH CY DILLON’S MOTHER – I PROMISE.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
The Night I Slept With Cy Dillon's Mother - Part II
No doubt, if you read yesterday’s blog, you’re sitting on the edge of your seat, anxiously waiting to hear more of those painful memories from my youth. If you haven’t read yesterday’s blog, please read it before proceeding. I wouldn’t want you to miss even one suspenseful moment of this almost totally true story.
When we last left me, I had just handed back to Lee Kingery the beautifully framed picture of his grandmother…in her coffin. I was trembling, but doing my best to keep my composure. What sort of freaky family was I involved with?
“I need to go home,” I told Lee. Lee immediately began to cry. He ran into the kitchen and tearfully wailed to his mother, “Don’t let Steve go home.”
The possibility that I was going to be held captive by this dead-people-picture-taking clan did go through my head. Lee’s mother answered her son, “What do you mean, don’t let Steve go home. He’s spending the night, isn’t he?”
I had followed Lee into the kitchen. “No ma’m,” I squeaked. “I don’t feel so good. I need to go home.” I wasn’t lying. The more I thought about grandma in the piano bench, the sicker I was getting.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Kingery said. She sounded so sweet, I momentarily felt badly about making her son cry. “Why don’t you have dinner with us and then if you’re not feeling any better, we’ll call your parents.”
In my moment of feeling badly I agreed to stay for dinner. And despite the fact that THE picture was in the same house I was in, the fried chicken did smell good. Within moments, the family had all gathered at the kitchen table. There was Lee, his sister, his mom and dad, and grandpa. I don’t know if he was the widower of dead-grandma-in-the-piano-bench or not but, there was no grandma at the table.
Lee’s family all joined hands for the prayer. And, despite the fact that I did say a little prayer by rote before dinner at my house, my family never joined hands, so when Lee grabbed one of my hands, and his sister grabbed the other, I may have inadvertently, let out a little scream. But, hey, cut me some slack, I had just been traumatized.
Lee’s grandfather prayed. Then Lee’s mother, who sat to his left, prayed. Then Lee’s father said a few words of prayer. I remembered what Lee had told me about the family’s mealtime prayer. I was glad they viewed me as a non-prayer. I didn’t think my little “God is good…” would be too impressive either to Lee’s family, or, to God himself, if he was doing any comparisons.
Lee’s turn to pray came next. When he finished his prayer, he gave my hand a little squeeze. What did that mean, I wondered. Surely he wasn’t saying, “It’s your turn, sick boy.” Was he selling me down the river because I wasn’t going to spend the night? I waited for Lee’s sister to pray. But instead, just silence. Finally, after a few seconds that seemed like thirty minutes I looked up.
Grandpa was staring at me. Mr. and Mrs. Kingery were staring at me. And, while I didn’t look from side to side, I can only imagine the Kingery kids were staring at me. What to do? I had to think fast. Should I try making up a prayer? Finally, the correct thing to do dawned on me. Inspiration? Who knows?
“I pass,” I said. Grandpa harrumphed a little, but, thankfully, Lee’s sister went ahead and said her prayer.
The rest of the meal was relatively uneventful. I think Grandpa continued to make some comments about that boy who doesn’t know how to pray. But, I was just enjoying the chicken and mashed potatoes. One thing I’ve learned in life, no matter how bad things are, it never hurts to enjoy a big meal.
I imagine that Mrs. Kingery may have concluded by my devouring half a bird and a bowl of potatoes, that I was feeling better. And, truthfully I was...until the chicken was gone. Then I started thinking about the picture again. Nobody was saying anything about me leaving. Had they forgotten? I figured if they weren’t going to broach the subject, I had to.
“I still want to go home,” I said. In other words, folks, don’t get the idea I’m here for the long haul.
Lee started crying again. Grandpa got up and left the table. Lee’s mother was still very kind. “Are you still feeling sick, Steve?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’m,” I said, trying to sound as sick as I could.
“Well we’ll call your parents. I’m sorry you can’t stay.” That Mrs. Kingery sure was a nice lady. Through the years, I’ve wondered if I made the right decision. Now, that I’m grown and know that a picture of a dead woman is not really that threatening, I have come to the conclusion that there’s no use in taking chances. I’m still glad I left.
On the way home, I explained the whole situation to my father. He was understanding, if not altogether proud of the fact that I had decided not to stay.
The real problems began when I got home and my brothers learned what had happened. Even though they were both younger than I, they were not nearly as timid and frightened by things as I was.
Mickey, who was a year younger than me, tucked his arms up into his armpits and did the chicken strut around the house, and then the next day, at the bus stop. He took such delight in squawking and proclaiming, “Steve’s a chicken. He’s scared of a picture.” Both he and my younger brother, Barry, spent the next several days informing all the kids in the neighborhood of my cowardice.
That’s really what started the horrible chain of events that led to the night I slept with Cy Dillon’s mother. Children can be so cruel. I know. I was one. I would have ridiculed them mercilessly, given the proper opportunity. But, at this point I was the one being teased. I needed to prove that I wasn't a chicken. I needed another chance at a sleepover. But, more about that tomorrow.
When we last left me, I had just handed back to Lee Kingery the beautifully framed picture of his grandmother…in her coffin. I was trembling, but doing my best to keep my composure. What sort of freaky family was I involved with?
“I need to go home,” I told Lee. Lee immediately began to cry. He ran into the kitchen and tearfully wailed to his mother, “Don’t let Steve go home.”
The possibility that I was going to be held captive by this dead-people-picture-taking clan did go through my head. Lee’s mother answered her son, “What do you mean, don’t let Steve go home. He’s spending the night, isn’t he?”
I had followed Lee into the kitchen. “No ma’m,” I squeaked. “I don’t feel so good. I need to go home.” I wasn’t lying. The more I thought about grandma in the piano bench, the sicker I was getting.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Kingery said. She sounded so sweet, I momentarily felt badly about making her son cry. “Why don’t you have dinner with us and then if you’re not feeling any better, we’ll call your parents.”
In my moment of feeling badly I agreed to stay for dinner. And despite the fact that THE picture was in the same house I was in, the fried chicken did smell good. Within moments, the family had all gathered at the kitchen table. There was Lee, his sister, his mom and dad, and grandpa. I don’t know if he was the widower of dead-grandma-in-the-piano-bench or not but, there was no grandma at the table.
Lee’s family all joined hands for the prayer. And, despite the fact that I did say a little prayer by rote before dinner at my house, my family never joined hands, so when Lee grabbed one of my hands, and his sister grabbed the other, I may have inadvertently, let out a little scream. But, hey, cut me some slack, I had just been traumatized.
Lee’s grandfather prayed. Then Lee’s mother, who sat to his left, prayed. Then Lee’s father said a few words of prayer. I remembered what Lee had told me about the family’s mealtime prayer. I was glad they viewed me as a non-prayer. I didn’t think my little “God is good…” would be too impressive either to Lee’s family, or, to God himself, if he was doing any comparisons.
Lee’s turn to pray came next. When he finished his prayer, he gave my hand a little squeeze. What did that mean, I wondered. Surely he wasn’t saying, “It’s your turn, sick boy.” Was he selling me down the river because I wasn’t going to spend the night? I waited for Lee’s sister to pray. But instead, just silence. Finally, after a few seconds that seemed like thirty minutes I looked up.
Grandpa was staring at me. Mr. and Mrs. Kingery were staring at me. And, while I didn’t look from side to side, I can only imagine the Kingery kids were staring at me. What to do? I had to think fast. Should I try making up a prayer? Finally, the correct thing to do dawned on me. Inspiration? Who knows?
“I pass,” I said. Grandpa harrumphed a little, but, thankfully, Lee’s sister went ahead and said her prayer.
The rest of the meal was relatively uneventful. I think Grandpa continued to make some comments about that boy who doesn’t know how to pray. But, I was just enjoying the chicken and mashed potatoes. One thing I’ve learned in life, no matter how bad things are, it never hurts to enjoy a big meal.
I imagine that Mrs. Kingery may have concluded by my devouring half a bird and a bowl of potatoes, that I was feeling better. And, truthfully I was...until the chicken was gone. Then I started thinking about the picture again. Nobody was saying anything about me leaving. Had they forgotten? I figured if they weren’t going to broach the subject, I had to.
“I still want to go home,” I said. In other words, folks, don’t get the idea I’m here for the long haul.
Lee started crying again. Grandpa got up and left the table. Lee’s mother was still very kind. “Are you still feeling sick, Steve?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’m,” I said, trying to sound as sick as I could.
“Well we’ll call your parents. I’m sorry you can’t stay.” That Mrs. Kingery sure was a nice lady. Through the years, I’ve wondered if I made the right decision. Now, that I’m grown and know that a picture of a dead woman is not really that threatening, I have come to the conclusion that there’s no use in taking chances. I’m still glad I left.
On the way home, I explained the whole situation to my father. He was understanding, if not altogether proud of the fact that I had decided not to stay.
The real problems began when I got home and my brothers learned what had happened. Even though they were both younger than I, they were not nearly as timid and frightened by things as I was.
Mickey, who was a year younger than me, tucked his arms up into his armpits and did the chicken strut around the house, and then the next day, at the bus stop. He took such delight in squawking and proclaiming, “Steve’s a chicken. He’s scared of a picture.” Both he and my younger brother, Barry, spent the next several days informing all the kids in the neighborhood of my cowardice.
That’s really what started the horrible chain of events that led to the night I slept with Cy Dillon’s mother. Children can be so cruel. I know. I was one. I would have ridiculed them mercilessly, given the proper opportunity. But, at this point I was the one being teased. I needed to prove that I wasn't a chicken. I needed another chance at a sleepover. But, more about that tomorrow.
Monday, August 15, 2005
The Night I Slept With Cy Dillon's Mother - Part I
I went through my old hometown, Boones Mill, several weeks ago. It really is the land that time forgot. It’s just a little spot in the road between Roanoke and Martinsville. And, it has remained virtually unchanged since I grew up there in the mid- to late-fifties.
Every time I go to Boones Mill, I’m reminded of one of the most horrible nights of my life. It was the night that came to be referred to as “the night Steve slept with Cy Dillon’s mother.” Now, before you go getting your prurient interests aroused, let me assure you that this is a perfectly innocent story. I was eight years old at the time, and believe me, nothing untoward occurred.
Still, it was a horrible night. There were events that led up to that night that I think I need to explain. First, let me say that in the mid-fifties, in rural southwestern Virginia, there were not a lot of recreational opportunities for kids. Sleepovers were the rage.
Nothing was more exciting to a kid than being allowed to spend the night at a friend’s house. At least to most kids, nothing was more exciting. To me, a sleepover was something to be dreaded.
It had all started several months prior to that fateful night (the night with Cy Dillon’s mother). One of my third-grade friends, Lee Kingery, had invited me to stay at his house for the night. Lee lived on a farm and he told me how much fun that would be. Although I was living in a farming community, I didn’t really know much about farm life. I had been born in Richmond, and my family had moved to the Roanoke area when I was five. My father was the town doctor in Boones Mill. I remember asking him why he didn’t do something important. I was embarrassed that my father wasn’t a farmer like most of the fathers of my friends.
Anyway, I do tend to make a short story long. I remember the day I headed for school, my little suitcase in hand, excitedly planning on spending the night at Lee Kingery’s farm. My mother had given me a laundry list of instructions, such as say “yes ma’m” and “yes sir,” and that sort of thing. She also had asked me about a dozen times if I had remembered to pack clean underwear. Clean underwear was evidently right at the very top of the list of the most important things in life, to my mother.
The whole day, in class, Lee kept telling me what a great time we would have. He did warn me that his grandfather, who lived with the family, expected everyone at the dinner table to join hands and to have a share in saying the prayer. But, he assured me that his father had informed the grandfather not to ask me to pray. I guess the whole town must have known that my family was not very religious at that time. Maybe there was an article in the county weekly that proclaimed, “The Cook’s Don’t Pray.” Whatever the case, it was a subject that had already been discussed around the Kingery table.
Anyway, after school, Lee and I get on the school bus and headed out to the country. His house was just an old farmhouse, but I thought it was cool. And, the farm looked like it would be an interesting place to explore.
Lee’s mother was very kind. She had some warm, homemade cookies waiting for us. I was afraid she might try and make me drink milk with it, but fortunately, she didn’t. Milk made me gag…still does, for that matter. Lee and I took our schoolbooks up to his room and then came back down to the kitchen to devour the chocolate chip cookies. We then took a tour of his farm.
Before too long, we heard his mom calling us. Dinner would be ready in about ten minutes. Up until this point, I was having a great time. This sleepover thing was fantastic. Little did I know the horrors that awaited in the house…only moments away.
When we got back to the house, we still had a few moments to kill before dinner. Lee, oh so innocently, asked me if I would like to see a picture of his grandmother who had died a few months previously. What could I say? I wasn’t dying to see her picture, but, hey, what could it hurt? If only I’d known then what was just around the corner (figuratively speaking). I would have fled the Kingery home, and never looked back.
Lee proceeded to go over to the piano, in the parlor. I guess it was a parlor. I always heard farm folk kept a piano in the parlor. He opened the piano bench and pulled out a picture in a gold frame. He looked lovingly at the picture and handed it to me. I’ll never forget that moment…a truly frightening moment. There, in the frame, was a picture of Lee Kingery’s dear, sweet, old granny…lying in her coffin.
Here I was holding a picture some morbid family member had taken, of women, dead as a doornail, lying in a casket. I think my own heart stopped there for a moment. I mustered up all the courage I could. And, even if I didn’t pray all that much, I’m sure I was saying a few prayers at that moment.
As casually as I could, I handed the picture back to Lee. “That’s nice,” I squeaked. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to go home.”
TOMORROW – THE NIGHT I SLEPT WITH CY DILLON’S MOTHER, PART II.
Every time I go to Boones Mill, I’m reminded of one of the most horrible nights of my life. It was the night that came to be referred to as “the night Steve slept with Cy Dillon’s mother.” Now, before you go getting your prurient interests aroused, let me assure you that this is a perfectly innocent story. I was eight years old at the time, and believe me, nothing untoward occurred.
Still, it was a horrible night. There were events that led up to that night that I think I need to explain. First, let me say that in the mid-fifties, in rural southwestern Virginia, there were not a lot of recreational opportunities for kids. Sleepovers were the rage.
Nothing was more exciting to a kid than being allowed to spend the night at a friend’s house. At least to most kids, nothing was more exciting. To me, a sleepover was something to be dreaded.
It had all started several months prior to that fateful night (the night with Cy Dillon’s mother). One of my third-grade friends, Lee Kingery, had invited me to stay at his house for the night. Lee lived on a farm and he told me how much fun that would be. Although I was living in a farming community, I didn’t really know much about farm life. I had been born in Richmond, and my family had moved to the Roanoke area when I was five. My father was the town doctor in Boones Mill. I remember asking him why he didn’t do something important. I was embarrassed that my father wasn’t a farmer like most of the fathers of my friends.
Anyway, I do tend to make a short story long. I remember the day I headed for school, my little suitcase in hand, excitedly planning on spending the night at Lee Kingery’s farm. My mother had given me a laundry list of instructions, such as say “yes ma’m” and “yes sir,” and that sort of thing. She also had asked me about a dozen times if I had remembered to pack clean underwear. Clean underwear was evidently right at the very top of the list of the most important things in life, to my mother.
The whole day, in class, Lee kept telling me what a great time we would have. He did warn me that his grandfather, who lived with the family, expected everyone at the dinner table to join hands and to have a share in saying the prayer. But, he assured me that his father had informed the grandfather not to ask me to pray. I guess the whole town must have known that my family was not very religious at that time. Maybe there was an article in the county weekly that proclaimed, “The Cook’s Don’t Pray.” Whatever the case, it was a subject that had already been discussed around the Kingery table.
Anyway, after school, Lee and I get on the school bus and headed out to the country. His house was just an old farmhouse, but I thought it was cool. And, the farm looked like it would be an interesting place to explore.
Lee’s mother was very kind. She had some warm, homemade cookies waiting for us. I was afraid she might try and make me drink milk with it, but fortunately, she didn’t. Milk made me gag…still does, for that matter. Lee and I took our schoolbooks up to his room and then came back down to the kitchen to devour the chocolate chip cookies. We then took a tour of his farm.
Before too long, we heard his mom calling us. Dinner would be ready in about ten minutes. Up until this point, I was having a great time. This sleepover thing was fantastic. Little did I know the horrors that awaited in the house…only moments away.
When we got back to the house, we still had a few moments to kill before dinner. Lee, oh so innocently, asked me if I would like to see a picture of his grandmother who had died a few months previously. What could I say? I wasn’t dying to see her picture, but, hey, what could it hurt? If only I’d known then what was just around the corner (figuratively speaking). I would have fled the Kingery home, and never looked back.
Lee proceeded to go over to the piano, in the parlor. I guess it was a parlor. I always heard farm folk kept a piano in the parlor. He opened the piano bench and pulled out a picture in a gold frame. He looked lovingly at the picture and handed it to me. I’ll never forget that moment…a truly frightening moment. There, in the frame, was a picture of Lee Kingery’s dear, sweet, old granny…lying in her coffin.
Here I was holding a picture some morbid family member had taken, of women, dead as a doornail, lying in a casket. I think my own heart stopped there for a moment. I mustered up all the courage I could. And, even if I didn’t pray all that much, I’m sure I was saying a few prayers at that moment.
As casually as I could, I handed the picture back to Lee. “That’s nice,” I squeaked. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to go home.”
TOMORROW – THE NIGHT I SLEPT WITH CY DILLON’S MOTHER, PART II.
Friday, August 12, 2005
As A Matter of Fact, I Am Crazy, Thank You Very Much
I heard a report on the news yesterday that the percentage of Americans with some type of mental disorder is higher than ever before. I think the number was about 25%, but it may have been even higher. And, according to the American Mental Health Association, more than 54 million Americans suffer from some sort of mental disorder each year. Which means, that if you're not crazy yet, just stick around. You will be.
I'm sure part of the problem is that we do live in a stress-filled world, but I think there is an even bigger reason that so many of us are having mental issues. I've given this topic a lot of thought, at least four or five hours of thinking about it. And, now, I'm ready to reveal my conclusion. The main reason so many Americans have a mental disorder is that the American Mental Health Association keeps inventing new mental disorders.
For instance, did you know that in addition to low self esteem disorder, one can now have high self esteem disorder. In the good old days, that person was just an ego-maniac. Now, I guess, he's a full-blown maniac. There's also something known as Asperger's Disorder. It's a disorder typified by "nutty professor" characteristics. Here's how the folks at AMHA (American Mental Health Association) describe that disorder: "This character is not good with social clues, missing some aspects of 'common sense,' shows strange aspects of posture or gait - but is brilliant in some scientific of mathematical kinds of focus."
If that's a disorder, then I'm sure there are many other characteristics of people who think they're sane, that really indicate a mental disorder. I've got several disorders myself. I'll list a few. Keep in mind the names I give to the disorders have not been officially approved by the AMHA (American Mental Health Association) yet. Here they are:
Abbreviation Phobia: This is a condition that requires the sufferer to always explan (often parenthetically) what the abbreviation he has just used in his column stands for. Usually an Abbreviation Phobia sufferer also suffers from Hyper Parentheses Usage Disorder. He (or she) feels compelled to overexplain (in written form, usually) what he (or she) is trying to say (in his or her column). I know some really pathetic people who suffer from these two disorders.
Here's another: Projectile Spittle Obsession Disorder. These sufferers are unable to concentrate on anything else once the spittle of the person with whom they are speaking is projected onto their faces. If someone suffering from PSOD (Projectile Spittle Obsession Disorder) is the recipient of even the tiniest piece of spit, that said piece of spit burns on his (or her) skin until he (or she) can wipe it off. The sufferer is unable to engage in any further conversation from the moment the spit hits the face. Even after subtly removing the spit, he feels phantom spit burning into his skin for several hours.
I think I have time for one more disorder. Tee Shirt in Public Disorder. These sufferers are generally fat, overweight males. They suffer from an unreasonable fear that should they go out in public wearing nothing but a t-shirt (of course, they are wearing pants), that someone will make fun of their excessive fat. These sufferers know that no decent human would ever make fun of them, but reasonableness is not a trait found in the TSiPD (Tee Shirt in Public Disorder) sufferer. If, by some weird chance, this sufferer is teased about his or her flab, it is highly unlikely that he will ever recover. PS TO CERTAIN CO-WORKERS: Read the previous sentence carefully.
As you can see, there are any number of disorders that plague us Americans. We are a crazy lot. Of course, the worst disorder is one I like to call MATTMI disorder. That, of course, is Making Americans Think They're Mentally Ill disorder. And there are a whole bunch of these sufferers. You can find them at the AMHA (American Mental Health Association).
I'm sure part of the problem is that we do live in a stress-filled world, but I think there is an even bigger reason that so many of us are having mental issues. I've given this topic a lot of thought, at least four or five hours of thinking about it. And, now, I'm ready to reveal my conclusion. The main reason so many Americans have a mental disorder is that the American Mental Health Association keeps inventing new mental disorders.
For instance, did you know that in addition to low self esteem disorder, one can now have high self esteem disorder. In the good old days, that person was just an ego-maniac. Now, I guess, he's a full-blown maniac. There's also something known as Asperger's Disorder. It's a disorder typified by "nutty professor" characteristics. Here's how the folks at AMHA (American Mental Health Association) describe that disorder: "This character is not good with social clues, missing some aspects of 'common sense,' shows strange aspects of posture or gait - but is brilliant in some scientific of mathematical kinds of focus."
If that's a disorder, then I'm sure there are many other characteristics of people who think they're sane, that really indicate a mental disorder. I've got several disorders myself. I'll list a few. Keep in mind the names I give to the disorders have not been officially approved by the AMHA (American Mental Health Association) yet. Here they are:
Abbreviation Phobia: This is a condition that requires the sufferer to always explan (often parenthetically) what the abbreviation he has just used in his column stands for. Usually an Abbreviation Phobia sufferer also suffers from Hyper Parentheses Usage Disorder. He (or she) feels compelled to overexplain (in written form, usually) what he (or she) is trying to say (in his or her column). I know some really pathetic people who suffer from these two disorders.
Here's another: Projectile Spittle Obsession Disorder. These sufferers are unable to concentrate on anything else once the spittle of the person with whom they are speaking is projected onto their faces. If someone suffering from PSOD (Projectile Spittle Obsession Disorder) is the recipient of even the tiniest piece of spit, that said piece of spit burns on his (or her) skin until he (or she) can wipe it off. The sufferer is unable to engage in any further conversation from the moment the spit hits the face. Even after subtly removing the spit, he feels phantom spit burning into his skin for several hours.
I think I have time for one more disorder. Tee Shirt in Public Disorder. These sufferers are generally fat, overweight males. They suffer from an unreasonable fear that should they go out in public wearing nothing but a t-shirt (of course, they are wearing pants), that someone will make fun of their excessive fat. These sufferers know that no decent human would ever make fun of them, but reasonableness is not a trait found in the TSiPD (Tee Shirt in Public Disorder) sufferer. If, by some weird chance, this sufferer is teased about his or her flab, it is highly unlikely that he will ever recover. PS TO CERTAIN CO-WORKERS: Read the previous sentence carefully.
As you can see, there are any number of disorders that plague us Americans. We are a crazy lot. Of course, the worst disorder is one I like to call MATTMI disorder. That, of course, is Making Americans Think They're Mentally Ill disorder. And there are a whole bunch of these sufferers. You can find them at the AMHA (American Mental Health Association).
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Everyone's Crazy Here But Me. Hey Stop Looking At Me That Way!
One of the best things about this blog deal is that I get to vent. Maybe no one reads it, but at least I have an outlet. And, with all the really stupid stuff going on in the news, I need some sort of a soap box to let it all out. I really, truly believe this world has gone totally mad.
It's rather frightening to think what sort of people are out there...people we have to rub shoulders with on a daily basis. I mean there are some folks who are so screwed up in the head. I've been reading about this Jennifer Hyatte, and I don't know who is the most screwed up in that bunch.
Her ex-husband, by whom she has three children, says, "She was just a wonderful mother and wife." Yeah, so, why did you two divorce? And, think about this, she got custody of the kids.
From the looks of her, I'm going to venture a wild guess that she probably wasn't the most popular girl in school, certainly not the beauty queen. One news report listed her age as 31. I'd double that if she'd stopped by my age-guessing concession at the fair.
But, quite likely, the woman is a caring type of person. She was probably the girl who'd stop the car and go back and help a turtle crossing the road. You know the type. If she saw an injured puppy, she'd take him in and nurse him back to health.
In fact, early last year, Jennifer earned her diploma as a licensed practical nurse. She got a job with a state contractor in Tennessee. That position took her into the Northwest Correctional Complex, where she would provide health care to inmates. I can just imagine her going in with wide-eyed innocence, hoping to make a difference. Well, Jennifer, you really did make a big difference in the lives of Wayne Morgan's family. He's the guard she shot dead in helping her new husband (and, step-father of her kids, don't forget), George, escape from prison.
What kind of woman falls in love with a violent criminal and marries him, knowing she's going to be bringing him home to the kids? "Hey boys and girls, look what momma has for you...347601, your new daddy." I don't know what kind of woman does it, but plenty of women seem to get caught up in the romantic (?) notion of marrying a killer or some other member of the violent-crime community. Scott Peterson's conviction of murdering his wife and unborn child just seemed to make him even more attractive to a number of women who have mailed proposal letters to his new prison home.
Another question I have is what kind of father watches his obviously mentally deranged ex-wife marry a prisoner, knowing that his (the real dad's) kids are going to be living with him (the step-dad)? Maybe, Jennifer's ex did get outraged and go after custody, but from the reports I've read, it doesn't appear that way. In fact, the ex-husband is quoted as saying regarding George "The Convict" Hyatte, "He seemed like a great guy." I have a hunch that if I were looking for someone who had an exceptional ability to judge the character of others, Jennifer Hyatte's ex-husband would probably not get the job.
At last report Jennifer's three kids had not been told of their mother's escapades. "Well, you see kids, your mom kinda wanted a honeymoon with her new hubby, so, she gets this gun, you see, and she steals a car..." Watch out world. Here comes a new bunch of really screwed up people.
It's rather frightening to think what sort of people are out there...people we have to rub shoulders with on a daily basis. I mean there are some folks who are so screwed up in the head. I've been reading about this Jennifer Hyatte, and I don't know who is the most screwed up in that bunch.
Her ex-husband, by whom she has three children, says, "She was just a wonderful mother and wife." Yeah, so, why did you two divorce? And, think about this, she got custody of the kids.
From the looks of her, I'm going to venture a wild guess that she probably wasn't the most popular girl in school, certainly not the beauty queen. One news report listed her age as 31. I'd double that if she'd stopped by my age-guessing concession at the fair.
But, quite likely, the woman is a caring type of person. She was probably the girl who'd stop the car and go back and help a turtle crossing the road. You know the type. If she saw an injured puppy, she'd take him in and nurse him back to health.
In fact, early last year, Jennifer earned her diploma as a licensed practical nurse. She got a job with a state contractor in Tennessee. That position took her into the Northwest Correctional Complex, where she would provide health care to inmates. I can just imagine her going in with wide-eyed innocence, hoping to make a difference. Well, Jennifer, you really did make a big difference in the lives of Wayne Morgan's family. He's the guard she shot dead in helping her new husband (and, step-father of her kids, don't forget), George, escape from prison.
What kind of woman falls in love with a violent criminal and marries him, knowing she's going to be bringing him home to the kids? "Hey boys and girls, look what momma has for you...347601, your new daddy." I don't know what kind of woman does it, but plenty of women seem to get caught up in the romantic (?) notion of marrying a killer or some other member of the violent-crime community. Scott Peterson's conviction of murdering his wife and unborn child just seemed to make him even more attractive to a number of women who have mailed proposal letters to his new prison home.
Another question I have is what kind of father watches his obviously mentally deranged ex-wife marry a prisoner, knowing that his (the real dad's) kids are going to be living with him (the step-dad)? Maybe, Jennifer's ex did get outraged and go after custody, but from the reports I've read, it doesn't appear that way. In fact, the ex-husband is quoted as saying regarding George "The Convict" Hyatte, "He seemed like a great guy." I have a hunch that if I were looking for someone who had an exceptional ability to judge the character of others, Jennifer Hyatte's ex-husband would probably not get the job.
At last report Jennifer's three kids had not been told of their mother's escapades. "Well, you see kids, your mom kinda wanted a honeymoon with her new hubby, so, she gets this gun, you see, and she steals a car..." Watch out world. Here comes a new bunch of really screwed up people.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Race Related Decision
After much deliberation, I am ready to announce my decision as to which city will get the NASCAR Hall of Fame. Admittedly, my decision carries absolutely no weight, but given the fact that I am hardly, if ever, wrong, I think you will be (or should be) quite anxious to hear my decision.
I've reviewed each city in the running. Let me tell you why, or why not, for each city.
Daytona - Don't they have enough NASCAR stuff going on already? They don't need the Hall of Fame. It would be overkill. The France family has already taken the dingy-motel capital of the world and turned it into a stock-car racing junkie's mecca. So, Daytona will not get the nod.
Atlanta - Too far from the population base needed to make the facility a huge success. Besides, Atlanta is the Coca Cola capital of the world. You may not believe this, but I know all the capitals of the world. What self-respecting NASCAR fan wants to be associated with a SOFT drink. Milwaukee would be a better choice. But, Milwaukee isn't in the race.
Charlotte - Charlotte should really be named South Atlanta. It's just a smaller, even more boring, version of Atlanta. Don't get me wrong, Charlotte has done lots of things right and has far surpassed Richmond in many ways. Actually, if Richmond could get all it's council persons out of jail at the same time, it could give Charlotte a good fight for many businesses that have relocated there. But, Charlotte is not in the right location for the NASCAR Hall of Fame. And, one more thing, the France family may have some personal reasons not to want Charlotte...like a little bad blood thing. But, I won't go into that here.
Kansas City, Kansas - Huh? KC says it should get the Hall because it's centrally located. Yeah, right in the middle of nowhere. Put the Hall in Kansas and everybody has to drive a long (albeit somewhat equal) distance to get there. But, really, I can sum up my main reason Kansas City won't get the Hall in five words - "Hey, it's in Kansas, people." Not since Dorothy, has anyone wanted to go to Kansas. I spent the longest day of my life driving through Kansas one time. Now, if you have a corn and wheat fetish, it is THE place for you, but if not, forget it.
Which brings us to Richmond. I think the group trying to get the Hall in Richmond should do one thing. And, this is free advice, so you guys better listen up. Call it the Richmond Region. Thankfully, RIR is in Henrico. If the proposal was to build the hall within the Richmond city limits, you can bet that it would be nixed...by Richmond officials. I envision a day when, as you drive through Richmond, you'll see billboards, amidst run-down, abandoned buildings. The billboards will proclaim: "Here is where the stadium would have been," or "Here is where a Performing Arts Center was supposed to be built." Richmond, the only city in the United States to be ruled by a governor, is the biggest drawback to having the Hall in Richmond. But, if those NASCAR guys can be made to appreciate that the Hall is only NEAR Richmond, I think we have a good chance.
The Richmond Region is good. In fact it's so good that not even Richmond city officials can ruin it. It is near virtually anything and everything that anyone could ever want. And this area does indeed have a great NASCAR history.
I haven't seen the plans presented by the other cities. I don't like to clutter my brain up with too many facts. But, the plan presented by the local guys is good enough for any NASCAR fan.
Really, and I'm not prejudiced at all, Richmond is the only logical choice for the Hall of Fame. I am going to go out on a pretty strong limb and say Richmond will be the home of the Hall. You can take that to the bank. It's a done deal.
And, if for any reason the choice is not Richmond, there will be only one reason. It's the reason I use to help me deal with those many occasions when everyone else disagrees with me. If NASCAR doesn't pick Richmond, then clearly that organization is run by idiots.
I've reviewed each city in the running. Let me tell you why, or why not, for each city.
Daytona - Don't they have enough NASCAR stuff going on already? They don't need the Hall of Fame. It would be overkill. The France family has already taken the dingy-motel capital of the world and turned it into a stock-car racing junkie's mecca. So, Daytona will not get the nod.
Atlanta - Too far from the population base needed to make the facility a huge success. Besides, Atlanta is the Coca Cola capital of the world. You may not believe this, but I know all the capitals of the world. What self-respecting NASCAR fan wants to be associated with a SOFT drink. Milwaukee would be a better choice. But, Milwaukee isn't in the race.
Charlotte - Charlotte should really be named South Atlanta. It's just a smaller, even more boring, version of Atlanta. Don't get me wrong, Charlotte has done lots of things right and has far surpassed Richmond in many ways. Actually, if Richmond could get all it's council persons out of jail at the same time, it could give Charlotte a good fight for many businesses that have relocated there. But, Charlotte is not in the right location for the NASCAR Hall of Fame. And, one more thing, the France family may have some personal reasons not to want Charlotte...like a little bad blood thing. But, I won't go into that here.
Kansas City, Kansas - Huh? KC says it should get the Hall because it's centrally located. Yeah, right in the middle of nowhere. Put the Hall in Kansas and everybody has to drive a long (albeit somewhat equal) distance to get there. But, really, I can sum up my main reason Kansas City won't get the Hall in five words - "Hey, it's in Kansas, people." Not since Dorothy, has anyone wanted to go to Kansas. I spent the longest day of my life driving through Kansas one time. Now, if you have a corn and wheat fetish, it is THE place for you, but if not, forget it.
Which brings us to Richmond. I think the group trying to get the Hall in Richmond should do one thing. And, this is free advice, so you guys better listen up. Call it the Richmond Region. Thankfully, RIR is in Henrico. If the proposal was to build the hall within the Richmond city limits, you can bet that it would be nixed...by Richmond officials. I envision a day when, as you drive through Richmond, you'll see billboards, amidst run-down, abandoned buildings. The billboards will proclaim: "Here is where the stadium would have been," or "Here is where a Performing Arts Center was supposed to be built." Richmond, the only city in the United States to be ruled by a governor, is the biggest drawback to having the Hall in Richmond. But, if those NASCAR guys can be made to appreciate that the Hall is only NEAR Richmond, I think we have a good chance.
The Richmond Region is good. In fact it's so good that not even Richmond city officials can ruin it. It is near virtually anything and everything that anyone could ever want. And this area does indeed have a great NASCAR history.
I haven't seen the plans presented by the other cities. I don't like to clutter my brain up with too many facts. But, the plan presented by the local guys is good enough for any NASCAR fan.
Really, and I'm not prejudiced at all, Richmond is the only logical choice for the Hall of Fame. I am going to go out on a pretty strong limb and say Richmond will be the home of the Hall. You can take that to the bank. It's a done deal.
And, if for any reason the choice is not Richmond, there will be only one reason. It's the reason I use to help me deal with those many occasions when everyone else disagrees with me. If NASCAR doesn't pick Richmond, then clearly that organization is run by idiots.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Grin and Bare It
As you may or may not know, I've joined a local gym (ACAC). It's a great place...perhaps the best physical fitness facility I've ever belonged to. And, believe me, I've belonged to some doozies through the years. Unlike most of the places I've joined in the past, the trainers at ACAC seem to really care about the customer.
Most of these fitness centers are so sales oriented that by the time I leave from myh first visit, I've not only signed up for the lifetime supreme membership, but I've also purchased a used car from the sales guy, and have committed to be his next tier down for his Amway business.
Another complaint I have about the trainers in some of the other facilities is that I have a suspicion they worked in concentration camps or, at the very least, marine boot camps, prior to joining the club. They seem to have a sadistic little streak which they love to display when working with fat, out-of-shape guys. I remember one experience where I spent the first part of my first visit to the club gasping for breath as the trainer put me through the paces, and the second half throwing up. Needless to say, I didn't go back, despite the fact I did have the supreme lifetime membership.
Even though I love ACAC, there are a few things I still have some difficulty with. For one, when I'm doing my strength training, I never can remember when I'm supposed to exhale and when I'm supposed to inhale. I hear all the other guys (the manly men) grunting and poofing and I can't figure out when I grunt and when I poof. I try, but it generally comes out as the sound of an anguished animal caught in some kind of a trap in the woods.
Something else that's getting a bit easier, but still gives me a little problem is naked men. I've never been all that comfortable around a bunch of naked guys. It probably goes back to high school when the big guys would take us little guys and dunk our heads in the toilet. Anyway, even to this day, when I see a big naked guy, I wanna run.
There's this modesty thing as well. I believe in wrapping a towel around me as I walk from the locker room to the showers or steam room. A lot of guys don't believe in that. And I'm talking some pretty old guys, too. For some reason, it's just plain difficult for me to ask a naked man how he's doing.
Everytime I step into the communal shower, I'm reminded of an old Seinfeld episode where George let nature take it's course in the communal shower. That show should have gotten some sort of a public service award, because it calls me to my senses when the hot water hits me. The whole time I'm in the shower, Im just hoping all the other guys in the shower saw that episode as well.
Most of these fitness centers are so sales oriented that by the time I leave from myh first visit, I've not only signed up for the lifetime supreme membership, but I've also purchased a used car from the sales guy, and have committed to be his next tier down for his Amway business.
Another complaint I have about the trainers in some of the other facilities is that I have a suspicion they worked in concentration camps or, at the very least, marine boot camps, prior to joining the club. They seem to have a sadistic little streak which they love to display when working with fat, out-of-shape guys. I remember one experience where I spent the first part of my first visit to the club gasping for breath as the trainer put me through the paces, and the second half throwing up. Needless to say, I didn't go back, despite the fact I did have the supreme lifetime membership.
Even though I love ACAC, there are a few things I still have some difficulty with. For one, when I'm doing my strength training, I never can remember when I'm supposed to exhale and when I'm supposed to inhale. I hear all the other guys (the manly men) grunting and poofing and I can't figure out when I grunt and when I poof. I try, but it generally comes out as the sound of an anguished animal caught in some kind of a trap in the woods.
Something else that's getting a bit easier, but still gives me a little problem is naked men. I've never been all that comfortable around a bunch of naked guys. It probably goes back to high school when the big guys would take us little guys and dunk our heads in the toilet. Anyway, even to this day, when I see a big naked guy, I wanna run.
There's this modesty thing as well. I believe in wrapping a towel around me as I walk from the locker room to the showers or steam room. A lot of guys don't believe in that. And I'm talking some pretty old guys, too. For some reason, it's just plain difficult for me to ask a naked man how he's doing.
Everytime I step into the communal shower, I'm reminded of an old Seinfeld episode where George let nature take it's course in the communal shower. That show should have gotten some sort of a public service award, because it calls me to my senses when the hot water hits me. The whole time I'm in the shower, Im just hoping all the other guys in the shower saw that episode as well.
Friday, August 05, 2005
I Stink, Therefore I Am
People can be so cruel. Why do people, especially my co-workers, have to be that way. Yes, I admit it, I have a problem that plays havoc with my social life. It's probably a problem I've had much of my life, but, either I've become more aware of it, or it has, indeed worsened in the past few years. I would write Dear Abby about it, but, I can't remember if she's the dead twin, and if she is dead, I'm pretty sure any advice she might offer would be greatly limited.
Whether my problem has worsened or not, one thing for sure, I get ridiculed by my co-workers a lot more these days. Basically, I guess you could describe my problem as an eating disorder. I can't seem to transport food from my plate to my mouth without spilling massive quantities on my clothes. It doesn't matter what I'm eating, or which utensil I choose to do the job, I spill. I spill soup. I spill mashed potatoes. You name it, I've probably spilled it.
But, again, I ask, why do those with whom I spend eight hours or more a day, find such delight in making fun of me. I'm just not that sort of person I guess. For instance, one of our assistant editors, whom I'll call Alaina, spilled something on her blouse yesterday. It was horrible looking, really messy. But, would I hold her up to public humiliation? Would I be so ungentlemanly to mention it? No. My lips are sealed. Sure, she was really ridiculous looking, but I wouldn't say that to anyone. That's just not me.
What is me, is a messy slob. If I'm eating a hamburger and there's a slice of tomato on the burger, wanna guess where the tomato ends up? That's right, in my lap. Maybe I grip my burgers too tightly, because whatever is on the burger, from ketchup to pickles to lettuce, seems to squirt from between the bun and onto me.
You can imagine how I look by the end of the day. That's what everyone chides me about. Evidently my clothes smell like a cheap Chinese buffet at closing time. It's gotten so bad, when I undress in the evening, I hang my ties in the refrigerator.
Needless to say, going out in public, basking in the odors of my daily repast, does not make me especially popular among fellow employees, business acquaintances, or even my family.
It's the same way with any beverage I drink. I cannot for the life of me figure out how I manage to fling coffee from that little hole in the top of the 7-11 cup just by bringing said cup to my lips. I think I hold the cup and move the cup and position the cup in a normal, every-day sort of way. But it is virtually impossible for me to drink coffee without having it all over my shirt. And, have you ever smelled stale coffee? If you answered "yes" to that, then you have, in effect smelled me.
I don't think there's something terribly wrong with me. I just think it's who I am. Some people lisp. Some people are excessively gaseous. I'm a spiller. I don't like it. But, I can't seem to be able to change it. So, I live with it, and I guess, by extension, everyone with whom I come in contact, lives with it too.
I guess I'm saying all this as a sort of way to warn you. If I'm coming your way, I'd love to meet you. But, just know that what you're smelling is not some medical disorder, it's just me being me. And, if you do have an appointment with me coming up, let me know your favorite foods, and I'll make an effort to spill it before we get together. Hey, that's the least I can do.
Whether my problem has worsened or not, one thing for sure, I get ridiculed by my co-workers a lot more these days. Basically, I guess you could describe my problem as an eating disorder. I can't seem to transport food from my plate to my mouth without spilling massive quantities on my clothes. It doesn't matter what I'm eating, or which utensil I choose to do the job, I spill. I spill soup. I spill mashed potatoes. You name it, I've probably spilled it.
But, again, I ask, why do those with whom I spend eight hours or more a day, find such delight in making fun of me. I'm just not that sort of person I guess. For instance, one of our assistant editors, whom I'll call Alaina, spilled something on her blouse yesterday. It was horrible looking, really messy. But, would I hold her up to public humiliation? Would I be so ungentlemanly to mention it? No. My lips are sealed. Sure, she was really ridiculous looking, but I wouldn't say that to anyone. That's just not me.
What is me, is a messy slob. If I'm eating a hamburger and there's a slice of tomato on the burger, wanna guess where the tomato ends up? That's right, in my lap. Maybe I grip my burgers too tightly, because whatever is on the burger, from ketchup to pickles to lettuce, seems to squirt from between the bun and onto me.
You can imagine how I look by the end of the day. That's what everyone chides me about. Evidently my clothes smell like a cheap Chinese buffet at closing time. It's gotten so bad, when I undress in the evening, I hang my ties in the refrigerator.
Needless to say, going out in public, basking in the odors of my daily repast, does not make me especially popular among fellow employees, business acquaintances, or even my family.
It's the same way with any beverage I drink. I cannot for the life of me figure out how I manage to fling coffee from that little hole in the top of the 7-11 cup just by bringing said cup to my lips. I think I hold the cup and move the cup and position the cup in a normal, every-day sort of way. But it is virtually impossible for me to drink coffee without having it all over my shirt. And, have you ever smelled stale coffee? If you answered "yes" to that, then you have, in effect smelled me.
I don't think there's something terribly wrong with me. I just think it's who I am. Some people lisp. Some people are excessively gaseous. I'm a spiller. I don't like it. But, I can't seem to be able to change it. So, I live with it, and I guess, by extension, everyone with whom I come in contact, lives with it too.
I guess I'm saying all this as a sort of way to warn you. If I'm coming your way, I'd love to meet you. But, just know that what you're smelling is not some medical disorder, it's just me being me. And, if you do have an appointment with me coming up, let me know your favorite foods, and I'll make an effort to spill it before we get together. Hey, that's the least I can do.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Sr. Steve Habla Espanol
Everything I really ever needed to know about the Spanish language I've learned from reading the Charmin package. I know, I know, I used to rail against multi-language packaging, but that was the old, unenlightened Steve. Now, I'm more accepting. I spent some quality time recently reading the package of Charmin and, quite frankly, I learned a lot.
For instance, do you know what "Papel Higienico" is? You may be thinking it's some sort of edict from the Catholic Chuch. Nope, it's spanish for "toilet paper." Cool, huh? Much nicer than toilet paper. If I were to say, "Hey, look at me, I have some toilet paper," you probably wouldn't even pay me any attention. But, if were to say, "Hey look at me, I have some papel higienico," I bet you'd look at me with a new found respect.
And, that's just the tip of the iceberg (which is Spanish for "iceberg"). On the Charmin package it says that Charmin is safe for your sewer. But, in Spanish it's seguro for your drenaje. Drenage sounds nice. It almost sounds like something you might see on the menu in a Mexican restaurant. But, just suppose, you found a menu item that said "Sewer Surprise." You see what I'm talking about?
Even those Spanish verbs are much neater sounding. Again, referring back to my Charmin, the package comes with a toilet spindle extender for the new Charmin mega roll (rollos to my Spanish-speaking friends). You know, those new rolls are so big that now they need new toilet paper holders to contain them. One day soon, we'll probably have to have our roll of toilet paper delivered by UPS. Anway, in English the Charmin folks say, to "place" the Charmin Extender through the Mega Roll. But, in Spanish, we are instructed to "Introduzca" it. How polite. You're really introducing the extender to the toilet paper. Mr. Extender, I'd like you to meet Mr. Mega Roll. Nice to meet you Mr. Extender - well, you get the point.
I'm excited about this Spanish-speaking thing. I've come to the conclusion, and I admit, some of you will probably not agree with me here, but I truly think we should all start speaking Spanish. Even though you may not agree, hear me out. If we all started speaking Spanish, no woman would ever be called ugly again. They'd simply be feo. Kinda cute sounding, huh? I wouldn't be fat. I'd just be gordo. And believe you me, I'd much rather be called "Gordo."
You wouldn't tell anyone their breath stinks. It hedors. And, if you have to break some bad news to someone, imagine how much nicer it would be to say, "Su gato es muerto," than "Your cat is dead."
Are you on the same page with me yet? If we all started speaking Spanish overnight, what a much nicer world this would be. There'd be no more hate, only some "odio." Anger would give way to colero. And wars would cease, being replaced by a helping of guerra.
I love it. From now on, no more English for me. Hablare espanol. Adios.
For instance, do you know what "Papel Higienico" is? You may be thinking it's some sort of edict from the Catholic Chuch. Nope, it's spanish for "toilet paper." Cool, huh? Much nicer than toilet paper. If I were to say, "Hey, look at me, I have some toilet paper," you probably wouldn't even pay me any attention. But, if were to say, "Hey look at me, I have some papel higienico," I bet you'd look at me with a new found respect.
And, that's just the tip of the iceberg (which is Spanish for "iceberg"). On the Charmin package it says that Charmin is safe for your sewer. But, in Spanish it's seguro for your drenaje. Drenage sounds nice. It almost sounds like something you might see on the menu in a Mexican restaurant. But, just suppose, you found a menu item that said "Sewer Surprise." You see what I'm talking about?
Even those Spanish verbs are much neater sounding. Again, referring back to my Charmin, the package comes with a toilet spindle extender for the new Charmin mega roll (rollos to my Spanish-speaking friends). You know, those new rolls are so big that now they need new toilet paper holders to contain them. One day soon, we'll probably have to have our roll of toilet paper delivered by UPS. Anway, in English the Charmin folks say, to "place" the Charmin Extender through the Mega Roll. But, in Spanish, we are instructed to "Introduzca" it. How polite. You're really introducing the extender to the toilet paper. Mr. Extender, I'd like you to meet Mr. Mega Roll. Nice to meet you Mr. Extender - well, you get the point.
I'm excited about this Spanish-speaking thing. I've come to the conclusion, and I admit, some of you will probably not agree with me here, but I truly think we should all start speaking Spanish. Even though you may not agree, hear me out. If we all started speaking Spanish, no woman would ever be called ugly again. They'd simply be feo. Kinda cute sounding, huh? I wouldn't be fat. I'd just be gordo. And believe you me, I'd much rather be called "Gordo."
You wouldn't tell anyone their breath stinks. It hedors. And, if you have to break some bad news to someone, imagine how much nicer it would be to say, "Su gato es muerto," than "Your cat is dead."
Are you on the same page with me yet? If we all started speaking Spanish overnight, what a much nicer world this would be. There'd be no more hate, only some "odio." Anger would give way to colero. And wars would cease, being replaced by a helping of guerra.
I love it. From now on, no more English for me. Hablare espanol. Adios.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Book Him, Danno
Well,I really want to send my heartfelt thanks out to William Knapp, of Elmira, New York. Knapp has single-handedly destroyed a lifelong ambition of mine. For virtually as long as I can remember, I've wanted to drive a book-mobile. I remember my first book-mobile - the first one I had the extreme pleasure of climbing aboard and perusing the collection of books.
I remember thinking that this had to be the neatest thing on the face of the planet. A library on wheels - what would they think of next. For years I dreamed of driving a book-mobile...of proudly donning the book-mobile driver's gray uniform...of pinning the book-mobile driver's badge on my chest (well on my shirt, anyway).
There was only one other career path that had almost as much allure, and that was being an air-conditioner salesman. Alas, I never attained either position in life.
The a/c dream kind of faded through the years, but the idea of driving a book-mobile remained steady, strong. Somehow I think I had never given up on the possibility that one day, yes one glorious,splendid day,I would be hired to drive a book-mobile.
I had toyed with the idea, several years ago, of starting my own book-mobile, but I only had enough money for a cargo van. I was afraid that my patrons would not be exceptionally pleased with the notion of having to crawl around my book-mobile on their hands and knees. My mother, on the other hand, who always thinks I have fantastic ideas, encouraged me to go ahead and do it. "Just put the good books on the bottom shelves," she encouraged me. "And, most people won't even notice they're crawling.
That almost convinced me. There was still one roadblock, which, to tell the truth, I never could get around...how to make money doing it. All the book-mobiles I had been on were free, unless, of course, there were those nasty late fees. I toyed with the idea of charging $10.00 a day for late fees, but, somehow, that just seemed to go against the creed of the book-mobile driver. That creed, I'm guessing, is "Bringing the glory of books to the public without charge, except for those nasty late fees."
So, anyway,I just kept on dreaming that one day I would be a book-mobile driver. It's a dream I had until this morning. Yes,it was only this morning that I learned about William Knapp. If you haven't heard, and I'm sure that soon it will be splattered across all the front pages, Mr. Knapp (and I use the term loosely) was arrested while IN HIS BOOK-MOBILE, for loitering with the intent to solicit sex. Is there nothing sacred left anywhere?
Imagine, a book-mobile driver, proudly wearing his book-mobile driver uniform, sitting in his book-mobile, trying to procure a prostitute. I have to admit my faith in humanity has been shaken to its very core.
The news reported that Knapp is also a Democratic candidate for some local office in Elmira. I've never run for office, (except for that 4-H presidency back in the 3rd grade), but my guess is that soliciting prostitutes is not the most savvy campaign move. But, that's just a guess.
And, to tell you the truth, I'm way too shaken by the whole book-mobile angle to have the energy to dispense political advice this morning.
I just hope William Knapp is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. I hope, to coin a pun (if, indeed one can coin a pun) they throw the book at him.
As for me, I'm left a shattered man...a man who has lost his dream. I wonder if it's too late to rekindle that air conditioning thing.
I remember thinking that this had to be the neatest thing on the face of the planet. A library on wheels - what would they think of next. For years I dreamed of driving a book-mobile...of proudly donning the book-mobile driver's gray uniform...of pinning the book-mobile driver's badge on my chest (well on my shirt, anyway).
There was only one other career path that had almost as much allure, and that was being an air-conditioner salesman. Alas, I never attained either position in life.
The a/c dream kind of faded through the years, but the idea of driving a book-mobile remained steady, strong. Somehow I think I had never given up on the possibility that one day, yes one glorious,splendid day,I would be hired to drive a book-mobile.
I had toyed with the idea, several years ago, of starting my own book-mobile, but I only had enough money for a cargo van. I was afraid that my patrons would not be exceptionally pleased with the notion of having to crawl around my book-mobile on their hands and knees. My mother, on the other hand, who always thinks I have fantastic ideas, encouraged me to go ahead and do it. "Just put the good books on the bottom shelves," she encouraged me. "And, most people won't even notice they're crawling.
That almost convinced me. There was still one roadblock, which, to tell the truth, I never could get around...how to make money doing it. All the book-mobiles I had been on were free, unless, of course, there were those nasty late fees. I toyed with the idea of charging $10.00 a day for late fees, but, somehow, that just seemed to go against the creed of the book-mobile driver. That creed, I'm guessing, is "Bringing the glory of books to the public without charge, except for those nasty late fees."
So, anyway,I just kept on dreaming that one day I would be a book-mobile driver. It's a dream I had until this morning. Yes,it was only this morning that I learned about William Knapp. If you haven't heard, and I'm sure that soon it will be splattered across all the front pages, Mr. Knapp (and I use the term loosely) was arrested while IN HIS BOOK-MOBILE, for loitering with the intent to solicit sex. Is there nothing sacred left anywhere?
Imagine, a book-mobile driver, proudly wearing his book-mobile driver uniform, sitting in his book-mobile, trying to procure a prostitute. I have to admit my faith in humanity has been shaken to its very core.
The news reported that Knapp is also a Democratic candidate for some local office in Elmira. I've never run for office, (except for that 4-H presidency back in the 3rd grade), but my guess is that soliciting prostitutes is not the most savvy campaign move. But, that's just a guess.
And, to tell you the truth, I'm way too shaken by the whole book-mobile angle to have the energy to dispense political advice this morning.
I just hope William Knapp is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. I hope, to coin a pun (if, indeed one can coin a pun) they throw the book at him.
As for me, I'm left a shattered man...a man who has lost his dream. I wonder if it's too late to rekindle that air conditioning thing.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Play It As It Lies
I saw Baltimore Oriole's star Rafael Palmeiro on television this morning. The sound was down, and I saw a video from this past March. He was pointing his finger and it was clear he was in the process of denying. At first, I didn't recognize him (he was in a business suit) and I thought he was a politician saying he had not had sex with someone. Then I turned the volume up and realized it was Palmeiro adamantly denying that he had ever taken steroids. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it, he had NEVER EVER done such a thing.
In so doing, Palmeiro proved that he is among the best at the national pastime. No, I'm not talking about baseball. I'm talking about the new national pastime...lying. Of course, lying has gone beyond being merely a dversion to help one pass time. It's become a way of life for many.
Saying politicans lie, is tantamount to saying snakes bite. It's both a defensive as well as offensive weapon which can turned on at the drop of a hat (in the ring). But, obviously, it's not just politicians and baseball players. It's everywhere.
Which brings me to a painful confession. I lie. There, I've said it. I'm an habitual liar. Come on, don't act like you're shocked. Could anyone really have all the horrible experiences I claim to have? Could someone really receive totally rude, outrageously bad customer service every day? I have to make this stuff up.
And, I think I do it quite well. One problem though. My wife gets mad if I make up something about her. If, for instance, I say she spends too much time shopping, I'll hear about it for a month. "You know I'm not that bad," she'll say. "Why did you say that about me?"
I'll tell you why, dear. I'm a liar. I do it for a living...albeit, not a great one.
Actually, truth be told, I have no interesting experiences in my pathetically, lonely, little life. I've been living in my cellar for the past 7 years, never venturing out into the real world. All I have is my imagination and my computer. And between those two babies, I'm ready to roll. Oh yes, I do have my lovely wife, Morgan Fairchild. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Okay, enough's enough. I'm making this up. I'm not a liar. Every word you read here is the truth...unlike some baseball players and politicians and lawyers I know. When I said I'm a liar, I was lying. But, I'm going to have to cut this short. What many of you don't know is that I'm an emergency room physician on the side and I just got paged. Seems there's some baseball player with a steroid overdose. I'm coming! And, I'll talk to you tomorrow.
In so doing, Palmeiro proved that he is among the best at the national pastime. No, I'm not talking about baseball. I'm talking about the new national pastime...lying. Of course, lying has gone beyond being merely a dversion to help one pass time. It's become a way of life for many.
Saying politicans lie, is tantamount to saying snakes bite. It's both a defensive as well as offensive weapon which can turned on at the drop of a hat (in the ring). But, obviously, it's not just politicians and baseball players. It's everywhere.
Which brings me to a painful confession. I lie. There, I've said it. I'm an habitual liar. Come on, don't act like you're shocked. Could anyone really have all the horrible experiences I claim to have? Could someone really receive totally rude, outrageously bad customer service every day? I have to make this stuff up.
And, I think I do it quite well. One problem though. My wife gets mad if I make up something about her. If, for instance, I say she spends too much time shopping, I'll hear about it for a month. "You know I'm not that bad," she'll say. "Why did you say that about me?"
I'll tell you why, dear. I'm a liar. I do it for a living...albeit, not a great one.
Actually, truth be told, I have no interesting experiences in my pathetically, lonely, little life. I've been living in my cellar for the past 7 years, never venturing out into the real world. All I have is my imagination and my computer. And between those two babies, I'm ready to roll. Oh yes, I do have my lovely wife, Morgan Fairchild. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Okay, enough's enough. I'm making this up. I'm not a liar. Every word you read here is the truth...unlike some baseball players and politicians and lawyers I know. When I said I'm a liar, I was lying. But, I'm going to have to cut this short. What many of you don't know is that I'm an emergency room physician on the side and I just got paged. Seems there's some baseball player with a steroid overdose. I'm coming! And, I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Who Are They Kidding?
There've been two or three news stories recently about police officers being charged with using excessive force (some even resulting in death) in connection with their apprehension of alleged lawbreakers. In each story the police claim that the individual they were trying to arrest had threatened them in one way or another. And, in each story, the individual's family are quick to reply, "My son would never do anything like that."
Who really knows what the truth is? And, while I don't condone the use of excessive force by police officers, I think that generally these guys do an excellent job, often putting their lives on the line for those who are so anxious to crucify them. But, when it comes to the testimony of family members that Johnny wouldn't do anything like beat up a police officer, I'm reminded of a much more innocent event many years ago, in a much more innocent time period...or, at least it seemed more innocent to me as a pre-teen.
My father was a country doctor in Franklin County, Virginia, back in the fifties, back in the days when doctors made housecalls. Back in the days when Franklin County was known as the "moonshine capital of the world."
Anyway, one night, in the middle of the night, my father was awakened by the sounds of someone pounding on the front door. He trudges downstairs in his robe and opens the door to find the very concerned parents of a young man, by the name (or nickname) of Shorty. "Doctor, you gotta come quick," Shorty's father said as my father opened the door.
"What's wrong?" my father asked.
"It's Shorty," Shorty's mom said. "Something's terrible wrong with Shorty."
"Yeah, Doc," Shorty's father spoke. "He can't stand up. He keeps falling down."
"And he can't stop throwing up," Shorty's mom added.
"Could Shorty be drunk?" my father asked.
"No, Sir, Doctor," Shorty's father said, somewhat indignantly, "Shorty don't drink."
"That's right," the mother said, "My Shorty don't drink at all."
So, my father goes upstairs, gets dressed, and as he leaves the house with Shorty's parents, he asks once more if it could be possible that Shorty has had something to drink.
Again Shorty's parents agree, "Shorty don't drink."
The parents I referred to previously are probably convinced that their sons would never break the law, much less (or is it more?) attempt to run from a police officer. They probably in all sincerity believe that the police used excessive force. But, the belief of the parents, no matter how strong, isn't a true indicator of what their children may or may not do.
I'm sure many parents would be, and many others have been, shocked to find out what their kids are capable of. It's not necessarily that the kids are bad, often times just the total inexperience of youth, and peer pressure, along with impaired thinking abilities, whether induced by teen-age hormones or some external substance, or both, can result in teens doing some down-right stupid things.
But just in case you're wondering about Shorty. Here, as Paul Harvey might say, is the rest of the story. When my father returned home following a lengthy trip out into the country to Shorty's rural home, my mother was anxious to find out how the young man was doing.
My father spoke just two words as he climbed back into bed, "Shorty drinks."
Who really knows what the truth is? And, while I don't condone the use of excessive force by police officers, I think that generally these guys do an excellent job, often putting their lives on the line for those who are so anxious to crucify them. But, when it comes to the testimony of family members that Johnny wouldn't do anything like beat up a police officer, I'm reminded of a much more innocent event many years ago, in a much more innocent time period...or, at least it seemed more innocent to me as a pre-teen.
My father was a country doctor in Franklin County, Virginia, back in the fifties, back in the days when doctors made housecalls. Back in the days when Franklin County was known as the "moonshine capital of the world."
Anyway, one night, in the middle of the night, my father was awakened by the sounds of someone pounding on the front door. He trudges downstairs in his robe and opens the door to find the very concerned parents of a young man, by the name (or nickname) of Shorty. "Doctor, you gotta come quick," Shorty's father said as my father opened the door.
"What's wrong?" my father asked.
"It's Shorty," Shorty's mom said. "Something's terrible wrong with Shorty."
"Yeah, Doc," Shorty's father spoke. "He can't stand up. He keeps falling down."
"And he can't stop throwing up," Shorty's mom added.
"Could Shorty be drunk?" my father asked.
"No, Sir, Doctor," Shorty's father said, somewhat indignantly, "Shorty don't drink."
"That's right," the mother said, "My Shorty don't drink at all."
So, my father goes upstairs, gets dressed, and as he leaves the house with Shorty's parents, he asks once more if it could be possible that Shorty has had something to drink.
Again Shorty's parents agree, "Shorty don't drink."
The parents I referred to previously are probably convinced that their sons would never break the law, much less (or is it more?) attempt to run from a police officer. They probably in all sincerity believe that the police used excessive force. But, the belief of the parents, no matter how strong, isn't a true indicator of what their children may or may not do.
I'm sure many parents would be, and many others have been, shocked to find out what their kids are capable of. It's not necessarily that the kids are bad, often times just the total inexperience of youth, and peer pressure, along with impaired thinking abilities, whether induced by teen-age hormones or some external substance, or both, can result in teens doing some down-right stupid things.
But just in case you're wondering about Shorty. Here, as Paul Harvey might say, is the rest of the story. When my father returned home following a lengthy trip out into the country to Shorty's rural home, my mother was anxious to find out how the young man was doing.
My father spoke just two words as he climbed back into bed, "Shorty drinks."
Friday, July 29, 2005
Bursting the Dam
You know how we all tend to chuckle when we reflect on the uproar Clark Gable incited, back in 1939, when he used the "d" word at the end of Gone With The Wind? Well, that's the problem with the world today, or at least one of the problems.
What's the problem, you may be asking. I'll answer. Our chuckling.
You see, if society had clamped down right then and there and said we're not going to allow such profanity, who knows how much better we'd be today. Today, when it comes to profanity, and vulgarity, and just plain public crudeness, everyone pretty much takes much the same attitude Rhett Butler displayed when he uttered his famous line to Scarlett O'Hara. Nobody seems much to care.
While Gone With the Wind was not the first motion picture to include the word in its script, the widespread popularity of that epic motion picture provided an impetus for scriptwriters to become more and more daring. In a sense, when Clark Gable uttered his famous line, it allowed the dam of decency to burst resulting in a flood of profanity.
It is true that "d___" (and, if I used it here, I'd be going against my own argument) is quite mild in relation to the words we hear on television, public, network television, today. I can't think of any of the most well-known dirty words that I haven't heard on network TV. Sometimes they slip out on live programming, but some of the most vile are included in the scripts of pre-recorded dramas and comedies (and I use that term loosely).
I hate profanity. That doesn't make me a saint. It doesn't even make me an especially good person. It's just a fact. I hate cursing. I won't go to an R-rated movie because I can't see paying $7.00 or more to have people curse at me. I can get that for free on a daily basis. And PG-13 movies aren't any better. They're filled with filthy language.
I heard a movie critic discussing the remake of The Bad News Bears. He called it a hard PG-13, which means it borders on an R-rating. He said the language was pretty strong, and then he said, "so, you'd want to keep the younger kids away from it."
In other words our teens are fine being exposed to it. It's the teens that need the most protection, I think. For some reason even a reasonably intelligent kid's brain turns to mush when he or she hits 17 or 18. They're so intent on fitting in with the crowd that they'd do virtually anything to be accepted. And, by today's standards, acceptance requires the use of the filthiest of language.
Something else that really gets to me is the idea that one can slightly change a vulgar word to a non-vulgar word and that makes it okay to say it. The word "freakin'" and it's cousin, "friggin" disgust me. If you're so anxious to show people you know how to curse, just use the real word and bask in the glory. What's sad is that many individuals use the dirty words or their sound-alikes to express the depth of emotion. What they don't realize, is that it only shows the depth of their ignorance.
Why not learn some real words that have real meaning. They do a much better job of getting attention. For instance, rather than saying someone is "freakin' stupid," try "abundantly ignorant." Such words as "absurdly," "gloriously," "profoundly," sound so much better and can be used just as effectively in expressing your emotions, unless, of course, you're speaking to an individual who is abysmally ignorant himself.
If you truly want to criticize someone, grab a good thesaurus and go at it. You can find some real doozies. You may leave the cretin scratching his head in bewilderment, but you'll feel much better about yourself and your vocabulary.
The point is vulgarity has become so commonplace, that it doesn't really have the shock value it once had anyway. And, you only lower yourself by stooping to use it. It may be true that most people don't care anymore. It may be so that you hear it everywhere, but regardless of how accepted profanity is in society today, frankly my dear, I do find it cause for fulmination.
What's the problem, you may be asking. I'll answer. Our chuckling.
You see, if society had clamped down right then and there and said we're not going to allow such profanity, who knows how much better we'd be today. Today, when it comes to profanity, and vulgarity, and just plain public crudeness, everyone pretty much takes much the same attitude Rhett Butler displayed when he uttered his famous line to Scarlett O'Hara. Nobody seems much to care.
While Gone With the Wind was not the first motion picture to include the word in its script, the widespread popularity of that epic motion picture provided an impetus for scriptwriters to become more and more daring. In a sense, when Clark Gable uttered his famous line, it allowed the dam of decency to burst resulting in a flood of profanity.
It is true that "d___" (and, if I used it here, I'd be going against my own argument) is quite mild in relation to the words we hear on television, public, network television, today. I can't think of any of the most well-known dirty words that I haven't heard on network TV. Sometimes they slip out on live programming, but some of the most vile are included in the scripts of pre-recorded dramas and comedies (and I use that term loosely).
I hate profanity. That doesn't make me a saint. It doesn't even make me an especially good person. It's just a fact. I hate cursing. I won't go to an R-rated movie because I can't see paying $7.00 or more to have people curse at me. I can get that for free on a daily basis. And PG-13 movies aren't any better. They're filled with filthy language.
I heard a movie critic discussing the remake of The Bad News Bears. He called it a hard PG-13, which means it borders on an R-rating. He said the language was pretty strong, and then he said, "so, you'd want to keep the younger kids away from it."
In other words our teens are fine being exposed to it. It's the teens that need the most protection, I think. For some reason even a reasonably intelligent kid's brain turns to mush when he or she hits 17 or 18. They're so intent on fitting in with the crowd that they'd do virtually anything to be accepted. And, by today's standards, acceptance requires the use of the filthiest of language.
Something else that really gets to me is the idea that one can slightly change a vulgar word to a non-vulgar word and that makes it okay to say it. The word "freakin'" and it's cousin, "friggin" disgust me. If you're so anxious to show people you know how to curse, just use the real word and bask in the glory. What's sad is that many individuals use the dirty words or their sound-alikes to express the depth of emotion. What they don't realize, is that it only shows the depth of their ignorance.
Why not learn some real words that have real meaning. They do a much better job of getting attention. For instance, rather than saying someone is "freakin' stupid," try "abundantly ignorant." Such words as "absurdly," "gloriously," "profoundly," sound so much better and can be used just as effectively in expressing your emotions, unless, of course, you're speaking to an individual who is abysmally ignorant himself.
If you truly want to criticize someone, grab a good thesaurus and go at it. You can find some real doozies. You may leave the cretin scratching his head in bewilderment, but you'll feel much better about yourself and your vocabulary.
The point is vulgarity has become so commonplace, that it doesn't really have the shock value it once had anyway. And, you only lower yourself by stooping to use it. It may be true that most people don't care anymore. It may be so that you hear it everywhere, but regardless of how accepted profanity is in society today, frankly my dear, I do find it cause for fulmination.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Small-Fried Lungs
Well those fine folks who make Camel Cigarettes are up to their old tricks again. With a tip of the cap to Joe Camel, the marketing gurus at R.J. Reynolds have developed candy-flavored cigarettes. Gee, I wonder to whom they’re marketing these sweet treats. Obviously, it’s a pretty brilliant, albeit, diabolical campaign. I’ve never smoked and yet I have this burning desire to try the “Kauai Kolada,” with its “Hawaiian hints of cocoanut and pineapple.” There’s also a “Twista Lime” version of the cigarette, both being labeled as the “official cigarettes of summer.” I think Reynolds is also putting coupons on the back of each pack. Save enough coupons and you can redeem them for a Don Ho Digital Artificial Larynx that plays Tiny Bubbles when the user isn’t attempting to speak. So, the whole idea is pretty cool if you ask me.
In fact, I would think that maybe the alcoholic-beverage marketing people could take a lesson from R.J. Reynolds Tobacco. For instance, and I’m just thinking out loud here, why not introduce Jack Daniels, Jr.? It could be a fruity-flavored bourbon with a surprise in every bottle. Or, how about Little Buddyweiser – promoted as having a tropical taste, straight from Gilligan’s Isle.
Speaking of staggering, which in a roundabout way, we kinda are, what is truly staggering to me, are the statistics released by the American Lung Association. In a recent press release, they say, “Each day more than 5,000 kids under 18 try their first cigarette.” According to statistics I’ve seen, only about 11,000 kids in America turn 18 each day. That means nearly half of these kids will have tried a cigarette by the time they turn 18. The American Lung Association goes on to report that about 2,000 children become established smokers each day. Think about that. I don’t really know what a pack of cigarettes costs, but just kind of guessing at a low figure of $2.50 a pack, and figuring each kid smokes 3 to 4 packs a week, the tobacco industry is making enough money (and I’m just estimating here) to pay for a decent funeral for about 200,000 kids a year.
And, one more thing, since I’ve already ticked off the local tobacco supporters…if I had just landed on this planet, and everything I knew about American culture I learned from radio and television, I’d conclude that this Phillip Morris guy must be the most decent man on earth. I’d be duly impressed that this generous, giving soul was taking his hard-earned money and spending it to try and keep kids, as well as adults, from smoking. I guess that’s why he changed the name of his company to Altruistic, or something pretty close to that.
Kudos to Mr. Morris and Joe Camel as well. Kudos, indeed! You have come up with some truly amazing ways to push your products. And, who knows how many countless thousands of kids are just dying to try them?
In fact, I would think that maybe the alcoholic-beverage marketing people could take a lesson from R.J. Reynolds Tobacco. For instance, and I’m just thinking out loud here, why not introduce Jack Daniels, Jr.? It could be a fruity-flavored bourbon with a surprise in every bottle. Or, how about Little Buddyweiser – promoted as having a tropical taste, straight from Gilligan’s Isle.
Speaking of staggering, which in a roundabout way, we kinda are, what is truly staggering to me, are the statistics released by the American Lung Association. In a recent press release, they say, “Each day more than 5,000 kids under 18 try their first cigarette.” According to statistics I’ve seen, only about 11,000 kids in America turn 18 each day. That means nearly half of these kids will have tried a cigarette by the time they turn 18. The American Lung Association goes on to report that about 2,000 children become established smokers each day. Think about that. I don’t really know what a pack of cigarettes costs, but just kind of guessing at a low figure of $2.50 a pack, and figuring each kid smokes 3 to 4 packs a week, the tobacco industry is making enough money (and I’m just estimating here) to pay for a decent funeral for about 200,000 kids a year.
And, one more thing, since I’ve already ticked off the local tobacco supporters…if I had just landed on this planet, and everything I knew about American culture I learned from radio and television, I’d conclude that this Phillip Morris guy must be the most decent man on earth. I’d be duly impressed that this generous, giving soul was taking his hard-earned money and spending it to try and keep kids, as well as adults, from smoking. I guess that’s why he changed the name of his company to Altruistic, or something pretty close to that.
Kudos to Mr. Morris and Joe Camel as well. Kudos, indeed! You have come up with some truly amazing ways to push your products. And, who knows how many countless thousands of kids are just dying to try them?
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Hot Enough For You?
Don't you hate it when people ask if it's hot enough for you? I do. How stupid a question. If you want to comment on the weather, say something intelligent. Tell me if it's hot enough for you, if you like. But don't ask me stupid questions. How am I supposed to answer. If I reply in the affirmative, what are you going to do about it? If I were in your living room and you were willing to adjust the thermostate, okay, ask away. But if you're just trying to let me know that you know it's hot, just say, "Hey, it's hot." I'll smile, and nod, and then we can get on with the really important stuff like what day it is (i.e. "I'm doing pretty good for a Monday.")
Speaking of the weather, I have what may be a startling bit of news I want to share with the news directors at the local media outlets...this is NOT the first time we've had a hot summer! I know, I know, it's hard to believe, but the thermometer has flirted with triple digits in the past. The only difference is that years back we just wiped our brow and kept on going. We didn't stop to belabor the point that it's hot.
And we didn't have air conditioning then, at least not in our cars or in most of our homes. I can remember making extra trips to the grocery store in order to cool off, but no one complained, or, if we did, it was pretty much just to ourselves. Is it because we're softer, weaker, whinier than in those glorious days of yesteryear? Partially. But, for the most part, I blame the TV/Radio meteorologists.
How so? Well, I think the reason we're so much more bothered by the heat nowadays is because of those dad-burned heat indices. In an ongoing quest for sensationalism, the media is not content to tell us it's going to be 97 degrees today. They have to make it seem worse by saying "...with a heat index of 187 degrees!"
So, just what is a heat index? It's a figment of their imagination. They're telling us how hot it's going to feel to us. I, for one,m am not going to stand for that. How can they tell me how hot I feel? I may feel like it's 57 today if I enjoy this weather. The heat indices are as dumb as those windshield factors they use in the winter. What's with that? I guess it means how cold it feels if you're driving down the road and your windshield is broken.
I don't want anyone telling me how hot I feel...or how cold. On days like these my grandmother used to say, "It's close today." Now that makes sense. Regardless of how hot you felt, you knew that the air was still and muggy and...well, and close.
I would suggest that you all do what I'm going to do. Write, email, or phone your local TV and radio stations and tell them you will not continue to listen to their station if they try and foist a fake heat index on you. From now on, I only want someone to tell me the current temperature is, which, really is just about all the weather people can do accurately anyway. I don't want an editorial. I hate it when they predict a big snowstorm and then when it doesn't happen, they come on and say, "We dodged a bullet."
Perhaps I wanted to get hit by that bullet. And, perhaps there are those who love this horrid weather we're having. So, just tell us what the temperature is. Give us a good guess on how high and how low it will get and let's leave it at that. And now, I'm going to go cool off, because I feel like it's a thousand degrees in here.
Speaking of the weather, I have what may be a startling bit of news I want to share with the news directors at the local media outlets...this is NOT the first time we've had a hot summer! I know, I know, it's hard to believe, but the thermometer has flirted with triple digits in the past. The only difference is that years back we just wiped our brow and kept on going. We didn't stop to belabor the point that it's hot.
And we didn't have air conditioning then, at least not in our cars or in most of our homes. I can remember making extra trips to the grocery store in order to cool off, but no one complained, or, if we did, it was pretty much just to ourselves. Is it because we're softer, weaker, whinier than in those glorious days of yesteryear? Partially. But, for the most part, I blame the TV/Radio meteorologists.
How so? Well, I think the reason we're so much more bothered by the heat nowadays is because of those dad-burned heat indices. In an ongoing quest for sensationalism, the media is not content to tell us it's going to be 97 degrees today. They have to make it seem worse by saying "...with a heat index of 187 degrees!"
So, just what is a heat index? It's a figment of their imagination. They're telling us how hot it's going to feel to us. I, for one,m am not going to stand for that. How can they tell me how hot I feel? I may feel like it's 57 today if I enjoy this weather. The heat indices are as dumb as those windshield factors they use in the winter. What's with that? I guess it means how cold it feels if you're driving down the road and your windshield is broken.
I don't want anyone telling me how hot I feel...or how cold. On days like these my grandmother used to say, "It's close today." Now that makes sense. Regardless of how hot you felt, you knew that the air was still and muggy and...well, and close.
I would suggest that you all do what I'm going to do. Write, email, or phone your local TV and radio stations and tell them you will not continue to listen to their station if they try and foist a fake heat index on you. From now on, I only want someone to tell me the current temperature is, which, really is just about all the weather people can do accurately anyway. I don't want an editorial. I hate it when they predict a big snowstorm and then when it doesn't happen, they come on and say, "We dodged a bullet."
Perhaps I wanted to get hit by that bullet. And, perhaps there are those who love this horrid weather we're having. So, just tell us what the temperature is. Give us a good guess on how high and how low it will get and let's leave it at that. And now, I'm going to go cool off, because I feel like it's a thousand degrees in here.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Cool and Unusual Punishment
Silvia Johnson just wanted to be a cool mom. Who could blame her for that? She says she was never popular in school, and so, wanted to fit in with the teenagers with whom her own kids went to school. Somehow I don't think this "cool" mom is going to get the Mother-of-the-Year award anytime soon. But, she will be cooling her heels in prison.
Johnson plead guilty yesterday to sexual assault charges stemming from parties she'd throw for the neighborhood teens, apparently most of whom were boys. Silvia Johnson assaulted several teen aged boys at what some estimated to be about twenty parties or so held in the fall of 2004. Can't you just imagine how cool her own kids must have thought her to be?
When I was a kid, my mom would make cookies and Kool-Aid for my friends. That was Kool. Johnson served Jack Daniels, Southern Comfort, Tequila and other refreshing beverages. And, while there's no record of cookies on the table, there were reports that methamphetamines were served.
And all this to "entertain" fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys. A story like this just leaves me scratching my head. I know there are some really stupid people out there, but just how moronic does one have to be to think actions like this are cool? And, even if you did think it cool, doesn't it seem that it just might dawn on you that there may be laws against such conduct?
This woman is 40 years old (and, totally unrelated, exceptionally ugly). She has kids of her own. I just wonder how an imbecile like that can function in society. I mean did she get her kids up, get them ready for school every day? Did she attend parent-teacher meetings and chaperone field trips? Could there be such totally depraved degenerates actually co-existing, people who are so totally whacked that they can engage in such ludicrous behavior and then get up and fix dinner, help the kids with their schoolwork, tuck 'em in and then lie down to pleasant dreams?
That's scary. Everybody is worried about foreign terrorists. I think Silvia Johnson is a terrorist. And she's not alone. Almost daily, we hear of parents who hire strippers for their kids graduation parties, or who supply alcohol for them. And these people are all around us. No, they're not going to fly a plane into an office building, but they're going to try and corrupt our kids, if we're not careful.
Why do they do it? I think Silvia Johnson has the answer. They think it's cool. I hope the judge out in Colorado puts Ms. Johnson on ice for the next 30 or 40 years. Let's see how cool that will be.
Johnson plead guilty yesterday to sexual assault charges stemming from parties she'd throw for the neighborhood teens, apparently most of whom were boys. Silvia Johnson assaulted several teen aged boys at what some estimated to be about twenty parties or so held in the fall of 2004. Can't you just imagine how cool her own kids must have thought her to be?
When I was a kid, my mom would make cookies and Kool-Aid for my friends. That was Kool. Johnson served Jack Daniels, Southern Comfort, Tequila and other refreshing beverages. And, while there's no record of cookies on the table, there were reports that methamphetamines were served.
And all this to "entertain" fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys. A story like this just leaves me scratching my head. I know there are some really stupid people out there, but just how moronic does one have to be to think actions like this are cool? And, even if you did think it cool, doesn't it seem that it just might dawn on you that there may be laws against such conduct?
This woman is 40 years old (and, totally unrelated, exceptionally ugly). She has kids of her own. I just wonder how an imbecile like that can function in society. I mean did she get her kids up, get them ready for school every day? Did she attend parent-teacher meetings and chaperone field trips? Could there be such totally depraved degenerates actually co-existing, people who are so totally whacked that they can engage in such ludicrous behavior and then get up and fix dinner, help the kids with their schoolwork, tuck 'em in and then lie down to pleasant dreams?
That's scary. Everybody is worried about foreign terrorists. I think Silvia Johnson is a terrorist. And she's not alone. Almost daily, we hear of parents who hire strippers for their kids graduation parties, or who supply alcohol for them. And these people are all around us. No, they're not going to fly a plane into an office building, but they're going to try and corrupt our kids, if we're not careful.
Why do they do it? I think Silvia Johnson has the answer. They think it's cool. I hope the judge out in Colorado puts Ms. Johnson on ice for the next 30 or 40 years. Let's see how cool that will be.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Corporate Speak - Part I
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.
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.
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.
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